Two more bit crisply in across the lower buttocks and she was gratified, after a second, to see the body jerk, the rounds cringe in. This was most promising. The woman’s breath was coming stertoriously. She decided to drive home her advantage verbally, though, in fact, the other had corrected her position immediately.
‘Come on, arch your back and stick it out. I’ve only given you three. You have exactly six more to come.’
Pfffuitt!
She felt the full force of the fourth travel through her arm as it met the rubbery flesh. Nancy Kale gasped at once, her hands leaving her neck and rubbing together frantically a second before she recovered herself and put them back.
‘What!’ scoffed Aramilla. ‘Is the ickle girl going to cry?’
‘You don’t have to taunt me. Just get on with the beating.’
‘You haven’t had half yet.’
‘Cane me.’ Then came a word Aramilla had been longing for since the first moment she had started this rigorous training – ‘Please.’
Together with the sight of the squirming buttocks it affected her so deeply she hissed aloud and one hand went under her skirt to rub vigorously there a moment, until she checked it. Christ! If she wasn’t careful she’d come in a moment, spoil it all.
‘It hurts all the more if you clench’, she called.
‘I can’t help it. That cane stings.’
Aramilla chuckled. The long rod rippled in her hand again, its tip flicking expertly under the bulbous right cheek, the lithe wood eating into the wet stuff there.
‘God! You don’t have to hit me down there.’
Six … seven! Suddenly as she turned for her run after the seventh a throb of joy flickered through Aramilla’s well-cushioned chest. The game games mistress had taken the full swing across her meaty bottom stoically, as before. But now she was standing miserably clasping her posteriors, and looking round at Aramilla pleadingly … just like any pledge! It was too good to be true.
‘Get into position right away. You have two more.’
‘You don’t know how that cane hurts, Aramilla.
Give me a minute’s rest, at least.’
‘I know perfectly well, thank you, Miss Kale.
What I didn’t know was that you were a cowardy-cat.’
The grey eyes flared. ‘I’ve still got the bruises from last time, dammit. If you’d hit me higher I could take it. Nobody could be expected …’
‘Get bent. And quickly.’
This was much better than she’d expected. The big mistress moved gratifyingly slowly, hobbled by the thong. Each of the final two cuts extracted a sob that caused a leap in Aramilla’s insides, and when it was over the struggle to undo the strap caused the woman to drop to her knees, rubbing herself intermittently behind as if some viper had stung her there. Watching her, Aramilla found herself panting again, frigging herself fast. With a terrific effort she forced herself to say calmly, ‘For getting up during correction you have extra.’
The mistress turned a pain-filled face back and –
yes – it was smeared with tears.
‘Even you couldn’t be that cruel, Aramilla.’
‘It’s a House rule.’
‘You’ve given me nine. It’s enough. She had struggled off the thong and now tossed it dejectedly aside. Her back was bent; she was a picture of pain.
‘If you knew how much it’s still hurting now, you’d know you don’t need to give me any more.’
‘It’s two for getting up’, said Aramilla in the same controlled, but relentless tone. ‘Four over clothing.’
A sob racked the body kneeling before her.
Suddenly, in despairing decision, the woman started fumbling at the side of her slacks. This was superb; she was crying in earnest now.
‘All right, you win.’ Tearing them down she bent forward on all fours. ‘Do your damnedest to them, go on.’
Aramilla’s dark eyes glowed like an animal’s.
She was unspeakably excited. The whole room seemed filled with her triumph, the buttocks in front of her vast, luridly wealed, somehow medieval in appearance. The nine strokes had bruised them savagely on the right.
For a second she toyed with the idea … the pledge position, kneeling on her hands … then she changed her mind.
‘That’s much better, Miss Kale. It was extremely silly of you not to see reason sooner. But for these last two I want you standing up facing the mirror, if you please. You can kneel down for the worm kiss, after.’
With a sick moan the woman did as bid.
‘Hands above your head and relax your bottom completely.’
The mons was prominent, full of hair, and standing where she was, Aramilla could see how thick in profile the hips now were. She lashed up quickly at their bluish contusions below. Nancy Kale gasped. The girl let her stay that way for some time; the older woman looked ridiculous, even trivial, with her expression of tense anticipation, and her slacks in miserable wrinkles round her ankles. Moreover, her superb seat-cheeks seemed to quiver involuntarily, despite herself, at the idea of another blow.
‘Get it over with, Aramilla.’
‘Ask nicely, and I might.’ She turned the screw with expert fingers.
After a second the word was said, ‘Please.’
With all her strength the girl smacked the whippy stick around the full width of the hips in front of her. The woman’s head went back, she grabbed her cubs, fingers digging into the scored flesh there, and gradually she sank again to her knees.
Surging with queenly pleasure, Aramilla moved.
She stood with her back to the twisted, tear-stricken face and placed her legs comfortably astride.
‘Now’, she said, ‘this time I want a good one. Get your tongue right up and keep it there.’
‘Please, Aramilla. It’s so disgusting.’
‘I promised myself to teach you a lesson you’ll never forget and I mean to do so. Come on, hurry up.’
The mistress approached her face. Her broad forehead raised the tail of the grey jersey skirt behind and with the expression of a child approaching a pint of castor oil she pressed her face near to the tender curves above.
‘Keep your hands at your back, mind.’
Once started, there was no stopping. Aramilla stirred at the first snakelike thrust. With one hand she fingered herself lushly in front.
‘What’s wrong now?’
‘I can’t. It’s utterly impossible. It’s … far too tight.’
‘Here, let me help. Like that. Now go on. Don’t shirk. Yes that’s better. Yes. Yes. Yes. Right up, and k-k-k … hell!’
When she came back from the bathroom the older woman was dressed, made up, and standing impersonally by the door.
‘Once again you were merciless, Aramilla’, she said evenly. ‘I have to hand it to you. You know how to dish it out. I wonder if you can take it, too?’
‘That’s not a question that need occupy you, Miss Kale.’
‘Next week I have the curse.’
‘Too bad. You’ll have to take double the week after. Our sorority sisters take twice nine.
Alternatively, you can come and try your hand again. I promise not to touch the Tampax tails.’
The woman turned without a word. In the curtained room (‘The Room!’ for her) Aramilla watched her walk stiffly across the campus, her bottom tight, wet and slightly marked with white.
The worm kiss now, she thought, love kiss later.
Nothing short of complete subjugation … with a deep shuddering sigh she said to herself, Well thank God a girl doesn’t have a prostate!
CHAPTER SIX
‘All panties in your purses, Pledges’, was the motto of Sandra Mclllick, statuesque House Matron or pledge trainer, each noon now as the five frosh reported to the Beta Beta Rho house for cleaning chores. For this task each wore skin-tight cut-offs, levis sliced above the knees, a white bra and two shoes, one a sneak and one a high-heeled pump.
They stood to attention in the so-called bum-ro
om in a line of height, Melissa on their right. They looked dead ahead like soldiers on parade, though an occasional blink of the eyes testified to the respect they had developed for the athletic brunette’s ‘board’. Each knew that so complex were the rules of this exclusive sorority she was bound to get a swat or two before being dismissed. Sandra inspected the line, tapping at a taut buttock here and there.
‘All right, rhinies, take off your shoes. Now then, it isn’t far from Hell Night and if any of you want to depledge you’d better do so now. Of course, no other sorority would take you on. Well?’
There was silence in the now barefoot rank.
‘I’m afraid I have to tell you that the actives in the House are getting pretty strict. Our President wants only the best material, and is toughening things up. Next Friday’s paddle line is Soph, and some say they’re always the worst on frosh. They seldom score less than three swats each, and after that I wouldn’t want to be pretty Miss Terry Sands here, with three Demerits to her credit. Rare, medium, and well-done. Fifteen with the birch.
Now: have you all had your paddles signed by the Praelictors? Any signatures still missing?’
‘I lack one’, said Constance Wood quietly.
‘Who?’
‘Mary French-Jones.’
‘Stand out, Connie.’
‘Miss French-Jones … I’m sorry … OW!’ The paddle cracked like a pistol shot, jouncing the fatted rounds.
‘Get it’, said Sandra McIllick, moving to the stairs. Up these she called cheerfully, ‘Mary. You there? Here’s a pledge wants your signature on her paddle.’
‘Oh okay.’ A second later a dark girl came down the stairs, carrying a pen and grinning widely. She took the paddle held out to her, signed her name on its unvarnished wood and grinned. ‘Now I’m going to blot it, n’est-ce-pas, pledge?’
Constance Wood turned round with an unhappy expression and put her hands on her knees. The girl walked away from her five paces. Then she turned and weighed the paddle in her hand.
‘Nice and relaxed, worm.’
She ran forward and brought the board across the spread rump with a slapping crack that took all colour from the watching faces, except that of Matron Sandra. Constance was driven forward by the blow, stumbling. She gasped and clutched herself behind, then turned a screwed-up face …
‘Th-thank you, Praelictor.’ She took the paddle and put it with her things at the side.
‘Anything to oblige’, said Mary French-Jones, taking the stairs up two at a time.
‘Rowena’, said Sandra McIllick when she had gone, ‘you will do the House laundry again this afternoon.’
‘Yes, Miss.’
‘There were one or two complaints about the hose last time. We don’t want that to happen again, do we?’
‘No, Miss.’
‘Assume the position, please.’
Thwlack! Thwlack!
‘Joan Mason, you will scrub out the yard. Teresa, all sinks and baths and toilets, please. Spanking clean. Constance, the wood floors. Melissa, all vacuuming. And the silver.’ She paused. ‘Melissa, I do believe you’re trembling. What’s more, I actually think … oh Good Heavens, I was wondering if it wasn’t going to be the best thing for that stuck-up nose of yours to have it on the floor, only I now see it’s up to keep back tears!’ She gave a creamy chuckle. ‘Anyone would say you’d just had a bite out of an onion.’
Melissa’s finely shaped body was quivering over all over.
‘I’m s-s-sorry, Miss’, she -breathed.
‘Tears are a luxury we at Beta Beta Rho deny ourselves. Fortitude. Self-control.’ The House Matron’s paddle slapped one muscled thigh, darkly nyloned under the pleated skirt of soft leather that seemed shorter than ever today. The golden BB
fairly shone on her chest. ‘A stuck-up nose usually ends up brown on Hell Friday.’
‘I’m very sorry, Miss, but it’s just that I was put to bed last night. I’m feeling rather sore.’
‘Were you, indeed? By Diney? Have any of the rest of you been “put to bed” as a pledge as yet?’
They mumbled dully, ‘No.’
‘Know what it is?’
Three said no, but Joan Mason answered in the affirmative.
‘Tell the class then, Joanie.’
‘Being “put to bed”’, came back the level response
‘is like, when a pledge is considered … at fault, she has to request permission to remove each garment, and, and each time she gets a cut.’
‘I got two’, said Melissa, who was crying openly now.
‘Melissa!’ snapped the Matron. ‘I thought you knew. In here you only answer when spoken to.’
The short dark head dropped. ‘Beg pardon, Miss.’
‘So you got two each time across that delectable little tushy of yours. I thought it looked to be filling out your jeans more than usual, Pledge. Skirt, girdle, stockings, did you wear a slip?’
‘No, Miss.’
‘Bra and blouse. Mn. Then two each to put on your baby doll and panties, I’ll bet. I can imagine you’re tender, where you sit. But we can’t allow rules to go by the board, can we. Stand out, Melissa, please.’
The sleek dark head fell lower still. ‘Just this time, Miss. Please. I could pay it off tomorrow.’
‘Hurry up.’ This time the brunette cracked the paddle on her side so hard she actually gave a jump.
‘P-p-please.’ She shuffled miserably. ‘I can hardly sit down today.’
‘Against that wall. In the frisk position.’ Then with a wide grin the Matron extended the handle of the paddle to titian-haired Rowena Ricks.
‘Would you do the honours, Pledge, and save me the effort? Three swats for talking out of turn. If you don’t hit as hard as you can, you’ll get six. From me.’
Melissa closed her eyes, leaning forward with parted legs, her hands on the wall. Rowena measured aim at the taut bisected buttocks and slammed the board across them. Melissa squealed, squirming. The second followed as hard and she mashed her hips into the wall. The third belted home and the whining girl jacked up, yelping. They watched her double in agony a moment, then Sandra Mclllick said gently, ‘You let up on the last one, Rowie.’
‘I didn’t have to give her a third. I could tell.
Melly’s bottom is like a beet.’
‘Insubordination is the very worst crime of all, Rowena.’
‘I didn’t mean …’
‘Kneel.’
The redhead obeyed, widening her superbly slothful seat.
‘Stand up. Now when I say kneel, Pledge, drop hard. As if it were the last thing in your life. Now!
Let’s hear it, Rowena.’
The girl dropped with a grimace.
‘Much better. We’ll do some practice kneels after lunch, frosh, and we won’t stop until we’ve skinned those pretty knees of yours. Now then – you can eat.’
The message did not cheer the line. They approached the five plates set on the floor by the wall diffidently. Each girl knelt in front of a plate with her knees on her hands.
‘Hamburgers in castor oil. Cold spaghetti on the side. And I don’t want so much as a spot left on the plates after. Get going.’
The five heads dropped with looks of distaste.
Like dogs they ate without aid, rears in the air.
There was silence in the bum-room, apart from the sound of mastication, and a retch or two.
The House Matron paused behind one pair of jeans.
‘You have a very pronounced vulva, Joan, in that position. And if I’m not mistaken it’s wet.’
‘I’m sorry, Miss. It’s the apprehension. Always gets to me.’
‘Well, let’s end that, shall we.’
Thwlack! The paddle whacked home.
‘That only leaves you, Teresa, who hasn’t tasted the board so far.’
Terry Sands flung back an oil-smeared face that was as ashen as her hair.
Her attitude was an amazing contrast with her first visit to the House, and the sen
ior girl couldn’t help chuckling over it.
‘Please, Miss, please, don’t spank me with the paddle.’
‘I won’t spank you, Teresa, I’ll scorch you, that’s all. Finish up your goodies and then before you start work I’ll see if we can’t tighten out those creases at the edges of your cut-offs, shall we?’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Hell Night came as Hell Night must.
The five frosh Pledges had been left alone, almost pampered, for the few days before it.
‘Like fatted pigs’, said sumptuous Rowena Ricks, tossing her auburn locks out of her eyes. ‘With skin as white as cream for the slaughter.’ She had three Commission Demerits and one Omission to her credit.
‘Well, I got “put to bed” two nights ago’, said Terry Sands, shaking her braid. ‘It’s always after dates.’
‘And don’t tell us the boys don’t know it’, said Connie Wood disgustedly, adjusting her books to balance on her paddle.
‘In these skirts’, said Melissa in the same tone,
‘or should I call them lap-rags? – it’s impossible to get out of a car decently. And if you don’t …’
‘A firm hand on the hem’, said Joan Mason sententiously.
They were all scared stiff, and knew it. Joan, as eldest, had been selected for ‘putting up’ (i.e.
picking) the birches and she wasn’t going to make any mistake about them being good ones.
Sick at heart, and with butterflies as big as bunnies in their stomachs, the five put on their ritual costume that sunny morn – short tennis tunics with nippy little pleated skirts, white for virginity, over taupe nylons tethered breathtakingly taut to thin white panty girdles.
Shiny skyscraper heels. Pinned to each bursting left breast the scarlet button of the sorority – I AM A WORM. With equally crimson cheeks they crossed the shaven Bermuda lawns to the ribald comments of their colleagues.
‘You look scrumptious, Rowena, but I wouldn’t swap bottoms with you tonight for all the tea in China.’
‘Stiff upper lip, Melissa; relaxed lower lip.’
Sorority of Submissive Girls Page 8
