Part two of the bet

Then, again for the viewers and the bonus material:

“Let’s move on to part two of the bet.”

Mira changed the rules of the bet now that she was confident.

“We have six minutes left. We’ve agreed that for every orgasm Anna has from now on, a volunteer can fuck her right away and fill her beautiful pussy with cum. Post pictures of your dicks on this page. I’ll display them on the monitor. Every time she has an orgasm, the guy whose dick is shown can come to the door. For those who’ll see this later: I’ve posted a QR code with the address on the roof, so only people who are actually there can participate.”

Inside, Mira thanked Max for the plans. He’d come up with all of this—preparing Silke so she’d be willing to negotiate, making sure she wouldn’t cause a scene. Then he’d found the sponsor for the sex machines, and come up with the idea for the website and the selection process. She had to reinvest a portion of the profits. But after the shoot, the money should have been recouped threefold.

Silke looked at herself in the mirrors and realized too late that the deal was already dead. The same image everywhere: a soft woman on a bull, arms behind her back, ankles in straps, the dildo deep in her pussy, her clit flattened against the studded surface. The chain between her nipples drew a straight line across her chest with every jolt. The lube glistened on her tits, stomach, and thighs. Behind the glass, the roof. Bright spots. Screens. People calling out Anna’s name. Not Silke. Anna.

She had negotiated. Peter had said: Say no, or at least set a price. She had set a price. Photos of Mira without a mask. Mira is getting fucked. She’d felt clever when Mira hesitated. Now she was strapped in, trapped by her own “yes.” A dildo in her pussy. The mirrors didn’t lie. The overly loose crotch of the lingerie had become superfluous. The dildo had spread her labia so wide that you could see the pink in the mirrored wall—wet, glistening, clenched around the shaft. Every vibration pushed the lips open and closed a little. Silke wanted to squeeze her thighs together. The straps pulled her further down. Her clit remained on the nubs.

Betrayed. Not just in the bet. In the thought that she’d used her head this time. Mira had turned on the light. Mira had filled the ceiling. Mira had sprayed lube until riding turned into sliding. Mira had changed the rules while Silke was lying on the mat.

The machine’s first thrust on level two was small but still enough. The dildo stretched her from the inside, a dull, full vibration right behind her pubic bone. The nubs rubbed her clitoris in short, vicious circles. The chain tugged at her nipples whenever the bull tilted even a centimeter. Silke watched in three mirrors as her tits bounced, soft, heavy, the clamps smooth yet relentless. She gasped. The speaker on the ceiling would pick that up. She bit her lip. A second sound escaped anyway, higher-pitched. In the mirrored wall, she saw Mira behind the camera. Calm. Satisfied. Not even smug. That was worse. As if Silke were a successful photo shoot. The arousal devoured the anger. Wetness ran down the dildo onto the nubbed surface. Silke could almost hear it. A small, smacking sound with every wave. Her belly rose. The soft base trembled. She thought: I wanted to photograph her. I wanted to break up with her. Instead, she watched as her own pussy devoured the rubber and gave it back again. The orgasm didn’t come like a decision. It came like a slip-up. First, the tugging deep inside, where the dildo hit something she couldn’t control. Then her clit, getting too hot against the nubs. Then the chain, a sharp sting in both nipples at once. Silke’s mouth fell open. In the mirror she saw the face of a woman who was losing it: eyes wet, cheeks red—mask or no mask, it didn’t matter; everyone on the roof heard the rest. She came. Her pussy clenched around the vibrating shaft—once, twice—then in an indescribable pulsing that audibly squeezed out the wetness. Her thighs twitched in the straps. Her nipples contracted beneath the plastic. A moan went through the speaker—raw, too long, too real for an ad. In the mirrors, Silke saw herself coming and thought only one clear thought: She set me up.

The timer stopped. Somewhere, a cell phone beeped. The first cock was allowed to start moving. Silke hung in the straps, wet, exposed, betrayed, and saw in the mirror how Mira was smiling, as if this were only the proof, not the end.

The timer started again. Silke fought. Mira’s comments. All those hard cocks on the monitor. The tugging on her nipples. She just came again.

From the roof, the lighting was perfect. Someone had known that. The spotlights in the room weren’t there by accident. A cold beam from the front, shining on her exposed crotch. A warm one from the side, highlighting her breasts and stomach. The window was sparkling clean. No curtains. The mirrors arranged in a semicircle reflected Anna’s image twice upward, as if extra screens had been installed.

Twenty people, maybe more. Screens. Zoom. The speaker next to the railing carried every sound from the hall up to the roof: the hum of the machine, the wet smacking, Anna’s breathing.

After the first time, Mira had taken a break. Down below, the woman slumped in the straps. The dildo remained inside her. Someone on the roof said, “She’s about to come again.” Then a cheer. A big guy was thrilled. “I get to go.” And then he was already running. Down below, it started up again, too.

Mira stepped up to the bull and moved it. She turned Anna toward the window until her open crotch was visible. From above, you could see everything: the spread labia around the thick shaft, wet, red, the clit flattened against the nubs, lube glistening like varnish on her inner thighs.

Mira wiggled the remote control.

Briefly. Playfully. The bull tipped over. Anna’s tits were thrust into the spotlight. The chain between her nipples glinted. A sound came from the speaker, half protest, half moan.

“Chest up,” Mira said. Her voice was clear, as if she were standing right next to the bar.

Anna obeyed, as best she could given her restraints. From the roof, you could see her soft breasts rising, her nipples dark and stiff in the smooth clamps. Someone zoomed in on the left one. Someone zoomed in even closer.

Setting the machine to two was enough.

You could see the vibration in Anna’s belly—a subtle tremor that ran down into her thighs. With every pulse, the dildo pushed forward a millimeter, as if it were breathing inside her. Wetness glistened anew, running over the nubs, dripping onto the metal. The speaker transmitted a smacking sound, to which someone responded with a whistle.

Mira turned her again.

On her side now. The mirrors reflected her profile: her soft belly, her arched back, the thong that had long since ceased to cover anything, her ass, the spot where the shaft disappeared into her pussy. Mira wiggled again, more deliberately. Anna slid a centimeter in the saddle. Her clit rubbed against the nubs. The sound from the speaker shifted.

On the roof, someone was holding the cell phone more steadily. This was no longer a coincidence. This was directed. Lighting, angles, shaking. Mira positioned the woman like a motif meant to be bought from above. The cocks on the monitor in the room were also visible from above, mirrored, out of focus. Three, four shots. Hard. Close-up. Every time Mira turned the camera toward the glass, Anna’s open pussy was in the same frame as a stranger’s cock on the screen.

Anna struggled. You could tell by her toes in the straps. By her jaw. For three seconds, it looked as if she might be able to hold off the second orgasm. Then Mira wiggled again, ever so slightly, and the nubs bit into her clit. From the rooftop, the second orgasm was like a silent movie with sound.

First, her upper body jerked upward, as far as her arms behind her back would allow. Then the twitching in her stomach—visible, uncontrolled. Her pussy clenched around the dildo; her lips pressed white against the shaft and slid back up, wet. A scream came from the speaker—higher than the first time, shorter, as if Anna had wanted to cut it off but hadn’t managed to.

Mira held her up to the window.

For five seconds, nothing but that: an open, quivering pussy, wetness glistening in the spotlight, tits trembling, the chain taut. Someone on the roof cursed in admiration. Someone was already uploading the photo to the site.

Mira laughed downstairs. The speaker carried the laughter upstairs.

“That’s two already. And we still have time.”

Mira laughed loudly.

“That’s two already. And we still have time.”

Another pause. During the pause, Mira turned down the vibrator and loosened the restraints. She wanted to bring Silke back down deliberately. Air. A sip of water. The dildo stayed inside her.

Then it all started up again. Mira was turned on by now, too. Not the kind of arousal that disrupted a scene, but rather one that made the scene last longer. She felt a warm, tight pull between her legs every time Silke’s pussy clenched around the dildo and the speaker transmitted that sound upstairs. She could have touched herself. She didn’t. The camera was her hand.

During the second break, she turned down the vibrator. Loosened the straps by one hole. Gave Silke air, water, a phrase that sounded like care but was really just a way to let her recover. Mira wanted to bring her down deliberately. A body that didn’t just stay at the peak came back even better. Silke was trembling. Her labia were swollen, dark, wet all the way to the inside of her stockings. The dildo glistened where it protruded from her. Mira checked its fit with her eyes, not her fingers. Deal. No touching. She was still allowed to influence things, though.

She glanced at the clock. Max’s clock. Every second felt a little too long. Officially, there was still time. In reality, part two should have been over long ago. Mira loved him for that.

“Continue.”

She switched back to two and moved the bull toward the window, slower than before, more savoringly. The people on the roof were supposed to see the third one as an encore. Silke was already gasping at the first thrust. Too soon. Too exposed. Mira felt the tugging inside herself and smiled at the handheld camera. She could have cut to a different shot. She didn’t.

The dildo kept working. The nubs devoured her clit without pause. Mira moved to the side, filming the profile: how Silke’s soft belly rose, how the chain lifted her nipples, how a new surge of wetness ran down the shaft. “Horny” wasn’t a strong enough word. It was possession. It was that this chubby, stupid woman was coming on Mira’s machine, and she was paying through the nose just to watch.

“Look up,” Mira said softly. “Your friends are waiting.”

Silke lifted her head. Her throat was wide open. Mira filmed her neck, then her crotch again, then the monitor, where the third cock was already large. Thick. A drop. Two were already on their way.

Mira wanted to make it last longer.

She lowered the vibration for a heartbeat—not out of kindness, but out of stinginess. Silke’s cunt twitched emptily, seeking the stimulation, getting it back, fully. An angry, pitiful moan. Mira got wet in her own pants. She pressed her thighs together behind the camera and held the frame.

Seventy seconds on the display.

More than seventy in the world.

Silke looked at the clock as if it were her salvation. Mira looked at Silke’s clit—red, flat, glistening—and at the spot where the dildo kept her lips rounded. One more wiggle. Small. Mean. The chain glinted.

The third orgasm came faster than Silke deserved and slower than Mira wanted to film it.

That’s why Mira kept the camera rolling.

Silke came and couldn’t come all the way. The first spasm was hard, visible; her pussy snapped at the shaft. Mira zoomed in. Wetness splattered finely against the nubs. The speaker emitted a sound that almost sounded like crying. Mira kept the bull at the window, its crotch in the spotlight, and counted the pulses in her head.

One. Two. Three. Four.

She could have stopped.

She let the nubs keep going until the orgasm turned into a never-ending aftershock, until Silke’s legs danced in the straps, until her nipples twitched under the clamps, and a drop of saliva hung from her chin.

Mira breathed through her mouth.

The third cock flashed on the screen. The door would click open any second now. Downstairs, someone would be filling Anna’s wet, open, three-times-come pussy. Mira didn’t stop until Silke’s gaze went blank.

Then she smiled at the lens—for the rooftop, for later, for Max.

“One more,” she said quietly, just to herself.