next photo shoot

“Just a quick break,” said Mira.

She nodded to the black man. “You can go.” He took his payment—two hundred fifty euros in cash. No envelope. No contract. He didn’t count it. At the door, he turned around one last time, the elegant mask already in his hand, his real face revealed for the first time. He smiled at Silke.

“Thanks for the awesome fuck.”

Then he was gone. The room seemed to get bigger. Silke sat on the edge of the bed, the chain still wet between her lips, cum between her thighs, the rabbit’s head suddenly looking ridiculous.

Mira set a camera aside.

“All right. We’ve got two more shoots.” She looked at Silke, not at the clock. “I’m not going to tell you about the second one yet. But the better you do on the first one, the happier I’ll be. And the better the second session will be for you. I promise.”

Silke gave a wry smile and went to take a shower. The water washed the semen out of her. Warm, then hot, then just clear. She washed the semen off her stomach, out of her slit, and off the chain, which she set on the edge of the tub. The plug came out, too. Afterward, she ate what Mira had set out for her: cold pizza. Her body accepted it as if eating were normal.

She was supposed to pick out her next outfit. There were lots of very short pieces, but also a sort of pajama set that wasn’t really pajamas. The fabric was soft like nightwear and cut like lingerie. The top was a spaghetti-strap shirt—thin, light-colored, with two slits under the bust, just long enough to reach her tits without taking it off. The panties ended right at the base of her pussy. The top centimeter remained visible—the labia, the beginning of the slit, a strip of skin that real pajamas would never have exposed.

Silke didn’t know if that was intentional. The panties were a size too small. Mira had brought them along on purpose. The waistband cut into her hips. In the back, the fabric dug into her butt crack. In the front, it pulled her labia slightly apart instead of covering them.

She put them on anyway. She wanted to avoid trouble. She didn’t know what the finale was.

When she came back, there was a round bed in the hall in front of the window.

No corners. White sheets. Daylight. The blinds were up again, three meters above the street, with a blank wall across from it. Four cameras, three of them spread out. Mira had one.

“Get up there and put the mask back on. That’ll be your new trademark. But only if you do it right—otherwise, the mask stays off for the last shoot.”

Silke was glad and grateful for the protection. She climbed onto the round surface. Her too-small panties were riding up. A centimeter of her pussy lay exposed in the light. The slits under her breasts already outlined her nipples, even though no one had touched them yet.

They took a few photos to warm up.

Silke on her back, arms above her head, her shirt slipping down to the slits. On her side, one leg bent, the edge of her panties revealing the base. On her stomach, face turned to the side, the too-small fabric between her buttocks. Mira spoke softly, almost kindly.

“Knees closer together. Now spread them apart. Don’t smile. You just woke up. You don’t know we’re filming.”

“Enough with the warm-up. Now for the bonus material.”

She stepped up to the round bed, the handheld camera already focused.

“You stay in the fabric. Don’t take anything off completely. That’s what the slits are for.” Mira hooked two fingers under the left opening and pulled the fabric to the side. Silke’s breast fell into the gap, soft, the nipple immediately hard from the light and her touch.

Silke pushed open the second slit. Both breasts lay in the cutouts, the rest of the shirt still on, as if she were sleeping. Mira photographed the hanging heaviness, the areola, the line where fabric met skin.

“Hand between your legs. Not under your panties. Over them. You’re only now realizing they’re too small. You don’t take them off. You push them deeper into the slit.”

Silke did it. The waistband cut into her. The top centimeter became two because the fabric gave way and her labia pushed out to the left and right. She was already wet again. The wet spot stood out clearly against the light-colored panties.

“Head toward the wall. Pelvis toward the light.”

Silke turned around. The daylight fell on the open crotch, on the slits, on the waistband that was too tight. Mira knelt at the foot of the bed.

Mira changed the lens. She wanted to film now.