The Fraternal Order: Chapter 3 (Remastered Edition)
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Tuesday afternoon, just hours before the official start of spring break:
Sloane Peters sat inside the student advisor’s office “acting” on her best behavior. The usually rebellious nineteen-year-old busied herself by pulling at the hem of her plaid skirt, (which seemed considerably shorter now beneath the counselor’s watchful eyes). Mrs. Kessler sat at her desk directly across from her as she reviewed the young woman’s long list of student infractions...
“I see that you have quite a history of pushing the boundaries, Miss Peters.” The strict disciplinarian glanced up and gave an accusatory look over the top of her horn-rimmed glasses.
Sloane acknowledged the woman with a nod and tried to look regretful.
“Improper use of a cellphone in a learning environment; chronic lateness to class; smoking on University grounds―?” Kessler angrily snapped her papers with that one. She shook her head in disbelief, took a deep breath, and went on, “...Repeated dress-code violations, including: altering skirts to an inappropriate length; studded belts; fishnets; ankle socks with spiked heels... the piercing of exposed body parts.”
The counselor looked up again, this time zeroing in on the silver hoop that punctured Sloane’s left nostril. What kind of woman does that to herself? She wondered. Then her face soured once again. The kind that’s trying to make a statement, that’s who.
Sloane just shrugged her shoulders and flashed a sheepish grin.
The advisor angrily flipped the paper over to the next sheet, and despite having the rules right there in front of her, proceeded to recite them verbatim: “...From section Five, Paragraph One of the Student Handbook: hair shall be shampooed clean and styled in a manner that is not distracting to other students. The use of beads, feathers, or any drastic changes from natural hair color is stricly prohibited...”
Kessler lowered her paperwork. Her eyes flicked up to Sloane’s latest hairstyle, now cut in one of those radical A-line bobs. Today’s unusual choice of colors: two-tone burgundy and black, (last week it was platinum blonde with hot pink tips). And just look at that godawful makeup, the advisor thought. The kohl-rimmed eyes and dark lipstick; she looks like a cheap extra from the Class of Nuke ’em High...
The pair made eye contact across the desk and Sloane barely held back a smirk.
The advisor ruffled her papers and continued: “April 3rd: student in question found with... (she paused, tilted her head and did a double-take) ― with a pair of police-issue restraints on her person..?”
“That’s true, but I bought those for my own personal use,” Sloane confessed. She emitted a bubbly giggle but immediately regretted it.
Kessler’s nostrils flared and she pointed an accusatory finger in her direction. “Now you listen here, young lady; if you ever pull a stunt like that again, I’ll drag you outta here by the ear ― no questions asked. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Mrs. Kessler.” Sloane had nearly forgotten about the handcuffs they’d found in her purse, and there was no use in trying to explain why she had them in the first place, (though she did recall who she’d used them on just a few nights before).
Gotta luv those randy freshmen... so eager and willing to experiment.
“You are here to receive a proper education,” the counselor spouted, “not to act recklessly by running around with dirty-minded boys.”
Who said anything about boys, the girl thought to herself. “Of course, Mrs. Kessler.”
The advisor yanked another page over.
“And these grades leave a lot to be desired; you’re falling behind in many of your classes. We have academic standards to be met here at Glendale, and unless you pull a “Hail Mary” on your finals, you won’t be allowed to return in the fall...”
Sloane studied when she felt like it—usually never. “I’ll work a lot harder at it after the break.”
“I’m not so sure.”
Ugly cow, Sloane thought at her. “I promise I will; I wouldn’t want to let you down, Mrs. Kessler.”
“You certainly wouldn’t, my dear.”
Kessler took off her glasses and let them hang from the gold chain against her chest. The counselor rubbed her weary eyes for a bit, eased back in her chair, and then tented her fingers as if she were about to say something significant.
“I’ve been at this University for a very long time, and I’ve seen a lot of things. I’ve watched gifted students take a turn down the wrong path, never to recover. I’m not here to watch you fail, Miss Peters; I’m here to help you thrive as a young adult. Now I’ve spoken with a few of your instructors, several administrators, and even the dean himself; we all agree that you need to be held accountable for your actions, and that some form of punishment is in order.”
Sloane didn’t like where this was going; she swallowed hard in her throat and shifted uncomfortably in her chair...
Kessler raised her glasses from her chest and set them back on the tip of her nose. The counselor flipped back another sheet of paper, cleared her throat, and then went on to read, “It is the board’s decision that Sloane Evangeline Peters is placed in the student suspension program ―”
Kessler talked over the distraught student in an even louder voice. “― TO BE SERVED IN-HOUSE for a period of ONE WHOLE WEEK!”
“A WHOLE WEEK?” Sloane shouted, “For what?”
“...You broke university policy several times, including a level four infraction.”
“You can’t suspend me for that!”
“I can, and will, suspend you!”
“Oh, no, you won’t!” The girl defied.
Kessler’s fingers curled over the edges of her papers; this repeat offender has been an absolute pain-in-the-ass ever since she enrolled. Now she was pissed. Now the little minx would pay. The advisor pushed her chair back and stood; she slammed a fist down on her desk in anger.
“TWO WHOLE WEEKS! Keep it up, and I’ll make it the rest of the semester! One way or another, you’ll be in downtime for a while. Now what’s it going to be?”
Sloane glared up at her, anger burning in her eyes. “Spring break starts tomorrow; you can’t keep me here against my will!”
“I only have so much tolerance for misbehavior, young lady.” The woman gave the delinquent a firm look and pressed the panic button beneath her desk.
Coach Walker burst through the door of her office within seconds.
“Yes,”Kessler confirmed, “we’re ready.”
The coach stalked across the room with such single-minded purpose that Sloane barely had time to acknowledge the goggles on his face. Before she knew it, he’d grasped her by the wrists, yanked her up from her chair, and was forcibly pulling her towards a life-sized portrait on the wall...
“Let go of me!” Sloane shouted as she stumbled along behind him. She looked like a pet refusing a trip to the vet’s.
A few feet ahead, Kessler was pulling the painting back from the wall; a dimly-lit chamber was revealed beyond. Sloane’s heart immediately sank when she realized where she was going.
―Oh no; not the dreaded tunnels!
“I’m not going with you!” Sloane challenged. By now, she’d dug the heels of her Mary Janes into the carpet, resisting the coach with all her might, yet all of her efforts were in vain.
“It’s okay,” Mrs. Kessler lied, “Your punishment will be over before you know it.”
“Yeah,” backed the coach, “And everyone has a change in attitude after downtime.”
“You can’t do this to me! My mother will sue your asses!”
The advisor just rolled her eyes and made a hurry it up motion with her hand.
“They always threaten to call a lawyer, their mommy and daddy ― whoever. Well, it’s been my experience that the parents are usually worse than their offspring, but I digress. Sweet dreams, my dear...”
“LET―GO―OF―ME!” Sloane maintained as she desperately struggled against the coach’s grip.
Mrs. Kessler waived her off. “Good-bye, Miss Peters.”
The advisor was in the process of closing the door between them when a brilliant flash of light burst through the gap. The woman’s breath caught; she wanted to close her eyes and turn her head away, but found that she couldn’t.
...Kessler barely had time to realize what happened when the familiar tingling sensation of pins and needles rippled through her body. It was a sensation that she recognized immediately, but one that she hadn’t felt in quite some time.
* * * *
Binghamton, New York (roughly 48 hours before the Fraternal Order diner).
“Are you sure you’ve got everything?” Jack Claussen asked himself out loud. Talking to himself, was something he often did, as none of the other occupants in his house would ever acknowledge him.
The professor looked down appreciatively at the luggage that lay open on one-half of his four-post bed. There’s an art to properly packing a suitcase; it’s a talent that only a few possess. Jack is one of those people, and the proof lay right there before him; three days’ worth of clothes and personal hygiene products all strategically tucked within the strict confines of an American Tourister. Travel light and pack right, his father once told him...
One of the more important items that the professor took on road trips was something his father actually designed himself; the Ansco Neutrafier Flash camera. The Neutrafier Flash was a concept that was initially pitched to the U.S. military; the powerful flash bulb could freeze enemies in their tracks (quite literally), effectively suspending all molecular activity within the intended target. Consequently, the catatonic subject would have very little (or even no) memory of the event, as all brain activity would cease within seconds of exposure. Unfortunately, the military had no interest in merely “subduing” their enemies, and the project was quickly abandoned. Due to safety concerns, the Department of Defense ordered that all remaining examples be destroyed. Only three early prototypes remain, and Jack kept one of those for himself.
This special piece of equipment was designed to break down easily on the battlefield and came with its own brushed aluminum storage case. The two foam impressions inside held the rare camera within its grip for safe travel. There were also recessed areas for the charger and two rechargeable batteries, which the professor always brought along. Never know when you might happen upon some unsuspecting maid ― Heh!
Jack gave a little start, as if he’d been reminded of something. He did a quick 180 and noticed the open door on the opposite side of the bedroom...
Speaking of which.
The professor went over to his walk-in closet and turned on the light to illuminate the neatly organized space. A long row of coats, pressed slacks and business suits (many still covered in plastic) hung from hangers in a long row at right. On the left were dozens of cubbyhole-like compartments, each niche filled with the professor’s trademark turtlenecks (one in every color), neatly folded khakis, and dozens of pairs of shoes, (each buffed to an impeccable shine). But Claussen wasn’t here to peruse his wardrobe; what he’d returned for was the two fixtures that stood at the far end...
“Sorry to keep you ladies waiting,” Jack said in jest. The “ladies” didn’t answer him back.
Two women stood statue-like on either side of the narrow aisle. They were scantily-clad too, like a pair of mannequins one might see behind the window of a lingerie store.
On the left: Amelia Lanier, a fresh-faced nineteen-year-old who retained a little baby fat in her cheeks. The young dance-clubber found herself stranded with a dead battery after a long night (and subsequent morning) of underage drinking. The teenager walked to the nearby Kwik Stop, where she spotted an old man pumping gas into a van. He seemed harmless enough, so the brunette approached him and asked for a jump. Jack was more than happy to oblige, of course. The white Altima was found in the nightclub parking lot later that morning, the hood still up, the owner’s whereabouts unknown.
That was nearly a year ago, and Amelia had undergone some drastic changes since then. As part of her renovation, Claussen dyed her hair an ash-blonde color and added some extensions for extra length and thickness. For the fashion portion of her makeover, the professor swapped out her club wear for a little French maid number. The upper half consisted of a black and white ruffled bodice that hugged her trim body; the low-cut depth of the square neckline framed the tops of her swelling breasts like a work of art. Down below, a pleated crinoline skirt with a daringly short hemline displayed her toned thighs and long legs, each shapely curve sexily bound in the large grid work of her fishnet hose. Jack added accessories like a lacy white headband, service apron, and ruffled panties to complete the servant look.
By the time Claussen finished applying her make-up, the girl once known as Amelia was no longer recognizable. Only he would know her true identity from now on.
The professor was so pleased with the final results that he broke out the bubbly, curled her fingers around the stem of a champagne glass, and then raised his own for a toast. “I now christen thee Chanel!” Jack proclaimed, renaming her after the photogenic MTV personality that she so closely resembled.
However, the newly-minted Chanel had to earn her keep, and before long, she was fashioned into a sexy clothing rack. Jack liked to call it repurposing.
The blonde’s left hand was raised, fingers splayed out to support the bottom of the polished serving tray that she held up within her palm. An assortment of Jack’s favorite colognes stood on the surface for his perusal. Her right forearm was raised and positioned into an L to support the dozen or so ties that were draped over it.
“Hello, beautiful.” Jack greeted. He reached out, cupped her cheek within his palm, enjoyed the feel of her silky skin as he rubbed it with his thumb.
Chanel didn’t react to his touch, of course; she remained utterly silent, her only communication via her dark, unseeing eyes, which were focused on a point just beyond the professor’s shoulder...
“Oh, I’m fine, thank you.” Jack replied oddly. “I’m looking for a tie to match the black and gray Houndstooth jacket I’ll be wearing to the dinner. Think you have something?”
Thinking was totally out of the question. If she possessed anything along those lines, the professor would have to fend for himself.
Jack held the ties up to his chest one by one; those that he decided to keep were draped around Chanel’s neck, while the rest were heaped over her other forearm. Once he narrowed the selection down to just three, he raised them up over her head...
“Keep up the good work, kiddo,” the professor said before giving his loyal servant a quick peck on the cheek.
Chanel wobbled a bit in reaction to the kiss. Jack did a quick 180⁰ and took a step or two in the direction of his personal stylist...
Ah, there she is.
On the opposite side of the closet stood Sidra Holland; self-proclaimed fitness fanatic and celebrated fashion columnist from Manhattan’s Upper West Side. The twenty eight-year-old was dressed in a high-end teddy that looked both stylish and provocative. The upper half consisted of black sheer tulle with a floral pattern that seemed to grow up and around her bountiful breasts, while the sides and bottom consisted of shimmery blue silk that tapered down between her impressive thigh-gap, where it cupped the distinct imprint of her pubic mound. One spaghetti strap had fallen free and was left to hang over her upper arm, (one of the professor’s personal touches). Her long, chestnut-brown bob was parted at the side for maximum elegance and further added to the “boardroom-chic” vibe.
The V-ed fingers on Sidra’s near hand held up a fresh #2 pencil like a cigarette holder, (a playful little jab at the writer’s devotion to practicing a healthy lifestyle). The brunette’s head had been turned a bit to the side, eyes lidded at half-mast, her lips parted in anticipation. Her expression looked expectant too, as if she’d just returned home from an overly long flight and was longing for the touch of a generous lover.
Like Chanel, Sidra had also been fashioned into a clothing rack of sorts. Her furthest arm was raised, the middle finger crooked through the hanger of the garment bag that was draped over her left shoulder.
“Hello, Sid.” Jack greeted. “I need your professional opinion on something...”
He held the first tie up to his chest and asked, “So what do you think?”
Sidra’s utter silence implied that she disapproved of his selection.
The professor raised his second choice up to his chest. “Then how about this one?”
“Okay, then what do you think of this last one here?”
Sidra’s continued indifference seemed to imply that her mind was already made up; she was more interested in the yellow pencil in between her fingers than critiquing her master’s wardrobe.
Claussen reached for the woman’s chin; using both hands, he carefully turned her head so that she could face him directly. Utilizing his thumb and forefinger, the professor squeezed her cheeks like a mother squeezes her baby’s. Sidra’s lips roughly mimicked the words as the professor spoke them out loud:
“Yes or no? ....YESSS―OR―NOOO... La-la-la-loo-loo... La-lay-lu... Luuuke... Luuuke! I’m your fah-ther!”
Jack bust out laughing at his own ridiculousness, but the half-naked columnist wasn’t amused. Once he let go, Sidra just stared ahead dumbly, her pretty face now relaxed into an awkward half-smile.
Claussen looped the remaining tie around the collar of his Oxford shirt, tied it loosely, and then checked his look in a full-length mirror. After a long moment, the professor nodded his head in agreement. “I think you’re right, Sid; a ribbed turtleneck is the better way to go.”
Jack yanked the band off his neck, spun to his left, and carelessly tossed all three ties over Chanel’s forearm. He pivoted back in the opposite direction and quickly rearranged Sidra’s expression to resemble what it was before. When the professor was finished, he turned her head back to the left so her gaze could refocus on the #2 pencil...
Where it belongs.
The professor disengaged her hooked finger from around the hanger of his garment bag. He slung the suit over his own shoulder, looked at her thoughtfully, and remarked, “I don’t know how I ever got along without you.”
Like her neighbor before her, the professor felt compelled to give Sidra a quick peck on the cheek.
As Jack exited the closet, he reached over and turned off the light. The door closed behind him with a gentle clump, and Chanel and Sidra were left to stare into the darkness...
Claussen hung up the garment bag on the back of his bedroom door. He returned to the bed, zipped the flap closed on his suitcase, and set it down on the floor. The professor extended the collapsable handle and rolled the luggage across the bedroom, where he left it waiting beside the door.
Jack turned back and looked around the room for a moment.
The professor rubbed his forehead as he crossed the carpeted floor. Now what am I going to do with you, he thought as he stopped at the edge of his bed. Laying there on the far side of the king-sized mattress was a woman...
Gracie lay on her right side, head propped up on one elbow; the fingers on her left hand were woven through her graying hair, which was still messy and wild from the previous night’s activities. She failed to register Jack’s presence even as the mattress dipped beneath his weight...
“Not to blow you off, but there’s some important matters I’ve got to deal with out of town.”
The woman didn’t say a word, but the vacant look in her eyes spoke volumes. She showed no resistance as the professor pulled the covers back to reveal her deliciously nude body...
Claussen’s appreciative gaze roamed over Gracie’s fleshy curves. Unlike most of his other dolls, this one was a little soft around the edges, with a plump body and a fuller backside. Between her milky skin, slight belly and the dense bush, she could’ve easily passed for a nude oil painting from the renaissance period. My own Reclining Venus, he mused as his hand drifted up her bare thigh. The forty-something divorcee was a fairly recent acquisition; she’d accepted a temp position as a census taker and had the misfortune of knocking on the professor’s door. Jack found her quite attractive for an older gal, and he was more than happy to offer her a more “permanent” position.
The professor’s hand progressed over the swell of her hip, and slowly, seductively, glided around the ample curve of her smooth bottom. He loved the feel of her bare ass, which was surprisingly firm for her age, yet pliable beneath his touch. After a while, his hand drifted around to Gracie’s inner thighs, where his fingers idly played with the coarse hair that framed her twat. “I’m tempted to give you a good trim,” he confessed, “but I don’t want to ruin the au naturel vibe.”
Jack was growing hard, but he knew he had to get on the road. He withdrew his hand and leaned back against the mattress. “We probably shouldn’t leave you out in the open like this; what if a burglar were to break in and have his way with you?”
Gracie didn’t seem to be overly concerned with the possibility.
Claussen stood up; he walked around the bed and pulled the sheet all the way out from beneath Gracie’s frozen form. He turned her body over and she flopped back against the mattress, her soft but weighty breasts wobbling around a bit as she came to a rest...
Mm-mm; just look at those.
Gracie lay flat on her back, tits up, her erect nipples pointed defiantly at her keeper. Her head had lolled off to the side; her wide, unseeing eyes stared off with no real direction. The professor picked the bed sheet up and strategically draped it over her torso to provide a little bit of modesty.
Well, at first, anyway.
The longer Claussen stood there admiring Gracie on the bed, the more he loved the hint of surprise in her expression. It was the same startled look she’d had when she was standing in his foyer and he suddenly raised his camera; Jack intentionally displayed her that way so he could relive that anxious moment over and over again.
Gracie already possessed a milky complexion, so the professor kept the maquillage to a bare minimum. To maintain a flawless, almost natural look, he’d carefully airbrushed her face and then finished up with some soft contouring and thick lashes. The quick makeover made the woman appear a whole decade younger, and he was quite happy with the end result. He was certain that Gracie appreciated the “update” as well.
That was over a week ago, but they’d had time to get better acquainted since then.
After a long moment, the professor tilted his head to the side and remarked, “You look a little odd like that; maybe we can come up with something better...”
Gracie was his poseable doll now, and Jack moved her limbs around like a puppeteer guiding his marionette. He extended her left arm across her chest, placed a hand over hers, and squeezed down on it like a tennis ball. When he released his grip, her hand stayed in place as if desperately clutching her right tit. The professor raised her other arm from the bed, extended it straight out, and then lay it over the top of her right thigh. At some point during all of this movement, Gracie’s legs had fallen open, her stubby little toes curled and angled out. She just lay there beneath him, totally exposed and open to his touch, his cock—whatever he wanted to do to her, she’d allow it.
Jack really liked the thought of that.
“What’s a matter,” he questioned, “didn’t I give you enough action last night?”
That’s when something clicked. A mischievous grin crept across the old man’s face and he rubbed his hands together in glee...
Inspiration is a funny creature; no one can say where she comes from, but everyone has tasted her toxin.
Claussen placed his fingers under Gracie’s chin and turned her head forward so she stared up vacuously at the ceiling, (Jack was so close that he could actually see the blades on his ceiling fan rotating around in her glassy orbs). He raised Gracie’s right hand up from her thigh and placed it within his own, where he fanned each of her pudgy fingers out across his palm. The professor then placed her hand over her hairy mound. With some additional manipulation, her fingers were made to splay her pussy lips, which caused the erect tip of her clitoris to peek out from its protective hood.
Well, hello there, little rosebud.
Claussen separated her middlemost finger from the rest and strategically positioned it over her clit. Using his own hand as a guide, he manually rolled her finger around and around in lazy circles as if she was pleasuring herself in his presence.
“Ahh, and how does that feel?” the professor asked his doll. “Pretty good huh? No need to be shy now; masturbation is a perfectly natural thing...”
Jack curled Gracie’s middle finger beneath his; he hooked it back into her pussy and manually worked it in and out several times. The professor finally raised her hand up to his nose; he inhaled her heady scent and then drew her digit into his mouth to taste her essence. “Mmm,” he said, “talk about finger lickin’ good.”
Claussen took that finger and dipped it into her opening a second time. He raised that same digit to Gracie’s own mouth...
“I want you to taste what I taste,” Jack said as he pulled down on her jaw. It took some effort, but the professor placed her extended finger inside her gaping mouth. He offered her a sample by rubbing her own tangy nectar all over her seated tongue. Gracie unwittingly obeyed, of course; she looked like a dental patient reclined back in a chair as she tasted her own wetness, her oblivious eyes never leaving the rotating ceiling fan above. Satisfied with his effort, Claussen placed her middle finger back down on her clit. He pushed Gracie’s tongue back into her mouth and set her jaw back to where it was before.
Jack licked his lips and clapped his hands together in celebration. He went on to announce, “And now for the pièce de résistance!”
The professor turned to the nearest nightstand and opened the top drawer. He withdrew a bottle of personal lubricant and a chrome vibrator that he occasionally used on his dolls. The professor then waved them in front of Gracie’s sightless eyes and proclaimed, “A single lady’s two best friends.”
Claussen squeezed out a generous blob of jelly and rubbed it up and down the glistening shaft. He went on to explain, “Now this little guy won’t mow the lawn or bring you breakfast in bed, but I promise he’ll show you a real good time...”
Gracie just gazed through the ceiling with indifference.
Jack turned the vibrator on and a distinct buzzing sound filled the room. “Now I’ll be gone for a few days, so I’ll set this puppy on low to insure that the batteries last.”
Jack pressed the buzzing toy against Gracie’s hardened clit; she remained perfectly still even as soft vibrations flowed through her curvy body. It wasn’t long before the professor inserted the slick shaft into her pussy. Wet suction noises soon emanated from her hole as he worked it back and forth at a leisurely pace. Claussen imagined a low moan escaping from the woman’s mouth, but she showed no outward signs of even being affected by the intrusive device. He watched with growing fascination, as her pussy walls sucked the vibrator in inch by inch. Once the toy was fully seated, the buzzing sound was somewhat muted, and her petal-soft lips slowly wilted around the base.
Jack looked up and regarded Gracie’s face; even the sudden feeling of fullness didn’t register on her features.
A hard gal to please, I guess...
Like a seasoned critic assessing an essential work of art, Jack Claussen leaned back, placed the end of his chin between his raised thumb and forefinger, and took in the erotic scene he’d just created. There is a certain level of voyeuristic pleasure in observing a woman’s beauty undetected, and he certainly felt like a peeping Tom, glued to a keyhole and secretly gazing into Gracie’s bedroom. On the other side of the door; a mature woman captured in an intimate moment; her body soft and beginning to show signs of age, yet still very desirable. It was almost as if she were inviting her stealthy viewer to join in...
The professor glanced at his watch and his eyes lit up.
Jesus H. Christ!
“Well, hey ― thank you so much for indulging me, but I’ve gotta run.”
Jack leaned in to plant a quick kiss on Gracie’s cheek. He draped the sheet over her once again, turned off the light and gathered up his luggage.
Gracie just lay there on the bed, her eyes glistening in the dark, the buzz of the vibrator a stark contrast to her absolute stillness.
Jack tossed his luggage into the huge trunk of his 64’ Lincoln Continental and slammed the deck lid shut. He hurried back inside to turn the thermostat down and then turned the radio on to the only station he allowed his dolls to listen to; the classical music station. The professor switched off all the lights, set the alarm, and pulled the door closed behind him. ‘Ranz des Vaches’ from the William Tell Overture played through the house as he drove away...
* * * *