The Neuphorian Statues

I exist to serve.
I have no prejudices.
I have no demands.
 
I am not human.
I am a statue.
 
At least, that is what I have been trained to believe, to act as. I don’t know when the whole idea of turning a sex slave into a statue emerged, but it has and it continues to be something implemented all over this planet. Being a statue is in some ways inferior to being a sex slave. As a sex slave, I can move my body, I can eat and drink more, I can speak and look upon things. As a statue, I am seen as an inanimate thing. I am reduced to nothing but an object, or a single body part.
 
I am not human.
I am a hybrid.
 
I think my kind make the best statues. We can withstand long durations without water or food though those things are still necessary for our survival.
 
I think we are also more beautiful then humans, though we are half. Mixed with the blood of the Neuphorians, a race of beautiful creatures from the world Neuphoria outside of the humans’ galaxy, my kind are the most beautiful. Most of us have long thick black hair, which is braided if you become a statue, with dark olive green skin and black eyes. We grow larger than normal humans, the men being taller and more muscular than human males. I am a few inches more than seven feet with broad shoulders. I am told I look like a warrior, an Adonis warrior.
 
Because of our beauty we are placed outside, in gardens, in town squares, right outside of houses or within, to be as pieces of art for passer-bys. Pieces of erotic art that one can do what they will.
 
Sometimes they paint us with glitter to make our skin more vibrant, more pretty. Sometimes my master undoes my hair and lets it cascade down my body, making sure it does not hide my genitals – another feature of my race that makes us more attractive, especially the men because we are easily aroused and can remain erect for long durations. But she has found that I am even more attractive like this and that I receive too much attention from others.
 
My master rarely puts clothes on me. If she does, it is only to make me more beguiling. My genitals are never hidden under cloth, though they are often tied with rope or chains, sometimes so tight that I can feel a sharp pain. But those times it is usually as punishment. Almost always does she place a ring on my penis. People find this attractive.
 
My master also places me in different positions. I must look like I am inviting someone, almost begging him or her, to touch me or to be the sexual item of their imagination. I must look like I am nothing more than a means to pleasure, that I exist solely for that purpose.
 
I have stood spread-eagled, in chains, my head back and by pelvis jutting forward. A lot of people sucked me or stroked me that day.
 
One time I was posed on my knees, my penis jutting out, my mouth wide open. Needless to say the men received more pleasure from this pose than the women.
 
A few times my master has had me chained, my head down, not in sight of someone passing by, my ass sticking out, legs wide and inviting someone to violate me there. Many, mostly men, did, either with tongues or penises or fingers or other items.
 
There are even times when I am posed with someone else. The other statue may have my penis in his or her mouth and is commanded to suck me hard and keep me right at the tip of my climax. Times such as these are torturous for I am not allowed to come, not even later when everyone has disappeared into their own homes.
 
Most times I am either standing erect, hands stuck to my sides, or in a chair, legs wide open, my facial expression reduced to nothing but a leer.
 
There is never a day when I am not completely exposed, completely enslaved by any one who wants me.
 
Many individuals walk pass me in the gardens or in the house, and cannot help but to touch me. They stroke my penis, squeeze my genitals, kiss my lips. They straddle me and ride me until they reach their peak, or they enter me from behind until they have banged so hard against me my skin starts to burn and they have reached their peak. They stick tongues or fingers in my mouth. They try to get a moan from me, or some type of sign of pleasure, weakness. But I show none. My gaze stays straightforward. I stay erect and unmoving. I remain a statue, though the burn of arousal swirls inside me. When they see my resilience, they fuck me as though I am nothing more than an object. That is when I have completed my duty.
 
When the day hours are over, and the night only lingers in the arrival of a new sun, a new sky, my master comes to me. Depending on her mood, she either shows me affection or tortures me further. She may command me to remain a statue and refuse to feed me or give me water and may leave me alone, my penis throbbing, my heart beating fast, my body sweating from the heat of arousal from the day’s activities, in the dark until the next day. She may give me food and drink and allow me to reach my peak either by making me masturbate or making me pleasure her with mouth, hands, and genitals. Or she may have me remain a statue and torture me as she pleases, either through fucking me from behind, or flogging me, or having two men or two women take me at the same time.
 
There are rare occasions when I am neither statue nor slave. When I can kiss her as I will, as long as it is enjoyable, and make love to her however I will, as long as it doesn’t hurt her. These are times when the warmth of arousal is not just around my genitals and spreading fiercely through my body, but is also around my heart. But again, these are rare occasions.
 
Most times I am just as inanimate to her as the real marble statues that make buildings aesthetic or cities famous.
 
I am not an individual.
 
I have no name, no voice.
I have no needs, no desires, no prejudices.
I exist solely to serve all.
 
I am nothing but a statue.
 
And yet, I remain blissfully happy.