Nothing but Art

by StatStat

My name was Aylin, and I was beautiful, that I knew. I used to stare hours in the mirror at my unclad self, feast my own eyes on my limber arms and legs and the hair that fell in flaming red ringlets against my pale cream shoulders. I wasn’t a narcissist; I was a hedonist, and plenty grateful to have been granted so sensual a physicality to inhabit. I was a life-model for art classes, and I made better money than most at it, good enough to make my living by it, to be nothing but a model... and I loved it. Standing up naked before people and feeling their eyes appreciating all the curves of my body made me feel thrillingly alive. The exhilaration bordered on the intensely erotic, so that occasionally I would catch a look of disapproval from the class instructors for how the heaving of my breasts would break the stillness they expected me to maintain. I could usually keep their distracting rise and fall to a shallow pant. But every so often the deliciousness of my viewers’ gazes would overcome me, and I’d be left with a telltale trickle of wetness down the inside of my legs. I knew they saw that too. I kept my pose, my face betraying not a scant of the mortification I was feeling inside..... or the wanton exhibitionist stimulation. I stood there for hours quaking so subtly that even the closest of them might not see, or hear the breath hissing soft and quick, in and out, between my parted lips.

I half-suspected that those upwellings of wet, rather than marring my appeal, actually stirred the demand for my services. My sensuousness, with all its accents, inspired some artists - and even in the others it may have roused voyeuristic thrills. But while that energy was a boon to my living, such faint escapes of twitching passion were an annoyance to those desiring a truly stationary subject. It was that libidinous candor with which my body spoke that finally inspired one of the truly demanding ones to make me more suitable - as art.

That day’s class neared its end. For the last pose the instructor asked me to perform something between “striving” and “yearning”. I thought for a moment, then stretched upwards on my tall legs, craned my long torso and neck to their full effect, and pushed my bosom out before me, leaning forward into my stride as I thrust my shoulders back, trailing my arms out sidelong and behind me in a lithe, dangle-fingered evocation of the classic nudes. My chin I angled up, and I brought to my face an expression of enrapturement with little effort spent on acting. My eyes darted sideways to see the instructor; I saw a wry curl on her lips and a glitter in her gaze. She approved... and they began to draw.

When the class finally ended I didn’t move from my bold, vibrant pose up on the wooden platform. The others gathered their things and meandered out, giving me glances as they filed past - some of surprised curiosity, some with the judgmental envy that I’d finally taken my self-indulgence so far that I didn’t care to hide it at all with the normal human rituals of getting down, moving around and talking to people. And from the better souls among them, appreciative expressions, approval at my unbending authenticity and lack of pretence when it came to what pressed my buttons. But all of them assumed I stood there by my own choice. I assuredly didn’t.

After the last of them had left, and the instructor had locked up and put things away, she approached me, bare feet padding on the empty floor of the space until she stood below me looking up with a queer expression, a look that put the spook in me - and got my juices flowing again... She could see it plainly, and smiled wide, from her vantage below. I, high and long in figure, towered above her own, low and slight, but all the power was with her, and that she relished. Her big, mischievous clear doe eyes were hard as crystal as they ranged about my frozen body: the whites of my thighs and the warmth between them, my peaked pink nipples which jabbed the air in unison with each rasp of my mounting excitement. I recognized in hers the eyes of an artist, a curator, a critic. And I came to realize more and more as those long silent moments slid past just what it was that I was to her - not a person, but art, a winsome sculpture.

And sculptures do not move.

She reached out with a hand, and though I could not move my neck down to see I could guess at where it would touch. I sensed her finger like a static charge, hovering over my sex, dancing only millimeters above my clit, which swelled in anticipation. My heart fluttered wildly. She drew her finger back, then down the slick inner of of my thigh, gathering some of the last dew there as if it were a souvenir.

She circled me, pacing slowly out of my locked-forward sight. I stood just as I was, struggling madly inside with trepidation and arousal in equal measures, and both beyond anything I’d known before. After a few minutes she came back to my front, flashed me a grin of wicked mischief, and put her head between my legs.

Oh GOD, the things she made me feel.

But the sensation most overwhelming, which grew slowly until it rose even above those inward throes of ecstasy, was that of my flesh growing ever more languorously rigid. It passed out through my body in waves from where she ministered. I’d been struck stiff in my pose - but now I became hard. Each liquid trick of her tongue sent a new shiver of density through me, until between the natural clench of my nethers and their hardening, the quake found no release, and when she finally drew back her pretty, evil little head, I needed no more ministrations to sustain the thunderous tempest in my solidifying sex. I was mad with need, on the verge of a sexual explosion, stalled static exactly at the threshold.

She left me there, boiling over inside like a bloody kettle, nodding her head smug at how my chest had fallen still even though I ought be panting, gasping, and silent even as I’d will loose howls of passion. I heard her put on her shoes, heard the click of her heels and then that of the door. Then the only sound in the room was the occasional creak of the platform under my bare heels, settling slowly under a mounting weight.

The next day, when she opened the door again, she beheld her handiwork in the sunlight streaming through the big gallery windows along the south wall. The platform had broken through, and akilter in the splintered hole rested my pale and comely figure, frozen forever into statuary.

She stopped for a time to appreciate my marble limbs, asplay in the open space above the hole. Then she went to the back, to fetch straps for the winch bolted to the studio ceiling.

She returned with the straps draped over her shoulder but otherwise nude, her own body slender but well enough muscled to serve as an anatomical study in its own right. After putting both the winch and those muscles to good use hauling me up, she observed me swaying above the floor - that slow swing from the bolt above my only movement now, to her obvious satisfaction. As she watched me turn slowly, a stiff, solid form rotating in the sunny studio space, her hand strayed to her pussy and began to work there, in mockery of my utter inability to bring my own carved hands forward to relieve the absolute, mad lust I yet felt - for her, for myself, and for what I had become - her gorgeous sculpture.

My name was Ailyn. I had limber arms and legs and hair that fell in flaming red ringlets against pale cream skin. I have no name now, nor color of skin or hair or eyes besides marble-white. But I am still beautiful, and now truly nothing but a model. And I still feel everything, through fossilized skin laid utterly bare to the corner of the room I now occupy, naked and spread open to the gaze and touch of any connoisseurs of beauty. There is nothing my statue arms can do to stop their caresses, as they use all their senses to know me by my form. That form is all I am now, my senses one with it, and being known is to me what sex is to the mortal body. I am a human no more. I am eternal. I am stone. I am art. I am a long, stuttering orgasm frozen in pose and teased to endless aftershocks by any hand and eye that fancies me. I am here, hardened helpless into my own craven passion, my helpless figure yours to explore as you please, for as long as you may like.