Together in Bed

Mira asked it as casually as if she were asking for a second slice of pizza.

“Do you feel like a little sex scene?”

Silke looked at him in horror, her mouth half open, grease on her chest. She pulled her legs up as if a blanket were already covering her. There wasn’t one. Only now did Mira toss one her way—a thin, white, almost transparent sheet that smelled of flowers. Silke pulled it up to her chin. Only a hint of what lay beneath. The outline of her breasts remained visible. So did her soft belly.

“You take everything off except your underwear,” Mira said to him. “You two will suggest a few sex positions. Everything’s covered under the sheet.”

Silke didn’t agree. She just waited to see what he would say. The words got stuck in her throat: I don’t want to. They wouldn’t come out. The delivery man swallowed. He looked at Silke. He looked at the camera. He looked at the money, which wasn’t quite in his pocket yet.

Mira walked toward him. Close. In private: “Listen. I’m going to step out now. When I come back, you’ll be under the sheet. We’ll take the photos. If you want, you can fuck her for real. I’ll pretend I don’t see it.”

He whispered something: “Why would she go along with it?”

Mira replied even more quietly. Silke could only see her mouth moving. Later, she’d know every sentence by heart because he’d whisper them in her ear. Mira went out. The door didn’t close all the way.

He came back to the bed. Took off his pants. His shirt. Stopped in his boxers and socks, dark-haired, his cock already visible. The sheet was a joke. He slid under it; the mattress gave way, his bare thigh pressed against hers.

Then his mouth against her ear. Warm. “Either I walk out of here and tell everyone what happened and that you’re the one hanging in the exhibit. They won’t see your face, but they’ll know your name. Silke Pfa**! The pictures. The exhibit. Everything. I have a photo of you lying naked on the bed with your face in it as proof. Everyone who buys a pizza from me at the university will get a copy of the photo.” A breath. “Or you pull down my boxer shorts and spread your legs so I can fuck you. Then it’ll stay a secret.”

Silke closed her eyes.

She pulled down his underwear and spread her legs. He was already hard, and she was already wet. He moved slowly inside her while he lay on top of her, and they waited for Mira.

The door opened.

Mira came back as if nothing had happened. “Nice. Stay like that. Hands under the blanket. I can leave out the faces later.”

Click.

The sheet gave everything away anyway. The movement. His butt under the fabric. Silke’s knees splayed outward. A wet spot that was seeping darker into the white cotton.

“Hips higher, Silke. You’re welcoming your boyfriend after a workout.”

She gasped. Not loudly. But too loudly to be just pretending. He thrust deeper. Fully. Stretching her. His cock pressed against her soft lower abdomen. Under the sheet, he began to fuck her. Slowly at first, because Mira was standing nearby, pretending to see nothing but fabric.

The sheet rose in a small, telltale bulge. Every thrust was a tug on the fabric. Silke felt him all too clearly: the warmth, the thickness, how he worked inside her, wet, because she was already dripping again before he’d even really started. His breaths hit her cheek. Pizza. Kitchen. Stranger.

Mira walked around the bed.

“More energy. This looks like a nap.” She spoke to the sheet as if Silke were invisible. “Silke, grab his ass and pull him all the way inside you, or wrap your legs around him to pull him deeper. You’re a couple. A couple gets physical.”

His hand slid under the fabric—heavy, uncertain—and cupped Silke’s breast. Too tight. The soft swell of her breast bulged between his fingers. Mira clicked her tongue at the movement beneath the white sheet. Silke spread her legs under the blanket. Her knees fell outward, and she wrapped them around him. She pulled him even deeper. The wet sound was no longer deniable. Smacking. Skin. The bed creaked in rhythm.

“Push your hips back. You’re not just lying there. You want this.”

Silke hated that sentence. Her body obeyed anyway. Pushing back. Her soft belly slapped against him. The wave built as he worked inside her, greasy fingers still smeared with salami on her tit, the smell of sweat and pussy under the blanket.

Mira leaned over the headboard. “Faster.”

He obeyed her. The thrusts grew hard. The sheet slipped off one breast. The nipple stood exposed in the daylight streaming through the window. Mira said nothing about the sheet. She photographed the bare breast as if it were part of the pose, leaving the rest “covered.”

Silke dug her nails into his shoulder. The orgasm wasn’t a small one. It was intense, because Mira was standing there counting, turning him into a lover and Silke into the one holding her legs up under the blanket. Her pussy clenched tightly around his cock. A sound tore from her—high-pitched, raw, too long. Her thighs trembled. Wetness audibly pushed its way out of him.