Fighting, 11

The die landed on eleven.

Not twelve. Not thirteen. Eleven.

For a split second, someone in the room still hoped it was a calculation error. Then the number was just a number, and Tim didn’t close the folder.

“Under twelve,” he said. His voice was hoarse, as if he himself hadn’t expected them to go that far. “The heroine loses. The defenders get to use the body for an hour. Anything goes.”

Leon swallowed. “House rules apply? Really? I mean… seriously?”

Bastian still had the cell phone in his hand. The red dot was blinking. “Tim. Be clear.”

Tim looked at Silke. Not the book. Her.

Naked on the carpet. The wetness between her legs was already glistening in the living room light. The taste of the three of them still on his tongue.

“You wanted to keep going. No turning back. The rule stands.”

Silke nodded. Slightly. Almost imperceptibly.

“It stands,” she whispered.

With that, the spell was broken.

---

They didn’t take her on the carpet.

They took Jonas’s bed.

That was the first blow. Harder than any thrust that followed.

The familiar sheet. The pillow that smelled like him. The photo on the nightstand, in which Silke was laughing and still had her clothes on. Bastian filmed the walk there: Silke naked in front of the three of them, her tits heavy, her wet slit, glancing back over her shoulder as if she herself couldn’t believe she was willingly crawling into her boyfriend’s bed to be fucked by his friends.

“Lie down,” said Tim.

She lay down on her back. Her legs fell apart on their own. Her pussy glistened, wide open. Her labia were thick and dark pink, her clit pushed out, a string of wetness already dangling down to the sheet. Leon groaned just from watching, as if the sight alone were already too much.

The session began without mercy.

Leon knelt over her face, his cock rock-hard again, and thrust himself between her lips before she could even catch her breath. Silke opened her mouth. Saliva. Warmth. The thick, salty taste. He didn’t fuck her mouth gently. Short, greedy thrusts, the head of his cock against her soft palate, deeper, until she gagged and saliva ran down her chin onto her tits. Bastian filmed from the side: her wet mouth, teary eyes, bare chest rising and falling as she gagged.

At the same time, Tim shoved two fingers into her pussy. She was so wet that it made a loud squelching sound. He bent her over, rubbing the rough spot inside while Leon used her throat like a hole. Silke moaned around the cock. The moaning made everything worse because it didn’t sound like protest. Because it sounded like she wanted it.

“She’s soaking wet,” Tim said loudly, for the camera. “Jonas’s girlfriend. In Jonas’s bed. Check this out.”

Silke flinched. The name in bed was a humiliation in itself.

Bastian sat down on her stomach and placed his thick cock between her tits. He squeezed her small breasts together until the light pink nipples bulged out between his fingers. He fucked the tight slit, the head of his cock repeatedly bumping against her chin, her face, the saliva Leon had left behind. Wet sounds. Skin on skin. Silke held her tits together herself when she was told to. Her own hands went along with it. Betraying her.

Leon pulled out of her mouth, a thick strand of saliva stretching between his glans and her lower lip. He moved down. His tongue on her pussy, greedy, loud, messy. He sucked on her labia, thrust his tongue deep inside her, licked her clit until Silke’s legs trembled and she thrust her hips upward uncontrollably. She came the first time quickly—too quickly, with a broken moan, her pussy twitching against his face, wetness running down his chin. The shame set in immediately afterward. In Jonas’s bed. In front of the camera. After eleven. While his photo smiled at her.

They got no break.

Bastian rolled her onto her side. Tim held one leg up, almost to her chest. Bastian thrust his thick cock into her pussy in a single stroke. Silke screamed. She was wet enough, but he filled her to the hilt. Every thrust pushed her across the sheet. Her tits jiggled. Tim held her head and thrust himself back into her mouth. Two cocks. Top and bottom. The bed creaked.

“Look at the camera,” Bastian gasped.

Silke obeyed. Her mouth smeared with cum. Glassy eyes. One cock between her lips. The other in her pussy. Bastian zoomed in on the spot where his gleaming shaft slid into her, her labia tight around him, wet, swollen, almost red.

Leon jerked off beside her, rubbing the tip of his cock over her cheek, over her hard nipple, over her stomach. Pre-cum on her skin. “Free hooker,” he muttered, uncertain and horny at the same time. “Jonas’ little free hooker.”

Silke heard it. She tightened around him. Bastian groaned.

He didn’t come. Not yet. The hour dragged on.

They switched positions.

Silke on all fours, her face buried in the pillow that smelled of Jonas. Leon took her from behind. Hard. His hands on her hips, his fingers digging in. Every thrust made her tits swing and the bed creak. Tim knelt in front of her, his cock in her mouth, and held her head down until her nose pressed against his stomach. Bastian filmed from the side and from behind: how Leon’s cock disappeared into her wet pussy, how her asshole moved with every thrust—small, pink, visible, as if it were already begging.

“Say it,” Tim said.

Silke pulled the cock out of her mouth, saliva and all.

“I lost,” she gasped. “You can use me.”

“Louder. And say it all.”

“You can use me. In Jonas’s bed. For an hour. Everything. I’m your slut.”

Leon thrust deeper as she said that. Silke came again, this time with her face in the pillow, her pussy clenching around his cock, a wet sound that almost sounded like crying. He pulled out before he came himself and gave her a light slap on her wet ass. Not hard. Humiliating enough. His hand lingered there for a moment.

“Good slut,” someone said.

They had her ride on her back.

Silke had to sit on Bastian. By herself. Guide his thick cock to her pussy with her hand and lower herself down, centimeter by centimeter, until he was completely inside her and she gasped. Then ride. The camera from below. You could see her labia swallowing it, wetness running down his shaft, her tits bouncing with every up-and-down motion. Tim stood beside her and fucked her mouth while standing, holding her by the back of her head. Leon kneaded her breast, twisting her hard nipples until she twitched and let out a sound she couldn’t even identify herself.

“You wanted to win,” Tim gasped. “Now you belong to us. Say it to the camera.”

Silke kept riding. Tears of exertion, shame, and orgasm.

“I belong to you. In his bed.”

Her third orgasm came in a messy rush, her thighs trembling, as Bastian thrust into her from below and Tim filled her mouth until saliva and tears ran down her face.

The hour dragged on.

They licked her. They let her be licked. They wiped their cocks across her face, across her tits, across her open mouth, until everything glistened. They kept her legs spread until the insides trembled. Someone said, “Good slut.” Someone said, “Jonas should see this.” Someone briefly held up the photo from the nightstand—Silke laughing and fully clothed—while she lay naked and stuffed down below. Silke moaned anyway. Her pussy stayed wet. Her body went along with it, even though her mind had long since realized how dirty the scene was: three of his friend’s friends, his bed, his girlfriend, an eleven-year-old on the living room table, and her—who couldn’t stop being wet.

Toward the end, Tim pulled her to the foot of the bed.

“Last one.”

He laid her on her stomach, lifted her hips, and spread her butt cheeks with both hands. Silke understood immediately. First the finger, wet from her pussy, slow, circling, then penetrating. She gasped into the sheet. It burned and pulled, yet still made her tighter up front.

“Slowly,” she whispered.

He did it slowly. Then not quite so slowly.

The head of his cock pressed against her asshole. Pressure. More pressure. Silke dug her nails into the sheet. The ring gave way. Centimeter by centimeter, Tim pushed his thick cock into her ass. Full. Hot. Too full. She let out a loud moan, almost a scream, when he was completely inside her and she had the sheet clenched between her teeth.

“Fuck… Tim…”

He fucked her in the ass. First gently, then deeper, then hard. Every thrust pushed her forward. Bastian filmed up close: the tight, glistening asshole clenched around the shaft, Silke’s face from the side, her mouth open, wet eyelashes, the photo in the background. Leon rubbed his cock against her cheek and came first—hot, thick spurts over her lips, tongue, and the pillow. Bastian came next, on her back, white against her sweaty skin, a glob running into the crease.

Tim stayed inside her ass.

He thrust a few more times, hard, then pulled out. Silke gasped, empty and open, the hole twitching. Tim jerked off his gleaming cock twice, aimed, and came on her pussy.

Thick, hot spurts on her swollen labia, on her clit, into the slit. It ran inside her and down her inner thighs onto Jonas’s sheets.

Tim held the head of his cock against her until nothing more came out, and ran the head through the white mess one more time, as if he wanted to push it deeper.

Silence. Just breathing.

Silke lay with her face turned to the side, her ass still slightly raised, her pussy wet and gleaming white, her mouth smeared, cum on her tongue. Bastian took the last picture. Then he stopped.

The hour was up.

No one said, “Adventure complete.”

Tim ran his hand over her back once, uncertainly, as if the rhythm had suddenly stopped. Leon was already looking for his boxers. Silke stayed lying there, the cum cooling on her pussy, dripping onto the sheet, and smelling Jonas in the pillow into which she’d screamed.

Outside in the living room, the Eleven was still lying there.

She’d take a shower in the bathroom later.

She’d change the sheet later.

The video would exist somewhere.

Right now, she was just breathing.

And she knew that “okay” would be the word she’d have to say to Jonas as soon as he came home and asked how it went