Dorm Discipline: Resident Assistant

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Eki 18, 2023 // By:analsex // No Comment

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Dorm Discipline

The new Resident Assistant

“Out with it! You must have more reason to call me in here, than a cup of tea.”

I have known the Dean for nearly a decade, since I started as a post-grad and now as a research fellow. She is agreeable and social, but mostly efficient.

Sitting in her office by her invitation on this warm fall day, maybe one of the last fine days of the year, sipping Earl Grey, I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Dean Harken smiled. “We know one another too well.”

She sipped, put her cup down.

“You’ve had a productive time here, as a scholar and as researcher. But I’m interested now, in your skills at administration.”

That had me baffled. I’d never been in an administration role at this school.

She saw my look, smiled.

“I refer to your time as a dorm RA.”

Ah! Clarity! In my first two years here I took a Resident Assistant position to help fund my way. The pay wasn’t great, but it came with room-and-board.

“You’re interested in the part where I cleaned up Hazard House?”

She smiled.

That was the campus name for the Sophomore floor of Minster Hall, the oldest dorm block on campus. It had become a tradition for second-year students to party there.

It had become a problem as the school’s dropout stats had gotten worse, mostly because of slackers in Hacker House, partying at the expense of their academic progress.

As RA I’d put some brakes on that. Not so much as to spoil the reputation, but enough structure to ensure each student made time for study.

Things like a ‘dead week’ before finals, when there was a moratorium on gatherings bigger than a 6-person study group. Sunday cram sessions where students helped each other in an all-day study session in the commons, with tutors and pizza provided.

It was not enough of a crackdown to engender resentment. In fact students routinely expressed relief when their grades improved enough to take pressure off from family, who were paying the bills after all and wanted to see progress.

But that was all in the past. I’d been in the classroom as teaching assistant, tutor, lab technician and now researcher since then.

“How can I help you?” I asked sincerely.

Dean Harken was a friend as well as an advisor. She’d supported me when my funding got bumped for lab renovations, landing me work on outside contracts from her friends in the the commercial world.

Also, Dean Harken was a stone cold beauty. In her 30’s, even dressed conservatively, her classical features and superb build could not be disguised.

Not that I mixed academics with pleasure. I didn’t shit where I ate; the academic life was hard enough without screwing around with… well, screwing around.

“I need an RA for a Sorority house. Yes, normally the national Greek organization would be expected to step in when a house is in trouble.

But this house has been de-certified by it’s umbrella society.”

“You don’t just close them down in that case?” An un-credentialed house meant trouble – hard to justify to the Regents, to parents, to the Faculty board.

“This is a… special case. The residents are all exceptional scholars. Some are from influential families, legacies with stellar histories in this institution. And the rest are special needs. Not in a scholarly sense. In a financial one.”

Ah. Dean Harken had a soft spot for that kind of student. It was rumored she’d come from a trailer park in Florida herself, pulled herself up by her bootstraps to get a PhD and a role in University administration.

Some said she’d slept her way up; I doubted that extremely. She was too sharp; too formidable. Pity the bloke who tries to tap that powder keg! She had the skills, and now the power, to ruin even tenured profs who got too frisky.

“They don’t have an RA now?” Lack of an RA was a serious breach of the University policies.

“We went through three last semester; none lasted more than a month. They are un-supervised at the moment. The last one left the school, is in therapy.”

I swallowed hard. That sounded rough. But how rough could a bunch of 19- to 21-year-olds get? Especially good students.

“Well, you know I’m your man. Nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”

“Just what I hoped you’d say! You can start this afternoon.”

That was fast. But I was between residences now, my previous situation ending when my roommates simultaneously fled – either graduating or transferring. It would be a relief to stop couch-surfing. And Dean knew it. She knew everything.

Approaching Meta Mu (and how was that a Sorority designation? Meta wasn’t a greek letter), I paused to take it in.

The house was three-story, some old Queen Ann built by an architect from the last century. Roof good; no windows broken but some on the 3rd floor were smeared pretty liberally with something nasty.

A hose snaked up one side to the roof. I knew what that always meant – a weed garden on the roof, in this case a widow’s walk. Pretty handy actually, good sun, Bostancı Escort flat, probably a hatch access inside.

And not visible from the street. No cause for campus security to inspect, as they left houses alone as long as they weren’t a public nuisance. Private pot was pretty standard, especially as this institution had an Ag department. Lots of students with the know-how to grow a respectable crop.

A motor bike was parked on the lawn. Indian, smaller model but well-maintained. Expensive. I’d be interested in seeing more of that.

Walking to one side I peered at the back yard, what I could see of it. A full-sized tee-pee had been erected. No smoke came out at the moment, but with the door flap open I could see a hookah and what must be a blizzard of torn condom wrappers littering the inside.

Nothing I couldn’t deal with so far. The usual college-age undergraduate excesses.

The front door was ajar. A big double-oak paneled affair, a little scarred but it’s a century old so pretty good. One half was unlatched, stood half-open.

That could be a good sign. They welcomed desperate folks in need, a holdover from the riots up north. On a midwestern college campus it wasn’t as risky as it would be in an inner city.

I knocked anyway. Start out showing respect, then demand respect. Went a lot further than arrogance.

I heard bare footsteps, then the door was flung all the way open. There stood a blond in weekend casual wear – stretchy workout shirt, yoga pants, and clearly nothing else.

Her big tits stretched the shirt to it’s limit, her nipples vigorously interrupting the smooth lines. Her pants were old and comfortable, with holes in places most folks would want covered.

Soft curves, not an athlete but not soft. Athletic and round, the best combination.

She leered openly, gawking at me from head to foot.

“You must be the new RA! Hey ladies! Fresh meat!” she hollered over her shoulder.

Turning, leaving the door open but not waiting for me, I followed inside.

She made a big show of wiggling her ass as she walked, through the parlor (yes these old houses had parlors) into a living space.

I came into the main floor living room, dominated by a huge crappy sofa in roughly the center of the room, and an improbably large screen bolted to the plaster wall over a disused fireplace.

The couch was occupied by two girls, clearly residents, their legs sprawled across the lumpy cushion.

“I’m Slut, this here is Goth Girl, and that’s Preppy.”

It was clear who was who. Goth Girl was indeed deep into the black makeup, spiked hair and studded lace top. Leather pants completed the outfit. Her bare feet had black toenails.

Through the lace you could see her nipples were pierced – with industrial bolts, must be four inches, with nuts threaded on. Never seen that before.

Preppy was as clear a contrast as I’d ever seen. Starched shirt with a blazer; immaculate hair, nails, makeup; capri pants with heels. You’d think she was as straight-laced as the clothes indicated, except that shirt was unbuttoned to her navel.

It gaped artistically, with her college-girl petite breasts clearly in view. And the camel-toe was breathtaking. The pants were tight on her tight body, her cunt lips may as well have been drawn on the crotch.

“Glad to meet you. I’m…”

Slut interrupted. “No real names here. You’re RA. That’s enough. House tradition; get used to it.”

I accepted that; traditions are important in an academic environment. Structure is structure, and I was here to reinforce that, not tear it down.

“Ok, glad to meet you, Preppy, Goth Girl!”

They gave me a bored look, but it lingered too long to be convincing. They were sizing me up.

“Any other residents? I understood the house was full, and a house this size could have three or four more residents.”

Preppy spoke, her voice a careful contralto. Clearly a woman of substance, or so her affect meant me to think.

“The top floor is off-limits; some problem with the plaster I understand. So just the four second-floor rooms, two singles and two doubles. And your room on the ground floor, in the back.”

“That would mean? How many more?”

Slut responded. “You haven’t met Kitty and Butch. Hey Kitty!” She hollered that last through a door, where I presumed the architect had placed the stairs.

Someone up there squeaked something unintelligible, which apparently satisfied Slut. In any case she sauntered back, flopped on the empty end of the couch.

“Butch is off with some biker buddy, at a hill climb I think.”

“That her bike out there? Sweet ride.”

Goth Girl rolled her eyes. “That’s mine. Butch wishes it was hers.”

Kitty clattered down the stairs, popped into the room.

A little girl, college age but a tiny figure, maybe 5 foot tops, skinny, waif-like. Wearing a Hello Kitty! puff-paint shirt, almost no tits, blue three-button shorts that came up over her navel but ended just level with her crotch.

Tiny Ümraniye Escort white platform shoes and thigh-high white stockings that came nowhere near those shorts, leaving a startling amount of skinny bare thigh in view.

Auburn hair to her shoulders, straight bangs that framed her face in a square. A picture-perfect porn fantasy, including barbie-doll makeup that made her face look plastic.

She minced across the floor, offered her tiny hand in a limp greeting. I took it, and she smiled a little-girl smile, waved long eyelashes at me, noodled one leg on the point of her shoe in a mock-shy gesture, left her hand in mine a little longer than was decent.

“Kitty. I’m.. RA. Glad to meet you. I should get settled? Could you show me to my room?”

She let go of my hand, stood pigeon-toed for a moment, one finger on her lip as if trying to remember where that might be. Brightened, pirouetted and clattered through the stair door. I followed with my gym bag.

Indeed there were stairs leading up, but the door continued through into a hall. Down the left on the end I could see the back door to the lawn. Straight ahead – the kitchen.

She headed right. At the blank end she turned, put a hand on the knob of the recessed door, flicked it open. It creaked wide, revealed a pretty roomy furnished bedroom.

“This is for you!” She said in a tiny cute-girl voice. “There may still be some stuff in the dresser. The last girl left crying and hasn’t been back!”

I went in, surveyed my domain. A dresser with mirror; a side table with plastic flowers and cigarette papers; a lamp table by a double bed, unmade, a paisly comforter bunched up at the foot. A little girly for my taste, but I’d adapt.

She was lingering in the door. “You want some help… settling in? Something personal I could do for you?” she asked, coquettishly.

I was having none of it. “I’ve got it from here. You go back and join your friends; I’ll be along in a bit.”

She smiled, clattered back down the hall leaving the door open.

Setting my bag on the bed and turning on the lamp, I saw a door next to the dresser I’d missed. Opening it I found a private bath! Luxury. Not had that for years. I could get used to this.

Pulling open dresser drawers, I found a small one with sensible girl-underwear and ankle socks; a wide one filled with linen shirts and woolen skirts.

Leaving all that, I pulled open the bottom one – empty. I stored the content of my bag in it, except my toiletries which I found a place for in the bathroom.

It was late afternoon on a weekend. Enough chores for today. I returned to the common room, closing my door as I left.

They had a movie on the big screen. Preppy was not in evidence; probably gone to her room. Slut and Goth Girl were slouched on the couch, some space between them, watching the movie.

Kitty had parked herself on the floor in front of the couch, on a shag run in front of the fireplace. She was looking up at the big screen from too close, her mouth open, eyes fixed, childlike.

The movie was a slasher flick, appropriate for a matinee at home, pretty standard college fare. “Hayrack Ride” I believe, though I’m no expert on slasher movies.

I stood behind the couch, watched for a bit until Slut noticed me.

“Sit!” she said, not unkindly, patting the space between her and Goth Girl.

Joining in house activities was an important step in establishing trust and gaining acceptance. Time later to establish structure; for now I’d try to learn the pattern of life here, participate where I could.

I went around, sat carefully between the girls. They immediately skootched over to be next to me, touching me. Ok, not a problem, I have no touching phobias. And I sense it’s a sort of test, pushing my limits a bit.

Something startling happened on the screen just then and Kitty back-pedaled on her butt until she bumped the couch.

Right between my knees. I shifted to give her room, and she relaxed, leaned back, settled in with her knees up, spread wide, hands in her lap.

The movie progressed according to the formula – teenager reunion after some shared trauma years before. Decide inexplicably to return to a remote location for an overnight. Scary noises; weird things lying about.

At the point where the sexy girl goes off alone with the hunk, the tenor of the room changed. Slut absently put one hand in her lap, the other on my knee, her eyes glued to the screen.

Goth Girl seemed hypnotized by the movie. She also put a hand on my thigh, her other on her belly, pushing the lace shirt up a smidge.

The movie hunk stripped, butt-naked from the back, skin glowing in the firelight. The girl he was seducing (or was she seducing him?) stripped to bikini briefs, put his hand on her tit. The background sounds became ominous.

As the on-screen couple kissed I saw over her shoulder Kitty had slumped, both hands on her crotch as fists, pressing her sex through the shorts.

Her Hello Kitty shirt had a wide collar that Anadolu Yakası Escort kept the front stiff, and had the first few buttons unbuttoned.

Anyway I could see her bare chest beneath, not so much as a training bra obscuring my view. Her adorable acorn tits were mostly pointy areola and nipple, which were now flushed and at full attention.

College life had its perks, and plentiful female anatomy in view most of the time was one of them. Compression shorts, tights, even pajama bottoms were the fashion now. Athletic bras were frequently the preferred exercise-wear and even class-wear.

But this was extreme even for college. Bra-less, unbuttoned, aroused. This was stimulating enough to get past the normal mental armor I put up as protection against being manipulated by undergrads exploring their sexuality.

Flirting with a teaching assistant was common, I was exposed to that daily. But naked girl? Hard to ignore.

The movie couple was under a blanket, clearly fucking now, that athletic hunk butt heaving up and down, pounding the girl. She was clutching the blanked, scratching his back, doing all the movie-trope things we knew as sex. It was a pretty good fake; it really looked like they were fucking.

Slut’s hand had wandered further onto my lap, was clutching the fabric of my shorts. No way she didn’t notice the hardening of my dick.

Goth Girl had her hand under her shirt now, cupping one tit, tugging at one of those quarter-inch bolts she had piercing the nipple. Her mouth was slightly open, her tongue extended slightly, breathing hard.

Her hand had snaked up my thigh, her fingers actually under the hem of my shorts leg, rubbing.

My dick was responding to the sights and sensations of three excited hormone-laden women, stiffing at an alarming rate.

I slid my butt back a smidge to relieve the pressure, trying to keep my dick from popping out the waistband of my track shorts. But it just provided more scope for expansion. And for groping.

The first movie-murder was imminent, everybody knew it, and the tension level of the room redoubled. Kitty was rubbing her crotch now like she was kneading bread.

Slut had one hand through a hole in her yoga pants, clearly frigging herself, a squelching sound loud in the the otherwise quiet room. Her other hand was over my dick on my shorts, grabbing a fistful of cloth but no flesh for now.

Goth Girl was tugging and twisting that bolt like trying to loosen a jar lid, alternating pulling her nipple out to an alarming distance, with twisting the bolt in place, sliding it back and forth through the hole in her nipple.

Her hand was fully up the leg of my shorts now, and bumping my balls.

The music telegraphed what came next, yet it took everyone by surprise. A trapdoor to a hayloft overhead gave way, dropping a load of hay as well as a piece of farm equipment.

The shrieking music coincided with the sexy-girl’s orgasm followed by fake music sound effects for two bodies being pierced by the improbably long and narrow blade on the plow or whatever had fallen.

Something like rusty-doorhinge-hay-rattle-gritch-thunk.

The scene moved in on her expression lying there, extreme closeup of orgasm and death agony. The actress wasn’t actually that bad – a convincing frozen expression of terror and pleasure.

The final shot was of the hunk’s butt, still mated with sexy girl. A sudden gush of movie-blood from between them, supposed to be flowing from her cunt I guess, streaming out and down her hip into the straw.

The effect on my housemates was varied. Slut’s eyes rolled up and the knitted crotch on her pants bloomed wet. Her expression was entirely pleasure, no pain.

Goth girl’s eyes remained riveted on the screen, her mouth a cruel grimace as she pulled her industrial appliance so hard I thought it would tear free. Her hand found my balls and squeezed, to my considerable alarm. Not so hard as to disable, but definitely a serious jab at my manhood.

Kitty leaned forward, curled on the floor like a wilting flower, hands jammed into her crotch, just rocking in place.

The scene moved on to the main house, the rest of the teens figuring out who was missing, salacious suggestions about what they were going. “He’s probably out there impaling her with his tool!” one suggesting with classic foreshadowing.

From where I was sitting the situation was about the same as before, but completely different. Three women arrayed around me, gathering themselves after their group-masturbation ritual. The room now stank of estrogen and sex.

Goth girl ‘realized’ where her hand was, looked me in the eye. “Sorry! Did I hurt you?” She held that pose for a moment, her hand pulled up from my balls but just barely.

Slut was laying back breathing hard, one wet hand now laid across her lap, the other still on my dick. Part of her ample bush bulged through the hole in her pants. She opened her eyes at Goth Girl’s remark, saw what was afoot.

She stirred herself to a sitting position, using her hand in my lap for ‘support’, but incidentally grabbing my dick through the fabric.

Pulling the drawstring, she eased the waistband over my still-lengthening member. Goth Girl removed her hand, tugged the shorts further down, reached between my legs to cup my balls.

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