Part 27
Pillow
Nicoleta had known the denial would be difficult - twelve months in a belt was not a casual punishment - but she hadn’t known it would begin to unmake her. The days were manageable. The nights were not. Her body didn’t sleep anymore; it throbbed. Her thoughts came slow, distracted, and always, always circled back to the absence between her thighs. To the slow grind of time and steel.
She had tried to endure. She had tried to meditate, to sublimate, to smother her own need. But need did not smother. Need burned. It had been almost nine months since the New Year’s party, the Balance over the Abyss, and she was unraveling.
And Evelyn, as always, knew exactly when to step in. The offer had been made in her usual fashion: calmly, with a note of silk in her voice that could be mistaken for kindness, until one listened to the words themselves.
"You may have it," Evelyn had said, fingertips resting lightly on the rim of her wineglass. "Release. A full orgasm. By yourself. You will be on all fours, tied, allowed to hump a pillow. Classic masturbation. But in Abyss style it will be a latex pillow."
Nicoleta had stared, breath shallow, eyes wide. She felt a gush behind the steel mesh of her belt.
"But you will earn it," Evelyn continued, "and it will be witnessed. On the stage. Naked, a public orgasm."
She gasped, shivered, shocked. But her need outweighed her hesitation. Of course she agreed, she couldn’t endure the belt. The wheel of misfortune had chosen it; never would she have wagered it. She just had been unlucky, a Gala event, she agreed to participate, was chosen. And she fell. And the wheel chose it. A serious of unlucky events, leading her to the present moment. Now she stood backstage, nude, a wide collar snug around her neck, breath fluttering in her chest. The belt had been removed minutes ago - freedom after months of steel. Her bare skin felt exposed, raw, as if she had no barrier between her body and the world.
The stage beyond was dimmed but brimming with a hushed tension. Patrons had gathered in front of the stage, in the recessed booths, in the bar area, drinks in hand, anticipation thick in the air.
Ana sat among them, arms folded tightly in her lap. Her clear latex catsuit shimmered with a sheen of sweat under the low lights, her own belt beneath it gleaming through the latex. Her eyes were fixed on the stage, watching with barely concealed hunger. It wasn’t fair. Ana felt the same, if not a greater, need. And yet she was allowed this. She was being unbelted. She was being permitted to fall. Camelia, a gentle professional ballerina dancer, sat to Ana’s left, still and quiet, a soft sadness behind her eyes. She understood what Ana was feeling. She felt it too - or so she thought, though hers was a gentler envy, colored more by empathy than bitterness.
And Elise, three seats down, leaned forward with a grin that cut like a scalpel. In the seats in front of her sat Nadia, silent, tightly composed. Her posture was impeccable, her eyes neutral, but Elise leaned forward to her with a wicked little smile and whispered, "She’ll never let you do this. You know that, right? Not even after years chaste. Evelyn wouldn’t even dream of granting you a moment like this. Only after consulting me on it. And I’d be very aware of what you wagered in our duel."
Nadia didn’t answer.
"But maybe," Elise added with a mock-pensive tilt of her head, "if you begged me properly, we could arrange a challenge. A real one. With… suitable forfeits. Something unforgettable."
Nadia’s jaw tightened, but she said nothing. The chastity belt was bad enough. What would Elise seem suitable, or even unforgettable?
Elise leaned back, delighted.
The curtain drew back. Nicoleta stepped onto the stage. She was stark naked, a spotlight shone on her.
The latex pillow waited at the center. Large, contoured, and almost threatening in its simplicity. It gleamed under the spotlight, impossibly sleek. It had been saturated in silicone oil - deliberately so. A thin layer glistened across the cushion’s black surface, pooling in its curves, shining like water on obsidian. Inflatable and pliant, it shifted beneath the slightest pressure. The scent of the oil mixed with latex and the electric tension in the air. Nicoleta’s breath hitched, the oil would make this difficult. No hands allowed. She would need to develop a working technique, and fast.
Evelyn’s voice - smooth, cool - slipped through the speakers. "You have one hour. One orgasm. No assistance. No hands. The audience is your witness."
Two masked attendants guided her forward, tied her gently on all fours, wrists and ankles fixed to the corners of the platform. Her knees were spread. The pillow was beneath her, she tied, spread out on top of it, her body straddling it. Her breath shuddered as her hips sank down and she felt the cool latex touching her torso from breasts down to her nether region.
Then the attendants withdrew. The light dimmed to gold. The clock began. She began slowly. Her hips moved with uncertainty, brushing against the cushion. It shifted beneath her - soft but offering little resistance. Her skin slid rather than caught. The inflatable cushion moved back, evaded her touch wherever she met it, maintaining an agonizing sensual touch, so seductive but barely enough.
At first, her movements were tentative. Her hips shifted forward, brushing against the slick surface. The pillow gave beneath her with a soft hiss, air inside moving, offering no resistance, only yielding, shifting pressure. She adjusted her angle, pushing harder, rocking into it. The heat in her chest flared. The movement grew rhythmic. But still, the slickness defeated her every attempt to anchor herself. The oil combined with the forming sweat, turning the pillow into something absurdly evasive. Each push slid her off-kilter. Her hips began to pump. Faster. Harder. Her face twisted with frustration.
Moans escaped her lips - soft at first, then louder.
The audience stirred. Some laughs could be heard.
Elise grinned openly now. "She’s working for it. Gods, listen to that."
More laughter followed. A wave of amused chuckles. A few raised glasses. Smiles and murmurs.
"She might not make it."
"She’s practically rutting."
"Like a good pet."
"A bitch in heat."
Nicoleta heard none of it clearly. The sound of her breath, the slick slap of skin against latex, and the relentless burn inside her drowned it all. Thirty minutes in, she was moving with abandon. Desperate. Raw. The oil had coated everything. Her thighs gleamed. Her arms trembled. Her moans became cries. But no matter how hard she ground, the pillow shifted, slid, bent under her. There was no friction. No pressure. Her body needed contact, grip, resistance - and there was none.
Please, she thought. Please let this happen. Let this work. I can’t go back in the belt without having this. I can’t.
Her hips bucked. Again. Again.
She imagined the orgasm. She imagined peace. Just once. Just this once. Her whole body sang with desperation. Her breath came in ragged gasps. She pressed her hips down hard, felt the pillow deflate slightly, slide away, reform. Why won’t it stay still? Her thoughts raced. Why is this so impossible? Her panic spilled into her limbs. Her thrusts became more forceful, erratic. Each time she thought she was near - so close - a slide or bend in the surface stole it away. The ache became unbearable. Her moans became open, broken sobs. She was panting, pleading inside. Let me have it, please. Please.
But nothing came.
Fifty minutes.
She moved harder, faster, her body shaking with effort. Every nerve was alight. But the pressure never peaked. The slide never steadied. She was empty, aching, furious.
Her eyes were wild. Her breath was ragged. She clenched her fists against the bindings. The oil pooled beneath her. Her movements had become chaotic. All rhythm lost. She threw herself into the cushion, again and again, thighs burning, back arched. Slamming it, sliding and rubbing on it like her life depended on it. Her orgasm depended on it.
The audience roared - cheering, laughing, some whispering cruel delights. Elise in particular looked nearly breathless with amusement, sipping her wine with gleaming eyes.
Ana’s hands trembled in her lap. Camelia looked away. She knew, a video recording of Nicoleta’s performance on stage was going into her files, ensuring every wager she entered would be paid - in full. How would her parents react to this show?
And then - the timer ended. She cried out in frustration.
Evelyn’s voice slid through the silence. "A brave effort, Nicoleta. But it seems tonight’s freedom was just beyond your reach."
The curtain began to lower.
Nicoleta remained tied. Her face was flushed, streaked with sweat and humiliation. She still rubbed and humped the pillow. Two attendants returned. The belt was brought back, the sound of its locking loud in the hush. Only once it was in place did they untie her wrists.
Nicoleta was helped to her knees, head bowed, breath ragged. Her body trembled - not with satisfaction, but with denial that burned. And in that moment, she felt the cruelest sting of all: the pulsing need in her apex, still there, still feeling the oily touch of the latex cushion. The belt, as unforgiving as it was, gave her an excuse. It explained her failure. It protected her from more.
She had been given a chance to peak. The only thing that had peaked was her humiliation on the stage.
Ana stared at the closed curtain. She had never felt so empty. Someone applauded in the background; Elise.
Nadia watched Elise with a quiet fury.
And Evelyn? She smiled, serene as ever, sipping her wine in the dark. And next week, she’d collect her own sought after prize.