Statuette

"Happy birthday, Ken!"

He smiled, knowing that whatever his best friend gave him as a gift, he would love it and cherish it. The gift-wrapped box was large, but the contents within barely made any noise as he gently shook it, so he could not even venture a guess as to what she had bought him.

"Consider this both a birthday present and a bit of decoration for your new place in Chicago," Fiona said. Her eyes sparkled more than usual as she clearly awaited his reaction to the contents of the wrapped box.

Without further ado, Ken began the unwrapping. As he unwrapped the box, however, deep in the recesses of his mind envisioned himself unwrapping Fiona.

At last, he took off the lid of the box to reveal... packing peanuts. Ken could only laugh, Fiona's laughter joining his in a sweet duet.

"You just want to extend my anticipation just a little longer, don't you?" Ken challenged, to which his best friend nodded emphatically with a big grin on her face.

Dipping his hand into the sea of Styrofoam, he felt something: a hard plastic, somewhat rigid. Moments later, he was extracting the gift from the box and his eyes befell something he had not expected:

His gift was a statuette.

The craftsmanship was exquisite. The statuette depicted a young woman with flowing blood-red hair bound by several chains to a gothic-style cross. The woman's white dress was torn repeatedly, practically decimated, with rips strategically placed to demonstrate that she wore no undergarments and that her nipples were prominently hard despite the myriad of reddened lines blemishing her flawless pale skin. What was most striking, however, were the eyes: sparkling orbs which demonstrated both pain and trust.

As Ken looked up from the statuette in the plastic casing to the young woman who had instantly captivated his heart when they had first met in college, he saw those same sparkling orbs beaming at him, further augmenting the glow emanating from his best friend.

Ken's expression immediately transformed from jovial to respectful. "This was you," he said softly, the background music suddenly as silent as the vacuum of space.

"I know," Fiona replied, leaning across the table to gently stroke his forearm. "I saw that online a few months ago and was stunned that such a statuette existed, as if someone had taken a picture of a truly significant moment we had shared and then turned it into a three-dimensional memory. I immediately bought it, because I knew you'd definitely like it."

"I do," Ken acknowledged solemnly. "I definitely do. Thank you."

"When you look at it, you'll always remember the times I submitted to you," she said. "I wish I could submit to you again, but..."

"I know." Scott's name did not need to be mentioned. "I accept that."

The rest of the evening passed with much more laughter, and ended with a long, heartfelt hug, a hug which threatened to never end. Even the next morning, as he packed his few remaining belongings and prepared to go to the airport, Ken could still feel the soft warmth of Fiona's breasts pressing against him, he could still smell the faint fragrance of her favorite strawberry-scented shampoo, he could still hear her whispered promise of coming to visit him as often as she could with her hectic work schedule. And as the plane flew northward, his thoughts were focused upon the statuette in the bin above his head, and the night of kinkiness it represented.

*****

It took several weeks to finally turn the apartment into a home. To Ken, it did not feel complete until he had at last found a suitable means to display the statuette: atop a narrow, waist-high, dark oak bookcase.

For perhaps an hour, he sat and simply gazed upon the statuette, a seven-inch reincarnation of that wonderful night. Granted, Fiona had submitted to him plenty of times before that, suffering his well-checked wrath as he guided her in the pleasure of pain. Yet that night in particular, she had connected with him in a powerful, heartfelt manner that he suspected he would never achieve again with anyone else. Even as he looked fondly and wistfully upon the three-dimensional trigger, his ears were filled with the slicing of the air, Fiona's cries of pain, the rattling of the chains. His arousal was unmistakable within his jeans, yet this time, she was not there to witness the power her pain had upon him, and that saddened him even as he accepted that fact.

Weeks passed. Daily, he would sit and gaze upon the statuette and remember. In his mind, he traced the long red welts upon her flawless skin, heady in the knowledge that she had suffered willingly for him and yet begged for more with her sparkling eyes. He recalled how she had tried to arch toward him, against him, as his fingertips reignited the pain he had inflicted upon her body. He could still feel her silken hair in his fists as he savagely kissed her in a prelude to still other acts which should never take place in a graveyard...

As day turned to night and the light of the sun was replaced by the curtain-diffused glow of the streetlights, the statuette stood tall and proud before him. At her full five feet, Fiona was again chained to an old iron gothic-style cross before him, her jaw quivering, her eyes filling yet pleading.

Ken's arousal was intense, yet he was not yet finished with his best friend. Her dress was irreparably torn, her body reddened from the use of several different floggers, the angry red lines testament to his skill with the single-tail, yet something seemed to be missing...

A long thin branch had fallen from the nearby tree. The inert branch would be easy to wield, and just rigid and irregular enough to truly hurt her even more.

He picked up the switch, testing it, enthralled with the sound it made as it split the air and pleased at how that very sound caused Fiona to lurch in her bonds and cause the chain to rattle greatly. He wanted -- needed -- so badly to inflict more pain upon her, but looked into her sparkling eyes first for a long, long time...

...and she acknowledged both her pain and her desire for him to continue.

Fiona's cries split the night air, carrying across the graveyard as the moon cast its glow upon the landscape. Harder and harder he struck her, faster and faster the branch carved the air until, at last, Ken could wait no longer, casting the switch aside and quickly undressing as his best friend hung limply from the old iron cross, her battered body heaving with her sobs, her sobs transforming into gasps as he filled her, taking his pleasure from her and finally walking away with his seed trickling down her thigh...

...and awakening in the darkness upon the sofa to find her upon him, sleeping like an angelic babe, calm and peaceful. He did not question -- he simply held her close, caressing her as she slept upon him.

*****

To Ken, nothing was sadder than having to leave her in the morning and go to work, yet nothing made him happier than to come home from work -- especially if he was able to leave the office early -- and come home to her.

She cooked. She cleaned. She catered to his needs and his desires. She practically knew what he wanted even before he could ask -- or, as was more often the case, order.

Best of all, however, was her eager pain. Yes, he used her almost daily. Yes, he would sometimes unleash his seed upon her, although he was more apt to fill her instead. But what truly enthralled him was her willingness to hurt for him.

For him.

He bought heavier floggers. He bought a cane. He bought ginger root. He bought needles. He bought a TENS unit.

She made very good use of the penis gag, yet her voice still rang sweetly in his ears. Even if she was blindfolded, her tears -- especially if she was wearing make-up -- tugged at his heart in unimaginable ways.

And then, on a Friday night, as he sat naked upon the sofa as she knelt before him in the darkness and attempted yet again to swallow his entire solid length, there was a knock upon the door. He ordered her to answer the door as usual, even though she was fully naked as was typically the case on a Friday night, and she heard a shrill scream.

...Fiona's shrill scream.

Ken rushed to the door, his manhood bobbing obscenely, grabbed his best friend, and hauled her quickly inside, kicking the door closed behind them.

"That's not me!" Fiona cried, pointing accusingly at her living doppelganger.

"No," Ken confirmed. "That is the statuette you bought me, but she has come to life."

Fiona fainted.

*****

"You look just like her," Ken whispered in the darkness, stroking Fiona's hair as she lay upon his bed. "How? You only looked similar to Fiona before, but now you look just like her."

The living statuette slowly stepped away from the window, toward him. "I am simply the embodiment of what you wanted most," she said quietly, "although in this case, it is really who you wanted most."

Ken was quiet for a long time, absently stroking his best friend's hair as his mind reeled with the unusualness of this situation, and also with the truth of what he had just heard from someone who logically should not even exist. Fiona whimpered at one point, but quieted immediately, which concerned him greatly.

"Yes, I want to hurt Fiona," he finally admitted, "and I know that she enjoys it to some extent."

"But...?"

"But I want more than just that, even though I know I can't."

"You can't?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Scott."

"I see."

In the morning, when Ken awoke beside Fiona, he searched the house and found that the doppelganger was gone.

*****

Ken tried to explain the situation to Fiona, and she was actually taking it quite well from his perspective. She had not yet stormed out, she was not particularly angry...

"So where is she now?"

Ken shrugged. "She was gone when I woke up today. At first, I figured that with you here, she had returned to being just a regular statuette, but she -- I mean it... I mean... whatever -- wasn't on the bookcase. While you were still fainted, I searched the entire apartment, but there is no sign of her in either form. My best guess is that she's moved on somehow."

A few moments of contemplative silence passed, and then a familiar jingle which Ken had not heard in several months surprised him. With a sigh, Fiona stood and crossed the room, rummaging in her purse until she found her cell phone.

"Hello? ... Speaking. ... That's impossible, because I've been in Chicago since last night. ... Yes, I do have an alibi. He's right here with me. ... Are you sure you have the right person? ... No, I... Hold on, Sergeant."

"What's going on?" Ken asked in a low voice as Fiona turned to him.

"Scott's dead," she said, confusion evident upon her face and in her voice. "I supposedly murdered him late last night, in a crowded restaurant."

Ken's eyes suddenly grew wide as the only possible explanation hit him with the force of a speeding train. "Oh shit..."

"Her?"

Ken nodded. "Her."

"Oh shit..." Fiona agreed.