Fragments Fiction

Fragments.ws is devoted to adult-themed transformation stories.

Dave Fragments

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HOUSE OF WAX

February 2, 2002

I needed money and so I answered an advertisement to be a nude model for a new exhibit at the wax display associated with the University. The exhibit was about the Spanish Inquisition and would depict a medieval torture chamber. The sculptor told me that he needed a well-muscled, living model to capture the appropriate musculature and I fit the bill. He offered to pay me twice the going hourly rate for naked male models if I would come out to his studio in the country. He would need me to model for two weeks while he carved the wax and clay models. I agreed.

It was early afternoon when I got to his studio, a nice studio and barn set well out in the country on a long private driveway through pleasant, tree lined roads. The studio was a large room set on the side of his house with a glass roof. He had been working on various parts of the exhibit that didn't require my modeling skills. There were the usual scenes of medieval torture, thumbscrews, bone crushers, foot roasting, an Iron Maiden, and others. I paused at a cloth-covered apparatus that obviously housed a rack with a body on it.

"Hey dude, It looks like a rack under the drop cloth. Can I see it? " I asked.

"I just finished that a few days ago. It's very realistic. I'll show you if you promise not to get ill," the Sculptor said.

"That stuff never bothers me." I replied as he removed the drop cloth in one large tug. The wax image was astounding. The figure on the rack was stretched so far that both arms and legs were visibly dislocated and there were various marks of whipping and cutting that appeared on the body. The muscles and tendons were stretched so realistically that I reached out and touched the body, half expecting to feel flesh. But it was wax and not human flesh. The face on the wax model was one of sheer agony.

"WOW! That looks so real. It's awesome. Must have been a painful way to die. It's so realistic!"

"I had a good model to work with while doing that. I sent him home last week. Models tend to burn out quickly when I sculpt subjects like this. It's too much for most models to do twice."

"What am I modeling for you?" I asked.

"I need you for another torture scene. The inquisitors used to hang heretics upside down and flay them alive. I hope that doesn't disturb you too much. You won't need to hang upside down all the time, I can work around that, but you will have to be naked," the sculptor said.

"No problem, dude. For the money, I would stand on my head for two weeks. What's flaying?" I asked, unfamiliar with the term.

"Let me make a few measurements of your body now, and we can discuss that later. I have custom fit parts of the apparatus to your body and I need to measure you. Take off all your clothes," the sculptor replied. As he opened the belt of my pants and tugged my T-shirt out of them. I was surprised at how matter-of-factly I responded to his hands on my body. I quickly shucked my clothes off and stood before him in just a pair of skimpy briefs.

Now I'm about six foot four inches tall and weigh about 225 pounds of solid muscle. And I do mean solid muscle. We have a contest at the gym to see who has the least body fat and I've won it for the past two years. My waist is 34 inches and my hips are 35 inches. That means I have only about 5% body fat. I look lean, rugged, and most satisfyingly, like a Greek god. I flexed my arms and legs showing off my muscles beneath their thin layer of skin. I keep my body hairless except for small patches of hair under my arms and at my crotch. I could see he was pleased with what he saw.

"You'll make a fine model. You're exactly what I need for that exhibit," the sculptor said as he started to measure my arms and chest. His hands were warm as they touched my exposed flesh. I could feel my cock stiffening in the flimsy briefs making its own tent. He started to measure my hips and legs and I fidgeted.

"Don't worry about getting an erection. It's part of the modeling business," the sculptor said as he brushed his hands around my cock and balls. "In fact," he continued, "Why don't you just take off those briefs and not worry about it."

I pulled the briefs from my hips and my uncircumcised cock twanged up to half-mast. I tugged my balls down and let him continue. The sculptor took lots more measurements of my body. He documented each muscle's length and thickness and how it related to the bones. He then entered all these numbers into a computer model and set it to calculating some program. It only took a few minutes and chimed like a doorbell when it was done.

"Ok, now I need for you to get onto the display and then I will take some reference pictures," he said as he removed the drape from a large, X-shaped apparatus. It seemed to be made of wood, but was actually metal. Thick wooden beams formed the X and metal rods and rings extended out at various positions. He made me lay down on the beams and fastened my wrists and ankles into thick iron shackles at the end of chains. The metal was cold as it touched my wrists and ankles. I shivered.

"Uh! Sorry about the uncomfortable position and cold metal, I made the shackles wide to that then don't dig into your skin. I hope they're reasonably comfortable."

I shrugged: "I've been in bondage scenes before. It's nothing new." I felt the shackles. There didn't seem to be a locking mechanism on them. "Once, a John I had made me suspend him with hooks through his flesh and we had sex like that all night. It was fun. I liked it. Another time I was completely covered in liquid rubber and strapped down for the night." I fiddled with the shackles. They were an odd construction that wouldn't open once closed.

"What's with these shackles, they don't have a way to open." I felt all around them with my hands.

"Oh, they are authentic reproductions. It's a special latch. I open them when we're done," the sculptor had walked over tot he computer: "I'm going to tighten the chains and raise the apparatus off the floor. Prepare yourself. It's all done by computer and the chains might get a little tight as the hoist lifts the entire apparatus to the proper position. You're going to get a free ride." The sculptor said as he tapped the computer keyboard. I heard the whir of electric motors and tried to shrug, but slack in the chain was taken up and I was stretched me out just far enough to lift me from the wooden beams. More motors whirred and the entire apparatus turned so that I was hanging upside down with my body falling away from the wood. My head was about a foot off the floor and I could see my feet above me. My cock was erect and pointing straight down my stomach at my face. It was exciting in a way.

"It's like a twisted and evil amusement park ride," I joked over the whine of electric motors. "This would be a great position for a blowjob! You like my cock?"

"Oh! Maybe I'll give you a blowjob, but only after I prepare you. You realize that you are going to be much more than just my model. Oh! Much, much more than that, you're going to become a grand work of art." The sculptor was clearly excited. The computer was still adjusting the position of the framework. The shackles and chains kept pulling tighter and tighter.

"Hey! That's getting very tight!" I felt like a string ready to be plucked. All I could do was flex my muscles. A cold sweat covered my body. Here I was shackled and hanging upside down, completely at the mercy of the sculptor doing an exhibit on torture. I started to beg: "Let me down, dude. Please let me down. I don't know what you want to do, but just let me go."

"And lose a great work of art? No, I don't think I will let you down. I need your whole body. It's going to be part of my next exhibit. You'll serve as the example of the ultimate cruelty of the Spanish Inquisition."

"Please don't! Please stop." I begged.

He tapped the keyboard once again and I heard the whine of electric motors behind me. It didn't take long to find out what was happening. Large screws touched my body and started to pierce my skin. I screamed in pain. Two screws drove themselves through my flesh and screwed into my hips. Sweat dripped from me as another pair entered my knees to support my legs and a third pair entered my elbows to support my arms. I sobbed softly. I felt more screws rotate against my spine and neck, making holes in my skin and boring into my bones.

"Why are you doing this to me?" I screamed and moaned.

"I am an artist, you just happen to be my canvas." He replied as he stepped around me and inserted a tube up my ass. "Don't worry, you won't be in pain for too long. You'll be a wax statue when I am done." He said as he forced a tube into my mouth. "Swallow the wax as it flows out." He ordered and I felt warm wax flowing into my mouth. I swallowed several times trying to keep up with the flow, but I couldn't. Warm soft wax filled my mouth, my sinuses and began to flow out my nose. I wanted to spit the tube out of my mouth but couldn't. The sculptor cupped his hand over my nose and mouth, forcing me to swallow the wax. I could feel my throat open and wax flow freely into my stomach and lungs. I twisted and writhed in agony.

"Remember you asked me what flaying was? Well I will tell you. Flaying is the removal of skin from the body with a sharp knife and exposing the underlying bones, muscles, blood vessels, and nerves. Therefore, I'm going to remove your skin. I want my display to be accurate in its depiction of torture. I hope you understand. I can't put an exhibit together of what might have been. I have to put on an exhibit with the real thing. I put my last male model in the rack and stretched him as you saw, then I turned him into wax to preserve the result. It is, after all, a wax museum. You're my next exhibit, dear boy! You're going to have a unique experience! I'm going to strip living flesh from your body. You'll be flayed alive like the heretics in the inquisition. Then, when all the skin is removed from your body, I'll turn you into wax. You'll be a glorious exhibit. Don't think that's the end of it. This exhibit will run five or ten years through seven or eight museums. When that's done, I'll turn you back to flesh and blood and then give you a skin. How does that sound to you?" I struggled and twisted as much as I could but I was trapped. With that the sculptor picked up a large and very sharp knife and waved it in front of my face. I tried to scream but that only caused me to consume more wax. I tried to twist away but I the screws and shackles were held me tight.

"As the doctors say, don't worry this will only hurt a little bit!" The sculptor said sarcastically as he started to cut. He made quick, slicing cuts around my head at the hairline. The knife cut deep into my scalp scraping the bones of my skull, then he pulled my scalp off to expose my bare skill. He cut around my face and neck and lifted my face away from my skull in one quick motion. He held my old face for me to see. It looked like an empty mask. Then he started slicing my arms with quick shallow cuts and stripping the skin from them. The cuts weren't all that deep, but they were painful. The exposed nerves and muscles were very tender and any touch triggered fire-like pain through my body. I could feel blood oozing over my lidless eyes.

All I could do was watch the flesh being stripped from my body. The sculptor cut lines all over my chest and stomach and then pulled the skin from my torso. My nipples disappeared from my chest and the appendectomy scar vanished from my lower abdomen. My abdominal muscles stood out in deep ruddy relief. He made more cuts down my legs and across my back and I could feel the skin being ripped off them. I imagined my glute's and quadriceps all exposed in their muscular glory. The most painful part was when the sculptor removed the skin on my hands and feet exposing the white bones of my fingers and toes. There wasn't much of me left that wasn't a skinless, bloody-red mess. As I flexed my muscles against the cuts, you could see the individual muscle fibers. Some of my bodybuilder friends would have willingly submitted to this just to show off their massive musculature. I kept trying to scream for help but instead I could feel more and more wax being forced into my body.

"You didn't have much fat to remove and your body looks so magnificent in this condition. All that gleaming red muscle on display without a layer of skin to obscure it. You should be proud of your body. I have one more thing to remove the skin from, your cock and balls. After all, I can't leave your manhood with pink skin. That wouldn't be historically accurate. The Inquisition would have cut them from your body. But I'm going to leave them on you."

With that, I felt the knife make a long slow cut around my cock and balls and then traveled down the length of my penis. He slowly removed the outer layer of skin from my scrotum, leaving the testicles hanging. Then he peeled the skin from the shaft of my cock, leaving only the glans intact. The three tubes that formed the shaft of my cock stood out in stark relief from each other. They were covered with dark blue blood vessels.

I tried to scream but couldn't. Then I realized that I wasn't breathing air, just wax.

"Now the final transformation!" the sculptor said as he tapped the computer keyboard. The apparatus rose with me hanging on the bottom and moved towards the back of the studio. I could see the odd drop of blood land on the floor as I was moved. In the back of the studio was a large vat of boiling wax. The machine positioned me above the vat and started to move down. I could feel the heat of the wax as it boiled beneath me and slowly, ever so slowly, the hoist lowered my body into the hot and boiling wax. I tried to scream, I tried to fight, but I was held in shackles and on rods. My face contorted in a silent scream as the hot wax engulfed my body. Waves of pain shot through me. The wax stuck to my open wounds and bonded to muscle and bone.

I could feel my body turning into wax. My hands and feet stopped moving as they completely turned to wax, my arms and legs were next to stiffen as the boiling wax penetrated my body. Then slowly the transformation moved up into my torso. I felt my chest and body turn to wax. It was an odd feeling. I was aware of them, but they were no longer flesh and blood and bone. My mind was the last to change; I ceased to care about my former life and began only to care about looking good for the public.

I remember being removed from the bath, cooling and being hung by my feet in the display apparatus, and several statues of hooded monks holding knives being placed around me.

When the crowd first came in, I felt my wax mind and body crave attention from the patrons. I delighted in being seen like this, in shocking people, in being on exhibit. My body was a gleaming red mass of tortured flesh for the public to see and I liked being seen. It was my new life, nothing else mattered when the crowds were there in front of me.

After exhibit hours, when I was alone and no one else was in the museum, I could focus my attention on the other exhibits. Across from me was the rack. I could see the other body on it. The sculptor had told me that it too was a real person who he tortured on the rack, and I wondered if I would ever know how he felt as he was being racked. Did he feel the same about his joints being torn apart as I felt about my skin being ripped from my body? Was he as happy as I was now? Was he glad that he suffered the torture of the rack just as I had suffered the torture of being flayed? If we ever returned to flesh and blood, we would have interesting stories to share each other.

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