Chapter 11: The Sorority's Shared Toy
The collar was a fact of my life now. A smooth, warm band of leather against my throat, its silver ring a cool weight at the base. I felt it with every swallow, a constant reminder of the pact I hadn’t technically agreed to, but had unmistakably accepted. The lingering ache in my body was another, deeper reminder. It flared when I walked to the Tri Delta house that evening, a text from Sera burning in my pocket: Common room. 9 pm. Leash protocol.
The house was a grand, old Victorian, all gingerbread trim and warm, glowing windows. Laughter and music spilled out. I went around to the side entrance, as instructed, and knocked softly. Evie Hayes opened it. She was a full head shorter than me, but her presence filled the doorway. Her arms were a tapestry of intricate ink, a sleeve of thorny roses and lurking foxes. She looked me up and down, a smirk playing on her lips. “The party favor’s here, Sera!”
She grabbed the leash clipped to my collar and led me inside, through a bustling kitchen smelling of popcorn and vodka, and into the common room.
It was like stepping into a different century. A crystal chandelier dripped amber light onto velvet couches in deep burgundy and emerald. A fire crackled in the hearth. The air was thick with the scent of vanilla candles, jasmine perfume, and wine. Six or seven sorority sisters were scattered around, all in various states of post-date disarray—cocktail dresses, rumpled blouses, heels kicked off. Their conversation died as I entered.
“Right on time,” Sera said from a high-backed armchair. She wore a simple black silk robe, loosely tied. She sipped from a glass of red wine. “Everyone, this is Arthur. He’s here to help you… freshen up. After your dates.”
A blonde girl in a sequined top giggled. “You were serious?”
“Dead serious,” Sera said, her green eyes finding mine. “He’s had professional training. Haven’t you, pet?”
I nodded, my throat tight. The leather leash dangled from Evie’s hand to the polished floor.
“What’s in it for him?” another girl asked, twirling her hair.
Sera smiled. “He gets to be useful. And he likes it. Don’t you?”
All eyes were on me. My face burned. “Yes,” I whispered.
“See?” Sera said. “Now, who’s first? Monica, you said that Sigma Chi guy was a bit… handsy.”
The girl in the sequined top, Monica, shrugged. “He was sweaty.” She glanced at me, a curious look in her eye. “Okay. Sure.”
Evie led me over to where Monica was perched on the edge of an ottoman. She didn’t undress, just leaned back, spread her legs slightly, and hiked her dress up to her hips. “Knock yourself out, kid,” she said, taking a sip from her drink.
The room was silent, watching. I could feel the fire’s heat on one side of my face. I got on my knees. The technique was different, but the principle was the same. Serve. Cleanse. The taste was tangy, sharp with alcohol and a faint chemical hint of spermicide. I worked diligently, trying to recall Sera’s lessons about pressure and rhythm. I heard a soft sigh from above me.
“Not bad,” Monica murmured. “Definitely better than a cold washcloth.”
One by one, they came. Some were amused, some dismissive, a few quietly curious. I became a living wet wipe, a service performed between sips of wine and recountings of bad dates. “He talked about his crypto portfolio the whole time,” one sister said, rolling her eyes as I worked. The room filled with light, mocking laughter. I licked through lipstick and sweat and the varied, musky evidence of other men. My world narrowed to the patch of velvet between a pair of knees, the flicker of firelight on skin, the mixed flavors of conquest.
Sera watched from her throne, occasionally giving direction. “Use the flat of your tongue there, Arthur.” “Don’t forget the sides.” Once, when I gagged at a particularly bitter taste, she gave the leash a sharp, corrective tug that choked off my air for a second. “Manners.”
I lost count. My jaw ached. My knees were sore from the hard floor. The initial humiliation had burned down to a numb, mechanical focus. This was my function. I was good at it.
Then the front door banged open, and Mary Johnson came in, smelling of cold air and the campus gym. She was flushed, her curly hair damp with sweat at the temples, wearing oversized track pants and a hoodie.
“Ugh, brutal spin class,” she announced, dropping her gym bag.
“Perfect timing, Mary,” Sera called, her voice bright. “Arthur’s just about finished with the first shift. He’s all yours.”
Mary blinked, looking from Sera to me, kneeling by the fireplace, my face glistening. “Mine?”
“For a deep clean,” Sera said, smiling. “He gagged earlier. Needs correction.”
A strange light came into Mary’s eyes. She’d been quiet during the earlier proceedings, watching from a corner with an intense, unreadable expression. Now, she walked over, her movements deliberate. She looked down at me. Men had laughed at her, mocked her body, her hair. I could see the history of it in the defiant set of her jaw. “Okay,” she said, her voice low. “But my way.”
She didn’t go to a couch. She pointed to the floor directly in front of the roaring fire. “There.”
Evie, grinning widely, pulled the leash and guided me over. The heat from the flames was intense on my skin. Mary stood over me, then slowly, with a heavy gravity, peeled off her track pants. The scent of rigorous, un-showered exercise bloomed in the air—a potent, salty, deeply organic smell. It cut through the vanilla and jasmine. She hadn’t shaved in a long time. She was formidable, powerful in her complete lack of concession.
“You’re going to lick me clean,” she said, not asking. “Everywhere. You’re going to taste every minute of that spin class. And when you’re done with the front, you’re going to do the back. For an hour. You gag once, and we start the hour over.”
A murmur went through the room. This was a new level. Even Sera leaned forward, her wine glass forgotten.
Mary lowered herself, not onto her back, but onto her hands and knees, presenting herself to me. The firelight danced over the curves of her, over the dark, damp hair. The proximity to the heat was overwhelming.
I leaned in. The taste was profound, a cascading spectrum of salt and sour musk, a taste of pure, unadulterated labor. I worked, my nose filled with her scent, the fire scorching my right side. My eyes streamed, from the heat or the intensity I didn’t know.
After a time, she shifted. “Now the back.”
She turned, settling her weight on her elbows and knees. The assignment was clear, the terrain more daunting. I obeyed. The taste was earthier, more starkly animal. The minutes stretched. My tongue grew thick and sore. My neck screamed from the angle. Once, a reflexive shudder of nausea crawled up my throat. I clenched my eyes shut, fighting it down, swallowing desperately. I could not gag. I would not start the hour over.
I heard Mary’s breathing change. It grew heavier, punctuated by soft, low grunts. She was enjoying this, the total possession of the act, the unquestioned demand of it. A power she’d likely never felt.
The sisters grew bored, conversations restarting in low murmurs. Someone put on quiet music. Evie handed the leash to Sera and went to get another drink. I disappeared into the task, into the minute geography of skin and sweat, the ticking of an invisible clock in my head. The world was fire-heat, taste-scent, and the low, approving sounds from the woman I served.
When Sera finally said, “Time,” my body was trembling with exhaustion.
Mary stood up, pulling her track pants back on. She looked down at me. There was no kindness in her face, but there was a certain solid satisfaction. A balance had been tipped. “Thanks,” she said, and the word was genuine.
Sera unclipped the leash. “Go to the kitchen. Drink water from the dog bowl on the floor. Then you can leave through the back.”
I stumbled to my feet, my legs prickling with pins and needles. As I passed the couches, none of the sisters looked at me. I was a tool that had been used and set aside. In the dark kitchen, I found the stainless steel bowl near the pantry. I got on my knees again, and drank, the water cool and relieving in my raw mouth.
The humiliations were layering, one upon the other, each burying the person I’d been a little deeper. And yet, as I crept out the back door into the cold night, a treacherous thought surfaced. I had done it. I hadn’t gagged. I had taken the hour. In the economy of this new world, that was a kind of worth. It was the only currency I had.