Chapter 1
"Assume the angle, frosh!" Beverly Wilson hissed, striding over to the fireplace in the living room of her apartment in the Delta Gamma Phi sorority house on the verdant campus of Northeastern College.
Atop the mantelpiece there lay a pair of oval-shaped, rectangular wooden paddles whose ends were taped to fit the wielder's hand more firmly. On the surfaces of their formidably flexible pinewood applicators, there had been burned the Greek letters of this elite and snobbish sorority of which Beverly Wilson was vice-president.
The unfortunate freshman thus commanded to assume the most humiliating and vulnerable pose in preparation for a paddling, uttered a doleful sigh and slowly bent down to grasp her ankles, closing her eyes and shuddering a little as she waited. Her miniskirt hiked up, provocatively exposing the tightening ovals of her surprisingly spacious bottom, encased in the charcoal-brown nylon sheath of pan tie-hose.
She was Elaine Horton, just turned seventeen and starting her first semester at Northeastern. Two weeks ago, Elaine together with about five other equally attractive girl newcomers to the college, had received a bid in her mailbox. It had been personally delivered, so that the notoriously slow small-town mail system wouldn't delay it, by an eager-beaver sophomore, Dulcy Brent, a gossipy, petite brunette with horn-rimmed spectacles, who wanted to ingratiate herself with Beverly. At the time, Elaine and the other girls had been wildly excited at the idea of being pledged to the exclusive girls' group which virtually reigned over Northeastern so far as campus politics was concerned. But now, she wasn't quite so sure.
Northeastern College was located about thirty-two miles northwest of Chicago, in the magnificent campus setting which looked positively rural. But the sophistication of the Delta Gamma Phi sisters and the luxurious furnishings they procured for their rooms and particularly for the recreation chamber of the stately two-story house which was their headquarters, quite belied the small-townish aspect of this den of devious damsels. Because the enrollment at the college was only about three thousand, the forty-two members of this Greek letter society exercised formidable power over such matters as dating, boning for exams and for class, running for student offices, and the like. Elaine was to discover that her acceptance of the bid to become a sister under the skin with her peers was going to be tantamount to modern bondage and servitude....
Beverly Wilson had decided to become "Big Sister," and had so designated herself at the secret council of the DGP's officers. Madge Trenton, the overbearing, twenty-one-year-old auburn-haired senior who was prexy of the sorority, had demurred, for she'd wanted Elaine herself. There was something about this dark brown-haired, lush-figured freshman which appealed to her intensely sensual and autocratic nature. But Beverly, twenty, her black hair set in a severe coronet braid, and svelte of figure, had simply shrugged and said, "If that's the way you feel, Madgie honey, I'll be glad to give Laney up if you'll give me more time with our beloved house mother." And Madge Trenton had turned red as a beet, mumbled something and then passed on to the consideration of the next freshman pledge.
Hell Week was a month away, but Delta Gamma Phi believed in preparing their pledges for that awesome ordeal. Hence every girl pledged to the sorority was assigned to a "Big Sister" for whom she would run errands, sacrifice her own free time for the well-being of her Greek-letter peer and try to make herself as unobtrusive and unobjectionable as possible until the third Friday night in October rolled around. If she incurred the wrath of her "Big Sister" by that momentous date, she could expect the term of "Hell Week" to be as literal as possible.
And since a "Big Sister" was obliged to teach her freshman protegee the sorority facts of life, the least infraction or omission in duties assigned would be invariably punished with the paddle.
Lovely young Elaine Horton was discovering that on her very first day in the Delta Gamma Phi house. She and the other fifteen pledges had been invited to move right in and were assigned, three girls to each of five rooms set aside for them in the spacious 2-story building.
After her last class, Elaine Horton had gone back to the house to change her clothes, for she'd wanted to see Dean Norton about being allowed to take on a much more comprehensive course in English Literature than the one to which she had been summarily registered by the rather haughty and spinsterish Hilda Mannering, the freshmen counselor. However, Beverly Wilson had appeared at the door of the room which she shared with Myrna Tatum, a pert, petite and bespectacled brunette, and Dorothy Kilmer, a honey-haired, soft-voiced Kansas sexpot whose irate aunt had enrolled her at Northeastern to get her away from two handsome young farmhands with whom she would very likely have got into trouble if she had gone to a college in her own area.
Beverly had wanted Elaine to go over to Denby's and bring her back a hamburger well done with crisp French fries and a double chocolate shake. And Elaine had made the mistake of saying that she'd bring it back as soon as she had a chance to see Dean Norton. That was why she was now upstairs in Beverly's own room, grasping her ankles, waiting for the stinging rebuke of the vice-president's oval-shaped paddle.
"Now get this through your head once and for all, Laney," Beverly Wilson purred as she took her place behind and to the left of the culprit, "when your Big Sister says jump, you jump, frosh.
You can always see the Dean tomorrow or any other time that I don't need you to do things for me, understand?"
"Why-yes, I-I do," Elaine huskily quavered as she uneasily shifted herself, keeping her eyes closed and miserably conscious of what little protection her miniskirt and pantie-hose would provide, even with a pair of white nylon panties under the body sheath against the burning kisses of that sinister implement in Beverly Wilson's right hand.
"Yes what, frosh?" Beverly Wilson snapped.
"Oh-I-I'm sorry-I-I forgot. I mean, yes, Madame Vice President," Elaine hastened to supply.
"That's the second time you forgot my title of respect, frosh. Five swats for arguing, two swats for not addressing me with proper respect, and one extra just to remind you not to make the same mistakes again, or there'll be a lot more. And don't forget that Hell Week isn't too far away. I can get you through the mill without too much trouble if you're a good obedient little slave, but I've known girls who've practically had to be taken to the hospital after an initiation just because they made their Big Sisters mad. Do I make my point clear?"
"Oh yes, Madame Vice President!" Elaine gasped.
"Good. Then stick it out and grit your teeth and get ready!" Beverly Wilson grinned. In her tight black sweater and pleated red cotton skirt, she looked particularly imperious, which her hairdo accentuated still more. Her face was oval, with high-set cheekbones, a thin, rather cool mouth, dark blue eyes and olive skin. She was five feet, six and one half inches in height, and her sweater hugged small, widely spaced, round titties. Her waist was enviably supple, her hips rather lean, but her thighs and calves were magnificently sinuous and beautifully proportioned. She had won her college letter in fencing, was a member of the college debating team, and she was also an avid Lesbian.
That, indeed, was why she had alluded to the house mother, Mrs. Noreen Grange, in Madge Trenton's presence. For Mrs. Noreen Grange, a stunningly buxom forty-five-year-old divorcee and as blonde as Beverly herself was brunette, had been for several months the secret Sapphic paramour of the haughty president of Delta Gamma Phi.
Beverly Wilson lusted for the house mother, whom she hadn't suspected of being a sister of Bilitis like herself until about a week before Elaine Horton had been pledged. She had gone up to find Madge to ask her about protocol in issuing the invitations to the prospective pledges, found the room empty. Mrs. Grange was supposed to be out of town for that particular weekend, but on an impulse she had gone to the house mother's room on the second floor and at the very back of the long hallway. She'd heard the sound of kisses and gigglings, put her hand to the knob and tentatively turned it to find Madge and the buxom flaxen-haired house mother in each other's arms, naked except for nylon slips already rolled up to their armpits, French-kissing and slowly rubbing pussies back and forth as they prepared to journey to that mystic isle of Lesbos eventually under full steam.
They had been so engrossed in their passionate prelude that neither of them had noticed Beverly's intrusion. The vice president had silently closed the door and gone back to her room and done some thinking. Now she could understand the reason for Madge's frequent disappearances and the fact that Mrs. Grange always seemed to be inviting Madge out to a movie or a concert or something like that. And she herself had had the hots for Noreen Grange till the very first day she had moved into the house.
So all it had taken was just a little adroit blackmail, to let Madge Trenton know that she herself knew what the score was. That was why Elaine Horton had been shunted off into Beverly's keeping, and that was why, though indirectly, Elaine now awaited eight good hard swats from Beverly Wilson's punishment paddle.