EH-0135  The Nothing Things
[aka 'Sorority Of Submissive Girls']
(P.N. Dedeaux)


CHAPTER ONE 

"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. 


THE END
