To give her more work

Anna slumped against the icy metal of the chained double doors, her knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them, the oversized janitor’s jumpsuit hanging loosely from her petite frame. The front refused to zip, leaving a gaping triangle from her collarbone to the soft hollow of her stomach, the fabric occasionally slipping off her shoulders to reveal bare skin. The fluorescent hallway light caught the pallor of her exposed thighs and the deepening stains on her once-white knee socks. Her Mary Jane shoes—scuffed, damp, a remnant of normalcy—pressed flat against the cold floor.

Her mind spun in helpless, panicked circles. She imagined the world outside—cars driving home, lights flicking on in distant houses, families sitting down to dinner—while she sat trapped, **** and half-dressed, the vast empty school echoing with her shame. Every faint sound made her muscles tense and her heart leap. When footsteps echoed from the far end of the corridor, Anna pressed herself smaller against the wall, dread pooling in her stomach.

The male janitor’s figure loomed closer, his heavy keys jangling at his hip. He found her slumped by the exit, his gaze sweeping over her—the awkward bunching of the suit at her waist, the bared triangle of her chest, the narrowness of her hips against the wide legs of the jumpsuit.

“Get up. Follow,” he said, his voice flat, impatient.

Anna hesitated, then staggered to her feet, one arm clutching the sagging front of the jumpsuit closed over her breasts, the other steadying herself against the wall. Her legs trembled as she followed him down the hall, the suit threatening to slip off with every dragging step.

He pushed open the door to the utility room. Inside, the familiar chaos of supplies and old uniforms crowded the air with the scent of bleach and rubber. The janitor eyed the unzipped suit and shook his head, a look of disdain crossing his face. “Not suit. Not right,” he muttered.

He rummaged through the shelves, finally producing the same small, thin towel the old woman had given Anna earlier. He held it out, the message in his narrowed eyes unmistakable.

Anna’s voice was little more than a whisper. “But… this isn’t enough.” Her hands shook as she clutched the baggy jumpsuit closed.

“Take off. Wear towel.” His tone was cold, final.

Her cheeks burned as she reluctantly slipped out of the oversized suit, folding it over one arm. She stood for a second in just her underwear, socks, and shoes—before she realized, mortified, that her underwear had never been returned. She was bare beneath the suit. With trembling fingers, Anna wrapped the too-small towel around her torso, fighting to make the edges meet. The towel barely reached the tops of her thighs, leaving the pale curves of her hips and the upper slopes of her buttocks exposed with every shift or twist. The rough fabric clung to her skin, drawing attention to every line and angle of her gymnast’s frame.

The janitor watched her, his expression openly appraising. From his POV, Anna was nothing but a trembling, half-naked girl—her short brown hair clinging damply to her face, collarbones sharp and prominent, her exposed skin flushed with embarrassment and cold. Every motion threatened to bare more of her, the towel constantly slipping or riding up as she moved.

He pressed a mop and bucket into her hands. “Clean hallway.” The order left no room for protest.

Anna’s heart thudded in her chest as she carried the bucket into the empty corridor. The echo of her shoes and the slap of the mop on tile filled the silence, each sound amplifying her exposure. The towel was so small she had to keep one hand clamped on the front, holding it shut across her breasts, her other hand gripping the mop. Every time she bent or stretched, the back hiked up, flashing the lower curves of her bare butt to anyone watching. When she crouched to wring out the mop, the edge of the towel lifted dangerously high in front, revealing the smooth, hairless contour of her mound and the subtle lines of her inner thighs.

The janitor lingered in the shadows, eyes glued to every accidental glimpse—her bare backside as the towel rode up, the swell of her chest where the towel gapped, the pale strip of skin between the edge of the towel and her socks. Anna felt his gaze like a physical weight, her humiliation deepening every time she had to let go of the towel for a moment to scrub a stubborn mark, only for the thin fabric to slip and expose even more.

Twice, the towel nearly fell away completely. Anna gasped, scrambling to snatch it back up, cheeks flaming as she fumbled to cover her body. Tears pricked at her eyes, but she gritted her teeth and kept working, **** to hold on to the last shreds of dignity the towel still offered.

All the while, the janitor watched—silent, smirking, eyes following every trembling, exposed inch of Anna’s body as she struggled through her walk of shame, mopping the hallway in nothing but her shoes, socks, and a towel that barely clung to her hips.