The steps led the hero to a massive door of dark metal. A vibration emanated from it—low, pulsating, palpable in his bones. Music. Loud, heavy, with a hellish beat that made his heart pound in unison.
The hero pushed the door open.
The sound crashed down on him like a wall.
A vast hall stretched out before him, the size of a packed stadium. Neon lights pierced the gloom—blue, pink, red, purple—flickering to the beat of the music, creating hypnotic patterns in the air. Smoke curled above the crowd, mingling with something else—alcohol fumes, narcotic fumes, the smell of sweat and sulfur.
The crowd was motley. Demons with horns and tails, dressed in expensive suits or half-naked. Monsters—some large and muscular, others thin and writhing. The undead—vampires in elegant attire, zombies in rags, ghosts shimmering with translucence. Everyone was drinking, smoking something steaming from pipes and hookahs, yelling at each other over the blaring music.
In the center of the room rose a stage—enormous, with several podiums at different levels. Dance poles stretched from floor to ceiling, polished to a mirror shine. Around the perimeter hung giant screens, broadcasting scenes from other floors of the dungeon. Torture, battles, deaths—all were shown as entertainment, and the crowd occasionally turned to bet on the outcome.
VIP boxes were located on the second-floor balconies—separated by velvet curtains, from where silhouettes could be seen watching the action below.
This wasn't just a club. It was a temple of aggressive revelry, alcohol, gambling, and violence as a form of entertainment.
The hero stepped inside, and several heads turned. "Hey!" shouted a nearby demon, a large one with red skin and horns like a bull. "Fresh meat!"
Others chimed in:
"Alive! Alive right here!"
"Bets! Who's betting he doesn't last until morning?!"
The crowd began to gather, curious and eager for a spectacle. The hero moved quickly toward the bar, weaving between the bodies, ignoring the shouts.
The bar stretched along one wall—long, made of ebony, with shelves lined with bottles of every shape and color. The bartender was a four-armed demon, deftly juggling glasses and bottles.
The hero reached the counter and leaned against it, breathing heavily. The music pounded in his ears, the vibrations coursing through his body.
"What do you want, friend?" asked the bartender, still working. "We have everything from regular beer to distilled souls. Prices... well, depend on how many limbs you have to sell." "Water," the hero managed to choke out.
The bartender burst out laughing.
"Water! Did you hear that?!" he shouted to the others. "He wants water!" he returned to the hero. "This isn't a church, man. Drink up or get lost."
The hero was about to answer, but suddenly the music changed. The beat became slower, heavier, more hypnotic. The lights dimmed, leaving only a soft pink glow directed at the stage.
The crowd froze. Everyone turned toward the center.
"Oh, here we go," the bartender muttered; even he put down his bottles to watch. "Medusa is coming."
She walked onto the stage from the wings.
Medusa.
The hero froze, unable to tear his eyes away.
She was... beautiful. And terrifying. At the same time.
Instead of hair—live snakes, dozens of them, writhing in the air, hissing softly, in sync. Green skin with a subtle scaly pattern covered her entire body, shimmering in the light—not repulsively, but captivatingly, like a precious stone. Golden eyes with serpentine pupils gazed at the crowd, appraising and commanding.
Her figure was perfect—curves, proportions, every muscle beneath the smooth skin. She was dressed minimally—gold jewelry on her neck, wrists, and hips; sheer fabrics barely concealed her body, emphasizing rather than concealing.
She approached the pole in the center of the podium, wrapped one arm around it, and began to move.
The dance was hypnotic.
Medusa moved fluidly, like water, like flame, like music itself, materialized in flesh. Every twist, every turn of her body was calculated to captivate, to draw the gaze and not let go.
The snakes on her head danced with her, in sync, creating a living crown of writhing bodies.
She glanced at the crowd—and everyone froze.
Her gaze was a magnet. Golden eyes with serpentine pupils pierced the soul, captivating the will, enslaving. The men in the audience—demons, monsters, mortals—all froze, their mouths parted, their eyes glassy.
Medusa controlled the crowd with a single glance, a single movement of her hips, a single turn of her head. Everyone was a puppet, and she pulled invisible strings.
She continued to dance—slower now, more sensually. Her hands glided over her body, over the pole, through the air. Her hips moved to the music. Fabrics slid aside, revealing more skin, more curves.
The crowd groaned, unable to look away.
But the hero...
The hero watched. Observed. Admired the dance.
But he wasn't captivated.
Medusa noticed.
Her gaze slid across the room and settled on him. Her golden eyes met his. A second. Two.
The hero blinked, but didn't look away. He didn't freeze. He simply watched as if he were watching a beautiful performance.
Medusa's eyebrows rose. Surprise flashed in her eyes.
She finished the dance to a standing ovation from the crowd—shouts, whistles, stamping. But instead of going backstage, she walked down the stage.
Straight to the bar. Straight to him.
The crowd parted before her, mesmerized, not daring to touch her. Medusa walked gracefully, the snakes on her head hissing softly, almost purring.
She stopped before the hero, tilting her head, studying him.
"You..." Her voice was low, velvety, with a slight hiss. "...refusing to give in?"
The hero shrugged.
"Should I?"
Medusa laughed—genuinely, resonantly. The laughter was unexpectedly warm, human, unlike the cold beauty of the dance.
"Usually everyone's salivating by this point," she said, sitting down on a barstool nearby. The snakes on her head turned to face the hero, their tongues lolling out, tasting the air. "Are you the first in... a hundred years? Maybe more. Who are you?"
"A traveler," the hero replied. "Climbing through the dungeon."
Her golden eyes narrowed.
"So, you're the immortal they whisper about?" — She tapped her finger on the bar counter, thoughtfully. — Interesting... very interesting.
The bartender brought her a glass—something glowing green. Medusa took a sip, never taking her eyes off the hero.
— How many floors have you climbed?
— Seven, — the hero answered.
— And died each time?
— Many times.
Medusa nodded, understanding.
— Does the pain remain?
— Yes.
She extended her hand, her fingers touching his chest—lightly, almost weightlessly.
— I feel it. Scars on my soul. Deep ones. — She pulled away. — You're stronger than you look. Or crazier.
The hero chuckled.
"Maybe both."
Medusa laughed again. The snakes on her head hissed merrily.
"You know what?" She finished her glass and set it on the counter. "I like you. It's not every day I meet someone who doesn't turn into a puppet at one look." She stood up and extended her hand. "Come on. I'll give you a private dance. Free."
The hero hesitated for a second, but something in her smile—sincere, without guile—made him nod.
He took her hand.
The private room was small but cozy. Soft lighting—just a few candles in the corners, creating an intimate atmosphere. A large burgundy sofa against the wall. A small table with bottles and glasses. Mirrors on the walls, reflecting the candlelight. Medusa closed the door behind them, leaned against it, and looked at the hero.
"Relax. It's just a dance."
She walked to the center of the room; the music from the hall was muffled, creating a background rhythm.
Medusa began to move.
This time, the dance was different. Not a hypnotic performance for the crowd, but something personal, real. The movements were slower, more sensual, without ostentatious theatrics.
She danced for him. Only for him.
Her hands slid over her body, her hips swayed to the music. The snakes on her head moved lazily, softly, almost purring, emitting a soft hiss.
The sheer fabrics slid off, revealing more green skin with a scaly pattern, shimmering in the candlelight.
"Do you know why I'm here?" she asked, continuing to dance. "I was cursed. Turned into a monster." Athena, the goddess of wisdom and war, decided to punish me for daring to be beautiful. — Her voice was sad, but without malice. — They banished me here. Now I entertain demons and monsters... — She came closer, her hands on the hero's shoulders. — ...but you don't care, do you? You're not afraid. You don't want anything. You just watch.
The hero looked up, meeting golden eyes.
— I see a dance. A beautiful dance, but not a monster's.
Medusa froze. Something flashed in her eyes—surprise? Gratitude?
She leaned down, her lips touching his. Softly, tenderly. The kiss was long, deep, their tongues intertwined, exploring.
The hero's hands settled on her hips, pulling her closer. Medusa sat on his lap, wrapping her legs around him, her body pressed against his.
Her hands unbuttoned the remains of his clothing, pulling his shirt over his head. Medusa's fingers slid over his skin impatiently, exploring every scar, every muscle line.
"So many marks," she whispered, running her palm over his chest. "So much pain..."
Her sheer fabrics slid off in one motion, revealing her body completely. Her green, scaly skin shimmered in the candlelight—from her neck, over her shoulders, down to her breasts, their dark green nipples already hard with arousal. Her stomach was flat, her hips graceful, and between her legs a hint of wetness glistened in the dim light.
The hero pulled her toward him, his lips finding her neck, kissing, moving lower. Medusa moaned softly, throwing her head back, the snakes on her head hissing excitedly.
He kissed her collarbones, moving down to her breasts. His lips encircled a nipple, his tongue swirling around it, sucking. Medusa arched, pulling his head close, her fingers entwined in his hair.
"Yes..." she breathed. "Keep going..."
The hero's hands slid down her sides, to her hips. His fingers found the wetness between her legs, caressed the folds, and felt the hard nub of her clitoris. Medusa twitched, moaning louder.
"Sensitive," the hero muttered, continuing to caress.
"Shut up and keep going," she hissed, but she was smiling.
He inserted a finger inside—tightly, hotly, the muscles clenching around her. Medusa moved her hips in time with his movements, her breathing quickening. A second finger joined in, stretching, preparing.
The snakes on her head slithered over the hero's body, their tongues touching his skin, neck, ears—not biting, just caressing, tickling. One snake coiled around his wrist, squeezing gently.
Medusa pushed his hand away and knelt before the sofa. Her golden eyes looked up, full of hunger.
"My turn," she whispered.
Her hands unbuttoned his pants, pulling them down along with his underwear. His cock emerged, already hard, the head glistening with pre-cum. Medusa cupped it in her hand, stroking it from base to tip, studying it.
"Impressive," she assessed, her tongue sliding across her lips.
She leaned down, her tongue touching the head, licking in a circle, collecting moisture. The hero groaned, his hands resting on her head, carefully avoiding the snakes.
Medusa took his cock into her mouth, slowly, her lips stretching around the thickness. Wet. Hot. Her tongue pressed against the underside, massaging, exploring every vein.
She began to move—up and down, slowly at first, getting used to the size. Her cheeks drew in, creating incredible pressure. Her hands massaged the base and balls, rolling them between her fingers.
The hero looked down—at the green skin, at the golden eyes looking at him, at the lips stretched around his cock. The snakes on Medusa's head hissed contentedly, some slid down his thighs, caressing. Medusa took him deeper, the head pressing against her throat. She relaxed, took him all the way, her nose buried in her stomach. She paused, her throat tightening around him, then slowly pulled away, coughing, a thread of saliva connecting her lips to his cock.
"Delicious," she croaked, smiling. "Been a while since I've been alive."
She continued—faster now, greedily, her head moving rhythmically. The sounds were obscene—slurping, smacking, her soft moans.
The hero felt the tension building, his orgasm approaching. He warned:
"Medusa... now..."
She didn't pull away. She took him deeper, working her tongue and lips harder. Her hands gripped his hips, holding him in place.
The hero came with a loud groan, spilling directly into his throat. Medusa swallowed without pulling away, taking it all in until the last thrusts died down.
She released his cock, licking her lips, and looked at him with a satisfied smile:
"Not bad for a start."
The hero breathed heavily and leaned back on the couch. Medusa rose and sat on his lap, face to face. His cock was still hard—youth and the adrenaline of the dungeon were doing their job.
"Ready to continue?" she whispered, her hand encircling him again, stroking him, bringing him back to full hardness.
The hero nodded, his hands resting on her hips.
Medusa rose and guided his cock toward her pussy, slowly lowering it. The head parted her folds and entered, stretching her. Tight. Incredibly tight. The walls contracted around him, massaging him, drawing him deeper. "Gods..." she moaned, lowering herself further, taking it in centimeter by centimeter. "So... full..."
She sat all the way down, his cock completely inside her, and froze, adjusting. Her breathing was ragged, her breasts rose and fell. The snakes on her head hissed loudly, writhing with excitement.
The hero held her hips, feeling her pussy pulsate around him, each muscle contraction transmitted through her flesh.
Medusa began to move—slowly, rising almost all the way and then lowering back down. Circling her hips, rubbing her clitoris against his pubis. Her hands lay on the hero's chest, her nails scratching the skin.
"Yes... like that..." she moaned, accelerating.
The hero moved his hips forward, his thrusts becoming deeper, harder. The sound of their bodies coming together—wet, obscene—filled the room, mingling with the music from the hall. Medusa leaned over, pressing her chest against his, her lips finding his. The kiss was greedy, their tongues battling for dominance. She bit his lip, he bit back, tasting the metallic taste of blood.
They rolled over. The hero found himself on top, not pulling out, continuing to move. Medusa wrapped her legs around him, pulling him deeper with each thrust.
"Harder," she hissed. "Don't be afraid. I won't break."
The hero sped up, thrusting harder, his cock slamming into her cervix. Medusa cried out with each thrust, her nails digging into his back, leaving bloody furrows.
One of the hero's hands slid between their bodies, finding her clitoris and beginning to massage it in quick circles. Medusa arched, a cry escaping her lips.
"Yes! There! Don't stop!"
He didn't stop. He moved faster, harder, his fingers working relentlessly. He felt her approaching—her pussy clenched tighter, her breathing became ragged, her whole body tensed.
Medusa came with a scream—her back arched, her muscles spasming around his cock, pulsing, milking. The snakes on her head hissed deafeningly, thrashing as if in a fit. She scratched his back, shoulders, and bit his neck, leaving marks.
The hero continued to move, prolonging her orgasm, preventing her from coming. Medusa writhed beneath him, sobbing, too sensitive, but not stopping. "More..." she breathed. "I want... more..."
He pulled out of her and rolled her onto her stomach. Medusa got on all fours, arching her back, presenting her pussy. The snakes on her head turned toward him, hissing invitingly.
The hero entered in one thrust, all the way. Medusa cried out, her hands clutching the pillows. From this angle, it was even deeper, even tighter.
He moved mercilessly—grabbing her hips, pushing back and forth, his cock sliding in and out, glistening with her juices. One hand settled on her back, pressing, the other slapped her buttock—loudly, leaving a red mark on her green skin.
Medusa moaned louder:
"More! Spank her more!"
He repeated—once, twice, three times. Each blow sent a wave through her flesh, leaving a mark. Medusa thrust back against his thrusts, her ass slamming against his hips, the sound filling the room.
The hero felt a second orgasm approaching. His cock throbbed, his balls clenched. A few more thrusts—
Medusa came again—unexpectedly, harder than the first. Her pussy tightened like a vice, wave after wave, milking her dry. She screamed into the pillow, her whole body shaking.
The hero couldn't take it anymore. A few final hard thrusts, and he came deep inside her, his cock pulsing, filling her. He held her by the hips, pressing her against him until the last drops came.
They collapsed on the couch, breathless and covered in sweat. The hero was still inside, his cock slowly losing its hardness, but not pulling out.
Medusa turned her head and looked at him over her shoulder, smiling wearily:
"Not bad... for a mortal." The hero grinned:
"Another round?"
His golden eyes flashed:
"Are you serious?"
He bucked his hips, his cock hardening inside her again. Medusa moaned, surprised and pleased.
"You're a monster," she whispered. "My monster."
They continued. Again and again. They changed positions—she on top, face to face, he on top, against the wall, on the table, on the floor. They each came several times, until their bodies gave up.
Only then, exhausted, covered in sweat and each other's juices, did they lie on the sofa, intertwined, breathing heavily.
The snakes on Medusa's head dozed, coiled. Her fingers lazily traced patterns on the hero's chest.
"You know..." she whispered. "...I'm tired of this place. Of dancing for those who see me only as a monster or a toy." The hero stroked her back:
"Come with me."
Medusa sat up, looked at him, her golden eyes widening.
"Just like that? You don't even know me."
"I know enough," the hero replied. "You don't want to be here. I'm going upstairs. Let's go together."
Medusa was silent, considering. Then she smiled—not seductively, but genuinely, warmly.
"Why not? It's still better than rotting here." She stood and walked to the cabinet in the corner of the room.
She opened it. Inside lay a trident.
Black metal, about two meters long, with three sharp prongs at the end. Magical runes ran along the shaft, glowing dimly blue.
"What is this?" the hero asked.
Medusa picked up the trident and turned it over in her hands, checking its weight and balance.
"It's mine. It was mine before the curse. I thought I'd never hold it again..." She looked at the weapon with something like tenderness. "...but if I'm going into a dungeon, it'll come in handy."
She began to dress—not in revealing dance attire, but in combat gear. Light leather armor, form-fitting, leaving her arms and part of her hips exposed for mobility. A dark green cloak, fastened over her shoulders. The gold jewelry remained—bracelets, a necklace—but now they looked less like decoration and more like part of the armor.
She fastened the trident behind her back.
Medusa approached the door, turned, and extended her hand.
"Well, Immortal? Shall we go change our fate?"
The hero took her hand and smiled.
"Let's go." They left the room and walked through the strip club. The crowd parted for Medusa—some with respect, others with envy, still others relieved to see her go.
The bartender called after her:
"Hey, Medusa! Where are you going?"
She turned and grinned:
"On vacation. Indefinitely."
Laughter swept through the room.
They exited through a side door, down the hallway, toward the stairs.
Floor 999,992.
The hero was no longer alone.
Medusa walked beside him, trident in hand, the snakes on her head hissing contentedly, her golden eyes staring ahead with determination.
"I hope you know what you're getting yourself into," she said with a smile. "I'm not the type to just follow anyone. I'll argue, tease, and generally be unbearable." The hero chuckled:
"I noticed."
"Excellent," Medusa winked. "Then we'll get along."
They climbed the steps, leaving the strip club behind.
The dungeon continued. But now—with just the two of them.