Paul Jones
TMF Poster
- Joined
- Nov 3, 2005
- Messages
- 89
- Points
- 0
Michael was naked and sprawled out, face up, on the usual padded table.
Miss Harris had applied restraints to the boy’s wrists and ankles.
Her use of tickling as a means of disciplining her students had made her
the terror of the school. Michael squirmed in apprehension, afraid that
she was going to tickle him again. But she had something else in mind.
She deftly drew her nails across Michael’s scrotum, making him laugh loudly
and squirm vigorously.
He cried out, “Oh, please don’t! I’m so ticklish down there!”
“If you think that being tickled down there is bad, wait until you experience
what I have in store for you next.” Michael trembled in anticipation.
She showed him an ornamental bottle. “I have here a lotion that makes
the skin itch intensely.” Michael cringed. “It’s much more effective
than old-fashioned itching powder.”
“Itching is closely akin to tickling, and can be just as maddening.” Then she
put on surgical gloves, and applied the lotion to his scrotum! Michael gasped.
Within seconds, his sac began to itch unbearably. “Oh, please! Stop the
itching! I can’t stand it!” he bawled.
She clasped her fingers before her chest, and laughed with wicked glee
at his suffering.
“This is a brand new preparation. Isn’t it fiendish? Wouldn’t you do anything
to escape this agony?” she taunted him.
“Yes! Yes!” he sobbed wretchedly. The itching was horrible.
“Oh please,” he begged, “scratch! SCRATCH!”
“So, you want me to scratch your balls, do you?” she asked, in mock
indignation. (He was surprised by her using the vernacular.)
“Please! PLEASE!” he screamed. “All right. I will,” she agreed.
She scratched briefly. This brought partial relief, and felt grand.
But then, the relief gave way to an itching even more intense than before.
“You see, Michael,” she explained, “my scratching made your skin
more sensitive. So the itching is worse now.”
“It’s a good thing that your hands are secured. Otherwise, you’d scratch
your balls off,” she said, with wicked delight. He knew that she was right.
The itching sensation seared into his brain. He was weeping, his tears
flowing copiously. “Stop it! STOP IT!” he screamed.
She finally took pity on him, and washed off the wicked lotion.
His suffering stopped at once. “Thank you,” he moaned.
“The remarkable thing, Michael, is that the entire itching session lasted
less than a minute. It just seemed like an eternity to you.”
“But if you persist in being impudent and unruly, it may be necessary
for me use the lotion again. Should that happen, I might have to leave it on
a lot longer, say an hour or more. You’d never forget that as
long as you lived. And you’d have nightmares about it for the rest of your
life!”
Michael quivered in horror at the very thought, and then lost consciousness.
Miss Harris was quite contented now.
Miss Harris had applied restraints to the boy’s wrists and ankles.
Her use of tickling as a means of disciplining her students had made her
the terror of the school. Michael squirmed in apprehension, afraid that
she was going to tickle him again. But she had something else in mind.
She deftly drew her nails across Michael’s scrotum, making him laugh loudly
and squirm vigorously.
He cried out, “Oh, please don’t! I’m so ticklish down there!”
“If you think that being tickled down there is bad, wait until you experience
what I have in store for you next.” Michael trembled in anticipation.
She showed him an ornamental bottle. “I have here a lotion that makes
the skin itch intensely.” Michael cringed. “It’s much more effective
than old-fashioned itching powder.”
“Itching is closely akin to tickling, and can be just as maddening.” Then she
put on surgical gloves, and applied the lotion to his scrotum! Michael gasped.
Within seconds, his sac began to itch unbearably. “Oh, please! Stop the
itching! I can’t stand it!” he bawled.
She clasped her fingers before her chest, and laughed with wicked glee
at his suffering.
“This is a brand new preparation. Isn’t it fiendish? Wouldn’t you do anything
to escape this agony?” she taunted him.
“Yes! Yes!” he sobbed wretchedly. The itching was horrible.
“Oh please,” he begged, “scratch! SCRATCH!”
“So, you want me to scratch your balls, do you?” she asked, in mock
indignation. (He was surprised by her using the vernacular.)
“Please! PLEASE!” he screamed. “All right. I will,” she agreed.
She scratched briefly. This brought partial relief, and felt grand.
But then, the relief gave way to an itching even more intense than before.
“You see, Michael,” she explained, “my scratching made your skin
more sensitive. So the itching is worse now.”
“It’s a good thing that your hands are secured. Otherwise, you’d scratch
your balls off,” she said, with wicked delight. He knew that she was right.
The itching sensation seared into his brain. He was weeping, his tears
flowing copiously. “Stop it! STOP IT!” he screamed.
She finally took pity on him, and washed off the wicked lotion.
His suffering stopped at once. “Thank you,” he moaned.
“The remarkable thing, Michael, is that the entire itching session lasted
less than a minute. It just seemed like an eternity to you.”
“But if you persist in being impudent and unruly, it may be necessary
for me use the lotion again. Should that happen, I might have to leave it on
a lot longer, say an hour or more. You’d never forget that as
long as you lived. And you’d have nightmares about it for the rest of your
life!”
Michael quivered in horror at the very thought, and then lost consciousness.
Miss Harris was quite contented now.
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