Sorority #3: Manbeast

The dining room on Phi-Delta's first floor is for formal house dinners -- dressy events with servants that are held once or twice a week. But breakfast, lunch, and most evening meals are buffet-style around small tables in an alcove off the 2nd floor kitchen.

The next morning, there's laughter, banter, and chatter about the fundraiser as sisters dash in and out, grabbing bites and caffeine jolts before rushing off to classes.

Though I do my best to conceal it, I glow with pride. At $3700, my price topped the other 'virgins.' I mean, how vain is that? Still, I don't kid myself -- pride rules and rides me.

Anais -- 'Revels' -- reminds us babies that Phi-Delt's fixed calendar begins next week.

Special events like the fundraiser are always on Tuesdays. Second and fourth Fridays are the regular social with both undergrads and grad students (none of whom are allowed above the second floor).

Salon night with deans, professors, and other guests (mostly men, but a few women) are first and third Thursdays. Sisters are free to take them upstairs -- if we wish.

By now I know that dhampirs never participate in our public events. Revels arranges their visits by appointment. A thrill of excitement surges through me when she mentions that both Nathaniel and Raphael will be 'received' next Monday evening in the small lounge.

Nathaniel!

* * *

Later that afternoon, Ysabeau and I are in one of Phi-Delt's cars headed to an upscale mall in a tony suburb of the city. It's almost an hour's drive, but Phi-Delta has accounts at two of its very, chic boutiques.

Ysabeau has those dark Mediterranean looks, olive skin, large brown eyes, and long, straight black hair that cascades down her back like an ebony waterfall. She's a second-year -- in other words, a Junior -- and the

Big Sister

assigned to me. I know we're going to become the best of friends.

Our goal today is to start building out the wardrobe that I'll use during my three years at Phi-Delta and then grad school or the working world. Phi-Delt covers the cost of a sister's basic collection. Two or three outfits appropriate for several different kinds of occasions -- but not a new outfit for every occasion.

For Phi-Delta,

appropriate

means classy and elegant, alluring yet not boy-toy, sex-kitten, and definitely not slutty. Eye-catching, but never

outre couture.

In other words, clothing I'll be able to wear to Phi-Delt salons, socials and other campus occasions and then in times to come, job interviews, office cocktail parties, trade-show receptions, and (I hope and assume) formal balls and dates to the symphony and ballet.

For salon, I find a simple but sensuous chiffon cocktail dress in a navy blue so deep that in dim light it might almost seem black. V-neck, with a form-fitting, lace-overlay bodice that flares out at my waist into a flowy, A-line skirt to just below my knees.

It comes with a narrow, side-tied white sash that accents my slender waist, matching stiletto heels, and a small clutch purse. For my Sweet-16, Grams gave me a pair of white pearl earrings that will stun with it.

As a Freshman, I joined the ballroom-dance club -- which I now completely adore -- and this cocktail dress can serve for dancing at any event short of a formal ball.

I also try on an expensive, smoking hot, sheath in bias-cut red silk, that, amazingly, they have in my size. It's one-shoulder, tight across the chest, ankle-length, with a long side slit up to my thigh with matching elbow-length opera gloves. No frills, no ruffles. The kind of gown that makes hetro-males between the ages of 13 and 66 want to grab me, strip me, and take me right then and there.

Ysabeau gives me a look, so I know I'm pushing Phi-Delt's

appropriate

boundaries a bit, but she says not a word. I haven't told her about Nat. I just smile as I say, "Wrap it up," to the clerk.

* * *

Monday afternoon I skip class for hair salon and spa, turning myself into a vision of desire for Nat.

Dinner is formal that evening and there's an odd vibe at the dining room table. Quieter than normal. No one says anything specific, but it isn't the casual and friendly type meal I've become used to. Like me, some of the sisters are obviously preparing to 'receive' the dhampirs at 9:00. The others -- clearly -- are not.

Mrs. Makeda is also at the table. I'd met her earlier, she's the OB/GYN nurse who staffs the house infirmary two mornings a week. She's in her forties, solid, dignified, and coal black. She speaks with a slight foreign accent I can't place. An African nation I think, rather than Caribbean. She doesn't smile much, and has that kind of no-nonsense attitude that is

tres tres

intimidating.

This is the first time she's joined us for a meal. Apparently her presence is SOP when dhampirs are being 'received.'

The small lounge is on the second floor. My tight, red-satin gown and matching four inch heels require some getting used to, so I take it slow in the hallway. I notice one of the security guys stationed in their nook.

I'm neither the first nor the last to arrive, but by nine on the dot six of us are

oh-so-casually

lounging there. Just like me, they're all

dressed to the nines,

as Grams used to say, and so gorgeous I almost feel as if I don't belong. Almost.

I'm the only first-year newbie. The others are all Juniors or Seniors, and strangely, four of them sport a bright green dot -- like a Hindu bindi mark -- on their forehead, between and just above their eyes. One of them is DeeDee the Pledge Mistress with her wonderful smile, another is Ysabeau my 'Big Sister.'

The green bindi marks clearly mean something, but I have no clue what.

Without ceremony, the door opens and Nathaniel enters with two other men. All my attention is on Nat. I assume the others are also dhampirs, but I pay them no mind.

Oh. My. God! Nat so totally rocks that tight-black-jeans and T-shirt look.

I flash my best smile and place myself in his line of sight.

He ignores me.

He passes by me as if I don't exist. As if I'm a stranger on the street. As if I'm dogshit on the sidewalk.

Without a word, he looks over the others, then stands before Gamin, one of the sisters with a green dot. Nat leans close to her and exhales into her face. She melts into his arms with a look of ecstatic surrender.

Her real name is 'Dylan,' but we all call her 'Gamin' because, well, she is. Pixie-size petite, laughing eyes, cute as a button, and mischievous to the core. Like all Phi-Delts, she's good looking, sure, but she's no great beauty. Yet Nat takes her wrist and she obediently follows him out of the lounge.

What the fuck!? I can hardly breath, I feel like he's punched me in the gut.

The other two dhampirs silently look us over. One is a bit older, a little gray at the temples, wearing an elaborate bespoke suit. I assume he's Ariel, the second member of the dhampir coven I've been told about.

Without a word, he leans close to Lucma, also a bindi-dot girl, and a moment later she follows him out of the room, her face glowing with anticipation.

The younger one -- shortcut platinum blond hair -- is dressed so stylish that he could be a fashion-cover model. He has to be the Raphael I've heard so many warnings about.

He does that breathing thing they do into DeeDee's face. Then he taps his palms on the top of her shoulders and she drops to her knees, her head bowed.

He's wearing a stylish, black leather manpurse on a shoulder-strap from which he removes a chrome metal collar that he snaps around her neck. He clips a silver chain to the collar's ring and leads her away. She looks nervous -- and eager.

What the hell!? None of them picked me!

Ysabeau, my official Big Sister is one of us rejects, the only one with a green dot. She's odd one out tonight, and I can tell she isn't a happy camper -- or feeling very sisterly -- as she joins me on the couch.

Aiko, the last of the lonely, joins us. She wears no bindi dot. She's a diminutive Asian doll, a psycho-pharmacology major aiming for the Duke or Columbia doctorate program. She doesn't appear at all surprised -- or annoyed -- that she's one of us losers.

Ysabeau perks right up. "Oooh, Aiko, dos't thou come bearing consolation prizes?"

Aiko's smile is complete with a charming dimple. She displays a small pill box containing half a dozen blue tablets. "The latest Nyx variant. The lab's testing it on volunteers."

"I volunteer!" declares Ysabeau "I indeedy-deedy-do!" She quickly snatches up a tablet.

"It's a sleep and dream enhancer," Aiko explains to me. "It causes intense, powerful dreams. Dreams that are remembered in the morning."

"True-true," affirms Ysabeau, "and I'm gonna have the wettest wet dream of my life."

"You can't be certain of that," cautions Aiko. "You could get a nightmare, a real bad one. Like that time..."

Ysabeau waves her off. "Don't remind me! Tonight will be different." She swallows the tablet, washing it down with a half-glass of pinot noir.

I'm a bit nervous. Other than weed I rarely do drugs, particularly 'experimental' ones, but I don't want to seem a wimp or come off like a prude. Without a word I swallow one of the tablets too.

Like a waif abandoned by my one true love, I return to my room feeling woebegon. I strip off the red gown and the black-lace bra & panty set that I had worn for Nathaniel. I throw them on the floor of the big wardrobe closet -- I never want to wear them again! I'm furious, bereft, frustrated and depressed all at once in a confused jumble of misery.

That fucking bastard!

From my dresser drawer I take out the old flannel nightgown that's been my comfort sleepwear since the shock and embarrassment of my first period back when I was twelve. It's now a bit small for me, but I still wear it when I need it.

I crawl under the covers for a prolonged bout of misery-wallowing, but before I know it I'm in deep sleep.

I'm in a strange place. Some kind of big room with a parquet floor. I'm scared. Someone is hunting me. Some

thing

is hunting me.

Desperately, I flee towards a doorway, my high-heels clicking loud. My full-skirt, red evening dress flows around me but somehow does not impede me at all.

Part of me knows I'm in a dream. The other part is terrified. And excited.

He

is after me.

He

wants me.

He

intends to take me. I don't know who he is. Just that he's some kind of avatar of alpha-male power. Big. Strong. Dominating. Relentless.

A shadowy figure swoops towards me from one side. With a scream of terror, I desperately dodge aside.

Suddenly, I'm outside.

A bright full moon shines down. My white satin wedding gown glows in the pale light as I dash across a lush green lawn towards a high, ivy-covered stone wall with a wrought iron gate.

For a split second, my rational mind wonders how can I run full tilt in high-heels across soft, loamy sod?

Instantly, I'm tripped. I go down hard, my arms outstretched to break my fall. I end up face down on the green turf, winded, but otherwise unhurt.

It takes me just a second or two to regain my breath and begin to rise up and flee. Too late! A mighty hand from behind flips me over on my back.

I gaze up at him as he looms over me. His face is all in shadow. His hard, sculpted body is covered in dark fur -- soft and silky, not bristly. He's not a person, he's an manbeast. Large. Powerful. Naked.

A tangled bush of black pubic hair grows between his strong thighs. His erect phallus rises up out of it like a thick snake, straight and hard.

Somehow, in this most vivid of dreams, I've become virgin again. It's as if I've never before seen an aroused, erect, male shaft ready to take and conquer its prey.

I know he's about to impale me on it.

Mesmerized, I stare at it. And at his heavy scrotum swinging below, swollen with his semen, pulsing with sperm that he is about to pump into my womb to impregnate me -- despite my implant.

I tremble in terror -- and something else. I know that once he takes and breed me I will be forever changed from carefree virgin girl to maternal woman.

Though I'm not hurt or injured, I'm weak with fear and helpless with exhaustion. My chest heaves for breath. Aroused by both my peril and the presence of this male beast looming over me, my breasts throb. My nipples tingle and press against my lacy bra.

"Please," I whimper. "Please, don't."

I know it's hopeless, though. He's going to take me and breed me like a stallion mounting one of his broodmares.

My body yearns for him to do so, but my mind knows that he will certainly, somehow impregnate me. I don't want a baby. Not now. Not yet. I want my youth, a career, a life.

He says not a word. He just stares down at me waiting to see if I'll try to flee again. That forlorn rational part of me wonders if he's even able to speak -- is he so bestial that he's pre-verbal?

Quick as a striking snake, he grabs me beneath my arms and lifts me up as if I were a small child.

Suddenly we're in a big, candle-lit bedroom. He releases me, and I drop weakly to my knees, down on a soft, plush rug. I'm now clothed in a diaphanous black negligee that leaves nothing to his imagination.

Again he stands in front of me, his erection looming before my eyes. It dominates me. It dominates my thoughts. My body has surrendered to him, I am utterly in his power. I exist now only for his pleasure -- and mating.

He has no need to speak, I know what he wants -- what he demands. He places his large, callused hands on either side of my head and slowly draws me forward until my lips touch his shaft with a kiss compelled.

He holds me in place. I close my eyes as I lick him with my tongue. He tastes good. Sweet. Erotic. Beneath the thin negligee my breasts throb, my nipples are erect and tingling.

Obedient to his wordless command, I open my mouth in a silent 'O.'

He does not thrust himself into me, but rather guides me to gradually move down on him, taking more and more of him into my mouth while caressing him with my tongue. I'm careful not to touch him with my teeth -- or let him trigger a gag reflex.

My eyes remain submissively closed and I'm alive with sensual, sexual current, I arouse him more and more with my lips and tongue and sucking. Of their own volition, the tips of my fingers delicately caress my breasts and tease my nipples through the sheer fabric of my negligee.

I sense his seed rising up his rod. I can feel my own orgasm building. My velvet gate is sopping wet.

He erupts, gushing his semen down my throat. Oddly, it has no salty taste. His flavor is sensuous, decadent -- like

creme brulee

.

Though my own orgasm is now spasming though me, I hold myself rigidly still so as not to cause him any discomfort.

I can feel his ropy white seed sliding down towards my belly. Somehow it's imbued with green sparkles of life energy.

I realize that it's both an aphrodisiac and also some kind of powerful fertility potion. I can sense my womb opening, preparing itself for impregnation. My swollen breasts suddenly begin to lactate, oozing a clear, erotic fluid.

After long, sweet, eternity he slowly withdraws from my mouth.

Again he picks me up as easily as if I were a rag doll and holds me cradled in his arms like a sleeping child. With my eyes still closed, I let my head loll back, exposing my throat to him as symbol of my submission. My blond tresses flow down towards the floor in a soft wave.

He bends his head to my breast and with his chin he pushes the loose negligee aside to expose my diamond hard nipple. Tenderly he kisses it and then softly touches it with the tip of his wet tongue. I spasm as a bolt of sensual energy flashes through me.

His lips clamp down on my areola and he begins to suck the clear erotic fluid I'm lactating.

I arc my back to thrust my throbbing mound up into his mouth. Orgasmic electricity surges through me as he sucks and licks and plays my nipple with his tongue.

I can feel the fluid flowing through my pulsing breast, out through my tender nipple, and into his mouth. The sensation is intensely sexual, intensely satisfying. Is this how a man feels when he ejaculates into my womb?

After an eternity of ecstasy, he releases my breast from his mouth.

Suddenly, I'm lying supine and submissive on the white satin sheets of his large, luxurious bed. A full-length mirror is fixed to the ceiling. I'm illuminated by soft candle light. My arms lay limp at my side, a red-lace nightgown is molded to my body.

I'm sopping wet and ready to be taken. I'm eager to be impregnated.

He sits on the bed beside me. I feel the mattress sag a bit under his weight. In the mirror I gaze down upon us both.

Even in the candle light, his face is shadowed. But his two eyes glow yellow like those of a predator wolf. He slips his hand beneath my nightgown to softly caress my breast that is so eager for his touch. Soft as feathers, his fingers trace my curves. His thumbs gently tease my hard, lactating nipple.

I watch in the mirror above as he slowly, ever so slowly, removes the nightgown from my body until I'm naked, open and vulnerable to his lust.

Just like that unknown buyer who had bid on me, bought me, and 'deflowered' me, he rests his hot palm on my womb. His touch is also a silent declaration,

ere I will plant my seed. Here my child will grow within you.

With sublime sensitivity I feel every square millimeter of my flesh where his palm and fingers take possession of me.

Strangely, I don't feel helpless at all. I feel empowered. By surrendering myself to him I am fulfilling my destiny. I am content to be his vessel, his chalice of life. I am willing to be his possession. I am ready for him to take and impregnate me.

I stare at him -- at us -- in the mirror as he moves to the foot of the bed, gently takes my ankles, and slowly spreads open my legs.

I raise my knees and plant my feet on the mattress to facilitate my impalement. And also to confirm my acceptance of, my welcome of, his penetration. My pussy is wet and juicy. I am ready to be bred. I am ready to be impregnated.

He looms over me, covering me with his big, hard body. His weight pins me to the mattress, his furry chest crushes my still lactating breasts.

My soft sigh is a sigh of surrender. I feel the tip of his mansword ease itself in between my nether lips. It feels so good, so right, so perfect. "Ohhh," I softly moan.

Slowly, carefully, he pushes in until he presses against my maidenhead. He pauses for a moment to allow me to relax and then with a powerful thrust he rips through it.

"Ahhhhh!" I shriek at the bright flash of sharp pain that is my willing sacrifice to his masculine power.

He thrusts in deeper, pumping in and out, my erotic juices and virgin blood lubricating us as I arch and move in perfect rhythm with him. Deeper and deeper he delves toward my waiting womb.

I move my head a bit so I can observe in the mirror above as he pistons in and out of me, smooth and powerful. His shaft strokes and stimulates my erotic button, building me up towards another orgasm.

I the mirror I can see my virgin blood seeping out to either side of me, a spreading scarlet stain on the pure, snow-white sheet. The small shred that's left of my rationality knows that so much blood is utterly impossible -- and would surely be fatal in real life. Dream-me cares not a whit for such mundane details.