Chapter 6
Three months passed in this torment. By the time she finally stepped into Evelyn’s office, dressed in her rubber suit, with the additional full hood she was handed as soon as she entered Abyss, she felt like she was unraveling. Her nights had become an endless cycle of frustration and discomfort, and she knew she couldn’t last an entire year like this.
Evelyn was seated at her desk, poised as always, regarding Nadia with a knowing smirk. "Well, well. I was wondering how long you’d last before coming to me."
Nadia swallowed her pride, standing stiffly before the woman who had orchestrated her latest descent. "I need a way out," she said, her voice low, measured. "The rubber bedding. It’s too much. I can’t take it anymore."
Evelyn tilted her head slightly, feigning curiosity. "Oh? But you agreed to the terms so readily, didn’t you?" Nadia clenched her fists. "I want a challenge. A fair one. If I win, I get rid of it."
Evelyn’s smirk deepened. "Oh, my dear, nothing at Abyss is ever truly fair. But… I am intrigued. Let’s see if we can come up with something suitable. Your adversary and you, dancing together. The simple Stilettos of the Languished Arches shall do, and we see who has true stamina. A duel of the soles. Something that truly tests your resolve, to show how much you really want out of your rubbery fate. Expect to hear from us in a month. But this one month I want you to endure your bed."
Nadia felt a chill, but she didn’t waver. Whatever the challenge was, she had to take it. She had no other choice.
Evelyn sat in the dim glow of her private chamber, the heavy scent of incense curling in the air. The steady thrum of music vibrated through the walls, a rhythmic pulse that usually centered her, yet tonight it did nothing to quiet her mind. Her manicured fingers traced over the edges of the crisp envelope that had been delivered just hours earlier, the wax seal already broken, its insignia mocking her with its silent authority.
The letter lay before her, its elegant script spelling out a challenge more sinister than any game played within Abyss’s walls.
Evelyn,
How long do you intend to wait? How long do you think silence protects you?
You still fear that Lena will return, that she will step forward and issue her challenge. Your paranoia amuses us. But should she come, should she stand before you once more, she will find herself without the right to duel - if you secure for us something greater instead.
But your fear is useful. You have begun preparing for the rubber coffin, circling closer and closer to surrendering yourself, voluntarily. A fascinating thought, Evelyn, that you would rather crawl into the dark on your own terms than face a stage of needles.
And yet, we are not satisfied. We do not need another resident in the dark. Not you. Not yet.
Abyss demands permanence. If you truly wish to escape your fate, prove your worth. Find us a greater offering. Let another take your place in the rubber coffin - permanently.
Only then will your own retirement be unnecessary. Only then will you be free from your fears of a final duel. Only then will the needle coffin remain forever closed to you.
We expect results.
Evelyn’s grip on the paper tightened, her nails pressing crescent moons into the parchment. The weight of the words pressed upon her, even as she exhaled slowly through her nose, letting the tension unfurl within her like the slow stretch of silk.
So that was it. The owners would not let her choose her fate so easily. They had seen her contemplation, her quiet fascination with the idea of escaping into the rubber coffin rather than risking her soles against the Seventh Circle. They had noted how her own games had drifted, how her stakes had become more and more coffin-centric. And now, they had twisted that indulgence back onto her.
A simple trade. Someone else, locked away forever, in exchange for her own security. The needle coffin would never claim her, but only if she condemned another in her place - in the rubber coffin nonetheless.
A smirk curled at the edges of her lips, though she wasn’t sure if it was amusement or bitterness. It was a trap, of course. A game within a game. She had spent so long fearing Lena’s return, dreading the challenge that would force her onto a path she could not win. But the owners knew. They had always known. Lena would not challenge her. Her paranoia had been wasted energy, a ghost chasing her own shadow. Still, she danced in her own personal pair of the Stilettos of the Languished Arches almost every night, still trying to beat the Seventh Circle of Hell Song. Her own two soles being languished to a point where even after a day without the infernal heels, the pinpoints in her sensitive skin under her feet never faded away anymore. She had been drained of so much energy by doing so. She would need to focus elsewhere, on finding someone for the rubber coffin.
But now the owners had given her a new problem to solve. One that, if played correctly, could cement her dominance within Abyss for years to come.
Her thoughts flickered to the patrons, to the foolish guests who stepped eagerly onto her stage, to those who underestimated the stakes until it was too late. The club had no shortage of desperate souls, no shortage of women willing to push their limits for fleeting glory or money. And some, she suspected, could be persuaded into something far more permanent if the game was played just right.
The owners wanted fear, feeding off it. They wanted permanence. They wanted a Loosh battery. They wanted the legend of the rubber coffin to grow beyond a mere week or a month of torment. They wanted it to become a true prison, a cautionary tale with no escape.
And Evelyn… Evelyn wanted to survive. She remembered the time when she had been a member. How she became a Pain Mistress. The letters and contracts of the Count and the Ritual. She had finally stopped aging, but she sold herself to that ancient entity and its silent minions and their archonic powers. Her fear of aging was taken away from her, that was the deal. But it was a trick, as it was nearly replaced by the fear of not harvesting enough energy for Them, or her biological time would progress.
She pondered another layer to her scheme - what if she could establish a precedent, a way to make permanent containment within Abyss legally binding? She had already spoken to Abyss’s private legal counsel, a woman whose moral flexibility matched her own. The groundwork was being laid. The contracts were being drafted. The owners would need plausible deniability, a means to justify hosting a guest indefinitely while managing their worldly obligations. Evelyn smirked. It would be simple enough to present it as an exclusive arrangement - willingly undertaken, properly documented, inescapably final.
Her mind played with the details, envisioning the fine print that would ensure her captive and her relatives had no recourse. Abyss had already provided binding contracts for extended stays before - why not extend that logic? She leaned back into her chair, the soft leather cool against her bare shoulders. A single name drifted into her thoughts, an unspoken idea that curled around her mind like the smoke in the air.
She had her goal. The game had just begun.
Abyss was alive with its usual intoxicating energy, but tonight, something was different. The usual pulse of deep electronic beats was replaced with a slow, ominous rhythm. Velvet drapes hung heavily over the stage, framing a gothic-style throne at its center. Seated upon it, one leg elegantly crossed over the other, was Evelyn - the eternal hostess of Abyss. She looked every bit the queen, clad in an elaborate black gown, the fabric shimmering under the soft glow of the club’s chandeliers.
From her throne, she surveyed the club with a slow, knowing smile. The guests, draped in leather, latex, and silks, murmured with intrigue. They all knew something special was about to unfold. The Queen’s Judgement had been announced, and tonight, the court of Abyss would decide the fate of one unfortunate soul.
Nadia, still encased in her sleek black latex catsuit, gloved and hooded, sat stiffly at a private booth alongside Elise and Alexandru. They had insisted she join them. Elise especially enjoyed letting her eyes wander over the completely rubberized form of her rival. The suit had become second nature to her, though the constant presence of the tight rubber bedding at home still gnawed at her psyche. Her body felt perpetually slick, the latex trapping every drop of heat, leaving her in a constant state of discomfort. Yet, even now, she found herself focusing on the stage rather than her own plight.
"Who do you think it’ll be?" Alexandru mused, sipping his whiskey as his eyes scanned the guests. 3
"I hope it’s someone interesting," Elise said, resting her chin on her hand. "Last time, the accused cracked far too easily. No fun at all." She smirked, eyes glinting in anticipation.
Evelyn raised a delicate hand, and silence fell over the club. The air thickened with suspense. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, she gestured toward an attendant holding a velvet pouch. Inside were numbered tokens, each corresponding to a guest.
With a flourish, the attendant drew a token.
"Tonight’s accused," Evelyn announced, "is… Carmen."
Gasps rippled through the audience as a woman in a crimson dress stood frozen, her glass of wine trembling slightly in her grasp. Carmen was a regular at Abyss, known for her beauty and her smugness, yet in this moment, she looked genuinely taken aback.
Two attendants stepped forward, guiding her towards the stage. Her heels clicked against the polished floor as she ascended, standing before Evelyn’s imposing throne. The Queen of Abyss regarded her with a bemused smile.
"Carmen," Evelyn purred, "You stand accused before the court of Abyss. Do you know the crime for which you are charged?"
Carmen licked her lips, struggling to maintain her composure. "I… I don’t."
Evelyn’s smile widened. "Ah, an innocent plea. But the court will decide. Tonight, you are charged with vanity and deception - for parading through Abyss in the most lavish attire, yet never daring to truly prove your worth. Always observing, but never participating. You always dress for the part, drawing the patrons eyes onto you, but always hiding away when we seek volunteers. Or even hide in the restrooms when we let the spotlight randomly sweep the audience for a willing participant. What say you in your defense?"
Laughter and murmurs spread through the crowd. Carmen flushed, lifting her chin defiantly. "I’ve done nothing wrong. I enjoy Abyss. I embrace its spirit."
"Yet you have never once submitted yourself to its trials," Evelyn countered smoothly. "You bask in the decadence but refuse the sacrifice."
Elise laughed softly from their booth. "Oh, I like this," she mused, watching Carmen squirm.
"Then let the court decide," Evelyn continued. "Ladies and gentlemen, shall Carmen’s judgment be left to fate, or shall she defend herself in Trial by Ordeal?"
A deafening roar of approval erupted from the audience. The decision was made.
Carmen’s breath hitched as attendants stepped forward. "Very well," Evelyn declared. "You will be given one chance to sway the court, Carmen. You will face an ordeal of endurance. Should you pass, you shall earn not only our admiration but a grand reward of 50,000 Lei. Fail, and your punishment shall be of the court’s choosing."
Carmen swallowed hard. "What… What is the ordeal? What is the punishment?"
Evelyn raised a hand. A large, glass-paneled chamber was wheeled onto the stage. The interior was sleek, cushioned, and fitted with mechanical restraints at the wrists, ankles, and waist. The attendants opened it with a hiss of released air, revealing its polished latex lining.
"The Chamber of Stillness," Evelyn intoned. "You shall step inside, and once the chamber is sealed, you must remain perfectly motionless for one full hour."
Gasps spread through the crowd. Nadia stiffened in her seat. She had endured stillness before - too much of it - but not like this.
"There’s a catch, of course," Evelyn continued, her smile deepening. "The chamber is lined with ultra-sensitive sensors. Should you move even a fraction beyond the threshold… the consequences will be immediate."
Carmen’s jaw clenched. "And what consequences are those?"
A low chuckle rippled from Evelyn’s lips. "Abyss is nothing if not sensory. The chamber shall… remind you to remain still. Through a gentle, escalating persuasion."
Carmen turned pale.
She could refuse. She could walk away. But then the punishment would be chosen for her.
"I accept," she whispered.
"Of course you do, you don’t have a choice, accused. Then step forward."
Carmen did, albeit hesitantly. The attendants guided her into the chamber, positioning her gracefully. They took her stilettos off, guiding her now bare feet onto foot pads inside which bore the typical nodule structure. She let out a small gasp as she was stood onto them. The restraints clicked into place - firm, yet not entirely restrictive. The glass doors sealed with an audible hiss.
The room held its breath.
A small timer illuminated on the panel. 60:00
The test had begun.
On a vertical shaft, a magic wand vibrator rose up, connecting firmly with her crotch, pressing into the front of her latex dress. It was dormant. For the first few minutes, Carmen did well. She breathed evenly, staring ahead, jaw tight. But then… the first sensation began. The faintest ripple of movement beneath her skin-tight dress, a cold draft of air aimed under her dress from below.
She stiffened, willing herself to resist.
Evelyn watched with serene amusement. "The chamber rewards discipline," she mused. "But it also feeds on doubt."
Nadia, transfixed, watched as Carmen’s body slowly betrayed her. A twitch of a finger. A shuddering exhale. The sensors registered it instantly. The magic wand slowly woke up to a life of its own. Barely a hum.
A pulse of needles, raising up beneath her arches. Jutting provocatively into her soles.
Carmen jerked in surprise, barely suppressing a yelp.
"Ah," Evelyn purred. "She moves."
The audience leaned forward, enthralled.
The sensations escalated, the needles now almost puncturing her arches. Carmen’s arms quivered, her thighs clenched. She was losing the battle. And then -
A gasp.
A shudder.
The sensors registered too much movement. The needles jutted up. A scream and a final chime signaled her failure. The magic wand turned up onto its high setting. Carmen moaned, mouth and eyes wide open. Pain in her feet, vibrations on her apex. The latex dress perfectly transmitted the vibrations all over her lower body. She stood as still as she possibly could, the needles lowering themselves again.
Evelyn announced. "She failed the trial by ordeal. For her remaining time she will endure the needles and her vibrator."
31:20, the counter read. The music began again at a soft volume. Patrons danced again, others stood, their eyes fixated on the Chamber of Stillness and its writhing occupant.
18:22. Carmen’s orgasmic scream was not heard outside the chamber. It was cut short, ruined, as the needles extended violently at this amount of shaking and movement.
6:00. It was hard to tell when she came, her eyes wide open sometimes, squeezed shut at others. Her mouth opened in a silent scream and closed again, like a fish on dry land. She went up on her tippy toes to escape the needles, but even then she never fully managed to keep her soles out of their reach. She shuddered violently on the vibrator.
Finally, the chamber unlocked. The doors slid open. Carmen, breathless, shoulders shaking, stumbled out. Evelyn stood. "Judgment has been passed."
Carmen swallowed, knowing what was coming.
"Your sentence…" Evelyn announced, "is twelve weekends as an ornament of Abyss."
Laughter and applause erupted. Carmen closed her eyes.
"The court is dismissed."
And so, Abyss claimed another willing victim.
The following weekend, Carmen was presented before the crowd once more - but this time, not as a guest. She stood motionless, adorned in an intricate silver latex bodysuit that shimmered under the club’s moody lights. Her arms were elegantly positioned above her head, wrists clasped together in a pose of eternal grace. A custom-made collar held her head high, giving her the appearance of a living sculpture. Belts secured her to a vertical beam, holding her weight, her bare toes just barely off the ground, visible for the diligent observer. A small flat bowl collected her sweat dripping down her feet. One wondered what it would be used for later.
Close to the main bar, she was a centerpiece of the night’s decadence. Patrons passed her by, some whispering admiration, others chuckling at her predicament. She could hear them, of course. Every comment, every tease about how she had sealed her own fate. A few even placed playful bets on whether she would flinch, though she knew better - movement would only bring correction.
She knew what correction meant. It was not harsh, nor cruel, but it was unmistakably effective. The moment she wavered, a very perceptible pulse of vibration would ripple through her crotch - a subtle yet unyielding reminder to hold her pose. If she faltered again, the intensity would increase, a tingle running down her spine, coaxing her back into stillness. It wasn’t edging, not exactly, but a steady, undeniable presence that made disobedience unthinkable.
And so, she stood, each muscle taut with effort, every breath measured to avoid unintended movement. The minutes stretched into hours, her body burning with the effort of holding form, an occasional moan escaping her lips under the vibration if triggered for too long. A bead of sweat trickled down her back under her latex skin, a torment she could not ease. But she endured, because in Abyss, endurance was everything.
As the hours passed, the heat from the latex and the unwavering stillness gnawed at her resolve. The slow trickle of sweat beneath the suit made it impossibly slick, yet she remained poised. The night blurred into sensation - whispers, music, warmth, and restraint - until finally, Evelyn herself approached, regarding her with a pleased smirk.
"Eleven more weekends, Carmen," she murmured, brushing a gloved hand along her shoulder. "Let’s see if you truly learn to embrace Abyss."
Exactly a month after her meeting with Evelyn, the invitation arrived at Nadia’s apartment late one evening, slipped beneath her door with the familiar emblem of Club Abyss embossed in silver. She stared at it for a long time before picking it up, already sensing the weight of the decision it would force upon her. Slowly, she broke the seal and unfolded the heavy paper within.
"Nadia,
You are invited back to Abyss for a new challenge as per your request. Your resilience has not gone unnoticed, and an opportunity for change has been presented to you. Should you win, your rubber bedding requirement will be lifted. However, should you lose, your nights will be spent in an enhanced rubber sleeping arrangement - a fully inflatable rubber sleeping bag, complete with an internal hood and sleeves, ensuring absolute stillness and embracing comfort throughout the night. The suit will not be worn inside, so you will need to work on your tally during the day. The bag will open automatically each morning, releasing you into your day.
Choose wisely.
- Pain Mistress Evelyn"
Nadia’s breath hitched. She read the letter twice, then a third time, but the stakes remained horrifyingly clear. Winning meant regaining some semblance of normalcy in her nights, finally being freed from the clinging rubber sheets. But losing…
Her fingers curled around the paper as dread settled in her stomach. Losing meant near-total rubberization. She wouldn’t even be allowed to wear her suit inside the sleeping bag, meaning she would have to make up all sixteen hours of daily tallying after she woke up each morning. It would push her to the brink, forcing her into a life of continuous restriction. Every waking and sleeping moment would be in latex.
She needed to get out of this. She needed something more to gain - something that could make this challenge worth the risk.
The next night, she found herself once more in Evelyn’s dimly lit office, the familiar scent of Abyss’s decadent incense filling the space. Elise was there, lounging in the chair beside Evelyn’s desk with a knowing smirk.
"I assume you’ve considered the stakes?" Evelyn asked smoothly, sipping from a glass of deep red wine. Nadia nodded, choosing her words carefully. "It’s… severe. The penalty, I mean."
Evelyn raised an eyebrow, but it was Elise who responded first. "Oh, but it’s perfect, isn’t it? It is the natural conclusion of your predicament. Think of how peaceful your nights will be, wrapped up so tight, no distractions, no tossing and turning. Just the calm embrace of rubber."
Nadia’s jaw tightened. Elise’s amusement was obvious, but she had expected nothing less. She turned back to Evelyn. "I want something more. If I win, I want more than just getting rid of the rubber bedding. I want orgasms. Twelve times a year, like the previous challenges."
Evelyn regarded her thoughtfully, swirling her wine as she considered the request. "That is… a bold counteroffer. A bit too greedy for just trading bed sheets for a sleeping bag."
Elise, however, let out a soft chuckle before Evelyn could respond. "You know what? I like it. But then we may reset her tally as well. I want her under the strictest rubberization rules possible. Twelve orgasm nights don’t come for free. Let’s give her hope, let’s make it sweeter." Her grin widened. "It makes it all the more fun when she loses."
Nadia narrowed her eyes. "I haven’t lost yet."
Evelyn exhaled, setting her glass down. "Very well, Nadia. Your request is accepted. If you win, you will have your freedom - not just from the bedding, but also from chastity, once per month for the next year." Her gaze darkened slightly. "But I do hope you understand how… crushing it will be, should you fail. Your bedding would be exchanged for a special sleeping bag and your tally reset."
Her pussy clenched tightly at the very thought of monthly orgasms. Nadia swallowed but nodded. She had no choice but to see this through. She nodded, "I understand."
"And Elise?" Evelyn said suddenly, turning toward her with an expectant smile. "It wouldn’t be fair if only Nadia bore the burden of stakes, would it?"
Elise’s expression faltered slightly. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, Elise," Evelyn purred, "that should you lose, you must face a consequence as well. We wouldn’t want to appear unbalanced."
Elise scoffed. "Oh, please. And what exactly would you suggest? Some latex as well, I assume?"
"Oh yes, indeed. It shall be fitting for the theme of the night." Evelyn said smoothly. "For one month, you will sleep in a rubber cocoon, much like the sleeping bag Nadia risks. Fully inflatable, fully enclosing. No tossing, no turning. Only stillness. A symbolic reminder of the restraint you impose on others."
Elise’s eyes narrowed. "That’s ridiculous. I - "
"It’s more than fair," Evelyn interrupted, her voice edged with amusement. "It’s not as if we ask the coffin as your forfeit. Or are you afraid of a little discipline? A little taste of what you so gleefully impose on others? You both stake your sleeping arrangements to be changed to a special latex sleeping bag."
Elise’s jaw tightened, her fingers gripping the armrest of her chair. "Fine," she bit out. "But only if Nadia accepts my challenge."
Evelyn’s smirk widened. "Oh, she will." Nadia nodded, despite being unsure due to the immense stakes. "The challenge is set for this weekend," Evelyn continued. "Prepare yourself accordingly."
Elise smiled, leaning forward. "Oh, and Nadia? Do bring your best effort. I’d hate for you to disappoint."
As Nadia left the office, her heart pounded in her chest. She had secured a chance at freedom, but deep down, she knew Elise wasn’t done yet. The way she had agreed so quickly, so eagerly… something was off.
Nadia forced herself to push the thought away. Whatever Elise had planned, she would face it. She had to win. Losing wasn’t an option.
The atmosphere in Abyss was electric, the neon lights casting an eerie glow over the patrons who had gathered for another unpredictable night. The music pulsed through the underground club, bodies swayed on the dance floor, and an air of excited anticipation hung thick in the air. It was one of those nights where anything could happen, and Evelyn, seated regally in her usual high-backed chair overlooking the crowd, was ready to make sure that it did.
Above the dance floor, hanging from the rafters, and illuminated by spotlights hung a frame, in which a vacuum-packed female figure was held motionless. Carmen. She swung slightly from side to side, her legs wide, her arms above her head, sealed in place between two latex sheets by the tight vacuum. A cable was visibly trailing from the frame to her apex. A vibrator was her entertainment. She still served as a decorative ornament.
A deep, sultry voice rang out over the speakers, cutting through the music and conversation. "Ladies and gentlemen, the time has come for our nightly entertainment. And as always, it shall be chosen at random."
A ripple of eager whispers spread across the crowd as one of the silent attendants stepped forward, holding a sleek, black velvet bag. Inside were numbered tokens, each corresponding to one of the guests present. The tension was palpable as a name was drawn, and the host grinned wickedly.
"And tonight's lucky guest is… Bianca!"
Gasps and scattered laughter erupted from the crowd as a striking woman in a shimmering silver latex dress froze mid sip of her drink. Her deep red lips parted in shock, and she cast a glance at her friends, who clapped and cheered, encouraging her. The attendants were already making their way toward her.
Bianca hesitated for a brief moment before standing, smoothing out her dress, and tossing her dark curls over her shoulder. If she was nervous, she masked it well, raising a perfectly arched brow at Evelyn, who gave her a slow, knowing smile.
"Come now, my dear. No need to be shy. Abyss rewards bravery, after all."
With little choice left, Bianca sauntered to the stage, the applause of the audience ringing in her ears.
A glass case was wheeled forward, opened with reverence by an attendant. Inside, the heels gleamed under the club's low lighting - sleek, black, and deceptively elegant, save for the hidden spikes embedded within the insoles. The moment Bianca moved incorrectly, her weight would trigger the sensors, causing the spikes to extend and bite into her soles. A test of precision, control, and endurance.
"Your challenge is simple," Evelyn purred as Bianca was helped onto a raised dance platform in the center of the stage. "Dance for us. Keep your rhythm, keep your balance, and you shall walk away with a reward. Should you falter…" She gestured toward the back of the stage where a long, padded bench stood, its metal clasps open and waiting. "You shall experience an Abyss delight."
The audience murmured in excitement, some whispering in anticipation of what was to come.
The music started - fast-paced, pulsing, something designed to keep a dancer’s feet moving in perfect sync. Bianca lifted her chin, exhaling slowly before stepping forward onto the insoles, her back arching as the sensation registered. A hiss escaped her lips, but she did not falter.
For the first few moments, she moved gracefully, adjusting to the sharp discomfort with surprising ease. The spikes remained dormant so long as she landed her steps perfectly. But then, a misstep.
Her ankle wobbled - just slightly - but it was enough. The pressure triggered the hidden spikes to extend in an instant, pressing into her arches and sending a sharp, biting pain through her feet. She gasped, her balance slipping, her rhythm shattered. Her knees buckled, and with a strangled cry, she collapsed onto the platform.
The club roared in a mixture of delight and sympathy as she crumpled, unable to regain control. The attendants were quick, swooping in before she could even think to rise, lifting her carefully under her arms and guiding her toward the prepared bench.
Evelyn rose from her seat, clapping lightly as Bianca was strapped down, her belly pressed into the plush surface of the bench, her wrists and ankles secured firmly. A whisper of oil was poured over the delicate arches of her feet, the coolness sending a shudder through her restrained body.
Above, a split-screen flickered to life - one side displaying a close-up of Bianca’s face, flushed and wide-eyed, the other focusing on the slow, deliberate movements of the attendants as they positioned the automated brushes over her soles.
"Midnight," Evelyn declared with satisfaction. "She shall remain our guest of laughter until the clock strikes twelve."
Bianca barely had a moment to process what was happening before the first feather-soft bristle grazed the tender skin beneath her toes. She jerked violently against her restraints, a strangled gasp escaping her lips.
Then the real torment began.
The brushes whirred to life, spinning and sweeping across her oiled soles with diabolical precision. The reaction was immediate - Bianca threw her head back, a shriek of laughter bursting from her lips, her body writhing helplessly against the straps. The sensations were unbearable, overwhelming, the sensitivity heightened by the glistening layer of oil slicking her skin.
Her friends in the audience were in hysterics, pointing at the massive screen displaying her twitching soles in full detail. "Look at her toes curling!" one cackled. "She’s not going to make it!" another chimed in.
Above the dance floor, the vacuum frame shuddered, the female form inside spasmed, pushing against the latex constraints. Carmen just had an orgasm.
Bianca’s silver latex dress, once pristine and clinging elegantly to her curves, was now dripping with sweat, glistening under the club lights, her face red, flush and droopy. Droplets rolled down her temples, her back, trickling along her sides as her body struggled and convulsed with every unbearable stroke of the brushes.
Her hands curled into fists, her breath coming in ragged gasps between uncontrollable giggles. Time stretched endlessly before her, each passing second an eternity of torment. The brushes changed speeds, teasing, tickling, finding every sensitive spot with inhuman precision.
"Oh, she's quite the performer!" Evelyn mused, sipping a glass of wine as she watched from her seat.
Bianca had no choice but to endure. Every time she tried to steel herself, the brushes adjusted, focusing on a new area, keeping her guessing, keeping her desperate.
Minutes blurred together, and yet midnight still felt impossibly far away. The club was alive with amusement, enthralled by the spectacle.
By the time the final seconds counted down, Bianca was a quivering, breathless mess, her laughter reduced to silent gasps. The brushes slowed, then stopped entirely, and the restraints were finally unbuckled.
As she was helped up - legs shaking, face flushed, tears glistening on her cheeks - the club erupted into another round of applause.
Evelyn leaned forward, smiling down at her. "You did wonderfully, my dear. A true highlight of the evening." Bianca could only manage a weak, breathless laugh in response.
Abyss had claimed another moment of pure, unfiltered entertainment, and as the night carried on, the echoes of Bianca’s laughter still seemed to linger in the air.
Elise sat in the tall-backed armchair of her penthouse, the city glittering beyond the glass like scattered diamonds. The porcelain teacup trembled slightly in her fingers. Not enough to be obvious. But enough to betray a tension she would never voice aloud.
The duel with Nadia was looming. Just days away now. It wasn’t the duel itself that unnerved her - Elise had danced for blood and pride before, had smiled under pressure and walked away victorious. But the stakes this time were different. Personal. Too personal. Her, in a latex bondage bag, for a month every night? Ridiculous. Latex, rubberization is for those under her control. She understood Evelyn’s game, testing her resolve, especially when it came to latex. But she will beat Nadia. Of course she would. A challenge that would echo far beyond the stage.
She inhaled the steam from her tea, forcing the breath deep into her lungs. She always adapted. Always found the weakness in others and turned it into her strength. She knew already how she would manipulate her. It had worked before. Nadia had heart, but Elise had calculation, and a plan. That would be enough. That had always been enough.
Still, there was a flicker of unease behind her eyes. Because this wasn’t just about Nadia. It never had been. It was about power. Control. Proving that no one - not even the persistent little retail girl - could upend the rules Elise had crafted around herself.
She closed her eyes. Let the warmth of the tea ground her. She’d win. She always did. And if she didn’t, she’d reshape the aftermath to her liking. Elise had survived worse.
And then her mind wandered - unbidden, but not unwelcome - to many years ago, to the first time she’d tasted control. Not power, not prestige. Just the pure, tingling edge of influence. The moment she realized what it felt like to bend another person’s world to fit inside hers.
It had begun far from stages and spotlights. In quiet rooms. With soft latex. And with Samira. She exhaled slowly, and the memory unfolded…
It was over a decade ago… the dorm room was sterile - white walls, grey curtains, institutional furniture - but Elise had made it hers. A velvet throw over the narrow bed. Books neatly stacked by subject. Her laptop, open to a spreadsheet of market indicators. The space was orderly, immaculate. Just how she needed it. She’d only moved into campus permanently a few months ago, after the funeral. After the flowers wilted. After the well-meaning phone calls stopped. She had not looked back since.
Elise was twenty-two. Quietly brilliant. Studying finance with a minor in psychology, though it was the latter that often felt like the real key. Finance taught her structure. Psychology taught her leverage. In her private time, she read case studies on power dynamics and transactional control. Every chapter felt personal. Painfully so.
She hadn't gone home once that semester. The townhouse where her parents had tried to smother her grief with comfort - gift cards, spa days, money - was no longer a home. Their way of coping had made her feel invisible. Their way of love had always been substitution. Replace. Redirect. Bury.
But Elise didn’t want to bury it. She wanted to master it. What had happened in that car - what she hadn’t stopped, what she hadn’t seen coming - was chaos. Pain without a lever. Her sister, gone in a moment of twisted metal and fire. A mistake Elise would pay for in the currency of control, over and over again.
It began, perhaps, with the party.
Elise hadn’t wanted to go - too many people, too much forced social polish - but it was expected, and appearances mattered. Even back then, in her early twenties, fresh into her finance degree and halfway through a minor in psychology, Elise had already started constructing the person she would become: poised, intellectual, untouchable. Control was her oxygen. Grief had sculpted her; guilt was the mortar. Her sister’s death was still raw - a scar dressed in success, money, and cold ambition. The guilt she felt was a burning mountain on her soul. She didn't speak about it, but it whispered into every decision. Control, even the image she curated - each was a brick in the wall she was building around that moment she had failed to save someone she loved.
The party was hosted by a student from the arts faculty, and it had the usual fare - dim lights, thrift-store decadence, a playlist shifting between atmospheric and irritating. Alternative scene, gothic ambience. Leather, PVC and outfits in black silk. But one woman in particular drew Elise’s eye. She was sitting in the corner, entirely still. She wore a long black latex dress, polished to a gleam. Her hands were cuffed in her lap, resting like obedient ornaments. Her eyes were lowered, a man standing beside her, fingers idly tracing the back of her neck. She was visibly sweating. She did not complain, did not move, just endured. He spoke softly to someone else, but the woman didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Her composure was a quiet spectacle - dignity in stillness, in submission. She was controlled. Elise watched her for long minutes.
There was something about the contrast that unsettled and thrilled her: the glossy, artificial smoothness of latex as a second skin and the vulnerability it seemed to enforce. The woman was dressed to be seen, but not to act. Elise realized it wasn’t about the man. It wasn’t about the party. The latex itself had rendered her inert, submitting to the sweat, to her situation. Beautiful. Controlled.
That night, Elise dreamt of the texture. Of its shine. Of someone kneeling - not before her yet, but in her imagination, offered up in surrender. It was not arousal she felt but something deeper, darker, more sustaining. A kind of power. The grief that followed her like a scent had not vanished, but it quieted, momentarily, under the weight of that imagined control.
She was at the top of her class, and had taken on tutoring for semesters below her. Easy money. But money, she had. It was the control she could exercise. Being needed by others, demanding homework and assignments. She controlled the sessions and that was what she enjoyed most. Weeks after the party, her tutoring sessions brought her in contact with Samira - a nervous, easily flustered girl from one of the accounting seminars from the semester below her. Samira had asked for help, and Elise had agreed, mostly because Samira seemed so insecure. She liked how Samira listened. How she hesitated before asking questions. That hesitance was intoxicating.
One afternoon, Elise arrived at the library, and Samira wasn’t there. Fifteen minutes passed. Then twenty. Elise, furious but calm-faced, messaged her. No reply. Samira stumbled in at last, out of breath and apologetic, some story about a forgotten appointment.
Elise said nothing at first. She packed her bag. "Maybe we shouldn’t continue this. If this isn’t important to you - " Samira panicked. "No - please. Elise. I’m sorry. I lost track of time. I need this. Please."
Elise didn’t respond right away. Mentally, she was already halfway to the door. But then something stopped her. She stood still. Her hand gripped the strap of her bag. A sudden and absurd thought occurred to her: how far would Samira go to keep her help? How far could she go?
She turned. Looked Samira in the eye.
"Then show me you're sorry. Kneel."
There was a silence. A heartbeat, then two. Elise's mouth had gone dry. Her voice had sounded so cold, so deliberate - like it had come from someone else. She was sure Samira would laugh at her, call her out. But the laugh never came.
Samira blinked, shocked. Then slowly, her eyes wide with uncertainty, she dropped to her knees on the linoleum floor of the floor. It was almost ridiculous. A student, in sneakers and an oversized hoodie, folding herself down, waiting to be scolded. But Elise’s heart thundered.
Control. Not imagined this time. Real.
"Look at me," Elise said quietly.
Samira obeyed.
That was the start. Not of something romantic - it never became that. But Elise became a constant in Samira’s life: tutoring, guiding, occasionally toying. She introduced latex subtly - "just for fun, try this top," she'd said once, offering a shiny black piece she’d found online. Samira wore it at their next session, clearly embarrassed, but obedient.
The library study room was quiet, lit by fluorescent strips that hummed gently overhead. Elise sat with a pen in hand, not really reading Samira’s latest attempt at the problem set. Her gaze flicked across the latex top Samira wore - a simple black, sleeveless piece that clung like oil across her frame. Samira was flushed, clearly uncomfortable, fidgeting occasionally, tugging at the hem. But she didn’t complain. Not out loud.
Elise started calling it her "rubberization rules." Half-joking at first, but more and more, the words carried weight. It wasn’t just about latex. It was about what latex did. How it confined, reshaped, stripped away pretense. How it let her wrap her grief in new rituals of command.
Elise’s voice was calm, crisp. "You forgot to carry over the depreciation for the third quarter," she said, tapping her pen against the paper. "Again."
Samira winced. "I - I must have skipped it by accident. I didn’t mean - "
"Intent isn’t what I evaluate," Elise interrupted smoothly. "Just results."
She let the silence stretch, let Samira squirm. Then, with almost theatrical precision, Elise folded the page and set it aside.
She studied Samira closely. The fidgeting. The timid way she glanced down, avoided her eyes. The obvious discomfort in the shiny garment that clung to her so well. And underneath that - an opening. A subtle, precious chance.
Inside, Elise’s mind buzzed. She hadn’t expected this effect from a mere tutoring session. Yet here it was - a sense of order, a controllable system she could manage. Ever since the accident, since that day with the fire and the guilt and the loss, she had been clawing for something that could offer her structure. Power. Stability. Control. Samira was giving her that. She just didn’t know it.
"I’ve decided on something," Elise said, her tone as casual as if discussing a recipe. "A system. A motivational framework. I’m calling them… the Rubberization Rules."
Samira looked puzzled. "Rubberization? As in rubber? As in latex?" Samira was suddenly even more aware of the latex garment on her skin.
"You’re wearing the top now. That was spontaneous. But going forward, it’ll be part of a structured system. For every error in your assignments, an additional item. Latex only, of course. You choose to participate. Or not. But if not, I won’t waste my time tutoring someone who doesn’t commit. Fair?"
Samira hesitated. Elise leaned back in her chair, folding her arms. The pressure was subtle, but present. Elise didn’t offer any additional words, locking eyes with Samira. Staring. Waiting.
Finally, Samira nodded, cheeks glowing.
Elise felt a quiet calm seep into her chest. That nod, the way Samira didn’t question her - it soothed something raw. For once, Elise wasn’t reacting to life. She was directing it. She took control from her, and she didn’t even resist. How far would she be able to push her?
By the next session, they had moved their studies to Elise’s apartment. Samira arrived, nervously ringing the bell, her latex top now joined by sleek black gloves. She had walked across campus like that. Elise made sure of it. The image alone, of Samira’s discomfort under the eyes of strangers, was delicious. And the guilt Elise still carried became more manageable in that control. A trade. A transference.
Samira rang the bell, eyes lowered. Elise opened the door and let her in silently. Before they even made it to the kitchen table, Elise stopped her.
"Shoes off," she said, coolly.
Samira froze. "I… don’t have socks."
Elise’s tone stayed firm, though her heart fluttered - could she really push this far? "It’s a matter of politeness," she said. "And I expect politeness from my tutored girl."
There was a beat of hesitation, then Samira slipped out of her sneakers. Barefoot, she padded uncertainly into the apartment, shoulders drawn in. Elise watched the discomfort bloom in her with something like triumph. It wasn’t about Samira’s feet, but Elise understood the symbols of submission.
At the next session, in her apartment, Elise had a plan prepared. The next step in submission. This time, Samira had socks on. She slipped off her shoes at the door, but Elise wasn’t finished.
"Socks too."
Samira hesitated, feeling insecure, blinking. "Why?"
"Because that is where you were last time. I want to see your studies improve before I make concessions to you. Besides, it’s a token," Elise said smoothly. "As much as the rubber you wear. Politeness, and consistency. I expect it."
Samira removed the socks in silence. Elise stored them in the entryway cabinet, as if claiming another piece of ground.
Glancing through the pages, Elise spotted a formula out of alignment. "You still overcomplicated the net present value calculation. That was basic."
Samira bit her lip.
Elise smiled, slow and satisfied. "Latex leggings next week. Polished to a shine. You’re progressing nicely. Just try to avoid these blatant mistakes."
Inside, Elise felt the same steadying warmth. The rules worked. Not just for Samira. For her. A system she controlled, shaped. Unlike the chaos she grew up with, unlike that day when her sister had left for her birthday celebration, and Elise had stayed behind. There had been no structure, no plan for what came next. And it had broken her.
But here? She could fix everything. She could shape another person’s path.
Samira never pushed back. Not once. Each mistake added a new piece. Latex socks. Then the catsuit, tight and glossy, replacing the top and leggings. Samira was told to come and go in her dictated outfit, and she obeyed. Self-conscious, she always glanced around as she entered, cheeks red. Elise relished that, knowing Samira’s anxiety was the tribute paid at the altar of control.
She learned to watch for the tiny hesitations in Samira’s breath. The way her hands would falter before presenting a page. Those were the pressure points. She could pull them taut, test their limits. Control had become her meditation. And rubber had become its language.
One cold afternoon halfway through the semester, Elise received a message: Samira had to hand in a revised paper in person, immediately. She wanted Elise to check it beforehand. They agreed to meet outside Elise’s lecture hall. Samira was ten minutes late. When she arrived, panting and apologizing, Elise’s patience had already frayed. She looked down at Samira’s shoes, then coolly demanded, "Take them off."
Samira blinked. "What? Here?"
"And the socks. Unless you want our tutoring to end. It’s your paper, and you aren’t even on time then! You’re dangling by a thread already, given your performance, despite the motivational tools I’ve provided. Be thankful I don’t have you kneel."
Flushed with embarrassment, Samira obeyed. Her shoes and socks were taken, placed in Elise’s bag with calculated ease. Samira stood barefoot in the hallway, other students milling past with confused or amused glances. Elise paged through the paper, commented on some minor mistakes, hoping Samira would correct them in time.
"Now go," Elise said quietly. "If you’re serious about learning, you’ll endure worse." Seeing Samira leave, Elise felt a flush of heat running through her body. Her potential seemed limitless. She rummaged through her backpack, holding again the discarded shoes and socks in disbelief. She got away with it, she really made her go through with it.
Samira left, barefoot through the university’s corridors, to hand in her paper. Later she walked into the street, forced to take the tram home, still barefooted, eyes lowered, cheeks burning red.
Elise stepped out from the university’s worn stone threshold into the grey hush of late afternoon. The rain had returned, just that slow, uncaring drizzle that made everything feel heavier. The city felt wrapped in wet gauze. She moved toward the crossing and waited, hands buried in the pockets of her coat, eyes fixed on the red figure glowing atop the signal pole. Across the street, life continued: someone smoked under an awning, a couple huddled close, laughter distant and sharp like glass. She heard the bus before she saw it, engine low and guttural. It came into view fast, too fast for the narrow lane. The thought came not as a cry for help, nor even despair. Just a murmur, quiet and neat, a voice at the back of her head: one step. A shift of weight, a lean forward. It would be over fast, wouldn’t it? Would she feel it? Would it even matter? No drama. Just silence. Just stillness afterward. Maybe it would finally quiet the ache curling beneath her ribs.
The light changed. The bus surged past, as did the thought. The wind of its passing caught her hair like fingers brushing through it. Her breath trembled once, but she didn’t move. Not forward. Not back. Just stood there, held between impulse and inertia. Then she crossed, heading home. The rain streaked down her cheeks like tears she wouldn’t grant herself.
Elise needed to build her control. To survive, she needed an ice wall around her fragile inner self. Nobody could ever know. Eventually, she continued to craft her dominant persona. She was learning to command not only Samira but herself.
On a cold Thursday, Samira eventually arrived at Elise’s apartment dressed as instructed: a full black latex catsuit, matching gloves, and tall, gleaming boots. She shifted nervously at the door, biting her lower lip. Elise opened slowly, gaze sweeping deliberately over her.
"There she is. My most improved student," Elise said with a slow smile.
Samira stepped inside, visibly relieved to be out of public view. "People stared," she muttered.
"Good. It helps you focus when they focus. And they’ll get used to it," Elise replied breezily, already walking toward the table. "Take your usual seat. Let’s see what you’ve managed this time."
Samira laid her folder down, her breathing shallow under the pressure of the encounter. "I double-checked everything. I really tried to follow your notes exactly. I think it’s better."
Elise flipped through the pages without urgency. A small mistake caught her eye - a formula inverted, not catastrophic, but enough. She paused deliberately, giving the illusion of contemplation, letting the silence thicken.
"Progress," she said finally, snapping the folder shut. "Continue like this and you don’t have to wear the next piece." Samira’s back straightened, the latex creaked with her motion. "You said I can remove an item when I’m good enough." "Yes. And you will be able to. But not today. Today is just barely acceptable."
Samira’s expression fell. Elise’s fingers tapped once on the folder. "You know what comes next, don’t you?"
Samira didn’t answer, but her eyes narrowed. She knew there was not much uncovered skin left on her - only her face. She didn’t dare to say it.
"A hood," Elise said softly, watching her reaction closely. "Next serious mistake. You’ll wear it the moment you leave your dorm. And you will leave with it on. We video call on your way here and back home, just to make sure you won’t take it off without my permission. Full enclosure."
Samira blinked, her brows knitting together. She had already expected that, but didn’t dare to mention it, just in case Elise was thinking of something more harmless. But she also didn’t oppose it now. How could she?
"You didn’t think the catsuit was the final step, did you?" Elise asked, voice syrupy. "This is about refinement. Detail. Focus. And I want your attention sealed in place."
"I… don’t have a hood," Samira said.
"You do now." Elise stood and walked over to a sleek black drawer near her wardrobe. She pulled out a folded latex hood - seamless, glossy - and held it out. "I bought this earlier this week, a gift for my favorite student." she said.
Samira reached out slowly and took the hood. The latex stuck slightly to her gloved fingers. Her expression was unreadable.
"On your next infringement," Elise said, her voice soft but firm. "Focus and concentrate."
Samira nodded once. Elise couldn’t get enough of the power trip. It made her forget what was eroding her soul. She wanted, she needed, this. More of this. This was control, control over her life, control to bury what needs to be buried.
Elise found herself more confident outside these sessions, her mind clearer. Every correction she imposed, every rubber item added, dulled the phantom heat of memory.
Three weeks later, Samira eventually arrived in the extended outfit. Enough mistakes had been found - or subtly emphasized - by Elise to escalate her to this point. Shiny boots encased her feet, gloves covered her hands, and now, for the first time, her face was hidden beneath the seamless latex hood Elise had presented to her. Elise opened the door slowly. Her fingers grazed the edge of her untouched teacup as she let the scene settle over her like silk. Her phone, with the ongoing video call still open, sat idle but forgotten.
Samira stepped inside with hesitant, muffled breaths. The hood reduced her peripheral vision, and the light caught the latex's surface in brilliant arcs. Her shoulders were hunched.
"This is too humiliating, people keep staring and pointing at me," she muttered from behind the hood.
Elise smirked with glee, taking her usual seat at the kitchen table. Her eyes tracked Samira’s every movement. "Let’s see your assignment."
Samira laid the folder down, carefully aligning it with the edge of the table. "I triple-checked this time. I put so much time into this."
Elise flipped through the pages without urgency. She spotted a small error - minor, but exploitable. She paused, then let the silence stretch like wire between them.
"Progress," she said at last. "Continue like this and you don’t have to upgrade your outfit again." Samira shifted, the latex creaking faintly with her movement. "But it was not bad? Can’t I remove at least the hood?"
"Not yet, my dear. You will be able to, if your next assignment is flawless. But today is not good enough. You’re just barely avoiding the next item."
Elise tapped the folder once, not looking up. "You know what I give you next, don’t you?"
Samira didn’t reply.
"Gas mask, over your hood," Elise said, allowing the words to land like a velvet hammer. "I’ll have your breath whizzing through the filters with your lenses fogging up if you can’t manage to focus your breath on your fiscal depreciation theory. And if that doesn’t help you to concentrate on your work on that week’s assignment… we’re done here."
Samira shifted again, uncertain. Then she murmured, "Please don’t drop me. You’re the top of your class. Everyone knows it. I need this. Even if I have to be under your special rules. No one else would take the time."
Elise met her gaze - or rather, the hooded outline of it - and allowed a faint smile to bloom.
She leaned back, watching Samira try to compose herself. It wasn’t the rubber itself that mattered. It was the ritual, the tension, the psychological framework. It was leverage. Each addition to Samira’s uniform was a test, a tool, a signal that Elise could build a controlled world, item by item.
And it worked. Not just on Samira, but on Elise’s own mind. The constant hum of anxiety, of memory, was reduced. Each correction she imposed dulled the phantom heat of memory, of helplessness. Rubber wasn’t fetish. It was clarity. Discipline. It was her means to enforce structure onto something that had once burned without warning.
"Of course," she added with calm precision, "you can always walk away. But I think you’re better than that. I think you want to prove yourself."
Samira lowered her eyes, the latex around her neck gently folding. "I can’t walk away, your work helped me pass the last exam with an A. I’ll improve."
Elise nodded, the sense of mastery anchoring her like a deep breath held too long.
She had found her method. Her rule. Her ritual. The Rubberization Rules weren’t punishment. They were therapy.
They drifted apart after a semester. Samira transferred, or moved - Elise didn’t follow up. It hadn’t mattered. She didn’t matter. Samira was discarded and forgotten. She had been a valuable tool, nothing more. Elise now knew that she could silence her inner turmoil and grief by exercising control on others, as it gave her control over herself.
Years later, standing in Abyss, watching someone else’s rubberized submission, Elise would remember that moment. The kneeling. The power. Careers accelerated. The quiet within her grief. She’d always been moving toward this place - even if she didn’t know it. Or perhaps it had been moving toward her.
She didn’t find Abyss. It found her. A whispered invitation, an exclusive contact from someone at a client firm, a quiet message delivered with exact timing. And from the first moment she crossed its threshold, the air thick with perfume and threat, she knew. This was the final form of her rubberization rules. This was the place where grief and control could become indistinguishable.
The Abyss was waiting. She had always been meant to walk into it.
The night of the duel arrived with an atmosphere thick with tension and expectation. Club Abyss was packed with eager spectators, their whispers forming an undercurrent to the pulsating music that thrummed through the grand chamber. The stage was set, and at its center stood Nadia and Elise, facing each other under the watchful gaze of Evelyn.