Savannah's Chance

by D. A. Maddox

That was an auburn-haired goth with sharp features and a Zorro mask. She wore a ruby red choker and a charcoal blouse that had long sleeves but an exposed midriff over a side-split short leather skirt. A black paddle hung loosely from a clip on her belt. Her dark-haired companion had no such accessory, but she did have a pair of dagger earrings and a badge clipped to the right shoulder strap of her strategically tattered black dress—a shiny steel skull that was missing its lower jaw.

  Scott shook his head. “What?” But he knew.

  “That, you miserable fuckhole!” she roared, right in his face, slapping him on the arm over which the backpack was slung. “What do you think you’re doing, camping? Give it to me!”

  Scott wiped a droplet of her spittle from his face and unslung his backpack, offering it to her. It’s just a change of clothes and some basic life shit, he thought, but he held his tongue.

  The girl he currently thought of as “Ginger” ripped the zipper open and pushed her hand inside, fishing around. Next to her, “Ebony” reached into her dress and drew out a six-inch plastic rod with a metal tip.

  “Unwise,” she said.

  Scott shrugged. His heart rate elevated by half a beat per second, but he kept his outward calm. Behind him, standing in the flatbed, three other pledges—if that was the right word—watched as they waited for him to join them.

  “Oh, hell, no,” Ginger said, drawing his phone out. “We know just how to deal with this.”

  And she handed it to him.

  “Sign in,” Ebony said, “then give it to me.”

  Scott hesitated.

  Ebony pushed a button on the rod. The tip crackled and popped with electricity.

  Scott entered the code on his phone and handed it over.

  “Smarter,” Ebony said, swiping around, not looking at him. “And quiet. That’s good. Look—there’s a message from Mom, here.”

  Ebony shared it with Ginger, and they both laughed.

  Don’t you dare answer that, Scott said. You do that, and all bets are off.

  “Hands on the side of the truck, Scott,” Ebony said. “Lean over, feet apart.”

  Another half beat per second. Are you serious? he wanted to ask. But he knew better. He’d seen movies. He knew about stupid college horseshit like this. He put his palms against the truck and waited for the cattle prod.

  But instead, Ginger took up position behind him with the paddle. Ebony remained at his side, filming him on his own phone. “Hold on,” she said to Ginger. “Wait for the light to adjust.”

  From the truck, “What are you going to do?”

  The younger guy. The scared one.

  From Ginger, “Shut up or find out for yourself, cunt.”

  I’m not scared, Scott said to himself. Little … nervous, maybe, but…

  “Okay,” Ebony said. “One infraction. Three swats. Let him have it.”

  Scott heard it before he felt it. But Ginger, he was pretty sure, brought the paddle over his ass with everything she had—and she had a lot. Scott gasped, gritted his teeth. Caged the pained yell that wanted out.

  “Look at me,” Ebony said. “I want to see your face, Scott. You’re so pretty.”

  Scott turned his head to her, to his own damned phone. The second blow fell. With only the thin fabric of his black pants for protection, the searing spread like spilled maple syrup, stung like a blanket on fire.

  Scott’s lips peeled back. From his middle, that pained and contained yell gathered volume and strength. From his lips, a part of it leaked out in an inarticulate, “Rhrrrrr…”

  And, fucking hell, his eyes stung, watering up against his will.

  “So pretty. I feel so bad for you. I’m fuckin’ moist, Scott, and we haven’t even started yet.”

  Go to hell! he thought, but he contained that, too. Even when the third blow fell.

  “Gah!”

  It got out. There was no holding it in.

  “All right, all right! Stop, already!”

  Then Ebony took Ginger’s place and pressed the cattle prod between his butt cheeks. She put her hand on his back, her feet inside of his, keeping him spread. “We haven’t hurt you, Scott. Maybe we don’t want to. I’m not sure.”

  Scott’s eyes went wide. The tips of his fingers whitened against the side of the truck.

  She leaned in, pressed farther in.

  “But we can,” she said in his ear. “As for the video—think I’ll send it to my phone and just keep it, all right? Reasonable? If yes, say ‘Yes, Mistress Veronica.’ If no, say ‘Yes, Mistress Veronica’.”

  Scott glanced up to his fellow pledges. No help there. They just stared at him, like sheep.

  “Yes, Mistress Veronica.”

  Why was his cock at half-mast?

  “Outstanding,” she said, withdrawing her hand and the prod from the crease of his ass. “Your backpack stays with us in the front of the truck. You get that and your phone back when we’re done—but you get in the back of the truck with the others. Go.”

  Scott did as he was told. Without speaking, he climbed into the flatbed.

  “Are you okay?” one of the pledges asked him. “I’m Melody. I’m a freshman.”

  Again, Scott shrugged, affecting a “Why do you ask” attitude that he knew was entirely ridiculous.

  Doors slammed. The ignition snarled. The truck rumbled back to life, and with a lurch that nearly spilled all four of the pledges to the floor, started moving again.

  From Ginger, “Stay on your fucking feet at all times! Do not sit down!”

  That was going to be tricky. Melody lost her shawl on the first bump, and now it lay at her feet, abandoned, while she leaned against the back of the driver’s cab for balance.

  “Scott Lachance,” he offered in return for her introduction—rather late, maybe, but then again, he’d just had a cattle prod pushed halfway to the hey-now hole—and scanned the grounds for Savannah. He steadied himself with his hand on top of the wall of the flatbed as the pickup rumbled over sidewalks, over grass…

  Looking anywhere but at Melody’s chest, at the hardened tips of her nipples poking against the thin fabric, the hint of pink showing through.

  That look was an accident. I’m a goddamned old school gentleman.

  She was breathing heavily, beyond frightened.

  He bent at the knees. “I’ll just get this real quick—”

  “D-don’t,” Melody whisper-stammered. But, suddenly conscious of herself, she gave up one of her arms from the cab to cover her breasts, which were rather too large for the effort to do much good.

  One of the other pledges was openly staring at her, and not in the eyes. His more docile—and evidently terrified—companion had his gaze cast determinedly straight ahead, and seemed to see nothing.

  From Ginger, who was driving: “Stay on your fucking feet, douchebag! Stupid ditz can get it herself when we get there! And no talking, cunts!”

  Laughter, from both Ginger and Veronica.

  Poor Melody. Transitional men didn’t see women like this—not if they obeyed the rules, anyway. As for the peeper, who was still peeping, Scott wanted to punch him. This evidently registered in his bearing, because the skeevy, skinny letch finally averted his gaze and patted his stunned friend on the back.

  They were close, coming up alongside the gym. Scott could make out two other pickup trucks with pledges in the back—one with only two, the other with seven or eight packed together in a huddle. That group steadied one another by intertwining their arms together, hands gripping shoulders.

  Scott pointed to them. Melody nodded in spite of the cost to her modesty, and soon, Scott’s group was playing copycat. A good idea was a good idea—and if the skeevy, skinny letch couldn’t keep his eyes head-level, well, they’d have words later.

  The trucks converged, starting cruising circles together like covered wagons under siege. None of them were going more than ten miles per hour, but the drivers and their free companions in the passenger seats were waving at each other through open windows�
�and, blatantly in violation of the silent study hour, shouting.

  “Bring out the pig!”

  “One more piggy-pig to the Pen!”

  “Get that fucking sow out here!”

  “Bring out the pig, Rusty! Come on!”

  That was Zeke, leaning half his body out of the passenger side of the truck right ahead of him.

  They were cheering, now. Whooping and hollering. From the front doors of the gym, Rusty emerged with the “pig”. He held her tightly by one arm. Made a V-for-victory sign with his fingers.

  The “pig” was Savannah.

  ****

  Two members of the custodial staff had stood watch at the locker room door—and, upon seeing them, Savannah had been sure to shoot them the nastiest glare she could conjure on the fly. They were both women, and they’d covered for a man up to no good. More than a sin, more than a crime, and even though she didn’t know them beyond the occasional morning “Hello”, it felt like a betrayal.

  Rusty insisted on touching her. Holding her by the arm she kind of understood and accepted—she’d be in the custody of The Select for a couple of hours, minimum—but she didn’t like it when he gripped her wrists and felt her arm, up and down, with his other hand.

  “Stop it,” she said, and tried to jerk herself free.

  Rusty leaned in, gripping her tighter, and snorted in her ear. Directly into it, so that she could feel his breath brush her eardrums.

  “Little piggies don’t talk,” he said. “Are you my little piggy, Miss Savannah? Be a good little piggy and don’t answer.”

  Okay, she thought, he’s recovered from the spell I cast over him with my butt. Shit, shit.

  The student at the front desk was gone, replaced by the gym manager, who never looked her way. She saw the vehicles driving slow circles outside before the automatic doors swung open, and she knew one of them would be for her.

  “Be good, Savannah,” Rusty said at the open doorway. Then, his voice changed. Impossibly, he sounded worried—and hushed. “Remember, this is a game. A play. It has a beginning, a middle, and an end. I’m playing my part, and unless you want to bail, you play yours.”

  Outside, she could hear them beckoning for her. Heard them calling her “pig”, as Rusty had done. It dawned on her that The Select didn’t use the word “pledge” to describe their initiates. They were all pigs, for tonight.

  “I know you’re with Scott,” Rusty said.

  Am I? she wondered. She hoped so, but it wasn’t like they really knew each other.

  “I don’t want to fuck that up. Just hold on and get through. Long as you don’t win the lottery, you’ll be fine—and there’s a lot of names going in tonight. You’ll be fine, okay?”

  Who was this guy? Certainly not the pervy asshole who’d make her take her clothes off ten minutes ago.

  “Um … okay,” she said.

  Rusty led her outside, tightening the grip on her arm again—whether to restrain her or to comfort her was actually hard to tell.

  But after he had her through the doors, after flashing the V-for-victory fingers, he cried out, “One virgin pig-slut, comin’ up!”

  Chapter Eight:

  Trek

  “No!” he yelled, coming to himself with startling suddenness, his eyes seeming to focus only in the light of his abrupt epiphany. “I can’t do it. I’m out. I’m sorry.”

  It was the scared one, the formerly-looking-off-into-space one. Scott didn’t blame him.

  The trucks had stopped. For a moment, time had frozen, the only moving pieces on Earth being Savannah and her captor, Scott’s onetime friend Rusty Darter. At the surrender of his companion in the flatbed, however, six pickup truck doors opened simultaneously, and six members of The Select emerged from them.

  Among them, Scott identified a second skull badge, this one borne by a tank of a man with his hair in long, elaborate dreadlocks. His attire was otherwise the same as every other guy not currently in a pickup truck’s flatbed. “You gotta be kidding me!” he roared, storming over to Scott’s truck. “We’re past nine and ain’t even made it to the Pen yet. Who’s the man-pussy?”

  The pussy raised his hand. Openly, he cried.

  “Tobias?” Dreadlocks said, now more bemused than angry. Then, disappointed. “Tobias, wait—”

  “I’m done, Malcolm,” he said, miserably. “Let me go.”

  “Tobias,” Malcolm cooed in a low growl, “time out. Listen, boy, you got family to consider. You’re highborn in a long line of fuckin’ historic subs. They’re gonna know. You’re gonna regret it if you don’t suck it up and take your medicine, just like they did when it was their time.”

  Scott listened, utterly bewildered. What was a “sub”?

  Let him go, dude, he thought. This isn’t him.

  “I’m leaving,” Tobias said, swallowing back his sobs. “You can’t stop me. You can’t kidnap anybody or force them.”

  Meanwhile, Rusty strode into the midst of them—and with both hands, lifted Savannah off the ground and positioned her over his shoulder. Savannah let fly a quick, shrill, wordless protest, but then she lay still, arms dangling across his back, unresisting. The shawl dangled, slipped. She caught it with her hand and held it.

  “You should see the glutes on this pig-slut,” Rusty started, apparently unaware of the drama already underway.

  Scott’s blood started to percolate again—hotter this time, infused with helpless, simmering rage.

  But then, to Tobias, Malcolm said, “Then get your ass out of here, commoner. You hear me? Get … the fuck … gone.”

  And at once, Tobias bounded out of the flatbed and sprinted away, into the anonymous night of the ordinary students of Bridgemont University.

  Malcolm turned to Rusty. “What do you mean, ‘should’? Show me the glutes in question.”

  Scott nearly jumped—but Melody grabbed him. Frantically, hissing the words, she pleaded, “No, Scott. You can’t stop it from happening to her. Only she can.”

  Rusty carried her over, and Malcolm lifted the robe up past Savannah’s legs, past her panties. He left those on—they were hardly more than a thong—and he scrunched the fabric on the inside together, then hefted it to a wedgie.

  Savannah yelped, but she made no words.

  “Do I lie, boss-man?” Rusty asked, grinning.

  Scott watched from the pickup, from the sideline, as the girl he’d been crushing on for weeks was thusly exposed for everyone on the Commons to behold. Melody had her fingers clamped so hard into his upper arms they nearly tore the fabric of his shirt.

  “No, Rusty,” Malcolm said, tilting his head this way and that, patting her rear, giving one cheek a squeeze. “Not this time, anyway. Tonight, you speak the truth. This is one grade-A tight ass.”

  Savannah covered her face with her hands, with the shawl. She shook all over.

  Malcolm stepped back. “Anyone else want to quit this shit before we go?” he called to everyone. Then, circling Rusty to stand behind him, gently easing Savannah’s hands away from her face—which was thoroughly flushed, and dripping—holding her hands apart … kneeling to meet her eye-to-eye …

  Savannah gasped in breath and panted it back out like a dehydrated dog.

  “Anyone?” Malcolm said again.

  Savannah shook her head, no.

  “You sure?”

  She shook her head again.

  No one left.

  And even though there was a lot more room for her in one of the other pickups, Rusty set her down in the flatbed right next to Scott, tossing her shawl in after her.

  Scott turned her by the shoulders, gently cradled her cheeks with his hands.

  Strangely, she repositioned and fixed her hair—but then she hugged him, hard.

  And the procession moved on, straight to the Student Union Building.

  ****

  Mom, what am I doing? Have I lost my mind?

  She’d gotten hold of herself and stopped crying. As the pickup shifted back to drive, she pulled Scott in
for another kiss—only the second real kiss of her life, and brief as it was, she lost herself in it. They held each other. For precious seconds, they tasted each other. Scott tasted … minty fresh, like he’d gargled mouthwash right before leaving his place.

  Savannah laughed, still feeling the shameful, residual heat from Malcolm’s hand on her rear, still terrified of what was coming. Scott scrunched his eyebrows at her, questioning—but Savannah knew perfectly well she’d better not answer.

  We’re lunatics, she thought, and I love you already, even though it’s stupid. I love the way you look at me when you’re happy. I love the way your lips crinkle when you’re pissed. I love that you care about me even though we just met. Just don’t … protect me. I can get through this, same as you.

  Again, the truck lurched forward. Melody wedged herself between them, wrapped Savannah’s shawl about her, and guided her to the linked arms position. With her arm around the back of Melody’s neck and Melody’s around hers, they held each other’s coverings in place as the guys joined them and made a stable ring of it.

  A stable ring. A stable of pigs.

  The pickup rolled off the grass and onto the vast “Concrete Lawn” in front of the two-story Student Union building. That expanse was broken at intervals for uncovered squares of tilled earth, out of which sprouted two rows of large and spreading elm trees that were as old as the college itself. The lane they created was a popular place to bring lunch outdoors, to read or study—to court boyfriends and girlfriends.

  The pickups parked in the middle of it.

  The lights are off, Savannah realized. All she could see was illuminated only by moonlight and starlight and the glow of the pickups. Not just the lawn lights—they’d turned off the whole Student Union.

  Ahead of her, its shadow loomed, as familiar as the Safeway at Tackett’s Mill, as forbidding as a dungeon. Typically, the Student Union was open 24-7. Looking in through the glass from the outside, it teemed with student life at work and at play. It hummed with the chatter of her generation.

  Tonight, nothing. Darkness. Engines and crickets, the occasional bat.

  “Everybody off!”

  That was Rusty again, coming out of his own truck and prowling the spaces between it and the others. He held up his plastic baton-thing, and it sparked with tiny blue bursts of electric light. Savannah stared at it, as though for the first time, aghast.