Sorority 5 Red Red Red

By now, I've settled into a routine — moving and grooving. Up at the crack of

early-early

for an hour in the basement gym. Yoga for stretching and flex, Tai Chi for balance and grace, then body toning on the machines. Shower, put on the day, grab breakfast in the alcove, and catch up on what's shaking.

Then classes, library, and study with a bite for lunch when and where I can. If there's time, maybe a relaxing late-afternoon sauna.

Most P-D dinners are casual, buffet-style in the alcove, and occasionally dressy formal in the first floor dining room with servers and protocol. Evenings are for reading assignments, class papers and projects, recreation, social life, and (of course) vitamin-F.

Oh. My. God! College is so much cooler than stupid high school!

Matron

is our sorority head, though to the deans she's our 'president.' Her real name is Clara, but Matron is her title and woe to any newbie who fails to use it. Dafna is

Mom

. She runs the house — food, maintenance, staff, security, the works.

Anais is

Revels

, she's in charge of social events and coordinating with the dhamps. Aiko,

Scribbles

, is the house secretary and record keeper. Yael is

Moneybags

, our house treasurer and bookkeeper. My hope is that next year I'll be appointed apprentice to the new Moneybags and assume the job when I'm a Senior.

* * *

The following Monday, Revels informs us that Phi-Delt be 'receiving' dhamps this evening. By now I know that half the sisters choose to avoid them for various reasons — repugnance at being controlled by them, outright fear, and in some cases simple atavistic antagonism. Which means less competition for those (like me) who find their allure irresistible.

Except, I assure myself over and over, for Nathaniel. He can go to hell!

Somewhere though, in the back of my mind, that annoying little voice of rationality keeps nagging on me that if he exhales his pheromones into my face, I'll lose all will to resist.

Phhhhft! No way, not me!

* * *

By nine I'm lounging in the second floor lounge wearing a demure — though smoking-hot — cocktail dress with scalloped neck and black lace overlay. Black stilettos adorn by feet. My newly set blond locks are flowing down my back, and though I'm always hyper-aware of my flaws the reaction of my soror sisters reassures me that I'm fab.

I'm also sporting a bright green bindi dot on my forehead. I know I've hardly been off the implant for a week, and it'll be at least a month before I actually become fertile — but who's gonna know? If these oh-so-choosy dhamps want a bindi-dot girl, a bindi-dot girl is what I'll be.

They arrive in sequence, one after the other. First Nathaniel who I turn my head from in ostentatious rejection. He ignores me, scans the goods — so to speak — and then immediately leads Anais to the elevator. She glows like the cat who got the cream. So far as I can tell, he said not a word to her.

Well, screw him!

Next is Ariel, older than Nat, solid, blue eyes, dark hair just beginning to show some gray accents. Dapper, verging on full-bore dandy, in a bespoke, charcoal gray, retro-sharkskin suit, with pastel lavender shirt, magenta tie and matching pocket square. He pours a drink from the wet bar while he looks us over. He's in no hurry.

Last is Raphael. Bright blond hair (dyed, I'm sure), dark eyes. Well dressed — casual but fashion-cover stylish and carrying a leather manpurse. He spots the bindi mark on my forehead and pauses to inspect me as if I were a morsel for his consumption.

With a sinking feeling, I realize that's exactly how I'm presenting myself.

He doesn't smile, but his eyes glow possessive. He judges me and finds me suitable. Inwardly, I shiver just a tiny bit. Maybe this bogus bindi mark wasn't one of my better ideas.

His accent is British, though Ysabeau claims it's phony as a politician's smile.

"Your name, young miss?"

"Selene," I manage to whisper, already falling into his thrall.

Slowly, he leans forward and exhales into my face.

My legs go weak and I almost collapse. I don't faint or lose consciousness as I had with Nathaniel, but now I am Raphael's toy. My free will not only no longer exists, it's not even a distant memory. Instead, my very soul utterly and absolutely desires to obey, service, and please him.

Raphael removes a narrow chrome collar from the manpurse, sweeps my tresses off my neck and fastens it with an audible click. I sigh in contentment, he has made me his. He leads me to the elevator by a silvery chain. I am eager for him to do with me — and to me — whatever he desires. I am his willing slave.

Up on the 5th floor, obedient to his gesture, I tap the keypad by the door to my room and he leads me inside. The door latches behind me.

I stand demure, my eyes cast down, waiting for him to command me, to take me, to ravish me. He embraces me, bends me back and kisses me hard, deep and savage. I melt in adoration.

Suddenly, without the slightest warning, he violently shoves me back against the door. The impact shocks and stuns me. "Wha...?"

"You lying bitch!" he screams at me. He slaps me hard on the cheek, then again from the other side. "You fucking cunt!"

There's no trace of British reserve in his voice — just fury.

My head is ringing, I can barely stand, I'm afraid to look at him. I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do.

All I can think is, '

He knows. He knows. He knows.

' Somehow, through taste or smell, Raphael knows I'm not about to ovulate, he knows I'm not at peak fertility.

He grabs the front of my dress and violently rips it down off my breasts. He shreds it from my body, throwing it on the floor. I feel like a Raggedy Ann doll shaken in the maw of a enraged Doberman.

I shrink back, pressing my palms against the door to keep from collapsing. Stunned, scared, still partially under his pheromone domination, I'm incapable making any move to defend or protect myself.

In a frenzy, Raphael tears off my bra. The straps burn my shoulders, the hooks scourge my back. Unable to meet his eyes, I feebly try to fend him off. My small fists flail helplessly against him. He rips off my half-slip, then yanks off my lace panties, leaving me nude, trembling, terrified.

The effect of his pheromone-breath, mind-melt domination is beginning to fade, but my mind skitters and struggles for coherence.

I realize should call out to Cassie for help — but I can't. Even if I could summon the strength of will, this is all my fault. My claim of fertility was a lie, that's what set him off. And I can't face the shame of the sisters knowing that I cheated him — and more importantly, I cheated

them

mdash; by pretending to be what I was not.

"Please, please," I blubber, half sobbing, half speaking. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I won't do it again. Please don't hurt me." That's all I can manage before panting sobs of fear and shame overwhelm me.

"You want me, you fucking bitch?" Raphael snarls. "You're gonna get me!"

With a quick move he releases his belt and drops his trousers. Then he spins me around and jams me up against the solid oak door crushing my breasts against the wood. He lifts me so that my feet no longer touch the floor. His strong thigh jams between my legs and spreads them. Pain, shame, fear, and guilt overwhelm me.

Violently, he thrusts his hard, erect shaft into my pussy from behind. It hurts! He knows it hurts! He wants it to hurt! My pain is an aphrodisiac for him as he savagely thrusts himself into me. As he rapes me.

Raphael's hard, athletic body pins me against the door, the metal collar around my throat is choking off my air as he pistons his shaft in and out of me. I can barely breath, just bare sips of oxygen, as he pounds me. I'm getting dizzy, my head is spinning. Oh God he's going to kill me! Oh God! Oh God!

Without enough air to form words or force them past the choking collar, I silently scream to myself in despair, '

No! Please no! I don't want to die!

'

Finally, he cums. Ejaculating his filthy sperm into me. He withdraws and immediately slams me down on the rug. I lay there unmoving. My entire body trembles uncontrollably and my heart races. But I can breath! I'm gasping for breath so hard I can't speak even if I dared to.

Raphael's rage is undiminished. I cower before him, not looking at him, holding myself absolutely still, saying nothing. I know with absolute certainty that my slightest motion, my tiniest sound, will trigger another frenzied attack.

But the mind-control submission he puffed into my face has worn off. I'm no longer compelled to please him. Now I just want to survive and escape.

In some sort of weird, out-of-body flash of personal insight, I suddenly realize that being dominated, controlled, and forced to helplessly submit to a powerful male is not fun at all. Nor is it thrilling, erotic, or sexually satisfying. It's horrible, hateful, humiliating, and degrading! And terrifying!

Important note to self from my rationality — it turns out that what I really enjoy and crave is

pretending

and

role-playing

the helpless innocent damsel forced into submission. Not the brutal, ugly, painful, reality.

Second note to self — find some kind of self-defense class for slender, petite females with no noticeable athletic abilities.

Without looking directly at him, through slitted eyes, I see that his phallus is rising towards another erection. Dread surges through me.

"You mother-fucking cunt-hole!" he screams at me.

Startled, I look up. The breast pocket of his jacket has been ripped, I must have accidentally done it while flailing at him.

Like a raptor attacking its prey, he grabs a fistful of my hair and hauls me to my feet. Pain flashes over my scalp and through my neck. "You tore my jacket you piece of shit!"

Before I can move, or think, or do anything except experience a paralyzing wave of abject terror, he releases my hair and slams me down again.

Desperately, I try to squirm away from him. He's too close. Too fast. Too enraged.

Raphael's rod is now fully erect. He's going to rape me again. It's no longer about sex — if it ever was — it's about rage, and power, and pain. He wants to hurt me.

"Cassie!" I manage to shriek. "Red! Red! Red!"

He grabs me, lifts me up, and slams me face down on my bed. I hear the door bang open. A scream of agony suddenly buffets my ears — a

male

voice!

Twisting around, I see Raphael. He's jerking and thrashing and then he crumples to the floor, twitching. Over him I see one of the security guys filling the door, a taser in his hand, the wires lead to Raphael.

Oh, thank God. Oh, thank God. Oh, thank God.

A second security guy rushes in behind the first. Raphael seems only semi- conscious. They flip him over on his belly and zip-tie his wrists behind his back.

People are yelling and shouting. There's some kind of roaring noise in my head, I can't make out their words.

The taser effects are wearing off of Raphael. He shouts, curses, and struggles against the restraints. He tries to rise, but he's too wobbly and he falls back to the floor.

I'm relieved, but I'm still shivering and trembling.

Suddenly Matron and Mom are in the room. Where did they come from?

"Silence!" Matron's voice is like a whip crack. It startles me, I've never heard her speak like that.

Apparently neither has Raphael. He ceases struggling, shouting, and cursing.

Mom sits beside me on the bed, lifts me up and embraces me, comforting me in her arms. I can't stop trembling and shivering, but my terrified panting is beginning to slow.

Matron signs to one of the two security guys, and he fetches my blue silk robe from the hook on the bathroom door. He lays it over me, covering my nudity.

I hide my bleeding, swollen face in Mom's embrace, peeking around her just a

bit.

Raphael is sitting cross-leg on the floor, pantless, his arms bound behind his back, his eyes glaring rage at all and sundry.

"Release me, you stinking cow!" he snarls at Matron. Yes, definitely a phony British accent.

He nods towards his torn jacket, "See what your lying bitch did!" As if that justified his violence against me.

Matron just glares at him.

Mrs. Makeba bustles in. She steps over to where I'm still huddled in Mom's arms and asks me how I am.

I have no idea how to answer her. No idea at all.

I can't stop the trembling. There are red blotches of blood on the pale blue robe that's been thrown over me and I realize my nose is bleeding — profusely. I hurt everywhere, back, breasts, throat, arms, face, scalp, and especially my most private places.

But, I realize, it's the ache of bruises and sprains, not the jagged agony that I imagine comes with broken bones or internal injuries — I hope. The greater damage has been to my sense of personal safety and security. My naive belief that I had at least some control over what happens to me.

There's no way I can put all that into words, so I just hang my head in shame. I dread Raphael's inevitable accusation about my false bindi dot, revealing my deceit to Matron, Mom, and Mrs. Makeba.

But though he glares hate at me, he says not a word. Maybe he doesn't want to admit that he'd been fooled by a mere human female. I hope so.

I'm so tired. So tired. It's so hard to concentrate. I just let myself be comforted by Mom while Mrs. Makeba prods and questions me.

Somewhere in the distance, Matron is confronting Raphael. He's arguing, blustering, demanding, threatening. Matron orders the security guys to throw him out.

I hope they kick his ass when they kick him out.

After a time, I move a bit in Mom's arms and I suddenly realize that Raphael's metal collar is still around my neck. With a shriek, I jerk myself upright and desperately try to tear it off. It won't release, it just hurts.

"Get it off me!" I scream. "Get it off!"

"Shah, shah," Mom tenderly soothes as Mrs. Makeba takes hold of the collar and does something with the catch. It opens and falls into my lap. I grab it and hurl it at the closed door as hard as I can. It bounces and clatters to the floor. I can't look at it. I

refuse

to look at it.

Mrs. Makeba gently leads me to the elevator and then down to the basement infirmary where she cleans the blood from my nose, which has thankfully stopped bleeding, and checks me over for concussion and immediate signs of internal injuries. Aches, bruises, and shock she concludes, but no sign of anything worse.

"You'll have a real shiner in the morning," she informs me. "And those hematoma on your arm and neck are going to take a couple of weeks to fade from black to blue to yellow.

"You're still a bit shocky. I'm gonna give you a mild sedative — OTC,

not scrip. It won't put you to sleep, it's best if you do that on your own. But it will help calm you."

It's well after midnight before I'm back in my room which some kind soul has straightened up in my absence. I lay down on the top of the blankets. I'm exhausted, but too jittery to sleep.

And so very, very tired. And ashamed. And humiliated. And degraded. And depressed. Between Nat treating me like a discarded fuck-toy and Raphael's vicious brutality, I now understand why half the Phi-Delt sisters want nothing to do with dhamps.

Thoughts and emotions surge and cycle round and round in my head. Shame, anger, humiliation, fear, guilt. Any slight sound from outside triggers terror that threatens to overwhelm me.

I feel soiled. Filthy. Worthless. I dread the looks of pity and disgust my sisters will inflict on me come morning. And their scorn. I tried to cheat on them and I got what I deserved.

A soft sound from the door causes me to jerk in alarm. I catch and calm myself. I recognized it, that softest of door-knocks that someone makes when they don't want to wake one who is finally asleep, but if she isn't, and wants company you're there.

I wonder who it is. Mom? Ysabeau?

"Who's there?" My voice is part tremble and part croak.

A muffled voice. A man's voice. "Just checking to see if you're okay."

I'm definitely

not

okay. I'm still in that bloodstained blue silk robe, my hair's all awry, my face is blotched and swollen. Gross bruises are darkening all over me. I'm ugly and ashamed. I don't want to see anyone — ever!

Without conscious volition on my part, my insubordinate voice acts on its own, "Come in." Weak but audible.

The security guy who tased Raphael enters. A good looking Black guy — chocolate brown really — husky. Shaved bald head, close-cropped goatee. But a gentle, caring expression. His look is sympathetic. Concerned.

Again, he asks me how I'm doing.

His query is sincere, I know that. But on a deeper level I also understand his non-verbal communication perfectly well. He's not pressuring me, but if I'm a grateful damsel open to rewarding the hero with my feminine charms he would not take it amiss.

I'm disheveled, degraded, and humiliated. Yet still he finds me attractive and desirable. Men! Are they all crazy?

Suddenly conscious that all I'm wearing is a thin silk robe, I partially sit up on the bed.

"Better," I answer softly. What the hell am I doing? I've just been brutally raped. Am I crazy too?

My heart is beginning to speed up. Memory of Raphael cruelly assaulting me sends tremors of terror though me.

By a conscious effort of will I force them down.

I'm breathing faster, the very thought of a man thrusting himself into me makes me nauseous.

No! No! I was helpless to prevent Raphael from raping me. But I'm not going to let him, or the memory of him, rule or control me. Not now. Not ever!

I've always loved sex, it's part of who I am. I refuse to let that fucker's brutality twist, maim, or cripple my life.

I tell myself twice — and twice again — that Hero is not Raphael. And maybe some kind gentle loving might be just what I need right now.

Somehow, even though he's undeniably a male, Hero understands that this isn't a time for speech. He sits on the bed half facing me. He takes my hand. Gently. Sympathetically.

I snuggle against him. He puts his arm around my shoulders, tenderly pulling me a little tighter against his strong, firm, solid, body. Tension eases out of me as I relax against him.

My partially-open silk robe outlines and molds my breasts. My nipples are beginning to harden. He looks at them and smiles. It's a warm smile. A possessive smile. But not in any way a threatening smile.

Carefully, he places his palm on my bare thigh where the robe has fallen away from my leg. He waits for my reaction.

"Emmm," I sigh, signaling my acceptance.

We're sitting in an awkward position, but somehow he tenderly, carefully tilts my head back and brushes my lips with his. He tastes good.

He kisses me a bit harder, a bit longer, and I kiss him back.

My fingers begin unbuttoning his shirt. I slide it off his shoulders and lay my palm against his hard, flat chest.

"You sure?" he asks in a soft whisper.

I don't want him to speak, I don't want words. Not his, not mine. I place my upraised finger across his lips.

My other hand finds his belt buckle. It's one of those military ones that flip open.

He stands and I watch him silently disrobe. He's gorgeous. Seeing his erection rising up gives me qualms, but I ignore them. He is not Raphael. He. Is. NOT Raphael!

Slowly, sensuously, I lay back on the bed, my head on the pillow, my blond hair disarranged around me. I allow the robe to slide away, exposing one of my breasts. My nipple is visibly erect and hard. Below my waist the robe is open almost to my apex. I have nothing on underneath it.