Part 51
Hooked 2
Ana sat curled in the corner of her sleek, high-rise apartment, comforted in a heavy, oversized sweater she had once thought decadent and now found insufficient. The amber glow of early evening filtered through the sheer curtains, casting soft shadows over the polished floor, but none of it could touch the cold stillness in her limbs.
She hadn’t moved for an hour. The lights remained off. The only sound was the gentle hum of the purifier and the distant pulse of city traffic far below. Even her tablet - always glowing, always updating - lay untouched on the kitchen counter. There was no appetite. No curiosity. Only a steady, intrusive quiet.
Her feet and toes still ached.
Not sharply - not anymore. But in the deep, residual way that pain lingers in memory more than muscle. The echo of pressure beneath her toenails, the tension in her arches, the phantom touch of painful needles against the soles of her feet. The frame didn’t leave marks, not truly. But it etched itself into the nervous system. Into the breath. Into thought.
She wrapped her arms around her knees, brow pressed to the sleeve of her sweater, and let out a long, controlled breath.
It had been three days.
Three days since the dance. Since she had crumbled onstage beneath the rhythm. Since Evelyn’s voice - velvet and final - had announced her failure. Since the attendants had lifted her, silent and gloved, into the sublevel chamber where light went grey and pain became language.
The frame had broken something in her. Not her resolve - never that - but her certainty. It had showed her just how easily longing could be rewritten by punishment. How quickly desire soured when touched by consequence.
But even now, sitting here, her body washed and tended, her wounds beneath the surface, she could not forget the night that had preceded all of this.
The tongues.
She bit the inside of her cheek hard, as though it might banish the memory, but it only bloomed brighter.
That night, cloaked in latex, blindfolded, cradled by beings neither fully human nor fully machine - she had been undone. They had known every threshold, every pause, every rhythm. No fumbling. No impatience. Just pleasure held at a knife’s edge.
She had climaxed a hundred times in her mind and not once in truth.
The lust, the edges. Impossible tongues. Pleasure and desire beyond what is humanly possible. Once experienced, she was hooked. A very strong drug. Succubi. What else could they be under their faceless masks? It had been a perfect trap. It had hollowed her. And now, even with her body screaming for distance, her mind coiled around the hunger like a starving thing. Just thinking of their twirling and gripping tongues made her leak and gush under the metal shield of her belt. She stood, abruptly, just to feel the sting return to her feet. It grounded her. Reminded her that she had paid.
And yet -
"She gave me an easy one, the first one. To hook me, bait me. Make me addicted," Ana murmured to no one.
It was true. The first time. Ten minutes on the Infernal Spires. She had thought it brutal then. She had thought it fair.
But it had been deliberate. She wanted her to win the first one, to get her hooked.
Evelyn had handed her a doorway. Not to release, but to a teasing torment so exquisitely designed that even refusal became a kind of longing.
"She played me."
Evelyn wanted her hooked, addicted, to the succubi’s edges. Ana moved through her apartment, pacing slowly. The lights from the city flickered in reflection across the windows, turning her silhouette into a shadow that followed her.
She stopped in front of the large mirror that hung above her sideboard.
The woman in the glass was composed. Elegant. A professional. Her sweater slipped slightly off one shoulder, revealing the red imprint of a past restraint still fading on her collarbone.
"She knew I’d ask again."
And gods, she wanted to. Her thighs tensed just thinking of the blindfold. The warmth of breath against latex. The slow, devout tracing of her skin.
But she remembered, too, the needles. The shaking. The binding of her body in the frame. The way even a toe twitch could draw the screams out of her lungs.
"She perfectly baited me. Gave me the easy challenge, got me attached to the tongues like an addict. Then she raised the price. Paid in pain. She played me like a fiddle, that … that vampire. No. Succubus."
She had been hooked and then she had been drained. All her energy sucked away while she hung in the metal contraption that was the needle frame, screaming and screaming until she had no energy left for even that. Are succubi real? Vampires? The tongues could not be human. She never saw them. She felt them and she lost her mind to them. She felt what was not meant to be felt by a human. Beyond the veil, where monsters lure…
Ana turned away. No more games. That was what she had sworn to herself. In the frame. Between sobs. She would not risk another year. She would not beg for a climax and pay for it with a key withheld from steel.
But…
Would it be so terrible to try again for the edges? Just one more night? She could wager something bearable. She could ask for a challenge that left no scars. And if she failed - what then? Another frame? More pain?
But she had survived it. Is pain really worse than silence? she thought, and hated herself for thinking it.
She returned to the window. Watched the lights. Evelyn tried to drain her. Either in extreme pain or in extended chastity. And she might succeed. She’d had seen that indefinite chastity was very possible in Abyss. Nadia’s plague, the empty timer. Evelyn would happily take a third year, then a fourth year. It was a slippery slope. How much deeper would she slide, if she was not extremely careful? Even without a challenge, she’d probably could just buy an orgasm in the Inner Sanctum for the third year. She needed to be strong against the pull of temptation.
Her body burned - not with injury, but with the absence of touch. A hunger that even she could no longer frame as discipline.
She hadn’t decided. Not yet.
But she knew Evelyn would not be surprised when she would ask again. Ana hated how well the Mistress of Abyss knew her game.
Inside the Rubber Coffin, Emma’s world was a relentless cycle of discomfort and isolation. The heat inside the suit was unyielding, soaking her skin in sweat that pooled beneath her back and limbs. The slippery rubber lining clung to her, amplifying every slight movement and forcing her to remain painfully aware of her confinement.
The first week was the hardest. Time stretched endlessly as the darkness pressed against her senses. She fought against panic, forcing herself to focus on her breathing. The humid air filtering through the small valve near her face was warm and damp, leaving her feeling perpetually on the edge of suffocation. The lack of any external stimuli left her mind to wander, revisiting every moment that had led her to this point.
"Was it worth it?" she wondered. The thought came to her often, accompanied by flashes of her duel with Celeste. Despite the humiliation of her defeat, a small part of her still felt pride in having faced the challenge head-on. But that pride did little to soothe the oppressive discomfort of her present reality.
By the third week, Emma had developed coping mechanisms to endure the suffocating heat and the slickness of her sweat-soaked skin. Hallucinations came and went, her mind inventing its own worlds out of nothingness. The sensory deprivation was only interrupted by the automated flush baths, muscle exercises with the electro pads that left her itching afterwards. She focused on her breathing, her thoughts, anything to distract herself from the suffocating embrace of the rubber. Yet no matter how hard she tried, the days dragged on, each one feeling longer than the last. The memories of her coworkers cheering her on at the party became a faint light in the darkness, a reminder that she wasn’t entirely alone in her struggle. In this half in and half out of consciousness state, she drifted, the automatic vibrator just being an element of her dream worlds. Excited, aroused, sweaty and itching, she floated beyond the universe.
Above ground, Evelyn was already scheming her next move. The success of the New Year’s event had exceeded her expectations, and she was eager to capitalize on the momentum. Her interactions with Rachel during the party had sparked an idea.
"You know," Rachel had said, leaning in with a conspiratorial grin, "those duels are brutal, but there’s something exciting about the stakes. It’s like… a test of who you really are."
Evelyn’s smile widened. "Exactly, my dear. It’s not just about winning or losing. It’s about discovering your limits and transcending them. Wouldn’t you agree?"
Rachel’s laughter was light, but her eyes gleamed with interest. Evelyn made a mental note to cultivate that spark.
At the same time, Evelyn began weaving a plan to pit Rachel against Celeste’s manager. The idea of two professionals, who were just dipping their toes into the kink of Abyss, squaring off in a high-stakes duel was too enticing to pass up. She envisioned it as the ultimate display of leadership under pressure, a challenge that would captivate not only their employees but the broader Abyss audience. All she needed was the right moment to set the wheels in motion. She needed her own mind occupied as she danced each weekday in her private chamber, enduring her own Stilettos of the Languished Arches and their spikes.
When Emma was finally freed from the Rubber Coffin, she was a hollow shadow of her former self. Her once-confident posture was replaced by a hunched, weary stance. The light first hurt her eyes, slowly she was adapted to moving again, protected by a heavy leather blindfold for the first hours. Her skin was pale and raw from weeks of sweat and friction, and her eyes carried a distant, haunted look. The attendants helped her out of the rubber suit, their movements gentle but efficient. The rush of cool air against her skin brought tears to her eyes, a feeling almost alien by now, though it did little to alleviate the deep exhaustion that had settled in her bones.
Her coworkers greeted her return with a mixture of sympathy and admiration. Rachel, who had been one of her most vocal supporters, wrapped her in a careful hug. "You did it," she said softly. "You’re stronger than any of us."
Rachel, standing nearby, offered a smile that was both proud and apologetic. "Welcome back, Emma. Take all the time you need to recover. We’re here for you."
As the days passed, Emma began to rebuild her strength. Her coworkers rallied around her, ensuring she felt supported and valued. Though the memories of her confinement lingered, Emma found solace in their encouragement. She had faced the depths of Abyss and emerged on the other side. And while the journey had been harrowing, she knew she had proven something - to herself and to everyone watching.
The halls of Abyss were quieter than usual. A velvet dusk had settled over its chambers - one of those rare nights between spectacles, when even the regulars seemed to keep to the shadows and the air was thick with the soft scent of rose oil and anticipation.
Camelia lingered in one of the private lounges, her figure wrapped in a modest, wine-dark dress, her posture precise and careful. She sat with one ankle delicately crossed over the other, a glass of still water in her hand, though she hadn’t touched it. Her eyes roamed slowly, always thoughtful, always quiet, and when Ana approached, her expression softened slightly.
Ana was not dressed to linger. Her crystal-clear latex catsuit shimmered like glass in the low light, a clear latex hood encasing her head, every contour of her sweat-slick body visible beneath its polished surface. And beneath that, framed starkly in the transparency, her belt gleamed - tight, unmoving, inviolable. It wasn’t just visible. It was exposed. A French maid’s headband and a tiny transparent apron completed her outfit, making it a mocking version of a maid’s uniform, laying her body bare for all to see under the clear rubber.
So were her shoes. The Heels of the Swift Servant, transparent plastic. Besides her contract, these extra shifts allowed her to earn quick money on top of her base salary.
Slim, high, and spiked not to punish her for dancing, but for stopping. Delicate mechanisms at the base of each heel registered every moment of stillness. Two minutes, no motion, and they delivered their warning: a prickle, then a bite.
The heels had already reminded her once as she crossed the room.
Camelia watched her carefully. "You don’t have to sit, if it hurts."
Ana gave a small, breathless laugh as she lowered herself into the seat across from her. "I don’t get to not sit. I get to sit, then get up before they sting. Then sit again."
Camelia’s brow furrowed faintly. "How long since you’ve had them on?"
"Three hours," Ana said, shifting slightly. The latex squeaked faintly. "Evelyn’s orders. Something about keeping me… engaged."
Camelia hesitated. "You're serving tonight?"
"Yes. I’m successful now, I finally earn well, have invested even. But in Abyss I am a servant. As a waitress, I serve, my body displayed in transparent latex and my soles over waiting spikes. I accept that, we all are not carrying titles and position in Abyss. I’m just between tasks. They’ve let me drift here, since it’s quiet." She smiled.
Camelia nodded slowly, then glanced down at the table. "I’m glad you sat. I’ve been wanting to talk to you."
Ana raised an eyebrow. "About?"
"The Inner Sanctum. The attendants. What it’s like."
Ana blinked. Something flickered in her eyes - deflection first, then memory, and finally, something like reverence.
Camelia continued gently, "I know it’s private, and I don’t want to make it uncomfortable, but… I’ve never spoken to someone who went there. Not properly."
Ana opened her mouth to answer, then winced. The heel gave its warning: the subtle tick of mechanics. She stood quickly, circled the table once with slow, graceful steps, and returned.
When she spoke again, her voice was softer. "It’s hard to explain."
Camelia leaned forward slightly, her tone never pressing. "Try."
Ana hesitated. Her fingers tightened slightly on the edge of the table. "It’s like being erased. But not violently. Gently. Like they take everything that you are - thoughts, fears, even the sensation of time - and dissolve it."
She paused, searching. Her eyes glassed slightly. "You’re not touched. Not directly. But you are… consumed. They move around you. Through you. Every motion is calculated. Like they can feel every nerve under your skin and know exactly how close to take you."
Camelia’s cheeks tinged with color. She nodded slowly. "You cried."
Ana didn’t answer right away. She stood, circled again, heels tapping lightly on the marble, then returned.
"I did. Not because it hurt. Because it didn’t stop. Because I wanted to beg and knew that begging didn’t matter. They weren’t there for me. They were there to hold me on the edge."
Camelia was very still. Her voice barely audible. "And you wanted it again. After the needle frame."
Ana smiled thinly. "Wanting is the problem. It doesn’t go away. After the first night, it was all I thought about. Even while screaming in the frame. Even while they slid needles under my toenails."
Camelia’s fingers brushed her glass. "So… was it worth it?"
Ana met her eyes. "I don’t know."
She stood again, circled slowly, shoulders tense, then sat back down and exhaled.
"Part of me says yes. Absolutely. I’d do it again, if I knew I’d survive. But the rest of me… the part still healing from it? That part doesn’t answer. It just waits."
Camelia folded her hands in her lap. "Why not wait out your contract, then? Why not just… endure the belt? You’re almost done, right?"
Ana gave a quiet, incredulous laugh. "Because the Sanctum and the attendants tongues changed me. The belt wasn’t unbearable until I knew what I was missing. I was numb. I had adapted. Now I dream in tongues and heat and friction I can’t chase."
Camelia flinched. "And if you fail again? The frame again?"
Ana nodded. "Probably. Unless Evelyn demands even more. But I’d never risk a third year in this belt. Not even for all their tongues. Not even if they take me beyond the edge."
She lifted her heel up to table hight, flexed her toes slowly. "The frame’s pads touch each nail. Underneath the toes nails. Just enough to convince you you’re being undone. It flays the mind."
Camelia closed her eyes for a moment. "It seems… disproportionate."
Ana smirked. "That's Abyss."
They sat in silence for a moment.
Then Camelia spoke again, her voice tentative. "Do you think the rubber coffin would be better? No pain in there."
Ana tilted her head. "You mean like what Emma had to endure?"
"Yes. The inflatable latex box. The sensory-deprivation."
Ana considered. "A full month of that horror, right?"
Camelia nodded. "She said it felt like eternity. Edged and denied in complete darkness. No touch. Just pressure. Breath regulated. No light, no sound."
Ana shivered. "I don’t know. It might be worse. The frame hurts, yes. But at least it’s something. The coffin sounds like being left alone with your desire until it eats you."
Camelia’s expression grew pensive. "Do you think she would have preferred the frame?"
Ana rose again, walked her loop, heels ticking lightly, then returned.
"Maybe. But that’s the beauty of Abyss, isn’t it? It never gives you what you want. Only what you’ll remember."
Camelia exhaled, her shoulders low. "You speak like Evelyn. You’re really going to do it again?"
Ana nodded slowly. "I think so. Yes."
Another circle.
Another moment.
Another reminder that stillness had a price.
Just like wanting did. Camelia’s gaze lingered on the belt beneath the suit’s clear gloss. "Two years," she said quietly. "It’s bold. I couldn’t have done it."
Ana gave a short laugh, not without bitterness. "It was supposed to be one year and manageable. Distant. Something I could ignore. But with the second year, my money troubles are finally over. But no one warned me what chastity does to the body over time."
Camelia nodded slowly. "It’s like building a house with no doors. You only notice when the walls close in."
"Exactly," Ana murmured.
Camelia traced the rim of her glass absently. "I still think about Alina sometimes."
Ana’s brows lifted. "The Ice Princess?"
Camelia nodded. "The same. She agreed to five years. Against her ex-lover, remember?"
Ana shook her head slowly. "That was more than three year ago. Her plaque’s still up." Camelia’s lips parted with a whisper. "The timer’s still ticking down. Go and see it. One year and eleven months."
Ana thought of it - the cold grace of Alina, her arrogance wrapped in elegance. Three years are possible here, even more. She knew that. Her own belt felt heavier suddenly. Camelia glanced down. "Maybe she thought she’d win."
"For sure she did. Or maybe," Ana said, her voice low, "she didn’t care if she lost."
They both sat in silence, the weight of that sentence hanging between them.
Camelia broke it. "And Nadia."
Ana stiffened. Her next rise was slower. Another circuit. Then she sat.
"She demanded indefinite chastity. For her rival. For Elise. A duel. Full terms. Loser locked forever, or however long Elise would be with her boyfriend."
Camelia looked away. "And she lost."
Ana closed her eyes. "She lost."
There was a hollow stillness then. Even the hum of Abyss seemed to retreat. Camelia whispered, "And now she’s here."
Ana nodded. "Her belt has never come off since then."
Camelia bit her lip. "Does Evelyn ever… suggest she could be freed? Experience the Sanctum maybe?"
"She did play." Ana’s voice was taut. "She smiles at her, you know? Like a teacher proud of a student’s obedience. I think, Elise would have to agree to all challenges Nadia asks for if she tries to gamble for some form of relief. You remember last time?"
Camelia whispered, "Nadia?"
Ana looked down. "She got into rubber. Long-term wearing, even outside of Abyss. And now, she’s breaking again. Unfulfilled. You can see it. Still elegant. Still composed. But when no one’s watching, she presses her hands to her thighs. She closes her eyes like she’s praying."
Camelia sat back. "I wonder if she regrets it."
Ana rose again, another small prick under her soles. Circled. Returned. "I think she does. But that’s Abyss. Once you sign up, you live it."
They sat together, side by side, in silence. Each trapped in their own private thoughts. And beneath it all, the soft ticking of Ana’s heels - two minutes from memory, two minutes from pain.
The apartment was silent, save for the hum of the city far below and the occasional whisper of the wind against the glass. Emma sat curled on the couch, wrapped in a loose sweater, knees drawn up to her chest. Her hair was damp from a long shower, her skin still flushed from being out in the real air for the first time in weeks.
She had thought the freedom would feel more euphoric. But instead, it felt… distant. Muted.
The rubber coffin had stripped her of time, sensation, and self. Now, alone in the quiet comfort of her apartment, she found herself haunted not by pain, but by the void it left behind. The silence here was different. It wasn’t oppressive, but it wasn’t peaceful either. It reminded her of the absence - the way she had floated through darkness, suspended in a latex tomb, no sound, no touch, no sense of movement save for the trembling inside her own skin.
Emma shifted slightly. Even now, her muscles twitched from the weeks of near-total stillness, broken only by artificial stimulations: the mechanical muscle pulses, the slow flush cycles, the edging that made sleep and sanity blur together. Her breath hitched slightly. That constant low thrum of arousal had never truly disappeared. Even now, the memory of it lingered, like an itch too deep to scratch. She had trouble satisfying herself at first. First, she failed, her arms and hands weak, she, being exhausted too quickly. When she did have her orgasm after her enclosure, it was deeply satisfying. She slept a whole day after.
She stared at her hands. They were her hands. Not gloved. Not sealed. Just skin. She pressed one against her cheek, savoring the contrast. For weeks, her body had not truly belonged to her. The suit had dictated her boundaries. The seals had defined her form. Even her breathing had come through a controlled valve. She had become a shape, a vessel inside something inhuman.
And now?
Now she was expected to return to normal. To return to work. Emma, the Rubber Girl. To sit in her apartment, to drink tea, to respond to messages from people who hadn’t seen the inside of what she had endured. She wasn’t angry. Not at them. They had cheered for her. They had offered kind words. But none of them knew what it felt like to be edged until your sense of self fractured, to live in a heat-trapped silence so complete you started to hallucinate conversations with people who weren’t there.
She got up, walking slowly to the kitchen. Her legs ached from the movement. They weren’t used to carrying her yet. The world felt too large. Too bright. The air too dry. She poured a cup of tea and leaned against the counter, staring out over the city lights.
She had endured. That meant something. But she hadn’t yet decided what.
What she did know was this: the coffin had changed her. Not just physically, not just mentally. It had bent her inward, stripped her bare, and forced her to meet parts of herself she had never known existed. Her control, her fear, her fantasies - they had all danced together in that coffin, wrapped in sweat and pressure and relentless denial.
Now, she had to choose what to do with the silence it left behind.
Emma walked back to the couch, sat down, and pulled her blanket close again.
She didn’t cry. She didn’t smile.
She just breathed.
Free from it. Finally.