Paul Jones1
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F/M - M/F Story: The Itching Lotion
Paul was naked and sprawled out, face up, on the usual padded table. Miss Harris, the
sternest disciplinarian at the school, had applied restraints to the young man’s wrists
and ankles.
She was dreaded by her students because of her use of tickling as a means of
disciplining and humiliating them, a practice that made her known as the “Wicked
Witch.”
Paul squirmed in apprehension, afraid that she was going to tickle him again.
But she had something else in mind this time.
She deftly drew her nails across Paul’s scrotum, making him laugh loudly and squirm
vigorously.
He blushed with embarrassment, and cried out, “Oh, please don’t tickle me there!”
“If you think that being tickled down there is bad, wait until you experience what I have
in store for you next.” Paul trembled in anticipation.
She showed him an ornamental bottle. “I have here a lotion that makes the skin itch
intensely.” Paul 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! Paul 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, and he pitifully
begged her, “Oh please, 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, Paul,” 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, Paul, is that the entire itching session lasted a little over 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!”
Paul quivered in horror at the very thought, and then lost consciousness.
Miss Harris was quite pleased now.
In their next encounter, Paul had managed to overpower Miss Harris. Now she was
naked, and tied to her own padded table.
“Do you remember the incident with the itching lotion, Miss Harris?” he asked her.
“I remember it very well. You had the cruelty to apply it to my scrotum,” he said.
Well now, I’m going to have my revenge. And I’m gong to leave it on a lot longer than
a minute!”
She trembled uncontrollably. “No, Paul! Please don’t do that to me! DON’T!”
she pleaded at the top of her voice.
He showed her the same ornamental bottle, and put on surgical gloves. She cringed,
and her eyes filled with tears. But Paul was unmoved.
He began by applying the lotion all over her breasts. Within seconds, they began
to itch maddeningly, particularly her very sensitive nipples. She moaned and groaned
in itching anguish.
“Oh, please! Stop it!” she begged. But Paul let her writhe and suffer for ten
agonizing minutes.
He next applied the lotion to her clitoris, which immediately starting itching
unbearably.
“This time, it’s a good thing that your hands are secured,” he said, alluding to the
remark she’d made in the earlier session.
Another ten minutes passed, during which she suffered unspeakably. “Please,
Paul! Stop the itching!” she bawled. But Paul showed her no mercy.
Then he announced, “Now for my ultimate revenge.” With that, he applied the lotion
to her vagina, inside and out.
She screamed, “No! Not there! ANYWHERE BUT THERE!” Her entreaty went
unheeded.
Her organ starting itching horribly, and she began writhing and screaming hysterically.
The itching was no longer just maddening; it was now positively excruciating.
“Stop it! STOP IT!” she screamed. “I can’t stand it! I CAN’T STAND IT!”
“You know, Miss Harris, if I allow this to continue much longer, say an hour or more,”
—here he was again quoting her—“you might just lose your mind.”
“Itching beyond endurance would turn your hateful brain into mush, and you’d live out
your life in madness. That’s what you deserve.”
Then he added, “It’s a delightful idea! I think that’s just what I’ll do.”
“No, Paul! Please don’t punish me that way! NOT THAT WAY!” she shouted
frantically, in genuine terror of the fate he had in store for her.
For what seemed like an eternity, she suffered dreadfully, writhing fiercely but in vain.
The agonizing itching was unspeakable torture.
Eventually, it began scorching her brain. Finally, she cried out loudly in itching
agony so intense that she lost consciousness.
When Miss Harris eventually awoke, the itching was all gone. But she was in a
hospital for the incurably insane.
(Previously published elsewhere)
Part 1 of 2: F/M
Part 1 of 2: F/M
Paul was naked and sprawled out, face up, on the usual padded table. Miss Harris, the
sternest disciplinarian at the school, had applied restraints to the young man’s wrists
and ankles.
She was dreaded by her students because of her use of tickling as a means of
disciplining and humiliating them, a practice that made her known as the “Wicked
Witch.”
Paul squirmed in apprehension, afraid that she was going to tickle him again.
But she had something else in mind this time.
She deftly drew her nails across Paul’s scrotum, making him laugh loudly and squirm
vigorously.
He blushed with embarrassment, and cried out, “Oh, please don’t tickle me there!”
“If you think that being tickled down there is bad, wait until you experience what I have
in store for you next.” Paul trembled in anticipation.
She showed him an ornamental bottle. “I have here a lotion that makes the skin itch
intensely.” Paul 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! Paul 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, and he pitifully
begged her, “Oh please, 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, Paul,” 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, Paul, is that the entire itching session lasted a little over 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!”
Paul quivered in horror at the very thought, and then lost consciousness.
Miss Harris was quite pleased now.
Part 2 of 2: M/F
In their next encounter, Paul had managed to overpower Miss Harris. Now she was
naked, and tied to her own padded table.
“Do you remember the incident with the itching lotion, Miss Harris?” he asked her.
“I remember it very well. You had the cruelty to apply it to my scrotum,” he said.
Well now, I’m going to have my revenge. And I’m gong to leave it on a lot longer than
a minute!”
She trembled uncontrollably. “No, Paul! Please don’t do that to me! DON’T!”
she pleaded at the top of her voice.
He showed her the same ornamental bottle, and put on surgical gloves. She cringed,
and her eyes filled with tears. But Paul was unmoved.
He began by applying the lotion all over her breasts. Within seconds, they began
to itch maddeningly, particularly her very sensitive nipples. She moaned and groaned
in itching anguish.
“Oh, please! Stop it!” she begged. But Paul let her writhe and suffer for ten
agonizing minutes.
He next applied the lotion to her clitoris, which immediately starting itching
unbearably.
“This time, it’s a good thing that your hands are secured,” he said, alluding to the
remark she’d made in the earlier session.
Another ten minutes passed, during which she suffered unspeakably. “Please,
Paul! Stop the itching!” she bawled. But Paul showed her no mercy.
Then he announced, “Now for my ultimate revenge.” With that, he applied the lotion
to her vagina, inside and out.
She screamed, “No! Not there! ANYWHERE BUT THERE!” Her entreaty went
unheeded.
Her organ starting itching horribly, and she began writhing and screaming hysterically.
The itching was no longer just maddening; it was now positively excruciating.
“Stop it! STOP IT!” she screamed. “I can’t stand it! I CAN’T STAND IT!”
“You know, Miss Harris, if I allow this to continue much longer, say an hour or more,”
—here he was again quoting her—“you might just lose your mind.”
“Itching beyond endurance would turn your hateful brain into mush, and you’d live out
your life in madness. That’s what you deserve.”
Then he added, “It’s a delightful idea! I think that’s just what I’ll do.”
“No, Paul! Please don’t punish me that way! NOT THAT WAY!” she shouted
frantically, in genuine terror of the fate he had in store for her.
For what seemed like an eternity, she suffered dreadfully, writhing fiercely but in vain.
The agonizing itching was unspeakable torture.
Eventually, it began scorching her brain. Finally, she cried out loudly in itching
agony so intense that she lost consciousness.
When Miss Harris eventually awoke, the itching was all gone. But she was in a
hospital for the incurably insane.
She’s still there, suffering from the most horrible nightmares!
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