The Fraternal Order: part 9 (Remastered)

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The Fraternal Order: part 9 (Remastered)

By Zapped!

Previous part

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Author’s note: Thanks to minus269C for his artwork and suggesting the term cryo-bunker.

I also want to acknowledge Q’s story Ready & Waiting (a beginning) for originally lighting the fuse for this chapter way back when. My frustration from his lack of a follow-up story inspired me to write my very own cryo-freeze tale. It’s been eighteen long years and we’re still ready & waiting…

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In another part of the Muse…

While an intoxicated Stanley Pitt was back in the Hall of Statuary getting his rocks off, Dean Kessler was about to reveal one of the Fraternal Order’s most well-kept secrets to Professor Claussen.

The pair came to a stop in front of a heavy steel door. The dean reached into the breast pocket of his suit, retrieved a plastic passkey and then swiped the card over the sensor. As he waited for the tell-tale beep and the green light to flash, he turned to the professor to ask, “Do you remember our fellow brothers discussing the idea of building a trophy room?”

Jack thought for a moment and replied, “Not that I recall; I must’ve missed that meeting.”

“Well let me indulge you.”

The electronic reader beeped and granted them access to a stairwell beyond. Kessler held the door open as Jack stepped out onto the concrete landing inside. Yellow 60-watt bulbs surrounded by protective cages provided the only source of illumination for the vertical shaft below. The bland shade of gray concrete combined with the meager lightning reminded Jack of the stairways one would encounter in one of those multi-level parking structures in the big cities: cold, damp and a little foreboding.

Like a stairway to hell.

“Come on,” the dean encouraged with a wave of his hand.

The door suddenly closed somewhere beyond them, locking itself with a pneumatic hiss. It was almost enough to send a chill up one’s spine.

Jesus H…

“Watch your step,” Kessler warned.

Yeah, something like that.

With his hand firmly gripping the rail, the professor slowly ascended the stairs behind the dean. The hardened soles of their shoes echoed off the solid walls with each step, adding yet another layer of eeriness to the subterranean world.

“Seems a bit chillier down here,” Jack observed out loud.

“As it should be.”

The professor raised an eyebrow in wonder.

When the pair came to a second landing at the bottom of the stairs, the dean turned to his guest, and his expression turned more serious.

“I don’t think I need to remind you of the gravity of what we’re involved with here: the personal favors, the payoffs, the numerous disappearances. Add to that our faithful supporters: wealthy alumni; big business; politicians; religious leaders, and even the mob have kicked in sizeable donations to the cause. It’s been going on for over half a century and spans several generations. A large part of our organization’s responsibility is planting the seeds for future Pygmalions. Tomorrow’s governors, congressmen and women―your trophy wife could be on the other side of this door.”

Jack chuckled at such a thought, though it suddenly hit him; such an idea wasn’t entirely unrealistic. He found himself biting his lower lip in anticipation.

“Why do I get the feeling you’re about to hit me up for a larger donation?”

“You’ve done plenty for the organization over the years, Jack. And let’s face it; we’ve all profited from your father’s special camera.” The dean paused for two beats before making his pitch. “…But our work here is far from finished. It might take us several decades, but the fruits of our labor – the brotherhood itself― will live on long after we’re dead and gone.”

The professor’s eyebrow raised again. What is this old dog up to anyway?

This time Kessler pressed an open palm against a lighted keypad. A mechanical click was heard, and the steel door unlatched itself. When the dean swung the door open, a gust of cold air rushed out to greet them. Feeling around in the darkness, he managed to locate a row of switches and flipped them on with a single sweep of his fingers. A series of lights illuminated in succession away from them to reveal two facing rows of glass panels in the walls.

The professor’s eyes widened as he took in the space.

“What is this?”

“Go ahead and see for yourself.”

Jack Claussen walked the short distance to the nearest panel, which was lightly frosted over, its outermost edges covered with a thicker layer of rime. He could make out a shadowy silhouette behind the glass surface, so he eased forward and wiped some of the collected frost away with his sleeve.

The professor drew in a sharp breath at what he saw.

Inside, a female stared back in a seemingly comatose state. The young woman’s eyelashes had a light dusting of ice crystals, her skin a pallid grey or pale blue (the lips a noticeably darker shade). She was undoubtedly a swimmer, judging by the sleek maillot and the tight swim cap on her head.

The professor swallowed hard in his throat and struggled to find the courage to ask...

“Dead?”

The dean shook his head. “Just this side of death.”

Claussen took a few steps to the left, where he rubbed away the collected frost on the adjoining panel. A willowy blonde in a loose-fitting Gargoyle’s Cross Country tank and nylon running shorts stood rigid inside. Like her neighbor, her eyes stared out unseeingly, her jaw slack and relaxed.

“What happened to them?”

“They are in a perfect state of suspended animation,” instructed the dean. “Quick-frozen and preserved just as they were in their prime, yet each specimen can be fully reanimated in less than an hour. Our own Dr. Schultz perfected the remarkable technique; he refers to it as The Great Sleep.”

“But why are they being taken… stored away like this?”

“Most have been honorably retired from service to the university, much like a Major League team retires a significant number… Others proved to be a considerable security risk to the organization; they’ve been placed in hibernation as a precautionary measure.”

The professor advanced to the next booth and vigorously rubbed his hand over the glass. A cute girl with Oriental features gradually appeared; she was dressed in a similar uniform as the cross country runner, only the words Glendale Soccer arched across her chest. Claussen noticed that there was a hint of surprise in the girl’s solidified expression.

“This is Allyson Ling,” the dean announced somewhere behind Jack’s shoulder. “Ally’s our most promising soccer star; she qualified as an All-American candidate while managing to maintain a remarkable 4.4 GPA.”

“Wow, that’s very impressive.”

“Impressive for sure. Unfortunately, Miss Ling felt that she had outgrown Glendale; she was planning to transfer to Stanford in the fall.”

“Let me guess; the university couldn’t afford to lose such a remarkable talent, so you snatched her up and had her pickled away.”

“We snatched her up alright.” There was an edge of chilling gratification in the dean’s voice. “Miss Ling kept to a strict workout schedule; her predictability made it fairly easy for us to track her movements. I had Bebe and Walker intercept her on the running trail early one morning. Now she’ll stay like this forever… or at least until she’s called upon to win one for the team again.”

“How convenient.”

“I’m sure you’re aware, there’s nothing more costly and regrettable than a missed opportunity.”

It was true; opportunity had knocked on the professor’s own door more than a few times; he had a converted bomb shelter full of proof.

Claussen moved on and wiped away the collected frost on a neighboring panel. Inside this compartment was an African-American woman; her dreadlocked hair sprung out from her head like the top of a palm tree and hung down in wooly coils above her broad shoulders. A cropped purple tank that announced Gargoyle’s Track & Field revealed sculpted abs and well-defined biceps. An Adidas track brief fit her bottom like a glove and drew further attention to a pair of muscular thighs and toned calves. Even frozen, she exuded a strong sense of discipline and focus. Jack was already picturing her mahogany skin glinting beneath the glaring sun, the arches of her firm buttocks rising as she readied herself against the starting block. Those big dark eyes fixed on a finish line that she’d never seem to cross...

“Eboni Williams, nineteen, track and field.” Informed the dean before providing her backstory. “She set the collegiate record in the long jump and won the 100-meter dash with a time of 10.76, shattering yet another longstanding record. An incredibly determined young lady with all the makings of an Olympian athlete.”

“And yet, here she is.”

“We had a lot of time and money invested in Eboni; we couldn’t just give her away.”

“Right.”

Wanting to change the focus of the conversation, Kessler regarded the panel directly across the aisle from them. “Say, you’ve always been a supporter of school spirit. Well here’s a little something maybe more up your alley...”

Using his monogrammed hankie, the dean rubbed away at the foggy surface. With a nod of the head, he invited the professor to take a look inside…

The icy compartment held a fresh-faced cheerleader, her fiery-red mane pulled back into a tight ponytail and lightly dusted with frost. Attired in full cheer regalia, she was frozen in the same upright pose as the others, her pom-poms resting at her sides. Despite her Colgate smile and “can-do” attitude, Jack couldn’t help but notice the sense of bleak pleading that was deep within her green eyes. It seemed as if she had the misfortune of knowing her fate as she succumbed to the doctor’s process.

You can manipulate a face, but you can’t pose the eyes. And I know a forced smile when I see one.

The professor had several decades’ worth of practice in creating them.

“Alicia Dewitt, twenty-one, National Honor Society.” Boasted the dean, a sense of pride welling up in his chest. “As head cheerleader, she led our squad to the prestigious National Collegiate Cheer and Dance Championship this year.”

“Oh?”

The professor’s eyes skimmed up and down Alicia’s frozen form, taking in her impressive dimensions. He delighted in the way her pleated skort allowed for a nice view of her creamy thighs. The way her full breasts filled out her uniform top.

“Alicia here was supposed to graduate magna cum laude at the end of this semester, but we thought she deserved a more permanent position in our prized display case.”

“…To be enshrined as a trophy,” added the professor.

“It’s not only an honor to keep her here, but a responsibility as well.”

The professor considered the dean’s point, but then a glimpse of another frozen memento drew his attention away.

Kessler cracked a knowing smile as he watched Claussen wipe away the collected frost on the adjacent panel.

Then his guest just stood there and stared.

This compartment held a gymnast in a purple-on-white leotard. She stood ramrod straight, chin up, chest out, hands respectfully clasped behind her buttocks as if waiting on a podium to receive a medal. Her chestnut hair formed a widow’s peak in the front and pulled into a short ponytail in the back. The odd fusion of ice crystals over her pale complexion gave her skin a distinct luster that shimmered like diamonds.

Jack’s eyes took in her appearance: the loveliness in her complacent face; the exquisite whiteness of her bare collar bones; the simplistic design of her leotard and how it adhered to her trim torso like a wet sheet of paper.

“This is Karolina Svoboda, a Czech immigrant and a strong performer across all four apparatuses.”

“She’s a goddess, that’s what she is!” Claussen exclaimed as he eagerly pressed his hands against the cold glass. He was standing so close that his breath was already fogging up the surface he’d just wiped off.

“Karolina placed first in Division-1 collegiate finals, which is quite remarkable considering it was only her freshman year. Unfortunately, that was nearly four years ago, and twenty-two years of age is ancient in the world of gymnastics. With graduation and what would surely amount to retirement looming on the horizon, the organization decided that she’d earned a rightful place in our trophy case.”

Though fairly tall for a gymnast, Karolina’s body was fit; the professor could clearly see that through the thin fabric of her leotard. The nylon-spandex molded perfectly to her breasts, jutting out where her nipples pushed up against the material in front. And he particularly liked the way it dipped down in between the gap of her thighs, smoothly stretching out over the peach-shaped folds of her pussy.

The scrape of an opening door, followed by the abrupt swoosh of air getting sucked out of a sealed room ―interrupted Jack’s thoughts. An elderly figure with thinning white hair and wire-rimmed glasses had entered the space. He recognized the man right away as Doctor Otto Von Schultz; the eccentric German scientist and primary architect of their frozen surroundings.

“Hey, there he is!” The dean announced while looking over his colleague’s dark attire. Dressed in triple black, the man looked more like an undertaker than a renowned scientist. “You look out of place without your white lab coat and clipboard.”

“Zis was a black-tie event, no?” Schultz joked as a knowing smirk formed on his creased face.

“It is black-tie and you wear it well,” the dean flattered.

All three exchanged handshakes before the doctor gazed around the chilly space with a sense of pride.

“I zee you’ve found my frozen pets. Zo vhat do you think of my efforts, Profezzor?”

“What do I think?” Now it was Jack Claussen’s turn to offer praise. “I think you’ve been a very busy man. Your dedication to the cause is unmatched, while your body of work is as diverse as it is inspiring― it certainly impresses the hell outta me.”

“I’m glad you share my vision, Profezzor. Working with liquid nitrogen is an art, much like a sculptor works with clay, metal or wood. Zee raw materials are much more beauziful, and the end results are based on science rather than natural talent.”

“The professor here is smitten with one of your gymnasts,” the dean cut-in.

“Oh?”

Schultz’s lips twisted into a crooked grin as they often did whenever a colleague took a sincere interest in his work. He slid his spectacles down to the tip of his nose and leaned toward the frosty enclosure for a closer look…

“Ah, my lovely Polish princess.” The doctor straightened, a smug look of satisfaction present on his wrinkled face. “He’s made good choice with zis one.”

The dean gave Jack a little congratulatory tap on the elbow, as if to say, good boy.

“Karolina has what we call a rhythmic type of gymnast body,” taught the doctor. “Toned, yet feminine, with strong armz, legs and buttocks ―all perfected through years of intensive training and strict dieting. Her performance is about presentation, style, and grazeful movements that emphasize beauty and flexibility…”

Then the doctor stepped to the right and rubbed away the collected frost on the adjacent panel. Another pony-tailed blonde in gymnastic apparel appeared, this one more compact and solidly built than Karolina. Though college-aged, she seemed much younger because of her petite 4’11 height, slight chest and youthful face. She literally resembled a doll with her big doe-like eyes and exaggerated smile, which displayed two perfect rows of pearly whites.

Another forced smile.

“Shawn here iz artistic type of gymnast,” the doctor described. “Notice zee small torso; muscular upper body; firm buttocks and sturdy legs ―all good for catapulting her through zee air. Her performance relies more on speed and agility than grace.”

At that point, the conversation faded out. Preoccupied with the latest vision before him, Professor Claussen’s eyes drifted from the young woman’s face down to her figure below. Like her teammate beside her, the fabric of Shawn’s leotard stretched out tightly over her compact body, allowing him a teasing glimpse of the lines of her low-cut bikini panties and sports bra underneath.

…Bra and panty lines. Jack stole a quick glance at the previous chamber where Karolina stared out, comatose. Definitely no bra or panty lines there.

He stroked his chin in thought for a moment.

So. He must freeze them with the camera initially, pose and dress them in athletic attire, and then he freezes them a second time with nitrogen for long-term storage.

The professor gave a nod in approval. How fascinating.

The doctor cleared his throat to draw Jack’s attention.

“Notice zee breasts on zis one,” Schultz pointed out as he tapped on the glass, “not overtly pronounced, yet visibly female. This way they don’t get in zee way on zee uneven bars.”

The doctor quickly stepped to the left in front of Karolina’s panel. He taped on the glass once again to get his point across. “Karolina’s breasts are more defined and weighty; Coach Walker would tape her chest down before performances… But now I present her in an unrestricted and more natural state.”

Professor Claussen couldn’t help but envision a topless Karolina standing in a locker room somewhere, arms raised and fingers interlocked on top of her head. Her coach standing right behind, his rapidly growing member rudely poking at her ass every time he reached around to apply another layer of duct tape. Would her eyes bashfully look away in embarrassment, or would she just stare ahead stonily? Maybe it happened so often that she barely noticed his erection.

Or maybe she just liked to tease older men.

The doctor motioned with his hand to come on.

With a look of regret, Jack turned away from Karolina’s staring visage and moved on. After all; there were more frozen treasures to explore...

The trio progressed further into the bunker, passing one shadowy silhouette after another. Occasionally, the doctor would halt in front of a panel, rub the collected frost away, and then tell the story behind the prized content within. A fit volleyball player, a halfback from the field hockey team with a pierced eyebrow, and a petite Asian with clunky black glasses, razor-sharp bangs and pink Onesie were among them.

Claussen nodded toward the girl in the panda print pajamas. “What’s her story?”

“Dorothy is a bit of a nerdy type,” the dean provided. “Quidditch, Dungeons and Dragons, 4.0 average. She comes from good genes; her father is a biology professor and her mother is a former pageant winner and programmer. Unfortunately, Miss Wu saw something she wasn’t supposed to see… You might even say she was a little too smart for her own good.”

“Talk about a brain freeze,” the professor quipped.

The witty remark elicited a conspiratorial chuckle from the other two.

The corridor ended in a sharp right turn that led to another passage with an equal number of glass panels. Most of these booths were empty and frost-free, indicating that the organization had future acquisitions in mind.

Within a few short steps, the trio came upon an opening in the wall on the left. The professor peered inside, and for a second time that day, he looked completely shocked at what he saw…

It was a narrow passage that ran parallel to the one they were standing in and was about the length and width of a semi-trailer. Standing in partitioned booths and placed at equal intervals were over a dozen male athletes. Each stood at attention with stone-faced expressions, their arms limp at sides, their neutral faces staring out unseeingly. Like their female peers, some still retained their team uniforms, while many others stood in athletic briefs. One unfortunate fellow stood in nothing more than his jockstrap.

“Zis iz zee male wing,” Schultz spoke from behind them. “Most were athletes collected in their prime. A select few were suspicious boyfriends that simply got in the way when we were collecting their girlfriends.”

“So many,” Claussen observed in a lowered voice.

“Yes, and methodically prepared in zee same way as the females.” Schultz stated, his voice taking on a more clinical tone. “Notice zee erections; like their female counterparts, the suspension process induces instant stimulation, whether it be from sexual arousal or zee fear of being frozen― we’re not entirely sure. I’ve never had the urge to reanimate one to find out.”

But the doctor didn’t need to point it out; the tenting of the fronts of their gym shorts, speedos and tighty-whities made it pretty obvious to everyone peering through the archway.

Claussen himself wondered (mostly when he was preparing one of his subjects) what it would feel like to be trapped in a constant state of arousal, just on the outer cusp of orgasm and without the ability to respond or relieve himself effectively. He almost envied them. That’s when he blurted out, “Gives a whole new meaning to the term hard-on.”

“I zuppose it does,” Schultz replied, as if the thought had never occurred to him. Then he turned to his guest, the small lenses of his spectacles glinting beneath the lights. “To hold zo much power over zo many can be very addicting, wouldn’t you zay, Profezzor?”

“The most potent narcotic known to man.” Jack replied.

“There are those of us meant to be in power,” the dean threw in, "and then there are those meant to serve."

Jack took a few steps back from the archway. He turned to look to the far end of the outer chamber where two glass panels appeared to be occupied. “Who’s that down on the end?”

Schultz squinted toward where the professor was pointing. “Ach! . . . Them.”

The doctor took a moment to remove his specs, breathed hot air on the lenses, and then rubbed the collected moisture away with his tie. He set his glasses back on his long bumpy nose and carefully balanced them in place.

“I’m trying to zink vhat Westerners call zem... Oh yez; sacrificial lambs.”

“Sacrificial lambs?”

The doctor opened his mouth to say something but thought better of it. “Perhapz if I show you.”

As the doctor led them to the far end of the hall, he turned to Claussen to probe, “I presume you know vhat a moll iz, Profezzor?”

“Sure, it’s a gangster’s girlfriend.”

“Precisely,” Schultz granted as he rubbed the collected frost away from a glass panel.

A blonde-haired woman with dusky roots slowly appeared behind the window. Unlike the rest, she was completely naked, one arm crossed over her breasts, the other hand cupped over her shaved kitty in what seemed to be a last-minute attempt at modesty.

Nudity is the least of your worries now, Jack thought.

Like those prior, her body sparkled with a light coating of frost. And despite the fixed scowl and menacing glare, one could easily assume that she was just as pretty…

Well, considering the circumstances.

“Zis iz Adriana,” the doctor said before he added cryptically, “―Or zo I was told. She’s a personal donation by our friends from New Jersey.”

Jack’s eyes swept over her naked form, taking in her feminine curves, the exposed under boob, sinewy arms and toned thighs. He cocked his head in wonder when he noticed the bold AC/DC logo tattooed across the underbelly beneath her wrist.

Schultz’s eyes were drifting as well. However, it wasn’t the rebellious tattoos on his mind; the doctor was ruminating about how defiant she was against his advances. How the bitch fought back, even as her body succumbed to the liquid-nitrogen-cooled air.

“Zis fraulein was a feisty vone… A real tiger… Vee had a hard time viz her…”

The doctor’s facial tic suddenly returned, one corner of his mouth twitching like a live wire. That’s when Dean Kessler took over telling the sordid tale.

“So one day we receive this call asking for a personal favor. They had a problem that, as he put it, needed to go away. A so-called associate of theirs arrived on campus late one night in an Econoline van. He opens up the back doors, and there she is ―gagged and handcuffed from wrist to ankle on the floor. The rest, as they say, is history.”

“Christ, no wonder why they’re donating money!” Claussen spouted in shock. “I can’t believe you actually got the mob involved with the Brotherhood!”

“It’s not all that bad a deal,” the dean contended. “They make their contributions, whether it be monetary, or a truckload of brand-new laptops. Occasionally, they toss in a stripper for Bushwick or request a custom order; you know how Italians love their decorative fountains and garden statues.”

Yes, and who could blame them?

Schultz stepped over to wipe the frost off the neighboring enclosure.

“Now zis… ZIS iz my idea of a real woman!”

Standing just inside the glass was another female; this one appearing to be in her mid-forties and of Greek or Italian heritage. Her black-with-silver-streaked hair wound back into an elegant up-do, the bangs side-swept and left to hang over chocolate-brown eyes that stared off into infinity. Her gracefully lined face was soft, round and still very attractive, with just a touch of makeup and a dash of red on her plump lips. The fitted suit she wore made the very best of her lush body, the blazer snug against the curves of her hips, while her ample bosom pushed out the front of her cream colored ribbed turtleneck. Massive hoop earrings pierced her frosted ears.

“Who is this ripened peach?” Professor Claussen asked as he regarded her snug-fitting skirt and the way it stretched across the curves of her thighs. His gaze dropped a little further to appreciate the way her calves bulged out before tapering down into her black business pumps.

“This is Dr. Connie Patrilla,” the dean informed. “She’s our former campus psychologist.”

“And why is your campus psychologist now frozen in stasis?”

“She was counseling one of our students ―a young coed named Miley, who’s also one of Bushwick’s art models.”

“Part of The Glendale Theatre of the Arts Group?”

“Precisely. She started piecing the puzzle together, came a little too close to the truth, and so she had to be dealt with accordingly. It’s a damned shame, as Connie was quite a valuable asset to our university.”

“Ztill is a valuable azzet,” the doctor corrected.

“Yes,” the dean replied. “For some more than others.”

“Zis iz true,” Schultz admitted. “Just one of zee many perks that comes with zee job.”

The three just stood there in silence for a moment, the soft hum of the air conditioning filling the awkward gaps in the conversation.

Sensing it was time to go, the doctor cleared his throat and gave the instructor a quick pat on the shoulder.

“It has been a pleazure, Profezzor Claussen. Now I have some personal business to attend, while you gentlemen have a future statue to crown, yes?”

The dean glanced at his watch, and his eyes went wide. “Oh hell! Where did the time go?”

“Observing all these frozen frauleinscan have that effect on a man.”

“If I’d worn a few more layers, I swear I could spend an entire day in here,” the professor admitted.

“I have,” Schultz confessed. He gave the professor’s arm a playful little nudge and proposed, “Now we need to create a process to make ourselves immortal, yes?”

If only.

The trio quickly parted ways; Dr. Schultz went in one direction, disappearing through an unseen door to his secret lab; the dean and the professor retraced their steps back from where they came. To Jack Claussen, it was almost like being at home and rambling through his secret bomb shelter, passing one enclosed beauty after another: Dorothy, Shawn, Karolina― their youthful faces appeared in fleeting glimpses in the corners of his vision much like mannequins staring out from store windows on a city street.

It wasn’t until Alicia’s shapely profile came back into view that the professor’s pace slowed considerably. The cheerleader remained exactly as she was before, eyes fixed and completely oblivious to the admirer that stared in at her. She showed no sign of objection to her current condition.

The professor’s expression turned reflective as he considered her current state. What greater bliss than to look back on your former days of glory, or perhaps not to have to look back on them at all…

* * * *

A short time later...

Dean Kessler and Professor Claussen had exited the secret trophy room and made their way back to the Hall of Statuary.

Jack’s eyes immediately shot to the exhibition booth containing Marilyn. She looked so stunning in her form-fitting dress, the light from the burning torches reflecting off the sparkling rhinestones. Once a vibrant and outgoing actress, she now spends her days on display like a prized artifact inside a museum showcase. The professor was happy to see her again. Thrilled, even.

He paused for a moment and savored the face that met his admiring gaze. The dull blue eyes that stared off into the distance, the slightly raised chin that seemed to dismiss his significance. The fullness of her lips, the plunging neckline, the daring slit up the side of her dress—every living detail captured so beautifully and preserved under glass. And those stirrings of lust from the fall of 1962, when Norma Jean Baker first fell into the caring hands of the organization, warmed his tired old body all over again.

A high-pitched whistle shattered the erotic visions dancing around in Claussen’s head.

Dammit all…

“Hey,” the dean said, matching the professor’s annoyed expression with his own. “It’s not like she’s going anywhere.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

“Yeah, you know!” Kessler scoffed. “Come on, there’s people waiting.”

And then the moment was gone.

The dean only managed a few more steps ahead before he stopped dead in his tracks. His head immediately dropped to his chest in disbelief.

“What is it?”

“Have a look at your boy.”

Claussen caught up to get a better look and then his eyes shot wide.

“Oh, no.”

“―Oh yes.”

“How could he?”

“It’s Stanley Pitt, what do you expect?”

Mr. Pitt lay hunched over the backside of one of the porcelain statues; the one that was posed on all fours, its rump raised up high and making itself readily available. As the low-lying platform slowly circled around, so did their unconscious cohort; he just lay there, boneless, and with a rather content-looking smile plastered on his face. Jack would have thought it totally hilarious if not for the slacks pooled around his ankles and his fat, wrinkly bottom being fully exposed. His old balls hung down between his thighs in a loose sac of hairy skin, while his limp dong hung down even further. Claussen’s face twisted in disgust.

…Well fuck me.

Without looking away, the professor asked, “What should we do with him?”

Kessler threw his hands up beside him. “Don’t look at me, buddy. Better take care of it before someone comes out and sees him.”

“Why do I have to be the one to clean it up?”

“He’d likely do the same for you.”

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t be dumb enough to pass out while fucking a statue!”

“He was your roommate in college; no sense in both of us seeing him naked.”

The dean gave him a little pat on the back for encouragement. “Make it quick. I’ll see you back in The Great Room.”

The professor gave him an aggravated look as if to say, “Really?”

And just like that, Dean Kessler vanished into the narrower chamber in the Hall of Statuary.

Jack favored the old drunk with a look of contempt. He tried to awaken him with a gentle nudge on his foot, but there was no response. Stanley slowly circled around, his solidified lover rotating around with him, the sexy arch of her back and braced limbs providing all the support he would ever need. The professor gave him another nudge, this one more harsh than the last, but Pitt only moved an inch and back again.

“Dammit, Stanley― Get up!”

Pitt let out a snort in protest and then his arms lazily reached up to encircle his lover’s solidified belly. His eyelids drew in a little more tightly, as if trying to will away the annoying voice that was interrupting his wet dream.

“I said, GET UP!” Jack clenched his fists and grit his teeth with a maddened grin. “―THAT’S IT!”

In one swift move, Claussen grabbed Pitt by the shoulders and yanked him back from the platform; both men fell backward onto the floor. Stanley lay there for a long moment in a drunken stupor, while Jack quickly got up and straightened his own clothing. Then he looked down at Pitt like a battlefield medic, assessing whether his comrade was worth saving.

“What on earth is wrong with you?”

“Damn...” Pitt sputtered, wiping his cottony-mouth on the sleeve of his expensive suit. “What happened?”

“Apparently, you banged that statue and passed out during the act!”

“Come again?”

Pitt looked up to where a statue on all fours circled around like a stationary mare on a carousel, the meager light reflecting off her porcelain curves. His bleary eyes slipped over the figure’s bare shoulders, then descended to where her breasts hung down from her chest like frozen water balloons. Even now, in the intense throes of a hangover, he fought off the urge to mount her bum and give it another go.

Claussen reached down and offered a hand to help him up off the floor.

“That’s the spirit, mate.”

“Forget the praise and pull your damned pants up!”

Pitt yanked his trousers up with an inelegant little hop, tucking in his shirt and zipping up his fly as he did so. As he buckled up his belt, he thought to ask, “You think it was as good for that bird as it was for me?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask her?”

Pitt couldn’t help but laugh at the ridiculousness of the idea. “You’re a bloody hoot!”

“Come on; Vernon’s about to crown the new Miss Pygmalion and I don’t want to miss it.”

As the professor stalked away, Stanley Pitt hesitated for a moment. He took a step back, reached down and gave the statue’s fanny a swift smack. She wobbled in place on hands and knees like a lolling, empty bowl.

“Thanks for being up for it, Luv.”

Pitt’s sausage-like fingers slipped down into the hardened crack of her upturned ass, and as he rubbed her puckered anus, he began to reminisce about their dalliance. What a peculiar feeling it was to be completely enveloped by the cold, rigid walls of her porcelain pussy, all slippery smooth and unyielding. How her solidified mounds felt against his palms, her nipples as sharp as diamonds―

“Let’s go!” Jack shouted from afar.

Oh, bloody ’ell, just piss-off!

“ ―I’m coming, mate.”

Which is what I could be doing again if you weren’t busting my bollocks!

Higgins was still patiently holding the door open as Stanley approached. Until that moment, he hadn’t given any thought to how to break the news about what he had done.

“Find what you were looking for, Sir?”

“And then some.”

“l beg your pardon, Sir?”

With a deep breath and a casual nod of the head, Pitt placed a hand on the attendant’s shoulder. He gave it a gentle little pat and went on to advise, “Clean up in aisle four, my good man.”

As Higgins closed the door, his expression quickly turned sour. He cleared his throat, mumbled something in broken English, and then abandoned his post to retrieve his cleaning supplies…

* * * *

The Crowning of Miss Pygmalion

Moonlight streamed down through the arched windows, cutting through the smokey-bluish haze that hung thick in the air of The Great Room. The whole scene looked like the morning after a wild frat party: empty champagne bottles; spilled rock glasses; overflowing ashtrays and other assorted trash were everywhere. It was already approaching midnight, but the Fraternal Brothers seemed to be catching their second wind.

And then there was the “acquired” help.

Kiersey-bunny, the kinky-haired, caramel-skinned waitress, lay with her back propped up against a wall. She looked like a discarded marionette with its strings cut: her pretty little head listing to one side, shoulders drooping from an unseen weight, her hands lay slack on the floor, the palms open and facing up. Her unseeing eyes seemed to stare through a spot on the carpet in between her widely-spread legs.

Jenny-bunny hadn’t fared much better; at some point, her strapless bodice had been carelessly yanked clear down to her waist, leaving her exposed breasts to bobble and sway about freely upon her chest. The raven-haired beauty looked shell-shocked as she teetered around in her heels, a plastic bussing tub balanced against the outward curve of her shapely hip. Occasionally she’d stop to gather up a broken glass or other cast-off debris, but mostly she just wandered around aimlessly.

Kimmy-bunny was essentially missing in action, her condition and whereabouts unknown…

Despite all the carnal aftermath, the medusa tokens had already been collected from their respective boxes, and Dean Kessler stood at the head of the table hand counting the votes. The fraternal brothers (at least those still upright) stood all around him with looks of anticipation.

“So who’s the lucky gal?” Big Tony from Jersey growled. He lit the end of the fat cigar in the corner of his mouth, gave it a few hard tokes, and then blew a smokecloud off into the air.

“Yeah, whass the hold-up?” his younger associate slurred. “We still gotta long fuckin’ drive back ta Jersey.”

This opened up the floodgates as other members began to voice their displeasure at having to wait so long for the pending results.

“By the time you finish, we’ll be too bloody old to enjoy the fruits of our labor!” Stanley Pitt complained.

“Settle down!” Dean Kessler warned in an authoritative tone. “I’ve only got two hands here!”

Another round of grumbles spread through the crowd.

The dean counted out the last few Medusa tokens in the palm of his hand. Once he was finished, he scooped up the individual piles and carefully dumped them all into an ornately carved wooden box. The senior administrator closed the lid with finality, and then he looked up at his expectant audience…

“Gentlemen, we have our winner.”

The room broke out into a smattering of applause, but all was not well in paradise.

Dean Kessler looked around the room hoping to spot his missing wife. She’s the goddamned host; she should be here for the crowning! ...He pulled out his phone and glanced at the screen. Nothing! ...Then he glanced over at his buddy Jack Claussen and mouthed the words, Where’s Bebe? The professor merely threw up his hands and shrugged as if to say, Like I would know!

Kessler’s expression immediately changed to one of concern. Great! Nothing like stalling a drunk and angry mob!

Meanwhile, a figure emerged from the kitchen door; it was the previously absent Kimmy-bunny. She moved like a sleepwalker, her slender arms held out in front, a purple presentation pillow made of satin balanced across the palms of her upraised hands.

And she was practically nude.

Like her unfortunate coworkers, Kimmy-bunny seemed to have had a particularly rough go of it. She looked disoriented (even traumatized), and the only bits left of her uniform were the white collar and bowtie, the matching cuffs around her wrists, and the black pumps on her dainty feet. Her dusky hosiery was ripped in numerous places on her legs, while her velvety pink bunny ears were missing entirely. Kimberly’s immaculate sandy-blond hair was now in complete disarray, while her eyeliner had run down her cheeks. She walked as if she were on autopilot, her movements sluggish and zombie-like.

One by one, heads turned in Kimmy’s direction, and then the group separated like Moses parted the sea. Their wide eyes tracked every wobbly step as she crossed the dining room floor, their steady applause interspersed with wolf whistles, catcalls and shouts of “Bravo!”

Dean Kessler took one look at her and shook his head in disgust. His first thought was Those fucking animals followed by Thank God Bebe thought to train her to do this. His eyes dropped down to the sway of her glorious tits and drifted even further to the silk pillow, where the thin circlet made of gold was placed in the middle. Set in the ornate filigree in front – an amethyst stone that reflected the incoming moonlight off its many facets.

This, of course, was the coveted Miss Pygmalion crown.

“Bring it here, Kimmy-bunny.”

Kimberly moved through the crowd, her focus unwavering. She stopped right in front of him, her supple lips slightly parted, eyes glassy and staring. Her face slowly drifted upward, and she looked at her master with the blank, unseeing expression of someone in a deep trance.

“That’s a good girl.”

Kimmy-bunny bowed her head in a submissive way; she liked pleasing her master. She might not know it, but she’d been carefully programmed to do so.

“You’ve been a most excellent servant to us,” Kessler said as he tenderly stroked Kimmy-bunny’s cheek. “I’m already regretting the moment we send you back.”

A content smile played upon Kimberly’s lips, and she leaned into his gentle touch, her eyelids dropping at half-mast. She looked like a cat in dire need of her owner’s affection… might even purr if the dean ordered her to do so.

That would be nice.

Once the dean withdrew his hand from her cheek, her expression went from a state of relative fulfillment to one of complete emptiness, as if she were deprived of his physical contact.

Kessler raised the pillow from Kimberly’s hands, and her arms slowly lowered to her sides. The sparkle from the crown reflected in her glazed eyes, and she looked like a fiancée mesmerized by her new diamond ring. When the dean moved the crown away, she raised her face to his, and her lips parted into the prettiest curve...

“I’m proud to have served the brotherhood,” the woman gushed.

“Yes, I know.”

Kimmy-bunny felt a thrum in her clit and her eyes immediately lidded.

The dean grinned wickedly, clearly enjoying the power he had over her.

“Will that be all, Sir?”

“We’re all set.”

With that, Kimmy-bunny slowly turned around and made her exit, her sandy-blonde tresses swinging in counterpoint to the gentle sway of her hips.

“Bird looks like she’s got another round left in her,” Stanley Pitt remarked as he watched her bare ass pass through the kitchen door.

“Yes, well, onto more important matters,” Kessler said as he looked down at the crown and pillow in his hands.

The dean walked to the far side of the room, where the dozen static contenders for Miss Pygmalion remained on display. They’d been slowly revolving around on their motorized display stands for several hours, standing taught at attention and with nary a complaint. Each shared the same glassy-eyed disconnection from the present, their empty faces making him feel like a voyeur in some erotic time stop fantasy. He tapped the activator with his foot, and all the stands slowly revolved around to a complete stop...

The young hopefuls now faced front, their shoulders back, chests out, and trim tummies in. Their rigid postures made them look like tin soldiers waiting for orders.

Or waiting to be rewound.

Around each of their throats—an inch-wide choker made of a silvery, almost metallic material of unknown origin. At the back of said band was the wider, much thicker lump of the freeze control module that held each candidate in a perfect state of suspended animation.

For days, weeks, or even years if necessary.

“Ah, my friends,” addressed the dean, walking among them like a general inspecting his troops. “Are we having fun? Sorry to keep you all waiting, but long-standing traditions require certain protocols if you will.”

The dean’s gaze drifted from one prime specimen to another. A statuesque blonde appeared in his peripheral vision, followed by a ginger with freckles, and then a fresh-faced cutie with a layered pixie cut. An ebony-skinned goddess stood rigid just beyond her. But it was an olive-skinned example that stopped him in his tracks. The dean stepped up to her pedestal and studied her attractive features intently...

She was beautiful (the most beautiful one here, in fact) and possessed many of the classic Mediterranean features one might find in a woman of Italian, Greek, or even Spanish descent. The generic purple-and-white-striped two-piece bandeau (provided to her by the organization) barely contained her shapely, sun-kissed body. There was a faraway look in her lustrous brown eyes, while her sensuous mouth was slack enough to reveal a glimpse of her pristine white teeth. Bebe herself had taken the time and care to comb the coed’s raven-black locks to one side, allowing them to tumble about in elegant waves across her bare shoulder.

The dean knew that she was a late entry, Ensnared by that annoying little twerp Ian, no doubt. As a result of her last-minute inclusion, she hadn’t been forced to endure the numerous late-night encounters that many of her fellow competitors had faced in storage. He also knew that Gerald Bushwick wasn’t one to waste time whenever it came to immortalizing the latest Miss Pygmalion, therefore, he’d only have a small window of opportunity to “christen” the newly-crowned winner.

He was already physically aroused just thinking about the many possibilities.

Ahem.

Kessler took the gold circlet in both hands and allowed the silk pillow to fall carelessly to the floor beside his feet. He looked the sparkly tiara over, mesmerized by the reflection of the soft light, struck by the red rubies used for Medusa’s beady eyes (the symbolism of which, was clear). With great care, he lowered the crown over Miss Pygmalion’s head and adjusted it into place.

The dean placed both hands on her bare shoulders, gently gripped them, and then slowly turned her dias from right to left to ensure the proper alignment above her ears.

It fit perfectly.

“There,” Kessler said as he looked the coed over with an approving smile. He traced her exquisite jawline with the pad of his thumb... Drew his opened palm over her bare shoulder... Let his fingertips glide along the swell of her right breast, lightly skimming its outer curvature...

The dean was having a hard time fighting off the urge not to take her right then and there - in front of everybody. But he also knew such behavior wasn’t becoming of a married man (let alone one that’s the head administrator of a prosperous University).

At least not in public, anyway.

“Let’s not keep them waiting any longer, hm?” The dean said in a lowered voice. He patted her arm in a comforting way as if to say, We’ve got this.

Kessler turned away from her to address his fraternal brothers, some of whom listened expectantly, while a few others looked fairly annoyed by the lengthy wait.

“Gentlemen! ...And I use that word very loosely, heh! ...It brings me great pleasure to announce that our latest Miss Pygmalion is: the lovely Jessica Marie Fiori!”

The reveal was met with a long and predictably loud ovation. But as their backs were turned to the dining table, Stanley Pitt reached for an ice bucket that contained one of the last unopened bottles of champagne. He picked the bottle up, vigorously shook it for several beats, and then uncorked it with a satisfying *POP* ...The magnate aimed and proceeded to shoot a steady stream of liquid bubbly right at Jessica’s unresisting face!

“Hey, come on now!” Kessler yelled as he side-stepped the incoming shower.

Pitt’s actions opened the floodgates, as fraternal members scrambled to find any half-empty bottles of champagne or booze, and proceeded to dump them over her head, dousing the coed completely! They laughed shamelessly as the froth from the champagne ran all over the front of her shapely body and then down off the tips of her splayed fingers, only to form a pool on the floor around her dais.

Poor Jessica just stood there and took it like a champ, even as the bubbly stung her unblinking eyes and soaked her uniform to the skin.

Dean Kessler stood just beyond the incited group, watching the enthusiasm his fellow brothers displayed toward their compliant subject. Jessica’s well-rounded breasts and dark areolas were clearly showing, the transparent fabric clinging to her curves like a wet sheet of paper. His eyes dropped lower to where her soaking wet spandex bottoms formed a perfect cameltoe imprint around her sex. The material was so overly saturated that the frothy champagne running down her body was collecting in the middle of her two-inch thigh gap to form a steady stream. To someone who didn’t know any better, it appeared as if she were peeing.

“BOY IS THIS GREAT!” Shouted one drenched and overzealous participant. He hurried by, only to return a moment later with a bucket of half-melted ice, which he proceeded to heave in Jessica’s direction.

The dean just shook his head in disbelief. He turned to his pal Jack Claussen to comment, “You’d think that men our age would show some level of mercy.”

“Them? ...Show any mercy?” The professor shrugged and gave him a doubtful look.

“Alright, I gotta go find my wife,” the dean announced while looking around the room. “Do me a favor: make sure they don’t burn the place down while I’m gone.”

The professor just threw his hands up. “I’m not going to make any promises.”

Wonderful.

As the dean exited The Great Room, the celebration continued behind him...

* * * *

The main floor of the administrative building

Vernon Kessler made his way through the series of secret catacombs that ran beneath Glendale University, eventually exiting through a janitor’s room inside the administrative building. The entire campus was empty now, save for the fraternal brothers themselves. Faculty and students alike had left some days ago to travel to their various spring break destinations, whether it be off to sandy beaches and gallons of alcohol, or simply to return home and recharge the batteries.

A dozen of those students didn’t make it; they remained behind, frozen and standing on rotating platforms back in The Great Room.

The Fellowship Dinner had been another success. Now it was just a matter of getting everyone to leave, and over the next few days, the massive cleanup would happen: the mess left behind in The Great Room; mind-wiping both the hired help and the abducted contestants before returning them to their daily lives... preparing the newly minted Miss Pygmalion for her display. Quite a daunting task for all those involved, and spring break would practically be over with by the time they’d finished.

And then there was the inevitable question: how do we top ourselves for the next one? Granted, it wouldn’t happen for another five years, and by then a new group of fresh-faced and unsuspecting coeds would have enrolled at their university. But would his wife still be willing to go along with the organization’s plans?

Bebe Kessler had run herself ragged over the last month: selecting the right candidates most unlikely to be missed (ranging from a few days up to several weeks); the countless abductions thereafter; the time-consuming preparations of the candidates; "acquiring" the waitstaff and then programming them. She also had the major undertaking of planning out the actual banquet itself: selecting the menu; ordering the food and spirits; and sending out the invitations, all the while making sure that the event would be both memorable and enjoyable.

Vernon Kessler was proud to call her his wife; Bebe not only exceeded everyone’s expectations, but did so in a very efficient manner. The dean enjoyed watching her grease the wheels and work the room - shaking hands, introducing herself, and then conversing with some powerful people. There may have been fifteen other beautiful women in the room, but Bebe nearly stole the show simply by being hersel-

“DOH!”

Completely lost in thought, Kessler nearly ran head-first into someone rounding the corner. The woman jumped back, equally startled. She closed her eyes, clutched a hand to her chest, and mouthed some choice cusswords.

“Ms. Jakkson?” Vernon said, cocking his head to the side in confusion.

“Dean Kessler!” she exclaimed, fanning herself in shock. “You scared the living daylights outta me!”

“What in the hell are you still doing here? I thought you left campus days ago.”

Famke shoved her hands into the front pockets of her striped track pants and looked around, almost as if trying to think of an excuse.

“I, uh... had to grab some scouting reports on some of the new hopefuls... Summer is just around the corner, and double sessions will be here before we know it! I figured I’d get a head-start over the break and plan my line-up... As I’m sure you know; our first string is also our first line of defense―hah!”

“Absolutely. So how’d you make out?”

“Oh, good sir, very very good!” The coach lied.

The dean’s eyes flicked to her empty hands. “Memorized all those stats in that pretty little head of yours, huh?”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“I don’t see any file folders containing their stats.”

“Oh.” Famke bit her lower lip, looking nervous. She quickly withdrew her cell, raised it in the air for two beats, and then slipped it back into her pocket. “Got it all on my phone, sir.”

“Yes, I’m sure you did,” the dean replied in a rather suspicious tone.

“Well, I um, better get going.” She said anxiously. “Lots of pre-season prep work to do! Nice seeing you, sir!”

“Yes, and you as well,” the dean murmured distractedly. He watched her walk away at a swift pace, admiring the way her snug track pants stuck into her flexing behind as she went. He silently thought, Too bad she’s batting for the other team.

When the coach disappeared around a corner, the dean snapped out of his reverie. He glanced at his Rolex, mentally noting the time.

Hmmm, not only in the entirely wrong building for those files, but closing in on Midnite?

The dean raised an eyebrow in concern and headed for his office...

* * * *

Strangers in the Night...

It wasn’t until Vernon Kessler entered the sitting area of his own office that he realized he’d been holding his breath over the last few steps. It was weird walking around the silently empty hallways at this late an hour; even stranger running into Famke Jakkson in one.

“Bebe?” he called out as he turned on a lamp. There was no reply.

The dean glanced over at an unoccupied secretarial station; the same desk where a vibrant twenty-something brunette usually sat to greet him every morning. She’d display that angelic smile of hers, tempt him with her soft curves beneath a colorful array of leggy skirts and tight blouses. Like the rest of the campus population, Bailey had left for the break, excited to be going to the Bahamas to get a head start on her summer tan.

He imagined her wearing something modest, like a one-piece, or maybe she’d throw caution to the wind and sport something that exposed a lot more skin. She’d step out of her denim cut-offs to reveal a thong, ratcheting up the heat for all those ogling eyes. God bless her. He probably shouldn’t be picturing his assistant at all, but she always awakened the beast within without even knowing it.

Conflict of interest, my ass.

Maybe someday Bailey would join his private collection. After all, there’s plenty of work-study types living on or around campus that are eager to make a good impression. Quite a few were attractive coeds.

And the cycle would continue.

The dean withdrew his keys, quietly unlocked the door, and then stepped inside his personal office. The flowery scent of burning candles and the muted glow of flickering light greeted him on the other side.

Also unusual, he thought to himself.

His personal office was not like an office at all, but more like a suite. There was a large leather couch and matching button-tufted chairs imported from France. Beautifully aged mahogany bookshelves made up the walls, their rows lined with classics from the likes of Hemingway; Lee; Poe; Shakespeare, and more. There was also the obligatory wet bar that hid amid those shelves. But the pièce de résistance was the handmade desk imported from Italy, an item of which university donors had paid over $40,000 US. The dean was extremely proud of the fact that he was one of only a handful of executives who had one of these custom desks, making him a part of a very exclusive club.

Then again, he was an exclusive kind of guy.

“Bebe?” Kessler called out once again.

The dean’s face remained pensive for another second or two, but then he let out a dismissive humph. He was about to turn around and leave when he heard a melodious voice coming from his private bathroom. It was soft, soothing, and humming Frank Sinatra’s Strangers in the Night:

...La-de-da-da-dah, dududududu, la-de-da-da-dah...

After listening to a few more bars, Vernon slowly made his way to the back corner of the room. His eyes lit up when he found his wife standing in front of the vanity mirror; she was so engrossed with touching up her face that she failed to register his presence. The dean stood just outside the doorframe, hands casually slipped in the front pockets of his slacks as he quietly admired the beauty in front of him.

His wife was still wearing her favorite evening gown; a long, black-sequined number that fit the curves of her body like a leather glove fits a hand. Her shapely legs, sheathed in dusky black nylons, peeped out of the daring thigh-high slits whenever she moved. Her long raven locks were still upswept into a French Twist, but the ends looked a little frizzy and out of place. Despite having had a long day -Hell, make it a long month- Bebe Kessler was still a very attractive and elegant woman: regal in spirit; always tastefully dressed; witty; vivacious; independent, yet fiercely supportive. And despite closing-in on middle age, she was still very capable of turning the heads of virile young men everywhere. She seemed more beautiful now than when he’d first met her nearly a decade ago, back when their heated affair initially began and he cheated on Marion (his frosty ex-wife).

My God, she looks incredible.

Incredible indeed. During the banquet, all eyes were on Bebe as she worked The Great Room, cunningly seducing every man in attendance. Even now, bathed in the soft glow of the vanity’s lighting, he had to fight off the urge to just reach out and grab her. He cleared his throat to make his presence known.

“Ahem.”

Bebe raised her head but kept on humming. Her husband gave her a quick peck, inhaling the fragrant scent of citrus body lotion. His wife resumed, adding a little more color to her pale cheeks.

“A word with you?”

“The clock is running, dear.”

“So I thought you were coming back for the crowning,” her husband said as his hands stealthily worked their way around her waist where they settled on the outward flare of her hips.

“I needed a quick nap,” Bebe confessed. “Christ, I’ve been running wide open for over a month now. I’m beyond exhausted.”

“You’ve been a trooper for sure,” Vernon praised, as he gave his wife a loving pat on the behind. He briefly recounted some of the evening’s exploits, and she listened with either rapt attention or bored indifference.

Bebe could be a hard one to read at times.

“So I take it they all left?” she asked. The student advisor turned her head back and forth in the mirror, carefully teasing up her locks into a more pleasing arrangement.

“Not yet, but I put Jack Claussen in charge while I’m gone.”

Bebe’s head shot up with a look of disbelief.

“You have got to be kidding me! Putting him in charge is like letting the fox guard the henhouse!”

“Nah, I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

“Then he’s got you fooled,” Bebe scoffed.

The dean’s hand rubbed suggestive circles over his wife’s shapely posterior, but she seemed more devoted to primping herself in the mirror.

Talk about the ole bait and switch.

“Have something on your mind, dear?”

“I do. I like the fact that my beautiful wife has a lot to offer a man.”

The dean gave Bebe’s rump a firm, yet playful smack that made her rock on her heels. She let out a little Yelp! in surprise before flashing a look of displeasure.

“Vernon, please; I already told you I’m exhausted.”

But his wife’s words fell on deaf ears. The dean placed little kisses along her exposed collarbone, allowed his greedy hands to reach around and capture her full breasts. He loved the feel of them within his hands, massaging them as he breathed against her vulnerable ear.

Bebe just rolled her eyes and tried to shrug off her husband’s advances. She reached into her cosmetics bag to retrieve her burgundy-colored lipstick, but he continued to squeeze her aggressively.

“So what’s with all the scented candles? ... Were you expecting someone else?”

That one caught Bebe’s full attention. She paused for a moment and shot him a questioning side glance.

“Pfft! - Like who?”

“Oh, I dunno,” the dean began. His face was pensive for a second or two, but then he made a dismissive sound and narrowed his eyes. “Funny thing; I ran into Famke Jakkson out in the hallway a few minutes ago.”

“Why in the hell would she be here at this late an hour?” Bebe replied sharply. She looked down and nervously rolled the tip of her lipstick out to keep herself occupied... and to mask her apparent guilt.

“She claims she had to grab some scouting reports on some new hopefuls,” the dean replied, still watching her reflection for a reaction. “I’d think you would’ve heard her rummaging around in the file cabinets out front.”

Bebe swallowed hard in her throat as the two made eye contact in the mirror.

“Well, you know I’m a deep sleeper, so...”

That’s when her husband’s jealousy finally boiled over. His dark, possessive eyes stared into hers as he shouted, “Just tell me the truth, dammit!”

“Tell you what?”

“Is there something going on between you and Famke or not?”

“Are you fucking your dolls behind my back?” Bebe countered.

His wife had him by the balls with that one.

“Yeah,” she taunted. “Don’t think I didn’t know about your late-night visits with your collection! Can’t seem to be bothered to clean-up your sticky little ejaculate off them either!”

The two just stood there, each other’s reflections locked in an angry stare down. But after a long moment, Vernon’s outward demeanor changed. His gaze dropped to Bebe’s cleavage again, where the two sparkling cups of her gown barely contained the swells of her breasts. Maybe he was too tired himself to argue anymore...

Or maybe the thought that his wife might be bi-sexual aroused his curiosity.

Then again, maybe he was just plain aroused.

Bebe’s eyes flicked back to her own reflection in the mirror, where she formed an “O&8221; with her lips. She started applying her lipstick in slow, deliberate strokes that drew further attention to their supple shape. So sweet and oh so inviting. Her husband was also watching her reflection from behind, the tube circling around and around and blurring every sensible thought left in his head.

Without warning, the dean grabbed the lower hem of her dress and forcefully yanked it up to the small of her back, exposing her dusky pantyhose beneath. He briefly acknowledged the way the narrow little seam shot up the back of one leg, arched out sexily over her rump, and then snaked down the other leg. Then, and in one swift motion, he roughly yanked her pantyhose and black thong clear down to her ankles.

Bebe sucked in her breath, but she said nothing. She knew what was coming; they’d roleplayed before using different scenarios: good cop / bad cop, doctor and patient, and her latest kink - poseable mannequin. Sure, it could be humiliating at times, but even playtime came with its own perks; sometimes she even dressed up for her roles.

She trembled as he kicked one of her ankles out with his foot... Did the same with the other. Then came the jangly sound of her husband hastily unbuckling his belt. His slacks fell to the floor with an audible thump.

“Hand me that soap,” he ordered.

Bebe grabbed the liquid soap dispenser and passed it back. She heard him pump the handle several times, shook off a chill when a sizeable glob dropped on her skin and ran down the crack of her butt. She pictured him standing there behind her, lubing-up his cock with a maniacal smile.

With a quick pull of her hips, Bebe was flush against his thighs, felt the throbbing heat of his prick as he rubbed it up and down the deep humps of her bare ass. Her lipstick fell to the floor and rolled across the tiles in a fitting sign that primping time was officially over. With arms braced and her delicate fingers gripped around each corner of the counter, she rolled her hips around to see what kind of reaction she’d get from her husband. Her gaze flicked up to his reflection, and what she saw in his expression was primal lust. The last time he’d pinned her down like this, she’d left deep bite marks on his shoulder, visible scars that remained to this day. Maybe this time she’d leave her mark in a more memorable and pleasing way.

Bebe wasn’t sure when he’d grasped his strong fingers around the back of her neck, but she liked it. Her face flushed as she tried to turn around, but his powerful hand kept her head locked forward in place.

“Good doll,” he coaxed from behind.

“Such a good doll for you, sir.”

The fingers on his other hand dug deeper into the meat of her derrière and he pulled her cheek out even wider.

“Are you ready for this, my little pet?”

“Oh god, yes!" Bebe pleaded.

“So impatient,” Vernon uttered dismissively, “but we shall see.”

That’s when Bebe felt the bulbous head of her husband’s cock poke at her rear entrance. He moved his hips around, directing his penis with his hand into her puckered opening and slowly pressing forward. She adjusted her own hips from side to side to allow him in even further.

Bebe’s eyes lidded, and she let out a low, guttural moan at the intense sensation of her husband filling her completely. At first, his movements were agonisingly slow and gentle because he knew she was very tender back there. But Bebe knew better; she steeled herself for the reaming to come.

“You’re all mine, aren’t you, my doll?” he demanded.

“Every part of me, Master!”

“You’re goddamned right!” he said, punctuating his sentence with an enthusiastic thrust of his hips.

The dean pulled back a little, waited for his wife to relax a bit, and then pushed into her again, this time even harder and than before. Bebe let out another groan in pleasure, her back arching deeply. It felt so good having him deep inside her, and his next words came as a complete surprise...

“Now freeze.”

Bebe’s breath caught, and she locked in place.

Vernon felt her go rigid right away.

“Attagirl.”

Bebe was getting great at this, even better than his ex. Maybe someday he’d convince her to try on the special collar with the control module and he could freeze her for as long as he liked. Maybe even pose them together. What a family portrait that would make.

A cruel smile slowly crept across his face.

The dean’s gaze dropped to his wife’s reflection in the mirror. Bebe stared straight ahead, her jaw set, and with a hint of bemusement playing on her freshly painted features. She was nothing more than his doll now, a simple object meant to be admired and used. She didn’t so much as blink, even when he gave her a good hard pump... and then another. And then a third. Her long diamond earrings swung back and forth with each movement, making her appear all the more frozen. It seemed as if she were silently mocking him, daring him to break the spell, but so goddamned stubborn that she’d never concede.

All the better for me.

“Ya’ know,” he growled up against her ear, “the mere thought of me being able to have fun with you whenever I want gets me so horned-up. In fact: I’m thinking of dolling you up and leaving you inside our boudoir. You could lay there amongst my other toys, patiently waiting to be played with at the end of the day. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

Bebe didn’t offer an opinion. The sound of their bodies slapping against each other filled the vacant spaces in the conversation.

Her husband’s eyes flicked back to his own reflection. Mr. John Vernon Kessler, the Dean of Glendale University. What a handsome devil he was. A very strong and powerful man, and in more ways than one.

The veins in his neck bulged as he picked up his pace. “Oh,” he groaned. “Ohhh, yes!”

Bebe remained calm, but the top of her chest was swirling around and trying to break free from the cups of her sparkling gown.

One of her diamond earrings broke loose and flew into the sink.

Her little dalliance with Famke Jakkson seemed entirely forgotten.

At least for now.

* * *