Despair and Lust

Silke was so desperate that evening. The apartment was silent. Jonas wasn’t there—or maybe he was in the other room, and she didn’t want to know. In the bathroom mirror, she saw the same body as always: soft hips, her belly, her heavy breasts, her skin too sensitive. She was still swollen between her legs. A dull, deep pain that was more than just pain.

How could she have lost?

She was taller. She had longer arms. She’d tied the knots twice. The bracelet was so tight that wet fingers wouldn’t be able to undo it. She hadn’t been stupid.

Sure. Mira had set the rules. Mira had given her another chance. That little loophole in the agreement: If you win, I’ll take my clothes off and you’ll have control. That turned Silke on. The chance to be in control for once.

Not just Mira. The chance. The near-miss. The feeling of using her head this time and winning. She got wet just standing in the bathroom, replaying the moment before the first touch in her mind. And then the other side of that same excitement. The image of how she’d lost. How everything had turned against her. The bracelet she hadn’t taken off Mira to prolong the victory, as if that were the victory. The defeat: her tits swinging freely while Mira pulled on her nipples. Her panties gone. The Electric Chair. Legs spread, no hands, her free hand on her pussy. The tickling and her laughter, which was worse than any pain. Fingers in her ass. Legs behind her ears. The mask that had almost come off. And then the punishment.

Nine cocks in forty-five minutes. Three orgasms that had fed the clock. Nine loads of cum inside her. Her body, which had been taken possession of by nine other men. Who had unloaded their cum inside her.

Her punishment, which she was now looking forward to. Not just the men. What came after. In her memory, it was already there, warm and sticky, as if Mira had left it inside her especially for this evening. Mira with her beautiful, soft hands. Silke closed her eyes at the sink and saw it again.

She was still hanging from the rack when the last one pulled up his pants. It was running out of her. Not elegantly. A slow, white thread from her open, swollen lips, down the inside of her thigh, onto the floor. Gel and juices and what nine men had left behind, mixed into a heavy, sweet-and-sharp mass.

Mira didn’t put anything big underneath it. Just her hands. She caught what was flowing out of Silke with both palms, not letting any go to waste. She stroked downward from the dripping slit, gathered it up, went back, gathered more. Her fingers slid through Silke’s cunt, not to make her come, just to scoop out the white that was still inside. Silke twitched. Mira kept going.

Then the rubbing. Mira stood in front of her, between her spread, still-strapped-open legs, and spread what had flowed out of Silke all over Silke. First the soft lower abdomen, in circles, thoroughly, as if it were lotion. The substance had grown cool and warmed up again under her hands. It glistened on the skin, pooled along the navel line, and ran into the crease of her hip.

Then the tits. Mira’s soft hands lifted the heavy flesh, spreading the semen over the underside of the breasts, over the areolas, over the nipples. Back and forth. The nipples, already sore from wrestling, grew wet and stiff beneath the film. Mira twisted them between two fingers—not roughly, just firmly—and smoothed them down so nothing would drip off.

Silke moaned into the mask. Mira said nothing comforting. She just kept catching what was dripping down and bringing it back up. Thighs. The inner thighs, where the friction from the men still stung. The mound of pubic hair. A fresh gush from the pussy, which she caught with two fingers and placed over the corner of Silke’s mouth—just a streak, enough to taste.

Tickling. The soft hands suddenly grew light. Armpits. Ribs. The soft belly. Silke wanted to laugh and moan and cry, and she did all three. Mira tickled her until her tits jiggled and fresh white fluid was squeezed from her slit, and she caught that, too.

Hardness that softened her.

A firm grip on her hip. A finger, deep inside her pussy, still, just fullness. A second one on her clit, pressure without rubbing. Silke wanted to come and maybe she could, maybe she couldn’t—the evening blurred the rules. Mira softened her by staying hard. No hesitation. No questions. Those beautiful hands, gathering and distributing and deciding where Silke’s body belonged.

Was she a lesbian?

The question didn’t come until she was home, in the shower, which didn’t really wash anything away.

No.

She liked cocks. The dark, big one. The nervous one. The thick one with the ring. The feeling of being impaled, filled, and used. The dripping afterward. But what she also liked was the chance to win. The anticipation before the deal. The moment when Mira had looked serious. The thought of five private photos without a mask. Mira getting fucked. Enough of this. Silke lay down on the bed, her hand between her swollen lips, and didn’t rub herself right away. She thought feverishly. Did she want it to stop? She’d told Peter she needed it.

But was there a way to turn the tables?

Mira had to be naked first.

The curtain couldn’t belong to Mira.

Her fingers found her clit anyway. Wet. Sensitive. She came into the pillows, quietly, with the image of Mira’s soft hands stroking stranger’s cum over her tits, and with the image of Mira beneath her in the gel, bracelet gone, bra still on.

Desperate.

Horny.

And once again, creating an opportunity that felt like a win and would smell like gel.