Work Text:
Henley straddled Atlas's hips. His hands roamed her back as she kissed him. Clothes had been discarded the moment the door closed, all except for Henley's leather gloves.
Atlas flipped the over, teasing Henley, pinning her wrists above her head.
"I love. These gloves," he panted between kisses. He ripped open the velcro on one, then the other. Henley broke away from his mouth, pulling her left glove off with her other hand. She flung it hard at the light switch, casting the room into dangerous semidarkness. He pulled her right glove off with her teeth, studying her partner's moaning as he watched.
"You just love to take them off."
+++++++++++++++++++++++
It had been similar to the Piranha trick. There was water. There was glass. The clock was her own lungs under fifteen feet of pressure. There was a timer on stage to see how long that would take.
Six months into her own act, nine since leaving J. Daniel Atlas, Henley was feeling reckless and angry. Crowds wanted a show ? She was giving them a show. Bull-headed tricks and cheap craftsmanship made the lights that much brighter every night.
The tank came onto the stage in two pieces. One, the glass was full and upside down, a long and tall cup. The second piece was the base, covered grated metal with three sets of chains. Henley was cuffed to the base, wrists, waist, ankles; then lifted and clamped to the other half. The clock started ticking when the whole thing was flipped upside down, so Henley was laying on the very bottom of the tank, nothing above her but water and glass. Sparkling assistant proved the top was a non-exit.
As the audience watched, baffled and mildly horrified, Henley freed her wrists. She curled to start working on the chain around her waist when a trail of blood escaped her nose. She didn't notice. The timer was creeping past a minute and a half. Fearful eyes trapped the front row and Henley started pounding on the glass.
"Help!" streamed to the top of the tank, resting in bubbles against the glass.
TBC