Savannah's Chance

by D. A. Maddox

  “Yes, Mistress Veronica,” Savannah forced herself to say.

  Help me through, Mom. Help me through.

  “It’s three strikes for every infraction, you know. Pity. In good old Scotland, a teacher would tawse the child until the child made it clear, by his or her responses, that the lesson was taking hold. I’m going to need you to pull that robe up to your back. Need a bigger strike zone for the tawse than a cattle prod. You may keep your panties for now—but I need you to say ‘Thank you’ for that.”

  Savannah lifted the robe further. And as aghast as she was by this, she said, “Thank you, Mistress Veronica,” because she didn’t want to lose her panties in front of everyone on the balcony, nor in front of the other pigs. Nor even in front of Scott, intimately as he had touched her there. If she was going to reveal herself to him—a hopeful, hot prospect down the line—she wanted it to be on their terms, a special moment just for them. She wasn’t ready for the leap Melody had made, as sexy as it had made her feel just watching it. Not by a long shot.

  Without getting up, Veronica tossed the tawse over Savannah’s bent form to Rusty, and said, “Beat her while I sit here and watch her face. Remember, wait—”

  “Ten seconds between each,” Rusty finished for her, cracking it in the air. “Only five if she screams before the time’s up.”

  “Try not to,” Veronica then said to Savannah. “I know a fake scream from a real one. If you do it, I need it to be real. If you fake-scream, so help me…”

  I won’t scream, Savannah thought. Not fake, not for real.

  She already wanted to.

  Rusty cracked the tawse in the air again, and again, evidently reacquainting himself with the feel of it.

  “Hold him,” he said, and Savannah heard Scott’s muffled cries as he was presumably restrained by the other pigs. And—had somebody gagged him? “Keep holding him until it’s over and he sees she survived it. Christ, talk about making something out of fucking nothing. It’s just a party, for God’s sake.”

  Scott, jeez, you’re making it worse for both of us.

  But then Rusty strapped her—in stride, swatting her between his second and third step, bringing the three belts over her bum and her upper legs with fire and force. Savannah’s breath left her, or seemed to, but she found herself drawing in deep from her lungs and not quite feeling the benefit of the oxygen.

  She’d never been beaten before. Her parents had never even spanked her. Her schools didn’t practice it. Even if they had, she’d never gotten so much as a detention in school.

  She listened to Rusty’s footsteps recede.

  Veronica turned her chin up. Licked her across the lips and under the nose as the tawse came down again, making her eyes bulge. She held her breath to suppress the scream. Tried to focus on her hands, to keep the robe up for the end of her punishment.

  “You want to do it,” Veronica said. “If it’s real, go ahead. Let me hear it. Blow my fucking hair back so I can smell it.”

  She heard him coming.

  Mom—

  The tawse cut the air, lashed her flesh. Savannah bit down, eyes streaming. Her knees buckled. She dropped. Felt the soft, damp grass on her forehead, and allowed herself small noises. Not a scream, not a scream.

  “Holy shit,” said Veronica.

  Rusty knelt behind her, dropped the tawse, put his hands on either side of her neck, and gently pressed, working the sorely tightened flesh. Savannah let him do it. He was good at it. She needed it.

  Her buttocks and the back of her legs, meanwhile, remained aflame.

  “Savannah,” Rusty said, his tone nothing short of reverent, “you are fucking badass.”

  In front of her, Savannah found that Veronica had already stood from her and left.

  Chapter Twelve:

  Feelers

  Scott stopped struggling. It was over. His almost-girlfriend hadn’t screamed, even though he had behind the two hands over his mouth. Rusty, that fucker, had struck her three times with that thing, had brought his arm back all the way to do it, had jogged up to her each time to deliver the blow.

  She hadn’t moved. She was still on her knees, her cheek pressed against the ground, butt in the air. The grounds had grown quiet, the better to appreciate her whimpering. Red stripes rose up over pink flesh. Rusty squeezed her neck, said something Scott couldn’t hear, then pulled the robe back down over her. The quick, pained gasp that escaped her lips felt like a punch to Scott’s sternum.

  Rusty took her arm, helping her stand. He turned her to face the rest of the pigs again and pointed her to go that way. The right side of her face had a green grass smear on it, streaked where tears cut through it. On wobbly legs, she shambled back to them.

  The seven or eight pigs who had been holding Scott by all four limbs let him go. The hands came off his mouth. Savannah went to him directly, but she flinched when he reached for her. The expression on her face melted all of Scott’s anger in an instant. All he felt now was concern for the woman who hardly knew him but trusted him anyway—and a sudden fear he’d lose that trust.

  He reached for her anyway. “Savannah, you need a hug,” he said. “Let me just hold you, already. I won’t touch anything that hurts.”

  It seemed safe to talk. It was safe to hug. The Dominants and Neutrals and pigs alike contributed to the general murmur out on the lawn and above it. And most of the pigs, either in pairs or small groups, were holding each other’s hands or leaning in close to one another for comfort and support. Only the subs remained still and quiet, unmoving in their prescribed line and collars, awaiting whatever came next with silent fortitude.

  She wrapped her arms around him, crying into him, and sniffled and laughed a little. “No butt grabbing,” she said.

  The balcony was thinning out. The Neutrals were going back inside. It made him uneasy.

  “How long?” he asked, squeezing her, dutifully practicing butt avoidance, gently thumb-rubbing some of the grass stain from her face.

  “Feels like not until about … Tuesday, I think.”

  “If I had my calendar, I’d be marking it now.”

  From the door that led into the building’s basement, Malcolm re-emerged. “That’s settled,” he announced to no one in particular, presumably referring to Ritchie the Incredible Fainting Man. Then, checking his watch, he said, “Time to bring the herd into the house.”

  ****

  The subs went in first, but Malcolm led them. It took no small effort of organization.

  “Hands and knees,” Tabitha said, tapping her paddle against her open palm. “Single file line to the door, new subs up front.” Savannah struggled not to think of her as “Ginger”. The nickname had implanted quickly.

  But when the subs bent over to do it, a collective confusion set in. Savannah could see it in their faces. From this position, it was harder for them to see each other eye-to-eye. Which of the three newbies would be at the very front, anyway?

  Tabitha had a swift answer for the unspoken question, and although it came as no surprise, it was still infuriating.

  “You first, Goldilocks,” she ordered, hard and merciless, swatting Melody with a one-handed swing that produced a crackling pop that echoed over the whole lawn. Melody screeched, scuttling forward into position. Savannah had never seen someone crawl so fast in her life.

  Swat. “You next, Four-Inches. Get your nose right up and in those ass cheeks.” Swat. “Go on. You can breathe through your mouth. Fucking now!”

  The new male sub got in line, placing himself as ordered, forcing a surprised “Oh!” from Melody when he rudely worked his face into the cleft of her buttocks. By then, the third one—the woman who’d been made to service him earlier—was already trying to take up her place.

  Tess, Savannah remembered.

  Swat. “Nice try, Micro-Nips. Not quick enough.”

  Savannah clutched at her pendant.

  “What have you got there?” Scott asked tenderly, ignoring the action, running a finger over her hand.
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br />   “My mother,” she answered before she could think herself out of it. “Don’t tell.”

  As the others lined up and the various chosen among the Doms took up their leashes, Savannah had more than enough time to reflect on how insane what she had just said must have sounded.

  “I won’t,” he promised. “You really love her, I guess.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “I did.”

  Malcolm opened the door again, kicking a stopper under the base. “All right, pigs. Turn and face. You get to walk in, and you keep your clothes, but the subs go first. You should be grateful.”

  Savannah and Scott were the last to do so, because first he insisted on another kiss, again to the top of her head. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Together, they turned.

  Beyond that door was a long hall, tunnel-dark and jam-packed with voices. On either side of it, the Neutrals were lined up and waiting for them, all in their normal clothes, all happy and expectant and just having such a good time.

  After Malcolm, Melody was the first in. The Neutrals leaned in from both sides and petted her as she went—hands in her matted and filthy hair, down her sides, over her face, patting her legs. They couldn’t get to her sex—there was a whole human head blocking it already—but men and women both were eager for the obligatory squeeze of the tits as she progressed.

  Each of the subs endured this, and all without complaint, until their whole procession had gone inside, disappearing into the muttering dark.

  ****

  After the subs, who now numbered seventeen, had all passed inside, there remained only five Doms to wrangle the twenty-six pigs inside next.

  This would be the time to run, Scott thought.

  But two of the Doms were Veronica and Tabitha, and most of the “pigs” actually wanted to pass this initiation—including Savannah. And, as he came to his senses, he remembered that he did as well. They’d been through too much already not to finish. The night could not last forever.

  Tabitha came to them, dragging behind her a wooden, steel-lined crate that rattled with more metal inside.

  “Hands on heads, pig-sluts,” Veronica said, marching up and down their newly formed line, in which Scott and Savannah were numbers seven and eight, respectively. “You’re going in coffle. They get to touch you, wherever they wish. This is to disabuse you of any illusions of personal space. No bitching. You asked for this. Either you want this, or—like me, back in the day—you put up with it until you’re in your right caste. So just try to get fucking into it. You’ll be unshackled when we get to the Pen.”

  From the crate, Tabitha drew out a chain, the interconnected links punctuated at every tenth clasp by a wider, openable circlet with a locking mechanism. She tossed a large steel ring on the ground, more or less in the fashion of a keyring—but instead of keys it had handcuffs.

  “For real?” the line leader said as the leading circlet went around his neck. Tabitha didn’t answer him, just cuffed his hands behind his head, then led the loose circlet about his neck to the links in the cuffs. With a double tap of her finger, the links magnetized, pulling his wrists to the circlet.

  “Oh, yes. Chain me, baby.”

  Tabitha giggled and kissed him, then bit his lip and made him curse.

  Then she brought the leading chain to the second pig…

  Scott wondered if they knew each other, Tabitha and that first boy.

  When it came time for his turn, it wasn’t so bad. He had to admit, though, he’d rather be on the other end of this situation. Putting that bitch Tabitha through these paces would be so satisfying. Or even … Rusty.

  Fuck, yeah.

  And he felt guilty for even thinking that, because that was not his thing. But worse, infinitely worse, was the feeling that stirred in him like a restless animal when Tabitha left him and went on to Savannah. It wasn’t mere sympathy, even though he thought he might love her one day, if he didn’t already.

  It was jealousy, because Tabitha got to do it.

  “Thank you, Mistress,” Savannah said, receiving a Tabitha kiss of her own—and making Scott want to come inside his jockstrap.

  ****

  It hadn’t been possible for Savannah to identify every one of the pigs she knew, or would recognize, from their time out on the back lawn of the Student Union building. Most of them had been concealed by blindfolds when she and Scott had arrived, and after that, they’d been in the front of the group for most of it. Further, it wouldn’t have been easy to turn away from the spectacle Malcolm and Veronica had orchestrated, and Savannah hadn’t much tried. Also, Savannah didn’t really know that many people to begin with.

  But as the coffle line shuffled into the darkened hallway of Neutrals—of feelers—the woman chained just ahead of Scott turned her head and smiled at Savannah.

  “Get your own, Swiss Miss,” she’d said.

  It was the girl from the bar, the one who had kissed the waitress named Lorna. Her wavy chestnut hair was none the worse for wear after having it put up in a bun for her chaining, and her pink lipstick yet looked freshly applied. Her dark eyes swallowed Savannah, appraising the “Swiss Miss” who had seen her kissing at the bar. And with the lingering peppermint of Tabitha’s kiss still on her lips, Savannah’s internal protection radar sensed a predatory hunger in that smile. It made her feel the handcuffs and the steel collar and chain more acutely, even though the other woman wore them as well.

  I’m chained, she thought. I’m being led “in coffle” into the Hall of Feelers, where anyone can touch me anywhere. And then I’ll be in The Pen, with Scott—and her.

  Her arms were sore already, partly from the energy already spent in the absorption of pain without screaming, the clenching of muscles out of reflex. Savannah was aware of the man behind her, his heavy and nervous breath, sometimes catching it on her shoulder blades. Her underarms, accustomed to coverings, tingled.

  Lorna’s girlfriend passed inside. Hands reached for her as though disembodied. She made a contented little noise—“Mmmm”—and squeaked as though being tickled. Which, of course, she was.

  Ahead of her, there appeared a fluttery projection emanating from two cameras mounted on opposite sides of the hall’s ceiling, creating a hologram constantly broken by the live bodies in the hall—but it was clearly her for all that, although slightly younger. In the projection, she was wearing a smart suit and business pants, not a skirt. Her projection pleasantly said, “My name’s Dawn Covington. I’m hoping to study psychology and human development. I applied to Bridgemont not only because of my dad and older brother, but because I…”

  It was her college application video. Everybody made one. The Select were getting to know her as a person even as they explored her body. One of the hands flipped up the front of her robe and rubbed her over her panties, causing her to moan over the sound of her younger self explaining how she liked hiking, going out with friends…

  She disappeared into the dark, leading Scott in after her, whether he willed it or not, and bringing Savannah closer.

  She could see faces, now, as the hands descended upon Scott. Mostly women. Savannah noted that many of the men, although not all, declined the opportunity to accost him. It seemed that they selected those pigs most appealing to them. There were too many Neutrals to cop feels on a single pig at once, so they shared the spoils equally and took turns with them.

  Dawn’s hologram flickered out. A couple more fluttered in and out of Savannah’s vision, quite quickly, as though somewhere someone was shuffling through their files until they finally found…

  “Hey, there, I’m Scott Lachance, and I build stuff. I’m lousy at football, worse at baseball, and I trip over my own feet at soccer. But if you take me, I’ll row this college to its next national crew championship.”

  In the projection, Scott was wearing his high school crew tank, and he flexed his arms for the video. Cute, Savannah thought. Funny, bold. Sexy.

  In life, he was being felt up by four people at the same time.


  “God,” Scott muttered, more surprised than anything. But then a louder, “God!” erupted from his mouth as a woman’s hand snaked up between his legs, so that Savannah could see her index finger coming up and out the other side, splitting his bare butt cheeks.

  Projection Scott: “Make me a Bridgemont Moose, give me a chance, and one day I’ll remodel that Orientation building of yours. Seriously love this place, but those digs need some work.”

  Real Scott: “Hey, there, just so you know, my mom would not approve.”

  “No talking,” the woman scolded him, running her finger back and forth. “Feels like you approve.”

  Scott had stopped, apparently finding the walk suddenly awkward. The leading chain forced him to continue as the woman’s hand left him. Another hand reached out and encircled him through the cloth just as quickly. Scott groaned a note of sheer ecstasy—and despair.

  “Oh, Jesus, he just came inside his underwear. Look!”

  From one of the boys, looking him over and nodding: “Dude was cocked and loaded. Ain’t the first time a pig blew before the Pen. Best thing for him, really.”

  Scott turned his head back to Savannah again. His face was vivid pink, his features wrecked with apology.

  It’s okay, she mouthed to him, meaning it. It wasn’t like she was completely dry, either. Slowly, exaggerating each silent syllable, she added, These … people … don’t … count. She hoped Scott could read her lips. She felt so bad for him.

  And her turn was coming up fast.

  They were all over him, Savannah’s guy, three more women and one man, parting his short hair with searching fingers, running hands through the front and back of his shirt. Pinching here and there, making him grunt and flinch. But, overall, he seemed to relax a bit, now. The most critical tension was past him, at least for the present.

  “Hey, there, buddy, let me get that.”