Entertainment Center

Disclaimer: The following story involves transformation fantasy featuring magic, gender, flattening, animal, or inanimate (often clothing or doll/mannequin). The story is implicitly erotic in nature and may feature sexual situations and/or BDSM. All characters involved are older than 18 years of age. If you are offended by this type of thing, please stop reading. 

Chapter One

Nine of the most beautiful women I'd ever seen were standing in the foyer of my ballroom. Granted, each was being paid a great deal of money for her presence. Each had either a history or at least an interest in porn. Well, not just porn but bondage. And whether or not they had any interest in art, that was their purpose tonight. 

A very, very special project for these nine very, very special girls. 

Each had passed a stringent test of flexibility and endurance, which would be tested to the extreme.

Of course, that's why the paycheck was so high, to make it worth a little discomfort -- even a little pain. And a lot of being naked in front of others. 

I sat at a table near the door to the ballroom. I asked the girls to scoot to the side and let my two assistants get by and go in. Both were well-muscled men about six feet tall. 

The girls wore a variety of outfits, which didn't matter since they wouldn't be wearing anything once we got started, so there was no need to dress up. I, on the other hand, sat in a severely professional pinstriped suit with a knee-length pencil skirt and a tailored jacket. My dark stockings and black patent pumps completed the look that demanded subordination from employees. 

I spoke at last after making them wait in a long, uncomfortable silence. 

"I'm Miss Stern. You are here because we chose you for this project. You know the details, and you know how much you are getting paid."

Several of the girls were fiddling with their phones. 

"If you have a banking app on your smartphone, please check it now. You'll notice that the money has already been deposited into your accounts. Please verify that for me."

Several nodded their heads and a few murmured things like "yes" or "it's there."

"Good. Now, put your phones away for the remainder of this assignment. I'm sure for what you're getting paid, you can control your addiction to social media that long."

Most of the girls turned off their phones and dropped them in their purses.

"Now."

The remaining two, a blonde and a redhead, obediently put the phones away. 

"Thank you. I will process you one at a time, and then you will go inside and remove your clothing. I trust that won't be a problem. Once you are all processed, I'll join you inside and my assistants Bernard and Oscar will help get everyone into position. Are there any questions?"

They all shook their heads. 

"Good. Let's proceed then." 

I tapped my pen on the table impatiently, checked my watch, then motioned with my hand for the first young lady to approach. 

"Name?" I asked. 

"Vanessa Reynolds." 

She was short, certainly no taller than five-one, with brown, bouncy hair and a cute athletic figure. Brown eyes that looked almost wet under the huge, bright chandelier hanging above us. She wore a white skirt and a pink t-shirt.

"Age?

"Twenty-two."

"All the questions answered honestly?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Okay. I liked the 'ma'am. That showed promise. 

"What's the longest you've been boxed comfortably?"

She laughed softly. "Right to the point, huh?"

"We don't have all day," I said sternly, gauging her reaction. 

"Yes, ma'am," she repeated. "Comfortably, about an hour, but I've done it for at least four even though I needed to soak my muscles in a hot bath after that."

"Good, good," I said.

"Do you need my measurements? They always ask for my measurements at these things."

"As long as you fit in the box, I don't care whether you're bust is a thirty-two or a thirty-eight. Please head inside. Bernard will hand you a bag. You'll need to disrobe and put your clothing in that bag. It will be stored for you until the project is completed."

"Yes, ma'am," Vanessa said and went inside. She left the door cracked and got up and closed it with a click. 

"For privacy," I said with a warm smile, then I motioned for the next girl. 

"Name?"

"Ellery Hampton," she said. 

At about five and a half feet, I wonder how the raven-haired stunner could remotely squeeze herself into a twenty-four-inch cube. I guess we'd see. She had a more traditional hourglass and I was sure she was probably a hit on the major porn sites. Even fully dressed in her blue sheath dress and flat boots, she screamed sex. 

"Age?"

"Nineteen."

"All your responses honest?"

"Yes."

Hmm. No 'ma'am.' Oh well. They couldn't all be ideal. Just as long as they fit in the damn box. 

"What's the longest you've been boxed?"

"That's the thing, ma'am." 

Aw, there is was. 

"I've never been boxed exactly."

I raised my head from her paperwork and glared.

"Well, not in a box per se. But I've done several shoots with suitcases, the carry-on size. And I've been in lots of duffel bags too."

I nodded.

"Oh. Okay. Well, hopefully, you'll find this an enjoyable experience too. You can head in now. Bernard will give you a plastic bag. That's for your clothes. Strip down and put your outfit in there and then hand it to him and wait with the others."

She nodded and went inside. 

"And please close the door behind you."

She nodded again. When the door clicked shut I motioned for the next model. 

"Name?"

"Angie Meddows." 

"Age?"

"Twenty-four."

She looked more like her early thirties, but the lie didn't bother me. She had the right figure for the job and it would be simple enough to make sure her face wasn't seen. She wore black yoga pants and cropped tank top and looked like she had stopped off to work out before arriving. But her floral scent and lack of sweat told the blonde was freshly showered. She was about five-three as well and with small tits and a cute pair of bubbles for her ass. That would look amazing in the project. 

I jotted a note to that effect on her form. 

"All the responses honest?" I asked, wanting to add, "except for the age." 

"Yes, ma'am," she responded. 

"The longest you've been boxed?"

"I used to work for a magician, so in the larger boxes, I used to stay in them all day sometimes to get used to the cramped space. I've done the smaller ones, about a foot and a half but not nearly as long, maybe two hours, and then just for training never during performances."

Well, I thought, tonight would surely be a performance of a lifetime for her. 

"Thank you, please do inside and take a bag from Bernard," I said, then I told her to strip and hand him the bag and wait for the others. 

The door clicked shut and the fourth girl approached. This little redhead was the shortest one in the group. She couldn't have been more than four-ten, and yet she was shaped like a woman a foot taller. A perfect little hourglass. She was breathtaking. The boxes we'd be using were twenty-four-inch cubes, but I was certain we could have squeezed her into one significantly smaller. 

Her bright green eyes smiled as she said, "Hi. I'm Greer Garbo."

"Of course you are," I said, grinning. 

She wore a pair of khaki shorts and a wraparound powder blue top with baggy sleeves, and a pair of leather sandals. Super cute. The kind of woman I looked for in a sub, truth be told. Still, eyes on the ball and all that. 

"Age?"

"Twenty-one."

"All the responses honest?"

She glanced away for a moment.

"Ms. Garbo?"

She took a deep breath. "Well, it's not a lie because it's off my record but I got a misdemeanor for drunk and disorderly when I was fourteen."

I laughed. 

"Is that all?"

She responded enthusiastically, almost bouncing, which made her red curls flutter in a way that caught my eye and made me want her. "Yes, ma'am. That's it."

"I wouldn't worry about that. What's the longest you've been boxed?"

"I haven't done boxes before. But I've done the latex bondage bags. My boyfriend and I do those all the time for my webcam. I don't know the measurements, but I do know he managed to get my bag into one of those child-school-sized backpacks and hang me in the closet with the door open all night. 

"That will do nicely, Ms. Garbo. I'm sure you should enjoy this tremendously." I sent her in with instructions about the bag and Bernand and getting naked. 

I motioned for the next girl and two Latinx women approached. Twins. 

"Names?" I asked. 

"Esmerelda and Amaya Rosero," the slightly taller, by no more than a half inch, said. 

"Stage names?"

"Yes ma'am, said her twin. 

"May I please have your given names?"

"Luisa Rosero," said the first. 

"Maria Rosero," said the other. 

"Thank you." I made a note in the margins of their form. "Age?"

"Twenty-two," they said together, then looked at each and laughed. 

They wore matching leotards of royal blue that looked amazing on their lovely mocha skin. Each wore her hair in a tight bun on her head. The matching blue, high-heeled, strappy sandals topped off the look perfectly and they clearly had done this kind of thing before, though maybe not naked. 

"The Squash Sisters," Luisa said. "Well, that's how we get billed on the posters. We usually do tricks together, fitting both of us into one box together."

"We'll be working separately today, but that's good to know, thank you."

"All the responses honest?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Longest you've been encased?"

Maria spoke up. "It was together, and it was a weird show. We got in a three-by-three box together and then the troupe made a big deal about packing it on a horse cart and having us delivered all over the arena so people could inspect the box and us. After that, they let us sit in the lobby until the end of the show. Then we'd be brought in for the next one a few hours later and let out in front of the crowd. It was good money, but weird."

"Interesting," I said. "Nice."

I sent them in with the regular instructions and motioned for the next girl, a Japanese girl of about five-two. Her dark, straight hair was cut short and contained as many streaks of pink and blue as it did the original black. She smiled and nodded as she approached in her simple outfit of jeans, sneakers, and an untucked yellow blouse. 

"Name?" I asked. 

"Sato. Ellen Sato," she said. 

"Nice to meet you, Ellen," I said, admiring her lithe, narrow shape, too small for traditional porn most likely -- no tits or ass to speak of -- but maybe good for the 'big guy breaks open a tiny slut' vids that appealed to the more misogynistic types or wish-fulfillment for dudes with tiny cocks. In other words, perfect for this gig. 

"Age?"

"Eighteen."

"Eighteen?" I asked. 

"Yes, ma'am. Two months ago. April 21 this year."

"Okay then. And you're okay with this?"

"I've been doing theater for years, Miss." 

"This kind of theater?"

She nodded. "A few times. I covered for a friend from school, a Chinese girl who was in her family's troupe. We wore the same size so I did her contortion act when she couldn't make it."

"I see. Ever done it with your clothes off?"

She shook her head. "Not yet. But I'm looking forward to it. 

I nodded. 

"And your responses to the questionnaire. All honest?"

"Yes, Miss."

"Good. Good. What's the smallest you've been constrained?"

"I've done a one-foot tube for the show, capped at both ends and rolled around the stage. I've been inside a clear ball, a little bigger than a playground ball. And I've even fit into a big plastic bottle."

"An old pro at eighteen, huh?" I asked. "This should be a piece of cake for you. And maybe even a little boring."

"Not with my clothes off, I'm sure."

"And that's not going to be a problem for you?"

"No, ma'am."

"Good. You can go in now, Miss Sato."

"Thank you, Miss."

When she disappeared inside and the door closed again, I motioned for the second to last of the women, a roughly five-five young black woman with the kind of figure I would have assumed identified her as a dancer. Her green pantsuit did little to hide any of her curves. 

So I asked. 

"Dancer?"

"Jennifer Wiles," she said. 

I laughed. "Are you a dancer?"

"Oh, I'm sorry." As she spoke her face flushed red. She was very cute when she was embarrassed. "Yes. Yes, I am. Ballet."

"Interesting. What's the most recent performance?"

"Swan Lake. It's a cliche, but it pays the bills."

"Ever done nude?"

She nodded. "Lots of artistic, experimental stuff. No porn."

"Well," I said with a laugh. "This should be fun then." I stopped, noticing her concern. "No sex or anything. Sorry. Just exhibitionism."

"Oh, that's fine," she said. "I love showing off my body."

"You should. It's amazing. Age?" I asked, returning to the business at hand. 

"Twenty-seven."

"You don't look it."

"Thanks."

"All the responses are true?"

She nodded.

"I need a verbal response." I pointed at the camera behind me on the tripod filming the process. "For legal protections."

"I understand. Yes, ma'am, they're all true."

"Thanks. And what's the tightest and longest you've been boxed?"

"My boyfriend and I play games, and he got me in an Amazon box once. I think it was a foot and a half by maybe three feet. He vibed me and taped up the box and made me wait in the corner of the hallway while he had friends over for the game. After that, I was so hot that... Well, you don't want to know that, I'm sure."

I laughed. "I can imagine."

She smiled. 

"Go on in," I said. "Bernard will give you a bag for your clothes. Just give it back to him and he'll store it for you once you've undressed. Then wait for me and our last participant here," I said, pointing with my pen at the final girl who had been approved for the exhibit.

Jennifer went inside, and the door closed behind her. I motioned for the blonde with the spiked cut to come forward. 

"Name?" I asked. 

"Colleen Amberson," she said, and I recognized the name from other applications I'd seen arrive for various gigs I'd sponsored. "I'm so glad I got a call-back this time. I've been wanting to work with you for a long, long time, Miss Stern."

"Age?" I asked, ignoring her. 

"Twenty-three."

"All your responses are honest and true?"

"Absolutely, Miss Stern. I wouldn't do anything to screw this up."

"What's the longest you've been boxed?"

"I've been practicing since I first sent the application. I had my roommate, well, my girlfriend. I mean, she's my roommate too. Anyway, I had her help me. I've always been flexible, ever since being a cheerleader in middle school and high school and college, and so she's been able to help me into several crates I bought to work my way down to twenty-four inches since that's what it said on the information sheet. But I got even smaller and she managed to help me slip into a glass jar about two-feet tall and maybe that big around with the help of some baby oil."

Now, I felt impressed. "And how long did you stay there?"

"Well, it wasn't comfortable, but I have to admit, being cramped and helpless in that thing got me kinda hot. Anya offered to let me out after a few minutes but I asked her to leave me in for a while longer. So she did. Even after I started feeling sore, I wanted to push myself, and I told her to wait a while longer after she came back to the room. Finally, the third time she asked, I told her to just roll me in the closet and close the door and not to ask again until the morning."

I frowned. "You do know just how dangerous that was, don't you, Miss Amberson?"

She nodded, her smile flattening a bit. "Yes, ma'am, but I was determined to get this gig."

"And why do you want to work with me so badly?"

Her smile returned, wide and almost filled with sunshine. "Because you've been my favorite fetish artist for years. I've seen all your exhibits. All I've ever wanted was to be part of one."

"And now you are, my dear, but do me a favor."

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Don't put yourself at risk like that again."

Let me do it, I thought but didn't say a damn word. 

"Yes, Miss Stern. Absolutely, ma'am."

This one was all mine. No need to even bait the hook for her. 

"You may go in now," I said. "I'll join you in a minute." 

The door clicked closed, and I flipped through my notes, making last-minute alterations to the plan. I wanted to give them all time to disrobe and have their clothing bags locked away in the back office. I enjoyed the feeling of being overdressed and in command while my girls were naked and disarmed in front of me and my two male assistants. 

So, yeah, I was a bit of a sadist and definitely loved my power trips, but as long as I was creating the gigs, all the better to eat you with, as the big bad wolf said all those years ago. 

When I entered the room, the girls were waiting, stripped, and standing in a row. I had kept the room cool on purpose, and most of their nipples were erect and on display. Some were clean and smooth, others had trimmed pubic hair, and the twins each had a thick, hairy bush. Perfect. A buffet for the eyes, just what the exhibit needed. Variety. 

In the center of the room was the main part of the project. A three-by-three grid that looked like a bookcase. Each open square was two feet by two feet. The frame was made of black oak, and each shelf was a full two inches thick, guaranteed strong enough to support whatever went on the spaces. 

"Gentlemen," I said, motioning for them to retrieve the next part of the project. Oscar, the dark-haired, stockier one went off to a box to my left, and Bernard, the brown-haired beach bum type with the fake tan, disappeared behind a set of thick, heavy curtains on the right. 

Oscar put the box on the floor and opened it. 

"Please take one of the eggs from Oscar and put it inside you. But don't worry. This is the only penetration you will feel today. This is art, not porn, after all," I said, as if I even cared about the difference, or believed there was one. "This is vital for the exhibit and it will help keep you entertained as well. We don't want our star performers getting bored, do we?"

The girls laughed, some more weakly than others, but each in turn took a vibrating egg from Oscar and, upon my command, pushed the little sex toy inside her pussy. I showed them the remote in my hand. I had gotten it from my pocket while Oscar passed out the eggs. 

I pressed the blue button in the middle.

The girls shuddered collectively. One or two even made a startled cry. 

I let it go. 

"It will be activated from time to time, so do make sure you have it securely inside you. We don't want it to slip out and disturb the display."

I couldn't resist pressing the button again as I put it back in my coat pocket. The girls yipped and wiggled again.

About that time, Bernard returned with a pushcart. It was loaded with clear cubes that appeared to be made of glass. Of course, actual glass would have been too heavy, so plexiglass had to do, but I had requested a particular shine and sheen for the effect.

"These are where you'll be staying during the exhibit," I said. "I hope you're ready."

Bernard and Oscar distributed the cubes, one in front of each girl, placing them on the floor and sliding out the top from the grooves that kept the lid secure.

"Okay, ladies, impress me," I said, and I sat in a folding chair to watch my work finally come together. 

Ellen was the first to fit completely in her plexiglass cube. She had wrapped herself in a backward arc with a little bit of room to spare. Twisted as she was, her pussy rested about an inch above her head and face, and I was greeted with a lovely view of both at the front of the box.

"Lid me, please," she asked, and Oscar slid the clear lid back into the grooves, effectively trapping the tiny Japanese girl in her display case. 

Two of the girls, Angie and Vanessa, who hadn't started stuffing themselves into their own boxes couldn't resist tapping on the cube and teasing her. 

Oscar picked her up and placed her in the middle of the pushcart. 

"That's enough, ladies, I said. You have your own cubes to squeeze into," I said in a voice that matched my surname. 

Colleen was the next to accomplish the feat, twisting her legs, torso, head, and arms into a human pretzel. One of her arms was free and she was trying to pick up her own lid, but Oscar noticed and helped her. She squished the arm into the cube and he pushed the lid in place. 

Her face was pointed toward the floor, and cunt was pressed against the side of one of the walls. I motioned for him to turn her so that that lovely womanhood would be on display for the patrons. 

Oscar lifted her cube and placed it on top of Ellen's, and Colleen looked through the bottom of her display to see Ellen's bare belly. 

It took another minute but soon both Luisa and Greer had managed to shift their beautiful bodies into the cubes.

Luisa was huddled in a tight ball, gripping her knees and tucking her face between them. She was almost a human egg. When Bernard closed her in, she had to squeeze just a bit tighter and her ass and hairy bush were pointing toward the floor. 

I took a few steps around her box and finally decided on an angle for her to be shown off. I wanted her head on the bottom and her back to the patrons, her ass and pussy just hidden from view at the top of her display cube. 

Greer, that lovely submissive redhead, had her clean-shaven crotch smushed against the front in such a way that she looked incredibly uncomfortable. It made her labia flatten against the plexiglass and look twice as thick as they normally would. 

That, I knew immediately, would be the perfect way to display her tonight. 

Oscar lifted her on top of Colleen and started the second stack with Luisa, placing her on the right of Ellen. 

Next was Maria. You could tell she was used to being on top of her twin because she went in feet first and tied her arms and legs into a human knot until her back was inside enough for Bernard to slide the lid into the grooves. Her pussy pressed against the bottom of the cube and her face pressed against the back. 

Oscar lifted her and put her on the bottom on the left side, as I instructed him. I didn't want the two of them to be together in this act. 

Ellery was next. Her limberness was unique. She had somehow folded herself almost like a bathroom towel, in thirds. The poor girl must have been born without a spine to do such a feat, but it was breathtaking to observe. Her face was right in her cunt and if she had wanted to, she could have eaten her own pussy.

And that was the angle from which she'd go in the exhibit. The patrons would absolutely love that. 

Oscar placed her on top of Maria. 

Then Vanessa. She was a professional like Ellen. So she bent over backward to place her face between her ankles and feet with her crotch resting just above. I laughed. If she took a shit, in that position, she'd do it all over her own face. 

We already had Ellen facing that way so I had Bernard turn her box on its side so that she looked up from her new position on top of Luisa. Whoever's box went on top of her --Angie or Jennifer -- would sit directly on top of her pussy and face. Vanessa would be seen as all belly. 

Only two left. 

"Chop, chop, girls."

"Yes, ma'am," they said together. 

"And extra hundred dollars to whoever gets in first." Luckily the already-boxed girls couldn't hear that. 

Jennifer won the bonus. Taller than Angie, she was a sort of huddled and tangled mess in the box, an abstract of beautiful dark skin rather than a feminine figure encased in a display. But the effect of her tone in the mix of tan, pale, and mocha, was exquisite. Perfect. Just what the display needed. 

That left only Angie, the former magician's assistant. 

Angie was clearly a little out of practice, but in the end, she rolled herself into an egg shape with her arms pinned behind her and her knees crushing against her breasts and face and then leaned over enough for Bernard to slide the lid in so that she was as trapped as the other girls. 

With her face and one smushed tit flattened against the side of the cube, that was definitely the part that needed to face down on top of Vanessa. Her sweet little pussy was crammed high in the corner facing the patrons, well, it would be when they arrived later. 

"Excellent ladies," I said loudly. "Shake a little if you can hear me."

The boxes vibrated their affirmation.. 

"How about now?" I asked in a normal voice. 

Three boxes shook that time, and all were the ones on top. Good to know. 

"Fine. That's fine." 

I checked my watch. It was only two-fifteen. The ballroom wouldn't even open until seven for the exhibit. 

I motioned for Oscar and Bernard to move the cubes to the grid. One got behind the cart and the other in front, and they rolled it to the center of the room and put the girls in place in their see-through boxes. 

Even if the boxes didn't have grooved lids, they couldn't escape now. The cubes were designed to perfectly fit inside the space with barely an eighth of an inch to spare. 

The right gave me a beautiful view of  Luisa's brown back on the bottom shelf, with Vanessa's pale belly with her pierced belly button visible against the front, and on the top row was Angie, with her trapped little pussy high in the outside corner of her display. 

In the middle, Ellen's face and pussy stared out at me, with the next shelf holding Colleen with her lovely pussy smiling at whoever would look at her, and above her was the box containing the delightful redhead, Greer, with her shaved cunt smashed flat against the plexiglass in an exaggerated look.

And finally, the left-most column revealed Maria, separated from her twin by Ellen's face and pussy, with her own face pressing against the front. Above her was the amazingly flexible Ellery, who practically have her own face buried in her hairy muff. And last was Jennifer, whose lovely dark knotted tangle of skin provided contrast with the other boxes. 

They were the most exotic game of tic-tac-toe I could have imagined. 

They were a wall of trapped flesh. 

There were... well... they were simply breathtaking. 

Just as I had known they would be. 

They were art. 

They were my art. 

I motioned for the boys to clear the room of the cart and chair and anything else, leaving the only item the display of boxed girls in the center. 

I studied them from various angles and their eyes followed me as best they could. I waved, and those who could wave back at me. I couldn't resist tapping the glass at their most tender places to tease them, knowing they couldn't feel my touch but imagining all the same that they still expected to. And who knew, maybe they could feel the vibrations through the clear material. 

I studied the back of the shelf. It was equally exciting to see. The inverse of the view I had chosen to greet my eventual guests. It was still lovely, naked skin even if its placement had been an afterthought. 

I came back around to stand in front of my masterpiece. 

I reached into my pocket for the remote and pressed the button. 

Inside their boxes, the girls shivered, and I saw their eyes grow wide. I think they have just about forgotten about the little surprise in their twats. 

"Now ladies," I said, standing near the glass. "You should be able to hear me a little through the tiny holes in your boxes for breathing. Can you?"

Several girls nodded, and the ones whose faces were either hidden from me or on the other side shook a little so I got the point. 

"Good. Now," I said and I checked my watch again. "We have another four-and-a-half hours before people start to arrive, so I advise you to get comfortable. I would rather you not talk and disrupt the effect. Besides, I have to get a shower and come back to get the photos before the event anyway. This will be the longest time you remained boxed and compressed, but that's why it pays so much. Now, be good girls." 

I pressed the remote again once more for good measure. 

The girls shook again in their boxes and several low moans escaped the air holes. 

I placed the remote control on top of the shelf unit, and I waved goodbye. On the way out, I flipped off the light. Maybe the dark would help them relax. Maybe it would scare the shit out of them instead. 

What did I care? I had a show to prepare for. 

Chapter Two

The evening was a rousing success. 

Both the fetish critics and the art snobs had declared "Entertainment Center" to be a bonafide hit, an absolute fucking masterpiece of kink art. 

And there had been a nice, long line of patrons wanting their turn to activate the remote control, curious how it made the girls in the display squirm. Some of the ladies attending had guessed, and they went back for multiple turns to press the button and turn on the hidden vibrators.  

And so, so many pictures. Pictures of the art. Close-ups of each of the little boxes of trapped flesh. Group shots with her posing in front of the art. 

People asked me all about her inspiration. How did she find the girls? Were they really into it? Were they just a bunch of masochists? 

I must have done at least seven art podcasts and three more kink ones. Two interviews for local magazines. One for the LGTBQIA+ newspaper from the Midtown district. One for a streaming documentary channel that focused on counterculture and avant garde topics. 

Of course, the question on everyone's lips was this: "Who were those wonderful girls trapped in the 'Entertainment Center?'" People wasted precious minutes looking for a list or photos of the girls who had become art, time they could have spent drinking instead, only to find that there was no indication who the girls were. Nor would there be. That was the point. It wasn't about the identity inside the art. It was control-alt-delete culture. It was creative commons. The original pieces didn't matter, only the newly created canvas. 

And the only personality that should be praise was that of the artists. Me.

Seven o'clock became seven-thirty. Became eight. Became nine. There were drinks and expensive caviar. Fancy hoers d'ourves. Nine became ten. Ten turned to ten-thirty. The girls had been confined for eight hours. Surely that was taking a toll on their muscles. Even the strongest and most flexible of them. 

But there was still time to go. As long as guests remained to examine the work, the party would keep going. 

Art existed to be seen. To be praised. 

Art existed. 

If I set the girls free, I would be destroying the art, and that wouldn't do. 

More drinks. More guests playing with the remote. More movement in the boxes. 

No one could hear the art moan in pleasure over the din of the crowd. I was sure none of the girls could have made any sense from the numerous muffled conversations they picked up on through their tiny air holes. Just unintelligible noise. Indecipherable volume. 

It was almost eleven when a man handed me a folded check and pulled me aside. 

"It's yours if you'll sell me the artwork."

"You do know that's living girls, right?"

"Look at the zeroes before you ask me that."

I opened the check. 

Fuck. 

Two million dollars. 

"Damn."

"My employer thinks it's the most amazing thing he's ever seen," he said. 

"That's a lot of money," I said. 

"Is it not enough? I'm allowed to offer more. What about three million or four? How about five? Could you doublecross those girls and part with them for five million dollars?"

"Mister," I said. "I could do a lot of rotten things for five million dollars."

"Do we have a deal then?" 

"I could do a lot more for ten million though," I said with a wide grin. "And I need to know who I'm selling it to." 

He scrunched up his face in thought. "I could probably get approval for ten mill. But my employer would prefer to remain anonymous."

"Tell him anonymous is gonna cost him a lot more. I won't have any way of ensuring that my girls are safe."

"And if I gave you that assurance?"

"Well, another ten mill would go a long way to making me feel better about it, if your employer really wants the piece that much."

The man nodded. I'll be back in touch with you. It might take a few hours, so please do not dismantle the artwork until you hear back from me." 

I shook her hand and watched him walk away. 

Could I really sell my models to an anonymous stranger for twenty milllion dollars? For that kind of money, I could disappear right after they did. And if I were honest, I didn't know them. I didn't owe them anything. I had paid them well, and they're families would get that money, hell, already had that money in the bank accounts. 

Oscar and Bernard could get rid of their clothes and phones and purses. That was easy enough to break or bury or burn. No evidence. 

Hell, if I played it off right, I could probabaly have Daddy Warbucks, whoever the hell he or she was, make it look like a high-tech art theft, and not only would I get paid, but I'd also collect the insurance that covered all new performance art pieces I did. 

That would bring the total take to a little over twenty-three-million. Not a bad profit on a piece like "Entertainment Center."

But the girls had trusted me. 

Hell, one of them had even admired me, almost fucking worshipped me. She'd probably be in love with the idea of being sold as a famous piece of my art. Crazy bitch. 

But the others. It was just a gig, albeit and high-paying one. But not one they had planned to spend the rest of their lives doing. And particularly not as boxed art for some rich billionniare. 

Most of the guests and the reporters had dispersed by midnight, and I checked on my masterpiece to see how it was faring. Ellen looked tired, and so did Maria, but those were the only two whose face I could see. At least on the front. 

I smiled at them both, and they looked at with the single question evident in their eyes. "How much longer?"

They had no idea how long it had been. There were no clocks in the room, nor outside windows, so they had no indications of the passing of time outside the ballroom. All they had, at least those who could see, was the coming and going of strangers to gawk at them. 

All of them, however, had the constant buzzing of the vibes inside them to pass the time. But that didn't tell them how long. If anything, that only confused them more and distracted them from forming any notion of how long they had been on display. 

By one a.m., the man hadn't returned, and I was feeling restless and a lot less likely to go through with the very, very illegal deal he was proposing. Less addled, my brain kept warning me how easy it would be to get caught. 

At one-thirty if was just me, Oscar, Bernard, and a few straglers who wanted to use me to further their own careers. I pushed them out at two and finally locked the doors. Still no sign of the man's return. 

I either needed to set the girl's free or resign them to their fate as high-dollar art about to be sold. It wasn't fair to waver. Shit of get off the pot, I thought, remember the cliche my asshole stepdad had used frequently. 

I grabbed the remote and carried it to one of the serving tables near the display. I lifted the corner of the table and found it still had enough weight on it for what I proposed. Then I slipped the remote under the foot and lowerd the table leg. It pressed down the button and kept it pressed. 

I smiled at the suddenly amorous young packages of flesh as they writhed in their plexiglass prisons. No doubt they expected it to stop in a few moments, but I know it wouldn't. It would buzz until the batteries wore out in the remote, and that wouldn't happen for several hours.

They continued to vibrate in their display but the shelf itself still did not move, just the girls in the boxes. 

A throaty series of unending moans escaped and could be heard softly now that the crowd was gone. 

It was music to me. 

They kept singing and then one after the other, the moans became something else, something more intense, something louder and higher pitched. 

They had started to orgasm. 

It was like popcorn, one popping off with ecstasy then another squealing from her climax. Then another would cum and almost shriek. 

But still the eggs continued, unrelenting. 

That would help them keep for a while, I decided. That would give me time to see what happened. If there was no response by the morning. I could always return to the ballroom and set them free and send a little more extra cash their way for their troubles. 

That would have to do. It was a good plan. 

I turned off the light and locked the doors behind me. 

The phone rang beside my bed at four in the morning. I recognized the man's voice immediately. 

"Hi," I said. "What's the latest?"

"Forty million."

"Forty million dollars?"

"Forty mill. Under the table. Clean. Untraceable. All in hidden foreign accounts. But for that much, you don't get to ask questions. You don't get to know who my employer is. You just take the transfer, and the artwork disappears."

"Forty million dollars?"

"Can that much buy you peace of mind for selling it to us?"

There it was again, the part that bothered her. The 'it.' Never 'them.' They were not girls, not women. They were property. 

But shit, forty mill. 

"Can I think about it?"

His quick answer surprised him.

"No."

"Then no deal."

"Are you sure? What if I told you I had a team already here for delivery? And it would look like a robbery?"

"Shit."

I threw on a pair of jeans and a black button-up top and raced out to my car, keeping him on the phone. 

"There now?"

"Yes. I told you, my employer really, really wants this piece."

"Shit." 

I spun out of the driveway and on the way to the ballroom. 

"Hold on, I'm on my way."

"Very well," he said. 

Then he hung up. 

In five minutes I swung the car to a stop outside the ballroom. I swung open the busted doors and raced inside, ready to yell at the strange man to stop. 

But instead, I found...

I found...

Nothing. 

"Entertainment Center" was gone. How the fuck had they moved it so quickly?

I heard a phone ringing in the room and found it lying on the floor.

"Hello?"

"Did you really think I would call you before I arranged for pick up?"

"You can't --"

"It's already done. The artwork is on a ship. It will be kept in a private collection, and no one will ever see it again except my employer. If you check the account numbers on this phone's banking info, you'll see forty million spread across several foreign accounts. That much would cover any discomfort and pain you feel from selling us such an important piece of art."

"Please."

"Do you want it back that badly?"

I couldn't answer. 

"For forty million, you should have no trouble making another one. Good day." 

Then he hung up. I called back but the number rang to an out-of-service number. 

They were gone. 

I looked at the numbers and the balances in the new accounts. 

God damn.

I shoved the new phone into my pocket and grabbed my regular one. I dialed nine-one-one. A sweet female voice on the other end answered. 

"I'd like to report a robbery," I said. 

"What was taken?" she asked. 

"Yes," I said. "What?"

"Ma'am?"

"Artwork."

"How much was it worth?"

I remembered the face of each girl. Ellen. Colleen. Jennifer. Ellery. Maria and Luisa. Vanessa. Angie. And lovely little redheaded Greer. 

"How much was it worth?" she asked again. 

I paused, thinking about the insurance payout. 

"Three million," I said. 

"It must have been something amazing."

"Yeah," I said. "But it's only property. At least nobody was hurt, right?"