This story was originally posted at on 2020-07-20.

Simon finds an old statue to an imperialist explorer, and finds it impossible to resist its influence.

I tossed my rucksack into the back seat of Grandpa’s car and then climbed in after it to escape the heavy rain.

“Hey, Grandpa, how are you and Grandma doing? Thanks for picking me up.”

“Oh, not bad, not bad. Your grandmother and I are both glad you could spend the week with us. Brought the weather with you, eh?” Grandpa smiled. “Let’s get going before it’s too dark to drive safely. By the way, we saved you some leftovers from dinner.”

“Sounds great.”

As much as I loved my grandparents, Perry and Angela, I wasn’t exactly thrilled to be spending a whole week with them in Eccleston. I would have preferred to stay in London, but the end of term unfortunately coincided with my parents getting the house refurbished and going off on holiday. They’d gone back to Singapore, where my dad’s from, and wouldn’t be back for at least two weeks. So I’d decided the best option was to stay for a while with my grandparents until I could move back home for the rest of the summer.

At least I’d be able to practise painting en plein air (when it wasn’t chucking it down). My Fine Art course at UAL emphasised more modern approaches to creating and exhibiting work, but I had a soft spot for ‘old fashioned’ sketching and painting and felt the skills I developed really helped with my degree. Besides, Eccleston is nothing if not picturesque. It’s one of those little villages in the home counties that tourists and day-trippers like to descend upon in the summer to enjoy pub lunches, cream teas, and hikes through the glorious English countryside.

After a pleasant evening catching up with my grandparents, I settled in to bed, listening to the storm outside gradually subsiding. Grandma had mentioned that if I wanted to find some interesting landscapes, I might wander through Chenley Wood. The council had recently cleared some of the overgrown walking trails there and the views across the Chenley Valley were excellent.

After a quick breakfast, I plotted a route from the centre of Eccleston that took me past Chenley Wood, luxuriating in the scents of the forest which last night’s storm had released. I stopped a few times to do a few sketches and take photos to use for a composite landscape later.

Up by Colvin Ridge, I noticed some of the undergrowth had recently been cut back, revealing a muddy trail leading deeper into the wood. The trail followed a stream that was swollen and gurgling exuberantly with last night’s rain. I crossed the stream deeper in the wood, where a couple of large flat rocks had been placed on either side, and continued onwards.

The trail ended at a small clearing that was open to the sky, though overgrown with long grasses and saplings competing for space. The way the sunlight pierced through the foliage above and sparkled in the stream lent the area an aura of mystery. I set down my backpack on a stone bench. After a brief rest, I took out my sketchbook and made a few quick sketches of the area.

As I stepped backwards, my foot knocked against a heavy chunk of rock. On closer inspection, I saw that it had been carved, though the surface was worn away by years of exposure to the elements. One face of the chunk was sharp, though, as if it had just broken off. Part of a statue? Yes, there it was. I hadn’t noticed it before, but there was a statue off to one side of the clearing, cracked and worn and covered in lichen, the features hard to make out. I approached to take a closer look. There was some lettering carved into the base of the statue. I tried to rub the lichen away. Something strange happened as I touched the surface of the statue. It felt strangely warm to the touch, and I started to feel faint…

When I woke, the sun was directly overhead. Weird… did I fall asleep in the middle of the woods? I checked my phone – it was already almost one in the afternoon. The other thing that struck me was the intense arousal I felt. My cock was almost painfully hard in my shorts. I was tempted to pull my shorts down and give myself some relief, but I held back in case someone else came by and saw me.

My sketchbook was where I’d left it. I picked it up and made my way back to town. I couldn’t help thinking about the statue. Who did it portray, and what was it doing in the middle of a forest where hardly anyone would see it? And why did thinking about it make me get hard? I guess it had been a while since I last hooked up with another guy, but still… it was weird.

Over dinner, I asked my grandparents about the statue. “Uh, I don’t really know anything about it,” Grandpa said. “Don’t think there’s anyone particularly famous from here, other than Eccles…”


“They named the village after him,” my Grandma added. “It was a long time ago, maybe two hundred years or so. I think he was an explorer?”

“You should ask old George at the arts and crafts store,” said Grandpa. “He’s a local history buff and probably knows all there is to know about it.”

The next morning, after breakfast, I walked to the village centre and stopped by the small arts and crafts store.

“Simon, isn’t it? It’s been a long while since you last came here,” said George, peering over his glasses at me. “Ha, don’t look so surprised. I try to remember all my customers, especially if they’re studying creative arts like you. What can I do for you?”

“Well, I could do with a couple of small canvases and a new set of acrylics.” I waited for George to retrieve a couple of different sets from behind his counter. “Also… I was up in Chenley Wood yesterday. I came across a statue there and was wondering…” Fuck, I was already getting hard just thinking about the statue again. “What do you know about it?”

George’s face darkened. “Huh. I know the one you’re talking about. You should probably stay away from that thing.”

“What? Why?”

“It’s… look, I’m not exactly a superstitious sort of guy. But a lot of the folk around here are convinced the damn thing is cursed.” George put the boxes of paint down on the counter with a clatter. “It’s a statue of the town’s most famous, or maybe infamous, historical figure. Roderick Eccles. He was born here and settled here for a while after he returned from his expeditions in the Far East, I think Burma or Malaya or something like that. They renamed the village in his honour. But he was a troubled man. Maybe it was some of the things he did in the service of empire. Made him cruel. He turned his wife and children out of the family home one day. Went back to Asia and lived there for the rest of his life.” George paused. “Apparently, he set up home with a series of young men… well, slaves. Treated most of them horribly, by all accounts. Not exactly a legacy to be proud of, so one year, the local council decided to have his statue taken down from the village square and dumped out by Chenley Wood near his family’s farm. I guess it’s been sitting there all this time.”


“But that’s not all. You know, about ten, fifteen years ago, a young man much like yourself went missing. Police found him in that clearing, raving about the statue, having some kind of nervous breakdown. Had him sectioned and sent off to some mental health hospital. Not the first time there’s been a disappearance in the village, either. Since then, folks have been warning people to leave well enough alone.”

I paid for the paints and canvases and carefully placed them into my backpack. I meant to follow one of the other trails out of Eccleston, but as I thought back to what George had told me about the statue, I found myself absent-mindedly retracing my route from yesterday, until I’d reached the trail leading to the statue again. I was hard again, too, as if my body wanted me to see the statue again. Maybe one last look…

The clearing still had the same ethereal ambience as I’d experienced the previous day. Venturing closer to the statue, I peeled back some of the long grass and wildflowers that partially obscured the statue’s lower half. It might have been my imagination, fuelled by George’s story about the life of Roderick Eccles, but I felt I could more clearly see what the sculptor had intended. Yes, the statue – or what remained of it – showed a distinguished male figure, one foot forward as if stepping forth onto some exotic shore for the first time. He wore a long coat and a long sword hung from his left hip. I couldn’t make out Eccles’ expression very well, but I felt as if I was being watched through the statue’s cold grey eyes. Sized up. The thought of it made me hard again.

Somehow, now that I knew a little bit about his life, Eccles seemed more… defined, as if the decades of neglect and erosion had suddenly been chiselled away by the original sculptor’s hand. Or perhaps it was my mind filling in the missing details in the statue’s physical form. The way the muscular chest and arms marked Eccles as a confident explorer, extending the British Empire’s sphere of influence to new lands. The strong outline of his jaw. The firm stance, as if Eccles were about to draw a sword against some unseen opponent. A chain dangling from the statue’s right hand.

Fuck, I needed to cum. I laid back on the cold stone bench, imagining Eccles watching me. I took my cock out of my shorts. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been this aroused. I wrapped my fingers around my cock and began to pump my fist up and down. I wanted Eccles to see me cum. I was his to play with. His boy. He’d crossed the oceans to take me as his own. To own me. Fuck. I was going to cum… I grunted as my cock fired spurt after spurt of cum all over my stomach and chest. I laid back on the bench, and slept.

I must have returned to my grandparents’ place without being aware of it, because the next thing I knew, I was in bed, my backpack in the corner of the room where I usually left it. I was exhausted, but it seemed to take me ages to get to sleep. I could sense my thoughts becoming fixated on the statue of Eccles. It was as if the statue was calling for my presence.

That night I dreamed of being Eccles’ slave boy. I was lying on silk sheets in a large bed. A warm breeze blew through the window. I was being held down by Eccles’ weight on my body. I tried to struggle, but he simply laughed, before delivering a slap to my face. “Calm down, boy,” he said. “Remember who your master is.” His voice was deep, gravelly. He bent down to kiss my neck, running his stubble across my skin. His tongue pushed forcefully into my mouth. Then I could feel him at my arse, trying to thrust his hard cock into my hole. I became aware of something heavy around my neck. A chain. I tried to push him away, to get away, but he held me down. It hurt, but my body responded as Eccles wanted. I drew him in deeper and let him thrust inside me until he came, filling my hole with his seed.

When I woke, my cock was aching for my attention. I hadn’t been this turned on in a long time. I grasped my dick in my hand and in less than a minute I was cumming hard, hot white cum blasting out of my cock and over the sheets.

I couldn’t help it. I needed to see the statue again. There was something compelling about it, the way it seemed to command the space, inspiring awe in the viewer. I reached the clearing, set up my canvas and began to sketch.

My mind kept wandering to the dream I’d had last night. I imagined what it would feel like to be dominated by Eccles again. I wanted his touch on my body. My cock was achingly hard in my shorts. By the time I’d applied a second layer to my canvas, I couldn’t take it any more. I stripped off and laid back on the small stone bench, exposing my body again for Eccles’ pleasure. I grasped my cock and stroked myself to another shuddering, moaning climax, my dick spraying a thick load of my cum all over my chest.

After applying the finishing touches to my painting, I began to stroke my cock again, this time kneeling at the feet of the statue. I imagined myself as a slave boy, snatched from my life in some distant trading post by Eccles and his men. He’d ordered his men to strip me naked for his amusement. I needed to play with my cock and shoot my load or he would have me punished. I leaned forward to support my body against the base of the statue. It felt warm to the touch, and the physical contact seemed to send a rush of arousal straight to my dick. I came hard, my seed spilling onto the grass.

The rest of the day seemed to pass in a haze of arousal. My grandparents must have noticed something, but I couldn’t remember if they questioned me about it. The next morning, at the first light of dawn, I snuck out of the cottage and headed straight for the clearing. I didn’t care any more if somebody saw me naked. As soon as I arrived, I stripped off and released my already stiff and leaking cock. I started setting up a new canvas and began to paint, but my arousal was all consuming, and before long I was holding the brush with my left hand while stroking my cock vigorously with my right. It took less than a minute before I was shooting my cum all over the canvas, the pearlescent drops mixing with the drying acrylics.

But my relief from the orgasm was short-lived. I had barely finished my initial layering of paint before I needed to cum again. I approached the statue of Eccles. It seemed as if I could perceive even more detail in the statue now. He looked suitably imperious in the early morning light, his sneer of disdain directed down at me. I glanced at the chain that dangled from his hand, wondering what it might feel like to kneel at his feet. My cock throbbed at the thought of debasing myself beneath his contemptuous gaze.

I sank to my knees, my hard dick gently touching Eccles’ stone thigh, warm to the touch. Taking the end of the chain, I carefully wrapped it around my neck, letting the free end drape over my shoulder like a scarf. I began to alternately stroke my dick and rub up against the statue, enjoying the friction on my cockhead. I was getting close again.

I imagined I could hear Eccles’ voice, just as it had sounded in my dream. “Good boy.” I closed my eyes and imagined the statue coming to life. I felt Eccles’ warm, firm hands grasp my head and pull it closer to his groin. His cock was already out of his trousers. I wrapped my lips around it and drew it into my mouth.

Something wasn’t right. I opened my eyes – and found myself being held in position against the statue’s groin, my mouth filled by an unyielding shaft of stone. The chain around my neck had solidified into a collar of stone that kept me kneeling in position in front of Eccles. I began to panic as I felt my body begin to go numb, starting from my toes. Whatever sensation I had left seemed to be concentrated in my cock, leaving me suspended on the edge of an intense orgasm. With my last remaining strength I tried to push myself away, but it was hopeless. I was to be immortalised in stone at the feet of Roderick Eccles, as his naked slave boy, one of his Far Eastern conquests…

Many months later…

“And that brings us to our final exhibit of the tour,” Eric said as he led his final tour group of the day through the British Museum. There were gasps of surprise – some of anger, some of disgust – as the visitors noticed the statue of Roderick Eccles and its new addition. “This is one of the best preserved examples of late Victorian monuments to the triumph of British colonialism in the Far East. As far as we can tell, the statue depicts the English imperialist and mercenary Roderick Eccles, whose expeditions in what is now Singapore, Malaysia, and Burma or Myanmar, were funded by the East India Company. In this sculpture he is seen in a victorious pose, looming over a figure who we believe represents a young male slave. You may be surprised to learn that although slavery was abolished in most British colonies in 1833, the Slavery Abolition Act excluded the territories of the East India company. The practice of slavery by local populations was widespread in Southeast Asia; for example, it continued in what is now Malaysia until the 20th century.”

The tour group circled the statue and snapped away with their cameras and phones. There was something mesmerising about the way the kneeling slave boy looked up at Eccles with a mixture of ecstasy, adoration and fear, or perhaps the uncanny precision with which his expression had been rendered in clean lines of stone. Eric allowed another minute of contemplation before herding the group towards the shop and exit.

Once the last of the stragglers had dispersed, Eric returned to the Far East gallery to close up. In what had become a nightly ritual, the young man stood in front of the statue and almost reverently laid his hand on the smooth stone. His breathing slowed, his gaze grew unfocused, and a prominent bulge began to show through his trousers.