Timeless Possession

yama951 asked:

How about a buff featureless mannequin?

My husband had many vices, but none was more annoying than his obsession with antiques. What started as a few ancient coins and an Edwardian chair had over the years become a constant hunt for vases, figurines, and old furniture. And the last thing you want to do during your midlife crisis is to be dragged around derelict country houses and posh estates to rummage through their dead owners’ possessions. Trust me, it’s fucking boring.

This time around I just left him salivating over a dusty chaise lounge and went to find a quiet corner to nap for a while. I sneaked into one of the storage rooms and dropped dead on some fancy chair. A cloud of dust erupted from the cushions and got into my eyes and nose. As I instinctively brought my hands to my face, I accidentally knocked down a little porcelain doll that was resting on a cabinet beside me. I was scared the rattle it made as it broke would alert someone of my presence, but it seemed no one was around so I just ignored it, cleared my eyes of the dust, and prepared myself for a quick nap.

That’s when I heard it. What is it you want? I assumed I was in that awkward middle point between sleep and wakefulness, so I didn’t give it much thought. But it kept asking, gently. What is it you want? I started thinking about it. What did I want? My body. My forties had done some terrible stuff to my body shape and I really missed my defined abs and sculpted pecs. What else? Just a little peace and quiet. Life had become so chaotic lately, with my beloved sinking deeper into his obsession. He barely paid me any attention anymore… What else? I guess I just wish he wanted me as much as he wanted all these antiques.

So be it.

I felt a tickle running down my spine, like goosebumps. But the feeling didn’t fade like you would expect. In fact, it was intensifying. It concentrated on my bum, travelling slowly between my things towards my crotch. I pulled down my zip to see what was going on but my cock looked just like it always did. Perhaps a little paler than usual? Hmm, it did look like it was quiet pale, and it had a really weird sheen. I went to inspect it but, as soon as I touched it, the weird feeling intensified tenfold. And it was so good! It was like the tickle I get when my husband played with my nipples (spoiler alert: I have very sensitive nipples) but stronger and over a wider area.

I started massaging my cock and fondling my balls. I had not experienced such sexual bliss since… well, I don’t think I had ever experienced anything this good. But it was strange that, despite how amazing it felt, I wasn’t hard at all. I tried to grab hold of my cock to jerk off but I couldn’t seem to get my fingers around it. In fact, I couldn’t really tell where my cock ended and my crotch began. I kneed it with my hand but the surface was stiff and unyielding, though it still gave me indescribable pleasure to touch it. It was only when I noticed my pubes falling off that I actually realised something was very wrong.

I tried to stand up but my legs wouldn’t budge. They were rigid, locked into a casual position. I rapped one of them with my fist and they sounded hollow and solid. I would’ve panicked but the vibrations that my rapping made were so delightful! I tried to do it again but my arm wouldn’t respond anymore. Nor would my fist, which slowly opened up on its own accord. Without any tactile pleasuring, the horror of my predicament finally hit me. I struggled to turn my head towards the door, and when I cried for help, no sound came out. My eyes got drier and drier, yet I couldn’t blink anymore. I was frozen in place.

I waited for something else to happen. Maybe I would wake up. Maybe it would wear off, just a freakish allergic reaction to dust. But nothing happened. Hours went by, the afternoon sun slowly creeping into the room. At least the feeling of sunlight on my surface was warm and pleasing. When I had already given up hope and resigned myself to life as a forgotten antique, I saw my boyfriend walking into the room. He didn’t look alarmed by my looks. In fact, he seemed quite cool about the whole situation. He picked me up (sending me into a blissful frenzy in the process) and took me back home. He cat out my clothes and set me on a Chesterfield armchair by the fireplace.

I tried to hold on to my memories, my sense of self, but the more time that passed, the more I acclimatised to my life as a mannequin. It’s not so bad, to be honest: it is nice and quiet, I get to show off my beautiful body, and my husband has never given me so much of his time. He even polishes me twice a day.