Long, long ago there dwelt, in the city of Athens, a sculptor named Pygmalion.
He it was who, at an early age, came of the opinion that women were the cause of men's ills, and so early he came to despise them.
Yet, although he scorned their presence, still he admired their physical forms and set about to create a statue more lovely, more desirous, more lifelike than any of the women he had seen.
Many quarries he did scour, searching for the perfect marble slab from which to carve his heart's desire. At last he laid his eyes upon one that seemed to be the size he needed, and in his studio, he set about to carve from it, the statue he saw in his mind's eye.
Long he laboured, long he toiled, his cutting tools chipping here and here, his scraping tools slicing through the marble, his burnishing tools rubbing till the statue gradually took form.
At length, after many months of careful and delicate work, the deed was done, Pygmalion so designing the statue that, if he desired, it could sit on a chair at the table with him while he ate and he could slip tiny morsels of food between its parted lips and hollow mouth.
So finely detailed was this statue crafted that Pygmalion could lay it upon his bed, place himself between its legs and thrust his hard member deep into the hollow sexual cavity he had so fashioned.