The photographer arrives

The voice came from the darkness behind the tripods. Loud. Clear. All too familiar.

“So, we meet again.”

Silke spun around. Her shirt still hiked up, her panties askew, cum on her lips, on her chin, between her breasts, where the fabric was stuck. On the monitor next to her was the last frame: her mouth, open, gleaming white, her eyes moist, her legs still spread.

Mira stepped out of the shadows. Fully clothed. A black shirt, tight pants, boots, the camera bag already slung over her shoulder, as if the hall belonged to her. Tough. Upright. Her gaze went first to the monitor, then to Silke’s bare chest, then to the guy who was still standing there with his waistband open.

Silke snapped before she’d even finished thinking.

“What are you doing here? I got the modeling job you wanted so badly. Get the hell out.”

Mira didn’t smile. She let the words sink in first. Then, calmly:

“I can see how you earned this job.”

The guy pulled up his pants. Too late. His cock was still wet; the waistband got caught. He looked from one woman to the other. Mira, fully dressed. Silke, naked and smeared with cum, on the floor. He was too slow to grasp what was happening here. Then he said the sentence that drove Silke to despair.

“You two already know each other. That’s great.” An uncertain grin. “Silke, this is the new photographer. She signed up at the last minute. We needed a model because of her. She actually wanted to bring a friend. But since you were already here…”

“And for reasons I can see right here,” Mira added, without looking at him, “that’s why you got the job, too.”

Silke understood. The floor beneath her suddenly felt too cold. The semen on her skin was all too visible. The monitor was too bright. She asked anyway. Because she didn’t think things through to the end. Because a part of her still hoped this was a misunderstanding.

“So you never wanted to be the model?”

Mira laughed. Briefly. Sharply. “No. Never. I’m studying art, you clueless cow. I wanted the job as a photographer.”

She walked slowly around Silke, as if Silke were already her subject.

“And if you hadn’t applied, and if that idiot hadn’t been thinking with his dick, I probably wouldn’t have gotten a chance. Just because your application to be a model and my application to be a photographer came in at the same time, that guy chose you.” Mira stopped in front of the monitor. Silke’s cum-smeared face filled the screen. “So thanks for your effort. Even though I would’ve liked to do the shoot with my girlfriend. But after I saw who the model was at the office, I spent a week preparing this.”

She gestured toward the room.

The bed. The wet tiled wall. The mirror. Not university props. Traps. A week’s worth of work, ever since Mira had turned pale and then red behind the glass door. The guy didn’t understand what was going on. He only knew he wanted to leave. His pants were finally buttoned. The camera still hung in his hand like a confession. Mira stepped toward him.

“Give me the camera. And then leave.”

“Wait. I still need the memory card from the—”

“It stays here.” Mira’s voice was cold, without raising her voice. “And if you let a word get out about what happened here today—and what’s still happening—the photos will be made public. You’ll be kicked out of the photography club. And at best, you’ll get a job in the porn industry. As a cleaner.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Placed the camera in her hand. The memory card stayed inside. He backed away, bumped into a tripod, and found the door. The hall swallowed his footsteps.

The door clicked shut.

Silence.

Silke was still sitting on the floor. Naked except for the twisted shirt and the panty hanging from one ankle. Semen was drying on her skin. She was stunned by how quickly the dynamic had shifted. Ten minutes ago, she’d been sucking a cock and imagining she’d taken something away from Mira.

Mira switched the camera to review mode. She clicked through the pictures. Every single one appeared on the screen. Huge.

“Oh. Love handle.” She paused. Silke from the side, her soft belly, her hip that had slipped over the waistband of her shorts. “And that dumb face.”

Next picture. Silke laughing, legs not quite spread yet. Mira commented as if she were sitting in a critique session.

“Mouth open. Blank stare. Typical of you. You don’t even realize you’re dripping.”

She kept clicking. The poses. The outstretched ass. The top pulled to the side. The nipple. Then more slowly.

The sexy photos.

Silke fingering herself. The thong pulled to the side. The smooth, wet pussy. The cock in her mouth. The face covered in cum. The orgasm, thighs trembling, fingers still inside.

Mira paused on that picture. Her index finger rested on the shutter button, as if she could delete it. She didn’t delete it.

“I see you’re already warmed up.”

Silke wanted to pull her shirt down. Mira just shook her head.

“Don’t. That’s part of the set now.”

She set the camera on a tripod. Adjusted the lighting. The flash tested Silke’s bare skin once—the white of her tits, the damp sheen between her legs.

“You wanted to take my dream away,” Mira said quietly, almost kindly. “You ran all the way here on purpose—so I’d see that you have the contract.” She stepped closer, hooked two fingers under Silke’s chin, and forced her to look up into the lens, which was already focusing. “Now you have it—my ‘modeling contract.’ Did you even read the contract?”

Silke swallowed. The taste of him was still in her mouth—semen, saliva, her own juices. She shook her head.

“Mira—”

Mira cut her off.

“I’ve got nothing against you. Fine, we’ll lose a few euros on the modeling job. But in return, I’ve got you here today.”

Silke got angry. The anger came too late, naked, with a white rim on her lips.

“You’ve got nothing. I’m leaving.”

She tried to stand up. Her knees were shaking. Her panties were still hanging off one ankle. Mira just smiled.

“If you leave the shoot location, you’ll cover the costs. Rent for the space. A replacement model. Compensation for lost work.” She listed them off as if reading from a bill. “That quickly adds up to two thousand euros. And more. Because my cut is included in that, too. You really didn’t read the contract. It says that very clearly right there.”

Silke stayed seated. The amount hit her like a blow to the forehead. Two thousand—which she didn’t have.

“I’ll make you a proposal.” Mira let go of her chin and took a step back, as if making room that wasn’t there. “I’ve prepared well. We’ll do a nice photo shoot for the exhibition now. Sexy. Artistic. Nude. But I’ll leave your face out of it.”

A pause.

“After that, we’ll do a shoot that I’ve planned out for you. We have eight hours.”

Silke shook her head. Too violently. Her breasts moved with it.

Mira just kept talking.

“Or I’ll use the photos we already have. The contract says I own all rights to the images. With your warm-up and the finale, I can put something good together.”

Silke’s face was still on the screen. Mouth open. White lips. Teary eyes. Unmistakable.

Silke had lost.

She should have negotiated. From what position? Naked. Smeared with paint. The card in Mira’s camera. The guy gone. Eight hours in the hall that Mira had spent a week preparing.

“Yes,” she said hoarsely. “But please don’t show my face.”

Mira smiled.

“I have a little surprise for you. The public photos will remain anonymous.” Her tone grew softer, more dangerous. “But I need some assurance.”

She switched the camera to video mode. The red light came on. The monitor showed Silke live: a soft belly, heavy breasts, cum, her hand still uncertain between her thighs, as if she didn’t know what to do with it.

“Say your full name. And say that you consent to all the footage Mira takes today.”

“Silke… Silke Pfa**.” Her voice broke. She took a breath. “I consent. Voluntarily. To all the footage Mira takes today.”

“Again. More clearly. Look into the camera.”

“Silke Silke Pfa**. I consent to all the footage Mira takes today.”

“And I know that Mira has all the rights to it. And that I’m familiar with the contract and read it before I signed it.”

Silke repeated it. Every word. Red. The shame ran so deep that her pussy clenched, as if her body were punishing her for the betrayal. Only then did Mira turn off the video. The red light went out. The confession lay on the card, next to the blowjob, next to the orgasm, next to the rolls of fat.

Mira changed the lens.

“First, we’ll take the exhibition photos. I need ten photos. Faceless. Suitable for the exhibition. Then comes mine.”

Silke realized she’d be staying here for eight hours.

“You’re already wet again,” Mira observed, without disgust, without pity. “That idiot just turned you on. I’m going to finish you off and document everything with pictures.”