2. Meilenstein

They danced a little.

Actually, they weren’t really dancing.

Vanessa and Sonja held Silke between them, the hem pulled up higher, the dress now just a black bulge beneath her bare breasts, and they played. Five minutes. Longer than a song, shorter than what Silke could still endure. Hands on her breasts, firm, slow, then in time with the bass. Sonja from the front, both nipples between her fingers, rolling, pulling, until the tips were dark red and visibly contracted. Vanessa from behind, her mouth on the fabric, one hand under Silke’s breast, lifting it as if offering it to the light.

Silke felt only that.

The weight. The raw air. Every jolt that shot from her nipples straight into her pussy, under the hiked-up fabric, where she was already so wet that it clung to the insides of her thighs. She moved her hips because they made her, not because she wanted to dance. Behind the cloth, her breath was damp. The fear for the mask was ingrained. The lust ran deeper.

From below, Susanne watched this exact scene for five minutes.

Through the glass floor, the open pussy beneath the black hem, glistening, a drop that broke free and fell. Above it, the bare belly. Above that, the tits in strangers’ hands, heavy, moving, the nipples between fingers that showed them no mercy. On the screen, a camera zoomed in so close to the left breast that you could see the goosebumps. The cell phones beneath the cage were tilted upward. Susanne stood right in the middle of it all and thought only: The girl is still holding onto the cloth. Nothing else.

Then the siren.

Louder than before. Second milestone.

The DJ laughed.

“Second level. The dress is coming off.”

Vanessa yanked it right off her.

She pulled the black fabric over her hips, over her butt, her knees, her feet. A jerk. Done. The dress lay on the glass like a dead animal. Silke was naked. Completely. Shaved. Tits out. Pussy out. Only the blindfold over her eyes.

Up above, Silke thought: It doesn’t get any worse than this.

Naked in a cage. Above everyone’s heads. On the screen. Behind a mask—the only thing still separating her from the rest of the world. She stood there, her arms still on the bars, waiting for the next grab. It came immediately. Vanessa whispered in Silke’s ear, “Kick your dress so it falls off, or else your mask will fall off.” Now it looked to everyone as if Silke were doing this voluntarily. But it got even worse.

Vanessa and Sonja forced her into positions.

First, her breasts against the glass.

They pushed Silke forward, then down, their hands on the back of her neck, until her bare breasts lay flat against the cold pane. The nipples first. Then the whole of her chest, pressed flat, white against the translucent green of the floor. Silke gasped. The glass was icy. Every bass beat vibrated through her nipples. She couldn’t see anything behind the cloth. She could only feel them holding her down, spreading her breasts out toward the floor as if they were merchandise behind a counter.

From below, Susanne saw exactly that.

Two tits, flattened against the glass, the nipples like dark dots directly above their faces. So close you could see the tiny crease in the skin, the sweat, the trembling. Cell phones were shoved underneath her. On the screen, Silke’s breast was enormous, deformed by the pressure, humiliatingly beautiful. Susanne heard someone whisper, “She’s really into it.”

Then Vanessa and Sonja yanked her up and turned her around.

Ass and pussy against the glass.

Silke landed on her knees, then lower, until her bare butt and open pussy were pressed against the pane. Cold. Hard. Her labia flattened, spread by the pressure, her clitoris against the glass, wet enough that it stuck. Sonja grabbed the backs of her knees and pulled her legs further apart. Vanessa pressed her lower back down. Stay.

Silke thought she was about to throw up from shame.

Instead, it throbbed inside her. Hot. Dirty. The coldness of the glass against her pussy made everything sharper. She felt her own wetness spreading across the glass. A wet imprint. Proof. Her fear for the cloth was suddenly less than her fear of coming like this. On glass. Above strangers’ heads.

From below, Susanne saw an open pussy, flattened, the lips spread to the sides, the slit visible, a glistening spot around it. The ass above it. Everything naked. Everything close. The cameras locked in on the scene. One filmed through the spread buttocks. Another stayed focused on the clitoris, which moved against the glass—tiny, involuntarily—every time Silke twitched.

“For the cameras,” Vanessa said from above, meanly, loud enough that the microphone almost picked it up. “Spread everything.”

They did it.

Silke on her back, legs in the air, held by Sonja at the ankles. Her pussy wide open. Her labia pulled apart with two fingers. Directly above a camera zooming up through the glass from below. Then turned over again, chest on the glass, ass up, pussy presented as if for an exam. Then on her side, one leg drawn up so that her tits and pussy were in the same frame. Silke let it happen. The cloth was wet with breath and tears that wouldn’t fall. She was a naked slut in various positions. Each one for the audience below. Each one for the screen.

She was on the verge of orgasm.

Not because someone was inside her. Because everything came at once: the cold glass against her clitoris, the hands on her nipples, the voices below, the knowledge that hundreds were staring at her spread pussy. Her stomach clenched. Her thighs trembled. A sound emerged from behind the cloth—high-pitched, humiliating, almost a sob.

Vanessa pulled her fingers away at the last moment.

So did Sonja.

Silke remained in that position, legs spread, her wet pussy pressed against the glass, her tits flattened, and didn’t come. The orgasm got stuck. Throbbing. Burning. Unfulfilled.

From below, Susanne saw how the naked pussy contracted, empty, greedy, leaving another drop on the glass. How the naked body trembled and found no release. On the screen, the image lingered a moment too long: Silke, completely naked, spread-eagled, on the verge, and then the abrupt withdrawal of her hands.

Upstairs, Vanessa whispered into the scarf:

“Not yet. Next sand. Next level.”

Downstairs, they were already pouring again.

And Silke lay naked on the glass, her dress somewhere beside her, her face covered, her pussy open, and realized that it could indeed be even more humiliating.