That was refreshing

“That was refreshing,” she said.

Mira untied her legs first.

The straps slid out of the buckles. Blood tingled in Silke’s feet—a thousand-needle rush that made her flinch. Her knees wouldn’t hold her up. Mira didn’t hold her up. She let Silke hang there on the block for a breath, open, dripping, the bunny tail still between her cheeks, as if it were part of the picture. Then the plug. Mira grabbed the fur and pulled. Slowly. The hole reluctantly released the plug, remaining round and dark for a heartbeat before trying to close. Silke gasped into the mask. Three men in her pussy. No orgasm. And now this emptiness back there, which felt like an invitation.

The bowl was still beneath her. Mira took the heavy panties—dripping, cold, full of what the three had left behind, and what she’d wiped up from the floor. She folded the fabric and squeezed the remaining cum into Silke’s asshole. Fingers. Mass. Pressure. Silke pushed herself forward onto the cushion. It was too much. Yet it remained. Mira wiped the rim with the panties and said nothing but: “So nothing turns red after the plug. From the inside.”

Then she put the panties back on Silke.

Wet. Heavy. The waistband cut into her. The crotch immediately sucked onto the swollen lips, holding back the white fluid that was still trying to drip out, squeezing her filled ass shut. A bra on top. The dress from outside. The mask only at the very end, when Silke was already standing and her knees were still shaking.

Mira didn’t lead her to the main entrance. Thirty men were still waiting there. She unlocked a gray door behind the circle of mirrors. Basement air and pipes. A utility tunnel. She’d gotten the key from a janitor; eventually, Silke would pay for it—for the protection of her identity. Silke walked ahead barefoot, her panties cold and full between her legs.

Mira stopped at the threshold, as if they’d just had a cup of coffee.

“Bye. See you next time.” No triumph in her voice. No threat. Just matter-of-fact. That’s exactly what made the sentence worse. Silke nodded from behind her jacket and kept walking. Down in the basement, his words still clung to her. My wife won’t let me touch her anymore. Hot stuff.

Every step reminded her of it. Her lips were swollen, hypersensitive—from the cop, from the dildo, from the blond guy, from the tall guy, from the fat guy. With every step, her wet panties rubbed against her clit. Behind her, the mass shifted in her ass. Silke clenched her teeth and ran.

It wasn’t until she reached the second curve of the tunnel that she pulled her cell phone out of her jacket. Peter. She wrote what someone writes when they don’t know where to start. “I’m out. Everything went wrong.”

The reply came quickly. “I know. I saw it. Everyone saw it.”

A pause. Three dots.

“You did well anyway. It’ll work out next time. I’m sure of it.”

What’ll work out, Silke wanted to ask. The negotiation. Not showing up. Winning. She didn’t ask. The letters glowed on the wet screen while someone above her was still editing clips.

She found the videos even before she saw the exit. Wicked Bunny. The hatmaker. Today. Live. The cop. The window. Anna waves. Anna’s coming. Anna mustn’t. Someone had recorded the sound from the speakers along with the video. Silke stopped between two pipes, her back against the wall, and watched herself: strapped down, wet, three times on the machine, then on the block.

Her hand was already under her dress. She’d been masturbating while still in the tunnel. Two fingers under her heavy panties, into the swollen, full slit, her thumb on her clit, which almost hurt with every touch. She came quickly, furiously, and quietly, her other hand over her mouth, her feet on cold concrete, while on the screen the fat guy thrust into her and Mira laughed. The orgasm she wasn’t allowed to have upstairs broke free down here. Her pussy spasmed, pushing wetness and someone else’s white fluid against her fingers; her ass clenched around what Mira had filled it with. Silke’s knees buckled. She slid down the wall and twitched until it hurt. Then she pulled off her panties. Left them behind. On a pipe. Heavy. Impossible to explain. Wet, white evidence that a janitor would eventually find—or Mira, when she returned the keys.

Silke walked the last few meters without any fabric. With every step, she felt her swollen lips. Air. The friction of her inner thighs. The slow movement of what was no longer contained. Her clitoris was stuck to dried fluid under her bra. Was that the best thing that had happened to her today?

Was it because there had been a chance? Photos of Mira. A deal she’d almost won. Or was it because she’d lost? And Mira had dominated her.

Silke stepped out of a steel door behind the university’s storage containers. Night air. Somewhere, someone was laughing in a bar. The roof wasn’t visible from here.

She smoothed out her dress as if nothing underneath were wet.

A question for another day.