Guillotine Falls - Knife Play

My eyes blinked shut as the knife buried itself an inch into the wooden board with a dull thud. It was close - I could feel the air it displaced on the sensitive flesh of my hip. It was strange really, all the hours of practice and all the impossible predicaments I had experienced as part of our act and I had never even come close to controlling the reflex to close my eyes. Not flinching still took effort.



I still managed to recover my composure a split second later. Max was already lining up his next shot. A knife leaves the hand and travels towards its target at about thirty miles per hour apparently, which sounds slow until someone is throwing one at you. I could see the steel blade spinning towards me. It looked for all the world like it must hit me in the face. Every instinct was screaming at me to duck or dive for cover. So I couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief when it sank into the splintered wood by my ear.

Not that I could move much anyway. The act had begun with Max welcoming me on stage. I had lapped up the applause and appreciation, no doubt helped by the costume I had chosen. I had done a couple of totally gratuitous twirls to show off the thong bikini bottoms and matching black strapless top, then backed against the wooden board. It was roughly painted red and showed numerous scars from previous shows.

I had stepped onto a small wooden box and spread my legs a little. Max had then wrapped thick leather cuffs around each of my ankles, buckling them securely. His fingers had lingered for just a second on my bare thigh and belly before he turned his attention to the cuffs for my wrists, which left me spreadeagled against the rough timber. Stepping back to admire his handiwork for just a second he had then kicked the box away and made a signal to someone off stage, leaving me hanging against the board as a crane high up in the lighting gantry lifted me and the board up a couple feet from the ground. A gentle shove had set me swinging slowly like a pendulum, to make the aim that much harder…

The next knife landed with a dull thud, at the very apex of the point between my legs. It felt like it was just millimetres away from slicing through my bikini. As I swung lazily over the stage two more followed, one by my knee, the next under my arm close to the scrap of cloth just about covering my chest. I could see out into the audience, dark outlines against the palm trees and rocky landscape and hear their approval, which made the tension waiting for the next knife a little easier to bear. The knife landing by my ear was uncomfortable. The one that hit home right at the top of my head, so close I could feel it ruffle my hair a little before burying itself into the board through the base of my high ponytail was the very definition of cutting it a bit fine.

Much as I love being the target girl I always feel there is a small problem. The finish. Once a dozen or so knives have been peppered around my helpless near-naked form, the jeopardy diminishes as the skill of the thrower is established. Most effects build to a crescendo of peril… a falling blade or approaching spike.

As Max had devised a solution to my concerns and this was to be our first performance including it. He strode over and plucked the knives from around me, tossing all but the one from above my head into a bucket. This one he used to demonstrate once again the knives were both real and sharp,

Having stabbed it into the wood beside me a couple of times Max took the knife and ran the point slowly up my belly, then down again. I could feel the fine point scrape lightly over my exposed skin. I held my breath for a moment. Reaching up he rested the point against my throat then slid it downwards. I could feel it scrape its way along. Once he had reached my chest he paused for just a second. I shook my head no, but to no avail. There were whoops and cheers as the crowd realised what was to happen and moments later the blade slid down the gap between my breasts, slicing through the fabric of my flimsy top like a scalpel. Max pulled the scrap of cloth away and threw it and the last knife in the bucket leaving me helplessly displayed while he continued. The crowd did not seem to object, and given their response, I have to admit that nor did I!

While I hung on show like a painting on the gallery wall, Max and his helpers prepared the finale to the show. The music became ominous and the stage lighting dimmer and tinged with reds. The stage hands provided a little more eye candy as they worked, decked out in their board shorts, muscles under their tan skin rippling as they positioned the pieces necessary for the act to continue. I realised I was breathing deeper. Fear or anticipation? Either way I am sure it added to the spectacle.

As was often the case at bigger venues, Max made no effort to explain what was about to happen. He knew the performance would need no help making an impact. His helpful hunks carried out a board around six feet square, a very similar size to the one I was cuffed to. One side was decorated with a roughly painted outline of a person, in much the same pose as me. There were holes for the hands, feet and face and a figure of eight shaped cut out for its chest. It didn’t ask much of the audience to guess what they were for. On Max’s cue the guys turned the board around to show the audience the other side. No surprise for me of course.

The stage lights picked out clearly the glint of dozens, more like hundreds actually, of small spikes or nails sticking out from the other side of the board Maybe only an inch and a half long each was tipped with an evil looking point. I writhed and twisted as I hung there watching my fate unfold. It was hard to take my eyes off the sea of nails in front of me.

While the bed of nails was set on four empty beer barrels, points facing up of course, two more chains were connected to my board, in the bottom corners. A few hand signals and a whir from a powerful winch out of sight and I found myself hanging uncomfortably now from my wrists and ankles looking straight down. Mere moments later and I began to descend smoothly. The nails grew larger looming towards me like a scene from a slasher movie. My chest and thighs were the first thing to feel the sharpness of their tips. They shared some of the load as my breasts, hands, feet and face descended into their appointed cut outs. In moments I was resting face down on the bed of nails, holding dead still.

I swear I could feel each and every point, my skin stretching around the cool steel but the load on each not quite sufficient to overcome my skin’s elastic nature. Breathing shallowly I stared at the floor of the stage and listened to Max ask for some volunteers. I could only piece together a little from the corner of my eye but two couples were led up on stage. All four helpers were invited to check I was really in the sandwich of rough sawn wood. For a joyous few seconds fingers were run along my exposed sides. One guy knelt to touch my face and boobs up through the holes in the bottom layer.

Once satisfied that I was real flesh and blood and had not somehow escaped, Max took the hand of one of the women. I could only see her ankles as she walked closer.

Following Max’s instructions she must have raised one leg, setting her foot down on top of the board. I couldn’t help but gasp. I could feel the extra pressure right away on my thigh and buttocks. Max encouraged her to carry on and she stepped up on top of my wooden lid. I am sure that was the point the first nails burst through my skin, biting into my tender flesh. I could feel the back of the top board move downwards and steel points sink into the front of my hips and legs. By now a second helper was stepping up. I could see his sneakers, then I couldn’t. This time the pressure came on my back. I could feel the breath being squeezed out of my lungs, then the sharp bite of steel points penetrating my chest and shoulders. I could even feel the scratchy rough passage of them through any stubborn bone that happened to be in the way.

By the time the last two volunteers had climbed aboard the pressure was unbearable. Outside of the areas where the cut outs were there wasn't an inch of me that wasn’t being perforated by the array of spikes and the weight pressing down on me was unbearable. I let out a long scream and something seemed to give. The top board sank quickly until it was flush with the base board. For several long seconds everything went very quiet.

After a suitably dramatic pause max released two of the chains and then had the board and me with it lifted back up. I did my best to smile and wiggled my fingers and toes as the front of the boards were lifted into view to gasps and  huge applause. My face fingers and toes projected from a single board, now maybe two inches thick and with no visible gap between what had once been two halves. My perspiration covered boobs projected from the holes a little way beneath my chin, seemingly having gained a cup size or two in the process. As I swung helplessly in the cooling night air the lights dimmed and Max strode off stage.