Having seen the videos of my first session with Tom, I was amazed. I tried to slow motion the moment that I got pulled through the three inch hole into the crate, but I could not tell exactly what had happened; having had a few more sessions I have come to the conclusion that magic resists attempts to explain it. I also discovered that the second stick through the sword box, actually made contact with the box I was in about six frames after I had shouted 'red' for the first time, so my going off the deep-end at Tom might not have been fully justified, but it did lay down a marker for how we would continue. He is more forthcoming about what he is planning to do to me and seems generally ok with the couple of occasions when I have refused.

After that first session I rang Angela; she seemed gratified when I told her how much I enjoyed being fucked while compressed into a box that was no more than foot in each direction. I also sent her a copy of the edited version; she expressed the opinion that I would have a lover to be proud of, once I had smoothed some of the sharper edges.

Since then I have met Tom for a bit magic and fucking each alternate Wednesday morning, but I was going to have to postpone this coming Wednesday's 'rehearsal'. Fortunately, for me, he had received a cancellation and would be available in the afternoon, so we arranged to meet after lunch.

----------

The day had not started well. I had got to bed late, writing a proposal for a client until gone midnight, and then overslept. My daughter woke me to let me know that she was not going to be back straight from school; she was going to her after-school job.

I did not have time for breakfast, so I dressed for this morning's meeting and headed out of the door hungry and poorly rested.

The meeting was a disaster, but at least I had rehearsing with Tom to look forward to, except that the boss decided lunch on the firm might persuade the clients to give the go ahead for revisions to the proposal. Of course, I had to go to the lunch too. I did get the chance to let Tom know I would be late. At the end of the lunch they gave us less time than we really needed to update the proposal to take into account the things they said were lacking from the current document. The boss compounded this by spending ten minutes thanking me for staying to help, despite me having booked the afternoon off. This meant that I arrived at Tom's place about an hour and a half later than originally planned and in a bad temper that if it gave off smoke would have brought several fire crews.

I was looking forward to being squeezed into a small box and fucked.

When I got there, I parked beside his box-van and hurried in through the door and stripped; I almost felt like throwing my clothes on the floor, but somewhere in my brain a reflex to fold them and place them on the table kicked in. In the centre of the floor was the origami box that I had requested we start with, to allow me to release the stress that was tightly wound within me. I walked to the box and climbed onto the table, without waiting for Tom to offer an assisting hand. It took moments to step over the sides and sit inside. I said, "Do it!" and then leaned forward into the position that we had discovered on our first session was how it worked.

I was soon folded into the box and pressed into the foot cubed volume it now contained. There was a longer pause than I really wanted and the movements that followed did not match what I had previously felt, but they had not been exactly the same before and I had not been tracking these things on previous occasions. Then I felt the tipping forward that told me he was making access to fuck me, but also he was skipping the hand and oral parts that had been included in our sessions. The tipping forward seemed steeper than the times before, too.

There was a pause and then I was being fucked; I gave myself up to the experience of having my pussy pounded by something stiff while being compressed (I don't know how) in a cubic foot of space. It occurred to me part way through, that it did not feel the same; for a moment I worried that Tom had forgotten to use a condom, but I dismissed that because I could feel it. I allowed myself to relax both physically and mentally until the orgasm came.

My enclosure was tilted back to its usual angle and the unfolding began. I sat up and then stood. "I so needed that!" I sighed. As I mentioned that it had felt a little different, I saw him glance to the side. I followed where he had looked; I spotted a condom on the handle of the topmost sword. The obvious conclusion was that he had used the sword handle as a dildo and fucked me with that.

"Why would you do that?" I asked.

"I was severely turned off by your attitude when you arrived, so I improvised," he said.

Looking back I could not really blame him; I was a bit of a diva bitch when I arrived; I had not even said 'hello'. I guess it could have been worse; he could have used the sharp end of the swords on me. In fact I felt a lot better, so it was time to mend the bridges I had dynamited by coming in with my temper at full glow.

While I took the steps from inside the box to the table and jumped down to hug him, I said "Well, it worked because I feel so much more relaxed. I'm sorry; I know I should not bring work here with me."

He offered to lend an ear to my troubles, but I said that I would rather participate in some more magic to get me properly relaxed enough to sleep well tonight and be able to tackle the work problems tomorrow.

"So what did you have planned for this session?" I asked. I guessed that it would be something we had not done before, because he liked to drop cryptic hints if he had something new to try.

"Well originally I had planned to do two pieces of magic and finish off with the origami, but, because you are later than originally planned, I only have time for one and I guess you'd like a bit of time in the steel box."

Was he punishing me for being late, mucking him about and bringing my bad mood with me? I thought not, because he was offering to put me into The Box. I had offered to buy The Box from him, but he had pointed out that I could not do much with it on my own, because there was no way to get into or out of it unaided.

I suggested that we extend our session so I got as much time as usual. I included the information that I did not need to be home particularly early as my daughter was going to her evening job straight from school. I also pointed out that the reason he could see me in an afternoon was due to a cancellation.

He seemed a bit apologetic, but made some excuse about adding something to his children's magic shows and wanting to keep his adult real magic separate from his illusion magic for kids. I made the best of the current situation by saying, "So, what do I have to do to earn myself a bit of time in The Box." I hoped that I would be able to persuade him to do something else afterwards.

His instructions were, "Just get the valve and the medical tape and lie on that table there. I'll get the thing to flatten you with." I had a good idea of what was in the wind; he was planning to iron me flat, roll me up, post me into the Box and reinflate me, then let me out when I was ready.

I found the valve and tape in the usual drawer and fitted it in the usual place, between the last fingers of my left hand; it was easier that way, because I am right-handed. Getting the valve the right way round has become simpler since Tom scratched an arrow into its body.

It was not until I had the valve fitted that I noticed that it was a different table. It was metal with a rubber mat wrapped across the top from end to end; it looked more substantial than the fake ironing table we usually used.

"This isn't the usual ironing table; what's going on?" Something wasn't the same and I didn't think my initial grumpiness had anything to do with it.

"Nothing particular. I just thought it would be a good time to try flattening you differently. Tell me what you think of the new table; I hope it isn't too uncomfortable."

I was sceptical that the thin mat on the table would be any more comfortable than the usual ironing table. I pressed on the mat to see if it was softer and discovered that it was supported in stripes across its length. I told him that I had noticed this and wondered out loud if it would effect how flat I could be ironed. He agreed it would if he was planning to iron me flat; it seemed he planned to flatten me some other way.

"You're going to use a different method to flatten me?" I asked. Was I really in the mood to try something new? Probably not.

"Wasn't that what I told you a few moments ago?” (He hadn't!) “I'm going to be using one of the only other flattening devices I have ever seen illusionists use."

That didn't help. "So, what is it that are you going to use?" I might as well be warned about what he planned; if the worst came to the worst I could refuse to do it, get dressed and leave.

"They would usually call it a 'wringer'." He came out of the clutter of cabinets, pulling a frame, the main feature of which was a pair of closely spaced rollers, they might even have been touching.

"Is that what my Granny would have called a mangle?" It seemed like an accurate description as a noun; I hoped it was not accurate when it came to a verb, although I was getting the feeling that most of Tom's magic, when he was not ramming pointy things through me, was changing my shape to suit whatever he planned and then shaping me back after. Thoughts followed as to whether he could do something permanent with my normal shape; maybe an extra inch on my height or firm up my middle a bit more than my exercise regime.

He told me that the word 'Mangle' might describe the device and that instead of clothes being tightly squeezed between the rollers, it would be me.

Naturally, I was doubtful. "Ok, I think.” At least he was telling me what he planned in his usual vague way; a mild bone of contention since we had first met. “But in my small amount of research on YouTube, about illusions that I might expect to come up, I've never seen the assistant lain on a table and fed into a mangle. Are you sure that this will work?"

His confidence in his untried magics never ceases to amaze me. "Of course, it'll work. I'll just be concentrating the magic to flatten you into the line where you meet the rollers, instead of the area of that I am ironing.” He then went on about how illusionists need to have a box to conceal what is really happening; I tuned most of that out. He then told me that the table I was by now sat on was a conveyor belt to deliver me to the rollers that would be driven at the same rate as the rollers, so I didn't get dragged across the table top when the rollers pulled me through.

"That would explain the rubbery surface and I guess there are rollers underneath, but it does not seem to move much," I pointed out.

"That's because the rollers are locked at the moment; I don't want you accidentally sliding off before you are ready." Was he getting to be more considerate? Or was he more worried that I might slip and hurt myself seriously, making him short an assistant to experiment on?

"Ok. So other than using rollers instead of the iron, the plan is still flatten me, post me into the Box and then blow me up with the foot pump, as usual, so I can enjoy a bit of Box Time?" It seemed a good idea to lay out what I hoped the plan was, and perhaps get some warning if there were any other deviations from the plan in the works.

"Exactly. I need you to lie on your back and present your toes to the rollers. You'll be glad to hear that I've applied a small amount of padding to the rollers, because when I tried them on Mr Snuffles with unpadded rollers, he struggled; I tried again with padding and he seemed calmer."

At least, he had tried it out on someone else (well, something else). I sarcastically thanked him for that. He did not want to get into that and suggested that we get on with it; or I wouldn't get enough time in the Box.

I lay back on the conveyor mat and pushed my toes into the narrow place between the rollers. I announced that I was ready for him to begin and hoped he had not missed something critical when he was experimenting on his rabbit.

He pressed a button on the side of the frame and a motor began to whirr and the rollers began to pull at my toes. I am not quite sure what I expected to feel, but for a few moments it felt like someone had stepped on my toes, but then the pain went away. "This is what you mean by sometimes the assistant feels a bit of pain when things begin?" I suspected that, with not being in direct control of the forces that were flattening me, he might need a few seconds to get whatever he did to let me flatten lined up. “It's feeling more like being ironed now,” I added when his face began to show worry. “Although, is there meant to be a crunching noise coming from the rollers.” I was quick to assure him that it didn't feel bad, but bone-crunching noises were not relaxing.

As the rollers rolled, the conveyor conveyed. Soon my ankles were where the rollers met. Tom stroked my flattened feet which I assume were hanging out the other side. I told him that it tickled too much and asked him to stop.

As the warm tingle of being flattened progressed up my legs, to the mildly disconcerting crunching accompaniment of bone crushing, Tom fetched the tube that we had worked out eased the process of rolling my flat form for insertion through the slot in the top of the Box. I began to wonder if the feeling of having my hips flattened by the rollers would feel any different to having them ironed flat. I was distracted from this speculation by Tom wrapping my legs around the rolling stick, but it can not have been that different or I would probably have noticed.

Soon the pair of rollers were looming over me. I did not like the idea of seeing the rollers crush my face. With my breasts going between the rollers, which seemed a fraction less comfortable than being flattened manually, I worked out that I had very little time to prevent having my face rolled flat while I watched. I turned my head to the side so I did not have to confront the crushing of my skull face on.

When the roller touched my jaw, as the last of the air was being squeezed out of my lungs, the bone-crunching sounds that had been part of me being compressed to two dimensions by the rollers, suddenly came to my ears by bone conduction, rather than through the air. I tried to scream, but, with so little air, it came out as a squeak, then I had a brief period of nothing before I could feel myself expanding. I was able follow the swelling of my hand, arm and then shoulder; moments later my head popped back into three dimensions and I could watch the rest of my body unroll and fill back up to its normal size and thickness. I was growing to like the strange sensation of parts of me popping into three-dimensionality; probably, because I associated it with being inside my favourite Box.

Once the last of my toes were fully round again, I pulled in my hand and undid the tape holding the valve in place and tried to relax and lose myself in the Box's interior.

Tom stowed the pump and started preparing for whatever he was planning after I was gone. I know he was trying to be as unobtrusive as he could, but even the quiet bumps and wheel-squeaks of him moving stuff about was becoming irritating. I guess my moodiness had not completely cleared up and I was not feeling any better for being in The Box. It would be a shame to sully my over-all experience of the Box, by having a bad, non-relaxing time in it now.

"I don't think that the Box is doing it for me today; maybe I'm still too keyed-up. Can you let me out? Maybe another small bit of magic will help. I'm sure you've got time before you need me to leave," I hinted.

In about a minute the bolts that anchored the side were released and it was moved to rest on the top. I carefully uncurled myself from inside. Looking around, I spotted what looked like one of those boxes the every celebrity worth her salt seems to have lain down in to be sawn in half. I suggested that perhaps I could have a go, and pointed out that in the time I had known him he had not once divided me in any way.

His face took on a conflicted look; he knew the truth of his not dividing me and wanted to please me by rectifying that situation as soon as possible, but he was also still conscious of his plans for later and his desire not to mix my pleasure with that business. As he was weighing his options he glanced at the clock twice.

“I think I can fit in the quick version, if that's ok. But I would really like you to be gone before I start rehearsing for my addition to the kid's show. My original plan, before you were delayed, was to put you in the sawing in half box, let you get to know it a bit, then saw you in half; but with the lack of time, it'll have to be get you in the box, cut you in two, show you your feet, reassemble you and get you dressed and gone.”

“That does sound a bit perfunctory,” I observed, “but given that Angela told me that it feels good, I'll take it.” I thought back to the sawing that Angela had described to me when she was chaperoning her niece's sleepover. “Don't you need some extra people to hold some straps or something like that?”

“No, because this is a different version to the one Angela took part in. You see that table? The one with the red and yellow box on it. Bring it into the middle here, open it up and get in; it should be obvious which end is which. I'll go and get the blades, while you get yourself situated. I feel sure that you recognise it as being the one most illusionists use; exactly because they can do it without needing any help from the audience.”

I headed for the box he had pointed out and began dragging it into the clear area in front of the mirror, where we rehearsed. The table section, actually a pair of short tables held together by catches, was about mid-thigh height on me; it made sense to me that you wanted the table to be high enough that it was not a back-ache hazard by being too low, but also not too high for the audience to see what was being shown to them. On top of the table pair was side walls and lids that made up a lengthwise box. A quick glance at the shelves underneath found me the top parts of the stocks that would hold my neck and ankles. I unlatched and opened the lids and moved the stock parts to the shelf that surrounded the box, so that I could reach them once I was inside the box part.

Looking at the unpadded inside of the box it was clear to me which end was the head- and feet-ends by the indentations in the low ridges which marked the open ends. The interior was matt black, except for some slightly less dull metal lines across the middle of the length; metal bits to protect the wooden main body of the illusion from damage by the saw and reinforce where the separators would be slid in; made sense to me.

I boosted myself up to sit in the open foot end, then slid backwards, so that I was not sitting on the bottom of the foot stocks. As I slid further back to get the skinny part of my shins to rest in the twin gaps in the foot end ridge, I was a little worried that I could not feel any evidence of hidden seams in the floor of the lower half. This apparent lack of anywhere to stow fake feet in a secondhand illusion made me think that there must be other illusionists out there that also used real magic.

I reached for the ankle stock and slid it into place over my shins; it clicked into place. I was uneasy that this meant it was locked there until Tom decided to release me, but soon noticed that, if necessary, I could probably pull the bony bits of my ankles through the holes with minimal scraping off of skin, especially if I twisted them to the right angle. Experimentally I lay down and found that I needed to move my body up the box until my ankle-knobs were touching the holes in the ankle stocks; it seemed that this box was designed to hold someone an inch or so taller than me. I sat up to close the lid over my lower half and repositioned the neck stock so that I could reach when I had lain back down.

While I lay down inside the box, it became apparent that the ankle stocks were held in place, because my ankles lifted and were held down by the small amount of padding inside the holes in the stock. Looking at the bottom end of the lower lid showed me that it was not the lid that was holding it down; that made sense because it allowed for lid first then stock or vice versa, at the magician's option.

With my bare back resting on the painted wood of the box's floor, I twisted to pick up the neck stock. The stock had some shallow indents on the short ends, which I noticed while I turned it over to see if I could spot the latching mechanism. These shallow areas matched with some larger gaps in the sticky-in sections at the head end of the side walls, which I had initial assumed was there to add rigidity to the box's structure. The head end of the box was equipped with wrist restraints, but I was going to be unable to fit this part properly by myself, because it needed a free hand to put it in place and I don't a third hand to spare.

Thankfully, that was when Tom returned carrying a pair of metal sheets with wooden strips riveted on to act as handles.

“Can you come and help fit this neck stock thing; I don't think that I'm going to get my wrists in the wrist holes while I'm doing it.”

“It isn't entirely necessary,” Tom said. “I got one with wrist restraints so that my girlfriends did not put there hands down where the blades could cut them off, because reattaching loose hands is a very different thing to reconnecting legs that are roughly in the same place they were when they were cut off.” While he spoke he rested the blades on the closed lid above my legs.

I was unsure whether to feel comforted or worried that he had thought of the possibility. “So, if I keep my hands above my waist, I can have them free inside the box?” I asked to confirm my understanding.

“Exactly, and if there's still time, I might open the side doors and let you touch your legs and feel where they should be on the other side on the blade,” he offered.

While I reached over to grab the lid with one hand, I was sliding the neck stock down over my neck. I heard it click, still in the dark about how it could be released. I pulled the lid shut and asked if everything was ready.

He said something about catches on the lids and turned them to the locked position. I did not need to be told that I was here until I was released; but if I trusted him to let me free when I asked from The Box, why should this box be any different? Except that he was planning to cut me in half, he wanted me to be out of the way as soon as feasible and he might still be a bit angry about how the session had started.

He was acting a bit nervous; I spotted him wiping his hands on his T-shirt as if palms were sweating. Was he unsure that this magic would work? Was something about his plans for later preying on his mind? Did he fear that he was going to end up three-for-three on being dumped by victims of this illusion? I hoped it wasn't the last possibility, because he had been as open as I had asked him to be about what he planned; very unlikely the two previous times that he had mentioned.

He picked up the blade and turned it over to get it ready; handle up.

“So you aren't going to saw through me first?”

“No, like I said, this is the quick version; the blades go through and you are in two.”

I had to ask the obvious question. “Will it hurt?”

“As far as I can tell, no, unless you wriggle too much while the blade is going through. The last two times I did this, they were too busy shouting about what I was about to do to notice that I had done it already. I'm sorry I can't rule out the possibility, especially as you felt something from the wringer earlier, but I'm hoping that that was down you being a bit agitated at the time. And there's always the possibility that different things feel different to different people, but Ann, sorry Angela, did not seem to feel much when I cut her. Probably best if you try to relax.”

While I appreciated him being up front about this, it was not going to help me relax; I told him so.

I heard Tom picked up one of the blades and then the scrape as he located it in the slot over my waist. I was surprised and became less relaxed, when I felt the edge of the blade touch my skin an inch below my belly-button. He offered me a countdown or just do it.

“Make it quick! I don't want to...” I began with the intent of adding 'be in suspense too long.' He applied pressure to the blade's handle and thud. The main sensation was of having something hard pressed against my skin and the drawn round from the initial point of contact to where the blade exited my body; there was an undertone of the internal massage I associated with things penetrating, which I knew from my few times inside the sword box. “Did you just shove a blade through me that fast?”

“Yes. You said to be quick, so I was,” he said; did I hear some defensiveness in his tone? “How does it feel?” What might have been interpreted as concern was slightly undercut by him lifting the second blade from the lid over my now detached legs.

I tried to feel if the blade gave me any particular feelings, but other than inhibiting my movement, it was like the swords of the sword box; there, but did not have much to remind of the fact unless you tried to move against them. “Other that restricting how I move, not that there's a lot of room in here, it doesn't feel like much.” The most  unusual part of the sensation was that the metal blade was not drawing heat from my body, but imparting it. “And why is it warm?”

“The main complaint about sawing in half I got after I had done it before was that the blades were cold, so I put together a box, so that I could warm them.” How considerate!? While he told me this a new sensation of something parting the flesh of my lower waist from the blade and taking its place.

I think I giggled. “Was that the second blade going in? It didn't seem as fast.”

“That's because it has to line up parallel to the first one, which takes a bit more care.” At least he was being careful, but he could have warned me! “Are you ready to be twice the woman you were when you arrived?” He was reaching over the box to unhook the catch on the other side.

“That's a bit of a corny line. But I guess I'm as mentally prepared as one can be for my first time in two pieces.”

“Sorry about the corn; I was trying out a line for when I put this into my kid's show, they'll be seven- and eight- year olds, so it'll be new to them.” I heard the undoing of the catch on the side nearest him and he placed his hands on the lids of the separate, but together, halves. “Here goes.” That is all the warning I got before he pushed sideways on both lids and opened up a gap in big enough for him to step through.

“I felt some movement. Am I in two pieces?” I was cut off from asking more by the telephone repeater sounding.

“Yes.” he answered my question then added, “I'd better go and answer that.” He stepped through the space between my two halves and headed for the door that led to his office.

“What about me?” I was concerned that I could get myself into trouble in current unfamiliar situation.

“You'll be alright.” There was reassurance in his tone, although it could have been taken as dismissiveness. “I'll only be a couple of minutes. In the meantime you can enjoy being in two boxes at once and the boxes not being inside each other.” Not a point of view that I would have thought of.