Savannah's Chance

by D. A. Maddox

  “But—” Melody started, tearful again.

  “Did I give you permission to talk, sub?” the man asked, hardening his tone. The phone camera flashed. “These are for the membership records of The Select only. Oh—and we’ll send them to your own phone, just so you have them for keepsies as well. Happens to all the subs, and none of it ever gets out. We’ve got decades of this shit.”

  He stood, taking another picture. Melody’s back heaved with heavy breath.

  “Give me your number so I can send them to you. Wow, these are great.”

  If Melody was skeptical, so was Scott. Exactly who had access to their dirty picture archive? But she gave her number. She did everything she was told to do.

  The new volunteers, meanwhile, were freshly stripped. Veronica took charge of these, directing her blond furniture and foot licker to join the line and assume the position while awaiting further instruction. She’d made the new male sub stand on his hands while Missy and Courtney held his ankles apart in the air. She ordered the new female sub to suck him off.

  And she was doing it. Holy hell, she was really taking that guy’s distended rod in her mouth and bobbing her head up and down on it. The man’s arms vibrated like struck cable wires. The muscles of his legs clenched and unclenched as she sucked him up and down, up and down. Had she done this before?

  Possible, Scott thought. Not everyone’s a rule follower like you.

  He was not looking forward to playing the sub himself tonight. With only himself to worry about, he could focus on the test aspect he’d accorded to the experience, hypothetically. That’s what he had told himself before it had started, before he had understood what it was.

  He still had Savannah’s hand in his. Which are you? he wondered, squeezing it. Are you any of this?

  Because Veronica had tacitly implied that he, Scott, was a potential Dominant.

  No, dude. No. You don’t want to treat Savannah like that. You’re a goddamned fucking old school gentleman.

  “Keep holding him,” Veronica said to Missy and Courtney. Then, to the new sub between the man’s legs, “Not a half-bad debut, Tess.” She pointed to a short, freckled Dom on the sideline. “Go on to Master Freddy and get yours.”

  Tess got up. “Yes, Mistress. I—”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Thank you, Mistress,” she said, and happily fucked off into Freddy’s waiting arms.

  Veronica knelt just over the new man-sub’s face. “Do you only like girls, fuck toy?” she asked.

  “I—I—what, Mistress?”

  Veronica stood back up, took his cock in hand and bent it up a bit, going against the grain of his erection. “That’s a no,” she said. “A devoted hetero would have had an answer right off the bat. But I’ll try again. Could you stay hard for a man, fuck toy, or are you only half a fucking human being?”

  “Mistress, oh shit, oh shit … wha—it hurts!”

  “Toy for another boy!” she called out. “Who wants a piece of it?”

  Three of the Doms stepped forward—including Zeke, whose girlfriend was currently holding one of the man’s ankles.

  Scott stared, thunderstruck—

  Zeke gave him a thumbs-up, kissed his girl, then descended between the man’s legs with his mouth opened wide. The two who had come forward with him each waited patiently for his turn.

  Scott looked away. He couldn’t believe this.

  Back at the pool, standing just outside of it, Melody turned circles and struck various stances on command as her attendants washed the mud from her. Slowly, as the young man at the front of the sub line was audibly sampled by one dominant male after another, Melody’s glistening, rosy flesh came back into view, one patch of skin at a time.

  At first it was just spray as they hosed her down head to foot on both sides, then made her bend at the waist for the harder to reach places.

  Then two more subs were sent for the buckets and soap and washcloths. They scrubbed her down by hand, ignoring nothing but the hair on her head. That part of her they left filthy and just tied it back. Malcolm told her she could work it out and clean it herself in the morning, after the Fete was over.

  Then Malcolm collared her at the end of a new leash, asking her if she was ready. She assented. To Scott, she sounded surprisingly convincing.

  He put her on her knees and coached her through the giving of her first blowjob. He shot his load on her face, not demanding she swallow on her first time. But he insisted she leave his spunk untouched for a mental count of three minutes, just so she could memorize what he smelled like before wiping it away.

  For Scott, it was easier to watch the completion of Melody’s initiation than it was to watch Zeke and the upside-down boy at the front of the sub line. People like who they like, he said to himself as they brought the still nameless man to the pool and gently tossed him into the mud. They’re into whatever they’re into. No big deal. And yet he was troubled, shocked to the core—mostly because Zeke had done that in front of his girlfriend, and she hadn’t had a problem with it.

  “This isn’t me,” he said to Savannah. “This isn’t us.”

  And was again nearly shocked out of his skin. Over the thin alabaster silk of her purity robe, Savannah was touching herself. But he recovered when she said, “Sc-Scott?”

  “May I?” he asked.

  Savannah nodded vigorously, eyes on the grass at her feet. “Yes,” she breathed. “Do it now, before they look this way again. I want you to be the first man to touch it. No time to think. Just go for it. Please.”

  He took her by the arm, and with his other hand lifted the robe. He sent that hand down her panties with expeditiousness and dispatch—and considerable enthusiasm—and he felt his finger grease over Savannah’s slick, warm, sparsely-haired opening, finding a mysterious nub of flesh at the top. She leaned into his shoulder and moaned softly against him. His cock pulsed and swelled against the jockstrap, which he pressed to her bare outer leg.

  And then, right behind Savannah, one of the other pigs passed out.

  One second, the kid was standing there, his jaw agape like the rest of them but otherwise perfectly fine—and the next, eyes gone to the back of his head and fussh-thump to the ground.

  That stopped everything, and everybody.

  For the second time that night, Malcolm yelled, “You gotta be kidding me!” as a crowd huddled around the fallen student.

  ****

  “I’m fine,” the young man named Ritchie said as Rusty and Malcolm helped him back to sitting. “Happens … sometimes. Anxiety … never happens twice in a night. I’ll … be good. I promise.”

  No, Savannah thought. You need to go home. This isn’t safe for you.

  If they didn’t let him go, Savannah was going to say something. She would not be able to stop herself. This might be just what some people always wanted—like Melody, apparently—and others could endure it—like herself, maybe—but for this kid, it was too much.

  “You heard him,” Veronica said. “He stays.”

  But Savannah was spared the need to play common sense advocate when that declaration was met with a murmur of general disapproval, both from the ground level Doms and the Neutrals on the balcony.

  “No,” Malcolm said, perhaps to Veronica but with his eyes fixed on Ritchie. “He’s going upstairs with the boring people and crashing on a couch until the profs and old bones show up. Then, if Sustrick clears him, maybe.”

  “Malcolm, are you questioning—”

  He stood. “No,” he said, turning to her. “In this, and only this”—his emphasis on the word “only”, Savannah thought quite curious—“I’m overriding you, Ronnie. First rule of the Dominant: We hurt, but we do not injure. Right?”

  The silence between them was thick with mutual challenge.

  Savannah thought, Oh, come on. Listen to reason, asshole.

  Veronica whirled from him. “Fine,” she said, and Savannah had never heard her sound so nasty as she did in that moment. “Coddle the man-pussies all
you want. You can take him up there yourself, if you’re so very concerned.”

  And Malcolm acquiesced to that, bending and lifting him like a bride at the threshold to the bedchamber. When Ritchie started to protest, the hand under his neck went immediately to cover his mouth.

  Veronica took a deep breath. “The rest of you,” she said, then screamed, “get the fuck back into position! As you fucking were!”

  The Doms, subs, and pigs all hastened to obey.

  ****

  “Down on all fours, sub-cunt,” Veronica growled, taking Melody’s leash and twisting it in a fist.

  Melody went to her hands and knees, head down.

  Scott, unable to risk anything more—aching with incompletion—took Savannah’s hand again. “Why won’t they leave her alone?”

  Savannah only shook her head.

  “Here, Melody, here,” Veronica sing-songed, leading her by the leash, making her crawl behind her. “Puppy’s going to the sub line. Puppy isn’t special anymore. Let me hear the little puppy dog bark.”

  Melody followed after her. She barked.

  “Well,” Veronica said, and Scott sensed just the slightest alleviation of tension in her voice, “you do take instruction, I’ll give the puppy that much. Maybe you won’t be a total failure as a submissive. Your sisters, sub-Melody—did they ever speak of their own experiences in The Select? Bark once for ‘yes’, bark twice for ‘no’.”

  Melody barked twice.

  “No, naturally they did not. They’re not allowed to—not to you, nor to anyone who isn’t in or hasn’t been in The Select. You’ll be able to talk to them about it now, though. Does that make my puppy dog happy? Before you answer—let’s change that bark of yours. More like a Chihuahua, I think. Yip once or twice.”

  Melody yipped once.

  “Libby and Constance were dominant,” Veronica said, kneeling down next to her, running a finger along her spine. “And Autumn was Neutral. I wonder, what would they think of you, if they could see you now, stripped nude in front of everyone and barking like a dog for me?”

  That got tears from her. She’d cried so much already. Scott wanted to tell Veronica to stop, to shut her damned mouth, pick on somebody else. But he couldn’t summon the nerve.

  Veronica got up and continued to lead her. “Is my naked, submissive Chihuahua mortified now? Is she awfully, terribly ashamed of herself?”

  Melody yipped once between sobs.

  They were at the line.

  Veronica pulled her face up by her mud-streaked hair. “Don’t be,” she said. “This is who you are, sub-Melody. Rejoice in your servitude and suffering. God knows you’ve got a harder fucking ass role than I do, so have some pride in what you chose for yourself. Many of the most revered alumni of The Select were subs—so enough with the crying, already. Sit on your feet, knees apart, presentation posture like these other bitches. We’ll have your forearms up, though, hands bent limp at the wrist. Let me see my Chihuahua in the begging position.”

  Melody did as she was told, tears subsiding.

  “Tongue out. Quick breaths. Show me a happy Chihuahua.”

  She obeyed.

  “Wiggle that ass,” Veronica said, modeling the suggested behavior. From the back of her belt hung three strips of leather that waggled back and forth in time with her behind. “Shake that invisible tail of yours.”

  Melody wiggled, tongue out, taking quick breaths—and, very quickly, tempering the mood of the audience on the balcony. Some of those observing her were already laughing again.

  Veronica picked mud out of her hair. Cracked a smile of her own. “Who’s my good girl?”

  Melody breathed faster, wiggled faster.

  “Okay,” she said, turning from her, back to the gathered cluster of pigs. “You can stop. But whenever I look at you, start again, for the rest of the fucking night.”

  When her eyes locked with Scott, he realized he was glaring at her, and he desisted.

  “Infractions,” she then announced, drawing the attention of her sisters and brothers in black. “Pig-slut Scott over here just reminded me we have to address infractions before moving on to the Pen.”

  Veronica knows our names, Scott thought. Every one of us, and our histories. Anyway, she knew Melody and somehow, she knows me. She’s more on top of it than Malcolm.

  Next to her, Savannah muttered, “Shit, shit, shit.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t talk,” Savannah hissed at him, her voice catching. “She’s already onto you. Don’t do anything.”

  “Savannah, you mean you—”

  “Shut up, Scott,” she pleaded with him. “Please.”

  From the pool, from the sub line, and from where a pair were guarding the upward slope back to the front of the Student Union building, twenty dominant men and women stepped forward. They met Veronica, converging about her like a football huddle sharing a play no one else was meant to hear.

  When it broke, they formed an even line behind her, just in front of the subs and facing the pigs. “Pronounce,” Veronica said.

  The short, freckled one named Freddy said, “Melody Collins.”

  “Clever little sub isn’t a piggie anymore,” Veronica said. “Dodged that bullet, didn’t you?”

  Addressed directly, Melody shook her ass and yipped once.

  “Anyone else? I do realize we’ve had a most compliant herd of pigs this year so far, but surely there’s somebody.”

  You already know, Scott thought. They already told you.

  Savannah twined her fingers between his. Together, they waited. Her eyes occasionally flitted over to Rusty, and only then did Scott remember how Rusty had delivered her to the pickup truck, slung over his shoulder like a captive cavewoman.

  “If there isn’t,” Veronica promised the balcony, “we’ll punish one simply because it pleases us to do so. We don’t need a reason. Last call for any unsettled accounts.”

  “Savannah Miles,” Rusty said, sounding regretful. He strode over, brandishing his cattle prod and making it spark.

  Scott held her tighter, even as his so-called friend’s larger shadow crossed into theirs.

  “Sorry,” Rusty said, wedging between them and jerking her hand free of Scott’s. Rather than any conciliatory gesture or comforting words for Savannah, Rusty instead addressed him. “Look, Superman, it could be worse.” He indicated the woman they had both thought of as “Ginger”, who was tapping her black paddle against her open hand. “It could be Tabitha. Instead, it’s me. Chill.”

  That was true, probably. Tabitha had only struck him three times, and yet she had lit his ass up. It yet tingled with the memory of her attentions. He couldn’t protect Savanah from this—and if he tried to, she’d only resent it.

  He let her go.

  Rusty led her to a space of empty grass between the two lines.

  “How many?” Veronica asked.

  “Just the one,” Rusty said offhandedly. “Same as Melody, for leaving her sorority house without wearing her purity robe.”

  ****

  Thank you, Savannah thought—and she meant the thought for Rusty, not Scott. Whatever else the skeevy perv might have been, he at least kept his word. He could have easily said “three” for her attitude towards him back in the locker room, as per his original intentions. She was frightened to the point of being literally stiff in the joints, but she already knew what the shock felt like. It hurt like hell, but she’d gotten through it and would do so again.

  Rusty wagged the prod in front of her face. “Where do you want it?” he asked with a smirk.

  Still a pervert, she thought. She didn’t want to be shocked on her hip again. Her right side was still sore from the college version of the Bataan Death March. She had a notion, and a memory to support it, that Rusty was … malleable, under certain circumstances, and decided to go for sassy.

  This is going to be embarrassing as hell.

  She leaned over, lifted the robe just enough, and tapped her left butt cheek. And she said,
“Since you like it so much.”

  From the balcony, cheers and catcalls. From Rusty, nothing at all. Savannah pressed her eyes shut and waited for it.

  Mama, help me. There’s a grown man who’s in love with only my ass, and he’s about to shock me with a cattle prod.

  Footsteps. Veronica. She said, “Wait.”

  Savannah opened her eyes again. Between her ankles, still almost pressed together, she saw Rusty take a step back. His arms went limp, the prod hanging loose in his right hand.

  Veronica stood over her, speaking to the back of her head.

  “Excellent choice,” she said. “That particular region of the buttocks is not as sensitive as, say, the back of the foot or the crease in the back of the knee.” Here she tapped Savannah on the aforementioned buttock and let her fingers linger there, idly drumming.

  And again, Savannah’s face suffused with blood. Every time, with every person she tormented, somehow Veronica knew the buttons to trigger the blush reflex. Had she read a book on the subject?

  Then she reached around to the small of her back, drawing Savannah’s eyes up at the sound of something unclipping from her belt. “If we take our European history back a bit,” she said, “when corporal punishment was not only allowed but was the preferred method of childhood correction in the classroom, there were several options a teacher might have employed before anyone even thought of such a thing as a paddle.”

  Rusty cut in, “Ronnie, she’s my—”

  “Yes, I know. She’s yours to punish. Don’t fret, Rusty. I’m not taking her from you. Try not to interrupt. Hold position, Savannah.”

  Veronica sat in front of Savannah, crisscross applesauce, and showed her the implement of her impending punishment. “This is called a tawse.” Then, over her head, “You recall me teaching you how to use this, Rusty, don’t you?”

  “Two years ago, almost to the day,” Rusty answered, sounding resigned.

  Three flat leather straps at the end of a flexible leather grip. “When one belt just isn’t enough, Savannah. Scotland was fucking famous for using this, until there came a time when it was deemed too cruel for kids. So, tell me—can you handle a punishment as well as, say, a fifth-grader? If the answer is yes, say ‘Yes, Mistress Veronica’. If the answer is no, say ‘Yes, Mistress Veronica’.”