The Box

The club only opened last month, yet already it’s become something of a station-wide obsession, despite the fact that anyone who seriously decides to call their place of business Club Climax deserves to fall immediately and unceremoniously into bankruptcy.

Several of your friends attended the grand opening, and have been badgering you to come with them every weekend since. Specifically, they’ve been insisting that you need to take a turn in The Box.

“Seriously, it’s amazing,” your best friend tells you. “You especially will absolutely love it.”

But when you press for details—from her, from any of them—they just blush and laugh and say they’re not going to spoil the experience. Your increasingly frustrated net-searches don’t tell you anything either—even in the grand tell-all of the web, everyone seems committed to keeping the contents of The Box a secret.

You don’t like caving to peer pressure, but you like being out of the loop even less, especially when the people in the loop are dropping five-star ratings on whatever’s inside it. So eventually—inevitably—you find yourself in line for Club Climax, alongside three of your very excited, very pre-drunk friends.

Inside, a bassline takes the place of your pulse. It’s deep and nasty, grinding up against your skin like it’s trying to grope you. Colour-shifting spotlights sweep across multiple dancefloors; the place has at least four levels, metal and glass and mirrors rising around you in a dizzying spiral. Cages hang at varying heights, the dancers within their hardlight bars a mix of human and xeno, a writhing array of skin and fur and scales and chitin. You’re used to the infinite strangeness of the intergalactic community—you can’t not be, living on what’s basically a glorified trading outpost—but this is on another level.

A human woman with holo-wings like a monarch butterfly drops and spins on aerial silks. A spiderlike Arthisk has three naked men in their webs, pinned to a wall of hexagonal light panels that turn them to dark, sprawled silhouettes. One of the many poles spearing up at intervals on the nearest dancefloor has an augmented Oesti literally embedded on it, rolling his chrome-plated, catlike body up and down and around in a sequence of impossible twists and bends.

“Woah,” you say, inadequately. One of your friends grabs your hand.

“Come on, you can gawk later,” he says. “We pre-booked you a slot. If you miss it, you’ll have to wait in line and it’ll take forever.”

Before you can protest that you at least want a drink first, he’s dragging you forwards, deeper into the hedonism. The lights paint you red, cyan, neon green, lethal pink. Bodies sway in the pulsating dark, tangled together in mostly dance, partially sex—you catch a brief glimpse of two girls straight-up fingerfucking each other before the crowd shifts to cover them.

And then there it is. You stumble to a halt beside your friend, staring at the thing you came all this way to see.

“It’s just a box,” you say, disappointed. A big box, certainly: roughly ten square feet of tinted glass and dark metal, the only feature a small square of flashing blue neon indicating where to insert your cred-chip.

“Sure it is,” your friend says, smirking. The others have caught up by now, and between them they hustle you towards The Box. You realise then that there’s a line on the other side of it, roped off with a hardlight barrier. A half-dozen people are waiting, some glaring with open annoyance at you for going ahead of them. After a brief discussion with the security android at the head of the queue, you’re permitted to pass the barrier and approach The Box. A sudden bout of nerves swoops in your stomach. You glance back at your friends, who grin and motion for you to go, go, go!

You go. Your cred-chip clicks into the slot, and a moment later there’s a soft beep, and a narrow door slides open in front of you. Taking a deep breath, you step into The Box.

The door hisses shut as soon as you’re inside, the noise of the club reduced to a distant thump, more felt than heard. It’s pitch black in here, you can’t see a damn thing. Hands out, you shuffle forwards a few steps, wondering if the whole Box hype is just a collective joke; a pyramid-scheme prank to make Club Climax a few extra creds. Then a holo flares up in front of you, letters sudden and bright and white.

Remove all clothing and place in provided receptacle.

“What?”

The holo remains, insistent. Even knowing the glass is impenetrable from the outside, stripping down still makes you feel exposed. Once you’ve tossed your clothes into the metal bucket by the door, the holo scrambles and rewrites itself.

Stand in centre of Sensation Chamber with feet apart. Your Experience will begin shortly.

Experience. Well that’s as vague as the descriptions your friends gave. You shiver as you step into place; the club itself was stifling, but in here it’s cold enough to prickle your skin, your nipples budding tight. The holo changes to a countdown from ten, and with each pixel-flicker of number change, your heart-rate spikes. When it hits zero, you find yourself holding your breath—but nothing happens. All the tension falls out of you.

“Seriously? That’s it?”

The holo vanishes, leaving you in darkness again. There’s a quiet clunk between your feet, and you start as something brushes your ankle. Something soft and warm and…wet.

“What the fuck?”

Another warm, wet thing brushes your other ankle, and that’s it, you’re not standing here in the dark being licked by whatever the fuck—but the second you start to step away, both warm, wet things wrap tight around your ankles, anchoring you in place. A spike of panic shoots through you as they slither up your legs, never loosening their grip. Outside The Box, the club thumps away, as if you’re not in here being molested by some unseen wet things that feel, now that you think about it, like some kind of tentacles.

You reach down, intending to rip them off, but before you get close, more tentacles snatch your wrists, hauling your arms above your head in the time it takes to blink. You cry out in alarm, and as the sound leaves your lips, the lights come on inside The Box.

No, you realise, squinting in the sudden brightness. The lights haven’t come on—they’ve come in. The glass has gone transparent, the shifting spotlights of the club pouring through it, and everyone—everyone in line, everyone on the dancefloor nearby and on the upper levels, your fuck-ass friends—can see inside. Can see you.

Instinctively, you try to cover yourself, but the tentacles, as neon as the lights, pink and cyan and glistening green, tighten their grip, keeping you exposed. They’re all over the floor of the box, an undulating mass of bright colour, slick with slime or goo or…you swallow thickly.

Or arousal.

The tentacles wrapped around your legs tug them wide, your feet skidding on the metal floor as you try and fail to fight their pull. Tentacles rise from the pile filling The Box and you’ve spent enough time on the net to know exactly where this is going. You thrash against your living restraints, accomplishing absolutely nothing, and then you can’t help but gasp as a bright pink tentacle slides through the folds of your cunt, which, much to your embarrassment, is already wet.

(And look, it’s not like you haven’t thought about this sort of thing, it’s just that jerking t-dick to internet holos is very different to actual live tentacles getting up close and personal with you in front of a club full of strangers. And your three best friends, who, apparently, know exactly what you’ve been jerking t-dick to in your spare time. Assholes.)

You squirm as the pink tentacle continues its explorations, massaging its strange slick into you, making your skin tingle. Arousal uncurls within you, and you suspect that whatever that stuff is, it’s designed to help you enjoy your Experience. Breath is harder and harder to come by, and as you pant against the desire spreading through you, a neon-green tentacle curls over your shoulder, around your neck, and into your mouth.

You cry out, which is a mistake, because the tentacle takes the opportunity to push deeper, making you gag. The one between your legs, apparently done slathering you in aphrodisiac, re-orients itself to push into you—when you feel it pressing at your entrance you expect speed, but it goes slow, giving the crowd of club-goers surrounding The Box plenty of time to watch it stretching your cunt. Your dick throbs, swollen and hard, and your cheeks heat knowing how many people can see it.

Only when the tentacle is as deep as you can take it does it begin to thrust. Not like the cocks and cock-adjacent members you’ve taken, but a squirming, pulsating motion, one matched by its twin in your mouth. The way they alternate, it feels like they’re one entity, fucking straight through you, and all you can do is whimper and moan and stand there and take it.

A tentacle flicks over your dick, and your eyes flare. Fuck, that was good. It flicks again, side to side, back and forth—experimental, it feels like. Testing the reactions each movement gets. All the chill of The Box has gone; you’re on fire, all over, and the next flicker of tentacle ignites a supernova. You squeeze your eyes shut as orgasm rocks through you—all those people just watched you come.

While you’re still twitching, the experimental tentacle wraps itself around your t-dick. You’re too sensitive for even such a delicate touch, but your hiss of pleasure-pain, your head-shake, your struggle; it’s all meaningless. The tentacle doesn’t care. None of them do. In fact, now that you’ve come, they seem more enthusiastic than ever, pistoning into you with abandon, the one on your dick stroking with as much skill as your own fingers.

Dimly, you note that several people in the crowd beyond the glass are jerking off. Cocks and cunts and alien configurations; hands and tendrils and a menagerie of appendages moving in familiar rhythmic motions. A tight ball of something like awe, something like pride, grows hot in your core.

You. They’re jerking off to you.

Cum splatters on the glass as someone finishes, and for some reason that sets you off. You groan deeply around the tentacle in your mouth, orgasm clenching and sparking up from your core. Tentacles tug and tease at your dick and your cunt, spreading you open for all to see, and it’s not so embarrassing now. If anything, all those eyes are making you wetter.

Another tentacle twines up the one pounding your cunt, and there’s no way, there’s no way—but there is, and it’s in you, both of them so deep it almost hurts. The slick slap of their movements is the most debauched thing you’ve ever heard, so much hotter than any invented sound on a holo. You feel so full, so fucking full, and the thrashing you’re doing now has nothing to do with escape and everything to do with the fact that it’s too overwhelming to stay still.

Suddenly, the tentacle in your mouth withdraws. You stare at it, your gasps more like sobs. Glowing rings of bright colour run up its length, pulsing like docking bay marker lights, and before you can wonder what they mean, it shudders and spurts hot cum all over your face.

You can’t help it. You lick your lips.

It tastes like candy.

With that, it’s like a seal is broken. The sea of tentacles surges up, all of them glowing. The ones holding your arms yank you off your feet and you yelp, kicking in alarm—or trying to, since the ones on your legs show no sign of letting go. Your dick aches from overstimulation as the tentacle around it continues to milk you for everything you’ve got, whilst the others spill their loads all over you, one after another after another, until you’re hanging there, drenched in cum from head to toe with the whole club watching on.

The Box is also covered in cum, or at least all the glass you can see is. How many people finished whilst you were inside? How many of them were wishing they were you?

Without meaning to, you make eye-contact with one of the spectators—your friend, the guy who dragged you over here. He’s got his cock in his hand, his motions frantic, and as you lock eyes with him it takes him over the edge. His cum joins the other splatters on the glass and fuck, that’s so hot. Your eyes roll back as you come for a third time, your cunt bearing down on the tentacles still fucking into you. You can’t see them glow, but you can feel them tensing.

“Fuck, no, wait, not inside me—!” you protest, but they’re tentacles. They can’t hear you. You moan loudly, more arousal than complaint, as both of them reach their climax, pumping and pumping into you—with the candy-sweet taste on your tongue, it’s like they came right through you, like you’re coated with their release inside as well as out. When they finally pull free, it all spills out of you, splattering the floor. You whimper. You’re horribly empty without them inside you, cunt desperately twitching over nothing.

For a minute or so you hang there, an exhausted, cum-coated work of art. Then the glass goes dark, and you’re alone again inside The Box.

The remaining tentacles slowly lower you down and unravel themselves before retreating to their holding place beneath the floor. You manage to stay upright for a few seconds, then your legs give out and you crumple to your knees, head swimming. Hidden jets start up, and you kneel there, trying to process what the fuck just happened whilst The Box blasts you with a warm spray of water, then with slightly too aggressive air jets, cleaning the sweat and the cum—so much fucking cum—from your trembling body.

But, as you finally manage to dress and stumble, cunt still soaked, from The Box back into the club and your friend’s excited arms, you find yourself thinking just one thing.

I have got to come back next week.