Chapter 15
Camelia sat across from Evelyn in the dimly lit lounge of Abyss, dressed in a simple but elegant latex catsuit, her hands clenched in her lap, her eyes red-rimmed from tears. She had come in not as a performer, not as a patron, but as a woman at the end of her rope. She didn’t like the latex on her since her stay in the coffin, but appealing for help with Evelyn, the material as a token of submission would be expected. Her graceful career as a ballerina, her passion since childhood, was crumbling beneath her. The theater had reduced her hours; she couldn’t make ends meet. The world outside had no place for her anymore. And so, she had come here, to Abyss, hoping against hope for something - anything - that would let her dance again.
Evelyn was, of course, delighted.
Leaning back in her chair, a slow, knowing smile played on her lips as she let her gaze wander over Camelia’s rubberized body. She concentrated to conceal her desire for the ballerina. "I appreciate your honesty, Camelia. And I do believe I have just the solution for you."
Camelia sniffled, straightening up. "You do?"
"Abyss could use a resident dancer. Someone with real training, grace, and skill. You would be the centerpiece of our performances."
Camelia’s heart leapt, but there was caution in her voice. "I - what would that entail?"
Evelyn’s smile widened. "You would perform every club night. The stage would be yours. You’d be paid generously - double what you earned at the theater. And, of course, you may even dance in a ballet lycra suit instead of latex. I understand that you have certain reservations against that particular material since you enjoyed the hospitality of Abyss in the basement for a month."
Camelia let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. That sounded… almost perfect. Too perfect.
Evelyn leaned forward slightly, her voice growing softer. "But there is a challenge. A signature of Abyss. You will be performing in specialty heels - pointe shoes, in a sense. They are needle-equipped."
Camelia’s breath hitched. "What kind of needles?"
"Sharp needles," Evelyn said wolfishly, her tone cool and measured. "If you falter, they will press into the skin of your soles. Long and painful. Actual sharp long needles, just shy off sliding into your flesh."
Camelia’s fingers dug into her lap as she shivered. Her instincts screamed at her to leave, to run. But a part of her knew: She needed a job, and fast. Yet another part of her - the part that had dedicated her entire life to dance - whispered that she had never faltered before. Had never truly failed. If this was the cost to stay in the art she loved, could she refuse?
Evelyn watched the conflict dance across Camelia’s face, and she pressed just a little further. "You are an exceptional dancer. I doubt you would even feel them, let alone suffer from them."
Camelia swallowed. "You’re certain?"
A small chuckle. "You’ve danced in en pointe shoes your entire life, Camelia. This is merely an extension of that discipline. Your heels will be delicate, yes, and they are able to offer an exquisiteness of pain the other heels can’t deliver. And when you are mastering them, we will upgrade them to the Ballet Heels of Agony. And they will be yours to command and to control. And if you perform badly, we might add to your outfit. You know, Abyss stuff."
"Ballet Heels of Agony? What are those?"
Evelyn paused for effect, then answered, "Once you are ready, they will be made for you by our artisans. En pointe heels, of course, but tight, high, demanding and needles laying in wait under your toes as well as your soles."
Heels with toe needles? But what escape did she have? She needed money, and fast. Any minimum wage job immediately available would not cut it. And a long hiring process with interviews would not cut it. Rent was due. The fridge was almost empty. She hated to be out of options.
And there it was, finally. The push she needed. Camelia straightened her shoulders, determination lighting in her gaze. "I’ll do it if there’s no chastity."
"No chastity belt in your contract, but latex penance, if you falter, my dear."
"I think I can handle it for an evening, if my dancing lacks the necessary elegance."
"Excellent," Evelyn purred, taking a contract out of a drawer, and scribbling text on its various pages, defining what they had just said. Finally, she slid the contract across the table. "Sign here."
The bar at Abyss was quieter than usual, a rare lull in the ever-pulsing rhythm of decadence. The low hum of bass trembled underfoot, like a heartbeat slowed to a murmur. Soft crimson light spilled across the polished surfaces of the lounge, and the velvet air carried only the faintest echoes of laughter from the upper levels. Nadia, wrapped in her simple latex suit, stepped carefully into the space, her senses sharp, her curiosity focused.
She moved silently toward the bar, eyes scanning until they landed on a familiar silhouette. The girl from the other night. The one with the cum cocktail. Nadia remembered every detail: the strained expression, the pale skin, the trembling hand trying to lift that foul, thick drink to her lips. It had been more than a little unsettling, watching someone fight their own body with such visible desperation.
Tonight, the girl sat alone again, though no cocktail marred the counter in front of her. Just a plain glass of water, sweating onto a coaster. Her arms were crossed, her posture tense, latex gloves resting uneasily against the polished wood. Her face was more relaxed today, the paleness gone, framed by slightly disheveled hair. The overhead lights caught on a fine sheen of sweat along her brow. She was in full rubber, only her head was uncovered.
Nadia approached cautiously, driven by a strange mixture of sympathy and morbid curiosity. She had questions. And maybe, tonight, she’d get answers. "Mind if I sit?" she asked gently, her voice softened by the hush of the lounge.
The girl looked up slowly, her gaze shadowed but alert. The girl blinked, as if recognizing the voice triggered something. Her eyes widened slightly. "Oh, you're Nadia," she said, almost breathless. "I didn’t realize at first… I’ve seen your plaque on the lounge wall. The one with the empty blinking counter. Everyone knows you. And… your rubberization loss? It’s practically legend here. You’re kind of a celebrity."
Nadia gave a small, self-deprecating smile, equal parts flattered and exhausted. "Not exactly the kind of fame I was hoping for."
After a pause, the girl gave a small nod. "Please join me."
Nadia lowered herself onto the seat beside her, glancing once more at the water glass. "You had that drink last week," she said carefully. "The semen cocktail. What was that about?"
The girl let out a low, humorless breath and looked away. "A punishment," she said simply. "A lost bet."
Nadia blinked. "That bad?"
"Worse," the girl said, with a grimace that seemed to spread down through her entire body. "It was with my ex. When we broke up, I wanted to lock him up in chastity. The bastard had already found a new girl. I didn’t want him to run off and start fucking someone else. It was stupid, and I knew it. But I still tried. I said if I won the bet, he’d be belted for a year. If he won… Well, he said he wouldn’t lock me, since I have a low libido. Said he had something better."
She swallowed hard, then took a slow sip of her water. "Every three months, I have to come here and drink his cum. All of it. It’s my price."
Nadia tried not to visibly flinch. She remembered the way the girl had trembled, gagged. "And if you don’t?" The girl’s expression went cold. "Then the needle frame. From midnight to sunrise. A full shift."
A heavy silence settled between them. Nadia's hands tensed in her lap. "Every three months, a full glass? I would have thought it would be much less if he is with someone else now? Am I missing something?"
The girl sighed. "I was told it’s exclusively his. For symbolic reasons! They must have been catching it, maybe using condoms and giving them to Abyss to prepare my drink. I only know it is frozen, then collected. Then thawed and served."
Nadia needed a moment to understand the predicament. "But… the drink. It looked like you were in pain just getting it down."
The girl turned her head toward Nadia, her face filled with revulsion. "It’s worse than pain. It’s slimy. Like swallowing mucus and oil mixed together. Lukewarm. Thick. You know cum, right? It coats everything. Your tongue. Your throat. Your stomach. The smell is the worst. I have to fight not to vomit. Every. Single. Time."
She shivered visibly, her shoulders shaking with the memory. "It doesn’t matter how much water I drink beforehand. Doesn’t matter if I eat or don’t. I’m not allowed to eat or drink anything else when I get served. It hits me the same way. My whole body tries to reject it. But if I let it come back up, even once, the needle frame will be waiting. Evelyn sees to that."
Nadia sat still, jaw clenched. The idea of being trapped in such a grotesque ritual made her stomach tighten. "That’s… extreme."
"It is," the girl said flatly. "And I agreed to the wager. I signed. I wanted his chastity key, and by extension, his balls. Deny him sex with his new girlfriend. So now I live with it. And he fucks someone else and I still have to swallow every last drop. In a sense, I still got his balls, just not the way I intended."
They both faintly smiled at her crude joke, trying to add humor to her forfeit. A long moment passed before Nadia found her voice again. "You’re strong."
The girl shook her head slowly, staring down at her glass. "No. I’m just afraid of the alternative. That’s not the same thing."
Nadia didn’t reply. She couldn’t. The air between them was thick with unspoken truths. She had her belt. Her endless teasing. Her own torment. But in this girl, she saw a mirror, a different punishment, equally grotesque. And both of them were here, under the same red lights, carrying burdens few could imagine.
The first night arrived faster than Camelia had anticipated. The club was packed, the music pulsing through the floor as patrons filled every available space. She stood backstage, clad in a deep black PVC ballet leotard, her body poised and prepared - except for the pounding of her heart in her chest.
In her hands, she held the pair of heels that would define her fate. They were elegant, black, the platform beneath designed for en pointe dancing. The inside had been custom-fitted for her feet, and the exact curve of her soles’ arches, almost reassuringly familiar. But then there was the key feature: the gleaming needle-containing nodules embedded in the sole, each one promising to react to the weight of her movements. The stakes had been made clear - perfect balance would keep them inert, but any slight misstep would see them press against her sensitive skin.
Camelia took a steadying breath and stepped barefoot into them. The straps tightened, locking her in. As she lifted onto the balls of her feet, she felt a slight shift - a whisper of movement beneath her heels. The nodules pressed wastingly against her bare soles, into her delicate arches. She knew it was just a warning, but her heart still pounded.
As she prepared for her first steps, her gaze flicked downward for just a moment, catching sight of the transparent coffin beneath the stage. Through the glass inset in the stage, she could see Elise, her form slick with sweat, writhing in the rubber prison. Camelia swallowed hard, remembering her own month in the black coffin. The sensation of rubber pressing in on all sides, the oppressive heat, the inability to move - she had barely endured it. And Elise… she had months left. The thought sent a shudder down her spine, but she had no time to dwell on it. The music had begun.
Camelia took a steadying breath and stepped into them. The moment she fastened the straps around her ankles, the reality of her commitment settled in.
Evelyn appeared beside her, her presence a commanding shadow. "Remember, the club watches for perfection. Make it look effortless."
Camelia nodded, steeling herself as the curtains parted.
The stage was bathed in deep crimson and sapphire lights, casting long shadows against the floor. The crowd roared as she stepped into view, her figure luminous under the glow. Her first steps sent electric anticipation through her limbs. She moved forward, each step precise, controlled, her posture impeccable.
Then the music started.
She launched into her performance, balancing high on the tips of the heels, her body moving with effortless grace. Each leap, each pirouette, was measured, her discipline never wavering. The needles beneath her remained silent, dormant. Confidence surged within her. This was who she was - this was what she was meant to do.
As the performance escalated, she pushed herself further. Grand jetés, deep arabesques, perfectly aligned turns - she danced as though the theater had never left her, as though she had never lost her stage. The illusion of danger heightened the thrill, but she remained flawless.
She could feel the crowd’s captivation, their eyes locked onto her every movement. Evelyn stood at the edge of the stage, watching, waiting. And then, as the final note rang out, Camelia landed with an effortless flourish, sinking into an elegant pose.
Silence. A breath. Then, thunderous applause.
She had done it.
Camelia exhaled, her body trembling slightly from the exertion, but she barely noticed. The needles hadn’t engaged. Her faith in herself had been well-placed.
Evelyn approached, clapping slowly. "Well done."
Camelia straightened, Evelyn locking eyes with her. "I told you, you could do it."
"I did." Camelia’s smile was polite but unsure.
Camelia hesitated, but only for a moment. She had survived the night. Maybe… just maybe… she could handle more. Maybe this was the job for her!
And that was precisely the path Evelyn had intended for her all along.
As the bullet vibrator switched off, she moaned groggily into the mouthpiece, the feeding tube making the gargled sound grotesque. It didn’t even take her to the edge anymore. It switched off just on its way there. It was maddening. She stretched against the latex confines with the little force her weakened muscles could still muster. The constant, maddening tease hummed through her body, a sensation that never built to anything but never let her rest for too long. The small, precise pulses of stimulation, carefully designed to bring her just to the point of longing for more stimulation, kept her mind in a cruel haze. It was an agony that stretched into infinity, an ache that never found release, an urge that could never be answered. She wished she’d at least reach the edge again, but she had designed it this way; eventually it had learned enough to just keep the arousal without giving the high of getting close. She would arch, twist, press into the latex, forcing her nipples into it, arching her toes, as if she could force the sensation into something more, but there was no escape, no shift, no change - only the endless, tormenting need for more that defined her existence. She was forgetting who she was before this hell.
She screamed into her mouthpiece, a gargled sound in the coffin. Nadia! It was all her fault. How she hated that bitch. How she had forced her to be a statue instead of having the guts to duel her. Nadia, the coward. Nadia, the merciful. Nadia, who was responsible for her suffering, for taking away her control. She would destroy her, once she got out of here. Blind rage and hatred danced in her mind.
The latex surrounding her was its own kind of torment, a second skin slick with sweat, the ever-present lubrication inside the suit. Every slight movement sent her gliding effortlessly, if only millimeters, her body sliding within the smooth, frictionless embrace, trapping her in an endless cycle of sensation, kept in place by the vacuum sheets and inflatable cushions. It felt alive, like a thing whispering against her skin, cradling her in its unrelenting grip. There was no moment of stillness, no reprieve, just the ceaseless, gliding caress and the unbearable need it nurtured, stretching endlessly into the abyss of her confinement.
She couldn’t gesture or flinch or recoil. It reminded her too much of that day - frozen at the intersection, the heat on her face, the smell of burned metal and plastic. The fireman approaching her. This time, the fireman had Nadia’s face. She had stood still then, too, paralyzed by fear and shock. It was the moment her world split in two: before she failed, and after. Now, inside the rubber coffin, the division felt physical. Her mind scratched at the surface, trying to dig out. But there was no out. Not from this. Not from herself.
Elise was lucid enough to be aware that she was slowly losing her mind.
The air in Abyss’s lounge shimmered with gold and crimson light, soft jazz threads weaving through the low pulse of the deeper club. The crowd was in its usual rhythm, masked bodies leaning in over sleek drinks, flirtation and menace mingling like perfume. But Nadia barely noticed. Every step she took, every slight movement of her legs, sent a subtle, traitorous shiver through her core.
The latex suit hugged her like a second skin, sealed perfectly over the steel belt that had imprisoned her for five years by now. But that wasn’t the worst of it anymore. No - Evelyn’s latest cruelty lay hidden beneath the surface. The extension. A small flexible piece of rubber placed so precisely, so invasively, that every shift of Nadia’s body dragged it over her most sensitive flesh in maddening, grazing torment. Enough to build. Never enough to reach. Just enough to keep her body primed, twitching, begging. Wetness was often leaking out of the belt’s shield. And it had been like this for weeks.
Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for the drink she hadn’t touched. She barely noticed the way the condensation pooled beneath the glass. She only noticed her own breath, shallow, quick, and the way Evelyn watched her.
The Mistress of Abyss sat across from her in a low velvet chair, the firelight dancing in her silver hair and dark, knowing eyes. She was calm, patient, sipping something blood-colored and expensive, letting Nadia come undone by inches.
"There she is, I thought I wouldn’t see you tonight," Evelyn said smoothly.
"I couldn’t walk," Nadia whispered. "Every step makes it worse."
Evelyn tilted her head with mock concern. "Still suffering from the extension, are we?"
Nadia swallowed. She didn’t want to give her the satisfaction, but she was past pride. "Please… I want an orgasm. Just one. One release. You can set the terms. The conditions. Anything. Just … let me come."
Evelyn smiled as if Nadia had just handed her a precious gift. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, chin resting in one pale hand. "Now we’re getting somewhere."
Nadia shifted in her seat, biting down a whimper as the movement sent another wave through her. "I’ll drink it," she said suddenly. Her voice was low but steady. "The semen cocktail. Alexandru’s… gift. I’ll drink it all. If it means I can finally come, even once."
For a moment, Evelyn said nothing. Then she laughed softly. "Oh Nadia. That’s adorable. Really, it is. But I’m afraid you’re barking up the wrong tree."
Nadia stiffened. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," Evelyn purred, "that belt isn’t mine. You know that very well. It’s Elise’s. She may be in the transparent coffin now, but that contract still stands. I don’t have the authority to grant you release."
The words landed like cold steel.
"But you installed the extension," Nadia said, the accusation clear.
Evelyn’s smile didn’t falter. "Of course I did. But I merely replaced the needle pad for a standard insert. I only lessened the impact of the Abyss’ twist on your original loss. I am within my rights to do that. I mentioned my choice of pads on the night of the original duel, you against her. You consented. And I thought, now you needed a little… reprieve."
Nadia’s jaw tightened. "You did this to me. To push me. To drive me insane."
"How bad is it?" Evelyn asked sweetly. Nadia’s Rings of Eternal Longing pulsed as she had just spoken the question. As Nadia felt the impossible suction on her nipples, her eyes flew wide open, locking her gaze with Evelyn’s, and a loud moan escaped her mouth. A new gush of wetness flooded her belt. Her latex suit was drenched in her sweat now, drops escaping at her sleeves.
"No, darling. I did it to give you options," Evelyn said even more sweetly. "I thought if the desperation was raw enough, you might start making interesting choices."
Nadia trembled, regaining her composure slowly, as the Rings stopped their magic. "If I can’t come, at least take it out. The extension. Even replace it with the needle pad. Let me sleep again. Let me think again."
Evelyn leaned back, swirling her glass. "Now that I can do. But… it would be a shame, wouldn’t it? All this delicious tension, wasted."
Nadia stared at her. "You said you wanted me to make interesting choices. I’m offering you one. I’ll drink the damn cocktail. Every drop. Just take the extension out."
Evelyn considered her for a long moment. Then she sighed, almost disappointed. "Tempting. But really, Nadia, is a single drink worth undoing weeks of my work? What you’re offering isn’t nearly enough."
Nadia gritted her teeth. "Then what would be enough?"
Evelyn smiled slowly, leaning forward as if offering a secret. "Maybe three months in the standard black rubber coffin," she said, her voice dripping with honeyed venom. "Or perhaps a full year in the suit again, sixteen hours a day, and let’s not forget the bondage bag at night. The one with the rubber hood you always hated. I’m sure you remember that, rubber girl. You experienced it under Elise’s rubberization rules. How about now you submit yourself to my own rubberization rules, Evelyn-style? That could persuade me to remove the extension."
Nadia flinched.But she thought about it. She had endured the suit and bag. She could endure it again. But please not for a year, it was such torture in the summer months. Or the normal coffin, for three months? She was indeed curious about how it would feel. Latex had an appeal for her, after all. A month, she’d take her chances, but three? She remembered Camelia’s tale of her month-long ordeal in that rubber box. She doubted it was worth it just to get the extension removed.
"You’re serious?"
"Deadly." Evelyn's grin widened. "But you could always try something… sharper. Say, one session in the Needle Frame each month for a year. I imagine you'd appreciate your little extension after that."
Nadia gasped, color draining from her face. The thought of being strapped into that mechanical torment rack, once a month, for a whole year, only for an attempt to get the needle pad back, made her skin crawl. "That's insane. So much pain. You’d trade that for the extension?"
"I might," Evelyn said coyly. "You have never visited the frame, and I have never heard you scream for hours on end. Wouldn’t that be a delight? For the latex extension pad. But a single cocktail? No. And an orgasm? I doubt even Elise would trade a satisfying orgasm for something as simple as a drink, or the needle frame. For all that effort I put into fine tuning that device just right? I’m not even demanding the finger or toe pads installed, only the base setup. Eight hours, not twelve, not twenty-four, and I remove the extension and put back the needle pad. Or three months in the black rubber coffin, only to get the extension out."
Evelyn smirked, offering impossible, one-sided deals. Even Nadia was not foolish enough to pay such a price. But she didn’t want her to accept those deals; she wanted her to be eroded by the devilish latex extension, ever so slightly brushing up against her nether-lips.
Nadia shook her head slowly, trembling. "No. The rubber… It's too much. The coffin scares me to death. I would risk a week, but not months. And the Frame…"
Evelyn raised her glass again. "Then I suppose you’ll just keep burning."
Nadia said nothing. There was nothing left to say.
Nadia’s stomach twisted. She felt the extension twitch with her movement and nearly cried. She was burning alive from the inside, a candle of frustration and denial.
"Then I take it back," she hissed. "The offer. Forget the drink."
Evelyn raised her glass in salute. "Then burn, little flame. As you wish. But I suspect we’ll be having this conversation again. And next time, you might offer more."
Nadia stood slowly, legs shaking, her breath ragged. The latex clung to her like a second skin, slippery in an avalanche of sweat, and the extension brushed slightly but cruelly against her again. Her Rings pulsed once more. She swallowed a scream.
"Next time," Evelyn echoed, her smile dark as wine. "You’ll be hungrier. And I’ll still be here."
Nadia didn’t answer. She turned and walked away, each step agony. Each breath a war. The extension teased her again, and she knew Evelyn was watching. Waiting. Letting her burn. As Nadia reached the door, her Rings of Eternal Longing pulsed once more. A moan escaped her lips as she steadied herself at the doorframe.
And burn she would.
Ana waited backstage, her hands clenched into trembling fists as the hum of the Abyss audience filled the chamber. Two years. She had waited, suffered, and submitted for two entire years. Locked. Denied. No relief, nothing. Shaped by the denial and Evelyn’s dark architecture of discipline. And tonight, finally, she was eligible. Eligible for the Sanctum. Under Evelyn’s terms, not her own.
Ana sat on the edge of the velvet lounge chair in the preparation chamber, her fingers nervously fidgeting with the seam of her latex gloves. She had rehearsed this moment in her mind countless times. The long walk to the stage, the bow to Evelyn, the audience leaning in with breathless anticipation. She had expected a statue challenge - the kind that demanded stillness, poise, a test of endurance she felt prepared for. Perhaps she would be placed in spike-lined shoes or forced to hold an agonizing pose for an hour. That, she could steel herself for. That, she had imagined.
But then Evelyn arrived.
The attendants fell still, silent as ever, ghostlike in their latex. Ana stood instinctively, her back straightening, her breath caught in her throat. Evelyn moved slowly, a shadow in gleaming emerald, her presence filling the room with the quiet gravity of inevitability.
She circled Ana once, her heels echoing against the stone floor, and then stopped just a pace in front of her. Her smile was razor-thin.
"You thought it would be a statue challenge," Evelyn said, voice rich with amusement, as if tasting Ana’s assumption. "A bit of trembling grace on a pedestal? No. You are beyond that. Or should be."
Ana didn’t respond. Her pulse was climbing.
Evelyn gestured, and from behind her, one of the silent attendants stepped forward and held up a black, sealed dossier. Evelyn took it herself, slowly opening it, savoring every flicker of anxiety on Ana’s face.
"Your challenge," she said, dragging the word out, "is breath."
Ana frowned slightly. Breath?
"You will be strapped into the Rebreather Chair," Evelyn continued, her tone now coated with taunting sweetness. "You will wear a sealed latex gas mask. Attached to it will be a lovely two-liter rebreather bag. Just enough to remind you of each exhale. Just little enough fresh oxygen to make each inhale a question."
Ana felt her stomach turn. Her legs stiffened.
"There will be one valve," Evelyn added, turning her head slightly, her smile deepening, "providing the bare minimum to keep you conscious. That is, of course, assuming you remain calm. Should you panic…"
She let the implication linger in the air like a perfume.
"There will be no airflow adjustments. No safewords. Only a button," she said, her gloved finger lifting to mime a press. "Push it, and you surrender. You fail. Panic and faint. You fail. And your beloved Sanctum? Vanishes."
Ana's mouth parted. She wanted to protest, to ask questions. But her voice felt locked somewhere beneath the fear. She had heard of the rebreather before - only in whispers. A challenge that reduced women to primal desperation.
"Of course," Evelyn said softly, leaning in just enough for Ana to feel the heat of her breath, "if you do press that button… you will spend twenty-four hours in the Needle Frame. With toe pads active."
Ana's eyes widened. Evelyn stepped back, already turning toward the exit.
"Prepare her," she commanded.
The attendants moved in, silent, inevitable.
Ana stood frozen for a moment longer, dread curling in her gut. This was not what she expected.
She had dreamed about the Inner Sanctum since she first experienced the tongues of the silent attendants, so very long ago, in the basement of Abyss. The Tongues - those strange, inhuman appendages - could bring a body to such heights of ecstasy that many claimed it rewired their brains.
Ana had tasted the Sanctum once - just once, more than four years ago - and it had unraveled her. Not fully, not openly, but in a way that embedded itself beneath her skin like a whisper. She remembered the tongues. Not in sight, but in impressions: too long, too sinuous, impossibly flexible. Human tongues shouldn’t move like that. Couldn’t. But she had been blindfolded, hooded in featureless latex with no eye holes, stripped of all sight and left only with touch, breath, and that devouring sensation between her legs. She didn’t know what they were. No one told her. They never did. But she had been hooked. She had begged Evelyn for another chance.
Her chance had arrived. The ache in her body had evolved into something spiritual.
The crowd was restless. They had seen her around - restless in the belt of denial, marked by her role, always watching, never touching. Her belt had not been opened in twenty-four months. That knowledge alone made her desirable. She noticed guests, male and female, gazing at her, their smiles filled with desire. Her suffering elevated her, even as it threatened to undo her.
She had failed her first test: She couldn’t dictate the terms of tonight’s challenge. That right went to Evelyn two years ago. Now she had to earn access to pleasure.
Evelyn stepped out to center stage, her gown a cascade of emerald latex, smooth and unwrinkled, shimmering under the lights. The murmur of the crowd died down at once. She raised her hand, voice clear and theatrical.
"Tonight, we welcome back one of our most faithful. A woman of resolve, patience, and exquisite restraint. Two years ago, Ana entered her long denial - voluntarily. Just for one attempt to visit the Inner Sanctum of Abyss, to experience once more the second highest lust Abyss can offer. An orgasm-free night with the silent attendants. And tonight, she will attempt this step: to meet them in the Sanctum."
There was a sharp intake of breath from the audience.
"She will endure one hour in the Rebreather Trial. She will be bound, sealed, and cut off from fresh breath. Her air: recycled. Her control: absolute. Her freedom: one red button. Should she faint or press it, her reward is forfeit. And her punishment…"
She paused.
"Twenty-four hours in the Needle Frame. With toe and finger pads active. She asked for this; two years ago she failed in our pre-challenge. Had she won, she would have only faced the frame’s minimal pain configuration. But since she lost, and the forfeit of this challenge now is in my hands, she faces the needle frame in its maximum pain configuration."
Several guests gasped. The phrase alone summoned imagined torments.
Ana stepped forward into the light. She wore a seamless black latex catsuit, perfectly fitted to her frame. An open-faced hood framed her face tonight. She bowed to Evelyn, then again to the crowd. The stage shifted.
A steel-framed chair, bolted into the floor, waited for her on the stage. Its cuffs gleamed under the lights. A nearby table held the components: the thick, coiled rebreather hose, the heavy rubber gas mask, and a translucent 2-liter bag, already semi-deflated. The single red button glowed faintly. Simple. Absolute.
Ana approached. Attendants flanked her. Their movements were brisk, efficient. Her arms were secured to the chair's rests. Wide cuffs locked her thighs and ankles. A thick chest strap pinned her back. Her breath began to speed up even before the mask touched her skin.
Then the mask came down. Black rubber, thick and airtight. It sealed over her face, completing Ana’s complete coverage in latex. The hose clicked into the mask, trailing to the waiting bag. One final exhale. The bag expanded once. And again.
Evelyn’s voice, now nearly a whisper: "Time."
The lights dimmed. The timer began.
At first, the breathwork was rhythmic. Ana’s inhale was steady. The bag collapsed. Her exhale filled it again. The latex smell saturated her lungs. Warmth gathered inside the mask. Rubber, her own breath, the faint tang of metal.
Five minutes. Still bearable. The initial nerves gave way to a strange calm.
Ten minutes. Her lungs began to itch. The oxygen was running thin. The fresh valve let new air in, but never enough. Each breath now held the memory of the last. Her heartbeat, once slow, began to rise.
Fifteen minutes. Her shoulders tensed. She could feel sweat starting to pool in her gloves. Her thighs clenched against the cuffs. Her breathing deepened involuntarily, trying to extract more from less.
Twenty minutes. The air turned heavy. It clung to her lungs. When she exhaled, it no longer felt like release. When she inhaled, it was no longer satisfying. Her body was entering fight-or-flight. And yet she remained still.
Thirty minutes. The halfway mark. Ana's hands curled into fists. Her spine arched slightly, pressing into the back strap. Her nostrils flared under the mask. Her pulse drummed in her ears. Her toes curled. And through it all, she remained focused. On the memory of the Sanctum. The crawling, enveloping ecstasy of the Tongues. The annihilation of thought. She latched onto that memory like a talisman.
She grew dizzy, tempted to breathe fast and shallow. She needed to concentrate. Deep and slow breaths. Exhale as long and deep as possible in order to push stale air out of the rebreather bag through its small valve. Deep inhale, two liters of used and stale, hot, humid air - anything beyond these two liters, when the rebreather bag was fully sucked in, would draw in fresh valuable oxygen. She needed to keep it deep and slow and ignore her instincts.
But the body rebels. At forty minutes, her chest ached with every breath. She was hyper-aware of the stale air recirculating, increasingly suffocating. Her jaw clenched, a dull cramp forming along her neck. Her thoughts began to blur at the edges, fragmented by the lack of oxygen. She knew what that meant. Her time was running short. But the button was right there. Glowing. Promising escape. Promising air.
And yet she hesitated. Because the other promise - the one wrapped in darkness and pressure, in the slick whisper of nonhuman tongues and unknowable touch - was stronger. It was not pleasure she chased. It was obliteration. She didn’t want comfort. She wanted to be unraveled, taken apart by something she didn’t understand. Her body demanded breath. But her soul? It demanded submission.
Fifty minutes. Her vision swam. Drool leaked into the mask, pooling under her chin. Her whole frame trembled. And still the button called to her, a siren pulsing at the corner of her eye. She could end it with a fingertip. One twitch of muscle. She could fall into air. But she knew what Evelyn would say: that surrender wasn’t failure, but it was disqualification. She had endured too much to give that up now. Not when she could still taste the phantom touch of the Sanctum in her mind. If she gave up now, her twenty-four months in chastity would be followed by twenty-four hours in needles.
Fifty-five minutes. Her body convulsed once, a full-body shudder that left her limp in the chair. Her eyes rolled, then refocused with effort. Still breathing. Still there. Just barely.
Fifty-nine. Her fingers dug into the padded armrests, her nails biting into the material. Her legs twitched violently, trapped and shaking. Every breath was an act of rebellion against biology.
Sixty.
A chime. Gentle. Final.
Attendants surged forward. The mask was removed with precision. The hose was released. Fresh air filled Ana’s lungs like fire. She gasped violently, drooling, tears running down her face. Her entire frame twitched as the cuffs were undone. Her breath stuttered and returned.
Evelyn stepped forward, every inch the high priestess.
"Ana has endured. She did not faint. She did not surrender."
The audience erupted in sound. Applause. Cries of awe. Gasps.
Evelyn turned to the trembling woman before her, now cradled in the arms of two silent attendants.
"She shall enter the Sanctum. Since she had to beat the challenge under my terms, she will continue her life in her chastity belt for the next year. No running home tomorrow and finishing what the tongues started!"
Ana didn’t speak. She couldn’t. Of course she knew. That was the deal. It didn’t matter. All that mattered were the tongues. Her eyes filled with tears, and her lips parted in something between a sob and a laugh.
She had made it.
And her body - long denied, reshaped by suffering - would finally taste bliss. Not fully, but she would float on the edge until she would pass out.
The attendants helped her down the stairs. The doors to the Sanctum loomed. Ana walked slowly, a limp in her step, but a fire in her chest.
Tomorrow, she would scream in a different way, when her third year in chastity would continue. But tonight, she had won.
In the same hour, elsewhere in the city, Lena and Mina lay entwined on their large bed, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting warm shadows across their shared sanctuary. The intimacy between them had grown over time, deepened not just by love, but by understanding. Despite Mina's continuing chastity, there was a comfort in their closeness, a sense that, somehow, they had made peace with their unconventional bond. Lena didn’t find relief since months as well, joining Mina in her ordeal.
Mina sighed, resting her head against Lena’s shoulder. "It’s strange, isn’t it?" she murmured, tracing idle patterns on Lena’s forearm. "How something that once felt unbearable now feels… normal?"
Lena chuckled softly, turning her head to press a kiss to Mina’s forehead. "Normal is a strong word," she teased. "I’d say we’ve adapted. But I don’t think either of us can say it doesn’t still affect us."
As if in agreement, their Caps of Despair and their capped Rings of Longing seemed to pulse slightly, heavy. A phantom feeling of suction pulling at their clits, they felt the needles within the cursed piercings. Lena gasped ever so slightly, whenever this happened.
Mina nodded, her fingers tightening briefly around Lena’s arm. "I won’t lie. Sometimes, I miss what we had before all of this. But… I also think it’s made us stronger. More creative." She smirked, glancing up at Lena with playful mischief.
Lena let out a soft laugh. "More patient, too," she added, brushing a lock of hair from Mina’s face. "And I love you for it."
Their conversation lapsed into a comfortable silence, the sound of the city outside their window filling the space between them. Mina finally broke it, her voice thoughtful. "Have you heard the rumors?"
Lena’s brow furrowed. "About what?"
Mina shifted, propping herself up on one elbow. "Abyss. Evelyn. There’s talk about a woman - someone who did an extreme solo challenge. They say she’s been… entombed. A full year in a transparent latex coffin, right there in the club."
Lena stiffened at the mention of Abyss, her muscles tensing beneath Mina’s touch. "Where did you hear that?"
Mina bit her lip. "A friend from work. She went to Abyss last weekend, and she swears she saw it. A glass coffin, right under the stage, with someone inside. Said it looked like she was wrapped in layers of rubber, writhing but totally helpless."
Lena exhaled slowly. "Nadia. I think. Or, more unlikely, Elise."
Mina blinked. "You think it’s true?"
"It was around the time we got our Caps of Eternal Longing. Do you remember that woman challenging another over a man to a duel? The stupid girl demanded chastity as stakes for as long as the man was with the winning woman. And the challenger lost. It was poetic justice. She went a bit mad, issuing random challenges to random guests to get her belt off. As far as I’ve heard she never succeeded. Allegedly, they faced off again several times, making Nadia’s conditions worse and worse. Rubber enclosure instead of pain was the main theme as far as I know. It was a quite the famous story in Abyss."
"And permanent chastity, like me?" Mina reflected.
Lena shrugged, her expression guarded. "Undefined duration. Indefinite, as long as the couple were together. It sounds like something Evelyn would orchestrate. But if someone actually demanded that in a duel, she’d be happy to make them pay. And a year… that sounds exactly like her style. Enough to break someone, but not quite permanent."
Mina shivered. "That could have been us."
Lena turned to face her fully, cupping her cheek gently. "But it wasn’t. We got out. We have our life. That’s what matters."
Mina sighed, closing her eyes and leaning into Lena’s touch. "I know. It’s just… part of me wants to see it. To know if it’s real."
Lena hesitated before nodding. "Me too. But we can’t risk it. The owners warned us - Evelyn still suspects. If she ever found out I had no intention of challenging her, she might find another way to make us pay for what we did."
Mina frowned. "Yelena, do you think she’ll ever let go of it?"
Lena shook her head. "Not unless she finds a new obsession. And as long as we stay out of Abyss, we’re safe."
Mina’s gaze drifted toward the window, lost in thought. "Still… I can’t stop wondering what it must be like. To be trapped like that. A year in continuous bondage. To know there’s no way out. I would love to see her. "
Lena wrapped her arms around Mina and pulled her close. "That’s exactly why we don’t go looking. Whatever hell Evelyn has created, it’s not ours to walk into."
Mina exhaled softly, nodding against Lena’s chest. "You’re right. We’re free. And that’s enough."
But even as she said it, a lingering curiosity remained, a whisper at the back of her mind that neither of them could fully silence.
While Ana was given an hour to rest and to get dressed in ultra-thin latex for her reward, the air inside Evelyn’s office was cool and still, as always. No music pulsed here, no light flickered or danced. It was quiet, warm, draped in dark velvet and slate marble. The walls bore nothing but the weight of silence, save for a single display case across the room containing an old looking pair of the Stilettos of the Languished Arches, with slightly worn and flecked leather, locked away, almost ceremonial. They must have seen countless dances. Camelia wondered how many women had their soles spiked in them. A warning. A small spotlight shone onto them.
Camelia stood near the center of the room, legs tight together, her hands twitching just slightly at her sides. She was in her usual rehearsal attire, a flowing skirt over her leotard, still flushed from hours on the stage. Her breath was quiet but quick, her eyes tracking Evelyn as she paced in front of her, something folded and precise in her expression.
Evelyn finally stopped.
"Take off your shoes," she said.
Camelia hesitated. She looked down at her feet, the soft rehearsal slippers worn from use. Then back at Evelyn. "Here?"
Evelyn nodded once, then gestured to a low marble platform by the side of the room. A small velvet cushion sat atop it, and beside it, a gleaming metal box and two sheets of molding gel already laid out in anticipation.
Camelia stepped forward slowly, untying her slippers. She placed them neatly beside the cushion and climbed barefoot onto the cold stone. The chill of it bit into her soles.
"Stand still. Heels together, toes spread naturally. Let the shape settle." Evelyn’s voice was even, firm, with an undertone of something Camelia couldn’t name.
She did as instructed, standing on the cushion, letting her bare feet sink lightly into the soft molding compound. It was warm from some hidden heating element, strangely soothing, until Evelyn stepped closer.
"We’re crafting something new," Evelyn said. "Something yours."
Camelia's brows drew together. "What do you mean?"
Evelyn tilted her head, examining the imprint forming beneath Camelia’s arches. "Abyss will be introducing the Ballet Heels of Agony. The time has come, as we discussed and as it is written in your contract. Your personal heels. And you will be their first, and only, wearer."
Camelia flinched.
Evelyn’s gloved fingers reached down, adjusting Camelia’s stance subtly, nudging her arch higher, pressing her weight just slightly forward. "They will follow the perfect curvature of your foot. No one else’s would suffice. The arch will be sculpted precisely to your sole’s form. And beneath your toes…"
She smiled faintly.
"We will place four specialized nodules. Not beneath the toe pads, that’s too easy. No. They will rest just under your toe stems. That tiny crescent of untouched nerve and softness most dancers never train. When they activate, they will hurt more than any other shoe in Abyss."
Camelia’s face paled.
"Why?" she whispered.
Evelyn circled her like a panther. "Because you are the best. Because your discipline withstands more than anyone else’s. Because you signed a contract that binds you to excellence."
Camelia swallowed. "But if I fall…"
"Then you learn. Then you suffer, and in suffering, you ascend. You are not here to be safe, Camelia. You’re here to become iconic. You don’t need mercy. You need skill. You need to overcome fear."
She stepped back. "Your feet are remarkable. Long, elegant, trained to the edge. These shoes will speak to your soul. They will cradle your every strength, and pierce through every weakness."
Camelia looked down at her feet, now half-cast in the forming mold. Her toes curled reflexively, already sensing the phantom of pain that hadn’t yet come.
Evelyn's voice softened. "You are not being punished. You are being elevated. Abyss recognizes what you are. And it will forge you into legend."
Camelia nodded slowly, her breath catching in her throat.
The mold hardened around her soles, capturing every crease, every wrinkle, every curve, every vulnerable point. It would be sent to the artisans that evening.
And the Ballet Heels of Agony, hers alone, would soon be born.