This month I am Antonio Canova’s Perseus. Hooked sword firmly grasped in my right hand, I stand in a victorious stance, holding aloft the head of Medusa in my left hand. My cloak, draped around my left shoulder, has fallen away from my lean, masculine body, exposing my firm muscles, tight buttocks and thick penis to the world.
Yes, I am a fine figure of a man, from my helmeted head with its classical Roman features right down to my sandaled feet. Many men would sell their souls to possess such a body.
In a sense I have done just that.
My body is indeed beautiful, but its beauty is not mine, not my true appearance. And thanks to Sharman’s nanomachines my body is now my jail, a prison without walls or bars from which I cannot escape.
I cannot move. My muscles may look perfect but they are totally inanimate. The nanomachines have disguised me as a statue.
I can see, hear and feel as acutely as ever, if not more so; I can think and reason and remember. But I cannot speak or cry for help, or do anything to indicate that I am alive. I cannot so much as blink. I do not even appear to breathe. My body has the appearance of cream-coloured marble from head to foot. The illusion is flawless.
I am a statue. Locked in this mechanically perfect stillness, I am not able to be anything else.
The day passes slowly, as do all days for me. A handful of visitors wander around the gallery, occasionally pausing to gaze up at me, some in artistic appreciation, others in body envy, others both female and male in simple lust.
Often they reach up to touch me, but the repulsion field surrounding my body gently pushes their hands away. It’s a shame both for them and me, but Sharman has decreed that nobody shall touch me except him.
Sometimes I fancy they look at me curiously, as if they can sense the life within my stone shell. I can do nothing to assuage any such suspicions. It is impossible to break the disguise. I can only look at them from the corners of my eyes, because my gaze is fixed upon Medusa’s head.
Of course in the original myth Perseus did not look directly at Medusa’s face, and so unlike me was spared the agony of petrification. In my case, the role of Medusa was taken by Sharman and his technological genius. When, rejected by an uncaring social system, I had been forced to attempt petty burglary rather than starve, I had the bizarre luck to choose Sharman’s house. During my break-in I triggered one of Sharman’s traps which injected me with highly sophisticated nanomachines.
From that instant my fate was sealed. The nanomachines took complete control of my locomotor system. Never again could I move a muscle of my own free will.
When Sharman returned and discovered that his trap had worked he celebrated by raping me while I literally could not lift a finger to resist.
And the more I tried to resist, the more the nanomachines boosted my sexual responses.
My mind was screaming: This is rape! This is a violation! I want it to end!
Yet at the same time my body was moaning: This is fantastic! This is beautiful! I want it to last forever!
Such is the paradox of my existence. I hate Sharman and his nanomachines for turning me into a helpless object; I love them for the astonishing sexual pleasures they give me.
And still I wish I could move, though whether to kill Sharman or reward him I can’t decide.
Out of the corner of my eye I watch the shadow of the west window slowly crawling up the wall. I am certain that Sharman has programmed the nanos to alter my perception of time, so that every minute seems like an eternity. Yet finally closing time arrives, the guests leave, the shutters close and the lights go out.
For several more small eternities I am left standing in the dark, until finally one of the overhead lights comes on and I hear footsteps approaching from behind. Hydraulics hiss and my pedestal slowly retracts into the floor, bringing me down to Sharman’s level.
So to speak.
The repulsor field is off. One of Sharman’s hands slowly caresses my stone buttocks and travels up the ridge of my back.
Even this mild caress feels like an orgasm now. Over the years the nanomachines have been gradually rewiring my brain and nervous system to produce ever greater levels of sexual sensation.
“It’s been another good day for us,” I hear him say through my haze of ecstasy. “I persuaded another company director to put up the rest of the money for the gallery’s next ten-year budget, with a bit to spare for emergencies. Looks like we’re in the clear, my silent friend.”
Of course Sharman does not know my name. When I burgled his house, all those long years ago, I had the presence of mind to carry nothing that could identify me.
After he trapped me I suppose he could have found my name from the official missing persons reports, but as far as I know he did not bother. It seemed that my true identity was of no interest to him. He was more interested in giving me new identities based on statues so that I could be the star exhibit in his gallery.
Not for the first time, I wonder how he has persuaded a high-powered director to grant him funding for this small suburban museum. I suspect he used nanomachines to influence the director’s emotional state, or just to control him directly.
If Sharman chose to he could be a wealthy company executive himself. His genius at creating and programming nanomachines could easily make him a billionaire if he were so inclined, but it seems that is just not the way his mind works. He seems more than content to remain here with me.
Perhaps I should be flattered.
Sharman’s nanomachines are generations in advance of anything I have ever heard of. In the wrong hands they could be used to enslave whole nations. Instead he has used them to enslave just one person.
I might find that comforting, if only I were not the person he had enslaved.
Sharman runs his fingers down my sword-arm, then reaches around to stroke my broad chest, sending more orgasmic thrills coursing through me.
Then, ducking under my outstretched left arm, he moves around to my front and reaches up to slide a finger across my cheek and then my throat. Each new touch only increases the ecstasy I am feeling, and I know that this is only the beginning.
“All right,” he says. “First let’s get rid of those props, and then we can have some real fun.”
Sharman stretches out a hand - just for effect, I am sure - and my hands open, releasing the sword and the head of Medusa. The sword hits the floor first, quickly followed by the head. Instead of shattering like the stone they appear to be made from, they simply bounce and roll to a stop like the plastic they really are.
Sharman gestures again and the cloak unwraps itself from my left arm and falls to the floor. Meanwhile he reaches up and removes the helmet from my head.
Sharman takes all the props over to a nearby shelf so that he will not trip over them. Then he unhurriedly strips naked, taking a cloth from his pocket, and places his clothes next to the props. Next he walks back to where I stand and makes more gestures in my direction.
The nanomachines used to be controlled by conventional keypads, but Sharman has long since abandoned such crude technology. Instead he has devised a set of finger-rings that control the nanos through his gestures. (What does that make him the lord of?)
My body begins to move under Sharman’s commands. Although still retaining their stony appearance my arms and neck acquire some degree of flexibility. My arms lower until they are resting against my sides, and my head turns to face forward.
Sharman moves forward and kisses my stone lips. He has a superb body. If I had ever been attracted to men in my past life, I feel sure that it would have been to someone like him.
He certainly doesn’t look like a mad scientist.
Of course he has his nanomachines to thank for his appearance. It has been so long since he captured me that he ought to be middle-aged by now, but in fact he has the appearance of a man in his mid-twenties. I am sure that he has never been ill. Thanks to the nanomachines he may be virtually immortal.
The nanomachines in my body also prevent me from aging, but I would hesitate to call myself immortal. In order to be immortal, one has to be able to live.
Sharman presses his chest against mine, then reaches behind me and resumes stroking my stone buttocks.
My sensations are orgasmic and climbing.
“Oh, you’ve got a great arse,” moans Sharman. “That’s what I love about Canova’s sculpture. Male or female, all of his statues have such beautiful bottoms. I’m certain he must have been a closet butt-fetishist, otherwise why would he have celebrated by sculpting naked bums so sensuously?”
Sharman continues to caress my buttocks for several minutes while he slides his torso up and down against mine. I can feel his semi-erect penis pressing against mine, but he is pacing himself carefully and will not allow himself to become fully aroused yet.
At length he disengages his hands from my bottom and begins to stroke my smooth marble scrotum instead. Gradually my genitalia become more flexible, and my penis begins to engorge. Ironically, it has had to get softer in order to get hard.
And get hard it does, slowly growing and hardening in response to Sharman’s languid massaging, sending electric thrills coursing throughout my body, until it is more than twice as long and thick as my original erection and infinitely more sensitive.
If Sharman wanted to he could (and would) make it as long and thick as he wanted. The nanos would simply draw molecules from the pedestal to enlarge my phallus.
Just to prove it was possible, one month Sharman had his nanomachines reshape my entire body into a giant erection and played with me every night!
Of course the museum visitors never saw me that way. For their benefit Sharman’s nanomachines reshaped me each morning into a big cannon. Whatever I might think about Sharman, there was no doubt that he had a wry sense of humour.
Of course none of the museum visitors could have guessed that I was alive inside the big gun, but some compulsion kept making them reach up and touch my “barrel”. I spent every day that month coming non-stop, even though I couldn’t shoot. No pun intended.
Aside from the time Sharman (as he had once promised) made me into a Henry Moore sculpture with a big hole in the middle, it was the most bizarre experience I ever had.
Fortunately Sharman does not indulge in such extreme reshapings very often. They apparently stretch the nanotechnology to its limit, and I always feel very strange afterward, almost as if when I return to human form there are parts of me that have been put back in the wrong order.
Anyway, it is obvious from his usual choice of subject matter that Sharman prefers me in human form. My appearance is almost always based upon a real statue of a naked man or adolescent boy, of which there seems to be no shortage.
Slowly and tenderly Sharman continues to stroke and lick my stone erection. He does not need to touch his own - his nanomachines are capable of sliding his foreskin back and forth while tickling his prostate and stimulating every other pleasure nerve in his body.
My ecstasy builds and builds for what must be more than an hour until finally I reach a plateau of hyper-stimulation. I might call it a climax, except that it goes on and on and on and on, making my mind scream with ecstasy while my body remains passive.
I can no longer see. I can no longer hear. I can no longer think. Eventually I cannot remember who I am, or what I am. There is nothing left of me but sensation. I can only drown in the experience. I cannot conceive of the possibility of its ever ending.
At long last, though, it does end. The night is over. My mind and senses are restored and my sexual sensations return to the merely orgasmic.
I remember that I am a man. I remember that I am alive.
I remember Sharman and what he has done to me. I remember that I am his prisoner.
I remember that I cannot move.
Sharman sighs and stretches, wipes his semen from my base and himself, and goes off to retrieve his clothing. Then he unhurriedly dresses and restores my props to me. My helmeted head turns back to look at the side of Medusa’s head in my upraised left arm while my left hand grasps my sword and holds it out at a dramatic angle.
Sharman carefully drapes the cloak around my shoulder and the nanomachines adjust its folds into a precise shape. My body freezes and the props acquire the same marble colouring and texture as my body. I am Antonio Canova’s Perseus once more.
Sharman strokes my buttocks one last time before activating the control that raises my pedestal back into position.
Looking up at my marble face, he smiles.
“Well, have a good day posing for the guests,” he tells me cheerfully, and turns to walk away.
Then he pauses and looks back at me with a curious smile on his face.
“Oh, in all the sexual excitement I nearly forgot,” he laughs. “Tonight I’ve prepared a little surprise for you. I think you’re going to like it.”
And then, with a final gesture, he is gone.
Presently the shutters open and the visitors start arriving.
What sort of “pleasant surprise” could Sharman possibly have prepared for me? A new shape? A new sexual experience? He has given me lots of radical new shapes and experiences over the years, but has never seen fit to announce them in advance.
For a moment I entertain the possibility that he might be preparing to set me free, but after all these years that hardly seems plausible.
There is nothing I can do but wait through the endless day in a state of feverish anticipation.
My anticipation is made all the more feverish by the intense, non-stop climax that Sharman has given me by his parting gesture with his control rings.
At long last the day ends. Once more Sharman lowers my pedestal to the ground and divests me of my props, but this time instead of caressing me he gestures with the rings and my body is slowly restored to the appearance of flesh and blood. My torso becomes slimmer, my muscles less pronounced. My face loses the classical Roman profile of Canova’s sculpted hero, and takes on my own rather bland appearance.
Once the process is complete my body has the appearance of a normal 20-year-old man - which, considering the fact that I was 33 when Sharman trapped me several decades ago, is a tribute to the nanomachines’ rejuvenative powers.
Sharman runs a hand all the way down my back to my thighs, and kisses me tenderly. “It’s almost time to reveal the surprise,” he whispers. “But first of all, I need to get you in the mood.”
And with that he kneels before me and begins sucking my penis.
This time my erection is only half again as long as normal, although it might as well still be stone, and Sharman does not bring me to orgasm. Instead he gestures again and my body steps off the pedestal and begins walking toward the back of the gallery, my erection pointing the way. Sharman accompanies me, gently stroking my back, chest, arms, cheeks, buttocks and any other part of me that he can think of.
We pass through the door to the back rooms, but to my surprise my feet carry me downstairs and not up to Sharman’s apartment as I had expected. After a few moments we pause in front of a storeroom door, and to my additional surprise Sharman whispers in my ear, as if he does not wish to be overheard.
“I’m going to leave now,” he tells me. “But rest assured, thanks to the nanos I’ll be able to see, hear and feel everything you do. Have fun.”
With that he places into my hand a small remote control. It looks rather like the handset from a holovid unit.
In fact, it is the handset from a holovid unit, nothing more, nothing less. But the moment he puts it in my hand I am certain that I guess what Sharman’s surprise must be
And then he kisses me tenderly on the cheek and walks away quietly, leaving me standing in front of the door in a state of extreme anticipation. Then the nanos activate my muscles once more and my hand reaches for the door handle.
When the door finally swings open my guess is confirmed.
The storeroom has featureless bare concrete walls and floor, but they are spotlessly clean since their fabric also contains nanomachines that metabolise dirt. Standing in the centre, facing me, is another man. He is a little taller than me, slim and handsome, with long, wavy auburn hair and green eyes.
Those eyes are instantly drawn to mine, and gaze at me pleadingly. I return his stare, hoping that he can read the sympathy in my eyes.
He appears to be about 20 years old, just as I do. His skin is tan and faintly freckled from head to foot. He is of course naked like me and has a solid erection to match my own.
He is standing perfectly, perfectly still.
So it has finally happened. Sharman has found another plaything.
I wonder how and where Sharman’s devices trapped the newcomer. He cannot be a thief like me; Sharman has told me that physical theft is rare nowadays, since cash has been replaced by automated credit in all but the most backward parts of the world, and welfare has all but eliminated abject poverty.
My legs begin to move, walking me slowly around him. He does not turn his head to follow me. His eyes remain fixed upon the doorway, his limbs motionless. I feel nothing but sympathy for him, remembering the time when I was first enslaved by Sharman’s nanomachines.
My hand reaches out; slowly, gently, my fingers trace his left arm from the shoulder to the wrist, feeling the firm muscles beneath the skin. Remembering Sharman’s first touch upon my paralysed body, I know that the newcomer must be sending frantic commands to his muscles, begging them to obey, desperately praying to every god he has ever heard of to free him from this bizarre nightmare.
But the gods, if gods there are, do not answer, just as they did not answer me all those years ago. Instead they allow the nanomachines to hold him still while my free hand explores his legs and back, lingering for several minutes upon his firm buttocks before slowly exploring the sides of his torso and reaching around to his chest.
If he could speak I know that he would be begging me to stop. He can have no idea that I am just as helpless as he is. I can no more prevent my muscles from moving than he can make his muscles move.
My body takes a step forward, so that as my hand slowly caresses his chest my iron-hard erection pokes him from behind. For several long minutes we remain in this position, swaying slightly as my hand explores his pectorals and traces languid circles about his nipples.
This is all very similar to the way Sharman treated me when he first entrapped me. Yet why is he using me, instead of doing it himself? The fact that he had left me before opening the door suggested that he did not want the newcomer to see him at all. The remote he has given me is also part of that plan.
That means the newcomer will believe that I am the one who has trapped him in this state, and so he will feel toward me all the hate - and eventually all the love too - that I feel now for Sharman. I am not sure I want that responsibility, but Sharman as ever is giving me no choice.
After caressing the newcomer’s chest my hand moves to his genitalia, unhurriedly stroking and kneading his erection, sliding his foreskin back and forth while the hand holding the remote slides its ribbed plastic back panel against his tight scrotum.
Over the course of several long minutes his penis grows to almost twice its original dimensions, which were already much bigger than usual.
Then my other arm points the remote control at his face. At the same time his body unfreezes and moves somewhat jerkily into a crouching position with his legs apart. My suspicions about Sharman’s deception are confirmed. The newcomer believes I am controlling him, using the remote to make his body move robotically, when in fact it is Sharman who is controlling us both.
So here it comes: the moment which neither of us can prevent. Kneeling behind the newcomer, my body mounts him and begins thrusting my enlarged erection into his anus. No need to apply a lubricant; the nanomachines have already coated his passage with lubricating jelly, so that my penis enters smoothly and its thrusts are regular. The remote control lies discarded on the floor.
He can’t move. He can’t stop me. I can’t stop myself.
I am raping him and I cannot prevent it.
My feelings are a strange mixture of shame, resignation, helplessness, excitement and ecstasy.
Right now he will be feeling the most extraordinary rushes of pleasure as my glans repeatedly buffs up against his nano-enhanced prostate, and his pleasure will be enhanced even further as my hands resume kneading his throbbing erection. I am also feeling intense pleasure as my own erection thrusts in and out of his tight sphincter, throbbing in response to his muscular contractions.
And Sharman has another surprise in store. After a few moments I begin to feel as if another penis is thrusting into me, sending incredibly sensuous bursts of pleasure through my body. Yet of course there is nobody behind me.
It only takes me a moment to realise that what I am feeling is my companion’s sensations, transmitted from his nanomachines to mine. No doubt he is also feeling what my penis is feeling.
In that state we remain for hours. My hands caress his chest and abdomen while my hips move back and forth, sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly, sometimes gently, sometimes brutally. All the while our mutual sensations continue to build, repeatedly bringing us to the very brink of climax and then drawing back. Finally, though, we both experience a rush of ecstasy that grows and grows and grows until our bodies are engulfed in a white-hot simultaneous orgasm.
For what seems like several minutes time seems to stand still as our inflamed bodies do the same. I know from past experience that the nanos can sustain a sexual climax for hours if Sharman wishes it.
This time, however, only a few minutes pass before our bodies slowly unfreeze and are overtaken by the first slow, sensuous burst of ejaculation. My semen surges into him at the same moment that his own splashes the floor in front of his hands.
I don’t recall exactly how many contractions per orgasm I used to have before Sharman’s nanos converted me, but I’m fairly sure it was less than ten. Now, though, we each experience more than twenty contractions over the course of almost as many minutes. During that time my body pumps an astonishing amount of semen into his, but there is very little leakage because his nanos absorb it all into his body. Likewise, although he repeatedly splatters the floor with his own ejaculations, the nanos in the floor soak it up and metabolise all the fluid.
At last it is over. Our bodies are immobile, at rest, although our erections remain as hard as ever. I sense, however, that this respite will not be for long. Sharman will not let us off so lightly.
Sure enough, after a few minutes my body withdraws from his and my hand picks up the remote control. Moving around to face him my body points the control at him and my fingers punch buttons at random. At once he stiffly moves forward and takes my erection into his mouth, slowly licking and sucking me while the rest of my body stiffens into immobility once more.
As he helplessly fellates my helpless body toward another incandescent climax I find myself wondering for the millionth time whether I should be ashamed of how much I’m enjoying it.
This month we are Cupid Rekindling Hymen’s Torch by George Rennie. Under the influence, as he thinks, of my remote control, the newcomer took up position on the pedestal while I arranged his props. He is Hymen or Hymenaios, Greek god of marriage (and possibly the source for the name of a certain female membrane that I suppose is also associated with marriage in a sense). Garlanded with flowers, he is literally holding a torch for me.
Making a few more gestures with the remote, my body then hid it in a secret compartment in the base of the pedestal before stepping up to join him. I have played Cupid before, crouching to tease a butterfly in the guise of Chaudet’s statue, but this time I stand with my right hand and right cheek resting intimately on Hymen’s shoulder, gently blowing on his torch while his left arm is held across my back beneath my wings, his fingers caressing my ribs....
In order to adapt me into this pose the nanos have shrunk me until I am half a head shorter than the newcomer. Never mind; size is not everything, a phrase that also applies to the diminutive size of our genitalia in this guise.
Once our poses were finalised our bodies hardened into the appearance of marble. This is the newcomer’s first time as a statue, and I can’t help wondering what is going through his mind. I might imagine that the experience, following all that has already happened to him, would drive him insane. But it did not drive me insane (as far as I know), and I suspect the nanos will also prevent him from escaping into madness.
According to the holobio, George Rennie, the sculptor who made the original for our current disguise, gave up art for politics later in life, but remembered his roots by campaigning for free admission to art galleries. And sure enough, here we are in a free art gallery, although we ourselves are anything but free.
Once our bodies were frozen in place Sharman opened the gallery and visitors began to arrive. At the same time we began to feel phantom sensations that I soon realised were being generated by the nanos.
Although my stone body had a small, flaccid penis I felt as if I had a huge erection, and it was not long before I began to feel as if I were thrusting it into the newcomer’s anus....
Of course. Sharman recorded our physical sensations during our first encounter and now he is playing them back to us. Except that now they are much slower and more intense than they were the first time.
There is nothing I can do except let the sensations wash over me, while the gallery visitors mill about, blissfully unaware of the strange sexual bondage taking place before their eyes.
“Look at those two,” says one. “According to the bio they represent the reaffirmation of fidelity in marriage.”
“Really?” says another. ”If you ask me they look totally gay.”
To Be Continued?