There was no floor, and yet she lay on it.
There were no walls, and yet she felt suffocated.
There was no light, and yet she knew—she was being watched.
Martha awoke with a soft, trembling breath that barely escaped her lips. Cold air grazed her skin like the whisper of a blade. Naked. Exposed. Her entire body pressed against something hard yet impossible to define—like wet stone and breathless shadow fused into one. The air around her didn't move, but she felt it on every inch of her skin, every curve, every secret place. It clung to her like something with fingers and hunger.
She sat up slowly, her bones aching from an eternity of stillness. Her limbs betrayed her, trembling not from fear, but from something deeper. Something ancient. Longing. Confusion.
Her lips parted to speak, to scream maybe—but before sound could form, she heard it.
Laughter.
Low at first. Cold. Distant. Feminine—no, inhuman.
And then it rose. Not in volume, but intensity.
Orgasmic.
Insidious.
Wrong.
It rolled through the endless void like waves over broken glass. A laugh that tickled the base of your spine and dug up every buried memory you tried to forget. It sounded like someone climaxing during a funeral.
Her body stiffened. She looked around, but there was no horizon. Only the black. As if the universe had collapsed into a singularity that mocked her existence.
Then something primal in her snapped.
She ran.
Not forward. Not away. Just ran.
Naked feet slapping on nothing, her breath ragged, sharp, caught between a scream and sob. Every step screamed futility. But she couldn't stop. Not while that laugh still pulsed through the void like blood behind her eyes.
She stumbled. Fell. Got up again.
The laughter began to change.
It was behind her now. Closer. Breathing with her. Moaning with her. Laughing her name.
"Maaaarrrtha..."
She screamed. Her own voice was devoured by the void. It tasted her fear.
Then—impact.
She slammed into something. Wooden. Hard. Unmoving.
It was a figure, carved and twisted like a man in agony. No face. No arms. Just a crooked wooden torso, splintering where her shoulder met it.
She bounced off it—fell again.
Down.
Down.
The floor disappeared and she fell off a sudden cliff. Weightless and helpless. The air grew colder. Louder. Thicker. She screamed as she tumbled. Her back scraped nothing. Her head spun.
Then—crack.
Her skull split open against the ground.
Blood spilled. Numbness followed.
And Martha—died.
She awoke.
Choking. Gasping. Her mouth filled with a scream that didn't escape. She was back. Lying on the same cold, impossible floor. Naked. Alone.
The void hummed.
The laughter had stopped.
Only her breath remained.
But not for long.
The silence that greeted her second awakening was worse than the laughter. Her breath shivered through the dark like a whispered sin.
And then—again. The laughter returned.
No, not returned. It had never left.
She ran.
Again.
No direction, no reason. Her muscles already remembered the motion—her legs moving before her mind could comprehend. Her bare feet slapped against the nothing, knees lifting high like she was trapped in a dream where the ground would fall out any second.
The darkness wrapped around her tighter, more intimate this time, like a lover's hand around the throat. And the laughter—oh, the laughter—warped. It hissed and hissed like hot oil on soft flesh. Closer. Closer.
She turned mid-sprint. A flash of something moved just at the edge of perception. Long. Pale. Grinning. Limbs that didn't belong to any god or beast she knew. She screamed.
She tripped.
Fell.
Impaled.
A field of jagged stakes appeared from nowhere beneath her—a forest of wooden spears, ancient and hungry. Her body pierced in five places. Her mouth opened in a silent howl as blood flooded her chest.
And then—
She awoke.
Same place.
Same cold.
Same nakedness.
Same laughter.
She didn't hesitate this time. She screamed and ran again.
Over and over.
She was—
Devoured.
Her skin peeled from her body as shadow-hands gripped and tore, laughing with every shred.
Drowned.
A black ocean appeared under her feet mid-run, sucking her under with saltless waves, screaming "Martha" in bubbles.
Shattered.
Her body frozen mid-motion, then collapsed into dust as if she were a statue crumbling under judgment.
Burned.
A fire from within her womb crawled up her spine and spilled out of her eyes like molten grief.
And then—
She awoke.
And awoke.
And awoke.
Until she didn't run.
She collapsed.
Naked, knees to her chest, shaking with exhaustion deeper than death.
And she wept.
Her voice cracked open, raw and primal, bleeding out her pain into the dark.
"Who are you?!" she wailed. Her fists slammed into the floor. "What ARE you?! What do you all want from me?!"
Her sobs echoed, spinning through the black like dying stars.
Silence.
Then—
A sound answered.
A harmony of voices. Screeching. Twisted. Dripping with hunger and lust and unnameable delight. Neither male nor female. Neither one nor many.
Like razors dancing on violins.
"We want YOU, Martha..."
Her breath caught.
"Come play with US!"
The laughter returned. Louder. Closer. Inside her ears. Her mouth. Her mind.
They were everywhere. Around her. Beneath her. Inside her.
The air shifted.
And something began to move.
Something that hadn't moved before.
Not her.
Not them.
But the world.
The void groaned.
And for the first time since her arrival, the darkness breathed.
The breath of the void grew heavier. Rhythmic. Like something slumbering beneath her suffering had finally turned its head.
Martha's body twitched with each echoing breath, her skin slick with a sweat that never truly formed. She curled into herself again, arms wrapped around trembling knees. She wanted to vanish, dissolve into this darkness and never come back.
But the voices—those awful, hungry, sweet voices—grew louder.
We want you.
We want your sound.
Your sorrow.
Your scent.
Your skin.
They slipped into her mind—not as words, but flesh. Thoughts smeared across her brain like warm oil. Her muscles went limp. Her resistance... dissolved.
And the hands came.
Not visible. Not material. But felt.
They slithered from the nothing. Soft and slow. Slick and curious. They wrapped around her arms first, then her thighs, her ankles, her neck. Gentle at first, tracing the map of her body with lover's grace. A hundred hands, maybe more, caressing every curve like she was carved from silk and need.
Her lips parted, but no scream came. Only breath.
Her body betrayed her.
Every inch of her ached—not with pain, but desire. A slow, terrible need blooming in her like rot wrapped in velvet. Her nipples hardened as phantom tongues traced circles around them. Fingers—so many fingers—slid across her belly, her hips, her inner thighs.
And then—one dipped inside.
She arched, gasping. The pleasure wasn't hers. Not fully. It came from somewhere far away, like she was watching herself through the eyes of a stranger. A marionette in her own lust.
Another finger joined it. Then another. Her legs spread without her will. Her moans spilled out like blood from a reopened wound. The hands held her open, caressed her deeper, until her whole body trembled at the edge of something dangerous.
Tears leaked from her eyes.
She wanted it.
She hated it.
She needed it to stop.
She needed it to never end.
"Please..." she whispered, unsure who she was begging.
The climax surged through her like a tidal wave on fire—one she couldn't outrun.
But just as it was about to take her—
The hands disappeared.
Gone.
No touch. No warmth. No noise.
Only silence.
And—
Light.
Not dim. Not gentle.
But an explosion of endless white.
Her breath caught.
The void was gone.
In its place—an infinite, sterile white space. No shadows. No corners. No doors.
Just her.
Alone.
On her knees.
Still naked.
Still shaking.
Her skin buzzed with the residue of touch, of pleasure denied. Her thighs glistened. Her mouth trembled. Her eyes couldn't adjust—not to the light, not to the absence.
It was worse than the dark.
Because now—she saw herself.
And she didn't know who that woman was anymore.
Time did not pass in the white.
It collapsed.
There were no shadows to mark it. No sound. No warmth. No end.
Martha sat at the center, legs curled under her, hair falling in dark waves down her bare back, body marked with the faint shimmer of what had just been done to it... and then undone. Her breath was the only thing she could hear now.
And even that felt... fake.
The silence wasn't peace. It was punishment.
She shivered, not from cold, but from exposure. This light didn't just reveal her—it peeled her. She felt more naked now than she had in the dark. The emptiness around her was not kind. It was scrutiny. Judgement.
She tried to speak. But her voice cracked.
She tried to cry. But her tears felt tired.
She tried to scream. But even her rage had been emptied.
Then—
A sound.
Barely a whisper. A breath. A chuckle.
So shallow it might've been imagined, but—
It wasn't.
It echoed. Softly. Sweetly. Wrongly.
Her heart seized.
She spun in place. Nothing. No one.
But the sound remained. Lingering like perfume on silk. Like a smile in a mirror.
Then—
She blinked.
And when her eyes opened—
A mirror floated before her.
Not touching anything. Just... there.
As tall as she was. Wide as a door. Framed in something she couldn't quite name—wood? Bone? Ivory?
And in its reflection... her.
Her body. Her face. Her mess.
Hair tangled, cheeks tear-stained, thighs trembling. Nipples still stiff. Lips parted in confusion. Her collarbones painted with sweat and shame. A woman marked by desire, and stripped of identity.
She stared at herself.
And she hated what she saw.
"Pathetic..." she hissed, venom curling her tongue. "You stupid, weak bitch..."
Her fists clenched.
"You can't even fight. You don't know anything. You don't do anything! What the fuck is wrong with you?!"
She pounded her fists against the floor. Once. Twice. Harder. Harder.
"You're just a fucking mess. A toy. A plaything. Is that what you are? Is that what they made you into?!"
The mirror offered no response.
Only her reflection.
Raw. Raging. Broken.
She sank again. Palms against the blinding floor. Her head low. Her breath sharp.
She wanted answers. Needed them. But no voice replied. No figure emerged.
Only the mirror watching her unravel.
And beneath her breath, through clenched teeth, she whispered:
"Why am I here... why... am I like this?"
Her voice cracked again. No sob followed. Just silence. Her heart had forgotten how to mourn.
And then—
That chuckle again.
Lower. Softer.
Closer.
The mirror didn't blink. It didn't breathe.
But it waited.
Martha lay folded on the floor beneath it—arms wrapped around her body, legs curled inwards, forehead pressed to the cold white. Her breathing slowed, then quickened. Her skin felt too sensitive to wear. The silence hung heavy again, but not empty.
Something had changed.
Unseen—unfelt—from the corners of the mirror's ornate, eerie frame, a pale mist began to pour.
It crept gently, like a whisper sliding down the nape of her neck.
It danced along the floor first, curling and wrapping around her limbs like velvet fingers. The vapor rose, slow and silent, never alerting her. It was warm, with the sweetness of something dangerous. A smell like crushed roses soaked in honey and musk and breathless yearning. It caressed the air. It entered her.
Her lips parted.
A soft exhale.
The sweetness sank into her lungs, her blood, her thoughts.
She didn't notice how the world began to blur at the edges. How her muscles relaxed. How her skin tingled as if every nerve had been kissed awake. Her fingers twitched. Her thighs shifted. Her mouth opened slightly as if to say something but forgot the words.
Then—
Weightlessness.
She floated.
Softly. Slowly. Her naked body rose from the floor like a ghost being seduced into the sky. Her limbs unfurled, hands drifting to her sides, then to her hips, then—
She faced the mirror now.
Still suspended. Eyes open. But vacant.
Her fingers found her body.
She didn't choose it.
Her hands moved as if summoned. They slid over her breasts—tender, slow, reverent. Her breath hitched, but her face held no awareness. She was moving in rhythm to a pleasure that wasn't entirely hers.
One hand slid downward.
Lower.
Between her thighs.
She moaned softly, lips parting.
The mirror reflected everything.
Her arching spine. Her writhing form. The way her toes curled in the white air. Her body was the centerpiece in an altar of light and lust, a spectacle of hunger.
The mist thickened around her. It pulsed with every movement. She touched herself as though her body was no longer her own—but a ritual, a tool, an offering.
And then—
That laugh.
So faint. So near.
Behind her.
A shallow, deliberate chuckle.
Mirth wrapped in possession.
Approval.
As if watching. As if pleased.
But still unseen.
Her breath trembled.
A tear slipped down her cheek—not of pain, nor shame, but confusion.
And still, her hand moved.
And still, the mirror stared.
And still, the scent deepened, thick with that maddening sweetness.
Until she could no longer think—
Only feel.
The mist enveloped her like a lover's mouth.
Warm.
Wet.
Endless.
Suspended in the air, Martha's body had become something else—no longer just skin and muscle, but an instrument for sensation. Every touch echoed like a scream inside her head. Her fingers moved with purpose now, slowly gliding up her thighs, slick with a heat that pulsed from her very core.
She moaned. Louder this time. Desperate.
Not from fear. Not anymore.
But from the need.
Her fingers found her clit, circling it—soft, teasing strokes that sent tremors through her belly. Her eyes fluttered, her hips twisted. The pleasure was raw and hot and alien. It didn't feel stolen—it felt granted. Bestowed upon her as reward. Or punishment.
And then—she slid two fingers inside herself.
Her breath caught.
The fullness, the wetness, the tight clench of her body around her own digits made her cry out, sharp and feral. Her back arched, and she pumped into herself faster. Her other hand massaged her breast, tugging her nipple, her mouth open in a silent scream.
The mirror reflected it all perfectly.
It admired.
She wasn't watching herself anymore—she was performing.
For the mirror.
For the void.
For Him.
The aphrodisiac mist thickened around her face. She inhaled it like salvation. Her mind dissolved into flashes—hands that weren't hers, tongues that weren't real, heat that had no origin.
Her body spasmed.
The first orgasm hit her like thunder.
Then another.
Then another.
Her fingers didn't stop. Couldn't. Her moans grew louder, more frantic, a symphony of surrender echoing across the void. Her hips rolled like waves against her own rhythm. Her entire body convulsed, glowing with sweat and delirium.
She screamed.
And came.
And screamed again.
The pleasure was too much. Too deep. Endless.
She came like it was the only thing she'd ever done. Like her very existence was reduced to climax.
Her body jerked, lost in the pulses.
She gasped.
Twitched.
Slipped into darkness.
Collapsed.
She awoke.
Flat on her back.
The mist was gone.
The mirror—gone.
But the light remained.
She sat up, breath trembling, skin still tingling, thighs still soaked.
And around her now—
Four doors.
They stood equidistant, forming a square around her.
Each identical in shape, but not in feeling.
Each hummed with a different energy—like chords in a twisted melody.
One whispered.
One pulsed.
One wept.
One watched.
She looked at them. All of them. None of them.
Then the space around her vibrated gently with the voice—not heard, but understood.
"You may choose your path...
Or be delivered tostrife.""Choose, Martha...
Or suffer as you wait."
She shivered.
Her legs barely moved.
But choice, now, had teeth.
And she knew—none of these doors were safe.
Only that not choosing was worse.