Chapter 3
Specialty of the House
"Th-thank you, Miss Tamura . . . Miss Vestry." Wanda Luckett wore only a baby doll nightie's powder-blue transparent top. She humped over in the palms-on-knees position. "M-miss Humphrey."
Delinda drank the sight like an aged cabernet. Wine-colored weals wavered across Wanda's flexing rump cheeks. Tears dripped slowly down the soph's sorrowful face.
"Missing an organizational meeting means a lot more when there's only fourteen of us. Remember that," Gerry Vestry advised.
Delinda politically pursed her lips to avoid a smirk. She glanced from Wanda's chubby, gowned teddy bear, Lauren Bearcall, to the day-glo pink poster of a dryad and satyr doing a yin-yang coupling.
College gave a girl the opportunity to collect a lot of nice, friendly junk she could treasure. Just now, Delinda treasured the mental snapshot of Wanda's whipped bottom.
Rachel Tamura flicked the cane that had left those classic, twin-tracked punishment welts. She had a sexy tan jumpsuit clinging to her arm-filling shape. "Come on, guys, duty still calls."
Delinda's hard nipples and risen clit wondered whether she could wait for her date later on with Ken. She intended to start the evening with a blitzkrieg fuck, to take the edge off her hunger before dinner. After food and niceties, she'd get down to some serious sex.
Her crepe de chine and lace panties tightened electrifyingly when she threw Wanda a mocking curtsey. She felt ready to start orgasming as she left the girl's room and walked down the Sigma House corridor. "Who's next?"
"Your old sob sister, Donna Nobis." Gerry Vestry led them past doors booming Grateful Dead, The Four Seasons arranged for Japanese koto orchestra, and strident dialogue from The Days of Our Lives.
The three stopped at a door showing Gloria Steinham's black-and-white features grafted atop Brigitte Bardot's heedless Technicolor nudity. The collage pasted to the artboard had been tided "Nouveau Chastity" in Revlon's Fire-and-lce.
"Come in," a pert voice called as Gerry Vestry knocked. They obliged. "What's up?"
The sylphine brunette muted the sound on her five-inch screen TV. Delinda almost exploded with glee. She'd paddywhacked Donna through six heavenly pledge months as the girl's guardian angel.
"Bottoms." The senior's body ached with memories. Punishments administered to the those trim rounds . . . carnal delights explored, some for the very first time. "A panged tush is always in fashion, alas."
"Housekeeping visit," the blonde vice-president announced. "Some scores have piled up, crying for settlement. Miss Humphrey has an urgent need to give you the cane."
Delinda accepted the slim, murderous ashstock from Rachel. She wound it through the air in a slow, swishing fencer's salute.
Donna's liquid brown eyes widened. Her pale coral lips parted with anticipation.
"After you take it from her, Miss Nobis," Gerry Vestry intoned solemnly, "I want you to use it on her rump with a certain controlled violence. Don't be afraid to put some oomph behind your strokes. It'll be half a dozen over panties, and Dee-Dee doesn't break easily."
Humiliation lanced through Delinda. Her lips curved downward. Donna's mischievous grin mocked her.
"After which preparations, we'll see if she's interested in visiting the Training Lounge for a touch of the cowhide. A rather lengthy touch, too."
Rachel folded her arms, her shapely bod brick-solid with muscle. "Time for your medicine, and it's coming by the spoonful."
Delinda's icy fingers presented the exquisitely painful English flogging cane to perky little Donna. She hoped demons would drag Sarah Bothington to Hell and bugger her backwards with broken glass for ever introducing her damned British punishment customs into Sigma.
"May I-may I know the reasons-" The words gagged Delinda as her stomach churned. She needed to know. Perhaps the rat-faced little soph hadn't spilled everything . . .
"While we don't discourage certain-um, physical relationships between girls ..."
So much for sisterly solidarity, Delinda decided. The mmx had reveled in every minute of it-at least, she ought to have.
"Thank you, I-I accept the judgement." Damage control, she thought, rumor damage control. "I'm not really- that way, you know. It was just an-an experiment."
The lithe brunette made a puckery face. "You should have asked, Dee-Dee, so I could have said no."
"Skirts aloft." Gerry Vestry peeked at her plain gold watch. "I have an appointment across the Bay."
"With Maxine?" Delinda couldn't help the comment. Everyone stood around waiting to tan her hide for bending the active-pledge relationship, while those two chomped at the bit to break the strongest Panhellenic rule.
So what's fair? A taunting voice gibbered in her mind as she hauled her light wool skirt up her legs. Static electicity snapped and popped as the cloth grazed her nylons.
"Planning to model those fancy panties for tonight's date?"
"Is it Ron, or Phil, or Hunt?" Donna's spoiled brat inquiry lashed at her. "Hunt has loot, but gets petulant if you don't try his custom-designed drugs, even though some cause liver damage if used more than once in a week."
Delinda's eyes hazed over red. She shut them, feeling the world weave around her. Loud-mouthed little bitch . . .
"I'm dating Ken tonight." She tried to get oxygen back into her brain. "You haven't met him. Hunt, if you must know, has gone up the Amazon on a U.C. Extension tour in search of the giant leech. Contrary to some people's expectations, he's trying to shake the chemical dependencies."
"I'm glad." Gerry Vestry sounded unyielding as a millstone. "Be sure he's succeeded before you invite him around the house."
Delinda never intended to let Ken or anyone she every really cared for within a mile of Sigma. She bent over, feeling the snug, high-cut briefs cut into her gluteal cleft.
"You'll have to start rather high to stay on panties proper," Rachel remarked. "No problem. We'll fill in below with the leather."
Zzzzzhhhhhttttt! Damn it, that hurt her rear! That scrawny vixen had been taking lessons.
Zzzzzhhhhhttttt! A single hot poker seemed to crush down on her spasming behind.
Zzzzzhhhhhttttt! Her nails clawed at her nylons, ruining them. The tip had crossed the second stripe. Her right buttock convulsed, about to burst ...
"One little formality before the Training Lounge."
The words scalded her as she hissed and squirmed after the last cut.
Delinda rose, her lips twisting back over her teeth. She faced Donna, who glowed pink. The soph's dainty digit clutched the pencil-thin cane.
"Thank you, Miss Nobis . . ."
"Outside convent walls, a sorority is the only feminist collective that really works."
Nora Quincannon eyed herself critically in the mirror. She felt like some serpent-tongued TV evangelist exhorting her flock to mail in folding money.
Her brown freckles and rusty red hair made her realize how far from the Saks sorority image she strayed. She turned around in her minute bathroom.
She made contact with the wide blue eyes on the calendar photo of Miss Piggy posing Dietrichishly under a lamppost. The seductive confidence the shot radiated gave her strength.
Deep breath. Okay. Ignore the dry palms. What did that book, Rush, tell her about joining a sorority? Show self-confidence. Smile. If an overweight handpuppet could get into People as one of the top celebs of their year . . .
She beamed with quiet assurance into the mirror. "Outside convent walls ..."
Nora felt like a lunatic at having made the silly bid in the first place. This hush-hush interview coming up with those two girls made her realize how stupid an idea it had been.
She didn't regret getting into St. Cloud University, though. After that high school reunion last year . . .
Ice rattled in the stainless steel sink behind the hotel suite's wet bar. The banquet meal and a load of sparkling wine and a warm ball of barely diluted Scotch lay like lava in Nora's tummy.
The dancing had ended. The band had packed its 1977 Blast-From-the-Past arrangements into its attache cases. A meeting space load of drunks in their late 20's had broken up into hazy room parties.
Nora laughed in the heavy, smoke-laiden air as she thought of Anne Rampling's Exit to Eden . . . The safe, predictable Marriott Hotel as a lovers' Venus Grotto, an otherworldly paradise for two.
"... starting a Catholic labor organization next month. We'll have a Mass and a meeting ..." Jack Nodens kept up a line of patter to Conrad Sanchez. Both had been wheels in the student government, Nora remembered.
As he talked, Jack flipped salted peanuts so that they skated down Sally Glossing's throat, onto the very long bare expanse above her formal gown's bodice. The oily nuts never made it into the deep bosom valley offered for the world's inspection. Conrad adroitly intercepted every one with his tongue.
Sally could barely hold her cigarette in her mouth as she giggled, chin high. Ash flaked onto the sun-beaten surfaces of her upper tits.
Nora shuddered and emptied the plastic cup's warm "I'm dating Ken tonight." She tried to get oxygen back into her brain. "You haven't met him. Hunt, if you must know, has gone up the Amazon on a U.C. Extension tour in search of the giant leech. Contrary to some people's expectations, he's trying to shake the chemical dependencies."
"I'm glad." Gerry Vestry sounded unyielding as a millstone. "Be sure he's succeeded before you invite him around the house."
Delinda never intended to let Ken or anyone she every really cared for within a mile of Sigma. She bent over, feeling the snug, high-cut briefs cut into her gluteal cleft.
"You'll have to start rather high to stay on panties proper," Rachel remarked. "No problem. We'll fill in below with the leather."
Zzzzzhhhhhttttt! Damn it, that hurt her rear! That scrawny vixen had been taking lessons.
Zzzzzhhhhhttttt! A single hot poker seemed to crush down on her spasming behind.
Zzzzzhhhhhttttt! Her nails clawed at her nylons, ruining them. The tip had crossed the second stripe. Her right buttock convulsed, about to burst . . .
"One little formality before the Training Lounge."
The words scalded her as she hissed and squirmed after the last cut.
Delinda rose, her lips twisting back over her teeth. She faced Donna, who glowed pink. The soph's dainty digit clutched the pencil-thin cane.
"Thank you, Miss Nobis . . ."
"Outside convent walls, a sorority is the only feminist collective that really works."
Nora Quincannon eyed herself critically in the mirror. She felt like some serpent-tongued TV evangelist exhorting her flock to mail in folding money.
Her brown freckles and rusty red hair made her realize how far from the Saks sorority image she strayed. She turned around in her minute bathroom.
She made contact with the wide blue eyes on the calendar photo of Miss Piggy posing Dietrichishly under a lamppost. The seductive confidence the shot radiated gave her strength.
Deep breath. Okay. Ignore the dry palms. What did that book, Rush, tell her about joining a sorority? Show self-confidence. Smile. If an overweight handpuppet could get into People as one of the top celebs of their year . . .
She beamed with quiet assurance into the mirror. "Outside convent walls ..."
Nora felt like a lunatic at having made the silly bid in the first place. This hush-hush interview coming up with those two girls made her realize how stupid an idea it had been.
She didn't regret getting into St. Cloud University, though. After that high school reunion last year . . .
Ice rattled in the stainless steel sink behind the hotel suite's wet bar. The banquet meal and a load of sparkling wine and a warm ball of barely diluted Scotch lay like lava in Nora's tummy.
The dancing had ended. The band had packed its 1977 Blast-From-the-Past arrangements into its attache cases. A meeting space load of drunks in their late 20's had broken up into hazy room parties.
Nora laughed in the heavy, smoke-laiden air as she thought of Anne Rampling's Exit to Eden . . . The safe, predictable Marriott Hotel as a lovers' Venus Grotto, an otherworldly paradise for two.
"... starting a Catholic labor organization next month. We'll have a Mass and a meeting ..." Jack Nodens kept up a line of patter to Conrad Sanchez. Both had been wheels in the student government, Nora remembered.
As he talked, Jack flipped salted peanuts so that they skated down Sally Glossing's throat, onto the very long bare expanse above her formal gown's bodice. The oily nuts never made it into the deep bosom valley offered for the world's inspection. Conrad adroitly intercepted every one with his tongue.
Sally could barely hold her cigarette in her mouth as she giggled, chin high. Ash flaked onto the sun-beaten surfaces of her upper tits.
Nora shuddered and emptied the plastic cup's warm Scotch down her throat. The liquor had only a memory of soda lingering with it. The fire that hit her veins made the tobacco level in the room more tolerable.
When had all these people started smoking? She didn't remember more than a dozen or so puffers in their senior year.
Raven-haired, sloe-eyed Holly Beale tired of kick-dancing to an imaginary beat in the corner. She lifted her heels out of her pumps and sent them spinning against the glass doors opening onto a terrace.
Holly hiked her black sequined dress to her hips. Down she peeled her patterned charcoal pantihose; down and off- She leaped for Hot Potato Brindsley as he tipped his squat fullback's head down to laugh at Stacey Brenner's joke. Holly caught him around the shoulders and squirrel-scrabbled up his back.
He blinked, spilling his drink, as her legs wrapped around his heavily muscled neck.
"Horsey, horsey! Gallop, goddamn it!"
He began to thunder his feet in place, making neighing sounds.
Nora wandered away and found Mark Da Silva on the couch, thumbing through the high school annual. She perched on the sofa arm, resting both her arms lightly on his back. She dropped her empty plastic cup onto an end table. It clattered over the edge and hit the rug.
She massaged his neck gently as he turned the page. She saw the Discussion Club photo, with the two of them standing on opposite sides of Miss Rutkowski. The teacher looked younger than they all did now, and her bad skin showed clearly.
"Ten years, ten fucking years." Her throat felt raw as she pitched her hoarse voice against the room's babble. "I had forgotten what a really good conversation could be."
Da Silva turned the page. The journalism class occupied two photos. He stood in both, the one with the typewriters and the one displaying the video cameras. He'd handled the 15 minute weekly closed-circuit press room in the fall and then edited the printed paper that last spring term.
"Business courses, work-I must have put my mind to sleep years ago.'' Nora felt hot, gritty air pressing down on her. "Thank you for tonight, Mark, thanks for talking. I want to go back to my room with you and fuck your brains out.'' She rested her cheek on his head. He'd already begun to go bald. Bald at 28. Virility. That meant sex hormones crystalizing out of his pores.
"Virility and variety. I've been at Sherman and Michaels too long to remember either.'' She lifted her head. "I want to fuck you blind-but let's wait until we can do it sober, and let it last for hours and hours, and then just sit up in bed and drink coffee and talk, and trade ideas ..."
Holly Beale's pale thighs and a wide handful of bottom cheek flaunted at the world under her rumpled black dress as she jiggled herself on Hot Potato's shoulders. She didn't look like she'd learned a damn thing since she'd given head to the entire boys tennis team during the graduation picnic.
"Bricked up into our own little tombs by 27 and 28 . . ." Nora murmured. "How many of us just need to communicate with someone who offers a new thought, something we haven't had buzzing in our walled-up skulls ever since graduation ..."
"Sit down, sit right here." Hands guided her around onto the couch seat. ' 'Lean back.'' She felt upholstery give under her shoulders. Waves of heat lashed through her, like a very bad pre-menstrual trip.
"If she's sick all over your suit, man, you'll regret it." Lateef Mathers grinned down from some lofty place. Light crowded around his glossy hair, sculpted into flat sides and sharp edges. His skin had reddish undercurrents amid the deep brown satin. His Malcolm X mustache and beard gleamed like silk.
He'd butchered her on the Forensics Squad.
"Fuck yourself, Mathers," she smiled affectionately, "and the whores you rode into town on."
"Hey, mama," he gave a wide-eyed innocent look.
"Just being careful." He tugged his wide grey lapel. "This sharkskin retains drunken pussy puke too easily. Maybe Mark's got a better dry cleaner."
"I always carry Basic H in my purse ..." Nora's head slid hard against Da Silva's shoulder. She went to sleep.
"Thank heaven I met Scott at the opera, Hes," she told her best friend. ' 7 need a man who can talk about something more than where we'll eat and what video tape we'll rent.'' She carved her fork into the heavy, pecan-studded cheese cake. Buoyant Baroque music skipped delicately around them. She stared at the for-sale artwork on the Coffee Cantata s walls.
"I've got to build an escape plan, though." She shook her head at Hester Parry. "That 10th year reunion last month-Jesus, how I behaved like an idiot! At least I realized how my life has painted itself into a corner. It's time to get growing again."
Her friend washed chocolate truffle cake down with creme de cacao-spiked coffee. ' 'I'm still trying to get my act together at the County. We've got so much work, and those state and Federal requirements change all the time.
"But who wants to complain about that? After we finish shopping, let's get a bucket from Colonel Chicken," Hester suggested eagerly.
She reached out and patted her purse on the ceramic tile-surfaced table. "I've got this great movie cassette I watched last night. Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn-a real oldie, and you'll never guess the ending."
"I wish to holy hell that C.E.O.'s had the option of getting their butts back to school and retraining." Gil Toliver touched the Air Force bomber model decorating his desk. He pivoted the sterling silver bird on its bronze mount.
"I left Korea and opted for security with the best damned printing outfit on the West Coast. I watched Sherman and Michaels shrivel around me and I swore I'd reverse that if I could get in charge.'' Nora had seen the corporate photographs. The short, wiry TOliver had sported a goatee even then, when facial hair meant Beatnik poets and experimental actors. His beard had turned bone-white, his skin had gained liver spots, and his energy had not even begun to recede.
"I think I've proved myself after thirty-five years, but at what? Is printing really an anachronism in an electronic age, in spite of our CRT digital link-ups with Honolulu and New York?
"I can't take time out to get afresh perspective on what I've committed myself to." Toliver shook his head. "I admired your vision when you started as my secretary. You knew your goals and headed for them. I'm glad to see you recognize when to shift your sights.'' "Customer Service has been a nice niche, but-"
"The only people happy in niches are in urns." His phone beeped respectfully. He tapped the speaker button.
"Miss Linda Byrd on 7131," the faint voice informed him.
"Two minutes," he told the outer office. He stood and reached for her hand. "Good luck, Nora, I hope you want to be where you wind up."
Wanda Luckett watched Delinda lead the way toward the Training Lounge. She wished the girls well. Dee-Dee needed all she got.
"I must say," Sarah Bothington's British accent fluted chipperly, "that if I had quite perceived the effect caning would have on Sigma House, I'd never have brought the bloody business up when I served on the standards committee."
Wanda winced. "I feel like I've been skinned, though a peek in the mirror only shows-'' The English junior dipped her head in agreement. "Merely the edifying sight of healthily penitent girlflesh, eh? Moderately grilled."
"Rachel can swing that stick of yours." She touched her skirt seat lightly. "Ooooo!"
"To paraphrase, it don't mean a thing if it ain't got that sting. It feels like hell, and looks like sin, as the marks age-and that's as it should be, to inspire improvement. But in a few days ..." Sarah shrugged blithely.
"In a few days," the sophomore observed glumly, "another hide-tanning comes along. Maxine makes a hell of a standards officer. She must have ears in her behind."
The Dutchman's Daughter awaited. Gerry Vestry had forgotten the misty origins of that rococo name. For as long as she'd known Sigma-and her paddle-aching buttocks made it feel a thousand years or so-the heavy wooden rod lodge horizontally between two sturdy posts had been The Dutchman's Daughter. Folks even capitalized the "The" reverently when they spoke.
Stainless steel hooks and brass eyelets had been rooted to the floorboards around the rod for convenience. It usually helped to secure a girl snugly, when she needed a session with The Daughter.
Rachel dipped onto her heels in a samurai squat. "Once you're down to belt and stockings, Delinda, try twenty deep bottom bends to restore circulation in your seat."
The condemned senior removed her tasteful wool skirt, its cool browns and greys reflecting the fashion-knowledgeable campus woman. Her muted rose blouse followed onto the long shelf bolted to the wall. She released the snap between her strapless bra's cups.
A pungent saddle soap flavored the air as Gerry Vestry swung cabinet doors wide. "Shall we try the split-ended tawse?"
"Too common," Rachel vetoed.
"Not the barber-grade razor strap, surely." The vice-president looked around as Delinda deposited her high-cut lace underpants on the shelf. Framed by garter belt, the netherglobes seemed broad and durable. "Hmmmm . . . the shot-loaded mini-bat? Lucretia Sue contributed that one. They use it on women's chain gangs in Georgia, or something."
Delinda bobbed up and down in rump-flexing exercise. Rachel observed from a low vantage, smirking as the girl's bottom opened and closed, the blood reviving her welts.
"How's the Sole's record?"
"That would be severe enough," the blonde agreed. She took down the 1987-1988 ledger. It had grown a bit dry and dusty. They needed some pledges around soon to properly care for the punishment books.
"Merciful heavens! You're right, it's been completely quiet since fall semester." She stared at mouse-quiet Donna. "What would past generations of Sigmas think?"
The brunette sophomore's face turned toward the hook holding a stiff two-foot length of sole-grade leather. Corrugations intended for mountain boots ran down the strap's striking side.
Gerry Vestry searched further on the page.
" 'Humphreys, Delinda Natica, 4I18I86, four; 2I28I87, six.' " She threw a testing question to the slender girl. "What is the first law of the Sole?"
" 'At least once on every Sigma bottom the better to know each other's trials,' " Donna recited letter-perfect from her pledge catechism.
Rachel piped up with the second law.
" 'At least once every semester, the better to recall its heritage.' " Gerry Vestry met Delinda's angry eyes. "The third law?"
" 'Always more than the last time,' " she quoted bitterly, her naked breasts vibrating, " 'the better to respect its instruction.' "
"Over The Dutchman's Daughter, please."
Rachel threw a heavy velvet comforter, worn and stained with use, over the thick wooden rod. She brought out a cardboard box for Donna to inspect.
"You have to judge these things carefully. Dee-Dee takes a small ankle cuff, inspite of those hefty hips and heavy thighs. See how her calves taper? You want a pretty small leg cuff."
She helped the girl select appropriate fetters from the box's collection. "These clip to those ringbolts. The stainless steel is riveted to oxhide, so don't worry about them taking her weight. The suade lining prevents chaffing. She kicks a lot when she loses her cool."
Gerry Vestry thought Delinda close to a boiling eruption as the nearly-naked girl presented herself before The Dutchman's Daughter. Her hose looked cruelly laddered.
Rachel showed Donna how to lock the cuff around the senior's left ankle.
"You judge the chain length by her height. She's pretty tall, so you want her middle over the bar, so that she bends down at the hip sockets."
Delinda rocked forward, onto the matted velvet padding. Rachel snapped the chain to a ringbolt in the boards. The gleaming links went taut. She had Donna cuff and secure the right ankle.
Delinda let her weight flop her over, her legs taut in a fully-exposing V. Her upper body wobbled freely, above the scuffed floor. The garter tabs stretched.
Gerry Vestry realized they had to get some pledge labor in soon to wax and polish everything to a mirror shine. A girl should properly be able to see her own facial contortions as she took her hiding.
"These elastic cords keep her arms from flapping about." Rachel let Donna restrain both wrists.
The senior spread over The Dutchman's Daughter like a stretched starfish. Her arched and open buttocks awaited. The stripes smoldered a hard purple on the right.
The vice-president straightened her glasses and approached with the Sole. "Tradition calls for ten strokes. Ten after six, sixteen after ten-that's the normal progression, though I think any girl would find even six heavy duty going. Most girls, anyway."
"There's a big steel fence running along that fine line between sisterly hazing and pledge abuse, Dee-Dee." Rachel slowly circled the exposed and trussed frame decorating The Daughter. Her fingers walked along nylon up the right leg, then skimmed grazingly over the worse of the cane marks on the bottom proper.
"If you don't agree, now's the time to appeal for cause," Gerry Vestry reminded. "Or petition for clemency. The full standards committee can give the facts and findings a review."
"Sixteen Sole strokes, Dee-Dee," Rachel enunciated arefully. "Donna's had fun with Sarah's stick. Gerry and I split these."
They observed the diaphragm contractions jerk Delinda's rib cage and pink-nippled pectorals around. The girl started to twist her head back, over her taut, fettered arm. Then her face dropped.
"I take it no objections." Gerry Vestry slipped her own heeled shoes off. The Japanese senior already wore some floor-clinging Asiatic martial arts slipper.
"Watch closely how we swing the Sole, Donna. It's part of your St. Cloud education."
The blonde let the stiff leather sway forward, her weight rising onto her left foot. She rocked back, the Sole stretching behind her. Her body shot ahead, coming down hard on the ball of her nyloned left foot. She pivoted, putting strength and body English behind the corrugated strap.
The Sole shivered, plastered to the left buttock. Its mountain boot ripples had intersected the low cane weals.
Gerry Vestry stepped away, peeling the leather off Delinda's hide. She swung in fast, before the girl could finish drawing breath to scream.
Wind broke from both ends. The whistling fart outlasted Delinda's shrill sob. Donna tried to hide her grin. Rachel didn't bother.
The vice-president paced over to the right. She changed hands and walloped the plum-streaked right chub, hard. The Sole clung, dancing while the anguished girl rolled through her convulsions.
Gerry Vestry pushed her spectacles into place. She let the hard leather sail dead-on into the knotted buttock muscle.
"Oh." Donna watched the violet striations zig-zag down her former guardian angel's tush.
Rachel took the strap from the blonde senior. She marched to the left, standing with legs slightly bent, as if miming a samurai in a Kabuki comedy.
The Sole flashed, faster and more painful than lightning. It thunked into one straining thigh. The chain holding the leg cuff to the floor jangled furiously, then went dead silent.
"I think she's trying to escape." Rachel observed Delinda's hips, stretching impossibly further over the padding on The Daughter. Both steel chains had been pulled rigidly taut by the threshing weight.
The Japanese sorority girl whipped the darkly burning thigh again. She didn't bother to go around as she followed with two lashing strokes across the other leg top, just above the tan-toned stocking.
A wet, panicked warbling sent Gerry Vestry around to haul Delinda's face up by the hair. Salt tears and snot trickled along the curled white lips.
"Bite on something?"
"Y-y-uugg-uugg-ahhh-"
"I think she said 'yeah,' " Rachel translated. She strode to the shelf with Delinda's clothing, bringing back a cream-colored pump. "Open wide."
"The airplane's coming into the hangar," Gerry Vestry coaxed. The weeping senior forced her jaws apart and bit bulldoggishly on the toe of her shoe.
Her head dropped all the way. She hung, face foolishly to the floor, grinding her teeth into her campus-fashionable pump.
"Sneaky Occidental. She bought herself a cooling off period." Rachel handed over the Sole.
"Not for long." Gerry Vestry slashed both rock-set hindcheeks high, above the prior markings. Seconds fleeted. She threw her body into a second all-out stroke, flush across the first.
The fisted bottom rounds expanded as Delinda's whole hip structure spasmed. She shrilled and bubbled around the gagging shoe tip. The strap rose on burgundy skin, chased with jagged inky lines. Her whole bottom contracted.
The cheeks seemed to huddle defensively. Gerry Vestry flogged the single left thigh, elongating Rachel's marks.
She passed the strap to the Japanese girl, who positioned herself on Delinda's right. Using a wicked backhand, she scalded the upper leg once! Twice!
"You could cook breakfast on that keister." She slapped the hard leather across the twin underglobes. The sound and the girl's moans echoed in the Training Lounge.
"Jus out for Just a reminder, Dee-Dee. Next time the Sole comes out for you, the number is twenty-four."
Rachel put her brick-solid body behind a hot, pivoting stroke. The leather indented the bottom summits.
As Delinda screamed, her shoe arced gracefully, tumbling in the air to clatter down the wall and bounce off her shed panties.
The punished girl's head whipped back and forth.
"Take your time," Gerry Vestry counseled. "No rush . . oh, and speaking of rush and Rush Week: You'll be getting a sob sister again this year. We've all agreed you have a lot to offer a new girl. You just needed a little reminder about your responsibilities. . . . Sisters?"
Time lingered, then a wet voice whimpered, "Sisters."
She sounded like a sick thing. The blonde vice-president watched Donna dig her teeth into her knuckles. The pale, thoughtful sophomore helped Rachel release Delinda's wrist restraints.