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"Show time! Girdles on, boys!” my wife crows excitedly. She’s already whipping together the plaster of paris.

   My sons help each other with their corsets. I struggle with mine until she comes over and pulls hard on the strings, cinches it tight enough to force the air out my lungs. I wince and look down. It hurts to laugh, and I try not to chuckle at how my crushed male waist creates the illusion of a flaring, female pelvis and jutting behind. The corset comes to just below my pectorals, forcing the flesh of my chest up into two modest breast-shaped mounds. The corsets would hold us in the desired shape and, once covered in plaster, would be blended seamlessly with our bodies.

Jessica was a sculptor and the city council had commissioned her to create a showpiece to decorate a gala celebrating International Women’s Day. They wanted an eye-pleaser, something amazonian, something strong and fierce exemplifying the female ideal. And they wanted it in two days.

“Is using men as ornaments antithetical or in-keeping with the ideals of Women’s Day,” I muse as my wife tightens the corset a little more, cupping and pushing up my chest to form a facsimile of a B-cup.

“If they wanted a real statue, they should have given me months to make it, not days. Besides, what they don’t know, won’t hurt them.”

“It’s me I’m worried about. If they realize Hippolyta is a dude, they’ll kill me.”

“They’re not going to realise. You’re going to be beautiful. I’ll make sure of it,” she smiles. She cups my manhood but, rather than a fun fumble, she pushes my package back between my legs, tucking it out of sight between my asscheeks before taping it firmly down. That too will be smoothed over with plaster, merged seamlessly with my ass and obliterated from sight. She pats my flat crotch in amusement.

“Okay, now hold this,” she says, thrusting a bronze spear into my hands. “And wear this,” she says, handing me a helmet. “And these.” She gives me a pair of bronze-coloured, mirrored lenses that fit snugly over my eyes, intended to allow me to see out of my statue-body without looking like a scooby doo painting. She ushers me to a pedestal where my sons are already crouching in position.

She spends 20 minutes posing us - shoulders back, head back, breasts thrust proudly forward - while shouting contradictory advice at us about how to look both ‘feminine’ and ‘fierce’.

“I feel so stupid,” says Albert, crouching beside my right calf.

“Well if we don’t get this perfect you’ll spend the next 24 hours feeling stupid,” my wife chides him. She sighs, picking up her plaster. “That will have to do,” she says, as she begins to paint us.

The first coating is only a thin veneer, yet it hardens like stone as it sets, immobilizing me from neck to foot. I try to move even a finger. I can’t. “That stuff has quite a hold on it.”

“Don’t talk until it's fully set.”

The veneer tightens as it dries. It feels like I’m being vacuum-sealed inside it, though it isn’t too painful, and actually provides a pleasant amount of support, allowing me to relax out of the stance. Even fully relaxed, I remain standing, frozen in position.

   Jessica mixes the next, much thicker layer before daubing it onto my shoulders, smearing it down my torso in long lines that smother the outline of the corset. She rubs the clay in slow circles around my ‘breasts’. There’s  just enough mobility left to crane my neck to see her sculpting extra volume to my chest, and etching in the details of my nipples.

“Do you really need to make my tits so big?”

“Stop complaining or I’ll shove a water feature up your ass,” she snaps.

My sons receive the same treatment. She adds big handfuls of clay to our buttocks and hips, adding volume at first before smoothing it out to construct feminine asses and childbearing hips.

I feel her fingertips rummaging around near my ass and yelp as her finger pokes my puckered asshole. “The hell are you doing back there?!”

“Making a hole for your ass.”

“Why? You’ve had us on a liquid diet for three days.” The last thing my wife needed was her centerpiece taking a dump all over the gala.

“Duh, for the farts. Unless you want your farts just bouncing around inside your shell for the next 24 hours?”

Ugh. That hadn’t occurred to me. Was it too late to reconsider this?

It takes her a while to craft it in such a way that nobody is likely to ever notice it, but at last she’s satisfied with my asshole-hole. She steps back.

“Oh my god, this is amazing! You look incredible! Hold that pose, I’ve got to get a picture!”

“‘Hold that pose’? What else am I going to do?” I yell, cringing as she snaps picture after picture - my male head perched atop a the body of a female clay statue. “These better not be going anywhere near Instagram.”

“Relax, they’re just for my own personal enjoyment,” she teases. “Hold that scowl too, it's perfect! I need to do your face next!”

I’m frowning all the way until the veneer has been painted over my jaw and face. “How long does it take to dry?” I try to ask. My jaw doesn’t move. My entire face is rigid. I stare out at my wife, silent and completely immobile. Only my eyes move behind the lenses stuck to my face.

“Finally a bit of peace around here,” she chuckles after completing the same procedure on the two ‘amazons’ at my feet. She moves out of my line of sight before returning with the thicker clay, which she begins to thinly layer over my face, molding and shaping it. “I promised I’d make you beautiful and I will,” she croons, as I feel my face becoming a feminine mask.

The last step is the spray-on bronze. She slips on a mask, lays down a tarp, and comes at us with the cans of metallic paint from all ankles, making sure to get every nook and cranny. Gradually the plaster of paris is buried beneath a layer of metal. She wheels out a mirror for us to see the statue we’ve become. The illusion is perfect. We might be a thousand years old relic for all the world knows.

Jessica clambers up, giving me a lingering kiss on my frozen, bronze lips. “You’re so beautiful. I think you might be my finest work. A pity you’ll only last 24 hours.” She sighs. “The delivery men will be here to pick you up in a few minutes. You girls have a fun time at the gala, and I’ll break you out of there in the morning, okay?”