1. More than a Feeling

1

MORE THAN A FEELING

DAISY

ABOUT SEVEN MONTHS AGO ― February 25th, 1975

My hands smooth over a large piece of clay as I start carving and shaping it with my fingers. The material feels wet against my skin, something I find great joy in. To squeeze it in my palms, molding it into something real. To build something that only existed in my imagination just a little while ago. Creating it out of thin air, using some of Earth's fine substances to add more beauty to a world that already has so much of it.

I add pieces of clay where need be, until the sculpture before me begins to take shape.

This has to be it. This has to be a masterpiece. Or, well, it at least needs to be good enough for me to get accepted into the Aurelia Academy of the Arts.

There are over two hundred and fifty applicants every year―and that's only mentioning their fine arts program―making it the most unattainable art school in the state.

And it's where he works. The man of my dreams. The star of all my wildest and darkest fantasies.

I let out an audible groan when I stick another thick piece of clay to my sculpture, closing my eyes as I think of him.

Lester Gilbert, master of sculpture. Professor of the fine arts.

The first time I laid eyes on him was over two years ago. My parents took me to an art exhibition in the city, and he was there to expose his work.

I remember how time seemed to slow when I caught sight of him. I'm pretty sure there were hearts in my eyes like in one of those cartoons on TV.

He was a sight to fucking behold. Drop-dead gorgeous. So beautiful I nearly stopped breathing. So talented. Elusive. And the way he talked; he had every single person eating out of the palm of his hand.

I decided right then and there that he was everything .

I don't much remember the art at the exhibition, except for his. And most of all, I remember him . I remember every single thing about him. His clothes―dark brown slacks and a burned orange corduroy jacket, with a dark green blouse underneath and leather loafers.

He was so tall, and his physique was intimidating. Muscled. Sturdy. He's six-six. I only know that because I've memorized his passport details.

Then his face… So beautiful and striking he could've sculpted it himself. Dark, hooded eyes that seemed to contain whole galaxies. Bushy eyebrows and a defined, strong nose. Then there was that mustache above his lip that had me drool, and the bronze-brown hair up to his shoulders that flowed over his ears and jawline as if to accentuate the magic of him even more.

To me, he wasn't just an artist. He was a rockstar.

Even more so today, now that I know him.

It isn't mutual, though. He doesn't know me―not yet. He doesn't even know I exist. Which is why I need to catch his attention.

Make him see me.

This is my one chance at forcing myself into his proximity without being a total creep. Without showing him that I'm batshit crazy and should probably be put in Crimson Manor―the town's nuthouse.

The hours fly by as I continue to work with my hands. The new Todd Rundgren album plays on the record player in the corner of my little studio, and I sing along with the lyrics. Inhaling a long drag of my joint, I let a mixture of calmness and serenity flow through my veins.

Art. Weed. Music. Sex. Lester Gilbert.

That pretty much sums up my life.

Dad built this workspace for me when I started getting serious about my art. When I began applying myself to become the best as possible. It's just a little shed in the garden, but it's mine .

Fluorescent lights hang above my large worktable to give me the ability to see every single detail of my works. Closets full of art supplies line the wall on the left side, and there are large windows on the right to let in natural light. It's late now, so there are curtains covering them, shutting me off from the world. A little fireplace was built in the corner, which makes it warm enough for me to parade around naked in front of a large mirror.

I watch myself in the reflection, moving my dirty hands over my pale skin, getting nice and dirty as I become one with my art. My fingers trace the curve of my hips, then move over my small waist and slim legs. I pinch my nipples until they hurt, cupping my breasts and weighing them in my palms. They're not big by any means, but I like them. They're cute.

I love my body. I love what I can do with it. Manipulate, get men to do what I want. Have them fall at my feet for only the possibility of touching it.

They don't need to try so hard, though. I don't play hard to get. If I think you're hot, I'll spread my legs. Simple as that. No need to make it complicated. Humans do enough of that already.

My long brown hair is tied up with an elastic band on the top of my head, and there are smudges of dried clay on my cheeks and forehead. I try to wipe them away with the back of my hand, but I'm only making it worse. When I move closer to the mirror, I see that my eyes are bloodshot and my pupils are wide from the pot.

I rip myself away from my reflection and move my hands over the tits I'm sculpting in the clay instead. I use my own body as my mold, recreating it in the wet, earthy material.

Grabbing a point chisel tool, I start roughing out a basic shape. When that's done, I start the detail process, carving with different kinds of tools, creating beautiful shapes and forms.

Lester Gilbert is a fan of the dark. Spooky shit. He likes depictions of Hell, paintings and art installations of creatures of the night. And that's what he's best at, too.

He's the best sculptor in the world. To me, he is, at least. His work is not for everyone. Not everyone understands.

But I do. I understand him in a way no one else ever could, because I'm the same. We're alike.

Creatures of the gloom. Deviant souls.

I'm blabbering. Sometimes I like to sound deep. It's all the weed I smoke. But I'm no philosopher. I create with my hands, not with my words.

I'm just a girl. Just a girl obsessed with a man… Just an innocent crush; it'll pass―that's what my mom always says anyway. But she should know better.

You don't give up when it's real love.

Lester Gilbert needs to see me. When he reviews my work, I want him to stare down at my face and body. He decides who gets accepted into the academy, because he's an expert in his craft. Besides a few members of the university board―consisting of a few other art teachers and the bigger guys in charge―I know that he gets the final say.

More hours fly by, and when it's deep in the night, I look down at a sculpture of myself.

Her eyes are closed, like Sleeping Beauty waiting for the prince to kiss and wake her. Out of her parted lips grows a vine of ivy that curls all around her throat. Her arms are bound above her head with the same plant, forcing her back to arch and her tits to pop out nicely.

I think he'll find that aspect erotic―the bound wrists. I know the professor is into some freaky shit. Not only a master of sculpture, but one of bondage, too.

Long hair covers parts of the sculpture's arms and shoulders as it flows over her skin. The stomach is slit open, revealing a peek of ribs. Inside are flowers of different kinds―roses, daisies, chrysanthemums, and azaleas. They grow out of the confines of the body, as if they're climbing up toward the sun so they can have a chance at life outside their hostile environment. The ankles are crossed and bound, and the thighs are tilted upward slightly, more vines and ivy wrapping around the smooth surface. It's trippy.

I put my tooth chisel down on the table and jump in victory when I'm satisfied with my work. "Fuckin' A!" I yelp as I clap my hands together.

Now all that's left to do is wait for a few days until it dries enough so I can paint on the hardened surface.

I turn and wash my hands in the sink, then take place in front of the mirror once more. My now-clean hands move over my body, tracing further down until I reach my cunt. I start probing my fingers there, rubbing them over my clit.

I let out an audible moan, shuddering as pleasure rapidly overtakes me. Closing my eyes, I envision him. I imagine him touching me, claiming my body as his.

Reaching for a cabinet, I take out a thick book. Putting it flat down on the table, I open it, sighing dramatically. The tips of my fingers glide over the newspaper and magazine articles that I've glued in there, and I browse through the thick pages. Mr. Gilbert's gorgeous face looks up at me, with those dark eyes and that undeniable confidence he radiates.

He's perfect.

"You will love me, Lester Gilbert," I let out on a shuddered breath.

I sink to my knees on the floor and reach for a drawer in one of the cabinets, rummaging through the tools. When my hands settle on a thick brush, I take it out as I lie down and bring it between my thighs. I'm so wet it slides into my pussy easily, and I use the painting tool to bring myself to the edge.

Visions of me suspended by ropes move through my head at a rapid speed. He likes that. He likes his women to be completely at his mercy, ready for him to fuck and whip and torture.

It's all I want.

He has my arms bound to my back, and my ankles are bent at such an angle they reach my ass.

Then he fucks. He takes. He whispers dark promises in my ear as he ravages me into oblivion. And right when he releases and fills my ass with his cum, I let go, too.

I moan loudly, feeling so free in my little safe space.

Once I climb out of my fantasy and return back to planet Earth, I stare at the ceiling. Panting, I ride out my orgasm and my cheeks pull tight as a smile forms on my face.

I'll make him see me.

I will stop at nothing until he's mine.