You thought it would be an easy haul.  The mansion has stood empty for years, even decades; everyone knows that.  It's only superstition that keeps other thieves away - the stories of people who never came out, the whispers of a ghost or something that haunts the white marble halls.

But you're not afraid.  You know there's no such thing as ghosts.

You watch carefully, but even the local guards don't come near the place.  It won't be hard at all to get in and out unseen.

Sometimes, you wonder whether perhaps the place has already been emptied of everything valuable - but you're sure you see the glint and gleam of silver candlesticks through a window here, a golden chalice there.  Even one, sold through the right channels, could have you set for life.  

They're fools, really, the ones who listen to the stories.

You plan your heist for the grey hour of twilight, when colors are muddied and the light is dim.  You won't need a light which might betray your presence, but it'll still be dark enough by the time you escape.  You break in easily enough, the lock on the back door simple to pick.  Your soft boots make no noise on the enormous tiles as you step inside, your heart pounding with excitement.  The place is surprisingly clean - a bit of dust, perhaps, but no cobwebs.  A gold and crystal chandelier hangs overhead - but it'd be far too difficult to get anything from it without being noticed.  You head deeper instead.

The rooms are spacious, richly decorated, and quiet.  Paintings adorn the halls with vivid images of beaches, of underwater landscapes full of coral, of fish and dolphins and creatures you cannot name.  Here and there, you start to find white statues, exquisitely detailed, all with a beautiful luster, and all entirely nude.  Men and women alike, some your age, some not - the work is incredible, their ivory skin looking almost soft to touch - but of course, your curious fingers find that they are as solid and still as the walls around you.

Perhaps this place was once home to one of those nobles who kept a great artist in his pay.  Perhaps, if you could find a way to move the statues, you could present yourself as just such an artist, selling 'your' works and making a tidy sum.

It's a thought for another time.  A glimmer of gold calls you away from your thoughts, into another room - and that's when you see her.

Though the light is faint, this far in, she seems almost to glow.  Her hair falls in curls well past her shoulders, the shape of her mouth and nose perfect, her eyes a soft and beautiful blue-green.  When she first turns to look at you, you think you see a flash of irritation - but the expression is gone in a moment, and her face is serene as she starts to walk towards you.  Despite the slight chill of the stone walls, she's barely wearing anything, and you find your gaze dropping to admire her figure, your thoughts straying in a direction you certainly hadn't expected this evening.

Then she's right in front of you, and her fingers are light on your chin, bringing your eyes up to meet hers once more.  They're gorgeous, the color of the sea, and any attempt at a quick excuse or a smooth-talking escape dies on your lips.  

Pearls, you see, are what happen when an oyster deals with an irritant.  The oyster puts down layer after layer of smooth white substance, something far more agreeable to it than the bothersome invader.  Over time, the irritant is rendered smooth, and hard, and flawless, and silent.

You don't know this, and you wouldn't be able to think of it if you did, because it's already beginning to happen to you.  Layer after layer of white is filling your mind, smoothing over your thoughts, blanking it all out until there's nothing left.  You stand there, staring at her, forgetting what you wanted, why you're here, who you even are.  Your arousal is obvious, but you are no longer able to think of what to do about it.  It's just a simple fact, like the blue of the woman's eyes, or...

Well, that's all there is, isn't there?  Her beautiful eyes, and the ache in your groin.

You don't notice your clothes vanishing, don't quite see the white sheen starting to overtake your skin.  You've stopped breathing, but it doesn't matter - you're still aware, whatever that means anymore, and you have no more need for air.  Your heart has stopped beating, your blood has stopped pumping.  No one would guess, anymore, that you were even once alive, and it doesn't matter to you.  Nothing matters to you now.

The transformation finishes, the last cells of your body turning into smooth white pearl.  The woman looks away, her hands running over your form to check her work.  Somehow your skin has become far more sensitive now, and every slightest touch now feels like the most incredible night you once spent as a human.  If you'd had any thoughts left, they would have been washed away by the waves of pleasure.

But it doesn't matter to her; she is only making sure that her work is done.  Satisfied that the irritant is suitably dealt with, she turns away, and vanishes.  The oyster house has defended itself against your intrusion.  Its job is done.

You'll wait there, in the silence and the dark, floating through time as it barely touches you.  Someday, the house will die, and others will come to loot the depths.  You'll be found, you and the others, and marveled over.  Stories will be told of pearls that were once larger than men, of a sculptor who kept them for himself and crafted such lifelike works of art.  You'll be auctioned off alongside the other treasures of the manor you'd once sought to make your own.

Perhaps the woman who claims you will be one with a particular interest in erotic statues.  She's drawn to your ever-enraptured gaze, your clear arousal.  She'll keep you in a private part of her house, far from prying eyes.  She'll touch you where you still ache for it, first with her hands, then with her mouth.  She stares up into your white, unblinking eyes, rubbing herself against you, moaning in delight.  She uses you for her own enjoyment, completely unaware of the pleasure her touch sends through every inch of your ungiving skin, the ecstasy that you feel from her hands and her skin and her tongue.  

Perhaps you'll be owned by a man who fancies himself a collector of fine art.  He'll display you proudly in a room of his own mansion, boasting about you to his guests.  His maid will admire you, and clean you with care every week, her soft cloth running over every inch of you.  But she's the only one.  You are a decoration, a prize to be gloated over, a trophy of wealth and taste.  

Or perhaps you'll be taken in by a museum, to be displayed alongside all your fellow statues from the mansion.  You'll be kept safe in glass cases, seen by hundreds every day but never touched.  The endless stream of people flowing by will admire the artistry of your anonymous sculptor, the marine biologists will debate how such massive statues could be made from pearl of all things - but you are, to most, one curiosity among dozens, motionless and eternal beneath the bright lights.

In fact, your fate will probably be a mix of the three, passed from one to another to another as time goes by.  You'll never age, after all, never wear, never decay.  You'll go from owner to owner, each with their own desires and ideas of what to do with you.  Some may sell you quickly for a tidy profit of their own, others will keep and treasure you as long as they live.  

Amidst and between the waves of pleasure, your thoughts are still empty.  You are nothing but a pearl-

Hard

and flawless

and blank

and silent

and perfect.