A little bit of magic

Is this a re-imagining of Sleeping Beauty? I don't think it is, though there are probably some similarities.

Mostly, this is a sequel. The original story, The Slave Statue, had an ending I was very proud of. I thought it was a beautiful bit, a nice question of whether or not anything had happened, if it was just a very pleasant way of helping someone deal with a bad situation. I didn't want to write the sequel, because I didn't want to change that ending.

So maybe it's better to think of this as a different tale altogether. Or maybe it isn't. I suppose that's up to you. In any case, I hope you enjoy it.

The Statue Slave

 Sharon didn't really believe the stories. Her mother hadn't believed it either, but she had promised her mother, who had promised her mother. It was family tradition, even if it did lead to an incredibly awkward conversation.

How do you explain to your daughter that the dominant feelings she's having are normal, and then in the same conversation explain that the statue was once a real human being? That the white marble statue hidden in large part under various leather restraints was once not just a man, but the perfect man, the perfect slave. According to the story, he was obedient, he was loving, he was caring. He was masochistic to the perfect degree, took immense pleasure in serving his mistress, and while he did have limits, they were only limits for intensity, not limits for actions.

He was supposedly a charming man, brilliant and caring, wonderful and considerate. He was, of course, perfect in every conceivable way. But that's how stories are. The more times they are told, the more often they are replayed and expanded upon, the more lavish they get.

The one thing missing from the stories, the one thing that Sharon's mother's mother's mother hadn't known, was how to undo it all, how to turn the statue into a man.

It was a nice story, but Sharon didn't really believe it. She just believed it was an heirloom, a beautiful statue, and a strange connection back through the women in her family.

Sad, really. Sharon was an only child, and had no intention of having children of her own. The story that had passed through so many generations would come to an end with her. Some day, she would pass away, and then what would happen to the statue?

She thought about it frequently. Sometimes, she would look at the statue, sitting there in the corner of her personal dungeon, and she would feel a deep and abiding sadness. As she got older, the sadness grew. Once she was certain that there would never be a child, that she was the last of her line, the sadness settled onto her soul like a weight.

She knew that, sooner or later, her life would end. Not for decades, hopefully, but still; the end was coming. And when that end came, what would happen to him? It was a question she often asked him, as if he could hear her. Talking to him, sometimes she felt like he was really listening.

“Will you just gather dust?” she wondered, sitting on a small stool. Her chin rested on the soft leather of her glove as she stared into the white marble eyes, eyes that stood out starkly against the black leather of the mask. “Maybe you'll end up in a museum somewhere. Or in a private collection.”

She reached out with her free hand and carefully pried at the zipper over his mouth. The metal resisted; it had been decades since it had been touched. Trying to force it would only break the make The leather wasn't as soft or as supple as it once had been. Time had stiffened it and made it fragile, fragile to the point that the only way to remove it was to destroy it.

“None of them ever saw your face,” she said. “Not grandmother, not mother; no one.” She sighed and weighed the decision. “I think I want to see it.” She sat up straighter and slapped her hands against her knees, the leather of her gloves making a nice sound against the leather of her boots. “It's my right, I think. I do own you, after all.” That gave her a nice smirk.

Decision made, she reached around and began pulling at the laces on the back of his mask. The knots were too solidly tied, but the leather laces themselves were stiff and fragile with age. A sharp enough tug and they snapped. Soon she was prying the mask off his face.

Her mouth hung open a little as she looked at the chiseled features of his face. He wasn't an Adonis or anything, not a mythical beauty like Sharon was expecting. He looked like a normal man. His face was thin, but healthy. There were little lines around his eyes, wrinkles put there by what was probably a very warm smile. His lips were broad and full, but not curved into a smile. They were held tight, the statue so brilliantly carved that she could see the tension.

“You look sad,” she said, though she couldn't quite place what it was about him that gave that impression. His facial expression was blank, almost carefully so. His head was raised upward, his eyes downcast. She ran the leather down his cheek. “I do like the way you're kneeling, though.” She walked around him, looking him up and down as if for the first time. His legs spread, his hands on his heels; he was completely and utterly exposed. It was so great she had to restrain herself from delivering a quick kick between his legs, just for fun.

She put a hand on his shoulder. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I'm a bad way for you to end up. It should have gone differently for you.” She let out a breath.

“If you were real,” she said, “I think we could have had a lot of fun. If the stories are even half true, imagine the things we could have done.” She ran her leather gloves over his head, imagining that her fingers could wind their way through his hair, imagining she could yank his head back until his mouth opened in a scream. Then she could take her strap on and shove it into his mouth. “I could have fucked your throat,” she said. “Pounded away and made you deep throat my dildo, teaching you to suck my cock until you loved every minute of it.”

She sighed and walked around the statue, having to resist the urge to run her thigh high boots against the marble flesh of the statue's legs. The shackles on his wrists looked solid; to remove them, she'd need either the key or a bolt cutter. And that might damage the statue.

“And once you've sucked it nice and deep,” she said, losing herself in the fantasy of it all, “I'll bend you forward over my stool and fuck you in the ass. I'll peg you and peg you until you cum all over the floor, all over yourself. I'll milk your prostate and ignore your screams of pleasure just like I ignore your screams of pain.” She took a sharp breath, biting her lip and feeling a bit flush. “Of course, you'd have to clean up after yourself. Bet that would be hard with the shackles on, wouldn't it?” she laughed at the image that brought to mind. Her hands traced down her own body, and she felt warmer still.

“What else could we do?” she wondered, looking at the collar on his neck and the ring where once a leash had bolted him to the wall. “I could kick your balls until you were begging me to just cut them off, to stop the pain.” She shook her head. “No, we could only do that once. I think just a few good kicks, maybe a solid knee or two to remind you your place. Then a good spanking. Or maybe a bit of electro play?” She bit her lip again and felt her eyes wanting to roll back into her skull. “The things we could do,” she said, letting out a sigh. She stepped in front of him again and looked at his beautiful face. “It really is too bad.”

Her eyes focused on his lips again. They were tense, and looked like they were straining. Like they were reaching, desperately. Like they wanted -like he wanted- nothing more in life than to be kissed. Like one kiss was all it would take, was all he needed to be complete.

Sharon laughed at herself for such a foolish thought, then sniffled and realized there was a tear running down her cheek.

“Well, why not?” she asked. “There's no one else here. It's just us, now.” She closed her eyes, fighting off the little voice that told her she was being silly. She leaned in and pressed her lips to his. They fit perfectly, like the statue had been carved with her mouth in mind. A soft sigh sounded in her ears, and the marble felt warmer every second she held herself there.

She pressed her forehead to the statue and let out a sigh, then a soft laugh. “It's silly,” she said. “I don't know what I was thinking. You seemed to desperate for a kiss. I couldn't just--” she sniffed and put her hand on the statues shoulder.

And felt the tension of the muscles there. Tension that moved.

She moved back, almost fell into her chair.

“Mistress.” The voice was weak, soft, but definitely real.

Sharon looked at him, eyes wide. The statue had spoken. It was moving. The white of the marble was fading to a flesh color.

“No,” she said. “That's impossible.”

His eyes, no longer pale marble, looked up at her. There was a twinkle in his hazel irises, and a soft smirk on his lips. “Not impossible, mistress,” he said, his shoulders tensing again as he strained against the shackles at his wrists. “Just very, very improbable.”

Sharon laughed. “You've got to be kidding me.”

“I'm sorry mistress,” he said. “But I don't think I am.”

“There's no way.”

He shrugged, it being the most movement he could make with his arms. “And yet it moves,” he said, chuckling to himself. “May I ask your name, mistress?”

“Sh-sharon.”

He smiled. “A beautiful name.”

She smiled back, both incredulous and ecstatic. “What's your name?”

He shook his head. “It doesn't matter,” he said. “I don't need a name unless you decide to give me on. I'm your slave. That's what's important.”

“You can't just be my slave.”

“Why not?”

“Because--” she had no answer.

He laughed a little, then adjusted his knees a bit. “I would ask for one thing, if I may.”

“Of course.”

He smiled at her, his teeth brilliant white, like the marble he had been only moments ago. “Could I please have a new mask?”