400 Years of Adoration and Objectifaction

One evening, I read up on Michelangelo’s David. It took over two years of almost non-stop work to carve David out of a giant block of marble. David is an object. A statue of immeasurable value, yet without life, soul, or personality. It stood outside the city hall in Florence for 400 years.

And still, thousands of people line up to catch just a glimpse of him in his new location. There here remains, naked, without shame. He is not exceptionally well endowed. Still, a masterpiece that has been preserved for centuries.

The more I read, the more I want to be David, not just as roleplay, but become the object that has endured centuries. I want my sheer existence to signal beauty and strength. As a human, life stands in the way of fulfilling so many dreams, desires, and wishes. As a human, I am expected to conform. An object is free of all that makes me weak. As an object, I can be displayed, adored, be unlike anything else.

Waking up feels unnatural. I am nacked but feel no heat or chill. There is no pain, no heartbeat, no air entering my lungs. I panic for a second, confused, dazed, and locked in place like a rock.

My muscles don’t respond, nor do my eyes. I face south and should be blinded by the sun. My eyes don’t allow the instinctive reflex to protect against the sun’s damaging rays.

My body feels different. I can tell I fell asleep before I had a chance to remove my corset. It feels tight and stiff.

Nothing allows me to explore my body but my inner thoughts. This is not my body. Where narrow shoulders should give way to the tightness of the corset, there are muscles. I sense them, but cannot move them.

Further down my body, there is no sign of my pussy. There is something. Heavy, different, both hard and limb. I wished I could see my body, but to no avail. Nothing that should make me human is. Except for my head still works. I’m thinking, experiencing my body, my surroundings.

The feeling between my legs is foreign, though not unfamiliar. Where there should be an opening, where my pussy should be hidden behind crossed legs, I keep them wide open. No, I’m in no bondage position, forced to display my cunt to strangers. It feels almost normal. Normal to have a small cock. My stance slightly on my back-leg as if to dare people to look at my…manhood?

My legs are spread, I am not shy, and there is no humiliation in being the center of attention of hundreds, if not thousands. When was the last time I flashed my pussy in public? I don’t even remember. Here I am, half woman, half man, exposing myself to strangers. Yet nobody takes offense. Quite to the contrary. My sudden growth of male genital does not appear to cause the slightest bit of discomfort in the crowd.

Can’t they see? What are they looking at? Adoringly, eyes carefully inspecting every part of my body. What perverted place is this? What show have I ended up in?

This cannot be real. As vivid as my emotions and my senses are, nothing explains my sudden transformation. Let alone my ability to think, live, observe, without any control of my body. Is this how it’s going to be from now on? Have I become an object, helplessly displayed in some art gallery? No, this is not how I want to spend the rest of my days.

I don’t have a cock, though I can feel it. I don’t have nearly the muscles I sense. This is not my body at all. Dream or not, I have become an object. one that is adored and cherished. The magnificence of my body has transcended norms where I can stand naked in front of people, feel no shame, and nor do they.

What would be awkward at best, IS why the crowds around me are looking without a hint of guilt at my most intimate parts. Dream or not, this is what I want. This is what I want to experience. Beauty without shame, strength, without escape, captured where I forever stand. Not an outcast, but the pride of a city, a nation, a people.

If I could be Michelangelo’s David. Not for centuries, but long enough to imagine the feeling of 400 years of objectification.

One day, I shall find out.