Naughty Nymph

The ad had been normal. "Summer Carnival Staff Needed. Concessions, Ride Ops, General Help. $14/hr Cash." You'd shown up in your clean uniform shorts and polo shirt, expecting to scoop popcorn or check wristbands. Instead, Gus, a ride operator, had pulled you aside twenty minutes into your shift, his face pinched with the particular stress of a man whose machinery has betrayed him. "The Nymph is down," he'd said, leading you through a maze of trailers and generator cables. "It's one of our, uh, premium attractions. The mechanical head seized up—gears are stripped, motor's fried. Mechanic says three weeks minimum. But we've got a line of VIP ticket-holders waiting. Paid in advance. Non-refundable." He'd stopped outside a nondescript trailer, rubbing the back of his neck. "Fat Earl wants a temporary substitute. Live girl, head through the hole, just until we can fix the robot. One thousand cash for a six-hour shift. I told him it was sketchy, but..." "It's your call. You say no, you walk back to the popcorn stand, no hard feelings. You say yes, I walk you through everything." "Keeps you from jerking back and wrenching your neck," "It's not a restraint, it's a precaution." "Open wide. Once it's behind your teeth, I'll buckle it tight. Ready?”