The Glass Hall

Hands still cuffed behind her back, Lois Lane stepped into a hallway all of glass...floors, walls, and ceilings. Above and below there were lights, bright electric beams, and on either side...

Eyes stared back at the reporter. Placid faces, men and women, seated and watching. There was a sense of expectation in their gaze, an uncomfortable crawling sensation down Lois' spine as they sat there, eyeing her hungrily.

She took a step forward...there was a bronze door visible, perhaps thirty or forty feet ahead...took another step, and nearly ran face first into a plate of glass.

"Okay. So what is this challenge?" She asked.

"Sacrifice," Blazes voice shook the glass, the vibration stirring under Lois' feet. "There are seven doors between here and the end. For each piece of clothing you discard, one will open. When all the doors are open...you may pass."

Lois grit her teeth. "My hands are cuffed, how am I supposed to..."

Hands came out of the glass, on each side of her.

"You need only walk," the glass shook beneath Lois. "They will do the rest."

The reporter struggled to contain herself. Took a breath—and remembered even hesitation could be fatal. She opened her eyes and stepped forward.

Hands held her before the glass panel, in midstep. Smooth, translucent hands grasped her heels and slid them off her feet. The glass door slip open, and Lois felt herself set down. Her bare soles found the glass warm, but not too slippery. She stepped forward again...

Unseen fingers traced down her arms and back...scratching gently against the skin, but not drawing blood...and Lois' shirt and jacket fell away, leaving her in her bra. A second panel slid back.

The audience was watching Lois intently now. One more step, two, trying to keep her balance, to remain calm...

She saw the hands this time, stretching out from each wall and the floor. Long, strongly-muscled human limbs with razor-sharp fingertips, all perfectly clear, as though moulded by some master artisan. They grasped at the waistband of her pants and pulled downward, splitting the material into long red strips that peeled off her legs. When they were done, the hands vanished, leaving Lois standing in the ruin of her pants, clad in only her bra and panties.

The third door slid open.

Lois walked on, feeling the audience watch her every move. There was a rumble of appreciation as a pair of clawed hands emerged from directly in front of her to snip off the bra with five small, practiced strokes. A flush of embarrassment came unbidden to the reporter as her nipples came into view, and she saw on each side of her that men and women had begun to reach into their pants, stroking and rubbing themselves lightly at the sight of the naked woman.

She wondered for a moment if they were really seeing her...and who they were. But then the fourth door slid open.

The reporter raised her chin and stepped through, knowing what was going to come next, but not how or where. One step, two steps, three...

A hand reached up and grabbed Lois Lane's crotch. There was something different about this one; it was more slender, almost feminine. Four splayed fingers held her crotch, the thumb gently resting against her ass. The sharp points rested lightly against her skin.

From the sides, two other hands emerged. They grabbed the strings of her black lace thong, pulling them gently apart to undo the knots, so that the damp panties fell off. The glass hand grasped them and pulled them down, through the glass, out of sight.

The fifth door opened.

Butterflies flitted through Lois Lane's stomach as she stepped forward, naked. Some of the audience was openly masturbating now, but others appeared to be waiting, holding out in anticipation of...what?

Two doors left, and I've not a stitch left on. Lois thought to herself.

The hand returned. Sliding up from the glass, and Lois could see her own face reflected in the surface beneath her as she stared down. The warm, hard glass fingers pressed against her skin...and she sucked in her breath as she saw that the tips, the very tips, were small flat blades...

Four fingers held Lois, and the fifth began scraping gently at the skin around her pussy, and small black hairs fell where it passed. Anger and embarrassment shook through Lois. She kept herself well-trimmed, but this was a more intimate invasion than she had imagined. The finger swept her mons and labia, leaving it baby-smooth and clean...and then something swished carefully against her asshole and Lois Lane stood stock still, rigid with terror as it shaved the fine hairs from there too.

This is what the crowd had come for, Lois saw, for they were all openly pumping their fists on knobs and shoving fingers inside of them now. Perverts here for the show.

The sixth door slid open, and when Lois felt the glass hand release her, sinking back down to its strange world, she walked gingerly forward, feeling more naked than before.

A glass hand cradled her throat, inches from the bronze door. Lois wanted to turn her head, but fought the inclination as she felt something pulling at her hair...the unmistakable snip of blade on blade...and then tiny locks were falling on her shoulders.

She kept her back straight and head still, barely bothering to stare with her peripheral vision at the crowd, which seemed to have broken out into a general orgy. Vague reflections in the glass walls told her what she had already guessed...glass hands emerging, snipping away at her hair.

Lois had grown it out for a few years, liked to keep it shoulder length or longer. The snips got closer, long locks falling away. She told herself it would grow back. That's what hair did. Growing up a soldier's daughter, Lois had felt she had less vanity in her hair than other women.

But as it fell, she did experience a sense of loss, of helplessness. The hand at her throat was still edged with blades. One moment of hesitation, one twitch of turning back, and she could easily cut her own throat.

It was no surprise when she felt the warm, hard blades begin to scrape carefully against her scalp. And it was not until they had run all over her head...which was now cold and feeling strangely lighter...that the hand released her throat and, naked and bald from top to bottom, the reporter stepped through to face the next challenge.