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TEMPLE old her The Temple must


This story is copyrighted by me, Shon Richards. Please don't post, or
place on your website without asking me first. This story has sex,
really. Temples shouldn't be attempted without the proper Architects.

"She Built a Temple but She Didn't Know the Word"
By Shon Richards
"I'm tired of being imperfect," she said. She was reading some
of my older tomes, books written by philosophers before the
Renaissance. They were never cheerful reading material.

"You're not imperfect," I said. "There's not an imperfect inch
of your body. I should know, I've kissed it all."

Lover's flattery had no effect on her that night.

"Here," she said, "and here, and here, and here." She continued
to point at scar from an ex-husband and at another scar from where she
had hurt herself.

"I feel like an imperfect building," she said much too seriously.

It made sense now. "You've been read Virtitus," I said. "The
one who said a Temple was reliant on perfect proportions. He said it
wasn't the material, it was the design that had to be perfect."

She nodded and I took a deep breath. No one should read dead
philosophers at this hour.

"Hun, Virtitus was talking about Temples," I said. "With a
capitol 'T'. They were anchors of the divine on Earth. He said
Temples had to be made by man, and they had to be made in agreement
with proportions and the desires of the people. It was a philosopher's
treatise on how man can control their world.

She thought about it.

"I'll start designing it tomorrow," she said as she walked over
to me. My questions were drowned by her kisses.

The next day, she began to draw her designs. I didn't say
anything. I was a little jealous; it seemed like a unique project.
How many people get to design a temple to themselves?

"Love, what kind of designs do you like on domes?" she asked.

"Seashells," I answered. "Wait a minute, flower petals look
great too. I can't make up my mind."

"I'll use both," she said. "There will be two domes. What about
a gate?"

"A gate, for a Temple?" I asked. "Sounds too Christian for me.
A Temple should be open, ready to accept and welcome all who come to

She tapped her pencil against her lip. "I like the idea of ivy."

I was curious now and went to her side. Sprawled all over her
drawing table were sketches and plans. The details were intricate and
very impressive. One thing became apparent very quickly, she wasn't
drawing a building.

"It's shaped like a woman," I said. Upon closer examination, I
said, "It's shaped like your body."

"A Temple must be made with true lines and with love," she said.
"The material is unimportant. The lines can just as easily by made
with a tattoo as with concrete."

She scared me. I went back to my books and looked for the hole
in her argument. I can't believe that with over six hundred years of
philosophers, alchemists and masons, not one of them didn't foresee a
Temple etched in flesh.

"Found it," I told her. "The Temple must be made with the

"What is the word?" she asked, never bothering to stop drawing.

"It's unknown," I told her, a bit relieved. "It was a special
word, one known only to the special people. The Word was the
cornerstone and the Temple couldn't be made without it. You would have
to dig up one of the alchemists of the Dark Ages to get a good guess."

"Then I'll have to find it when I'm done," she said, unperturbed.


It took her three months to find a tattoo artist who would her
designs. She had to rule out the ones who couldn't work at the right
times according to her astrological charts, the ones who weren't
willing to draw the very important structure lines underneath the
finished art and of course, the ones who weren't willing to draw a full
blown Temple on a woman.

I was with her when her artist began the work. Intricate lines
at perfect angles crossed over her arms. It was strange to see a
tattoo artist use a protractor and a compass. I held her hand while
the artist etched, feeling my love clench in pain as her tender skin
was permanently chiseled.

After her first session, we made love with a renewed passion. I
was making love to the body that I was afraid of losing. She was
making love with a body she didn't see as hers. The lines that covered
her arms reminded me of seams.

When I had my climax, she took it into her mouth. As I lay there
groaning, she quickly ran from the bed and into her workroom. When she
came back, I asked her where she went.

"Just saving some for the Temple," she said.


Once the lines were done, the artist began on her legs. The
ankles were where the stairs began, twin-winding staircases that
traveled around her legs. They rose higher and higher until they
stopped at her thighs.

My love cried when the artist etched her buttocks. The pinpricks
were taking their toll but my love refused to stop. I watched
helplessly as she flinched under the pain. A trellis adorned her ass,
covered in ivy and decorated with flowers.

"You still haven't found the Word," I told her.

"I will," she said.

A week later, I couldn't bear to watch as her breasts were
adorned. True to her word, my love had a pattern of seashells done on
her right breast while rose petals adorned her left. The artist and my
love joked as the work continued, trying to ease the constant pricking
that was being inflicted. I said nothing, realizing perhaps for the
first time how important my love considered me. I had chosen seashells
and flowers and now they were a part of her forever.

A week later, pillars were added to my love's back. The white
marble fascinated me with the three Fates engraved onto the pillars.
Small braziers hung from her shoulder blades, illuminating the Fates
and casting shadows on her pale skin.


"You never asked me if I was all right with this?" I said one
night. My fingers traced a seashell that covered a nipple.

"It wasn't your choice," she told me simply.


Gargoyles adorned her arms. They rested on battlements, many of
them screaming or scowling. All of them were female. All of them were

"Gargoyles were protectors," she said. "Who said they had to be
made of gray stone? Isn't it happier to think of them as colorful as
snakes or lizards?"

I didn't say anything. I felt like she was finding protection in
gargoyles because she couldn't find it in me.


When she shaved her sex, I became angry.

"You still haven't found the word," I growled. I watched her
intimate hair fall away, never to be grown again. I felt grief for the
imperfect woman I used to know.

"I will," she said.


Her belly was adorned with a statue of Aphrodite. Instead of a
realistic flesh color, my love chose to portray her in smooth jade.
The green beauty was striking and very divine. Aphrodite was in a
Buddhist pose; legs crossed and laughing.

"Womanhood should be introspective," my love said between kisses.
"And she shouldn't ever be sad."


She screamed when the artist worked on her sex. She bit down on
her gargoyles, but they gave her no protection from the pain. Another
trellis appeared to match the one on her buttocks. While the one on
her backside filled the globes of her buttocks, this one was small
enough to fit on her mound.

"It's done," the artist said, examining her work.

"Not yet," my love said.

That night, she came to my study.

"You're upset," she said, her hands touching my shoulders. I
looked at her arms and saw the smiling gargoyles with their heavy

I'm afraid," I admitted. "I don't see the person I love

"You see what I want to be," she said, leaning down to kiss my
neck. I could feel her breasts touching my shoulders and I could
almost feel the touch of shells and petals. Her mouth went to my neck
and one hand moved down my chest. The gargoyles snaked down to my
rising manhood.

"What do you want to be?" I asked as she manipulated me.
Ignoring my own feelings, my member grew and warmed to her touch.

"Perfect," she whispered.

She turned me around, my chair swiveling to her demands. Her
mouth came to mine and as she sat on my lap. She guided me past her
trellis and into her Temple. We groaned as we meet, feeling my manhood
swell inside her.

"I am still yours," she said, lifting her breasts in her hands.
In one breast, I tasted the salt of the sea and in the other, the
perfume of a lover's garden. Her nipples were hard and delicious in my
mouth. My love sighed, moaning and squirming as my mouth lapped at her

"I changed, but I never stopped loving you," she said, rocking
her hips on me. My manhood was gripped and pulled by her sensuous

"I wanted to grow, but never without you," she said. My hands
went to her buttocks and I held onto her by grabbing each half of the
arch of her trellis. I pulled her to me, sending myself deeper inside

"I don't know the Word, but I know you are my world," she said,
rising and falling with passion on my Temple Offering.

Her words fell to the side as she moaned. I looked down and saw
Aphrodite sitting on our sex. The winding staircases of her legs
writhed and flowed, buckling with our joining. Her seashells and
petals changed color as blood rushed to her skin. With her hands on my
shoulders, I couldn't ignore the gargoyles that flew around us.

The pace quickened and my manhood penetrated deeper into her
Temple. Her eyes locked with mine and I realized why she didn't touch
her face. Her eyes were the jewels of the Temple, her lips the
fountain. My hands went to her head and I pulled her down for another

"Wait," she said, her eyes closing with the approach of orgasm.
I felt her sex clench in spasms and then she tilted her head back.

She said my name between shudders. As she climaxed, Aphrodite
sighed, the gargoyles screamed and the ivy of the trellis snagged my
pubic hair. I felt the hard lines of marble on her back. Petals and
shells fell from her breast, filling the valley of our joining. The
hairs of our bodies were standing on end, charged with electricity we
didn't understand.

"I found the Word," she said, "and it was you."


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