Exhibition Date 2

The curtain to the second part was heavier than it looked.

Jonas, that idiot, had no idea. He grinned, as he always did whenever a naked woman was hanging on a wall somewhere, and shoved his friends ahead of him into the room as if free beer were at stake.

Nothing here had been retouched.

No AI-generated hair. No stubble that Mira had added later. Bare pussy. The beautiful skin Silke had paid two hundred fifty euros for: smooth, soft, unadorned except by what was actually there. But nothing was covered up either.

The first image hit harder than anything with the blanket.

Silke working out. Legs spread. Ass exposed. A jumping jack in the sharpness of a glossy photo, her tits in the air, her shaved slit—a dark, wet line when she spread her legs—her asshole visible between her cheeks, hairless, merciless. Two meters. Pin-sharp. Jonas whistled through his teeth.

“Now it’s getting real.”

The guys laughed. The scavenger hunt was over. There was nothing to look for here.

Picture in bed. Labia parted. Silke on her back, fingers no longer in the frame, her lips pulled so wide you could see the pink inside, the entrance, the glistening wetness. There was no joke beneath it anymore. Just a number.

Pictures while eating. Everything visible.

The cardboard box on her bare stomach. Fat. Salami. Her boyfriend in a T-shirt. Silke’s breasts exposed. Her pussy exposed. A drop of wetness on her thigh. Greasy fingers on her skin, no sheets, no story of a Sunday couple. Just a naked woman letting herself be fed.

Then the sex.

Every position. No blanket.

Silke on top, the cock in her pussy, all the way to the base, her soft belly in motion. From behind, ass exposed, shaft gleaming. From the side, leg raised, the penetration a straight line. And the last one: cumming on her belly. Thick spurts below her navel. White on soft skin. The man—just his torso, socks, shorts down to his knees. Silke exposed. Smeared.

Jonas stepped so close to the glass that his breath fogged it up.

The installation stood in the middle of the room.

No frame. A life-size touchscreen mounted upright. Black, until someone approached. Then the video.

Silke’s belly. The cum. You could see it getting more liquid. How her pussy twitched, more and more, without sound. Just the image. The white smeared. Her lips tightened. An invisible sentence seemed to hang in the air, one that only Silke could hear because she’d already heard it.

Then the hand. Hers. How she masturbated. Two fingers. Clitoris. Hip. The climax. A minute of twitching, juices, the bed beneath her dark.

The cruel part was the framing.

You could see the camera’s entire frame: head, chest, stomach, pussy. But only the stomach and pussy were in focus. The rest was blurry, as if behind frosted glass. Still, Silke believed there was a frame here and there where everything was clearly visible—too fast to make out the details. A face that flashed and then blurred away again.

Then she saw the plan.

Below the image, in small letters: *TOUCH*.

It was a touchscreen. Whenever you pressed the clit, the video paused.

A pause game. Whoever hit it at exactly the right moment would see everything clearly. Head. Eyes. Mouth. The orgasm with a face.

Jonas understood the game immediately. The idiot never understood art. Games, though, sure.

He pressed.

His finger was on her clit. On the glass. On the spot that was actually three weeks old and yet still hers. The video jerked. Froze. Blurry. Just her stomach. He cursed, let it play again, pressed again. Always right on the clit. Precise and stupid at the same time. His friends egged him on.

“Earlier. Nah, later.”

“There! Almost.”

“One more time. She’s about to twitch.”

Silke had to watch as Jonas fiddled with her projected pussy to see her naked. More naked than she already was. Naked in the shot. He didn’t know who he was looking for. He looked anyway.

The video was five minutes long. No rewinding. Anyone who missed the frame was back at the beginning of the twitches, the dripping cum, the silent slut on her back.

At the end of the second part hung a mirror.

Not a photo. A mirror the size of Silke. Beneath it, the same line as before, only here it was no longer a flirtation.

*If you’ve recognized her, don’t say anything. She might be standing right next to you.*

The guys laughed. One looked at Silke. He didn’t recognize her. Just because she was pale. Because she was clinging to the doorframe. Because every woman in that room suddenly seemed suspicious.

Silke looked at herself in the mirror.

The same size as the pictures. The same soft contours. The same breasts. For a heartbeat, her living face lay over the text in the mirror, and she realized that Mira had set it up this way: first the merchandise on the wall, then the original next to it, and no one was allowed to say a word.

As if Mira had been waiting all evening, she stepped up beside her.

“Well? Do you like it?”

Mira laughed softly. Not for the guys. For Silke.

“This section here is extra income for the photographer, not for the model. It’s in the contract.”

Silke had to hold on tight. The pang struck her right between her legs. Not from pride. From the old ticket counter that Mira hadn’t touched for three weeks and yet had kept in her hand all along. Mira held her tight. By the elbow. Friendly to anyone who looked on. Inescapable for Silke.

“We’ve sold a hundred tickets today alone.” Mira continued speaking, calmly, as if explaining a math problem. “The exhibition runs for another three weeks. And once word gets out about what’s on display…” A glance toward the installation, where Jonas was tapping the clitoris again. “I’ve already thought about lowering the price to one euro during the last week. So everyone can see you.”

Silke gasped. Barely audible.

“But that’s not all. At the end, we’ll auction off the pictures. With my autograph. And a digital version.” Mira shrugged. “I hope I don’t have to publish the ones with the heads. But thanks, Silke. With this, I won’t have to worry about money for a while. I figure I’ll have made just under 80,000 in the end.” ”

Silke was still watching the video. Cum. Pussy. Jonas’s finger hitting her clit on the glass, missing, and hitting it again, as if he could force a face to appear through pressure.

Mira followed her gaze.

“Well? Is he that focused in bed, too?”

She laughed.

Then, leaning closer to her ear, just for Silke:

“There really is one frame where your head is visible. Just a little joke. The video is five minutes long. You can’t rewind it. There are nine other frames where your head is pixelated. But if someone finds that one frame in a five-minute video, they deserve it. Right?”

Silke leaned heavily on Mira. Her knees buckled. She was panting with lust. She hadn’t expected this. Not here. Not next to Jonas, who knew nothing and was still playing with her pussy like it was a video game. Not with 1,500 tickets in three weeks. Not with one euro last week. Not at the auction.

Mira held her until the sound faded. She ran her hand once over Silke’s sleeve, as if that were a comfort.

The video stopped at the end. Softly. Almost. Jonas cursed. He restarted it. Five minutes. No turning back.

Silke swallowed the taste of three-week-old shame and fresh wetness.

“Has Peter been here yet?” she thought. “What will he say about this?”