Sorority #2: Auction

Later, I wake from six hours of deep restorative sleep. It's a Sunday morning, so no classes to worry about. Though I'm still in my crummy dorm room, I'm now hopeful that I'll soon be upgrading to a fine bedroom at the Phi-Delta House.

I shower quickly, make myself look my best, and arrive at Philately just in time for a fabulous, fully-catered brunch -- a P-D Sunday tradition.

Afterwards, as instructed, I check in with DeeDee and Anais, the Vice President for Social Affairs. All the elected sorority positions come with nickname-titles that are only used by sisters and pledges. As Pledge Mistress, DeeDee is, of course, Mistress' and Anais isRevels.' She's a curvy African American with beautiful mahogany-brown skin, sparkling eyes, and thin braided locks gathered in a ponytail that flows down her back.

"So, you okay?" probes Mistress DeeDee.

Was I ever! Nat had given me the most thrilling and satisfying sexual experience of my life. And I was proud, too, that I'd gone through the whole thing -- mysterious fog, sudden encounter, graveyard, crypt, the whole nine yards -- without panicking, wailing, or weeping.

We chat back and forth for awhile, while Mistress and Revels comes to their final decision. My heart races with anticipation, it's all I can do to appear cool, calm, and collected.

With a big grin, Revels says, "Welcome to Phi-Delta, sister Selene."

Finally! Oh. My. God! I'm In!

Once again they go over all the rules and customs. I sign a bunch of documents and forms, they give me my key fob, and we figure out when I'll move into my fifth floor room. As soon as possible, I tell them firmly. Today and tomorrow, I'll cut a class if I have to.

After awhile, we're just chatting, and I ask about dhampirs, my mind glowing at the thought of meeting Nat again.

I know that pledge mistresses are supposed to be tough and hard, but I really like DeeDee. Her smiles are so eloquent. But the face she shows me now tells me I'm not going to like what she's about to say.

"You be careful, Selene. When a dhampir exhales his pheromones directly into your face and you inhale, your will is gone. Gone, gone, gone! And when he wants to, he can cause you to temporarily lose consciousness. None of us can resist a dhamp. He could have tortured you, he could have killed you. And even if you managed to try resisting, you'd have been as weak as a kitten in the jaws of a wolf."

DeeDee and Revels explain further. Dhampirs crave, in fact need, some kind of female sexual energy that they get from sex with human women.

Yet their power puts them in danger if they don't control themselves. In ages past, when they left behind dead girls drained of life force they were eventually hunted down and slain by mobs or bounty hunters. Hence all the fantasy legends about blood-sucking vampires.'

The energy dhampirs drain from us grants them long lives with long youth, and they only need to feed that way a few times a month. Phi-Delt provides a safe, controlled way for them to do so. Safe for them. Safe -- and pleasurable -- for us.

"We welcome them here," DeeDee tells me. "But only so long as they obey Rule 4B. No Bruises, No Blood, No Broken Bones. And no draining any of us to anywhere near a danger point."

I start to ask more questions, but Anais stops me. "You'll have plenty of time to learn more about Dhamps. Ask Laila, she's our expert. But right now, we need to talk to you about Tuesday's fund-raiser. You've seen the sign on the stairs, right?"

Of course I had, it was way too big to miss.

[No Boys Allowed

Above the Second Floor!

No Exceptions!]

"I guess it means I won't be inviting any men up to my room," I reply. "Which seems a real waste of that big double bed."

DeeDee laughs, she has such a great laugh.

Anais shakes her head. "Oh Selene, for someone who might go into law, you're not reading that very well. It says, No boys.' It doesn't say, No men.' No students, not even grad-students ever go up those stairs. Students are the worst gossips in the universe.

"But men, and some women too, people with money, authority, power -- and spouses, and positions they don't want to risk by boasting and blabbing -- that's a different story. And, of course, dhampirs," she adds with a smile.

What? Does she mean...? "So... is that how you all get such good grades?"

"No!" Revels snaps, obviously annoyed. "We work for our grades -- hard! No P-D sister entertains any prof she's taking a class from. Not ever. And if she previously entertained him, he works and grades her harder than everyone else. He has to -- for his own protection.

"We do the course work. "We have the test scores. We write our own papers. We have the knowledge and skills to justify our grades. We earn our places on the Deans List. We earn our honors. And we earn our careers after graduation."

"Well, there is one connection to our grades though," adds DeeDee with grin. "To maintain a healthy mind and body, we girls need regular doses of Vitamin-F.

"Getting your Vitamin-F through the dating-game is frustrating, time-consuming, and emotionally distracting. Unless you're seeking some kind of deep meaningful relationship -- or maybe just a husband -- our revels save a lot of time and energy that we can use for study."

I silently fill in the rest. Entertaining important and useful people with whom there is no direct teacher-student or employer-employee relationship can be very helpful down the career road. But, still...

Anais responds as if she were reading my face, "Look, males use every advantage they have to get ahead -- inherited wealth and position, physical strength, bullying, charisma, back-stabbing, whatever works. And society lauds them for it. But if a women does the same, she's a bitch,' a shrew,' a harpy,' scorned and condemned.

"Well, fuck that hypocrisy. If we can use our sexuality to our advantage, more power to us. So long as it's by our choice on our terms. If they don't like it -- tough."

Which brings her to the Fall Fund-raiser. Twice a year, fall and spring, Phi-Delta holds a very special, invitation-only fund-raiser. In the fall, it's a virgin sacrifice,' attended by a dozen or so academic big shots, wealthy businessmen, and the like.

The new girls, the babies -- like me -- are auctioned off to the highest bidders to whom we sacrifice our virginity.

All sorts of thoughts and responses flash though my mind -- astonishment, repugnance, intrigue -- but what I actually reply is, "Virgins? They think we're virgins?"

I'd lost my virginity to a high school halfback when I was 15. Well, not so much lost,' as eagerly disposed of.

"No, silly," DeeDee laughs. "Of course not. Not in their heads. But, you know -- they're men. Brains are not their primary organ."

"And," adds Anais, "you should know by now that good sex is as much about illusion, imagination, and pretense as it is about physicality. Our virgin sacrifices' are expected to roll-play it, Oh, no! Please no!' And we have ways of faking it, even fake blood from your supposedly ravaged maidenhead."

The house has 18 bedrooms on the three upper floors. Each year, six Sophomore newbies replace the seniors who recently graduated. So six 'virgins' will be auctioned and sold and the remaining sisters will 'console' the losing bidders.

Revels assures me they only invite decent, and good-looking 'guests.' No one gross or decrepit, no one brutal or bestial.

"You know about our Rule 4B," DeeDee adds. "We also enforce the 'Rule of NO.' 'No' means no -- but only when you say like you really mean it. And they're responsible for being able to hear and accept it you mean it."

"That's why we have security on premises," adds Revels. "Anyone who violates Rule 4B or the Rule of No is never invited back -- and they know it. Yes, this one time, as a virgin sacrifice,' you won't be able to choose who you go upstairs with because you're not allowed to refuse the winning bidder. But you can set the parameters."

Strangely, they seemed concerned I would be repulsed by the idea, or scared, or something. Hah!

I'm five-foot-four, slender build, hundred and nine pounds. Delicate features, delicate bones. I exercise, I jog, and I'm in good physical shape. But no way in hell can I fight off a normal sized man. I've always known that unless I was able to flee I would be helpless against any powerful male who in the grip of lust, rage, or booze, is driven to defy (or bend) custom and law by sexually assaulting me.

I've long understood that if a man is about to brutalize and violate me, my safety, perhaps even my survival, is going to rest in seductive submission and sexual surrender. By allowing him to pleasure himself in my body, I might divert him from inflicting brutal violence.

And on some kind of deep, primal, biological level, implanting his generational seed in my womb might make me too precious and valuable for him to kill -- I hope.

Which, to be honest, has always formed the core of my most secret sexual fantasies. The innocent young virgin taken against her will, dominated, ravished, bred by a powerful alpha-male -- yet without violence or brutality -- doesn't repulse me. It excites me.

Maybe that harridan I had to endure for Freshman Psych 101 -- a course I aced, by the way -- would call it a 'coping mechanism' or some other psycho-babble term. Well, so what?

"I'm in" I tell them with a grin. "But no anal. That creeps me out. Anything else I'm willing to try -- at least once."

* * *

Tuesday evening, I'm in my Phi-Delt room, dressed, groomed, and perfumed. It turns out that Phi-Delt has an account at a fancy mall-spa where the sorority pays for anything I request. Including the full bikini wax I had been instructed to obtain which left just a trim nest of blond curls on my mons.

They also inserted a soft, false hymen with fake blood into my pussy. It isn't uncomfortable, in fact, it kind of turns me on.

Lucia, a pretty Latina Senior, helps me don an utterly gorgeous, smoking-hot, white lace, knee-length chiffon complete with white elbow-length gloves and matching four inch heels. To me, it looks like a wedding dress, but she refers to it as a 'robe de sacrifier.'

All afternoon the house maids have been busy. Everything is clean, neat, and in its place. The big double bed in my room has been stripped down to black satin sheets.

God, I'm going to look so hot as a virgin fertility sacrifice laid out on that ebony background with my long, natural blond mane framing my face! Whatever old fart buys me will probably cum all over himself just from the visual.

Well, okay, alright, I admit it, I'm a bit nervous. Nathaniel the dhampir had been a sudden surprise. This time I've had two full days to think about what I'm about to do, or rather, allow some strange man to do to me. I swallow a dry swallow.

"Don't worry, you'll be fine," Lucia assures me. "We've all done it," she adds with a smile of fond remembrance. She's wearing a hot, 'little black dress,' that leaves nothing to the imagination of the losing bidder who she will soon be 'consoling.'

I'd noticed that big, good-looking security guys were now discreetly stationed on each floor. Supplied by a 'friend' of Phi-Delta, they handle any problems during events like the auction. Judging by how some of the sisters referred to them, I understood they're thought of as 'guards' with benefits,' -- as it were.

Revels had shown me how to use Cassandra, our voice-activated security system. If I'm in danger, all I have to do is call out, 'Cassie! Red! Red! Red!' and the security guys will come running. (I hope.)

There's a light double tap on the door. The house has state of the art security and electronic locks on all doors. Each sister has a key fob that automatically unlocks her own room and the common area doors. There are also touch pads for entering codes if I don't have my fob.

"Cassie open," I call out and Annell enters. She's a tall, redhead Junior who plays JV basketball. She carries a pair of black leather manacles with velcro ties that she fastens around my wrists over the white gloves. Each one has a ring that is just the right size for the two carabiners on a short silvery chain that binds my hands behind my back.

'Sacrifices,' of course, must be restrained, lest they offend the gods by resisting their act of fertility submission.

She places a black leather choker around my neck, and clips a longer sliver chain to the ring at its center. I had told Revels that I wanted to be blindfolded the whole time. That I didn't want to see the man who was going to buy me, the male to whom I was about to sacrifice my supposed virginity.

The reality, though, is that I want to imagine it's Nat who is ravishing me, not some middle-age dean or balding stock broker. And -- tell the truth and shame the devil -- I know that in the weeks to come I'm going to enjoy the delicious piquancy of seeing some important, powerful man and wondering if he was the one who had bought and bred me.

But as Lucia ties a black silk blindfold over my eyes, it all suddenly becomes very, very, real. I'm about to be sold as a sex-slave to a strange male I've never met and will never be able to identify.

Annell takes the chain and leads me out of the room, the collar-chain pulling me along behind her while Lucia guides and steadies me (don't scoff, you try walking on four inch heels while wearing a blindfold).

None of us speak as we take the elevator down to the second floor recreation room.

My heart is beating fast. I am the last of the 'virgins' to be placed on display for sale to the highest bidder.

One new sister had refused, declaring that it was 'outrageous' and 'degrading' and that she refused to join Phi-Delta.

I saw her point, of course. But I could make similar 'degrading' observations about some of the normal customs of the dating scene. And it was also quite clear to me that despite what we new girls had been told, this was the real, final, initiation test -- or should I say 'ritual?'

And, okay, yes, a virgin-sacrifice auction is degrading -- but it's also wicked hot. I'm becoming aroused just anticipating it. And within a month, the refusenik's room will be filled by someone from the Phi-Delt wait list. I assume they'll arrange a special, single-virgin sacrifice auction just for her.

As I'm led across the rec room I can hear the rustle of people and the murmur of voices over the click of my heels on the sprung-wood dance floor.

Lucia and Annell place me standing with my back against one of the five floor-to-ceiling poles that had been set up earlier in the day. They were padded to bow out my upper body and emphasize my breasts.

Annell lifts up my arms and clips the wrist-manacles together behind the pole so that I'm unable to lower my them or shield my body with my hands. It's uncomfortable, but I know it won't be for long.

Now I am bound and displayed. Vulnerable. Helpless. Available for purchase and deflowering. Ready for breeding. My heart flutters in my chest like a caged bird. I can actually smell the sexual excitement pervading the air.

If I'm going to do this -- and it's way too late to back out now -- then I'm going to go all the way. "Please, please," I whimper as I desperately twist and pull against the manacles. "Let me go, let me go."

The appreciative murmurs of the unseen buyers and my soror sisters increase noticeably.

The blindfold completely covers my sight. But I can hear quiet footsteps cross the floor towards me. I sense someone -- some ones -- approaching me. I know they are males.

Soft, thick, stuffy fingers caress my cheek. Startled, I flinch. A man's voice chuckles. A hand strokes across the white lace bodice that outlines and emphasizes my firm young mounds. His thumbs tease my nipples through the fabric of my bra and dress.

Other male hands feel, caress, fondle, and palm my body, my thighs, my legs, and my firm ass. My body throbs to their touch as I sink deeper into the roll play of innocent captive virgin. "Please," I beg and sob. "Please, don't do this to me."

The buyers are not allowed to converse with the 'sacrifices,' before purchase. But they can talk among themselves. "What a delicate beauty this one is," says a male tenor. "Young and ripe for breeding," agrees a baritone.

Beneath the blindfold I close my eyes reveling in their desire for me, their eagerness to win the privilege of 'deflowering' me. I'm amused at the way they imagine -- or at least pretend to themselves -- that they will be the first male to penetrate me. To take me. To breed me.

My breath comes faster as I anticipate what one of them will soon be doing to me. I feel warm. A glowing ember is lodged below my narrow waist, my velvet gate is becoming wet. I visibly tremble -- and now it's no longer an act.

"Don't be frightened little-bit," a male voice assures me. "If I win you, I'll be gentle when I transform you into a woman."

He thinks I'm trembling in fear. What a clueless idiot.

"Oh, please, sir," I beg in a soft, tremulous, voice. "Please, I'm just sixteen. I'm too young..." I'm actually going on twenty, of course, but he's not going to notice.

Another male laughs as he lays his large hand possessively over my flat womb. He caresses it through my gown. "Old enough to bleed, old enough to breed. Once I buy you, Sweet Sixteen, you'll beg me to plant a brat in your belly."

What an arrogant boor. He's wearing way too much Dior Sauvage. I hope he's not the one who purchases me.

A chime rings and the male presences depart. The bidding has begun. It's silent, all done with a computer app and a big screen that Revels refers to as the 'tote board.'

I'm glad that the bidding is silent, it would be so humiliating to be sold for less than the others. But, of course, by morning every sister in the house will know exactly how much each 'virgin' fetched. It embarrasses me to realize that I want to be valued higher than any of the others. I mean, how shallow is that? But my pride knows no shame.

After an interminable time that's probably no more than ten minutes, someone, Annell I think, unclips my wrists and I gratefully lower my aching arms.

I and the four other virgins have been sold.

Of course, no actual cash has changed hands, nor have any checks or credit card transactions been made. That would be tres-tres crass. Instead, at some point in the not too distant future the winning bidders will make tax-deductible charitable donations in the appropriate amounts to Phi-Delta -- an incorporated 501c7 social club.

My wrists are again bound behind my back. The chain is reattached to my velcro collar, and I'm led back to the elevator and my room -- there to endure my inevitable fate-worse-than-death. I'm aroused and wet just thinking about it.

A few minutes later, as instructed, I am posed kneeling on my plush bedroom rug facing the door. My wrists are manacled behind my back and my head is bowed.

Though the blindfold is tight across my sight, I know I am a vision of sexual submission with the chiffon skirt of my sacrifice gown spread around me like the soft, sensual petals of a white rose.

I hear the door open and someone enters. He's wearing Old Spice cologne -- can you can believe it? Just like my gramps used to use. He was so sweet and nice to me, I still miss him.

I hear the door close and I know he is standing before me. Gazing down on me. Relishing the sight of me bound and helpless before him -- a female sacrifice to his masculine power and lust.