Every morning on his way to the train and every evening on his walk home, Edmond passed a beautiful statue in front of the courthouse in his town. Not surprisingly, it was a recreation of a classical style, a perfect modeling of Lady Justice as she is often depicted; statuesque, blindfolded, a sword in one hand, scales in the other. When Edmond had first moved there he had a different route to the train that took him into the city to his menial job, but by happenstance he had discovered Justice, standing tall amidst the beds of rosebushes before a babbling fountain, and had promptly changed the walking portion of his commute. He was so taken with her that he began formulating polite conversation with her in his head. He greeted her silently each morning, sometimes taking time to stop and sit at the fountain and look up at her as he imagined the timbre of her voice, his eyes sliding over every sculpted gather representing the fabric of her dress, the soft divets of her collarbones under the gentle knolls of her shoulders, admiring the perfect angle of her delicate chin. After months of visiting her, he was nearly quaking each time he sat to visit with her, his hands nervously fumbling with the buttons on his coat, fidgeting like a school boy as he noted the erotic slope of the one bare foot peeking out from under her dress.

When he was away from her he remained intoxicated by her elegance. The drabness of his office, its beige walls, its suffocating cubicles, the brown neckties he wore in the same rotation each week, all of it was so stifling when he cast his memory back to those moments with his statue. He was unreasonably irate if other people sat in the gardens where she stood when he went for his twice daily visitations. He kept birdseed in his briefcase to lure flocks of pigeons, and the children who liked to rush at them,  away from the fountain edge, where he basked in her larger than life form. He would pace and out wait any passerby that unwittingly invaded their space. As he saw it, the time he spent with Justice was sacrosanct and he would not allow that time to be sullied by loitering youths or the clan of elderly ladies and their yappy dogs that were always lurking on Tuesday mornings and Thursday afternoons.

Alone at night, Edmond would go through his evening routine of dinner and an hour of television, laundry or some other homekeeping, then he’d brush his teeth and undress before the tall oval mirror in his bedroom. He’d stand and pose, watching himself in the mirror, imagining poses that would intertwine him with the bronze form of Justice. His left arm raised like hers, to rest on her wrist below the hilt of her sword, his head lolled back as if it lay against her breast. He practiced this pantomime nightly, smiling as he imagined her sweet voice in his ear. Then he would crawl into bed and indulge in thoughts of her solid metal body softening into supple flesh in his hands. She would set down her sword and scales, and he would imagine reaching up to undo the blindfold to finally see her beautiful eyes. As he fantasized he touched himself steadily, his cock swollen and dripping from his time in front of the mirror, now a vile purple in his clenched fist, spittle forming at the corners of his lips, the frenzy of his desire rupturing in great gulps and gasps. Every time he imagined the moment where the blindfold fluttered to the ground his eyes would follow it and instead of looking back up into her eyes, he would see his own seed soil the hem of her dress. Furious at missing her beautiful eyes again he would pump his cock ferociously, growling and gnashing his teeth, humiliated that he had again soiled her perfectly elegant dress, duped by his own imagination, caught in a labyrinth of desire and repression that he could not escape. Most nights he lay there, awake, admonishing himself for his weakness, devising how he could be worthy of her elegance.

One evening as he walked home from the train, Edmond’s visit was thwarted entirely. He stopped, several hundred paces from Justice and watched in abject horror as a crew from the waterworks crudely lifted the stones from the base of the plinth she stood upon, undoing the perfect symmetry of the paving stones, exposing the pipes below the fountain. Even some roses were crushed. Edmond stood with clenched fists as the crew of men went about violating her space, his space, their space, as if it were nothing at all. He strode towards them with long and angry strides. As he approached they stopped to look at the furious man stalking towards them. He questioned them with harsh contempt, watching their confused and curious faces, looking for signs of trickery, for lies. They explained plainly that the fountain’s plumbing needed replacing because it was lifting some paving stones in the square and that part of the job required that they temporarily move the statue. Edmond’s throat grew dry. Move her? But where? For how long? They couldn’t! He demanded to see some sort of authorization. Becoming irritated, one of the crew members suggested he take his concerns to city hall, explaining they were just there to do a job. Suddenly aware of the less than dignified way he was sputtering and stammering, Edmond backed off and walked briskly home, several sidelong glances over his shoulder, promises whispered, plans brewing.

That night once his dinner was eaten and the washing up was completed, Edmond did not turn on the television nor brush his teeth and undress in his usual evening ritual. That night Edmond waited until the sun had gone down, put on his coat and left his bland apartment to see his statue. Upon arriving in front of the courthouse he was appalled at the state of the fountain and gardens, but he was gutted when he saw her, not standing bravely, but laying, on her side in the dirt. He ran to the statue, pulling off his coat and laying it over her as if to make her position less vulnerable, more modest. He knelt in the the dirt and for the first time, he touched the cool metal of her form. His finger tips were aflame as he caressed the elegant draping of her gown, the shape of her hip, the perfection that was the outline of her lips. He spoke to her, aloud, all his love and desire flowing from his mouth as he undressed in the dark of the park. His legs were cold and wet as he knelt in the dewy grass beside her and he slowly pulled his coat from her body and closed his eyes, falling into the sound of her voice in his mind. He straddled her bronze hips but below him she felt as warm and alive as the women he had been naked with before. Justice, however, was different. She didn’t see his plainness, she didn’t care that he wore a brown suit to his beige office and shuffled papers all day. She didn’t need more than his plain apartment, she wouldn’t mind that he always watched the same show from the same worn armchair. No, she was different. She didn’t judge him. She didn’t see him for all those banal details. She didn’t see him at all. He thrust himself against the metal with a fervor he’d never felt before. She’d been waiting for him, laying in the cool grass, her soft voice calling him to her. His shaking hands cupped her breasts as he ducked around her outstretched arms. He pumped himself along her thighs and torso, his soft, hairy body slipping against the bronze dress, his body contorting to fit in her arms like he had practiced in the mirror. He thrust and rutted and moaned against the cold, damp metal. She smiled up at him and he pet her cheek. The blindfold began to slip. This was his moment, he watched with steeled intensity as he fucked at the sculpture’s curves, his cock red and raw, verging on release. He watched as his fantasy unfurled before his eyes, her smiling face revealed, finally, as he roared in climax and looked into her deep brown eyes.

The moment would have lasted forever, he was sure of it, but suddenly, rough hands encircled his upper arms and the beams of flashlights bobbed around him. The trance was broken as the police officers lifted his spent and naked body off of the felled statue. He looked down and her face was tight and solid. He remarked to himself that she almost didn’t look real, as if that was an epiphany. As he was dragged off he watched one of the officers run the light over Justice and shake his head at the gleaming smear of displaced pleasure that marred the surface of her dress. The same officer bent to pick up Edmond’s coat between thumb and forefinger, at arm’s length as if it were too putrid an article to handle. Shame and reality over came him as he was stuffed into the backseat of the patrol car. All those months of visits, all the conversations and practice came crashing through his mind. The officers sunk into their seats in front of him and the one in the driver’s seat, looked at him in the rearview mirror. His lip curled in disdain he asked Edmond what could have ever possessed him to defile a public statue on the lawns of the courthouse. Edmond thought for a long moment, looking out his window as they pulled away. He stammered and stopped and formulated the only true thing that he knew in that moment.

“She was always so … elegant.”

Violet Fawkes

Violet Fawkes (she/her) is a freelance writer and sex blogger focusing on pleasure education, erotic fiction, and the intersection of identity, kink and mental health.