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The Fifth Floor
`Twenty-five whores in the room next door Twenty-five floors and I need more...' She glanced up at the facade of the building; it was fairly nondescript for something which had sprung up in the middle of the old Daimaru area. When that particular enterprise had collapsed, dozens of smaller businesses had moved in, like jackals to the body of a lion, claiming positions in the center of the city that they wouldn't have ordinarily been able to afford; this enterprise, apparently, was one of them. It was unnamed and unmarked apart from a curious symbol over the door; two circles, the innermost with a thin vertical oval at its center; the outer circle was broken by curved lines at one point, making it look like a tube wrapped around the inner circle. A white droplet hung from the edge of the oval. She looked about somewhat self-consciously, steeled her nerves and then pushed through the pair of swinging doors. It was, as Peter had said, an R-rated magazine store, at least on the ground floor. Looking past the racks of plastic-sealed magazines, she saw a set of steps at the back of the shop, leading upwards. She didn't feel confident enough to explore the second floor just yet, so she waited, browsing through the displays, checking the videos to see if they had a copy of House of Dreams (one of her favourites) until Peter showed up. Two people descended the steps from the second floor. She, dressed in faded denims and a plain T-shirt, he dressed similarly (with a slogan on his T-shirt: `I Belong To Her', and an arrow pointing to his left). He was carrying a brown-paper-wrapped, pillow-sized bundle in one arm, and supporting his companion with the other. She had a glassy expression on her face, and as they passed by, she heard him mutter: "I told you to wait, I don't know anyone who's ever been above the third floor...' She raised an eyebrow at this. She was examining a back-issue of `Penthouse' that had Pia Zadora on the cover (draped in an American flag) when she saw Peter out of the corner of her peripheral vision. A young man in his late twenties, dressed in what he considered to be the height of Gothic style (i.e., faded black `Country Road' wear, motorcycle boots and a rocket- studded collar), he wove his way through the magazine racks and embraced her. "I'm glad you found it," he whispered, "it isn't advertised anywhere, and there's no name out front." He took her hand and led her towards the steps. "I heard about this place from Josephine just before she took her entourage to Vienna; they've got some seriously strange stuff upstairs." "Why are we whispering?" she asked. He smiled. "Because this is a temple. A holy place." She smiled back patronisingly. He led her up to the first floor.
Examining the contents of the glass-fronted display cabinets, she wasn't entirely convinced of the accuracy of Peter's appraisal. "This looks fairly vanilla to me... you can see more extreme stuff in the back room at Club X. Remember that set of stocks you were going to buy me for my birthday -" Peter pointed to another set of steps, leading up to the third floor. She smiled, gave a final, longing look at the sets of manacles, weighted nipple-clamps, cattle-prods and leather undergarments, and followed him upstairs. The third floor resembled the second, racks of magazines and videos interspersed with display cabinets. It was only until she took a closer look at the items on display that she understood what Peter had meant. She found a well-worn, black-leather-bound catalogue with the word `Boundaries' embossed in gold on the cover. She idly leafed through it... inside were advertisements for elaborate torture racks crafted from heavy slabs of dark wood, edged and finished in bright chromed metal; on one page was a photograph of a set of unusual objects which she recognised as the gynecological-surgical implements from the Cronenberg film, Dead Ringers. She felt a chill course down her spine as she viewed the cruel, clawed metal digits. She flicked past the rest of the items, most of which seemed to be full-head latex hoods (which had always reminded her of ski masks, bank robbers and Ron Hitler-Barassi of This Is Serious Mum...); on the last page was a striking photograph of a hairless gentleman dressed in a full-length leather gown. He had a deathly blue-white pallor and an array of nails embedded in his skull. He was holding a small box, made of dark red wood with elaborate copper inlays. She recognised it, and smiled. There was a television screen set into the wall, showing excerpts from a video. It looked like some sort of chat-show, until the guest stood and took her clothes off to reveal an astounding array of piercings and tattoo work. The woman slowly turned to show off the more impressive artwork on her back while she watched, absorbed. Peter was toying with something that looked like a Nintendo Gameboy console with a cable protruding from the back that splayed into a dozen copper-button-tipped contacts; Peter held one in his left hand, and handed another to her. She held it and looked expectantly at Peter. He leaned over, brushed his lips against hers; she felt a tingle as a tiny electric shock passed between them. She giggled, until Peter pointed to the console; the `intensity' dial was set at 2, and went all the way up to 100. With a dramatic gesture, he led her over to the stairs that led upward.
The fourth floor was much more solemn; subdued, even somewhat spooky. The piped Muzak that was playing on the first two floors had been replaced by one of Brian Eno's ambient pieces. The whole scene vaguely reminded her of a crypt; the dim lighting was set at ankle level, diffusing upward. The display cabinets were arranged in a grid, spaced about three metres apart, each containing a single object. The cabinets towards the rear of the room were taller, to accommodate full-size costumes. She approached the nearest of the smaller displays. It contained an egg, smooth reflective chrome finish, about twelve centimetres along its longest diameter, sitting on a bed of crushed red velvet. She leaned closer to examine her distorted reflection in its surface; when she was about two feet away, the device shifted about, orienting itself towards her. She froze; the pointed end bulged out and a ridge swept back along its length, like a ripple in liquid mercury. This was followed by a second ripple, and a third; more ripples followed until she backed away, whereupon the egg resumed its original shape. She turned to look at another cabinet, and didn't see the dozen-or-so needle-sharp spikes - each about five centimetres long - thrust out from the body of the egg, some of them slashing holes in the red velvet. They quivered, and then retracted into the egg. While Peter was using a computer to examine a catalogue of erotica she browsed, wondering at the possible uses of some of the more abstruse items. Many of them, such as the egg, seemed designed to stimulate areas of the female anatomy; others had more obscure functions. One device completely baffled her; it consisted of a series of nine metal rings, mounted on the back of something like a telephone handset, the rings set about a centimetre apart. They varied in diameter from six centimetres at one end, down to about four at the other; the mounting seemed designed to permit the rings to move from side to side. It looks, she thought, like an exercise bike for a python. Thinking this, she suddenly understood its use; the thought bringing a wry smile to her lips. Her attention was drawn to the taller cabinets at the back of the room. The first one that she came to featured a spare wire frame supporting a full-body suit made of gleaming black latex; tight around the waist, padded behind, corduroy-ridged bands bringing musculature into sharp definition, emphasising the thighs and pushing the breasts up and apart. It looked, if anything, just smaller than would comfortably fit her; she stood there admiring the form, the lines which looked as if the suit were designed to concentrate pressure on the perineum. As she gazed in rapture, a click sounded from near the floor, and the glass front of the cabinet slid down smoothly. Startled, she took a step back. The wire frame moved forward, as if it was presenting the suit to her for approval. She noted that the insides had been liberally dusted with talcum powder. She looked around... Peter was still chuckling over the electronic catalogue, and no-one else was in the room... she reached out and took the suit, lifting it from the frame by the inflated, lip-shaped collar. Her hand almost recoiled from it; the slick black surface was as warm and as resilient as flesh. Taking the collar in both hands, she tugged, and was surprised at how easily and how far it stretched. She unlatched the matte-black plastic catch at the front of the collar and slowly drew the zip down to where it ended just above the waist. She stepped out of her sneakers, removed her socks; quickly unbuckled her jeans, undid the fly, kicked them off; slipped her T-shirt over her head, transferring the suit to the other hand as she did so. After a moment's hesitation, she slid her underpants down to her ankles and stepped out of them. Trying to make as little sound as possible, she shook the suit out, turned it around and placed one foot inside. It slid down the leg-hole easily, the black material comfortably stretching to allow passage of her foot. The leg terminated in a sort of soft rubber shoe which fit her perfectly. She drew the rest of the suit up her leg, running her hand over the smooth black surface with her hand, and then put her other foot in. She drew the rest of the suit up her thighs and pulled it up around her waist, tugging from side to side and wiggling her hips in order to seat it on her crotch snugly. She stood there for a moment, reveling in the sensation of rubber closed around over her; after the initial stretching to accommodate her form, it seemed to be contracting with more resistance than she had felt before. Grasping the suit by both sides of the collar, she tugged it up and over her shoulders, but the suit now seemed about two sizes too small. She tugged again, more firmly, and reluctantly, the suit stretched to the point where she could slip the collar up over her shoulders and around her neck. She zipped the suit up at the front and re-latched the collar, running her hands down the front, over her breasts, smoothing the suit to her warm body. The costume still seemed to be awkwardly placed; she wriggled around, trying to peer down her back to see if she could spot what was amiss. She bent over forwards, straightened the material around her calves, and in moving her right leg to get at the suit, she suddenly felt the band that ran from each shoulder to her crotch tighten; concealed folds within the costume slid along the divide of her buttocks, under the perineum and into her at the front. She gasped and straightened; this action caused the folds to flutter against her with an unusually stimulating sensation. She merely stood there for a few moments, enjoying the feeling; then, with a small smile, she slowly walked over to the computer where Peter was trying to do a global search on the word `velcro' (and finding far too many references). With each step, the suit pressed against her and relaxed, almost like a lover's tongue. It was becoming quite warm, and in places, she could feel the slick sweat inside lubricating the contact between her and the latex. I'll have to take it off soon, she thought, otherwise I'll have a terrible sweat-rash tomorrow... She approached the computer, put a hand on Peter's shoulder and whispered, "How does this look?" Peter turned; his eyes grew wide. "I'm impressed," he said, "very impressed. Hey, what does this button do?", reaching out to press a nipple-sized contact mounted on the waistband. "Hey -" she exclaimed as the suit twitched. "ohmighod, I think it's alive!" She stood there apprehensively while tiny tremors and contractions ran up and down the back of the suit, squeezing her waist and behind. The sensation was so unexpected that she turned to see if someone was standing behind and had just decided to goose her. The twitchings ceased; her apprehension grew... "Um. Maybe I should take it off..." The material behind her knees contracted slightly and the bands just above her waist did the same, forcing her into a semi-crouch. In panic, her hand scrabbled at the zipper-catch, but it had retreated behind a fold of rubber which had melded into the body of the suit. The material contracted again, more insistently; this time, she was forced to her knees. "Peter. I think I should get this suit off. NOW." He kneeled next to her and felt along the line where the zipper had been; there was nothing but a faint seam to mark its location. The suit contracted again, around her hips, hugging her sensually; her eyes widened and her hands drifted, involuntarily, to her crotch. Peter tugged at the collar; it stretched easily, until he had pulled the edge almost twenty centimetres away from her; but as soon as he let go, it smoothly contracted until it had resumed its original shape, fitting snugly around her throat. It wasn't tight enough to obstruct her breathing, but she looked uneasy. Peter took the collar in both hands, tugged outward and downward, dragging it over her shoulders. The upper section of the suit peeled away and snapped tight around her midriff, trapping her arms at her sides. She struggled in a sudden panic, but Peter kept tugging until he had managed to get it down past her hips. The suit writhed and almost crawled down her legs, to lie in a rumpled heap around her ankles. With a tiny grimace of distaste, she kicked it off and scurried back to the cabinet to fetch her clothing. "Are you all right?" Peter asked, the now-limp suit in one hand, held away from his body like a possibly dangerous snake. She finished doing up the fly-buttons on her jeans and sank gratefully into his arms. "I'm okay... is that thing dead?" He held it up, poked at it with his free hand. "I'm not sure it was alive in the first place." She shuddered. "I am. Come on, let's dump it and go." Peter frowned. "Can you wait a few minutes? I'm doing an involved search… it should be finished in a few minutes..." She scowled, but nodded. He smiled and kissed her forehead, rather patronisingly, she thought. She strolled off to look at some of the other cabinets at the front of the room, pausing briefly by a chair made entirely of fist-sized chain links; she noticed another set of stairs leading up to a fifth floor, in the shadows behind the stairwell. Her eyes widened; she turned and glanced back at Peter, who was still absorbed in his search. She peeked up the stairs, but could see nothing except a faint blue-green glow from above. She glanced back at Peter again; he looked up briefly as her foot touched the first step leading up. He waved and, reassured, she continued.
The fifth floor was somehow much larger than the others; it seemed to extend for at least three blocks in all directions. It was probably some subtle effect of the lighting, which was all blue-green ripples, as if the slippery, waxed floor was actually a subterranean lake. The roof was supported by bare white columns which were spaced about ten metres apart. In the middle of the room stood an elaborate Egyptian sarcophagus, two metres tall, detailed in gold and ebony. The door-shells lay open along two hinges that ran up the back, like a book. She got closer and saw that the inside was lined with lush, thick black velvet. She ran her hand down the inside of the case. It felt wonderful... She looked about again; she was alone. Smiling, she stepped into the case, and stood with her back to the hinges, feeling the inverted shells lined with velvet on both sides. She closed her eyes and threw her head back; there seemed to be an indentation placed to comfortably seat the back of her head, and another, placed lower, that she could almost sit into. She lay back in the soft, dark embrace of the sarcophagus and imagined that she'd been buried inside this elaborate coffin, under a mountain of dry stone blocks and golden sand. She played at being dead; eyes closed, she breathed out, hands crossed over her breasts. After about twenty seconds of this, she giggled and resumed breathing. She sat inside the shell, running her hands along the insides for almost five minutes, admiring the sensual feel of the velvet, which seemed faintly warm to her touch. The more contact she had with it, the more she wanted to feel it against her skin, and despite her encounter with the rubber suit it was only a matter of moments before the decision was made to strip naked. She did so, tossing her clothes across the floor, and was soon leaning back into the welcoming halves of the coffin. She pushed her head back and spread her arms; her legs, behind and lower back seemed to find their places in the warm, dark recesses; her body sank back of its own accord. She sighed and closed her eyes. The faint feeling of a breeze against her naked breasts caused her to open her eyes, only to see the twin sides of the sarcophagus closing over her. She shouted in panic; too late, as the doors shut and her protest was muffled in folds of thick black material. She desperately pushed her hands out to try and stop the two halves coming together completely; to no avail... the shells closed slowly but insistently. Just as the vertical gap of blue-green light narrowed to a strip, then to a crack, she cried out in terror; then she was enclosed in soft darkness.
The search completed, Peter looked up from the computer screen. She wasn't in the room, so she must have decided to explore the fifth floor. He shrugged, closed the search window and climbed the steps. He found the sarcophagus in the middle of the room, shimmering light reflecting from the ebony panels; he found her clothes in a heap to one side, still warm, and as he straightened, he heard a muffled sound coming from the sarcophagus. He ran over to it, slapped the sides trying to open it, heard her muffled voice coming from within. Frantically, he searched the outside for a latch, or a button, or a switch, anything that would open it; nothing immediately obvious. He stood before it, hands on hips, trying to calm his mind; presently, he noticed that while the front of the sarcophagus was molded to resemble a minimalist female form - blunt nose, no eyes, flat pads for hands - it had perfectly detailed nipples. Grinning to himself, he stepped forward and pressed them simultaneously. The two sides of the sarcophagus opened outward and folded back, exposing a couch-recess tilted at about sixty degrees from the floor. She was nestled amidst the couch's black-velvet-padded arms, held down by a series of thick black padded rubber straps around her neck, waist, upper arms, wrists, upper thighs and ankles. Two finger-thick chrome rods had forced a bright purple rubber ball gag into her mouth, but her expression was anything but distressed - in fact, from what Peter could see of her expression, she was enjoying her captivity. She made an urgent mmm! sound, trying to gesture with her hands; the wrist restraints which reached from her wrists to her elbows effectively preventing this. He leaned closer, tugging ineffectually at the straps (how had she gotten into them? Or had they trapped her when she'd climbed in?). "Maybe I can find something to cut through the straps with," he muttered while trying to see where the straps attached to the couch. "MM-mmh!" she said, managing to shake her head, the movements restricted to about a centimetre in either direction. "Okay. Is there something I can do to make it let you go?" She half-closed her eyes and tried to push her pelvis up at him. "You're kidding." "Mm-mmh." "You don't find this intimidating? Or just a little bit scary?" "Mm-mmmmh." He hesitated, leaning over her with a look of concern in his eyes; she writhed within her bonds, pleading. He gave in and bent to kiss her nipples; she arched her back and with a ratcheting sound reminiscent of a fax machine, the couch bent in the middle, pushing her belly upwards. It continued to change shape, the shell-doors folding back even further to allow the lower half of the couch to divide at a point just below where it supported her behind, tugging her legs apart. "Thank you," he said to the sarcophagus whimsically, trailing kisses down her belly and then kneeling between her legs. |
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All work on this site is © Nikolai Kingsley unless otherwise stated. |