Dorm Discipline: Resident Assistant

Should I refuse? I had no right to interfere with her agency as an adult. That was the whole point of college after all - to wean young people from the support structure they'd grown up with, until they could stand on their own.

I relaxed, accepting my fate as a target of ambitious young women, laying back against the headboard while she gave it her all. This was her sales technique after all. Part of her business education, to learn what would play, what would hook the customer.

And I admit I was nearly hooked. She had warm hands, plump lips, a talented tongue. It wasn't long before I was rock hard and she had progressed from licking and sucking to full-on head-bobbing accompanied by shaft stroking.

I would have thought yesterday's sex-marathon would leave me indifferent, but I was wrong. Three different women in 12 hours had provoked my libido in ways I didn't know were part of me.

My excitement quickly built. This was fucking hot! A rangy professional woman latched onto my dick, her spit mixed with my sex juice slickery on my cock, pumping and slurping as I stared at her perfect features.

I put one hand on her shoulder, warning her of my impending ejaculation. She redoubled her efforts.

But when I raised my hips, involuntarily thrusting as I came, she pulled off. Intending to catch my spunk in her hand I think.

But her grip was too strong and served to pressurize my urethra. Spunk geysered onto her face, into her hair.

She recoiled, alarmed and then upset. Running her fingers through her hair, her hand came away a spider-web of stringy cum, stretching from finger to finger and back onto her face.

"Eeeew!" she squealed, suddenly not the confident sultry business woman, but a disgusted college girl.

She bent over to keep her blouse from getting soiled, held her hand near her face so as not to splatter the jizz everywhere, backed off the bed and fled my room.

I heard her in the kitchen, running water and tearing off paper towels. Admiring comments from somebody already in there - Goth Girl? I was just glad it wasn't catty remarks or anger.

I think this is going to work. These women are essentially respectful of one another, without a jealous bone in their makeup. They celebrate their differences, without resentment or envy.

As my cum pulsed weakly from my rapidly deflating member, I couldn't help but admire her negotiation skills. I'd been seconds from capitulating to her demands.

Breakfast was a quick affair. Classes today for most of them. Slut already at the bio lab, some study session. Or another quickie, how was I to know.

Preppy was recovered, her makeup repaired. I could see only a hint of stiffness in her hair where the jizz had dried before she got it all out. She was making a bag of muesli for the road, from canisters on the counter.

Still no sign of Butch. Was this something I should be concerned about?

Goth Girl was subdued, her thoughts elsewhere. Still in her sleeping clothes, she was decidedly un-Goth-like in the morning. A T-shirt that gaped at neck and shoulders, no sleeves at all.

It showed her tits freely. They occasionally came through the sleeve hole as she reached for something, which annoyed her - she'd tug at the hem to straighten it, get the nipple back inside.

And those nipples! No bolts today, so they were slumped flesh with startling collapsed holes in them, sagging slightly against her areolas, kind of like deflated advertising signs.

Still darned cute though. In my opinion.

I asked the group "Any sign of Butch last night?"

They looked at each other, shrugged. Preppy deferred to Goth Girl.

"She disappears before midterms, off to the gym or something. A physio major, spends all her time with her physical culture crowd."

"All night?"

Goth Girl shrugged again. "Shacking up with somebody I guess, a biker or assistant prof or grad student, whoever will have her."

That sounded a little self-destructive. I'd have to think about that.

And why did they defer to Goth Girl on questions of Butch? Some connection there. Let me see. Did they share the double? I think so.

I decided to get started addressing house issues.

"Ahem. I hope I got off on a good foot yesterday. I don't mean to disrupt your flow, put a kink in house life."

They looked at each other, seemed to not understand why yesterday might do that.

Fucking one of them, getting a handjob and blowjob from two others seemed to be entirely in line with house norms. Noted.

"Just right off the bat, in line with my job ensuring health and safety, I noticed some things not getting done regularly."

Goth Girl looked down, clearly knowing what I meant. Preppy glanced at her, looked superior.

"I know midterms means less time for everything house-related. Still, we have to stay healthy and safe. Some things can't get skipped.

In particular, the kitchen trash. We don't want to leave it to rot, not in the same room we're cooking food. It should be taken out every night.

Do you have a rota for such things? Or assigned roles? I'm good with whatever is customary, long as it gets done. I'll even take a job, I live here too now."

Preppy answered. "We used to. But with the previous RA gone, and the Hippie bitch too..." This got a glare from Goth Girl. Clearly they didn't see her the same way.

"Some folks have started skipping their chores. One thing gets left undone, everybody thinks they can be slack."

Goth Girl spoke up. "I don't see the living room getting cleared regularly!"

Preppy colored. "I was gone last Friday, on a site visit for class! The kitchen trash has no excuse."

"You could have done it Saturday. And those used condoms left all over the place are gross too!"

I'd spotted a couple of those, one in a crack between couch cushions, one oddly draped on top of the TV. How did it even get up there?

No time like the present to address this.

"It can be difficult to remember everything once a routine is interrupted, I get it. But it's also possible to arrange things to make chores simpler, to minimize the mess.

For instance, I suggest putting a wastebasket in every room in the house. Takes just a moment to toss a condom into a basket, if one's handy. Then they can be collected as a routine matter, not interrupt personal time and space.

A tissue box in every room also helps keep stains off the furniture. The wastebasket helps keep that tidy too."

That seemed to defuse the tension; the girls nodded, even smiled tightly at each other.

"I'll shop for them this morning. Five rooms downstairs; four bedrooms upstairs plus the bathroom?"

"The bathroom upstairs already has one."

"Ok, then I'll get nine small wastebaskets from the big box store. Any preferences? Metal? Wicker? Plastic?"

Nobody had any preference. That was consistent with how I'd read the house. A pragmatic bunch by and large.

"I'll see what they have at a reasonable price."

Since I hadn't provided any supplies in the kitchen, I skipped breakfast. Eating somebody else's granola could escalate into resentment quickly, especially with cash-strapped students.

Kitty clattered in just as I left to put on my shoes, get my wallet. The others could fill her in if they thought it important.

I headed out, leaving the house to survive in my absence. It hadn't burned down in the two weeks since the last RA left, so I wasn't too worried.

Big box store was off-campus, so I took the bus. Haven't had a car since I left Chicago. No need on this well-appointed campus, usually.

Filling a cart with tissue boxes (10), sedate little brown plastic wastebaskets (9), and a few breakfast treats for myself and to share (bananas, bagged cereal, granola bars and a quart of milk) I checked out and hauled my haul to the bus stop.

Always awkward to get on a bus with half a dozen shopping bags, but it was late enough and the bus was fairly empty.

The walk back to the house from the campus bus stop was murder. What seems a reasonable load when you start out, has shoulders cramping and arms like dead weights after a half mile.

I trudged up the steps, through the still-open front door and made a beeline for the kitchen. Dumped the bags on the counter.

Noticed the kitchen trash was empty - a good sign. If the house resented doing chores it became a constant fight. If they just did them and moved on, my job was so much less stressful.

I filed away my groceries, grabbed the bags with tissues and the stack of nested trash cans.

The living room - trash can next to the fireplace, visible but not obnoxious. Tissue box on mantle.

Front room, the 'parlor' - did this really need a trash can? Had I counted it in my total? I gave it a miss. Probably nobody screwing in here anyway.

Kitchen - had a can, parked a tissue box under the cupboard on the counter.

Down the hall toward the back door - yes! there was a laundry room here, old cracked laundry baskets, a tired washer with rust stains, dryer looked newer.

Wastebasket between them, tissue box on shelf overhead.

My room - wastebasket beside bed, tissue box on lamp table.

Upstairs - new territory for me. I would normally have no reason to intrude here. But I rationalized, my role in health and safety meant I should at least have a look around.

The upstairs bathroom indeed had a wastebasket. Also a claw tub with a grubby shower curtain, a toilet that needed cleaning, a sink and mirror, a full-length mirror on the back of the door.

Tissue box on the floor by the toilet - the only clear space in the room, every other surface covered by hairspray, gels, sixteen kinds of soap, hair dye packets and so on.

The mirror over the sink had something stuck to it. Peering closely, I saw a picture cut out of a magazine of Harry Reasoner taped squarely in the center, making it hard to see yourself at all.

Very distracting but it surely had a history, and I wasn't here to tell anybody how to decorate. I left it alone.

The full-length mirror was also obstructed - by a constellation of lipstick kisses, clearly applied by the house members in various shades of red, magenta, purple and black.

Another house custom. What did it signify? Were they added to mark some occasion? The onset of a period? Success in a class? A conquest won?

None of my business of course but I took it as a good sign, that they shared this small ceremony and understood it's meaning. Shared meaning was the foundation of culture.

The double at the end of the hall was empty - surely the one belonging to Hippie Bitch as I now thought of her. Cleaned out, but the scent of patchouli and hemp remained.

The bare floor and walls looked sad. No stickers, no posters, nothing to show anyone had ever been there.

Except some marks on one wall where the headboard of the bed had impacted, leaving a constellation of small dents. Probably vigorous sex, bouncing the bed, bang! bang! bang!

The other double was clearly in use - Goth Girl had left her mark, black makeup on the vanity, leather studded boots in the closet.

Plus the spoor of a physical education major - worn athletic equipment, three gym bags full of whatever, athletic socks.

A closet full of leather - who's was that? Surely not Goth Girl - she was the black-lace sort.

Hanging beside the leather in the closet - an enormous strap-on, black with bulging fake balls, the strap made of leather with holes for the buckle prong.

The smallest hole was well-used. Not by Butch, who by all accounts was a large woman. Had to be Goth Girl's, she had a fairly rangy build and a small waist.

Who was she corn-holing? Butch? Surely not. But who was I to say. Godspeed to them. Explained why they deferred to her on questions of Butch's whereabouts.

Tissue box between the beds; wastebasket next to it on the floor.

The next single was Preppy's, clearly. Brooks Brothers in the closet, too many shoes on a rack on the floor, all expensive. Everything tidy to the point of painful.

How did she survive in a house like this? I had to give her credit for open-mindedness and tolerance.

We shouldn't push that too hard. Some token acknowledgment of the importance of order would go a long way toward keeping her in her comfort zone.

Tissue box on the desk, aligned with the edge. Wastebasket next to the bed, squared up with the vanity table. She'd surely rearrange them, but she should find them tidy when she came home.

Last single - Kitty's I imagined. Door closed, so I knocked.

She sang out Come In! in her best little-girl voice. I entered.

To find her nearly naked, primping in front of a free-standing full-length mirror. Just tiny, tiny panties, tiny socks. No shirt; no bra.

Her structured hair looked a little out of place on a naked girl. Like she was wearing a headpiece.

Her body was hairless but for her full head of hair.

She flounced up to me innocently, stood on tippy-toe to give me a peck on the cheek.

"They said you'd come with those! Let me!"

She took a wastebasket from me, pirouetted to look at her room but really to give me an eyeful. Smiled at me cutely, placed the wastebasket next to her mirror, bending over to set it just right.

Giving me a full view of her bottom, as she shifted her balance from foot to foot, getting the wastebasket arranged to perfection, her little butt cheeks dimpling.

Standing suddenly, she reached up to take a tissue box from me, waited while I stared.

She was such a sprite! So graceful, dainty. A studied pose to be sure, but she was a master at it. Shoulders back, what tits she had thrust forward, on tippy-toe for no reason but to show off her cute legs at their best.

I gravely handed her my last box of tissues. She took it, fiddled with the perforated cutout where the tissues were to come out, frowned, handed it up to me to fix? Pretty please?

I carefully tore out the cardboard strip, fished out the first tissue, handed it back to her. She took it with an impish smile.

"I think I'm going to need these!" she said cryptically. The tissue box went on her vanity next to her princess bed.

Everything in the room screamed of teen girl. I knew this woman was nearly 20, but her style, her posture, her attitude said jailbait. A turn-on to some, to judge by online porn in any case.

If I were nearly 20 but looked like an undeveloped girl, maybe I would play it to the hilt too. Work with what you have.

I'd about had my limit of innocent-little-naked-girl exposure, nearly at toxic levels, so I turned to go, hands empty.

She called out "Could you help me with something?"

Turning, patient, here to serve, I asked "What can I do for you?"

"I need help with the knobs on my chest." She clasped her hands, shoulders back, squeezed her arms together to pook her little breasts out cutely, wiggled one foot in a beseeching manner.

I raised my eyebrows, baffled. Where was this going?

"They poke out! And they seem loosey-goosey! It's hard to get dressed!"

She released her clasp, waved one limp-wristed hand toward the dresser. Indeed the knobs on the top drawer were hanging slack.

Enlightenment! Simply a matter of tightening the screw holding them in.

"Do you have the tools?"

She glanced shyly at my crotch, then peeked up from under her bangs.

"Just the one in this room." Giggling. Then serious. "But there are more in the garden shed, I know because GG works on her bike out there."

GG? Ah. Goth Girl. A handy shorthand, suitable.

"I'll go get what I need, and be right back."

As I left her room I heard her come out, follow me down the hall.

"Ahem, maybe you'd like to put on something? I'm going outside."

She colored cutely, shook her little head No! and continued to follow.

Downstairs, down the hall to the back door, she was right on my heels, bumping into me when I stopped at the door.

I put one hand on her chest, firmly pressed her back so I could open the door inward. She smiled and clasped my hand in both of hers.

"I'm so grateful! You are so clever to know how to use tools."

I extricated my hand, opened the torn screen door and went out.

Scanning the yard, out here for the first time, the teepee off to the left, the flap closed now. Not that.

The other corner of the yard - there was an old wooden shed, moss-encrusted wood shingles, a board door with an ancient flap-latch with a padlock.

I turned to go in and ask her about the key, but she was standing right behind me. Outside. Mostly naked. Her socks shucked off on the doorstep to keep them clean, barefoot, bare-legged, bare-chested, bare-armed.

Leaving her clothed in approximately 1 gram of flimsy silky panty material that covered nearly nothing.

She had the key in her hand, bit her lip and offered it to me timidly.

Must have been hanging on a hook by the door or something. Ok, thanks.

The lock was newer, opened easily, I removed it, flipped the flapper back, hung the lock on the loop.

The door had to be dragged open complaining, it was sagging on ancient rusty hinges.

A bare bulb inside, no switch I could see.

The nymph ducked under my arm, went in as far as the hanging bulb, stood on tip-toe striving to reach a fly-specked string hanging from the bulb, not able to reach it.

Tiny muscles like a colt flexing under perfect skin, panties invisible from this pose, for all the world completely naked, looking like a sexy garden statue in a classic pose.

This girl was good.

"Give me a boost?" she asked shyly.

I reached over her, pulled the string myself, eliciting a pout from her.

There was a red metal toolbox on an ancient grimy hand-built bench fastened to one wall, black with age. I pulled it open, rummaged around, found a phillips head.

Turned off the bulb, went out.

She was standing barefoot in the grass waiting. I locked up - not my tools, I'm not gonna risk them out here unsecured. Handed her the key for safekeeping. She took it seriously, stuck it down the front of her panties, patted it. Safe!

Her skin was gooseflesh, the fall wind not kind to naked tiny girls. The key silhouetted against the satin, proud against the tiny camel toe she sported.

She flashed ahead of me to the back door, running awkwardly, feet flying out with each step. Pulled the door open, fished the key from her panties and hung it on the hook I knew had to be there, inside the door on the frame.

I followed sedately. When I got inside I heard her pattering up the stairs, giggling.

In her room she had pulled the drawer out, exposing more tiny panties, those enormous rolled-up knee socks, more folded shorts in different colors.

No more hello-kitty shirts in evidence but some tiny, petite boob bands rolled up neatly. No bras in sight but she has acorn tits so that made sense.

I took a stack of panties out to make room for the screwdriver, handed them to her. She took them carefully, laid them on the bed.

It took seconds to screw the knob tight. Sliding the knee-socks over I fitted the other knob flush, tightened it's screw.

When I turned to take the stack of panties and replace them in the drawer, I saw she had removed the ones she wore, was folding them, placed them on the pile.

She turned, flashed those eyelashes and asked "Did you twist my knobs tight? Pull on them? Make them behave?"

She stepped forward, melted into my arms, her head hardly higher than my belly button.

"Can I open my drawers now? Did you see my panties all folded up?"

I set the screwdriver down, put two hands under her arms and lifted her. She wrapped her legs around me, pressed her crotch to my stomach, her tiny pussy wetting my belly, putting her arms around my neck and licked my lips.

Totally naked now, I had an armful of sweet girl flesh, light and fresh, like spring fruit ready to be plucked and eaten.

Looking me carefully in the eye she asked "Would you drive your screw into my bottom drawers? Please?"