Video Conference

Peter opened the stream.

For a split second, he thought of her shaky cell phone. Then the image was there: sharp, bright, too good. Zoom. LED. Someone had set up equipment that didn’t belong in an intern’s office. He was surprised. Thrilled, before his mind could catch up.

At that very moment, Silke took off her entire skirt.

Not just pulled up. Off. The denim on the floor, her boots still on, the black garter belts against her bare skin. She sat down on the chair, her pussy right under the tabletop, in the lens’s view, and pushed the chair forward until he could see almost nothing of the room—only her. Lower body. Exposed.

Peter adjusted the image.

Pan. Zoom in on her crotch. Her labia were already glistening. The garter straps were digging into her thighs.

What is she up to now?

No one had said to take off her skirt. Being naked from the waist down under the skirt would’ve been enough. She took the assignment to the extreme. Typical.

In the software, he typed—not in the session—in the small chat window next to the image.

Peter: Are you sure? Can’t anyone walk in?

The reply came after a delay. You could see her reaching for the monitor.

Silke: No. I’m always alone on Fridays.

Peter: All right, then. Play with your pussy a little while you work.

And she did.

Her left hand on the files. Her right hand—two fingers on her lips, slowly, without any drama. Every now and then she checked the camera, bent over, looked into the lens as if she could see him. Adjusted the angle. Brushed a strand of hair away. Then back to the folder, the stamp, the finger that just brushed her clitoris.

She was enjoying it.

Peter didn’t hear it in her voice. He saw it. Her hips bobbing as she finished a case. Then her fingers probed deeper—two joints, wet, audible only to the webcam’s microphone. Or she’d stand up, still in her boots, bend over the desk, her bare ass in the lens, her cheeks parted for a moment, her pussy glistening from behind, and sit back down as if she were filing a document.

He was satisfied.

Sometimes he zoomed in. He knew she could hear the sound of the camera—the soft hum. Silke flinched every time and clenched tighter around his fingers. That was a good punishment.

Peter: “Squat in front of the lens and hold it.”

She slid off the chair, boots on the linoleum, squatting, knees wide, her pussy close, her garter straps taut. Three seconds. Five. Thirty seconds. Her legs were burning.

“How much longer?” she asked over the mic.

Peter: “Not yet. What would you do if someone walked in?”

The question was provocative. He wanted to hear how far she’d think things through.

At first, Silke didn’t laugh. You could see her thinking, her finger still resting on her clitoris.

Silke: “It depends. If he’s invited: whatever you tell me to do. If not: I’ll pretend I’m on my period and need to change my pad right now. That scares any man off.”

Then she laughed out loud. She was allowed to stand up again.

Peter: “Back to work.”

Then Peter’s monitor suddenly went black. Then the image came back. But it was different. Silke must have clicked something. He could only hear the sound and see the image. But there was no way to type. The chat was gone. He tried messaging her via Session, but the message didn’t go through. Damn internet. Well, the view wasn’t too bad.