The Way Home

No break.

No chair. No water. No “You can get dressed.” Vanessa and Sonja grabbed her by the upper arms right behind the stage and dragged her down the hallway, the thin jacket draped only over her shoulders, naked underneath, her crotch still wet from the splatter on the glass. A side door. Cold night air. A taxi already waiting, engine running.

Silke was shoved inside.

Not seated. Shoved. Her bare ass on the leather seat, the jacket slipping up. Before she could open her mouth, the face was there.

Susanne.

No longer the nice friend. No longer the smile at the bar. Harsh. Close. Her mouth right up against the open door.

“The next time you dance like that with my boyfriend and flash your pussy, I’ll have the whole club fuck you.”

At first, Silke didn’t understand the sentence. Then she did. The guy without a glass. The first one. His thigh between her legs. His hand under the hem. Susanne’s boyfriend.

“Today is a warning. And you’ve only got one more dick to go.”

Susanne tossed the cell phone and the purse onto the passenger seat. The very same purse she’d used earlier to withdraw the two hundred fifty euros. The very same cell phone that Silke had still been holding, unlocked, when it was taken from her.

The driver took both, weighed them briefly, and said, without making much of an effort:

“I took a few videos with her own cell phone. If she doesn’t behave, you can just post them.”

Susanne slammed the door shut.

The thud was loud.

Silke was too weak to cry. The seat was sticking to her bare pussy. Outside, Susanne disappeared toward the club as if she’d just taken out the trash. Inside, Silke realized in a daze: The first guy she’d danced with wasn’t just anyone. It was revenge. That’s why they’d hoisted her up, tied her down, announced her name, and made her squirt with her own money. And “a dick”—

The taxi didn’t even stop at the destination.

It just rolled around the corner, into a darker street, and came to a stop. The driver turned around. One hand on the armrest, the other on Silke’s unlocked cell phone.

“Either you bend over to pay for the ride, or I’ll post the photos to your status.”

Shit.

The screen was bright. Gallery open. The cab. Her pussy on the glass. Her tits on the window. The gush. Everything on her own phone, not even locked.

Silke scrambled to her feet.

Not because she wanted to. Because the status was Jonas. Girlfriends. Work. Everything.

She turned around in the back seat, her jacket falling all the way down, her knees pressed against the leather, her bare ass facing the door. He didn’t make a big deal out of it. Belt. Zipper. His cock was already hard when he pulled it out. One hand on the back of her neck, the other on her hip, and then he slid himself bare into her.

She was wet enough.

From the cage. From the squirting. . He slid right in, deep, and thrust—briefly, sparingly, like someone collecting fare for a ride. Silke clawed at the edge of the seat. The first thrust drew a sound from her throat. The second one too. He fucked her hard and ruthlessly, his stomach against her bare hip, his balls against her pussy, and she came.

Once, after only a short time, helplessly, her pussy clenching around his cock, while her own pictures were still glowing on the display below.

He didn’t stop.

He pulled her deeper into the seat, one leg out to the side so he could reach her better, and kept fucking her. Silke came a second time, more wildly, moaning against the leather, the wetness audible on his cock. Only then did he thrust hard, staying buried inside her, and came inside her. Warm. Deep. Without a condom. A few extra thrusts until everything was in place.

Afterward, he pulled out, tucked his cock away, and tossed her jacket onto her back.

“Get out when we get there. You take the bag.”

He didn’t keep the cell phone. He tossed it onto the seat next to her wet trail, as if the threat had been enough.

At home, only the light in the hallway was on.

Jonas was already asleep, his back to her, his breath heavy with alcohol. Silke got in the shower—too hot, too long—washing the juices from her thighs, from her pussy, the smell of leather and the club. The towel had been left somewhere in the cab. The dress in the cage. Her dignity on the glass.

Then she crawled into bed with him.

Naked under the blanket. Clean. Still. It was still throbbing between her legs, empty and full at the same time.

Jonas mumbled something in his sleep and didn’t notice that she’d come.

Or what she’d come from.

The next morning, Jonas wanted details.

Not because he’d suspected anything. Not because Silke smelled funny or walked funny or still had that throbbing between her legs. He was lying on his back, his cell phone over his face, and he was annoyed.

“What a total clusterfuck yesterday. And here I am sitting at the bar, getting wasted.”

She felt no guilt. None. The spot next to him was warm, her body clean, her pussy under the blanket just a little sensitive, no longer wet from the taxi. Whatever had happened there belonged to the night. To the cage. Susanne. The driver. Not this bed.

Jonas turned the screen toward her.

Social media was full of it.

Not just one video. Dozens. The cage from below. The glass floor. The naked woman with the cloth. Tits on the glass. Pussy on the glass. The restraints. The moment she came, the gush on the glass, the crowd screaming.

Jonas tapped on a still image.

The spread legs. The wet pussy. The cloth.

“The one in the middle, man. She really came hard. And I missed it because those guys were talking my ear off.”

Silke looked at her own picture without batting an eye.

“Mhm.”

“You were still there, though. Did you see them? The go-go dancers. Especially the ones with nothing on.”

“It was packed,” Silke said. “And loud.”

Jonas kept zooming in. Close to the pussy. Close to the smudge on the glass. “Crazy that she’s doing this. And then there’s the name. Silke. That can’t be real.”

“It is real,” she said.

He laughed—briefly—and pushed the phone away, only to grab it back immediately. Another story. The same naked woman, from the side, with Vanessa and Sonja on her tits. Then a clip—not from the taxi, thank God, but from the cage—enough to last three lifetimes.

“Next time I’ll stop. No matter how much they rip me off. You don’t miss something like that.”

Silke rolled onto her side, her back to him, her face buried in the pillow. A dull ache between her legs, right where the driver had come inside her. No guilt. Just the dry realization that Jonas was getting worked up over the very same pussy that was now lying ten centimeters from his leg under the blanket.

“It was just a show,” she said into the pillow.

“A show.” He snorted. “She came like a pig. You don’t see that every week.”

Her cell phone lay on the nightstand.

It wasn’t unlocked anymore. She’d deleted the photo gallery that night, as best she could. But the threat of the status update still loomed. Copies existed somewhere. Susanne existed somewhere.

Jonas kept scrolling and muttered, already half turned on, half just jealous:

“If I’d seen that girl with the scarf, I wouldn’t have gone home.”

Silke closed her eyes.

No remorse.

Just that sentence, hanging in the air while her boyfriend got worked up over her naked, bound, squirting body on strangers’ phones—and was annoyed that he’d missed it, even though he could have her anytime. What a jerk.