Max

Max had been really worried.

It had been a harmless idea to take five photos on campus. No one was supposed to see them. How could she have messed it up so badly? The pins were scattered across campus like a route he hadn’t ordered. He typed: “Abort. Turn off location. Get in touch.” The checkmark stayed gray. Hours passed. No response.

He drove there himself.

Not with the guys. He had other reasons. He was looking for a woman who thought her orders through to the end, not a piece of meat to film. Behind the library. Lecture Hall C. Sports field. Fountain. Lab courtyard. The dress was already gone by the time he reached the fountain. Someone was filming the railing. Max kept walking.

He saw Jonas in the parking lot.

Laughing with a cell phone. The idiot was chasing his own naked girlfriend across the asphalt and didn’t even realize it. Max stayed in the car, engine running, and hated all three of them: Jonas for the chase, Silke for the location, himself for the “five photos” line.

Eventually, he gave up.

Home. Cell phone on the table. No activity.

The next morning, half past ten, a sign of life.

Text. Lots of text. And a photo.

Max read it once. Then again.

The dead-end street, the fence, Mira. The tutor. Today, the closet. Four more guys and an endless amount of new video footage. And her message: *I don’t know why I’m wet.*

The photo was blurry but unambiguous: a see-through shirt, a wet bulge in her sweatpants, her face in a bathroom mirror, her hair wet from the faucet, her gaze not proud. Not a porn star’s look. Exhausted but happy. “Mission accomplished” was written beneath the photo.

He couldn’t believe what had happened.

Worse: He got hard. His body didn’t lie. His mind did. He’d wanted something harmless. She’d caused chaos. And his cock liked it.

He took it out.

He jerked off slowly, the cell phone in his other hand, scrolling back up to the text over and over—the photo, the sentence about the cervix, the sentence about Mira. It didn’t take long. He came in his hand—annoyed, silently—and sat there afterward with wet fingers and the feeling that he wouldn’t get his control back, just the hard-on.

Author’s Note:

Well, you wankers, are you nice and hard after that story?

And girls—would you rather be Mira or Silke?

Leave me a comment.

Max washed his hands.

Overwhelmed. She’d said he shouldn’t ask anymore. So he didn’t ask. No “do you want to.” No “I’m sorry.” The free pass was in place. So was the worry. Both at the same time—uncomfortable.

He typed.

Anonymous: Take it easy. I’ve got a new task for you. But take it slow.

Send.

No question mark. No moralizing. One line pointing forward, and one putting on the brakes. The best he could come up with in that moment.

---

Silke read it on the bed, freshly showered, her panties back on, her own shirt.

She was happy.

He’d keep going. He was interested. He’d been worried and had even looked for her while Jonas was chasing the naked girl with the guys. How nice. From the outside, the message would have seemed sick. But inside, it felt warm. Someone had written *Abbruch*. Someone had looked for her without shoving a cell phone up her pussy.

Silke: Okay. I’m home.

Nothing more. She didn’t want the job yet. Just the fact that he was there.

---

Jonas came over that evening.

Talkative, then quiet, then pushy. The chase had turned him on—not finding her, the beer, the video from the club that was still floating around somewhere in some chat rooms. In bed, he pulled up her shirt, kissed her awkwardly, pushed her panties aside, and was done after three minutes. Warm. Brief. A sound in her throat that wasn’t hers.

Silke felt nothing.

No tension. No hatred. No fire. Just weight, then stickiness, then his breath on her shoulder.

“Love you,” he mumbled, already half gone.

“Mhm.”

Her cell phone lay next to the bed.

A session without a new task, just that one sentence. *Take it easy.*

Jonas was asleep.

Silke lay awake, thoroughly fucked and yet empty, and realized that three minutes with a boyfriend were no match for 1.5 hours with a monster and a closet full of four cocks.

Not as a longing for the closet.

Her body had calibrated the rate by now. And Jonas lay beneath it.