M&M Max and Mira

Max got in touch with Mira. He confronted her directly about the fact that Silke was the Wicked Bunny. Everyone was talking about Mira. He was already worried he wouldn’t be able to get through to her. But thanks to a friend, he quickly got her cell phone number. Mira wanted to defend herself right away.

“So what? It’s none of your business what I do with that little slut. And what do you even want?”

Max wanted to explain that he’d been deliberately putting Silke in embarrassing situations. Mira misunderstood him. She thought he wanted to protect Silke: “Why are you even calling me? Shouldn’t my boyfriend Jonas be the one to come find me?”

She insulted him.

“You’re probably just jealous because I just had her fucked naked and without a mask by a pizza delivery guy today. She just let him between her legs. Then a huge black cock ripped her pussy open. In the end, I had her fucked by the most disgusting guy I could find. And to top it all off, I rubbed a hundred loads of cum into her.”

Max was panting as he listed it all. Then he said excitedly, “I know. My dick is all sore from jerking off.”

Mira was taken aback. “So what do you want?”

“To coordinate with you. I’m the one who gives her assignments. She often misunderstands everything. And you can take advantage of that. We’d make a great team.”

“Okay?”

Max explained why Silke had been naked on campus back then in the first place. How she’d been humiliated at the club. How the situation at the masquerade ball had come about. And everything Silke had done before the stage performance. He also told her that she doesn’t know who he is and calls him Peter because of a mix-up. Mira thinks it's a shame. Damn, why don’t I have a stage name yet? Max said. How about “Bunny Master” or “Hatmaker.”

Mira was thrilled. “I’ll make the hat that our Bunny has to jump out of naked. "And you are Absolem, the smoking caterpillar, who poses a riddle to her." They both laughed.

“Unfortunately, I’m too far away,” Max said. “I can guide her emotionally and give her tasks. You’re on the ground. There is, however, one limit: her identity. She’s supposed to get fucked as often as possible, stand there naked, and look as stupid as possible. She’s also supposed to pay for it. And if we can slip Jonas in there too, all the better.”

Neither of them liked him.

“But I kind of like her, and I don’t want to ruin her social life. Someone’s already killed herself over something like that.”

Mira replied, somewhat shaken: “I don’t want that either. Besides, then the fun would be over.”

Then Max asked, “Who knows her identity? Me. You.”

“Three of Jonas’s friends have had sex with her. I don’t know if they connect Silke with Wicked Bunny—cool name, by the way. Then there are a few people who helped her move. And a few people who happened to see her naked.”

“It’s all manageable. Now you.”

“I let Richard fuck her, and he had four people fuck her anonymously. I don’t know if they connect her to Wicked Bunny. Richard has hundreds of videos. Today he didn’t recognize her, and he was really close.”

They both laughed lewdly.

“What about the photographer from the warm-up? And the delivery guy.”

“Oh, those two. One of them is my stepbrother. I intimidated the photographer. He might know something. But he has no proof except for the job application email with the boob pics.”

“I’ll take care of that,” said Max. “If he tries to blackmail us, he’ll get a lesson. Thanks for coming up with an identity for her. That was really clever.”

“I really liked the part with the mask.”

“What else do we have? Susanne. The one from the club. She knows her face. She’s not at the university. She might know something.”

“I don’t know. Maybe. The club photos are all good, but her face is well hidden by the scarf.”

“So, Susanne and the photographer. We’re not doing anything for now.”

“What are we going to do with Silke?”

“We have to humiliate her again. With today’s footage.”

Max and Mira exchanged their footage. They thought about how they could make it as embarrassing as possible. Max liked the idea of making her look ugly on purpose. The porn corner and the installation with the clitoris were his ideas.

“How are we going to split the proceeds? Fifty-fifty?”

“One-third, one-third, one-third. Silke gets a savings account. Maybe she’ll get pregnant because of what we’re doing.”

“Fair. But that’s too much. She gets one-quarter. We’ll split the rest. Three-eighths each. If she works hard enough, she’ll make good money too.”

“Deal.”

“Do we want her to get pregnant?”

Then Max texted Silke: “I talked to Mira. She’s keeping your identity a secret. For now. Just don’t do anything stupid.”

Silke was relieved. “Thanks, Peter.”

The ad campaign was a complete success because it worked on three levels.

The first level was the clean one. Classic photos for newspapers, ads, and posters. Anna in bows, Anna in pajamas, Anna as a woman with a soft belly and natural lighting alongside partners. The manager liked the pictures and booked plenty of placements. Even there, little Easter bunnies could be found. A nipple peeking out from the edge of the neckline. A glimpse of a pussy beneath the waistband that was just too short. Nothing that would get an ad pulled. Everything that made the viewer linger a second too long.

The second level lay just a click away.

Bonus material on the online retail sites. Each lingerie set came with a video. Four minutes. Six. Sometimes longer. Officially: how to wear these panties in everyday life. In reality: lingerie that works during sex. Take a look here.

The third level didn’t belong directly to the brand. It belonged to the milliner.

The internet quickly shifted to the new hashtags. Hatmaker. Wicked Bunny. Hundreds of clips made the lingerie go viral, without the packaging revealing who the woman behind the mask was. Close-ups from the roof. The Black Man. The round bed. Richard and the wedge pillow. The panties in the bowl. Someone edited the ad photos alongside the clips.

And Silke saw herself naked everywhere.

In her feed, mixed in with recipes. On a poster at the bus stop, officially clothed, unofficially undressed by every eye that had ever seen Wicked Bunny. In a Story that a friend forwarded and tagged with three bunny emojis. In the college group chat, where no one said her name and everyone described the figure.

Friends talked about her.

Not as Silke. As “that.” As “the one from the window.” As Anna. As “Bunny.” Jonas talked about the break on the roof as if art were something you could buy with Zoom. An acquaintance asked if Silke had already booked the exhibition; the theme was so honest. *The Naked Truth.* Silke smiled and said nothing.

Soon there would be the exhibition, after all.

Part one under the comforter. Part two without it. The installation where someone had to touch her clitoris for a face to come into focus. The milliner on the invitation, small beneath the title. Silke’s quarter on a savings book she knew nothing specific about. Max’s message that her identity would hold for now, as long as she didn’t do anything stupid.

Doing something stupid was rarely part of Silke’s plan. It was a “yes” that came too soon.

She scrolled through strangers’ clips at night and recognized her own nipple in an ad for everyday lingerie. Below it, a comment: “Easter Bunny found.” Below that, a link to the exhibition. Below that, an account named “Hatmaker,” which posted nothing more alluring than a bow and a date.

Silke closed her phone and waited for new instructions from Peter.