The Red Room
The subject awakens.
Her eyes crack open, and slowly shift around as she takes in her surroundings. She has no idea where she is. The room is red, violently red. She then notices her hands – they are encased in sleek latex gloves. The skin-tight material continues up her arms and over her upper body, down over her breasts and belly and all over her legs. Her entire body is wrapped in it. She briefly considers taking it off, but she stops short, realizing that she is wearing nothing underneath the outfit, and will be naked without it.
She takes a look around her. She is in a small padded cell. The walls are shiny red. There appear to be no windows, no doors—just the same glossy red padding uniformly covering every surface except the cell’s ceiling, where it is broken in the center by an inset fluorescent light fixture. Next she scans the floor, and notices in the corner of the room opposite to her a gleam of metal beneath the red. Looking more closely, she sees that there is something there, covered by a cloth of the exact same color as the floor, thus momentarily blending in with it. She crawls over to the cloth and sees beneath it the indent of two objects. She pulls aside the covering to reveal beneath it a shiny metal tray, upon which rest the two items previously outlined beneath the red fabric. The first is a vibrating dildo. The second is a metal collar.
She recoils in horror, the pieces of the puzzle starting to come together to form a grotesque picture. Someone has kidnapped her, dressed her up like some fetish doll, and intends to use her in some sort of twisted sexual scenario! Have they already…? She looks to her crotch and sees that there is a zipper there. She looks around her, checking for perhaps some newly appeared window or some overlooked spyhole from which hidden eyes might be watching. Nothing but the monochrome crimson walls presents itself. Furtively, she unzips her fly and takes a peek. She sees no traces of abuse, no reddened skin or spent fluids. Cautiously, after taking another quick look around, she slides a finger into her slit.
The latex coated digit only just breaks the surface when she feels a ripple of pleasure flutter through her. Startled, she pulls her hand back. It feels good. Far too good for just a touch under almost any circumstances, and downright out of place for the situation she finds herself in now. Regardless, like a stroked cat pressing itself into its owners hand for more attention, her pussy suddenly begins to tingle at the touch, a slow, faint smolder that second by second begins to kindle more intensely. What the hell? How can she feeling horny right now? The feeling between her legs frightens her, but her fear does nothing to assuage it. They’ve done something to me, she thinks. Drugged me or played with me, something. I shouldn’t be feeling this way. She zips herself back up, her needy snatch almost shivering as the teeth of the zipper close together just above the skin. Her cunt begins to pulse softly beneath the skin-tight material, and she resists the urge to touch herself again.
Scared and confused, she gets to her feet and begins to feel her way about the room, looking for a hidden switch, a seam – something to suggest an exit. The room is not large, but she searches for what feels like ten minutes. She finds nothing. With each passing moment, the burning between her legs increases, an ever-present and steadily increasing distraction, demanding with a continuously louder voice to be attended to.
She finally swears and sits down. She curls her legs up to her chest, rests her head on them and bites her lip, slowly rocking back and forth as she tries to block out the sensations radiating from her crotch. She continues to do this for a moment before she realizes she is rocking to a certain rhythm. She stops and listens. A steady, undulating pulse resonates throughout the room. It’s not something she hears so much as she feels, like a deep swelling bass note over and over again, emanating from behind the walls and reverberating inside her skull. And as she listens, she realizes with dawning horror that her pussy is pulsing in time with it. Her thoughts race. Panic begins to grip. What’s happening to me? What is this place? Where am I? I want out! The walls themselves, unrelentingly deep, apple red, seem to slowly vibrate to the subsonic frequency. The rhythm is unwavering, heedless of her terror. Unremitting. Surging. Sensual. Decadent. Her mind, a moment ago a frenzy of jumbled thoughts and wildly firing synapses, begins to settle. Her muscles unclench, and she exhales. The subsequent inhalation of air is deep and refreshing. She closes her eyes. For a moment, she allows her mind to go quiet in order to allow herself to think clearly. Allows herself to be carried on the repeating pulse, like a piece of driftwood on the pounding surf. A second later, she realizes she’s now rubbing her thighs together.
Her legs bolt apart with the rapidity of two like magnetic poles. She lashes herself mentally for her weakness. But the fire below is too hot now. She groans from need, her back arching from the effort her self-restraint requires. She feels like she’s trapped in a burning room; the flames are all around her, and they are beginning to lick, not with pain, but with need, raw, consuming, fiery need. The ever-present resonant pulse, now feeling louder and stronger than before, stokes the flames like a repeating bellows. Her body shakes. She places her hands against her head, trying to hold on to her sanity as the overwhelming urge to pleasure herself begins to overpower her will. She grits her teeth and clenches her eyes shut, tears beginning to form at their corners. The need is desperate now, all-around her, buzzing and humming and echoing in her mind, blasting through her thoughts and replacing everything with buzzing and desire and need and oh fuck!-
Unable to control herself any longer, indeed, even barely able to form coherent thought, her hands fly from her temples and dive between her eagerly parting thighs. Her fingers, shaking and desperate, fumble with the zipper briefly before giving up and just pressing into her screaming cunt. Her neck curls back, an animal moan escaping from her throat at the intoxicating feeling of her fingers and palms pressing into her clit and sending a tidal wave of rapture pulsating through her body and into her head, where it travels and climbs around the side like ivies rapidly creeping up the side of a wall, until the sensations crest at the top of her skull and dive inside like roots burrowing deep. For a moment she continues to mewl and groan and roll her thumb over the covered nub, but finally it is not enough, and she grabs the zipper between her fingers and with a yank tears open the aperture. The fingers of her right hand plunge deep into the pink flesh of her vagina, finding the way already well lubricated. With her left she continues to circle and press her clitoris, each press sending a very clear signal to her overloaded brain like a telegraph. Unlike a telegraph, the message contains nothing of “stop”.
She moans again and continues to masturbate. Rational thought is completely gone now, her seat of reason overthrown and her hands moving almost of their own accord. Her body obeys a primal urge as instinctive and reflexive as a drinking in response to thirst. Her fingers work in and out of her sopping wet cunt. Her hips grind and twist in counterpoint to her thumb, which continues to play at her clitoris. Her entire being writhes in synchrony to the inaudible beat coursing through her and all around her from every side, carrying her higher and deeper and expanding her senses until there is only feeling, only the pulsing, rhythmic pleasure. She finally reaches the crescendo, and the climax rips through her frame like an atomic blast through a house. Her mouth opens to scream, but she has no breath left. Her eyes stretch open wide, and all she sees is red.
For a moment, she is timeless, weightless. There is only the inexorable, pulsating reverberation of the room. Then, as if recovering from the shock of a nearby artillery shell impact, her senses begin to return to her. First comes her hearing, bringing her awareness of the whispering undulation of her own breathing coming in and out like the crashing of the tide after a fierce storm. At the same time she becomes aware of the pungent odor saturating the air – that of her own sweat and dripping vaginal fluids, condensed within the cramped chamber and mixed with the already strong smell of the rubber walls and flooring. Her eyes, having finally closed at some point, re-open and take in the red ceiling above with its single strip of fluorescent light, humming softly as it burns. Before she can even begin to process what has just transpired, how in the likely light of her kidnapping and imprisonment she has just masturbated herself to a mind-blowing climax, she begins to once again feel the same burning between her legs once more.
Her mind still foggy in the post-orgasmic haze, she moans contentedly and stretches out on the floor as she lazily strokes herself. Far from being abated, the fire has spread. It has now invaded her belly and her thighs. Her thoughts are sluggish, slow, and the sensations radiating from her lower torso and legs to her brain pacify her and further dull any attempts to find a rational foothold. The throbbing is still there.
Thoughts arise within her as she lies sprawled on the floor, not coherent words or even defined images, but vague impulses that her conscious mind translates into desires. She begins to feel the need to touch herself. To jill her pussy and pinch and twist her nipples. To fondle her breasts and rub her fingers roughly through her hair like a lover. She resists these foreign thoughts, her inherent sense that something is wrong creating friction to the ideas, like skin pulling on wet rubber. But the images become more and more appealing, and her control over them continues to loosen as her ideas continue to slip and run wet with pussy juice. This isn’t me, she thinks weakly, her own thoughts finally beginning to gain some traction, if only just, in the slippery goo that coats her mind. Something is making me feel this way. I want to stop, have to stop, have to… have to…
Her fingers begin to once more creep into her pussy, and she sighs in blissful concession to her defeat at her own hand. Her forefinger hooks in and begins to search out her G-spot while her thumb anchors itself on top her clit. It is beyond her ability to fight, and it feels soooooo good to just give in. As she works herself yet again, however, she begins to feel a new ache arising from a different area of her body – her breasts. Not even bothering to protest, she continues her ministrations below with her right hand while reaching up with her left to find the zipper located at her throat, just beneath her chin. She takes hold and pulls it down, revealing her sweat-soaked bare skin beneath the latex. The twin orbs, newly freed from their enclosure, bounce free and sag to either side of her chest. The nipples look hard as bullets, the areola surrounding them tightened into an elliptical rather than round shape. She takes the left breast and begins to gently massage. It is the touch of heaven, and she purrs in rapture. The bliss, however, without fading, is soon eclipsed by a greater need. Not understanding at first, she continues to massage herself even as she slips another finger into her dripping snatch. But it soon becomes clear what she wants. She takes her nipple, now pointed like an arrow-head and just as hard, between her fingers, and squeezes. Then she twists. Hard.
The shock hits her like a thunderbolt, and actually jolts her hard enough to snap her out of her trance. Oh my God, what is she doing!? Horrified, her hands fly from her erogenous zones, earning emphatic complaints from them. “Shut up!” she hisses. She tries to find something to do with her hands, finally settling on trying to cover her ears to block out the impulses inside her head hitting her resolve like waves cresting against a shoreline cliff face. “Shut up shut up shut up PLEASE JUST SHUT UP!” She screams, trying to drown out the insistent droning hum in her head urging her to take her hands and fingerfuck herself into a quivering pool of latex and cum. Her resolve is soon at break point, the bastion holding against her lust only through the sheer magnitude of her terror. She knows that something is terribly wrong, that something about this room is affecting her, changing her. And she is deathly afraid of what it might be changing her into.
“I don’t want…” she sobs. “I don’t want to…” The merciless pulsing hum drones on, utterly indifferent to her pleading. She feels it eating away at her, each throb making it harder and harder for her to remember why she’s scared, why she’s crying, and also harder to ignore the now agonizing throbbing in her cunt and breasts. Her forehead comes to rest on the floor, and as it does, the nipples of her free-hanging breasts brush the padded surface, sending an electric tingle up her spine. Her back arches and her arm shoots out, clawing at the floor in frustration as she rolls onto her back as if just hit with a taser. The craving is maddening. Her vision blurs and spins. The walls seem to expand and contract like a beating heart in time with the rhythmic pulsing that urges her to give in completely and submit herself to its cadence of decadence. Her entire body shakes like a drug addict in the clutches of deep withdrawal. It literally hurts to resist. Her head begins to throb painfully. The red hue of the walls shifts from seductive to angry. And all the while her breasts and pussy scream like lungs without air.
The throbbing in her head is now a pounding. It feels like her skull will explode at any moment. She is going to die here. Part of her is almost willing to accept it, but another, stronger part overrides it. The decision is instantaneous, with barely more force than a consideration. But it is enough. Buffeted and battered, and now finally given the last little push by her will to live, her resolve snaps like a twig holding up a safe. She doesn’t even have to think about what to do next.
Her hands reach for her breasts first, both of them grabbing a handful of flesh, and it is like breaking the surface after a 100-meter ascent from underwater. The relief she feels is immeasurable. The pain of before is immediately forgotten and replaced by the immense bliss of the touch. Like a horse dying of thirst suddenly given water, she gorges herself, moving from her breasts to her pussy and lapping up the depravity with wanton abandon. It feels even better than before. She plunges her entire hand into her cunt as far as it will go, in and out, fast and hard. With her other hand she lifts up her breast to her mouth and bites down and sucks on the nipple, relishing the pain intermingled with the pleasure like complimentary strands of DNA, before taking the other breast in her now free hand and tweaking the nipple like a radio dial.
She is completely beyond decorum now, beyond fear of her situation or concern over her behavior. Nothing matters but the carnal delight she feels, amplified and reinforced by the all-powerful humming throb in her head and her breasts and her twat. But though she quickly builds herself up to the razor’s edge of the coming climax, she does not crest. The release she needs does not come. Frustrated, she removes the hand kneading her breast and begins ringing her clit like a doorbell. The new intense feeling pushes her even higher, causing her to roll her eyes back and bite her lip. But still she does not come. It just isn’t enough anymore. The sensation is as exquisite as it is excruciating, a pleasure so intense it threatens to completely overload her senses. She teeters upon the unendurable hairline precipice, unable to fall into the chasm of release. She grimaces and mewls in heated frustration, and as she does so twists her head to the right. Her eyes fall upon the tray, and in it the dildo. The desire materializes within her immediately. She wants it inside her. She needs it inside her.
No longer even bothering to question the induced desires, indeed, hardly even able to distinguish them from her own, she scrambles over to the tray. Kneeling before it, she twists the knob at the base of the dildo to maximum before thrusting it inside her in one swift seppuku-like motion. The feeling of the invader is immediately overwhelming, and this time she does scream. Completely lost to the staggering array of sensation as the vibrator pulses within her to same rhythm as the omnipresent throb of the room, she rears back on her haunches, her eyes roll back white, and she comes, comes with an earth-moving, sky-splitting orgasm that wracks her body, mind and soul, and in an instant of all-encompassing ecstasy indelibly sears into her the power and the insatiable appetite of the room like lightning forging sand into glass.
She at last returns to earth, quivering, panting, and half out of her mind with the delirious afterglow of her climax. The throbbing is inside her now, just as it is without. It is everywhere. It is everything. It moves her and shapes her, gives her direction and purpose. She knows this now. And she knows that there is one more thing she must do.
With quivering hands, she takes up the collar. Its steel frame hangs open from the hinge in the front, as if waiting for her. She brings it to her throat, feeling the cool metal against her skin, and for a moment, hesitates. She knows instinctively that if she puts it on, it will all be over. Her fate will be sealed. She will become a toy, a plaything, a hollowed shell of a person. All of her memories, her dreams, her flaws, her quirks will be gutted out and her personality stripped down to a single-minded core of obedience and raw naked lust.
She can hear the pulsing loud and clear now, never in her ears, but embedded in her mind, pervading her thoughts and molding them with each throb. For a moment, she just listens. Allows herself to be consumed by it. The metal against her throat no longer feels cold. It has warmed to the temperature of her skin. Her hands no longer shake. With a smile, she firmly grasps the collar and slides it closed around her neck. As she brings the back ends together, she hears a loud click. In the otherwise silent room, it is the sound of the universe being born. The throbbing in her head roars loud, and suddenly it is all. Silent, yet drowning out everything. Imprinting itself on every thought. She willingly gives herself to it, casting herself upon its waves.
Suddenly there is a soothing electronic tone, and with a hydraulic whoosh, the far wall from her slides back about an inch, then all the way to right, revealing a metallic gray corridor beyond. She smiles once again, stands, and exits the red room, her six inch heels click-clacking along the steel floor. Behind her, the wall slides back into place.