A Yielding Wall. The Chisel in your hand will make a door.

She is trapped in a marble chunk. You know her face; as you have always known every strand of muscle and the fall of her hair. But each strike of the chisel draws blood. The cracks scream in anguish and your calloused hands smear crimson over the virgin stone.

You work in a fever. Each hammer swing, each scratch, each etching brings you closer to perfection. You feel the pain, but the call is stronger. Each strike of the chisel quickens your heart.

Long legs and slender arms, but her face is wrong.

You wanted serenity, but it mocks you. You strike her mouth, and it displays animalistic lust. You wanted her clothed as a Saint, but she comes to you dressed as a dockside whore. You worked with stone but she writhes, bending her sinewy body into indecent shapes.

”Fuck me, Daddy.”

You are now: The Fire Thief

When you wake, your cock is hard, and your arms hurt as if you had laboured all night.