It's going to be a competitive one

There was a second reason to keep the jeans on. One she couldn’t say out loud.

But you can guess. Her nipples were hard.

Not just a little. Not the “draft excuse.” Really hard. Small, light pink, firm as two accusing points that had been pressing through her bra all evening. As soon as the clasp came undone and the fabric gave way, there was nothing left to hide them. No cup. No shirt. Just skin.

She let go.

The bra landed on the table, too close to the dice cup, as if that had been on purpose. Silke wanted to throw her arms up. She did so for half a second—then she realized that her crossed arms were pressing against her breasts and only making everything more obvious. So she let her hands drop. onto her jeans. onto her own lap. As if that were neutral.

It wasn’t.

Tim was sitting directly across from her. Face-to-face. Her breasts were small and firm, her areolas delicate, irregular, light in color. Her nipples stood out stiffly, darker pink in the center, and twitched visibly when she swallowed once. Every breath lifted them. Every breath lowered them. Tim didn’t look away. He just pretended he needed the folder, while his gaze lingered on the line beneath her breast, where the tan line from the summer was still visible.

Leon watched from the side. He was closer. Shirtless. When Silke bent over to pick up the die, he saw the underside of her breast, the soft weight, the stiff nipple in profile. Just once, she slid forward in her chair, and suddenly there was this brief, obscene angle for him: skin, hardness, the shadow in between. Leon exhaled, too loudly for someone who was just running a game.

Silke felt all three gazes like fingers.

She pressed her knees together.

Under her jeans, her panties were already soaked through. Not “a little damp.” Soaked through. The thin fabric clung to her labia, warm, embarrassing, unmistakable. If she’d taken off her pants now, that would have been the first thing she’d lost: not her dignity. The lie that she’d just been dragged along. A dark stain. A sheen. The smell she could catch herself as soon as she rubbed her thighs together.

That’s exactly why she kept her jeans on.

Not because she was modest.

Because the pants were the only thing still hiding her wetness.

And that was the disgusting part: it was exactly what she wanted.

She’d written it to that guy. The one with the untraceable number. The one who’d been pretending to be Jonas for weeks. The one she’d sent photos of her tits to, her shaved pussy, the video with the vibrator, the striptease where she’d shown her own asshole and called herself a slut. To whom she’d texted after the movers left that the thought of having been used like that without Jonas knowing drove her to orgasm over and over again. Sore nipples. Sore clit. *I don’t want it to stop.*

Now she was sitting half-naked at the table, her tits exposed, her nipples hard, her panties wet, and playing dumb.

“It’s cold in here,” she said hoarsely.

It wasn’t cold.

Tim cleared his throat. “Lyra sacrificed her bra. She’s coming from the pit. Topless.”

Silke nodded as if they were talking about the weather. Under her jeans, she involuntarily clenched her pussy.

The next room didn’t want any more clothes. It wanted strength.

Tim flipped the page as if it were a gym class with dice. “Stone door. It’s jammed. Whoever pushes it open needs strength. Under ten: the door can be mocked. The tower demands balance. Jumping jacks. ”

Silke stared at him. Topless. Her nipples still hard. Her arms hanging uselessly in front of her chest.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“It says right here,” Tim said, turning the book. “Physical test. Whoever fails pays with their body.”

Leon laughed briefly. “I don’t like this exercise.”

“Exactly,” Silke chimed in, too quickly. “Then you guys do it. I’ve already… you can see for yourselves.” She made a helpless gesture toward her breasts. They jiggled along with her movement. Embarrassing. Visible. “I can’t… hop around here. It’s humiliating.”

Bastian shrugged. “It’s embarrassing for us, too.”

“Nothing jiggles on you guys—three people are staring at you.”

“Then roll a ten,” Tim said calmly. “Problem solved.”

Leon grinned crookedly, rolled the die, got a four, groaned, and stood up. “All right.” He did jumping jacks with his shirt off, clumsily, laughing, a little out of breath after twelve reps. Then it was Silke’s turn.

Nine.

Tim didn’t even open the folder. “Make it even. You choose. Jumping jacks or sit-ups.”

Silke shook her head. “I’m not doing that.”

“Leon did it,” and “he’s not wearing a shirt,” Tim said helpfully.

“That’s not the same thing. You know what I mean.”

Tim leaned back. “Rules that are bent just for you aren’t rules. You left it at that yourself earlier. Jonas would have done push-ups, too. Or jumping jacks. No discussion.”

Silke pressed her knees together. Her panties were still wet under her jeans. The thought of jumping up and down now was worse than sitting there naked. Sitting was standing still. Jumping was a confession.

She stood up anyway.

Because the others had done it too.

Because the anonymous figure in her head was just watching.

“Jumping jacks,” she said hoarsely. “Quick ones. And don’t stare.”

Silke spread her legs and raised her arms. On the first jump, her chest jolted hard upward and back down. Her small, firm breasts arched briefly. Her light-pink nipples followed the movement, stiff, sensitive, impossible to miss. On the second jump, soft skin slapped against soft skin—not loudly, but visibly. By the third, she’d found her rhythm, and that was exactly what made it worse: steady, obscene, an up-and-down motion that no arm could hide anymore.

Tim saw it head-on. Every jump lifted her breasts; every landing let them fall. The nipples had turned dark pink with tension. A fine sheen lay between them—sweat or heat. Silke clenched her teeth, her face red, her gaze fixed somewhere above Bastian’s head, as if there were an excuse on the ceiling.

Leon saw the side-to-side swaying. The underside. How the breast briefly stretched into an oval upon landing and the nipple flicked forward.

“Ten,” Silke gasped. “That’s enough.”

“Twelve,” said Tim. “Same as Leon.”

Two more. Worse, because she was already out of breath. Her breasts were heaving more uncontrollably. Silke could hear herself breathing. Wet fabric rubbed against her jeans. She hated that the arousal was setting in, right in the middle of the humiliation, exactly as she’d written to the guy who’d been Jonas for weeks.

She stopped. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. Her nipples pointed unabashedly into the room.

“Second test. The door’s still stuck.”

“But I just—”

“New door. New roll.”

Silke rolled the dice with trembling fingers. Five.

She wanted to scream. Instead, she let herself fall onto the carpet, jeans still on, breasts exposed, and lay on her back. The carpet scratched her shoulder blade. Her breasts sagged slightly outward, her nipples pointing toward the ceiling.

Tim knelt heavily in front of her and sat down on her lower legs. Not brutally. Firmly. His weight pressed her legs down. From up there, he saw everything a man wants to see when a woman is doing sit-ups with nothing on top.

Every time she came up, her breasts pushed toward him. They rose, tensed; her nipples drew closer—pale pink, hard, a patch of quivering skin. As she went down, they fell back, soft, and for a heartbeat his gaze had a clear view down over her stomach to the waistband of her jeans, where the fabric tugged between her legs. Tim could see the curve. The pressure. Maybe even—if he didn’t look away—that the crotch was darker than jeans should be.

Silke came up. Tim’s gaze was between her breasts. She felt it there like a tongue.

Down. Her pubic area burned. So did the wetness.

Up. Her hair fell forward. Her breasts wiggled toward his face—not quite, but close enough that she thought she could feel his breath on her skin.

“Shit…,” she whispered.

Not just because of the effort.

Because her body was responding. Because her hard nipples brushed against the cool air with every repetition. Because Tim’s weight on her legs pinned her down, exposed, on display, and because that’s exactly what stirred inside her—warm and dirty—as if someone had turned the vibrating egg back on.

Tim counted aloud. Slowly. As if he had all the time in the world.

Silke kept going.

Not because she wanted to.

But because the others had been pumping too.

And because her body had long since stopped making a clear distinction between humiliation and pleasure.