Sorority of Submissive Girls

by P. N. Dedeaux (as Carl Buono)

  ‘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 bum-room.

  Constance could scarcely see.

  ‘Curtsey’, hissed a voice at the door and she duly ducked as she recognized Sandra Mclllick 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 dustiest 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 retaping 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 skin-tight 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 ladylike 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 messages.’

  ‘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 tawse 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 Mclllick 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 tawses sure sting.’

  Before she was half-way 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 ther-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 colour 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. DrusilIa 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 tawse 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 and, 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 centre, 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 … Mer-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 the 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 behaviour. 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.’

  ‘Um. 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 boy-friends. 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 Commision 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 Omission. 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 honours 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-style 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 those 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 wait
ed 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 spasmically 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.’