His Sculpture

**His sculpture was of leather and bright blue plastic wrap. It was suspended from the ceiling with a careful balance. She could hear a faint buzzing sound from within it, as it slowly swung from side to side like a pendulum.

The artist turned to her, “Do you like it?”

She smiled, blushing and nodded.

“Do you want to touch it?” he asked her intently.

Again she nodded. He took her hands, and pressed them against the sculpture’s torso. It was warm, and soft, the plastic slick against her palms. Her hands felt glued in place where he had placed them.

“Go ahead,” he said. “Touch it however you want. Imagine what it must feel like inside. It can’t hear or see or smell or taste us. The only thing it knows is touch. And that is your power. Touch it.”

She moved her hands over it, down legs and arms, sliding in the private place between the legs, caressing the chest, the head. She couldn’t tell gender, and only imagined she was stroking a cock or breasts as she slid her hands over the leather and plastic.

He watched as she played with his sculpture. Watched the sculpture try to move and squirm to get more touch. He watched as she reacted, touching here, and there; one hand on her own breast, moving down to her own crotch.

“What do you think?” he asked, coming up behind her. “It’s intriguing, isn’t it?” One of her hands was on the sculpture the other, pressing her dress into her cunt.

“Y-yes,” she said. “I think…”

“What?’

“I think I want…”

“Want what?” he asked, grabbing her free hand, and running it over the hanging sculpture. She stammered, some part of her couldn’t go on. “Tell me,” he demanded. “What do you want?” He guided her hand to the sculpture’s crotch, pressing it in.

“I want to do it,” she said, and shuddered.

The sculpture moaned.

He laughed, triumphant.**