Warm-up

The photo shoot took place a week later.

Silke had spent two hundred fifty euros on herself. Hair. Facial. Full body waxing. Smooth between her legs, smooth under her arms, her soft thighs free of the dark shadow she usually ignored. She thought it was a bargain. For two thousand euros—and for Mira, who’d come away empty-handed—it was a joke.

I think that’s a bargain, too. I’ll check out the story about it later.

She arrived at the hall at eight.

The concrete floor was cold, the ceiling high; lighting stands stood like scaffolding between several elaborately constructed sets: an unmade bed, the wet tiled wall of a changing room, a stage in front of a mirrored wall. No one else was there.

The university staff member came out of a corner and greeted her. Young, part of the photography club, a set of keys on his belt, his gaze lingering a little too long on her face before drifting lower.

“Silke, right? I’m your warm-up today. That’s how we always do it. Someone from the club warms up the model before the photographer arrives. Test shots. I’ll show you what you need to do.”

He gestured toward the back.

“You can put your things down there and pick something out. I’ll take the photos of you.”

Then, in a flirtatious tone, too quiet for a studio:

“Pick something nice. For you and me.”

Silke didn’t think it through. She went behind the folding screen. Dress off. Underneath, the thin shirt, no jacket, the shorts she’d bought especially for this—in short, the fabric cut into her soft thighs. She hardly needed any makeup. Just a little around her eyes. Done.

When she came back out, he was already snapping away.

He gave a lot of instructions. Chin up. Drop your shoulders. Shift your weight to one leg. They tried out poses. It was fun—in that silly way Silke’s body always confused fun with shame. The flash. His voice. Her breasts, which felt too heavy in the shirt and shifted with every turn.

Then he stepped closer. More intimately.

“I thought your photos were so beautiful. And natural. That’s why I chose you.” A small smile. “Actually, someone else was supposed to get the job. Oh well. And now it’s just you and me here.”

He hadn’t wanted Mira—he’d wanted her, Silke. That feeling sat warm inside Silke. Angry-warm. Revenge-warm. She was in the mood to flirt because her body had already decided that this morning wouldn’t end with just a test shoot.

“What did you like?”

He dodged the question. Her face. Her charisma. Her naturalness. The blah-blah of someone who was still keeping the real sentence locked behind his teeth.

Silke recognized it. “What was it really?”

A second of silence. Then, flatly, honestly: “Your topless photo. Your tits.”

Silke blushed. Instantly. The flush crept up her cheeks, down her neck, and into her chest. He raised the camera and captured that exact expression. Click. Click. Shame as a subject.

“Topless?”

“Yeah. You sent four photos, after all.”

Silke thought hard. Bikini. Dress. Underwear. Three. Not four.

He was already pulling out his phone. He turned the screen toward her.

She saw herself.

Naked from above. Her heavy breasts, the soft curve beneath them, her nipples hard, as if someone had pressed the shutter button at the exact moment she shouldn’t have. No filter. No shadow to save her. Fuck. She hadn’t meant to send that. Some fourth picture she’d chosen too quickly because she hadn’t thought things through.

She saw his face as he still held the photo in his hand. The reaction. His mouth opening almost imperceptibly. The look that was no longer polite. She liked that. Shameful. That’s exactly why.

“How much time do we have left?”

“About an hour.”

Silke swallowed. Peter’s words were stuck somewhere behind her ribs. Do whatever it takes.

“Want to try something new?”

She pulled her shirt aside a little. More cleavage. The inside of her breast became visible—the soft fullness, the hint of the nipple. The poses grew more seductive. Leg stepped forward. Back arched. Gaze downward, then into the lens, as if she knew he didn’t just want her face. She’d practiced that for Jonas—or rather, for Peter.

He corrected her.

“Hips wider. Don’t cover your hand. Chin down.”

The camera kept clicking. His hand was always just a little too close. On her thigh, when he was “just adjusting” the pose. At her waist, where the shirt had ridden up. Right next to her breast, as he brushed aside a strand of hair that hadn’t been bothering anyone. Once, the back of his hand brushed the fabric over her crotch.

Each time, it was like an electric shock.

Silke stopped. Let it happen. Got wet, while the hall was still empty and the real photographer wasn’t there yet, and Mira was sitting somewhere on campus without a contract.

He said it suddenly. Unprofessionally. Too loud for an empty hall. Too honest for someone who still had the camera in his hand.

“Wait. I can’t take it anymore. My cock’s about to explode.”

The sentence hit Silke right between her legs. Not as a word. As a surge. As that hot, stupid tugging she’d known ever since Peter had taught her that shame and wetness were triggered by the same switch. Her pussy clenched. The thong she was wearing under her shorts was already darker in the middle.

She was flattered by the compliment. Embarrassing. Explicit.

“Because I’m doing this?”

She pushed her top aside. Her nipple was exposed—dark, hard—with her soft breast hanging heavily beside it. Click. The image instantly appeared on the large screen next to the set. Her own tit, huge, unretouched, the areola wide, the nipple erect.

“Or this?”

She turned, sticking her ass out, the shorts slipping into the cleft. Her soft, plump butt filled the fabric. Click. Back on the screen. Her ass, wide, supple—exactly the body Mira had given away back then.

“Or this?”

She pulled the shorts aside at the inner thigh. The thong cut into the smooth, freshly shaved skin. Moisture was already glistening on the fabric. Click. The hall watched, even though no one was there except them and the screen, which recorded every mistake.

Silke laughed. The laugh was too bright. She sat down on her butt on the cold floor in front of the bedding set, spread her legs, and pulled the shorts even further to the side until the thong was fully visible. Thin. Wet. Her labia pressed against the waistband on the left and right. The slit was a dark line.

“Show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.”

She said it because she liked him. Because he hadn’t slept with Mira. Because his cock was about to burst, and her body counted that as a victory.

He kept taking pictures. Click. Click. Click. Only then did he realize what she was offering. The camera dropped a centimeter. He nodded.

His pants came down. Boxers too. A beautiful, hard cock emerged. Not monstrous. Not like Voss’s. Smooth, pointing straight up, the glans dark and already damp at the tip. The veins stood out. He was so hard that he tapped lightly against his stomach as he was freed.

Now she had to deliver.

Silke didn’t think it through. She pulled her panties down to her knees. She pushed her shirt up over her breasts until the fabric was caught under her chin. Naked from the knees up, with only her shorts still halfway down her legs, the thong a wet strip around the backs of her knees. Her pussy lay exposed. Freshly shaved, her lips swollen and glistening. She slid two fingers between them and stroked herself lightly, just so he could see that she was already ready.

The click of the camera became a flipbook. Every image appeared instantly on the screen. Silke, fingering herself. Silke, legs spread wide. Silke, nipples hard, mouth half-open, her soft belly arching with every movement. She watched herself as she touched herself and grew even wetter.

“That doesn’t solve my problem,” he said. More confident now. His voice hoarse. “It just made it worse.”

“Come here.”

She didn’t know yet if she was going to fuck him. The thought was there, heavy, between her legs, but a blowjob was on the table. A blowjob was always on the table when Silke was already that far along.

He stepped in front of her. His cock was at mouth level. She took it in her hand, weighed it, ran her thumb over the wet glans. He twitched. A drop oozed out.

Then she took it into her mouth.

Warm. Hard. The taste of skin and pre-cum. She slid her lips over the head, sucked down hard once, let her tongue circle it. He groaned through clenched teeth. The camera remained in his right hand. Click, as her mouth closed around him. Click, as she went deeper and the tip pressed against her palate.

Silke looked into the lens. Then the thought of Peter. Her promise to protect her face.

She let the cock slip out a little; a thread of saliva connected her lower lip to the head.

“But the pictures stay between us.”

He smiled. Too quickly. Too easily.

“Sure. They’ll stay on the camera. Don’t worry.”

Silke was satisfied. Because she didn’t think things through. Because “on the camera” sounded safe. Because his cock was tapping against her lips again and her body didn’t want a second round of negotiations.

She sucked.

Not gently. Not as if she were still considering it. She took him deep, her lips tight, her tongue flat against the underside, salivating him until it gurgled. Her eyes watered the second time the tip brushed her throat. She didn’t gag. She stayed put. Saliva ran down her chin, dripped onto her bare breasts, trickled into the cleft between them.

Click.

On the screen: Silke’s mouth, wide open, a glistening cock inside it, her heavy tits below, her soft belly, her spread thighs, her pussy open and wet, two fingers still lazily wedged between her lips, as if she couldn’t stop touching herself while she sucked him off.

He grabbed her hair. Not roughly. Commandingly. Guiding her. She let him. Her jaws worked, her cheeks hollowed out, a wet, smacking sound filling the hall. Every time she came up, she breathed audibly, a string stretching from the tip of his cock to her lower lip, and she went right back down.

“Like that,” he gasped. “Exactly like that. Look up.”

She looked up. Into the camera. Red. Wet around her mouth. Her eyes glazed over. The cock glistened against her lips before she slid it back in.

Click. Click. Click.

Between her legs, her fingers were now working more urgently. Circling her clit, two fingers in the wetness, the sound quiet, embarrassing, unmistakable. She was almost there, just from the blowjob and the knowledge that the screen was showing everything. The orgasm was right beneath her fingers, a tight, dangerous tugging.

He thrust deeper. Not brutally. But deeper. The head of his cock slid down her throat. Silke gagged, saliva spurted from the corners of her mouth, her eyes welled up. She kept going anyway. Because she’d delivered. Because Mira didn’t have this spot. Because Peter had said: whatever it takes.

“I’m about to come,” he blurted out. “Don’t swallow. I want to see it.”

Silke didn’t stop to think what that meant. She kept sucking, faster, drooling, moaning around the shaft, while her fingers curled inside her own pussy. The first spurt hit her tongue hot. She pulled him out, the head of his cock against her lips, and the second spurt hit her chin, her neck, the upper part of her chest. White. Thick. It ran between her tits, dripping onto her soft belly.

Click.

The screen showed everything. Silke, kneeling, shirt tucked under her chin, panties at her knees, shorts twisted, face wet, mouth open, cum on her lips and breasts, her fingers still inside her pussy.

She came right then.

Not loudly. A high-pitched, pitiful sound; her thighs trembled; her pussy clenched around her own fingers; wetness ran down the back of her hand onto the gym floor. She felt ashamed as she came. That’s exactly why she came harder.

He photographed that, too.