Sorority #1: Initiation

I sit alone in the back seat. A black silk blindfold covers my sight. Pledge Mistress Dierdra -- 'DeeDee,' a stunning brunette Senior -- is driving me to some destination I know not where.

I'm tense. Nervous. Yet also eager. This is my final test. If I pass, I become a Phi-Delta sister.

The Phi-Delts aren't the snootiest or most stuck up sorority on campus -- that honor goes to the Delta Deltas -- trust-fund princesses and private school snobs each and every one.

But the P-Ds are sharp and impressive. They stand out on campus -- immediately identifiable, good-looking every one of them. And they always dress classy, in clean-cut office-suburban-evening skirts, slacks & heels styles. Never anything slutty or tawdry. And never ever, jeans, t-shirts, cut-offs, or flip-flops. No shorts, either, except when engaged in exercise or athletics.

By some standards, they're a small sorority, just 18 sisters, and they're local rather than national. Nor is their house a mansion on a big lawn, rather it's a five story townhouse in an upscale neighborhood not far from campus.

The house is gorgeous and elegant though, well-furnished, with a real chef -- not a 'cook.' They even have an inhouse infirmary with a part-time RN. And best of all, every sister has a private room, no roommates, with a big luxurious bed, and a shared bath.

I could hardly believe my luck when they invited me to pledge at the start of my Sophomore year. Me, a townie from a public high school in the low-rent district.

Don't get me wrong, my folks aren't poor, Dad's a county maintenance mechanic and Mom works in an office, but we're not affluent either -- and when it comes to gown versus town that matters. It matters a lot.

Yes, sure, I had good grades, good enough for a fullboat scholarship to the U, but almost all of the Phi-Delts are dean-listed cum laudes, accepted into the top grad schools, hired by the best firms. The Delta-Deltas might know the country club set, but the Phi-Delt's old girls network is second to none. For a nobody like me with eyes on a business or legal career that's crucial.

I'm pretty sure I have the looks to fit in with the P-Ds -- or at least I tell myself so. I'm 19 about to be 20, almost petite, five-foot seven (in three inch heels), with a slender but curvy figure. An adult who knew his cinema once told me I looked like a natural blonde Paulette Goddard. When I was a cheerleader at Nowhereville High, guys assured me that I was, 'smoking hot.'

But between my scholarship and the little my parents can provide, I can barely afford the dorm fees that allowed me to live on campus Freshman year. So I was floored when DeeDee told me, "We seek the girl, not the money."

Each sister, she explained, signs a contract to kickback to the sorority a lifelong 1% tithe on all earnings after entering the workforce. With all the grads they have in good jobs, that pays for everything, mansion, meals, trimmings -- even a wardrobe allowance. For me a dream not deferred.

I have to make it. I've got to get in.

Now, this is my final test. Coiffed and groomed as directed -- liner highlighting my blue eyes, my long natural-blonde hair cascading down to the small of my back, three-inch heels, black lace lingerie, and a sexy, pale-blue, sun dress even though the sun had set hours ago.

I sense the car pulling over. It's coming to a stop.

"Remove your blindfold," DeeDee tells me.

Expecting I know not what, I do so and quickly glance out the window. Though it's almost midnight, to my surprise I immediately recognize where we've stopped. We're at a familiar corner a few blocks from the Phi-Delt house. "What...?"

DeeDee smiles as she takes the blindfold from me. "Don't worry, it's all good. Just walk back to the house. You know the way."

I wanted to ask why. This is supposed to be my big test, my big initiation. But her expression tells me to do as I am told without questions.

I open the door and step out of the car which quickly speeds away leaving me standing on the sidewalk next to the old church graveyard.

It's one of those mid-September New England nights, still warm and humid. As usual for close to midnight -- even on a Saturday -- the street is empty of both cars and pedestrians. The cheapskate town fathers only install street lamps at the corner, so the pools of light are like distant islands in the dark.

I'm puzzled. It all seems so -- lame. So I have to walk past a graveyard that I pass several times a week. Big whoop! In the dark, yes, but come on, really? Sure, all my life I'd heard the whispered stories, but they're just that, local legends that no one takes serious.

My heels click loud on the sidewalk in the muggy dark as I stroll back towards campus. Some ground fog, gray and thick, is beginning to form and swirl around my ankles -- unusual, but not unheard of for late summer this close to the river.

The cool fog continues to thicken and rise, swirling up around my knees. Within minutes it surrounds me, encasing me in its mysterious mist. I can't see more than a few feet in front of me.

The streetlight at the distant corner is just a small, hazy glow shining through the gloaming. There isn't a breeze to rustle the leaves. All I can hear is the sound of my heels on the sidewalk.

As I pass by the arched gateway over the graveyard entrance -- if there had ever been an actual gate it's long gone -- a movement catches the corner of my eye, but the fog is now swirling too thick to see much anything.

I hear what sounds like steady foot falls behind me in the fog. I glance back but can't see anything in dense mist. I begin walking a bit faster towards the light at the corner.

I'm relieved when I reach the corner where the cemetery ends. The street lamp provides little more than a dim, blurry glow as I cross the street, now just a few blocks from my dorm.

Of course, none of the stores or cafes are open this late, their windows are not lit. Not much crime in this slow, sleepy, tres-tres boring college town.

With a sudden clutch of fear, I realize that whomever it is, is still behind me. And from the sound, drawing nearer. My breath catches and I stumble on a portion of the sidewalk tilted up by a tree root. I stop for a moment and lean against the brick wall of a storefront to steady myself.

He emerges suddenly out of the swirling mist. At first glance I dismiss him -- just a guy, not a ghost or ghoul or some other horror-film nightmare.

Quickly, though, I revise my take. He's good-looking, yes. No, he's gorgeous in a powerful masculine way. Tall, trim, and athletic. Raven-black hair, dressed in black from head to toe, his tight T clinging to his muscular frame.

He carries himself with an air of superior confidence and strides with the mesmerizing grace of a large cat -- a predator. His sky-blue eyes settle on me, drinking my soul, catching and holding my attention like some kind of alpha-male force of nature.

He moves in on me. He says not a word and he doesn't need to. His eyes say it all. He's a hunter. I'm his prey. I know he's going to take me. And a part of me suddenly wants him to.

I'm weak and my legs are trembling. I press back against the wall, the red bricks rough. I know I'm his for the taking. Not by choice -- yet not by force either. I'm spellbound, entranced. It's as though nothing else exists in the universe but this sexual predator closing in to posses me.

"Who are you?" My soft voice trembles and quivers. Helplessly, I whisper, "What do you want?" But I already know what he wants.

He makes no reply. Not a sound as he invades and occupies my personal space. Then he does the strangest thing. He leans in and sniffs me, inhaling deeply of the air in front of me.

I felt his breath on my face -- pleasant, musky. Arousing. His fingers caress my cheek. He smiles, a slow, seductive smile of sexual power, of irresistible dominance. I can feel my self-will melting into submissive mush.

For some reason, forming a complete sentence is now completely beyond me, "Who..., wha...?" I try to ask in a tremulous whisper.

He gives no verbal answer. His mere presence is answer enough, he arouses me more than any other male ever has. My body is igniting. My heart pumps a steady, sex-laced pulse through me. My breasts feel swollen, tender, throbbing. I'm aware of dampness forming between my legs.

I try to think, to form words, to say something, do something, but nothing comes to me.

Slowly, he caresses my cheek, shoulder, and bare arms with his strong firm hands. I gasp at his bold presumption of possession and try to twist away. To no avail.

"No, please, no. Don't..." I whisper without conviction.

I know that when he embraces me, as he is certainly about to, my head will barely reach the bottom of his chin. I know his irresistible strength will overpower me, handle me as if I were a child. And that I will surrender to him.

Mesmerized, I offer no resistance as his nimble fingers undo the front buttons of my blue sundress and pull it down off my shoulders to expose my throbbing mounds encased in a black lace bra.

His hand covers one orb, tenderly cupping and then gently squeezing. His fingers trail around my curves and back to my hard, erect nipple that he pinches through my bra. It's as if he's sent a jolt of fire into my female core which is getting wetter by the second.

"Oh, God" I moan, helplessly possessed by his sexual power.

Suddenly he grasps my shoulders, pulls me away from the wall, and turns me around so that he's behind me. He holds me in place against him with one hand and with the other possessively strokes and caresses my flat womb below my narrow waist. He needs no words to tell me he's claiming it -- he's claiming me -- for his seed.

He pushes against my shoulder, bending me over until I place my hands against the red brick wall. He flips my flowing, knee-length skirt up onto my back.

Paralyzed and dominated, I make no sign or gesture of resistance. He slides two fingers inside my black lace panties to stroke my wet nether lips. Then he pushes them into my core. I spasm and my legs tremble. My pussy is swollen and wet. Eager. Ready.

"Ahhhhh," I gasp.

My trembling legs can no longer hold me. He catches me up as I collapse and I lay cradled, supine yet secure, in his strong arms, my head lolling back and my blond tresses flowing down. We both know my posture is one of complete and utter surrender.

He lifts me up and bends down to kiss me, I assume -- I hope. But he doesn't. Instead he exhales a long, sweet-smelling breath directly into my face. Darkness rolls over me.

I awake into semi-darkness. I'm laying supine on something firm but slightly yielding. I can't tell how long I've been asleep -- or rather unconscious -- but I don't think it's been long.

Wherever I am, it's dimly lit by a few aromatic candles. I can make out gray stone walls and carvings. It's a crypt! One of those in the graveyard. Whatever I'm laid out on, it doesn't feel like a bed -- it's some kind of catafalque -- sarcophagus? Altar?

Between my back and the stone is some kind of thin mat. Beneath my head is a firm pillow.

I know I should try to move, to rise, to escape, but I'm held by some sort of strange sensuous lassitude, unable to act, unable to do anything but await my fate.

He emerges out of the darkness to gaze down on me as I lay before him. I know I should be terrified -- but I'm not. I'm excited. Aroused. Thrilled.

He's wearing nothing but a black silk robe that hangs open from neck to knees, revealing his erection rising up out of his tangled black pubic hair.

He stands next to me, bends down, and his lips softly brush mine, a reconnaissance not an invasion. Languidly, his fingers stroke and caress my cheek, my face. I moan and twist and push weakly against his hard chest.

I'm not really trying to fend him off or escape, rather I'm establishing and confirming my utter submission as I wait for this unknown alpha-male stranger to take me. To posses me. To gush his sperm into me and impregnate me -- though, of course, thankfully I'm protected by my implant.

My pale-blue sundress is unbuttoned and half open. His strong, hard fingers caress my tender breasts still encased in my lacy black bra. Gently, his hand cups and squeezes. His fingers touch, tease, and dominate my nipples that are now standing at attention.

He reaches beneath my back, unhooks my bra and removes it from my body.

"No, please no," I beg softly with neither strength or conviction. The manner and tone of my No is really my submission to him -- and we both know it.

He kisses one of my breasts. I feel his wet tongue licking my hard, erect nipple, his mouth gently sucking and arousing me to greater and greater heights.

He strokes his hard hand up my well-toned leg, then my thigh, pushing up my light skirt until it's bunched up around my waist. I tremble and quiver, as he gazes possessively at my black-lace bikini panties -- at what they barely conceal.

Utterly in his power, I wait submissively for him to finish stripping me. For him to fulfill my private erotic fantasy of being ravished -- without cruelty or brutality -- by an irresistibly powerful avatar of male dominance.

With a swift, sharp jerk, he rips my thin panties from by body and tosses the shreds aside. My stocking-clad legs lay limply open, I make no effort to close them.

My most intimate core is now exposed and vulnerable to him. He stares at my pussy, wet, waiting for him to invade and conquer. He smiles. A smile of male dominance and masculine power.

Again, he rests his large hand against my womb. The soft pressure of his palm is a clear nonverbal message of his intent to impale me on his mating shaft, pump his semen into me, and impregnate me.

I try to protest, to resist, to say him "nay." But all I can muster is a submissive whimper.

His strong but gentle fingers now begin to stroke and caress my nether lips, inserting themselves into my sopping wet folds. I moan, and tremble with eagerness and desire.

He pulls his fingers out. With his palm, he covers my mons and its carefully trimmed blonde curls while kneading my swollen lips and flicking my eros button.

Oh, God! Oh, God! He so knows what he's doing. My heart pumps hard. Erotic fluids drip from me. I spasm and cum.

He takes my ankles and spreads my legs wide, almost but not quite to the point of discomfort. Utterly dominated, I wait for him to mount me. To take me. To impregnate me.

He kneels on the altar, looming above me. I cannot look away from his erection, his mating rod that is about to impale me. Hanging beneath it and only partially hidden by his thicket of black pubic hair is his full, swollen scrotum.

I close my eyes in surrender. I await my fate.

He covers me with his weight, crushing my swollen, sensitive nipples against his hard chest. His naked body pins me in place.

"Take me," I whisper softly. "I submit to you. I surrender to you."

He thrusts into me, hard and deep. I take him in all the way, sheathing him, throbbing, writhing, and pumping against him with sexual ecstasy. He fills me completely, almost to the point of discomfort.

"Yes, yes!" I shriek, not caring who hears, as he thrusts and pumps in an out, stroking and filling my channel that grips and pleasures him.

For the first time in my life, I squirt, rather than secrete, my erotic fluids. They flow from my cleft and drip down my thigh.

Convulsions rack my body as I ride the perfect, strongest, most prolonged orgasm of my life. The intensity makes me so dizzy that I almost black out.

I can feel the swelling of his semen as it rises up his throbbing rod. I feel begin to rhythmically pulse. A glow of heat warms my womb. I can almost feel his seed surging into me as he ejaculates.

I know I'm on the pill -- well, technically an implant -- and I'm so glad I am, yet the physical sensation of being theoretically impregnated is an incredible sexual thrill.

Over and over he ravishes me, cuming again and again, until dizzy and exhausted with sexual satiation, a dark mental mist overcomes me and I know no more.

* * *

A gentle touch and a tentative, feminine voice, wakes me."Selene? Selene, are you all right?"

It's DeeDee. Though still weak and exhausted, I manage to open my eyes. "Wha..? Who..?"

She grins. She's obviously relieved. "Ah, good. You're okay."

I realize she means that I'm not panicked or freaking out. What? Did she think I was going to fall apart?

"Rest a bit, you'll recover soon," she assures me. "What did he look like?"

"Tall," I mumble, "strong. Dark hair. Such blue eyes."

"What was he wearing?"

"Black jeans, black T-shirt."

She nods in self-evident satisfaction. "Ah. Good. Nathaniel. We never know which one is going to show up for an initiation. Nat's a sweetie pie -- though he's not much for conversation."

I'm still a bit woozy, trying to bring my thoughts into coherence. The initiation -- yes, of course. DeeDee obviously knew what was going to happen. Phi-Delt had set it up! Holy shit!

And she was right. I hadn't realized it at the time, but he -- Nathaniel? -- had hunted me, captured me, used by body for his pleasure, and then departed without uttering a single, solitary word.

Part of me is pissed at the sorority. Though I had to admit it turned out not to be the lame initiation I had at first thought.

And another part of me is both insulted by and enraged at the studley hunk who had used me without my consent. But I'm honest enough with myself to know that if ever saw him again and he wanted me I would surrender myself to him in a heartbeat.

Dee Dee was still chatting on, "Ariel's okay. He and Nat both have dark hair and blue eyes, I think they may be half-brothers. But Ariel wouldn't be caught dead in jeans or T-shirt.

"I'm glad for you, though, that it wasn't Raphael. He's blonde -- platinum. You have to watch out for him. He would have ripped your dress to shreds and taken you hard against a building in the fog before bringing you back here for rough seconds. Very rough seconds. And probably thirds."

Nathaniel. Ariel. Raphael. "Angels? If I'd known that's what angels were like, I'd have spent more time in church."

DeeDee's laugh is warm and clearly pleased with my reaction.

"If you're able to make jokes, you've recovered enough for me to get you back to your dorm."

She helps me off the flat stone sarcophagus which I now see is covered with a thick, fluid-stained yoga mat.

"But don't kid yourself," she tells me as she tosses my shredded clothing into bag and helps me don a cream-colored satin robe before guiding my weak steps out of the crypt and into her car that's parked outside in the still lingering fog.

"Dhampirs are not angels -- not by a long chalk. They're dangerous predators. They don't form relations with normals like us. They feed off of us. In return, they give us great pleasure and certain tangible benefits. But it's all transactional with them. There's no emotional connection at all and don't ever think there is or that there ever will be."

Having just experienced the most intense and incredible sexual experience of my life, I'm trying to make sense of what she's telling me. "Dangerous? Why?" I ask as we drive through the graveyard gateway.

"They feed off us. They drain some kind of sexual energy, some sort of female life force. I can tell that he only took you once. In an hour or two you'll be fully recovered. If he'd taken you twice, you'd have been so weak and limp I'd have had to drag you to the car and it would be morning before you'd be back to normal.

"Two of them taking turns with you could do serious harm. Three might kill you. An incredible way to die -- I suppose -- but still...."

"Kill me? What do you mean? Is he some kind of vampire?" I feel around my neck but there's no holes, no sores, no blood.