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I often wonder what became of Jeffrey Dillerman. He was in my year at college, a weedy kid with glasses, known to one and all as “Dildo”, he used to get bullied a lot and unfortunately I was responsible for much of it. I was forever picking on him. I was not alone in this, there were others who persecuted Dildo, but I was the worst. I grew out of such behaviour, thankfully, but back then when I was eighteen nineteen I was pretty terrible. It was beyond awful for him, of course, but it was great fun for me and it provided a welcome entertainment for the other kids.
Dildo would dread it when our paths crossed. Simply my proximity was sufficient to spook him and I enjoyed this aspect. I could just call out “Oh look, it’s Dildo!” something like that, and watch him cower and cringe as I sauntered in his direction. I would not be predictable. I preferred to keep him off balance, never knowing quite what I might do. So I might simply smile, pat him on the head, then turn around and leave him be. I might content myself with a few insults, call him some stupid names, sneer and laugh, just take the piss out of him.
Or I might go further. For example, swipe the glasses of his face and make him kneel and beg to have them back, get him to say out loud what a turd he was, force him to get down on the floor and lick my shoes, call me “Master” or “Your Highness” or “Oh Great One”, generally abase himself in front of me.
More often I would just amuse myself with him, demonstrate my contempt by flicking at his ears, tweaking his nose, tickling his chin, messing his hair up, stuff like that. It made him feel like shit, used to start crying sometimes, which I loved, it gave me a buzz how dreadfully upset he would get at being so openly humiliated but was unable to stop me doing it, it was thrilling to have such power.
Generally speaking, and assuming there were no staff around, I would be more brutal if there happened to be other kids watching. If the audience included girls, which it often did, I would start kind of showing off for them, gurning at these giggling girls as I’m tormenting Dildo. Perhaps I would single out the best looking one and wink at her and inquire what she would like me to do next. What would particularly amuse her? It was great to have some attractive girl smile at me and reply that yeah it would be a scream if I made Dildo get down on all fours and pretend to be a doggie, say, or tell me that she would like it if I kneed him in the balls again, but harder this time. Then could I please pull his pants down so she could see his dick because that would be just too hilarious!
Sometimes I would ask a girl if she fancied doing a few things to Dildo herself and it often transpired that she did. She would giggle and say that, sure, she would love to, in which case I would graciously allow the girl to take over and have herself some fun with Dildo.
So now this cute girl strolls in and knees Dildo in the balls, if that is what she feels like doing, perhaps slaps his face a few times for good measure, calls him some horrible names, then she instructs him to get down and do the doggie thing, she makes him scamper around the floor going woof woof, to a cacophony of raucous jeering, and then, because she is a heartless little bitch who is thoroughly enjoying this scenario, the girl decides to humiliate the poor boy even more, so she commands the abject Dildo to crawl to her on his belly and worship her.
She slips her shoes off and he has to kiss her tutsies, she makes him tell everybody how he adores her pretty feet, that he adores all of her, she is so beautiful and sexy to look at, he fancies her like mad and wishes so much that he wasn’t an ugly geek who no self-respecting female would ever have anything to do with, Dildo has to say all of this embarrassing and demeaning stuff as the little cutie stands there imperiously with him grovelling on the floor at her feet – meanwhile me and the other kids are looking on and laughing our tits off.
As well as creasing up at this spectacle I would be almost coming in my pants. Ditto any other boys who were watching. At that age we were very horny creatures and I found to my delight that I would get a nice hard-on when tormenting the crap out of Dildo. I could get one just thinking about it. The untrammelled ability I had to dominate another male gave me an intense sexual charge. And when there were girls of the slim and pretty variety avidly joining in, well that was icing on the cake. It was just the biggest turn-on.
I was getting heavily into the charms of the female sex at the time and it was noticeable, and for me very gratifying, how being an utter bastard to Dildo could make one extremely popular with some of them, how there were a number of girls who clearly approved of Dildo being bullied, who found it incredibly funny that this little wimp was forever getting roasted by me and the various guys who followed my lead. Even better was how it tended to be the prettier girls who were this way inclined. The ataköy escort daggy ones would shy away from it, perhaps because they knew that we had little interest in impressing them in any case. Certainly I didn’t and neither did any of my pals. It was only the good looking girls at college who we had time for.
The worst of the bullying occurred when a few of us ganged up, usually at my behest, and were able to take Dildo off somewhere private where we could be confident that we would not be disturbed. In bed at night I would mentally replay the highlights, wank myself silly thinking about the stuff we had done and fantasizing about what we might do next time. The degradations that I dreamt up as I pumped my rigid cock under the duvet became increasingly demonic, and most of them were impractical, but we did end up doing some of what I came up with. Jesus, we did some diabolical things to that kid. Why? Because we could and because it was a laugh. To me and the others who got a big kick out of tormenting him, this was all that he was good for. He was our torture toy and, boy, did we make him suffer!
Poor Dildo. His life at college was a misery. Outside college too, no doubt, since even at home he must have spent his every waking moment in a state of fear and trepidation about the bullying. In fact this thought was part of the pleasure for me. I liked the idea of him being in a constant state of stress and anxiety because of me and I did my best to ensure that he was. For example, I would collar Dildo periodically and describe in precise and gruesome detail what was going to happen to him the following day, or the day after, or maybe the day after that. How at lunch time he was going to be marched off by me and a few others to a far corner of the premises and we would be having sooo much fun down there. Oh and we would be inviting some of the girls to join us.
“We are gonna strip you and show you to the girls,” I would chuckle, savouring the look of mortification on his face.
“You can dance around naked for all the hot girls, can you imagine, it will be fucking hilarious. And then we are gonna give them an even bigger treat because I think they deserve it. So we stretch you out on the floor, on your back, little cock on display, pin you down so you can’t move a fucking muscle, and we let the girls torture you. No rush, I’ll tell them. Take turns if you want. Do whatever you like, I’ll say, just enjoy yourselves. Point is, they have a little nerd boy to mess around with to their hearts’ content. Fuck, I’m looking forward to this, I must say. The girls are too. Vicky is especially up for it. She says she can’t wait. Oh dear, I wonder what she is planning to do to you. Because we both know what Vicky is like, Dildo, don’t we? She is gonna have herself a fucking ball!”
“Vicky” was Victoria Ho, this mixed race Chinese girl in our year who was always extremely enthusiastic when presented with an invitation to abuse Dildo in such circumstances. Most of the girls would prefer to just watch the fun, but Vicky always wanted a slice of the action. She could be incredibly mean too. She would plop herself on Dildo, kind of straddling him, as me and the other guys held him in position, and she would tickle him under the armpits, then toy with his dick to produce a little hard-on, amidst much general hilarity, at which point Vicky would abruptly slap his cheek, call him a little pervert, and proceed to inflict a world of pain to ‘teach him a lesson’ – all the while giggling in this demonic way that she had.
Yeah, she was a bit of a monster, little Vicky was.
It was highly erotic to witness because Vicky Ho also happened to be ridiculously attractive. She was far and away the hottest girl in our year. All the boys lusted after Vicky Ho and so did plenty of the lecturers and tutors. Vicky was very aware of this and she wallowed in it. She would never in a million years go out with any of the men at college but she liked to make us all drool, sashaying around the place in short skirts and incendiary little tops, tantalizing us with her sexy legs, flaunting her lush cleavage under our noses.
The girl knew precisely what she was doing to us with all of that shit and she loved every minute of it. She was a world class pricktease and the effect on a bunch of horny eighteen year old boys was painfully apparent. She drove us fucking crazy!
The girls were insanely jealous of Vicky, especially the unattractive ones who got zero attention from guys, and Vicky enjoyed this too. During breaks she would sit in a classroom, perched on the desk in her tight little skirt, thighs alluringly crossed for maximum impact, surrounded by a bunch of slobbering boys, deliciously aware that other girls were looking on wistfully, all of them wishing on a star that they could be her.
She took a bitchy delight in being so much prettier than the other girls at college, and she liked to rub their noses in it. For example, Vicky would consciously dial up the joking and flirting around with her bakırköy escort male fan club when she knew that other girls were watching, and if there happened to be any of the particularly daggy ones in the immediate vicinity she would go into overdrive. It was so incredibly obvious what she was doing, and why, that it was actually quite funny.
There was one student there, Brenda Hardcastle, who truly was a horror show, ugly face, awful skin, obese, you name it, and Vicky would be particularly mean whenever she spotted this unlovely looking creature close by.
“Hey, Brenda is looking very pretty today, isn’t she?” she would snigger, loud enough for Brenda to hear.
It was clear what sort of reaction Vicky was looking for and the boys would duly oblige. There would follow a stream of disparaging witticisms about Brenda, everybody competing to see who could make gorgeous little Vicky laugh the most, with the hapless target sat there trapped and having to listen to every word. Vicky would titter away bitchily as the comments became ever more hurtful, would toss in a few gratuitous observations of her own, and she would keep looking smugly over at Brenda, stare right at her with a big smirk on her exotic and lovely face, not even bother to pretend that she was not relishing this situation.
I remember this one time, Vicky went and stood next to Brenda in the concourse and got a few of us to crowd around. She struck a cute pose and suggested that we undertake a studied comparison of her and Brenda and then say what we thought. So we did, we made a production of looking the two girls up and down before delivering our carefully considered conclusion, which was that Vicky was utterly gorgeous in every way, she was by a million miles the prettiest and sexiest girl around, whereas Brenda was a complete minger who should not be allowed out.
Vicky absolutely loved this, especially because Brenda had started crying, and she indicated that she would like to hear a little more. How about some detail? How in particular was she so much more attractive than Brenda? Was it her face, for example? Yeah, we told her, her face was incredibly pretty, Brenda’s resembled the back end of a bus.
So just her face then?
No, it was far more than that, we said. It was lots and lots of things.
Vicky giggled. Oh, please tell!
So each of us took turns to pick something and wax lyrical. It went on for ages. Vicky had a wonderful time, luxuriating in being the object of desire, all the while flicking sly gloating glances at the poor girl stood frozen to the spot next to her, who was feeling humiliated beyond belief and was wishing that the ground would open up and swallow her.
Eventually, Vicky called a halt to the exercise.
“OK OK, I think we get the picture,” she giggled. “Sorry, Fatty, but the boys really do seem to prefer me, don’t they?”
Brenda remained silent. She could not have spoken even if she had wanted to. She was far too upset.
“Aw, you poor thing,” said Vicky, openly mocking.
Vicky went quiet for a moment, then seemed to suddenly think of something.
“So do I smell nice too?” she said, grinning deviously at us.
We assured Vicky that she did. She smelt delicious, we told her. She smelt just as good as she looked.
Vicky thanked us, said how much she appreciated all the compliments, especially this one because it was so important, she thought, for a girl to smell nice. Then she turned to Brenda, leant in close, and wrinkled her little nose up in a pantomime of disgust.
“Oh dear,” she went, and she raised her eyebrows at us, keeping this very straight and stern face, getting us to play along and look all serious and outraged too.
“Does she stink, Vicks?” I said.
Vicky considered this for a second and then nodded.
“She really does. She smells worse than a tramp. It’s revolting.”
At which point Vicky lost it, she cracked up and we all followed suit.
“In fact I can’t bear it any longer, let’s go,” she said, when she had finally managed to control herself, and we all trooped off.
Vicky was such a bitch.
She was also, like I say, a consummate cockteaser, and people at college were aware of that. It was clear that Vicky Ho was the sort of girl who liked having lots of boys plus half the male staff salivating hopelessly over her, but this did not prevent them doing exactly that. They were always ogling and this was just fine with Vicky.
In lectures she would sit near the front with her stunning legs angled into the aisle, deliberately tempting the tutor and the guys close to her to stare, and infuriating those who were too far away to get a good view.
There was this one tutor, Mr Frampton, a bit of a dork, who used to get mesmerized, would lose his train of thought in class because of Vicky and her brazen teasing, flashing her legs off at him like that, seductively crossing and uncrossing them the whole time, skirt riding up, plus all the other mischief, idly fingering the hem of her skirt, stroking herself under there, high up on the thigh, the shoe dangling precariously on the edge of her toes, the way she would look right at him, the insinuating smile, the knowing grin, blatantly taunting him, then would smirk and start sucking very suggestively on her pen, be constantly stretching and shifting around in her seat so that her flimsy top struggled to cover the bare minimum it was meant to, sometimes failed to manage even that – in which case, oh god, because as usual no bra either.
Poor guy. We used to openly snigger at him because it was so apparent what his problem was.
“Mr Frampton, can you stop perving on me please,” Vicky would say, very loud, if she was feeling extra mean, and that would bring the house down.
Old Frampton would stand there, face red, mumbling something or other, last vestige of authority gone. He ended up having to leave the place, as I recall. Lost his job. So no joke for him, I guess, Vicky’s antics, but we found the whole thing hilarious.
There was also a famous occasion in Mrs Farmer’s course, a frightening old bat who was something of a disciplinarian, when Vicky put her hand up and angrily accused Dildo of checking out her legs.
Of course he wasn’t, he was scared to, but Farmer believed Vicky, that Dildo was being a letch and that it was making Vicky very uncomfortable, and the old dragon lambasted the poor kid in front of the whole class, made him apologize to Vicky, and dished out a demerit. That was pretty funny too, although we saved the guffawing for later, else we would all have got demerits. Mrs Farmer was no joke whatsoever.
The truth is that people were in thrall to Vicky Ho. Boys would walk barefoot over glass if it got a smile from little miss gorgeous. The girl had us eating from her hand. Vicky knew she could get away with just about anything and therefore she made the most of it, had herself a whale of a time at college.
For example, she always got excellent grades because she would get the brainy boys to do her assignments for her.
There were also boys, the more besotted and suggestible types, who would do a myriad of other things at her behest, they would run errands for her, get her lunch, buy her a chocolate bar, feed her some crisps, carry her books, give her money, sing her a song, tell her a joke, rub her shoulders, give her a foot massage, anything really – Vicky’s wish was their command.
She considered this to be the natural order of things, treated them like servants, would not even say thank you. In fact the boys would thank Vicky for the privilege. They would volunteer for these tasks, seeking to please, desperate to win her favour, and Vicky would allow it so long as they asked nicely enough. She would actually make them beg sometimes, just for a giggle, and they would do that too. Boys made complete and utter fools of themselves over Vicky Ho.
Vicky played mind games with the boys, loved toying with us, sometimes being cool and aloof, sometimes warm and flirtatious, manipulating us, testing our loyalty, our boundaries, pushing our buttons, leading us on. She delighted in sowing discord amongst her retinue of admirers, liked to get us worked up and scrabbling for her attention. She would flirt heavily with one to make the others jealous, for example, or she would start maliciously making fun of another and get the rest of us to join in.
She would push this to the point where violent arguments would break out. On occasions, if no staff were present, boys would come to blows in front of her. Needless to say, she particularly enjoyed it when this happened. Being physically fought over appealed to little Vicky no end and she would watch, giggling, as the fisticuffs unfolded.
Once one of the combatants got on top, clearly dominating, Vicky liked to see some proper punishment meted out. She would scream and clap, egging the winner on to keep at it, continue beating up the unfortunate vanquished boy as he lay defenceless and whimpering on the floor. So of course the winner would indeed keep going, even if he would rather not. He would rain down the blows until Vicky finally told him to stop.
Anything to impress Vicky.
What added further spice to these fights was that occasionally Vicky was known to reward the victor with a snog. This was quite rare, it was no way the norm, but simply the possibility was more than enough to galvanize the battling suitors to give it their absolute all.
The snog, however, would always be maddeningly brief. It was simply another opportunity for Vicky to indulge her hobby of teasing the brains out of boys. She would grant a few short seconds of intimate contact, enough to inflame but no more. She would melt into the boy, her hands inside his shirt, and kiss him passionately, tongues in, she would slide her thigh up into his crotch, pressing hard against his raging erection, let his hands start to wander, allow him to squeeze her bum, generally work this horny kid into something of a frenzy, and then she would suddenly break away and end it, giggling malevolently at the panting boy’s obvious frustration.
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