What happened behind the scenes

Then Silke was told to get dressed, too. She was wet and wanted to take a shower. She wasn’t allowed to take a shower either. Mira needed some quiet now to finish up the post-production work. She was allowed to keep the lingerie. For Jonas. Silke didn’t want it. She took it anyway.

“I’ll send you an invitation to the exhibition,” Mira said. “And if you don’t have anything to do, you can look up Wicked Bunny.”

Then she gave Silke another one hundred fifty euros.

Silke looked shocked.

“What’s this? I was supposed to get two thousand.”

Mira laughed.

“No. Two thousand for the photographer. To pay for everything. I already ran the numbers for you. Location. Clothing. Props. Models. That’s your share.”

“But that’s less than what the others got.”

“I know. At first, I wanted to give you two hundred fifty, too. But I thought Richard deserved a bonus. That’s why he got some of your money. Now go.”

Silke left.

In the dress from this morning. Without a shower. With someone else’s semen still flowing out of her. With lingerie soaked in someone else’s semen and lingerie for Jonas in her bag. With one hundred fifty euros in her hand.

Silke finally had her cell phone back.

She was sitting in a taxi on her way home, staring at the screen as if it could take something else away from her. She didn’t have any money left. One hundred fifty euros instead of two thousand. She’d spent two hundred fifty herself on a haircut and a shave. The driver wanted cash. She paid and didn’t have enough left—she’d also paid for all of this.

On the way, she read the messages from Peter.

*What’s going on with you?*

*The internet is full of you.*

*How could this have happened?*

What had she done? Had Mira posted something?

Silke started to panic.

Her fingers were shaking so badly that she opened the chat twice. Then she searched for herself. The links popped up immediately. Wicked Bunny. Everywhere. Clips. Screenshots. An event on a rooftop. A hashtag. Her body, over and over. She was shocked.

It was a party on a rooftop. At the university. Nearby. She saw it in Jonas’s status. A sign. WICKED BUNNY. A live art performance. 150 people on the rooftop, looking through a huge window.

Silke felt hot and cold all at once. That was her window. It had never occurred to her to look up. There was nothing below—the window was too high. Across from it was a wall. But up on the rooftop, there were lots of people. The pane was crystal clear. Had someone cleaned it recently? Mira. The lighting was just right—the room was bright and clearly visible from the outside. Jonas was filming everything. “It’s a break right now,” he said into the mic, too loud, too cheerful, as if the body behind the glass was none of his business. “Wicked Bunny” was being fucked by a massive black cock right then. We don’t know what’s going on here yet. But everyone is extremely excited. Some even have zoom cameras with them.”

There were lots of people on the roof with zoom cameras. Then Mira arrived.

She introduced herself. Her name was Mira; she was an art student and had created Wicked Bunny. She addressed everyone on the roof and online. “First, the event on campus where your foxes chased my bunnies. Then the little show at the costume party that I prepared for you.”

“Right now, you’re watching live as we shoot a video for a well-known brand. The brand is called ‘Everyday Lingerie.’ You’ll be able to see the videos online tomorrow. Until then, feel free to share everything you see here.” She smiled at the cell phones. “The doors are locked. We have security. Anyone who comes here won’t be arrested. They’ll get beaten up.”

Laughter on the roof.

“I’m serious. Take the bunny. I’ve given you this window as my stage. And the name Wicked Bunny. You got to see my art at the masquerade ball.”

Pause. Mira held something up.

“Now I have something special. These are her panties.”

She passed them around through the crowd’s hands. Fabric. Still recognizable. No longer innocent.

“I’m going to put these in that bowl behind the wall. I want all the men who want to to cum in there. I’ll pick them up later.”

Silke lowered her cell phone. The taxi smelled of air freshener. In her head, it already smelled different.

Then came lots of videos of people who had filmed with zoom cameras.

The first clips were only from when she was wearing the mask. Apparently, Mira had opened the sunroof after the pizza guy left. Silke saw the sex with the Black guy. She saw herself stripping for the video. And the worst part: she saw herself having sex with the fat guy. Richard. The belly. The ass. The wedge pillow. The comments below were short and cruel. Fat Bunny. Wicked Bunny takes it.

At some point, Mira went back up to the roof and picked up the bowl.

When was that?

Someone had taken a photo of the bowl. Her panties were soaked with cum. The bowl was absolutely full of stuff that hadn’t been absorbed. Mira said into the cell phones: “Wait for the finale.”

Silke remembered the scene. And now she could even follow it from the perspective of the rooftop. Clip alongside memory. Two cameras focused on the same body. It was after the fat guy had left.

Mira handed her the bowl. It smelled disgusting. Sweetish. Pungent. It had been warm, but now it wasn’t anymore.

“It’s a tradition in the theater,” Mira said. “People pay their respects.”

“What is that?”

“Geez, don’t ask such a stupid question. They’re good-luck charms. And before you ask: Yes, that’s how it’s supposed to smell.”

The liquid was a little clearer. The semen had already thinned out. Silke no longer recognized it as semen. But she did recognize her panties.

Silke looked. Mira laughed.

“You really don’t know anything. Oh man. I thought you guys had a warm-up.” She waved the wet fabric. “You’re going to put those panties on. Since you only brought such a small pair, we’ll have to improvise. Normally they’re bigger. You’ll smear it all over your body.”

Silke didn’t move.

“All right. Stay where you are.”

Mira turned on the camera and pointed it directly at a sheet of plastic film by the window. Then she put on a new pair of gloves. She took the panties out of the bowl. They were dripping. She wiped them along the edge so as not to spill anything. Then she pulled them up over Silke’s pussy. It was so cold between her legs.

The fabric was sticky. Heavy. Full. The substance oozed out from the sides of the waistband and ran into the creases of her thighs.

Then Mira took some of the substance and began rubbing it into Silke’s upper body. Her tits. Her nipples. Everything. Circling, thorough strokes, as if it were cream.

“This is pure bliss,” said Mira. “Or rather, fructose and oxytocin.”

Then it was the arms and shoulders’ turn. The back. The thighs. There was still quite a bit left. She smeared it over her neck. On her forehead. Behind her ears. It was sticky. It stank.

Silke wondered if this was really a theater tradition. But she didn’t want to ask either. Just standing there was easy. Just no more trouble. There was still more left.

“This isn’t actually part of it,” said Mira. “But because you teased me.” A glance. “Lie on your back. Close your eyes.”

Silke felt Mira turn her toward the window and spread her legs. Everything in between was lit up by the sun. For the roof. For the zooms. For Jonas, who was standing somewhere up there and didn’t yet know who he was looking at—or didn’t want to say. Mira pulled down her panties.

Silke felt Mira filling her pussy with the cold substance. With her fingers. Deep. Pushing. Refilling.

Mira laughed.

“You haven’t had this much in your pussy today.”

She fingered her. The wet fingers. The clit. The full slit filled with the stinking goo, right up to the point where Silke would have come. Then she stopped.

“Open your mouth.”

Silke opened it.

“The rest goes in your mouth.”

She spat a little as Mira poured it in. Mira held her nose until she swallowed. Salty. Soapy. Wrong. Too much.

Silke later learned the math from the comments. It seems like a lot to you. A hundred men. Three hours. Everyone can go at least twice. Six to eight milliliters the first time. Two milliliters the second. After that, only one milliliter on average. It was more than a liter. A liter of semen contains, on average, twenty to one hundred fifty billion sperm. She felt sick. She wanted to throw up but couldn’t because she was sitting in a taxi. The driver looked in the mirror. She turned toward the window.

Jonas wasn’t home yet when she arrived. How could he be? He’d been up on the roof, jerking off into a bowl, the contents of which had been forced into every pore and every orifice of his girlfriend. Did he know? Had Mira deliberately handed him the panties?

Silke locked the bathroom door from the inside.

She took a bath while the laundry was already running. This morning’s dress. The lingerie for Jonas that she didn’t want.

Afterward, she texted Peter.

Not elegantly. Not briefly. Everything. The window. The roof. Richard. The panties. The bowl. The mouth. Wicked Bunny. Jonas’s status. The two thousand euros that had never been hers.

The reply came late and was too short.

Get some rest.

I need to talk to Mira.

Silke set her cell phone down on the tiles.

In the bathroom mirror, she saw a woman who had washed but still didn’t feel clean. Outside, it was getting dark. Somewhere on a college rooftop, people were watching clips again.

She didn’t think through what Peter would talk to Mira about. She just thought: The internet is full of you.