ON DISPLAY by Leem Warning: this story contains descriptions of homosexual acts. If this offends you please leave now.
ON DISPLAY
by Leem
One: July
This month I am Donatello's bronze "David", sculpted in his native Florence,
Italy, sometime between 1430 and 1450 - lacking any documentation, scholars have
literally spent centuries arguing over the date. A somewhat obvious, even cliché
d choice of subject, but of course I have no choice in the matter. I stand in a
casual, relaxed pose, my left arm akimbo, left hand holding the stone which
felled Goliath, my right arm, resting upon the sword which cut off his head. The
sword hilt sits beside my pert buttocks. Goliath's head, smiling sweetly, lies
at my feet, its beard tickling my toes which protrude from my open-fronted
boots, the feathers on its winged helmet caressing my right leg. Apart from the
boots and the wide-brimmed hat which shades my own ("my own?") smiling face, I
am of course naked. My casual, effete attitude and smile are more suggestive of
someone who has just made love than of the assassin of a giant.
Business is slow today. It is a warm summer day and people are out at the park,
boating on the lake, making love in the pleasure gardens, or indulging in a
thousand and one other outdoor activities rather than visiting hologalleries. I
envy their freedom. I would love to step down from my pedestal and join them in
the warm sunshine, but of course that is impossible. I am a statue now, and a
statue _cannot_ move, no matter what.
Only twelve visitors arrive today, and most of them simply stroll around the
gallery in a desultory fashion, as if they only came in for want of something
better to do, spending only a few moments to look each exhibit up and down
before moving on to the next. Most of them don't even bother with the audio
guides, let alone the brief holobio that accompanies each exhibit. (Without the
holobios, of course, I would not even know the names of the statues I am forced
to embody.) Two teenage boys walk around me giggling pruriently. One of them
says, "I wouldn't mind giving it to him."
_In your dreams,_ I think. _Anyway, you're too late._ After a few minutes they
walk off, laughing like naughty schoolgirls. Only two or three visitors seem to
show any real interest in art apreciation, walking around me and studying me
carefully from head to foot. I overhear one of them asking for a copy of my
holoprogram at the souvenir desk.
At the end of the day, Sharman closes the gallery and shuts down the
holoprojectors, then pushes a set of steps over to my pedestal and points a
small control device at me. I begin to breathe. My heart starts beating again.
My bodily functions are no longer frozen. My skin loses its bronze appearance,
becoming supple and flexible once more. Muscles stretch and contract beneath my
skin. The effect, although disconcerting, is not really painful. Within a few
minutes my face and body are restored to their original appearance. Then,
obeying its program, my body descends the steps and walks to the back stairs and
up to Sharman's living quarters. Although my body is mobile once more I have no
control over it. I can do nothing unless Sharman wills it. He controls my very
existence. He is my god.
Sharman makes me sit at his table - I am still naked, my prop boots and hat
discarded - and eat the bland but nutritious food he sets before me. Then he
takes me to his bathroom and makes me urinate and defecate and wash my hands. At
least he doesn't watch. Then he gives me a bath. I realise that he could have
programmed my body to bathe itself, but doing so gives him a feeling of control
over me, as if he needed it. The touch of his hands upon my body is sensuous,
but he will not allow me - or himself - to become aroused by it.
Not yet.
Not until he has towelled me dry, walked me to the bedroom, and made me lie down
and become a motionless, inanimate figure once more, to be used solely for his
pleasure... until tomorrow morning, when he will return me to my pedestal.
This routine continues for several days, but then Sharman surproses me. After
closing the gallery Sharman reanimates my heart and lungs and restores my skin
to normal, just as he has every day. My skin is now soft and pliant once more,
no longer solid bronze, although I remain as motionless as ever. But then
instead of restoring me to my normal appearance he leaves me in the shape of the
statue.
For a moment I wonder what he's up to, but then all becomes clear. Stripping
naked (the shutters are closed, and of course the security camera recordings
will be doctored to erase this scene) Sharman climbs the steps, slips his arms
around me and slowly, tenderly, begins to stroke my chest and stomach while his
body is pressed against my back and buttocks.
I find these sudden and unexpected caresses astonishingly erotic, and I am
instantly aroused. This feels a little strange since I still possess the
statue's tiny, hairless genitals, and I can only manage a three-inch erection.
But I still have all my original nerve endings, and I am so powerfully aroused
that my penis might as well have been transformed back into metal. And a little
later, when Sharman closes his fingers around the solidity of my erection, it
feels to me like his hand is eight inches wide!
An hour later, when my orgasm finally arrives, I am firmly (no pun intended)
convinced that size really doesn't matter.
And then, after a brief pause, Sharman moves the steps around to the front of
the pedestal and, standing on a lower step, begins to stimulate me orally. My
genitals are so small that he can fit his mouth around my testicles and penis
with no difficulty, and delicately stimulate them with his lips, teeth and
tongue.
For me it feels like being mouthed by a giant. Goliath has triumphed over David,
and I, David, can do nothing but continue to smile beatifically while
Sharman/Goliath does things to me that make me want to howl with pleasure, all
night long...all night long...*all...night...long......!*
Two: August
As the new month dawns, Sharman introduces me to my new pose. My body steps onto
the pedestal, then, obeying its new program, crouches upon its right knee
leaning forward. My left foot is raised slightly upon its toes, making my left
upper leg horizontal. My hands reach past my left knee on either side and take
hold of the prop butterfly with upraised wings that sits near the edge of the
pedestal, and my head turns to look down at it. My muscles freeze. The pose is
complete. I feel a stirring upon my head and realise that my hair is being
reshaped into a stylised wig. Then Sharman climbs a ladder beside my pedestal
and glues a pair of light plastic wings to my shoulders. The wings have been
produced using a commercial 3-d sculpture program, their design taken from the
original statue. They could have been simulated by holograms, but Sharman feels
that physical props give a more realistic effect. Once the wings are in place,
Sharman activates the nanomachines that will solidify my body and its
accompanying props. My heartbeat and breathing stop. My flesh hardens and takes
on the appearance of cream-coloured marble. I have never understood how I am
able to remain fully conscious in this state. No doubt nanomachines are
responsible for that too. Finally Sharman activates the holoprojector that makes
my body appear to shimmer and flicker slightly, so that visitors will believe I
am nothing more than a hologram. I appreciate the irony; a hologram to disguise
me as a hologram. Naturally Sharman could put a real hologram on display
instead, but of course this is what he wants. He wants me to be his living
statue, a secret known only to himself and me; his own priceless, treasured,
work of art.
Sharman has not told me the name of the statue I have now become - he never
does. But after a couple of days a visitor activates the holobio unit beside my
pedestal, and I learn that I am "Cupid and the Butterfly" by the
eighteenth-century French sculptor Antoine-Denis Chaudet. The original statue,
completed after the sculptor's death from his plaster models, is now in the
Louvre.
One night Sharman informs me that he will be visiting some friends. Leaving my
program on automatic he departs, leaving my body to perform its ablutions by
itself before lying down alone upon his bed. For some reason I have been
programmed to place a clean washcloth beside me. For a while I lay motionless,
but I know that my body will not be allowed to remain dormant all night. Sure
enough, some minutes later my penis becomes erect and my hands move to attend to
its demands. I cannot stop them, even if I wanted to. And I'm not certain that I
_do_ want to....
It's a strange sensation. My own hands masturbate me, yet they are not under my
control. It almost feels as if my hands are raping me. In a sense I am being
raped by Sharman, who programmed their movements. Has Sharman done this to me in
order to demonstrate that he still controls me even when he is not present, or
because my body has a physiological need for sexual arousal, or even because he
thinks I will like it? I don't know. But my hands continue to manipulate my
erection, slowly but surely bringing me to a fever pitch of sexual excitement.
I cannot turn to look at the clock, but seems like an hour before my body
finally erupts in ecstasy. I have seldom experienced such an intense orgasm,
even from Sharman. I would howl and moan if I could, but only a soft sigh
escapes my lips. As my penis is overcome by ejaculatory pulses, the purpose of
the washcloth becomes clear. As my right hand continues to slide up and down, my
left whips the cloth into position to catch my seminal discharge.
At last it is over. My right hand falls to my side while the left continues to
hold the sticky cloth in place. Now, I think, I will be allowed to sleep.
But instead, after a few minutes my body walks into the bathroom, places the
soiled cloth into the laundry basket, urinates, washes its hands and drinks a
glass of water. Then before returning to the bedroom it opens the linen closet
and, to my astonishment, takes out another clean washcloth. It is going to be a
long night.
Three: September
This month I am "A Lucky Find at Pompeii", produced in bronze in 1865 by a
little-known French sculptor named Jean-Alexandre Hippolyte (or Hypolite)
Moulin. The original is in Paris' Musee D'Orsay. I stand upon the toes of my
right foot while kicking the left in the air. I am frozen in the act of dancing
for joy at having uncovered a small priapic statuette which I hold upraised in
my right hand. My left holds the handle of my spade which leans against the back
of my neck. Just why an excavator of Roman relics should go about his work naked
is never explained. Perhaps some kind of sympathetic magic has turned the finder
of bronze statues into an example of the thing he sought. But then perhaps I am
only projecting my own situation onto the subject. Maybe the sculptor, like so
many other artists, just happened to like naked youths.
Two young men who visit the gallery on a rainy afternoon point at me, and giggle
like schoolgirls. One whispers in the other's ear, and they giggle again and
kiss each other before departing. If my appearance has inspired them to some new
sexual fantasy, well and good.
Each night without fail Sharman tells me the latest world news, perhaps in order
to remind me that there is still a world outside this small building. The
content of the news never changes much. An air crash here, an earthquake there,
a civil war elsewhere; a politician caught with his hand in the till or in
somebody's underpants; a new financial crisis. Sometimes I think I'm better off
out of it.
Sometimes.
The nanomachines in my body can fortify any part of it against injury, one side
effect of which is that Sharman can perform any kind of sexual act upon me,
however rough, without causing any lasting damage. If he wanted to he could whip
me within an inch of my life, without actually coming within a yard of my life.
Fortunately he is seldom quite so violent. Usually he is content to take me from
behind. The nanomachines have altered the sensations from my anus so that the
deeper he penetrates me the more intense my ecstasy becomes. It's almost like
having a vagina. My skin is also sensitized to his every touch. And his
endurance is phenomenal. Perhaps his stamina is also fortified by nanomachines.
Some nights I get very little sleep, and during the day while I'm a statue the
nanomachines force me to remain wide awake.
If I had known what Sharman was going to do to me I would have run screaming
from his house that night. Yet now that he has me, I keep asking myself: is this
existence really so terrible compared to what I had before?
The disturbing thing is that I can never be sure.
Four: October
Now that summer is over, Sharman is hoping more people will be drawn to indoor
exhibitions like this one. On the other hand I can't help wondering if the
cooler weather and shorter hours of daylight might not discourage people from
venturing out from their holovids and home shopping terminals in the first
place. Not that I can voice my opinion, of course. Sharman watches as, with a
stocking cap on my head and nothing on my body, I kneel upon the pedestal, smile
and raise a shell to my ear. For a moment I can hear the sea, but then the
nanomachines work their magic - or curse - and I am frozen solid. The sea has
stopped. The shell is full of silence. In due course the holobio informs me that
I am "Neapolitan Fisherboy with Shell" by the nineteenth-century French sculptor
Jean-Baptiste Carpeaux. Listening to the absence of the sea, I find myself
remembering....
I couldn't believe I was doing it. But then, I was desperate. After fifteen
years of loyal service I had been made redundant by new technology. I couldn't
repay my debts, my wife left me and in the end even my home was repossessed. At
the age of 33 I had been thrown on the scrap-heap. And it wouldn't be long at
that rate before I was on the literal scrap-heap, foraging for food with the
other beggars.
And that was how I found myself that night - was it really five years ago now? -
breaking into a house. I had chosen a fairly rich neighbourhood, but not the
richest as the houses there would be sure to have human, or at least android,
guards. With any luck this district would have standard automated security
systems, and in fifteen years at my old job I had learned a thing or two about
such things. Not that I had ever contemplated using my knowledge in such a
fashion, but now I was desperate. I watched the owner depart and waited half an
hour to make sure he wouldn't return suddenly. That ought to be enough. As I
broke the seal on the window I prayed that I had disabled the alarm successfully
before climbing through. My plan, such as it was, was to break in, grab as much
cash or small jewelry as I could and make a quick getaway. But as I was rifling
through a bedroom drawer I suddenly felt something prick my finger. For a moment
I wondered if it was a syringe. Maybe the occupant was on drugs. Needle syringes
were still easier to obtain than air injectors. But then when I tried to stand
up, I found that my body wasn't obeying my commands. Instead, I walked - or
rather, my legs walked me - downstairs to the front hall, and stopped when I was
facing the front door.
I was terrified. I couldn't imagine what was happening to me. I wanted to
scream, to run, to shit myself... but I couldn't. I could only stand paralysed
before the door, waiting for the occupant to return. Which, two hours later, he
did.
He seemed pleased rather than surprised to see me there.
"Well, well," he said, "I see that my new security system works. Allow me to
introduce myself. My name is Sharman. I don't know your name, and I don't
suppose you were foolish enough to carry any identification with you, so I
suppose I'll never know. Not that it matters really. The important thing is, now
I know the nanomachines work on humans and not just hamsters, and I can carry
out the next stage of my experiment."
He was mad. I knew it then, and I'm doubly convinced of it now.
He was also quite brilliant, of course. The nanomachines he had developed were
far in advance of anything that had been achieved before.
"I expect you're wondering what I'm going to do with you. Well, one of the first
things I'm going to do is find out if the rest of your body looks - and feels -
as pretty as your face. And then I'm going to give you a new job. Well, a new
position, to be precise. You see, I own a holosculpture gallery in town. Now the
thing about holosculptures is, they don't move. And the thing about you is that,
now that my nanos have done their work on you, you can't move either. You, my
friend, are going to become my star attraction. My living statue. Not that
anyone will ever know you're alive, of course, because I won't tell anyone, and
you can't. Now I just have to fetch the nanocontroller, so don't go away."
As if I could.
A minute later Sharman returned with what looked like a standard holovid remote.
He pressed a couple of buttons and I found myself walking upstairs once more.
Sharman followed close behind. "Tomorrow I will instal you in the gallery
wearing your first statue disguise," he said. "But tonight..." as my body began
to undress itself he did the same, whispering in my ear: "tonight we will make
passionate love."
Once I was naked and face down on the bed he began to thrust himself into me,
again and again, deeper and deeper, harder and harder.
Though I fought the paralysis with all my might, it was hopeless. I couldn't cry
for help. I couldn't protest. I couldn't resist. I couldn't escape. I couldn't
move....
I couldn't move! I couldn't move! *I...COULDN'T...MOVE!!!*
And Sharman kept on thrusting and thrusting and thrusting and thrusting and
thrusting...
It was violation. Degradation. Rape.
And yet....
And yet it was also the most sensuous, thrilling and intense experience of my
entire life. In some way that I didn't fully understand, the very fact that I
could not move or resist, try as I might, was making the experience all the more
powerful and exciting.
And my climax, when it finally came, was sustained, earth-shattering, and yet
somehow profoundly, exquisitely, sensuous and beautiful. If I were not mute as
well as paralysed I would have screamed and screamed myself hoarse with ecstasy.
I suppose I have the nanomachines to thank for that too.
And over the course of that first night Sharman brought me to three or four more
climaxes - I lost count - each seemingly more intense and thrilling than the
last.
After my third or fourth orgasm my mind was reeling.
I wanted to escape. _I didn't want to escape._ I couldn't take any more. _I had
to have more._
I didn't know what I wanted.
What I _got_ was exactly what Sharman had promised. A new career, as a work of
art by day, and as Sharman's sex doll by night.
Five: November
As winter approaches Sharman transforms me into the "Flying Mercury" by the
famous Italian Renaissance sculptor Giovanni de Bologna, or Giambologna. Another
fairly obvious choice, given the fact that hundreds of replicas adorn parks and
gardens worldwide, but Sharman is still hoping to attract more visitors to the
gallery. Once more I stand tiptoe, this time upon my left leg, upon a bronze
gust of air exhaled by a cherubic head. With wings upon my heels and helmet, I
am poised to take flight. My right leg is raised as if preparing to run though
the sky. My right arm is upraised, my right hand held in a vaguely
obscene-looking gesture with one finger raised and the others curled. My left
hand, down by my waist, holds upright a caduceus, the winged staff entwined by a
pair of serpents that has come to symbolise the healing profession.
And it was from the healing profession that Sharman drew his inspiration for the
use of nanomachines to turn a man into a statue. My thoughts have come full
circle.
At the end of the day when Sharman takes me upstairs he confesses that visitor
numbers are still disappointing.
I don't know what he would do with me if he were ever forced to close the
gallery. In spite of everything, I have come to enjoy being beautiful and naked
and on display.
After a few moments, he seems to be struck by a thought. "Maybe representational
sculpture is out of fashion. Maybe people would prefer something more...
abstract. It would mean giving the nanos a radical reprogramming, but...."
He laughs out loud and slaps me on the buttocks. Of course I can't move or
respond, but now I no longer want to.
"Next month, my friend, you're going to experience something you've never felt
before. I'm going to make you into a Henry Moore sculpture!"
I wonder if he's joking....
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