by D. A. Maddox
Just one hand among them had stayed up. Savannah hadn’t thought to look that way for this part. Had she still been among them, she’d have automatically assumed they were not to be included in it. But Dawn Covington, first in line through the hall of feelers, had no such compunction.
“Yes, Mistress Veronica,” she called out. “If it pleases Mistress, her pig-slut will explain.”
Savannah’s heart sank even further. Could it get any worse? She wanted to protest, this was ridiculous, infuriating—
Half of Veronica’s lip curled. “I’m intrigued.”
“So,” Dawn excitedly said, “it’s like this. Your pig-slut was visiting her girlfriend who works at Finney’s.” She hopped up and down, pointing over pig heads to indicate Lorna the waitress among the Neutrals—all of whom had turned in their seats to watch. Lorna waved back, and Dawn continued, “We … kind of had a moment together, you know, something that was just supposed to be between the two of us. And that nosy bitch kept staring at us. So uncomfortable. I guess I just thought, maybe, I could stare at her a bit, you know, up close and personal. See how she likes it.”
Don’t call out, Savannah. Don’t defend yourself. It doesn’t even matter.
Are you listening to this, Scott? Don’t believe a word of it. It wasn’t like that.
Savannah—no. No more crying. Suck it up.
“Well,” Veronica said, “how could I say no to that? Come on up and do it, then. Quick. I think our dear old Professor Shusterman’s going to have a heart attack if we wait much longer.”
Clapping, skipping, shouldering past Scott, Dawn bounded to the stage in an outrageously overdone display of giddiness, then ran up the side steps of the stage—and, without being told or directed—bowed in front of Veronica.
“Oh, that’s good,” Veronica said, leaning her head slightly sideways so the mic would pick up the words. “I might actually like you, and I don’t like many people. Kiss my boot, pig-slut.”
Dawn kissed it, then rubbed the kiss in like a little kid.
“Rise. Do what you came up here to do, pig-slut.”
Crying, Savannah decided, was okay under these circumstances. People would expect it. Part of the show. Who wouldn’t cry, facing humiliations like this? It was communication, too, since she wasn’t allowed to complain. They should know what this was costing her. But she would cry quietly, and not make a spectacle of her emotions again. There was spectacle enough on the way, and it was imminent.
Dawn stood, went directly over to Savannah, and kissed her full on the mouth.
“Mwah!” she exclaimed, then yanked down a shoulder strap, tearing fabric. “Booby!” she called, even as Savannah was still processing what had just been done to her.
People were pointing at her—specifically, at her exposed breast.
God, this is horrible. Just get it over with.
When she yanked at the other shoulder strap, the whole thing came down, pooling at her feet like fallen snow, leaving her in only the tie-off bikini bottom. “Body!” Dawn crowed, posing next to her like a hostess on Wheel of Fortune, gesturing to Savannah’s various parts. Then she ducked under Savannah’s arm and massaged her neck from behind, cooing into her ear, “Who’s being looked at in a world of awkward now, Savannah? You like?”
“No,” Savannah managed. She could hardly see through the waterworks she no longer felt like fighting.
“Ever been naked in front of boys or men before?” she asked, twirling the loose end of the careful knot Savannah had tied at the hip of her panties.
“No,” Savannah said. She didn’t even have brothers.
Her nipples were so hard, though—so hard. Why were they behaving like that?
There was no point in begging. No point in saying “Please, don’t”. All but one other person in the room seemed to want this to happen to her. She’d never been so outnumbered in her life.
Professor Shusterman leaned forward, both hands on the top of his cane, eyes wide.
Dawn pulled the string, and Savannah’s panties joined her purity robe at her feet. Her mouth hung open in abject shame, looking out over the crowd:
Twenty-four grown men and women, the alumni of The Select, including Nurse Sustrick and Professor Shusterman, who tapped his cane on the ground several times in approval.
Thirty-five student gawkers among the Neutrals, staring with delight.
Twenty-two young men and women in black, smiling, smirking, making comments among themselves.
Twenty-four pigs still in the Pen, and only Scott not seeing her.
Sixteen subs in the sub line, all facing out from the wall, perhaps recognizing one of their own. (Even Huey, still bent over on the floor apart from them, had turned his head to watch.) And among them, she found Melody, who said, “You’re beautiful,” from so far away that Savannah could only read her lips.
But it gave her courage. Not much. Just a little.
And God, it was so awful, so mortifying, so exciting. She feared she might start dripping right there, right onto the floor. She steadied her breathing and waited for her fellow pig-slut to come back around front and take a long, satisfied stare at her.
When she did, Savannah smiled and said, “You only wish you looked this good, Dawn. Now go back to the Pen where you belong.”
And once again, was rewarded with raucous approval from The Select.
****
“Moving right along,” Veronica said as though bored, copping a fleeting feel of Savannah’s tits in passing on her way back to the altar. She had the mic in her hand now, trailing an old-school wire back to the mic stand—another relic, Savannah supposed, of previous generations.
The hoopla died quickly. Dawn had not stayed on stage long enough to enjoy it much. Which only made sense, of course, as it was mostly derisive in nature, and all of it directed at her.
Savannah now found Scott, no doubt drawn by the noise, facing her from a distance.
I see only your eyes, his expression seemed to say.
Savannah, if she could, would have answered, It’s okay. You can look. It’s a nice body. I’ve worked on it.
“We’ve got one more pig to lead to the proverbial slaughter tonight,” Veronica said, reaching into the bowl, stirring it lazily, offering a finger-wave to Malcolm.
Malcolm turned his back on her, whispered in Tabitha’s ear.
Veronica shook her head, drew out a name, and read it.
Chapter Seventeen:
Conga
His name. Two words, meaning him. And with their utterance, a profound, collective gasp of disbelief arose from the Student Council Select. It seemed to Scott that just about everyone but the Old Bones and Profs contributed to it. He and Savannah had stuck to each other all night long. They’d obviously entered into this together, a real couple as far as most of them knew. What were the chances?
Yeah, Scott thought, standing stock still, betraying nothing of his feelings as Malcolm came for him with his Taser drawn. Imagine that.
“The rest of you,” Malcolm said, parting the gathering of pigs by his very presence, “get your candy asses up in front of the stage and kneel in a line, facing it. Enjoy the show. Don’t forget—this shit could have been you. Try not to be too jealous.”
For a moment, the only sound in the ballroom was the slapping of bare feet over oakwood as the pigs hustled to obey, leaving only Scott to face the second in command of The Select. Tabitha and Brandy shortly followed, each unclipping a pair of handcuffs from the backs of their belts.
Sorry to break it to you two, he wanted to say, but I only have two hands.
But he kept his cool and his quiet. He didn’t ask questions, even when Brandy clipped a handcuff over her own left wrist and when Tabitha clipped one over her right. He checked the stage and found Savannah horrorstricken at this new development. Surely, she suspected the same thing he did. Those lottery bowls had been taken out of the Ballroom and left in the outer hall a long time.
He winked at her. If she had to go through
this—so far, Savannah alternated between damsel-in-distress and defiant rock star in near equal measure, doing it—then he could do it, too. Maybe it was best for them this way, with neither having to go it alone.
Treat it like a lost party dare that you have to pay up for with your girlfriend.
And yet, the possibility that this was all a cheat meant to ensnare them both rankled him to the core.
“Take it off,” Tabitha said, one cuff dangling from her wrists. “That’s shirt and undies. Lose everything.”
“Here?” Scott asked. “No special ride for me?” The mental image of the three of them trying to carry him to the stage was actually amusing.
Malcolm raised the Taser to the level of Scott’s chest. “I had you pegged since Wednesday, boat rower,” he said, the very personification of calm. “I know the submission trip isn’t your thing. Truly, I empathize. But tonight you will do as you’re told, and you’ll keep your blow hole shut when given an order. Truth is—you’ll forgive me—Brandy and I have a bet on the size of your cock.”
“Knew it would be me, huh?”
Another gasp from the onlookers.
“Oh, you fucker,” Malcolm said, taking another step closer. “You are pushing it. It’s a standard bet we always have at Origins—whoever the winner is. Kind of an over-under thing. You have ten seconds to be buck-ass naked, boat rower, or I swear on Satan’s ass crack I will zap you to the floor.”
Scott really didn’t believe Malcolm would Tase him, but he couldn’t be sure.
No time to be dainty.
Quickly then, acutely aware of Tabitha and Brandy’s proximity—both of whom regarded him with casual interest—Scott yanked at the shirt twice from the middle, and dropped it on the floor to lie on a scattering of buttons. The appreciative laughter from all around, even from Malcolm, was rather lost on him as he shucked off the jockstrap and stood there like a fool, hands crossed over his half-engorged penis. His leg hairs prickled.
“None of that,” Brandy said, clipping her free cuff over his right wrist.
Tabitha clipped his left. “Let it go,” she said.
Scott let it go. Half of him wanted to go crawl into a hole somewhere. The other half wanted to know who won the bet.
Malcolm pinched his chin, appraising Scott’s unit, which twitched under the scrutiny. “Might be a close call,” he said.
And Brandy, without hesitating, got down on both knees, close enough that Scott could feel her nose breaths on his short hairs—
“Hey, now…”
…and put his cock in her mouth.
“Whoa, fucking hell!” Scott exclaimed, swelling instantly to full size in spite of his shock. “God, fuck—what the fuck are you doing?”
“This,” Malcolm said, “is called a blow job. New for you? Say ‘Yes, Master Malcolm’ or ‘No, Master Malcolm’.”
Again, the laughter: Old Bones and Profs, Doms, Neutrals, even the subs and pigs, all laughing at him as Brandy held him at the base of the shaft and bobbed her head up and down on him.
“Y-yes,” he said. Then, finding it difficult to remember his pride while a strange woman sucked him in front of an audience, he added, “Master … Malcolm.”
Her lips held him so tight. He could feel his tip against the ridges at the top of her mouth.
From the stage, Savannah made the words, It’s okay, with her lips, over and over again. She was still crying, but only a little, and it didn’t look like an angry cry. That was good. What the hell could he do other than get hard? His body didn’t exactly ask his mind’s permission.
And—oh, Jesus—he’d never felt anything in his life even remotely like this. It was so warm in there, and Brandy’s tongue was slathering itself all over him. Her bottom teeth tickled at his underside with deliberate little gratings, her top teeth catching him at the juncture of shaft and Darth Vader hat … all while she and Tabitha held his arms away, rendering him helpless.
And then she just … came off of him, leaving him swollen and ridiculous and unfinished in front of everyone.
“That,” Brandy said, pointing with her free hand, “is easily over the seven-inch mark. I win.”
“Well, shit,” Malcolm grumbled, “Yeah, no need for the ruler. I’ll get you later. Observation March, ladies. Off you go.”
To the center of the ballroom they led him, with Malcolm following behind, Brandy at his right and Tabitha at his left, walking a foot off to either side of him. Cuffed in this way, arms held at a downward V, there was no way to cover—although his hands seemed to forget that, time to time, and jerked inward to no avail. His cock, hard and springy as a young tree branch, jutted up and outward, the tip bleeding an opalescent dribble of pre-cum. His nuts were so swollen he could feel the taut hair of his ball sack against his inner thighs.
From the stage—where some of the pigs were still putting themselves in the kneeling position up front, right under Veronica—Savannah’s eyes flitted from his face to his genitals. How could he blame her? He was checking her out, too, after all.
But for now, this moment, he felt all the attention in the room on him. Mumbled and even whispered comments reverberated between his ears like he was hearing them through headphones:
“Holy shit, that dude’s ready to blow again.”
“Who do you think has it worse at Origins, guys or chicks? ’Cause this tough guy’s changing his fucking colors faster than a fuckin’ chameleon.”
“It’s a nice penis. Can’t see why he’s all embarrassed about it.”
“His woman’s checking him out like she’s never seen it before.”
“I bet she hasn’t. Ten-to-one they’re both cherry.”
And, from just off to his left, his voice still floor-muffled: “Master Malcolm?”
Huey. The one person in the room whose current position was even more degrading than Scott and Savannah’s.
“Yes, sub-Huey,” Malcolm said. “Lottery’s over. You may return to the sub-line.”
Scott heard him rise from his knees and patter off to his place, but didn’t see him. He kept his focus straight ahead, on Savannah. I’m on my way, Savannah. We finish this together.
Straight to the front Tabitha and Brandy led him, just behind the newly formed line of pig-sluts who now faced away from him.
“Turn him around once, slowly,” Malcolm said. “Give everyone the whole three-sixty. Then we’re gonna conga-line and diving board this virgin jock.”
Um—you’re gonna what?
They turned him, slowly as instructed, breaking his forward focus and making him face the scrutiny of all in the seats. Then, with his back to the stage, facing Malcolm and the audience front and center, they held him still.
There was better air conditioning near the stage, as Scott could now tell only too well. A constant slight breeze from unseen vents that made him painfully conscious of every square inch of himself.
Makes sense under the hot stage lights, I guess, he thought, looking down, finding his penis looking right back up at him. Okay, boy, down already. Down. You’re making a spectacle.
To which his cock might have answered, Sorry, boss. All eyes on me. Got to look my best.
At a gesture from Malcolm, the Neutrals left their seats and lined up first, just thirty-five college kids each with their hands on the shoulders or hips of the kid in front of them. The Doms brought up the rear, so to speak, and Malcolm stepped forward with instructions.
“You’re holding that boner real nice,” he said, admiring it. “We’re going to give everyone a chance to appreciate it in a manner of his or her own personal choice. A nice person, someone who’s in a good mood or likes you, might slide past you. But hardcore dicks and bitches will dive past you. No, no questions—no time, no time. You’ll see. The important thing is, if you’re still hard at the end of the conga line, you go to the stage with no penalty.”
No problem, Scott thought. He’d never been so exposed, so handled before, in his life. I couldn’t make this dog fucking sit if I wanted t
o.
But he did want to, because he’d never been this embarrassed before, either.
“If you end the drill soft, you go to the stage and take ten from the birch—from me. If you squirt, that’s fifteen.”
Nope. Don’t know what the “birch” is either, but I bet I don’t want it.
“If no penalty, only five.”
All right, bro, that’s fucked up.
From the speakers, the sound of a needle being dropped onto a scratchy vinyl record. The song—familiar to Scott in more current recordings—sounded a hundred years old. If the record was an original, maybe it even was. Either way, the line of kids approached…
1, 2, 3 … kick!
Normal conga line. Immature, borderline stupid, perhaps—but when you’re in one, kind of fun.
In my situation, not so much, Scott thought.
When the line leader got right up to him, before turning to the right to lead the line off to the side, Scott learned what it was to get “diving boarded.” Leaning out with his finger, he pressed Scott’s erection down to a ninety-degree angle and then let it bounce back up—boing, smacking against his belly—where it stoutly metronomed for the next person in line.
Brandy, and even Tabitha, giggled, watching it bounce.
Scott winced. His hands jerked inward again, but they held him fast.
As for being “diving boarded”, it wasn’t exactly painful, but it was definitely uncomfortable—and also unspeakably demeaning and silly.
An anonymous young woman was second, and she fortified Scott with a “slide”—running the knuckle of her index finger under the length of his shaft and instantly—agonizingly—returning it to full strength.
Scott’s eyes were already watering. “Holy mother of God.”
Diving board, from a girl. Then a slide, from one of the guys.
The Old Bones and Profs guffawed and tittered, reminiscing on parties past, on kids who had ejaculated before the line was halfway through—of the one kid who’d been so upset that couldn’t get hard to begin with, of penalties avoided and penalties paid.