Jan. Week 3: Tuesday--Leah doesn't beg for SRO Roberts' cum (Luck: +20, Suspicion: +20)

Leah planted her knees on the hard floor more steadily, jaw clenched, refusing to let SRO Roberts see how much she wanted to retch. He grunted, gripping handfuls of her hair as if she were a chew toy, and jammed his cock deeper, glancing down with savage delight as she fought not to gag. When he began thrusting with short, brutal strokes, Leah closed her eyes and and counted, slow and mechanical, waiting for this to end.

“Let’s see that mouth earn its keep,” he sneered, voice thick with arousal and contempt. “You’re not getting up until I’m empty.”

Leah refused to humor him with a reply. She just bore down, letting the muscle memory of a similar humiliations take over.

He started trembling—just a flinch in his thighs, then a full-body spasm—and he yanked her up by the hair, forcing her to look at him.

“Eyes up,” he growled, “you’re gonna watch this.”

Leah locked her eyes to his, thoughts blank, as he jerked his cock with one hand and exploded hot, viscous jets all over her face. Gooey ropes of shame and degradation covering her. The first hit landed across her lips and cheek, the second spattered her eyelid and hairline. She flinched involuntarily as the sticky mess dribbled down her nose and into the hollow of her throat. Instead of the deep satisfaction he probably expected, Roberts looked almost annoyed at her stoicism, as if her lack of tears was a personal slight.

“There we go. You look a lot better like that, honestly,” he said, tucking himself away and tossing her a handful of cheap tissues. “Clean up before you go scare some poor freshman with that war paint.”

Leah dabbed at her face, the tissues disintegrating into damp clumps as she tried to wipe the goo from her skin. It was a lost cause—her cheeks, her chin, her hair, even her blouse were splattered with evidence. She gritted her teeth, knowing that if she tried to rub at her clothes she’d just embed the stains deeper. The humiliation was so overwhelming it almost felt abstract. There was no anger, just the quiet monotony of a woman who had learned the hard way that resistance only made it take longer.

“Here,” he said, tossing an almost spent paper towel roll at her with a smirk, “for your little victory lap.”

She stormed out of his office, head down, clutching the roll and her battered dignity. There was only one single-stall staff bathroom in this part of the school.

Three students were loitering by the water fountain as she passed, their eyes tracking her like hungry animals. She could almost hear their internal calculations: What happened to her? Did she get attacked? Is she okay? Is that—? She ignored them, keeping her chin up, daring anyone to say a word.

She ducked in, locked the door, and looked at herself in the mirror. Mascara combined with a pale ivory hue down her cheeks in rivulets. Her hair was lacquered with cum and her blouse looked like it had been slimed by one of the Ghostbusters. Leah almost laughed at the absurdity.

She tried to clean herself up as best she could, rinsing her face and hair in the tiny sink, dabbing her blouse with cold water, but the stains remained—livid, impossible to hide. By the time she emerged, her face was red and her scalp still sticky, but she looked a little less like a cautionary tale. Still, the gauntlet wasn’t over. She had to make it back to her classroom, through the halls, through the kids, through the gauntlet of judgment.

When she reached her classroom, Leah exhaled shakily, dislodging a last spurt of adrenaline. She would have to do this again. Maybe every week. Maybe every day. Summer couldn’t come fast enough.