Chapter 6: The Official Sorority Slave
The gold-tinged twilight did nothing to soften the edges of the Tri Delta house. It loomed, a Greek Revival fortress of white clapboard and smug authority, its columns wrapped in ivy that looked more like chains in the fading light. The porch was strung with lights that twinkled with a cold, festive irony.
I stood on the bottom step, my whole body a single raw nerve. The previous night was a bruised echo in my muscles, a phantom taste in my mouth. Sera had let me sleep on the floor by her bed, a scrap of blanket his only cover, and woken me with a kick to the ribs. “House meeting.”
Now, following her through the grand foyer, the air smelled of lemon-scented cleaner overlaying something sourer, older. He could hear the murmur of many female voices from behind a set of double doors. Sera pushed them open.
The chapter room was all dark wood and worn leather, lined with books that looked untouched. A single lamp on a desk cast a jaundiced circle of light. About thirty women were sprawled on couches and folding chairs, a sea of leggings, oversized sweatshirts, and carefully messy buns. The conversation died the moment he crossed the threshold.
All eyes turned to him. Curious. Assessing. Amused.
“Sisters,” Sera announced, her voice clear and businesslike. She pushed Arthur to the center of the room, near the desk. “As you know, our house has certain… needs. Maintenance. Dishes. General cleanliness. The cleaning service is expensive and they never do it right.”
A low chuckle rippled through the room.
“So,” Sera continued, placing a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. He flinched. “We’ve acquired a more permanent, and more motivated, solution. This is Arthur. He’s a pledge at Sigma Pi. He’s also my pledge. And now, he’s ours.”
Evie uncurled herself from a leather armchair. She held up a simple black leather collar with a sturdy O-ring. “He comes pre-broken,” she said, smiling. “But we still have to put his tags on.”
“Strip,” Sera said, the word absolute.
My fingers, clumsy and cold, fumbled with my button-fly jeans. I only had my clothes from yesterday so they smelled of sweat, lavender and sex. The room was utterly silent, save for the rustle of fabric. Finally, I stood naked in the funnel of lamplight, trying to control my shivering, trying to will my soft, small penis invisible. I hunched my shoulders, a futile attempt at modesty.
“Arms at your sides,” Evie instructed, her tone leaving no room for argument. He complied, exposing himself fully. Whispers now. A snort.
“Jesus, Sera, that’s it?” a blonde girl from the back piped up.
“I told you,” someone else answered. "Smallest dick I've ever seen. My clit is bigger."
That comment generated a round of laughter from the group and I wanted to crawl into a hole.
Evie approached. The collar was cool against my throat. I heard the click of the buckle, snug but not choking. It felt heavier than it was.
“There,” Sera said, sounding satisfied. “Now he’s official. His duties are simple. He lives here. He cleans. He does whatever any sister asks, without question, without complaint. He is not to speak unless given permission. He exists for our convenience. He's basically a human douche bag. Understood?”
A chorus of affirmative murmurs answered her.
“Any questions?”
A hand went up. A larger girl toward the back, with kind eyes that didn’t match the sharpness of her smile. Mary Johnson. “Where does he sleep?”
Sera pointed a thumb toward the door. “Basement storage closet. We cleared out the brooms. It’s got a lock on the outside.”
“And if we need him… at night?” Mary asked, her voice sly.
“Then you line up,” Evie answered brightly. “First come, first served. He doesn’t need much sleep.”
The meeting moved on to other topics—upcoming philanthropy, a problem with the washer—as if Arthur weren’t standing there, naked and collared in the middle of the room. He was background noise. Furniture. Eventually, Sera snapped her fingers and pointed to the door. “Go wait in the kitchen. Scrub the stove. It’s disgusting.”
I fled, gathering his pile of clothes, shielded only by my own arms.
The kitchen was a monument to neglect. I worked for hours, the cheap chemical tang of industrial cleaner scouring my lungs, my bare feet sticking to the tile. Sisters wandered in and out, getting water, making snacks. They didn’t pay much attention to me other than a few snickers or nasty comments. A few snapped their fingers and pointed to a spill on the floor, or held out a dirty plate. I cleaned it.
Late that night, sore and reeking of bleach, Sera led me downstairs. The basement was colder, the air damp and smelled of concrete and old laundry. She stopped at a narrow door next to the furnace room. She opened it.
Inside was a space barely larger than a coat closet. A single, bare bulb hung from a wire. On the floor was a large, plush dog bed, the kind for a Great Dane. A ceramic bowl sat beside it, filled with water. A second bowl, empty, was next to it.
“This is you,” Sera said. “Food will be provided. Do your duties well, you eat. You don’t, you don’t. The door locks.” She showed him a simple slide-bolt on the outside. “You’ll be let out at seven AM for house cleaning. Do not make noise.”
She stepped back and closed the door. He heard the bolt slide home with a definitive, metallic thud.
The dark was absolute. I felt his way to the dog bed and sank onto it. The faux fleece was scratchy against my skin. The collar pressed against my Adam’s apple. I sat in the humming silence, the events of the last two days crashing over me in a wave so immense it felt like silence. I didn’t cry. I just… shut down.
I must have dozed, because the sound of the bolt snapping back startled me awake.
The door opened, framing Evie in the hallway light. She was in a silk kimono. “Rise and shine, puppy. Customer.”
I crawled out. The hallway floor was cold. Evie pointed to a spot by the wall. “Stay.”
I stayed on my hands and knees. I heard giggles from the top of the stairs. Two sisters came down, pajama-clad, glasses of wine in hand. They leaned against the wall, watching.
The first customer was Chloe. She didn’t speak. She just hiked up her sleepshirt, settled onto my face, and scrolled through her phone. She was clean, shaven, tasting of soap and a faint hint of alcohol. It was a transaction. She sighed a couple times, shifted her weight, and after a few minutes, stood up and left without a word.
The line, it seemed, had begun.
It was a blur of similar encounters. Bodies lowering onto him, blocking out the light. Someone ground against my nose, demanding. Someone else sat lightly, almost hesitantly, then left quickly. They talked over me, to each other, about a quiz, about a boy, about how “efficient” this was. I was a living, breathing sex-toy, a talking point made flesh.
Then came Mary.
She was bigger than the others, her presence fuller. She wore faded flannel pants and a tight t-shirt. She didn’t have a phone. She just stood there, looking down at him, her expression unreadable. “My turn,” she said, her voice quiet.
She didn’t guide me. She didn’t assume a position. She simply parted her legs where she stood. “Come here douche bag.”
I shuffled forward on his knees. The scent reached me first. It was musky, strong, a dense organic smell of neglected flesh. As I got closer, I saw the dark, coarse hair, thick and curly, protruding from the edges of her flannel.
“Lick,” she commanded.
I pressed my face forward. The hair was wiry against his lips and tongue. The flavor beneath was profound, salty and deeply personal, a pungent blend of sweat and natural secretion. It was unwashed, used. I gagged, instinctively pulling back.
A hand fisted in his hair, yanking me forward. “Did I say stop?” Mary’s voice was low, venomous. “You clean them when they’re dripping with a football team, but I’m not good enough for you? Is that it?”
I shook my head, mute, terror pinning me in place.
“Then you’ll lick until I say you’re done. Until it’s sparkling. You understand? You’ll learn to like it.”
She held me there. My world narrowed to the dark triangle of flesh, the overwhelming scent, the scraping of hair on my cheeks. I licked. The minutes dissolved. My tongue grew thick and numb. The taste became the only taste in the universe, a sour, earthy truth.
"Good job douche bag. Now lay on your back." she commanded.
I did as she asked and she straddled my face so that my tongue was on her clit and her full ass was spread out over my nose and eyes. The stench was almost unbearable. A mix of salt, body odor, and shit. I could even see flakes of shitty toilet paper ringing her asshole as she settled in over my face cutting off my air supply.
The pressure was absolute, a smothering blanket of flesh and flannel that sealed out the world. I could only breathe in shallow, desperate huffs when her weight shifted slightly, the air itself thick with her intimate smell. Black spots danced at the edges of my vision, my lungs burning.
She began to move, a slow, grinding roll of her hips that mashed my mouth against her. “That’s it,” she muttered, her voice thick with concentration. Her hands braced on the wall above my head for leverage.
My tongue worked on automatic, a numb muscle navigating the coarse thicket. The struggle for oxygen became a frantic, panicked rhythm underneath her relentless motion. I choked, the vibration making her sigh. “Uh-huh,” she coaxed, bearing down harder.
Time lost meaning. There was only the drowning dark, the scrape of hair, the raw animal taste of her, and the desperate, clawing need for air. My body bucked instinctively, a trapped animal’s spasm, but she just rode the movement, absorbing it. “You’re not going anywhere,” she grunted, her voice guttural and close.
Her breathing hitched, becoming ragged. The grinding became more urgent, a focused, punishing rhythm. A low groan started in her chest, vibrating through her body and into mine. She clenched around nothing, her whole body stiffening as the first orgasm took her, a series of sharp, shuddering jerks that pressed her down onto me with finality.
I saw pure white light, my ears ringing. She went still, panting. Just as I managed a wheezing gasp, she began moving again. “Not done,” she breathed, already chasing the next one.
The second peak came quicker, a faster, shallower tremor. She cursed, a sharp, happy word. She didn’t stop. My consciousness frayed, a threadbare wire. The third was a prolonged sigh, a gentle series of flutters that seemed to leach the last strength from my limbs. She finally lifted herself, just an inch.
Cool, dank air hit my flooded mouth. I drew a ragged, sobbing breath that sounded obscenely loud in the silent basement hallway. It tasted of her.
Before I could process the relief, her hand was back in my hair, yanking my head up. Her other hand was already guiding herself. “Open,” she commanded, her eyes glittering in the low light.
A hot, acrid stream hit the back of my throat. It was startlingly warm, salty and bitter, a shocking violation that triggered my gag reflex instantly. I tried to turn my head, but her grip was iron. “Swallow it,” she hissed, the stream continuing relentlessly. “Swallow every drop, you little bitch.”
I had no choice. My throat convulsed, obeying a deeper survival instinct. I swallowed. The bitter warmth spread through my chest, a shameful internal heat. When she was finished, she shoved my face away. I collapsed onto the concrete, coughing, strings of saliva and urine clinging to my chin.
Mary stood, adjusting her flannel pants. She looked down at me, a serene, satisfied smile on her face. She wiped her hands on her thighs. “You taste better already,” she said, her voice returning to a casual, almost friendly tone. “We’re gonna do this every night, douche bag. I’m gonna be your best friend.”
She turned and walked toward the stairs, her footsteps heavy and slow. She didn’t look back. “Sweet dreams,” she called over her shoulder, her voice light.
The bolt on my closet door scraped shut a moment later. I lay on the cold floor, the taste of her piss still coating my tongue, the smell of her embedded in my sinuses. The silence after her departure was heavier than her weight had been. Every night. The promise echoed in the dark, a new and terrible certainty.