Finale

The next siren didn’t come like a climax.

It came like a verdict.

Third milestone.

Vanessa and Sonja tied her up.

No stage ropes, nothing pretty. Her wrists to the poles, tight, high enough that Silke’s bare tits were taut. Her ankles turned outward, spread apart on the glass, wide enough that her pussy remained open, no matter how much she clenched her muscles. Naked. Tied up. The cloth still over her face. Her dress somewhere down below.

Instead, the announcement came.

“Special donation, folks. Just now. Two hundred fifty euros. From—Silke.”

The name hung in the room.

Silke.

Her name. Loudly. Echoing through the whole club. For a heartbeat, there was nothing but white behind the cloth. She was Silke. And someone had just paid with her name to have her humiliated up here.

Then she saw it.

Vanessa shifted the cloth a crack, just enough for one eye—meanly, right at the moment the image changed on the screen. Susanne. Down at the bar. Silke’s purse in her hand—the little black one she’d given her before she climbed into the cage. Susanne held the purse up, waved at the camera, smiled, and next to her on the screen, the transaction flashed.

Silke’s card.

Silke’s money.

Two hundred fifty euros for tying her up and bringing her to orgasm in front of everyone.

Then they finished her off.

Sonja knelt in front of her on the glass, her mouth not yet on her, but her hand already was. Two fingers through the wet pussy, deep right away, because Silke had been open all evening. Her thumb on the clitoris, firm, circling—no more playing around, no more showing off. Vanessa from behind, both tits in her hands, the nipples hard between her fingers, in the same rhythm. Silke tugged at her restraints. The glass beneath her bare ass was wet. The cameras devoured the scene. One from below, through the glass, straight into her pussy, where Sonja’s fingers disappeared and reappeared, glistening.

Silke didn’t come gently.

She came as if something were being torn out of her.

First her stomach, hard, inevitable. Then a sound from behind the cloth—high-pitched, raw, humiliating—her name still ringing in her ears. Her pussy clenched around her fingers—once, twice—and then she squirted. Not a little. A clear, violent gush that missed Sonja’s hand and struck the glass, spreading out, dripping, visible to everyone. Down below, they were screaming. On the screen, you could see it in slow motion: the naked, bound slut, legs spread wide, pussy open, and the wet spurt over the club.

Susanne watched from below.

The body twitching. The restraints. The tits that Vanessa wouldn’t let go of. The gush on the glass, right above the cell phones. And herself on the second screen, her purse still in the air, as if she’d received applause for a purchase.

Silke hung in her restraints and squirted again.

A second, smaller time, helpless, while Sonja didn’t take her hand off her clitoris. The shame came only afterward, hot, late, useless. Her own name. Her own money. Her own juices on the glass.

Then it was over.

The DJ said something about thanks for the donations. The cage lowered. Vanessa untied her wrists—not gently. Sonja didn’t remove the cloth. They left it on, as if it were now a part of her.

Two security guards were already standing at the door. A jacket—too thin, too short—was thrown over Silke’s bare shoulders. Beneath it, she was wet. Between her legs. On her skin. They had left their mark on the glass.

They led her away.

Not like a go-go dancer after the show.

Like something that had been used and was now being cast aside.

Susanne stayed downstairs, her purse still in her hand.

And Silke walked naked, dripping, her face covered, into the backstage area, with the echo of her own name ringing in her ears and the knowledge that she herself had paid for that orgasm in front of everyone.