The Last Adventure

Silke rested for forty-five minutes.

Not on a couch. On the floor of the intern office, her back against the edge of the desk, her knees loose, her boots still on. The LED was off. The camera was still staring at her, though. It felt sticky between her legs. Her ass was on fire. Her mouth tasted of three men and of the last load, which hadn’t been part of the game anymore. She breathed. That was all.

Peter was begging at home.

Check your phone. Silke, please. It’s not me. Not the chat. Pick up. The checkmarks stayed gray. Silke couldn’t. Silke wouldn’t. The chat had said: no distractions, no phone. The phone lay under her blouse on the table, screen facing down. She didn’t touch it. Breaking the order was also a top priority. Peter screamed into an empty space and saw, on the recording that someone had left open, only a woman who wouldn’t get up.

Then the technician came in.

The same one as this morning. The tripod. The LED. The voice from the help desk. He closed the door quietly. No smirk like the other three. A look that sized her up the way one sizes up a device that’s already plugged in.

“How are you? Are you ready for your last job?”

Silke lifted her head.

“Please don’t. I can’t take it anymore. No more fucking. Please. Look at the state I’m in.”

She looked terrible.

Sperm on her chest, dried into streaks. Between her thighs, the traces of Tom, of the rotation, of the winner. Her lips swollen. Her knees red. Her eyes empty and wet. An intern after three hours of punishment—which wasn’t punishment anymore.

He didn’t laugh unkindly. Just briefly.

“Don’t worry. I don’t want to fuck you.” He raised the camera. No webcam this time. A real camera. “I want you exactly as you are. We’re going to take thirteen photos here at the company now. There’s no one left here by now. This will be our calendar for the staff.” Pause. “If you go along with it, I’ll make sure your face isn’t visible. If you don’t go along with it—well. Then we’ll show the video.”

Silke was stunned.

Had this been arranged with Peter? The chat was silent. No “Be proud.” No “Take it easy.” No “We’ll come get you”—someone had already written that, and then there was this man, the one who had set up the lighting that morning.

She just wanted to get it over with.

“Okay,” she said. Hoarsely. “No face.”

“No face in what goes into the calendar.” He adjusted the camera. “Stand up. Keep your skirt off. Stay like that. We’re going to the boss first.”

Silke stood up.

Her legs felt unsteady. She left her blouse on the chair. Her boots. Her garters. The rest of her naked body. She left her cell phone where it was. Peter kept pleading into a device she hadn’t brought with her. The technician led the way down the hallway. Friday afternoon. Empty, as promised. Or empty enough. Every glass door a risk. Every reflection—her breasts, her stomach, the wet sheen inside.

She followed behind him.

Not like a woman posing. Like one who had already accepted the calendar before the first shot was taken.

The carpet in the boss’s anteroom muffled their footsteps.

He stopped at the heavy door, turned around, and sized her up once more. Not sexually in the narrow sense. Like a subject. Traces of semen. Traces of sex. The kind of thing a calendar wouldn’t have as a studio set.

“If you turn your face away when I say so, it stays out. If you’re curious and look around, that’s your problem.”

Silke nodded.

The doorknob turned. The boss’s office was larger, darker, with a desk top made of heavy wood. No one was inside. The technician was already pointing toward the edge.