Statue of Sin

She should have never come here.

The chapel was half-devoured by the forest, ribs of stone poking through a gown of ivy and ash. The stained glass had bled its color long ago. Birds did not sing here. Nothing pure remained.

And yet she came--barefoot, breathless, drawn by the same fever that had haunted her dreams for weeks. Always the same figure waiting. Always the same pull between her thighs. Desire carved too deep to ignore.

She passed through the broken doorway like a secret. Linen clung to her damp skin, tracing the shape of her thighs like a second tongue. The air inside bit her nipples through the thin fabric. Every step toward the altar tasted like sacrilege.

And then she saw her.

The statue stood as if time had never touched her.

A woman--nude, winged, crowned with cracks and silence. Marble skin white as candle wax, smoothed by centuries. Her wings were enormous and broken, feathered fragments fanned behind her like a ruined halo. Her lips were parted in something between moan and warning.

But it was the blindfold that stopped her breath.

Red silk. Blood-colored. Tied tight across the statue's eyes in a deliberate knot, like a vow of refusal.

She did not look. She waited.

And the rest of her--goddess-shaped, divine and indecent--was displayed with impossible boldness. Full breasts, curved hips, thighs slightly parted in a stance of unapologetic invitation.

Between her legs, there was no abstraction.

The statue had been carved with a cunt.

Not symbolic. Not softened.

Real.

Detailed, intimate, lips parted just enough to suggest heat, though the marble would always be cold. The red silk trailed down from her blindfold and wound low around her hips, barely veiling the sacred place between her thighs.

A warning. A path. A command.

The woman moved closer, knees trembling.

She had seen beauty before. She had touched lovers, drunk from mouths and thighs. But never had her body reacted like this--wet before contact, starved before taste.

She circled the statue slowly, studying the details like scripture. Scars in the marble. Feather-lines along the wings. The shape of pleasure, captured in stone.

The statue stood silent in her invitation.

She dropped to her knees.

The floor was freezing. She didn't care.

Her hands rose, hesitant. Hovering over the statue's thighs.

"Forgive me," she whispered. "I don't want holiness."

She wanted ruin.

She let her palms press to cold stone. The shock of it made her hiss--but she didn't pull away. The temperature made her nipples tighten, her cunt throb harder. She leaned forward, breath shaking.

Her lips hovered above the marble slit.

She could smell the faint burn of candlewax from old rituals, the damp floral rot of blackened roses. And beneath it--her own heat, seeping out in waves.

The contrast made her dizzy.

She pressed a kiss to the stone's inner thigh. Just above the parting.

It wasn't warmth she craved--it was surrender. She wanted to bury her face between stone thighs and give. Her breath. Her tongue. Her ache.

She kissed again. And again. Slower now. Mouth brushing polished lips, wetting them with her need. There was no reaction. No shift in the air. But it only deepened the seduction.

Her tongue parted her lips and flicked out--tasting marble, tasting nothing--but her own body flared in response.

She pressed her mouth fully against the carved cunt.

Breathing through her nose, she began to lick slowly. Not as an act of sex--but worship. Suffering. Obsession.

The cold made her tongue ache.

The silence made her moan.

With every slow circle of her tongue, her jaw trembled--not from fatigue, but reverence. Her hands gripped the statue's thighs tighter, grounding herself in her own unworthiness.

She could feel her wetness dripping now--useless, untouched--soaking the linen between her legs. But she didn't stop.

She licked as though the statue might remember how to respond.

She licked as though silence was a spell she might break.

She licked because no living woman had ever made her feel this holy, this humiliated, this hungry.

When she finally pulled back, her mouth was damp, her chin raw from the cold, her breath unsteady.

The statue did not move.

But the chapel suddenly felt full.

She didn't speak.

There was nothing to say, only breath--shallow and shaky as her lips returned to the parted marble.

The taste hadn't changed. Stone, cold and cruel. But her tongue traced it again, searching. Hoping.

She flattened it against the carved slit and licked upward, from the base to the tip of the cleft. A slow, reverent stroke. Her eyes fluttered shut.

Still nothing.

No tremor of approval.

No heat.

No mercy.

But her thighs pressed together involuntarily, and her cunt clenched with a pulse that felt almost painful.

She buried her face deeper.

Her nose brushed the top of the marble mound, and her tongue began its rhythm--soft, slow, insistent. Not sloppy. Not wild. This was ritual. Her mouth moved like prayer.

Lick.

Inhale.

Lick again.

The cold made her jaw ache. Her lips stung. Her tongue began to go numb. But that only made her crave it more.

The statue remained silent--blindfolded, unyielding, somehow above her, though she had no voice, no power to move. But the presence of her... it consumed the air. It drank the sound from the room. It made the woman's mouth feel small, and hot, and unworthy.

She licked harder.

She cupped her hands to the statue's hips, pulling herself closer, opening her mouth wider, dragging her tongue between marble folds until her breath fogged the cold and turned it slick. The statue would never grow wet. Never part. Never sigh.

And still--she licked as if it could.

As if her worship might one day earn her warmth.

Her own body was already burning.

Her knees ached from the stone floor. Her hips rocked forward, humping nothing, grinding uselessly into her linen shift. Wetness soaked through the fabric, a slow, humiliating leak that made her moan aloud.

She pulled back, gasping.

Her lips were swollen. Her chin slick from her own spit. Her mouth trembled open as if about to speak, but no words came--only need.

The statue's head was tilted slightly upward, blindfolded and serene, lips parted in a permanent soundless breath.

The woman's voice shook.

"You make me ache."

She rose to her feet, body swaying. Her breath was wild now, chest flushed, nipples hard enough to sting beneath her shift.

She stepped behind the statue, as if circling a lover in bed. The wings loomed on either side--massive and broken, still beautiful. She ran her fingers down one feathered edge, marveling at the chisel work, the places where roughness remained.

Touching her like this didn't feel like touching stone.

It felt like touching resistance.

Not refusal. Not denial.

Resistance.

She stepped forward again, in front. Sank back to her knees.

Her tongue returned to its work--but this time she added pressure, letting her jaw stretch wider, letting her breath come faster. She began to kiss the marble as if it were real flesh--lips open, tongue seeking, sucking, worshiping.

Still no heat.

But her heat increased with every second. Her mouth had gone raw. Her muscles burned.

And her cunt--dripping. Furious. Neglected.

She considered pressing her fingers between her legs, but something stopped her.

It felt wrong to take anything for herself while the statue gave her nothing.

She wanted to please her.

Even if she never knew it.

Even if she never cared.

Her tongue slipped again between the parted lips of stone, pressing deeper this time--until the tip caught on a subtle edge and made her moan aloud. The scrape was sharp. It hurt. And it turned her on so badly she whimpered.

She kissed lower, then higher. Everywhere. Lips moving wet and constant over unfeeling marble.

Her tongue was numb now. Her jaw ached. Her chin dripped.

She moaned again, louder, and clung to the statue's thighs as though the cold might anchor her. Her hips rocked forward, desperate for pressure.

She couldn't stop.

She didn't want to.

The air around them had changed--thicker now, wetter, humming faintly with the smell of her arousal and the breath of old candles.

She wanted to fall apart.

But the statue would never let her.

Not with words. Not with hands.

Just by standing there.

Blindfolded.

Stone.

Untouchable.

But so deeply, deeply craved.

She slid down the statue like an offering crumbling in the hands of a god.

Not graceful--broken.

Her breath stuttered in short, wet gasps. Her shift was bunched around her waist, sweat-soaked, twisted. One breast hung exposed, the nipple rubbed raw by friction, gleaming from candlelight and shame. Her thighs quivered as they spread wide over the cold floor.

She wasn't even touching herself anymore.

She couldn't.

Every muscle was too tight, too exhausted from tension held too long.

Her cunt throbbed--fiercely, helplessly--like a wound that had not been permitted to bleed.

She pressed a hand between her legs on instinct, but the contact was too much. Her clit flinched, swollen and tender, and she cried out--not from pleasure, but from the violence of denial.

She rocked gently. A soft rhythm. Useless.

Still nothing.

No release. No closure.

The pressure behind her ribs was unbearable--like something sacred and sick rising in her throat. Her mouth opened, but only a moan came out, ruined and shivering.

It wasn't fair.

She had given everything. Her tongue. Her knees. Her shame. Her voice.

And the statue had taken it all in silence.

Not cruelty. Not malice.

Indifference.

And that--somehow--made it worse.

She rested her forehead against the statue's pedestal. It was so cold it burned. She let it.

"I don't know what you want from me," she whispered.

Her voice cracked on the last word.

The answer, as always, was nothing.

Still, her body ached as if a command had been whispered directly into her blood.

She tilted her head, cheek against the marble foot. Her hand slipped to the side, fingers tracing the outline of the statue's ankle--her only remaining point of contact. She needed it. Needed to touch something.

To belong to something.

The edge of the wing had sliced her palm earlier--she hadn't noticed until now. A fine line of red traced her lifeline, still wet. She blinked at it, dazed.

Her blood looked bright on the stone.

An offering.

An answer.

She felt it then--not heat, not sound--but a hum.

Not external. Internal. A resonance between her flesh and the statue's stillness.

Not magic, not miracle.

Something deeper.

Something claimed.

Her breath hitched.

She lifted her hand and looked at her fingertips. Faint redness glowed where she'd pressed hardest--against the hips, the wings, the thighs.

Not bruises.

Sadistic Gifts.

Her body would not forget the stone.

Her mind could not.

She was marked.

She wanted to sob--but there was no sound left.

Only silence.

Only her.

Still blindfolded.

Still silent.

Still perfect.

And never hers.

The air outside felt wrong.

The trees sighed overhead, brushing against one another like bodies in sleep. Moonlight spilled across moss and stone. Somewhere, an owl called out.

But none of it touched her.

She walked barefoot from the chapel ruins, shift clinging damply to her skin, body open and hollow. Every step felt distant, like her bones moved without her.

The world was too warm. Too loud.

Her cunt still throbbed.

Not urgently. Not violently.

Just... consistently.

A steady ache, like a bruise pulsing beneath the skin. Every brush of linen across her sex made her flinch--not from pain, but from memory.

The grinding.

The kneeling.

The silence.

She reached up and touched her lower lip.

Still swollen. Still tender. As if the kiss had left something inside her mouth--a ghost of pressure. A trace of marble on her tongue.

She hadn't spoken since she left the altar.

She didn't want to.

Words felt obscene now.

The chapel had taken something from her--but not like a thief. Like a lover. Like a god.

She hadn't climaxed.

She hadn't been touched.

And yet she felt undone.

Not ruined. Not broken.

Transformed.

She paused beneath the crooked archway where ivy clawed the last stones of the chapel's gate. Her hand gripped the edge of the wall, fingers tight against cool, crumbling rock.

She looked back once.

The red blindfold was just barely visible through the shadows. A slash of color across the pale figure within.

Still watching.

Still not seeing.

Still hers.

Her thighs clenched, involuntarily.

That pressure returned. The unsatisfied ache. The knowledge that she could touch herself here, now, in the woods--and it would mean nothing.

It wouldn't be her.

Only the statue could take her there. Not to orgasm.

To emptiness.

To peace.

She stepped away again. Slowly.

The trees didn't care. The sky didn't notice. The world went on.

But inside her...

The hum remained.

A stillness she couldn't silence.

A wetness that didn't dry.

A wound that didn't close.

She would walk, and eat, and sleep. She would pretend.

But nothing would taste right.

Not until she returned.

Because she would return.

That place was inside her now.

The cold of stone. The ache in her jaw. The trembling in her thighs.

The way her fingers now curled in worship even when empty.

The way her mouth still opened, unconsciously, as if waiting for something unyielding to press back.

The ache wouldn't stop.

It wasn't a flaw.

It was her prayer.

And she would kneel again.

Soon.