by D. A. Maddox
They walked out together.
And it wasn’t so bad. No one made a deal of it, not even Bianca and Cathy. Within five minutes, Savannah was having the time of her life.
****
The Select moved among them, guided them this way and that, scrambling them until there was no way to know who stood next to whom. Before long, Savannah was so disoriented that she didn’t even know which way the Student Union building was anymore.
Listen for them, she told herself. The people on the balcony.
High above her. Behind her. Low chatter—jokes being told, appraisals being made.
Okay, so she was facing away from it. Fat lot of good that information does me, anyway.
“You won’t have those on long.”
Veronica. Savannah assumed she was talking about the blindfolds.
“You have a decision to make, pig-sluts, and from this point on until we’re done with you, the decision is final. We can’t have you communicating with each other while you make it, and we won’t allow you to see the decisions your fellow pig-sluts make. This is on you.”
A long silence broken only by a pair of footfalls walking back and forth, back and forth, slowly, in a long line. Veronica was appraising the pigs as well. Presently, she stopped—not in front of Savannah.
“Oh, I like this one. I hope you stay, pig-slut. I have such plans for you.”
Whoever it was, Savannah felt bad for her. She hoped it wasn’t Melody.
****
Scott felt the bitch’s breath on his face.
“There are three classifications among The Select,” she said, twiddling his ear. “The first is Dominant. Those of us among you now are each of us a member of this most excellent caste. We exist to be worshipped and obeyed, feared and adored.”
Her hand went to his chest. She undid the top shirt button at his neck.
Yeah? Scott thought. How’d you get that job? Was there a vote?
But as her finger traced the pocket of soft flesh at the base of his neck, he couldn’t keep his cock from stirring, a faint, tentative strain against the cloth of his jockstrap.
“It is our delight to torture and humiliate,” she said, tracing her fingers over the other buttons, leaving them secure but going lower, lower, “to arouse and deny—or to complete, whichever suits us at the time.”
She parted the front of his shirttail, and her finger found the waistband of his jockstrap.
Stop it, he thought. That’s … not for you. It’s…
She poked half her fingertip inside. Scott’s penis stirred considerably more at this. There was no helping it. He was half hard, and she was centimeters away.
Don’t.
He had to say it. This wasn’t right—
He could leave. All he had to do was decide to go, right now, and pray that Savannah opted out with him.
“Teasing,” she said, “is a specialty of ours. We’re quite good at it.”
Her finger went down, her tip against his. With her other hand, she traced another finger along the outside fabric, across his length, awakening his sleeping soldier completely. Scott’s cockhead swelled, bleeding a drop of pre-cum.
Savanah, I’m sorry.
She withdrew her finger. “It’s not for everyone,” she said more loudly, addressing the group. Her voice receded with distance. “The Dominant cannot exist in a vacuum, not even within The Select…”
Scott stood, hard as diamonds and abandoned and feeling utterly ridiculous, the cleft of his penis exposed and oozing, his hands shaking with unsatisfied need.
****
Savannah knew it was him. She could hear his suppressed voice in the breathing, in the noises Veronica had so effortlessly drawn from him. Her heart turned to lead in her chest; her inner calm shriveled and died.
She wasn’t mad—certainly not at Scott. He owed her nothing, and … and he couldn’t help himself. She wasn’t especially mad at Veronica, either. She was playing her role. It was what she was for—but…
But I could never treat him like that, she realized. I could never make him feel like that. Whatever she did, I couldn’t do. That’s not me.
To which a deeper voice responded, It’s not what he wants. Not really. What he wants is you.
Coming back her way, now. Veronica was getting closer again. Closer.
“Those witnesses you can’t see above and behind you,” she continued, “those are the Neutral. Don’t misunderstand me. They enjoy a good time, as many of you will discover tonight in the ballroom after the lottery. But they are—oh, from a Dom’s point of view, anyway—easier to please.” And, with unmistakable disdain creeping in, “Normal.”
Laughter from the balcony. A voice called down, “No one’s a freak like you, Ronnie!”
If they’re so normal, Savannah couldn’t help but think, then why are they here?
“Takes a freak to run the freakshow, Corky,” Veronica retorted in good humor, drawing more laughs all around, from everyone but the pigs. “You like the show as much as anyone. As I was saying…”
Only now did she stop in front of Savannah.
“Before the countdown, before the choice,” she said, “there’s one more classification among The Select you little piggies should know about. In the days of my mother and my grandfather before her, this last caste was called ‘Slave’. The word we use today is ‘Submissive’.”
She twirled a finger in Savannah’s hair.
Savannah thought, And why are you picking on me when you say that?
“It’s the right word, because the Submissive of The Select have put themselves forward. No one made them do it.”
A thumb brushed over Savannah’s blindfolded eyes, one at a time, as though testing for dampness, for tears. Only then did Savannah realize that they were there. Her breath hitched. Her heart, so calm mere minutes ago, thudded.
“I don’t pretend to understand subs,” Veronica said. “They thrive on pain, on punishment, on reduction.”
A hand on her right breast, her thinly veiled nipple trapped between two fingers. Another at her belly, rubbing slow circles over her stomach, working lower with each rotation.
“They live to serve. They trust, the silly things, even though the true submissive craves only further punishment as her reward.” An afterthought. “Or his, of course. It isn’t a gender-based predisposition.”
Savannah panted out her breath. It seemed she had to reach for it with her lungs, like it wanted to get away, especially when Veronica’s wandering hand settled on the fabric over her panties.
Jesus, no, I’m so wet right there right now. Will she be able to tell through the robe?
Robe—who was she fooling? That thing was a slave rag, and she was a—
Veronica stepped back from her, letting her go. Savannah sensed the gap between them grow by the diminishment of Veronica’s ambient heat, the fading of her scent. The relief was like a cool shower after a hard workout.
She was completely unprepared when Veronica quickly came back to her and slapped her stiffly across the face.
Silence, as though the crowd waited for her to respond—to shout, to curse, to lash out, cry foul. To drop to her knees and cry.
And Savannah wept openly, even behind the blindfold, not knowing if another slap was coming, feeling the sting emotionally as keenly as she felt it on her cheek—until, from above, there rained down on her whoops and more laughter and cheering. Actual fucking applause. After that, more than anything else, she was simply, completely confused.
“I don’t understand them,” Veronica said again, “but I’m sure as fuck glad they exist.”
Feet thundering on the floor of the balcony, like they were at a football game, or something.
Ice cold bitch, Savannah thought, sobbing. But her heart still thudded, and her slit remained hot. And was it possible that the gathered audience—the “Neutrals”—cheered for her?
****
Scott was still hard. Sergeant Stiffy wasn’t quite his full height anymore—fortu
nately, he’d grabbed his helmet and taken cover behind cotton again—but he was definitely awake. Definitely aware.
So, Corky’s with the Neutrals, he thought, trying to focus on matters that weren’t boner fuel. Maybe that means I won’t have to deal with him tonight.
“Our subs aren’t out here with us yet,” Veronica said. “We’ll summon them shortly. The question is, can you make it through the night with us? If you can, the invitation to join permanently will follow. All that matters is that you get it—who we are, what we do, and why.”
Scott had a fair idea. They were like little kids playing Cowboys and Indians. In the game, someone’s always captured by the other side, sooner or later, and the role-play begins: captor vs. prisoner.
Only this might involve fucking, Scott thought. Get out of here, Savannah.
Get out of here, Scott.
Veronica’s voice rose. It sounded like she was wrapping up. “The Student Council Select of today is not what it once was. We’re not just a party, not just an excuse to throw an orgy two or three times a year—”
From above: “That’s a big part of it!”
In spite of the raucous, jubilant response to that, Veronica remained unfazed. “Make no mistake,” she declared, her unamplified voice loud and powerful and strong with command. “We are the secret rebellion. We’re the cure to the disease that is the fucking Behavior Reformation Laws. We do not wait for graduation. We choose to live now. Tonight.”
Here it comes, Scott thought under the tumult of voices.
“You have ten seconds to decide, pigs,” Veronica said, “Starting now.”
Savannah, what do we do?
****
The count came from above them and from about them, the Dominants and Neutrals together, a single voice.
Ten.
Instantly, one of the young men shouldered past her. Savannah felt the blindfold land on her bare feet as whoever it was retreated. Definitely a dude, though. Smelled like a dude.
That poor guy has to run home with his butt in the breeze, she mused.
Nine.
Her thoughts turned to Melody. Other people were leaving now, impossible to know how many—but some of them were bailing, here at the last moment, and after getting this far…
Eight.
They didn’t talk. Veronica had been clear—no communication. They wanted a clean break. The Select were said to have an unfailing collective memory, and the rumors of their reprisals were the stuff of campus legend.
Seven.
Melody would be halfway up the hill by now. She was so young, so helpless—but she’d be safe, as long as she got all the way back to her sorority sisters without being accosted.
Six.
Her own feet itched with the need to run. It was like they knew better than her head how badly she needed to flee this insanity. Less than two miles from here, Alisha was waiting for her, sick with worry.
Five.
It’s one night, Savannah told herself. After that it’s an “invitation”. You don’t have to do anything after tonight.
Four.
Her brain turned summersaults. She was so curious, so scared, so excited, so mortified at herself, at what she was allowing herself into…
Three!
The patter of retreating feet was over. Either Melody had gone, or she had not. Either Scott had gone, or he had not.
Two!
If I leave now, Savannah thought, it will be just one more thing I could have done but never did. She thought of the parties she had turned down before, the boys she could have dated before, the internship to Accra she hadn’t applied for because she was sure someone else’s application would surely beat hers…
One!
Mom? Alisha?
…
Please be here, Scott. Please be here, so we can see each other through this.
Chapter Ten:
Volunteers
The cheering continued well after her blindfold came off. The jeers as well. Confetti rained down on them from the balcony.
Veronica still stood before her, blindfold in one hand, Savannah’s slap-heated cheek in the other. In a deep, affected voice rich with fake pity, she cooed, “Are you okay, Savannah? Did Auntie Ronnie hurt you very much? Did you want to run away?” She took a fistful of her hair.
Don’t see the pendant. Please don’t see the pendant.
“Answer me, twat!”
“Y-yes,” Savannah answered her.
“Fucking hell! Say, ‘Yes, Mistress Veronica’! Say it!”
The tears wouldn’t stop. “Yes, Mistress Veronica.”
She stepped back again. “Then you should have,” she said, walking away. “Too late now, dumbass.”
Savannah peered down the line, found Scott precisely where she had guessed he would be. By then, he’d already found her, too, and regarded her with … what? More pity?
No. That was regret—but it was on her behalf. He’d wanted her gone from here.
Why did you stay, then? she wanted to ask him. God. She hardly knew him, and already she found him frustrating at times.
He turned from her, evidently getting the message.
Oh, my God, she thought, unable to look away, eyebrows arching. There it is.
That’s a nice butt. She forced herself not to stare longer than … oh, three or four seconds.
And behind her, there was Melody, still wide-eyed and terrified, still here.
The anonymous boy who’d accompanied them on the pickup had gone. Soon, Savannah guessed, he’d be reunited with his friend who hadn’t even made it off the Commons. All told, counting heads, there remained a total of thirty “pigs” in the group, which meant somewhere between ten and twenty had gotten cold feet at the last sixth of a minute.
Savannah plucked a strip of confetti out of her hair. It had stopped falling. The Neutrals were still on the balcony, though, all of them at the rail, many leaning over it, all of them leering.
Veronica, meanwhile, had returned to her black-garbed friends on the sidelines, and gestured for Malcolm to step forward. He inclined his head to her in acknowledgment.
“Bring out the subs!” he boomed, arms wide.
****
Rusty and Zeke were among the twelve who went to get them. Two others whom Scott did not know took up the garden hoses and sprayed fresh water into the long pool of mud on the other side of the “pig” gathering, about twenty yards away. Wasn’t too hard to guess what that was for—“pigs” and mud, it didn’t take a brain surgeon—but he hoped they all wouldn’t be subjected to the treatment. Maybe it was a punishment for not following orders, or something.
Here we are, Savannah. One way or another, at least neither of us will have to keep this a secret from the other, later on.
He heard the gasp rise up all around him before he realized what was happening.
Zeke and Rusty and the other Doms were returning from the basement, each with one of the “subs” in tow. Literally. Rusty actually led three of them.
They were on leashes with studded leather collars. They crawled over the grass on hands and knees. And they were naked—all told, seven young men and seven young women, university students all, perhaps majoring in law or medicine (Scott didn’t see any fellow future architects among them, nor any members of the crew team), being paraded like show dogs in front of the gathered, tittering mass, as nude as peeled bananas.
One of the show dogs was Rusty’s own girlfriend, Missy, and another—Scott thought her name was Courtney, but couldn’t be sure—was Zeke’s. Here they were, Scott’s two best buddies and mentors, leading their beloved paramours out to be gawked at by … fucking everybody. He’d only met the ladies two or three times, but there was no mistaking them: Missy with the electric blue hair streaked with lowlights that matched her dark eyes; and the one he thought was named Courtney, whom he’d only seen in conservative earth tone blouses and skirts, her curly brown hair up in a business bun. He’d never have guessed, between the two of them, that it woul
d have been Courtney with the nipple piercing.
It was the first bit of real pussy Scott had seen in his life, and he was transfixed. Hopelessly. There was no looking away from the spectacle as Rusty delivered his other two—both men—to Veronica. He handed their leashes over with a slight, gentlemanly bow. Jesus, with their backs to him, he could see their junk hanging right out in the open.
It seemed that dark-haired Veronica preferred her men blond. Accepting the leashes, she indicated the positions she wanted them in with simple hand gestures. One of them, the sturdier of the two, she used as her personal flesh bench, easing herself onto his back and sitting there. She extended her foot to the other. “You know what to do, little boy. Mistress is feeling tension in her toes.”
Ack. Scott looked away and found Savannah again. By all appearances, she was weathering the shock of the sub parade better than he was. She wasn’t crying, anymore—no, that was Melody, right next to her—and witnessed everything with a stoicism that could only be read one way: the grim fulfillment of expectation. She’d anticipated something like this.
Hadn’t he?
He shook off the thought. Water under the bridge. This would be as good a time as any to get close to Savannah again—maybe stand at her side, if they let him get away with it. No one had said he couldn’t.
****
The rest of the subs Malcolm made to kneel up in a line, all their charms on full frontal display.
“Go ahead and look, pigs,” he said, walking the line in front of them, ruffling a man-sub’s hair in passing, pausing to run a finger over a woman’s collarbone. Then, addressing Savannah and the pigs, “Feast your eyes—but do not touch yourself. Not yet.”
Savannah had never looked away. It was impossible. Of the five men not being used as furniture or foot lickers, three of them were fully erect, their penises standing straight, nearly against their bellies. The other two stuck out like pointing fingers. And the women were so beautiful, so brave.
Uncanny, too, the specificity of Malcolm’s second order. It was awful—horrible, immoral, wrong, and shameful—but she did want to touch herself. What those poor people, those human beings, were going through had to be the most embarrassing ordeal imaginable, and it was just … so … fucking … hot.