Sorority 4 Salon

Tuesday morning, I awake both spent and refreshed after my Nyx dream.

My first class isn't until noon and I linger over breakfast. Aiko joins Ysabeau and me at one of the small tables. Without over-sharing too much personal detail, we each describe our experience with Nyx while Aiko takes notes for the study she's interning on. Bottom line, we all had very pleasant -- and completely memorable -- dreams.

"Better than with that bastard!" I mutter with emphasis on '

bastard

.' Of course, not even I take the '

better

' part seriously.

Laila a Junior sociology major and our resident dhampir expert, joins us. "Don't let them get to you," she sympathizes. "That's the way they are. No feelings for us at all. Nada. Zip. They just feed off us for their longevity, for their power, and for the high they crave."

Most often, she explains, "Dhamps prefer women who are at the peak of their fertility cycle. I guess we're somehow tastier," she adds with a sardonic laugh.

"Not as tasty as virgins though," Aiko adds, "They just love virgins. Too bad for them that virgins are few and far between these days."

"But why..." I begin to ask.

Laila cuts me off, she knows what I'm asking, "Dhampirs are always male. Always. They reproduce by fathering children on women like us. If you birth a dhamp child, he will be a boy, and he won't give a damn about you. Ever.

You'll raise him, nurture him, and care for him. Then when he reaches puberty, he'll run off to join one of their covens and you'll never see him again. So far, we've identified more than a dozen covens, all in big cities, all with a multiple dhamps. The largest is in New York -- Manhattan -- with six or seven.

"They show no interest at all in the woman they impregnate. Nor in the children they father -- at least not 'till their teens. They're like those birds that lay eggs in some other bird's nest for them to raise."

"Which is why we have our little in-house infirmary," adds Ysabeau.

It all clicks together in my mind. The green bindi dots mark sisters who are off the pill and at the peak of their fertility -- in other words, the

tasty

girls.

Copy that. As soon as I return to my room I'm going to log in to my Phi-Delt account and book an appointment with Mrs. Makeda to remove my implant. And obtain a supply of morning-after pills.

Sure, someday, I suppose I'll want to have a baby. I'll want to be a mom and have my own family. But not now. And never with a dhampir as the father.

"DeeDee told me they're the origin-story for vampires, but if they don't suck peoples blood...?"

"Oh, that was the stupid church," declares Ysabeau. "You know how priests and bishops feel about sex. And women!

"They couldn't very well warn village girls to beware of handsome, gorgeous men who might possibly love them to death, or worse, get them pregnant without the church's official 'honor, obey, and tithe,' marriage blessing."

"Yeah," chimes in Laila. "The church invented that whole blood-sucking myth. And also the notion that a cross -- particularly a gold cross -- will somehow provide protection. They've been running that marketing ploy for a millennium. Create a fear that women can diminish by buying trinkets they don't need. Madison Avenue is just playing catch-up."

"But how dangerous are they, really? I ask. "I saw the security guys hanging around last night."

"Well, when we're receiving dhamps the security guys are mostly for Raphael," explained Laila. "You know, the blond one. His self-control doesn't exist -- and he's into violence."

"If Raphael chooses me -- or you -- there's nothing we can do once he breathes his pheromones into our face." states Aiko with a serious expression. "If he looses it, and if we're able to keep it together enough to call for help, the security guys will come running. But if we can't call for Cassie, well, that's the risk we take."

* * *

The next day I take the elevator down to the basement where the infirmary is located. It's small but well equipped. Neat, clean, cozy -- welcoming.

I usually feel tense in medical offices, yet Mrs. Makeda quickly sets me at ease. I was wrong about her, she's not intimidating at all. Yes, she's quick and efficient, but she's also non-judgmental.

It only takes her a few minutes to remove my implant under local anesthetic. In a month or so, she informs me, my periods should resume.

Oh, frabjous joy, back to surfing the crimson tide as Alice Silverstone once put it. Tampons and maxipads, cramps and mood swings.

Mrs. Makeda suggests I consider an IUD, but she shows no surprise when I decline because it might diminish my

tastiness

. She doesn't ask why. She's clearly of the,

My body my decision

school. Cool.

The sorority has some way to order bulk purchases early-pregnancy tests and morning-after pills. As a licensed RN, she can dispense them. And I hope that if necessary she might be willing to perform a discreet first-trimester abortion in the infirmary -- no need for a public clinic or dodging hate-filled religious fanatics.

But I'll cross that bridge only if I come to it.

* * *

Thursday evening is the first Phi-Delt salon of the semester. I'm wearing my new, deep blue cocktail dress, matching heels, a fabulous white-silk scarf around my neck, and Gram's pearl earrings. Stunning, if I do say so myself.

Some of the dozen or so guests arrive on foot by the front door. For those who wish a bit more discretion, we've cleared the basement garage so they can drive down, park, and come up the elevator to the main floor.

This first salon is

informal

, meaning mingling and circulating cocktail-party style, rather than a speaker or pre-set issue for a structured discussion. There's an open bar, and the lounge is set up with freestanding drink tables that people can gather around. Along the walls are smaller two-person deuces for quiet conversations.

It's all friendly and convivial with initial introductions and circulation. All but two of the guests are women, soon everyone sorts themselves out into what are clearly their usual cliques. Each one, of course, including attentive and well-dressed Phi-Delt sisters.

As a first-year

baby

and lowly Sophomore, I don't want to come off as pushy or show-off. For now, my strategy is to be seen (and admired), ask a couple of cogent questions, and listen attentively to the learned responses of the great minds. And thereby become known and accepted at future events, and recognized if encountered on campus.

The science circle jargon-barriers are impenetrable to a non-initiate like me so I quickly move on. Business is my major, and maybe law afterwards if I can get a scholarship, so among the B-School crowd I find my comfort zone.

By nine, though, I'm ready to think about some Vitamin-F. Others are too, I see. Guests and sisters begin pairing off for more personal

tete-et-tetes

.

We can choose whether or not we want to invite someone up to our room so long as they're not currently our professors or the department heads of our major -- that's

verbotten

. We're not allowed to ask for anything, nor are they permitted to give us gifts of any sort. Rules not to be broken.

But in a world where

who

you know is as important as

what

you know, acquaintance and goodwill are coins of the realm for grad-school recommendations, scholarships, and careers.

I've had my eye on a decent-looking guy hanging out with the humanities set. Middle-aged, to be sure, but with a full head of hair and neither decrepit nor too overweight. Though he's probably still in his mid-40s, his hair and full, well-trimmed beard are completely silver-white. He smiles a lot and seems relaxed and confident. To myself, I think of him as

Silver Fox

.

Casually, I stroll across his line of sight. On my second pass, he smiles and I smile back. The third time, he takes his cue, stepping away from his clique to ask me if I'd like a drink.

He fetches a nice Napa Valley cabernet from the bar and guides me to a little table for two near the front window. Clearly, he's not terrified of being seen in the company of a good looking young woman. A good sign.

It turns out he's chair of the Sociology Department. Married, but not excessively so. His wife is a dean at the local community college and she's at a social function of her own.

"You're one of the new sisters, I take it? How are you settling in?"

Quite well, I assure him. "I've met so many interesting people already."

I ask him if he's participated in previous Phi-Delt salons and he lets me know he's been a regular for years. Another good sign.

He confirms his interest and intent by complimenting me on my looks. It's obvious he wants to take me up to my room and bed me, but unlike the studly undergrads who strut across campus like self-appointed gods, he's patient enough -- and self-confident enough -- to wait for some sign from me without pushing.

Still, I'm hesitant. I mean, who is this guy, really? We continue with the normal exchange of hobbies and interests until he mentions -- somewhat diffidently as if it's not entirely manly -- that he enjoys ballroom dance. Bingo!

But then I wonder? Is he any good, or is he just BS-ing me?

"Our rec room upstairs is built for dancing," I inform him with a grin. "And we've got a wicked sound system."

"Yes, I know," he replies, "I'm quite familiar with it. Care for a waltz?"

We take the stairs up to the rec room which we have all to ourselves. He's clearly familiar with the system's digital menu. But rather than selecting

Danube, Swan

, or one of the other cliched standards, he surprises me with the orchestral-only version of Mancini's

Moon River

.

It's slow and romantic, he's deft, sure, and confident in his lead. I melt comfortably into his arms. The smooth way he handles and controls me begins to turn me on.

Throwing caution to the wind, I abruptly break step and pause, gazing into his eyes. He looks quizzical but says nothing -- waiting for my cue. Slowly, silently, with studied grace, I remove the white-silk scarf from around my neck, fold it into a narrow band, hold it up before my eyes, and then turn my back to him.

Without a word he takes it from my hands and ties it off, blindfolding me. He turns me in place, takes me his arms, and we're off again, gliding and swirling around the floor. With silent, subtle touch he guides and controls completely.

Though I'm now totally reliant on him, I feel safe and secure as he spins, dips, and dominates me. My breasts are tingling and I'm wet and getting wetter. When our bodies brush, I can feel his erection.

The music fades to its end. Silently, he leads me off the floor. I don't remove the blindfold. I can tell he's taking me into the elevator. "Lark," I softly whisper as the car rises, trusting that he'll understand that I'm identifying my room.

As a

newbie

first-year, I'm on the top residential floor. Phi-Delta rooms aren't numbered -- so crass -- instead they're named. Top floor newbie rooms are songbirds, next floor down for second-years are flowers, and gems are for the Seniors on the lowest residential floor. Hence

Lark

.

He guides me down the hall and into my room which unlocks automatically because I have my fob in the clutch purse. I hear the door close and latch behind us. Like most men, he's taller than I, even when I'm wearing heels. Without a word, he embraces me and bends me back. He kisses me thoroughly -- but not roughly.

His kiss is long and deep. He maneuvers me so that my back is pressed up against the solid wood door. I'm pinned. Captured. Thrilled. Excited.

He releases his kiss and inches back a bit so that one of his hands can caress, stroke, and cup my sensitized breasts that are rising and falling with my every breath. His nimble fingers stroke and play with my aureole beneath dress and bra. As he draws tantalizing circles around my nipples they harden at his touch.

As if continuing the waltz, I'm still completely under his control, though now I'm trembling with arousal. His gentle touch instructs me to turn. Instantly I obey. Though still blindfolded, I can feel my breath against the door just an inch from my face.

Unwilling to risk breaking his magic spell that holds me in mental bondage, I make no sound. My silent obedience is my unspoken consent.

Wordlessly, tenderly, he unhooks my dress and slowly draws the zipper all the way down to the sash. He slides the garment off my shoulders and down to my narrow waist, encumbering my wrists and exposing my breasts encased in a black lace demi-bra.

His hands caress my hips, roam my waist and womb, and then untie the white sash so that he can push the dress down until it falls to the floor. He runs his two hands down my hips and flanks and then begins to caress them up my inner thighs.

"Ohhh," I gasp as his palm strokes my mons, and his agile fingers caress my female apex still guarded by thin, filmy fabric. I twist and writhe in pleasure. My breathing is fast, I'm limp with desire, and remain utterly in his power.

Again he turns me so that I'm facing him. His two hands touch the tops of my shoulders, and obedient to his silent command, I sink to my knees before him on the thick rug. I bow my head in submission, awaiting his bidding.

"Remove my shoes." The first actual words he's spoken since we entered the rec room a lifetime ago. His voice is soft, but compelling.

Able to see nothing at all through my blindfold, by touch and feel I do as he commands.

By sound and his small movements, I know he is removing his jacket and shirt and tossing them aside. Without further instruction I locate his waist with my fingers, unbuckle his belt, remove his trousers, and then his shorts -- boxers, not briefs.

I know that his erect phallus must be right in front of my face.

"Take off your bra."

I straighten my back, reach behind me to undo the hooks, and then push the thin straps off my shoulders. I let it fall away and I feel my full throbbing breasts spring free, jutting out, the air cool on my erect, rock-hard nipples.

He places the palm of his big hand behind my head and tenderly pulls me forward towards where I know his erect mating shaft waits. "Kiss me."

My lips touch him. He's firm and hard. I lick it, slowly. He's clean with a faint aftertaste of soap. Carefully, I encircle it with my lips, tasting the salty precum. I take him into my mouth, licking and sucking, my head moving slowly up and down on him.

I know that he's gazing down on me as I kneel before him. I caress, fondle, and stimulate my breasts as I service him. Erotic thrills surge through me.

His hips move in rhythm with me. He twists and tangles his fingers in my long locks to control and command my motion and I know he's about to cum.

His warm, salty, slimy, semen gushes into my throat and slides down towards my belly. Trembling with my own desire, I swallow his offering. When he completes and begins to relax, I back off of him, swallowing the last of his seed.

Bowing my head in submission, I fold my hands over my womb and await his command. Neither of us moves for several minutes, though I'm still almost quivering with sexual tension yearning for release, we simple exist in perfect harmonious silence with each other.

Then he places his hands on top of my shoulders and slides them slowly down to my elbows. He raises me up until I'm again standing in front of him in heels, panties, stockings and garter belt.

By the slightest of touches, as if we're still on the dance floor, he commands me to turn so that I'm once again facing away from him, towards the wall, though farther from it this time.

From behind me, his palms caress my nude belly and draws me back against him. His erection is returning, hardening against my spine. Though I am breathing fast and yearn to have it thrusting inside me, I wait in silence so as not to break the mystic force that binds me in thrall to him.

His hands roam at will over my breasts and belly, across my womb, down to my delta and mons, his fingers again stroking my sopping wet panties and my cleft beneath.

His hands are big. Warm. Soft. They slowly caress upward, cup, and lift my out-thrust breasts. He squeezes them gently. His fingers tease and play with my nipples which are already as hard and erect as they can possibly be.

"Ahhhhh," I purr in sensual, submissive pleasure. Silently, I wait for him to lay me out on the bed and ravish me.

He takes my hand and leads me forward towards where I know my bed awaits.

He embraces me and rotates the both of us. I know that my bed must be just behind me now. The tips of my hard, sensitive nipples rub against his chest. He pulls me close for a long, deep kiss.

His tongue plays erotic games with mine, and I feel his hard rod pressed against my belly. Soon he will impale me on it and pump his sperm into my womb. I tremble with eager need.

He puts his hands against my shoulders and gently pushes so that I fall backwards on to the bed with my arms stretched out behind me. He grips my panties and with a hard yank rips them off, lifting me up enough to slide me a bit on the mattress so that my apex is positioned right at the edge.

He pauses, and though all I can see is a soft white glow through the blindfold, I know for certain that he is gazing down between my open thighs at my female core that is now wet and eager for his penetration.

He lifts up and spreads my legs, holding my thighs against his ribs as he moves forward to ease the tip of his spear between my nether lips. "Ohhhh," I moan in surrender and acceptance.

I can hear him breathing harder as he pushes deeper into me. This position allows his hard rod, wet with my erotic juices, to caress my button with each thrust and withdrawal, sending bolts of erotic electricity arcing through me.

Without conscious thought I move my hands to my bare breasts and begin to caress them and stimulate by nipples as he pounds himself into me. "Ah, ah, ah," I gasp over and over again as erotic waves surge through me.

I know that the contraceptive hormones from my now-removed implant have not yet had time to dissipate from my system so there's no chance of him impregnating me. But somehow its absence creates a sense of daring, a thrill of wickedness that I haven't felt since the night of my 15th birthday when I tossed away my virginity -- followed the next day by an immediate visit to the free clinic to get on the pill.

Without the benefit of sight, I am far more sensitive to our bodies. I sense that he's about to climax. I let myself go and reach my peak just as I feel the throb of his shaft pumping his semen into my womb. "Yes! Yes! Yes!" I shriek.

Later, we lie together on the bed, his arms around me. I'm satiated, and sensuously fulfilled. Okay, again, he wasn't Nathaniel, but he did fine -- and such a good dancer!

We assure each other that it had been great in all respects, but we really don't have anything more to say, and now I just want to shower and go to sleep.

He's nice, and I know I'll want to dance with him again sometime -- and enjoy sex with him too. But I'm not in love with him, nor am I interested in any kind of ongoing relationship. I sense that he feels the same way.

It's awkward though. How do I let him know it's time for him to take his leave without hurting him, or appearing callous?

I silently shift and twist just the tiniest bit in his arms. Like the superb dancer that he is, he reads me perfectly. No doubt he's been having similar thoughts.