Aftercare

The closet door swung open.

Light. Office. He stood over her with his cell phone, taking pictures before she could lift her arm. Silke lay on the floor, naked, her face still smeared, her hair matted, her legs spread open. Her pussy stood out for a moment—a wet, round slit—and fluid trickled out. White. Clear. A mix.

Click. Close up. The labia. The streak on her thigh. Click. Her face, cum on her cheek, at her hairline. Click. Her tits, a drop in the crease.

Eventually she came to.

He tossed her two rags.

“Clean everything up. Wipe the cum away. Everything. Even the doors.”

Silke took the rag.

First herself. Her pussy, from the front, what was dripping out, what was stuck there. The fabric was rough. It stung. Then the floor, the old stains, the new ones. Then the wood inside, the hole, the edge where he’d pressed her against the door. The bottom of the office door, a splatter she hadn’t seen. Not all the stains came out. Something remained in her hair, sticky, at the roots.

She stood up and stepped in front of the desk.

He looked up briefly from the keyboard.

“What else do you want? The deal’s over. You got your two. So get out.”

“My clothes.”

He laughed—for real—and pointed to the pile in front of the closet. Only now did she see it. Shirt. Pants. The rag hadn’t been a spare rag. She’d wiped with her own clothes.

“And my underwear.”

“I’m keeping that. Hurry up. Get out of here.”

Silke pulled on her pants. Wet. Cold. They smelled of semen, of the floor, of the closet. The shirt too, see-through where she’d wiped. Shoes. No panties. No bra. The sweatpants stuck to her crack.

She felt miserable.

In the hallway hung a mirror, narrow, for ties. For the first time, she looked at herself. Hair matted. Mouth red. The shirt clung to her breasts, the nipples showing through. And as she looked down, something dripped between her legs. Warm. New. Not just the old stuff.

How could she be turned on after all that?

She left the office.

The hallway was too bright. Few people. One who wasn’t looking. A guy who stared too long. Silke went to the nearest restroom, locked herself in, washed her face and hair under the faucet—cold water—until the roots weren’t sticky anymore. She wiped the rest between her legs with toilet paper. Her shirt and pants were a clear no-go. Smeared. No chance.

At least her hair was clean again.

She sat down on the toilet seat, her pants around her ankles, and picked up her cell phone. He’d placed it on the chair for her when he kicked her out, as if that were some kind of generosity.

First, Jonas. Three messages.

Hi, babe, I’m out on campus with the guys. We’re looking for the naked girl. Seems to be the same one from the club. Hope you’re not mad. It’s nothing serious. Just a guy thing.

Babe, it’s getting late. Didn’t find her. Still out drinking.

This morning: Oh, you’re already gone. See you tonight. Love you.

Silke read that twice.

He was part of the pack.

Not just anyone. Jonas. With the guys. He’d hunted her down. He hadn’t let her escape from the dead end.

Yeah, she left the location in the photos. She’d run into the dead end. That’s where Mira found her. She’d just kept going—1.5 hours of sex with the worst guy on campus. Today, the closet. Four cocks. Two in her pussy. One in her face.

She was so stupid. But so was Jonas. Couldn’t he recognize his own girlfriend, who lay next to him in bed every night?

Session. The anonymous number. Lots of messages, spaced out over time, getting more and more frantic.

**Warning. You’re sharing your location. They’re tracking you. Abort.**

**Get in touch.**

**Looks like you got away.**

Then: Where she was. If everything was okay. If someone had her. If she had her phone back. No orders. No *take that off*. Fear. Concern.

Silke stared at the chat.

Her boyfriend chased her naked across campus and called it “a guy thing.”

Her blackmailer wrote *Abort* and *Is everything okay?*.

“Weird” was too mild a word.

She wrote him everything that had happened. Relentlessly.

In the end, she sent him a photo of herself.

Send.

She pulled up her pants, washed her hands one more time, and left.

Few people passed by. The shirt was see-through in the spots where she’d wiped away the semen. Her nipples were hard—impossible to hide. Anyone who looked closely could see a slut on her way home. No one spoke to her.

Jonas wasn’t home.

She locked the door, took everything off, threw the shirt and pants in the laundry—hot wash, extra cycle, as if that would wash the semen right out. Into the shower. Too long. Hair. Face. Between her legs, carefully, sore. Her body remained sensitive. A rush of water, and she had to press her forehead against the tile.

Afterward, her own shirt. Her own panties. The bed.

Then she checked her messages.

Nothing new from Jonas.

Exam season, though.