One Door Opens, Another Closes

by Jackie Rabbit

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© Copyright 2021 - Jackie Rabbit - Used by permission

Storycodes: M+/f; fpov; bond; cuffs; hood; susp; gag; wax; chain; naked; cons; X

…The twenty dollar cab fare I had been left to use delivered me near enough to the address that I had been given just this day, the cab dropping me off two city blocks short of my final destination, after the driver asked me twice on the way if I was sure this was the right address. I told him it was (hoping I had memorized it correctly) and paid my fare with the bill I had stashed in my high heel, telling him he could keep the change. I wouldn't need it where I was going, my manner of dress and lacking pocketbook likely telling him I was a purchased commodity, and his cab merely the most practical method of delivery this particular time.

He seemed happy enough to be on his way to his next fare with this misconception, although one could argue he was more right than he knew. As I walked up the street and in the direction his cab was pointed I felt like a castaway being dumped off on some deserted island and left to fend for myself, even before the roar of the cab's defective exhaust announced it's rapid departure. The man turned to look at me as he sped past, my scant dress likely backlit by the few working security lights, his expression one of apathy despite my exposure… He had other things that he must do, and so did I.

…One door closes, and another opens…

…I found myself walking up that dirty sidewalk in the industrial part of town, all alone on this warm early evening. I was dressed in a too-small black spandex club minidress that left nothing to the imagination, it's scant fabric pulled taunt and hinting at the naked flesh beneath as it teasingly raked my moving buds to semi erect status. Along with my slutty dress I also wore a cheap pair of heels, as well as a huge pair of sunglasses to further conceal my identity, although none of it was expected to survive this ordeal intact.

Everything I was to exclusively wear had been left for me, hours earlier, in my room as if part of an erotic Halloween costume, as was a large trash bag for the proper clothes I had worn earlier that day, to include my pocketbook and phone; both were forbidden where I was going. I had picked up the paid-for room key at the front desk of that awful little motel not two hours earlier, the front desk man looking me up and down and likely wondering what somebody like me was doing here.

I had seen that look before, but had little time to dwell on it as I had just enough time to take care of the essentials and change costumes once again, from one of implied respectability, to that of overt sexuality. My room's key was to be locked inside along with the trash bag containing my things, and further committing me once that door had closed behind me.

…One door closes, and another opens…

It was unlikely that anybody would have recognized me in this strange city on my short cab ride from the cheap motel dressed as I was, nor on the short walk to my destination in this abandoned seedy area; the click, click, click of my cheap stilettos on the litter strewn sidewalk announcing to eyes felt and not seen that I was someplace I most certainly didn't belong. My instructions had been clear though, and violating them unthinkable, as were the consequences.

Anonymity, it was the one constant in this crazy life of mine, wondering for not the first time how someone as educated as I had gotten myself into this seedy state of affairs.

I could have ignored the email to my private account when it had come, leaving this double life of mine behind, but the man who had issued those electronic orders to me knew that I wouldn't, the consequences for that little act of mutiny far reaching. I was therefore, in a way, free to choose my fate, but with a single practical option that enriched that particular man at my expense, the word blackmail never mentioned, but clearly implied.

It was this illusion of freedom, and the complimentary illusion of mock resistance on my part, that made this such a complicated arrangement, one that I'm sure a psychologist could have made a career out of studying. I was also "forced" to keep myself in prime physical shape for my extracurricular activities, with a critical eye towards my weight and endurance, almost like a dancer's, but for routines not ordinarily suited to the big stage and a well dressed gentry.

There are however exceptions to any rule…

I knew I had never been to this particular place before, but several just like it on my many "business trips" throughout the world. My brief daydreaming introspection however came to an abrupt halt as I found myself standing before the door I had been instructed to find, with the ever present butterflies of doubt and desire working their unique forms of magic. This was now "show time" though, best to get my game face on and let the games begin.

The door was covered in festive green wrapping paper as I had been told it would, confirming at least that I was in the right place; my relief at finding it quite rational, if one were to bear in mind the irreversible method of my delivery. One also didn't have to be clairvoyant to know that it would only be green just long enough to find out what lay waiting for me behind it. I had watched that particular movie (Behind The Green Door) some time ago for an art class, groundbreaking for its day, but positively tame and artsy as compared to what likely lay in store for me behind this door.

The man who had arranged all this had a certain ironic flare in the things he did, although these days more for the pleasure of others and not necessarily himself, except of course vicariously as he likely watched the hidden camera films he made of these events afterwards. I was ever mindful of those recordings and who could potentially see them, ensuring I did as commanded, lest they find themselves in the wrong hands and expose the rather nice false other life I had managed to build for myself.

I was one of the keys to that man's success, and he to my husband's in a devil's bargain, although how exactly that had managed to happen is a separate story in and of itself.

That man above all else was a master of manipulation, I had to reluctantly give him that, and I would do anything to keep my secret past from my husband and our present circle of friends, as he well knew. This was the primary reason why I found myself wearing almost nothing while delivering myself to an alley in the early evening on the bad side of a strange town, without so much as return cab fare to a room I was now locked out of if something went wrong.

It however wasn't the only reason, as that manipulative man knew that I got something from this treatment, in direct contradiction to what one would suspect by the respectable way I now ordinarily lived and dressed on a daily basis. That was the thrill of it, in an odd sort of way, no one would suspect, nor dare to accuse one like myself of being "that" woman. As added insurance against that though was a certain level of promised anonymity, because if I were ever discovered and outed the game would end for both of us. That anonymity allowed me to become "that'' woman, playing a part that I couldn't dare otherwise to sate those dark desires that I sometimes wished I didn't have, for the rougher aspects of life…

I knocked on the door as instructed, then went to my knees on the fortunately clean entry mat, bowing my head and clasping my hands behind my back in the most classic of submissive poses. That man had taught me this pose over a decade earlier as the only proper way to greet one's betters; I was excited by the sheer kink of it, back when I had been a naïve college student, working my way through school as a sometimes escort.

…Back then escort meant just that, a dinner and dancing date that I got paid for, from a legitimate agency, with a for real payroll check, with anything else that occurred, or may occur, left between consenting adults. That particular man was both charming and wealthy, and I, twenty-something and single, wondering what it would be like with a worldly older man just one time; college boys and their self centered ninety seconds of high energy passion literally anticlimactic, at least in comparison to that man.

It turned out instead to be many, many times, after I had left the agency at his insistence, that man teaching me a lot about myself, and the sometimes dark and exotic ways of the world as a bonus. It was one hundred percent consensual, and exciting as hell, but to one watching from the outside it surely wouldn't have appeared that way.

I was still grateful for the education that he (and later on his wealthy friends, that I had been graciously lent out to) had provided back in the day. There was almost no apparent limit to their lust-filled creative kink, nor my submissive appetite for it, once properly bound up and helpless. Nor was there a limit to their generosity afterwards, although explaining that away left my friends and family with the carefully crafted misconception that I was a better than average card player at the casino. I did play, but just to keep up appearances, losing more times than I won "almost" always, just like everybody else.

It had been a great many steps, from a simple bathrobe sash with which to bind my wrists experimentally behind my back that first time, to kneeling on this particular welcome mat, dressed in almost nothing so far from my very nice home. There had been a natural progression to such things, each of us for a time, thinking we were getting the better of the other. Once bound, or even forcefully pinned and held tight, something kinky and hungry deep inside of me came fully alive, giving myself fully over to those dark thoughts that man had planted in my mind, inspiring me to both do, and allow, things that no rational woman should wish…

The door didn't open at once, and I was forced to kneel humbly in wait, every background sound seemingly amplified, as was my vulnerability. I even heard a distant police siren, reminding me that crime was likely nearby, and stalking. Was this the right place? I was forced to wonder irrationally, despite the green door before me. Or was I instead by design gifting myself to some stranger, forced to then endure some "for-real" extended horror, possibly even filmed for the entertainment of that man and his friends before he, or they, did away with me for good? Would my very last role ever be that of a one time snuff movie "star," never to reappear anywhere again once my usefulness came into question, except of course on film?

It occurred to me that this would be a perfect way for him to have me do away with myself… once I became a liability to him (or aged out of desirability, despite my best efforts at the gym); his alibi, and that of his associates, easily arranged for ahead of time. Would he then get a copy of that film for himself, I further wondered darkly, if for nothing more than to ensure the deed had been properly, and permanently done?

…Such irrational thoughts helped to put me in the proper frame of mind for what was to come, and playing into those fears a sack was eventually placed over my head from behind as I squealed in surprise. Handcuffs were next, my stealthy captor not yet speaking a word as I continued to kneel in place while passively submitting.

"I think you may be lost darling, or perhaps snooping around someplace you don't belong" a familiar voice hissed. "In either event you are to join our little party tonight, it shall of course be amusing to see if you survive the ordeal," the voice further threatened.

I knew that voice (and the hollowness of his threats in the real world) but the sack and his method of capture told me he wasn't alone, and if I knew what was good for me I had better remain in character when he brought me through that door. There were, after all, all kinds of ordeals, and I knew that once I had delivered myself that I would be participating in them one way or the other, no matter my thoughts on the matter. That was the exciting part for me, the lack of control such ordeals promised. That man also knew my physical and emotional limits, such intimate knowledge both comforting… and at times terrifying, as limits, for some, are things to be tested and explored.

…One door opens, and another closes…

I was roughly stood up by my arms and marched through the door, two sets of hands roughly guiding me as if to reinforce the futility of any resistance on my part, as if running away handcuffed, and in cheap heels, and with a sack over one's head was any kind of an option. I heard the clink of cocktail glasses and the murmur of distant conversations penetrate my hood, perhaps in another room the well dressed guests were already having their drinks and being attended by a fawning staff, just as I might have been myself in my other more normal life.

Such fawning and genteel etiquette was in stark contrast to what lay in store for me, but that was the whole idea, in a macabre sort of way. This for me was a study in contrasts, them finely dressed in their expensive foreign suits and designer dresses (yes, ladies who were corporate power players themselves sometimes attended these events) all interacting in strict adherence to every nuance of cultural etiquette for such a gathering, despite this likely being nothing more than a nicely decorated warehouse this time.

The guests and not the location were the draw for these events, as was the entertainment; it was a time to underground network and be seen in that environment as somebody who was ‘up and coming’. ‘That man’ who had sold me into this life the proverbial kingmaker, just there to direct sometimes darkly motivated talent to where it could best be utilized. I, and others, were the entertainment, there as nothing more than human distractions and conversation pieces, or perhaps even to demonstrate one's lack of human empathy, when necessary.

…Once I had been set on display in a rented out art gallery, my nude body helplessly painted and pinned to a giant painted background canvas and hung on the wall in an equally large frame, painted as if I were a human sized butterfly. That night I was to watch both the covert glances, and the more overt stares of the masked partygoers as they strolled by and enjoyed my painted and naked living art display. There was no hiding my respiration, heartbeat, and eye blinks, nor my slight muscular adjustments as I hung on display; that in fact was the whole idea, on display and "suffering" for their amusement.

Another darker time I had been chained to a massive iron framed medieval chandelier laying face down, it equipped with over a dozen thick candles of different colors set into specially made candle holders. Attached to those were troughs to redirect their hot multicolored melting wax over the course of the night to drip and run all over my naked flesh, instead of the well dressed and honored guests dining below (at an ancient looking great feasting table). Once I had been helplessly spread eagled and chained to that medieval looking contraption, both it, and I, had been hoisted high above the dining table as nothing more than a human chandelier. I had been placed on display where I could watch the guests from above enjoy their gourmet dishes as I became partially encased in hot wax, both for their visual, and audio entertainment, hardly silent in my suffering.

A great deal more happened on that particular night, but more on that later…

…Back to the present though.

I eventually found myself in a room, by the sound of it someplace off of the main area, but such was hard to tell with a sack over one's head, perhaps this some loading dock office. The building was an old warehouse on the outside, probably rented out for just this event, but possibly owned by my host, or even one of his associates for all I knew. Would the interior still be just as industrial, or was this building just as deceptive on the outside as I was?

I expected to be stripped of my clothing first, and here I got a surprise, as instead my wrists were uncuffed and fitted with what felt like my suspension cuffs. I was intimately familiar with these particular cuffs, they felt well worn and broken in almost like a pair of favorite shoes (I had an identical set hidden at home with which to condition myself). I had spent countless hours in them before, both hanging on display in one form or another as that man's well dressed guests networked, and solo at home with my own set to work on my endurance in my private workout routines.

…I had been introduced to suspension by that man years earlier; I was eager to try any new kink back then, truly getting off on the totality of such helpless hanging submission. Back then I could only just last long enough to do the deed while hanging from a spreader bar by my wrists (my legs often locked around him and cheating the relentless pull of gravity) but now my endurance could be measured in hours if things were properly and safely set.

I worked my core muscles savagely while hanging at home, both by my wrists, and later on my ankles, not only to keep myself in shape for my extracurricular activities, but to battle the clock as all women must. I could, as a result, do things with my body that most women of any age can't, my husband however not fully appreciating that though, his bedroom tastes positively vanilla in comparison to my own. I was, in that context, like a thoroughbred racehorse pulling a plow, I could obviously do it, but such was a waste of my abilities, and boring as hell for one with my extreme experiences…

I then played a familiar game in my head; how will they use me tonight? Something was always different, and that man (and later on his wealthy friends) had a wicked imagination; giving of myself over to their whims and desires was more powerful than one can express with words alone.

I heard footsteps and then a door open and close, that man whispering in my ear that we were now alone.

"Do you need a break before we get going?" he asked, almost tenderly, the man wasn't a monster, although his concerns were likely more for spoiling the carefully crafted show he was about to compel me to perform in.

I shook my head under my sack by way of an answer, I knew what to expect and had prepared as one should. Answering verbally from under my sack seemed impossible, and I didn't want to spoil the mood he had carefully crafted either. Still breathing under the sack was a bother, and I hoped he hadn't planned on leaving me in it all night. He obviously could, to maintain my anonymity, but there were other more artsy ways to do the same; such choices weren't mine to make.

I then felt something that sounded like a chain being attached to each wrist cuff, each arm pulled out and away from my body by them as he walked me blindly backwards, until each calf bumped up against a rough feeling plank of some kind.

"Bend over," I was instructed, the move forcing my arms behind me, but not uncomfortably.

"Close your eyes." More commands, but these felt natural all things considered, I was fully into my submission and one hundred percent committed to this adventure, no matter where it led this time. That man was now responsible for me, for my well being, I was free to just let events take me where they willed. I have heard this called sub-space, I suppose that being as good an explanation as any for this feeling that most will never get the opportunity to experience.

The sack was then pulled from my head, my hair feeling a total mess despite my earlier efforts. Tenderly that man gathered up my hair and used several rubber bands to ponytail it up behind my head, either as an anchor point of some kind, or just to keep it neat and out of the way. I was just about at the age when long hair should be traded for a shorter more manageable look, but to do so would be to surrender to the clock that I had been battling, and admit that I might be getting just a little old for this kind of thing, despite my intense physical conditioning.

"Deep breath," he commanded, then working my ponytail through a hole in what felt like a leather mask; the mask itself was next as he worked to align the various holes with my nose and mouth so I could breathe. It covered my whole head and laced tight, the feeling almost comforting in it's restriction. This particular hood felt new, but not totally unexpected, the smell of it's fresh leather like an aphrodisiac to me. I had already taken a test breath without being instructed to, air freely flowing in and out, ones breathing not something to fool with in my humble view, nor my captors.

With the mask in place that man turned me over to another, the eye portions of my mask still in place, effectively blindfolding me. The mask itself further kept my anonymity, a necessary thing in case I ever came across a masked attendee myself from one of these events in my other more respectable life… as I had done once or twice in the past. My husband's present employer was one such man, I recognized him despite his own Zorro-type half mask. I had thought I had been discovered, back when that man had looked deep into my own eyes as I hung on display, as that human butterfly, but not a word of such ever reached my ears, nor apparently my husband's. Men of that age looked, piercingly, at a woman's eyes, where the more brash younger ones just looked at my body, displayed for their viewing, and at times, interactive tactile pleasures as well.

Such could, and did happen, but when they did it was always for the exclusive pleasures of the guests, and not necessarily myself. More times than not though, "interactive" didn't necessarily mean sex, but other forms of entertainment at my expense. Like that chandelier I had been chained to: I was left hanging there and providing light until the finely dressed guests had all finished their main course, moaning and twitching in my bonds almost perpetually, or at least when the hot wax advanced to a fresh new area of untouched bare flesh. Each involuntary twitch caused even more wax to be shaken from the troughs below the candles, all as my body caused the massive chandelier to shake on its noisy chains, my torment, in this way, partially self inflicted.

Only then was my temporary iron prison lowered to just over the table, the honored guests then getting a more close up view of my prone and nude torment, all for their amusement. There was also a balcony above my position where some of the diners had excused themselves to the restrooms there over the course of the night, seeing my body's growing multicolored wax encasement from that high vantage point, but also from afar. It was therefore clear that the diners all knew the odd source of their evening light, and the true reasons for the tormented noises I had been forced to make through my own mask and intrusive gag.

With my head and body chained spread-eagle and in place I couldn't really move all that much, my breasts left hanging down through two open round areas designed specifically to display a woman to greatest visual effect. With my face now perhaps a foot off of the table and the chandelier swinging gently on it's long chain, I could be made to move about the whole length of the table quite easily, every movement causing the hot wax to further advance though. Some of the diners likely looked down at me with pity, although I couldn't see their faces, but others most certainly with sadistic opportunity.

One such masked man (a youngish investment banker of considerable wealth, I later learned) suggested to the stunningly turned out woman sitting next to him that all the parts of me didn't look equally covered, the two then set to sadistically ‘adjust’ the candles and their collecting troughs to correct this little error, all while the others watched, their amusement obvious, for the most part.

My hands, feet, arms, and shoulders were all covered with a thick multi-color cover of set wax by that point, even my legs hadn't been spared, the hot wax's incessant dripping on the backsides of my bare legs, to include behind my knees, possibly the worst part. My ass HAD been spared though, possibly out of charity, or possibly because candles, even massive multi wick ones like these, likely wouldn't produce all that much light for the diners below me had they been placed there, my body occluding their efforts.

This sadistic duo had no such practical concerns though!

I had become the centerpiece for their entertainment, but not likely as my captor had initially intended, but he failed to stop such either. "Was he even present at that point?" That was an obvious question, he perhaps elsewhere seeing to coffee and desert, or perhaps amused himself at the dark intentions of two of his honored sadistic guests.

In any event, the two moved the large dripping candles from other places around my spread eagled body, those parts already covered in wax and mostly free from further torment, mostly. I couldn't see a thing behind me, but from my staring at the table vantage point I could both see and hear the diners gathering around my hanging displayed body, I sensing that surely something unique and terrible was about to happen.

I then felt the first drip of hot wax land on my bare and so far untouched left ass cheek, I twitching my muscles there and yelping into my gag almost simultaneously, although knowing how the human body is wired, and how mine specifically is wired, I assume the "twitch" came first.

Ten or fifteen seconds later a first drip landed on my right ass cheek, the gathered crowd laughing as I twitched on that side now too. I rattled my chains and managed to move my hanging prison slightly, but I wasn't going anywhere, and they knew it. What followed was a timed drip on one side, and then just a bit later a drip on the other, forced to "twerk" for my sadistic guests' amusement. My twerking kept the wax advancing at a steady rate, but soon wax fell on cooling wax, and the "dance" lost it's magic, although I still twitched slightly with each drip.

They had found tender new ground though, and while leaving my two new candles in place to further coat my ass cheeks, they placed still another candle, I was feeling it's heat back there on my bare skin. The trough of this candle was apparently directed dead center on my ass, it's wax preheated and soft, no doubt, by the two others in close proximity. That first drip as well caused me to yelp, the wax eventually running between the cleft of my spread cheeks as the guests again laughed at my torment. Eventually the wax got there, coating my tender back passage, and then beyond to my exposed womanhood, but I had other more pressing problems, coffee and desert were being served…

I was brought out of my daydream reliving the chandelier event by the final preparations for my present display, back in the here and now behind this green door, and it's industrial setting. I couldn't see a thing yet, but I could feel the five anchor points about my body that my unseen handler had tended to, the four obvious ones, and the ring apparently sewn into the top of my leather whole head mask.

I was predictably spread eagled once again, the position offering the maximum access to my body, and rather flattering for my these days larger breasts. With age came a certain amount of sag as gravity is a woman's worst enemy, but being all natural these things happened. Men at this level appreciated the natural and fluid movements such things naturally had, the gravity defying "taut skin on a grapefruit with a nipple" kind of breast implants not in style here. This position also pulled my cheap club dress tight about my upper thighs and made it ride high, but I didn't expect to be wearing it all that much longer either.

Once helplessly set in place, my unknown rigging man only then thought it safe to remove the covers about my eyes, seeing the massive timber frame structure I was now firmly fixed to in the mirror before me. The rough hewn timbers had to be ten plus inches square, the corners held in place by wood pins reminiscent of an old barn's construction, making this thing look authentically medieval and old. There were holes bored through the center of the timbers at each corner, my wrist and ankle cuffs chains passing through each, the chains themselves looking quite old, adding to the authentic feeling of this device.

The chains were held in place by a simple iron pin inserted through an open chain link, but no amount of strength, nor frantic struggling, would free me from this frame despite this simple locking device. My head as well was held by still another old chain, my posture held back straight, head held high. I thought I made quite the picture, even though my face was totally obscured underneath the leather mask, and the man who had rigged me into this contraption looked justifiably proud of his efforts.

"You good in there?" he asked, but in a perfunctory way, as if he already knew that I was, or perhaps as a second option, that he really didn't care all that much one way or the other. Was I a piece of meat to him, something purchased, or even owned by another, and only borrowed for this specific purpose; kind of like a lawnmower? I thought to myself with a laugh. The only time anybody thought about their lawnmower was when the grass was long, most people at any rate, as there were always exceptions.

"Uh huh," I answered, matching his lacking empathy with some of my own, belying my education. The mouth opening on my mask was presently laced closed, muffling my speech, but not necessarily gagging me in the more traditional sense. I could breathe through this limited opening too, a necessary second source of oxygen should my nose become stuffy, or something else unanticipated happen.

There was more to this frame I was to learn, attached to two just as massive posts, in turn mounted to a iron wheeled cart that looked just as industrial as the building I was in. The thing looked as if it could transport thousands of pounds of whatever was placed on it, the massive timber posts firmly affixed to it's top, this an odd combination of medieval, and nineteenth century industrial technology.

The large posts were attached to my timber frame by way of iron axles, one on each side at about my hip level, and a bar much lower that apparently locked the contraption from spinning on its axis. The cart's platform top formed an elevated stage of sorts for my display, and the wheels likely were there to make the heavy contraption easily portable, as was I trapped within it.

My rigger abruptly pulled the iron bar from it's mount, and the contraption immediately spun on its axis, I and my frame eventually coming to rest upside down and facing away from the mirror, after perhaps half a dozen oscillations with me hanging inverted. I felt gravity take hold of my breasts, feeling as if they were pressing on my chin, but I knew this to be an exaggeration. I did feel the chill of my exposure, my scant dress falling to my beltline, and giving my indifferent rigger a preview to the coming show.

The rigger then rubbed and squeezed my exposed ass cheeks, one, and then the other, taking further liberties with me and smacking each considerably harder than playfully, this well out of bounds for the hired help, but obviously not the guests. I yelped in muted fashion and tried to twitch away from him, but that man that had sucked me into this kinky life of sexual servitude wasn't there to protect his investment at the moment either.

Boys will be boys, I thought to myself, and I knew I presented quite the tantalizing picture displayed as I was, as that was in fact the whole idea.

The rigger then surprised me further, loosening the chains at my wrists, and my head, as I hung from my ankles, but by how far I couldn't tell. I heard the noisy chain's adjustments, and temporarily felt the slack there. With this complete he rolled my frame contraption back to upright, pinning it in place once again with the lower bar as I again watched in the mirror I was now facing. I had moved within the frame with the added slack, first my ass hanging down from it slightly as I was spun past horizontal, and then down lower as my head and arms were made to bear my body's weight.

I watched mutely as the man then pulled the slack out of my hanging ankle chains, tugging on them to get to the iron pins into the next links, I quite taut now inside my frame. Once again he pulled the lock bar from it's position, but I hardly moved this time, making a great show of rotating my frame through a complete revolution with just a single finger. The man was short on words and empathy, but he apparently knew his stuff rigging wise, balancing my hanging body perfectly within the massive timber frame.

Apparently satisfied with his work, he touched both my bare feet, and my hands, both were warm and indicating sufficient circulation was present to keep me safe for whatever was to come in the next few hours.

I saw him send a text message, and shortly thereafter was a knock at the door, followed by that man entering and looking at my display critically.

"You're a sadistic fuck," my benefactor said to this man, "but I have to admit this contraption of yours is briliant. Is it properly balanced?" he added, apparently this being something that had been discussed in detail and important.

Rather than answer, the rigger gave my frame a great heave, in effect backflipping me a half a dozen times to both men's amusement, my cheap club dress flashing them with each turn. I eventually came to rest at the two o'clock position, watching both men out of the corner of my eyes, my head almost immobile with the tension of my mask and the ring suspending my head.

"And afterwards?" the rigger asked.

"As we agreed, payment in full, but we have to get this little toy to the guests first my friend."

In horror I wondered what form this "payment" would be in, as in a monetary form, or in the trade of flesh of some kind, specifically my flesh?


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