The audience of debauchery

I was in my fourth year of university and was a member of the student rights oversight council. Part of the council consisted of teachers, and the other part of third and fourth-year students. Fifth-year students weren't involved; that was the graduation year, and it was decided they should prepare for their diploma defenses without being burdened by anything besides their studies. That is, the senior students had already been through the toughest parts and knew all the ins and outs, how and what to defend students for during exams and tests. That was precisely the function of this council—to ensure that during tests and exams, neither professors nor students could claim anything was

unfair. For this purpose, all classrooms were equipped with video surveillance, but it was only turned on during exam sessions. Regular tests or quizzes taken after each completed topic, while significant, could be retaken more easily, and no one made a big deal about them. There were complaints about failing, but one topic or knowledge over half a year are different things. Although failing a topic could lead to being barred from the main test or exam.

The signal from all cameras went to a control room, the keys to which could only be signed out from security by commission members. The approved list was with security, and the key was issued upon presenting a student ID and verifying the name against the list. In principle, there was nothing valuable there except the equipment itself. It was turned on for the duration of the session; later, if someone disagreed, the video was found, reviewed by the council, and a verdict was issued.

I was elected to this body for the second time; the first time was from the beginning of my third year. And in my fourth year, I was re-elected.

Why am I telling you this? Well, one day I took the key and went to the control room. I studied there often and would leave textbooks and notebooks behind, not carrying them home. I lived on the other side of the city and simply saved time by studying at the university and then going about my business without going home. Eat in the cafeteria and study, no one bothers you, no one comes in, you save time and money by not traveling home just to go somewhere else from home later.

I settled into the control room, locked myself in, and was flipping through today's notes. I don't know what made me turn on the equipment. I looked at the two units and monitors and switched them on.

I started clicking the mouse to display images from all cameras simultaneously on the monitors. Each monitor showed images from the classrooms on one floor. There were four monitors, one for each floor. There were two cameras in each classroom.

I clicked the mouse on the image from the camera that caught my attention, enlarging it to full screen. In the room was one of the oldest professors at our university, Vladlen Ivanovich Shakhnovsky. He was about sixty and taught economics. His subject was studied from the first year through the fourth year inclusive. But besides him, there was also a student, a young girl, most likely a first-year.

Shakhnovsky was sitting on a chair, his back to the side camera, and the girl was kneeling between his legs, rocking her head, clearly giving him a blowjob.

I switched to the second camera. From it, you could see the entire classroom from top to bottom. And sure enough, the girl was sucking Shakhnovsky's cock, and he had one hand under her blouse, touching the girl's breast. Then he removed his hand and started stroking the girl's head with both hands, paused, pressing the girl's head with his hand, said something to her, and releasing his hand, leaned back in the chair, and the girl continued sucking. A few moments later, he moved the girl's head away with his hands, she stood up, wiping her mouth with her hand, he also got up, tucked his cock into his pants, zipped up, said something to the girl, and she left, opening the door, pulling a simple mop from the handles, leaning it against the second door. Our doors were old, double doors with long handles. The second doors were never opened.

Shakhnovsky, meanwhile, took the chair, turned it, placed it against the desk, sat down, took some notebook from his briefcase on the desk, started writing in it, then put it back in the briefcase, left the pen on the desk, walked to the coat rack, put on his jacket, buttoned it, returned to the desk, took his briefcase, and left the classroom.

Shakhnovsky was somewhat overweight and always walked around the university in a jacket buttoned up all the way.

I knew this equipment thoroughly in terms of how to use it; we were trained, and then, if a new professor or student was elected to the commission, we trained them ourselves on how to use it.

If the equipment is on, it's recording. The memory was enough for a month, then the video would start recording over the oldest footage. But it never came to that; after the session, in two weeks, all recordings were erased, and then recording started again for another session. That was the simple functionality.

I rewound the recording from both cameras in that classroom and watched from the very beginning: how the girl came in, stood in front of Shakhnovsky sitting at the desk, shifting from foot to foot. How he walked to take off his jacket, turned the chair, unzipped his pants, pulled out his cock, and sat down on the chair. The girl stood in front of him, and when he sat down, she knelt and raised his cock with her hands and mouth. Although the cameras were black and white, they didn't suffer from a lack of clarity. Everything was very visible, though somewhat distant. And from the side camera, it was much closer, but Shakhnovsky had placed the chair with its back to that camera, so the details weren't visible.

I started staying late at the university every day, hanging out in the control room, turning on the equipment, and watching what was happening in the classrooms after classes. Over a week, two girls visited Shakhnovsky in that classroom. The second one also gave him a blowjob, then he let her go, again wrote something in a notebook, putting it in his briefcase, put on his jacket, took his briefcase, and waddled out of the classroom.

The story repeated itself, like a carbon copy, only the girl was different.

I started carrying a flash drive with me, copied these two recordings from both cameras onto it, and started erasing all the recordings so it wouldn't be visible that the equipment had been turned on.

At first, I wanted to turn the professor in, but after thinking it over, I decided that if I were in his place, I might do the same. In principle, Shakhnovsky was a normal professor, not vindictive, you could joke with him, but intelligently and without vulgarity. He was considered one of our best professors, quite demanding. And it turned out he had a weakness for young female students. They were retaking their economics backlogs this way.

The next week, only one girl visited Shakhnovsky. For the professor, it was like a ritual. Everything repeated absolutely identically, only the girls changed. I again copied the recording to the flash drive. From the flash drive, I transferred the recordings to my laptop at home, watched them many times when I was home, locked in my room.

I saw these girls at the university, walking around laughing, chatting in their groups. I even found out about one that she had a boyfriend, accidentally saw her kissing a guy at the university gates. All the girls were from the first year.

After I saw that girl kissing her boyfriend, I thought, why shouldn't she give me a blowjob too, or her boyfriend would get the recording.

I transferred the recording with her to a tablet and, seizing a moment, approached her at the university, having already started the recording on the tablet. To say I was nervous is an understatement. My heart was pounding, my hands were sweaty; I wasn't this nervous during exams.

"Look here," I uttered hoarsely, showing her the tablet. She looked, glanced around, looked at the tablet again, bit her lip, exhaled, and closed her eyes. Quickly opened them, looked around once more, and quietly said, "Turn it off. What do you want?"

I turned it off and, putting on an indifferent face, said, "The same thing."

"What if I tell the professor? He's in it too, after all," she asked, not looking at me.

"Go ahead. There'll be a scandal. He might get fired, you'll become famous. People will know about you not just at the university," I replied. I was prepared for such a conversation, having thought it through beforehand, that this could happen.

She sighed. "Damn, I'm in trouble. And where do we do it?"

"In any classroom that's open."

"Uh-huh, and it'll get recorded again, right?" she said.

"It won't be recorded. On the other hand, what difference does it make to you? You're already in trouble," I smirked.

I started feeling normal, the nervousness passed. I first thought of taking her to the control room but changed my mind. Better in some free and open classroom.

"And then someone else will come up to me with a video, right? And where's the guarantee you won't post it online or haven't already?" she asked.

"If you want, I can post it online. But I'd better blur the head of the guy with you and give the recording to your boyfriend," I replied.

"Do you promise no one will find out?" she asked.

"I promise. Stay after classes today and wait for me in this spot. It won't take long," I said.

She sighed, turned, and walked away.

After the last class, I came to the appointed place; the girl was already standing there.

"Let's go to the fourth floor, there's a classroom there that doesn't get locked."

I walked ahead, she a little behind; we entered the room, I closed the door, looked around for something to secure it with so it wouldn't be opened from outside while we were there. But there was nothing, so I took an ordinary teacher's chair and stuck one leg between the handles, tugged on the door; the chair seemed to hold and the door didn't open.

She stood and watched my actions.

"What's your name?" I asked, finishing with the door.

"Nastya, and yours?"

"I'm Denis. Well, shall we get acquainted?" I smirked.

"Tell me, how!" she shrugged.

"What do you mean, how?" I didn't understand.

"Well, you stuck a chair in the door."

"Oh, that's what you mean," I said, walking up close to her. Nastya was in jeans and a blouse; it was late October.

Grabbing her ass, I pulled her to me; she was so cool, a bit shorter than me, slender, small breasts, and cute. Nastya stood with her head turned to the side, not resisting, her arms down.

"Lie on the table on your stomach, pull your jeans down," I said.

"You said the same thing as in the video," she said quietly.

"We'll finish with that later."

She sighed, looked at the table, walked over to it. "How?"

I came up behind her, pressed on her neck, bending her slightly. "Like this, lie on it on your stomach."

She sighed again and lay down.

"Pull your pants down," I reminded her.

She got up, unbuttoned her jeans, wiggling her hips, pulled them down over her butt, then similarly pulled down her tights with panties and lay back on the table, leaving everything hanging just above her knees.

Her pussy and the hole of her ass were hairy, but that didn't bother me at all. This view from behind, of a submissive, unfamiliar young heifer lying there, aroused me greatly. I quickly pulled down my jeans, taking my underwear with them, ran my hand between Nastya's legs, placed the head of my cock against her pussy, and started inserting it. Her hole was dry. I spread her lips apart with my thumbs and started pushing the head in.

"It hurts," Nastya said quietly.

"Bear with it." When the head went in deeper, it was wet there, and lubrication started to come out. I poked around, lubricating the head, and pushed deeper, wiggled my hips back and forth a bit to lubricate the shaft further, and so pushed my cock into her all the way. Moved it inside her a few times and started fucking Nastya quickly. She covered her mouth with her hand and quietly whimpered in time with my movements as I thrust into her, holding her by the hips. I didn't even notice myself starting to cum, pulling her onto me with great pleasure.

I pulled out my cock, ran the head over the hole of Nastya's ass, smearing the droplets of semen and lubrication oozing from the head, stroked her firm ass, and stepped back, started putting on my underwear and jeans.

Nastya got up sluggishly and reluctantly, paused for a couple of seconds, started pulling up her panties, then her tights, wiggling her hips, adjusted the top of the tights, then pulled up her jeans.

"Is the camera working?" she asked, nodding at the camera on the wall in the corner by the window.

"Not right now. There's another one hanging over there," I pointed with my finger at another camera.

"Is it working?" asked Nastya.

"No. The cameras aren't working anywhere right now."

"Can I go?" she asked.

"Go ahead. I'll find you when I need you."

"Will there be more?" she asked quietly.

"We'll definitely meet again," I replied.

"You won't leave me alone anymore," she sighed.

"I will. I'll use you and leave you alone. Go to your boyfriend."

She sighed and went to the door, tugged on the chair. "Open the door!" After tugging the chair a couple more times, Nastya said.

I wiggled the chair and pulled the leg out; she left, and I went to put the chair back in place.

When I went to the security room, I saw Nastya getting dressed in the locker room; her backpack with textbooks was there too.

After getting the key, I picked up my backpack from the classroom where I had my last class and went to the control room. My mood and state were wonderful. Turning on the equipment and monitors, I watched what was happening in the classrooms; nothing interesting was going on, and regretting that I hadn't recorded the video of my sex with Nastya, I started re-reading lectures in my notebooks, flipping through textbooks, preparing for tomorrow's classes.

Nothing interesting happened, and after finishing my preparation, I erased all the recordings from today and turned off the equipment.

I didn't feel like going anywhere today and went home, ruining my sister's meeting with her boyfriend at our place.

Our parents were at work; I never came home this early, so she brought her guy over after classes. And then I showed up.

"Why are you home so early?" my sister asked in surprise, coming out of her room in a robe and closing the door behind her.

"It just happened. You're not alone, are you?"

"What makes you think that?" my sister made a surprised face.

"Are you kidding? There's someone else's shoes and clothes hanging," I smirked.

"Damn Sherlock Holmes," she sighed and went back to her room.

My sister Sveta was three years younger than me and had entered the same university I attended this year. We communicated when one of us needed something from the other; the rest of the time, we were like empty space to each other.

Sometimes, when Sveta walked around in her