Sex

The light came out of nowhere.

No warning. The tutor reached for the nightstand, turned off the small lamp, and turned on the ceiling light. Bright. White. Hospital-bright light above the bed. Silke squinted, naked, her shirt already somewhere on the floor, her legs not yet spread wide enough—he pushed them apart, two heavy hands on her knees, until her pussy lay open. Wet. Unmistakable. The sheen between her labia in that ugly light like a confession.

He pulled out his cell phone.

No “May I?” Just a click. Flash. Silke flinched, her tits jiggled, the wet slit in focus.

“Stay like that.”

One more. Closer. The screen tilted briefly toward him, then back to her. On the display, only half her head was visible, cut off above her mouth. Focus on tits. Focus on pussy. The shaved slit, the lips slightly parted, a trail of wetness already stretching toward the sheet.

He commented on the photo as if she weren’t in the room.

“Look at that. Such a tight, wet pussy. And those tits. Clean. Expensive. Looks like a girlfriend you don’t deserve.” A brief laugh, wet in his throat.

To convince himself, he reached between her legs.

Not tenderly. Examining. Two thick fingers through her labia, spreading them apart, his middle finger straight into the wetness, up to the first joint, just feeling. Silke gasped. Disgust lodged in her throat, the smell of his sweat already closer, and yet she was wet enough that it made a squelching sound.

“You want this. Feel it. You’re already dripping before I’ve even pulled my dick out.”

He pulled his fingers out, rubbed the glistening fluid between his thumb and index finger, and showed it to her as if it were proof. Then he held the cell phone out to her again. The same picture. Half a head. Legs spread. Wet pussy.

“Undress me. Slowly. Like a girlfriend.”

Silke sat up. The glaring light turned every one of her movements into something worth filming. She knelt in front of him on the edge of the bed, her bare pussy resting on her heels, and reached first for his shoes. Big, flat things with greasy laces. One foot, then the other. The smell got worse as soon as the shoes were off. Socks, damp—he left them on until she pulled those down too, and there was the skin: white, puffy, with wrinkles over the ankles.

Pants.

The belt was already punched through to a hole that was too loose. His belly hung over the edge, heavy and warm, as she undid the button. The zipper caught. Behind it, his boxers—dark, stained at the waistband. She pulled the pants down, over his thick thighs, which rubbed against each other, over his knees, which looked like dough. He didn’t help. He let her do it, reaching out for her as she worked. A paw on her bare chest, firm, her nipple between two bulges. The other hand on the back of her neck, pulling her forward.

“Kiss me. Now.”

Silke kissed him.

His mouth was wet, too big; his tongue came out immediately—thick, sour, tasting of coffee and something onion-like. She wanted to turn her head away but didn’t. Girlfriend, not a hooker. Two hours. Mira in the closet. The money. The photos on the fence. His tongue slid over hers, drooling, searching, while his hand kneaded her breast, roughly, as if testing its weight. The other hand slid down to her bare ass, a finger into the crack—not into her pussy, just in between—possessively.

Shirt.

The buttons were straining. One was so tight that she had to use both hands to undo it. Beneath it came the belly. Not just fat. A mountain of flesh, white-pink, with folds running across it, a deeper groove in the middle where sweat pooled. Chest hair, damp. The man’s tits lay heavily on his belly, the nipples wide, sunken. Silke pulled the shirt over his arms. His upper arms were soft and enormous; his skin glistened. When the shirt fell, the smell hit her again. Warm. Sour. From beneath his belly.

She was supposed to caress him.

She did.

Hands on the fat. Not around it. Right on it. The folds shifted beneath her palms—warm, yielding—a body that moved even though he was sitting still. She kissed his collarbone because his face was too close, and his tongue returned the moment she looked up. He pulled her into another French kiss—deep, smacking, saliva on her chin. “Good girlfriend,” he murmured into her mouth. “Touch me. Everywhere.”

Boxers.

She hooked her thumbs into the waistband. The elastic cut into her skin. When she pulled, the cock didn’t come out at first. His stomach was covering it. Then it did: surprisingly thick. Not particularly long, but thick, dark red at the head, the glans already moist, the shaft broad, half-swallowed by a bulge of fat at the base. His balls were heavy, encased in too much skin. Silke stared for a heartbeat too long. The disgust and the wetness between her own legs lay right next to each other.

“Touch it,” he said.

She touched it. Her hand didn’t quite close around it. Warm. Veins. A pulse. He groaned—deeply, contentedly—and pulled her back into a kiss, tongue first, while she loosely stroked his cock and he pressed his belly against her bare breasts.

Then the kisses all over his body.

He wanted her everywhere. Girlfriend. Not a hooker who just sticks to the cock. Silke kissed the fat under his neck, where a fold of sweat lingered. The skin tasted salty, warm, unclean. Further down, across his chest, a broad nipple between her lips because he pressed her head downward. “Tongue.” She gave him her tongue. Over the warm, soft mass shifting beneath her mouth. The middle fold of his belly. She had to press her lips against the groove where it was wet, and he moaned as if it were tenderness. Meanwhile, his hands roamed over her, roughly and haphazardly: squeezing her tits, grabbing her pussy from the front, two fingers back in the wetness, “still so wet, you slut, just like when we were dating,” pulling her ass cheeks apart in the glaring light.

She kissed the side of his belly, where the flesh hung over his hip. A roll, soft, with stretch marks. The inner thigh, right where it rubbed and smelled. The base of his cock, the fat above it, then the glans—just briefly with her tongue—because he said “more” and the cell phone was still lying next to them on the nightstand, the photo of her open pussy facing up.

French kissing again.

Long. Wet. He held her head tight, his thick fingers in her hair, and almost fucked her mouth with his tongue—saliva, breath, the smell right up close. Silke gasped between kisses, her eyes open in the white light, and saw the body she was kissing: wrinkles under the arms, wrinkles on the belly, the cock thick and dark against the white, a drop at the tip. Her own body in the corner of her eye: naked, spread wide, her labia glistening, her nipples hard—not because she wanted him. Because humiliation had by now taken root inside her like a switch.

He pulled her across his stomach, half on top of him, her pussy rubbing against his thick shaft, wet against his hot skin, and kissed her again, deeply, as if he were loving her for two hours. The sheets shifted beneath her. Sweat made her stick to him. Not a sound from the closet.

“Keep kissing,” he said against her mouth. “My stomach. My balls. My cock. You’re my girlfriend. You like this.”

Silke doesn’t like that.

Silke kissed him anyway.

Her tongue over the fat, into the crease, along the thick cock, back into his mouth—saliva, light, the photo on the nightstand, the wetness between her legs that she could no longer deny.

Two hours had only just begun.

And Mira listened from inside the closet to every smacking kiss.