Modern Art

Suppressing a yawn, Helena trudged through yet another boring-ass exhibit at her local modern art museum. She was more than a little disappointed with her by now 2-hour long excursion - she’d gotten rave reviews from a few of her artist friends about the place, but so far it hadn’t been much more than a bunch of weird, pretentious “art” exhibits. Canvases painted completely white, fruit taped to walls, bits of wire and fabric hanging from the ceiling. Art she didn’t understand, and she wasn’t convinced the artists themselves understood them either. Itching to go home, she scanned the floor map on the brochure and found that apparently, this was the last room in the museum, right before the gift shop.

looking around, she also realized that she was the only person there. She shook her head, not surprised that nobody else had bothered walking through this snooze-fest all the way to the end. She was about to hit the exit, but then, something caught her eye.

Off to the side, she noticed a door, tucked right in the corner of the exhibit. Painted the same color as the walls around it, there was almost no way she’d notice it, had it not been for the fact that the door was slightly ajar, spoiling the illusion. There were no markings - no “staff only” or “keep out” signs that indicated the entrance was closed to the public, but she found it strange that an exhibit would be tucked off in the corner and behind such a hidden opening. She checked the map in her hands, and found that whatever the room was, it wasn't on the floor plan. Weird. The mystery kind of intrigued her though, and, perhaps against her better judgment, she walked over, swinging the door open and heading inside.

She found herself in a slightly smaller room, lit by bright fluorescent bulbs. There wasn’t much for paintings in the room, with only three or four hanging off of the bone-white walls, and the room was mostly empty - save for one exhibit, right in the middle of the room. A pedestal.

The cylindrical pedestal, chiseled entirely out of marble, resembled an Ancient Greek column, with a series of lines ascending along the sides, opening out into a flat platform. The whole thing only reached up to Helena’s thighs, and engraved into the flat top of the pedestal was an intricate spiral that terminated right in the center. But something was missing. Helena stared at the empty pedestal, confused. Wasn’t there supposed to be a statue or something sitting on top of it? Something to actually look at?

Then, her eyes found the sign, hung on a wall right behind the pedestal - a plain, white sign, with just 3 words in some boring typeface emblazoned across it.

YOU ARE ART

“I am art?” Helena read the words in disbelief, and suddenly the pieces started to click together. She groaned as she realized she was standing in front of yet another “meta” modern art piece. The idea was that the viewer could sit on the pedestal, make a pose, and then they would be the "statue". Wow. Somewhat clever, she sufficed, but in reality she knew it was likely just a ploy to attract attention on social media, with the concept practically begging for naive art tourists to share photos of themselves posing like a statue.

Oh well, the somewhat interesting secret room turned out to be a bust, just like the rest of the museum. Sighing, she turned to leave.

And then the door in front of her clicked shut.

“H-hey, wait!” She gasped, rushing to the door - or where the door had once been. The wall in front of her was now completely smooth, and she realized in horror that there was no door knob to grab onto. She was trapped.

She began banging on the wall. “Help! Somebody’s in here!” But after a few minutes of banging, yelling, and cursing, she received no response from the other side.

Hyperventilating a little, she turned around and scanned the room, looking for a way out. Unfortunately, besides the few paintings, there was nothing in the room besides the column and the sign, which… hang on.

The sign had changed. Where it had once said “You are art,” the font had seemingly transformed, taking on a different message: one word.

LOOK

Helena's eyes narrowed. Was this part of the exhibit? Had someone changed the sign when she wasn't watching? Where had they gone?

And what exactly was she supposed to be looking at?

Approaching the sign, she prodded it, finding it to actually be painted right onto the wall. It seemed like there was no way the sign could have changed, barring some mechanical wall-switching device, and this revelation made Helena gulp as it became increasingly less likely that this was, in fact, a regular art exhibit.

But still, the question hadn’t been answered. What was she supposed to be looking at? She turned around and was met with the pedestal, looking the same as it just had. The surface was unchanged, the same intricate spiral design staring back at her. Nothing seemed amiss.

But then, the most peculiar thing happened. The pedestal began to rotate.

Starting off slowly, the marble column began spinning, faster and faster. There was no sound of machinery, no clicking of gears turning that might’ve made it possible for the hunk of polished stone to move - aside from the quiet shifting of the stone, it was dead silence. And yet, it spun anyway, twirling around and around, causing the spiral design to spin alongside it, swirling, twirling, and capturing Helena’s gaze. She didn’t notice the impossibility of the column's movements, couldn’t register the lack of sound. She was far too distracted by the spinning spiral.

She didn’t quite know why she was staring as intently at the column as she was. Something inside of her was simply compelled to look. She wanted to look. It was so easy to look. The spiral twirled and spun faster and faster and she kept looking, keeping her eyes on the intricate design, following it to the center, and then back again. In and out, in such a nice, relaxing pattern. She took some deep breaths, the sweet air filling her as her gaze burned onto the spiral.

Her eyes suddenly became very tired, but she kept them open. She wanted to keep looking. Had to keep looking.

And then, as suddenly as it had begun, the column stopped. It fell to a halt, and the spiral stopped twirling, but the spiral in Helena’s mind didn’t stop. It kept spinning as she looked back up at the sign.

YOU ARE ART

It said the same thing it had earlier, but for whatever reason, Helena found it much easier to identify with the message this time. “I am art,” she whispered mechanically, distantly, as the message appeared in her swirling mind. Sighing, she let the words sink into her, feeling the phrase become a part of herself. She was art. She wanted to be art. She would do anything to be art.

She blinked, and as if by magic, the sign changed instantly, replacing its message. She didn’t notice the switch really, but she was happy to have something new to look at.

STRIP

The words sunk into her and she nodded. Strip. That’s a good idea. She should strip. If she simply stripped, then she would be art. She wants to be art. She is art.

She stripped.

Her hands moved slowly, automatically, as she reached for her shirt, tugging it over her head and dropping it somewhere behind her. Next was her pants, tugging them down and casually stepping out of each leg. She stared intently at the sign as she removed her bra, and began to feel a warm glow of pleasure filling her entire body. It made her smile. She liked to strip, especially if it made her art. It felt so good to be art.

Finally, flinging her socks off and stepping out of her panties, she looked back up at the sign, a constant pleasure now thrumming within her body. Just as she’d hoped, the sign said something new now, the font slightly bigger than last.

ASS

Ass. The word filled her brain, and Helena suddenly became hyper-aware of her ass. It began itching with a need, and Helena placed her hand on it, rubbing and attempting to quell it as she looked around. Ass. She needed to put her ass somewhere.

She turned away from the sign and found herself looking at the pedestal. Setting her gaze on the flat top of the column seemed to send an electric, irresistible signal into her mind, causing her ass to buzz in delight as she found exactly where her ass needed to go.

Ass. Stepping over her discarded pile of clothes, Helena placed her ass onto the column, shivering as she felt the engraved spiral dig into her cheeks. She sighed as she sat down fully, her ass lighting up with pleasure as she came one step closer to being art.

She was facing away from the sign now, but to her surprise, she found that she could picture exactly what it was telling her - the words seemed to telepathically appear in her mind as easily as if she had been reading them herself.

STATUE

Of course. Statues are art. If she became a statue, she would become art. She felt a pulsing beneath her, a strange, tingling, almost magic sensation coming from the column below. She realized that the column was going to turn her into a statue. The thought made her body shiver. She wanted to let the column turn her into a statue. She would do anything.

Another word floated into her mind.

CUM

The instructions were crystal clear. She just needed to cum. She would turn into a statue when she came.

Her mind swirled with sexy thoughts. She wanted to be art. It’s so sexy to be art. Her pussy pulsed and throbbed as she moved her hand down and began fingering herself, and her breathing became hot and heavy. She wanted to cum so bad. If she came, she would be art.

She rubbed and stroked herself, faster and faster. As she did so, she felt the magic tingles slowly spread into her ass, and to her delight, she found she could no longer sit up if she tried. Her ass felt cooler and heavier with the tingles, and as she looked down, she saw her ass slowly taking on the same white, marble texture as the pedestal she sat on. Her pleasure ebbed and soared, and her hand sped up as she felt the tingling creep down her legs, slowly freezing them in place.

The pleasure consumed her as she fucked herself harder, feeling the delightful tingles spread up to her boobs, making them rock-solid. She moaned dreamily, and new fantasies danced in her twirling mind as she got closer to cumming: she imagined herself in her own exhibit, being visited by people, being stared at in awe as they admired her statuesque form. Seeing her as the art she was. The thoughts were so sexy and nice.

Down below, the only thing below her waist that hadn’t been transformed into stone was her pussy, as it gushed and twitched, being pulverized by her hand. Her unused arm quickly became petrified, and soon the tingles had reached all the way to her neck, slowly reaching her head. The pleasure was overwhelming. She was so close to cumming. Almost there.

Her mind opened up to one last message.

YOU ARE ART

Helena moaned as she came. “I am art,” were the last words that came out of her mouth as the tingles filled her head and her pussy, covering her completely in stone.

The statue of Helena sat motionless on its pedestal, devoid of any trace that it had once been flesh and bone. Its marbled form was one of naked lust, eyes and mouth open as if deep in ecstasy, left hand buried between its legs. It was expertly detailed, and even its hair had been rendered in stone, cast in long, twirling strands of marble that reached its back. The statue stayed perfectly still and perfectly silent, as all statues should, the only sound being the errant dripping of liquid as it fell from between Helena’s legs, onto the tiled museum floor.

Deep inside the statue, however, Helena basked in the endless, swirling pleasure that came with being art. The phrase looped in her brain over and over, filling her mind and making her so very happy.

I am art.

I am art.

I am art.

It was true. She was art. It's all she was now.

Everything was quiet in the room, and her heart soared as she sensed the door to the exhibit opening in front of her. She knew that soon people would come and look at her, admire her. See her as the art she was always meant to be. She couldn't wait to feel their gazes on her. It would feel so good to be looked at.

She didn’t know how long it would take. Time didn’t mean much to her anymore, and hours could drift into weeks without her really noticing. But that was okay. She knew she could be very, very patient.