The Quiet One from the Pulpit

Many different events have happened in my life, but I will never forget that day at the department, no matter how much time passes. It all started when I, as the youngest and most reliable lab assistant, was asked to stay after classes on Friday to help sort through an old archive. The lectures had long since ended, the hallways were empty, and the only people left in the building were me, the caretaker, Semyon Borisovich, two graduate students, Grisha and Tolik, and Professor Veniamin Arkadyevich, who had locked himself in his office and was said to be working on documents. We were sitting in a cramped, windowless utility room, sorting through dusty folders, and the air there was so stuffy and heavy it made my head spin. It smelled of old paper and something musty, like a cellar. I was wearing a light dress because I was getting ready for a normal day, not a cleaning day. It kept riding up when I leaned over the lower shelves, and I caught quick glances from Grisha and Tolik. At first, everything was quiet and even boring. The men chatted idly, joked among themselves, and occasionally asked for this or that box to be handed to them. I ignored their laughter, thinking about my own business, about how to finish quickly and go home. But then Grisha found an old pornographic magazine in one of the boxes. He opened it, whistled, and Tolik immediately moved closer. They started laughing loudly, pointing at the pages, making vulgar comments. I pretended I didn't hear anything and continued folding the papers. "Hey, why are you so shy?" the caretaker suddenly turned to me. "Maybe you could help us figure this out; there's just one here who looks just like you." I turned around and saw him holding the magazine open to a page with a picture of a young girl with long hair and a similar dress. Only in the picture, the dress was hiked up to her neck, and her expression was something between pain and pleasure. I felt a sudden rush of heat, then cold. I jerked toward the door, but the caretaker was faster. He held out his hand, blocking my way, and grinned. Grisha and Tolik immediately stood behind me, cutting off my retreat. I found myself squeezed between them, as if in a vice, and felt goosebumps run down my spine. "Don't be so stubborn," Semyon Borisovich said quietly. "No one's going to come anyway. We're tired, we need a break." What happened next was like a nightmare. I was pushed onto an old sofa in the corner of the utility room, covered in dust and stains. My dress was lifted almost immediately, my panties were pulled off, and they were thrown somewhere. I tried to close my legs, but Grisha pushed them apart with his knee, and Tolik was already unzipping his fly. I couldn't even scream in terror; I only wheezed and shook my head. Grisha was the first to climb on top of me. He was rough and greedy, thrusting all the way in, oblivious to the dryness and tightness. I screamed, but he clamped his hand over my mouth and began thrusting hard and fast. The sofa creaked beneath us, as if it were about to fall apart. Tolik, meanwhile, was masturbating, watching us, and muttering something approving. Semyon Borisovich simply stood there and watched, rubbing his chin. Then they switched. Tolik was even worse—he flipped me over onto my stomach, placed me on all fours right on the cold floor, and thrust into me from behind with such force that I slammed my forehead on the leg of the bookcase. My vision began to spin. He held me by the hips, digging his fingers in hard enough to leave bruises, and impaled himself on him, loudly snorting and cursing through his teeth. By then, Semyon Borisovich had also unzipped his pants and, squatting in front of me, forced me to take his cock in my mouth. He was thick, with a pungent smell, and I almost choked when he pressed down on the back of my head. They came one after the other. Cum flowed down my chin, my chest, my thighs. I felt sick, choked, and sobbed, but no one paid any attention. They were having fun. They cackled, compared who had done it better, and agreed to do it again. And when I was already lying on the floor, torn apart and soaked from head to toe, the door creaked. Veniamin Arkadyevich entered the utility room. I froze, unable to move. The professor paused at the threshold and slowly surveyed the room: me, the scattered folders, the torn panties, the open magazine on the floor. Grisha and Tolik retreated to the wall, pretending they had nothing to do with it. Semyon Borisovich zipped up his fly and froze, awaiting his superiors' reaction. And the professor… he didn't scream, didn't chase them away, didn't rush to my aid. He looked at me the way you look at a broken thing. From top to bottom, with a kind of disgusted curiosity. "Well then," he finally said in his creaky voice. "What have you done here?" No one answered. I tried to cover myself with my hands, but they were shaking and wouldn't obey me. “Veniamin Arkadyevich, she herself…” Tolik began. "Silence!" the professor cut him off. "Whether she did it herself or not is all the same to me. But since you've entertained her, I, an old man, could do with a little rest, too." I couldn't believe my ears. I thought it was some kind of bad joke. But the professor wasn't joking. He took off his jacket, carefully hung it over the back of his chair, and unbuckled his belt. His face remained calm, even bored, as if he weren't about to rape the young employee but rather conduct a routine examination. “Lift her up,” he commanded the graduate students. They forced me to my knees. Veniamin Arkadyevich came closer, unbuttoned my pants, and pulled out his penis. It wasn't very long, but thick and unpleasant, with a crimson head that was already glistening with precum. The professor took my chin, lifted my face, and examined me carefully. “Open your mouth,” he said quietly, but in such a way that a chill ran down my spine. I shook my head, but Semyon Borisovich grabbed me by the hair from behind and pulled my head back, forcing me to unclench my jaw. The professor entered slowly, as if savoring every second. He smelled of old cologne and tobacco. He took his time, moving measuredly, forcing me to lick him down to the very base. I gasped, tears streaming down my cheeks, but he only grinned. "That's it," he muttered. "That's it, good girl. Learn while I teach you." He pulled out his penis, wiped it on my chin, and, turning me around, bent me over the table. I fell chest-first onto the cold countertop, right into the old receipts. The professor positioned himself behind me and suddenly pointed his penis upward, not into my vagina. I squealed when his thick head pressed against my anus and tried to crawl away, but Semyon Borisovich held me by the shoulders. "Quietly, quietly," whispered Veniamin Arkadyevich. "Don't move, or it will get worse." He pressed harder, and I felt myself being torn apart from the inside. The pain was so intense that white spots flashed before my eyes. The professor groaned and entered all the way, then began to move—slowly at first, then faster and more viciously. The desk shook beneath me, folders and papers fell to the floor, and all I could do was whine through clenched teeth. Grisha and Tolik stared wide-eyed. They seemed to even like what they saw. Semyon Borisovich stepped aside and now simply watched, his hands in his pockets. The professor came inside me, roughly and noisily, pushing me into the table so hard I almost choked. Then he stood there for a moment, caught his breath, and pulled out. The juices started flowing down my legs again. I slid to the floor, unable to move. "Well, that's good," said Veniamin Arkadyevich, wiping himself with a handkerchief. "And now you," he nodded at Semyon Borisovich, "make sure she tidies up and locks up the office. And remember," he suddenly turned to me, "come to my office on Monday. I have one more task for you." He left, carefully closing the door behind him. And I was left lying on the dirty floor, disheveled, covered in someone else's sperm, and I understood: what happened today is not the end. This is just the beginning.