The Magic Box

Chapter Two-2

Bill, however, could still see, and he reached gently down and stroked his hand through the heavy fall of her dark, honey-blonde hair, shot through here and there with a few stray strands of silver. Her ears picked out the faint sound as he bent, and then he kissed her almost chastely upon the blazing plane of her flushed forehead. “Enjoy, my darling,” he whispered—and then he left, and the door shut softly behind him. She was pinned there in the darkness, naked and open and exposed.

The partitions were snug but not tight, she decided as she licked her lips uncertainly and tried to collect her wits. One had settled about her exposed throat like a soft yet firm collar, one arch hugged the tuck of her waist like a belt, and she could feel one short wall between both of the others, running straight down the center of her chest and belly. As Bill has said, the thing indeed had been fitted to her, and the notion gave her a peculiar little thrill. Oh, perhaps the foam-padded cutouts in the walls that held her to the narrow bed-like apparatus could be adjusted within certain limits, the fillers extended for a slender 110-pound sylph or drawn back for a broad-beamed and big-bellied 250-pound woman. For tonight, however, someone had worked very carefully with Elizabeth’s own slightly fleshy middle-aged measurements, for she was held just snug enough, and no more. The realization of the careful, intimate planning it must have taken was naughtily flattering somehow.

She could move her head a little, and her arms and legs in their own separate chambers, but she was otherwise held fast to her couch, available for whatever anyone might choose to do to her. The room which held her pillowed head still might have been semi-dark, or the recessed lights in the ceiling might have turned up bright—the subtly constructed blindfold-and-goggle combination gave no hint whatsoever—and it was very strange beyond belief to lie there alone, with her neck in a padded collar. It was as if she were cut off from the rest of her body. She could not even reach to scratch her nose if she had an itch, she realized. She was completely helpless. She felt experimentally at the walls at her neck and her waist, and the divider between, but the walls to either side apparently still lay out of reach. All she could touch were unyielding partitions sheathed in black velvet…and herself.

The blinded woman felt the familiar curves of her own waist and torso, only a single side to each hand, almost as if to reassure herself that she still existed. Yes, Elizabeth told herself giddily—she did. She thought—therefore she was! She could not see, could not hear anything but the pulse that rushed softly at her temples, could not find the exact extent of this perverse magic box, but apparently she herself indeed did still have physical existence. Her questing fingers could not reach her flushed and open-mouthed face, could not reach her hips or her legs, but her ribs were still where they used to be, though a little harder to find, she admitted to herself ruefully, than they had been when she was a taut young nineteen-year-old.

And of course, her breasts were there, too. They were heavy and soft, lolling to either side of her ribcage…and yet their puckered tips were tight-drawn and fearsomely sensitized. Elizabeth recognized that jangling, somehow expectant sensation that quivered straight down beneath her belly every time her bosoms moved with her unsteady breathing. And really…when she reached up to touch the things, just be sure, oh, how thick and upthrust stood those pink-brown nodules of erectile tissue! Smiling faintly to herself in the womblike darkness, she began to pinch dreamily at her beautifully needy n*****s. Ah, for her poor p***y lay helpless and untouched but for the restless grinding of her sticky thighs, yet these familiar friends of hers were still there for the grabbing! It felt good, and it was with an almost innocent sort of wantonness that she stimulated herself in the all-absolving darkness.

Soon, though, a little sheepish, Elizabeth remembered that while her hugely dilated eyes strained upon absolute blackness, she knew nothing of the world beyond her blindfold. Had the illumination of the magic box been extinguished, or had it instead been turned up? For all she knew, there might be little peepholes or viewing ports in the outer walls through which her waiting ravishers could spy upon her, and watch their intended slut writhe in her own anticipatory self-pleasuring… Suddenly embarrassed, Elizabeth bit her lip, and each guilty hand released the full, blue-veined breast it had been tormenting. Oh, what would they think of her? she asked nervously.

She answered herself almost immediately, they would think she was a bad, bad girl, wouldn’t they? Despite herself, she could not help smiling a little. Clearly the prudish teachings which her probably-frigid old mother—who had been almost forty-five when Elizabeth was born—and the sexless, life-denying nuns had attempted to instill in the girl had never truly taken root, for her mind was far too fertile in other, more sensually imaginative ways. Oh, she put up a good front, of course. No one could guess the true self beneath—not her friends, not the neighbors, not her coworkers, not the other mothers at the school bake sales. In a way, perhaps even Bill had never quite understood, and even now was only beginning to get a glimpse of the actual woman he had married so long ago.

But he would see now! she told herself a little shakily. Yes, and these other men, too, some of whom she might never have met before, yet some of whom she might have seen countless times at backyard barbecues and bowling trips and Bill’s poker nights—what would they think? Why, they would think—know—that Elizabeth, the devoted wife, loving mother, and nondescript neighbor, needed to be held down and have men she could not even see do things to her palpitating naked body, things she could scarcely even bring herself to name… For it would be true, would it not? The corner of her lips twitched, and she could not help reaching up to touch herself once more. Ah, how hungry her poor neglected boobies were…

Elizabeth lay there alone for what seemed like many long moments. Despite the peculiarity of the position, she could not help being hopelessly aroused, and she fingered the great crinkled peaks of her n*****s deliberately, not knowing whether she was truly hidden or whether even now leering eyes watched her every movement. It was a pleasantly piquant sort of conundrum, and her body quivered in the secret darkness as she imagined one naughty thing after another, on and on and on. And her heart went out to her husband, too, the sweet dear who would arrange this terrible treat for her! As his various friends were having their way with her, she wondered, would he join in as well? How deliciously nasty it would be to be unable to tell who it was that—that—that…did whatever it was they were going to do to her!

Finally, after a period of time the restlessly agitated woman had no way of estimating. it seemed that one of those narrow doors opened upon one of the little rooms that surrounded her partitioned and yet wantonly displayed flesh—she felt through the walls the faint tremble of its closing perhaps just as much as she heard it. Eyes wide in the utter lightlessness of the padded goggles within her silken blindfold, she listened, but she could hear nothing. Agitated and expectant, she strained all of her senses… Nothing.

Soon, though, she almost thought she felt warmth along the right side of her ribcage, that disembodied part of her which seemed now as remote as the Moon. For a while she was uncertain as to whether she actually sensed that warmth or whether she imagined it, yet in a moment she felt, too, the soft sensation of breath along her ribcage, the underside of her arm, one side of her bosom. She smiled to herself, secretly, powerfully excited by that sly, teasing examination of her body. The bosom which this unknown man eyed so closely was not young anymore, not firm and high like that of some twenty-something girl in a magazine or some fresh-faced co-ed posing on the internet, bare-breasted and perky as her laughing face hung with the clingy stalactites of her satisfied boyfriend’s glistening jism. No, she was just an ordinary middle-aged woman now, an unexceptional wife just like any other, a mother who once had fed her babies at this now-lolling teat. And yet still how powerfully she still attracted this nameless worshiper’s gaze! It was profoundly flattering somehow.

She had no idea of who it was crouching there beside her, so close and yet so far away. She knew only that right now she belonged to him, for as long as he wanted her, and that he was free to ogle her and touch her, to do whatever he wanted to her. Oh, the impossible freedom of that enslavement! Elizabeth was not a slut, after all. Why, she was not to blame—she had no say in the matter. All the poor thing could do, she told herself piously, was lie there and take it…whatever it was. No matter how bad it was, she added to herself hopefully. She licked her lips.

Soon, without necessarily quite meaning to do so, Elizabeth found herself wriggling her trapped flesh as best she could in the padded bonds that held her bare body so snugly. Perhaps she was assaying the futile possibility of escape—perhaps she was trying to tempt the stranger further. Who could tell? Tentatively she moved her hand along the couch, thinking that she might encounter the flesh of the newcomer, but whereas she was blind down there, she suspected that he could see her every movement in the room’s dim illumination, and for whatever reason, he chose to avoid her.

Gradually a pair of hands began to touch her in that chamber at her side, yet so lightly and tantalizingly, male fingertips grown surprising sensitive as they dragged softly across her fluttering skin. Elizabeth sighed as one palm began to smooth itself along her belly, her side, her shoulder, her waist just above the swelling hip hidden in yet a different room, as the other hand squeezed possessively at the very base of her right breast—how it made her wet! Oh, but wouldn’t he touch the tip of the lolling bosom, too? she asked herself, almost poutingly. Breathing heavily, she rolled her shoulder in mute encouragement. For a moment those hands simply fondled her, slowly, unhurriedly, and she reveled in the once-forbidden sensation of the stranger’s grasp. Yet all at once, however, she could only yelp instinctively as a hungry mouth suddenly bit down upon her rigid n****e and sucked at the tender thing, hard.

She squirmed, but there was no escaping the man, no way she could even communicate her desires to him. Whoever this man was, she realized with a perverse little thrill, she was utterly and completely his, for whatever was his whim to do to her. She could only lie there, gasping, as that unknown mouth pulled suckingly at the sensitive pink-brown peak of her breast, lifting the rounded mass of the mound high. God, how the ravenous beast stretched her!

She had imagined this sweet stimulation before, of course, too, too many times to count, and yet the reality was different from anything she could have guessed. She truly was an object, she realized with a peculiar inner shudder, a thing upon which some unknown stranger could excite himself upon, and use. How fetishistic and forthright and purposeful it must be for this man! He could not see her face to observe her reaction, after all, could not touch her p***y and feel it juice up in response, could not caress or clutch her plump buttock or the rounded womanly swell of her hip. All he could do was play with her breast—and only one of them!—and use it to rile his every lust. His actions were all for him, Elizabeth knew dizzily, and she could only gasp in the darkness, her disembodied head in a different room—a different world—from the chamber where some man she did not even know sucked at her like a baby.