Cage

Then she heard the DJ’s voice.

Loud. Distorted. Cutting right through the bass.

“A round of applause for our gogo dancers. We haven’t had anything like this here in a long time.”

The applause was really loud. Not polite. Ravenous. A roar from below, from all sides, that sent shivers down Silke’s spine. She grabbed her head, fingers under the edge of the scarf, wanting to rip it off, to see the light, to understand what was happening.

Vanessa was faster.

She grabbed Silke’s hand firmly, pushed her fingers away, and held the scarf in place.

“Wait. The scarf is the only thing covering your face right now. You don’t want to take it off.”

The voice wasn’t nice anymore. No longer whispering or soft. Mean. Calm. As if she’d been waiting for this all evening.

Silke was unsettled. She shifted the cloth a little to the side, just enough to peek out from underneath it with one eye.

And suddenly, everything became clear to her.

The swaying wasn’t from the alcohol.

They’d raised the cage.

She was standing on a glass floor. Transparent. Cold beneath her bare feet. The spotlights came from below and from the sides, illuminating every detail. Anyone could look up her skirt. Not just a glimpse. Directly. Straight down at her shaved, open pussy, still glistening with moisture from her fingers earlier. She looked down at dozens of cell phones. All pointed at her.

Then she saw the big screen.

Her own images. Several zoom cameras were filming her from all directions. One from below through the glass floor, right between her legs. One on her tits, which the neckline could no longer contain—naked, hard, in the light. One on her bare ass, every time the hem flipped up. While with the other girls you could peek under their skirts and see wide panties, bras—at least some fabric—with Silke you saw nothing. No panties. No bra. Just her open pussy. Just her bare tits. Just the slut without underwear that they’d turned her into all evening.

One thing was true, though.

Vanessa was right.

Her face was covered right now.

Silke wanted to break free. To scream. To get down. Anywhere where the light wasn’t anymore. But Vanessa was back on top of her, close, her mouth right by her ear, her hand still on the cloth.

“If you make a scene now, I’ll rip the cloth off your face and everyone will see you. Sonja and I will make sure everyone gets a good look at you before the cage comes down. Close up. Pussy. Tits. Everything. But if you play along, the cloth stays on until the end.”

Down below, they were still clapping.

On the screen, a camera zoomed in closer.

And Silke stood there, blind except for the narrow slit, drunk, naked under her dress, her pussy exposed above their heads, and realized that the cage had never protected her.

Silke was torn.

Shout “Stop!” Tear off the cloth. Throw herself onto the glass floor and clamp her legs together until no one could see her pussy anymore. Or nod. Stay still. Keep her face covered while hundreds below stared at her naked pussy.

She nodded.

Just once. Clearly.

As if it were a signal to the DJ, the announcement came.

“Guys, if you donate just a little more, the three of them will stay up there. And the girl in the middle just nodded at me. She wants to stay. She wants to put on an even more explicit show.”

A roar went through the crowd below. Silke was standing on the glass, her legs spread a little too wide again—because Vanessa and Sonja had held her that way—her skirt hiked up, her tits out, her pussy exposed in the spotlight. That’s exactly what you could see on the screen. Wet. Uncovered.

“All right, guys and girls. Head to the bar. Donate. And the show goes on.”

He brought up a sort of hourglass. Huge, next to her image on the screen. Full at the top. Empty at the bottom.

“As the hourglass empties, the cage lowers. If you donate, it goes up and stays up.”

As a signal, the cage began to lower.

Slowly. Visibly. The glass floor slid down a bit, closer to the faces, closer to the cell phones that were already being held up. People screamed. Greedily. As if the meat were being taken away from them again.

Somewhere at the bar, someone must have donated immediately.

Fresh sand fell into the hourglass.

The cage was pulled back up. Jerky. Silke staggered, grabbed hold of a pole; the cloth slipped a millimeter—enough for her to see the light, the faces below, the screens, her own pussy huge on the wall.

Then the DJ said one last thing.

“And as a special treat, the girls have agreed: Once a certain amount is reached, they’ll always turn one on. And give more.”

More.

Silke heard the word and felt Vanessa smiling behind her. She felt Sonja’s hand resting on the hem again, ready. Down below, the first wave rushed toward the bar. The hourglass filled. The cage stayed up.

And the girl in the middle—naked under her dress, her pussy in the light, her face hidden behind the cloth—realized that “more” didn’t mean dancing.