The Bad Touch

"The Bad Touch" kicked in at the exact moment when there was nothing left on her body but the mask. Too loud. Too stupid. *You and me, baby, ain’t nothing but mammals.* The first beat hit her bare stomach like a hand. Discovery Channel. A rabbit in the light. It was exactly this cheap joke that turned Silke on. She couldn’t remember who had picked out the costume. It was him, wasn’t it? Did he plan all of this? If so, he’ll get what’s coming to him.

Silke stepped forward.

Two bare steps to the edge, the boards beneath the soles of her feet, her tits heavy in the spotlight, her pussy already wet from standing, from the leap, from knowing that a hundred lenses were waiting. Below, the front row: gaping mouths, screens, the chorus still hanging in the air. *The rabbit’s out of the hat.* That had paid the price. That had dropped the costume. Now she was delivering what that one line had bought—and more than nine guys from a group chat had ever ordered.

One was still grinning. One already had his phone up and didn’t notice that his hand was shaking. One whispered “Dude,” too quietly in the synth. They’d wanted a joke. A photo. A rabbit, lots of magicians. Not what Silke started with the first beat.

She spread her knees wide on the Mammal line.

Wide. On her own. Her labia glistened, dark pink, slightly parted, a trail of wetness stretching in the light. Her clitoris visible. The slit was so open that the front row could no longer pretend they were just dancing. Whoever stood in the middle had the pussy right in front of them—warm, used, wet. Whoever knelt on the left saw the right labia and the inner thigh, which was trembling. Whoever was filming on the right had the droplet that broke free but didn’t fall—it just glistened.

Silke moaned into the mask.

Honestly. The view from below made her tighter and wetter at the same time. Shame sat at the nape of her neck, lust between her legs, and the song took both. Her nipples were rock-hard. Her tits bounced as she shifted her weight. Behind her, someone said, “She’s doing this voluntarily.” It didn’t sound like triumph. It sounded horrified.

Turning around was like the Discovery Channel.

Choreography. Rehearsed. In front of a mirror, for a friend, naked, the beat in her ear. Chest forward, pause, then her back, hips tilted, ass out, one hand on her own cheek. She pulled it aside. Two heartbeats. Three. Her pussy beneath, open, wet, a streak extending almost to the hole. The hole itself visible, no longer closed, a dark spot in the spotlight, still glistening from what had been inside it hours earlier.

Anyone standing below the stage got the catalog right in their face.

Pussy. Perineum. Asshole. Nothing in between but skin. A rabbit holding itself up. Someone in the front row cursed—not out of anger, but because they were overwhelmed—and zoomed in anyway. A cell phone flashed. A second one. Behind Silke, the nine stood and watched their own joke fall flat: This wasn’t an embarrassing moment to laugh at. This was porn with a bassline, and the woman in the mask was working for it.

During the chorus, she stayed on beat because she knew it.

One: lift both tits, nipples between her own fingers, tight, for the second row, which otherwise saw only ears.

Two: a single circle with her hips; her pussy cut through the spotlight like a mouth.

Three: legs even wider, almost too wide; her tendons trembled, her lips parted along with them.

Four: the bunny head into the lenses, as if there were eyes beneath them, looking at every single person.

She was getting wetter.

Visibly so. A new sheen, thicker, pooling on her lips and trailing a string with the next circle. Silke felt it. Felt the cool air on her clitoris. Felt a hundred gazes like fingers. Her body wanted to come. Here. Standing. Just from showing off. She bit down on the rubber of the mask and held back the orgasm—tightly, cruelly—and the sound that escaped anyway went through the mic at the edge of the stage.

“Fuck,” said one of the nine. Not in a horny way. Horrified. “She’s about to come.”

She performed the second verse with the animal comparisons as a list she knew from the mirror.

One finger on her pussy, two lips parted, the insides in the light—pink, wet, a hole that contracted as she swallowed. A second finger over her clitoris, just stroking, slowly, to the beat, until her knees went weak. Her tongue against the rubber, for the front row—a wet spot on the mask. Those standing in front saw the open slit and the finger that didn’t hide it. Those further back, just singing along, saw a naked woman touching herself as if the room were a bed.

The guys behind her had grown quieter.

The laughter had died down. One had pulled his cape tighter, as if he needed to cover something up himself. Another kept filming and whispered, “You guys want to post this online? Seriously?” One just stared at her ass, mouth agape, looking as if he’d just realized for the first time what *a rabbit out of a hat* means when a woman loves that line.

As she drew out the *c’mon*, she struck the pose from the bench.

Of her own free will. Chest toward the edge, almost over their heads, her bare torso falling, her tits hanging, heavy, nipples pointing down. Her pelvis tilted. Her ass in the brightest spotlight. This time, no one pulled the camera. She did it herself: both hands on her butt cheeks, spread apart, firmly, for longer than two heartbeats. Everything was on display. The wet pussy moving in time with the synth. The hole pulling along with it. A drop that broke free and fell onto the edge of the stage, small, distinct, right above the front row.

Someone down below moaned.

Someone else said “oh God” and didn’t laugh. A cell phone wobbled. A flash came too late and still turned the wet trail silver. Silke felt the orgasm again, deeper, more mindless, and rubbed her clitoris against her own hand from the front while she stuck her ass out—one beat, then another—and almost came, standing there, legs spread wide, in front of a hundred pairs of eyes, a spasm that made her lips twitch visibly.

Behind her, one of the magicians cursed, hoarsely.

“She’s totally into it. This isn’t funny anymore.”

It was funny. It was porn. It was both, and Silke held the pose through the final chorus, a mammal in the light, a rabbit, naked, a mask, her pussy open, the hole open, the wetness on the boards.

She delivered the show that everyone had paid for with a single sentence.

The nine had wanted a photo.

They got a woman who almost came on stage because a hundred people were watching—and because she loved the song.