Author's Note: Hopefully this story doesn't cross the line regarding age too egregiously. It is also hoped that these words conjure up images of the wonderful art by Coco.


Brenda McClain had nothing but time on her hands. Time that she could be using to plan out her day, or tonight's dinner menu, anything. However, Brenda was using the time to wallow in the humiliation, no, mortification of what had taken place and the unknown of what was to come. It wasn't like she had many options.

"That's very good, Jeremy." Brenda praised the young man, although her enthusiasm was waning. Apparently, the 13yr olds repertoire of magic tricks was endless.

Brenda, a 55 year-old divorcee and new to the neighborhood had jumped at the opportunity to babysit, make that "house sit" (the boy was after all, 13 and no longer needed a babysitter), it allowing her to make a connection with her next door neighbors. More accurately, the boy's father, a roguishly handsome man.

Charles, the frazzled, overworked, 42 year-old widower had been profoundly grateful. He'd been unable to find a sitter on such short notice, work having required him to stay well into the evening. He'd called Brenda from the office and, sensing his desperation, she'd agreed to watch the young man when he got home from school. Not having children of her own, Brenda looked upon it as an adventure she'd never had the good fortune to experience firsthand.

But as was clearly becoming the case, babysitting wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Brenda did not know if Jeremy was a typical teenager, but she'd assumed that he'd spend his after school hours watching TV, playing video games or even, heaven forbid, doing homework.

TV. That reminded her and she glanced at her watch. Twenty minutes before "Ellen" came on. Brenda made it a point never to miss an airing, the Talk Show always managing to put her in a good mood. It was time to bring this little demonstration to a close.

"All right, Jeremy." She tried to say with a pleasant firmness. "One more trick and then it's time for homework." (She left mention of her show out of the equation).

The lad appeared ready to pout, but then took on a look of deep concentration. His expression brightened and Brenda could practically see the lightbulb appearing over his head.

"I've got it!" He exclaimed, startling his neighbor. "The Vanishing Box!"

"It's my own creation." He added quite proudly.

"But I'll need you to assist me." He told her.

"I'd be happy to." Brenda said, trying to mask the fact that she wasn't in the least.

Jeremy asked her to stand, which she did. The lad seemed to appraise her in a purely "professional" manner. His scrutiny didn't make her the least bit uncomfortable. He was, after all, only thirteen.

Even at fifty-five, Brenda took care of herself. Standing 5'6", 135 (OK, 140lbs), she did not yet have the need for a girdle. Her face had a few crow's feet, but so far, the whole flock hadn't landed on it. Her 38-C "Girls" were losing their battle with gravity, but she wasn't planning on going nude jogging any time soon. While was no Farrah Fawcett (the reference itself, exposing her years), the woman knew she still looked pretty good.

"Wait right here." Jeremy said and dashed off.

"The lad certainly has a lot of energy." Brenda thought, a bit wistfully.

He returned in less than five minutes. Taking her hand, he all but dragged her toward the basement door. Brenda scurried in her heels to keep up. She'd dressed nicely, borderline provocatively, for this commitment. She'd known that she would cross paths with Jeremy's father and had wanted to make a good impression.

Black, open-toe shoes with 2-1/2" heels and charcoal-colored pantyhose; a grey, button-down wool skirt (that was a tad tight in the hips) and a crisp white blouse. The long-sleeved blouse had a feminine collar, ruffles, and was one she hadn't worn in over a decade. This was apparent not in a fashion sense, but in how she'd gained a few pounds over that time. Brenda had left the top 3 buttons undone not only to show off a little hint of cleavage, but to ease the strain on the remaining fasteners.

She could have chosen to wear matching ivory or flesh-tone underwear, but had gone with black instead. It wasn't that she regretted the choice, she just hoped that the spectral appearance of her brassiere through the blouse didn't come off as being too brazen.

The trek down the steps went without incident. The basement was a riot of boxes, tools, furniture and miscellaneous clutter. Jeremy led her to one of the few clearings amongst carnage, a steel support column rising floor-to-ceiling in the center. Attached to the post about 4' off the ground, was a roughly fabricated (for what little she knew of carpentry), wooden box.

The box looked to be 20" wide, 14" high and probably less than 12" deep. It looked solid enough, the plywood construction appearing to be well over ½" thick. Brenda noticed the circular cut-out on the top, but hadn't a clue of its purpose.

"Tah-dah!" Jeremy said, gesturing to the contraption. "The Vanishing Box!"

"I built it myself!" He beamed.

"It's very...impressive." Brenda said, still not sure what she was looking at.

She was debating whether or not to ask him what it did (and more importantly, what she had to do), when the boy moved forward and released the eight toggle latches, two on each side. He stepped back, carrying the front portion of the box with him. Brenda stepped in for a closer look.

She saw that in addition to the hole (now a semicircle) on top, there was a much larger circular opening (also, now a semicircle) cut in the bottom. The edges of the openings had been sanded smooth, even rounded a little. Six holes had been drilled through the back, through which three large hose clamps passed; obviously the manner in which the box had been anchored to the column. In all, the thing certainly looked innocent enough.

"So," she asked, a bit distractedly, "how uh, does it work?"

"I can't tell you THAT!" He exclaimed with adolescent indignity. "A magician never reveals his secrets!"

"Sorry." Brenda said, unable to keep the amused smile off her face.

"So, what do I have to do?" She asked.

"That's the best part!" He replied, "You don't have to do anything but stand there. The box does all the work."

"You mean I'm supposed to fit in there!" She asked, somewhat dumbfounded.

"Just your arms and shoulders." The teen said with a "what's the big deal?" shrug.

"Well, in for a penny..." Brenda thought, certain that this was going to be a very brief, ultimately doomed-to-fail, exercise.

Glancing at her watch (11 minutes 'til "Ellen"), the next-door-neighbor walked up and into the box.

"No, no." Jeremy said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You've got to back in."

Doing as told, Brenda awaited further instructions.

"Now you've got to fold your arms like this." He said, crossing his arms across his chest.

Which was all well and good, except that he didn't have a pair of breasts getting in the way. Still, Brenda complied; positioning her arms gently so as not to tax the buttons on her blouse any more than necessary.

Jeremy came forward with the front of the box and began to align its edges. Almost immediately, it was clear that things weren't going as planned.

"Can't you lift your arms any higher?" He asked, a bit perturbed at her apparent lack of cooperation.

With a sigh, his "assistant" did so, causing what she feared might happen, to happen. One of the buttons (she believed it to be the top one) failed, shooting across the narrow space and striking the inside of the box with a faint *tink*.

Brenda was horrified, but the youth seemed not to notice. She opened her mouth to call a halt to the trick, but stopped. Aborting things now would only delay an inevitable "re-try", thus insuring that she'd miss her show entirely. She opted to stay the course, get this over with and check her appearance afterwards, during the first commercial break.

Figuratively gritting her teeth, she waited while Jeremy wrestled the cover in place and secured all the latches. Inside, things were a bit on the "snug" side, her arms pressing her breasts up quite a bit, her elbows wedged against the sides of the box.

She was relieved to find that she had at least a half-inch of space around her neck, so she wasn't being pinched or, more importantly, strangled. The same luxury couldn't be said for her waist. Although no skin had gotten caught, when she tried to wriggle, she found that she couldn't. Plus, Brenda could feel that her blouse hadn't escaped getting snared.

"You know," Jeremy said in an uncharacteristically shy voice, "I think my dad kinda likes you."

Brenda, who had been busy examining the slightly claustrophobic prop, almost didn't hear him. As the words sank in, she felt the heat of a blush wash over her face.

"Um, well, that's nice." Brenda stammered.

"I like him too." She added, hoping that it didn't sound too amorous.

"Yeah, well," he said, his indifferent tone returning, "I just thought you'd like to know."

Fearing that her voice, or her next words, might betray too much, Brenda got back to the business at hand.

"Well then, 'Amazing Jeremy', when does the vanishing part take place?"

Brenda completely failed to catch his change in expression.

"Right...about...NOW!" He said and reached in to grasp the top button of her skirt.

"What!??"

"HEY!!!"

"What the hell do you think you're doing!?!!" She blurted, stunned by his actions.

Brenda instinctively moved to brush his hands away, the feat stymied by the pint-sized coffin she was locked in. In the brief time it took for her to think of kicking him, three more buttons were undone and her skirt had slithered down to around her ankles. Mortified at her state of semi-undress, she spent a few fruitless seconds trying to work the garment back up her legs. With that failure, and the gravity of what was taking place setting in, the "magician's assistant" let loose with her most dangerous weapon. Her voice.

"Young man, if you don't release me this INSTANT, your father is going to hear about what you've done!" (The threat, with the implied "amnesty" it contained, was a subconscious concession to the fact that she was now unable to do anything without the boy's help.)

"I'll see to it that he paddles your behind so hard, that you won't be able to sit for a month!"

Brenda didn't quite realize yet, that when negotiating from a position of weakness, it's best not to antagonize the antagonist.

"Geez, you're loud." Jeremy said with an irritated exasperation and walked out of sight behind her.

"What?...Where are you going!??" She demanded, unable to twist or turn enough to follow his actions. Her head whip-sawed back and forth futilely, unable to track the little bastard out of sight behind her.

"Get back here right now and let me out of this...Thing!"

She calmed a little bit, when he re-appeared. Puzzlement, rather than angst, struck her; as he placed a 6", navy-blue foam ball and a roll of ¾" electrician's taped on the box, inches from her head. Taking a deep breath (the action highlighting the tight confines of the crate), Brenda steeled herself to speak tactfully and with logic.

"Look Jeremy. This is a behavior that young men just don't do! Now, just let me out of this contraption, and we'll go up and get some ice cream. Sound good?"

His lack of a response was almost as frustrating as the container she was sealed in. Unease, the lack of control and a smattering of fear tainted her next statement. Or rather, outburst.

"Listen you little shit!" She all but snarled. "If you don't let me out of this right now, I'm going to scream and bring the whole neighborhood running!"

"Oh, I don't think so." He replied confidently. Too confidently.

The gauntlet having been thrown, Brenda sucked in yet another lungful of air, closing her eyes as she did.

"HELLL-pnnmmmrrffff!!!" Something was being shoved in her mouth!

Her eyes flew open with surprise and gazed at the youth's face, which was creased in concentration. She didn't know what was being crammed in her mouth (time, the now missing ball and the odd texture of foam would eventually fill in the blanks), but she could hear it robbing her voice.

Brenda did what little she could to halt the process; all of which failed even to slow it down. She kicked at him awkwardly with her legs, but the youth stood to one side, negating the force of her blows. Inside the box, her arms bumped, worried and writhed, succeeding only in popping off another over-taxed button.

Breathing through her mouth became next to impossible, her grunts and howls taking on a decidedly nasal tone. By the time the last of the packing was behind her incisors, her most ferocious screams were not much more than an agitated sigh. Regardless of having zero experience with gags, it was instantly apparent that this particular one was much too severe. And it was about to get worse.

As Jeremy held the massive wad in with his thumb, Brenda found that her jaw was jacked so wide-open that she couldn't even bite down on the digit. With a nifty bit of dexterity, the lad managed to stick the end of tape to her right cheek and start unspooling the roll. The curvy neighbor quickly discovered that this was not going to be a stereotypical "Damsel in Distress" silencer (a piece of tape slapped over the mouth).

"nnnnnrrrffff!!!" She protested vehemently, as the black adhesive made its first pass around her head.

Stretching it to near breaking, Jeremy passed the band through the gap between her teeth, compressing the enormous mass that much more. Three more times he did this, until the blood pounded in Brenda's head. Countless passes followed, until the poor woman's head was mummified from chin to septum. Brenda squeaked, Brenda snorted, these exhausting the entire arsenal of sounds she was now able to make. Never, would she have thought that someone could be silenced so.

It was the type of gag that was only administered by a sadist or, in this case, a novice. For Jeremy, it served its purpose; keeping his babysitter quiet while he answered a few of the questions that most teen boys had. The last thing he needed, was for this nice lady next door to raise a stink>causing someone investigate>thus winding up in the doghouse. At this stage in life, the young man wasn't what one would call a "long-term planner".

For the "gagee", it was a perilous situation. Aside from the relentless crush of the tape upon her head, she had to dedicate a good portion of her concentration on breathing and not choking. She immediately tried to tell "the lad" that she was in great distress, but the garbled mumbles and grunts might as well have been her recipe for Apple Cobbler.

Brenda stared at the youth with undisguised fear and horror. Although more than 2/3's of her body lay outside the diabolical little box, she'd been rendered as helpless as a newborn kitten. The young man was free to do anything, ANYTHING he wanted; and she would be powerless to stop him. A fact already made abundantly clear, as she'd been rendered skirt-less whilst still possessing the power of speech.

"Behold, the power of the 'Vanishing Box'." Jeremy said with dramatic flair. "The nagging old lady has disappeared!"

Well, the "nagging old lady" part, stung more than a bit; but Brenda couldn't argue, literally or figuratively, the validity of the statement. There could be a Mime's picnic right outside the window and no one would hear a sound emanating from the basement.

"But wait! There's more!" The youth added cryptically.

His head dipped below the box. That was another annoying characteristic! In addition to being unable to turn around, Brenda's vision was greatly restricted by the dimensions of her wood mini-prison. Her mind struggled with the surreal illusion that it was detached from the rest of her body. Why, in order for her to see her toes, she'd now have to stick a leg straight out. Unfortunately for what happened next, she didn't need her sight, nor x-ray vision.

The presence of fingers at her waist, or more precisely, her waistband, caused her to howl and renew her thrashing. There could only be one reason why those adolescent paws were where they were. Sure enough, she felt the stretchy nylon of her pantyhose being jerked downward. If she wasn't mistaken, she believed her black panties were reluctantly going along for the ride.

Yet again, she lashed out with her legs; the act feeling as feeble as it must have looked. She clawed at the wood sarcophagus trapping her (managing to pop yet another button in the process), the tight confines not allowing her to more than tap at it with her fists. As she felt the elastic slip over her ample backside, Brenda threw her knees out, trying to make the undressing more difficult, if not impossible. The change in stance reduced her height, causing her chin to press firmly into the wooden surface beneath it.

However, modesty not discomfort, caused her to draw her knees together. When it became clear that her undergarments had more than enough stretch to clear the obstacle she'd thrown up, the last thing she wanted was to afford this demon-child an unobstructed view of her privates. So, she kept her thighs pressed firmly together and hoped she wouldn't die of embarrassment, as the disrobing continued.

The utter helplessness at not being able to prevent the youth from exposing her was mind-boggling. Having grown up in the Seventies, Brenda was no stranger to showing off her body to someone she loved (or liked a lot). But this was so wrong on so many levels. She was the adult; She should be in control. Stripped of that control (amongst other things), had her head spinning.

As her unmentionables bunched around her ankles, that should have been the end of it. No turning back; no rock to climb under; humiliation complete. But to Jeremy, the presentation looked incomplete. Ducking out of sight once more, Brenda felt him yanking off not only her panties and hose, but her shoes as well. In seconds, she was naked from the waist down, powerless to shield her nudity.

The absence of heels, altered Brenda's "fit" in the crate. Now, in order to keep her jaw from pressing painfully into the plywood, she had to: (A) Stand on her toes, (B) Press down with her forearms or, (C) A combination of both. For this predicament, there was no option (D).

Jeremy stood back triumphantly. He'd found his father's stash of Playboys years ago and for a while, they had sufficed. But the itch to see a real girl's coochie grew daily. He hadn't the nerve to ask any of his classmates, not wanting them to think he was a freak. But then he'd thought:

"Mrs. McClain is a girl (sort of). Maybe I could trick her and then get a peek at the real thing."

And it had worked to perfection. Perfection, followed by supreme disappointment. As the lad gazed upon the forbidden fruit, he saw nothing but an unruly mass of bushy brown hair, interspersed with strands of grey.

Truth be told, Brenda maintained the practice of shaving her legs and armpits, but saw no need to tend to the "hedge down below". Of course, if she were in a relationship (say with the boy's father), she would take the pains to trim, pluck and dye the aforementioned thatch.

"There's got to be more than just THAT!" The teen reasoned (and hoped).

Jeremy knelt and grabbed Brenda's left leg. He pulled it up and out, then stuck his head beneath her crotch. Now, it's not saying that what he saw, swore him off women for life; but the sight of her folds did provoke a heartfelt "Ewwww!"

For some reason, that response wounded Brenda more than her nudity and imprisonment. She didn't need this little shit to remind her that she was no longer in her prime. Anger flared and she brought up her right leg sharply. She was rewarded with solid contact, immediately followed by a surprised "OW!"

Jeremy stood bolt upright, his hand covering his left eye. If the throb in her kneecap was any indication, the brat was going to be sporting a shiner for the next few weeks.

"Chalk one up for me!" She thought. It was clear that Brenda too, had temporarily lost the capacity for thinking long-term.

"That HURT!" The youth said, on the verge of tears.

This had suddenly ceased to be a game of discovery for him. And that's when the reality of his actions washed over him. He had the lady next door trapped and naked in his basement! Any way he spun it, that couldn't be good. He found himself faced with how to deal with the problem.

He could let her go, and face the certain and immediate repercussions. Or, he could postpone the inevitable for as long as possible, hoping it might all go away. In the end, Jeremy did what any red-blooded teenager would do. He panicked.

He stood there as if frozen in indecision, Brenda's angry glare above the cocoon of black tape, piercing him like lasers. His eyes darted about the basement, falling upon something his addled mind reasoned might help him to think. He dashed over, picked it up and plunked it down where it might do the most good.

Brenda's glimpse was only brief enough to identify the dark-grey wash bucket before it was placed over her head. Her world went dark instantly. She howled and kicked, throwing her head left and right. She only succeeded in nudging the bucket a fraction this way or that, and bruising her heel on the column behind her.

As surreal as things had been up to this point, the loss of her sight intensified every aspect of her helplessness. Brenda squeezed her eyes shut, only to be greeted by the same nothingness when she opened them again. She hummed for release from this stygian nightmare, only to be answered by the sound of her hollow, echoed hum and sneakered feet scampering up the stairs. She howled until she retched, all the while knowing that her cries had no chance of being heard.

And here she still stood, unknown hours later. For a while, she had been able to hear the boy's footfalls overhead. But then, there had been the unmistakable sound of the front door slamming shut, followed by the tell-tale hush of an empty house.

Brenda shivered, besieged by a contrast in environment, as well as circumstances. The air within the crate and bucket felt stagnant, beads of sweat running down her face and causing her blouse to cling to her bosom. In contrast, goose bumps had broken out on her exposed flesh; part chill, part fear of never being found. Her arms and legs were both fatigued beyond measure, each having battled hard to keep her head comfortably above the box.

She'd long since thought that she had reached the pinnacle of infirmity. But then the need to pee had arisen. Brenda had fought it for as long as possible but, like her confinement, was never really given a choice. Her toes now danced in the slowly drying puddle, what splashed on her legs having evaporating long ago.

When she heard the heavy footsteps of Jeremy's father enter the house, it was like the most beautiful symphony ever played. Brenda cried out in joy and then hysterics. She had to listen, as his repeated calls for "Jeremy?" and "Mrs. McClain?" went unanswered. It wasn't for another forty-five minutes, before she heard him trundle down the basement steps.

The sight that greeted Charles was one that no person could possibly prepare for. How many people come home to a half-naked woman, whose arms and chest appeared to be trapped in a wooden box? His shock so complete, he actually lifted the bucket off first, in order to confirm that it was indeed a human being standing there.

Sure enough, there was Brenda McClain, "in the flesh", so to speak. Her mascara was splotched over a face that seemed bizarrely distended and wrapped in what must be a mile of electrician's tape. With numbed fingers, Charles fumbled with the clasps on the box.

Brenda collapsed into his arms, the "Vanishing Box" having been her sole means of support for the past several hours. As he eased her to the ground, he couldn't help but notice how her damp and parted blouse clung to the swell of her bra-clad bosom. She was a disheveled, delirious and distraught mess; and Charles thought that he'd never seen a woman more lovely.

After the painful procedure of removing the tape-"Could all of that foam ball REALLY have fit in there!?"-then massaging out the cramps and restoring feeling, Charles carried her upstairs. Despite her feeble protests, he placed her in the guest bedroom and covered her with a blanket, not yet brazen enough to attempt re-dressing her.

Sometime later, Brenda shuffled out, swaddled in the blanket. She was able to hoarsely recount the day's travails leading up to her discovery, although Jeremy's dad already had a pretty good idea. The prophesied punishment became a reality, and although the boy could sit down in less than a month, it was a punishment he didn't soon forget.

Over the next several weeks, Charles went out of his way to check in on Brenda. Although her welfare was his top priority, making sure she didn't alert the authorities played a role in his concern. He was relieved (and a bit disappointed) when she said she just wanted to put the whole thing behind her.

It wasn't long before Brenda once more felt comfortable setting foot in Charles' home. The fact that she was still drawn to him, and that Jeremy was now harmless as a puppy, making things easier. The young lad went out of his way to be polite and courteous, never once doing so much as a card trick.

A romance slowly blossomed. Somewhere along the line, Charles gently introduced Brenda to his passion for bondage. A loving, caring and thoughtful approach to the subject, helped erode the woman's reservations. That, and if she was completely honest with herself, there HAD been something more than just fear and helplessness during her time in the basement.

The wedding was in the fall, the foliage at the peak of color. Brenda strode down the aisle, radiant. She wore a white gown, embellished with a pre-wedding present from Charles. It was a white leather collar, its ring camouflaged by an antique broach. All in attendance assumed it was merely a tasteful accessory. Charles stood at the altar, swelling with love, pride and the images of what the honeymoon would involve.

Jeremy, had been enlisted to be Best Man and ring bearer. The little rat-fink would never be allowed to know his substantial role in bringing this all about.