The Rope

Tim turned the page, and even the paper sounded impatient. “Gorge. No footbridge. Just hooks on the left and right. The book says: The group ties a rope out of whatever they’re wearing. Underwear stays on. Everything above that becomes rope.” He tapped the line as if it were a recipe. “Pants. All of them. Otherwise, no one gets across.”

Leon groaned. Bastian pushed his chair back. Silke stayed seated, bare tits, hard nipples, her arms finally useless.

“No.”

The word came out harshly. Honestly. For the first time that evening, without that stupid smile.

“I lost my shirt. Lost my bra. I was hopping around in front of you until my tits were practically smacking you in the face. Tim was sitting on my legs. That’s enough.”

“It’s not enough for the book,” said Tim.

“Then the book is sick.”

“It is,” said Leon, standing up anyway. “House rule.”

He unbuttoned his pants. The waistband gave way, the zipper scraped, and underneath lay the problem that no one could talk their way out of anymore: a pair of boxer shorts that were way too tight, bulging thickly in the front, the fabric stretched tight over a hard cock that could no longer be hidden. Leon stepped out of his pants. The outline was obscenely clear. The base of the glans. The length. The damp, dark spot at the tip, where pre-cum kissed the fabric.

Bastian followed, his face redder, but just as hard. His boxers were gray and too tight. His cock was pressed upward at an angle, thick, visibly pulsing whenever he sat down. Three men at the table, two already without pants, and every erection in the room was an accusation.

Tim stayed seated until the others were done. Then he stood up too, unzipped his jeans, and pulled them down. Black boxers. Tight. His cock stood straight up to the left, so hard that the waistband of his boxers didn’t quite cover the glans. A strip of reddened skin. A sheen.

Silke swallowed.

She wanted to look away. She didn’t look away.

“Your turn,” Tim said quietly. “Otherwise the group will fall apart. And the rope doesn’t exist.”

Silke laughed briefly, harshly. “You’re all already sitting there with hard cocks. You don’t need a rope. You need an excuse.”

No one disagreed. That was the worst part.

She unhooked her jeans. Her fingers were trembling. It wasn’t just fear. Underneath were her panties. Light-colored. Thin. And soaked through, ever since she’d lost her bra, ever since the jumping jacks, ever since Tim’s weight on her legs. She knew what would happen as soon as the denim slid down.

“Silke.” Leon. Hoarse. “Come on.”

She lifted her butt off the chair. The jeans slid over her hips. Slowly. Because she hoped the stain would be smaller if she stalled for time. It wasn’t.

First came the waistband of her panties. Then the light-colored fabric in between. Darkened. Wet. A distinct, shiny stain right above her slit, so large that you could make out the shape of her labia through the wet material. The fabric was sticky. When she freed her second leg and let the jeans fall to the floor, a thin thread of moisture remained between her panties and her inner thigh—just a heartbeat—then it snapped.

The air in the room shifted.

Bastian made a sound that wasn’t a word. Leon leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his cock visibly twitching in his shorts. Tim wasn’t staring at her tits. Not at first. He was staring between her legs.

And they could smell her.

Not subtle. Not “maybe it’s just my imagination.” Warm. Sweet and sour. Feminine. The smell of a pussy that had been secretly dripping for an hour. It rose from her wet panties, mingling with beer and carpet and bare skin. Silke smelled herself as she sat back down, pressing her thighs together—too late. The stain remained. The smell remained. Three hard cocks in tight shorts remained.

She wanted to cover her panties with her hands. She did. For two seconds. Then she realized that her hands on the wet fabric only made it even clearer how soft and open it was underneath.

“Fuck,” Bastian whispered.

Silke turned bright red. Her nipples were stiffer than before. Her voice came out small. “Don’t look down there.”

“Your panties are soaked through,” Leon said, without any politeness. “Completely.”

“I know.”

“You can see everything.”

“I know.”

You could see her swollen lips. The slit. The dark sheen where the fabric had been pulled into her. If she opened her knees even a centimeter, the hint became a full-on view.

Silke pressed her thighs together until her muscles trembled. In her head: the anonymous number. The photos. The address. The movers. *How far do I have to go to keep him from publishing this?* Shirt. Bra. Pants. The next sentence in the book was surely about her underwear, her mouth, her fingers. She didn’t know. He’d never said. That was exactly the trap.

And beneath it all, stickier than the noose: she wanted even more.

Not polite. Not romantic. The same pictures she’d sent him while he’d been pretending to be Jonas for weeks. The same wetness. The same shame that made her wet instead of stopping her. The hard cocks at the table weren’t a threat in her gut. They were a pull. She imagined one of them pulling the wet fabric aside. How the smell would get even worse then.

Tim cleared his throat, but his voice was hoarse. “Lyra’s donating the leggings. The rope’s holding. You’re coming over.”

Silke sat there. Tits out. Panties see-through with wetness. Three bulges that wouldn’t go away.

She smiled crookedly, breathless, and hated how real that smile was.

“What’s next?” she asked.

As if she were afraid.

As if she weren’t already hoping.