HouseOfTease
Registered User
- Joined
- May 29, 2016
- Messages
- 20
- Points
- 0
Meditate for a moment on the delicate, youthful beauty of a college teen girl. The dainty features, the supple, young skin, and mind you this was a fit little petite, with a taut little tummy off which you could bounce a quarter and a perfect little gymnast ass.
The girl in question was a nineteen year old coed, fit as a fiddle, pixie-petite and a competitive gymnast to boot. Oh, and she was cute. She was adorably-cute. She was nubile-cute. She was fucking Disney-cute.
This was the girl the creepy van on campus is looking for.
Also, this was the girl in my office. I'm the Dean of Athletic Scholarship, a newly-created position for which the word scholarship in this context means studiousness and learning. But it also means money. I decide who gets our scholarships and who doesn't. (Except for the football program, which operates in a world of its own.)
So, this little molestably-delicious morsel of van-bait was in my office partly because she needed another year of free-ride scholarship on the women's gymnastics team, but mostly because she wants me to keep certain details of a sordid little affair in the dormitory a secret. And secrets, by the way, are the gifts that just keep on giving, because they never, ever go away.
Her name was Marie, and she had a bit of not-so-Disney-innocent fun in the dorm for which she has since been evicted, a disciplinary decision in which I had no part. I had since arranged for the lease of an off-campus apartment owned by a rather sapphically-cougaresque colleague of mine in the Fine Arts school. That left the matter of Marie's scholarship...in my hands, to be resolved as I saw fit.
I remember when I first saw Marie, at the women's gymnastics team's picture day her freshman year. Delicious, she was. Young, innocent, cheerful, trusting, and naive. Oh, I just love naivete. Girls like Marie never seem to catch scent of the hunt. That always makes it so much more fun. There's a certain evil thrill to mentally-molesting a cute little coed while she cheerfully exchanges light-hearted banter with you, the mature authority figure. I played the fatherly, salt-and-pepper haired, suit-wearing thing to a tee. Marie never showed the slightest hint of apprehension. She was oblivious. I was devious.
I'm a lecherous sex-fiend, I suppose. First time I see a girl, I associate a sex act with her. It's like word-association, but with things I'd like to do. For Marie, it was cunnilingus. I wanted to tie little Marie down and tongue-tickle that little nubbin of her's tenderly and mincingly, flicks so good she'd buck a meter high against the ropes, but paced to make satisfaction seem always out of reach. That's what I liked anyway - driving the girls crazy in bed. The squirming, the squealing, the twisting, the struggling - I loved it; I craved it. I'm also an artist of tickle-torture, a master, actually. I didn't give girls pleasure, I inflicted it.
The cuter the girls, the more exquisite the molestation I wished to inflict. Marie was especially cute. In Marie, I saw the canvas for a masterpiece of pleasure-torture.
But by no scheme or plot could I lure cute little Marie into my clutches, so that it was she who tormented me, as I watched, with wicked interest, at practices and meets, the energetic little dynamo cheerfully cavorting with her teammates between routines. It seemed that she would forever remain just outside my reach.
And then, a certain amorous young man named Chad made his introductions to little Marie by way of her roommate in the dormitory and the resulting escapades had so loudly transpired that the resulting chain of events, accelerated and exaggerated by jealousies and private feuds, had evicted the poor little pixie from the dormitory and placed her in a particularly sticky part of my web, from which a clean escape was almost certainly impossible.
When I heard the news, I "wandered" down to the practice gym and "casually" asked the young woman wrapping Marie's ankles with elastic how exactly one wrapped correctly. This inevitably resulted in the removal of Marie's partially-completed wrap and my opportunity to perform it under the tutelage of the trainer.
"You're not ticklish, are you" I asked.
"Yes. I mean, no," Marie said with a giggle.
"Oh, then we have nothing to worry about!" I remarked.
I slithered a fingertip up her sole, eliciting a short burst of giggling as she recoiled, pulling her foot away. Deans don't normally go about tickling the university's gymnast girls, but this was a fly already caught, but not yet aware of the silken snare into which she had flown.
What followed then was the most ticklish ankle wrapping in the history of ankle wrapping, with incidental caresses, brushings, pokes, strokes, and scribblings across Marie's sole, toes, and even the top of her foot, a most tender appendage, much more supple than I had thought a gymnast would have, and every bit of it wonderfully-ticklish. I'd coaxed heart-rending, tearful pleadings from far less ticklish girls than Marie. Oh, what bright new colors of tickle-agony could paint upon adorable little Marie and that cute little giggling voice of hers?
"Help you try on shoes later?" I asked as I walked away.
"Please, no!" she giggled back.
That's a girl, I thought. More of that. There'll be much more of that...
I'm not really a foot-man, that is to say that I'm not a foot-fetishist per se. There are those for whom the female foot is very nearly a full-on obsession - I do not count myself among them. (Though, of course, each to his own.)
I am, however, a tickle-sadist. There's really nothing I like better than the spectacle of an adorable little nineteen year old coed giggle-squealing in frantic, desperate delirium as I effortlessly, often lazily, trace, twiddle, wriggle, or nibble away, feigning complete indifference to her ticklish suffering. I could do it for hours. I do do it for hours. I set Marie's appointment for a morning with all day free. On a Friday.
I like to think of the ticklings I inflict as art. They are a beautifully strange art between painting and dance, in which my cute little subject squirms and twists for me as a ticklish little ballerina whose choreography I paint from a palette of touches, varying in intensity, vibrancy, and hue, each kiss of my brushes eliciting a sweet musical accompaniment.
Her wraps complete, little Marie danced for me on floor exercise, a teasing, tempting dance - the fly tempts the spider.
"Welcome to the Jungle, we've got fun and games..." proclaimed the floor music.
Indeed, we do, Marie...
And now she was in my office.
I'd told her to wear her practice uniform, done up same as for picture day, but hair down. For Marie, hair down was a jaw-length bob-cut, very gymnast, very cute. She was in gray sneakers, very abbreviated yoga shorts (more like boy-cut black panties in fleece), a little capped-sleeved white top that seemed three sizes too small, with a little black sport bra underneath. She had her face done up, too. Waterproof, of course. I hate it when the mascara runs with the tickle-tears.
She was seated facing my desk. We had discussed the dorm incidents. She would no longer live in the dorm, but I would pick up the rent of the off-campus apartment. Through some juggling of expenses I could eventually charge it back to the university, anyway. Marie would keep her spot on the team and keep her full-ride scholarship. Just as importantly, no one else need know the details of the problem at the dorm.
I stood up and walked around to stand behind her, placing my hands on her shoulders and leaning down to whisper to her.
"Welcome to the jungle," I hissed.
I drew back her bangs on the left side and hooked behind her ear, then traced lightly down her cheek with my finger.
"You're a very sexy girl," I continued with the lyrics fom her floor music, my breath tickling her ear, speaking each lyric matter-of-factly, in sterility, completely absent of musical rhythm, "You can taste the bright lights, but you won't get there for free..."
"Please..." began Marie.
"Oh, there's plenty of time for that, Marie," I whispered, "You know, I think I'd like to tie you up."
Marie tensed tighter than a violin string.
"You wouldn't mind that, would you?" I whispered.
Marie quivered slightly.
"The university has a number of work-study programs if you'd rather..." I said.
"I..." began Marie, hestitantly, her little body trembling so slightly.
"Marie," I whispered, again caressing her cheek lightly, "May I tie you up?"
"Y-y-yes," she stammered.
"May I tickle you?"
"Y-yes"
"May I tongue you?"
There was a long silence.
"Marie?"
"Yes."
"Ahh..., good." I said.
The rag was only damp, as it never took much, and it had been placed in a zip-lock bag taped underneath her chair. I slipped it out and held my breath. The fumes did the work, instant paralysis, unconsciousness soon after. The fly was was mine. To the spider go the spoils.
I felt the most wonderful exhilaration. Marie smelled delightful and she was as sexy today as I had ever seen her. But I only had a few minutes to get her properly trussed before the drug would begin to wear off.
This was going to be so...much...fun!
The girl in question was a nineteen year old coed, fit as a fiddle, pixie-petite and a competitive gymnast to boot. Oh, and she was cute. She was adorably-cute. She was nubile-cute. She was fucking Disney-cute.
This was the girl the creepy van on campus is looking for.
Also, this was the girl in my office. I'm the Dean of Athletic Scholarship, a newly-created position for which the word scholarship in this context means studiousness and learning. But it also means money. I decide who gets our scholarships and who doesn't. (Except for the football program, which operates in a world of its own.)
So, this little molestably-delicious morsel of van-bait was in my office partly because she needed another year of free-ride scholarship on the women's gymnastics team, but mostly because she wants me to keep certain details of a sordid little affair in the dormitory a secret. And secrets, by the way, are the gifts that just keep on giving, because they never, ever go away.
Her name was Marie, and she had a bit of not-so-Disney-innocent fun in the dorm for which she has since been evicted, a disciplinary decision in which I had no part. I had since arranged for the lease of an off-campus apartment owned by a rather sapphically-cougaresque colleague of mine in the Fine Arts school. That left the matter of Marie's scholarship...in my hands, to be resolved as I saw fit.
I remember when I first saw Marie, at the women's gymnastics team's picture day her freshman year. Delicious, she was. Young, innocent, cheerful, trusting, and naive. Oh, I just love naivete. Girls like Marie never seem to catch scent of the hunt. That always makes it so much more fun. There's a certain evil thrill to mentally-molesting a cute little coed while she cheerfully exchanges light-hearted banter with you, the mature authority figure. I played the fatherly, salt-and-pepper haired, suit-wearing thing to a tee. Marie never showed the slightest hint of apprehension. She was oblivious. I was devious.
I'm a lecherous sex-fiend, I suppose. First time I see a girl, I associate a sex act with her. It's like word-association, but with things I'd like to do. For Marie, it was cunnilingus. I wanted to tie little Marie down and tongue-tickle that little nubbin of her's tenderly and mincingly, flicks so good she'd buck a meter high against the ropes, but paced to make satisfaction seem always out of reach. That's what I liked anyway - driving the girls crazy in bed. The squirming, the squealing, the twisting, the struggling - I loved it; I craved it. I'm also an artist of tickle-torture, a master, actually. I didn't give girls pleasure, I inflicted it.
The cuter the girls, the more exquisite the molestation I wished to inflict. Marie was especially cute. In Marie, I saw the canvas for a masterpiece of pleasure-torture.
But by no scheme or plot could I lure cute little Marie into my clutches, so that it was she who tormented me, as I watched, with wicked interest, at practices and meets, the energetic little dynamo cheerfully cavorting with her teammates between routines. It seemed that she would forever remain just outside my reach.
And then, a certain amorous young man named Chad made his introductions to little Marie by way of her roommate in the dormitory and the resulting escapades had so loudly transpired that the resulting chain of events, accelerated and exaggerated by jealousies and private feuds, had evicted the poor little pixie from the dormitory and placed her in a particularly sticky part of my web, from which a clean escape was almost certainly impossible.
When I heard the news, I "wandered" down to the practice gym and "casually" asked the young woman wrapping Marie's ankles with elastic how exactly one wrapped correctly. This inevitably resulted in the removal of Marie's partially-completed wrap and my opportunity to perform it under the tutelage of the trainer.
"You're not ticklish, are you" I asked.
"Yes. I mean, no," Marie said with a giggle.
"Oh, then we have nothing to worry about!" I remarked.
I slithered a fingertip up her sole, eliciting a short burst of giggling as she recoiled, pulling her foot away. Deans don't normally go about tickling the university's gymnast girls, but this was a fly already caught, but not yet aware of the silken snare into which she had flown.
What followed then was the most ticklish ankle wrapping in the history of ankle wrapping, with incidental caresses, brushings, pokes, strokes, and scribblings across Marie's sole, toes, and even the top of her foot, a most tender appendage, much more supple than I had thought a gymnast would have, and every bit of it wonderfully-ticklish. I'd coaxed heart-rending, tearful pleadings from far less ticklish girls than Marie. Oh, what bright new colors of tickle-agony could paint upon adorable little Marie and that cute little giggling voice of hers?
"Help you try on shoes later?" I asked as I walked away.
"Please, no!" she giggled back.
That's a girl, I thought. More of that. There'll be much more of that...
I'm not really a foot-man, that is to say that I'm not a foot-fetishist per se. There are those for whom the female foot is very nearly a full-on obsession - I do not count myself among them. (Though, of course, each to his own.)
I am, however, a tickle-sadist. There's really nothing I like better than the spectacle of an adorable little nineteen year old coed giggle-squealing in frantic, desperate delirium as I effortlessly, often lazily, trace, twiddle, wriggle, or nibble away, feigning complete indifference to her ticklish suffering. I could do it for hours. I do do it for hours. I set Marie's appointment for a morning with all day free. On a Friday.
I like to think of the ticklings I inflict as art. They are a beautifully strange art between painting and dance, in which my cute little subject squirms and twists for me as a ticklish little ballerina whose choreography I paint from a palette of touches, varying in intensity, vibrancy, and hue, each kiss of my brushes eliciting a sweet musical accompaniment.
Her wraps complete, little Marie danced for me on floor exercise, a teasing, tempting dance - the fly tempts the spider.
"Welcome to the Jungle, we've got fun and games..." proclaimed the floor music.
Indeed, we do, Marie...
And now she was in my office.
I'd told her to wear her practice uniform, done up same as for picture day, but hair down. For Marie, hair down was a jaw-length bob-cut, very gymnast, very cute. She was in gray sneakers, very abbreviated yoga shorts (more like boy-cut black panties in fleece), a little capped-sleeved white top that seemed three sizes too small, with a little black sport bra underneath. She had her face done up, too. Waterproof, of course. I hate it when the mascara runs with the tickle-tears.
She was seated facing my desk. We had discussed the dorm incidents. She would no longer live in the dorm, but I would pick up the rent of the off-campus apartment. Through some juggling of expenses I could eventually charge it back to the university, anyway. Marie would keep her spot on the team and keep her full-ride scholarship. Just as importantly, no one else need know the details of the problem at the dorm.
I stood up and walked around to stand behind her, placing my hands on her shoulders and leaning down to whisper to her.
"Welcome to the jungle," I hissed.
I drew back her bangs on the left side and hooked behind her ear, then traced lightly down her cheek with my finger.
"You're a very sexy girl," I continued with the lyrics fom her floor music, my breath tickling her ear, speaking each lyric matter-of-factly, in sterility, completely absent of musical rhythm, "You can taste the bright lights, but you won't get there for free..."
"Please..." began Marie.
"Oh, there's plenty of time for that, Marie," I whispered, "You know, I think I'd like to tie you up."
Marie tensed tighter than a violin string.
"You wouldn't mind that, would you?" I whispered.
Marie quivered slightly.
"The university has a number of work-study programs if you'd rather..." I said.
"I..." began Marie, hestitantly, her little body trembling so slightly.
"Marie," I whispered, again caressing her cheek lightly, "May I tie you up?"
"Y-y-yes," she stammered.
"May I tickle you?"
"Y-yes"
"May I tongue you?"
There was a long silence.
"Marie?"
"Yes."
"Ahh..., good." I said.
The rag was only damp, as it never took much, and it had been placed in a zip-lock bag taped underneath her chair. I slipped it out and held my breath. The fumes did the work, instant paralysis, unconsciousness soon after. The fly was was mine. To the spider go the spoils.
I felt the most wonderful exhilaration. Marie smelled delightful and she was as sexy today as I had ever seen her. But I only had a few minutes to get her properly trussed before the drug would begin to wear off.
This was going to be so...much...fun!