Next at the cabinet 3

The hour might have been over.

Silke had lost all sense of time. She sat on the dirty floor, her back against the wall, her legs relaxed, and the cum was flowing out of her. Warm at first, then just wet. Over her labia, into the grit of the old stains, under her bare butt. Her pussy throbbed, stretched wide, as if the hole in the wood were still inside her.

The office door.

Voices. The speaker clicked on. On purpose. He wanted her to listen.

“Hey.”

“Hey. Got a minute?”

As if they had all the time in the world. A set of keys. A chair. No rush.

“Is someone in there right now?”

“Sure. But she just got destroyed by a monster cock. Check this out.”

Click. Sound. Silke’s own moans coming from the box—too loud, too wet—the scream from last time. She pressed her forehead against her knees.

“Crazy.”

“Is your mouth still good for something? Can I?”

“Sure.”

Rustling. Belt. The flap.

Silke knew what was coming, but knelt anyway. Listlessly. Her jaw stiff. A cock through the wood, medium-sized, already halfway in, the smell of pants. She took it into her mouth—because the speaker threatened punishment otherwise—and sucked flatly, mechanically up and down.

Upstairs, they kept talking as if a slut on a cock were the weather report.

“She’s especially naive,” said the fat guy. “I’ve had two hundred women here. Two hundred. But I’ve never gotten this much out of any of them.”

Silke sucked and listened.

“She made contact through one of those messaging apps. A session. All anonymous. Said she absolutely needed a ‘two.’ She’d really do anything.”

“Just a two? What does she usually charge?”

“A few nude photos for the collection. And a blowjob. That’s it. But she didn’t even haggle. Two hours of sex. Only condition: at her dorm. And that same evening. I’d been out all day, sweating buckets—she didn’t care.”

Silke almost bit down but didn’t.

Mira had caught her by the fence. And *afterward* made the deal. She’d never intended to let herself get fucked. Silke had walked right into the trap—naked, stuck, wet—and Mira had sold her off like a bargain item. Not sold, but given away at a bargain price. Rage rose inside her, hot, and fought against the shame.

“She sent the address. Department. Student ID. I was already horny anyway, because that flasher had been running naked across campus that afternoon.”

“Didn’t even negotiate,” said the fat guy, amused. “Just two hours. Anything goes. Kissing. Licking. Fucking. She even offered me her ass.”

That wasn’t true. Silke hadn’t offered it. Mira had written to him and offered Silke’s body. The cock in her mouth grew noticeably harder. She noticed it right away. Her anger surged into her mouth. She sucked harder, deeper, her tongue flat, drooling, taking him all the way to the base. Not for him. Against Mira. Against the fat guy. Against the word *naive*.

“I wanted to see how far I could push her. I did everything I’d always wanted to do. Kissing. Licking. Fucking. And she really went along with it, I’m telling you. Like a pro hooker playing the part of a girlfriend. She moaned. She even came several times. It wasn’t until I went for her ass that she said no. Funny, though—she’d offered it to me. Whatever—I wouldn’t have been able to handle any more anyway. But she voluntarily offered to come here this morning and go along with it for sixty minutes. Just like that. She actually doubled the time. Yesterday I couldn’t go on. Today I was able to do four guys a favor.”

Silke closed her eyes. Sixty minutes. Her begging. Her ransom. Coming out of his mouth, it sounded like an order.

“No one—really no one—has ever had to work so hard for a twenty.”

They laughed.

Both of them. The fat guy at the desk. The one with his cock in her mouth.

Silke sucked until her cheeks hollowed out, hatred instead of technique, and thought of Mira in front of the 4K movie, of the pen on her twitching asshole, of Jonas in bed.

The cock twitched.

Too fast. She wasn’t ready. He came, and she pulled her head away a split second too late. The load hit her cheek, the corner of her mouth, her hair, ran down onto her tits—warm, thick—a streak across her collarbone. The second time into her open mouth—bitter—the rest already on her face.

“Oh, that was quite the mess—” The fat guy, annoyed. “Not the lens. Oh man.”

Zipper. The man polite again.

“Remember to send me the videos, or I’ll kick you out of everywhere.”

Door. Closed.

Silke was sitting on the floor again. Cum on her face, in her hair, and between her legs—the other, older guy’s. The speaker stayed on, as if he were checking to see if she was crying.

She wasn’t crying.

She hated.

Mira, first of all. Because she’d sold her out on purpose and with full knowledge of the consequences. Because “anything goes.” Because a “2” would have been enough for nude photos and a blowjob, and instead Silke had spent 1.5 hours riding a sweaty belly, coming four times, and still had to service four more cocks today.

The booth smelled of sex and wood. The red LEDs were glowing.

Outside, someone was tapping on a keyboard.

“Grade is being sent out,” the speaker said casually. “A two. As ordered.”