Right Click and Enter
She ate a slice of leftover pizza and showered, trying to erase the stresses of the day. Wrapping herself in a bathrobe she padded to the computer for her nightly ritual. She answered work-related email first, a necessary evil, then began to visit her favorite sites. Most of them were connected to a secret fetish her family and colleagues would be shocked to know she had. Sarah was a petriphile. From her earliest years, ever since she had read about Medusa in a children's book of Greek myths, she had been fascinated with the idea of people turning into stone. Not being the one with the power to do so, but being the helpless victim. The book had a lot to do with that. It had a vivid illustration of a purple-robed Medusa with green snakes for hair, her back to the viewer, looking out over a field of gray, stony victims, all of them in crabbed, contorted positions... mouths wide in horror, arms upraised, torsos twisted. Later, when she was older, she realized the artist had been inspired by the victims unearthed at Pompeii. One figure drew her in particular, a woman at the edge of the picture. She was not so much trying to flee as mesmerized, her blank stone eyes wide, her arms raised slightly. Sarah imagined she had just turned and noticed the gorgon standing there, and foolishly raised her eyes. There had been no hope of avoiding the deadly gaze for her. Now she would stand there forever, as all the victims would. Sarah couldn't help imagining what they would look like hundreds of years in the future, their stony robes covered with moss, faces flaking away, with birds' nests on their shoulders and vines around their hips. Some might be lying pitifully on the ground in pieces, their limbs broken off. Here might be a head with no body, there an arm, a lump of marble over there that was all that remained of one poor victim centuries old. As a child she knew it was improper, somehow, to dwell on such things. It was... morbid, for want of a better word. Like looking too long on the altarpiece of the crucified Jesus in the Catholic church her great-aunt attended novenas in. But she could not help it. Often she wondered what it would feel like to be turned into stone. Most myths assumed the victim died, but she preferred to think the victims remained aware, trapped in their helpless state yet unable to do anything about it. She imagined that, one first met the deadly gaze of the gorgon, one would freeze in place, then perhaps the skin the would itch or tingle, as when clay begins to dry or one's arm falls asleep, the feeling spreading throughout the body as the victim stiffer, heavier, more immobile. She would often tightly wrap herself in a heavy blanket to simulate the feeling of being immobilized. But it wasn't the same thing. Sometimes she had dreams of lying paralyzed in her bed as an intruder walked into the room. She never had a clear view of who it was. The feeling of immobilization was delicious, but also terrifying. She would always wake when the being stepped to the side of the bed and was about to look down on her. These dreams began at puberty, and with it came the acknowledgement of the sexual element of her obsession. She had boyfriends and even one or two brief flings with women. She enjoyed sex for the most part and was experimental; she never had problems having an orgasm. Yet, the petrification fantasies continued to haunt her. When her orgasms came she would fantasize, for brief and fleeting seconds, of being frozen in that state for eternity, her body helpless and tingling, solid and weighted, as it morphed into stone, and the thought of others looking at her then, a wanton, naked art object for all to see, was one of her favorite fantasies. One that, unlike the three-ways and leather cuffs, had nary a chance of coming true. There were websites, clubs, and forums on the net for people with her interests. Still as Stone. Medusa's Lair. Petra Immortalis. There were stories, pictures, sometimes a combination of the two. Sarah had never been very creative herself, but she liked to read the stories. The pictures, though often amateurish, stimulated something in her too... helpless nude women succumbing to awful fates as plastic or stone (or even, in one case, a chocolate sculpture) becoming the property of men to be used as they wished. After reading the stories and she would often masturbate in mingled arousal and shame, because the idea of it was just too bizarre. But that didn't keep her from going back. And so she sat down at the computer, checking in on her favorite sites. Her disused webcam stared at her like a malignant, yet impotent, eye; she'd never gotten it to work right. But she had installed a new chat program the other day called 4REAL that she wanted to test out. Someone from her workplace had sent it to her, but she didn't recognize the name. She hadn't done much online chatting. It seemed too detached; she preferred dealing with people face to face. But she had also read on the sites how fun it was, so she clicked on the icon and launched it. Unlike the chat programs she'd fooled around with in her last year of college the program was easy and intuitive to use. There were lists of channels for every interest and purpose. And every fetish as well, with long lists of names. One caught her eye: Medusa's Minions. She blinked at the description. A channel for those into petrification fetishes, stories, pictures or roleplay. Should she? She decided to take the plunge. She clicked on the name. A new window popped up, divided in half: the left side listing the names of the chatters while the right contained their dialogue. At the bottom was a third window where she might type in her replies. At the top of it all was a ray-modeled Medusa's head, snaky hair writhing. Her scarlet lips periodically parted in a grin showing small, pointed teeth as her eyes spun; a disconcerting effect considering the speed of the animation. At the bottom ran the crawling line: COME IN DEARIE. I DON'T BITE. Grinning back, Sarah entered the fray. She gave herself, for fun, a Greek handle: Cleatha. At first there were just greetings: Hi there, whatcha doing. The chat flew furiously. Someone was discussing petrification scenes in rock videos, someone else a recent movie. There were discussions of which models and actresses would make the best statues. But the talk wasn't limited to statues; there were similar discussions occurring on mannequins, robots, or girls frozen in ice. All of it going on at once. Sarah simply read, trying to keep up. The fact there were real people actually talking about all this amazed her... and turned her on not a little. She contributed a few hellos, feeling stiff and awkward, but no one seemed to mind. There were all in their own fantasy worlds. Finally someone singled her out. Modi: hey cleatha you've been quiet I'm a newbie here, I guess, she typed, taking care with the punctuation. Modi: ha ha weren't we all at one time. stone or metal, plastic or ice? Cleatha: ??? Modi: your medium. if you were a statue what would you be? Sarah chuckled. Oh, she knew exactly where this was going. Cleatha: How do you know I'm a girl? Modi: the name silly wabbit She could argue that this unknown user many leagues of bandwidth away had no right to assume anything about her, not even by her name. But because Modi was also a stranger, and likely to remain one, there was no reason for her to lie, either. Cleatha: OK, I'm a girl. That attracted attention as if she had turned on a neon sign. Captain Gorgonos: I zap you with my petro-ray and BLAMMO you're an abalonster statue the_wizard: Alabaster, dumbass Sin1981: LOL Triumvirate: nice tits like 2 shiny domes, with inch high nipples hard as rock, pointing Captain Gorgonos: I put you on the pedestal. Mine for my collection the_wizard: No, mine! What do I look like? she typed, feeling not a little aroused. Sin1981: You're standing with your head slightly turned, a look of surprise frozen on your pretty face. Your eyes are wide with shock. Your hair billows out behind you in stony folds. One leg is raised as if to take a step, but that step never comes. Cleatha: Am I naked?
Sin1981:
She thought for a bit. Ah, what the hell. It was only a game.
Cleatha: You are right, I am naked. I was in the wrong place, at the wrong time. I looked.
Captain Gorgonos: Medusas eyes tempt all mortals to fall under her spell!
Cleatha: I had gone to the spring to take a bath. I didn't know she was there. Helplessly I met her eyes. An electric jolt goes through me. I feel my body stiffen and grow heavier. I try to shield my bush and my right breast with my arms, but they don't quite make it. I freeze in place. Medusa has green eyes with red rims and they drill into mine. Little by little I lose control. My skin tingles as it changes color from soft white flesh to marbled gray. I am turning to stone! To stay here forever, by the edge of the spring.
Medusamaid: a very pretty statue, medusa cackles. she runs her clawlike fingers over your ass
Cleatha: A horrid sensation if I could feel, but I do not.
Triumvirate: mesusa cups your tits and rubs the npples. mmm, nice shape
She can touch my pussy too, if she wants, Sarah typed. Lost in the fantasy, one hand strayed inside her robe, and she rubbed herself lightly on her mons. One finger touched the growing wetness, lightly tracing the growing tumescence of her pearl.
the_wizard: Stone pussy?
Triumvirate: like a slot. its shaved
Sin1981: No, there are stone curls around it, like an arabesque of roses.
Sarah sighed, two fingers now giving play. She wished she'd brought her vibrator from the bedroom. Not that she was one of those luckless souls doomed to use it as a sexual substitute; it was a nice breather between conventional exploits. She massaged her clit slowly, her other hand parting her robe and cupping her breast, like Medusamaid said the gorgon had done. The icon at the top of the window grinned down on her. Its eyes continue to spin and shift color, the snaky hair writhing.
Modi: you there cleatha?
Yes, she typed, leaving off fondling her breast. So Medusa touches my pussy, then what?
Sin1981: She rubs the stone grooves slowly, like a delicate stone flower. She inserts her finger but it won't go far. At the front is a small, hard knob she is tempted to tweak, poking out from between the petrified curls.
Triumvirate: you feel it tho your stone, it turns you on
Medusamaid: medusa says, a pretty penny for you dearie, in my new statue shop!
Cleatha: Oh no!
the_wizard: (hums melodramatic Penelope Pitstop music)
Cleatha: How embarrassing. I'm on display.
the_wizard: On the street. Everyone can see.
Cleatha: Helpless. A thing to be bought and sold.
The thought made her breathe hard. Her fingers were really working now. Impatient, she shrugged off her robe, annoyed by the confining fabric. She was really wet now.
Sin1981: The shop is full of statues, in different aspects of desire.
Cleatha: Do they think, feel?
Modi: like you do. exactly
The Medusa icon continued to flash, mesmerizing her even as her hands continued to work. Now she had her right foot up on the cushion of the executive chair, knees wide. A nasty cum-shot position if her webcam was working, but there was only Medusa's head. The nasty forked tongue flicked at her as a new line wormed under her chin: RIGHT CLICK AND ENTER... RIGHT CLICK AND ENTER...
Sarah moaned. She was so close. She had never dreamed roleplaying could be this intense. Deep down, however, she felt her secret shame emerge, that she, as a fully grown woman, shouldn't be playing these childish, morbid games. Yet she was too far ahead into her arousal for that, as her fingers rolled her nipples like stones, her left hand darting back and forth to rub her cunt. RIGHT CLICK AND ENTER. Enter what? She did not know, but Medusa's eyes drew her on. She knew only that she had to make the click, and now, or the chance, whatever it was, would be forever lost.
Still tweaking and rubbing herself, she scooted the mouse forward with the tips of her fingers until it rested on Medusa's face. Panting in the beginning throes of climax, she poked down on the right button with her middle finger.
The screen exploded into psychedelic color. Red, blue, and green washed over her like a supernova, massaging her flesh with golden sparkles of light. She opened her mouth and cried out. Then the world faded abruptly into black.
A few seconds later the chat program came back to life, and Sarah's disused webcam. One participant, however, was missing.
the_wizard: It worked?
Modi: uh huh
Triumvirate: look at her, what a slut
Sin1981: I find the pose endearing, myself. A reward to my poetry.
the_wizard: I can't see. I never got that f*ckin part of the program to work right.
Captain Gorgonos: Well its pretty spectacular. Nice tits.
Medusamaid: how much do you think we'll get?
Sin1981: The last one I did with Stoneboy got 40,000. We only had to split it two ways though.
The object of their discussion, the alabaster statue once known as Sarah Markham, regarded the computer screen with blank, white-filmed eyes. She was balanced in the chair, just barely, as its creaking joints threatened to splinter under her increased weight. One leg was stretched before her in a brace while the heel of the other rested on the cushion; her thighs were open as far as they could go, showing her audience what the fingers of her left hand were doing. Her right hand was squeezing her breast, fingers pinching the nipple, and her head was thrown back in a silent cry. The contorted expression on her face could have come from either orgasm or horror, but the erection of her nipples pointed to a sexual origin.
Modi: you think shes alive in there?
Triumvirate: who knows?
Captain Gorgonos: Good job, guys!
Sin1981: Let's meet for a beer.
The chat program switched itself off. A short while later the auction team would come; they would clean out Sarah's apartment and everything she owned, removing all trace of her forever.
I am alive. And trapped in stone. Sarah regarded the dancing lines of her screensaver with amazement. A horrible predicament, especially as she had been frozen while masturbating; but she wasn't quite convinced yet it was real. It could be just another layer of fantasy, like the chat program and the stories she'd read. Her senses of sight and hearing -- the only ones she had now -- seemed to be fading into gray. She felt she could fall asleep any second, an erotic languor that accepted her, encased her, like a sensuously carved marble tomb hollowed to contain her exact form.
Minutes passed; she could see them ticking by on the digital readout at the corner of the screen. But she remained as she was.
This is real. I am a statue. An alabaster statue. She should have been horrified, but she felt only a cold, dull finality. And they mean to sell me. Auction me off.
It was a fate familiar to her from her fantasies. But somehow she couldn't get too upset about it. It even occurred to her that, since she had controlled her fantasies so well as to bring her this point, she might control her dispensation, too.
Where will I be taken, she mused. An erotic art gallery in Amsterdam? The private penthouse of a real-estate magnate? Perhaps a brothel in Bangkok, in the center of a fountain, surrounded by goldfish and coins tossed for luck. She heard footsteps scuff on the tiled floor of her condo. Or perhaps I'll go to the office of my boss. He will put me on his desk and store his loose change in my pussy, and tap his cigar ashes in my mouth.
To her shame the degrading thought inspired a second orgasm, climbing through her as surely as the tide climbs towards the moon. It coiled upwards from the pit of her abdomen, a tingling mixture of calamity and dread.
Or perhaps I have no control at all. All of this is real, horribly real. I am a statue and any thoughts I have are the last ones of a fading consciousness, departing from a body that is no longer flesh.
The door to her office opened. Behind her back she heard vague mutters, heavy objects moving. But her disposers had no face to her; they were as mysterious as the dark creatures of her dreams, who came to stare at her as she lay paralyzed in her bed.
For the second time she came.
I am yours, she thought, as the chilly stone curtain descended at last, and Sarah Markham was no more.
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