"And another thing, frosh," said the statuesque brunette, slapping the paddle on her nyloned calf, "you're all going to have to work on your hems. Your skirts are far too long."
The five girls lined in the sorority house's "bumroom" dropped their eyes to their minis. But this was Brierton Academy. Bermuda's Best. And probably the world's. BB-as it was known through every social register in England, America and Canada alike. Bestly Beatings it was sometimes called by alumnae, who were not celebrated for opposing the continuation of the system.
Moreover, this was Beta Beta Rho, the most exclusive, the most desirable-and of course the most desirable because exclusive-sorority in the whole globe, practically. The fees were quite fantastic.
"Get those skirts short!"
Blonde seventeen-year-old Constance Wood let her eyes stray over her own micro a moment. How could it be any shorter ... and still called a skirt?
A voice inquired, "Does that apply to tweeds, Matron?"
This came from the girl in center, a trifle older than the others, dressed in a crisp Chanel two-piece, with New England aristocracy written all over her.
"It certainly does, Pledge Mason," came the retort. "Tweeds and knits alike. The rule at our rival, Gamma Phi, is actually no longer than a foot this half. And woe betide their rhinies who infringe. Here we're relatively liberal. At least," she laughed with another shudder-making rap of her paddle, "as regards attire. But before the term is over I think you can all count on some well-warmed bottoms in this house. So I hope you're all clear on that. For the rest of the term you 'forget' panties, Pledges. Panties in your purses, that's what I always say."
"But if we're to collect these twenty signatures, from boys...."
"You get them on your panty girdles, worm," came the snapping reply, to darkly flashing eyes. "Twenty by the first Hellenic, or Hell Night, which is the last Friday each month. Three of them a term. And one thing-you'll find those pens write best over filled girdles, girls. Worn. The boys will appreciate that. Don't forget to enter your punishments, whatever, in your notebooks, and get every Praelictor to sign your paddles, too. They like to 'blot' them, and I'm sure I don't have to tell you how." The girl gave an eloquent wink. "No, skirts must show your stocking tops. If your hem doesn't touch the level of your thumbs when standing, you're okay."
"Thumbs or fingertips, Matron?"
"Thumbs, rhinie. By the way, that question wasn't intended to be sassy, was it, Pledge M.?"
"It wasn't meant to be sassy, Miss."
"I'm so glad," the senior girl smiled pleasantly, swinging her paddle. She had on a short tunic of pleated black leather which swirled as she moved. BB was inscribed on her left breast. "For your sake, Joan."
As if mesmerized, five pairs of eyes watched the paddle.
"And one more thing. No all-in-one stockings. They're out for frosh, understand. At least until you're initiated. For you it's a lickety-split hipline, kids, lycra spandex panty girdles, gossamer light, and with lots of snaps. As a matter-of-fact, you'll find that your Dorm Sisters will insist on at least six tabs for each leg. You're going to have to get used to spinnaker-taut stockings, seams straight, and skyscraper heels. All Beta Rho Pledges report for inspection by our Prae of the week before classes. No slacks until six, unless you want to go to bed with a nice warm one."
Another voice ventured, "Is it ... permissible to wear what we like, in our dorms?"
"Sure. Wear nothing at all, if you like. And you probably will, if I know anything about the supervision of our Dorm Sisters. But all slacks have to be skin-tight. Or else. If you can get so much as a razor blade into the back pocket of your jeans they don't rate, kids. We have to get more wolf-whistles than Gamma Phi."
"I have to put on mine lying down," said the youngest of the five, in an awkward giggle. "I mean, prone." She was a chubby, cheerful teener, only sixteen though appearing older in cashmere sweater and tiny tartan micro. An ash blonde braid hung down her back. She giggled nervously again. "I have to triple-sew them at the seams."
"It might be very well," said their Senior after a moment, patting one palm with her paddle, "if all you frosh got the first rule of the House firmly into your heads-namely, that once in here you don't speak until you're spoken to."
There was dead silence in the rank.
"By now, you're all supposed to have learned our regulations. Well, Terry?"
After a moment the girl with the braid answered softly, "A sin of Commission, Matron."
"Right. Go and put yourself down in the Demerit Book. In the Commission column. Talking out of turn."
With hanging head the girl walked through to the hall where, on a high lectern, a large black book lay open. She took a pen and wrote. The others watched her queasily.
"Thus assuring Teresa," said the tall girl pacing in front of them, "of five strokes with the birch on settlement night, Friday. Give her something to look forward to, eh?" Four pairs of eyes swiveled to the perky butt of Teresa ("Terry") Sands, jutting out the back of her short tartan skirt. "You're going to be surprised at how well our system works. Two or three good Friday lickings, and a pledge won't so much as take her eyes off the floor for the rest of the term. Step back into line, Terry, and don't look so cheerful. The birch never killed anyone yet, though I must say I never 'xactly saw anyone asking for seconds."
Sandra McIllick, House Matron of Beta Rho designate, stood with her paddle drawn across her straddled thighs, surveying the five fearful pledges.
"All right. That's about it. I think I've summarized the situation for you pretty well. Brierton is considered one of the top colleges for women in the world. And it's pretty select. We have two fifty in residence this term. All you frosh have come from rich families, and are going to lead protected, pampered existences at the top of some great society. So, as you know, for this very brief period of your lives you're going to be ... put through it. Discipline. Self-control. Abstinence. Fortitude under pain. Only these qualities can get you into Beta Beta Rho." She finished with a dramatic flourish of her paddle. "Once you're initiated, you'll be grateful to us. Your parents will, too. You will have COME THROUGH!"
A golden gleam lit in the eyes of Terry Sands.
"Stand out, you!"
"Who? Me?" The lissome seventeen-year-old who came from one of the New Hampshire's leading families was unused to being addressed in this fashion. After a second's hesitation, however, she stepped forward, her chic, fawn flare-pants hugging her rounded hips closely.
"What's your name again?"
"Constance Wood."
"These slacks are fairly tight." The paddle tapped their back and they bounced, heavily. "Crease where you crease, Connie. You wearing anything underneath?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because. Well, we were sent for, and told to to come right over. I was in the shower, and I just grabbed the first thing."
"Drop them."
"You mean, take off my...?"
Sandra McIllick made an impatient gesture. A zip flicked and the slacks fell to the girl's ankles, exposing her surprisingly full hips and bulging front. The Matron ran a thoughtful finger through the dry dark fleece there.
"I guessed you used a tint. But you clipped for the bikinis, huh. Listen, whether you frosh shave or not is up to your individual Dorm Sisters. But this is altogether too hairy. And unaesthetic. The line of the division must be visible, and the whole thing more ... well, inviting. By the way, when was this last visited, Constance?"
"Visited?" The girl began to glow a dark red.
"Invested by the erect male organ, silly."
"Must I answer that, Miss?"
"Yes. Absolutely. All you frosh, as I said, have got to get into this habit of feeling yourselves as things. Dig? I mean, like you've got to answer intimate questions without thought, just as you've got to have this sensation of material tight on your skin, and the feeling of impending disaster hanging over your heads, all the time. Well?"
The girl took a deep breath. "Winter Carnival. Dartmouth."
"Did he get in good and deep?"
Constance Wood sighed. "It wasn't a singular, Matron, it was a plural. Five members of the football squad, in a frat house."
"Did you enjoy it?"
"I'd passed out. They got me drunk beforehand."
"That's horrible, Connie," said the Senior with feeling. "That's just what we want to eradicate here. I'm sorry."
"May I put these on again?"
The Senior nodded with a smile, even reaching to help the young girl with her zip.
"We mustn't forget we're a service sorority, must we," she said gently. Her strong hand stroked over the curves of the now-clothed can, assessing its resiliency. The cheeks were long and smooth, pear-shaped at the base and with a deep division. Beside them the paddle looked eloquent. "Yes, I'm afraid these two beauties are going to be feeling awfully sorry for themselves for a month. But all things come to an end. If you make the grade, and get through Hell Night, then you'll be officially inducted into Beta Beta Rho."
More than one girlish chest in front of her swelled at these words.
"The one thing we don't allow is a spoiled brat. Your parents sent you to Brierton precisely to have any of that kind of nonsense knocked out of you. With rights go duties, always remember that. You girls are from the small class of over-privileged. Well, for a month you're going to have a course in what it feels like to be in the bottom half. And the emphasis, chickens, is on the bottom." The brunette's big face split into a broad grin, her mouth juicy as a fruit's. Terry Sands watched her with a strange, if sinking, fascination. There was this well-nigh theatrical gloss, and raven hair, and broad straight shoulders. Terry's eyes slipped to the slapping paddle. "All right, frosh. You know House rules. Unless you have any further questions, you can report to your Dorm Sisters."
There was a hesitation in the rank, then a little motion of dipping at the knees before the five turned to go.
"Wait a minute, please!"
They looked back.
"One of you forgot to curtsey."
"That was me," said a voice, after a second. "I'm sorry, Miss." Rowena Ricks bent her shapely knee.
"It's a bit late now, frosh."
The girl was a luscious redhead-the only one among them-of eighteen. As tall as the House Matron confronting her she stood penitently contemplating the flat polished surface of the paddle, inscribed as it was with the three sorority letters. Her mane of hair cascaded to a blunt-cut behind, where it fell down an expensively casual little black wool cocktail dress with cheekily flaring skirt. Her soft velvety face was Latin, or southern, in style; more than once she had already been told she resembled some heroine out of a Gothic romance. Her breasts, too, were a stalwart shelf, studded with two urgent bullets, thick as thumbs, which testified to the fact that she, too, had thrown on this dress over little, if anything, to come over.
"Stand out here. And hold your head up, Miss Ricks. Now do twenty curtsies, real deep ones, slowly, and with precision." When they had been completed the Senior snapped: "You a redhead all over?"
Rowena gulped and nodded. Obviously trying to enter into the spirit of things, and deflect the other's purpose to the trivial, she added in a nervous rush, "And inside as well as out, too, I guess."
There was a deathly silence.
"Put yourself down for Impertinence, Pledge."
Rowena's head fell. Then she turned and clicked neatly to the Demerit lectern, where she wrote slowly.
"Let me remind you, frosh. There's Impertinence, Insolence, and Impertinent Insolence-the worst. But if you value those pretty little backsides of yours, don't get a ticket for Insubordination."
Having completed her task the freshman stood in front of her invigilator, her big body awkward. Sandra McIllick shot her a craggily affectionate look.
"I'm going to give you four swats for lack of respect, Rowena. Stand with your back to the class, if you please, and bend over."
It was a sumptuous back, with almost a showgirl sloth about the broadened area as she bent.
"Hands on knees. I want them nice and relaxed. The paddle is an impact instrument, folks, as you'll soon be seeing."
The smiling Senior whipped the little skirt over the bending girl's back. Rowena had on stocking tights of dark taupe, modestly opaque at the top. Despite this, her girth in this position pulled the stuff tight enough for it to be transparent and the division between her perfect thighs was continued upwards in a sinuously beveled line. It was a superb, languorous, and slightly fatty Sitzplatz, or sit upon, only held together by the nylon sheath. Sandra McIllick stood back with the paddle in her hand and gave it a measuring tap. The flesh, though bent, trembled at her touch.
"That's quite a back of the lap, Rowena. Let's see if I can show it some respect, at least."
She stood astride and raised the paddle with a frown of concentration. The instrument was taped with black at its grip, the straight length of springy pine less than half an inch deep and so slightly pliable. With a slowly accelerative motion she belted its surface across the stretched buttocks in a shuddery crack that rapped through the empty salon and dropped the jaws of at least two of the watching frosh.
"Ah!"
There was a long pause and then the second stroke whacked into the fat, visibly driving the flesh upwards before it fell back, leaving a bar of red behind it.
"Au ... uuuuu! Pur-lease!"
The girl's head had come back, her hands were rubbing the front of her thighs as she strove to keep position. Sandra McIllick smiled.
"If your skin's as sensitive as that, Rowena, you'd better watch it this month. Feet together now. These next two are going to be harder. Stick it out, please. Let's see if we can't ladder these panty legs for you."
The third drove the big girl off balance and the fourth, following fairly soon on top of it, jerked her straight, face twisted, hands grasping under her now fallen skirt as if trying to drag off some boiling girdle there. She hopped in place a second.
"Hou! Phew!"
The Senior tossed back an inky look that had fallen over her face in her efforts. "You wait till Hell Night, my dear. Really, you've no idea how charming you look like that, Rowena. But I think you'd look even more so giving me a nice, deep curtsey. Yes, and a big kiss to the paddle. If you please."
When this was done, the five girls, their faces very straight, were dismissed.
CHAPTER TWO
Dusk was soft on the laburnums and elms of the lovely Brierton campus as the five picked their way across its lawns to their new dorm assignments. The tallest of them, Melissa, slipped a cool thin arm into that of Rowena Ricks, since her sight was short and she didn't want to stumble in the falling dark. Bermuda evenings were very gentle.
"Gee, that really hurt." The redhead was still ruefully massaging herself behind.
"I thought she hit you much too hard," said Constance Wood, looking around.
"Not as hard as Terry's going to get it last Friday of the month, I fear," said Joan Mason who was leading the way, heels clicking on the stone path under her trim pencil skirt. "They get those birches to sting like crazy. Brrh!"
"Well, it's a test," said Teresa Sands, her chin tipping proudly.
"It certainly is."
"And if what my mother told me is correct, there are going to be plenty of them in the weeks to come."
"So about all we can do is follow the jolly old sorority slogan-Grin and bare it, huh."
"I'm going to do my best to," said plucky little Terry Sands, her pigtail swinging almost white in the gathering night. "After all, it isn't every girl who can get into Beta Beta Rho."
"Mmn."
"Right."
There was a murmur of reverential admiration among them.
"It's rather wonderful to think of, really."
"Only five of us, out of two fifty kids. It'll link us together all our lives," said Melissa Hope-Trumpington solemnly. "One couldn't dare to fail."
"Did you get it at home, Melish?" asked a voice.
"Yes." After a moment. "You, Connie?"
"Hairbrush."
"Oh that. I was spanked with the strop," pressed on the impetuous sixteen-year-old, "and it was never less than twelve. What about you, Rowena?"
"Definitely."
Terry paused. She shot a glance at the quiet girl of twenty high-heeling ahead, the studious one who seemed to have some secret and who had come to school so relatively late.
"Joanie?"
"I ... uh ... sex spankings, yes."
"You mean, as a prelude, or necessity to...?"
"Screwing."
Rowena rubbed her big right ham thoughtfully. Here, where the stiff end of the paddle had fallen, it still hurt quite a bit. Yet there was a pleased painful flush through her flesh, that was undeniable. She felt a strange sense of achievement, and consequent relaxation.
"Um." She broke the silence with a sigh. "Maybe I know what you mean and maybe I don't. What do I get for impertinence, by the way?"
"I don't know," came a subdued voice, "but I think it's the cane."
"Just wanted to know what delights are in store for me, come final Friday night. Well, girls, this is where I leave you." They had come to the Library steps, heavy with wet leaves. "I don't know who you have, but mine's Alison Riley."
"Oh, she's sweet."
"She's also a Praelictor."
"I don't know who mine is," said Terry Sands screwing up her eyes at the card she'd been given. "Franklin 318."
"Well, good luck, one and all."
"We're going to need it, girls."
Solemnly the five made a circle and placed their hands together in the center of it. Then Rowena walked pensively over the lawns to the right, alone. Behind her she heard their voices in the dusk. Constance Wood was murmuring disgustedly, "All that jazz about being hairy. What did she expect? Feathers."
The set of rooms Rowena approached lay at the end of a low brick building, pleasantly entwined with ivy. Beyond it straggled further outhouses, then the stables. For if there were two hundred and fifty upper-crust maidens in residence at Brierton, there were also close on as many thoroughbred horses. Equitation was a required part of the curriculum. Rowena knocked and a voice said come in.
"Miss Riley? I've been assigned to you, I believe."
A lean, rather floppy blonde with her hair in her eyes was reading on a sofa. She had on a silk shirt and fitting velvet slacks of a pale color. She rose shyly, it seemed, and came across the pleasant chintzy room to the expectant frosh.
"Rowena? Yes, I've seen you, I think. I'm to be your Sister." She stroked the coarse mass of dark red hair. "What a lovely color. Natural?"
"Yes."
"Your things have been sent over. Let me show you 'round. Here's your desk, I hope you like it."
Rowena began to relax. This was much better than she'd been given to believe. Seniors at the college had the luxury of two good rooms, and a spacious bathroom too; this small suite had been set up so that they could share it, during the testing period of initiation.
Over the desk, where her texts were already arranged, Rowena saw the sorority paddle she would carry everywhere with her for this fatal month-"And that includes nightclubbing with dates," said her gentle cicerone, but she did so with a smile.
"Yes, we've been fully briefed," Rowena said.
"Well, I guess that's about all." The slim blonde paused, then said, "One thing. You do realize you're nothing here."
"Yes. Miss."
"But I mean-not anything. It's very important for you to understand, psychologically. During this month, here and at the house, it's a total eradication of personality. That's the only way to go with it, Rowena. Don't try to resist. It'll do you much better not to. I can make any call on you, at any time, and for whatever I want. Understand?" She laughed again. "You're a sort of nothing thing."
"A nothing thing." Rowena nodded. "Well, may I have your permission to hit the books, please, Miss? I do have a test tomorrow."
"Go right ahead."
The blonde curled up with her book again, not forgetting, Rowena observed, to flick a glance at her as she sat down-to see that, as per the initiatory regulations, she lifted her skirt behind before doing so. The minutes began to slip by in the silence and the new girl heaved a sigh of relief. This was much better than she'd thought.
After a half hour or so, however, she twisted uncomfortably on her wicker seat; the paddle bruise didn't hurt, exactly, but it was uncomfortable to rest weight on the right side for long.
"Anything wrong?" came from the sofa. "That seat not to your taste?"
Rowena should have been warned by the tone. Instead, she simply gave an ebullient laugh. "Not that, Miss. It's just that I got a slight shellacking in the House just now." She said it flippantly, even with a certain saucy pride. Alison Riley swung her legs and sat up straight.
"Oh, really? Tell me about this."
"Oh, it was nothing. I forgot to curtsey. Also I spoke out of turn. Four slaps with the paddle."
The blonde was staring at the parquet floor in front of her. "Listen, Rowena, I want you to get this very clear. A pledge reflects credit on her pledgee, or Dorm Sis. You have just reflected extreme discredit on me."
"But I hadn't seen you, Miss." Rowena rose slowly to her feet, the color leaving her cheeks.
"I know. However, I'd like us to start out on the right foot. During this week, you'll report all corrections you receive of that nature-other than the Friday night slate clearance deal-to me. In order to discourage you, quite definitely, in order to make you think twice about a repeat performance, I'm going to give you one for one back here. If that doesn't stop you there'll be a stock split next week. Two for one. And so on up. We'll start now."
"Please. You're not going to...." Rowena was alarmed as much at the fear she felt as anything.
"I use a cane. Fetch me the one in the bottom rack above your bed."
"But I've just been...."
"I don't want to have to-order you a Demerit as well."
Sick inside, Rowena turned. In the bedroom beyond, three slender exclamation marks stood over her bed. She chose the lowest and, it seemed, the leanest, a long thin yellow rod which wiggled like a live thing as she carried it back to her senior. There was a knob at one end for grip.
Alison Riley accepted it and flexed it expertly, almost in two. "This is a light correction cane but I think you'll find it stings. The ones we use in the House are less bendy, and hurt more. One of your duties is to keep these sticks polished, gleaming. Now move those chairs out of the way and come and bend over here."
Here was in front of the empty fireplace, ranked with logs. Rowena cleared the space with averted eyes, her pulpy features a picture of anxiety.
"Grip this."
The cane-tip tapped the polished bar of the grate.
Rowena stood on the end of the bearskin rug and doubled to do so. The brass felt cold in her fingers. Almost at once she again felt her skirt lifted onto her back. Two thumbs hooked in the waistband of her tights and eased them down her hips to her knees. She felt utterly exposed and irrationally humiliated. After all, it was only a girl behind her. Resentment mounted in her, turning into resolve-she'd show this Senior she could take it, with the best.
"I'm glad to see you have a good full fanny, Rowena. I shall enjoy caning you a lot. Brace back your knees and-tuck your head right down. I'm going to hit you here." The cane end touched the rectangular red of the paddle's deepest weals. "Four for four. I'm a fairly good golfer, so all in all I think you'll know you're beaten by the time I've finished with you."
She walked away, Rowena imagined her going back to the bedroom perhaps, when she turned and in a pair of prancing strides paced forward and wrapped the licky yellow stick round the center of the well-bent and naked posterior in front of her.
Rowena gasped as if she'd been thrust into icy water. The razor-like flash of fire across her tenderest flesh mounted maddeningly, until her breath came short. Before she knew it there was another dry whirr, like the sudden parting of curtains behind her, completed by a solid meaty snap, as the cane cut.
"Auouuuu ... OW!"
"I said, 'brace back your knees.'"
"I'm trying, Miss."
"Well, try harder then."
If only she could get through three. Then she could hold it after the fourth, until the word of permission to get up came.
Thhhwlckk!
"OH!"
The lithe rod lashed round her and dug into the same line of scalding welt. Rowena struggled but as the pain rose and rose she put her hands behind her, feeling the solid hot ridge where the tip had fallen on the right. Slowly, as the pain drenched over her in another irresistible wave, she rose erect, her face clenched.
"Bend over at once, Pledge. You have another coming."
"I caaan't. It's unspeakable. I'm sorry, but...."' "Well, if you can't take four, I'm going to have to give you lots of practice before first Hell Night."
Rowena closed her eyes. The word "Please" was turned into a stifled whine in her mouth. She was aware of herself holding her behind and spasming the center of her body like some coarse bump-and-grind dancer's. Tears rushed to the corners of her eyes.
"Please. I'm not used to being caned like that."
"Well, you'd better pluck up your courage for the next month, my dear, if you want to get into Beta Rho. It doesn't hurt you any more than it does anyone else." Rather boredly the languid blonde tossed the cane onto the sofa. "We'll try that four over before you hit the sack tonight."
"Please! Please let me off. I'll take another."
Tears streaming down her cheeks she was preparing to put herself in position again. But with a shrug the slender figure had turned away. "I'm going to have a bath."
"Let me run it for you. Miss."
Peeling off her tights Rowena went quickly through and turned the taps, pouring in perfumed bath salts. The pain was manageable now but her skirt had somehow stayed rucked up behind and in the multi-mirrors she could see the three dark red, purpling streaks left by the cane, merging on the right. Her buttocks looked apart from her, heavy, guilty, and sullen; the three perfectly placed streaks were somehow strangely right.
"I must say I was fairly accurate!"
Alison Riley stood in the doorway, naked. She had a slim, tense, but liquid little figure and seeing her astride there, Rowena fell instinctively to her knees in front of the vision.
"Please, Allison ... Miss. Don't give me another, tonight."
The Senior laughed. "I hit hard. Wrist. I'm known for it."
With a shudder Rowena threw her arms about the other as she knelt, burying her tawny head in the center of the body so arrogantly on display there. With a flick of her tongue she brought the stiffened and already moistened morsel of gristle there to life. Alison fairly hissed.
"Gee! That's the love kiss. Now wait a moment. You're not supposed to give me that ... yet ... until ... though I guess just once. Cher-rist, you know how to reach it, kid. Where did you learn all this?"
Rowena took her soft, bedewed lips away and in a solemn tone said, "The Convent." She crossed herself, then fingered clear the clit from the lips and Alison arched her back in another intake of breath.
"God. Yes. Suck. Lick. No, suck. Look here, Rowena, ho-hold it for a minute, will you. The b-er-bath's overflowing and as a matter-of-fact, s-s-s-so am I!"
* * *
Humming to herself, and with her wide slacks swinging, Constance Wood entered the door marked on her ticket, at the words "Come in."
It was another building from that in which Rowena had suffered, but the lay-out of the two rooms was identical. A stocky Senior in bermudas, sneaks, and a sorority sweater was on the phone and motioned the newcomer to a chair. Connie sat down gingerly, reminding herself that if in a skirt she would have to remember to lift its tail. Then her mentor hung up the instrument and came forward grinning toothily, hand outstretched.
"I'm Maud Haytor," she said. "My job is to make you feel miserable for a month, I guess."
Laughing despite herself, Connie took the other's hand. For it was an infectious smile, from which a central tooth was missing, conveying a paradoxically sexy look to the wide curved mouth. Maud had sleek brown hair done in close curls.
"I want to do everything I possibly can to please you, Miss." She had prepared this speech, a long time beforehand, for the incredible moment when she should be accepted to pledge for Beta Rho. "I hope you will be satisfied with me, and I hope you'll punish me properly if I fail you in any way."
"I will,'" said Maud Haytor quickly.
"It's been the greatest ambition of my life, to be rushed for Beta Beta Rho."
"Good. Well, let me show you over."
"Thank you, Miss."
"Actually you can call me Maud, in here. Personally I find it a fairly draggy name. My father was in a Tennyson bag when we kids were born; I have a sister called Guinevere."
"For real?" Constance laughed. She was relaxing nicely.
"This is where you can keep your things." The Senior threw open a door on a bank of dresses, already brought over. "And this, here, is a sort of a broom closet, kinda. I keep my junk and, and things in here."
Peeking, Connie discerned two tennis rackets, a sun-lamp, what seemed to be a fishing rod, and then what seemed to be an ordinary rod. She looked at its soulless yellow length for several seconds. Its predatory gleam made her skin goose.
"Everything ready for the frosh, I see."
"It's a lovely juicy new one. You keep it waxed."
"It looks horribly long."
"Oh, the ones at the House are longer still. You'd be surprised at how even an inch increases the swing, and sends up the sensation."
"I'll bet. What's that?" She pointed to a strip of thick, almost black leather hanging from a hook in the closet wall.
"Scottish tawse or tailed strap. Up there they found that a strap doesn't really hurt until it's cut into strips at the end and toughened a little. You can do good work with that slice of beef."
"Ouch!" Connie gave a goosey shudder as she followed the other; she felt somehow over-conscious of her own bottom in the clinging slacks.
They completed their tour in the bathroom.
"I guess that's about all," said the Senior, staring absently about. "There was this problem with your hair. Sandy called over."
"The House Matron? How kind of her."
"Yeah." Maud was opening drawers, searching. "Wants me to help you style it."
"Oh, that'd be swell," responded the freshman, pleased. She pirouetted in front of the mirror, swinging her dark blonde crop. She was proud of her hair and to have this interest taken in her at once ... She held out a strand. "I think these are too light. Now...."
She broke off; the Senior was standing behind her with scissors and a clipper.
"I don't need a cut. Thank you."
"Take your clothes off, would you."
"My clothes?" Since the other merely nodded at her puzzlement Connie smiled and said, "Okay, gladly," and quickly doffed the little she had tossed on. She stood buck naked before the triple mirror, her big breasts moving.
"Those really are remarkable nipples, Constance."
"I always did have big ones."
"No, but these are magnificent." The older girl pressed, judgingly, the thick stub of one between finger and thumb and Connie bridled, smiling. "Sensitive?"
"Sure."
"Tell you what. I'm going to ring this pair." She started searching in a jewel case on the makeup table. "Dammit, I'll swear I had some nipple rings somewhere."
"Earrings?" said Connie in alarm. "I'm not pierced. At least, not there."
"No, silly. Look. Here they are." She held up two bands of lacey, latticed gold, exquisite in design.
"Oh, they're lovely," said the girl with another voluptuous shudder. She could see that they were lightly elasticized in some manner, for grip, and thrust out her proud chest boldly.
"Only just go on."
"Press. Please. Oh."
"Boy, your kids are going to know they've got something in their mouths when they milk. That's for sure." The Senior fitted the second over the roughened and erected stump of the left nipple. "There. Now you're ringed. You wear these all the month, to remind you of me. No bras at all."
"Won't they come off?"
"Shouldn't. They seem to be exerting pressure. And you'll feel if they do. No, you're one of the lucky ones, Connie. You're going to have your character really tested here. Innermost, that is, you have no character for a month. You're ostracized from feelingful function for a period. You'll find it quite strange. You'll float with the wind, drown in the sea. Mostly," concluded the Senior drily, after her lapse into lyricism, "mine. Now let me fix that hair for you."
"Oh, will you. Thanks a whole heap, Maudie."
"Stand up there."
In smiling bafflement Constance looked at the low white bench, or painted locker, indicated, on which had been spread a towel. She stood up on it, her legs slightly parted, and Maud Haytor approached, clipping the scissors in a business-like way.
"That's not bad at all. In fact I think it's rather charming. I like the way you've clipped it in that fan shape, on top. That's very attractive. But it needs clearing at the sides, and a good part."
Constance Wood was a girl who blushed little but profoundly, from the depths of her psyche. And a slow bruising red was suffusing her cheeks now.
"It's this shag at the bottom that's untidy."
"Oh no," the girl got out slowly. "You mean...."
Maud glanced up sternly. "I have to present you. All Dorm Sisters have that task for their charges. They're responsible for appearance. No, this is all very lovely and dry." The scissors snipped and a curl fell, floating. "Turn round and part your legs. Show me your bottom. Those lovely legs of yours are put on rather wide apart, and, yes, it is distinctly thick there. I see what Sandy means. Now put your thighs together. I'll bet that thicket comes through even then ... yes, what did I say. Hmmm," she said thoughtfully, "I hate to lose such healthy growth. I had the same problem, too. Maybe why they picked on me. Tell you what we'll do. We'll clean it up at the sides, give you a part, and make a feature of this thing." She gave the lower hairs a playful tweak. "Crimp or set, what you decide. Look."
When furiously flushing Connie turned, the Senior had stripped off her bermudas and panties and was inclined over the basin, feet planted firmly apart.
Maud had the muscular calves of the runner she was and her strong thighs merged into solid, downy buttocks which were almost the opposite to the younger girl's. But it was not at these that the latter was staring, so much as at the rich silky quiff of inky hair that curled back through the parted legs and up into the shadowy groove behind, like some Mephistophelean tail.
"Aren't I the furry one," said the Senior with a chuckle. "But now let's get to work." She pulled up a stool, gave a critical look up at the center of her charge's body, posed directly above her, and started to snip. For some reason slow, glutinous tears began to course down Constance Wood's soft cheeks, in hue close on purple now. At the same time a strange, compulsive heat flooded all her limbs as Maud Haytor snipped and clipped.
"And now for the part," came briskly five minutes later. "Lie down, with your bottom on the edge."
In a daze Connie lay on the bench, her head back and pillowed on another towel there. She eased herself until her behind was at the end, her feet on the thing floor. Maud was busying herself at the basin. She glanced back once-"Legs right apart. I'm afraid I want that pert little pussy right on display."
"What are you going to do now?"
"You have a sweet little slit, Connie, and it'd be a shame not to define it. You've no idea how sexy that can look in a bikini, tight silk over the bulge with just a hint, the merest indication of the lips. It's what I might call rather hard on all the boys in the neighborhood." With a laugh she turned, holding in one hand a bowl of man's shaving soap and in the other a brush. Constance supposed it was a shaving brush, though she had never seen one like it since this was long and thin. "I work better like this," said the Senior, slinging a leg across the bench and facing the center of her operations. This she swiftly began to lather.
As she felt the warm stroke of the brush Connie lay voluptuously eased. Maud worked gently with every now and then a slick wet stroke right up the center. Constance found herself widening her legs, first to facilitate the other's task, and then just to widen her legs. There was a heat behind her eyes. Perhaps it was just that she was dazzled by the light above, which poured down on the bent back over her. Maud's underbuttocks were richly shadowed, her sex fleeced. In fact, her ripe young rounds were not merely downed, but-she could see now-quite crossed with a tracery of hair. Connie never had seen anything like it before. They chatted amicably together.
"All we Dorm Sisters have records on our pledges, you know. There was this thing about you being gang-fucked."
"Yes. I never have felt much about boys thereafter."
"I think we'll put that right for you okay. We hate brutality at Brierton. That's precisely why I'm going to give you six strokes with that whippy little cane before you go to bed tonight."
Connie shuddered. Her hands were moving over, kneading her breasts, rubbing the ringed nipples. "Hey, go easy with ... what's in that soap you're using, anyway?" The brush, twisting up her crease like an eel, flipped up her clit and caused her to arch her spine. Doing so she caught sight of what seemed to be several faded traces drawn across the young buttocks above her.
"M-er-Maud, may I ask you something?"
"Go right ahead."
"Can I touch?"
"Okay."
"Here. Were you ... punished there?"
"Oh that. That was weeks ago. It was entirely my fault. I failed to show for an inter-sorority run. Clean forgot, as a matter-of-fact. I got ten, in front of the House."
"So ... you get punished, too."
"Absolutely. Of course, it's all very democratic. Done by vote and all that."
"But, didn't it hurt?"
"Terrifically. However, I got it off my conscience. I atoned. I haven't had to worry about it since."
"Maud." Suddenly, as if coming to her senses, Connie realized that the warm wet brush was worming up inside her, that her pelvic section was bucking like a bronco, her feet trying to crawl up the side of the bench and that her arms were around the hips in front of her. "You lather ... good."
"Has anyone ever told you that you have sexy soles to your feet?"
"But that ... after all ... you don't need to ... oooh ... for five minutes or mmmm-more ... my spot must be...."
"And is," confirmed her mentor positively.
"Maud, I'm afraid you're r-r-r-r-reaching me...."
With a last quick whisk the Senior stood up straight. "I would put it in the past tense," she said, surveying the pumping hips. "Reached." From the basin she retrieved a razor. "For this part of it, kid, I need to be steady. I'm going to sit on your face. It won't be the first time a pledge has been used as a cushion. The psych is right. All you need do is keep still."
As the strong hips widened above her, Connie shut her eyes; she felt in a total ecstasy, relieved, submissive. Soft pressure on her forehead. She chuckled, and said, "There's nowhere for my nose."
"If you look carefully, Pledge, you'll see a purse with a silken lining. The hair may tickle but I'll like it if you sneeze."
"But I shan't be able to breathe," she protested, trying to laugh.
"You will if you keep your mouth wide open. And, and reciprocate." With a hiss of pleasure the Senior lowered herself completely, leant forward and began to shave the foam. "Gee, you were certainly copious, Constance. Well, a new kind of lather-shave, I guess."
* * *
Pretty, if short-sighted, Melissa Hope-Trumpington was faring less happily, however. Entering the room assigned her, on the other side of campus, she had found it empty and darkened. After reflection she put on the lights and, seeing her things arranged on a table by one wall, decided to settle down to her homework.
It was thus studiously employed that she was surprised by the flushed and freckled Senior who burst into the room, humming, some minutes later, and wearing riding rig-cord breeches, flashing black boots with signs of earth on their insteps, coat and velvet jockey cap, under which her hair was tucked.
Melissa stood up at once.
"So you're my plaything pledge. I'm Diana Carruthers," said the girl with a mild British accent.
"I'm happy to meet you, Miss."
"Call me Diney. Everyone does. I'm sorry I wasn't here to greet you but I had to muck out. You know. You have a horse here? No. Well, we all have to groom our own, and do the chores. My mare was playing up and I fear I had to give her a bit of a lesson. Yes, I'm afraid I left that minx golden-lipped and nicely galled, not to mention some salutary licks across her drum-taut rump with this." She tossed a lanky black switch to the sofa, on which it danced a second. Melissa found her eyes on it apprehensively. "It was partly the figging responsible."
"The?"
"Never had to fig a horse?"
"No."
Shucking off her jacket, and revealing herself in mannish checked vest, the energetic Senior shrugged. "Stable boys usually do it. Here we have to do everything ourselves. Best way of learning. Ginger suppository up the anus. Makes 'em keep their tail erect. Also enlivens them considerably. Take off my spurs."
Melissa moved to obey. Kneeling in front of the spraddled boots she could see that the rowels were cruelly sharp and, yes, flecked with blood. But the other kept up a nonstop monologue.
"I like to be fit as a fiddle. In prime condition. Belly on my backbone, y'know. Ride every day. I say, you do have lovely legs. Hell, I didn't say screw them up, I said take them off."
"I'm sorry, Miss, I'm a bit short-sighted."
"That's better. You'll clean and polish those for me for tomorrow."
"Yes, Miss."
"Now come and stand here."
Melissa's apprehension was increased when she saw that the well-built Senior had rolled up her sleeves. She had also lit a thin cigar and was puffing at it pensively.
"There's certainly plenty of you. Over six, I'd say."
"Six one in my stockings," said Melissa, not without pride.
"And most of it leg," said the other admiringly. But it was the admiration one accorded an animal, and Melissa was beginning to feel intensely uncomfortable. And when the other told her to turn round she felt a flutter in her chest. "Lovely willowy can. Trim and springy. Excellent over the jumps, I'll bet. Were you ever screwed by a stable-boy?"
"No."
"You've been sitting on that skirt, haven't you?"
After a moment Melissa said, "I'm afraid so."
"With a name like that I imagine you're a limey. Or were."
Melissa shook her head. "My g-g-grandfather."
"Well, I'm first generation. And I have a horrible confession to make, Melish old bean: I just love to wallop a seat like yours. We got it all the time, you know, and I can't say as it does us any harm. We're not exactly a nation of perverts, I believe, and the word sadism is one I seldom allow to pass my lips. Now turn round and let's get down to brass tacks." She added, "Or rather, sassy backs."
When Melissa turned the flutter rose to her throat. The smiling Senior was holding at each end the rapier-lean black switch; its glossy gleam held Melissa's eyes riveted.
"For failing to curtsey when I came in-do you want to put yourself down for a Demerit, or get it over with here?"
"Wer-with that?"
"Whalebone. It stings-at least my pony seemed to think so-but it doesn't break the skin."
Hectically-it was all happening much too fast-Melissa heard herself blurting, "I guess ... I suppose ... I mean, thank you, Miss, I'll take it here."
"That's the Beta Rho spirit. Come and bend over, dearie. Like this."
There was a demonstration, by the snugly breeched bottom, and before she knew it Melissa found herself bent at a little more than right angles over her own table, arms stretched in front of her, legs set well together. She plucked off her glasses and buried her head between her arms, damned if she'd let this Senior of whom she was feeling increasingly afraid see her reactions. Her short black hair fell forward. Thanks to her height the edge of the table touched her thighs and to lay her torso comfortably along the table top meant to arch her lower back, thus giving an appealing pout to her posterior. This was quickly peeled of its skirt, and Diane ("Diney") Carruthers gave an appreciative whistle. Melissa was glad she had on glamorous undies.
Actually all she had on were dark nylons tautly, and closely, tethered to the thinnest stretch lace panty imaginable. Its transparent skin did scarcely more than give her own a roseate glow, holding the cheeks up firmly for the whip. The seemingly endless, unmatchable limbs that were Melissa's merged insensibly, with a fluid grace, into their respective halves above, bisected as these were by a furrow to which the stuff still closely adhered. It was, in fact, impossible to discern the exact juncture of limb and hip, were it not for the fatty vulval fig which pouched between the widening there, in sateen reinforcement.
"America the beautiful," said Diana softly. "I wouldn't want to touch it. I'll only pull it tight."
She yanked the waist a trifle higher and stood back.
Melissa took a breath.
"How many, please?" she asked in a muffled tone, or groan.
"I'll let you off with three."
The air rippled and the whalebone sliced the flesh like a blade.
"Hoooo!"
It was unspeakably worse than she'd expected, but before she could get her breath back the second had flashed across, and through, her. She was half standing when the third met her seat.
"Aaaaow!"
She arched, grasping, blowing with pain.
"It hits a peak after about ten seconds," said the Senior softly. "Jump about all you like. It's good conditioning."
Melissa lifted one leg after another, fighting for breath. She couldn't see too well but she could distinguish the aching length of the black tormentor prodding at the top of one boot. She distinguished it with intense respect.
"Christ, that hurt."
Enter that in your book.
"When you're ready we'll pay off the three for sitting on your skirt."
"God. Can't I ... may I get a glass of water first?"
"Right ahead."
But the black eel was waiting for her when she came back.
This time she lay across the table more limply and the lace-clad rounds cringed to the whistle of the biting bone.
"Uuunh! ... haaaaa! ... oh!"
Somehow this time she kept from crying out, restricting herself to stifled grunts of pain. The last out, however, had been a particularly thoughtful one, winding into the tender skin above the fold and as she stood up she realized it had taken her on to a new level of pain. She hopped blindly on place for a second, hissing, then took a skipping step across the room, tripped and fell, writhing. When she sat up she was aware of the cigar-smoking Senior standing above her. "Diney" Carruthers had taken off her boots and, yes, her saddle; so far as still squirming Melissa could vaguely perceive, she was just about bare but for her waistcoat, or vest. She still carried her switch, however.
"You've no idea how delightfully you wriggle, Melissa. If I didn't know the power of my little tickler here, I'd say you were putting it on. Such ecstasy! I'm afraid you're going to have to learn much more self-control in the days to come. It's the essence of a Brierton girl. Because, you see, you happen to be ... sitting on your skirt again!"
Melissa moved to her knees. Her hands went to one side and she took her skirt off and folded it neatly. At this moment she felt she would do anything, anything in the whole wide world, not to feel the agony of that whalebone switch again.
"Here." From the mists above something was held out to her. "This is my vibrator. Would you put it in, please. I told you I like thrashing."
Melissa received a phallic length in her right hand. It was thick, strong, sculpted and seemed to have a slight curve at the tip.
"The switch is at the base. I'll tell you when to turn it on. And turn me on, too."
"Put it in ... where?"
"Put it up me, silly." Parting her legs even further, the Senior chuckled creamily. "And by up me I mean right up. This baby is longer than the real thing, it's artificially loaded, and when it shoots you feel it right behind your eyeballs. No stable boy can match that, so far as I'm concerned. Now shove it up, frosh."
Cunningly Melissa inquired, "Do I get three more after?"
"Not if you do this well."
Melissa moved, groping. She pressed upwards until checked by a cursing, laughing cry, "You idiot! THAT'S THE WRONG HOLE!"
* * *
"Do you like meat?" asked the girl with the high piled hairdo, leaning with her back against the bedroom door.
"Meat?" said Joan Mason, wondering.
"You see," and her great eyes wandered, "I do have this problem."
They were talking in lowered voices in the Senior's room allotted Joan. There had seemed to be no one inside and so Joan had walked into the pleasant Swedish-modern interior, with its subdued lighting. A lot of girlish clothes were tossed around. Her own things had come across, she could see, but there was no sign of any presence-until the far door opened softly and this gorgeous creature with the languid air had come round, closed it, and leaned back, eyes shut.
"I'm Avery Congreve. I imagine you're Pledge Mason. I'm sorry if I seem a trifle distrait, but it's been rather grueling, as a matter-of-fact."
What has, Joan wanted to ask, but refrained. Her hostess had on a black gauze shortie nightgown that just covered her front, and that was all. She had a perfect figure.
"I just don't care for it. Never have."
"I'm afraid I don't follow. Miss."
"Oh don't call me that, please. I want to be friends. Besides, from what I can gather you're older than me, actually. Also I understand you've been married."
"And divorced," said Joan firmly.
"Too bad, honey. But right now I do have this problem on my hands, and I wondered," this with another roll of glossy eyes, "if you could ... lend me a hand. Or rather, mouth."
"What's the trouble exactly?" Joan asked in her best no-nonsense tone of voice.
"You don't have to if you don't want to, honey. But, as you know, there is this regulation about no boys after six and I do have one in there right now, as a matter-of-fact. Works in the stables.
"And he's stubborn as a mule and he won't go unless ... hell, let me show you, dear. I took the trouble of covering over his face so's there wouldn't be any identification."
Finger on lips she tiptoed inside the bedroom, holding Joan's hand behind her. The room was in semi-darkness, but from the doorway behind them enough light flowed forward to show the incoming freshman a pair of muscular male legs spread wide on the sheets of the extremely tousled bed. As Avery had indicated, the boy had been covered with a loose sheet roughly from the waist up.
"I see what you mean about ... meat," said Joan Mason at last. She tick-tocked up to the foot of the bed with her mentor, smoothing her fitting Chanel tweed. From the center of the dormant body a sky-high erection quivered impatiently.
"Looks just like a space shot, doesn't it?" whispered Avery beside her. "Only I'm afraid it's not about to go off. And that, my dear, is the trouble."
"It certainly is large," Joan said, bending reverently over the dewy monster, "I'd imagine you'd know you're full up with that inside you."
"Hm-nn. You can say that again. I've already had it three times this afternoon and the last occasion I'll swear it touched my throat. Oh you!" she said with a peevish pat that swung the great knob before them. The boy groaned, and moved. "You're insatiable, aren't you. The problem is, it needs eating, or it won't go. You don't suppose you could melt it down for me, do you? He'll never leave otherwise."
"I could have a try," said Joan Mason gamely.
"Oh, would you! Oh, thanks a mill, darling. It isn't that I mind meat so much, or even potatoes, but somehow I've never been able to stomach the sauce!"
"Here goes. For Beta Rho."
So saying, she approached with a determined look. First, she grasped the base of the angry-looking animal and wet it with saliva. Then she slipped it in her small mouth, where it at once gave a trout-like leap. The boy groaned again, this time more loudly.
"Shut up, Sam. Just relax."
Expertly now Joan teethed the underbelly, every now and then her tongue skidding whimsically round the corona like a kid licking cream off a pop. The boy was groaning regularly, drawing up his legs and rolling, so that she had to kneel on the bed to reach him. Then she began a slobbering swallow, up and down, of the sensitive rod.
"Jeepers, Joan. How you can get all that in your little mouth, you demon you. Doesn't it tickle your tonsils, or something?"
Frowning in concentration, Joan was now breathing hard, holding the base in one hand and milking the boy's balls with the other. The effect was electric and she had to part her knees for balance, short skirt hiked and head right down.
"Cheeee...."
She was sliding it along one cheek now and the boy was jamming up his hips so that her neat head rocked back.
"Ooooh, mother," he groaned.
Gently, Avery lifted the skirt onto the working girl's back, revealing over tensed stockings, snaps and panties.
Joan Mason paused in her task to peer round. Her face was red and her lips wet, but her expression was one of absorption.
"Anything wrong?" she inquired.
"Just thought that'd give you more room to move. Also, you do have a sweet ass."
"I fear my spouse thought so, too."
"How are things at base?"
"I'd say all systems are set to go."
"I'll say," came in a muffled groan from under the sheet.
Both girls looked at the bobbing spear, its salivated Cyclops eye winking, and Joan said, "Keeps hitting the roof of my mouth."
Avery patted the trim behind. "Go to it doll. Remember Beta Rho."
The girl plunged down her head once more, slurping lustily along the rod's rampant length. It had an effect at once. The slick fish jumped like a live thing. Joan was compelled to hold it in both hands, so as to nip gently round its tip in peace.
"Christ God Almighty!"
"Unless I'm very much mistaken," said Avery, watching the bulging spasm at the root, "someone not a million miles from here is going to get a mouthful."
Joan's eyes rolled towards her, then her cheeks were sucking in and her throat was working frantically. The boy arched up, moaning, until she was kneeling erect; she held the pumping rod until with a wild jerk it escaped her, spattering her face with its final furious jets. Joan Mason staggered back off the bed, rubbing one eye and feeling forward.
"You d-er-don't have a Turkish towel handy, do you?"
Avery had slapped the subsiding snake angrily-"You're incorrigible. Spitting in a lady's eye like that. Come into the bathroom, sweetie, and I'll fix you up. You were swell."
In the big mirror there Joan stared at her sperm-streaked face, which the Senior began to dab at with a kleenex. Somehow she seemed to have slipped out of her shortie, showing two big slabs of breast that rolled with her movements.
"I must have swallowed half a pint. Grueling, did you say? Gruel describes it exactly."
"Oh he's always like that. Terrible. I have it running down my thighs for hours afterwards. Fortunately, one can flush it out, and does." She pointed to the low broad bidet. "Every bedroom at Brierton is provided with one. The goo that goes down there." She rolled her eyes expressively again. "Oh damn, he got some on your suit. Look, why don't you take it off. In fact, come to that, why don't you take everything off? You'll be far more comfortable like that."
"All right."
Joan obeyed and after a moment the two girls confronted each other, bare but for their heeled shoes.
The older, though junior, girl said: "If I may say so, you do have superb breasts. In fact, I'd say that they're the most magnificent I've ever seen."
"Think so? Thanks." The other thoughtfully tugged a nipple and the great dug elongated obediently. "Overlarge for comfort, that's what the mamma plasticians call them, but the boys don't object. That cretin," she tossed her head back towards the door, from the other side of which uncertain stampings were now proceeding, "even likes to grease them up and gouge himself off between them. I find that messy, splashes my neck. Did your ex ever do that to you, Joan."
"I fear not. Nature was sparing to me in that department. I was cheated."
"Oh no, they're lovely, too. Though I must say," she went on, squeezing her huge over healthy mounds together, "mine are almost as big as those little bitty-bills of yours. Talking of which, would you mind turning round."
Joan obliged. She had indeed a cute can. If small, it was high, round and handsome, pert and well-formed, with the two cheeks close.
"Now bend down," she was told. "Touch your toes."
She did as bid. Here we go, she thought, wondering if there were enough room in the place for the Senior to get a sufficient swing. The Dorm Sister's next words confirmed her charge's worst suspicions.
"I suppose you know that pixyish little podex of yours is going to get a fair ration of lickings in the month to come."
"Yes," said Joan meekly, inverted.
"We live in his horrible over-violent society, and this symbolic activity of ours in the sororities is a way, a sort of surrogate really, of working it out, or working through it. Odd, isn't it, that England, the country of le vice anglais, should also be famous as one of the most law-abiding nations in the world."
As she spoke Avery Congreve moved forward, until her moist mons pressed against the taut backside, on which it began to rub gently.
"I shall want to know everything about you, you see. You're going to be supervised in a way you never have before. For instance: I want to see your stool." She added-"Shit."
"In the morning?"
"Whenever. Everything, in short, that comes out of you and goes into you. You're going to be completely...." There was a suck of breath...."owned! I might syringe your ears or your ass. Masturbation, too."
"How do you mean?" asked Joan, after a moment. She was getting tired of bending over.
"It's encouraged, here. In fact, it's a must." The girl gave a thrilling laugh. "My dear, there'd be a hell of a lot of feminine frustration under these ivy-clad roofs if it weren't for that."
"But ... no sex?"
"It creates problems. Disorder. Also destroys the vestality of the place. Angel, may I ask a favor?"
To herself Joan Mason smiled; what she said was, "Sure."
"Are you as good with girls as with boys?"
"You mean?"
"Ace in the hole. That titillating tongue of yours, to be exact, darling. Have you licked a girl?"
"Never have," said Joan Mason, feeling the rubs on her derriere rising in tempo, "but I'm game to try. For the sake of the sorority, of course."
"Oh, you're a trooper."
Once on her knees in front of the straddled center of the groomed body Joan realized how immensely one contrasted with the other. There was the piled hair, and made-up eyes, and juicy lips; and there was the strident slit-steamy, shaggy, voraciously wide. Instinctively she implanted on its inner depths a passionate kiss, eliciting above her head something close on a stifled howl.
"Christ God, that's the spot! Daaaahling ... There's this ... oooh, you're impossible ... it's a thing called a Credit. No, keep up under it like that. Perfect! Pledges get one when they're good. I'm sorry I'm so wer-wer-wehhht! Oh, oh, oh, baby I'm boiling, bursting ... an' I'm awarding you a Credit r-r-r-right now ... for s-s-s-service!"
Joan felt fists in her hair and this time female foam was on her face. She gasped and backed under the inundation, while Avery eventually sought a stool.
"It's all right," she said laughing, as Joan washed herself off in the mirror, "they say it's good for the complexion."
"They also say the other stuff's perfect for a hangover. As a matter-of-fact, I think it is."
"Well, I'm afraid there was some of one mingled in the other." '
"They tasted not dissimilar," Joan Mason said, running her tongue over her lips. "I don't mind it, actually."
"You don't seem to."
"This bit ... about a Credit. What was that, if I might ask?"
Avery nodded. She seemed to have slipped into a ruminative mood, sitting with widely parted legs on the toweling covered stool, with which her dark, neatly clipped bush contrasted. "You can award a pledge a Credit. That means she gets off three strokes of her next punishment, or can take it on Friday night, if she wants. Opposite of a Demerit, sort of. I'll put you down for one in the House tomorrow."
"Thanks," Joan said. But she said it wryly.
"What, not pleased?"
"Oh yes, thank you very much."
"As a matter-of-fact," yawned the other, "it makes strictly little difference whether you're beaten or praised. For a month, my dear Joanie, you're a random accident in the universe. You have no meaning. Like a stone. You're ... how can I put it ... outside the order of things. And that's the biggest sacrifice you have to make. But let's go back in."
"Won't he be there?"
"Hell no. Sam will have left immediately." She got up, peeked through and nodded. Then she led her charge into the comfortably furnished bedroom which she flooded with subdued lighting. "Let me show you what I mean."
They advanced to the rumpled double bed.
"I'll make it," Joan said. "After all, if I'm going to have to sleep in it."
But the other shook her head. "Not. You sleep on the floor at my side. Skinny. And, no sheets."
Joan saw a pile of hairy horse blankets on the floor on the far side. Above them, from a hook in the wall, hung a thong. Spider's fingers tightened on her skull as Avery walked, her big breasts swinging, and took it off. At one end was a loop, obviously for the striker's wrist. The stretch of brown leather, which was strangely circular, looked hard.
The other explained: "Cut off a skipping rope. It really punishes a lot." She swung it thoughtfully, bringing it down with a painfully taut rap across a leather pouffe. Joan Mason swallowed.
After a second she said, "If it isn't too presumptuous, might I ask what I...?"
"Yes?"
"What am I to be ... chastised for, I mean?"
"You!" Avery Congreve rocked on her round heels a long moment. Then a generous smile split her features. "Oh my dear ... I-you? No, no. I want you to give it me!"
* * *
To the resounding "Enter!" from behind the door of Franklin 318 pert little Terry Sands plucked up courage, chucked out her chest and, crossing her little fingers, strode in with her tartan mini swinging over her tookie.
A well-built dark girl, about twice her size, lay on an exercise mat in the middle of the room, dressed in tennis things and pedaling the air furiously. She stopped when she saw who it was, and jumped athletically to her feet. She was a full head taller than Terry.
"So you're the sixteen-year-old."
"Yes. And you're," she barely breathed the words, her sparkling eyes lowered, "Miss Brooke. Aren't you?"
"Right first time."
Teresa Sands glowed all over. This was more than she had ever dared to hope. Not only was Barbara Brooke Captain of the tennis team, she was a Praelictor at Beta Beta Rho, and an actual friend (it was well known) of, of ... she hardly dared to think of such luck.
"How did you know?"
"I've seen you playing, Miss. And, and, I've seen you with...."
But it was too much for her, so great was her adoration.
"With whom? Aramilla?"
Terry nodded, smiling. Surely there was some penalty for saying the name of the President herself of the so exclusive sorority she was hoping to enter. The most exclusive, the most select....
"You'll see her Friday," said the other drily, "when you settle your sins. She may look as if butter wouldn't melt in her mouth but she's a tartar when she sentences. She likes to see uppity frosh get a flogging, and I must say, so do I. Now let's take a look at what we have here. Take off your pants."
"You mean, altogether?"
"Right off and fold them up neatly over there."
Teresa blushed deeply when the cold, capable hands cupped under her twin cubs behind. She was proud of her high-slung fanny, which had attracted many a male glance, but there was something humiliating about the way it was being handled now, like a side of beef, or something.
"Hm. You may be sixteen but this is a nice meaty pair. I don't see why we should withhold any of the usual attention from it, do you? Let me show you what I have in store for this over-chubby section of your anatomy, frosh."
The Senior strode to a closet, returning with two sleek long canes. Teresa stared at them in confusion, very much aware of how bare she was, beneath.
"Were you whipped at home?"
"My Daddy kept me in line, with a strop."
The Captain of the Brierton tennis team gave a guffaw.
"But I assure you, Miss, it won't be necessary. I plan to be as good as gold while I'm a pledge. I'm fully conscious of the honor of being rushed in this way, and I only want to satisfy you."
"A charming speech, I'm sure. But I have an idea you're already down in the Demerit book. A Commission." The freshman bowed her head. "I don't know if you realize what our birches feel like. Well, let me tell you. The birch is a wood that holds water. Our limbs are picked two days beforehand, by a Pledge designate, and if she doesn't get them long enough, and straight enough, with at least a couple of tough buds at the tip, she's down for Idle right there, herself. We soak them in pickle which hardens them no end, without robbing them of any of the resiliency. A birch with plenty of swing to it can be made to sting terrifically. But it doesn't bruise, it's only a surface smart, and so one can give lots of cuts." All the time she was speaking the big girl was stroking, as if soothingly, the firm, stocky rounds of the furiously flushing teener. "As a Prae I'm sometimes called on to swish, Fridays. And I assure you, Miss S., I'll make these thick things of yours wish they were a damn sight smaller, even after five. Another Commission or two, and you'll really be sorry. But now-just to be quite fair-I want you to know what's in store for you right here. Unfortunately we're only allowed to use these thin canes in the Dorms, but that doesn't preclude an improvement. Look."
Crestfallen Terry turned. Something shone silvery at the end of one of those callous rods.
"A steel tip. Hurts twice as much. I'll give you one with each, just as advance warning, sort of. Lift up that absurd skirt and lean forward just a little. So. Not too much."
A whistling stroke thrashed into the fat.
The girl bit her lips against the cry, looking back with a squeeze of her eyes. It was infinitely worse than she'd expected, five times more telling than the strop.
"Now for the tip."
The second slice drove her tiptoe, on a strangled gasp, grabbing her right cheek with both hands. "Eeeee...."
"See what I mean."
The pain implanted by the vicious tip seemed to worry into her, like an asp, and she writhed, trying to throw it off.
"Gosh!" she exhaled at last.
Having tossed aside her rods the other looked at her, smiling. "I think you're getting the point. Now let's see your front. Um. Not bad. That we'll shave tonight. It's got to be bald."
"B-er-her-her...."
"As a billiard-ball, my dear. You have one of those short low slits; you're very lucky and it'd be a shame to hide it, really. It may be a bit bristly for your boyfriend."
"That's Brad," said the girl, still nursing herself at the rear.
"Oh? Has he been up there, then? According to the records, you're a virg. The only one of the five."
Crimsoning, Terry pronounced emphatically, "And that's the trouble, Miss. He won't, though I want him to. Oh, he's that stubborn."
"Well, I think we can sort that little difficulty out for you, too." She studied her pubescent charge affectionately for a second, then with a smile yanked her pigtail-"Bobby and Terry, eh. I'm sure we're going to get along fine. Now let me show you round."
"Ou, that cane hurts," said the younger, still feeling herself as she followed, but the other only laughed.
Terry followed the fine figure round in frank fascination. The slightly sweated tennis blouse adhered to the tapering back, the pleated skirt swung just over the rondures of a slumbrously splendid seat, clothed (as Terry knew, from her first sight of it cycling as she entered) in pantyhose of a pecan shade. By the time she had seen everything, including some odd-looking straps, she had fully recovered and, in spirit of girlish enthusiasm, looked forward to buckling to.
"I'd better get down to these hems," she said with a little determined frown, wondering when she could put her panties on again. "Gee, from what they told us in the House"-the word fell off her lips with a most satisfactory familiarity-"we might as well just wear a shirt!"
"Why don't you," came from the Senior, who had settled to a book on a chair, legs slung over its arm. "Put one on."
"Sure."
Terry went to obey. When she came back from the bedroom moments later she did so slowly, like so much calendar art. She still wore her high heels and hose, but had doffed her black garter belt. The stockings stayed taut with cosmetic adhesive.
All else she had on was an abbreviated lumber checked shirt, which scarcely covered her maidenly modesty, tug as she might.
"Is this all right?" she asked.
But the other didn't deign to look at her. "Don't be vain. Get on with your work."
With a sigh Terry made to do so, settling to her sewing on the desk after having first entered the punishment in her book. The word setting did not quite describe the activity, however. For lifting up the tail of her shirt to plant her nubile and now well-wealed nates on the straight seat provided there, she found the latter to be curiously bristly and shifted instinctively. As there was no other recourse, however, she got to work with a will, saying to herself that she would repair the cushioning on the morrow.
But every now and then, as she leaned forward to her exacting task, a squeeze of her thighs made her jerk with a gasp when a bunch of bristle entered where Brad declined to go.
"Stop fidgeting, frosh," said the tennis skip unfeelingly.
"This ... seat. If I may say so, it's so itchy-bristly."
"Nothing is forgotten in your training. Just sit still."
So it was on purpose. Another evidence of the care taken to supervise them. Teresa threaded a needle, squinting with concentration. Ouch! It was as if ... yes, as if she'd been goosed.
"Oh. It's so beastly itchy. Mayn't I change it, please?"
"If you fidget again, I'll give you Restraint."
Teresa tried again, gamely. But after another five minutes the seat pricked her right where that damned steel tip had fallen. She gasped and half-rose.
"All right, you," she heard behind her. "Stand out there."
With a tingling feeling of excited anticipation the girl did as bid. It lifted her off the chair at least, and what was this Restraint? It couldn't be as bad as another beating with that cane.
Barbara Brooke came back from the closet this time carrying a leather belt, with brass buckles. It was heavy and thick and extremely wide.
"Ever seen a saddle strap?" she asked.
The girl shook her head.
"This"-she pointed to a thin strap that dangled from one of the brass loops in front. "It goes through your legs. Discourages undue motion, I think you'll feel. We find they're quite effective. Especially the ones with notches inside. Stand with your feet wide apart and relax your self completely, it's much better for you if you do."
The belt was buckled on her narrow waist so tight she gasped with the constriction. She felt rigid from ribs to hips. Then the Praelictor threaded the thin strap through her lips in front and drew it up the chink behind. Terry was aware of it going into a buckle there.
"Take in your breath. Come on, a big one."
"Yeeech!"
For suddenly, behind her, the strap had been yanked up two holes or more and she felt as if she were being sawed in two. She tried to arch to relieve the pressure.
"Now go and sit down and get on with it," she was ordered.
The first step she took sent her head back with a gasp. Then she found that taking tiny, mincing paces was less painful and she resumed her seat for more sewing.
But this was very much worse. The cruel strap spread her cheeks, exposing their tender insides to the roughly bristled chair and, while it protected in a measure the most vulnerable of her insides, the soft lips were pushed out intolerably as she sat. Tears nudged at her eyes as she worked and twice she stabbed her thumb with the needle. She couldn't concentrate and it was a relief when the buzzer went at the door.
"Go and see who it is, pledge."
Terry sat up straight. As she did so she gave a fervent wince from the depths of her flesh.
"Like this?"
"How else?"
"B-b-but I mean I'm ... it's...."
Barbara Brooke moved with the agility of the expert volleyer she was. From behind her recalcitrant pledge's seat she inserted a thumb under the saddle strap in back, and yanked.
"HHHHHHH ... eeeeeee!"
Terry Sands stood up, panting.
"Now. Do you want to get that bell, or the cane?"
"Please. It's cutting me in two."
"So will the stick."
Slowly, safely, left after right, as if walking on eggs, and with her charming buttocks protestingly wobbling, the girl began her journey.
The Praelictor frankly chortled. "The only way to relieve the pressure, my dear, is to arch out your back. Tuck your cunt under you and make like you're putting it up to be screwed from behind. There, that's a whole heap better. Just you wait till I put a horsehair saddle on you, really tight."
Tears were pouring down Terry's crimson face as she opened the door and, striving to hide behind it, admitted a grinning youth in some sort of blue uniform who yodeled forward, sending his skimmer and a packet sailing to the sofa.
"So it's you, Tom," said the Senior.
"Your friendly messenger service, as ever, Ma'am." The boy threw her a pleased smile and a parodistic bow. Then he double-took at the sight of all the bounty trying to cringe behind the too-short shirt. "Hey, is this your pledge you told me about?"
"Yes, and it's not for you, my man."
"Wheee-whew!" He wolf-whistled broadly.
Wishing the ground would swallow her, blushing Terry blushfully requested-"Might I ... I think I'd like to be excused."
"And you got a saddle on her too, already."
"Please, Miss Brooke."
"This," said her elder without noticeable interest, "is one Tom Langer. Tom, meet Terry. Thomas is an Engineering Student at nearby Deardon," went on the explanation. "With a side major in Fornication. At the moment he's posing as a messenger service boy because he knows he can't get into the college otherwise."
"He also knows," returned the ogling youth, "that the Captain of the tennis team can't get too much of it."
"She's in training now, Tom."
"Training for what?"
"Oh, you're impossible. How often do I have to tell you I'm in my final half here, and I simply can't afford last-minute expulsion. All right, but it'll have to be a very quick one then."
"May I go?" said Teresa in a small voice.
"Where? To the potty? You'll find it awfully difficult with that on, though it can be done, in front. No, you go and sit down and get on with your work and don't you dare look up till we've finished."
Red-faced and wretched the girl began her long voyage back. Barely half-covered by the tiny tail of the shirt her bottoms jumped sideways each step. The youth wolf-whistled again.
"Boy! That's a locomotion of real devotion."
"Isn't it just," said the Senior.
"And marked up already," he rejoined as the tail flipped up to sit.
"Two strokes, that's all. She hardly felt a thing."
"Bet it hurt her more than it did you, Barbs."
There was a giggle. "Come on, you stiff-necked beast you. You're not going to stick my pledge if you think you are. This is going to be a strictly in-out operation." As they passed behind the ducked head of the flushing teener, Barbara Brooke gave its pigtail another playful yank. "And don't you dare to move, you." The two passed into the bedroom, whose door was left ajar behind them.
After that it was all a series of categorical instructions and commands, some practical advice as to position, in short, what the college President liked to call "a stern pursuit of the possession of knowledge." The tears coursed down Terry's pinkened cheeks as she listened.
"On my back, with my legs straight up?"
"Yeah, and together. Squeezes good that way."
"No, you don't have to take my tights off, damn you, Tom. They're open at the crotch."
"Slit at the slit, uh. Gee, I'll say. Uunnhh!"
"Ow! Oh! You might at least ... ouh ... wait just a ... ough ... hoo ... no deeper, Tom ... it's ... I ... Christ, you're ... thiiiiiiii...."
The girl listening looked blankly at the skirt lying before her. The muffled grunts, and guarded laughter, disturbed her intensely. Her bare chubbies pressed into the harsh seat cover and, together with that horrible divisive thong, made her feel she'd never been so humiliated before. A queer rippling sensation went down her spine. She tried to stick her tookie out as she'd been told, and found it helped relieve the pressure a little. After all, to enter Beta Rho was her fondest dream come true. There'd only be a month, and then....
"Come on, spend, you bastard. We haven't got all night. Spray it into me. I've come at least thrice, so far."
A male groan. "When the position," began the now-panting fake delivery boy, "and v-v-velocity of molecules are distributed ... yeah, like that, grip good ... absolutely at random, the en-enentropy is ... COMPLETE!"
There was a hoarse cry, the bedsprings creaked hectically, and silence. After which, in Barbara's bland chuckle-"That's the damnedest second law of thermodynamics I ever." She choked and gurgled and then there was total silence and then the sound of running water and the girl on the other side of their door tried to resume her work. She was hardly aware of it when they stood behind her.
The boy was doing up his buttons with a pleased grin on his face and Barbara ... why, she, in Teresa's considered estimation, looked about five years older. Her hair tumbled darkly on her bare, full shoulders and there was this sated expression on her face. What's more, it was impossible not to see, to look at, the moist muff of hair that thrust so aggressively, so proudly, it even seemed, through the opening in the pantyhose between the legs. This was all she wore.
"Eyes in the boat, Pledge. Been getting on with it nicely?"
Terry Sands dragged her gaze upwards. "T-trying."
"But not much, eh. Didn't they tell you that you usually stand up when a Praelictor enters the room?"
The girl got quickly to her feet. She did so with a grimace. "Sorry, Miss."
"What do they get for that, as a rule?" asked the boy, incuriously.
"Three," said Barbara Brooke, her blue eyes giving Teresa's a very level stare.
"Is that all?"
"It .can be made to hurt." She paused. "Put out the chair, Pledge."
The cupid's bow of Teresa Sands' soft mouth fell open. Her heart gave a lurch, under its fleshy protection.
"And get the cane. The standard one will do."
In the silence the youth's grin widened slowly. The teener stood with bent head; the tears squeezed in oily trickles over her rounded cheeks.
"Please. You're hot going to ess-s-s-spank me in front...."
"I'm not going to spank you. I'm going to cane you. Three of the best, as hard as I can. It'll do your soul good to have Tom watching, help teach you that you don't exist right now. Besides, he'll coach my forehand drive."
"But ... I've never ... my Daddy...."
"Hurry up, Teresa."
"In the her-her...?"
"You hit it first time. Nude as a slug behind, my dear."
"Oh please," she begged. "For stalling you get extra."
"But I...."
"Four."
On a stifled sob the girl moved. Barbara Brooke folded her arms over her sumptuous chest as the hard, upright chair was placed out in the center of the room, and the thin, evil-looking cane held out to her.
"Bend over the back, and grip the rung at the bottom."
"Please, Miss. Mayn't I...?"
"Five," said the Senior coldly. Beside her the boy chuckled.
"Never seen anyone less in a hurry about the affair, either."
Trim Terry Sands approached the back of the chair and stood there with her legs together. To bend was something else again. Tearfully she reached forward as ordered, and bending fully grasped hold of the strut of the chair in front. As she did so she gave a pronounced "Ooooh!" The saddle strap seemed fairly to divide her in half. Almost at once the tail of her little shirt was flipped contemptuously on to her back by the cane, exposing her two jouncy yet firm buttocks, across which it had drawn two cruel lines.
"Gee," said the boy, who had placed himself to her right, "a saddle really spreads them, don't it."
"Also discourages clenching," said Barbara, on her victim's left, giving a few business-like swishes which made the thighs in front of her quiver in anticipation. "Straighten your knees and reach forward. I'm going to come right under you now. Feel well balanced, comfortable?"
"Y-yes," sobbed the waiting girl.
"What's the extra if she moves?" asked the boy.
"Two. Three if she gets up before permission."
Please. God. Terry had never felt so awful in all her life, so exposed, so shamed, so degraded. She might have been made of stone or wax, the way they talked about her, behind her childishly bent ... behind. Tears dropped off her cheeks onto the rug under her eyes and she tried to concentrate her whole attention on a pattern there, saying to herself as she had before a stropping from her father-a hot oil burn, that's all, it's no worse....
She heard the springy pad of the Praelictor's pace behind her and then the thin troubling of air which rose to a high dry lisp and then she heard the snap of contact, less loud somehow than she'd expected, as the cane whipped into her flesh. She heard herself gasp, before being aware of doing so, and her first thought was-it's bearable. Then the true pain hit, with a great vibrating thrill so that it was all she could do not to reach behind and try to pluck it out, physically, there. She exhaled breath lengthily.
"That's good contact," said the boy.
"Yes. Some say it's twice as bad with a saddle. You get impact right inside the cheeks. How was it, for form?"
"Okay. But you ought to follow through more. And you're hitting short."
Terry jerked at the second cut, but did not cry.
She felt her knees rubbing involuntarily together with the new pain but there was now a positive task before her consciousness, that of combating the violence to her body; all her senses seemed rushing to this role, the pattern before her eyes took on a new vividity, a dynamic life of its own.
"Ouuuu...."
Thwclkkk!
"Hour The third was a diabolic flame, lashing full across her heinie; "she had never known its like before.
"That was much better," said the boy.
"Yes. I was hitting from too far off. That time I really felt the transfer of weight at impact."
"Mmm. Amazing how they do wriggle."
"A couple more like that and I think I can give her quite a hard time."
"Me too," said the boy.
Terry kicked out with her right leg as the fourth belted into her backside. The pain seemed unspeakable and she spasmed in it speechlessly a second, receiving the fifth and final stroke right under her parted can. It was the toughest of the lot and drove her forward, physically, over the chair. She yelped like a puppy, writhing there. If all her weight had not been forward like that she would have straightened; but that, and the reminder of the strap at her center, kept her hanging on the chair back, as it were, panting with pain and clasping her inflamed behind with cold, moist hands.
There was a tinkling laugh-"All right, you can get up, Pledge."
"And this is the best part," said the boy.
"The moment of honey, eh."
Lips drawn over her teeth, her face in a furious contortion of agony, the girl stiffened like a doll, kneading her posteriors in her palms. She had forgotten everything-her modesty, her sex even-she was just a thing of pain.
"Aaaahhhhhhhhhh!"
"Don't show off," said Barbara Brooke, smiling. "That's quite enough, Teresa. Now see our kind guest out."
It seemed the hardest thing she had ever done: to wrench her hands from that flaming skin, and think, and will herself to walk. To go to the door, and open it for that oafish, grinning stranger, and stand back to let him leave, still unconsciously rubbing behind.
"Takes the starch out of them a bit," he said consolingly.
Barbara Brooke replied, "Never was much in them in the first place. Now off with you, Tom, and don't darken these doors again, until I go."
"Or are ready to come?"
"Get out!"
With the door closed the teener paused. She looked at her lovely elder for a long second. Barbara Brooke had her arms folded again and there was an affectionate smile on her friendly lips.
Teresa felt a curious mixture of sentiments. Already the worst of the pain was subsiding from the hot, swollen weals she could feel behind. Her bottoms felt twice their normal weight. Was it relief she felt ... or a curious pride in having come through the beating? At any rate she found herself approaching the Praelictor with a strange warmly glowing gratitude, something she had never experienced before.
Huskily, she said, "That was a terrific caning. Those last two were real beauts."
"I'm glad you appreciated it."
"Oh I did."
"You deserved it. And will get much worse."
"Oh." Standing there in front of this smiling Senior, whose eyes were watching her intently, Teresa Sands felt completely, totally, subdued; she saw the cane still dangling from the other's fingers and with a wry grimace she rubbed her right hip, where the tip had bitten in. It seemed incredible that thin stick could hurt so much.
"I've never had my bottom flogged quite like that, before."
"Well, you can get ready for lots of it."
Suddenly, flushing deeply, and half to her dismay, Teresa heard herself saying: "Might I ... that is ... could I kiss the cane?"
"Yes. That's good."
The whipped girl slipped to her knees and implanted a long and fervent kiss to the tip; she even conceived it to be still warm from contact with her sit upon.
When she stood up the Senior said, "That was very sweet, Terry. I think you'll learn fast. Come into the bathroom a minute. I need a douche and maybe I'll reward you there."
In the bathroom the plump teener took off her shirt. The belt cut in her skin and the saddle strap seemed, in the mirrors, to vanish into the lips in front.
"Turn and look at your back."
"Oooo!" Looking over her shoulder with a moue, the young girl saw something that scarcely seemed to belong to her; under the belt the high, meaty cheeks were strongly bisected by the strap. Across their rosy and excited-looking halves the weals from the cane were drawn in parallel, purpling bars. They had fallen separately, covering much of the surface but on the right congealing in two places, to form a solidly ridged bruise, black in color. Tentatively, in a kind of amazement, the girl touched there. The skin felt hot and hard.
"Oooo!" she said again, this time with a little shuddery giggle, "oh boy, they caught it, didn't they!"
"That'll teach them to be so stuck up, won't it."
"It certainly will," said Teresa, frowning. "They'll think twice about getting another."
"In a few days those marks'll be gone. You'll be surprised. Red, mauve, yellow, green-all colors of the rainbow, just you see. Which one hurt the most?"
"I don't know. Maybe," a wondering finger traced a blood-thickened bruise, "that one. Oh they were all absolute aces, Miss."
And impulsively she flung her arms about the other. As she hugged and girlishly kissed her mentor, the latter reached expertly for the saddle strap's buckle behind. "I was going to make you wear this all night. But now you're showing this co-operative spirit so early I'll just take it off...."
"Ouuu...."
"And then you'll see how nice it is. There. Now to rub the circulation back, in front."
Almost at once, with a pronounced gasp, the girl arched a-tiptoe against the tennis captain's strong side.
"But that's ... oh it's incredible ... I'm...."
"Of course you are, my dear. And-there-hat did I tell you? Just let it go. And you'll find it'll last five times as long, after a little attention of that sort. When your nerves are ... ooops! Not on my new hose, if you please."
CHAPTER THREE
High up the hill, overlooking the campus, stood an ivy-clad house, its brick still warm from the day's sun. The Presidential mansion was indeed known to one and all as Hill House, though the title was unofficial. A soft light glowed from the diamond windows of an upstairs bedroom.
In front of the dying log fire-a token in this weather, but one the President appreciated of a Saturday night-a strong figure stretched his legs under the pale blue toweling robe he had donned after his bath. President Milton Hamilton, B.A., B.A., M.A., Ph.D., B. Litt., D.G., M.C., B.Pd. and ff.L., was reading under a lamp. His wife, Mrs. Georgene, sat opposite him working on her embroidery. Occasionally she glanced at her watch.
The President's thatch of white hair was brushed firmly back from his severe and ruddy countenance. At sixty-one he was in the full vigor of manhood, a fact attested now by certain stirrings beneath his robe. These were not unnoticed by Mrs. Georgene Hamilton, M.A.
"Milton?"
"Yes?"
"I think I'm going to bed."
"Um."
She put aside her embroidery and approached his chair. Georgene was forty-two, a short but succulent (and, some said, insatiable) brunette with perfect skin, whiter than white.
"What's that you're reading?"
He lay down the book. Along its spine she saw, The Symbolic Structure of the Newt in Tasmania. "This guy writes the darnedest stuff." His robe gave another twitch. "Out of this world."
"Milton, I believe it's our...."
"I believe it is," he said soberly. Saturday was their night. One of them. He sipped his glass of port. "Do you feel ready, my dear?"
"I think so. Evidently you do."
For turning to pat his wife's plump hand he had parted his knees and allowed the prisoner beneath to jump up straight. The Presidential prick was a monster, a magnificent unsated staff gnarled with veins like the root of an olive. It bobbed beautifully at bay before them now, thick with blood and firm in intention.
"I'll swear it looks bigger every time," said the President's lady reverentially. "Sometimes I do wonder, I mean, just how ever I do get all that up."
"Well, we have the hammer; I think, all we need is the scourge."
In the same deeply deferential tone she said, "You want to ... first?"
"Sure," he came back in surprise, "don't you?"
"I guess so. But it's a big thing for a girl."
"Nonsense, m'dear. You know you enjoy it twice as much afterwards."
"There's no denying that, I fear," she concurred sadly. "Nor that it hurts, an awful lot."
"Well, remember our motto. We don't demand anything of our girls we wouldn't take ourselves. And if I recall rightly, it's just about now those poor pledges are beginning to have the drudgery taken out of discipline. You can't say we don't take a personal interest in our students."
"All right, then. But might I have a drink?"
"Absolutely." He filled the glass with port from a decanter at his side. "Put some spunk into you, dear. Before I do. Help yourself."
Georgene thoughtfully drained the glass, her eye on the magnificent member glowing before the fire. "Shall I undress?"
"It might be a good thing." The President had already returned to his book. "This guy's fantastic."
"Completely?"
"What? Oh. No ... that hat. The one you wore to the investiture this afternoon. And the gloves." Absently he added, "and the thing."
Slowly she undressed, carefully folding her clothes, her ivory slip, her pink-toned brassiere, hanging up her decent black two-piece. The room was large, with a four-poster bed and tasteful pictures on the paneling; some of this had ceded to mirrors by the bed and they were few who knew that the Presidential baldachin, cheerfully curtained without, housed a mirror, too. Every now and then, as she stripped, Georgene looked at her ripe white body with a pitying apprehension, as if to say-you're going to get it, my friend, aren't you just!
She powdered her wide breasts, to which there was the merest suggestion of sag, then powdered her body all over, especially her buttocks, full and creamy, the glory of her figure. Then she put on the wide cartwheel hat, armpit-length velvet gloves and hoisted her stockings to two thigh-high jeweled garters. Then on teetering heels she went for "the thing."
Her husband sensed, rather than smelt, her perfume beside him as he read.
"The stick, Milton," she said in a small voice.
He clapped to the book and looked up with a bright smile on his ruddy face. Then he stood and kissed his lovely wife, paternally, on the forehead.
"My dear, that's charming." Framed in the halo of wide straw the face that always seemed just about to cry looked up at him winsomely, in loving fear. She was everywhere soft and tender, with a vulnerability to which the years had merely added. "You really are the most spankable. God, I'd have loved to have been your Dorm Sister when you pledged for Beta Rho here."
"Thank heavens you weren't!"
He looked her in the eyes. "All set for a little hickory therapy?"
Mutely she handed him the long, thin, round cane.
"How's it down here?"
He touched the center of her flesh, and it was moist. She gave him an appealing look.
"Wasn't it Oscar Wilde who wrote, 'This suspense is terrible, I do hope that it lasts'?" The President chuckled, flexing the limber limb. "Apprehension. Your heart's beating nicely now. You feel really alive."
"How many's it going to be, Milton?"
"Do you think you could go to eight?"
She turned wretchedly-"I'll try." She went to the bed. "Bring up the mirror, so I can see, would you?"
When the cheval-glass had been placed to her liking facing the foot of the bed she gave her back a last look in it. She had lovely legs, if a little oversoft, set close to on the body. Milton claimed you couldn't so much as slip a coin between her thighs, from the knees up. And it was true. Her bottom was what her learned husband like to call Restoration-Regency. Her long neck and sloping shoulders did not suggest, to the incurious, so richly based a person. The hips were deep, flowing to a fatty overhang that creased across the width of her thighs-a patient buttock, whose pallor accentuated the murderously flushed look of her husband's manhood, set, at rather more than right angles now, against it in the mirror.
"Marks all gone from last time," he murmured gently, bending the rod.
"Must it be eight, Milton?"
He chuckled. "Take a look at 'em. Don't you think they deserve it, just?"
"Yes, yes. But...."
"You know God's golden rule. Always has to be slightly worse than you expect. That way, it's so much nicer after. Come, you must admit it, dear."
She gave a sickly dumb nod. In one horny hand the President took his wife's right bottom-cheek, lifted it, and let it fall again with a lovely liquidity. She shuddered deeply, squeezing her thighs.
"Eight of the best for this grand pair."
"Please give me them high."
"Right above the crease, m'dear, just where you feel it most. Here. Good Heavens! Are you ... have you been coming already?"
"It's the apprehension, Milton. I'd been thinking about it rather long this time."
"Before, a joy proposed. Behind, a dream. How does the poet put it? Well, the interval between's all mine. The first four will be given over a minute, the other half at thirty-second spaces precisely. You can look forward to exactly three minutes of roast chestnuts on the rear, my dear. Come." And with his prick proudly bobbing the President led the way to the foot of the bed.
Georgene, her wide hat trembling, bent over it, her hands on the covers and her face turned to watch her magnificent mounds in the mirror to her right. She parted her legs widely, her sex glistening between them. The arse cheeks ran with nervous quiverings as the stick touched them in measuring aim.
The President performed this office, as he did all others, conscientiously. He thrashed his wife with a will. Though limber, the stick was tough and its fiery kiss mounted for many seconds. Practice had made his lady perfect, however, and he had to cut her butt skillfully and hard.
"Aaaagh!" she gasped after the third. "Please, Milton. Please come ... at me higher."
"And four makes four," he said, sweeping the licky stick upwards into the same chubby undersection and feeling a gratified satisfaction at the way it dug in there.
"OOOOOOHHH!"
She jumped up, rubbing, but quickly put herself into position again.
"Please, dear. This is the worst hiding I've had in ... EEEE!"
Not only was the big man's timing superb but so was his accuracy, too. A ruler could have been put over the weals he had raised so far. He finished with a stroke that drove a short shriek from his wife's throat and left her on her knees on the bed, clasping her hind portions. Without undue haste the President doffed his robe and advanced. The unseemly squirmings of his woman appeared to amuse him for a minute and intensify his glandular rigidity. Then, grasping her by the hefty hips, which she seemed intent on pulling apart, he nuzzled the nose of his enormous engine at the edge of the open lair ahead.
"Ooooh, you hit me hard."
Her hat had come off in her flounderings and she appeared to writhe herself on him, in pain.
"Ready?"
"No. Yer-s-s-s."
He speared her in a single lunge that extracted another, even more flattering, shriek which culminated in one of the most active contractions he had ever seen. Breathless, she seemed to squirm forward off his impalement, then hung on his skewer, coming for minutes. When she finally collapsed he was deeper in her than ever.
"There. You always enjoy it better after a beating. It does you a world of good."
"You didn't have to cut me in two, Milton," she moaned, "it still hurts ... down there ... like, like...."
"Well, this'll make it better."
She spent prodigally again as he began to move-at which he tut-tutted reprovingly. And then thoughtfully, with the wisdom of his years, he began to slip in and out, his mind on things like the cervical slant, and on how odd it was that however hard you caned a can the marks on the left cheek were two parallel bluing lines ... why was there nothing between them? This and other semantic matters occupied his thoughts fully and he knew that tonight he had to get all of it, in or die.
"No ... no...."
Gently the great man eased forward over his wife's lovely back and placing his arms under hers joined his hands behind her neck in a strong full-nelson, holding her firmly there. At the sign she started to struggle, thus swallowing at least two inches more. And more was still to come.
"There's that word," said the President thoughtfully. "The kids use it. I wonder what ... origins ... precisely describes ... groovy!"
CHAPTER FOUR
A week later the five frosh "elect" were walking across the campus together for classes. It was a sunny Monday morning and the five frowned in unison as they passed some junior Gamma Gamma Phi. In their high heels they stalked the dappled shadows of the lawns over to the History Hall.
Rowena Ricks was the first to break the silence.
"How's life?" she asked in general, vaguely.
"Perfectly miserable, of course," said Melissa Hope-Trumpington, yanking at a stocking tab under her cummerbund of a skirt. "As per."
"After all, it is Hell Term, or something," chided sarcastically blonde Constance Wood.
"The blasted thing is," said Rowena, looking dead ahead of her, "in my case I get a stroke for every stroke I get in the House. The whole of the bottom of my ... bottom feels like one big bruise. It even hurts to walk."
"I believe," said Joan Mason quietly, "that that is the object of the exercise, dear."
"What?"
"To instill a certain very healthy dread of the next one."
"All I know is," put in Melissa Hope-Trumpington gently, "that I would do anything, abso-bloody-lutely anything never-ever-to see again in my life a certain long black switch."
"You see," said Joan Mason sententiously-and everyone hated her for it.
"I hear that Disney rides you," said Constance Wood, after a moment.
"She does," said Melissa noncommittally. "And I can't tell you how unpleasant a ginger suppository can be up the ... you-know-what."
"Good Gracious!" exclaimed Connie, shocked. "Nipple rings I've had, but not that."
"Well," said pert little Terry Sands, giving a game smile as they passed into the building, "it's all in the interest of getting into Beta Rho. Imagine! And my Dorm Sis is the Tennis Capt." Her eyes shone proudly. Her chin was high. She slipped a hand through Melissa's arm.
Rounding a bend she was just in time to duck the ritual curtsey as she saw the Praelictor. But Melissa was too late.
"You!"
The rank of frosh froze. A big cheerful girl in bermudas detached herself from a group across the corridor.
"Me?" said Melissa, peering.
"You're a worm, aren't you?"
"I beg your pardon."
"Pledge. You know what I mean."
"Yes, of course I am," said Melissa hurriedly.
"So how come you don't curtsey to a Prae when passing?"
"I'm ... sorry. I didn't see."
"Perhaps I can improve your eyesight, from the rear. Where's your paddle, worm? Now kneel."
Melissa obeyed. A few eyes turned to observe her but it was clear that this was such a customary tradition it elicited little interest.
"She can't...." began Joan Mason, but broke off.
The senior didn't even bother to raise the flippy little mini nothing Melissa had on behind. There was a meaty thump, and Melissa writhed. Another and she gripped the strong calves of Rowena in front of her. A third and fourth cracked into the same tensed right cheek and Melissa yipped.
"That's too hard," Joan Mason said instinctively. Then added, as the senior stared at her, "I mean ... you see, she does have short sight."
"How interesting."
"I'm sorry I said that, but...."
"What's your name?" said the senior.
"Joan Mason."
"Who's your Dorm Sis?"
"Miss Congreve."
"I see. One might have hoped that Ave would have knocked the sass out of you by now. When I want your advice, worm, I'll ask for it. Is that clear?"
"Yes, Miss."
The senior was still smiling. Tapping the paddle on a palm she said, "Report to the house after classes this morning and put yourself down for a Demerit. Insolence. I think you'll appreciate the birch. Oh, and Joan?"
"Yes, Miss?"
"Just in case you might forget the last Friday in the month, I'll cane you for that comment myself. At noon. It'll be ten strokes."
The five girls trooped disconsolately into History One.
* * *
Promptly as the campus clock chimed twelve, Joan Mason reported to the sorority house. House Matron Sandra McIllick greeted her with a nod and led her into a bare side room in which the most conspicuous objects, to Joanie's gaze, where a hard upright chair and a cane on its seat.
"Janet's going to give you ten. You can put down your Commission after. Bend over."
With her lean legs straight behind the chair Joan bent over and grasped a rung of it, in front. Her skirt was raised and in a trice her underthings were sarcastic wrinkles at her ankles. She was left to contemplate the pattern of the carpet. And occasionally the lank cane lying in the inverted V of her body.
Her senses swam. Her blood pounded like the sun behind her lids. For this, she knew, was something that had to happen. And it had to happen to her, Joan Mason, once Mrs. Rafferty, divorced principally because her husband did not share her craving-"mental cruelty," indeed!
She began to heave, and gasp. Apprehension, intense anticipation, had always done it for her. She could feel the fatty cushion of her quim pushed back between her elegant thighs, as part of another person-"a random accident in the universe." She shifted her stance, then froze stiff. The slightest movement in this state could make her come. In fact, she was coming! Christ, it would be pouring down her legs in a ... if the Prae saw that....
The door opened. Janet Richey strode in whistling, and picked up the cane. Three other senior girls followed her, and stationed themselves to watch.
God, she was going to explode at the suspense. She could feel her vulva licking its lips....
"Ten strokes," said the girl in a not too interested tone. "Brace your knees and tuck in your cunt."
Easier said than....
Whhhrupp!
The fleshy thump made Joan grunt. The searing pain drove down her spasm.
"One," said one of the girls.
"Lower, Jan," said another.
There was a long pause. Muscly ripplings ran down Joan Mason's thighs. She began to shudder deeply. Unless....
Whhhhrupp!
"Two."
C-c-c "Three."
"Much better, Jan."
"That really is an upper-class cunt."
WHHHHRRRUPPPP!
"Owl"
"Did he bother you much from the back, worm?"
"Yer-y-yeeess."
"I don't blame him altogether." WHHHHHRRR-RUPPPP! "Miss Richey!"
"Yes?"
"I do have a Credit. Might I...."
"That's right, Jan, she does."
"Okay. Two more only."
WHHHHHRRRRRRPPPPPPPP!
WWWW-RRRRRRRRRRPPPPPPTTTTTT!
"Now your wormy behind looks very much better, Pledge. Perhaps you'll think twice about talking out of turn in future."
The girls trooped out. Joan's consummation was upon her. She stretched as if strangled. As the pain subsided it streamed through her, in gusts. "Oh oh oh oh!!" Her being quaked and it was only trembling like a leaf that she could enter her error into the Demerit Book at all.
"Nice and warm behind?" said Sandra McIllick with a smile.
Joan Mason nodded. And in front, she would have liked to add. But didn't.
Back in Swedish-modern bedroom Avery Congreve smiled reflectively.
"You look as if you'd had a beating, Joanie. It always shows. Did you?"
"Yes."
"You lucky so-and-so. Well, I don't see why you should have all the goodies. Let's see if you can send me skipping up the wall with that little stretch of rope again, shall we ... oh darling, you really are sopping, aren't you...."
CHAPTER FIVE
In a cheerful room on the other side of the campus a strange scene was taking place.
As President of Beta Beta Rho, Aramilla Ponsonby enjoyed the luxury of one of the finest suites at Brierton. Everything about it, from its rich leather chairs to its marbled fireplace, became the leader of one of the most exclusive societies in the world.
Of medium height, plump, and with a Dutch doll complexion, Aramilla had rather thin blonde hair tied back, and dark dewy eyes. This tender countenance did not bespeak a tender disposition, however, as the figure standing in front of her well knew.
This was the Physical Education mistress, Nancy Kale, a brunette, handsome in a mannish way, with rather thick glasses but a stunning physique. Her head was set on a strong, upright neck, round arms emerged from the light brown sweater which was caught with a chain at her waist, and the navy slacks she wore, complete with turn ups, hugged the broad hips of this singularly rumpy specimen of American womanhood like a sausage casing. She was twenty-eight and had been a high-diving champ in her day. Aramilla looked at her affectionately.
"Hello, Miss Kale," she purred eventually. She had on simply an ultra-short gray jersey dress, cut like a Grecian tunic and falling in soft folds from a belt of gold braid. She was barefoot and reeked of elegance.
"Come on, let's get it over with, Aramilla."
"You're right on time, aren't you?"
"Look. I have a half hour."
"That ought to be enough." With a lazy smile, the lovely President gave a yawn, stretched and flexed the biceps of her right arm thoughtfully. "You have come ... ready?"
"Yes."
"Nothing on under those slacks?"
"No."
"I think I'll just check."
"It isn't necessary, Aramilla."
But with the same cat-like smile the girl went forward and felt the sullen cheeks, in their skintight fabric. This was a thin wool gabardine, well worn and even, at the base, where Aramilla's prying fingers stroked now, close on threadbare.
"Um. I still think you can do some more work with that pumice stone I gave you."
"I rubbed the material where you told me," came the angry retort. "You can see perfectly well it won't give any protection at all. And certainly not where you like to hit."
"Gee, I believe I can feel last week's weals. Down there?"
But the erect woman said nothing, her chest thrust out beneath the sweater. Aramilla's dark eyes flashed. She enjoyed the challenge. It was part of her revenge, paying off the score of being totally humiliated before Gamma Gamma Phi. At this moment every second was infinitely sweet.
"So you still won't take them down for me?"
"No." The proud woman's rather square jaw came up. "You won't see me naked, Aramilla, and you needn't think you will."
"Pity. If only you were willing to bare that big butt of yours, Miss Kale, I'd only give you six. And it wouldn't hurt nearly so much. Though of course I'd see the marks, and be able to place them there. However," she yawned again, "I can do almost as well with the chalk. And anyway I always hit you in the same place, don't I?"
The stern jaw before her trembled fractionally, if only so. "You might at least have the decency to place your strokes across the ... seat. About half those you gave me last week landed on the legs, and I couldn't wear my usual costume taking Pool."
Aramilla chuckled. She had heard about this. A girl in a swimming class had reported seeing the end of an angry weal on Miss K.'s muscular right thigh. This was Aramilla's brand, and Nancy's shame. The sororities knew who was winning this bitter duel, all right.
Still speaking in the same formal tone the girl went on: "I'm afraid the price of vanity's gone up, Miss Kale. In future, over clothing, it's going to be nine."
"Nine!" A scared look crossed the gray eyes behind the spectacles "But that's not fair. I never...."
"The contract was for six, right. But that was on the skin. I can't hurt you properly through material."
There was silence. The mistress' chin fell yet another inch. Finally she said, "You're a fiend, Aramilla. I should never have agreed to this."
"You didn't have much alternative, did you?"
"You know perfectly well, that after three or four with one of those House canes-the way you give it-it's sheer hell. Nine's too much."
"All the same," said Aramilla sweetly, "it's what you're going to get. Unless you want to drop those tight thews of yours and take it on the altogether."
The other shook her head. "I won't give you that satisfaction, at least."
"Then it's nine of the juiciest for that bold backside of yours. We have plenty of time and I'll do my best to make this a memorable experience."
"You won't get a cry out of me, either."
"No? Pride comes before a fall, Miss Kale. I have a feeling that you'll be thinking differently after a couple of good cuts with that cane. I also have an inkling things are getting kind of tenderized back there by now. It's going to be less pleasant each time."
The mistress said nothing.
"Go and get it. And put the chalk on."
Behind the narrow glance from Aramilla's icy eyes, as the other turned to obey, lay an unusual campus story.
In the first week of term Aramilla had entered the hallowed precincts of Miss Kale's empire insouciantly tardy. In short, she had come late, very late, for a swimming class. Nancy Kale had judged it to be insultingly so, and had decided to establish her authority at once. Aramilla had been bidden to join the class in her clothes. Yes, in hat, gloves, heels and a billowy late summer dress of figured silk. She had been made to plunge in fully clad, and do several exhausting lengths. Later, there'd been a session of water polo, much of which, since she was not an expert swimmer, she had spent submerged, pinched and pummeled by rival Gamma Phi girls, who exulted in her discomfiture. The Beta Rho kids present had put up a bit of furor, but Miss Kale held the class firmly in line and when the water polo was over, Aramilla had crawled out and panted on all fours, hair streaming, her best dress torn and sopping, as it adhered to her proud body like a skin. One big breast hung quite visible.
But even this humiliation had not been enough for the refulgent gym mistress. Miss Kale had ordered her, still in dripping clothes, up to the highest board. Aramilla disliked heights and could not dive well. To the titters of Gamma Phi girls, notably of Davia Skill, their President, she had been made to perform three appalling belly-flops, each of which had knocked the breath from her body and acted like a watery spank! She went back into the changing-room with icy face and set teeth, resolved on revenge.
This had come much sooner than expected, and more easily. A campus spy in the stables had informed her that Nancy Kale received the head groom, sinewy Mr. Jorrocks, in her rooms each Saturday night. Janet Richy, the fotog expert of the house, had strobed the enthusiastic couple in action that very week, through a transom. The result had been a picture that would not simply put "Paid" to Miss Kale at Brierton, but would ruin her career for good in any college in America. Stretched on her back across the bed, her face in ecstatic bliss, she had been preserved for posterity with about nine inches of muscular Derby shire gristle up her guts. So Aramilla had very sweetly put it to her, promising to act upon it and show it to the college President himself, unless the mistress agreed instantly to her terms. Which were?
As a punishment for her foolishly degrading treatment of the President of the most exclusive girls' club in the world, Miss Kale would report to her weekly at a set time for the rest of the term (Aramilla's last), and receive a sound caning. Six strokes across the bottom, to be exact. Nancy Kale was afraid of that picture, and was assured that she would receive it, and its negative at the end of term, after this absurd penance had been completed. What's more, she enjoyed Phys. Ed. and wanted to continue in it. She had heard of the sorority hazings, but had not witnessed them. She was a strong, muscular woman in prime condition. Six strokes with a cane did not seem so awful. In short, after a lengthy and acrimonious debate, she had accepted. The two had shaken hands, agreeing on a regular hour. Whenever she met her on the campus, Aramilla treated the mistress with the utmost respect. But her colleagues in the House used to say, as the two crossed, "And thereby hangs a ... tail."
Nancy Kale had now been three times, for Aramilla's revenge, and each time had fallen just a little more in the sweet-faced girl's spell. Each time Aramilla had been able to push a step further forward in the other's total chastisement and humiliation. From the first the girl had insisted on the beating being administered on the bare skin and each time the other had refused, taking a scorching eight instead over a whisper-thin girdle the first time, and skin-tight slacks the second and third. By now she had had two dozen full-blooded strokes across her bottoms and had developed a thorough dread of the sorority stick, which could punish through and through. And the last time Aramilla had begun to punish her spirit as well as her flesh. She stood now chalking the end of the long, pliable cane so that her tormentor could see the place each stripe had fallen, and aim accordingly. It was one of the refinements she found strangely disconcerting and demoralizing. But she summoned all her courage not to give her junior the satisfaction she weekly sought.
"The same position?"
"Yes," said Aramilla cheerily, facing the mirror. "I want to be able to see your expression and I want you to see it, too."
Humming to herself, the girl had locked the door, drawn the curtains, and arranged a standard lamp. Then she had fetched a big sponge, heavy with water. When he came back the woman had cleared the room behind her, put out the cane and was standing in front of a long mirror to one side of the fireplace. Aramilla stood just behind her. To think of the impending storm hanging over that thrusting rump, why it had become the breath of her being.
"Those slacks are man-tailored, aren't they?" she asked casually. Receiving no answer she went on, "Part of a pants suit?"
"Yes if you must know. Now let's get on with it."
Drawing the waistband away from the strong back behind, the girl squeezed water from the sponge down over the hips. The mistress ticked.
"You don't have to do that."
"Some say it hurts twice as much wet. Let's see what you think. I'd be interested."
"How can I walk back like this?" She wriggled uncomfortably as the water trickled down her crease; it was again surprisingly degrading.
"Oh, with navy it won't show much. They'll just think you sat in a puddle right up to your middle, or something. I seem to recall you didn't mind dunking me. There, well damped to cling.
"You don't forget a trick, do you?"
"We do our best. There. Even our pledges don't get their pants any tighter than that." Her fingers felt the now thoroughly wettened fibrous material, beneath which the buttocks seemed swollen, clumsy, hot with apprehension. They were like her valuable property now and she stroked them with care, finally yanking up the waistband so that the woman winced. "Now all you need is a stiff upper lip."
She held out a short elasticized thong, of the type used to secure luggage on the racks of autos, and Miss Kale secured it around her powerful thighs, just beneath her bottom. It drew the material perfectly tight. But Aramilla was not quite satisfied, tugging it well down the thighs.
"Oh no you don't. That's where I like to hit." She took up the cane. At once she felt intensely excited. Its stinging skill was apparent in the active way it vibrated in her hand. "I'm going to make you remember the way you tried to disgrace me publicly all your life. Right here." She tapped the protuberant behind at its tightest spot.
"If you're going to whip! do so," said the other, and to Aramilla's delight, there was the faintest tinge of a whimper in her tone. The athletic woman leaned forward in front of the mirror at an angle, placing her hands behind her head and interlacing her fingers there. Aramilla had proposed this position the first time and found it excellent, somehow making the senior lady look strangely silly, her eyes staring at herself in the mirror, her thighs clipped together by a strap, the slacks perfectly snug over the broadened beam presented. Aramilla gave an unnecessary tug here and there and stood well back.
"Can I have something to bite on?" asked the mistress.
"No." But this was good. It was another reduction, and she noticed how the other gritted her teeth together, in the glass. "Keep your eyes open throughout. I want you to see your expression all the time."
Padding barefoot, Aramilla took about three paces and bent her knees for the final swing. The yellow snake thrashed elastically across the firm, well-rounded cheeks. Nancy Kale gave a jerk, but that was all. In the mirror her face frowned in concentration. Aramilla stood back and took stock of the thin white line she had drawn across the navy seat.
For maximum effect, she knew, it was imperative to lay and place these first cuts properly. Above all, to time them right, hitting just at the peak caused some seconds later by the previous stroke, and then cutting again after that-until the mounting smart seemed intolerable to the sufferer, finally alarming.
Two more bit crisply in across the lower buttocks and she was gratified, after a second, to see the body jerk, the rounds cringe in. This was most promising. The woman's breath was coming stertorously. She decided to drive home her advantage verbally, though, in fact, the other had corrected her position immediately.
"Come on, arch your back and stick it out. I've only given you three. You have exactly six more to come."
Pfffuitt!
She felt the full force of the fourth travel through her arm as it met the rubbery flesh. Nancy Kale gasped at once, her hands leaving her neck and rubbing together frantically a second before she recovered herself and put them back.
"What!" scoffed Aramilla. "Is the ickle girl going to cry?"
"You don't have to taunt me. Just get on with the beating."
"You haven't had half yet."
"Cane me." Then came a word Aramilla had been longing for, since the first moment she had started this rigorous training-"Please."
Together with the sight of the squirming buttocks it affected her so deeply she hissed aloud and one hand went under her skirt to rub vigorously there a moment, until she checked it. Christ! If she wasn't careful she'd come in a moment, spoil it all.
"It hurts all the more if you clench," she called.
"I can't help it. That cane stings."
Aramilla chuckled. The long rod rippled in her hand again, its tip flicking expertly under the bulbous right cheek, the lithe wood eating into the wet stuff there.
"God! You don't have to hit me down there."
Six ... seven! Suddenly as she turned for her run after the seventh a throb of joy flickered through Aramilla's well-cushioned chest. The game games mistress had taken the full swing across her meaty bottom stoically, as before. But now she was standing miserably clasping her posteriors, and looking round at Aramilla pleadingly ... just like any pledge! It was too good to be true.
"Get into position right away. You have two more."
"You don't know how that cane hurts, Aramilla. Give me a minute's rest, at least."
"I know perfectly well, thank you, Miss Kale. What I didn't know was that you were a cowardy-cat."
The gray eyes flared. "I've still got the bruises from last time, dammit. If you'd hit me higher I could take it. Nobody could be expected...."
"Get bent. And quickly."
This was much better than she'd expected. The big mistress moved gratifyingly slowly, hobbled by the thong. Each of the final two cuts extracted a sob that caused a leap in Aramilla's insides, and when it was over the struggle to undo the strap caused the woman to drop to her knees, rubbing herself intermittently behind as if some viper had stung her there. Watching her, Aramilla found herself panting again, frigging herself fast. With a terrific effort she forced herself to say calmly, "For getting up during correction you have extra."
The mistress turned a pain-filled face back and-yes-it was smeared with tears.
"Even you couldn't be that cruel, Aramilla."
"It's a House rule."
"You've given me nine. It's enough. She had struggled off the thong and now tossed it dejectedly aside. Her back was bent; she was a picture of pain. "If you knew how much it's still hurting now, you'd know you don't need to give me any more."
"It's two for getting up," said Aramilla in the same controlled, but relentless tone. "Four over clothing."
A sob racked the body kneeling before her. Suddenly, in despairing decision, the woman started fumbling at the side of her slacks. This was superb; she was crying in earnest now.
"All right, you win." Tearing them down she bent forward on all fours. "Do your damnedest to them, go on."
Aramilla's dark eyes glowed like an animal's. She was unspeakably excited. The whole room seemed filled with her triumph, the buttocks in front of her vast, luridly wealed, somehow medieval in appearance. The nine strokes had bruised them savagely on the right.
For a second she toyed with the idea ... the pledge position, kneeling on her hands ... then she changed her mind.
"That's much better, Miss Kale. It was extremely silly of you not to see reason sooner. But for these last two I want you standing up facing the mirror, if you please. You can kneel down for the worm kiss, after."
With a sick moan the woman did as bid.
"Hands above your head and relax your bottom completely."
The mons was prominent, full of hair, and standing where she was Aramilla could see how thick in profile the hips now were. She lashed up quickly at their bluish contusions below. Nancy Kale gasped. The girl let her stay that way for some time; the older woman looked ridiculous, even trivial, with her expression of tense anticipation, and her slacks in miserable wrinkles round her ankles. Moreover, her superb seat-cheeks seemed to quiver involuntarily, despite herself, at the idea of another blow.
"Get it over with, Aramilla."
"Ask nicely, and I might." She turned the screw with expert fingers.
After a second the word was said, "Please."
With all her strength the girl smacked the whippy stick around the full width of the hips in front of her. The woman's head went back, she grabbed her cubs, fingers digging into the scored flesh there, and gradually she sank again to her knees.
Surging with queenly pleasure, Aramilla moved. She stood with her back to the twisted, tear-stricken face and placed her legs comfortably astride.
"Now," she said, "this time I want a good one. Get your tongue right up and keep it there."
"Please, Aramilla. It's so disgusting."
"I promised myself to teach you a lesson you'll never forget and I mean to do so. Come on, hurry up."
The mistress approached her face. Her broad forehead raised the tail of the gray jersey skirt behind and with the expression of a child approaching a pint of castor oil she pressed her face near to the tender curves above.
"Keep your hands at your back, mind."
Once started, there was no stopping. Aramilla stirred at the first snake-like thrust. With one hand she fingered herself lushly in front.
"What's wrong now?"
"I can't. It's utterly impossible. It's ... far too tight."
"Here, let me help. Like that. Now go on. Don't shirk. Yes that's better. Yes. Yes. Yes. Right up, and k-k-k ... hell!"
When she came back from the bathroom the older woman was dressed, made up, and standing impersonally by the door.
"Once again you were merciless, Aramilla," she said evenly. "I have to hand it to you. You know how to dish it out. I wonder if you can take it, too?"
"That's not a question that need occupy you, Miss Kale."
"Next week I have the curse."
"Too bad. You'll have to take double the week after. Our sorority sisters take twice nine. Alternatively, you can come and try your hand again. I promise not to touch the Tampax tails."
The woman turned without a word. In the curtained room ("The Room" for her) Aramilla watched her walk stiffly across the campus, her bottom tight, wet and slightly marked with white. The worm kiss now, she thought, love kiss later. Nothing short of complete subjugation ... with a deep shuddering sigh she said to herself, Well thank God a girl doesn't have a prostate!
CHAPTER SIX
"All panties in your purses, Pledges," was the motto of Sandra McIllick, statuesque House Matron or pledge trainer, each noon now as the five frosh reported to the Beta Beta Rho house for cleaning chores. For this task each wore skintight cut-offs, levis sliced above the knees, a white bra and two shoes, one a sneak and one a high-heeled pump. They stood to attention in the so-called bumroom in a line of height, Melissa on their right. They looked dead ahead like soldiers on parade, though an occasional blink of the eyes testified to the respect they had developed for the athletic brunette's "board." Each knew that so complex were the rules of this exclusive sorority she was bound to get a swat or two before being dismissed. Sandra inspected the line, tapping at a taut buttock here and there.
"All right, rhinies, take off your shoes. Now then, it isn't far from Hell Night and if any of you want to depledge you'd better do so now. Of course, no other sorority would take you on. Well?"
There was silence in the now barefoot rank.
"I'm afraid I have to tell you that the actives in the House are getting pretty strict. Our President wants only the best material, and is toughening things up. Next Friday's paddle line is Soph, and some say they're always the worst on frosh. They seldom score less than three swats each, and after that I wouldn't want to be pretty Miss Terry Sands here, with three Demerits to her credit. Rare, medium, and well-done. Fifteen with the birch. Now: have you all had your paddles signed by the Praelictors? Any signatures still missing?"
"I lack one," said Constance Wood quietly.
"Who?"
"Mary French-Jones."
"Stand out, Connie."
"Miss French-Jones ... I'm sorry ... OW!"
The paddle cracked like a pistol shot, jouncing the fatted rounds.
"Get it," said Sandra McIllick, moving to the stairs. Up these she called cheerfully, "Mary? You there? Here's a pledge wants your signature on her paddle."
"Oh okay." A second later a dark girl came down the stairs, carrying a pen and grinning widely. She took the paddle held out to her, signed her name on its unvarnished wood and grinned. "Now I'm going to blot it, n'est-ce-pas, pledge?"
Constance Wood turned round with an unhappy expression and put her hands on her knees. The girl walked away from her five paces. Then she turned and weighed the paddle in her hand.
"Nice and relaxed, worm."
She ran forward and brought the board across the spread rump with a slapping crack that took all color from the watching faces, except that of Matron Sandra. Constance was driven forward by the blow, stumbling. She gasped and clutched herself behind, then turned a screwed-up face...."Th-thank you, Praelictor." She took the paddle and put it with her things at the side.
"Anything to oblige," said Mary French-Jones, taking the stairs up two at a time.
"Rowena," said Sandra McIllick when she had gone, "you will do the House laundry again this afternoon."
"Yes, Miss."
"There were one or two complaints about the hose last time. We don't want that to happen again, do we?"
"No, Miss."
"Assume the position, please." Tkwlack! Thwlack!
"Joan Mason, you will scrub out the yard. Teresa, all sinks and baths and toilets, please. Spanking clean. Constance, the wood floors. Melissa, all vacuuming. And the silver." She paused. "Melissa, I do believe you're trembling. What's more, I actually think ... oh Good Heavens, I was wondering if it wasn't going to be the best thing for that stuck-up nose of yours to have it on the floor, only I now see it's up to keep back tears!" She gave a creamy chuckle. "Anyone would say you'd just had a bite out of an onion."
Melissa finely shaped body was quivering over all over.
"I'm s-s-sorry, Miss," she breathed.
"Tears are a luxury we at Beta Beta Rho deny ourselves. Fortitude. Self-control." The House Matron's paddle slapped one muscled thigh, darkly nyloned under the pleated skirt of soft leather that seemed shorter than ever today. The golden BB fairly shone on her chest. "A stuck-up nose usually ends up brown on Hell Friday."
"I'm very sorry, Miss, but it's just that I was put to bed last night. I'm feeling rather sore."
"Were you, indeed? By Diney? Have any of the rest of you been 'put to bed' as a pledge as yet?"
They mumbled dully, "No."
"Know what it is?"
Three said no, but Joan Mason answered in the affirmative.
"Tell the class then, Joanie."
"Being 'put to bed,'" came back the level response "is like, when a pledge is considered ... at fault, she has to request permission to remove each garment, and, and each time she gets a cut."
"I got two," said Melissa, who was crying openly now.
"Melissa!" snapped the Matron. "I thought you knew. In here you only answer when spoken to."
The short dark head dropped. "Beg pardon, Miss."
"So you got two each time across that delectable little tushy of yours. I thought it looked to be filling out your jeans more than usual, Pledge. Skirt, girdle, stockings, did you wear a slip?"
"No, Miss."
"Bra and blouse. Mmm. Then two each to put on your baby doll and panties, I'll bet. I can imagine you're tender, where you sit. But we can't allow rules to go by the board, can we. Stand out, Melissa, please."
The sleek dark head fell lower still. "Just this time, Miss. Please. I could pay it off tomorrow."
"Hurry up." This time the brunette cracked the paddle on her side so hard she actually gave a jump.
"P-p-please." She shuffled miserably. "I can hardly sit down today."
"Against that wall. In the frisk position." Then with a wide grin the Matron extended the handle of the paddle to titian-haired Rowena Ricks. "Would you do the honors, Pledge, and save me the effort? Three swats for talking out of turn. If you don't hit as hard as you can, you'll get six. From me."
Melissa closed her eyes, leaning forward with parted legs, her hands on the wall. Rowena measured aim at the taut bisected buttocks and slammed the board across them. Melissa squealed, squirming. The second followed as hard and she mashed her hips into the wall. The third belted home and the whining girl jacked up, yelping. They watched her double in agony a moment, then Sandra McIllick said gently, "You let up on the last one, Rowie."
"I didn't have to give her a third. I could tell. Melly's bottom is like a beet."
"Insubordination is the very worst crime of all, Rowena."
"I didn't mean...."
"Kneel."
The redhead obeyed, widening her superbly slothful seat.
"Stand up. Now when I say kneel, Pledge, drop hard. As if it were the last thing in your life. Now! Let's hear it, Rowena."
The girl dropped with a grimace.
"Much better. We'll do some practice kneels after lunch, frosh, and we won't stop until we've skinned those pretty knees of yours. Now then-you can eat."
The message did not cheer the line. They approached the five plates set on the floor by the wall diffidently. Each girl knelt in front of a plate with her knees on her hands.
"Hamburgers in castor oil. Cold spaghetti on the side. And I don't want so much as a spot left on the plates after. Get going."
The five heads dropped with looks of distaste. Like dogs they ate without aid, rears in the air. There was silence in the bumroom, apart from the sound of mastication, and a retch or two.
The House Matron paused behind one pair of jeans.
"You have a very pronounced vulva, Joan, in that position. And if I'm not mistaken it's wet."
"I'm sorry, Miss. It's the apprehension. Always gets to me."
"Well, let's end that, shall we."
Thwlack! The paddle whacked home.
"That only leaves you, Teresa, who hasn't tasted the board so far."
Terry Sands flung back an oil-smeared face that was as ashen as her hair.
Her attitude was an amazing contrast with her first visit to the House, and the senior girl couldn't help chuckling over it.
"Please, Miss, please, don't spank me with the paddle."
"I won't spank you, Teresa, I'll scorch you, that's all. Finish up your goodies and then before you start work I'll see if we can't tighten out those creases at the edges of your cut-offs, shall we?"
CHAPTER SEVEN
Hell Night came as Hell Night must.
The five frosh Pledges had been left alone, almost pampered, for the few days before it.
"Like fatted pigs," said sumptuous Rowena Ricks, tossing her auburn locks out of her eyes. "With skin as white as cream for the slaughter." She had three Commission Demerits and one Omission to her credit.
"Well, I got 'put to bed' two nights ago," said Terry Sands, shaking her braid. "It's always after dates."
"And don't tell us the boys don't know it," said Connie Wood disgustedly, adjusting her books to balance on her paddle.
"In these skirts," said Melissa in the same tone, "or should I call them lap-rags?-it's impossible to get out of a car decently. And if you don't...."
"A firm hand on the hem," said Joan Mason sententiously.
They were all scared stiff, and knew it. Joan, as eldest, had been selected for "putting up" (i.e. picking) the birches and she wasn't going to make any mistake about them being good ones.
Sick at heart, and with butterflies as big as bunnies in their stomachs, the five put on their ritual costume that sunny morn-short tennis tunics with flippy little pleated skirts, white for virginity, over taupe nylons tethered breathtakingly taut to thin white panty girdles. Shiny skyscraper heels. Pinned to each bursting left breast the scarlet button of the sorority-I AM A WORM. With equally crimson cheeks they crossed the shaven Bermuda lawns to the ribald comments of their colleagues.
"You look scrumptious, Rowena, but I wouldn't swap bottoms with you tonight for all the tea in China."
"Stiff upper lip, Melissa; relaxed lower lip."
"What's the betting your little billies are going to be redder than that button by midnight, Joanie?"
"Cheer up, Terry, it'll all be over tomorrow."
"Fortitude, Constance. Self-control, my girl."
This night the pledges did not assist in serving the house dinner. They were fetched individually and severally by their Dorm Sisters afterwards. All these Seniors had on fitting ball dresses. They had obviously had a drink at dinner and were giggling and laughing as they herded their charges into the side room where Joan Mason had suffered. Here they stood about in awkward silence, occasionally checking each other's hose and running a ruminative hand over a pouting posterior.
"Connie!" came a voice.
A finger beckoned from the door. Maud Haytor of the sexy, tooth-missing smile was clad in an ivory full-length sheath and, it seemed, nothing else. The New Hampshire teener gave a gulp and went forward with lowered head.
"Let me introduce you to your first Hellenic, dear."
"Good luck, Connie," breathed Joan Mason as she passed.
The Senior took her charge's punishment book and led the way down the stairs to the bumroom.
Constance could scarcely see.
"Curtsey," hissed a voice at the door and she duly ducked as she recognized Sandra McIllick in her usual black leather, the initials gleaming.
"Twenty kisses on the floor," came a voice.
She flung herself down to obey.
"We want to be able to see each one, worm!"
As she lovingly imprinted her lips on the dustier portions of the boarding she could find, Constance became aware of the bum room's present disposition. As she had entered she had been aware of a group of chattering, giggling girls, all dressed in bermudas or levis, it seemed, holding or re-taping paddles near the door. These were the actives for the evening, she knew. Then as she rose from her task, her lips dusty and dry, Sandra turned her gently. At the far, far end of the rectangular room sat the rest of the sorority, around trestle tables arranged in a U, the head of which was occupied by the Praelictors in their formal attire. The others seemed to wear what they liked.
In front of this table was a bench littered, Connie sickly saw, with gleaming canes, and straps, and-yes-the birches soaking in a long glass receptacle. There was a bucket sprouting green, and a bucket with nothing in it. Maud Haytor was handing in her punishment notebook to Aramilla Ponsonby looking utterly magnificent in skintight green velvet, the BB emblazoned on her left breast, her thin blonde hair tied back.
"Pledge Wood, Your Majesty."
The dark dewy eyes scanned the book and then looked up. Constance stared straight ahead, above them, as instructed.
"Pledge is blinking, Matron."
Sandra McIllick sauntered forward. Constance realized she was carrying a switch. She gasped, twice, as the thin braid flashed across the back of her thighs, but tried not to move.
"Has Pledge conducted herself in a lady-like manner, fitting of our highest standards?" asked the President in her most purring tone.
"Not bad at all, Your Majesty," came back Maud Haytor cheerfully. "I had to beat her butt quite a bit, as you can see, but she soon got the message."
"Did she accept her correction in good grace?"
"Excellent. She was a pleasure to cane."
There was a long silence during which Constance could feel her heart pounding through the whole place.
"You are not human," said Aramilla Ponsonby at long last. "You have a mere external semblance to a worm, but that is all. I'm afraid it's a stubborn world you'll enter after Brierton and we want to prepare you for it. The first thing we can do for you is to kill all miserable ideas. The sooner you can become a thing, a stock, a stone, the better for you, Pledge."
She paused, and took a sip of bloody wine. Constance found that she was shivering all over.
"We pride ourselves on having one of the toughest paddle lines anywhere, Pledge, and tonight you're out of luck since it's the turn of our Sophs. They're not only the worst, but this year they happen to be the most numerous-unlucky thirteen. You'll be timed as you go through and the slowest of you five will go through again, only with the taws instead of the board. I'm certain you'll find a difference. What's more, we have a little local award and you'll be asked which Soph seemed to hurt you most, so count as you go through, Connie, and concentrate on that matter, please."
Constance was almost crying. The group of girls behind could be heard whacking the paddles into their calves and thighs. Licking their chops, it was plain.
"I want you to think quite seriously about that, Pledge. This is a service sorority and we're doing you a service. The girls have drawn for places in the line and of course the last ones are most sought after, since it always seems to the girl concerned that the last licks hurt most. But you should also judge for placement, and timing. A good solid swat right inside your cheek is well worth a couple of bruisers outside. Matron, proceed."
Constance turned a despairing face.
"Stockings and girdle," she was told. "Then put back on your shoes." when this was done, Sandra said, "Now we'll just pin this ridiculous thing up behind."
She was bare, she was ready. In utter, bowel-racking dismay she saw the thirteen Sophs making a line down the room, all grinning like idiots, the last one with her back to the Praelictors' central table. Suddenly she felt her waist thickly belted. Her hands were drawn behind her and secured into cuffs in the belt. She was pulled by the ear to the front of the line. It looked endless. And then she was blindfolded.
"Go," said Matron McIllick and clicked a chronometer.
Connie lurched forward, almost bumping into the legs of the first Soph in line. A blistering swat seemed to flatten out her right cheek as she did so.
"Ow!"
Another followed on her left. She squirmed forward, suddenly realizing how hard it was to crawl fast with hands behind her back-and how this helped preclude her squatting on her heels, either.
"Come on, rhinie," she heard overhead. "I'm right here waiting for you."
"Oh ... ouuuuuw ... YAAA!"
Three smashing strokes all down the right. She panted, waiting, aware that Sandra McIllick was pacing beside her up the line.
"Better hurry, Pledge. Those taws sure sting."
Before she was halfway it was inconceivable pain, but the seventh in line flattened her to the floor with three ringing, stinging slaps right inside her right cheek, the end of the board striking whunkily into the pulpy flesh beneath her cunt. She yelped, as if scalded. When it was all over she lay writhing, speechless, between the tables.
"Picture of an improving pledge."
"Look! She has come through," cited another.
"That really is a lovely sight. She's nearly blue on the right."
"Who's your choice for winner, worm?" asked dulcet-toned Aramilla Ponsonby.
"I d-dunno ... I couldn't...."
"How many Demerits does she have? Anyone know?"
"Two and one, I think."
"Is that all?"
"Better decide, Pledge."
"I th-er-think ... number seven hurt me most...."
"Bravo, Drusilla!"
There was scattered clapping. Constance's blindfold was undone. By the same pinkened, adorable right ear she was hoisted erect and led to face a wall, skirt still up, by the Matron. "Three minutes, thirty-two seconds exactly."
"That's slow. I vote that next time we make them all do three a minute. At least."
The ruby bottom under the raised white micro was what confronted the next "worm" to be led in, pert little Terry Sands, and it drained the color from her face visibly. But she faced her ordeal with pluck and, an active, scrambly little crawler, ended up with a two-fifty, way ahead of still smarting Constance.
Soon all five were lined up facing the wall, their ruddy bottoms already showing the darkened blotches where the tips had fallen and were turning purple. The verdict was announced. Drusilla was nominated Miss Dominatrix, and Rowena the slowest.
"She does have a perfect pair, it's a pity to have to punish them," laughed someone.
"Yeah, perfect for burlesque."
But this time the four who were turned to watch grew gloomier still. This paddle line was serious, they saw. Melissa, the last to go through, still rubbing her behind, got a cut from the Matron's switch with an order to stand still, to attention. Kneeling, Rowena faced the line of strap wielding girls with something close to panic on her face. Each taws looked long and heavy, broadly tailed and punishing. Her hands had been freed and her blindfold removed-to the aghast eyes of the frightened watchers it was all too clear why.
"Grab pooch, Pledge," said Sandra McIllick and despairingly Rowena grasped her hairy, pouting mound, cushioning the fat lips as if protectively. For it was evident that the stingy, swingy strap might slice between her legs, as Aramilla ironically remarked, nobody wanted to hurt anybody.
"Get moving, worm," said the Matron, pressing the cringing rear with her toe.
"Come and get it, rhinie," said the first girl with upraised strap, and a second later it clawed its fangs down the fulsome right cheek. Rowena screamed, skinning her knees in her alacrity to move on.
THWACK! THWACK!
The leather tails painted their purple downwards, ending up just under each buttock and shuddering each, strongly. Once the tails rapped against her knuckles, protecting her upraised center, and she jacked straight, yipping. For a moment the idea evidently came to her to wriggle forward in this fashion, flat on her belly, thighs together. But the progress was so slow, and earned her four ringing slaps from one Soph, that she scrambled panting to her knees to finish up.
"Now let's get down to serious matters," said Aramilla pensively, with a frown pleating her Dutch-doll face, as the five pledges were lined up at the far end facing her. She opened the Demerit Book brought her, and studied it a moment. "Are all the signed panties in, Matron? And the paddles?"
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"Any Dorm Sis got anything to say?"
There was a chorus of "No, Majesty's."
"Right. Now, judging from the record of these punishment books, our worms are wriggling along quite nicely, though I must say this Melissa has been getting rather a tough time. Did you deserve it, Pledge?"
"Yes," said Melissa, after a moment.
Thwikkk!
A slicing cut bent her thighs. "Yes ... M-er-Majesty," she gasped. "Any complaints? Do you wish to appeal?"
"No, Your Majesty."
"Um. I see that on the 7th you got really well chastised. Did it hurt very much?"
"Intensely, Majesty," came to answer, with its result of chuckles round the table.
"But then I see you didn't get anything for four days after that so it did seem to improve your behavior. You must be grateful to your Sister, I suppose."
"I am extremely grateful to Miss Carruthers, Majesty."
"Good. On the other hand, you, Ave, seem to have let this Joan Mason off pretty lightly."
"Well, she didn't cause trouble, Majesty. Also, she did have a rotten time in her marriage."
"Urn. I see. All the same, I'd recommend that she might have some Urtication first. Any objections?"
There was a flipping of fingers round the table.
"Moved and carried." She made a note.
"Also Degradation," came a piping voice.
Joan Mason stared straight ahead.
"In case she might be getting ideas above her station? Being older and all. Not a bad idea at all, Carrie. Degradation or Humiliation?"
"Well, Humiliation might do, Majesty."
"Any discussion? Moved and carried. Fine. Now you five monsters of iniquity, I hope you have trusty boyfriends. Because your task for next month isn't any silly stuff about bumming a hundred cigarettes, or going around the campus in a veil, or something. Before you leave tonight each of you is going to be given a good fat test tube-pinched from a Chem class by a Pledge of past years, of course-and your task by our next Hellenic evening will be to get that filled with come. You know what that is, worms?"
There was a collective hollow groan of assent.
"Jism. Spunk. We don't give a damn how you obtain it, but do so, you must. To the brim. And don't try any substitutes. This will be tested. Any monkey business and it's the birch. Speaking of which," she concluded with a smile, "we may now proceed to the paying-off of Demerits. As you doubtless know, each Commission warrants five stripes of the birch, and each Omission three cuts with the cane. We order the birch first and I see here that one of you has amassed as many as four Commissions, though no Omissions. Stand forward, Miss Terry Sands."
With tears in her eyes the little teener bravely obeyed, chin high. The girls' skirts had been unpinned and hers hung on the chubby shelf of her bruised bottoms with a sturdy emphasis.
"You, Pledge Sands, if successful, will be one of the youngest members we have ever had."
"I know, Your Majesty," came the reply with pride. Even to be able to stare over the top of President Ponsonby's head seemed a privilege.
"You have been beaten by our Tennis Skip, I see, but I assure you that with Drusilla doing the honors you're not going to leave this room without a bloody bottom, worm. Do you still want to go through with it, or would you rather," she concluded sarcastically, "try out for-Gamma Gamma Phi!"
"No! No! Your Majesty. I'd do anything to get into Beta Beta Rho. I'll bear it best I can."
Aramilla's eyes gave a squeeze of sympathy. She then called on each girl who had given each Demerit to report, and each duly stood up in turn and recounted the fault.
"Turn round and show your bottom," said the President then. "Skirt up and, touch your toes. Hmm. Despite Pledge's tender age this is quite a well-padded pair, Drusilla, and you don't have to spare her."
"I won't, Majesty," said a big girl in jeans at the side. It was a privilege to be selected instead of the usual Praelictor.
The President wrote in the Demerit Book. "Twenty of the best with the birch. Take your time, and cut in hard." She added, "By hard I mean hard."
"I thought you said hard, Majesty," said the girl, with a grin.
"No brutality, Drusilla."
"Of course not, Your Majesty."
"Just bloody agony," said someone.
"Elegant agony," said another.
"Come here, you," said Drusilla, smiling, and, pushing at a tear, young Terry obeyed. "This is a museum item, so count yourself proud. Genuine Victorian Art Nouveau."
What was now dragged forward by four sturdy Sophs seemed to be a heavy old-styled school desk, of the pedagogical kind, waist-high. The pledge was sprawled over it in a trice, her ankles secured, slightly parted, to stocks below and her arms pulled strongly forward and similarly fastened to adjustable stocks in front. It was hardly necessary to lift her skirt, though this was solicitously performed. Her scalding nates confronted the gathered assembly, her anxious face that of the four of her colleagues watching. Drusilla drew a dripping verge, or birch, from the bench and advanced. The rod, secured with twine at one end, was composed of some half-dozen limber limbs, budded at the tip; it swished through the air like a curtain of menace.
"Talking out of turn. Report of Miss McIllick. Five strokes," said the President.
Teresa shivered, contracted her gluteal muscles, and waited with starting eyes. Then she gasped as if thrust into icy water.
"One!"
The punishment proceeded. Drusilla cut with a long driving stroke, just under the hemispherical curve, drawing in to her at the last moment, the better to slice in the flesh. Teresa ground her perfect teeth.
The watching pledges saw the sweeping lash, heard its vicious whistle and remarked how the pain mounted until Teresa shook her head about in some frantic effort, the while trying to climb ever further up the desk.
"Haaah ... auuu ... aieeee!"
After ten plump Terry bounded like a ball. The desk thudded. The five pledges looked on in appalled consternation. Curiously her cries became less articulate, though breathier. It was as if she had reached some high pinnacle of pain, her calves knotted in spasm, one shoe worked off, toes cramping.
"These final five are for Clumsiness, Drusilla. I want you to make them as painful as possible. Thirty-second intervals. Take another birch and whip right in. I want you to show these pledges that anything over twenty can be an awful bore."
"She's wriggling so, Majesty, there's no getting at her decently."
"Cut down on the legs," came an advice from the side. "She can't move those, Dru. Top of the thighs for size."
"AAIIIYYKK!"
Zzzzzsch!
"Noooo. Mercy! Pleeeee...."
"And one makes twenty," said Aramilla, counting.
When the last stripe had been delivered, a full-blooded swipe that seemed to lift the teener off her toes, her hands were again secured behind her. Only then was she permitted to dance and hop in front of the admiring assembly. Only then was she allowed to kiss the drippy rod.
Then, facing the President, she stood with her bottoms spastically twitching and heaving, her face wet with tears. The four girls watched the spectacle with horror. The white skirt had flipped down and was stained with red at once. Across the flesh beneath it, ruddied by the paddle, the twigs had drawn their fangs in earnest, purpling the sweet young skin there. Terry Sands still hopped and quivered.
"Count yourself lucky," said Aramilla drily, "you haven't got the cane to come. Next time you'll be cut really hard. Join your colleagues, worm. Pledge Rowena, I think you come next with three, and one Omission. Drusilla, I want you to be a real genius with this pair of hips. They're asking for only the best."
"They'll have it, Majesty," said the grinning girl, who was slightly panting.
Rowena shuffled forward, her red hair hanging.
"Mer-may I speak ... Majesty?"
"What is it?"
"It's just that ... I had to go through the line twice, and I think you'll agree that I collected quite a dose en route."
"What's that got to do with it?" The President frowned, as if not understanding.
Lovely Rowena burst into tears.
"It's just that I ... hoo-hoo ... I don't think I can ... I mean I want to do my best ... her-b-er-but I don't think I can take fifteen ... th-then three."
"Nonsense. A good flogging never hurt a big healthy girl like you. Pay attention while I sentence you and reflect on your thingness. I shall counsel that you get whipped nice and low, 'cos that's where the tails really feel. You'll find that after the sting of the first cuts it almost helps when the skin is cut; afterwards, I admit, it gets rather raw and I can't do anything about that. You shouldn't have been such a foolish worm." Aramilla shrugged her creamy shoulders until her breasts almost heaved out of the green velvet. "I've seen a girl of your size go thirty without all this fuss. Now then."
"Please, Majesty...."
But Rowena was beaten as all Beta Rho pledges had to be-hard. Her muscle-less cheeks hung as if limply inviting the birch and the cries she gave at the last five were electrifying. After this three resounding thrashes were given with a cane especially "sized," to stiffen it somewhat. It was a furiously wealed buttock that confronted the poor pledges, one of them already punished, when all was over. Oddly, no blood had been drawn but the cane marks, over the heavily paddled, almost puce flesh on the right, were like long blood blisters, as thick as Terry Sand's peerless little finger.
"Joan Mason. Humiliation. We're going to give you a small lesson in your nothingness. You'd better wipe all ideas of dignity out of that mousy little head of yours at once. Kneel and put your hands behind your back."
Joan Mason's knees rapped the floor. She was feeling fluttery and quaky inside. But her bottom still stung enough from the paddle to put any immediate problem out of solution, at her center.
"Do you know what the worm kiss is, Pledge?"
"Yes."
Sandra McIllick approached.
"Yes, Your Majesty," Joan corrected hastily.
"Give her three across the back, and see if that'll wake her up a bit, Sandy."
Joan writhed and sat on her heels as the switch bit in, its trainer nipping at her upper right arm excruciatingly.
"Now try three across the thighs. One ... two ... and-oops!" For Joan had fallen forward with the pain. "Three! Now tell us what the worm kiss is. Worm."
"It is," got out Joan, gasping and frowning in concentration, "when the miserable and loathsome worm has the privilege of slowly inserting her worthless and feeling-less tongue up the anus and into the rectum of the wonderful sorority sister. The worm kiss," she said, still fighting for breath, "is a particular privilege for pledges." When she had finished there was a round of spontaneous applause.
"Excellent, Mason. As you've been so cooperative you may as a special treat give it now. To Matron McIllick."
Joan looked up at the grinning, glossy, raven-haired figure standing over her, switch dangling. She paused.
"If I might be permitted ... my hands ... to remove...."
"Your teeth, fool," came back the angry answer. "When will you use your intelligence? All our worms have teeth. Three across those nice strong calves of hers, if you please."
Slowly, and carefully, to cause no unnecessary runs, Joan drew down the lacy panties with her teeth. Sandra McIllick stepped out of them and turned her back.
"Right up and keep it there."
Joan's round head vanished under the pleats of leather behind. There was utter silence in the room. She could be seen pushing against the close, heavy buttocks. Then Aramilla said, "What do you feel, Matron?"
"A worm."
"I vote we spit on worms."
The big brunette turned and spat, hard, full into Joan Mason's released face. The globule ran down her right eye. Then one after another the entire seated sorority came forward and spat, each trying to outdo the next, into Joan's serious face as she knelt, hands behind her. By the time they had finished, her cheeks were running with spittle, it was even oozing down her breasts, under the cool white tunic. Some of it looked like tears but that, as Aramilla remarked, could not be, in one who wanted to join Beta Beta Rho. She herself even deigned to advance and contribute, into Joan's grateful open mouth, a wedge of wet green snot from her nostrils. Joan swallowed it on a sob.
"Some seems to have fallen on the floor, rhinie," the imperious President added, returning to her chair. "We don't want to leave the place untidy, do we?" And as the pledge bent dutifully to lick it up, Aramilla added, "Urtication, Matron. These are the finest Bermuda tigers, worm."
Sandra McIllick had donned a leather glove. From one bucket she extracted a bunch of the brutal-looking nettles and approached pale Joan Mason, her face still wet with spit.
"Kindly raise those celanese arnel triacetate pleats in rear, Pledge Mason. And lean well forward, please."
At the first touch of the nettles Joan started, gasping. The jagged edges of their leaves drew up flecks of white on the red of her cheeks at once. She squirmed away in pain.
"Those tigers are really strong this year," remarked one Senior.
"Please," Joan gasped, backing off in despair.
"Come here, Pledge, I've only just started."
The nettles had amazing effect. The Matron ran them up and down Joan's shaking cheeks, which she parted for better contact. Joan leant forward with her eyes squeezed shut, her lips drawn over her teeth, steeling herself. At last it seemed over. She arched up, grasping her stung buttocks, hissing.
"And now," said Sandra McIllick, pointing, "bend right over, touching the floor, with your legs apart."
When Joan realized she shook her head. "I can't," she simply said.
There was a deathly silence.
"There's no such word as can't," came at last from Aramilla Ponsonby. "What you mean is won't. And won't is Insubordination."
"I'm sorry but they're just too much for me, Majesty. I never knew nettles could sting so badly."
"I understand, Pledge M.," went on Aramilla remorselessly, "that you're thinking of applying for a teaching job when you leave here. I believe you even talked with Miss Kale about her taking you on as an assistant when, and if, you graduate."
"Yes, Majesty."
The thought of her enemy curled Aramilla's porcelain lip. "Then you must learn stoicism, worm, while you can. I think we'll just add one Omission Demerit here."
Slowly and painfully Joan bent forward. Her buttocks were wealed with vicious stings all over, though these were paradoxically of a lumpy white. She frowned as she bent over, until her fingers touched the floor and her chubby purse parted perilously, quivering in anticipation.
The Matron had selected fresh nettles and at the first whisk up Joan's center the pledge leapt erect, panting. Sandra McIllick gave an angry nod. Two tall Sophs came forward and each unceremoniously yanked an ankle over a shoulder, so that Joan Mason was upended. Dangling and twisting like a freshly caught fish she then received her full urtication-as one unfeeling Senior put it-"inside and out." She was then bent over the desk.
The four pledges watching saw her hazing with horror. To them Joan, as eldest, had always been the leader, of a sort, one on whom they could rely. Here she was at the end of her tether, shrieking at each briny slice of the birch; for it was plain that the twigs stung twice as much on skin already so prepared. Ten times she was pitilessly lashed, and then came nine with the cane. Drusilla drove these into the beaten billies with a good run for each one. And each one seemed to lift the flesh physically, as it cut. Joan stared wild-eyed ahead, snorting in agony. "Tender buns," said one.
"One might almost think them bloody," added another.
"Unless one knew, of course, they weren't."
"Of course. No worm's can be."
Joan writhed on her knees when released and her right palm, rubbing, came away encarmined.
"Next time we won't be so lenient with you, worm," was what she heard. "The penalty for Insubordination is a dozen."
None of the pledges had ever been whipped like this, and they were all beginning to understand that their Dorm Sisters had spoken truly about their own "spankings" being child's play, in comparison to Hell Night. Called forward next, Connie Wood came practically at a run.
She got six and three, then Melissa had her turn. Her neat, liquid little nates drew universal admiration and three whippy licks of the birch.
"Lay into her, Dru," called Diney Carruthers from the head table, "she doesn't feel a thing, actually."
The six allotted from the cane were administered with gusto and drew musical cries of total pain. The group were building up, as promised, considerable respect for this sorority stick. They stood in line of height again, scared and sore, and once more their hands were strapped behind their pretty backs.
"And now," they heard, as if from some measureless distance, out of the mouth of a cavern, "now that your senses of vision, worms, and touch, have been stimulated, there perhaps remain-for this evening, at least-only the gustatory and olfactory. Maudie, would you fetch the bucket and anyone interested can pitch in and help fill it, please. This meeting is definitely declared informal." And Aramilla sipped her blood-red wine.
In the laughter and scraping of chairs Matron McIllick passed before the sorry rank with a big red apple from the table.
"An apple for the pupil," she said, winking mischievously, "only one bite each, you gluttons."
There was a sudden ping! Five pairs of eyes flashed to the center of the tables where the empty bucket had been placed. A tall, strong blonde had hitched up her cocktail nothing and was now astride it, humming. Her jet of pallid piss struck centrally, with vigor, but it was Tennis Skip Barbara Brooke whose contribution, an unbelievably long spell, drew the loudest applause, later. The five pledges looked on, horrified, as the golden foamy liquid rose. The shiny apple was dropped into it, and floated, bobbing.
"One bite each suffices, worms. All you have to do is dip your head and catch that lovely thing. Even Eve didn't have it so good."
Short-sighted Melissa advanced, wry-faced, arms behind her back, and knelt. There were laughs and giggles and much shouted advice from the tables as her sleek black head helplessly followed the apple in the amber foam. It was too big for her to grasp and at last she realized, with a big breath, that the only thing to do was pin the fruit on the bottom of the bucket:-and chew. For the sake of Beta Beta Rho Melissa plunged again, emerging coughing but with a piece of apple in her mouth. Spluttering with disgust she chewed it and returned. Finally, they had finished their test of taste and that of "smell" was ordered.
"Bobby, Ave, Alison, Maud, Diney." Aramilla clapped her chubby hands, and the five Dorm Sisters stood and hitched their skirts. Five tiny, but exquisitely expensive, pairs of panties were tossed into a wide summer hat in the middle of the floor. "By this time," the pledges were told, "you should all know your Dorm Sisters ... intimately. I'm sure you do. But to develop your wormish sense of scent you will prove so. When I say 'Go!' you will each get a panty and carry it to you mistress. The first one with the right pair gets a Credit, but the one who is last gets five with the cane from her Dorm Sis. We like to think we take a really personal interest in our pledges. GO!"
As if galvanized by some electric shock the five fled forward to the cartwheel hat. Rowena was positively panting, while Joan Mason's eyes were haggard with fear. They had been converted, they knew. They were things ... nothing things. Objects. Its.
Pretty Terry picked a pair of coffee-colored panties in her teeth and to ringing applause presented them to smiling Bobby Brooke, who kissed her forehead in reward. Melissa, short of sight and breath, was last.
"Spiffing," said Diana, picking the longest cane she could find and wrapping it round the limpid lower buttocks of her charge five times with relish.
"And now," said Aramilla, handing each pledge her punishment book back and a test-tube, corked, after their restraint belts had been removed, "you may each return to your quarters and pursue knowledge ardently. First put on your panties and hose, and then kiss my feet before you leave. And by kiss I mean the real thing. Real worm slobber, rhinies."
Upstairs, in a stunned silence, they took off their WORM buttons and put them in the Matron's locker.
"Poor Joan," said Constance.
"I wasn't exactly let off," said Rowena, rubbing gingerly. "You put up a fine birch, Joanie."
"Nor me," said Terry Sands, feeling her snubby buttocks. "Oh good grief, it's seeping through my panties on the right. Do you think iodine...."
"Cold cream, dearie. Anyway, you didn't get that cane. It was murder, every cut."
"Wasn't it just!"
The five moved disconsolately into the shadowy Bermuda night outside.
"How on earth," said Melissa, staring at her test-tube, "do you suppose we're going to get these things filled?"
"What about Brad, Teresa?"
She shook her head. "I doubt it. I'm sure he wouldn't aim straight."
"Get it in your mouth," said Joan Mason coldly, "and then spit it in. It'll increase volume, and they'll never know there's an additive."
"There speaks a married woman," remarked Rowena with admiration.
"A well-whipped divorcee."
"You can say that again."
"I know a certain doubting Thomas," said Terry reflectively, "an Engineering stud, at Deardon. Only thing is, he enjoys seeing me caned."
"Well, make him pay for it, dear."
"Suppose I'll have to."
"Give me yours, Melly," said Joan suddenly. "There's a boy who works in the stables. He happens to be rather copious," she added primly.
"Thank you, darling Joan."
From the shadows of a colonnade soft laughter came. Two girls were smoking on the steps.
"Warm evening, girls?"
They were Seniors in Gamma Phi. The five walked on with raised chins.
"Those panties look tight."
"Walking rather stiffly, aren't they?"
"Anyone would say they weren't looking forward to sitting down in a hurry."
"Well at least," said Terry Sands in a whisper of pride to the others, "we all came through!"
CHAPTER EIGHT
"Back for more?" said the grinning stable boy, pausing as he hosed down a loose-box.
The girl stood in the doorway, outlined in the crisp Bermuda sun. Joan Mason had come over in riding clothes, black jacket, derby, and stone-colored cord breeches, for there were boys in the stables and no girl went there unescorted or, if she did, only as if to see about riding somewhere. It was two weeks later, Hell Night a horrible memory of the past, and Joan Mason knew she had no more than a half hour free-while the head groom had his lunch in the cafeteria.
Slipping inside the stable door she hissed, "I'm not here for a repeat performance. Of last time, Sam."
"What is it, then?" He turned off his hose and hitched at his jeans. He was bare-chested and hairy above them.
"I want some more," she said after a moment.
He grinned at her, said "Okay," nonchalantly and led the way into a side room, whose door he shut and locked. It was a straw-strewn place, with an old desk, saddles, and the impedimenta of horses. A small toilet led off it. The head groom used it as a sort of office.
The boy pulled a rough sawhorse into the center and started undoing his flies, bulging already at the sight of the snugly breeched bottom of his visitor.
"I tell you, Sam," she whispered with hatred, "I'm not in the business of being ... back scuttled."
His grin widened, loosely. "No?"
"Not. Absolutely N-O. "You're lucky so much as to look at a Brierton girl, you skunk, let alone touch her. Let alone," and Joan Mason's eyes wandered, "put it up her ... her...."
"Bumhole?" the boy supplied. "But that's a' way I like it, honey."
"I let you do it last time, and it was agony. I should never have let you, but I had to fill that darn test-tube. I should have brought my friend's-you did enough for three. But I didn't. And, and I have to help her out. So there."
"So this is for a friend?"
She nodded.
"I thought as how each of you pledges had to do her own work, in that there sorority."
"Well, she doesn't know any boys, and she hates the taste of it anyway."
"Anyone else know of this? I mean I might ... I jus' could report this to your Dorm Sister, huh?"
"You could, Sam, but you won't," she said bitterly. She added rather desperately, "Will you?"
"Not if it goes up the right hole I won't," said the boy with a grin.
Joan Mason glanced about her wretchedly. She wrung her hands before him. To be reduced to ... this ... this moron, with the monstrous ... why, its head was the size of a duck egg alone.
"Please, Sam, please. Just this once. Let me suck you off. I'll do it well. Like I did it in Avery's...."
But he was shaking his head.
"Fuck me any way you please. Only...."
Her eyes dropped. His frightful prick swung out, tensing as she watched. It positively took her breath away, long, thick, gnarled and so-angry looking at its bright bald knob.
"Oh, Christ, Sam, I can't possibly take all that. Promise only an inch ... please ... I'll do anything...."
"You took it all in last time."
"And I felt as if it was under my chin. Oh damn you, damn you, damn you," she blasted him, fingers flying to the buttons on the side of her breeches. "Get it over quickly, then."
Dropping breeches and pants she bent miserably over the trestle-like horse, legs parted, head down, grasping the forward struts with her hands. She tried to show no reaction when he flipped up the tail of her jacket behind, and bared her.
"Mind you grease it, Sam. I just don't want to look, that's all."
"I do," he said. He fingered her perfect parted chubs wonderingly. "One sweet...."
"Get it over with," she reiterated angrily. "Stick it in and hurry."
"That girl Ave's not whupping into you 'nough. Though I did hear that last Hell Night ... hey, that cunt is tempting, too."
She half got up. "Put it in there, please, Sam."
It was a last try. "Please don't bugger me, it's such agony."
But he shook his shaggy head once more. Picking up a jar of saddle soap he anointed his member, which gave a grateful jerk in response, then ran his greasy finger round the darkly budded sphincter rim and sank it to the knuckle, suddenly.
"Aaaaaach!"
"Now push out as if you goin' to shit. Here we go."
The eagerly pulsing head dimpled her deepest division, to another plucky gasp from the Beta pledge. Joan held sternly to the struts, her bowlerhatted head up, waiting, tensing.
"Re-lax!" he gasped in unison.
"I'm trying to, you dumb ox. It ... just ... won't ... aaah ... go in!"
"Oh yes it will. If you relax."
"Push. Ow!"
The coated cock deformed the flesh, its head momentarily ringed by the anus, then Joan had given a frantic wriggle forward, grasping her spread cheeks.
"Please. Sam."
The boy went to the wall, his brawny prick swinging. Panting, Joan looked at it with horror. Its broad glans seemed as if breathing.
"What are you doing now?"
"Maybe this'll make you relax a bit more."
"Sam. Please. It wasn't in the deal."
He brought the hide riding switch lashing across her bent bottoms. Twice more, before she evaded it, he caught her; then he calmly hung it on its hook.
"Get your feet further apart. We ain't got all that time."
She crouched over the trestle, mewling with distaste. This time he put strong thumbs either side of her opening and pressed. She felt the shaft start to squeeze, spread her, enter. Her lips distended, she felt half-choked. Again she wriggled off her impalement and Sam cursed in earnest.
"I can't," she begged, "I can't."
"If you want your dose of come you've got to," he said, and again he went to the wall. She watched him slackly, racked with anxiety. Surely there was an easier way. He brought something back from the cupboard and suddenly she felt a cold goosing slide up her rectum.
"Ooooh."
"Try that," he said. "Horse suppository. Better shit it out quick. In there."
She staggered to the toilet, holding her breeches.
He watched her from the door as she sat. "Quick. We ain't got all that time, I say."
"I ... cahn't...."
"Better did," he chuckled richly. "If you keep that up you, you're in for a time in the John."
She strained hotly and was rewarded with a tinkle, a plop.
"Come now, kid."
She stood up and tried to walk back into the saddle room with some shred of dignity left. He was waiting for her like a bear, cock swaying. Then he turned her and humped her over hard and this time slid into the lush tallow of her entrails with no trouble at all. A long gushing gasp ex haled from her mouth. In sobbing fury she struck at his flanks as he thudded in and out, filling her with sheer feeling, making her cough and pant as if choked, until he slammed her to the saddle horse and plumbed her, grunting, to the hilt.
She had never known anything like it in her life. She was going to vomit. The thing was right up her belly, parallel with the trestle bar. She scratched at the struts, her ribs, her breasts, then suddenly she was hissing, "You bastard! You're coming."
She had felt the swelling warning and with a final effort screwed herself off him as he shot into her. Desperately (this could never, ever, happen again) she sought the puce and fuming head, spouting its jism. For a second she was driven back by its spit in her face, then she had grabbed its shiny length and stuffed it in her mouth. The stream went on forever. It brimmed her lips, puffing out her cheeks, and when she knew she had enough, and released it, the dreadful tyke gave a last gleeful spatter over her ducked derby. For now she was searching her pockets for Melissa's precious test-tube. She filled it from her lips, corked it, rose to her feet in exhausted disgust and cold fury and saw him wiping off his manhood on a stable rag.
"How utterly, completely, repulsive and filthy," she said, turning from him to "adjust" her clothing. "That is quite the foulest thing that has ever happened to me."
"Lucky I didn't make you lick it off." He laughed shortly. "Lucky I don't charge for it, either."
"You have the most repulsively prodigious flow of any man I've ever met," she said, "with the consistency of porridge, too."
He bowed mock-modestly. "May I wipe your hat, Ma'am?"
"I'll do it, thanks."
"Next time in front of Ave, eh?" he said, chuckling as she angrily exited, stumbling on the step and swearing in a manner most unbecoming of a member of the most, she was thinking, exclusive sorority in the world. The things one did for one's girl friends ... one did for Beta Beta Rho....
CHAPTER NINE
The second Hell Night came as all second Hell Nights have to.
This time the five pledges were seriously lugubrious, and poor little Terry Sands nearly peed in her pants. Dean of Students, Miss Frederika ("Freddy") Thome, even called her in that Thursday.
"Is there anything wrong, Teresa? You look so pale these days. Even, I would say, listless."
"Ner-nothing in particular, Miss Thome."
"You aren't unhappy here, are you?"
"Oh heavens, no." She looked out the sunny window to the ivy-clad walls beyond. "It's just that ... Well, I am pledging, you know."
"I see." Miss Thome had been a Beta Rho herself, in her day, and smiled commiseratively. "Last Friday of the month tomorrow."
"Right."
Terry studied her toes a moment.
"It isn't so much the beastly birch, though Lord knows that is horrible enough. And Melissa is putting them up this month. It's that licky long cane they use. I do have two Omissions...."
"And that'll be six."
Teresa rolled her eyes. "Of the juicy best, Miss Thome. Oh heavens, I hate the cane."
"So do I," said "Freddy" Thorne comfortingly. "Did I," she corrected.
"Of course, this is a period of your life in which you are asked to call on all your courage. Chin up, Teresa." And the pert teener in fact responded. "Think of what it's like to be a Beta."
"I'll think," said Terry Sands bravely. A beaten Beta, was what she was thinking at that moment.
"And come and see me afterwards," said Dean Thome in a friendly tone, though with a glint in her gimlet glance. "Freedom of sexuality, Terry," she added as an afterthought, "nearly always means a lowering of its intensity, and value. A diminished ego makes all things mild. The object of our sororities is to take the drudgery out of discipline and make everything simply wonderful. I'm sure you'll find it will be."
As T. Sands left the Deanery she was surprised to see the head groom waiting to go in, twisting his cap in one hand. A short and knotted man, from England, Mr. Jorrocks. Her heart gave a flutter. She hoped he hadn't found out about poor Joanie and Sam.
* * *
Thursday evening too was the one on which President Milton Hamilton of the multiple degrees took his regular wrestling lesson. Upstairs in the ivy-clad Presidential mansion was a capacious work-out, or "play," or "keep-fit," room, supplied with mats and bars and ropes. For this eminent scholar was making no mistake; he wanted to continue a vigorous life with his delicious Georgene for just as long as possible. So each Thursday before dinner Nancy Kale, the powerful Phys. Ed. mistress, came and put him through the jumps.
It was an unusually warm evening and she stood confronting him at the opposite corner of the mat clad only in a man's shirt, and pants, both of well-worn white. Both were patchy with sweat and since she preferred to work out without a brassiere her strong, tense breasts thrust out sideways on her torso, clearly defined and shuddering slightly. The thin wet stuff defined not only the rubbery stub of her nipples, but also the coin-like edges of her enormous aureoles. She blinked at the President through her somewhat misted spectacles, arms fisted and clenched either side of her.
Wearing only a brief karate robe of immaculate white, girt at the waist, Milton Hamilton looked at her with admiration and curiosity. Admiration for the full round neck, defiant air, flat stomach, bursting breasts and, in particular, for those athletic thighs curving from crotch to knee with muscle. His already ruddy cheeks darkened at the plump mound in their middle, from which dark tendrils drifted out of the panty legs. Curiosity, however, was also apparent as he scratched his pure white thatch, preparing to charge.
For the past two weeks now he had noticed it. The first time was when they had been doing some rope work and, shinning after her, he had glanced up under that solidly churning butt. The panties had rucked up in her efforts and, yes, he was quite sure of it, there were fading marks of weals across his gym mistress's posterior. Again, today, when she had bent over to pull straight the mat he had seen them, brown lines extending out of the underwear either side. His cock had kicked at the sight. Someone was giving Nancy Kale a damn sound caning and he resolved to find out who. With a balanced jump he rushed, foot high.
She avoided the throw easily, of course, for she was quicker (if weaker) than he. In turn she attacked and bounced thumpily from the mat as she fell. They went at it hammer and tongs. Milton Hamilton grew increasingly out of breath, and increasingly excited. This sumptuous specimen of womanhood, panting and perspiring, was in prime condition, all her round surfaces glib and hard and running with muscle. Set on the solid cores of her thighs, her buttocks were mammoth, moving pomegranates. They worked in concentration for a while, then suddenly he found his chance. He slammed her to the mat so hard it drove the breath from her body, and she lay prone, gasping.
"You all right?" he asked.
"That was too hard," she gasped, winded.
"I'm sorry."
He bent to help but something else happened.
Nancy Kale twisted, trained in self-protection. The Presidential robe had come apart, revealing his tremendous staff in full erection. And as she moved he was on her in a moment.
Suddenly they were rolling and panting, wet-locked in their scant attire, all over the mat. Nancy Kale was fighting in earnest now. At a distance she could defeat him. Close to like this he was master, immensely strong. And kneeling holding her down on her belly as he presently was, she could feel that glowing member, yes, from the small of her back to the nape of her neck. She twisted, throwing him. But he was again on her again in a flash, chuckling.
Then for a while she seemed to feel it every where. The impatient shaft nubbled a nipple, slapped a writhing thigh, and once it clubbed her twisted face, filling her with awe at its weight.
"Mr. President ... sir!" she whispered desperately, under him. "This is not karate!"
Luck came her way as he listened. She got up a leg and pushed with the bare ball of one foot (Good Golly! it was longer than her sole even!)-Milton Hamilton sat back on his haunches, grunting as if in meditation, his stony erection aimed at the ceiling and quivering with frustration.
"Sorry, Kaley," he said. "But I've always wondered ... I mean, all these tales of rape ... always have said myself that no girl gets raped who doesn't want to be. How would you defend yourself, if I tried to rape you?"
She stared at the twitching fish-eye of his beast hood. Oh that! Woman's despair! She felt bitter with the thought of what she had promised Aramilla to do on the morrow, on Hell Night itself, and she felt insulted by the stare of this monster.
"Try," she spat at it-not him. "Just try, and see what happens."
He lurched. She jumped. They buffeted and bounded. She bit, struggled, and whomped him one. She snorted, gouged, and surfaced, straining. She was a human animal, in hard motion, slugging and striking. Limb-entwined, storm-tossed, the President asked no more. What a terrific bitch.
The problem was the panties.
Then he saw that in her contortions she had writhed them down her thighs. Despite a muffled lump to his left eye he managed to slide them down the sweatily threshing legs without too much ado. No problem.
The weight of her blows had excited him. His playful pulses pounded.
"I'm sorry to have to do this, Kaley," he said, as she squirmed beneath him, beneath it, "but this is in fact what I myself would ... in the circumstances...."
He cuffed her accurately in the solar plexus and the breath went from her body like a bag. When it came back the Phys. Ed. instructor found herself arched on her back, both hands held behind her in one iron Presidential hand, while the other forced back her head by the hair.
"You...." she panted, trying to get her legs under way.
But her thighs were splayed by his hairy thighs and she could not so much as even draw her knees up. All she could do, she realized, as she felt the inhuman object sliding into her, was ... shout out:
"Noooooooooooo!"
"Reminds me of a siren," said the President, beginning to pump into her regularly.
"Noooooo!" she begged again, and began to writhe and arch and buck till he really had to bend her back, until almost all he could see was her slabby, swollen, bursting breasts. He bit one hand to make her writhe more. By which time part of her weight was resting on the top of her strained-back head.
"Isn't this some sort of Hatha Yoga position?" he inquired in scholarly fashion, watching the tendons of her thighs knotting as he drew out of her, before ramming hard home. Under the purple of his sliding prick he could see the lower cheeks of her bottom clenched so tight you could scarcely have put a coin between them-like Georgene's knees and thighs. And, yes, they definitely were marked with weals. Well, he'd have to find out about that. After all, he was the President around here. The only one they had.
Now each time she tried to wriggle off his impalement she dug herself more deeply onto it.
"Stop ... I can't ... please...."
Then suddenly the character of these maneuverings changed; she seemed to fit over him like a glove and he could have sworn he felt a clam-like clutch at the tip of his cock. Her womb, already?
"Please ... shoot ... give it ... cram ... cream ... come...."
"Go on," he said, interested.
Her feet beat a tattoo. "Shot ... spermy spunk ... fuck ... stuff ... up my...."
"Well now," he said, "that's not even grammatical Kaley. By the way, do you take the pill? I don't go in for dropping bastards about the place. And if you don't, I regret to say I'll have to, er, finish up the arse. At least, that's what I'd do if...."
The rubbery pucker of her vagina was becoming unbearable, and any minute now....
Suddenly she said in a coldly controlled tone he could barely recognize, "It's quite all right, President. I'm a piller. If you would just be so good as to ... fuck my cunt with lead ... fairly soon...."
"That's much better," said Milton Hamilton happily, and shot his boiling load. When he left the room a moment later he looked back at the "exercise" mat. Nancy Kale's magnificent body was still spread-eagled prone upon it, her shirt open, her thickly bushed cunt spasmically oozing. Her eyes were closed, or glazed, he could not quite see which. "At least," he said pensively, closing the door behind him on the sight, "if you asked me, that's what I should do. In such a case."
* * *
Second Hell Night at Beta Beta Rho that term was indeed an unprecedented affair. Everyone knew something unusual was going to happen and the five pledges were positively petrified, although-largely thanks to "Stable" Sam (as they called him between themselves)-all test-tubes had been duly filled. They were pale as ghosts as they assembled in the side-room that night and the mulish jut to redheaded Rowena's lovely rump quivered quite perceptively. Why, they wanted to know, had Davia Skill, President of rival Gamma Gamma Phi, and two of her lieutenants, been invited to watch the proceedings? This was most unusual and irregular. But more than one proud heart, under the red I AM A WORM button, resolved to show that no one, but no one, could take a licking like a Beta pledge.
An hour later, or less, they were lined up at the far , end of the bumroom from the tables, filled with members-plus Davia Skill resplendently inky-locked beside President Aramilla Ponsonby-when the incredible did in fact happen.
The Paddle Line this night had been Juniors and they had gone to work with a will, not to show themselves outdone by the Soph actives. Once again, unlucky Rowena had been slowest and had had to pass through once more, under the stinging slashes of the tawses. Aramilla was a positive martinet in the sentencing this evening. For not walking backwards to rejoin the rank after this penance Rowena received one Omission Demerit, and one Commission Demerit, for Insolence, though the fault was approximately the same. Melissa received a "Generality" mark, which simply meant she had been "generally" something-or-other. Perhaps the President wanted to impress her opposite number in the severity of their hazings, and the high selectivity of the sorority in general; in any event, all the actives wholeheartedly approved.
Constance Wood, chief scorer, had to be pulled forward, weeping, for her frightful total-twenty with the birch, twelve with the cane.
"Pull yourself together, Pledge, and remember that you want to be a Beta."
Rowena, whose big right bottom had been likened by unfeeling commentary to "uncooked beef,"
"raw liver," and "skinned rabbit," respectively, was next with fifteen with the birch, and three of the stick. Joan Mason and Melissa, two and two Demerits each. Terry Sands had no Commissions, but a juicy nine of signal severity with the cane was administered low down on her chubby rounds and sent her crying to the rank, clutching as if a horde of hornets had been let loose under her white pleated skirt.
After some ordeals involving oysters and raw eggs the five were told that a very special event was going to take place and that, as mere worms, they would only be allowed to watch it upside down, bent over. Facing the far wall they flipped up their minis, bent and touched their toes, feet together. Five glowing tushies-Rowena's oozing ruby-confronted the ever more excited assembly, as they would the evident newcomer to arrive down the bum room's steps, in a moment, and their nature was so lengthily and ribaldly remarked on that soon the faces of the five was as red as their bent bases, above. In particular, the set of sweetly slotted fruits thrust back were the subject of speculation and debate. Joan's was deemed the most "pushy," and prominent, though not necessarily the deepest, red-fronded Rowena's by far the jolliest, Melissa's slit wound by far the most aristocratic, Constance Wood's the sulkiest but possibly the snuggest, while Terry's marvelous morsel, set between violet weals, was voted most scrumptious-or, more precisely, "lickable,"
"stickable,"
"friggable,"
"fuckable,"-and the one, despite its modest dimensions, most likely to widen first to the emergence of a future President of Beta Beta Rho.
Sandra McIllick came down the stairs. An expectant silence fell. Aramilla filled her glass of dark red wine. The House Matron, in her usual leather outfit, looked back up the steps with a frown.
"Come on," she ordered peremptorily.
And Nancy Kale came into the room. You could have heard a pin drop and someone, later, said they did.
The Phys. Ed. mistress had on navy slacks, so snug to her hips they seemed almost elasticized, and her soft brown sweater, chained at the waist. Her square-jawed face was anxious but determined as she took her stance in the center of the tables like any pledge, and as if, in truth, prepared like one.
There was a long silence, then the President said slowly:
"As I think just about everyone on Bermuda now knows, I was brutally and needlessly humiliated by the lady standing before us, in the first week of term. Our guest for this evening, girls, is Miss Nancy Kale, and I want to make sure she receives full honors. Unfortunately this unjust humiliation...."
"You were late for class," came in a husky voice.
There was a deathly hush.
"Matron," said Aramilla, to the already briskly advancing Sandra McIllick, "give her three across the thighs. I want her bottom saved. But make them good ones."
In the breathless, deathless hush the switch snickered thrice into the tight material-it was as obviously just as hard as the raven-headed girl could hit. The third made the woman bite her lip, but she stood them with considerable stoicism. This brightened Aramilla's eye perceptibly.
"Unfortunately this unjust and totally unnecessary humiliation to my person," she continued calmly, "was effected in the presence of my colleague President Skill, and other members of Gamma Gamma Phi. This was unforgivable, and I resolved not to forgive it. Tedious as the task became, I was compelled to summon Miss Kale to my room regularly throughout the semester for a sound caning. She has now, I am convinced after a number of such visits, seen sense and has come here tonight to prove it to you. Perhaps she would turn and show herself ... behind."
Nancy Kale turned, her eyes absent. She had obviously decided to steel herself for this remarkable performance in public humiliation and, to make it easier for herself, was trying to abstract her mind entirely. She dropped her slacks to the floor. Under them she had no panties. She leant forward exposing her magnificent gluteal mass, marked (as the ever-observant President of the college had noticed) by the lines of recent canings.
"Touch your toes."
There was another pronounced silence. Most girls in the room retained considerable respect for their gym mistress; three lively weals now crossed her thighs.
"A bottom of good sense, indeed," said Davia Skill drily, helping herself to the decanter of wine.
"Now stand up, pull up your slacks, and tell us why you're here, Kale."
The mistress looked dead ahead and spoke with obvious difficulty in an expressionless tone of voice.
"It was ... a very regrettable experience ... and I have come here to apologize to Miss Ponsonby ... personally, and, and publicly . .
"There's a little more to it than that, I think," said Aramilla slyly.
The mistress' tongue ran on her lips.
"That is to say ... to apologize to Miss Ponsonby for this regrettable occurrence and to assure her it will not happen again...."
"Continue."
"And to receive at her hands ... a personal chastisement ... er, in front of you...."
There was a sudden gust of whispering round the tables. Whipped ... Miss Kale ... a mistress ... publicly? Aramilla was really going too far at last.
"Silence," said the President, banging on the table with a spoon. "Come on, Kale, remember what I told you."
The mistress blinked. In a slow determined voice, nodding her head, she went on, "That is, to be caned, publicly, in front of you ... with the cane ... across my naked buttocks...."
"No!"
"To bare my buttocks and bend over and be caned across the naked arse," said the mistress hectically.
"But you're not telling it like it is," said Aramilla peevishly. "You haven't got it right."
"Aramilla, really," said a Praelictor sitting on her left. "I don't know what you're doing."
"Or what you're getting us into, either," said Barbara Brooke, who actually liked Miss Kale a lot.
"Shut up! And you, continue."
"I think what your President means," went on the mistress in the same unemotional voice, "is this. At first when she caned me it was over clothing, though always drawn very tight. However, the punishments were very painful, and extra was administered for flinching, so that I came to find it preferable to bare my body and take less. There was always a set tariff. Then last week your President was kind enough to ask me whether, rather than continue with my canings until the end of the term. I wouldn't prefer to wipe the slate by coming here and receiving one single chastisement at her hands, in front of the assembled sorority. I should mention that there were other indignities involved and I decided to summon up my courage and pay off all in one." The dark head came back. The eyes behind the glasses gave another blink. "I apologize profoundly to Miss Ponsonby and request her to give me, as promised, eighteen strokes with the cane."
"Eighteen!" yipped a voice.
"Aramilla, you must be out of your mind."
"This has gone too far."
"Shut up!" shouted Aramilla again, staring almost savagely around. She was panting until her breasts almost burst over her low green velvet. "When I want advice I'll ask for it, thanks."
Abruptly she picked up half a pie some Senior had brought down and flung it at her face. It splattered on Miss Kale's face and trickled down her sumptuous chest. Aramilla flung another. This hit the mistress square in the stomach.
"Undress," she said hotly, standing up.
But others were rising, too. Aramilla was livid at these signs of mutiny. Only the five pledges at the end of the room still bent obediently over.
"I'm getting out of here."
But Nancy Kale was bare.
"The beatle position, bitch," hissed Aramilla Ponsonby furiously.
The mistress prostrated herself on the floor, her arms and legs outstretched. Aramilla advanced with the cane.
"This is going too far."
"I agree," said Barbara Brooke fervently.
"This has got to stop."
"It has got to stop," said a stentorian male voice from the foot of the stairs into the bumroom, "because it is going to stop. This minute."
Everyone whirled, mouths open. There, in a dark turtle neck and easy flannels, stood their revered (and rightly revered) President, Milton Hamilton, B.A., B.A., M.A., Ph.D., B. Litt., D.G., M.C., B.Pd. and ff.L. There was a copy of Studies in the Polynesian Tadpole under one arm.
"I have read about campus unrest, and revolution," he said, "but it isn't going to happen at Brierton. I hereby declare Beta Beta Rho utterly and completely and definitively dissolved, and order all its members to come to see me tomorrow."
Turning on his heel, the President gave a last look at the five bent bottoms. His left eye was a shiner.
"Why, you aren't even accurate," he harrumphed, before he left.
CHAPTER TEN
Two days later, the tender lawns and decent grasses of Brierton Academy in Bermuda were testimony to an unusual spectacle. Gloved in early evening mist, illumined by the shrouded lights and lamps dotted about, they seemed deserted and ordinary, and would not have attracted the attention of an outsider. All girls, it seemed, were hard at their studies.
But a visitor from Mars, staring more observantly, would have noticed a constant traffic of girls clad (unusually for that hour) in short summer tennis things, between the Beta Rho building and the President's house. A further detail would not have escaped remark: on the way to their Prexy's mansion these nubile figures strode with grace, if sometimes a trifle slowly. On the way down back from it, however, almost each and every one of these exclusive maidens had her hands glued to the back of her bottoms. And a closer look yet might have revealed on more than one of those puerile panties a tell-tale red or russet stain. Only the very bold got back with tightly folded arms, their teeth clenched.
For Beta Rho had sworn to bear it bravely. Since they had been dissolved for the rest of the academic year, and all members returned to common dorms, their prestige was seriously at stake. Certainly with-Gamma Gamma Phi.
As promised, the President saw the assembled sorority up in Hill House the next evening.
"I could expel you all," he said calmly, in the diamond-windowed "play" or "keep-fit" room, "and I probably shall, in fact. That is unless," he added, "you see some other solution open to me. I want to be democratic in the matter. I know how much of a voice in affairs means to you students." All paddles and tawses had been confiscated from the bumroom, and he was toying with a long House cane as he spoke. "Well? Any ideas? Or should I start phoning your parents?"
Aramilla Ponsonby stepped forward from the frightened rank. She had on a short and dingy jersey dress that was elegance personified.
"If I might be permitted, President."
"Go ahead, Miss Ponsonby."
"We've talked this matter over and we're prepared to accept any punishment you may deem fit, just so long as our parents won't get to know. It was," she added modestly, "mainly my fault, in the first place."
"And in the last," thundered Milton Hamilton. "Don't worry, Miss Ponsonby, I shall see to it that you are punished, er, appropriately. Very well, then. All in favor of accepting correction-and it will be corporeal-at my hands instead of common expulsion?"
There was a universal "Aye," a mixture of relief and apprehension in its note.
"Right. You will return to your quarters and each girl will change into tennis things. You will be sent for individually and, so as there shall be no impropriety, the Dean of Women will be present while I inflict. Moreover, it will be-in the first instance-over clothing. I shall give every member a dozen strokes of the cane and I think I may show you the difference a male hand makes in its wielding. Furthermore," and his dark brows beetled, "all Dorm Sisters and/or Praelictors will report here tomorrow for a serious thrashing. Your President will be dealt with after that. But first of all I'll cane you myself, the lot of you. I believe you know my motto is that we take a personal interest in our students."
They trooped dully off and it was then the traffic across the lawns and up the hill commenced. Thirty girls, twelve strokes, the President was thinking as he prepared his arm. Three hundred and sixty strokes. With extras for flinching, perhaps almost four hundred. He took a sip of scotch. His head came up. Well, Busby had done it at Eton, and Keats in the last century. Milton Hamilton would do as well.
The first to be shown up was a frightened brownette, her soft curls close to her scalp.
Dean of Women Frederika ("Freddie") Thome smiled at her in comforting fashion.
"You're about to receive a dozen with the cane, Salibelle. Have you anything to say?"
"Ner-no, Ma'am."
Miss Thome led the cheerless girl to the side, where she stood her a yard from some wall bars, feet together. She had to lean forward at an angle and grasp the bars, butt out. Miss Thome checked the panties for possible padding, then raised the skirt up the back. She added but one refinement here. Since she really didn't want the flippy little tennis skirt to slip down during correction she pinned it up with safety pins, only with safety pins pinned through the skin.
"No more than a hypodermic," she said, reassuringly.
Milton Hamilton thrashed the tightly pantied bottom with a breathtaking vigor. "Ouuuu!"
"One!" pronounced bright-eyed "Freddy" Thome.
All the Sophs got fifteen-three extra for shifting-and two of them (including Drusilla) as many as eighteen. Not one of them could get out of the door for a full minute after the last stroke. The Juniors came next and suffered the same. Most of the Seniors got through with twelve. Avery Congreve and Barbara Brooke were two of the bravest, but "Diney" Carruthers carried the day. The freckled Senior stuck it gamely to the end and then requested an extra, for moving at one stripe.
As she went out she smiled at the President.
"That was a damn good hiding, sir. I deserved it and you made me feel it right through."
"I'm glad you appreciated it, Miss Carruthers. Thank you."
But when it was finally over the President was patently perspiring. He sat in a hard chair with a gasp.
"Ouf! That was quite a workout there."
"Freddy" Thome came forward, beaming.
"You were magnificent, Prexy, just magnificent." Her eyes were shining. "To warm all those bottoms like that." She could not keep from looking at the bulge in Milton Hamilton's fly. "If only I could ... well, just touch ... and feel ... and see!" With an excited moan she gave up control ling herself and flashed up the zip of his fly. The amazing member flew out in her face. "Oh Good Heavens, President. I never dreamed. It's so ... and I...."
"Really, Miss Thome," he began dreamily, albeit reacting to her caresses. "I had no idea. I don't think you and I...."
"Never," she confirmed. "But I've always hoped. And if I could just be permitted...." She licked her lips with appetite. "Just to melt this down quickly for you ... er, purely as a matter of hygiene, of course."
"Of course," he echoed, as she lowered her Deanly head. Then he gasped, "Christ, you're right ... I am going to blow any ... go down on it hard."
Dean of Women Thome gulped and swallowed frantically.
"Thank you, President," she said gratefully, before she left. For a second it was as if she was feeling her way out of the room.
The first to report the following night was Mary French-Jones. The Praelictors came in Sunday best, which they doffed fairly instantly, carefully folding each scant item on the hard chair to one side. And then confronted their ordeal.
For if their own punishment desk was Victorian what was now placed centrally was Edwardian-a shining whipping triangle, beside which expert Mr. Jorrocks stood, brushing up his mustaches awkwardly with one hand while he cracked a thin whip in the other.
It was ten of the best for them all and Mary was full-fleshed, even meaty, from nape to knees, so that President Hamilton, watching in his blue bath robe, felt an insidious stirring as he watched her secured in an inverted Y, hands high, feet spread. Already his livid cock was ramrod stiff, the veins throbbing to release their steady slime.
"Five on the back and five on the buttocks, Mr. Jorrocks, please. Do your duty."
She needed the whip, she needed the whip.
The lash streaked her shoulders, extracting a startled cry. Expertly its tip bit under her armpit. Mary French-Jones gave a gargling wail as the true immensity of the pain came to her. The whip ripped a furrow lower down. Finally, its tough trainer plucked at a buttock cheek and seemed, for a second, to worry in its surface like some angry asp. The girl shook it off, screaming. Desperately her frayed body gathered for the next. Mr. Jorrocks knew how to cut supremely. When it was over the girl sat on the floor with contorted face in spasms of anguish.
"Send Alison Riley," said the President, consulting his list, "and let that be a lesson to you."
Having dressed, the girl escaped on a run. Big-breasted Alison was next to arrive and her buttocks were bitten by blood. Finally came House Matron Sandra McIllick, undressing bravely in a trice.
"I'll take mine all on the bottom, please," she requested as she heard the sentence.
"As you wish, my dear, as you wish." The President nodded to Mr. Jorrocks. The whip popped. The triangle bounded with a grunt. The balled ass lunged, lined with fire across its center.
"Uuuunngh!"
When this was over there remained only Aramilla Ponsonby, and Mr. Jorrocks was not the man for her. Milton Hamilton dismissed his head groom with thanks, a huge sum of money, and a double scotch and soda. Left alone, he realized his prick was a rock, his balls aching for discharge. Slowly he crossed the corridor to his bedroom.
Georgene Hamilton was brushing her hair at a mirror. She had been changing for dinner, it seemed, and wore only lacy underclothes. As usual, her face looked just about to cry. But all her anxious eyes could see was the huge hot knob of his penis pushing through the bathrobe.
"Milton!" she murmured reverentially, not taking her eyes off its eye, "are you finished already?"
"Yes, they were all pretty fairly punished, I'd say," he muttered distractedly. "I don't think they'll start a revolution in a hurry."
"That poor Aramilla Ponsonby?"
"She's being dealt with separately."
Georgene gave an eloquent shudder. "I wouldn't want to be in her shoes, I must say."
"You remember our motto, dear. Ask nothing of the students we wouldn't be prepared to take ourselves. Let's see your ass," he said, "and get the thing."
"Milton!" She stood up timorously.
"The thing," he reiterated angrily. His desire was becoming unmanageable. She hurried to obey.
It was like some sweetness of death when she undressed. How could his prick grow higher, and yet still heavier?
"Bend over the end of the bed," he said gutturally. There was no time for the mirrors tonight. Nor the mood. She tremblingly obeyed.
"Oh Milt," she said, "be gentle with me, please."
The anguish of his ecstasy was so insistent he moved behind her and squatted slightly to send his pulsing monster under the perfect cheeks of her Restoration-Regency ass.
"Ooooo, Milton."
She bucked and twisted and he pulled out quickly. He didn't want to spoil this moment. The bud of her bumhole winked impertinently, it seemed.
"I'm going to cane you hard, Georgene. Brace back your knees and hold on tight. This may hurt."
The rod flashed, liquid with light, drawing a raw stripe across her tender, muscleless flesh. "AAAAIEEEE!"
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Aramilla Ponsonby had been surprised to find the Presidential "playroom," when she entered it, empty. By this point she had heard from her fellows of the flogging at the triangle and was properly apprehensive. However, she thought she could get through it safely. The gleaming apparatus was there, all right. But no one was in the room. She had on a shantung suit.
"Hello, Aramilla," said a dulcet tone, and the Prexy of Beta Rho whirled. Her face dropped a yard. High-diving champ Nancy Kale had just come in, clad in her shortest gym outfit, and holding what looked like a long leather thong. Aramilla's face hardened perceptibly.
"Give me that negative would you? And original."
The girl handed them over. Miss Kale masticated them. She smiled again with menace.
"Now all these unfortunate traces will pass right through me won't they and eventually emerge in my stool. And if I make you eat that, Aramilla, then two of us will have consumed the clues, won't we?"
"Do your damnedest," hissed plucky Aramilla Ponsonby, albeit there was a note of terror in her tone. "You won't get a squawk out of me."
"We'll see, my girl. Do you know what this is?"
"No."
"South African rhino. A sjambok, in short. It won't scar you for life, but it'll do everything but. Now strip, you bitch."
To the stranger from Mars it must have been a strange symphony that drifted out of the diamonded window-panes on that Bermuda night. For as many as ten Aramilla stifled all but puffs and grunts, and one unhappy fart, but her due was twenty-five and she soon began yelping musically, full-throated as any thrush in summer. From above came an antiphonal response-worried, pleading, and exhausted-as Georgene realized that she too, poor soul, was getting the shellacking of her life. But of such is the kingdom of heaven made.
