Pandora's Pleasure

The watch flared, unnoticed by me, his voice a dark whisper: “Show me, Pandora—face her, let her see the need in your eyes.” My hands trembled as I clutched the basket, my eyes darting to the lens on the washer, then back to Selena—her gaze a mirror to my ruin, her scent a taunt that sparked a fevered longing—is she his too, another like me? Or... something more?

The laundry room hummed on, machines oblivious, but between us, secrets whispered—her glance too knowing, her touch too charged, a silent dance I couldn’t decipher. Suspicion crept, a slow dawn—her scent, yes, I'd smelled it at the bookstore, his voice in her cadence—or was this just my feverish hope, a perverse, orgasm-denied fantasy twisting my mind?

My tormented, denied cunt throbbed, the vibe edging me as my pleas turned inward, thoughts unbidden, the desire for this to be true. Please let it be so. Then a flash of jealousy that burned my face crimson. Her and he together, enjoying orgasms together while I'm wrought and brought to ruin. The two of them laughing at her, humiliating and undoing her... The concept was both intense and unworthy for her, a mere toy, and yet... incredibly arousing.

Back in my apartment, the watch flared again, his text a dark purr as always: “Well met, pet. Eight points—closer than you think.” My stomach twisted—that turn of phrase, well met. Very British. And the, closer?—a knot of dread and dawning unease as the vibe held me, hours bleeding into madness, my eyes locked on the lens, my voice a broken hymn—“Please, Sir, I’m yours, I need it.”

But these loose threads gnawed at me—closer than you think, Selena's voice a shadow of his, that mysterious box too perfect, too staged, meant for anyone to find, or just her? Had Selena somehow subliminally guiding me to it, ensuring I'd search that mythology section?

Then the shopkeeper—tall, distinguished, commanding, bearded, piercing—his gaze a memory that pricked now, a man not distant but near, a figure she'd glanced at perhaps once too often while frequenting his shop? Suspicion—or longing?—simmered slow: Was he there, watching her all along? Is Selena his tool, his friend, his submissive, a fellow Dominant and... his hand in all of this?

My mind spun—coffee shop, bus stop, work, bookstore—a pattern, a tangled intricate entrapping web, or my fevered fantasy, a hope he’d woven into my ruin? The vibe pulsed, a cruel tease, and I begged louder—“Please, Sir, I’m yours, I need it”—but my thoughts whispered: Him, here? Her, his? A game from day one? To what ultimate end? Destruction or possession? A plaything to be tossed aside after use or something greater?
 
The watch flared, his voice demanding yet alluring: “Come, come, pet. Beg more. You must earn every orgasm I grant you.” I collapsed, my bed a damp sanctuary, the vibe a low thrum, my body spent—needles burning, my cunt a quivering ruin, no release granted without summoning energy I didn't have to beg.

I was distracted still. Selena’s scent lingered—her touch a phantom spark, her glance a riddle I couldn’t solve, hints piling like gathering shadows: her presence too frequent, his words too knowing, the box a lure too neat. Suspicion dawned, a slow mist—he’s not so far, she’s not so chance, this all a plot—or was it hope, a perverse longing in denial’s grip, a fantasy of her dominance, his nearness, a conspiracy I ached to prove?

No. I was his—Pandora, teased to madness, threads of my will tugged by unseen hands, perhaps hers too, my submission a tapestry of their design. What did it matter if this was the reality or my own fevered dream? The vibe pulsed, a constant tether, and I knew—next time, Selena would be nearer still, her role sharper, his dominance deeper, and I’d yield, my surrender their song, my ruin their art, lost in the shadowed rapture of a plot I’d only begun to suspect, yearning for its truth.
 
Day 16: The Mirror’s Edge
The morning light was a pale intruder, seeping through cracked blinds as the vibe surged—a slow, insidious tease that jolted me from a fractured doze, sixty-six hours of edging now a branding iron searing my flesh. My scent was so primal now that everywhere I sat and lay smelled of my cunt. Sleep had been a cruel phantom, chased by the vibe’s unknowable schedule, it's persistent hum and the raw ache of my piercings. I was reduced to a trembling husk of the independent, strong willed professional woman I once was. More than a week had passed since I first called out sick, using up my reserve of PTO as I was unable to function at any acceptable level at my job and too raw-in scent and in need-to dare present myself there.

My mind was a haze of sexual need and now undeniable suspicion—Selena’s scent from the laundry room yesterday, her voice too like my Master's (as I'd unknowingly accepted him to be), the box too perfectly placed to be mere chance for my discovery.

As always, the smartwatch flared on my wrist (how did it always manage to stay charged anyway?), its glow a cold, commanding ember piercing the dimness, my Master's commanding voice rasping through like a shadow over silk: “Be a good girl and stand before the mirror, Pandora. You've more training ahead. I'm turning off the vibe today. Your fingers are all you are permitted. Edge yourself from one ruined orgasm to the next with one hand, film with the other—this will be your day today. And of course, no release. You need to build endurance. Now, be a good pet and start the show. We're watching.”

My breath caught, a jagged gasp swallowed by the stillness. Who was "we" in that command? Master and others tuned into a live stream, as he'd done previously, or... He and Selena alone? The question burned in my mind but of course I obeyed. My shaking legs trembled as I dragged myself to the full-length mirror, its unyielding gaze reflecting a wild-eyed wretch: hair tangled, eyes glassy, piercings glinting through fabric, skin flushed with a fever I couldn’t quench.

I propped the high definition watch camera against the frame, its lens an unblinking eye, and parted my moist, sticky thighs—fingers trembling as I slipped them beneath my leggings, stroking my swollen, pierced clit, the vibe glued into me but not active for once I ached for it's pulsing cruel harmony but true to his word, it remained still and silent, though I knew instinctively that the camera and sensors inside of me remained active.

I teased and toyed with my pussy lips, my clit, my slick hole, bringing myself ever closer to the edge but obeying his order to ruin every orgasm I felt building. He'd told me this was called "gooning" and I became lost in another place he'd called "subspace" as I tortured myself for his pleasure and amusement. The stench of my overripe pussy was truly breathtaking.

Hours bled by, a slow hemorrhage of torment—my moans a broken litany, “Please, Sir, I’m yours,” spilling into the lens as my reflection shuddered, sweat beading, the needles’ agony flaring with every touch. Sixty-six became sixty-eight, then seventy, seventy two tormented and demented hours.

My dripping cunt ached and throbbed, denied, a quivering beggar before the glass—his toy, his canvas, my pleas a currency he hoarded. And still I carried on, occasionally being ordered to clean my fingers of my gooey, thick, white ovulating cunt cream. I had learned to crave my own taste, which only added to my humiliation and need.
 
Suspicion gnawed, a slow mist curling at my mind’s edges—Selena’s touch in the laundry room, electric, her scent a taunt from the bookstore where I’d found that box, “To Pandora—if you dare to peek.” Her voice yesterday—“Careful”—too like his, too knowing, and that bearded man, Elias McDougal, the bookstore owner—tall, piercing eyes, a memory from months ago at the coffee shop, his gaze too sharp. Was he there, watching? Her with him?

The silent vibe suddenly surged, a cruel tease, then stopped and I moaned louder—“Please, Sir”—my reflection a mirror to my ruin, suspicion blending with a perverse, orgasm-denied longing: Is she his? Is he near? The watch flared mid-afternoon, his text a dark purr: “Good pet—film her reflected obedience and submission. Twelve points. But you must take a break as there's someone at your door. Go in your nightgown and answer. Invite them in.”

My knees buckled—at my door? Who? How?—a shiver of dread and fevered questioning: He knows where I live, of course he does—he knows everything. The vibe’s hum stilled, a mocking presence that might return at any intensity without warning. I stumbled from the mirror, my reflection a ghost of suspicion—Selena? Him?—as I tore off the leggings, my juices dripping down my thighs, eye-wateringly sharp, a sodden reek of need I couldn’t mask. I grabbed my negligee—thin, sheer, a wisp of pink silk that clung to my pierced flesh—and threw it on, the fabric sticking to my sweat-drenched skin, barely veiling the needles’ glint or the raw flush of my torment. Each step to the door jolted the piercings, my clit a throbbing wound, my breath a ragged hymn—“Please, Sir”—as suspicion gnawed: Who waits? His hand, her shadow?
 
I opened the door, the vibe dormant but poised, and there stood a stranger—a delivery boy, no more than twenty, lanky with a pizza box in hand, his eyes widening at my disheveled state, the reek of my dripping cunt hitting him like a wave.

“Uh, pizza for… Evelyn?” he stammered, and I froze—not Selena, not him—but the watch flared, an earbud I’d slipped in crackling to life, his voice a gravelly purr in my ear: “Invite him in, Pandora. He’s yours to use. Seduce him.” My stomach twisted—use? Seduce?—suspicion curling with perverse longing as I rasped, “Come in,” my voice a broken thread, stepping aside as he entered, pizza box trembling in his grip.

The door clicked shut, the vibe pulsing inaudibly low, and his eyes darted—my negligee sheer, my pierced nipples and clit faintly visible, my scent thick in the air. The earbud flared again, his voice a dark command: “Now you are the spider, and this morsel is in your web. Tell him firmly to eat your pussy, pet. But you may not release. Make him work to try, but no orgasm for you. Only a fake one when I say you're done. Film it. Show us.” Again, us??

My breath hitched, a sob choking in my throat—him watching, her near?—but I obeyed, turning to the boy, my voice trembling yet somehow firm and seductive: “I've got your tip. Eat me… please.” His jaw dropped, pizza thudding to the table, and I sank to the couch, legs spreading, negligee hiked, my pierced cunt bared—swollen, dripping, a sodden ruin he stared at, wide-eyed.

I propped the watch beside me, its lens gorging on my flush, my quivering thighs, as he knelt—tentative, then eager—his tongue lapping, hot and clumsy, against my clit, the needles’ agony flaring with every lick. If he's noticed the vibe he didn't let it deter him. His tongue inside her was clumsy, inexperienced yet-fuck! God she needed it! She shuddered at the sight of his pimply face between her legs and nearly lost control, but the real thought of my punishment if I did held me together.
 
He knelt—tentative, then eager—his tongue lapping, hot and clumsy, against my clit, the needles’ agony flaring with every lick.
The vibe surged, a cruel tease syncing with his tongue, and I moaned, begging Master but the pizza guy didn't know that—“Please, Sir”—edging, my hips bucking, my pleas a hymn to the lens as suspicion simmered—Elias McDougal, his voice in my ear, disguised but not the speech pattern, Selena’s scent in my mind—too close, too planned? Sixty-eight hours of edged denial, my cunt a pulsing wreck, the boy’s tongue a torment I couldn’t escape—“Please, I need to cum”—but the vibe held me, denied, his voice purring: “Good pet—let him taste your ruin. Fifteen points.”

The boy, sensing I was done, mistook the flood of my ovulating cream as my orgasm. His excitement and the tugging on his cock he'd been doing the whole time caused him to suddenly erupt, splashing my legs with his cum. He quickly leapt up, pulling his pants up and wiping me from his face, stammered—“Uh, thanks?”—and fled, pizza forgotten, leaving me trembling, unsated—a toy for Master's game.

Later, as night draped the apartment, the vibe a low thrum, my body a quivering untapped ruin as I edged on—seventy hours, pleas spilling—“Please, Sir, please!" Yet my suspicion continued gnawing at me: Was Elias’s voice that of my Master? And what if Selena? I collapsed onto the couch, eating cold pizza, exhaustion dragging me into a fitful haze. The watch’s glow, a sentinel as dawn crept closer, reminded me I was being monitored for compliance and amusement. My fingers, sore from edging, scooped up the remnants of the delivery guy's jizz and added it to my own sloppy mess, wishing it were Master's instead.
 
Day 17: The Neighbor Game
Daybreak pierced the haze, a soft knock shattering my stupor—Selena stood in my doorway, her laundry basket a flimsy pretense, her eyes dark and sharp as she leaned in: “Hi neighbor. Might I borrow a cup of sugar?” The vibe flared, a cruel spark surging through my core, seventy hours edged, and the watch glowed on my wrist, his voice a velvet lash crackling through the earbud: “Invite her in, Pandora. Make small talk. Sit next to her on your couch. Let your scent do the talking. Or her scent." He chuckled at his knowing joke.
Heidiwil said:
View attachment 446224

Holy Fuck nice writings! ❤️
Click to expand...
Thank you, I'll be writing more of this story this week. I've got several others in the pipeline as well. If there's anything you'd like to see story-wise I'm always open to requests.
 
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