60 minutes

Jonas had come over during the night.

Silke didn’t notice him at first—only his breath beside her, heavy, familiar, smelling of beer. He was still asleep when she got up, his face pressed into the pillow, completely unaware of the dorm, the 4K video, and the missing cell phone. She got dressed like someone who didn’t want to take any chances. Sweatpants. A T-shirt. Regular underwear. Panties, bra. After yesterday, even that felt like a lie to her.

At ten to nine, she was standing in front of the office.

The faculty hallway was almost empty. Coffee somewhere. A printer. The door with the nameplate looked like office hours, not like what was still burning inside her.

Five to nine, he arrived.

Key. Door open. A nod, no hello. She went in. Only when the door clicked shut did he speak.

“All right, you little slut. We’ve got sixty minutes. Go ahead and get undressed.”

He didn’t lock the door.

The bolt stayed open. Silke saw it and undressed anyway. Shirt over her head. Bra. Pants, panties. She placed her clothes on the chair, neatly, as if that would help. He leaned against the edge of the desk and watched. No comments about her body. Just the look. He took her clothes and locked them in a cabinet. Now she was trapped, even though the door wasn’t locked. Naked in the office, in the morning, with the latch open.

“There.” He pointed to the large wall cabinet. On the sign: “Exam Documents.” Above the keyhole was a small flap—metal, like a cover you could slide shut.

He opened the cabinet without a key, though.

There was light inside. No file shelves. A narrow, tall space, just wide enough to kneel, to sit, to be unable to leave. Cameras in the corners. Stains on the floor—old, conspicuous, not from coffee.

“You’re going in there now.”

Silke stopped.

“If you don’t do exactly what I say, the videos go public. I don’t give a damn about anything. Otherwise, I couldn’t do this.”

“That wasn’t the deal.”

“The deal was sixty minutes and no drama.” He tapped against the wall unit. “Go in.”

She went in.

The floor was cool beneath her bare feet. The stains were right in front of her knees as she knelt down. The light from inside—white, unfriendly. The door slammed shut. Locked. From the inside, she saw that the flap didn’t cover a lock but a round hole. That’s when she realized he had a glory hole in his office.

At first, she could only hear him muffled. Footsteps. A chair. Then suddenly clear, through a speaker up in the corner.

“Can you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’m sitting at my desk. From the outside, it looks like it always does.”

Red LEDs lit up in the corners. Cameras active. Silke automatically raised a hand to her chest, then let it drop again. There was nothing to hide that the lenses hadn’t already captured.

“Listen,” said the voice, as if he were explaining an exam. “Four people are coming in the next hour. I owe them a favor because they’re covering for me. Or they’re paying me. You’re the payment.”

Silke stared at the door from the inside.

“I’ll tell you whether to offer up your pussy or your mouth. About an hour. Give or take. If you play along, I’ll enter the grade. Contract fulfilled. If you don’t, I’ll expose you.”

“You said it would just be you.”

“I said ‘office,’ and you doubled the time so I wouldn’t screw you over.” A brief rustling at the mic. “This is the version that works for me.”

Silence. Then the rest, more calmly:

“If you set me up, I’ll tell everyone that this is your fetish. That we already had sex yesterday. In the videos, you can see how you’re fucking me. No violence. No holding me down that looks like coercion. You’re on top. You’re moaning. You’re coming. Everyone’s going to think you’re a pervert who wants it this way.”

Silke’s face flushed red, hot, instantly.

How did she end up here again?

Five photos on campus. The dead-end street and that damn fence. Mira and her problem with her grades. The “yes” that always went one step too far. Sixty minutes of blowjobs and fucking, she’d thought. One dick. Instead, she was standing naked in a closet for exam materials, cameras on, stains at her feet, and outside the door wasn’t even properly locked—just this box.

“Take your hands off your body,” he said. “We want to see everything about you.”

“How many people are watching this right now?”

“Me. The rest get what they paid for.” Pause. “Mouth is standard. Pussy only when I say so. You don’t ask who this is. You don’t say any names. You don’t do anything that sounds like you’re asking for help.”

“And if I scream?”

“Then yesterday’s video plus this one will be online.”

Silke rested her forehead against the wood. Naked. In the morning. Jonas was probably still asleep. Her cell phone was somewhere with this man. Outside, a voice in the hallway. Not the four of them. Just someone passing by.

“Get on your knees,” said the speaker. “The first one gets your mouth to warm up.”

The pane was turned to the side, and the hole was now clear. She could look out, but a lamp blinded her.

Silke knelt.

The stains were exactly where others had knelt before. She realized this too late—and then fully. She wasn’t the first one in this closet. She was just the one who had played “girlfriend” for an hour and a half yesterday and was still paying the expensive rate.

Outside, a chair scraped. A second voice—male, indistinct. The tutor laughed briefly.

A penis poked through the hole.

Big. Thick. Not young. The skin sagged at the base; below that, curly, gray-streaked hair—too much of it—pressed against the wood. Not a student. Not anyone from a seminar. Someone older.

Silke just stared, bewildered.

The speaker crackled.

“Now. Or you’ll get a penalty.”

Someone laughed outside the door. Briefly. Muffled. Not the tutor. The other voice.

Silke leaned forward and closed her lips around him.

The man gasped immediately as her mouth took him in. Surprised, or simply impatient. He tasted okay. Clean. Soap, skin, nothing from yesterday. No rubber. She took the glans all the way in, then more of the shaft, as far as her mouth would allow. In her mouth, he slowly grew hard, expanded, resting heavily on her tongue.

She gave it her all.

Sucked. Licked beneath the glans. Pulled it out, a string of saliva trailing, took it back in, her hand where the wood covered the rest. Not because she wanted him. Because punishment in this closet could mean anything. Videos. Her face. And somewhere in the back, still, the ass she’d bought her way out of yesterday.

A few minutes. The cock grew harder, twitched, thrust against the limited angle as if it wanted to go deeper than the hole allowed. Silke gripped it tighter, swallowed, worked it with her tongue, her knees on the old stains.

Then the twitch. “Swallow it all. Or you’ll have to clean up the mess.”

Bitter. Warm. So much at once. The cum shot against her palate, the second wave right behind it. She didn’t pull her head away.

Silke swallowed.

All of it. Once, again, the last bit from the glans, the drop at the slit, before it slipped out. Bitterness lingered in her throat. Outside, a moan—muffled—and fabric, a zipper.

“Good,” said the loudspeaker. Just for her.

The screen grew darker. The hatch wasn’t quite closed. Footsteps. The office door, voices—too polite for what had just been in her mouth.

Silke remained on her knees, naked, the light white, the red LEDs of the cameras on, tasting only the aftertaste.