Jan. Week 3: Friday-Broken Condom-Leah is very upset

Leah sat perfectly still for a moment, ass and thighs numb from the relentless pounding, lungs fluttering with little panicked aftershocks. She didn’t move even as Mr. Bill, still looming over her, took a deliberate, lazy hand and slapped her ass hard—once for punctuation, because why not. There was no strength left in her to protest, no space in her head for outrage or even shame. There was only the sticky, warm sensation of his semen leaking out of her and the slow, mortifying slide of it down the backs of her thighs.

She tried to focus on something, anything else: the stench of that janitor’s closet, the mildew and Lysol and chemical tang that clung to the walls. But the only thing that really registered was the low, post-coital cackle from Mr. Bill as he watched her fall apart.

“Man, you a mess, Miss Williams,” he said, panting and satisfied, voice bright like he’d just finished a nice jog. “Ain’t nobody ever took me like that, you know.”

She managed to glare over her shoulder, but the effect was probably ruined by the way she looked, red-faced, hair matted to her cheek, eyes glassy and face splattered with tears and sweat.

“You could have just pulled out at that point once you knew it was fucking broken.” Leah said, voice thready and small. Mr. Bill shrugged.

“Was gonna, but you was squeezin’ so good I just… well, shit, I'm sure it aint the first time fo' ya.” He grinned, then had the gall to reach down and wipe some of the cum off her ass with a finger, admiring it before wiping it on the edge of the couch.

With a sudden, violent urge, Leah twisted away and tumbled off the couch, only half-steady as she stood, knees wobbly and legs slick. She grabbed a roll of industrial paper towels from the metal shelf and began furiously blotting between her thighs, unaware she was making it worse—smearing the sticky, milky stuff rather than cleaning any of it up. She kept her eyes glued to the cracked concrete floor, mortified.

In the background, Mr. Bill made no move to help her. He watched her like you’d watch a car accident—horrified but unable to look away.

“Damn, girl, don’t look so mad. You’ll bounce back.”

“You’re such a fucking asshole,” Leah spat, not even bothering to look at him. Her hands shook with adrenaline as she daubed at her ruined panties. “You could have given me something, you know.”

“Please. I wrap it before I tap it with any questionable gal's. You the one fuckin' round-- 'member? Sides--yo' look like the type who keeps it clean.” He said that last part like it was a joke or something.

Leah grit her teeth and tried to will herself to disappear. Instead, she balled up the wadded paper towels and looked up at him, searching for some trace of humanity on his face. There was none. Just amusement and pride.

“You seriously think nothing about fucking a me raw, do you?”

“I got the utmost respect for you, Miss Williams. For real. Yo just too goo'd to not be enjoyed the way God intended. Or maybe the way you intended, lookin’ how you do.” He laughed like she’d told a joke.

“It’s not funny. I’m engaged, you sicko. —” She shot daggers at him. He interrupted with a lazy wave of the hand.

“Relax. You probably on one of them birth controls anyway. You girls always are. And if not, well, like I said—get the Plan B. Or don’t. Maybe you’ll get a little taste of chocolate in your mix. Might be good for you. Ha ha..."

It took everything Leah had not to hurl the balled, semen-soaked towel at him. Instead, she shoved it into a beat-up trashcan by the door and then rummaged around the shelves for a bottle of anything—bleach, sanitizer, even more Lysol—to douse her hands and thighs. She settled for wet wipes and a can of air freshener, spraying both liberally as she tried to clean up her mess, inside and out.

“Don’t get all bent, sugar. It’s just sex. Don’t mean nothin’ if you don’t want it to.” Mr. Bill just watched, pleased with himself.

The words stung, even though she knew he was right. For a second, Leah just stood there, wanting to scream and cry and wail.

“You’re a monster,” she said, but it sounded like self-pity, not conviction.

He shrugged, as if to say, You came to my den, not the other way ‘round.

She tucked her skirt down, found her shoes, and clomped them on with as much dignity as she could muster, which was to say, none at all. Her knees kept threatening to buckle, and there was no way she could get the mess off her thighs without a full-on shower, but she refused to let him see even a moment more vulnerability.

As she yanked open the closet door, Mr. Bill called after her.

“You have a nice weekend, Miss Williams. I'll be seein yous again'.”

She wanted to flip him off, but the best she could manage was to slam the door behind her. The hallway outside was empty, but she knew that every step she took reeked of shame and was, probably, just a little bit damp.

She speed-walked back to her classroom, trying to ignore the persistent leaking, the way her insides still ached, the way the smell of bleach and latex clashed with the memory of Mr. Bill’s sweat and cum. She made it back to her desk, collapsed in her chair, and tried to catch her breath before the next bell.

She didn’t know who she was angrier at: Mr. Bill, for being a grinning, selfish bastard—or herself, for letting it happen.