A Job as a Sex Doll: The Cost of Stealing

Kitty is caught stealing a toy she craves, she pays her debt in flesh. As a living doll, she's used by clients who mistake her real orgasms for programming.

Disclaimer: Welcome to a world where forbidden desire is the only rule. This story is part of a collection where all lines are meant to be crossed. If you keep reading, you're already on the other side.
Reader discretion is advised.
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This reader, a fan of BDSM, consensual abuse, and a good spanking, provided the delicious inspiration for this story. I hope you enjoy it, Nikki!

The Black Box wasn't just a sex shop; it was a gallery of desire, a place where the air itself felt thick with unspoken fantasies. For Kitty, it was a torture chamber. Her nymphomania was a constant, thrumming hum beneath her skin, a demanding beast that needed to be fed. She had saved for months, but the price of the "Elysian" toys—the ones that promised a release she couldn't find anywhere else—remained laughably out of reach. Today, the ache had been unbearable. She had walked in knowing she couldn't buy it, knowing she couldn't leave without it. It wasn't a plan, just an inevitability. And now, the inevitable had happened. She had been caught.
Her heart hammered against her ribs as the owner, a man named Silas with eyes like polished obsidian and a voice like smooth, aged whiskey, held up the two sleek, silicone toys she'd tried to pocket. They were from the "Elysian" line, hand-sculpted wonders that cost more than her rent. Toys she craved with a cellular-level need but could never afford.
"A connoisseur's choice," Silas said, his voice calm, devoid of anger. He wasn't looking at the toys she'd tried to steal; he was looking at her, as if assessing a piece of art he might acquire. "But a thief's payment method." He placed the sleek, silicone devices gently back in their velvet-lined box. "We have two paths forward. The first involves the police. A charge like this... it won't be kind to your record."
Kitty's blood ran cold. She couldn't. She just couldn't.
"The second option," Silas continued, leaning against his glass counter, "is more... creative. You have a debt. You can work it off here. Not as a sales clerk. Your talents, I suspect, lie elsewhere." A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. "For the next four days, you will be my newest display in my connoisseur's viewing room."
He paused, his eyes sweeping over her. "I purchased a unique 'suit' for just such an occasion. It's called The Elysian Second Skin... and it'll be a perfect fit for you. It's the ultimate expression of roleplay. You become a living mannequin."
He explained the terms: six hours a day, split into three-hour shifts. The idea of a living mannequin sent a dark thrill through her. Silas led her to the private viewing chamber. It was like a luxurious, square changing room with a raised stage in the center. On it, another mannequin wore the suit, and she understood immediately. Once she put it on, she would become the display.
It was a masterpiece of engineering. The suit was a full-body, skin-like second skin that would give her the seamless, synthetic appearance of a high-end doll. Her most intimate areas would be exposed for use, but the suit's advanced material would gently adhere to her own skin there, making the distinction between woman and toy impossible to the naked eye. The mouth would be similarly accessible. Even the eyes were a marvel of one-way technology; she could see the clients perfectly, but they would only see the beautiful, inanimate eyes of a sex doll.
Silas would market her to his select, vetted clientele as having state-of-the-art "Life Features": interactive and responsive genitals with natural lubrication, a perfectly functional anus, and a mouth with a realistic gag reflex. He would inform them of its full auditory capabilities, triggered by touch, to produce a variety of moans, whimpers, and gasps. He would even mention that certain parts of the mannequin's anatomy were designed to respond to moderate punishment—slaps, spanks, and the like—though physical abuse or damage was strictly forbidden.
The thought made Kitty so wet she could feel the heat blooming between her legs. She was, in her own way, itching to try it on.
But the reality, as he explained with a predatory gleam in his eye, was that the suit was nothing more than a thin, flexible shell. It was a costume. The orifices were hers. The sounds would be hers. She would be displayed on a velvet chaise lounge in a soundproofed, opulent room, a living, breathing woman trapped in a doll's body, available for 'hands-on inspection' by his most discerning, and very wealthy, clientele who would believe they were simply testing a high-end sex toy.
The shame that washed over Kitty was tidal. He wasn't just making her a spectacle; he was making her a party to her own violation, a silent participant in her own private use. She would have to remain perfectly still, a plastic doll, while men and women touched her, penetrated her, and brought her to orgasm, all under the guise of testing a machine. Her body's responses would be mistaken for mechanics. Her cries of pleasure or pain would be dismissed as pre-recorded sound effects. It was the ultimate erasure of self, and the thought was so terrifying, so profoundly humiliating, it made her pussy clench with a dark, traitorous heat.
Hate and war waged in her gut, but the fear of handcuffs won. "I'll do it," she whispered, the words tasting like ash.

Day One: The Initiation
The suit was a second skin, cool and comfortable. Silas had said it was porous; her skin could breathe, and any sweat would be filtered out. It was a little claustrophobic being completely encased, its state-of-the-art design keeping her temperature stable. But it sealed her away, wrapping her flesh in a new material that wasn't plastic or rubber. It felt a little like silk on the inside, but still off. The purpose was so clients wouldn't be put off from having sex with it. The humiliation itself was a physical weight as Silas positioned her in the private viewing room, reclining on a velvet chaise lounge. For the first hour, she was consumed by hate. She hated Silas, she hated the plush, soundproofed room that muffled the outside world. She hated herself for getting into this mess.
Then, he came in. An older man, impeccably dressed, who didn't just look; he approached. His fingers, surprisingly gentle, traced the seam of the suit along her spine. A shiver—real, not simulated—ran through her. He cupped her ass, his thumb pressing against the thin material around her anus, which, like her pussy, was exposed for use. A real, breathy gasp escaped her lips, a sound the man would dismiss as a clever sound effect. He spent a full ten minutes exploring her, his touch clinical yet intimate, testing the realism of the skin, the firmness of the breasts. When he finally slipped a finger between the suit's legs, pressing against her clit, the humiliation burned so intensely it morphed into something else. A dark, twisted spark of arousal. She was an object being used, and her body, traitor that it was, was loving it. She stifled the urge to speak.
The man's gentle exploration turned firm, then possessive. His hands gripped her ass again, squeezing the flesh of the suit with a proprietary confidence that made her breath catch. The clinical observer was gone, replaced by something primal. He didn't bother with further foreplay. With a grunt of effort, he flipped her over onto the velvet chaise lounge as if she weighed nothing. The sudden movement was jarring, a stark reminder that she was not a person to be handled with care, but an object to be positioned for his convenience. She had to try to keep her pose, even on her back, allowing the user to re-pose her as he wanted. When he was done, he loomed over her, his expensive suit jacket falling open to reveal a crisp shirt, his eyes dark with a hunger that was anything but mechanical.
He pushed her legs apart with his knees. She couldn't feel the fabric of his trousers, rough against the smooth skin of the suit. He unzipped, pulled out his hard cock, and didn't enter her slowly. He drove into her in one hard, deep thrust that punched the air from her lungs, forcing a real, guttural gasp from her throat. This wasn't a test; it was a taking. He began to fuck her with a brutal, punishing rhythm, his cock hammering into her soaked pussy. The sound of his hips slapping against her, slick with her arousal, was a loud, obscene percussion in the quiet room. Each thrust drove her body into the velvet cushions, the force of it reverberating through her bones. He would speed up, then slow back down—trying to pace his orgasm and feel the pussy he was fucking, to test its ‘realism’. This made Kitty wetter. The suit, designed to feel lifelike, transmitted every sensation with horrifying clarity—the thick vein on the underside of his cock dragging against her inner walls, the way his balls slapped against her ass with every stroke.
His hands roamed over the suit, claiming every inch of her. He squeezed her breasts, the pliant material yielding under his grip, his thumbs roughly abusing the hardened nipples. He leaned down, his mouth next to her ear, his hot breath ghosting across the skin of her cheek. He didn't speak. He just grunted with each powerful thrust, a raw, animalistic sound of possession. The silence was more terrifying than if he'd spoken. It felt like he was trying to fuck the truth out of her, to break through the plastic facade with the sheer force of his cock. The humiliation of being used so roughly, so completely, was a tidal wave, and beneath it, her traitorous body was responding with a dark, thrilling heat. Her clit throbbed, a desperate, needy pulse that matched his violent rhythm.
He shifted his angle, and suddenly his cock was grinding against her G-spot with every punishing stroke. A new, more intense pressure built deep inside her. Her mind went blank, consumed by the overwhelming sensation. The line between pain and pleasure dissolved. She was a vessel for his lust, a hole to be fucked, and the thought sent her spiraling. Her back arched off the chaise, a strangled cry tearing from her lips as a massive, undeniable orgasm ripped through her. Her pussy clamped down on him like a vice, wave after wave of convulsive pleasure wracking her body.
He felt her spasm around him, and with a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt. He let out a low, guttural groan as his cock pulsed, flooding her with thick, hot ropes of his cum. She could feel the heat of it spreading deep inside her, a final, profound mark of his ownership. He stayed inside her for a long moment, his weight pinning her down, his chest heaving. Then he slowly pulled out, his cock making a wet, obscene sound as it left her cum-filled pussy. He stood up, calmly tucked himself back into his trousers, and zipped up. He glanced at his watch, a brief, dispassionate gesture. His time wasn't up, but he was clearly just getting started.
He looked down at her, sprawled and leaking on the chaise. His expression was unreadable. He stepped around to the side, standing over her. Then, without warning, he raised his hand and brought it down sharply across her plastic cheek. The sound was a loud, stinging crack that echoed in the room. A second slap followed, then a third, each one rocking her head to the side. The blows weren't hard enough to break the suit, but they were hard enough to humiliate, to reinforce her status as an inanimate object he could strike at will.
He grabbed a handful of her hair, his fingers twisting in the synthetic strands, and yanked her head up. He fumbled with the button on his trousers, letting them fall to his ankles, pulling his semi-hard, cum-slick cock free. He rubbed it over her lips, smearing his own seed and her juices across her mouth. He reached down and opened the mannequin’s mouth. He smiled—perfect. He immediately shoved his cock inside, loving the artistry of the feel of the mouth, the tongue, then the throat.
He fucked her face with the same brutal intensity he'd fucked her pussy. His cock hit the back of her throat, making her gag. Tears streamed from her eyes, trapped inside the mask. He pushed deeper, forcing his way into her tight throat. She could feel him stretching her, the lack of air making her head swim. His grip on her hair tightened, holding her in place as he used her mouth for his pleasure. The sounds were wet and disgusting—gagging, slurping, his grunts of exertion. He was chasing his own release.
With a final, savage thrust, he buried himself balls-deep in her throat. His cock throbbed, and she felt him spurt directly into her stomach, a second, hot load claiming her from the inside out. He held her there, impaled on his cock, until he was completely spent. Then he pulled out, leaving her coughing and gasping for air, strings of cum and saliva connecting her lips to his cock.
“So incredibly life-like… I love you… I can’t wait till you are available to buy,” he said as he looked down at the ruined, gasping mess he'd made of his "doll." A flicker of something—satisfaction, perhaps—crossed his face before being replaced by his usual impassivity. He calmly put himself away, straightened his jacket, and without a backward glance, walked out of the room, leaving her trembling, violated, and filled with his cum from both ends.

Day Two: The Couple's Inspection
The shame had curdled into a grim acceptance. She knew the rhythm now. But today's clients were different. A couple. The man was the same from Day One, his eyes holding a dark memory of their last encounter. The woman with him was young and fiercely beautiful, with a predatory gleam in her eye that matched his. They moved around the chaise lounge as a unit, a pair of wolves circling their prey.
The woman didn't touch Kitty with curiosity; she touched her with ownership. She ran a single, sharp nail down the front of the suit, from the hollow of her throat to the apex of her thighs. A real, high-pitched whimper escaped Kitty's lips.
"Such a pretty thing," the woman purred, her voice like velvet in the quiet room. "But I need to see the craftsmanship up close." From her purse, she produced a small, silver bullet vibrator. She didn't need to find a panel; she simply pressed the buzzing toy against the suit, directly over Kitty's clit.
Kitty's entire body went rigid. The stimulation was direct, relentless, and overwhelming. The woman watched her face, or rather, the pretty smiling mask of the mannequin's face, as she adjusted the settings. Low hum. Pulsing. High, frantic buzz. Kitty's mind screamed, but her body was a prisoner of pleasure. The woman brought her to the edge of a blistering orgasm, held her there for what felt like an eternity, and just as she was about to shatter, she switched it off. The denial was an agony so sweet it was its own form of ecstasy.
But that was just the beginning. The woman set the vibrator aside and produced a pair of thin, latex gloves, snapping them on with a practiced crack. "Now, let's inspect the merchandise," she whispered, her voice a low, excited hum.
As the wife knelt between Kitty's legs, the husband moved to the head of the chaise. He unzipped his pants, his cock already hard and demanding. He grabbed Kitty's head, his fingers twisting in the synthetic hair, and angled her face up. Without preamble, he fed his cock into her mouth, the same one he had brutally fucked the day before. He slid deep, hitting the back of her throat, forcing a gag around his thickness.
“This unit’s gag is incredible – it feels almost like you, sweetheart,” he held himself there, savoring the tight, wet heat as he watched his wife.
The wife, meanwhile, had used her gloved fingers to spread the lips of the suit's pussy, exposing Kitty's own very real, very wet flesh within.
"My God," she breathed, her voice filled with genuine awe. "Look at this." She slid a single, cool finger inside Kitty's pussy, and it came out slick and shining. "It... it gets wet. The self-lubrication isn't just a reservoir; it's a reactive system." The discovery seemed to electrify her. Her scientific curiosity melted away, replaced by a raw, carnal curiosity.
She leaned in closer, her husband's cock still buried in Kitty's throat. The wife extended her tongue and took a slow, deliberate lap of Kitty's exposed, wet folds. A jolt, hot and sharp, shot through Kitty. The taste, the reality of it, made the woman's eyes widen.
"It tastes real," she murmured against Kitty's flesh, the vibration of her words sending another wave of pleasure through her. "It tastes alive."
That seemed to be her breaking point. The wife abandoned all pretense of inspection. She buried her face in Kitty's pussy, her tongue becoming a frantic, skilled explorer. She licked and sucked with an unleashed hunger, driven by the thrill of tasting what she believed was a perfect simulation. Kitty's mind was a battlefield of sensations: the overwhelming fullness of the cock fucking her throat, the exquisite, expert tongue working her clit, and the profound humiliation of being the couple's shared plaything.
The husband began to thrust in earnest, his grunts of pleasure mixing with his wife's soft moans of discovery. The wife, spurred on by the taste and the responsive wetness, redoubled her efforts, sucking Kitty's clit into her mouth and flicking it relentlessly. The dual stimulation was too much. Kitty's body, betrayed and overwhelmed, exploded. A massive, shattering orgasm ripped through her, her pussy convulsing around the woman's tongue, her throat spasming around the man's cock.
The feel of her orgasmic throbs sent the husband over the edge. With a loud groan, he buried himself deep and came, flooding her throat with his hot seed. At the same time, the wife moaned into Kitty's cunt, her own climax triggered by the sheer transgressive thrill of the act.
Slowly, they pulled away from her. The husband tucked himself away, while the wife sat up, her face slick and glistening. She looked at her husband, her eyes shining with a new, dangerous light.
"We have to get one of these," she said, her voice husky with satisfaction.
“I told you so!” the husband was delighted his wife felt as he did about the unit. His wife would accept the high price for such an amazing toy.
They left Kitty there, trembling and leaking from both ends, a used and violated object that had just brought a couple to a shared, shattering climax.

Day Three: The Frat Party
The shame had curdled into a grim acceptance, but nothing could have prepared her for the sound that preceded her clients today. It wasn't the quiet click of a single door, but the low murmur of multiple voices, laced with drunken laughter and arrogant bravado. The door to the viewing room opened, and four young men stumbled in, all of them radiating the kind of entitled confidence that only old money and a complete lack of consequences could buy. They were rich frat boys, dressed in expensive polo shirts and smirks, looking for the ultimate party favor.
"Holy shit, dude," one of them said, his eyes wide as he took in Kitty's form on the display stand. "It looks even better than the pictures."
"Silas said we could do whatever we want," another added, already rubbing the front of his jeans. "Said it's built for... endurance."
There was no preamble. No gentle exploration. They descended on her like a pack of wolves. The first one, a tall blond with a cruel smile, took her from behind. He didn't ease into her; he slammed his cock into her pussy with a grunt, his hands gripping the suit's hips so hard she knew she'd have bruises tomorrow. He fucked her with a fast, shallow rhythm, his only goal his own quick release. The suit absorbed the impact, but Kitty felt every brutal thrust, her body rocking forward with the force of it.
The second one, shorter and thicker, didn't wait his turn. He grabbed her by the hair, yanking her head up. "Open up, dollface," he slurred, fumbling with his belt. He shoved his already hard cock into her mouth, hitting the back of her throat and making her gag. He laughed at the sound.
"It even gags for you! Fucking A!" He began to fuck her face with the same entitlement as his friend was fucking her pussy, using her mouth as nothing more than a warm, wet hole to get off in.
She was caught between them, a vessel for their shared, drunken lust. The third and fourth boys watched, cheering them on, their words a disgusting soundtrack to her violation.
"Yo, Brandon, smash that shit!"
"Hurry up, man, I wanna hit next!"
The one fucking her mouth groaned, and with a final, brutal thrust, he came, flooding her throat with his bitter cum. He pulled out, leaving her gasping, strings of saliva and semen dripping from her lips. The first one wasn't far behind, his thrusts becoming erratic before he buried himself deep with a loud yell, filling her pussy with his load.
But they weren't done. There was no respite. The moment one pulled out, another took his place. The third boy, who had been watching with a dark intensity, flipped her over onto her back. He reposed her to suit his intentions. He spat on her ass, and before Kitty could process what was happening, he pressed his cock against her tighter, smaller hole. She cried out, a real, pained sound that they mistook for a programmed effect. He pushed inside, the stretch burning and intense. He fucked her ass with a brutal, punishing rhythm, while the fourth boy, now hard again, knelt over her chest and shoved his cock between her plastic-coated breasts, squeezing them together around his shaft.
She was lost in a sea of sensation—a cock in her ass, another between her tits, the taste of cum still in her mouth, the sight of their leering, drunken faces above her. And the other boy, who had recovered, took hold of her head and craned it backwards. He opened the mouth and slipped his cock inside. As his friends fucked her tits and ass, he fucked her mouth, slow at first, loving the realistic feel of the doll, then he picked up his pace until he was just slamming it home. The degradation was so absolute, so complete, that something in her mind broke. The pain and humiliation merged, twisting into a dark, masochistic pleasure. Her body, traitor that it was, began to respond. A real, shattering orgasm ripped through her, her back arching off the display stand, a silent scream trapped in her throat with the cock plunging in and out, as her ass convulsed around the cock inside it.
The boy fucking her ass felt her spasm and roared, his own climax triggered by the clenching of her muscles. The boy between her tits followed suit, his cum splattering across the plastic of her face and neck. And not to miss out on the party, the guy in her throat flooded her.
They were amazed by the sheer responsiveness of this prototype mannequin / sex doll.
They left her there, a trembling, used-up mess. Cum leaked from her pussy and ass, and her face was a canvas of their release. They were laughing as they zipped up, high-fiving each other as if they'd just won a championship. They didn't look back. They had gotten what they paid for: a hole to use, a story to tell, a notch in their collective belt. And Kitty, broken and violated in a way she had never imagined, lay trembling on the stand, the suit slick with sweat and semen, the echo of their laughter the only sound in the room.

Day Four: The Masterclass
Her final shift. With her body having been used so many times, how many times she'd orgasmed, and how much she was loving, and hating the experience, she really didn’t feel the suit anymore.
The last client. A man, maybe fifty, and his son, who couldn't have been a day over fifteen. The boy was nervous, his eyes wide with a mixture of awe and embarrassment. The father, however, was calm, a teacher guiding his pupil through a rite of passage.
"See, son?" the father said, his voice conversational in the hushed room as he ran a hand over the mannequin's breast. "The craftsmanship is unparalleled. Go on. Touch it."
The boy hesitantly reached out, his fingers brushing against the suit's hardened nipple. A soft moan escaped Kitty's lips. The boy flinched, but his father chuckled. "It's just a machine, son. A very advanced machine. It responds to stimulus. Here, let me show you its primary function."
The father unzipped his pants, his cock already hard. He positioned himself at Kitty's entrance and pushed inside with a satisfied groan. He fucked her with slow, deliberate strokes, all while lecturing his son. "You’ll notice the tension when you’re inside her? The internal heating is so real? It's designed to feel exactly like the real thing… And just like when you take a woman—you have to be firm, in control. They might cry or struggle, but that's just part of the joy, and exhilaration of the moment. It's how you know you're doing it right." He pulled out, his cock glistening with Kitty's arousal. "Your turn."
The boy, shaking with adrenaline, fumbled with his own jeans. He entered her with a clumsy, desperate thrust, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated lust. He lasted less than a minute, cumming with a strangled cry. Kitty felt the hot spill of him inside her, a final, profound violation. As he pulled away, his father gave him a proud pat on the back.
"Good," the father said, a knowing smile on his face. "First time always feels that good. You can't help releasing so quickly. A real man lasts. You need to learn control. And you will… and that is why you practice. The joy of the taste and practice." As the boy stood there, panting and recovering, the father moved to the head of the chaise. He grabbed Kitty's head, his fingers twisting in the synthetic hair, and angled her face up. "Now, watch closely. This is the next lesson."
He didn't hesitate. He shoved his cock into her mouth, pushing past her lips and hitting the back of her throat. He began to fuck her face with deep, punishing strokes, his hips slapping against her plastic mask. "You don't go easy on them," he grunted, speaking to his son between thrusts. "They like it rough. It reminds them who's in charge. Take what you want." He demonstrated his point, his grip tightening as he used her throat for his pleasure, his balls slapping against her chin. After a few moments, he pulled out, leaving her gasping.
He’d given his boy enough time to recover.
"Your turn," he commanded. "Show me you've learned something."
The boy, his confidence bolstered by his father's lesson and his own recovered lust, moved into position. He was more deliberate this time. He slid his cock into her mouth, and to his surprise, he found a rhythm. He lasted much longer than his first time, his movements becoming more confident, more like his father's. He was learning.
As the boy found his pace, the father moved back to the other end of the chaise. He spread the cheeks of Kitty's ass, his thumb pressing against her tight, unused anus. "While you're busy up there," he said, his voice a low growl, "I'll take the back door. A real man knows how to use every part of his property."
He spat on her tight hole and pressed his cock against it. He pushed inside, the stretch immediate and intense. A muffled cry escaped Kitty's throat, which was currently full of his son's cock. The father began to fuck her ass with slow, powerful strokes, matching his son's rhythm at the other end.
Kitty was trapped between them, a living, breathing vessel for their twisted lesson. The father's thick cock stretching her ass, the son's eager one fucking her mouth. They were a machine of violation, a two-man wrecking crew using her body to pass down a legacy of cruelty. The father's grunts and the son's moans filled the room, a disgusting symphony of familial bonding.
The boy, spurred on by the sight of his father taking her so forcefully, couldn't hold back any longer. With a loud cry, he came for a second time, flooding Kitty's mouth. The father, feeling the boy's release through the shudders of her body, groaned and buried himself deep in her ass, his own hot cum filling her bowels.
They pulled away, leaving her a trembling, ruined mess. The father looked at his son, his chest puffed out with pride. "Now you're a man," he said, his voice thick with satisfaction. He placed himself back into his pants and turned to his son, his tone shifting from instructor to conspirator. "This was good practice. Your sisters are getting older, they'll start developing, filling out more soon. It's important you know how to handle them, how to take what you need as the man of the house when I'm not there."
The boy's eyes widened, but he nodded, absorbing the lesson.
The father continued, his voice dropping lower. "And your mother... she gets lonely when I'm away on business for weeks. A woman like her has needs, son. She needs a man to keep her happy, to remind her of her place. It's a heavy burden, but you're almost old enough to help me carry it. You need to be ready to step up and be the man of the house in every way. Do you understand?"
The boy swallowed hard and nodded again, his nervousness replaced with a new, solemn understanding.
"Good," the father said, clapping him on the shoulder. He then turned back to Kitty, a final, speculative look in his eye. "She's a good practice model. Almost as good as the real thing will be."
As they left, Kitty lay trembling on the velvet chaise, the suit slick with sweat and other fluids. The door to the viewing room clicked shut.
A short while later, Silas stepped in and approached. He didn't need to touch her. He simply looked at the ruined, used state of his display. The violation she had just endured was no longer just for a client's pleasure; it was a rehearsal for a future of horrors, a lesson in cruelty passed from one generation to the next.
"Your debt is paid," he said, his voice once again the calm, detached shopkeeper. "But the position... is permanently open, should you wish to apply."
Kitty knew, with a terrifying and thrilling certainty, that she would be back. The Black Box was no longer a torture chamber. It may have become another home.
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