She had survived the punishment.

She had survived the punishment.

The ride home was too bright. The bus. The street. Her denim skirt back on, nothing underneath, her blouse buttoned up over skin that still smelled of other people’s hands. Silke sat by the window and thought back on the day. It had started out so nicely. A safe Friday. Alone with Peter and the camera under the table. His gaze between her legs while she sorted files or fingered herself. A punishment that had felt like attention.

Then it had become more and more humiliating.

In. Manfred. Swallow. Tom. Twenty-two centimeters. A girlfriend for a few minutes. Three at once. The bottle. The ass. The boy with the watch. The last fuck on the desk, countdown, the final load in the back at two. Then the technician. Thirteen shots. Calendar. Ahegao under the groceries, her face accidentally in the frame.

The last fuck, in particular, lingered.

Not Tom. The winner. Alternating between both holes—ass on the left, pussy on the right—the camera from below. Silke could still feel him when the bus jolted. So why was she already feeling that pull between her legs again?

She looked at her cell phone.

Messages from Peter. Lots of them. “Pick up. Silke, please.” She didn’t understand what he wanted. He was right there, after all. He’d ordered the punishments. He’d sent the men. Oh, whatever. She put the phone away before the next message would force her to think.

First, a shower at home.

She washed the cum off her chest, her thighs, and out of her pussy, as best as water could. Out of her ass—carefully—the burning sensation lingered. Silke pressed her forehead against the tile and almost came just from washing—a small spasm, embarrassing—and carried on as if she were just cleaning herself.

Then the computer.

An email from IT. No sender she could put a face to. A link to the video. A link to all the photos. One sentence: *If you want to come back, Friday, same time.* Was that a threat? She didn’t think so. They had far too much to lose. Recording. Calendar. Still, she clicked.

The video started under the table.

Her pussy. Her fingers. The zoom. Then the blouse off. In. Her mouth on Manfred. The show for the camera. Tom. The riding. The three of them. The bottle. Her ass. The countdown. Silke sucked in a breath and already had her hand between her legs.

She felt so tricked.

Just like with Mira and the fat guy. A touch that wasn’t hers. Oh, whatever. Her fingers found her clit right away—wet despite the shower—and she took the first photo: the boss’s office, ass spread wide, the marks. She rubbed herself against it, slowly, and came for the first time in front of the screen—quietly, with her teeth clenched.

Then the locker room.

Legs up over her head. Both holes. The real signs of fucking. Silke stuck two fingers in her pussy, her thumb up front, and jerked off for the second time to this scene, her other hand on the Ahegao she wasn’t supposed to have seen—mouth open, tongue out, unmistakably her. What’s wrong with her? Everything’s fine. Shame plus the picture plus the thought that the staff would see it.

Silke moaned into an empty room and hated Jonas in advance because he’d soon be coming up the stairs.

When he came home that evening, she’d turned off the computer.

Her face washed. Her shirt on. Her hand still craving sex.

“Hey. Do you want to—” He kissed her all wrong, his hand already on her hip.

“No.”

No argument. Just the word. She didn’t want him. She didn’t want to sully what Peter had given her today. The punishment. The look. The three hours. Even the pictures, even if IT had sent them. In her mind, it remained a gift with teeth. Jonas mumbled something about being tired and left her alone.

Silke lay in the dark. She was grateful to Peter for the experience—and she wrote that to him, too.

Silke had sent him the photos.

Late. Without a long message. Just the files and a sentence that reeked of exhaustion: *That was the last hour.* Peter opened them on the big monitor, not on his phone, and now knew what had happened after his chat had gone dead.

His cock was sore from masturbating.

He’d spent the whole morning jerking off, silently, while Silke nodded and gave blowjobs to men he hadn’t ordered. Now, looking at the photos, he could barely get it up. Still, he was hard. Still, he used his fist—carefully, roughly—until something came out again, a little, frustratingly, onto the same desk from which he’d been typing *low-risk*.

By now he knew what had happened.

IT had taken over the chat. They’d used his name and exploited her. That wasn’t an order from him. It was theft, using her wetness as ink.

Was it his fault?

No. He’d wanted a camera under the table from nine to twelve. He hadn’t summoned six people to a conference room.

Was it hers?

Maybe. She follows through on commands. She sends links to ongoing sessions. Without her clumsiness, a help desk link remains an empty conference. Was it a blast for everyone?

Yes. For the six behind the projector. For Manfred. For Tom. For the boy with the bottle. For the technician with the wife at home. For Silke on the carpet in front of her PC. For him, sore, with open files he wouldn’t delete.

Peter didn’t close the session.

He didn’t immediately type *that wasn’t me*. She had seen the messages and brushed them off with *whatever*. Saying anything now would sound like a lecture, and she’d forbidden him from lecturing when she told him not to ask anymore.

He tucked the sore part back into his pants.

The Ahegao remained on the screen. Her face. The greatest treasure in a man’s collection. Next to it, the headless calendar for the staff.

His fault? No. Hers, maybe. Awesome for everyone? Yes.

The next job would have to be smaller.

Or more honest.

He couldn’t manage both at once that night. He just put the files in a folder that Jonas was never allowed to see, and sat in the dark, his cock sore, his head clearer than in the morning—and yet still hard as soon as the next image loaded.