Savannah's Chance

by D. A. Maddox

  Back at the Pen, Savannah’s handcuffs came off and clattered at her feet. There was a fair pile of them now, soon to be literally swept up and returned to the lockbox on the back lawn. She signed the palm com screen, took the card with her printed signature. She flashed it to Veronica, posing with it, affecting a spirited nonchalance that was absolutely unconvincing.

  Oh, Savannah. You have no idea.

  She lingered over Tabitha’s bowl for a few seconds before dropping it inside.

  You really do have the tightest little ass on Planet Earth.

  It was beyond dispute, in Malcolm’s educated opinion.

  But you know, he thought, glancing back at the sub line where Melody faced the wall, her well-rounded tushie on full display, tight asses are kinda overrated anyway.

  ****

  Well, Scott thought, as Savannah followed him into the Pen, at least we’re free enough to hold hands again.

  She came right to him and, seeming to have read his mind, clasped his hand straight away and held it tight.

  “This is so dumb,” he said, not bothering to lower his voice with Bomber Jack’s “Crusher Mob” thudding off the walls all around them. He waved to the surrounding stanchions, somehow needing to make light of them. “This is the best they can do? We could bum rush out of this joint any time we wanted, now that our hands are free.”

  She shouldered him good-naturedly, but her eyes were still troubled when she quipped, “You just want to build a better Pen, architect. Those ropes are symbolic. We could have run lots of different times.”

  He smirked. Build a better Pen? Yeah, he could do that. Easily.

  When the current Pen, for all of its faults, was full, Tabitha reattached the furry, black rope connectors to the stanchions, hemming them in completely. Thirteen women, fourteen men—twenty-seven pigs—were thus all corralled in the middle of the university Ballroom by ten-thirty in the evening.

  Twenty Doms leered at them, many with their punishment toys out and ready.

  Thirty-five Neutrals encircled the enclosure, calling out entreaties, requests for sex of all kinds when the lottery was over. Some of the pigs responded in the affirmative. Others, like Scott and Savannah, recoiled from such offers, working their way the best they could towards the center, seeking invisibility.

  Then the music stopped again. Veronica broke the circle of Neutrals.

  Twenty Doms, Scott thought. There should be twenty-two.

  Looking over heads, still holding onto Savannah, Scott couldn’t see the bowls anywhere. Nor could he make out where Zeke and Tabitha were. Like the rest of them, he could only wait to see what happened next.

  Veronica said, “Shy Boy. Phil Mattias. Show yourself.”

  Just behind him, Scott heard a man who must have been Phil quietly say, “No, no…”

  Without turning his head, Scott hissed, “Go and get it over, man. Don’t make it worse on yourself.”

  “Fuck,” Phil muttered miserably, pushing himself forward and through the crowd, all the way to the fringes.

  Veronica had a small black metal box in her hand. She pushed a button on it. The stanchions’ red top lights stopped blinking and stayed red. She then tossed the box to Rusty, who caught it one-handed.

  “Hiya, Phil,” she said pleasantly. “Do me a favor. Step over the ropes. If you can do it without tripping, you’re done. You’re in The Select, and free to come and go as you please.”

  All right, Phil, Scott thought. Don’t be dumb. That’s one thing you definitely don’t want to do. You know better—

  Phil tried it. There was an electric pop—and then a short, pained squawk. Phil’s hands shot to his neck, and he dropped. Two of Veronica’s goons among the Doms caught him under the arms, kept him from cracking his head on the floor.

  It didn’t render him unconscious. The jolt hadn’t been that strong. But when the two who had caught him eased his leg back over the rope, returning him to the pigs, all he could do was stand there and cry like a schoolboy made to stand in the corner, muttering slurred curses.

  “You’re here for the duration,” Veronica said, addressing them all. “Those are shock collars, real popular with dog owners. Keeps them on the property, you know?”

  You could have just told us, Scott thought, patting Phil on the back. We would have believed you.

  The music kicked in again.

  “Phil,” Scott said. “Listen, bro, I’m sorry—”

  Phil gathered his breathing. By degrees, he calmed himself. “It’s okay,” he said. “No one’s fault. In this together.”

  “That’s right,” Scott agreed, shaking his hand. “Good man, Phil. Good man.”

  Savannah looked from Veronica to the knot of Doms who surrounded her, then back to Veronica.

  “She’s awful, yeah,” Scott agreed. “The worst of them.”

  But Savannah shook her head. “That’s not it,” she said, pointing. “Look at them. The other Doms. I’m not sure, but…”

  Scott surveyed them, trying to see what Savannah saw. Whatever it was, it wasn’t readily apparent to him. “I don’t get—”

  “They don’t approve,” Savannah said. “Not all of them, anyway.”

  Chapter Fourteen:

  Punch

  Rusty and Zeke set up the punchbowl table against the righthand wall, not far from the Pen. A single red cloth was draped over it. Each of the three bowls had its own silver ladle. Savannah had no idea what the flavors—or additions—were, but the liquid in each was garish in any light, fluorescent when the lights were low: going left to right, yellow, blood red, and green. Sliced lemon floated in the yellow bowl, sliced limes in the green, cherries in the red. She had no doubt they’d been spiked. There were certain things in college you could be sure of without asking.

  And the bowls were massive. Savannah thought any one of them could have served the whole fete. And, indeed, there were enough plastic cups, neatly stacked, for anyone here to sample all three of the flavors.

  Never turning her head, Savannah tracked Veronica: a quick whisper with Malcolm, some reassuring words and a pat on the back of the head to Zeke, a glance to either side—and then to the sub line.

  “A reminder,” she declared between music tracks, “we believe in safety, here in The Select. I’m all about the fucking safety. So, tell me, sub-Melody …”

  Melody turned on her knees, put her forearms up, her tongue out, and resumed her panting.

  “Did Master Malcolm come inside doggie’s vagina? Did he fertilize you, pet?”

  Melody yipped twice.

  “No? Oh, that’s good to hear. Somebody other than this bitch—she’s not allowed to speak to me as a human being tonight—please inform me where Master Malcolm came? I’m sure there were witnesses.”

  Savannah looked over to Malcolm, who was back at the soundboard, probably loading up the next music mix. He seemed wholly uninterested.

  Corky spoke up. “Between her tits. He made her squeeze them together and shot himself up to her chin.”

  “Fine work,” she commended him from afar. “But we can’t rely on that level of control, that consideration for safety, from everyone. I’d like to, but we can’t. Reform the crawl line, subs. Same order and position. To the punch—to the cherry bowl.” She gestured with her tawse.

  Melody leading, the other two new subs right behind—faces firmly splitting butt cheeks—the crawl line reformed and moved to no music. In near silence, the procession crossed the length of the ballroom, past the Pen, to the table on the other side. There, Rusty stirred the ladle in the middle bowl.

  “Stand,” he said when they were close enough. “Hands crossed at the back. No cups for subs. You take it straight from the dipper.”

  You can’t make them do that, Savannah thought. They don’t know what it is. They could have allergies, or something.

  The newest of the male subs seemed to be thinking the same thing. “May I speak, Master?” There was an odd mix of fear, anger, and defiance in the words—all at once and in
equal measure.

  “No,” Rusty said. “And you just earned ten swats from Tabby’s paddy for asking. You’ll be fine, fuck toy. It’s Kool-Aid with some extra coloring. There’s no alcohol. But we did mix some … safety into it. Kosopril Mesogentix, otherwise known as…”

  Free and Clear, Savannah finished in her mind before he got the words out. Juniors at Bridgemont had learned about contraception back in September in Making the Transition class. Free and Clear was a twelve-hour sterilization compound, a spermicide, better than ninety-nine percent effective when just one partner took it. If both took it—which Savannah had to believe was a rare move, considering how expensive it was—the chances of inadvertent baby-making would have to be a million to one.

  “Come to me one at a time and take your medicine. Chin up, Melody, big gulp. After, say, ‘Thank you, Master’. I will then give you one or two cups each to bring to the Pen for our pigs. Look in their mouths after they’ve drunk. Make sure they’re not holding any in the back of their throats to spit out later. We don’t trust our pigs like we trust our subs.” He wagged a finger at Savannah and the rest of The Pen. “Any violators will be stripped and whipped on the spot.”

  Melody tilted her chin back and sipped from the ladle until her portion was down. “Thank you, Master,” she said.

  At that, Savannah made a panicked scan of the Ballroom, seeking Veronica. She had no doubt that the senior female Domme, the Skull, would not hesitate to beat Melody for speaking as a human being, even though Rusty had commanded her to. But Veronica was nowhere to be seen.

  Damn, Savannah thought, annoyed she’d lost track of her—and Thank God, if there is a God.

  “Not you,” Rusty said to the sub who had spoken out of turn, even as he stepped forward for his own cocktail. “You get yours last—step to the left, Huey, and take heart. You get the first real punishment of the night.”

  To the left, seeming to have materialized out of nowhere, stood Tabitha, paddle in hand. Huey went to her, hands still clasped behind his back, eyes dripping, head down, penis wagging at half-mast. He came to her slowly, as though waiting for someone to call time out or offer a reprieve.

  No one did. As Tabitha bent him over at the waist, predictably, a circle formed around him, blocking Savannah’s view.

  “Touch your toes or grab the back of your calves or ankles, sub. This is going to hurt, so you can make as much noise as you want, say whatever you want. My feelings won’t be hurt. But do … not … break … position.”

  Ten? Savannah thought. That number was unthinkable. They couldn’t be serious.

  The sub line moved forward. Melody, meanwhile, came to The Pen. Zeke opened the rope barrier for her, and she nudged her way through several others to get to Savannah and Scott.

  Savannah did her best to look her only in the eyes, but she was right in front of her with her two cups of crimson, worry-free sex—and she was so, so naked. “Uh, um … are you okay, Melody?” she asked, cursing herself for the stupidity of the question.

  Melody had never looked this relaxed all night. She didn’t react in the slightest when the first fleshy swat echoed through the wide Ballroom hall, nor to the yelp that followed it. She offered them their cups, first to Savannah, then to Scott.

  “Drink,” she said.

  Savannah looked down into it. Kool-Aid, she thought. I was never one to drink the Kool-Aid before, but…

  She clicked her cup against Scott’s. Huey’s second swat came down in perfect time with the impromptu toast.

  “Here’s to poor life decisions,” she said.

  “Bottoms-up,” Scott replied, tilting his head in Huey’s general direction.

  Swat.

  They downed the drinks together.

  “Open your mouth, Savannah,” Melody said. “Please. I have to check.”

  Whatever, Savannah thought, opening, head back, finding the whole thing not only embarrassing but silly. A pill, Savannah could see someone hiding. A cup full of punch, not so much.

  “Wider,” Melody said, and actually reached in with her fingers to pry her jaws open as far as they would go. “Wiggle your tongue around.”

  Savannah wiggled it. “La-la-la.”

  “Thank you. Oh, I can’t wait to see you with your clothes off, Savannah.” She said it like it was the friendliest, most pleasant thing in the world to say. She went to Scott. “Open wide, please. Bend down a little. You’re too tall for me.”

  The paddle fell again. No yelp. This time, a fully-articulated “Ow! Oh, shit!”

  Good thing Tabitha doesn’t have room to back up and get you at a run, Savannah thought, closing her mouth, still tasting Melody’s fingers.

  And now she had them in Scott’s mouth, her eyes searching. “You want to fuck her, don’t you?”

  Scott: “Gah … er… frnn-plah.”

  She let him go.

  “It’s fine, you don’t have to answer me. I’m only a sub. No one owes me anything anymore. But I hope you do. I hope they let me watch you fuck her.”

  Scott shared a look with Savannah. “Well, okay, then,” he said, trying to sound casual. “I’ll … um, keep that filed away in the old ‘mental notes’ drawer…” He even made the finger quotes.

  She giggled. “You’re so funny, Scott.” Looking down, touching herself. “Nice boner—so soon after, too. Is that for me?”

  More subs in the pen, serving drinks. Another blow. Another cry of misery from Huey.

  Scott crossed his hands over the boner in question. He shook his head. “No. Sorry, Melody. Nothing personal.”

  Savannah thought, Jesus Christ, how do they even walk?

  Swat!

  “Mistress … Tabitha,” Huey sobbed, sucking breath between blows, “Mistress—please! Ah!”

  “Gotta go,” Melody said brightly. “Master could call for me any time. Anyone could, really.”

  As she left, the main doors to the Ballroom opened again. It wasn’t Veronica. It wasn’t anyone currently numbered among The Select.

  It was Nurse Sustrick, leading Ritchie the Fainter by the arm. She was dressed casually, in hip-hugging black jeans and a short sleeved white blouse. She had lace-up brown felt boots that, to Savannah, were almost retro, but probably just about right for a woman in her mid-thirties. The red leather bag slung over her shoulder was decidedly bigger than a purse.

  Ritchie was still in his shirt and jockstrap. There was a high blush in his cheeks, a sheepish smile on his lips. Guys didn’t typically have their butts in the wind in front of female nurses on campus—not even Nurse Sustrick, who did clinic entry screenings for both sexes.

  Welcome back to the game, Ritchie, Savannah thought.

  ****

  Scott knew her as easily as Savannah did, if not quite so well. In their year, she was pretty much everyone’s nurse practitioner, sticking with their group like a guidance counselor all through their undergrad degrees. But he had no idea what she was doing here, and he thought it more than likely that the Origins Fete was about to come to a quick, cataclysmic end.

  Enter the older generation. Game over.

  Indeed, the crowd concealing Huey’s punishment from him parted at her approach.

  But instead, she handed Ritchie over to Rusty for collar refitting and penning. Then she turned her attention to Tabitha and Huey, who remained bent over, stark naked, his ass as red as the middle punchbowl. Tabitha hadn’t moved either, but she’d stopped hitting him and gone back to patiently tapping the paddle against her other palm.

  Nurse Sustrick closed the distance. Huey started to straighten himself, but she put her hand over the back of his neck and stopped him, eased him back down. Set her bag down next to him.

  “This is thorough work,” she said, tilting her head, examining him. She patted his rear, making him cry from the sting of even that inconsequential touch. She ran her hand down his crease, eliciting a stifled scream.

  “Thanks, Old Bones,” Tabitha said, and there was no disrespect in her tone. Quite the opposite, the way s
he had said those words, they might have accorded Nurse Sustrick the very utmost deference and respect.

  Old bones and profs, Scott now recalled Malcolm saying. He hadn’t understood, before—or hadn’t gotten his head fully around the implication—so he hadn’t dwelt on it. The idea that non-transitional adults, whether alumni of The Select or not, would show up to this had never occurred to him. It added a whole new layer of wrong to it all.

  Nurse Sustrick rested one hand on the small of Huey’s back. “Subs still get ten when they step out of line?” she asked, reaching between his legs, idly twiddling his testicles and penis until he stiffened in spite of himself. From Huey’s open, mortified mouth, there emerged a sound, low and long and rife with sweet suffering, the death of innocence made voice.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Tabitha said.

  Pointing to various splotches on his skin, poking here and there, Nurse Sustrick mused, “This looks like … oh, eight or nine? Or have you finished?”

  “Seven,” Tabitha said. “I do my best to deliver the goods, ma’am.”

  “That you do,” Nurse Sustrick said, clearly impressed. “Please, continue.”

  And stepped back to observe.

  Huey wailed before she even hit him again.

  ****

  And you were one of the Dominant, Savannah decided, drawing Scott in for a hug despite his erection. Or maybe because of it. Difficult to say.

  They stayed like that until the last of the drinks had been served. By then, Ritchie was in a shock collar and in the Pen—and the Neutrals were lining up for their own shot of twelve-hour birth control, discarding the cups with dainty drops or celebratory slam-dunks into an open, hard plastic recycling box at the end of the punch table.

  Savannah held Scott tighter as Huey shouted and hollered and screamed his way through the end of his punishment. By then, Ritchie was receiving hugs, too, all around.

  “She said I was fine, just like normal,” he said, quite happy with himself. “Also said I could opt out if I still felt woozy. I was all like, hell no. I can’t be in this thing if I don’t pay my dues like everyone else.”