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.