I was on my knees in the janitor’s closet with my skirt hiked up and my panties ripped to the side when he first called himself my master. The fluorescent light buzzed overhead. My college textbooks were scattered on the floor next to a mop bucket. Mr. Harlan, the sixty-year-old building supervisor with thick forearms and a permanent scowl, had his cock buried in my throat and one hand fisted in my hair.
“Swallow it all, college girl,” he growled. “That’s what you’re here for.”
I did. I gagged, tears running, but I took every thick spurt. When he pulled out he wiped his dick across my cheek and told me to clean up before class. That was the start.
Every Tuesday and Thursday after my last lecture I went straight to the basement. He never asked.
He just expected me. The first time he bent me over the utility sink he didn’t even bother taking my clothes off. He yanked my jeans down to my knees, spat on my pussy, and shoved in raw. I came so hard the metal sink rattled. He laughed, low and mean, and kept pounding until he flooded me.
“From now on you call me Master,” he said while his cum leaked down my thighs. “And you don’t wear panties on the days you come see me.”
I obeyed. I walked across campus with nothing under my short skirts, feeling the air on my bare cunt, knowing what was waiting. Sometimes he made me wait in the closet for an hour, legs spread, hands behind my back. When he finally showed up he’d check if I was wet. If I wasn’t wet enough he’d slap my tits until they were red and I was dripping.
One afternoon he brought a plug. He worked it into my ass while I was on all fours between the washing machines. “You’re gonna take my cock here next week,” he told me. “Until then this stays in unless you’re in class or sleeping.” I wore it for seven days. Every step reminded me who owned my holes.
He started filming on his phone. Not my face, just my body—tits out, cunt stretched around his fingers, ass plugged and dripping. He’d make me watch the videos later while he fucked my mouth. “Look how nasty you are,” he’d say. “Little college slut begging the janitor to wreck her.”
I stopped going to parties. I stopped dating the boys my age. None of them could talk to me the way he did. None of them called me a filthy cumrag while they used me. None of them made me thank them after they came inside me.
The night he finally took my ass he tied my wrists to a pipe with zip ties. He worked the plug out slowly, then pressed the fat head of his cock against the loosened ring. It hurt. I cried. He didn’t stop. He pushed in inch by inch until his balls rested against my pussy. Then he fucked me like he hated me. When he came he stayed inside until he softened, then pulled out and made me clean him with my mouth.
After that he started bringing friends—other maintenance guys, older, rougher. He’d sit in the folding chair and watch while they took turns. He’d tell them exactly how I liked it: hard, no mercy, no pulling out. I’d leave the basement sore, leaking, marked with handprints and bite marks, and I’d still go back the next week.
Last semester he graduated me in his own way. He made me wear my cap and gown, nothing underneath. He fucked me standing up against the boiler while the rest of the campus celebrated. When he finished he pulled the tassel from my cap and wiped his cum on it.
“Keep that,” he said. “Remember who really taught you.”
I still visit when I’m back in town. The closet smells the same—bleach, sweat, and sex. He still calls me college girl even though I have a degree now. And I still drop to my knees the second the door locks.
Because some lessons you never outgrow.
