Sheffield Forge
"Metalworker Nneka forges art from steel—but the thick Swazi gallery owner who commissions a piece forges something else entirely during their collaboration."
Thembi wanted sculpture.
"Something powerful," she said. "Something that captures desire."
Nneka looked at her thick Swazi client and knew exactly what to create.
"I'll need reference," she said. "Inspiration."
"I can provide that."
The studio sessions were intense.
Thembi posed while Nneka sketched, that thick body silhouetted against forge light.
"You're staring," Thembi observed.
"I'm studying."
"Study harder then."
The invitation was clear.
Nneka approached and traced the curves she was trying to capture.
"Here," she murmured, hands on hips. "The flow continues here."
"Keep following it."
She did.
Against the anvil, still warm from work, they came together.
Nneka's rough hands met Thembi's soft skin. Fire and flesh. Steel and silk.
"Forge me," Thembi demanded. "Make me into something."
"You already are something."
"Make me more."
The sculpture was magnificent.
Abstract curves suggesting the female form. Power and grace in steel.
"It's perfect," Thembi breathed at the unveiling.
"It's you."
"It's us."
Sheffield's art scene noticed the collaboration.
The gallery owner and the metalworker, creating together.
What they didn't know was how the art was inspired.
Or how it continued, late at night, in a forge that never grew cold.
"My finest work," Nneka said.
"The sculpture?"
"No. This."
She kissed Thembi, and sparks flew anew.