Chapter 3: Cookie-Fed Manicure and Warnings
The first coat of polish was a shocking, electric blue. Riley held his hand steady, her touch firm but gentle as she swept the tiny brush from cuticle to tip. The chemical smell of acetone and ethyl acetate filled the space between them, sharp and clean.
“Hold still,” she murmured, her breath warm against his knuckles. “This stuff dries fast, but it’ll smudge if you twitch.”
Connor focused on the sensation—the cool wetness of the polish, the slight tug on his skin. Mia sat cross-legged on the floor beside his bean bag chair, a box of oatmeal raisin cookies open in her lap. She broke one in half and held it up to his lips.
“Open up. Fuel for the artist.”
He took the bite, the sweet, spiced crumble a comforting anchor. The makeup was still on his face, a faint, foreign weight that made him hyper-aware of his own expression.
“So, the basement wardrobe,” Lena said from where she leaned against his cluttered desk, examining a bottle of crimson polish. “We’re thinking something elegant for your official debut. Maybe that black slip dress? It would look devastating with your new bone structure.”
Jess, ever practical, was inspecting his other hand, her scientist’s gaze critical. “Your cuticles are a mess. Stress. We’ll need to do a full moisturizing regimen after this. The sensory experience is important—soft hands reinforce a state of receptivity.”
Isabelle swept into the room then, her presence instantly shifting the atmosphere. She carried a tray with a glass of milk and more cookies. She took in the scene—Connor in the bean bag, his hand in Riley’s, his lips dusted with cookie crumbs—and her smile was a mix of affection and grim anticipation.
“Looking good, pledge,” she said, setting the tray down on the floor. She knelt, her eyes level with his. The playfulness was gone from her voice. “Enjoying the spa treatment?”
“It’s… nice,” Connor managed, his voice softer than he intended. The attention, the care, it was overwhelming in a way that was entirely different from the frantic energy of the kitchen.
“Good. Because this is the calm.” Isabelle’s gaze was unwavering. “The rush starts tomorrow. Twenty new sisters. Prospective members. They’ll be here all weekend.”
Riley finished the second coat on his left hand, the blue becoming deep and glossy. She blew softly on his nails. “Twenty,” she repeated, as if letting the number settle in the room.
“They’ll be excited. Nervous. Full of a lot of… energy.” Isabelle picked up a cookie, turning it over in her fingers without eating it. “And part of your role, Connor, the core of it, is to be a grounding force. A release valve for all that tension.”
The cookie in Connor’s stomach suddenly felt like a stone. Twenty. The number was unreal. He thought of the kitchen, of three of them, the overwhelming sensation of being used from all sides. His body throbbed in a confused echo of the memory.
“How…” he started, then cleared his throat. “How does that work? With so many?”
“It’s a marathon, not a sprint,” Jess stated, picking up a bottle of clear top coat. “We’ll manage the queue. Hydration and nutrition will be provided at intervals.”
“It’s about endurance, baby,” Mia said, her tone lighter but her eyes serious. “And attitude. You don’t have to… finish everyone. It’s about the service. The submission. Making them feel welcome and… appreciated.”
Lena smirked, applying a coat of deep purple to her own thumbnail. “Think of it as a grand performance. You’re the lead actor in a very, very demanding play.”
Isabelle reached out and cupped his chin, her touch surprisingly gentle. “You’ve done well so far. Better than we expected. But this will test you. Your body, your mind.” She leaned closer, her voice dropping. “The plug you’re wearing? That’s just the beginner model. Tomorrow, you’ll be prepared with something… more substantial. Something that will stay in place and remind you of your purpose, even when you’re catching your breath.”
A shiver, equal parts fear and a dark, unwelcome thrill, ran down his spine. The small silicone presence inside him felt insignificant suddenly.
“Why me?” The question slipped out, hoarse and raw.
Isabelle’s thumb stroked his cheek, smudging the foundation slightly. “Because you can take it. Because there’s a strength in you that you don’t even know about yet. And because we chose you.” She said it like it was the simplest, most obvious truth in the world. “This family, what we are… it’s a privilege. And this,” she gestured around the room, at the nail polish and the cookies, at the women surrounding him, “is how we care for our own. We prepare you. We feed you. We make you pretty. And then we make you strong.”
Riley started on his right hand, the blue a vibrant slash against his skin. The sisters fell into a comfortable silence, the only sounds the soft clinking of polish bottles and Mia’s occasional offer of a cookie. He was the center of a quiet, focused storm.
When both hands were done, ten perfect arcs of electric blue, they all admired their work.
“No smudges,” Riley declared with satisfaction.
“The color suits him,” Jess noted. “Psychologically, blue promotes a sense of calm and stability.”
“It matches the flecks in his eyes now that I’ve enhanced them,” Lena purred.
Isabelle stood, brushing cookie crumbs from her jeans. “Get a good night’s sleep, Connor. Eat a big breakfast. We’ll come for you after lunch.” She looked at the others. “Let’s let him breathe.”
They filed out, a rustle of clothing and soft, parting touches on his shoulder, his hair. Mia left the box of cookies on his desk. “For later,” she winked.
The door clicked shut, and the silence of his room rushed in, feeling heavier and more profound than before. He looked at his hands, splayed on his knees. The nail polish was shockingly vivid against his skin, a permanent marker of the day, a brand he couldn’t hide. He flexed his fingers, the slight stiffness a constant reminder.
He stood and walked to the window, looking out at the darkening campus. Normal students were heading to dinners, to libraries, to parties. He felt a million miles away from all of it. The reflection in the glass showed a blurred version of himself—the made-up face, the bold nails—a ghost of the boy who had arrived here just days ago.
His stomach was a tight knot of anxiety, but beneath the fear, something else was stubbornly putting down roots. A sense of belonging, however bizarre. A feeling of being seen, not for who he was supposed to be, but for some raw, untapped potential he never knew he possessed.
He looked at the cookie box on his desk. Then he looked back at his reflection, at the ten points of electric blue.
Tomorrow, twenty strangers would descend on this house. Tomorrow, his endurance would be tested in ways he could barely conceive.
He took a deep, shuddering breath. The boy in the reflection breathed with him. Then, slowly, deliberately, Connor brought his polished fingertips to his lips, smelling the sharp, final scent of the drying top coat.
He was ready.
The deep silence of the night offered no answers, just the slow, inevitable crawl of time. Connor slept in fits and starts, his dreams a chaotic blur of crowded rooms and reaching hands. He woke with a jolt just as dawn was bleeding grey light into his window, his body already humming with a nervous energy that felt like a live wire under his skin.
The scent of coffee and frying bacon eventually drew him out. He dressed slowly in the soft, grey sweatpants and thin t-shirt they had laid out for him, the fabrics feeling unnervingly insubstantial. The electric blue on his nails caught the morning light, a tiny, defiant flag.
Downstairs, the kitchen was a controlled frenzy. Isabelle was orchestrating everything with the calm precision of a general, her voice a low, steady hum. "Lena, the fruit platter. Jess, check the hydration station. Riley, are we good on napkins?"
"Got 'em," Riley said, hefting a giant pack of paper towels onto the counter with a grunt. She shot Connor a quick, assessing look. "You eat yet? There's eggs."
He shook his head, his throat too tight for food. The air was thick with the smell of grease and sugar, a nauseating combination with his churning stomach. Jess pressed a cold bottle of electrolyte water into his hand. "Start sipping. Now."
He obeyed, the cool liquid a minor relief. Then the doorbell rang. The sound sliced through the kitchen's buzz, and every sister paused for a single, synchronized second before resuming their tasks with renewed intensity.
"Showtime," Isabelle murmured, wiping her hands on a towel. "Remember your training, pledge. Breathe."
The first wave was a trio of returning upperclassmen, their laughter loud and familiar as they burst through the door. They dropped duffel bags and immediately enveloped Isabelle and the others in crushing hugs. "God, I missed this place!" one of them, a tall woman with braids, exclaimed. Her eyes, sharp and curious, quickly found Connor hovering by the fridge. "And who's this?"
"This is Connor," Isabelle said, her hand firm on his shoulder, steering him forward. "Our relief pledge."
"Well, hello, Connor," the woman said, her smile widening as she took in his face, his nails. "Aren't you just perfectly prepped?"
More arrived. The door seemed to swing open every few minutes, admitting a new cluster of voices and bodies. The house swelled with the noise of reunions and excited chatter. Connor tried to make himself small against a wall, but he was a magnet for glances, smiles, and whispered comments. He felt like an exhibit.
Then he saw them. They were standing just inside the doorway, two girls with identical faces framed by sharp, black bobs. They wore matching expressions of wide-eyed awe, clutching each other's arms as they scanned the bustling common room. Freshmen. Pledges.
Their gaze swept past the sisters, past the food, and landed squarely on him. One of them whispered something to the other, and they both started moving toward him with a synchronized, deliberate grace that was almost unnerving.
"Hi," the one on the left said, her voice soft. She pointed a delicate finger at his face. "Your makeup. The eyeliner. It's incredible."
Her twin nodded vigorously. "The wing is so sharp. How do you get it so even?"
Connor's hand flew self-consciously to his eye. Lena's work had survived the night. "I, uh... I didn't do it. One of the sisters did."
"Wow," they breathed in unison, their focus absolute. They introduced themselves as Chloe and Samantha, but he knew he'd never be able to tell them apart. They circled him slightly, examining the subtle contouring, the perfect brows.
"You're so lucky," Chloe—or maybe Samantha—sighed. "To be here, like this."
The crowd was thickening, the air growing warm and close. He could feel the weight of dozens of eyes, a palpable pressure. A senior he didn't recognize ruffled his hair as she passed. "Cute," she declared to no one in particular.
Another, older woman with a knowing smile trailed her fingers along his arm. "Isabelle said you were a good find. We've needed a dedicated one."
The twins stayed close, a buffer of sorts, their admiration a strange, focused light in the overwhelming noise. One of them, emboldened by the crowd's energy, reached out and touched a blue fingernail. "This color is amazing on you."
Her touch was light, but it sent a jolt through him. It was a preview. This was just the beginning of the touching, the looking, the claiming. He could see the hunger in some of the returning sisters' eyes, a familiar, building need that the kitchen had only begun to sate.
The twins were still talking about makeup, their voices a steady stream, but their proximity was changing. They leaned in closer, their shoulders brushing his arms. The one who had touched his nail now let her hand rest on his wrist, her thumb stroking the sensitive skin there.
"You know," the other twin said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "we could practice. On each other. If you want."
The doorbell rang again, a distant sound now. The crowd parted slightly near the entrance, and Connor saw a new group of prospective members filing in, their faces a mix of excitement and nervous terror. They looked at the sisters, at the house, and then their eyes found him—the boy with the painted face, surrounded by women, his purpose unmistakable.
Isabelle caught his eye from across the room and gave him a small, slow nod. It was time.
The twin holding his wrist tightened her grip just a fraction, her smile turning possessive. "Looks like the party's really starting," she said.
The twin’s grip on his wrist was a brand. Her words hung in the air, a promise and a threat woven together. Before Connor could form a response, a sharp whistle cut through the din.
Every head turned. Isabelle stood on the bottom step of the staircase, a clipboard in her hand, her gaze sweeping the room. "Alright, listen up! Welcome home, everyone. You know the drill." Her voice wasn't loud, but it carried an absolute authority that instantly silenced the chatter. "If you're a returning sister, you know the priority system. First-timers, watch and learn."
The crowd began to shift, a slow, purposeful reorganization. Connor felt the twins press closer, a united front against the sudden current of movement.
"Jenna, you're up first," Isabelle called, her eyes landing on the tall woman with braids who had commented on him earlier. "You’ve been traveling all day. Go on."
Jenna, the star athlete, cracked her neck and offered Connor a swift, predatory grin. "Appreciate it." She didn't move toward the common room or the kitchen, but toward the hallway that led to the more private study rooms. Her meaning was clear.
Isabelle’s attention moved down her list. "Maya, you're with Alex. Then Sarah. The rest of you in the queue, go unpack. We'll call you for your trunk or your watch." There was a collective murmur of understanding. A group of women peeled away, heading for the stairs with their luggage, their laughter now subdued.
The initial chaos crystallized into a stark, orderly line. Connor’s heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic bird in a cage. This was really happening. It was systematized.
The twins hadn't moved. They remained anchored to him, their presence a silent question in the newly arranged space. The line of women waiting was already five deep, their eyes on him, assessing, patient.
Isabelle finally looked at them, her expression unreadable. "Chloe. Samantha. You're at the end."
One of the twins, Samantha, lifted her chin. Her voice was quiet but firm, cutting through the low hum of the house. "We'd like to be serviced together." The request wasn't shy. It was a statement.
A few of the waiting sisters glanced over, eyebrows raised, but no one seemed surprised. It was a deviation, but an acceptable one.
Isabelle considered them for a long moment, then her eyes flicked to Connor, checking his state. He knew his fear was probably plain on his face. She gave a single, curt nod. "Fine. Together. But you wait your turn." She then turned her focus fully to Connor. "Jenna's waiting. Don't keep her."
The hallway to the study felt like a tunnel, the patterned carpet tilting under his feet. Jenna had already shed her travel-worn jacket, the muscles in her back and shoulders shifting beneath her thin tank top as she closed the door behind them. "Isabelle says you're a quick learner," she stated, her voice a low, practical rumble. "Good. I don't have all day."
The next two hours dissolved into a blur of shifting textures, scents, and demands. He moved from the quiet intensity of the study to the dim warmth of a linen closet, then to the corner of the common room once it had cleared. He learned the unique geography of each sister—the perfume one wore, the way another gripped his hair, the specific sounds they made when their tension broke.
His body became a separate entity, a tool of service operating on a kind of autopilot. The initial sharp fear melted into a deep, resonant ache that settled in his bones. The electric blue of his nails was a constant, surreal flicker in his peripheral vision, a beacon in the storm of sensation.
"Look at you," a sister named Sarah murmured, her breath hot against his ear as she guided his head. "You're a natural at this." Her words were a brand, searing away the last remnants of his shyness, forging something harder in its place.
He lost count after seven. The queue was a river, and he was simply the current flowing through it. He focused on the mechanics of it—the breathing, the rhythm, the simple act of enduring. The plug Lena had mentioned, the "more substantial" one, was a persistent, grounding presence, a constant reminder of his purpose that kept him from floating away.
When the twins, Chloe and Samantha, finally took him into the empty kitchen, their approach was different. They were slow, methodical, and terrifyingly synchronized. They didn't speak, communicating only with glances and subtle touches, directing him between them with an unnerving grace. It was less a release and more a shared, intimate consumption.
"See?" one of them whispered into the silence that followed, her finger tracing the line of his jaw. "We told you we wanted to be together."
The final sister, a petite woman with fiery red hair, simply held him after, her body trembling against his for a long, quiet minute. "Thank you," she breathed into his shoulder, her voice thick with unshed tears. "I needed that. You have no idea." Then she was gone, leaving him alone, slumped against a wall in the hallway.
He must have closed his eyes, because the next thing he knew, strong hands were lifting him. "Alright, pledge. You're done." It was Riley's voice, stripped of its usual teasing edge, all business. "Let's get you cleaned up."
He was half-carried to the large, tiled bathroom he’d seen that first morning. The world was a muffled, distant thing. Jess was there, her scientist's efficiency a comfort. She helped him out of his sweat-soaked clothes and into a shower so hot it stung, washing him with a clinical, impersonal gentleness that felt like absolution.
The grime and the smell of other people washed away, swirling down the drain in a grey vortex. He stood under the spray until his skin was raw and pink, until the shaking in his legs subsided into a deep, full-body hum.
When he emerged, wrapped in a thick, clean towel, Mia was waiting with a plate. "Eat," she commanded, pointing to a chair they'd pulled in. It was plain chicken and rice, but it was the most real food he'd seen in hours. He ate mechanically, the flavors a dull echo in his mouth.
Lena appeared and wiped the ruined makeup from his face with cool, damp cloths. The touch was delicate, reverent. "There's our boy," she said softly as his own features re-emerged from under the smudged foundation and eyeliner.
They led him, dry and dressed in soft, clean cotton pajamas, not to his own room, but to a larger, plush sofa in the common room. The lights were dim. Someone put a thick, wool blanket over him. The chaotic energy of the day was gone, replaced by a profound, quiet stillness.
He could hear the distant, normal sounds of the sisters now—the clatter of dishes from the kitchen, the faint beat of music from upstairs, the murmur of conversation. He had served his purpose. He was part of the machinery of the house, and now he was being maintained.
His body felt both heavy and weightless, every muscle liquid and spent. The persistent ache was still there, a deep echo of the day's labor, but it was a satisfied ache. A earned one. He thought of the twenty faces, the twenty different releases, and a strange, quiet pride bloomed in his chest alongside the exhaustion.
He must have drifted off, because the touch on his shoulder was a surprise. Isabelle stood over him, her expression unreadable in the low light. "You did well, Connor," she said, her voice low. "Really well."
He just nodded, his throat too dry for words.
"Get some real sleep," she instructed. "Tomorrow, the last of the sisters arrives. Hailey. She's... different. She's been abroad." There was a weight to her words, a new layer of anticipation. "She'll want to meet you."
Then she was gone, leaving him in the quiet dark. The last of the sisters. Different. The words looped in his mind as he sank back into the cushions. He looked at his hands, resting on the blanket. The electric blue polish was chipped at the edges, a record of the day's labor.
He closed his eyes, and for the first time, he didn't dream of crowded rooms or reaching hands. He just slept, deep and black and empty, the house humming around him like a living thing.