by D. A. Maddox
Veronica’s final whip stroke brought him back to himself. That had been a hard one. Vicious. That had been over the line—he was sure of it. Fresh tears welled under his eyelids, but still, he remained quiet.
Veronica flipped off the switch at the back of his collar, then stomped around to stand in front of him. “What the fuck is the matter with you? Are you defective, you remedial waste of a man-whore?”
“May I answer?” he growled through bared teeth. “Mistress?”
Stamping her foot in outrage, hurling the whip backstage, she jammed out her finger and pointed at Scott’s penis, which had never gotten far beyond half-mast and now hung limp after her final lash. “Does it fucking work or not?”
Some distant chuckles. A mutter of, “C’mon, give him a break, already.”
“I’m not a sub,” Scott said. “And it works fine. Just not for you.”
From the crowd, a low murmur, as though someone had been summoned to the principal’s office over the P.A. system.
****
“You gotta be kidding me,” Malcolm said for the third time that night—but he didn’t yell this time. Because this time was worse. This time was bad. “Ronnie, stop.”
She was at the left-hand A-frame. She lifted the auto-whipper from the top bar, the floor mount from the bottom. She then went to the other A-frame and retrieved the same items from it.
“You chose the bullwhip, Ronne. I chose the birch. We made our selections based on their profiles, and we don’t flog them anymore. They’re tapped out.”
Technically, Savannah and Scott weren’t done—not yet. For just a little bit longer, they remained subject to the caprices of the senior Skull. But this wasn’t how it was supposed to go at the end. There were so many other things to choose from up there: the standard clamps and pinwheel spikes, of course—but also the damned toys, the things that were supposed to make them feel good after the pain trial, to warm them up in case they wanted the harness ride.
His Doms-in-training were staring. Then again, surveying the whole ballroom, everyone was. Thank God Tabitha was, too—and right from under center stage, her ruby red choker pointed straight at the action. But he hadn’t expected this.
Savannah’s backside, from the neckline under her pendant to the backs of her legs, was a healthy mismatch of pink and red splotches, some welts already shrinking under the healing oil, the insides of her thighs soaked with good old university-style fun juice. And Scott had been doing excellently, for a man of contrary predisposition. If Ronnie had made him bleed…
Fuck.
“Back to the line,” he ordered his Doms-in-training, kicking the birch rod so that it slid back to its a-frame. He waited for them to obey, then hurried to Scott, leaving Savannah on her elbows and knees.
“Take it easy, Ronnie,” Rusty called from the floor. “He should be done after that. Let him go.”
“Fuckin’ A,” Zeke agreed amid general murmurs of assent, particularly from the elders.
Scott shook his head, still playing it cool. “Savannah and I finish together,” he said. “When she’s done, I’m done.”
What bullshit. Malcolm ignored him—and mostly ignored Veronica, whose expression had shifted from outrage to indignation, and now to wariness. “You hear that?” she said. “He wants to finish. Let him. Oh, my fucking hero.”
Then, from Savannah, from her ridiculous position on the floor, “Scott, you don’t have to. I’m not a—”
“It’s fine,” Scott said. “I love you already, but it’s not just because of you, Savannah. It’s me, too. It’s about us.”
Lord, save me, Malcolm thought, giving him the once over. Most of Scott’s buttocks and back were a mirror image to Savannah’s. But one line, from left shoulder blade to halfway down the right side of his ribcage, was raised scarlet, inflamed in spite of the oil. Just the sweat on that line had to sting like a swarm of wasps.
Veronica joined him from Scott’s other side, set down her gear. “No blood,” she said. “No open skin, no fucking chance for infection. Malcolm, don’t be so dramatic—”
Malcolm showed her the palm and heel of his hand, then crossed back to Scott’s front.
“You sure this is what you want?”
“Well, no, to be perfectly honest,” Scott said. “I just want to be with Savannah, if she’ll have me—and then I want to leave with her. Walk her back to her sorority house. Be a goddamned old school fucking country gentleman to her, like she deserves.”
For some reason, there was more laughter at this. But Malcolm was, surprising even to himself, rather touched. He wondered if Savannah was, too.
“I came here to pass this ritual, Malcolm, so you tell me: are we close?”
Malcolm nodded. “Yeah,” he said, “but if you’re serious, we’re covering that stripe.”
“There,” Veronica said, virtually percolating with fresh confidence. “They want to be together—and that’s just what I have in mind.”
Malcolm turned to ask Nurse Sustrick to the stage, only to find she was already bounding up the steps, zipping open her oversized red handbag as she came.
“I’m all right,” Scott promised him.
“All right?” Malcolm said, returning to Savannah. “No. You two are a goddamned legend.”
****
They shared two heads of a single totem pole, repositioned center stage. With no top head, they could both see over the pole easily. Savannah let Scott take her hands, one on either side of it. It was an easy and comfortable enough thing to do, as they were handcuffed together, with the totem manacles cinched over the linking chain in the handcuffs.
“You said you loved me,” she said, only too aware of what a wreck her hair and her face must be, smiling anyway. “Ow! Oh, jeez.”
The auto-whipper propped on the floor between her feet had struck, clipping a shoulder blade, making her cringe, pulling him closer to her. Her lashed skin burned afresh, and the tingle lingered after, warm and sharp.
Not too bad, she thought. You’ve had worse.
The second one was positioned behind Scott, she knew, and in the same place. She could hear the cord coiling on the floor, like a snake about to strike.
Veronica had placed them. They had thermal sensors, she’d explained. They knew where to hit. They only whipped bare flesh, so the weal on Scott’s back—now under a long, thin antiseptic bandage—was safe. They only attacked the region from the back of the knees to the bottom of the neck. Targeting was randomized, but they never struck the same place twice.
“Enjoy your time together,” Veronica had said.
A quick, echoing pop—and Scott’s eyes went wide in his turn. He shuddered and swore under his breath. But then he said, “You’re damned right I love you,” and leaned over to kiss her.
Somehow, even after being stripped and beaten and humiliated in front of everyone, after every unthinkable deviant act she had been put through (or committed)—even after having her seeping pussy licked and fingered by six strangers, one after the other, all while her Transition professor stared at her with lechery and delight—the simple kiss of the man she loved back renewed the blush in her cheeks. She returned the kiss, tasting him—
Pop! High on her tricep. She jerked.
Scott laughed, pulled back just a little. “Whoa, think you just bit me a little.”
“Did I?” she asked, nibbling at his chin, growling at him. “Sorry. Love you, too, Scott.”
His lips went to her neck. “I want to hold you. Oh, wait—here it comes, oh, shit … yow! Damn it.”
She leaned into him, her head on the crook of his neck. “You are holding me, Scott.”
“No. I want to hold all of you, every part of you. I want complete access, Savannah. I want…”
“To claim me?” she softly said, wincing as the swatter fell over her back yet again.
“Yes,” he said, his voice husky and longing. He didn’t even flinch at the next whip strike.
“Are you hard again? I can’t see.”
<
br /> His fingers scratched, just slightly, over her forearms, hooking under her handcuffs. “Yeah. Trust me. Hard as calculus without a calculator.” Then he gripped her with both fists, steadied her until after the lash smacked across her buttocks, dead center, making her hop in place and screech.
Veronica had placed the auto-whippers, but Savannah had seen Malcolm fiddle with the settings after she’d gone. She imagined they could probably do a lot worse than they were currently doing, if he hadn’t intervened on their behalf. Still, the leather strap and its undersized flyswatter at the end made her aware of every inch of her own flesh—not just when she felt it, but in the seconds between each blow as she waited for it, and when she was helpless to protect Scott from it.
“My … God, Scott. My God.”
“Mine, too,” he said, clenching his teeth, squinting his bloodshot eyes until the swatter came down again, this time over the back of his legs. Then he kissed her again, more deeply, while they had four or five seconds before Savannah got hers again … and then they laughed together, a shared response born of agony and merciless bliss.
****
Far off, at the very center of the ballroom, their double-sized hologram recreated the action on stage. The floor filled with partners—Doms and subs and Neutrals, clothed and unclothed, heterosexual couples and homosexual couples, occasional switchers—slow-dancing by the light of the projection and the glitter ball to the sweet sadness of a late twentieth century pop ballad called “Hold Me Now”. It was a song Malcolm had picked on a whim.
Fucking pathetic.
And here she was, dancing with him. It was yet another thing The Select counted among its traditions, that their Skulls should share a dance in the middle of the floor at the conclusion of the lottery penance—and so she was stuck with him for the moment, moving by rote at arms’ length to this somnambulant mockery, this lame excuse for music.
“What’s gotten into you, Malcolm?” she asked. “Why so soft tonight? Heart’s not in it anymore?”
“I’m fine, Ronnie,” he said. “The real question is, what’s going on with you?”
“Me? I just orchestrated the best Fete ever—”
“No argument there.”
“In spite of your best efforts to ruin it, I might add. So, tell me—when did you lose your balls? Was it when you were making googly eyes at that new sub? The Barbie doll with big tits, Melody? Or has this been going on a while?”
Malcolm drew her in as though for a hug, still moving with her. She let him. People were watching, and there’d been enough drama already. And it was a slow song.
“Oh, Ronnie, that’s not the real question. The real question is, where’s Tabby?”
Veronica stopped. Stepped back. Looked around.
The chairs up front had emptied, too. Gradually, in no particular order, the Old Bones and Profs had made their partings and filed away, even though the night wasn’t over. The end of the Origins Fete was a student-only affair. In an hour, some students—such as Terry and Celia, probably, both of whom had been made to present themselves, tearful and naked, in front of Doctor Evans just after the lottery—would take the final opt-out and never return to The Select. The others would make their final caste decision—apart from the subs who had already chosen, whose lots had already been irrevocably cast. It was not for the elders to interfere, nor to influence. And so, only students remained. Finding Tabitha—with her auburn hair and her silly Zorro mask and her half-shirt that left her belly exposed—should have been easy.
But Veronica couldn’t spot her anywhere.
“Malcolm—”
“I think she said something about forgetting to turn off one of the security cams tonight,” he said. “Personally, I couldn’t believe it. That’s not like Tabby at all.”
“Malcolm, don’t even fuck with me. Don’t you dare—”
“You should go out into the hall again, Veronica. You should see if anything’s missing.”
Slowly, she backed away from him—without turning, at first. But as the song ended, as the whips stopped cracking, and applause erupted all about her, she did turn.
The applause was not for her. Of course not, she realized, remembering the schedule. No one paid her any attention whatsoever. The entire soirée, including Malcolm, was again facing the stage—clapping, hooting, congratulating. The string for the confetti bucket up in the rafters had been pulled.
Heedless of the others, with eyes only for Tabitha, she ran for the exit, for the hall.
How long had it been since she had last seen her? Fifteen minutes?
The cameras were linked to a video server archive, which none of them had access to—but they also had backup batteries and internal hard drives, the better to keep functioning during a power-out. If the video of what she did in the hall ever got into the hands of the wrong people…
There are no right people, she thought, crashing through the exit doors, leaving the Ballroom in a rush of fury and fear.
She left—and she didn’t come back.
****
“I think that’s it,” Scott said. “Looks like we made it.”
The confetti drifted down: fluttery red hearts, sparkling stars turning end over end, and—as Scott plucked one out of the air in mid-descent—tiny paper paddles with the word “ouch” on them. He snorted.
Zeke pocketed the cuffs, ruffled first Savannah’s hair and then Scott’s. “Like champions,” he said. “Half the room was ready to call an early stop twenty minutes ago, bucko.”
For the life of him, Scott could not imagine what everyone was clapping and hollering about. But he was glad they hadn’t stopped, hadn’t called the game early—for his own reasons, if not Savannah’s. In baseball terms, such as his older brother and father would have appreciated, he had not wanted to get “walked” onto base tonight, or because the pitcher had hit him with the damned ball. He wanted to make it on his own.
But he hadn’t. Not really. Savannah had gotten him through, and he was content with that.
She wiped her eyes. She’d gone light on the makeup today, as ever, and the little smears across her cheeks and under her eyes only made her all the more fetching. She came around the pole and hugged him—then drew back with a gasp and nearly doubled over with giggling.
Scott shrugged. He hadn’t meant to poke her in the tummy with it. She’d kind of charged him. He drew her back up—ignoring the wanton exclamations of hilarity all around—and pulled her back into that hug, his pulsing erection flat against her stomach, one hand in her hair, the other across her waist.
They stayed that way for half a minute, holding each other, receiving the adoration of the crowd.
“Some first date,” she breathed into his neck, then drew back and looked up into his eyes.
“Savannah, my love,” he answered, cupping her flushed cheeks and kissing her, “I’m not done with you yet.”
****
Veronica’s departure, and the earlier departure of Tabitha, didn’t linger in the minds of The Select. She’d been in a mood all night. And the best part of the party—as far as most were concerned—was just getting ready to begin.
At either end of the stage, like guardians at the steps, were two Doms. A few at a time, they allowed the couples on stage, and at its center—released from the totem pole and the auto-whippers, stood their winners: Savannah and Scott, hand in hand, facing out to the crowd, Scott’s rod at full salute.
With them, giving instructions while Malcolm conducted business out on the floor, were Rusty and Zeke.
“Don’t move,” Rusty said. “Don’t talk. Don’t look at each other. Keep your eyes pointed straight ahead and pretend to see nothing. They’re coming up to get a close look at the night’s work. It’s hard to see the effects of it all, especially in your faces, from out there in the seats. They’ll be a little touch and grabby, but nothing too horrible. Then they’ll pick a toy from the A-frames for some fun on the floor.”
“After that,” Zeke said, glancing down at Sco
tt’s hard-on and gesturing over his shoulder, back to the mysterious harness with feathers and orchids, “you’re free to go—or come—as you please.”
Chapter Nineteen:
Claim
I’m not done with you yet, he’d said.
It hadn’t sounded like him, or it was a side of him Savannah hadn’t heard before, his voice filled with compassion and love but utterly bereft of compromise. Granted, she hadn’t known him that long. But those were control words, spoken from a position of power. Scott had made a decision regarding her, without consulting her.
She knew she could take it all away with a word of her own. A very small word that would undo everything and keep her safe. All she had to do was say it.
Not yet. See what happens.
All about her, the thing that was happening was sex. Out on the floor, on the blankets and bean bag recliners—God, she’d never sit on one of those things again—in partners and groups, with toys and without, it was like the Great Sea of Fucking out there. The toys came from the racks behind her, which many of The Select went directly to after first paying her and Scott a “ministration”.
All who came to the stage chose one or the other, Savannah or Scott, but not both. Those who chose Savannah went first to Rusty, and those who chose Scott went first to Zeke. Scott’s friends cradled ceramic jars in their hands, each filled with the accelerant oil that melted away the pain and prevented swelling and scarring. The Select came, one by one, dipped two fingers into the oil and applied it to the hurts on their bodies, rubbing it in slowly, thoroughly, to just one place: back or buttocks, and arm or a leg, the base of the neck. They said nice things, introduced themselves, and ogled them with unashamed pleasure.
Then they went to the racks. Many of the toys were already in play. The beaters were hard at work with various floggers and especially paddles—some leather, some wooden, some with holes in them. One of the female subs, held aloft by her arms and legs, whimpered as her Dom dripped fresh-melting wax from a lit candle onto her chest and sex. Not far from that spectacle, Savannah saw Corky attach clamps with small leaden weights to another man’s nipples and scrotum.
