Max Whats next

Max sat in his new apartment and didn’t look at the new files right away.

He had them. Of course he had them. He’d been at the club. Her plan was for him to dance with her. He’d wanted to see her naked.

He’d wanted to fuck her. He’d wanted others to see her naked.

That had been the setup. Ever since the first photos of her tits. Ever since the egg. Ever since the open shower door. A private, dirty theater in which he’d set the stage.

What was on the videos wasn’t a stage anymore. It was chaos.

Max set his phone down and rubbed his face. He was still hard, though. His body didn’t lie. His mind did. He’d never wanted the whole club to see her like that. Never wanted a taxi driver to fuck her.

That’s exactly what had happened. Not because he’d planned it in such detail. But because Silke took orders too far. Too far. Too publicly. And then there was bad luck. The wrong person she danced with. And then there was that crazy friend, Susanne. Max hated the word “bad luck.” Bad luck was the opposite of control.

He didn’t type anything. Not yet. She’d written that he should force her, not ask. A woman who says *don’t ask me if I want to* will go anywhere if the next sentence sounds decisive enough. That’s exactly why he had to stop sending messages whose endings he could no longer foresee.

He fetched the notebook.

What he wanted remained. Naked. To fuck her sometimes. To give her pleasure. Been seen by others. The rest had to be tighter.

No clubs. No random taxis. No doors anyone could open.

He wrote down three rules.

First: An upper limit. A number.

Second: An end that doesn’t depend on her bad luck.

Third: Nothing that multiplies on its own. No “say yes to everyone.”

Then he wanted something harmless.

A round trip. Campus. Five photos. Naked. No one should see her doing it. Afterward, she shares the pictures anonymously in the college chat. Closed group. People who might know her, but aren’t standing right in front of her. In his mind, it was a room with a lock: cell phone, chat, done. No cage. No driver. No “whoever happens to come along.”

He sent it succinctly. Because he didn’t want to ask anymore.

Anonymous: “Campus. Tomorrow. 5 photos. Increasing nudity. No one sees you while you’re taking them.

Then post them in the semester chat. No face. No conversation. If anyone comes, put your clothes on, leave.”

Silke read it in the bathroom—Jonas had already left—and immediately felt the warmth between her legs. “Harmless” wasn’t the word that came to her. What came to her: *Assignment. Body. Too late to be decent.* Five pieces of evidence that she wasn’t at home. Naked. And then seen—by people who didn’t love her.

She put on a short dress. Nothing underneath. She was used to that.

Photo one: behind the library, the gap between the dumpster and the wall. Dress hiked up, tits out, one hand on her pussy, just enough to show that she was shaved and already wet. No face. Send it to the chat. And here she was out of luck again. Not only did she post the photos while she was out and about instead of saving them for when she was safe at home—no, she didn’t realize that her location was turned on.

The picture appeared in the chat. Among the first three wet jokes was the little pin. Guys, the metadata contains the GPS coordinates: *Library, north side.*

Photo two: the bike rack behind Lecture Hall C. Dress completely up, bare belly, bare pussy in front of the metal grate, flash off, just daylight. Back into the chat. Metadata again.

Now there were more comments. “This is live.” “She’s out and about here.”

Someone posted a meme about a scavenger hunt. Someone else: *“She’s moving on.”* Max saw the pins on his second screen and despaired. What on earth is Silke up to now? He’d written: “No one should see you doing this.” He hadn’t written: “Don’t send them one by one with GPS.”

Photo three: the equipment rooms at the sports field, a shot of her breasts, one from below between her legs. Voices outside. She held her breath, pulled her dress back down, went outside, kept going. The chat exploded.

*She’s still there.*

*Someone just saw her at Building C.*

*Sports field?*

Silke didn’t read the messages. She did the job.

It wasn’t until the second-to-last photo that she noticed.

Photo four was supposed to be the stairs by the fountain, downstairs, where the university’s cameras were supposedly out of order. She already had the dress pulled up over her chest, her asshole exposed to the cool air, her phone on the railing—that’s when she heard them.

Not a single voice. A mob.

“Fountain, downstairs.”

“I see skin.”

The mob.

Silke snatched her phone and ran. The dress stayed behind. A black stain on the metal, still warm from her skin. Behind her, a scream—no name, just: “She’s naked. Here’s her dress.”

From that moment on, the whole chat knew.

Not: “Someone’s taking nude photos.” But: “A naked woman is running across campus right now.”

She could barely walk anymore, consumed by lust. Her thighs rubbed together, wet; her clitoris throbbed with every step, as if the assignment had already driven her wild even before the last photo. Fear and arousal in the same spot. Her breasts bounced. Gravel cut into the soles of her feet. She ducked behind a trash can in the lab courtyard and opened the chat.

Now she was reading along.

Lisa, Bio: DRESS BY THE FOUNTAIN, she’s walking around naked, you weirdo

Tom: hunting season, who is she? We have to find her

Unknown: no face in the pics, whoever catches her knows what she looks like naked, and so will we—forever

Student Council: Guys, this isn’t funny

(two seconds later)

which courtyard

Mira: The back of the lab is a dead end; if she’s gone in there, she’s lost

Silke stared at the last sentence but kept walking anyway; she was behind the lab.

Photo five. Mission. Body. Don’t be a coward.

The lab courtyard was narrow—trash cans, a broken window, a chain-link gate at the end that she took for a passageway. She stopped, her back against the wall, cell phone in front of her bare pussy, tits in the frame, the wet sheen, the betrayal—and snapped the photo. Only then did she jiggle the gate.

Locked. Chains. No way out.

Behind her, from the open side, footsteps. Several. No longer loud. Already closing in.

She crouched between two trash cans, naked, the screen still lit up. The chat continued while the mob swarmed the courtyard.

Tom: Pin lab courtyard

Someone: if we see her, it’s over—the pics + her face = semester photo

Another: “No touching, just filming—or maybe…”

Mira: “She painted herself into a corner, lol”

Silke’s mind’s eye played out the scene, dirty and clear.

To get out of here, she had to get past them. Naked. Tits, pussy, everything. Whoever was standing in front saw her completely. Whoever raised a cell phone turned those disjointed images into her. Silke from the seminar. Silke from the cafeteria. Silke, who would be walking across the courtyard again tomorrow with her portfolio, while everyone knew what her labia looked like when she could no longer tell the difference between cold sweat and arousal.

Options that weren’t really options: Run out and pretend that being naked was a joke.

Hands over her pussy, tits exposed, “please-let-me.”

Wait until someone rounded the trash can and saw her anyway.

She clenched her thighs together and just got wetter. The assignment ran deeper than her fear. The last photo had been taken. Now all that was left was the price.

Voices, very close.

“It’s closed up ahead.”

“Then she’s sitting there.”

“Camera on.”

“I want the face. Just the face. We’ve got the rest.”

“Shut up and go left. I’ll go right.”

Gravel crunched to the left.

A can crinkled to the right.

Silke held her breath. Her bare shoulder pressed against cold metal. Her pussy throbbed so hard she thought someone could hear it. A shadow slashed through the gap between the barrels. A cell phone screen lit up, blue-white.

Silke had tried to crawl through the hole in the fence.

Too tight. Too late. Her head and one shoulder were through, but the rest wasn’t. The wire cut into her hips. Her bare ass hung on this side, exposed, high up, her pussy visible between her spread cheeks, her tits on the other side pressed against gravel and weeds. Tight. Like a piece of meat in the mesh.

Footsteps.

Not the whole pack. Just one.

Mira stopped where Silke couldn’t see her, only hear her. Not a loud word. Just very close, very quietly, into the bare ear sticking through the fence.

“Watch out, you little slut.”

Silke flinched. The wire bit deeper.

“I’ll hide you here. I’ll come back later. Then you’ll thank me.”

A pause. The chat was still buzzing somewhere in the courtyard.

“The alternative: I’ll turn you in.”

Silke whimpered.

“Yes.”

That was all she could manage. The “yes” was the same as in the club. The same as in the taxi. Naked, trapped, with no choice.

Mira pushed the trash can aside, slowly, until the metal covered Silke’s ass and the entire gap. Dark. Cramped. The stench of trash. From the outside, all you could see was the fence and plastic.

Then, loudly, for the courtyard to hear:

“She’s not here. Apparently she’s not that stupid. She’s already somewhere else.”

Voices. Disappointment. Someone cursed. Tom called for another patrol. Footsteps receded. The chat trailed off, growing fainter.

Lisa: Lab empty?

Tom: Fuck

Mira: On to the parking lot

The mob dispersed.

Silke stayed where she was. Trapped. Naked ass in the shadow of the trash can, pussy exposed to the night air, waiting for her rescuer. Every minute stretched on. Gravel in the palms of her hands. The wire around her hips. The lust wouldn’t go away. It got worse because no one was screaming anymore and her body couldn’t finish the job.

Then Mira was back.

No rescue at first. Hands.

She played with the ass hanging out of the fence as if it belonged to her. Flat fingers over the cheeks. Pulling them apart. A photo. Flash off, but the click was there. One more, closer, the pussy in the frame, open, wet, the wire in the corner of the shot. Silke bit her lip until it bled and said nothing. Mira stuck two fingers inside her, without warning, deep, expertly, her thumb on the clitoris from behind.

“You’re already dripping again.”

Silke whimpered into the weeds. The fingers weren’t making love. They applied pressure. In, out, circling, right where the cage had already taken her. The trash can covered her. The courtyard was empty. Still, she felt watched. Photos. Chat. Mira.

Then came the deal.

Right then.

Mira’s voice soft again, her fingers not slowing down—on the contrary, pressing harder on the swollen clitoris, two fingers in the pussy, hooking inside.

“I need good grades. In exchange, you’ll bribe my tutor.”

A thrust.

“You’ll give him a blowjob. And if he wants more, you’ll fuck him. While he thinks it’s me.”

Silke heard the words and was already too far gone.

No turning back. The orgasm was in her gut, hard, inevitable, and the sentence pushed it through. Blackmail plus fingers plus a bare ass pressed against the fence. She came harder than on the glass, harder than in the taxi—a strained, wet moan against the ground, her pussy clenching around Mira’s hand, juices running over her fingers, over her labia, dripping onto the gravel.

Mira didn’t pull her hand away until the spasms had stopped.

Then she wiped her fingers on Silke’s bare thigh, as if that were the receipt.

“The deal’s on. You keep nodding as long as you’re hanging here.”

Silke nodded. Her head in the dirt. Her ass in the fence.

“Good. I’ll get you out. And you don’t tell anyone what we’re planning. Otherwise, we’ll both get kicked out of college.”

She took one last photo. Close up. The wet, just-come pussy, the wire, a piece of the trash can.

Then she unbent the wire and helped her out of the fence. Silke wasn’t quite through the hole yet when Mia was already taking a few photos. She said it just to be on the safe side.

Max was relieved. The chat went quiet. Apparently, she hadn’t been found. What a clueless cow.