Part 23
Coming Out of the Closet
The dim glow of Abyss' signature red lights reflected off the glossy surfaces of the club, casting an almost sinister sheen over the room. Evelyn stood on the elevated stage, her piercing gaze sweeping across the crowd. It was one of the quieter nights, yet the tension in the air was palpable. Two women, Emma and Celeste, dressed in latex catsuits, stood at the foot of the stage, their expressions taut with animosity.
For Emma, it had been weeks of quiet humiliation. Since the night she confided in Celeste, the weight of her secret had shifted from intimate to unbearable. The revelation of her love for latex clothing had spread like wildfire through her workplace. It began subtly: a few knowing smirks in the breakroom, quiet whispers that ceased as soon as she entered. But the subtlety didn’t last. One of her colleagues had forwarded a screenshot of Celeste’s thinly veiled online comments, and soon Emma’s secret was the subject of open conversation. The message was clear: Emma, the rubber girl. Per se, in the open-minded, kink-friendly city, this would not lead to repercussions. But a friendly mocking, a teasing, and side remarks would be to be endured. Several celebrities had come out with their diverse kinky interests in public, being celebrated and welcomed for it, so a love for latex was not really shocking. She knew that Celeste’s colleagues already had also hinted at her being maybe a bit too much into shiny clothes. Maybe she wanted to pull Emma along down into the rumor mill. But Emma would have preferred to come out and reveal her secret at her own terms, if ever. Now with Celeste’s comments on her fashion photos, the cat was out of the bag. Impossible to squeeze the toothpaste back into the tube.
Emma’s workplace, once her refuge of professionalism, had turned into a comedic arena of snide remarks and sly jokes. Even her supervisor, while maintaining a facade of support, looked at her differently now. The violation of her trust ate away at her daily, and the sting of betrayal burned hotter each time she replayed her conversations with Celeste.
And there Celeste stood, smug as ever, as though none of it mattered. Emma’s hands were clenched at her sides, her nails digging into her palms as she glared at the woman she had once trusted. "You had no right," Emma hissed, her voice shaking with fury. "What I told you was private. You’ve exposed me outside of this place."
Celeste smirked, though her confidence wavered under Emma’s anger. "Oh, don’t be so dramatic. It’s not like anyone cares. People have their kinks. Yours just happens to involve rubber."
Emma’s face flushed, a mix of shame and rage. "It was not your secret to share! Do you have any idea what you’ve done? My friends, my colleagues… They’ll never look at me the same way again."
Evelyn, who had been silently observing the exchange, raised a hand to quiet the room. "Ladies," she said, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. "It seems we have a dispute worth settling. Here, at Abyss, we believe in resolution through action. Emma, you seek retribution for your betrayal, and Celeste, you wish to defend your choices. Am I correct?"
"Yes, I seek retribution. I ask politely not for pain for the loser though. I believe in your wisdom to find something more adequate? As I’m now knows as the rubber girl outside of these halls, her punishment should fit the crime."
Both women nodded, though Celeste’s smirk faded as she realized the gravity of what Emma was hinting at. "Celeste, as being challenged, what do you suggest as forfeit?"
Celeste steeled herself. "If she thinks that rumor is bad, then let us confirm it as facts!"
Evelyn paused, then addressed both. "Celeste, that shall be arranged, but I think this is not enough retribution for what Emma seeks. Ladies, might I suggest a time out in rubber bondage for the duel’s loser?"
Emma answered immediately, "Would serve her right…"
"So clear that you jump at her mentioning rubber, rubber girl!"
Evelyn stepped forward, her heels clicking sharply against the stage floor. "Enough. Very well. You shall settle this dispute in the way of Abyss." She paused, letting the anticipation build. "A duel. And as this is about a latex coming out, it is fitting that only one of you will walk away vindicated, and the other…" Evelyn’s lips curved into a sly smile, "…will endure a full week in the Rubber Coffin."
The crowd murmured in excitement, their eyes darting between Emma and Celeste. The mention of the Rubber Coffin always drew interest, as it was a punishment that hadn’t been invoked in a long time and even more rarely endured without significant struggle.
Evelyn turned her gaze to Emma. "You seek retribution. Are you prepared to fight for it?"
Emma nodded, her jaw set with determination. "I am."
Evelyn’s eyes shifted to Celeste. "And you? Do you stand by your actions enough to face the consequences?"
Celeste hesitated, but the murmurs of the crowd pushed her forward. "I do," she said, though her voice lacked the conviction of Emma’s.
Evelyn clapped her hands once, the sharp sound silencing the room.
"Excellent. Here are the stakes with the signature Abyss’ twist: if Celeste wins, Emma’s exposure will deepen even more. More photos will be shared - but this time, with Emma’s face and identity front and center, full latex, further exposing her to her outside world and cementing her status as rubber girl, exchanging rumors for photographic proof."
Emma was only mildly shocked. People talked about her and latex already.
Evelyn’s smile widened. "If Emma wins, she will receive compensation from Abyss for the damage to her reputation, and Celeste’s reputation will match hers with her own coming out of her closet. Photos of the duel and her time in the Rubber Coffin will be posted on her social media streams and the club’s channels. Do you both agree to these terms?"
Celeste gasped in horror. That would not be good. She would be fully exposed, even more so than Emma, who nodded without hesitation. In for a penny, in for a pound. What would change after she’d already found a sticky note on her work desk with a smilie face and the word "Emma, the rubber girl"?
Celeste’s response came slower, but she eventually nodded as well. Too late to back out now, her reputation would be tarnished just alone by being seen by so many people in the crowd.
The stage was cleared, and a pair of needle-heeled shoes was brought forward for each contestant. The shoes were sleek and black, with transparent soles that revealed the sharp spikes embedded inside. The spikes would press upward with each misstep, their bite punishing any falter in balance or grace.
Evelyn explained the rules: each contestant would perform a series of dance moves designed to test their endurance, balance, and precision. The one who faltered first would lose. The duel would last as long until one contestant would go down on her knees.
Emma and Celeste donned the shoes, their faces taut with concentration. The moment they stepped onto the stage, the spikes beneath their soles activated, pressing just enough to keep them aware of every step. The music began, a pulsing beat that echoed through the room.
Emma moved with precision, her movements sharp and controlled. Every step sent a jolt of discomfort through her feet, but she pushed through, fueled by her anger and the promise of vindication. Celeste started strong, her steps confident, but as the routine grew more complex, her movements became erratic.
Sweat dripped down both women’s faces as the minutes dragged on. The spikes in their shoes punished every misstep, and Celeste’s confidence quickly gave way to visible strain. The crowd watched in rapt silence, their eyes darting between the two contestants.
Finally, at the eight-minute mark, Celeste stumbled. Her foot slipped, and she collapsed to one knee, the spikes pressing mercilessly into her sole. The crowd erupted into cheers as Emma completed the final steps of the routine, victorious. Cameras flashed.
Evelyn stepped forward, her smile triumphant. "And so it is decided. Emma, you have proven your resilience. Compensation for your damaged reputation will be arranged by Abyss." She turned to Celeste, who was still kneeling on the stage, her face pale and her hands trembling. "And you, Celeste, shall face the Rubber Coffin. Perhaps a week of reflection will teach you the value of trust. Our lawyer will issue an express holiday note and will send it to your work place, so this is not something you will have to worry about."
Two attendants appeared, guiding Celeste off the stage and toward the basement. The crowd parted to let them through, their murmurs following her as she was led to her punishment. Cameras flashed, capturing every moment for the club’s social media channels.
The Rubber Coffin stood in the center of the basement, its glossy black surface gleaming under the dim lights. The interior was lined with inflatable rubber padding, a thick latex suit for the unlucky occupant ready to be clicked into it, designed to press against the occupant’s body and limit their movement. The material was slick and warm to the touch. Over time it would create a stifling, sauna-like environment.
As Celeste was guided inside, the silent attendants handed her a note that explained her fate. The coffin would seal around her, leaving only a small breathing valve near her face. The heat would build gradually, and the slippery interior would make even the slightest movement an ordeal but also a sensual experience. She would remain there for seven days, her only company the oppressive grip of the rubber. Tubes were attached to the internal suit to take care of bodily functions, build-in electro pads would stimulate her muscles to avoid cramping. Finally a small bullet vibrator nestled in a pocket over her clitoris, providing entertainment for the time to come, of course too weak to provide a full resolution.
When the lid was sealed, and the airlock hissed into place, Celeste’s world grew dark and silent. The heat began to build almost immediately, and she felt the rubber pressing against her from all sides. Every attempt to shift only made her more aware of the slick, unyielding material surrounding her. Time seemed to stretch endlessly, each second a reminder of her failure.
Back in the main hall, Emma watched as the crowd resumed their revelry. Though her victory had been sweet, a part of her couldn’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for Celeste. Her stupid online comments. Still, she reminded herself, trust was not something to be betrayed lightly.
Evelyn, watching from the sidelines, allowed herself a small smile. She would feast for a week on Celeste’s ordeal. Another lesson delivered, another night at Abyss complete.
The moment the attendants sealed the lid of the Rubber Coffin, Celeste’s world shrank to a suffocating cocoon of darkness and heat. The faint hiss of airlocks engaging was the last external sound she heard before silence consumed her. The internal latex cushions inflated, pressing against her, binding her further in place. Her breathing grew shallow as the rubber interior pressed tightly against her body, conforming to every curve, leaving her unable to move. The only break in the oppressive stillness was the faint sound of her own breath filtering through the small valve near her face.
The air inside was humid, carrying the sweet scent of latex mixed with the growing musk of her sweat. It clung to her nostrils, a constant reminder of her confinement. Within moments, the heat began to build, turning the interior of the coffin into a stifling sauna. Sweat pooled against her skin, trapped between her body and the slick rubber lining. The sensation was immediate and overwhelming, a slimy discomfort that only grew worse as time dragged on.
At first, Celeste tried to focus on controlling her breathing. She counted each inhale and exhale, trying to maintain a semblance of calm. But the unrelenting heat made her chest feel heavy, her breaths shallow. The rubber pressed tightly against her skin, amplifying every twitch and shift of her body. Sweat streamed down her face and neck, pooling at the base of her back and the hollow of her knees, creating an unbearable slickness that she couldn’t escape.
She tried to move, even slightly, to alleviate the pressure, but the inflatable padding inside the coffin left no room for adjustment. Her fingers twitched uselessly against the rubberized gloves that encased them, and her legs strained against the constricting embrace of the material. The more she struggled, the more the rubber seemed to press back, a constant, unyielding reminder of her punishment.
Then came the itching. It began as a faint tickle along her collarbone, then spread to her shoulder and down her arms. The heat and sweat made her skin hypersensitive, and every itch felt magnified. She tried to shift her arms, to scratch or rub against the lining, but the rubber held her firmly in place. The frustration was maddening, and she tried clenching her fists, but the internal mittens not allowing it.
Time lost meaning quickly. In the dark, silent confines of the coffin, there were no markers to track its passage. Minutes stretched into what felt like hours, and hours into days. The oppressive heat and the slick, slippery feeling of her sweat-soaked skin against the rubber became her entire world. Her mind began to drift, slipping between moments of clarity and disjointed thoughts. Her arousal swelled and ebbed, the vibrator turning on and off randomly. She groaned in frustration whenever it switched off. She groaned even more when it eventually turned back on.
At seemingly random intervals, her world was flooded by warm water, carrying away her sweat and all residue. She understood that she was washed. Warm air was pushed through at force, drying her and the rubber quickly. She also understood that together with the feeding tubes, waste tubes and muscle stimulation pad, this device was built with very long term confinement in mind.
She tried to distract herself, to conjure pleasant memories or thoughts to pass the time. She thought of her favorite songs, but the silence of the coffin made them feel hollow, their rhythms impossible to grasp in her isolation. She imagined herself walking along the beach, the cool breeze on her face a stark contrast to the suffocating heat she now endured. But even her imagination couldn’t override the reality of her confinement.
As the hours dragged on, her thoughts turned darker. Regret gnawed at her, a bitter edge that cut through the haze of her discomfort. "Why did I ever agree to this? Why couldn’t I have kept my mouth shut and not commented on her photos about her special fashions?" She replayed the events leading up to her punishment, the smug look on Emma’s face as she declared her victory, the cold satisfaction in Evelyn’s voice as she pronounced Celeste’s fate. Anger flared briefly, but it was quickly extinguished by the overwhelming exhaustion that seeped into her bones.
Every inch of Celeste’s body screamed for relief. The slickness of her sweat made her feel as though she were floating inside her own skin, her body sliding against the rubber with every shallow breath or involuntary twitch. The heat was unrelenting, and every droplet of sweat felt like a small, mocking reminder of her helplessness. The rubber pressed against her chest, her thighs, her arms, making her hyperaware of every bead of moisture as it rolled down her skin.
The itching persisted, a cruel torment that seemed to spread and intensify with time. Her scalp prickled beneath the hood, and her back felt like it was crawling with ants. She gritted her teeth, her frustration mounting as the sensations compounded. She wanted to scream, to thrash, to do anything to break free of the maddening stillness, but the coffin held her in its relentless grip.
Her mind began to wander again, this time spiraling into despair. "What if I can’t take it?" The thought crept in unbidden, and she couldn’t shake it. She imagined herself trapped in the coffin forever, her body slowly succumbing to the heat and pressure. The thought sent a shiver through her, though it was quickly swallowed by the oppressive warmth of her prison.
Amid the haze of discomfort, there were brief moments of clarity. Celeste tried to focus on the rhythmic sound of her breathing, the only thing anchoring her to reality. She imagined the moment when the coffin would finally open, the rush of cool air against her skin, the relief of freedom. It became her singular goal, a light at the end of the tunnel that kept her from completely unraveling.
She clung to the thought of Emma, of proving that she could endure this punishment and emerge stronger. It was a hollow comfort, but it was enough to keep her going. If Emma thinks this will break me, she’s wrong, she thought, though the conviction behind her words wavered with each passing moment.
As Celeste endured her punishment, unaware of time's passage, the outside world moved on - but not without consequence for her. Two days into her ordeal, the promised photos of her performance and its aftermath began circulating on her own social media account and Abyss’s official channels. The first photo was a dramatic shot of her dancing in the needle heels, her expression strained but determined, beads of sweat glistening under the stage lights. The caption read: "Celeste’s bold duel at Abyss! A clash of trust and betrayal."
The next series of photos captured the moments leading up to her punishment. One showed the attendants dressing her in the Rubber Coffin’s glossy confines, their hands adjusting the hood and ensuring a snug fit. Another showed her laying stiffly as the coffin’s interior inflated slightly around her body. The final photo was the most striking: the open coffin itself, its sleek, black exterior gleaming under the dim basement lights. The caption was simple yet chilling: "Seven days of reflection begin now."
The reactions were swift and polarized. On her personal social media, acquaintances and some colleagues who had already whispered about her speculative reputation as a "rubber enthusiast" exploded with comments.
"This is… intense. Are you okay?" one concerned friend wrote.
"I guess we know the rumors were true," another added, their tone dripping with mockery.
"So this is how you spend your holiday, I’m more than happy to sign off on this vacation request," apparently her manager wrote.
"You’ve really gone all-in, huh?" a former colleague quipped, their words a mix of amusement and judgment."
On Abyss’s feed, the reactions were more celebratory:
"This is why I love this place! Drama and consequences."
"Evelyn knows how to keep things interesting. Seven days? Brutal."
"At least she didn’t get a Cap! Would switch in a heartbeat. L&M"
"Celeste was asking for it. You don’t mess with secrets here."
"Nadia, this is where YOU belong!! E."
Meanwhile, Celeste remained utterly oblivious to the storm unfolding online. Her world was limited to the oppressive heat, the slick, suffocating rubber, and the darkness that seemed to stretch on forever. Each comment, each shared photo, amplified the spectacle of her punishment to the outside world, cementing her public humiliation even further.
As the days stretched on, Celeste’s sense of time became even more distorted. She imagined herself floating in a void, her body weightless and disconnected from reality. The heat and slickness of the rubber coffin became her entire existence, an endless cycle of discomfort and longing for release.
When the coffin finally hissed open, the sudden rush of cool air felt almost surreal. Celeste gasped, her chest heaving as she tried to adjust to the sensation of freedom. Her body was slick with sweat, her skin flushed and raw from the constant pressure. She felt weak, her muscles trembling as she was helped out of the coffin by the attendants.
Her punishment had ended, but the memory of her time in the coffin lingered, a haunting reminder of the cost of betrayal and the unforgiving nature of Abyss.
Emma’s workplace had already been abuzz with her "rubber girl" reputation ever since her secret had been exposed weeks earlier. The initial wave of whispers and knowing smirks had settled into a kind of normalcy, with her colleagues finding ways to weave the topic into casual jokes or conversations. She had grown used to it, though the sting of betrayal still lingered. Now, however, there was an undeniable shift in the tone of the teasing after the photos from Abyss circulated online.
The face-blurring in the photos left Emma’s identity officially unconfirmed, but the body language, height, and confident posture in the images were unmistakable to those who knew her well. The duel’s context - a battle for dignity and trust - only added to the intrigue. It wasn’t long before a few close colleagues began hinting at their suspicions, albeit with a surprising mix of admiration and humor.
"Hey, Emma," called out Brian from across the breakroom one morning, his tone light but laced with curiosity. "Saw some wild photos from that kinky club last night. That mystery dancer - blurred face and all - had moves. Hypothetically speaking, if it were you, you’ve got guts. Hypothetically, of course."
Emma glanced up from her coffee, her expression carefully neutral. "Hypothetically, Brian, I’d say thanks. But I’d also say that kind of thing’s not really my scene."
"Sure, sure," he replied, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "But you know, if it were you, hypothetically, I’d be impressed. Not many people would dance in heels like that and come out on top."
Emma smirked, shaking her head, but couldn’t entirely hide the flicker of pride warming her cheeks. The teasing continued throughout the day in small bursts, but it was more playful than mocking. Her colleagues, while entertained by the mystery, seemed to carry a subtle undercurrent of respect for what "hypothetically" had been accomplished.
Even her manager, a typically reserved woman named Rachel, offered a rare smile during a brief meeting. "Good work on the Taylor account, Emma. Oh, and for what it’s worth, if the rumors about Abyss have any truth to them… well, you handled yourself professionally. Both here and there."
Emma managed a polite thank-you, unsure whether Rachel truly suspected anything or was simply offering subtle encouragement. Either way, it felt like a small victory. The curiosity surrounding her "hypothetical" performance at Abyss had created an odd mix of teasing and respect, leaving her with a quiet sense of triumph amid the chaos of her reputation.
While Emma’s identity remained officially unconfirmed, Celeste’s face had been prominently displayed across Abyss’ social media channels. The photos of her duel and subsequent punishment in the Rubber Coffin had gone semi-viral, particularly within niche communities that frequented the club. By the time Monday morning rolled around, her workplace was already buzzing with the news.
Celeste entered the office cautiously, bracing for the onslaught of reactions she knew awaited her. The first sign came from her desk neighbor, a cheerful woman named Roxana, who grinned broadly the moment Celeste walked in.
"Morning, celebrity!" Roxana chirped, spinning her chair to face Celeste. "Didn’t think you’d actually pull off that outfit. Rubber looks… intense. But you rocked it. Mostly."
Celeste groaned, setting her bag down and slumping into her chair. "Don’t remind me," she muttered, though her tone lacked real bite.
"Oh, come on," Roxana pressed. "You have to admit it’s kind of impressive. I mean, sure, the whole coffin thing looked… uncomfortable, to put it mildly. But you lasted a week! That’s something, right?"
"Not by choice," Celeste shot back, though a faint smile tugged at her lips despite herself.
The teasing continued throughout the day, ranging from lighthearted comments about her "rubber resilience" to exaggerated stories of her supposed courage. One coworker jokingly asked if she’d be wearing latex to the next office party, while another offered to buy her a "Rubber Queen" mug for her desk. Despite the relentless attention, there was no malice behind the remarks. If anything, her colleagues seemed more entertained than judgmental.
By lunchtime, the office group chat was flooded with memes and jokes referencing her stint in the Rubber Coffin. Someone had even created a mock movie poster titled "Rubber: The Celeste Chronicles", complete with dramatic taglines like "One Woman’s Journey Through Sweat and Silence" and "From the Office to Infamy." Celeste couldn’t help but laugh, though the flush of embarrassment on her cheeks lingered long after.
Both Emma and Celeste had begun to settle into their new realities. For Emma, the "rubber girl" moniker remained a point of contention, but the respect she’d earned - whether genuine or teasing - softened the blow. She found herself standing a little taller, her confidence bolstered by the knowledge that she had faced the ordeal and come out stronger.
Celeste, meanwhile, had begrudgingly embraced her newfound infamy. While the experience in the Rubber Coffin remained a sore point, the camaraderie among her colleagues and their playful acceptance of her ordeal made it easier to bear. She even found herself laughing along with the jokes, though she swore to herself she’d never set foot in Abyss again.
In their own ways, both women had learned to navigate the fallout of their public exposure, finding moments of strength and humor amid the challenges. And while their paths had diverged, the echoes of their duel continued to ripple through their lives, a reminder of the strange, transformative power of Abyss.