Chapter 2: The Sorority House Tour
The staircase was a mountain.
Robert stood at its base, neck craned back, the welts on his thighs pulsing with every heartbeat. The mahogany steps spiraled upward like a corkscrew, each one polished to a mirror shine. Ivory tulle draped the banister in cascading waves. Champagne flutes—dozens of them, empty and glittering—had been placed on every third step, catching the chandelier light and throwing it back in fractured rainbows.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Patricia said. She stood on the first step, her wine glass still somehow full, her posture immaculate. "The girls spent all morning decorating."
Robert swallowed. His throat felt like sandpaper.
"It's—" he started.
"You'll want to get on your hands and knees now," Patricia interrupted. "The staircase is narrow. We wouldn't want you to fall."
The mothers behind him tittered. Someone's heels clicked against the marble as they shifted position. Robert didn't turn around. He didn't want to see their faces—the smiles, the phones, the flyswatters held loosely at their sides like accessories at a garden party.
Mary appeared at his elbow. She placed a hand on his shoulder—gentle, almost tender—and leaned in close.
"Remember the rules," she murmured. "You crawl. You don't speak unless spoken to. You thank everyone you meet."
Robert nodded.
"And Robert?"
He looked at her.
"The tour is interactive. Whatever they ask you to do, you do it. No hesitation. No complaints. We clear?"
He wanted to ask what interactive meant. He wanted to ask what the girls had planned. He wanted to ask if there was a version of this night that ended with him keeping whatever shred of dignity he had left.
Instead, he said, "Clear."
Mary kissed his cheek. Her lips were warm and soft, and the gesture was so familiar, so domestic, that for a moment he forgot where he was. He forgot the jockstrap, the heels, the forty-seven welts.
Then she stepped back, and the moment shattered.
"Down you go," she said.
Robert lowered himself to his hands and knees.
The marble was cold against his palms—colder than before, or maybe that was just his imagination. The heels made the position awkward; his feet were angled wrong, toes pointed, weight distributed unevenly. He'd have to crawl on his knees, not his feet, and the thought of dragging his bare kneecaps across mahogany made his stomach clench.
"Up you go," Patricia said.
She ascended the first step. Then the second. Then the third.
Robert followed.
The first step scraped his knees. The second one hurt worse. By the third, he'd found a rhythm—a slow, painful shuffle that moved him upward inch by inch, the tray long abandoned, his hands gripping the edge of each step for leverage.
The champagne flutes wobbled as he passed them. One tipped over. It rolled down the stairs and shattered on the marble below.
"Careful," someone called out. "Those are rentals."
Robert didn't apologize. He'd learned that much.
The mothers followed behind him. He could hear their heels clicking against the wood, their voices rising and falling in casual conversation. They talked about restaurants. They talked about vacations. They talked about their husbands, their ex-husbands, their boyfriends. They talked about everything except the man crawling up the stairs in front of them, the man whose bare ass was on display for anyone who cared to look.
The daughters came last. Their laughter was sharper, more pointed. One of them—the strawberry blonde from before—kept reaching out to flick the frills on his jockstrap. Each flick sent a shiver up his spine.
"Stop squirming," she said. "You're making it worse."
Robert reached the landing.
The upstairs hallway stretched before him like a museum corridor. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling—three of them, each one a constellation of crystal and frosted glass. The walls were lined with framed banners: Alpha Phi, Delta Gamma, Kappa Kappa Gamma. Gold letters on burgundy fabric. Dates going back a hundred years.
And at the end of the hallway, a single mirror.
Robert saw himself in it—a small, hunched figure in pink satin and stilettos, his skin flushed, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. He looked like a bug under glass. He looked like something you'd find in a specimen jar.
He looked away.
"Welcome to the second floor," Patricia announced. She'd stopped at the top of the stairs, her wine glass raised like a tour guide's flag. "The girls have prepared something special for you. Three rooms. Three experiences. Consider it... an education."
The mothers applauded. The daughters whooped.
"The first room," Patricia said, gesturing to a door on the left, "is the paddle wheel."
The door opened.
Robert's heart stopped.
The room had been transformed. The beds—bunk beds, twin-sized, covered in pink comforters—had been pushed against the walls. In the center of the floor, a wooden wheel had been mounted on a stand. It was painted like a carnival wheel—red and yellow and blue, divided into segments. Each segment had a word written on it in sharpie.
SWAT. WHACK. SPANK. THWACK. PADDLE. HARD. HARDER. HARDEST.
A girl stood beside the wheel. She was tall—taller than Ava, taller than Mary—with dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and arms that looked like they spent more time at the gym than the library. She held a ping-pong paddle in one hand.
"Hey," she said, smiling. "I'm Jess. I'll be your dealer for this round."
Robert looked at Mary. Mary nodded.
"Go on," she said. "Spin the wheel."
Robert crawled forward. The heels clacked against the hardwood floor. The welts on his thighs dragged against the ground, each one sending a fresh spike of pain through his body.
He reached the wheel. He reached up—his arms shaking—and spun it.
The wheel clicked. Clicked. Clicked. Slowed. Stopped.
HARDEST.
Jess laughed. "Ooh, tough luck. Bend over the bed."
Robert didn't move.
"I said," Jess repeated, her voice dropping an octave, "bend over the bed."
Mary's voice cut through the silence. "Robert. You heard her."
Robert crawled to the nearest bed. He gripped the frame and pulled himself up, his body bent at the waist, his ass exposed, the frills of the jockstrap parting like curtains to reveal the welts from earlier—red and purple, some still fresh, some already scabbing.
Jess raised the paddle.
The first swat landed with a crack that echoed off the walls.
Robert bit his lip. The pain was different from the flyswatter—deeper, more concentrated, a bruise forming instantly under his skin.
"That's one," Jess said. "You're supposed to count."
"One," Robert gasped.
The second swat came before he could breathe.
"Two."
The third.
"Three."
The fourth.
"Four."
The fifth.
"Five."
Jess lowered the paddle. She examined her handiwork—the new welts overlapping the old ones, a Jackson Pollock painting of pain—and nodded approvingly.
"Not bad," she said. "For a creep."
Robert slid off the bed. His legs barely held him. He collapsed to his knees, the heels splaying out beneath him, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps.
"Thank her," Mary said.
Robert looked up at Jess. She was smiling, the paddle resting casually against her thigh.
"Thank you," Robert said.
"For what?"
He swallowed. "For the... educational experience."
Jess laughed. "You're welcome. Next time, bring your own paddle."
The second room was worse.
The feather duster gauntlet, they called it. A narrow corridor had been created between the bunks, lined with girls on either side. Each girl held a feather duster—long, ostrich plumes in bright colors. Pink. Purple. Teal. Gold.
Robert had to crawl through the corridor.
On his hands and knees. Without stopping. Without protection. Without anything to shield his bare skin from the feathers that would brush against him from every angle.
"You'll love this," Ava said, appearing beside him with her phone raised. "It's like a car wash. But for shame."
Robert looked at the corridor. The girls were smiling. Waiting.
"Go," Mary said.
Robert crawled.
The first feather caught him on the ear. Soft. Teasing. Then another on his neck. Then another on his shoulder. Then ten at once—a flurry of feathers against his back, his arms, his legs. He shuddered. The feathers weren't painful. They were worse than painful. They were ticklish. They were maddening.
He tried to crawl faster. The girls followed his pace, matching his speed, keeping him in the center of the gauntlet. A feather slid between his legs—just a brush, barely a touch—and he gasped.
"Keep moving," someone said.
A feather found his armpit. He jerked sideways. Another found the back of his knee. Another found the tender spot beneath his ribs.
He was laughing. Crying. He couldn't tell the difference anymore. The feathers were everywhere—soft and relentless, teasing and torturing, breaking down every defense he had.
The end of the corridor approached. Ten feet. Five. Three.
He burst through. He collapsed on the floor, gasping, his body trembling with aftershocks. The girls behind him giggled and high-fived.
"That was the worst," one of them said. "He was, like, really ticklish."
Robert lay there, cheek against the floor, staring at the baseboard.
"Get up," Mary said. "You're not done."
The third room had no decorations.
No paddle wheel. No feather dusters. Just a bed, a chair, and a door that led to a balcony.
And standing on the balcony, looking in through the glass, were twelve fraternity brothers.
Robert's blood turned to ice.
They were college kids—early twenties, all of them, wearing khaki shorts and polo shirts and smug expressions. They'd been drinking; Robert could see the red cups in their hands. They'd been waiting; Robert could see the anticipation in their eyes.
The door slid open. The first boy stepped through.
"Sup," he said.
Robert didn't move. He was still on the floor, still in his jockstrap, still kneeling. His welts were on full display. His humiliation was complete.
"Patricia invited us over," the boy explained, as if this needed clarifying. "Said we should see the show."
The other boys filed in. Twelve of them, forming a semicircle around Robert. They didn't hold flyswatters or paddles or feather dusters. They didn't need to. Their presence was the punishment. Their presence was the point.
"This the guy?" one of them asked.
"That's him," Ava said. She'd followed Robert into the room, phone still recording. "He's been watching your girlfriends for months."
The boys exchanged glances. One of them—a tall kid with a backwards cap—snorted.
"Creepy," he said.
"Very creepy," another agreed.
Mary stepped forward. She stood beside Robert, her hand resting on his shoulder. "Boys," she said, "Robert has something he'd like to say to you."
Robert looked up. His mouth was dry. His voice was barely a whisper.
"Thank you," he said.
"For what?" the tall kid asked. He was smirking.
"For the... educational experience."
The boys laughed. It was a hard laugh, a mean laugh—the kind of laugh that came from a place of privilege and certainty, from kids who'd never had to face consequences for anything.
"You're welcome," the tall kid said. "Now do us a favor."
"What?"
"Stop watching our girlfriends."
Robert nodded. He couldn't speak. His throat was too tight.
The mothers had gathered in the doorway. They watched the scene unfold with the same expressions they'd worn all night—bemused, entertained, satisfied. Patricia stood among them, her wine glass finally empty.
"I think," Patricia said, "we've taught him enough for one night."
Mary shook her head. "Not quite."
She looked down at Robert.
"There's one more thing," she said. "One more room. One more lesson."
Robert's heart sank.
"What?" he asked. "What else?"
Mary smiled. It was a warm smile. A kind smile. The kind of smile that had made him fall in love with her, all those years ago, before he'd ruined everything.
"The sorority's formal chapter room," she said. "Where the girls hold their meetings. Where they vote on new members. Where they decide who belongs and who doesn't."
She crouched beside him. Her eyes were level with his.
"I think it's time you learned what it feels like to be voted on," she said. "To stand in front of a group of women and have them decide your fate."
Robert's mouth opened. No words came out.
"Don't worry," Mary said, standing. "I've already told them to go easy on you."
She turned toward the door.
"Come along, Robert. The night's not over yet."
Robert crawled after her.
The fraternity boys watched him go. The sorority girls watched him go. The mothers watched him go.
And somewhere behind him, Ava's phone kept recording.
The formal chapter room was at the end of the hall.
Robert could see it through the open door—a long table, high-backed chairs, portraits on the walls. A gavel rested on a velvet cushion. A bowl of water sat on a side table, steam rising from its surface.
He crawled toward it.
His knees were raw. His palms were raw. His welts had welts. But he kept crawling, because that was what Mary wanted, and because there was no other choice.
The room swallowed him.
The door closed behind him.