what my new owner will do with me, how he will display me. I’ve heard of girls made to act as the centrepiece at a lavish feast, others to liven up a garden or the foyer of a grand house. For some reason I have always pictured myself displayed in an alcove, perhaps at the top of a curving staircase. Of course, it’s not up to me to choose.
The curator stands before me and places a fatherly hand on my shoulder. ‘Alina, it’s time to go. Mr Villiers will take you home now.’
It’s always difficult to move after holding still for so long. After a while the stillness becomes second nature and I forget I’m able to move at all. I raise my head slowly and meet the eyes of my new master. A smile plays at the corners of his lips and I return it, blushing. He puts his arm around me, helps me up and leads me away.
* * *
My new home is a sprawling Victorian estate set far back from the main road. A maid opens the door for Mr Villiers but she didn’t bat an eye at me. But for the velvet cloak he fastened around me to keep me warm, I am still naked.
He leads me through the house to a vast and elegant library. Ornate bookshelves climb the walls to the high ceiling and a fire crackles warmly in the massive hearth. The furniture has clearly been arranged with the display of a statue in mind. Two plush sofas and a scattering of chairs all face in towards a round marble plinth about two feet high and topped with a red silk cushion. Mr Villiers removes my cloak and lays it over the arm of a chair. Then he lifts me easily and places me on top of the plinth.
Now comes the moment I have always dreamed of. My master tells me to demonstrate a series of poses for him so that he may choose the one he likes best. Of course, statues need not stay the same; part of the appeal in a living statue is her variety. Rather than buy a new piece of art one can simply instruct the statue to adopt a new pose.
I show him all the poses I have been taught, some of which make me feel both dread and hope that he’ll choose them because of the challenge they would offer me. I want to please him. He nods his head at each and gestures for me to show him the next one. I’m nearing the end of my repertoire but he still hasn’t picked one.
‘Hmm,’ he says, frowning thoughtfully. ‘I did rather like the way you were displayed at the gallery.’
I immediately sink to my knees and drop my head, arranging myself in the submissive posture he first saw me in. He eyes me critically for a moment before shaking his head.
‘It’s still not quite right.’
He begins to position me himself. He parts my legs as he did before and I feel myself grow damp with the exposure. With a gentle hand on my bottom he urges me up off my heels a few inches so that my thighs take my weight. Then he places my arms behind my back, my wrists crossed as if bound. Finally, he presses against my back, encouraging me to arch my spine. The position forces my small breasts forwards and I blush deeply at the powerful feeling of submission the pose evokes in me. He adjusts my head by tilting my chin up until my head is level with his chest. I gaze at the pattern of his tie, a passionate design of red and black swirls.
‘Eyes down,’ he tells me.
I obey.
He nods his approval and steps away. I hear his retreating footsteps and then the opening of a drawer from somewhere behind me. When he returns to me I see he has the little bronze plaque from the gallery, the one with my name on it. He fixes it into its setting at the base of the plinth and I am still. From this moment on I am his statue. An object he has purchased to decorate his beautiful library. I must hold this pose with absolute stillness until I am released.
Warmth courses through my body at the thought of the lovely pose he has created for me and I focus all my energy on maintaining it. It’s not as easy as it looks. My thighs are working the hardest, opened wide and angled forty-five degrees up and away from the plinth, supporting my weight. After a while I know they will be aching and possibly even trembling with the effort. But it wouldn’t be considered an art if it were easy or comfortable. And it wouldn’t be so erotic if it weren’t such a challenge.
Mr Villiers moves around the room, observing me from different angles and commenting favourably on what he sees. The maid returns when summoned and I am not surprised to learn from his conversation with her that guests will shortly be arriving. I wait until he has left the room for a moment to make a minute adjustment to my position. I won’t get another chance once the room is full of people scrutinising me. The thought warms me inside and I recall the silky touch of his finger between my legs at the gallery. I replay the moment again and again in my mind as I listen to the voices of the men and women entering the room and seeing their friend’s new acquisition.
‘How lovely!’ a lady exclaims. There is a flash of colour to my left as she comes closer and then she strokes the hollow of my hip with cool fingers.
A man beside her touches me in a similar fashion. Then another. Then another. The sensation of so many hands on me is powerfully erotic but I remember my training and keep my breathing slow and steady. I can’t help the gallop of my heart but I focus on being still, being obedient.
‘Isn’t she exquisite?’ someone says.
‘I must get one like her for my study.’
‘Perhaps I can find a matching pair for the garden.’
All around me words of praise float in the air and admiring hands roam over me as they might any decorative object. A lady draws her lacquered red nails down over my thighs. A man pinches my toes. Another tickles the tender crease between buttock and thigh. But I frustrate their attempts to make me react.
‘I do feel rather like Pygmalion.’
My master’s voice cuts through the chattering of the others and I time my breathing so that my next slow exhalation comes only after he has touched me again. I would recognise his touch even with all my other senses blocked, but I can smell his cologne and the musky warmth of his skin as he stands beside me. His fingertips tease my jutting pelvic bone as he slides his hand around to caress my bottom. The others fall silent while he strokes his possession. His touch is the hardest to resist responding to.
After a while a lady speaks. ‘But your Galatea hasn’t come to life yet.’
This is both the central irony and central beauty of my art, that I am most alive when pretending to be made of stone.
‘Oh, but I think she has,’ my master says. His hand slides up along the arch of my spine and then around to my left side. He gives my breast a little squeeze before pressing his hand up underneath it, hard against my ribs. I can feel my heart beating against his fingers, as though it’s trying to reach him. Heat floods my face and radiates through the rest of me, finding a home in the silky wet folds of my sex.
As though he can smell my arousal he laughs softly and then his hand is between my legs. ‘Very alive indeed,’ he murmurs.
And he’s right. I am more alive than I have ever been. More alive than at any other time in my life. My sex pulses feverishly in time with my pounding heart as his fingers probe and explore the soft wetness. And when he slips a finger deep inside me I can’t help it – I gasp. It’s only a tiny sound but it may as well be the shattering of glass. The shattering of an illusion.
I freeze again immediately but the damage is done. And now I can’t help the trembling in my legs as my master frowns.
‘Oh, dear,’ he says, and his disappointment is agony for me.
I
