Fotoshooting

First scene. The boss’s office.

The desk was dark and too big. Silke stepped up to it without being asked how far. The technician simply said, “Lean forward. Elbows on the desk. Butt up.” She bent over. Her tits rested on the wood. Her forehead turned to the side, away from the lens, as promised. He stepped behind her, pushed her feet further apart, and didn’t take her hands. “Spread your cheeks yourself.”

Silke reached behind her.

Her fingers dug into her own skin. Pulling. Her pussy came into the light from the ceiling, swollen, glistening, a strip of white that was impossible to tell whether it was fresh or old. The asshole beneath it was open enough to see the evidence of use. Traces of fucking. Redness. Wetness. Cum that had lodged in the crevice.

Click.

Click. Closer. A click from below, almost between her boots. “Keep your head out of the shot.” She kept it out. Her cheeks burned. The pose burned even more. He took more photos than thirteen pages would need. Once, she was too slow. Silke reflexively glanced over her shoulder, her mouth half-open, her face in profile.

Click.

He lowered the camera, turned the display toward her. Just the headless shot. The spread-eagled ass. The traces. Calendar-worthy. “That’s how it goes in.” He dismissed the other one, where she’d just looked back. He kept it. Silke understood and said nothing. Get it over with. No face in the calendar. A face in his gallery.

Second shot. Entryway.

Glass. Company logo. The door leading outside, brightly lit. Here, someone on the street could see a naked silhouette if they looked closely. “Sit on your heels. Facing the door. Like a slave at the entrance.” Silke knelt on the cold tiles, her butt on her heels, her back straight, her hands on her thighs. Her gaze toward the door. The face visible to the lens—just the back of her head and her hair.

He knelt to the side.

Click. Her naked back. The garter belts. The boots. Between her parted knees, the dark shadow of her pussy—if you knew the picture. Click from behind, her ass resting on her heels, still not closed. “Stay. As if you were waiting for someone to come.” ” Silke waited. The air conditioning on her nipples. Outside, a car that didn’t stop. He took three pictures and one extra, lower down, where you could see through the gap between her arm and waist onto her bare chest.

On the display for her: headless again. A slave at the entrance. For the staff. For January or March. The technician said, “Next. Changing room.” And Silke stood up, her knees red, and followed him, naked through the empty office, two shots poorer and fourteen secrets richer, if you counted what he didn’t show.

Third shot. The men’s locker room.

Benches. Lockers. The smell of old shoes and shower gel. A name on a door that wasn’t Peter. The technician pushed a bench into the middle. “Lie down. Legs up over your head.” Silke lay on her back, her neck against the cold wood, and pulled her knees up, higher, until her boots were next to her head. Her pussy tilted upward. Her asshole right below it. Both exposed. Both on display. No studio makeup. The real signs of fucking made the image awful: redness, swelling, a drying rim, white in one slit, a sheen in the other.

“Hold it. Hands on your butt cheeks. Spread them.”

She did it. Her thighs trembled. A click from above. A click between the lockers, as if someone were sitting on the bench across from her and pulling down their pants. He walked once around her. The back of her head toward the lens. Her face hidden in the crook of her knee. On the display, all she saw again was her crotch, calendar-ready, cruelly close. “What makes this site so expensive,” he said casually, “is that it’s not gel.” Silke stared at the ceiling of the men’s lockers and didn’t count how many shots he kept.

Fourth shot. Warehouse.

Crates. High-rise shelving. A cool draft under the warehouse ceiling. “Legs wide. Really wide. Spread your lips. Once in front, once in back.” Silke tried something that looked like a split and bow legs, her boots on rough concrete, her skirt long gone. The insides were burning. She had to hold her labia apart herself; otherwise, the slit would close from the strain. Click from the front: the open slit, pink, used, her belly, her tits, her head turned away to the back. Then turn around. On her knees, the same slit from behind, pussy and hole in a line between the crates.

He took two shots from each angle.

Once with the flash, so the wetness would glint white. Once without, so the traces would remain dark. Silke trembled in the spread-eagle position and heard the shutter click like a stamp. On the small screen, she could only see the headless versions. Warehouse. Inventory. An open intern among the pallets. “December,” he muttered. Or June. Silke stopped trying to assign months and followed him out of the warehouse, her legs barely holding her up, four shots in the can and the calendar far from full.

Fifth shot. Conference room.

Long table. Projector dead. Twelve chairs, none occupied. Silke had to sit on the tabletop. Cold beneath her bare bottom. “Legs wide. Labia apart. Head to the side.” She sat down at the front edge, where the speaker usually stands, and spread her knees until the insides of her thighs tugged. Her fingers hooked into her labia and pulled them apart. The slit lay in the light of the ceiling lamp, pink, wet, the clitoris visible, the second hole cast as a shadow beneath it. Her face turned away, toward the window, only her cheek and hair visible.

A click from the end of the table.

A click from the executive chair, as if someone were sitting in the meeting and looking down at the agenda. The technician stood on a chair, capturing the angle from above: breasts, stomach, her own hands on her crotch, her boots in the air. “Stay still. Don’t breathe so shallowly.” Silke breathed shallowly. On the display, she was headless again. An agenda made of flesh. Staff, quarter, this page.

Sixth scene. Cafeteria.

Tables in rows. Yesterday’s menu. The smell of grease and cleaner. “On all fours. Between the aisles. As if you were ready to be taken in front of everyone.” Silke knelt on the tiled floor, hands in front, ass up, back arched. Her pussy pointed backward into the hallway, where the line would have formed at noon. No face, gaze fixed on the floor.

He walked once along the serving line.

Click from the entrance: a naked figure between tables, small. Click close behind her: the open crotch, the marks, the garters. Click from the side with a tray rack in the frame, so it looked like a cafeteria and not a studio. Silke held the pose—her knees ached—and thought of the voices that usually push trays around here. On the small screen, she saw the image without a head. Ready. Public. Empty. “The cafeteria’s always good,” he said. “Everyone knows that view of the serving line.” Then: “Kitchen.” Silke stood up, her palms dirty from the floor, and walked behind the counter—six shots done, seven still to go.