Malcolm tried to open his eyes, they felt like ten pound weights were hanging from each lid. His tongue felt swollen, stuck to the roof of his mouth. He would kill for a drink, let a homeless man piss in his mouth for moisture. The dense pounding in his head was worse than any hangover he ever had. He had no idea how long he had been out, it felt like hours.
After great struggle, he was able to crack open one eyelid to take in his surroundings. He was in a windowless room with a hard-packed dirt floor, lashed to a bondage rack, clad in nothing but his French cut briefs. They were his date underwear.
The last thing he could remember was pulling up to Shay's dorm, ready to put another notch in his belt. He got out his car and set the remote alarm on his car when things went black. He could barely turned his neck to the left or the right so he fought to open his other eye. He blinked a couple of times and tried to adjust to the dark.
He heard a click to his left and saw the wall slide inwards. Three figures entered the room, single file, cloaked in dark robes.
"What the fuck?" He rasped, trying to force his tongue to move. None of the three replied, separating to opposites corners of the room. The tallest one stood next to a large table, covered in a white sheet. The second went to the adjacent wall, hitting a switch, flooding the room with harsh lighting, making Malcolm shut his eye to mask the pain.
The last figure approached Malcolm, standing directly in front of him. It was holding a riding crop in gloved hands, which it tapped lightly. The tender pop of leather on leather made Malcolm very nervous. He tried to to move away as it approached, but the straps that bonded him to the smooth wood held firm.
The figure dropped the crop to the side and removed the hood. Malcolm's eyes widened, a sheet of cold sweat washing over him.
"Oh no."
**
It was three weeks ago, a crisp October night in Atlanta. A light wind blew through the campus, carrying the faints sounds of lovemaking throughout the air to mix with the rest of the evening din. The source of the sound came from a second story window of the Pi Theta sorority house. Upon closer examination, the sound was not lovemaking, but frenzied fucking. Inside, a young coed was crushed deep into her mattress, neck shoved upon her headboard and limbs akimbo. On top of her was a muscular man, pounding his pelvis as deep as he could go; one hand pressed tightly against her breast, the other gripping her calf and pushing it back as far as it could go till her toes were touching the wall overhead.
"Shit, Malcolm," squealed the coed. "Lay up a minute."
"Shut the fuck up, I'm almost there."
Malcolm kept up his rigorous sexual workout, bed frame groaning under the strain. The cooling wind from the open window did nothing to dissipate the stream of sweat running off of him. He shook his head to keep it out of his eyes, grunted in time with the banging headboard. The female moaned under the strain of her forced contortions and his rough grip, not to mention the stabbing pain from his hurried thrusts. Just as the twinge in her thigh marked the beginning of a cramp, he released his grip and pulled out.
She felt the relief of relaxed limbs before she was barraged with bullets of cum, splattering her face and hair. Malcolm groaned as he tugged the remaining seed out of his cock before collapsing on the bed next to her in a panting lump. Shock was quickly replaced by anger as hot semen dripped off her nose, trailed across her lips.
"Motherfucking Asshole!" She disengaged herself from the tangled sheets and jetted across the room to the bathroom she shared with her absent roommate.
Malcolm chuckled, wagging his softening cock back and forth with his hand before wiping the sticky juices clean with her bedsheets, a mix of sweat, blood from a torn hymen, and moistened vagina staining the cotton. Rolling off the bed, he began to get dressed. The deed was done; another notch in his sex belt marked with pride. He looked around for his lucky drawers, a pair of black French cut briefs that he wore the first time he broke his cherry on the head cheerleader back in prep school. He was fastening the buckle on his belt when the door to the bathroom opened. His date came out, fastening her robe, a towel wrapped around her hair. She stared daggers at him, but he just smiled.
"If I wanted to be fucked by a horse, I would have stayed on the carriage ride." She glowered at his casual demeanor. This wasn't the same man that surprised her with flowers in class, left love notes on her car, and treated her to a night on the town less than two hours ago.
"Shit, Latisha" drawled Malcolm. "I didn't know you sorority chicks were into that sort of thing. Maybe next time, you freak." He laughed, stroking himself nonchalantly through his pants before buttoning his shirt.
"Fuck you!"
"Ah, we just did that." He slipped into his loafers and sidled around her to make his getaway. Latisha could only glare as he opened the door to her room and left without another glance. She was steaming, mostly pissed at herself for being duped by his suave repertoire. It wasn't the first time he pulled this stunt, but she refused to believe the rumors around campus. After locking the door behind her, she stripped the soiled sheets off the bed.
The roar of a Mazda 3 in the driveway announced his departure. She scooped up the bottle of perfume that he brought for her and ran to the window, chucking it at the departing import. The glass shattered on the gravel, missing his car completely. Malcolm beeped the horn, waving bye as he spent down the driveway.
Latisha slammed the window and returned to the bed. She picked up her cellphone and punched in the numbers. After a couple of rings, someone picked up the line.
"Hey girl, I fucked up bad."
She related the story to the person on the phone, hot tears began to spill down her face. She listened intently for a minute, a sneer slowly replacing the scowl. By the end of the conversation, she was grinning, evil in intent.
"That's why you're my girl," Latisha laughed. "I'll tell the others and get back with you."
Later that night, three members of Pi Theta gathered in the basement of the sorority house. There was Latisha, a bronze skinned beauty that rivaled Beyonce with the exception of much larger breasts; Malcolm's latest victim. In the overstuffed chair, still dressed in her party clothes, sat Chloe. Her line name was Glamazon, for her large frame and muscular build. She was the only girl on the collegiate wrestling team but had the looks to land her a small modeling contract during semester breaks.
The last girl standing by the bar, hair pulled back in a ponytail, tugging at her rumbled pajamas while she mixed a drink was Tracy. Her rimless glasses pushed back on her head as she mixed herself a late night cocktail, she was the most plain of the trio. Spent more time in front of the books instead of the mirror, but had a hidden beauty that few ever saw.
"Thanks for meeting me," said Latisha, fidgeting like her bladder was full.
"The club was dead anyway." Chloe crossed her long legs, picking at a strand of thread on her dress.
