Part 55
Endless Dance
Evelyn stood in her private chamber, the dim light casting long shadows across the mirrored walls. The air was thick with the faint scent of rubber and leather, mingling with the tension that seemed to permeate the room. The Stilettos of the Languished Arches glistened on her feet, their sleek design betraying none of the agony they inflicted. She adjusted her stance, the spikes embedded in the insoles waiting to bite sharply into the sensitive flesh of her soles. Taking a deep breath, she pressed play on the control panel, and the haunting opening notes of the Seventh Circle of Hell began to echo through the room.
She kept trying. Ana’s ordeal in the Needle Frame hadn’t helped, neither did her second stay in it - of course she had failed the Obedience Bench trial and ended up in the needles again. She planned it, she played on her addiction to the tongues. She needed the drain. That night, in her first attempt at the song, as Ana was suffering through her first hours, she made it again into the last hour of the song, but eventually failed. One particular passage of notes was hard to follow, and more than two hours of energetic dancing left her weak and vulnerable to the spikes. Her second attempt, after some hours of rest went even worse. Her soles, legs and ankles were still sore from the previous dance. She couldn’t siphon as much energy from Ana as she had already stopped screaming and trashing, and was semi-consciously hanging in the Needle Frames devices, moaning, shuddering, screeching occasionally. But she was already drained too dry. And now, Ana’s time had come.
Ana sat motionless in the quiet lounge of Abyss, the lights dim, the velvet walls absorbing every sound like secrets. The club was closed to guests on weeknights - just the staff and the shadows, and Evelyn. The silence felt ceremonial, as though the building itself were holding its breath.
Evelyn arrived precisely on time, gliding into the room in a silhouette of tailored black, as crisp and ageless as always. Ana rose as she entered, her movements slow, controlled. Her breath was tight in her chest. She had rehearsed this moment so many times - imagined what it would feel like to be released. Yet now, as Evelyn stood before her, she felt none of the euphoria she had pictured. Only weight. History. Something final and irreversible.
Evelyn said nothing at first. She circled Ana slowly, once, a quiet inspection. Ana stood still, arms at her sides, palms sweating. The belt gleamed under her fitted skirt, catching the golden light. Twenty-four months sealed. Not one moment of freedom.
"You did it," Evelyn said softly. Her voice was not kind, nor cruel. Just true. "Two years. One night on the tongues. Zero orgasms."
Ana exhaled, barely.
"Undress."
"Yes, Mistress." She responded, stepped out of her heels, slid her skirt down. Her top followed soon after.
Evelyn stepped closer and gently touched the keypad with its sensor on the waistband. Her fingers moved with precision, reverence. The lock clicked - once, twice - and with a sound as soft as a sigh, the belt loosened. Ana felt it instantly. A strange weight lifting, but leaving an echo. The belt slipped from her hips and Evelyn caught it smoothly, holding it for a moment before placing it aside on a velvet-lined tray.
The sudden air against her most private skin made Ana shiver.
"You’re free," Evelyn said, stepping back. "From this." She didn’t smile.
Ana nodded slowly, but her eyes were still fixed on the tray, on the artifact of her own endurance. Her legs felt weak, not from fatigue, but from the sheer unfamiliarity of her own body now.
"I thought it would feel… different," she admitted.
Evelyn tilted her head. "Pleasure and pain are mirrors, Ana. You don’t remove one without distorting the other."
Ana glanced at her, unsure if it was wisdom or warning. Maybe both.
"You’re financially sound now," Evelyn added. "You did what many couldn’t. But remember - being free doesn’t mean being whole. It means choosing what to do with your hunger."
Ana nodded again, slower this time. The echo of the belt lingered on her skin.
She was free. But not unchanged.
And not untouched.
Evelyn had rested. But some days later, the song was as relentless as ever, its rhythm an unyielding taskmaster. Evelyn moved to the beat, her body a practiced machine, every step deliberate and precise. Yet no matter how many times she had danced to this infernal composition, she had never made it past the two-hour mark. Tonight, she hoped would be different. She had to believe it would be.
As the music swelled, so did the pain. The spikes within the heels pulsed with each misstep, a cruel reminder of the stakes she faced. Evelyn’s teeth clenched as she pushed through, her muscles screaming for relief. But it wasn’t just the physical strain that wore her down - it was the ever-present shadow of what loomed if she failed.
Her thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the Needle Coffin. The little she knew about it was enough to haunt her every waking moment. She had seen a drawing of it only once, glimpsed in the shadowy depths of the club’s basement, its sleek, ominous form radiating menace. No one spoke of it openly, but the whispers were enough to feed her nightmares. And now, as the spikes in her heels drove deeper with each faltering step, her mind spiraled into an anxious monologue, comparing the horrors of the Rubber Coffin with what she imagined the Needle Coffin to be.
The Rubber Coffin was bad enough, she thought, her movements faltering slightly as the pain shot up her leg. It’s hot, suffocating, the rubber clings to every inch of skin, amplifying the discomfort. But at least it’s smooth, slick, uniform. It’s… tolerable, in its own way. You can breathe, you can endure, you can rest in it’s warm slippery cushions. It’s meant to break you slowly, but it doesn’t pierce you.
Her breath hitched as she pictured the Needle Coffin again, her imagination running wild. But the Needle Coffin… The name alone sent a shiver down her spine. She had overheard fragments of conversations - words like "thousands of needles," "sound responsive pressure points," and "nail sensors." She pictured its interior, lined with short, cruel spikes designed to press into every inch of flesh. Not deep enough to draw blood, perhaps, but enough to inflict a symphony of pain that would drown out any thought of endurance.
Evelyn’s movements became more frantic, her fear bleeding into her performance. Her heart pounded as she imagined being sealed inside such a device. Would it be hot like the Rubber Coffin? Would the needles grow slick with sweat, making every shift of the body a fresh torment? Or would it be cold, the metal spikes biting into damp skin, leaving her shivering and helpless?
She stumbled slightly, the spikes in her heels punishing her lapse with a sharp jolt of pain into her arches. She forced herself back into rhythm, her mind refusing to let go of the imagined horrors. And what about movement? In the Rubber Coffin, you’re immobilized by the inflatable padding. But the Needle Coffin… what if you’re forced to move, even slightly, to avoid the worst of the spikes? What if every breath, every twitch, only made it worse?
Her chest tightened as the song pressed into its second hour, the tempo growing more demanding. The pain in her feet was relentless, but it was nothing compared to the terror clawing at her mind. She had heard rumors that the Needle Coffin was designed to play the club’s music with needles pulsing in rhythm - a cruel irony for those who failed the 7th Circle’s song. Music to torment you, while you’re trapped and helpless. Would it be this song? The thought nearly broke her.
Evelyn’s body was slick with sweat, her movements growing increasingly erratic. The idea of being confined in the Needle Coffin for even a day was unbearable, let alone for her retirement as the owners might decide. She pictured herself screaming into the void, her cries muffled by the oppressive confines of the device. It would be worse than the Rubber Coffin, she thought, her heart racing. At least the Rubber Coffin gives you space to think. The Needle Coffin… it wouldn’t even let you have that. Should she offer to retire into the Rubber Coffin willingly, to not face the duel she dreaded most? Would this even be possible, would the wash and drying cycles keep her skin intact, forever?
The visions became more vivid with every step. She could almost feel the suffocating silence of the Needle Coffin, the sensation of countless spikes pressing into her skin, creating a constant, maddening hum of pain. Her thoughts turned darker as she speculated about its mechanisms. What if it’s worse than I imagine? What if the spikes shift, digging in deeper if you try to move? What if there’s no way to find a position of relief, no escape from its unyielding embrace?
The relentless tempo of the song pressed on, matching the pounding of her heart. Every beat seemed to echo her growing panic. She imagined the metallic interior of the Needle Coffin reflecting her distorted face, the sweat pooling beneath her immobilized form, the endless hours stretching into eternity. The Rubber Coffin, for all its discomfort and heat, suddenly seemed merciful in comparison. At least it was predictable.
She stumbled again, and this time she couldn’t recover. The song came to a grinding halt as the control panel registered her failure. Evelyn collapsed to her knees, her breath coming in ragged gasps as the spikes in her heels extended fully, pressed into her soles mercilessly. She clawed at the floor, tears streaming down her face as the weight of her failure settled over her.
Perhaps the Rubber Coffin isn’t so bad after all, she thought bitterly, a hollow laugh escaping her lips. "At least I know what to expect. But the Needle Coffin…"
The room was silent now, save for her labored breathing. She sat back on her heels, wincing as the extended spikes bit deeper. Her mind was still consumed by the thought of the Needle Coffin, its shadow looming larger than ever.
With a click her shoes unlocked. As she removed the heels, her hands trembling, she resolved to try again tomorrow. She had no choice. The 7th Circle’s song was her only path forward, her only chance to avoid the unknown horrors that awaited her. And so, as she wiped the sweat from her brow and steadied her breathing, Evelyn whispered to herself: "Tomorrow, I’ll make it. I have to."