Does that mean I won't write a sequel? Of course it doesn't. If the one who made the request still wants the next part, I'll write it for her. But even if I do, this tale will stand on its own, a wonderful moment of beauty, an example of the power, and the importance, of hope.
The Slave Statue
At first, Sherry thought it was her fault. That sound of pain he’d made, the desperate scream of his safeword. It wasn’t anything special she’d done, just pressing the vampire gloves against his shoulders and slamming her knee up into his crotch. It wasn’t any harder than normal; in fact, she had been more careful and more gentle than usual. After all, he had warned her that he was still sore down there, that he had pulled something. But he had assured her it was okay, told her not to hold back. He wanted to please her so badly.
But he had screamed his safeword.
Sherry stopped immediately, completely dropping out of dominant headspace and helping him somewhere comfortable. She cut the duct tape holding his arms together behind him, removed the clamps and unlocked the collar quickly and without ceremony. He was panting, sobbing, and looked just wrong. The color of his body wasn’t right.
“Are you okay?” He tried to assure her he was, tried to say that it was just a momentary lapse, that he’d been standing wrong, that he was sorry he used the word. But she didn’t buy it. He was sweating a cold lather, and wrapping him in blankets wasn’t helping. There wasn’t a mark on his body, but there was definitely something wrong.
By the time they got to the hospital, his entire back was a massive bruise, ugly and dark. She could barely see, her eyes stinging with tears, certain she had hurt him somehow. They were usually so careful. What could she possibly have done wrong?
Sherry sat in the waiting room, wringing her hands, occasionally trying to wipe the sweat of her palms off on her jeans. She hadn’t wanted to change. She said she didn’t care if people looked at her funny, didn’t care if they judged the leather or the knee high boots, didn’t care if they disapproved of her footwear or of her corset. But he had insisted. Even with the pain written clear on his face, even with the shivering that he couldn’t control, he’d insisted that she change and that she help him get dressed. “It’s no one’s business,” he’d said. “I won’t have you dealing with idiots that don’t understand. It’s okay. Five minutes won’t make a difference.”
Five minutes. She hoped it wouldn’t make a difference. She hoped that her own vanity, that his desire to protect her reputation, hadn’t killed him. How could she do something so reckless? What had she done wrong?
Hours of torturing herself, hours of yelling at herself, of sobbing into her hands, of resolving never to do anything like that again, even if that meant a life of celibacy, and the doctor finally came out to get her.
She wasn’t as relieved as she might otherwise have been when the doctor assured her that there was absolutely no chance that she had caused the problem. She should have smiled, should have been excited. But she couldn’t. The doctor told her that it couldn’t have been her, but the reason it couldn’t have been her was that there was cancer. Massive tumors on his liver, on his kidneys. Wherever it started, it had spread through his internal organs. If they’d caught it sooner, maybe they could have done something. But one of the cysts had burst, and he was bleeding internally.
Not from an impact. It wasn’t her fault. The cyst burst because it had nowhere else to go as it swelled.
Sherry was not relieved. It may not have been her hit that was killing him, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t dying.
She went into his room and found him awake and, considering, in good cheer. His skin was jaundiced, and he was sitting against a mass of pillows. The morphine drip next to him seemed like a constant flow, but she could still see the pain in his eyes.
“Probably should’ve gone to the doctor sooner,” he said.
“I’m so sorry.”
He shook his head. “No, no.” He closed his eyes at a flash of pain, took as deep a breath as he could. “Don’t apologize. Don’t you dare. You’ve made this last year so wonderful. The best time of my life.”
“Did you know?”
He nodded. “They said I had eighteen months,” he told her. He tapped his head. “Brain tumor. I didn’t know it had spread so much.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Eight months.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want to hurt you.”
Sherry laughed. “And you thought I’d just be okay with you suddenly disappearing?”
“You made me forget about it,” he said.
“I wish there was something.” She took a deep breath. “Did I make it worse?” She plays through their scenes in her head. The times she fucked him with a strap on. The times she had him lick her boots, even when they were filthy, even when he’d cum on them. The clamps all up and down his body, the fifty clothespins around his crotch. The kicks to his crotch. The twisting his cock and balls and turning them black and blue, the trampling, the kicking, the whipping, the scratching. She thought about the times she’d nearly suffocated him, forcing him to lick her to one more orgasm. She thought of the time she’d fucked his throat so hard that he’d lost his voice for days, of the time she’d whipped her initials into his skin with the single tail whip, of suspending him by ankles held apart with a spreader bar, of using his body as a punching bag. Was it her fault? Had she made it worse?
He smiled at her as if reading her mind, then shook his head again. “Why won’t you listen to me?” he asked. “You made it better. You made me forget. Do you have any idea what it’s like to know that you’re going to die, what’s going to kill you, and how small the number of your days is? There were times when I would cry myself to sleep, terrified of what was coming. But never with you. No matter what you did to me, no matter how many times you slammed your knee into my balls over and over and over and over” he smiles and rolls the words in his mouth, “and over and over again. You never made me scared. You’d always tell me it was okay afterwards. You’d always make me feel safe. You made me forget what was coming.”
Sherry wiped a tear away. It wasn’t her first that day, but it felt different, like the beginning of a torrent that might never go away. “You can’t die,” she said.
“Yes I can,” he said. “That’s one order you can’t expect me to follow.”
She sniffled and laughed a little. “I expect you to follow all of my orders, slave.”
He smiled again. Sheri closed her eyes and felt herself break down a little, felt her world crumble as she realized that she would never again look down at his suffering and know that he was doing it for her.
“Are you sure?”
“What?” She looked up at him, completely confused. His voice was stronger, no longer hazy with drugs. His skin looked healthy, and there was a twinkle in his eyes, a flash of the kind of smart assed mischief that made her grind his cock into the floor under her boots.
“You really want to order me not to die?”
“Yes.” She sniffed, smiled, tried not to cry.
“There’s a way,” he said. He held up a hand before she could desperately accept it, whatever the cost, whatever the catch, whatever the way. “It may not be worth it.”
“Of course it’s worth it!”
He smiled again. “I know a way,” he said. He took a deep breath and looked around, making sure no one was watching, no one was going to interrupt them. “There’s a vial of nanobots in my jeans pocket,” he said. “If you pour it on me, it will convert my flesh to stone. I’ll become a statue, but I won’t die.”
“But you’ll be a statue.”
“Only until they can cure cancer,” he said. “Then all you have to do is say my safeword, and the machines will reverse the process.” He sighed. “Just be sure you wait until they can cure cancer in the advanced stages.”
“But you’ll be just as gone.”
He shook his head. “I’ll be there, wherever you put me. I’ll be able to watch you.” He took a deep breath. “Think about it, mistress. I’ll be there, unable to move. I’ll be forced to watch as you fuck other men, as you do to them the things that I want you to do to me. I’ll watch as you receive pleasure, knowing that I wish it was me providing it. I won’t be able to move, won’t be able to speak. I won’t even be able to blink or look away. You’d be able to tease me for years. For the rest of your life, if need be.”
Sherry smiled at the thought. “The ultimate tease,” she said.
“The permanent tease.”
“But what if there isn’t a cure?”
“Then at least you’ll have tried,” he said. “At least you’ll know that I’m there watching you, forever tortured for your pleasure.” He took a deep breath. “It’s all I ever wanted anyway.”
She smiled, wiped away a tear, and nodded. “Okay,” she said. “Okay. Tell me what to do.”
He laughed, and the look of pain was back on his face. “That’s rich,” he said. “You know I can’t tell you what to do. Never wanted to.”
“Answer me, slave.” She did her best to force some of her normal authority into her voice.
He smiled. “Go to the nurse’s station,” he said. “Tell her that I said to use the nanotech.” He sighed and smiled again, his eyes starting to glaze over again. “It’s a process, so you might as well go home. I’ll be delivered to you tomorrow.”
“I’m not leaving you,” she said.
He took a deep breath. “There’s nothing you can do, Sherry. Go home and clear me a space. Somewhere I can watch from. I don’t want you to see what the machines are going to do.”
“Will it hurt?”
He nodded. “And I only want you to see the pain that you cause yourself. Doesn’t seem fair otherwise.” He looked at her with a desperation unlike any other time he’d ever begged her. “Please,” he said. “Please just do this for me.”
She stood in front of the statue and tried to find an imperfection. She tried to find something wrong, something that made him a liar. But the statue was perfect. Every curve of his body, every bit that she knew so well, it was all perfect. She saw the way his knees spread a little under the pressure of his body as he knelt there. She saw the veins in his wrists and even the lines of his finger prints when she looked closely at the pads of his fingers not touching his heels. His legs were spread wide, his hands on his heels, his head held high while his eyes were downcast. He was completely open, completely unprotected. Just the way she liked him.
It was perfect. She set him in the corner and put a mask on his head. It was the mask he had always loved most, the soft leather that he’d worn so much conformed to the shape of his skin; it fit the statue as well as it had ever fit the flesh. She zipped the mouth closed, though she knew he couldn’t talk anyway. She buckled the collar on his neck and hooked the leash to a ring in the wall behind him, even though she knew he couldn’t pull away from it. She strapped shackles to his arms, even though she knew he could move them. She put a spreader bar between his knees, forcing his legs to stay open even though she knew he couldn’t close them anyway. Piece by piece, she dressed him in all the gear she’d always loved seeing him in. The alabaster of the statue somehow offset the red and black leather perfectly, beautifully.
He was a work of art, bound and shackled, a stone submissive. It brought tears to her eyes every time she looked at him. She didn’t use any of his toys on anyone else. She bought new toys.
Sometimes, she talked to him. Sometimes, she gave him dirty looks, careful glances, withering stares. She smirked at him as he watched her fuck other men. She gave him looks of mocking sympathy when she used her electric prods on other submissives, knowing how much he loved it. She hurt them, she clamped them, she scraped them with vamp gloves until there were lines in their skin, and she did it always in front of him, always where he could see it. She performed for him, always.
And she kept up on the medical journals. She read everything there was to read. She gave money to cancer research. She waited for a cure. She hoped for a cure. She prayed for a cure. She waited, always a little bit distracted, for the day that she could say his safeword, for the day that she could watch the white marble turn into soft and pale flesh. She waited, year after year, yearning for the day that she could once again grab his hair, for the day she could bite his flesh and mark him, once more, as hers.
She passed the time with other partners, training them to worship her ass, training them to lick her boots. She taunted them all, comparing them always with the perfect slave in the corner, with the one who had managed to actually please her. No one could ever compare. No one could ever come close. They tried, and she always made them try harder. But none of them gave her a good enough orgasm. None of them gave her the right release. She could cane them bloody, she could fuck them so hard that they wouldn’t walk straight for days, she could suspend them and pinch their nipples so hard that they forgot how to speak. But no matter what they suffered through for her, no matter what they did, she’d always tell them that they weren’t good enough. They weren’t as good as her perfect slave.
Afterwards, she would assure her new partners that she cared for them. She’d tell them that they were good, that there was nothing wrong with them. She’d tell them that she loved them, and she’d tell them that they were wonderful, they were perfect. She’d say all these things, and she’d mean them. She really did love her other partners. She really did love her slaves. She really did think they were perfect, and was truly proud of the lengths and depths they would go through to please her. She told them that they were great, and she meant it.
But she still kept up with the medical journals. She still looked at her statue with longing. She still kept alive the hope that maybe, just maybe, there really was such a thing as nanotechnology that could turn flesh into stone.
This is truly beautiful and i absolutely loved it.
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