The Statue

This story by The Flog­mas­ter is used on the Old Tom Archive with permission.

The Statue (****, M/​F, Intense, Adult, semi n/​c)

A woman meets a sculp­tor with a unique talent.

At first I assumed he was lying. But his expres­sion was sin­cere. My refusal crushed him, and I felt bad. His accent was for­eign. He was mod­est about his art and with­out smil­ing said his name was Zolton. Gig­gling, I remarked that he sounded like a car­ni­val magi­cian. He glanced at me sharply, his thick eye­brows bunch­ing into a glare.

“Do not joke about such things,” he said. “In my coun­try magic and art are not far apart.”

For rea­sons I can­not fathom I fol­lowed him home. Be assured this not my nor­mal habit. I am a mod­est girl with a good rep­u­ta­tion. Per­haps the man’s dark, mys­te­ri­ous eyes cap­ti­vated me. I couldn’t refuse.

Zolton had an attic loft. A rum­pled cot was the only fur­nish­ing. Most of the room was filled with com­pleted sculp­tures and works in progress.

I was entranced. Nude stat­ues of women were made from clay, gran­ite, alabaster. Their faces were incred­i­bly vivid.

“Why these are aston­ish­ing!” I cried out. “You are _​major_​ tal­ent!”

“It is nothing.”

“But these should be on exhibit. These are wonderful!”

Dark­ness clouded the old man’s vis­age. “No one sees these but me! I cre­ate for me, not for those fools out there.”

“And this statue of me–it too will remain here, hid­den away?”

“It is true, my beauty. I put my soul and the soul of my mod­els into these works.”

Had I real­ized Zolton wanted me to pose nude I would refused. But after see­ing his mas­ter­pieces I dis­robed with­out hes­i­ta­tion. I felt flat­tered and dan­ger­ously sexy as I posed.

The process was tir­ing. Long into the night I stood, naked, while Zolton grunted and slapped his clay with ruth­less enthu­si­asm. By dawn it was fin­ished, a mag­nif­i­cent like­ness. See­ing the statue was dis­con­cert­ing. I expected it to turn and look at me it was so life­like. The erotic power of the nudity was overwhelming.

“Now watch, child,” said Zolton as he showed me a thick strip of leather. “Believe in the power of art!” With quick, prac­ticed strokes he began to whip my statue’s back­side. Engulf­ing, raw pain swept across my but­tocks. As each stroke landed I felt it as clearly as if he was beat­ing me! It was amazing.

“Stop!” I cried out, tears gush­ing. “No more!” Again and the again the strap landed and I danced about in a mad­dened state, howl­ing and squeez­ing my bottom.

Finally, Zolton put down the strap. Tear­fully I knelt before him and kissed his shoes. “Zolton, my mas­ter, how it this possible?”

He only smiled. “Be wary, child. I shall be watch­ing you. At any time, day or night, I have the power to blis­ter your bot­tom. Pre­pare for it, expect it, for it will come when­ever I decide.”

Snif­fling, I thanked him and dressed and quickly left, fright­ened of this ter­ri­ble man. At the door I paused for a last look at myself, and I saw won­drously that I was cry­ing, sculp­tured tears drip­ping down my sculp­tured face.-30–

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