Starfish virgin
The custodial closet smells of pine solvent. The fluorescent tube overhead flickers its death throes in arrhythmic pulses.
Felishia Sinner knots another black garbage bag, her nimble fingers working the plastic tie with mechanical precision.
She wipes her palms against her paint-stained overalls, leaving faint smears of industrial cleaner across her thighs. Her boots scuff against the linoleum as she hums something tuneless, some fragment of Creedence Clearwater Revival her father used to play on the battered radio now perched on the shelf above the mop sink.
She doesn't need the flashlight.
Knows these corridors better than the veins on the back of her own hands—the maintenance tunnels beneath Lakeview Technical sprawl like the roots of some concrete tree, passages her grandfather mapped, and her father maintained, and now she patrols alone.
The hum of the boiler room thrums through the walls, a heartbeat she's learned to read for trouble.
Tonight, it purrs.
Fuck, her pussy could do with some purring action.
Her dildo, the internet, later.
The garbage bag swings from her grip, heavy with the day's detritus from the faculty wing.
She takes the service corridor past the robotics lab, past the sealed basement door whose key warms against her sternum on a chain beneath her tank top.
Students whisper about that door. Let them. Some mysteries deserve keeping.
The administrative wing lies dark, offices locked, the new principal's "modernisation" posters curling at their corners in the humidity.
Felishia's boots track soft echoes. She rounds the corner toward the east stairwell.
Well fuck me!
Someone's fucking and it ain't me!
Sloppy, pucky.
Wet.
Rhythmic.
Even a queef!
A woman's stifled gasp pitched high and desperate, followed by the low grunt of someone older, who wants to, but can't keep quiet.
Sinner knows sin!
Felishia sets down the garbage bag.
Her hand finds the wall, guiding her forward in the darkness.
The door to Conference Room B stands ajar, the one with the broken latch she's meant to fix tomorrow.
Light spills through the gap—not the overhead fluorescents, but the amber glow of someone's phone propped against a coffee thermos.
She doesn't peer around the frame like some nervous voyeur. She steps into the doorway fully, shoulders loose, weight balanced on the balls of her feet. The posture of someone who knows she belongs wherever she stands.
Professor De Vries, the dirty old codger, has Hillary Swan, bent over the mahogany conference table, his khakis pooled around his ankles, his pale hands gripping the nineteen-year-old's cheerleading hips with the desperate strength of a drowning man.
Hillary's skirt is rucked up to her waist, her thong torn and dangling from one ankle like a white flag of surrender.
A waste of pretty skimpy material.
The professor's cock pistons into her with wet, meaty slaps, his greying chest hair matted with sweat, his mouth open against the girl's shoulder blade.
They are banging the frigging bejesus out of each other.
Hump and thrust, grind and lunge.
Absa-fuckin'- beautiful.
They don't see her at first.
Felishia watches the way Hillary's fingers scrabble at the table's edge, the way her ponytail—blonde like Felishia's but salon-perfect, conditioned, obedient—swings with each thrust.
The girl's moans climb higher, broken, needy.
"Uhh! Yes! Yes! Fuck! Oohh!"
"Fuck," De Vries grunts, "you're so fucking tight, you little teasing tart—"
Felishia clears her throat.
The sound cracks through the room like a pipe wrench against concrete.
De Vries jags mid-thrust, his head snapping toward the door, his face draining from flushed crimson to pale white in a single heartbeat.
Hillary's eyes go wide, her mouth forming a perfect O of shock that would be almost comical if not for the tears already gathering at their corners.
"Ms Sinner," De Vries stammers, his hands still gripping the girl's hips, his cock still buried to the root in her trembling slit.
"This isn't— I can explain—"
Felishia steps inside.
Closes the door behind her with a soft click that seems louder than gunfire.
Doesn't threaten to call security.
She wipes her palms against her thighs, studies the scene with the same analytical detachment she applies to a malfunctioning boiler.
Hillary's mascara runs in twin tracks down her cheeks.
She's beautiful in the way of girls who've never been denied what they want in sex, never fixed their own transmission at midnight in a gravel driveway.
Nineteen.
Legal.
The age Felishia was when she buried her father and took his place in these tunnels.
"You're leaking on the carpet," Felishia says.
De Vries blinks.
"What?"
"Your slash," Felishia tells Hillary, nodding toward the dark spot spreading beneath the girl's knees on the commercial-grade carpet squares
"You're dripping, bitch. That's my problem now."
Hillary makes a sound like a startled doe.
De Vries finally pulls out—Felishia notes the glistening length of him, thick and veined and still twitching, the condom forgotten on the table beside his glasses—and fumbles with his khakis.
His hands shake. Pathetic.
"Please," he whispers, "my wife— my tenure—"
"Shut up." Felishia's voice doesn't rise.
Doesn't need to. She reaches into her overalls, into the interior pocket she sewed herself, and produces the small bottle of silicone lube she carries always.
The habit started after a night with the art teacher last spring, a woman who taught her things about her own body she'd never bothered to learn.
Now it's ritual. Preparedness. The janitor's creed applied to pleasure.
You never know when a butt will be available through the next door.
She tosses the bottle onto the table.
It lands with a slap beside De Vries's forgotten condom.
"You're going to finish what you started," Felishia says.
"But you're going to do it right."
Hillary's breathing changes.
Felishia sees it—the way her pupils dilate, the way her thighs press together despite her exposed position, the way her torn thong somehow becomes more erotic than nudity.
The girl's gaze travels over Felishia's body with the wonder of someone who's never been allowed to want women openly.
"You want to report us," De Vries says, still clutching his pants.
Felishia makes a rude gesture with her fingers.
Hilary's eyes widen.
Just what the janitor thought: Anal virgin.
"I want to watch you fuck her ass," Felishia says, and something in her tone—flat, certain, bored—lands harder than any scream.
"I want to see if you know how to open a tart properly. Or if you're just another old man who thinks pussy is a dude's favourite dream."
She moves to the head of the table.
Pulls out the executive chair—settles.
Her boots prop on the table's edge, framing Hillary's flushed face.
From this angle, she can see everything: the girl's moist cunt, slick and gaping from De Vries's aborted fucking, the tight pucker of her asshole clenching in nervous anticipation.
Sheez, the little princess has a fantastic balloon knot.
"Look at me," Felishia tells Hillary.
The girl does. Her eyes are blue, contact-lens blue, and they hold something desperate that Felishia recognises from her own mirror on lonely nights.
"Have you ever taken it there?"
Felishia knows the answer.
Still, it makes her pussy tingle to hear an anal confession.
A shake of the head.
The ponytail swings.
"Good." Felishia uncaps the lube, squeezes a generous pool into her palm.
Her fingers are neither stubby nor thin, practical; the nails short.
She reaches forward, trails her slick hand down Hillary's spine, watches the shiver that follows.
"That means I get to teach you both."
De Vries stands, his cock finally wilting, his hands still tangled in his khakis.
Felishia ignores him.
"Bend over my lap, princess."
God, teens are so obedient in sex!
She circles Hillary's asshole with her thumb, presses just enough to feel the muscle resist, then yield.
The girl gasps, her hips bucking involuntarily toward the touch.
"Relax," Felishia murmurs.
"Push out. Wrong feelings are actually so right in this. Do it anyway."
She works the lube in slow, patient circles, the same motion she uses on bleeding radiators.
The lube smears the cheerleader's cute indented rills.
Her starfish puckers.
Starts to gape.
So pretty!
Hillary's forehead drops, her breath coming in jagged bursts.
"Oof! Uhh! Oh! Fuck that's good. Uhh! Uhh!"
Felishia adds more lube, then more, until the girl's crack shines with it, until her thumb sinks past the first knuckle and Hillary's moan becomes something wordless and raw.
"Raaghh! Ffuucck! Raaghhh!"
"Professor," Felishia says, not looking at him.
"Fill her gob with your schlong. Get your meat stiff."
And while Felisha's finger burrows in a tight, winking tushy, that tartlette Hilary is quaffing cock.
Felishia digs a second finger inside the little tramp to support the first.
The wench is perfectly gawped.
A quivering raw gape.
Hillary whimpers and her arsehole lies open like a flower forced into bloom.
Felishia taps the Prof on his butt, indicating to fill her tush.
"Well, sweetheart, you're getting paradise on earth. You ready?"
The girl nods. Her hand, though, holds Felishia's.
"You're going to take him deep, and you're going to look at me the whole time. Understand?"
The dirty Prof prods straight into youthful bum.
An expanding stab.
Lucky, the tart was prepped.
She winces.
"Oof! Oof!"
She wriggles.
"Uhh! Uhh!"
She's enjoying it too fast.
Felishia recognises instant addiction.
She watches closely the decadent pokes and jabs by the old fart.
A cock doing its stiff work in a pliant tushy.
A starfish flexing and gripping as pecker digs and punches deeper.
The janitor can't help herself, and jams a lubed finger straight into De Vries clacker.
"Orrggh!" grunts the sod.
But the desired effect is achieved.
He piston buggers her balloon knot.
"Uhh! Ughh! Raaghh! Oof! Oh my! Raaghh!" from the anal princess in the making.
Her yelps indicate her backdoor is smarting, but it's outweighed by the blissful constriction.
"Slam her! Ram her! Wham her crack!" Felishia instructs.
And the Prof does.
There may be no more compelling sight than a tush being frantically flogged by a bludgeoning, battering cock.
"Cream her dreams!" she adds.
She watches his hips twitch.
Notices Hillary's cute starfish wink and constrict.
They both convulse in flesh undulations.
His: "Orrghh!" as he releases.
Her: "Rragghh!" as she peaks.
With Felishia circling the cheerleader's erect pink jelly bean to ensure maximum fem- delight.
The janitor rises, "Get the fuck out of here. This is my building at night. "
She re-gloves her hands and gathers the waste bag.