Chapter 8

Besides Elaine Horton, Lucy Daniels, and Lorna Yerkes, three other freshmen had been pledged by Delta Gramma Phi. Each of them was as different as night from day, and all three of them were to figure prominently in the scandal which would rock Northeastern College within a few short weeks.

One was Dorothy Purcell, a seventeen-year-old, light-brown-haired Chicago girl whose rather plain face and dowdy hairdo did not entirely draw attention away from her stunningly desirable body. She was quiet, soft spoken, but inwardly she was feverishly eager to find at last an outlet for the tormenting passions which seethed in her psyche.

Dorothy Purcell's father had been a highly successful franchised dealer for one of the major automobile companies. From her mother, as reticent and unassuming as herself and also with a similar bodily beauty which had undoubtedly attracted her father's interest (especially when he had discovered she wouldn't fuck without a wedding ring), Dorothy had inherited physical allure and a masochistic temperament.

David Purcell had done a great deal of whoring in his bachelor days, and he had married Dorothy's mother because the contrast between her plain face and her prick-hardening big round titties and undulating asscheeks and soft warm creamy skin had been a challenge to him. When she skillfully if passively resisted all his attempts to get her into bed, he had married her. But then he had discovered that, though she yielded willingly enough, she had absolutely no enthusiasm for the many variations of fucking, and that she indignantly refused either to put her hand on his prick or to suck it, pleasures which of course loose women had always been willing to give him. As a consequence, he took out his frustration in being cruel to her, both mentally and physically. Especially when he came home drunk, he would seek out his saintly-haired wife, accuse her of flirting with other men (which of course was unthinkable to her) and then, infuriated by watching her weep silently and not try to defend herself, finally wind up by ripping off her clothes, pulling her across his lap, clamping his right leg over her calves, and spanking her naked bottom till she nearly fainted. Then he would lift her up in his arms, carry her off to bed, fling her down on it and mount her and fuck her savagely. Needless to say, such wooing did not waken her responses, which only antagonized and frustrated him the more.

But Dorothy, at the age of fifteen, had happened to come home early from school because she was coming down with a mild virus, and it had been her father's day off. She had heard the sound of muffled weeping in her mother's bedroom, and had stopped to listen. She had heard her father's voice angrily accusing her mother of infidelity, and then finally the sound of several slaps. Then her mother had began to cry and to sob out that all these accusations were unjust, that he knew perfectly well she'd never dream of looking at another man, begging him to be kind and just to her and not to humiliate her so.

And then she had heard her father snarl, "Goddamn it, Mavis, I just can't light a fire under you, can I? Well maybe if I burn your big juicy ass with my belt, I'll get you to take my prick in your mouth!" And her mother had replied through sobs and groans, "I'd rather die before I'd do a filthy thing like that, David Purcell, and you know it! Why don't you go to some slut if you want that sort of thing? I'm a decent woman, you knew that when you married me!"

Horrified by what she heard, Dorothy Purcell had quietly tiptoed down the hall, unable to believe that usually good-natured father could possibly talk and act so brutally to her sweet mother. He had left the door slightly open, and so Dorothy Purcell was the unsuspecting witness to a scene that was to haunt her and to rouse in her perhaps the very passions which were anathema to her prudish mother. She saw her father advance towards the cowering buxom woman, rip off her dress and slip, slap her face and then, twisting his fingers in her disheveled long hair, drag her over to the bed on which he seated himself. Even as she pleaded with him not to do this shameful, cruel thing to her, David Purcell gloatingly forced the unfortunate woman across his lap, clamped his left arm around her waist and began to tear away her pantie-girdle, regardless of the fact that in so doing he was ripping the tabs away from her nylon hose.

Dorothy Purcell stared as one hypnotized at her mother's pink-satiny ripely rounded bottom cheeks, flinching and tightening in an instinctive attempt to minimize their all too vulnerable dimensions. Then her father's right hand had ascended, and fallen with an angry obscenely noisy Smack. She had heard her mother cry out, "Oh please, David, please, you hurt me so! Oh this is dreadful to treat a grown woman this way!" and she saw the bright red splotch outlining her father's hand on her mother's naked seat.

His lust had mounted as he spanked his wife. So, too, did his anger at her meek submission. But it was not a submission that announced that she was willing to surrender to his lustful needs, and that was really what made him furious with her. He spanked her until she lay panting and sobbing, her big buttocks flaming and swollen, and then he slyly slipped his left hand between their bodies and began to frig her pussy with his left forefinger while he caressed the shuddering, angrily reddened hillocks of her naked ass with his right palm.

Dorothy Purcell began to feel a curious twitching sensation in her pussy, as she stood there, her mouth gaping, her eyes unwaveringly fixed on the bed. Her father had his back to her, and her mother's eyes were so blinded by tears and her head turned away that neither of them was aware of her presence.

As he continued frigging her and stroking her bottom, Dorothy heard her mother whimper, "Ohhh ... PI-please, D-David, don't be so d-disgusting-you know I don't like to have you treat me like a p-p-prostitute."

That pitifully naive appeal had been the last straw for David Purcell. With a growl of fury, he had rolled her over onto her back, stood up, yanked down the zipper of his trousers to expose his bludgeoning prick. Dorothy Purcell had never seen a man's organ before, and she nearly fainted as she watched him clamber onto the bed, dig his fingers into her mother's swelling big round titties, and then force that huge, turgid, angrily reddened thing against the dark brown curls which hid her mother's cunt. Mavis Purcell tried to push him away, weeping bitterly, but he was far too strong for her. With a grunt of satisfaction, he burrowed himself deep inside of her and then gloatingly announced, "I'm going to fuck you and frig you until I make you come this time, Mavis, because all you've ever been since I married you is a dead log in bed. You've got a shape on you that would make a stone statue get a hard-on, but so far I've got more satisfaction out of my own hand than I have out of your cunt!"

Then, slipping his left hand under her bottom, he had apparently introduced his forefinger into her asshole, for Dorothy Purcell had heard her mother cry out, "Oh no! You filthy, degenerate animal, you, take your finger out of there this minute-if you-if you-if you have to h-have me, at least be d-decent about it and save those filthy things for the women you pay to go to bed with you!"

"Yes, I do have call girls when I feel the urge, Mavis," he had snarled. "And do you know why? It's because you're a cold fish in bed. The way you held out to get married, I thought I was really getting a red-hot pussy with that shape of yours. It's an ice-box, you understand? But I'm going to warm it up once and for all!"

And then he had begun to fuck Dorothy's mother, while probing his finger up to the hilt inside her bumhole. And then finally Dorothy had watched him slip his other forefinger into her mother's pussy and explore for the clitoris which he had begun to rub.

And then to her horrified astonishment, she had finally seen her mother come to life. Mavis Purcell had lifted her contorted face, her eyes staring and glassy, and then she had clawed at the rumpled sheet with her fingernails, turned her face back and forth, and begun to whimper, while her naked hips had squirmed, arched and flattened back on the bed.

"At last I'm getting to you, huh, you prick-teasing bitch!" her father had panted. He was working both fingers now and humping her for all he was worth, and at last he succeeded. Mavis Purcell suddenly moaned, then convulsively locked her arms around him, closed her eyes, and her body shook with the fury of a real spend. At about that moment, David Purcell, with a last digging thrust inside her quaking cunthole, released his spunk.

Dorothy Purcell had tiptoed back to her room, undressed and got into bed. About an hour later, her mother, worried over her daughter's non-return from school, had come into her room and found her there. She had comforted the girl, called the doctor, and a few days later Dorothy was as well as ever-physically. But the indelible, burning memory of what she had seen and heard would linger with her always.

Two weeks later, when her mother was out of town visiting an ailing family friend, Dorothy provoked her father into giving her her very first spanking. He had suggested that they go out for dinner instead of having their part-time housekeeper cook, and then take in a movie. Dorothy had shrugged and insolently retorted, "I don't feel like going out, Dad. I'll stay home with my books, if it's all the same to you."

He was startled because until then his daughter had been as listlessly colorless as her mother. "You'll do as I say that's what you'll do," he had growled. "You're doing fine in your classes, so what's all this nonsense about hitting the books? I don't want to eat by myself and there's a good movie I want to see."

"Then why don't you call one of your girlfriends and have her go with you, Dad?" Dorothy Purcell had answered.

He had stared at her for a moment, and then his face had turned red and then he had exploded, "Why, you uppity little bitch! Who the hell gave you an idea like that? I'm going to teach you a little lesson, Dorothy!"

He had seized her by the wrist and led her upstairs to her room. She had tried to struggle, purposely, so as to incite him to give her a real spank ing. Because what she had seen had inflamed her masochistic nature, not to be fucked, but rather to be spanked, to feel a man's hand descending on her naked flesh until she couldn't stand it anymore and then had to stand it ... till the swooning ecstasy of pain merged into an ineffable joy that consoled her for the anguish.

She got exactly what she had bargained for. He had flung her down across his lap as he sat on the edge of her bed, hoisted up her skirt and petticoat, and then begun to spank her over her panties. But Dorothy Pucell wanted more than that. She had looked back, even though she winced and gasped out at the way his hard hand was smacking her plump bottom, and she had taunted him: "Is that all the harder you can hit, Dad? You'll wear your hand out and I don't feel a thing!"

"Don't you? Let's try this way then," he had angrily retorted. Yanking down her panties, he began to spank her again. Dorothy Purcell closed her eyes and shivered. She ground her teeth together so as not to cry out and end the spanking too soon. But her very stoicism, which of course he misunderstood, led him to redouble his vigor. Her bottom flattened, bounded and squirmed as his heavy hand flailed down, with hardly a pause between spanks. After about fifty when her naked ass was an angry red, he panted, "Had enough?"

"N-no, and you're just wearing yourself out for nothing," she had gasped.

His face had twisted in fury, he had fumbled with his belt, tugged it out, doubled it and then she felt it whistle down and smack over the ripest curves of her bottom summits. It had drawn a shrill cry, and he had chuckled sadistically, "That's a little different, eh? Tell me when you've had enough, you stubborn, insolent little slut!"

The belt had come down twenty times before at last Dorothy Purcell groaned aloud, "Ohh-ahhh-oh please D-Dad, please not any-not any more-I'll be good, I-I'll go with you tonight!"

"All right. Now get into the bathroom and put some cold water on that burned-up backside of yours! What's got into you, anyway? You've never talked back to me like that before. And another thing, Dorothy, if you ever again mention anything about call girls or other women, I'll really give you a belting, understand?"

As she slipped off his lap, her hands rubbing her throbbingly naked bottom, she nodded, and stumbled away. He had felt disgusted with himself for having been so brutal. But he hadn't known that she'd quickly turned away to hide the fact from him that her pussyhairs were moist with her own sticky love-cream. Because, when he'd started belting her, she'd had a real hot spend.

And that was why Dorothy Purcell was in seventh heaven when she got the invitation from the swankiest sorority on campus. Because she'd heard rumours that there was hazing, even paddling. And she was just hoping that she'd be assigned to a "Big Sister" who'd want to tan her hide whenever the mood seized her.

She was lucky. The girl she drew none other than Brenda Torrance, treasurer of the sorority, a twenty-one-year-old silver blonde who came from a patrician family in the East, had a fake British accent, and was a sadistic Lesbian of the first order. She had thought Dorothy rather plain-featured, and she had rolled her eyes heavenward when she had seen what mousy hair the pledge had. But one look at Dorothy Purcell's ripe, proud, surging titties and the shifting, upstandingly rounded lush cheeks of Dorothy's ass and the full womanly thighs and beautifully rounded calves had given her the hots. She could hardly wait to get her hands on that little bitch and make her bend over for swats. Besides, she had a little leather case in her closet which contained a whippy cane and a taws, instruments she had purchased in a New York leather goods shop which catered to the sadomasochistic trade.

On this Saturday afternoon when Lucy Daniels was finding compensation for the dyke cruelty inflicted on her by sadistic Trude Jordan, Dorothy Purcell was about to cross the threshold to a new and exquisitely bittersweet world of sexual submission.

Until now, Dorothy had enchanted her "Big Sister," eagerly running every errand which Brenda Torrance assigned her, industriously keeping Brenda's room spick and span and doing many little things unbidden which Brenda had not even considered demanding of the pledge. On this particular afternoon, Dorothy Purcell had come to Brenda's room after lunch to inquire if there was anything she could do for her "Big Sister," and Brenda had shrugged, and disdainfully replied, "I can't think of anything, Purcell. You've done a pretty good job, I'll give you that. Take the afternoon off, if you want. I suppose you've got a boyfriend?"

"No, Madame Treasurer."

"I see. Well, you'll find something to do. Go over to the library and catch up on your studies, if there's nothing else. We like our pledges to keep up their grades, it gives the house a good name."

"But I don't want to go to the library, Madame Treasurer."

"I really don't care what you want to do, Purcell. I just said I didn't need you. Do I have to draw you a diagram?"

Dorothy Purcell's heart began to beat rapidly. She remembered just how she had egged on her father to give her the most thrilling spanking of all her life. So far, Brenda had disappointed her by not using that paddle above the mantelpiece. Her flesh crawled at the very thought of submitting herself body and soul, to this arrogant, beautifully dressed silver-blonde dominatress. And that was why she flippantly retorted, "I'm sure you could think of something for me to do if you just tried."

"What's that?" Brenda looked up sharply from her writing desk, her hazel eyes narrowing with annoyance. She was wearing a red silk blouse, mannish tailored light dacron slacks and a pair of black leather jackboots which fitted snugly like a veritable second skin up to her knees. Her hair was styled in a kind of mannish do, short though not cropped, leaving the nape and forehead bare as well as the ears. With her aquiline nose, thin mouth, superciliously thin pencilled brows and slantingly set cheekbones, she emanated an indefinable aura of mingled insolent authority and sensuality. Dorothy Purcell stared at her boldly, as if appraising her, but in reality the masochistic brownette was speculating on how delicious it would be to be humbled and punished by this sophisticatedly lovely young woman.

"I don't like your tone, Purcell." Brenda rose, shoving back her chair and walked slowly towards the pledge. "I told you, you can go. Now don't get snotty with me. Beat it!"

"I'd much rather stay here."

Tightening her lips, Brenda Torrance drew back her right hand and slapped Dorothy Purcell's cheek. The latter gasped, slowly lifted her hand to touch her flaming cheek, but did not give ground, continuing to stare at the arrogant young dominatress.

"Wipe that dreamy look off your face, Purcell!" Brenda hissed. "What's gotten into you, Purcell? You've been a perfect little toady until now. What are you trying to do?"

"Nothing. I should think you'd like to have me be around, and doing something for you, Brenda," was Dorothy Purcell's impudent answer.

"And now you're calling me by my first name, as if we were equals, pledge!" Again Brenda drew back her right hand and smartly slapped the girl's cheek. "You're starting to forget yourself, though I can't understand why. Now apologize and call me by my proper title and then get to hell out of here, or you'll regret, understand me?"

"Of course I understand you. But it's really a silly title. You really don't look a treasurer."

Brenda Torrance gasped incredulously. She'd had pledges before, but never one like this who had been going along in the most approved deferential manner and all of a sudden tried to flout her authority. "I think it's time you had a good lesson, Purcell. You want to stay here this afternoon? All right! Maybe a dose of the paddle will convince you we're not equals and that you don't call me by my first name until you've been initiated and become a Delta Gamma Phi. Get me that paddle on the mantelpiece."

"If you want me to," Dorothy Purcell affected a casually indifferent tone, though in reality she was almost swooning with her own audacity and the sweet torment of anticipation.

For the third time, Brenda's palm cracked against Dorothy Purcell's already crimsoned cheek. "You'll bring it to me on your knees and offer it to me and tell me what I'm to do with it, Purcell!" she vituperatively exclaimed. I don't know what's got into you, but if you're itching for swats, I'll oblige you. Now get that paddle and get it fast!"

Dorothy Purcell turned, almost blind with swirling emotions, and moved towards the mantelpiece, reached up and took down the paddle, then returned, but not on her knees as bidden. Brenda Torrance halted her, hands on hips, with an angry: "I said, on your knees, Purcell! For that, you're going to get double. Now get down and crawl to me the rest of the way. Are you looking for a tribunal meeting and maybe blackballing?"

"Oh no, please don't do that," Dorothy Purcell said in a husky, tremulous voice as she sank down to her knees and moved hastily towards the silver-blonde imperatrix.

"I hope not," Brenda said sarcastically. "I've better things to do with my weekend than waste them having the girls read the riot act to a snotty freshman who's just a little too big for her britches. All right, now what am I to do with the paddle?"

Dorothy Purcell's face was scarlet, and her eyes were swimming with misty excitement as she lifted up the oval shaped implement: "Pleases-sp-spank me with it, M-Madame Treasurer," she quavered.

Brenda leaned down to take the paddle, and remained in that pose, staring compellingly into the humid, gray-green eyes of the pledge: "Spank you where, Purcell?" she pursued in a voice that had suddenly become vibrant with her own emotion. Her small though perfectly proportioned closely spaced round titties had begun to rise and fall rather quickly now against the tight cling of a white nylon bra under the thin blouse.

"On my b-b-bottom, Madame Treasurer," was Dorothy Purcell's tremulous answer.

"Get up and take off your skirt and petticoat or slip or whatever it is you wear, Purcell," was Brenda's next order.

Dorothy Purcell quickly rose to her feet, stopped and unhooked the skirt, then unbuttoned her own blouse and removed it, draping both garments over the back of a nearby straight-back chair. Because of her opulent figure and despite her youth, she wore a pink satin-elastic pantie-girdle whose tabs hooked to the tops of very sheer flesh-toned nylons. Her bra was a matching pink and it hugged the widely spaced, almost indecently jutting young cantaloupes of her titties, shaping out the voluptuously ripe buds of her nipples and showing the shadowy circles of the brownish-coral areolae. Brenda's eyes narrowed, darkening with carnal desire at the sight of that ripe half-nakedness, at that marvellously pale white skin. She perceived a tiny brown oval-shaped birthmark on the inside of Dorothy Purcel's right thigh, midway between knee and crotch. And her own thighs began to twitch and ripple with an unholy excitement. "I'm going to lay them on good and hard, pledge," she told the brownette freshman. "Go lock my door. And then you better turn on the radio."

"I-I won't yell."

"Won't you now!" Brenda sarcastically taunted. "I'll have you begging for mercy after five swats, you wait and see, Purcell! Do what I tell you to, your count is already high enough, and I want you to be able to sit down in class on Monday, you know."

Dorothy Purcell shivered voluptuously at this threat as she hastily moved to the door and shot home the bolt. Then she moved to the little table beside the door and turned on the radio. It was a rock'n roll program, with blaring beat. "That's just perfect, pledge," the silver-blonde giggled. "I'll see if I can't swat your hind end to that tempo. Now let's see, how shall I do this? Assuming the angle is the customary way here at Delta Gamma Phi, but you've been a little bit too uppity this afternoon to get off that easy. Hmm. And you're going to get it on the bare, too, Purcell. Twelve good spanks, and you're going to count them out, every one of them, and you're going to call me 'Madame Treasurer' after each, just so you don't forget from now on what you're supposed to say to me. Understood?"