Comply

With a muffled nod—the mask sealing anything else—I step toward the cage.

Two more spheres descend from the ceiling, each already occupied by glossy figures in colorful outfits and striking heels. The crowd below roars approval; this is the nightly spectacle that keeps the mezzanine exclusive. I glance at the chrono—just over an hour to curfew. Dawn is six hours away. Father will notice an empty suite long before then.

No time to protest. She clips a short leash to my collar anyway—"for safety"—and herds me into the open cage. The door seals. The three spheres rise in unison, swinging over the pulsing floor like chandeliers of flesh and chrome.

Song 1 – Slow grind

The bass drops low and syrupy. My rivals start with practiced rolls of hips and arched backs; one even uses the pole to spin, her ponytail fanning like a whip. I follow instinct, letting the music guide me—every sway rewarded with a warm pulse from the edging core buried deep inside. The crowd votes via wrist-bands; my bar climbs fastest. To my surprise, I win.

Song 2 – Double-time

The tempo snaps to frantic. The remaining rival is taller, her legs longer, but her heels betray her—she wobbles on a turn. Her foot slips through the bars of the spherical cage and she is unable to dance. I grip the pole, pivot, and drop into a controlled squat that flares my curves for the holo-cams. The edging device revs mercilessly, pushing me to the brink, then cuts. My thighs tremble, but the bar spikes to 78%. I win again.

Song 3 – Freestyle finale

The music is pure chaos—strobing lights, bass that rattles my ribs. I abandon caution: spin, dip, arch until my ponytail lashes the bars. The hollow core shifts with every motion, its open invitation glinting under the strobes. The crowd’s roar crests; my vote bar hits 100%. The cage flashes gold.

Round 2 begins immediately—three new challengers ascend. The chrono reads 44 minutes to curfew. The mistress leans over the railing, grinning. "Double or nothing, pet."

Song 4 – Mid-tempo sway

I take an early lead, flowing effortlessly. But midway through, the edging device locks on—low, insistent vibrations that don’t stop. My hips stutter; instead of graceful waves, I grind desperately against the pole.

'Fuck,' I want to say. I watch my score drop as I lose control and paw between my legs, **** to push myself over the edge.

Song 5 – High-energy bounce

The device intensifies. I can’t think—every bounce slams the hollow core against my walls, the open entrance flashing obscenely for the holo-cams. My vote bar crashes to 43%. The taller rival takes it easily. I lose.

Song 6 – Slow build

Still vibrating, legs shaking, I barely stay upright. The crowd jeers my sloppy performance. Final score: 28%. Eliminated.

The mistress slams her fist on the railing. "Fucking device." She’s lost credits—I lost her credits.

Sudden-**** tiebreaker—me against the winner. 18 minutes remain. The cage locks; no escape.

Song 7 – Pure frenzy

The edging device hits maximum. I collapse against the pole, writhing openly, ponytail plastered to my mask with sweat. I’m not dancing anymore; I’m suffering. The device takes me to the edge, cuts out, comes back, cuts out, perfectly treading the line.

I lose focus and collapse into a heap inside my sphere.

I assume everything is lost, but I come to my senses above a feral crowd. Holo-votes flood in; my bar rockets past 100%. I win by landslide.

The sphere descends with a triumphant chime. The door pops open. The mistress is already there, leash in hand, a satisfied smirk on her lips. "Told you I’d make it memorable." She unclips the leash from the cage but keeps it on my collar—standard escort protocol.

The cage descends with a hydraulic whine, settling back on the mezzanine floor. The door pops open, and she approaches, her expression satisfied. "Not bad for a tourist. You move like you've got secrets under that shine." She tugs the short leash still clipped to my collar—standard for escorting Slavecoded in public spaces—and leads me out. "Come on, I'll walk you to the door. Wouldn't want you stumbling into trouble."

The ticking of the chrono echoes in my mind: I must not stay out past the city's curfew, for my sake, for my family's sake, and for my world's sake. 15 minutes until unimaginable consequences: I must get to The Wardrobe Machine.