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Trapped at my Laptop

maryallison

TMF Novice
Joined
Feb 22, 2006
Messages
74
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All my college adventures in being tickled and getting caught naked are behind me. My god I'm almost thirty and I am respectable. I have a career; I have a new car. The only thing I don't have is a dissertation advisor with an ounce of compassion. I mean, what a B - I - T - you know what. If it were a man I would chalk it up to wanting to be just like Donald Trump, and I can handle guys like that. But a woman with power is a dangerous thing, especially when she catches you (or in this case, me) in a position where there is no escape.
I was abusing the privilege of the doctoral program; I admit it. There was no excuse for being on the 14th floor of Dymed Hall last night. It was a Sunday and everything is closed. Okay, it should have been closed, but I know how to jimmy the door open and the guard on the first floor is...you know...a perv. I flirt with him and he let's me up the elevator after 9. But no one else should have been there, and especially not Dr. Bitch. I mean Dr. Mitchell.
So I was on the 14th, going through one more stack of European Political Review, when I read about the Irish politician, Ian McCrea. Naturally I stopped thinking about him and started thinking about another McCrea, my favorite porn star, Marie Maccray. I rarely have a lesbian fantasy anymore but she is the exception. The images of her tied up with a vibrator at her front door is just too much. I paused. I gave in to temptation. I pulled out my laptop and started scrolling images of girls in bondage and hitachi wands. There are so many it you can lose track of time. After I saved a few images from Tumblr I got really turned on, and it was 14th floor on a Sunday night, and who would possibly know? I reached under my t-shirt. In a minute more I started inching the shirt up past my breasts, and a few seconds of doubt gave way to a the shirt going over my head and falling to the floor. I actually looked around for a second, like a fool. "No one is here," I whispered. With each swipe of an image of some poor deluded girl tied up to a vibrator I inched off another piece of clothing. Marie Maccray was twisting and throwing her head back while I was slipping off my jeans and bra and panties. Oh my god I was nude at Dymed Hall. Watching each girl squirm as the images floated by made me forget my place, until the familiar bing of the elevator door startled me, and the doors opened.
I was sitting totally nude in front of my laptop, with the elevator doors growing farther and farther apart. It had to be that perv at the guard station downstairs, and he would have a great story to tell his buddies tomorrow about the naked little --- but wait. It wasn't him. It was Dr. Bitch, still wearing a suit and skirt and that brown leather handbag with the Gucci label. I was never impressed by it, but now all I could think of was hiding behind that leather piece of modesty.
She stopped at the sight of me: nude, suddenly crouching behind my legs and hands, each trying to cover up my everything. She got a look of fury in her eyes, but then composed herself and slowly started walking closer. I adjusted my hands and curled up legs, retreating from the laptop in front of me.
There could be no explanation of why I was there. I would be kicked out of the program and surely responsible for the massive student loan that I had already spent. Dr. Bitch must have seen a lot in her decades of tormenting grad students, but this had to take the prize for stupidity.
She placed her fingers on the laptop screen and slowly turned it around. There were my saved gifs, or naked girls and ropes and vibrators and bedposts and squealing and gasping and helplessness. With each click she saw another poor girl being tormented, just as I was being tormented watching her discover my secret.
I reached for my clothes on the floor nearby, but her high heeled foot beat me there, and she pressed down on the pile.
"This is probably a violation of the university code," she said.
Well, thanks you lousy --
"And I'll have to report it. There can be no cover up."
Ha. So funny. No cover up while I was two feet away wearing my Slutday best.
"Of course there is another option. Call it research."
What was she talking about? Research?
"Let's say you were investigating European ethics and the differences between Puritanism and Parisian fashion."
Huh?
"and if you had to pick a favorite video from the ones you have chosen here, that would be an argument for either the Puritan or the Parisian method."
She turned the laptop back to me.
"Pick one."
"I'm sorry..." I whimpered.
"Pick one." she repeated.
I stared at the screen. There were five images, or girls either flat against the wall, or on their back with their legs up, or tied up to the end of a bed. One image was the tamest: a girl bent over a table. My eyes must have lingered on that image just a little too long, because DR. Bitch closed the laptop and said, "Good choice."
She curled her finger, menacingly. I hate when people do things menacingly.
I stood up, and her mere glance at my hands told me what she wanted me to do, so I slowly let my arms go to my side. She curled her finger again, and I followed. WE walked down the hallway - step by step farther from my clothes on the floor. We went to a conference room, where the Board of Trustees must meet to plot their next tuition increase. There was a set of windows looking over the campus, and - oh shit - the roof of Weller Library, which had a late night cafeteria open, even on Sundays.
Dr. Bitch put on accusing finger on the conference table, and I knew what she wanted: my complete humiliation. I crawled onto the conference table and lay on my back, while she knelt down so that the people who might be on the library roof would only see her hands. She ran her finger up my thigh, and I twitched, but she snapped her finger and I lay still. She ran another finger over my shoulders, then across my collar bone, and then down my arm and side all the way past my ankle. I knew what was coming. She hesitated before fluttering her fingers over my sole, and I twitched again, so she reached up and flicked on the conference room lights. I started to get up, but she snapped her diabolical fingers again and I lay back down, hoping that no one would bother to look across the cafeteria, so near and oh so perfectly aimed right at me.
Dr. Bitch crawled under the conference room table, pushing black leather cahirs out of the way and taking over my untouched side. her fingers ran up and down my shins and thighs, over the tummy, across my ribs, so slowly and so heartlessly that I clenched my fingers to keep from screaming.
I heard a zipper open. That Gucci bag was somewhere under the table, and I couldn't figure out what weapon might be inside. A credit card? A pen?
When I heard the gentle whirring I knew my fate was not just sealed, but publicly so. She held the vibrator above my helpless body, then lowered it onto my happy place. I flinched again, but this time she took her free hand and gripped my own arm, holding me in place on the table as that vibrator attacked. When I lay still a few minutes, in surrender, she let go and lay that vibrator right on my tummy, with the tip pointing toward my feet. She crawled under the table again, then reached up to the light switch and flicked it up and down, eight or ten times, which she new - and I knew - would be noticed at the library tower. She stopped when the lights were on, exposing my nakedness to whoever was thirsty at the cafeteria. In a few seconds I heard the cheer rise up through the giant windows, and Dr. Bitch took the vibrator in her sinister hand and plunged into the valley of life. Her other hand caressed my tits and tummy, flickered at my ribs, slowly plowed across the fertile fields of my thighs, and all the while that vibrator explored my inner weakness. When her fingers pinched my nipples, I was done. She chuckled as I finally bucked and wriggled under the relentless power of her own vibrating secret weapon. The cheering grew louder with each wiggle, and I shut my eyes and gritted my teeth while the hurricane of pleasure roared through me, echoing the approval of my audience. When the storm passed over me, and my body quivered in relief, DR. Bitch drew the vibrator across my hips one more time and simply said, in triumph, "Take a bow."
I had nothing to lose now. I did what she said, and as I stood up and faced my fan club of a hundred spectators, and nodded to them, Dr. Bitch reached up to the wall switch and the lights went out.
 
a delicious story. I like it!
 
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