Learning Space

He found her faster than she thought. No searching. No words. Just the cape she’d picked out, and the nod she already knew. He was insatiable. The room was too loud for words. So she immediately started going wild with him. Hands on his neck, fingers in his hair, her hips pressing against the hard bulge under the cape. She pressed herself against him, rubbing her wet slit against the fabric until she herself felt her pussy already sticking to the inside of her thighs. Her mouth on the mask, as if you could kiss that way. She licked across the plastic, leaving streaks of saliva, moaning softly so he could feel it. He found the openings without guidance. The slit on the side of the cape. His hand slipped under the corset, straight onto her bare breast. Her nipple was already stiff, hard as a rock, as he rolled it between two fingers. His other hand went under her skirt, flat against her pussy. Open. Wet. Silke shuddered and pressed herself against him, rubbing herself against his palm until his fingers disappeared between her lips and she moaned audibly for the first time that evening.

She was surprised at how big his cock already was again. Her fist found it under his pants—hard, thick, a thud against her fingers as she undid the waistband. Okay. He could have more, if he was already able and willing again. This time, she pulled him along with her.

Up a flight of stairs. A glass door. Behind it, the student lounge: study booths for groups, soundproofed so people could study inside. The windows were tinted on the inside but transparent from the outside. The university administration had designed it that way on purpose. Inside, no one was supposed to be distracted. Outside, you could see if anyone was inside.

She ushered him into one of those booths, designed for eight people.

Semi-private. The hallway beyond was bright. Silke imagined someone stopping, pressing their nose almost against the glass, peering through the tinted pane, and seeing her undressing over him. The thought made her wetter.

She shoved him into a chair.

Then she stood over him, knees splayed, her skirt already hiked up, and said:

“Come on. Say the sentence.”

He stammered.

“Uh. Which line?”

She repeated the question for him. Slowly. Clearly. As if she were teaching a child something. The voice behind the mask was calm, almost friendly, and that was exactly what made it dirtier.

He said uncertainly, “The rabbit’s out of the hat?”

Silke smiled behind the mask.

“Enjoy what’s about to happen. And if you want, you’re welcome to film it.”

She took out her cell phone and played strip music. Loud enough for the small room, but muffled to the outside. He got it. He took out his cell phone, too.

She stripped. Just as he’d instructed her to. “Rabbit out of the hat” means Silke out of her costume—and no limits.

She didn’t strip quickly. She took her time. Every movement was for him and for the cameras.

First the skirt. The two buttons. A tug to the left, a tug to the right. The fabric fell onto his shoes. Beneath it, the black garter belts; her bare pussy was already glistening between the straps. She stood like that for a moment, legs wide, and turned halfway so both cell phones could see her ass, her slit, her wet lips. She reached back with both hands, spread her cheeks, revealing the tight, rosy ring and the glistening slit beneath. “Look closely,” she said.

Then the top.

The zipper in the back, which she couldn’t reach herself. She turned her back to him, guiding his free hand there. “Pull.” He pulled. The fabric opened, slid over her shoulders, hung at her elbows until she brought her arms forward and let the corset fall onto his lap. Her tits free. Heavy. Her nipples stiff in the light of the dressing room. The bow on her lingerie hanging uselessly between them. She took a breast in each hand, kneaded them, pulled on her nipples until a soft “Ahh” escaped her lips. Then she leaned forward, holding a breast right in front of his phone’s camera. “Film this. Close up. I want to see later how dirty I look.”

She stood over him, now wearing only stockings, a mask, bare breasts, and a bare pussy, and showed him absolutely everything.

She turned around. Slowly. Once, her ass facing the camera, her cheeks spread apart with her own hands for a moment, just so he could see that there was nothing there but skin. Then back to the front. Her legs on the outside of his knees. Her pussy open over his lap, not on his cock, just close enough that he had to smell the wetness. A drop hung from one labia, falling onto his pants.

“Film that,” she said. “Everything.”

He filmed. Of course he filmed. The phone held at an angle, her mask, her tits, the wet slit right over his pants.

She pushed the chairs aside, cleared the edge of the table, and lay down on it. The lacquer beneath her was cold. The light from outside the booth shone through the glass; from inside, the light bulb. The first pose was the simplest. The one everyone knows.

On her back. Her shoulder blades on the tabletop, her tits pointing upward, heavy, her nipples stiff. She pulled her knees up, then spread them apart, so wide that the insides of her thighs trembled. Her heels against the edge of the table. Her pussy open to the lens, her labia slightly parted by the angle, glistening, a drop already gathering again. She held the mask in one hand; with the other, she pulled a lip to the side, just so the camera could see the slit—the pink, the wetness still lingering from the dancing and her fingers. From his perspective: a naked crotch on a study table, no face, just a slit and a pussy presenting itself as if it were a lesson.

For the second pose, she turned her back to him. Knees on the tabletop, ass up, chest down. Elbows on the lacquered surface. Her face in the mask turned to the side so that at least her mouth was visible. She reached back, pulled her butt cheeks apart, and stayed that way. Her pussy in between, open, wet, her perineum glistening, her asshole visible—small, clenched—because she knew both lenses were focused right there. From his perspective: an offered ass in 4K, every fold, every drop trying to fall, and a woman holding herself back so nothing would get in the way.

The third pose was the one she knew from clips and had never done for anyone before. She slid off the edge but stayed by the table, one leg propped up, the other to the side. Then she sat down halfway, feet to the outside, knees wide, and pulled her labia apart with both hands. Wide. The slit open all the way to the inside. The clitoris visible, swollen, wet. Her tits were exposed, because her shirt had long since ended up on his lap. She stood there like that, breathing, and let both cell phones zoom in. From his perspective: no longer a person, just openings. A hole holding itself open. A body lying down as if that were its job.

The fourth pose was the nastiest, because she had to stand. She climbed onto the table. Bare feet on vinyl. Legs wide apart. Then she squatted, slowly, the mask pushed forward, her tits hanging, her pussy right above the lens—so close you could see the sheen, the parted lips, the entrance that still wouldn’t close from being stretched. She held onto nothing but her own knees. She stayed that way. Let him film her. She let the cell phone capture from below the same look the crowd already knew from the cage.

She’d never shown so much of herself before.

From his perspective—from the cameras’ perspective—this wasn’t a dance anymore. It was a catalog. Pose one: open. Pose two: offered. Pose three: held open. Pose four: up, wet, without a trace. A beautiful girl on a study table, her face turned away, the rest so clear that later no one would be able to say they hadn’t known what they were staring at.