Fotoshooting2

Seventh scene. Kitchen.

Stainless steel. Humid air. A board with holes for cooking spoons. The technician picked one up—wooden, long, with a dark handle and a round spoon. “Not the handle first. The spoon. In. As far as it’ll go. Hands on the sink. Head down.” Silke stepped up to the sink, bent over—her tits hanging over the metal—and guided the ladle into her cunt herself. Cold. Smooth. She pushed it in further. Her lips tightened around the wood. Inside, the curve pressed against a spot that had already taken too much. The spoon got stuck, the handle jutting backward into the room.

A click from the side.

A click from behind: her ass, the handle, the wet edges. A click over her shoulder, without her face appearing in the pot’s reflection. “Deeper.” She pushed it in a little further. It tugged. It triggered the camera. On the display, all she saw was the spoon in her used pussy, the company kitchen, and hygiene regulations in the background. The wood gleamed when he pulled it out later and carelessly set it down next to the cutting board. Silke stood still for a moment, her knees weak, and followed him without looking at the spoon again.

Eighth shot. Server room.

Cold. Loud. Flashing lights. Cable ties and colorful wires. An office chair on casters. “Sit down. Legs up. I’ll tie you up.” He used power cords—nothing soft. Ankles tied to the chair legs. Knees apart, tight. Arms pulled back. A cord threaded under her tits, tied high, lifting her breasts, nipples pointing forward, the plastic blue-black against her skin. Silke breathed against the cold. Her face turned away, to the side, chin resting on her shoulder.

Click from the front.

Her legs spread, her pussy in the cold light, her breasts tightly bound, server racks to the left and right. A click from above between two cabinets. A cable brushed against her clitoris—accidentally—and she flinched. He triggered it anyway. “Calendar in the background. IT gets it.” On the screen, she was headless again. A bound intern at the heart of the company. He undid the cables more slowly than he’d tied them. The marks remained. Silke stood up, her breasts bound red, and went to production—eight pages full, the special order not yet finished.

Ninth shot. Production.

Machines silent. Safety grilles raised. The smell of oil and metal. A workbench in the middle, the top covered in scratches. “Legs on the bench. Wide. Lips parted. Different poses. We’ll do three; they count as one page.” Silke sat down on the metal sheet, which felt cold against her bare butt, and pulled her boots up onto the edge. Knees turned outward. Fingers in her labia, spreading them apart, her slit positioned over a groove in the vise.

Click.

Second pose: on her stomach across the same bench, one leg stretched out, one bent, her ass facing the lens, both holes pointing toward a stationary press. Click. Third: standing by a railing, one foot on a step, her skirt long gone, her pussy next to an emergency stop button, her head turned sharply to the side. Click. What made the pictures difficult remained the same. No powder. The real edges. Oil lamp light on wet skin. On the display, just headless cropped shots for her. Shift schedule. Quality assurance. An open-minded intern on the production line. “One more of the milling machine, real quick.” She held on tight, her legs already shaky, and gave him the shot next to shavings that weren’t hers.

Twelfth motif. First-aid room.

Examination table. First-aid cabinet. The smell of disinfectant. “Yoga. Downward-Facing Dog.” Silke knew the pose from another life. Hands on the linoleum. Feet back. Pelvis up. Head between her arms, face toward the floor—away from her. Her bare back a straight line. Her ass the highest point. Her pussy pointed backward toward the stretcher, exposed by the angle, the traces even clearer in the cool light than in the hall.

Click from behind.

A click from the side, with the red cross in the frame. A click from low down, almost beneath her—her sagging tits, her neck, no chin. The stretch in her calves was genuine. So was the humiliation. A first-aid room for cuts, and she was striking a stretching pose for the calendar. He showed her the picture without her head. Dog. Ready. Still. “Purchasing next,” he said. “Under the desk. You know how to do ahegao.” Silke came up from the pose too slowly, her head heavy, and still thought her face would stay outside—right where she’d forget it in a moment.

Last shot. The purchasing manager’s office.

Smaller than the boss’s. A desk with modules, cables, and a swivel chair. Not much space underneath. “Get in. Under the table. Ahegao. Open your mouth. Stick out your tongue. Hands like a cat.” Silke crawled under the desk. Knees on the carpet. Her bare butt against the back wall. Her tits exposed in the semi-darkness. She placed her hands in front of her chest, wrists relaxed, fingers curled, and made the face.

Mouth open.

Tongue out.

Eyes rolled back—because she’d seen it done that way in clips, not because anyone was fucking her right then.

The technician knelt in front of her, the camera almost on the floor, and snapped the shot.

Click.

From that angle, her face was the subject. Not the back of her head. Not her cheek turned to the side. Ahegao only works with the mouth and eyes. Silke realized it too late. Under the desk, tongue out, cat-like hands on her chest, for a heartbeat she thought only of the pose, not the contract.

Click. Again. Closer.

“Good. Just like that.” He first showed her a close-up on the screen: tongue, chin, breasts, as if the rest were out of the frame. Silke nodded, relieved—but wrong. The full picture—eyes, nose, the open mouth, unmistakably her—he swiped away, just like in the boss’s office. Calendar headless. Gallery not.

She remained in the pose because he hadn’t said “done.”

Her tongue went dry. Her knees ached. Above her, the purchasing manager’s empty chair, as if he were about to sit there with his legs spread apart. Click from the side, profile, one more shot showing too much of her face. Then: “Get out. That’s enough.”

Silke crawled out.

The blood in her calves. The shame only set in once she was in the hallway—intense, complete. Under the desk, she had offered up her most precious possession. He said nothing about it. He said, “Twelve and thirteen to go. Quick walk.” Behind her lay an “ahegao” with a name, and Peter was still begging for a cell phone in another room.