Sorority 6 Social

Sorority 6: Social

The next morning, I laze in bed with the quilt drawn up to my chin, unwilling to rise or face the day. I had slept poorly, my dreams filled with terror and pain, my bruises aching whenever I shifted position.

But now, in the pale light of morning I do manage to recall that Hero had been sweet and gentle. In a way, his love-making had been healing. Yet, while me-on-top provides marvelous physical pleasure, it simply doesn't provide the emotional thrill that willing submission to domination by a powerful alpha male gives me.

What I crave is a stallion who I am helpless to resist. A man who takes, conquers, ravishes, and breeds me -- but without violence of any sort. I am terrified and repelled by violence, threatened or actual. Yet I am excited by a male who can sexually dominate me by his physical strength and emotional power alone.

Yes, yes, tell the truth and shame the devil, a dominated-damsel is my personal kink.

Sometimes I wonder if my proclivities are in some way pathological? No doubt many women would consider them so -- some of my Phi-Delt sisters included. If they knew, they'd scold and lecture me at length about my moral and social duty to be a strong powerful woman rejecting the patriarchy.

Which I truly am down with -- except in bed.

In my Freshman year, I'd briefly considered going into therapy. Probably because of that inane Psych-101 course that every student is required to endure. But I was never abused or mistreated as a child -- quite the contrary -- and I have no history of trauma or PTSD to uncover and confront.

Until Raphael, I hadn't seen any risk in my kink. Now my naive assumptions of personal safety are utterly obliterated. I need to be a lot more careful about who I hook up with -- and under what conditions.

But subbing is what turns me on. I like it. Why should I amputate that part of my life just because of one brutal, inhuman, asswipe?

The minutes, though, keep ticking away on that damn clock by my bedside. By now I should be down in the gym finishing my dawn workout. But the prospect of facing my Phi Delt sisters fills me with anxiety. I want to avoid them -- yet I know that hiding out will make things worse.

With a sigh of resignation, I roll out of bed and stand. Pains and aches in places I never knew existed forcefully call themselves to my attention. I'm stiff, sore, unsteady on my feet, and it hurts to swallow.

I glance at the full-length mirror affixed to the sliding door of my room's large closet.

Oh! My! God!

A horrid black eye, bruises darkening across my throat, swollen nose, disfiguring scrapes and abrasions on my face, and more ugly bruises marring my arm. I look like some pathetic, woebegone, rape-victim. Well, okay, yes, true that.

But God damn it to hell, I won't be pathetic!

I do what I can with makeup, but there's no hiding the facial damage. I put on my long-sleeve workout sweats and loop a scarf around my neck to hide the bruising. Since I'm not dressing for the day, and probably can't manage heels, I just slide my feet into flip-flops and reluctantly take the elevator down to the 2nd floor alcove where my sisters -- and my fate -- await.

Sisters with early classes have already left. Only Anais, Yael, DeeDee and Laila are still dawdling over breakfast. All four of them had been in the lounge the evening before, all of them had seen me taken away by Raphael. They're clearly waiting for me -- waiting to see if I dare show my cheating face.

"Oh, no!" DeeDee gasps when she see me. She jumps up and throws her arms around me in a gentle, delicate hug that shows her awareness that beneath my concealing sweats I'm bruised, battered and beaten.

The others swarm around me, offering sympathy and support. None of them mention my black eye or abused face, but I can see that they're horrified.

Nor do any of them say anything about me rocking a phony bindi dot to falsely claim that I was at peak fertility. Not even Laila -- or maybe especially not Laila -- who had been the third real bindi-girl last night. Raphael surely would have taken her, had I not cheated.

"Selene, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry he attacked you," Laila assures me over and over. Her voice is strained with guilt that I had suffered a brutal rape that might have fallen on her had I not been selected instead.

"He knew," I admit with a hard, painful swallow. "As soon as he kissed me, he knew I wasn't fertile. He could taste it, or smell it, or something. That's why he blew up. It was my fault. He wouldn't have hurt you."

"Bull! Shit!" retorts Anais in her Mistress of Revels voice. "Nothing you did, or didn't, do excuses or justifies him. Nothing. I won't hear of it. He violated you. He violated the Rule of 'No.' He violated Rule 4B. Am I understood? Not. Your. Fault!"

Grateful for her judgment, I silently nod assent.

Yael and DeeDee agree. Laila perhaps be a bit less vehemently, but what seems to interest her most is my confirmation that dhampirs can somehow sense female fertility.

Laila and DeeDee depart for classes leaving me with Anais and Yael who tell me that Matron banned Raphael for the rest of this school year. I'm relieved that he won't be showing up anymore, that I won't have to face him ever again -- or, at least, not for a good long while.

They inform me that I wasn't the first, or even the second, sister that Raphael had brutalized and raped. The last time had been four or five years ago. Neither of them knew the details, but Raphael had been banned before.

"At the end of the school year, the sisters who..." Anais hesitates for a second and then continues "... are open to social relations with dhamps will vote on whether to reinstate him."

The light dawns. Those who found dhamps sexually irresistible would decide if they wanted to risk Raphael using his mind-melt breath on them.

Damn-straight, I intend to vote NO!

By now I was coming to understand that among the sisters there are two -- well, not exactly factions, but say rather leanings -- those who are attracted to dhampirs and those who are repulsed by them. Among the Seniors who are all chapter officers, Anais, Aiko, and DeeDee are bindi-dot sisters, so I know which group they favor. Matron, Yael, and Mom, are not.

Among the Juniors, Ysabeau, Laila, and Innocencia, are bindi girls, Annell, Audra, and Gamin are not. Among us babies I'm not yet sure -- not even about me after Raphael.

Later, I'm alone with DeeDee in the lounge and I ask her about being taken by Raphael the night that Nate spurned me.

"You looked so eager and content as he led you away on his chain. How did you handle him?"

"Handle him? Phhhft! I didn't handle him. No one resists dhamp mind-melt. But even if they allow it fade, by then the sex is so incredible I don't want to stop. Not even with Raphael. Yeah, he's always rough, but it's worth some minor aches and bruises the next day. But not what he did to you!"

She pauses and then adds, "I can't believe you had the strength of will to call Cassie for help. I know I wouldn't have been able to."

I laze around the house all day in my sweats. No way am I going to classes looking like this. So I spend the afternoon in my room, catching up on course work and getting ahead on reading assignments.

I also search the U's online course catalog for self-defense classes. Of men's competitive martial arts classes there are plenty. And all sorts of women's athletics, volleyball, gymnastics, even synchronized swimming. But self-defense for women? Nada. Bupkis. Zilch.

Men -- feh!

Okay, sure, I do some Tai-Chi. I love it, it's wonderful for conditioning, balance, and grace. But it's worthless for fending off a rapist. At least it is for five foot four, lightly-built me.

I search the web for, 'self-defense weapons for women,' only to discover that they're all essentially useless against any attacker who is already right next to -- or on top of -- me.

On campus or the street I'm carrying a purse. I might be able to pull out a pepper spray or some other weapon -- or at least yell for help.

But in a bedroom, my purse will be over on the table. And even if it's near to hand, a male attacker will be fast enough and strong enough to twist whatever weapon I grab for out of my grip and use it against me.

At dinner later that evening, I query the other sisters. They're all over the map -- mace, taser, keychain-alarm, kubaton, karate, Krav Maga, be careful, don't go out alone at night, don't do this, don't do that. Audra even suggests carrying a pistol, though she refuses to say if she herself does.

Except for Annell and Audra who have been taking Krav Maga classes, no one admits to actually carrying or training with any of what they suggest. I suspect that most of them are just like me, relying on hope and prayer that they'll never be in danger or have to defend themselves.

That's no longer good enough for me. Not by a long chalk.

More and more I'm coming to appreciate Cassie. But she's only present here in the P-D house, what if I'm out on a date, or walking across campus at night, or with someone in his apartment?

Shit! This sucks!

* * *

I ditch all my classes for the rest of the week and hide out at the Phi-Delt house while my bruises evolve into ugly, deep purple-black, blemishes. I keep up with the reading and other coursework and manage to obtain class notes from sisters and friends.

Friday is the first social of the season with frat boys and grad students, but I stay in my room. Not only don't I want to be seen, I don't want to flirt, or deal with, or have anything at all to do with males of any age, shape, or size.

The following week I do return to campus wearing long-sleeve outfits and a neck scarf to hide the ugly -- now yellowing -- bruise on my neck where Raphael jammed the metal slave-collar against my throat.

Similarly dressed, I also come down to the drawing room for Thursday salon. It's an 'educational' evening, two speakers contrasting and debating modern versus classical art and music. Oh, so much a humongous bore.

To my disappointment, the Silver Fox is a no-show. The only reason I remain through the discussion is to pick up some buzz words and general concepts that I can toss around should I ever need to display some faux cultural sophistication.

The thing is -- I admit it -- I'm still gun-shy about flirting with, or being around, men who I don't know and trust. Yet I'm also beginning to suffer from vitamin-F deficiency. If I'm not going to allow that asshole Raphael to dominate my life, then I've got to get a grip and force myself to return to normal.

* * *

The following Friday is another social. I wear a new, bodycon cocktail dress in jet black polyester/spandex, with a tight thigh-length skirt, a scoop neckline that emphasizes my bust, and long lace sleeves. With the onset of chill autumn weather I now regularly wear panty hose or black tights, but for social occasions it's sheer stockings and garter belt.

With defiant determination to be who I am (and conceal the last remnant of bruising), I clasp a black-lace choker around my neck -- with no small amount of trepidation because, of course, it's a symbolic slave collar.

Since they're public events, socials are always held in the large, ground-floor drawing room with its arched, bay windows. As a Phi-Delt newbie, I'm required to welcome the early guests so that the Junior and Senior sisters can promenade down the stairs for fashionably late entrances to appreciative audiences.

Revels is also present, of course, both to instruct us babies, and to block entry by anyone who is persona non grata due to past boorish behavior.

As is apparently the usual case, the early-arrivers are all undergrad frat boys who head straight for the beer kegs. But within an hour the room is crowded by almost all of our sisters and more than twenty male guests.

Those gathered around the kegs and the open bar are boisterous, and the dance floor is filled with couples gyrating to a heavy beat.

Fortunately, our sound-system is tuned to a decibel level allowing for the possibility of conversation in the adjacent dining room and foyer. A half-hour later, I'm chatting -- well, sort of flirting -- with a good looking civil-engineering grad student.

Even in my heels, he's taller than me, most men are. He told me his name, but I think of him as Builder. By now, as the clock approaches 11, the press is beginning to thin as couples depart for the remainder of the evening -- No boys allowed above the first floor -- after all.

Slowly, carefully, Builder maneuvers me so that I'm pinned by his presence against a tall bookcase. He leans in for a kiss, but I turn my head, denying him my lips.

Gently, deliberately, allowing me time to refuse, he gathers a handful of my long blond locks and tenderly pulls so that my face tilts up for a light kiss. I neither flinch, nor resist.

I press my palm against his chest as if to push him back, but really just to touch him. He's solid and well built.

"Do you work out?" I ask as I again turn my face away from his kiss while leaving my palm resting on his hard chest.

"Some" he responds with a grin. "Mainly I fence. I'm on the team."

I pretend to shudder. "Oh, that sounds so violent, so brutal."

"No, not at all. Violence and brutality are for the weak. Fencing is like dancing. Thrust and parry. Skill and discipline. Art and grace."

My heart leaps. I assume (hope) that he's referencing more than one kind of sword -- and that he's not just telling me what I want to hear. I allow him to embrace and kiss me without demur, softly at first and then harder. His tongue touches mine and an electric jolt of sensual thrill flashes through me.

"Why don't we go somewhere quieter," he suggests when we pause.

I hesitate. I know what he's asking. One part of me is eager. The other part is scared. Scared and queasy. That unburied pain and terror, humiliation and shame, inflicted on me by Raphael is still roiling just below the surface of my thoughts.

And as an added and unwanted bonus, just yesterday my first moon days since removing my implant had completed their unwelcome course. Hello again maxipads, tampons, and Midol. Still...

The wind-blown drops of a cold October rain are ticking against the window. "I don't know, it's raining pretty hard."

"I'll bring my car around. I know a great little place with a river view and a warm, cozy fire."

If I weren't a townie, I'd assume he was referring to some off-campus pub or lounge. But from the look in his eye and his vague description, I'm pretty sure he means Breedloe's Cabins. With leaf-peeping season winding down and holiday travel not yet begun, no reservation will be needed, not even on a Friday night.

Breedloe's. Detached cabins surrounded by trees in a half-empty complex. Do I trust him? Is he another Raphael? How can I tell? Will anyone hear me if I scream?

"Come on," he emotionally pushes me, "we'll have a good time and I'll bring you back safe and sound. Promise."

With a surge of excitement -- and more than a pinch of anxiety -- I submit to his insistence.

While he darts out into the rain to fetch his ride, I dash up to my room where I change my heels for knee-high, brown leather boots with two and half inch block heels. ///

By the time Builder is honking in front of the house, I'm waiting in the foyer wearing a dark blue wool cape with arm-slits and gothic hood. It's a bit longer than my skirt, falling almost to my knees.

His small, two-door sedan is a few years old, but it's grad-student presentable and looks to be in good shape. I sprint out into the chill, hard rain, the drops stinging my face and beading on the blended wool of my cape.

He leans across the passenger seat to open the door and I quickly settle into place as off we go. The rain slants down, splattering against the windshield, the headlight beams illuminate leaves blowing across the road, and the wipers slap in time to modern jazz from the campus radio station -- one of J.D Allen's pieces, I think.

I'm not surprised when he takes Old River Road out of town, away from the bars and pubs where students usually congregate. After a few minutes, I relax a bit, he's a good driver and his ride handles well on the dark, wet, wind-blown pavement.

With easy grace he steers with his left hand while placing his right palm on my stocking-clad leg between the top of my boot and the hem of my cape.

A warm, sensuous, tingle of anticipation glows through me. Nevertheless, I push his hand away, though it's clear to both of us that I don't really mean it. A moment later he touches my leg again and gently caresses my thigh with his long, strong fingers.

I abandon even pro-forma pretense of resistance. Without a word, I've surrendered myself to him -- I know it and he knows it too.

There's almost no traffic, and it doesn't take long to reach Breedloe's. The foyer is empty except for the clerk. I wait demurely in the car while Builder registers and obtains the key -- though not without a twinge of apprehension. What am I getting myself into? What if he's another Raphael?

In a strange, contrarian sort of way though, my anxiety is sexually arousing. Until now, I've never understood the thrill of high-stakes gambling. Now I'm trusting my life to a strange man in a secluded cabin -- after having been brutally raped by a different man. Stupid? Psychotic? Insane? Probably, but also thrilling.

The one-room cabin is neat, well kept, and chilly. Builder doesn't turn on the lights, but he starts up the electric heater built into the wall. His familiarity with the room tells me he's been in Breedloe cabins before -- as have I.

Tenderly he embraces, and softly kisses me. He pushes the cape's hood off my head and then delicately releases its two clasps, his fingers brushing against my sensitive breasts. A soft sigh of contentment, surrender, and submission escapes from my lips.

I allow him to position me so that I'm looking out the window at the dark rain and the windswept river. While I wait, passively gazing at the dim twinkling lights on the far shore, he finds an eight-inch wooden match on the mantle and lights the kindling and logs already laid in the small fireplace, followed by several large, aromatic candles.

I smile. Breedloe does know his clientele.

The cabin is quite small, and the heater and fire are already warming it up nicely -- or maybe I'm warming up all on my own. Builder turns me in place and kisses me again, harder, bending me over backward while holding me safe and secure in his embrace as I submit to his strength and power.

"Take off your boots," he commands.

Hitching up my tight skirt to expose the lacy top of my stocking, I place one foot on a chair rung and slowly draw down the zipper. Like a Hollywood stripper, I sensuously remove first one then the other.

The boot heels had given me extra height, and now as I stand smaller before him, the loss of height increases my sense of vulnerability and powerlessness.

He lifts my hands up to his chest and I know he wants me to remove his blazer, which I do, stroking my fingers across his firm torso.

He kisses me again, long and slow. Then slowly, tenderly, begins caressing his hands down from my shoulders, along the lace sleeves covering my arms, then roaming over my body, my breasts, my belly, my hips.

He lays his palm against my womb. He doesn't try to lift my skirt, but I know -- and accept -- that he is physically and symbolically taking possession of me. As I desire him to do.

"Remove your dress."

I turn my back to him and lift my long blond locks off my neck while bowing my head submissively so that he can unhook the top, and start the zipper down to where it's convenient for me reach.

Then I turn to face him and with my hand behind my back slowly draw the zipper all the way down to below my slender waist. I shrug and twist a bit, then push the garment off my arms so that it slides off my body and drops to the floor.