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..." He'd shrugged. "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." You'd thought about your student loans. About rent. About one thousand dollars cash. You'd said yes. Now you're on your knees on a thin foam cushion in a cramped storage space behind the booth. The broken Nymph robot head stares at you from the corner with dead glass eyes, its hinged jaw frozen in a permanent O—a grim reminder of what you're replacing. Your legs folded beneath you. Hands resting on your thighs, fingers brushing the hem of your uniform shorts. Only your head protrudes through the tight, padded hole into the dim, red-lit booth beyond. The neck clamp is snug but not cruel. "Keeps you from jerking back and wrenching your neck," Gus had explained. "It's not a restraint, it's a precaution." Gus stands in the booth with an O-ring with sturdy leather straps in his hands. "Open wide. Once it's behind your teeth, I'll buckle it tight. Ready?”