Chinese Chair

The chair waits in the corner like unfinished business. Four long legs hold up a slab of wood with a neck cut-out, six feet tall when the lid drops. She steps into place and the top half lowers, locking her throat between two blocks of oak. Her heels leave the floor right away. Toes burn, calves shake. If they give out she hangs. The first strap bites across her ass, a clean white flash that turns dark red on the second swing. Her neck fights the wood, veins tight, every muscle trying to stay tall. She lasts eight strokes before her knees buckle and the stock takes her weight. She scrambles back up, gasping, tip-toes finding purchase again. The next dozen land while she’s fighting gravity and the wood at the same time. Sweat rolls down her spine. The strap keeps time. Each impact jolts through her locked neck and straight to the floor she can’t quite touch. When the count ends, the lid stays down. She stays stretched, breathing shallow, eyes glassy, body trembling on the edge of one more slip.