3 comments/ 54255 views/ 15 favorites Inside Pandora's Box By: notalez99 Amy was still groggy. From what she could tell, she was laying on something soft, but firm. It felt like velvet to the touch, yet it must have been stretched over a hard surface and thinly padded. And it was dark. Even through partially open eyes she could see nothing of her surroundings. Amy Brant was the best field reporter the newsroom had to offer. If anyone could search out a story, she could. She was the best simply because she cared the most to be the best. She would go to any lengths to uncover the truth if there was indeed a truth to uncover. The proof of that commitment lay in the position she now found herself. Her senses were beginning to focus. The velvet touched her arms and her legs. More precisely she felt it caress her shoulders and the backs of her thighs. It brushed the sides of her arms as she shifted her elbows. That began to register in her mind as something not quite right. Some facet of that simple touch seemed altogether wrong. It startled her most to realize her thighs were bare. She was on the trail of a story, tracking down what could only properly be called an urban myth. Pandora's Box. People had heard of it for some time. The city was rampant with rumors and half-bitten tales of unholy debauchery. Some said they knew it was real, some that it was no more than a fanciful fabrication. Everyone wanted to know the truth, but not a one seemed capable of finding it. Those that claimed certainty offered no proof. Others that proposed it a lie, delivered nothing to substantiate their view. There was no way of telling for sure, one way or the other. No way until now. She should have been dressed. She knew that. She should have had on her jacket, a blouse, a snug pair of jeans. She remembered clearly getting into them before she went out. She had surveyed herself in the mirror, checking her dark lashes and red lips to ensure that her smile was disarming. She had bobbed the blond curls of her hair to maximize her innocence. The jacket and jeans had been selected to minimize threat. She didn't want to drive anyone away that might have useful information. The underbelly of the city protected it, nurtured it, kept it secret and safe. The Box had to be hidden in order to survive. At least that is what the believers believed. The others merely suggested that such secrecy only proved it to be false. The deception was masked by very inability to prove itself true. No one had the answers. No one. But Amy never accepted that for an answer. Someone had to know. Someone had to have started the lie, or someone had to have been a part of the truth. She lay still as she struggled to gather her wits. Her heart was beginning to pound in her chest. She was at least partially clothed, that much she could feel. A light shirt of some kind covered her chest. What felt like stockings perhaps graced most of her legs. Shoes were definitely strapped to her feet. Slim bracelets bound each wrist, linked them inseparably at her waist. With a few strong tugs she knew for sure her hands were cuffed together. The phone call had surprised her, not by its content, but by its timing. She had almost given up. She had been scouring the city for weeks on end, asking from bar to bar, questioning club owners, shop clerks, and street hounds. She had graced the depths of every porno hut and adult video store she could find. She had conversations with prostitutes, pimps, junkies, and thugs. Everyone appeared to have a clue, but no one seemed to have any answers. Then the phone rang, one last time. Her limbs were starting to tingle as feelings surged back into them. Her fingertips rested lightly over the slow rise and fall of her belly. The hem of her shirt did not lay much past the stretch of her hands. The recognition of smooth velvet on her naked cheeks alarmed her even more. With the exception of stockings and shoes, she was clearly naked below the waist. And the top left her arms bare, with only thin straps touch each shoulder. If anything, it must have been no more than a light camisole. The call had been from a strange man. The voice clearly garbled by electronic manipulation. It sounded far more sinister than suspicious. The voice had told her where to be, when to be there. It gave her no chance to respond. It only told her the Box was waiting for her. It told her to come alone. Then it went dead. She stretched out her other senses, tried to hear beyond the loud thumping of her heart. Her breathing sounded muffled. The air around her felt moist with her own panic. As she shifted slightly, she could tell that the velvet surrounded her on both sides as well. Lifting her hands, she discovered the lid of her confinement was only inches above her. Now she truly began to be afraid. She wanted the story. More than she knew, she wanted to prove it for what it was. She wanted to expose the hoax, unearth the perpetrators of such a wild myth. And if it were not false, if the indescribable stories were in fact true, she wanted to be the one to reveal them to the world. But it was more than her reputation, that drove her. It went far deeper than her career or her fame. Some deep secret part of herself had to know if the things she had heard could actually happen in real life, to real people. To people as real as herself. Straining her eyes open against the utter darkness, she discovered one more aspect of her imprisonment. The darkness came from more than being inside some form of container. A band of cloth covered her eyes, wrapped snugly around her head. She had been blindfolded and handcuffed, stripped naked and redressed in nothing more modest than lingerie. She wanted to scream, as panicked images flooded her brain. But fortunately, she remained far too afraid for that. The limo had arrived just as the voice had told her it would. It was sleek and black, transmitting a richness of character altogether at odds with the desolate section of the city where she had been told to appear. It pulled up out of the dark into the yellow circle of streetlight like a chariot of foreboding . It parked across the street and waited on her, silent and knowing. It took her ten full minutes to muster up the courage to leave her own car and walk up to it. In the confinement of darkness, Amy waited as all her senses came to life. Her heartbeat thudded in her chest while she panted on the edge of hysteria. There was enough air in the container, but it felt hot and stuffy. Her boy trembled as every nerve twitched into consciousness. She smelled her own sweat mingling with the velvet interior like a new form of incense. The limousine stood patiently while she approached. Nothing else but her seemed to move along the darkened street. In the glow of streetlights, she could just make out the driver, but his dark hat and glasses offered her little to recognize. She tried to get his attention, but he seemed content to ignore her. The only sign that anyone in the vehicle cared for her presence at all came as the rear door opened. It drifted quietly on its hinges, and hovered open while she decided whether or not she really wanted to meet whoever was inside. She thought about removing the blindfold, but her limbs appeared unwilling to respond. Her senses may have been alive, but her body remained numb. Perhaps it was the fear that gripped her. A thousand imagined possibilities awaited her now. She only knew from stories and rumors the horrors she might expect. She had wanted so desperately to unlock the secrets of the box. Now she was in it, she knew, for better or worse. And for all that it mattered, she had only herself to blame. On the verge of whimpering, she had no choice but to recall how she had stepped into the open door of the limo. The interior had been dim, and she had seen no one initially as she came near. Only the driver appeared to have any substance at all. But she had gotten in anyway, expecting to encounter the man who had called her on the phone earlier that evening, the man who claimed to be capable of delivering the truth she sought. Once inside, however, she found herself alone. Before she had made herself comfortable in the seat, the door had closed, swinging shut with the quiet hum and click of electronics. Then the car shifted forward smoothly, and she had no option but to fall back into the rear seat. "Hey," she had shouted towards the unseen driver, "Do you mind telling me where we are going?" The interior was lit by a row of small lights along the ceiling which cast just enough glow for her to see the whole of the cabin. The driver was hidden behind a smooth black partition, and other than the rear bench, ther existed nothing but an open mini-bar and a small speaker console on the forward wall. Though the eat was soft and comfortable, the floor carpeted and clean, she felt as utterly trapped and helpless in the back of that limo as she did in the small black space in which she found herself now. And the words that came out of the speaker were as clear to her now as her own name. "Amy Brant," the modulated voice crackled out at her, "why do you seek the Pandora's Box?" Shocked by the unexpected sound as much as by the use of her own name, she stammered a moment. She was struggling for the correct answer. Some measure of the timbre in the electronic voice informed her that of all the people she had encountered, all the false leads and dead ends, this time she had found what she was looking for. The nature of this encounter was far too elaborate to be nothing. It was in keeping with the curious secrecy of the answers she sought. And that made her reply all the more important. She might make or break her own fate by the simplest twist of her words. For the first time in her career since she was an intern for the college paper, she found herself at a lost for words. But the voice was not as patient as the limo had been. "Answer!" the speaker blared after a long moment. She practically jumped. Then with nothing but instinct to rely on, she opted for a measure of professional honesty. "I'm a reporter," she told the voice cautiously, forcing calm into her tone despite her relative anxiety. "I just want the truth." She thought that might be a solid enough response to start with. Now it was the voices turn. "Are you sure of what you seek?" the speaker hissed coolly. The question seemed to crawl up her spine like a chill hand. "Yes, I am," she stated firmly. "Its my job." That also seemed appropriate enough. Keep it normal. Keep the man on the other end talking. Find out as much as you can. Its your job after all. "I'm just looking to write a story," she insisted, "that's all. I can promise you, everything I learn will be kept strictly confidential. No places or names will ever be revealed. You have my journalistic oath to count on. I just want a story." "Why?" the voice cut in abruptly. "To settle the rumors," she replied smoothly. Her nerves were settling as she gained confidence in her approach. She was getting the strongest feeling that this was indeed the real deal. "What rumors?" The voice demanded. Amy lost nothing of her professionalism. She was riding the wave of her skill as easily as a surfer. She could not see out the darkened glass of the windows, but in the back of her head she was still attempting to calculate speed and distance by the subtle vibrations of the moving car. Yet that was still not as important as the conversation, so she maintained her focus. "Certainly you must know what I'm talking about," she laughed. "Everyone has heard them. The word is out everywhere. People from all over the city are talking about it." She did not want to sound haughty, but she had to keep her tone light and natural. "Pandora's Box. It's the biggest secret in town. It's an urban legend. No one knows if its real or not. So that's what I'm here to find out. I want to know if such a place really exists." "And what do you know about it?" "Well, nothing concrete," she retorted, "that's for sure. Some believe its nothing more than a private club where folks go to have fantastic orgies. Others say it's a secret room where rich women can live out their wildest fantasies. And some tales are even more sinister. I've heard some stories that suggest it is nothing more than a dark alley where unsuspecting women get gang-raped repeatedly. Some have even said its magical. But as I said, I'm a reporter. It's my job to find out what's true or not. To separate the myth from reality." "And what is the reality?" the voice chimed cryptically. "I don't know. That is why I'm here. I want to talk to someone who knows for sure. I want factual evidence. If it really does exist, I want proof." Keep it simple. Keep it professional. "And what proof do you seek?" The question stalled her for a moment. She wasn't exactly sure. "You tell me," she replied as innocently as possible. "I assume you brought me here because you had information for me. You called me, remember?" "You were called because you were seeking the Box. There is no more reason than that." She seemed now to be fencing with words. "Fair enough," she conceded, "But still, you called. What is it you have to offer?" "I can take you there." The tone of his sentence unsettled her at once. She hadn't expected the offer so easily. Somehow she thought she might have to barter or bribe some more. But the voice was offering to take her there freely. Or so it seemed. "What's the catch?" she asked cautiously. "There is none. I will take you there. Is that not the proof you have wanted?" Amy bit her lip unconsciously. "Okay," she said slowly, thinking out each word, "but what do you want in return. Certainly I can't expect something for nothing." "I will take you there," the voice repeated. "I will give you the proof you seek. You have only to answer one question, and answer correctly." It was a strange game, but it appeared only fitting t the nature of what she was seeking. Whoever this man was, whatever his eccentricities, she was more convinced than ever that he was the real thing. Pandora's Box was real after all, and she was this close to getting the proof she desired. "What's the question?" Without discernable pause, the voice replied, "What is Pandora's Box?" The question stopped her cold. It was a trick. The voice knew she had no idea. That was why she was in this limo in the first place. "That's not a fair question. You know I don't know. I have no way to answer that." But the speaker crackled once more. "What is Pandora's Box." Amy paused. A tingling in her belly told her the answer was hovering right in front of her. She had naught but to utter the secret out loud. But still she paused. Her spine tingled and she shifted on the leather uncomfortably. She had nothing but rumors and innuendoes to rely on, nothing but half-truths and pure fabrications to support her. Yet still, it seemed one guess was as good as any. One guess could take her to the end of her chase. One gues could reveal everything she had started out to reveal, everything she had staked her determination on. One guess was all it would take. "Pandora's Box is real," she answered flatly. The voice was silent for a long moment while Amy maintained a controlled tempo to her breathing. Somehow she felt there must be cameras on her, watching her while she spoke with this unseen stranger. Then the speaker hissed again. "Take a drink from the bar. It is nothing more than a mild drug that will put you to sleep. Pandora's Box is secret. Its location cannot and will not be compromised. If you truly wish the proof you desire, you will do as instructed. Take the drink now, within the next sixty seconds, or the car will stop and you will be asked to step out. You will be free to go as you please, but you will not be contacted again. This will be your only opportunity. "You decide." Suddenly her heart beat quickened. She was being put to the test, her resolve challenged. She now had exactly one minute in which to determine her own fate, one minute by which to measure the completeness of her faith. Below the speaker a small digital timer began counting downward in cold blue digits. "Wait," she shouted at the blank partition, "that's not fair. We have to set some ground rules here. I have to make some arrangements for my own safety. Its only fair. Its only professional!" For the moment her voice lifted close to panic. Thirty seconds had already passed on the timer. Less than half a minute in which to finalize her commitment to the truth. Maybe this was all one big elaborate hoax. Certainly no one would ever willingly drug themselves for a total stranger. If she went unconscious, who's to say what might happen to her. Twenty seconds by which she calculated her desire for answers. Every logical facet of her brain raced to achieve the obvious conclusion. There was no way she would go through with it. But as the last ten seconds clicked off the timer, she reached boldly for the mini-bar. With the bottle in one hand and a glass in the other she lost at least two seconds attempting to twist the bottle top free. "I want to be perfectly clear," she shouted as she let the glass fall to the floor of the car. Already she could feel the vehicle slowing to a halt. "I only want to see the place for myself. That's all!" With five second remaining she twisted the top off, and sniffed at the clear liqueur inside. "I'm not here to participate." Four. Three. "I mean it." Two. Oh fuck, she said to herself, what the hell am I doing? One. Even as the car rocked gently to a stop, Amy lifted the flask to her lips and tilted it back. The smooth liquid burned down her throat like vodka. Maybe that's all it really was. She sat forward once more and dropped the bottle back in the mini-bar. Maybe by drinking the alcohol, she had effectively called the hidden stranger's bluff. Either way, she felt the car start moving again. She wanted to call out, to repeat her demands for insurance of safety. She felt she was owed that at least. But her voice refused to work. As did her arms, and her legs. Suddenly her whole body went limp, slumping into the seat cushions like a useless pile of flesh. Mild drug my ass! She cursed inwardly. It was the last thought she could remember before the world went black. --- So now she found herself half naked, handcuffed and blindfolded inside what could only be a long, velvet-lined box of some sort. Her mind caught up to her, and she had no doubt she was lying inside a coffin. That thought terrified her more than any other at the moment. She wondered what had been done to her while she lay unconscious. Had she been raped? Were the individuals responsible finished with her already? Was it time for her disposal? The thought caused her to quail. What if she was already buried, interred alive beneath so many feet of earth. As a reporter she understood that far worse things had happened to more innocent people. She refused to panic. With an effort, Amy reached inside her chest for a place of calm. Be rational. Sort it out. Find the facts. It was a necessary step for a reporter such as herself. Her body told her that she was unhurt, her loins unmolested. She was not sore in any way that might have revealed a violation. Her skin tingled with perspiration, however. The smell of nudity filled the interior of her coffin. Absently, she licked the moisture from her lips, a salty reminder of the heat building up around her. Straining her ears, all she could make out was a deep hum, perhaps no more than the background vibration of silence. The thumping in her chest measured out the time along with the deliberate pace of her breathing. Her lungs appeared unusually loud. The subtle clink of metal reminded her of the slender bindings over each wrist. The thump of her elbows and knees against the interior of the box echoed with the clear encouragement of open space beyond. At least she had not been buried. At least not yet. Inside Pandora's Box Struggling for courage, she thought hard about reaching up and removing the blindfold. Her wrist were held together, certainly, but nothing prevented her (or at least nothing she could detect) from reaching her face with her hands. Yet despite this, her arms remained where they were. It was not the drugs, of that she was sure. Every part of her seemed to respond as if capable of movement. It was an altogether different inhibitor which stayed her hands. The outfit held her still. She had been dressed up for a purpose. She had a part to play. As far as rationality could determine, Amy had fallen victim to the Box. Her exclusive story, the one she had struggled so long and so hard to uncover, was about to be granted to her. All she had to do was wait and let events unfold. She had wanted to know the truth. The truth was about to happen, she was sure of it. And she wasn't exactly sure she wanted to see it. Listening intently, she thought she heard a new sound, one out of place with the deep monotone of silence. Footsteps approached. It sounded like a single person walking slowly, carefully, boots on bare floor. The steps came nearer, the subtle scuff of soles across tile just outside her imprisonment. Now she began to panic for real. Her chest expanded with air as she held her breath, her heart thudding more loudly than she ever imagined possible. Take off the blindfold, she screamed at herself, see what's happening! But her arms were frozen, her limbs numb with fear. It was going to start, and there was no way she could ready herself for it. This can't be real! A small vibration informed her that the coffin had been touched. The lid was flung open with a rush of cool air. Every bead of perspiration licked her skin like a tiny droplet of ice. The new air touched her in places she was not prepared to deal with. Her body was naked, exposed, displayed. The thought of it squirmed inside her, made her tingle in ways she had never expected. The fresh atmosphere forced her to breath again, unable to keep her consciousness concealed. Whoever stood there knew she was awake, alert. It was written in the twitch of her arms, the shift of her legs, the delicate tremble of her lips. But the blindfold protected her, kept her hidden for a moment longer, safe from the acceptance of a reality that terrified her to the core. Like an infant playing peek-a-boo with her hands, whatever she could not see surely did not exist. The small electric hum, however, was real. The cool, metallic touch on her skin could not be mistaken for imagination. It made her yelp as it grazed her leg suddenly, vibrating softly through the lacy nylon. It licked the smooth inside of her thigh long enough to make her gasp. She squeezed her legs together as it moved upward, trying to restrict access to the vulnerable flesh between them. Her darkest fear trembled in the swollen cleft of her sex. It was too much to bear any longer. She understood where she was and what was about to happen, but no story was worth that. She had not come here for this. Lifting her hands to the blindfold, she forced a single word from her lips: "No." But her voice was timid and weak, sounding more like a gasp of surprise than a stern command. In contrast, the voice that responded back was clearly in control. "Do not move," it insisted, laden with accustomed authority and the hint of a European accent. It was light but sure, a soft male voice hovering just on the edge of sinister. At the same time her hands were held back, caught in the firm grip of another. "Do not speak," the voice intoned further. Her hands were pressed back down to her belly. She felt as if she was on the cusp of a decision that had already been made. "But I'm not---" Her words died abruptly behind the force of a slap. Strong fingers struck her cheek just hard enough to get her attention. "Quiet, slut!" the voice barked. A firm backhand followed up on the other side of her face, pulling her brain into sharp, sudden focus. "Whores are not permitted to speak." She was suddenly frozen in terror. Should she resist, cry out, struggle for escape? Was she capable of fighting off her molester on her own? Or should she give in, submit, accept her fate for what it obviously was? Was she already doomed to become another victim of the Box? Her uncertainty made the decision for her. The voice seemed to answer her thoughts, to tell her what she need to know. "You have opened Pandora's Box. Now you must pay the price." The man gave her no warnings, no indication of what disobedience might cost her, but the authority in his tone made her understand her situation completely. Some intuitive comprehension told her resistance would be a futile act on her part, and most likely painful as well. She was here to be raped, of that she was perfectly certain. But some aspect of her captivity made the ordeal seem somehow acceptable, tolerable, permissible. The fact that she had sough out this place, had come here willingly, knowingly placing herself in the midst of this danger made her abduction less offensive. Whoever this stranger was, he had not attacked her in the street, taken her to this place against her will. He was not a predator in the conventional sense, not a rapist. She was not an unwilling victim. As he touched her body once more with the vibrator, she flinched as much at the cool contact as the thought of what she was about to become. The names he had called her were not for her. They were not who she was, who she understood herself to be. But she was here now, she was bound and nearly naked, and an unknown, unseen stranger was tempting excitement from the very part of her body which should be resisting it the most. It was an entirely maddening realization. The vibrator tickled the folds of her sex while she lay there allowing it to happen, fearful to move any more than her quivering muscles demanded. She found herself squirming, her thighs now slightly parted, her chin tilted upward, mouth parted. With the exception of an insuppressible gasp and heavy breathing, she chose to remain silent as had been instructed. Her bound hands remained on her lap, trembling between reaching up to remove the blindfold and pressing downward to thwart the intrusion of her pussy. If she intended to resist, she needed to muster her courage first. At least that is what she was attempting to convince herself. The vibrator probed the interior folds of her womanhood, prodded inward slightly. She wanted to scream, but certainly not from any source of pain. The slick moisture of her sex offered no resistance to the intruding device. The electric hum seemed to nibble at her clitoris while its slender tip gently rolled at the entrance of her warm, waiting hole. Unable to disguise her body's readiness, she bit her lip in self-contempt, her hips now churning to escape the sensation. And still her hands hovered above her belly, unwilling to take action; her voice remained clenched in the back of her throat, her scream of protest trapped beneath indecision. While the vibrator worked her sex into a swirl of unbidden desires, the man's other hand began roaming her torso at will. After his initial commands, and the corporal reprimand that accompanied them, the man had not spoken again. Only the pulsing hum between her thighs and the sounds of her own breath filled the small space around her. Her body lay stretched out in the coffin still, and the blindfold kept her in blissful darkness. She actually feared to be able to look around, not sure of what other horrors in the chamber might terrify her to the core. Somehow, the inability to see felt more secure than vision. The fingers moved down from her cheek, rested briefly on her throat. The impression of that contact gave her a shiver. For that small hesitant moment the sense of submission overwhelmed her. The fingertips pressed on her neck seemed to say, you are mine, I own you. The feeling of helplessness engulfed her mind, made the quivering vibrations in her sex burn with an altogether new intensity. They seemed to name her slut and whore all over again. Then the hand moved on, rubbed her bosom though the thin fabric of her top. With that touch she understood how excited her body had become, how deeply aroused she truly was. Already her nipples stood hard against the silky cloth, the man's touch rubbing them to eager life. There was nothing gentle about his caress either, no illusion of tenderness to betray her senses. He was rubbing her hard, squeezing each breast in turn, his fingers kneading her flesh like twin mounds of soft dough. The forceful sensation only served to deepen her understanding of what she was in for. No matter how her body was preparing for what was about to happen, she could not prepare her mind for it. It still seemed entirely unbelievable. She had come here for a story, that was all. She had never had any intention of falling victim to the Box herself. But she was here. The Box had taken her nonetheless. She had no choice but to accept it. So she accepted the hand touching her breasts without complaint, permiktted the fingers that worked their way underneath the flimsy top covering them to grope her naked skin without resistance. She rocked her hips against the sensation of energy in between her legs, parted her mouth to exhale as much pent up tension as she dared admit to. As much as she ached to scream in defiance and escape the violation imposed upon her, she felt trapped utterly, completely at the stranger's mercy. The thin bracelets governing her wrists felt like shackles holding her in place, the slender blindfold against her eyes seemed as confining as a dungeon. The man had bared her breasts and she longed to move her hands to cover them. Some unnatural instinct held them at her navel, however, just inches from the tremors of dark pleasure still coursing through her tingling labia. Then a slap came to her cheek once more. It appeared to be for no reason, but it jolted her like a verbal reminder. Slut. Whore. It called to her mind images of greater violence that she would be wise to avoid. Then the vibrator was removed, leaving her sex pouting and empty. Uncontrollably her lips pouted as well, with almost a whimper of regret voiced on her breath. The cool touch of the vibrator returned to her chest, trailing the slickness of her arousal across her naked skin while it moved along her ribs and from breast to heaving breast. The tingling vibrations made her flesh dance underneath the contact, but she was helpless to get away. At the same time another slap struck her cheek and she squealed aloud. The free hand tugged at her blindfold, and a new panic engulfed her. She did not want to see what was happening. Fingers tucked beneath the cloth band and pulled it free, but her eyes remained closed. She held them shut now on purpose, unwilling to accept the reality of her fate by visual confirmation. She preferred the sensations assailing her out of the dark, the light touch of vibration tickling at her nipple from an unseen source. She was comforted by the illusions darkness afforded her. She did not want to see the truth. The thin band of cloth that once covered her eyes was lowered over her mouth, past her chin, so that it hung loosely around her neck like a choker. The tip of the vibrator toyed with one of her tits, leaving electric excitement hovering over the entire breast. Her other breast was squeezed roughly by the man's free hand, her nipple rudely pinched and pulled at in a way that made her whole body squirm. When she chanced to open her eyes, the image that hovered above her caused her to gasp in alarm. The man's face stared at her from behind a metallic mask. She could she human eyes, and a human chin and mouth, but the rest remained concealed behind stylized metal features as if she were staring up at the face of a steel samurai. The eyes were bright and intense, electric blue set within metal sockets, and the chin was smooth and youthful, the lips thin and strict and humorless. Beyond that the figure wore a layered black cloak, covering much of his torso while keeping his arms and legs bare. The image was quick and fleeting, but enough to frighten her. The anxiety she felt began to feel more like terror. Yet the flash of vision appeared so bizarre, so unreal, that it made the whole situation somehow less real in turn. It began to feel like a dream or a perhaps a nightmare, a sexual episode she could play-act her part in and then be done with. She started to imagine that she could experience the whole scene and then wake up no worse for the wear. But even those thoughts were too quick and fleeting to be grasped, and all she could really do was experience the twisted surge of emotions coursing through her whole being all at once. The man's hand struck her cheek once more, and she closed her eyes with a shout, then reopened them. Beyond the stranger's form the room was black at a glance, with lights streaming down from overhead sconces. The coffin lid lay open at her side, the red velvet interior making a bright contrast to the featureless dark all around her. She still could not see her own body, and before she could react the man tucked his open hand beneath her head, laced his fingers through her hair and jerked back with sufficient force to crane her neck back, her chin automatically thrust upward, mouth pouting wide in a groan of fear. Amazingly still, she left her hands at her waist, but her fingers knotted in defiance nonetheless, eager to offer at least some resistance against the treatment that was being offered to her. Before she could think of what to do next, the vibrator came up to her mouth. The sleek metallic dildo hummed over her parted lips, trailed tickling sensations along the side of her flushed cheek. Then without preamble the silver shaft was plunged into her mouth, vibrating between her lips like an energized phallus, rattling between her teeth in a way that made her whole jaw numb. The electric hum echoed in her brain, and the tapered point tickled the back of her tongue, making her mouth water uncontrollably. Distinctly she tasted something entirely new, the flavor of her own juices striking her senses like a wicked goad. With the man's hand gripping her hair he pumped the shaft in and out of her mouth, and Amy locked her lips around the smooth shaft, struggling momentarily with her newfound role. Slut. Whore. The part almost came to her without effort. And indeed it was easier to play along than to contemplate resistance, especially at this point in the act. But still she understood things were just beginning. At the very least, her lips prevented the thing from rattling on her teeth. While she sucked on her own arousal, she stared up at the haunting mask, wondering what the stranger intended next. When the man switched off the device and dropped it into the bedding of the coffin, she knew instinctively it was going to be something more dreadful yet. In a surge of unexpected force, the strange man yanked her head upward by the hair. The shock came so suddenly that she felt no option but to comply. In a matter of moments she was lifted to a sitting position, twisted by the hair and jerked outward so that she had to clamber out of the coffin onto her knees just to keep her scalp intact. Of course she squealed as she went, unable to suppress the response to the pain, and her hands were too busy clutching for balance to offer resistance to her assailant in any way. Before she could grasp why, she found herself kneeling outside the coffin waiting in anxious fear for her next instructions. Somewhere in the process of her movement she realized the full extent of her attire. The thin black camisole covered her top, modestly draped over her breasts yet leaving their full size and shape plainly revealed. Below that she knew already she was pantiless, and nothing but a pair of black net stockings graced each leg to the thigh. Black stilettos completed the image for her, and the all too scanty attire left her feeling more humbly vulnerable than ever. The man pulled her head back so that she had to stare up at him. The intensity in his eyes commanded her, told her without words to comply with whatever he had to offer. At the same time, he pulled aside the billows of his cloak, revealing his own naked legs and fully exposed manhood. Amy was shocked by the sight of it, the stiff penis jutting outward from his shaved groin. Her own nakedness made her feel disgraceful and low, sexy and exposed all at the same time; but the sight of the stranger's cock somehow embarrassed her. She felt suddenly as if she should look away, as if her interest in his nudity revealed something shameful about her. But once again she was offered no true opportunity to think about that fact. Instead he pulled her face closer to his naked shaft, and when she resisted he smacked her face hard with his free hand. She knew what his intentions were, but the thought of fellatio made her recoil inwardly. She gasped, protested audibly, attempted to pull away saying, "No, no, no," as if her determination mattered. But his hand tortured her hair while his other hand struck her harder and harder, insisting she shut up. She hesitated to give in so easily to nothing more than rough treatment, but every slap rung inside her head until she believed she could take no more. She remained silent, though tears streamed at the corners of her eyes, and the man gripped his growing cock by the base and began slapping it against her face, the hardening shaft bouncing obscenely off her nose and chin, striking her helpless features over and over like a lewd insult. At that moment she felt more honestly degraded than she had ever been in her life. She was a reporter, a serious career professional viewed by thousands if not millions of people every week for her outstanding journalism. She was a celebrity. Certainly she did not deserve this. She had no business on her knees in this unholy chamber, no business opening her lips as the thick cockhead forced its way greedily between them, no business gagging around the meaty shaft that suddenly chocked the back of her throat. No business at all. But there she was. There she found herself, and she had no way to think about escaping it. So she stayed on her knees, allowed the man to ram his hard on deep into her mouth again and again while he gripped her hair mercilessly to keep her head in the position he wanted it. Occasionally she sputtered and coughed, and a stream of fresh saliva drooled around her lips uncontrollably. Periodically he pulled his cock free and slapped it mockingly across her face, the wetness of her own mouth proof enough that she had no business doubting what she had become. He shifted his hands to hold her head between them, striking her cheek once or twice to impress his authority over her. He even deigned to spit on her, and for her part, all Amy did was stay in place and suck his cock for as long as he wanted her to do so. She even gripped his leg for balance and support, but made no effort to hinder his actions in any way. She was exactly what he expected her to be—Slut. Whore. She was a victim of the Box. She had lost count of how many strokes of the man's cock had been thrust in her mouth, but she knew she had been on her knees for several minutes when the violation ended. When she was finally repositioned, she had the opportunity to glance around the chamber a little more. The room had four black walls, but she failed to notice any visible door or entrance. Perhaps it had been lost in the shadows somewhere. The floor also was black, tiled in a smooth, almost rubbery surface, graciously softer on her knees than she had expected. Overhead sconces filled the place with light, though the dark walls seemed to absorb most of it outright. The coffin next to her had been situated near one corner, the open lid revealing the bright scarlet interior like a pennon. Yet in all the chamber, it was another swath of red that caught her eye. Inside Pandora's Box Though she took note of a tall black-topped table near the center of the space, and a single metal pole off to one side, it was the figure in the opposite corner that captured her notice most keenly. There stood another woman, and as far as she could tell, the woman was held in place by a chain hanging from the ceiling. She had every bit the look of a captive at a glance, her wrists high above her head in shackles, a blind fold and ball gag strapped around her head. And in contrast to what Amy had been dressed in, the woman was clad only in red. A crimson halter clung to her torso just below her naked breasts, and a matching band of color stretched around her hips. It was a momentary glimpse, to be sure, but it startled Amy completely to discover another victim in the Box at the same time as she was. Of course, to Amy, the whole of the experience was startling from one end to the other. She had just sucked cock, and she could not believe how simply it had been done. As she was pulled to her feet by the hair, she was horrified to understand how easily she cooperated with her tormentor. The flavor of his sweat still lingered in her mouth, the moisture of saliva coating her chin. Her wrists struggle weakly at her bonds as she let escape another gasp of pain. His grip on her hair compelled her to move where he directed her, and once on her feet he spun her around so that she stood facing the coffin once more. From behind the man's hands wandered her body freely. She could feel his breath on her neck while his fingers groped and pulled at her naked flesh. His hand roamed beneath the light camisole, fondling her breasts as if it had every right to do so, and another meandered toward her hips, smoothing over her pelvis and dipping into her cleft like it owned all that it touched. Her ass bumped against the man's legs and she could feel his stiff manhood pressing into her skin, warm and wet and ready. She knew he was going to fuck her, and she tried desperately to prepare her mind for it. Her body, she understood, might have been already there, the stranger's fingers rubbing the moisture of her sex over her turgid clit like a cruel reminder. But still he did not take her as she expected him to, and still she found one more thing to shock her awareness and make her groan. With firm hands the masked figure maneuvered her towards one of the side walls. Seeing what was there, her feet found no willingness to move on their own, but the forcefulness of her captor urged her forward step by reluctant step. One arm around her neck made her feel utterly powerless, and another slapping her ass cheek made her yelp in shame. Her cuffed hands only exaggerated the helplessness, made her squirm for release even as she gave up the fight. Before her now the wall had three holes, each roughly twelve inches across and covered from behind with a black curtain. But the curtains were parted, and jutting out from each was a full male appendage, each one thrust outward as if eagerly awaiting use. Two of the holes opened only a few feet from the floor, while the center one sat a couple feet higher, each spaced about three feet from the next. The appearance of the cocks protruding in contrast to the blank, black wall reminded her of how unreal this whole place was, but as she was pushed forward to her knees once more the harsh reality sunk in completely. Though they may have been simply of average or larger size, they seemed enormous in length and girth to her. Forced into place in front of the first one, Amy wanted to cry, though shock somehow protected her from actual tears. Her mouth still suffered from the violation imposed on her just a moment ago, and now another man was ready to do the same. With only a semi-hard shaft and a pair of balls to relate to, the man might as well have been invisible. But she knew another stranger existed—three more strangers at least—behind those black curtains, and that frightened her. She felt more alone and overpowered than she ever thought possible. It was clear what was expected of her, but the man in the mask spanked her bare ass a couple times for good measure anyway. She could feel the pressure of his hand on the back of her head. On her knees, with cuffed hands pressed against the wall for support and a show of reluctance, she met the first erection with her heart thundering in her chest. Everything in the room occurred so quickly that her mind could not take it all in fast enough to make a decision on her own. She could not absorb the implications of what she was about to do until she was actually doing it. Amy wanted to resist, wanted to fight back, wanted to scream for help, but instead she found herself sucking on another cock of another faceless man with little more than a timid squeal of protest and a whimper of disgust to show her hesitation. Immediately her head began bobbing to a tempo encouraged by the man behind her. His hands caressed her naked bottom at the same time, periodically stopping to deliver a sharp slap to one cheek or the other. She wanted to shout out, but the thick round cockhead consumed most of her mouth muffling any objection she might choose to give. And of course there was no reason to object anyway. Some instinct told her struggling would be both useless and painful. She had already gone beyond the point of no return. She was sucking cock, and that was the way of it. So she sucked as best she could, trying at least to show complicity in exchange for less rough treatment by her captors. The stiff shaft in her mouth grew rigid and thick, and the man behind the wall who owned it seemed to rock his hips slightly in unison to the bobbing of her head. It provided a clear moment of self-loathing for Amy, knowing that her mouth was causing it to happen, that her own lips inspired the sensations that made the thing larger and harder and more capable of violation. When she had applied her lipstick earlier in the evening, she could not have imagined it would be for this. After a few moments though, she almost started to find the experience enjoyable, in a way. It was intoxicating. In another time and place it might have felt nice to realize she was causing this, to know that her actions could inspire such clear reactions. If she had to be a cocksucker, she wanted to be a respectable one at least. At the same time the stranger behind her groped and grabbed her ass, taunting her pussy once more with long, expert digits. The cock in her mouth gave her a sense of purpose. She was entirely sexual now and that felt sexier than ever. She did not have to think of anything else. When she was pulled away from this cock, she practically pouted at the loss, however much she felt relieved by it. But her ordeal still had not changed her so entirely so soon. She knew who she was, understood that she was being manhandled against her better will. Still she allowed the masked stranger to jerk her body back and pull her to her feet without fighting it. Standing now, she was thrust down the wall immediately towards the second cock.. She had to find some way to accept what was happening, to lose her sense of self to the intensity of the moment. It was the only way she could think of to possibly endure the experience without cracking. She only hoped she would not lose herself completely in the process. Stumbling forward, she opened her mouth on instinct alone, tried to engulf the shaft in one fluid motion. Her coordination was off, however, and the erection bounced over her lips and smacked her in the face. She recovered simply by licking the long underside with her tongue, feeling thoroughly wicked in doing so. This was a third cock, a third man in the span of so little time. It was something only a real whore would allow, and the thought of becoming a whore for these men made her insides quiver with unnatural delight. It was a prospect she had never considered. Now she was consumed by it. It provided the safest harborage her mind could conceive. If she submitted herself to it, Amy could save herself from insanity. Though everything about it already was entirely insane, only by escaping into that role, subjecting her body at least to the utter degradation of sluttish compliance, would she possibly retain the integrity of mind to endure the experience as a whole. It required a strength of will she feared might be beyond herself, a fortitude more difficult than mere physical resistance. If she struggled, she already knew she would lose. If she gave up, she still could win. Gripping the edge of the hole with her fingers, she managed to pull the bulbous head between her lips. With her tongue working to cradle the shaft into position, she slid her mouth back and forth a few times slowly to extract as much enjoyment from the action as possible before quickening her pace. The cock responded eagerly, growing large and hard in no time. And while she worked to give the best blow job she could manage at the time, the masked figure remained behind her, guiding her head at times, encouraging her sexuality with roaming hands and strong fingers all the while. After a moment he took hold of one of her legs and lifted it, cradling the knee in the crook of his arm. This threw off her balance somewhat, and staggered the tempo of her cocksucking efforts momentarily, but she repositioned her hand and recovered as best she could. The masked man bent down between her thighs, hoisted her raised leg so that it hung over his shoulder. In this manner she found herself standing on one stretched leg, balanced awkwardly on the single spiked heel shoe with her thighs parted wide. The figure had complete access to her open sex in this fashion, and he used that to full advantage. While she tried to maintain her mouth on the cock, her tormentor began rubbing and pinching her pussy, spreading her lips open until her stiff bud was clearly exposed. Amy squealed as the tender bit of flesh was touched, stroked into a further frenzy of desire by insistent fingers. Two fingers invaded her swelling hole, slipping into her hot wet channel without effort. In an instant thy found places inside her that caused her to shiver, that made her squirm impossibly. How could anyone know her body that well? How could he force those sensations so easily? As he pumped them in and out repeatedly, she moaned in undeniable pleasure, let the cock slip from her mouth as she screeched with irrepressible need. Unexpectedly—unimaginably—she felt as if she might come any moment. Her body was so awkwardly balanced that she thought she might fall over, and in that position she was entirely helpless to prevent what was happening. She could not resist the surge of erotic energy that shivered through her frame, trembling through her widely spread thighs and escaping her throat in a shout nearly hoarse with passion. This had never been done to her before, and the inability to conceal her reaction made it all the more shameful. Her body was being violated and used, but its response was clear. For all she thought to resist it, her body only craved more. The moment was truly insane, and with her leg still lifted, he began slapping her pussy. Hard sharp smacks sent tremors of mingled pain and pleasure jolting up her spine. He was yelling at her to keep sucking, and some portion of her brain responded while the remainder simply shuddered beneath the sensation overload. Throwing her lips once more around the stiff cock before her, she forgot everything else entirely. She forgot the room she was in, the way she had gotten here. She forgot about the strange woman trussed up in the far corner. She even forgot about the two other cocks eagerly pressed through their holes on either side of her. All she understood at that time was the need to keep sucking cock and the wave after wave of incredible sensations charging through her whole being as her open sex was spanked raw. When her leg was dropped and she was pulled back from the wall, there was no relief. Her mind seemed to fog underneath it all. His strong hands groped at her breasts once more, this time pulling each one free by dropping the straps of her camisole down over her shoulders. They stood out above the top of the black garment like globes of unquenched desire, the tender nipples fully hard and yearning. Her legs wobbled as she was moved down the line of cocks, and her body gave no resistance whatsoever as she was compelled to kneel once again. The third cock in the line stared at her like a challenge, and she accepted it without thinking. She reached up, gripped the heavy shaft with cuffed hands, and brought it hungrily towards her mouth. Like a wanton woman she devoured it, pulling on it with moist lips, sucking it desperately against her tongue, thrust her mouth down over its length again and again because that was all she could imagine to do. She had become what they wanted, and she did not care. The stranger had brought her so close to orgasm, that all she wanted was to gain that release. If she had to suck off a hundred more cocks to get there, right now she would gladly comply. The masked man stood close behind her, pressing her head forward with powerful hands. With fingers knotted in her hair, he began rocking her head, increasing the tempo of her mouth on the shaft steadily until her face was rocking back and forth fast enough to make her dizzy. All she tried to do was keep her lips locked over the fleshy pole while resisting the urge to gag as the cockhead rammed into the back of her throat over and over. She tried to scream out in the process, but all she managed was a gargled moan through a flood of saliva. Yet if he heard her he did not respond until she began to cough and sputter. Desperately she sought to pull her head away from the thick appendage, and she pushed against the wall with both hands until she forced herself free. Or perhaps her captor merely granted her respite then, there was no way to be certain. Either way, her head was jerked back from the wall by the hair and she fought momentarily for balance. Immediately she was forced to look up, and the face that stared down upon her brought a surge of fear to her chest. Of course her body was still charged with sexual tension, and so the fear felt more like a sexualized terror, a fantasy sensation endured in a dark nightmare full of ravishment and rape. The cold steel eyes within the mask bore down on her, and she understood them for what they were. At the same time she understood herself for what she had become. The cruel eyes offered no sympathy for her, gave no care what for she experienced in this place. She knew she had simply been placed there for use, for abuse. Gazing at those eyes she comprehended the extent of her subjugation, and that powerlessness only charged her body more. With strong fingers he gripped her face, squeezed her jaw until her lips were forced open like a naughty child's. Then he spit in her mouth, a reminder of her status. Before she could react—and indeed there was no reaction she could even consider at this point—he once again stuffed his own cock into her mouth, thrusting in deeply until her saliva mixed with his and both coated the length of his dick freely. He pumped into her face several times, and all she did was remain on her knees and submit to the guidance of his hands. The lack of control raged through her thoughts like an obsession, burned through her body like a chemical addiction. The sense of degradation overwhelmed her. The revulsion of tasting cock became lost in the black atmosphere around her. She knew that her will had lost all significance in this place. She was here to stay, and all she had to do now was live though it, to endure the experience for as long as it took. With a powerful grip on the back of her head her tormentor forced his cock deep into her mouth. The cockhead felt huge, and it pressed against the back of her throat until she nearly choked on it. But even then he did not release her. Reflexively she began to gag, and still the thick spike of flesh pressured forward. Her mouth watered, her eyes watered, and she struggled to pull away. Relentlessly though, he held her head in place, and she held her breath for as long as she could, fighting the urge to vomit with every heartbeat. Though it seemed like forever, it lasted only a minute or so, but unbelievably she discovered the length of his shaft imbedded in her face. She held her eyes shut against the discomfort, but still she could feel the base of his cock against her lips, Her nose touched his pelvis, her chin had reached his ball sac. To her own astonishment, Amy realized his cock had slipped beyond her tongue and must have burrowed into her throat, the bulbous head touching the deep recesses in a manner she never even imagined. She did not breathe—she could not breathe—and when the cock was finally removed, her throat erupted in a fit of coughing and spitting. A thick splash of bile struck the black floor below her. Yet all that did not appear to phase her captor in the least. Immediately he spun her shoulders towards the cock on the wall. Amy swallowed air and tried to recover as the disembodied erection filled her mouth once more. She gave no thought to the white trail of spittle dangling from her chin. Each cock looked different, tasted different, smelled different, and yet each one looked and tasted and smelled no different that the next. They had all become somehow a separate manifestation of the same thing to her. She tried to put out of her mind that four separate men had so far enjoyed her mouth. She simply sucked on the one that was given her at the moment and tried to stay sane. Once again the masked figure moved in close behind her, encouraged her head to bob faster with insistent hands. For her part, Amy worked hard at delivering a quick tempo so as to avoid her hair being jerked at. But once again it proved useless. The man behind her seemed to like forcing her head back and forth, and she just did her best to secure the warm shaft in between her lips while he rammed her head down on top of it again and again and again. The cockhead struck the back of her throat repeatedly, and again she gargled on fresh saliva trying not to gag. She tasted salt in her mouth as well without comprehending why. A strangled cry of protest escaped her mouth as she tried to tell him it was just too much for her. When her head was yanked back, the fluid build up in her mouth spilled over onto her lips and chin. She wondered if that was cum she was tasting. But her head was tilted back by the hair, and immediately the masked stranger rubbed his hand over her face, scooping whatever was there into his fingers and stuffing it all back into her mouth once more. Her jaw stretched out painfully wide as it seemed the man wanted to shove his whole hand down her throat, but he only managed to get four fingers inside her mouth. When his hand was removed she swallowed whatever had been on them and tried to breath. He pulled at her roughly, and she continued to struggle for balance on her knees. For some unknown reason he reached around and grabbed one of her exposed tits, crushing the tender breast in the firm grip of one hand. Amy squealed at the treatment, but could do nothing more about it. With his other hand he flicked the sensitive nipple, and sparks of electric energy shot through her with each sharp contact. Nearly lifting her up by the breast alone, he pulled at her tit and slapped the hard nipple repeatedly, a shower of painful vibrations coursing through her whole being until she had nothing left to do but scream. Then he dropped her down again, pushed her towards the cock hanging out of the wall. She wondered if she had not had enough of it already. Painfully he gripped the edges of her moth, hooked his fingers so that he stretched her lips open wide. Then, as if she could not manage on her own, he thrust her head back over the cockhead, forced the thick shaft to the back of her throat while she moaned in helpless protest.