The Fraternal Brotherhood – Chapter 2

by Zapped! with contributions by Dmuk

  You are hereby cordially invited  to attend the Fraternal Order’s “Fellowship Dinner” on May 2nd  2009. The festivities begin at 3pm, and all that is required is your password, as well as your desire for beautiful women held suspended in time. All members are encouraged to make a generous donation, as your monetary contributions are what make this time-honored tradition possible . . .  

This second installment has been a considerable undertaking that has been in the works for over a year now. I would like to personally thank Dmuk for his significant contributions on this piece, for which the story surely wouldn’t have the same visual impact without his creative insight!

Note: Although he only makes a brief appearance, the Mr. Hideki character is from the “Lady Yoshida” story series and was created by FreezAntix.

[Readers new to the series may want to start with The Fraternal Brotherhood, Chapter 1 to find out what has come before - Ed.]


  On a Saturday night, few of the sorority sisters could be found at the Omega House. Most members were out dancing at clubs downtown, or at keg parties that were on, or near campus. It wasn't unusual for the sisters to stay out until the early morning hours during these binges, and on the seasonal “bonfire weekends” . . . it was pretty much guaranteed.

   At a little after 2am, a very tipsy and giggly Claire Bennet is dropped off at the sorority house by some classmates, after attending a keg party off campus. As she exits the car, one of the intoxicated girls yells out from the back seat, “Claire honey, enjoy your trip to Cancun!”

    “Spring break is going to be so rockin’ this year, I can hardly wait!” admits Claire, (while teetering on the edge of the curb). “Alicia’s going and so is Oxana Penick – you know, the Romanian girl from the gymnastics team? . . .We figure it will be one last bash, before we all go our separate ways!”

   “Oh my gosh, I sooo wish that I was going with you guys!” admits the girl in the front passenger seat.

      “Well if you see Alicia, tell her that we said hello and we hope she feels better soon,” says the driver, before shifting the car out of park. She then reminds, “Just remember girl: you can drink as much as you want down there, just don’t drink the water, ha-ha! . . . Go Gargoyles! . . . YEEHEEEW!”

   The car full of screaming coeds peels out a second later, and Claire watches it speed down the street until squealing its tires around a corner. Once the car disappears from view, the cheerleader turns to walk unsteadily up the concrete path that leads to the Omega House. As the senior enters the front door, she thinks to herself, “ . . . I have to go to the bathroom sooo bad!” 

   Claire quickly runs up the stairway that eventually leads to her room. As she approaches her door, the honey-blonde notices that it’s left slightly open and she can hear voices coming from within. The girl cautiously pushes the door open, only to find her roommate lying on her bed and watching TV in nothing more than a pink half-shirt and her thong underwear!

   “Oh my gosh, Zala, I heard those voices in the hallway and I thought for a minute that you had a guy in here!” confesses the cheerleader, before changing the subject. “You should have gone to the bonfire – it was sooo freakin’ awesome! . . . And then afterwards, we all ended up going to a kegger at a frat house downtown!”

  Claire tosses her hooded sweatshirt across a chair and then kicks her damp sneakers off into the corner. A moment later, she tells about all the sordid details of the party, while squatting down in the adjoining bathroom, to take a much needed pee!

   However, Claire’s sordid details fall on deaf ears. Her roommate continues to stare up in silence at the TV with fixed, glassy eyes. (As the television plays across the room, the bright screen actually reflects within the girl’s empty orbs). Zala Cooke’s adorable face remains propped up within her cupped hands, as she lay flat on the bed with both raised ankles crossed over in mid air.

   A moment later: Claire finishes wiping her crotch; flushes the toilet; and then steps out of her faded blue jeans, (She folds the pants in half and hangs them off her forearm, before exiting the bathroom to finish getting undressed). As she approaches her closet, she turns her head to continue her conversation with her preoccupied roommate . . .

   “I can’t believe that Alicia didn’t show up for the bonfire! . . . I mean after all: she is the head of the cheerleading squad! . . . I must have sent her at least a dozen text messages, and she didn’t reply to any of them. I haven’t heard from her in a few days, so I’m not sure if she’s just sick or what her problem is . . . She didn’t stop by here, did she?” asks the worried blonde.

. . . Zala fails to reply, as she continues to stare vacantly in a seemingly comatose state at the thirty-six-inch Sony.

   Claire furrows her eyebrows for a moment, while looking over her roommate that continues to ignore her. The senior decides to ask, “Are you like . . . pissed-off at me or something?”

   At this point, Claire opens her closet door while still looking over her shoulder. She blindly reaches out for a hanger, before turning her head to focus on the task at . . .


. . . Claire is suddenly halted in time . . . Now surrounded by the same eerie blue light that overtook her unsuspecting roommate just an hour before!

   Within the cramped closet, a rather stocky man lowers his camera in one hand, before he tugs a pair of dark tinted goggles down around his neck. He steps out from the enclosure and carefully steps around Claire’s immobilized body. The man then complains, “Dammit Bebe, I thought she would never shut up!”

   Coach Walker sets the special camera down on top of a nearby computer desk. He then examines his latest handiwork, which stands half undressed in frozen silence.

. . . Just a few feet away, a sharply dressed woman crawls out from beneath Zala’s bed, and then stands up to brush the lint bunnies off her tailored clothes.   

   Now removing the jeans from Claire’s motionless forearm, Coach Walker asks, “So what are we supposed to do with the other one now?”

   Bebe Kessler glances down at the equally motionless girl on the bed and replies, “I better call Vernon and see what he wants to do . . .”

. . . A moment later, Mrs. Kessler is in conversation on her flip-phone. “Vern, we’re over here at the Omega House and have subdued our intended target. Unfortunately, her dorm roommate was here, and we had to freeze her as well.”

   The voice on the other end asks suggestively, “Would she qualify as a contestant?”

   The Student Advisor replies, “Yeah, she’s got a hot little body and everything!” . . . The woman squats down for a closer look and examines the girl’s vacantly staring face. “She’s got those huge Anne Hathaway eyes, Elina Ivanova’s crimson hair and an adorable face – trust me, she’s quite a looker!”

   “Good, very good . . . Get both of their cell-phones and then get them loaded up and out of there!” orders the voice at the other end of the line. “Deliver the two to Schultz… he already knows what to do with them.”

   “Ok honey, I’ll see you when I get home,” promises the advisor, before she flips her phone shut. She then turns to her helper and advises, “They’re both going to the lab and make sure we have their phones deactivated before we leave.”

   “So we got us a two-fer eh?” jokes the coach.

   Mrs. Kessler gives Coach Walker an odd look and questions, “A two-fer?”

   The man explains, “Yeah, you know . . . like a two-fer-one sale?”

   Mrs. Kessler rolls her eyes and then turns to the frozen form of Claire and asks, “Can you believe that I have to work with this guy?”

  With a face that remains void of expression, Claire continues to stare silently at the closet before her, stiff as a statue, unable to offer an opinion.

   The unfortunate cheerleader slightly wobbles in place, as Mrs. Kessler pats her captive on the shoulder and whispers, “Never mind honey . . .”

   On the other side of the room, Coach Walker leans over and grips his strong hands around Zala Cooke’s slim waist. He hoists the girl up; (as she remains stiffly posed in the position that she was in while lying on the bed), and says, “Come on cutie, it looks like you’re being invited to the party too!”

   The pair work well together, operating efficiently and quietly. Within a short time, the unwary victims are conveniently stuffed into separate beat-up-looking footlockers, along with their phones, blackberries and any other forms of identification. Both containers are wheeled down the hallway on moving carts, before being carried out the back door. A moment later, the rear doors carefully close on a plain white van, and the vehicle slowly rolls down the driveway. The van pulls out onto the street with caution, traveling at a slow speed for the first fifty feet, before speeding off in the direction of the university . . .


Monday afternoon, two days before spring break officially begins:

   It had been over three days now since Jessica Fiori had seen or heard anything from her roommate Alicia Dewitt. The freshman wasn’t being nosey or trying to keep tabs on her friend’s activities or anything, but thought it was odd for the senior not to come back to the room for such a lengthy period of time. The bonfire had come and gone, and Jesse hadn’t seen the cheerleader there either, which was a big enough shock in itself, considering Alicia’s noted abundance of school spirit!

 Come to think of it, Jessica recalled, none of Alicia’s clique of “jockette” friends had come around lately, either.

   The seventeen-year-old freshman opens the door to Robinson Hall, enters, and then heads directly for the mailroom for her daily stop.

   As she approaches the mail counter, Jessica is greeted by one of the resident R.A.’s; he leans lazily against the wooden surface, sloppily clad in a faded Aerosmith concert-T and ripped up jeans. The guy’s name was Dennis Wolcott, but everybody called him ‘Spicoli’ . . . whoever that was.

   “Hey Spico, how ya doin’?” asks the girl in a friendly manner, before “crackling” her chewing gum.

   The boy slightly flinches, (as if being caught off guard), before he says, “Oh . . . hey there Jesse, wha’ss happenin’?”  

   “Not a daaamed thing I’m afraid . . . Well, other than waiting to get the hell out of here. I’m supposed to take the bus back to New Jersey in two days, but I haven’t even bought my ticket yet,” replies the dark-haired Italian girl. “I’ll probably just walk downtown tomorrow, once classes let out.”

   “Taking the bus back to Jersey? Whoa . . . haven’t you got a car?” inquires the boy.

   “Yeah, I have a badass car; a Mitsubishi Eclipse, in fact!” brags the girl, before adding, “Unfortunately, my tight-ass parents won’t let me take it to college because they don’t think I’m responsible enough!”

   “Whoa, that sucks! . . . I remember my days as a freshman; an’ don’t miss em’ a bit!” replies the boy, before laughing in his “meat-head” manner.

   Jessica asks, “So, what are you still sticking around for?”

   “Well unfortunately, I’m trapped here until Thursday afternoon. I can’t leave this dump until all of you stragglers are completely outta here,” complains the R.A.

   The girl offers, “Awww, you poor baby!” in sympathy, before rubbing the guy’s arm to comfort him. “Maybe you’ll get lucky and hook up with some desperately lonely co-ed, who’s just starving for attention!”

   “What makes you think I don’t already . . . Hey, wait a minute: is that an invitation?” asks the boy in an almost serious manner.

   Jessica roles her eyes and blows a giant bubble with her gum, before sucking it back into her mouth. She then assures, “Don’t hold your breath; that . . . would absolutely never happen buddy!”. . . (I’m not quite that desperate, she thinks to herself).

   The freshman co-ed then looks down at the guy’s index finger and furrows her eyebrows, trying to change the subject. “Hey, that’s one badass ring ya’ got there . . . Kind a’ gothic looking, but sweet. Where’d ya’ get it?”

   “It’s something I picked up at a music shop down in the city. It’s a little gargoyle holding a pitchfork . . . see?” (Dennis holds out his hand to give the girl a closer look).

   “Oh yeah, it is a gargoyle with a pitchfork . . . Cool!” Jessica snaps her gum to stress the fact, then seems to lose interest. “Sooo, lonely boy, is there anything back there for me or what?”

   “Well I suppose I could take a look,” replies the boy, before he lazily walks back to scan a wall full of mailboxes.

   As the laid-back R.A. searches for her mail, Jessica checks out the guy’s butt and thinks to herself . . . “He’s kind of cute for a slacker . . . I wonder why I never see him with any girls?”

   It was at this point, that Jessica decides to ask, “Hey, you haven’t seen my roommate around, have you?”

   Dennis replies over his shoulder, “Alicia? Nope, I haven’t seen her all weekend . . . Are you sure she didn’t leave for Cancun already?”

Jessica:  “No, I checked; her suitcase and all of her clothes and stuff are still here.”

   Dennis turns around with a handful of random mail and sale flyers, giving them to the girl before saying, “I wouldn’t mind keeping an eye out for her though – especially with that smokin’ body of hers.”

   *Sigh* . . . “Her hot body, so what about mine, huh?” questions the Italian with a note of jealousy.  Jessica throws her shoulders back and sticks her “B” sized breasts out a little further for the sophomore’s consideration . . .

“Mmm, you definitely have the better ass!” says the boy in a teasing manner.

   “Yeah I know,” brags the girl. “Well, I guess I’ll go upstairs and start packing up my shit.”

   “I’ll come up and help with your panty drawer!” jokes the young man.

   “You’re such a perve!” accuses the girl, before she picks up a pen from the counter and playfully tosses it at him. “No wonder you don’t have a girlfriend!”

. . . As Jessica walks away from the counter, she puts a little more “twist” in her walk, just to tease the boy. The freshman thinks to herself, “Talking to that guy is like watching a real-life episode of Beavis and Butthead. I can’t believe he graduated from high school, let alone got accepted into this college!”

   Dennis yells, “Bye, Jesse Fiori!” as he watches her precious little tush shift from side to side within her tight jeans. He then looks down to polish up his ring with his T-shirt and mumbles under his breath, “. . . That sweet little ass might have just won over my vote!”          

 . . . As Jessica climbs the stairway to the second floor, she’s surprised at just how quiet the dorm is now that most of its residents have left. When the freshman finally reaches her room, she unlocks the door and steps inside, tossing her book bag immediately on the floor. She plops down into a beanbag chair and begins to sort through her stack of mail, crackling her chewing gum between her teeth as she goes along.  Most of it is junk.

   Jessica suddenly gets a confused look as she finds a black envelope made of crushed black velvet at the bottom of the stack!  Her own name is embossed in silver script across the front, and there was a delicate pink ribbon crossing its surface . . .

   “You’ve got to be kidding me!” says Jessica in a sarcastic tone. The girl proceeds to peel apart the wax seal on the back, taking care not to ruin her expensive nails. A moment later, she pulls the paperwork out with her delicate fingers and flips it open. Jessica starts to read:

   Due to the recent expansion of our campus historical preservation program, the Glendale Theatre of the Arts Group needs your help . . .

   “Yadda-yadda-yadda!” sighs the girl, before she scans down to the bottom to further read:

   Please report to the student advisor’s office at the appointed time below and be sure to be prompt.  

   Jessica Marie Fiori:  4 / 29  3:00 pm

NOTE:  This is an official school document containing confidential information and it is not to be viewed by or discussed with anyone other than the addressee! Failure to do so may result in disciplinary action by university administration, up to and including automatic student suspension.

   The freshman gets a confused look on her face, as she recalls the moment when Alicia received and read her copy of the exact same mysterious letter. She quickly folds up the paper and stuffs it back inside the velvet envelope.

   Jessica says out loud, “Good; maybe they will know where my roommate is!” She then makes a mental note to stop by the office tomorrow afternoon, before heading downtown to purchase her bus ticket for the trip home . . .


The Gymnastics room in Glendale’s gymnasium, 9:30 p.m. this past Sunday evening:

      “Pheew!” . . . Get me in duu zee . . . how vould I zay, uh . . . damned shower? Yah, dat iz it!” exclaims Oxana Penick, now laughing at herself for her poor English. The Romanian exists the gymnasium and makes her way towards the women’s locker room. Once inside, the blonde-haired, pony-tailed gymnast wipes her sweaty forehead off on a hand towel, as her bare feet smack against the tiled floor. A moment later, the girl parks her exhausted body on the wooden bench that’s in front of her locker . . .

   The eighteen-year-old immigrant from Eastern Europe had already proven herself a champion when she placed first in the state finals this past winter – an unheard-of feat for a girl representing a smaller college such as Glendale. However, that was all about to change; Oxana had already announced that she was leaving her fellow teammates behind after only one season and transferring to The University of Michigan in the fall in an effort to improve her already impressive athletic and academic resume.

   But for now, the Romanian born American would be satisfied enough with cleansing her aching body in a soothing hot shower. As Oxana slowly stands upright to undress, she considers that one of the benefits of sneaking in and practicing the bars on a Sunday evening, at this late an hour . . . meant having the shower room all to herself!

   Miss Penick smiles at the thought of such a simple pleasure, before she reaches over and opens the door to her locker. The weary gymnast feels a bit cramped and puts her hands on her hips to deeply arch her back, before eventually straightening to twist her torso to the left and right. The pale blonde shakes off the fatigue in her hands when finished, and then reaches up to her neck to peel the skin-tight red “practice” leotard from her sweaty body . . .

   At that very second, the eighteen year old sees movement out of the corner of her eye, before a man’s reflection appears in the make-up mirror that’s mounted on her opened locker door!

   Oxana gasps in reaction and quickly spins around!

   “Coach Valker? . . .Vhat are you doingk in here?” questions the Romanian with a noted sense of confusion!


 . . . A brilliant burst of blue light suddenly fills the locker room and highlights the gymnast’s sculpted features. Oxana finds herself suddenly fixed rigidly in place and unable to react; within seconds, her vision as well as her thoughts begin to dim, eventually fading into total darkness . . .

   Before being appointed to the position of Athletics Director, Coach Walker had seen all types of bodies in his thirty five years of coaching: training the girl’s soccer team; a season worth of softball; a couple of more seasons with the track team; and then of course there was his current favorite – women’s gymnastics. Well over a dozen of his teams had won championships . . . others did not. But win or lose, each of those team members was as equally important as the next to the man those same girls fondly referred to as their “Pooh Bear” . . . (a name appropriately given, due to the man’s stocky build and gentle demeanor). If you attended Glendale College, you already knew who Coach Walker was.

   Forging his player’s bodies into the most physically fit tools they could be, whether on the balance beam, field, or track – the coach was also known for shaping their minds and character as well. Albert Walker never accepted the words “I can’t.”

   “We’ve had some great teams with some outstanding players over the years,” the coach once said while addressing his fellow brothers of the Fraternal Order. “But I’m more proud of the way these kids turned out in the end . . . And now, my respect and admiration for my players can live on beyond their days of competition!”

   Coach Walker was always there for his girls; whether helping them do their stretches, taping up their ankles or spotting them during their practice routines. When training them on the balance beam, the uneven bars, or even on the vault, Walker would frequently give his girls an extra assist; often brushing his hands across their solid little asses, or gripping them around their tight, flat tummies. The gymnasts never seemed to notice his attention, being entirely focused on their performance instead!

   The forty-six-year old always liked the lithe physique of the typical competitive gymnast: from their thin and muscular build, to the way their glistening spandex leotards stretched across their young athletic bodies. The appearance was an ideal one – pretty much like the sculptured look of Oxana here . . .

   Coach Walker sets the rare immobilizing camera down on the wooden bench, and then turns his focus to the frozen-in-time figure that stood before him.

   Oxana’s torso was still twisted sideways; her odd resulting position was due to the unexpected appearance of the girl’s coach behind her. One hand was raised out in front of her with fingers splayed in a surprised reaction, while the other was still tugging at the elastic seam on her shoulder. The girl’s hands and muscular thighs were still covered in white chalk residue from the gymnast’s earlier use of the stuff to prevent her sweaty body from slipping on the equipment.

   Oxana was slim, but solid in all the right places. The Romanian’s muscular glutes jutted out nicely from the small of her back. The girl’s stomach was tight and toned; the bas-relief impression of her abs could be seen in the thin material of her leotard, where the muscles stretched from beneath the arch of her ribs, clear down to the pronounced pubic mound at the bottom. The blue-eyed natural blonde was chestier than the typical gymnast, yet even her full breasts were compressed into mere bumps beneath the constricting uniform.

   Coach Walker often found himself getting erect around his gymnasts; he usually hid himself behind his trusty clipboard. Tonight, he wouldn’t have to . . .

   The coach reached forward and let his hands slowly glide over Oxana’s restricted breasts, and then let them slide over her ribs, until coming to a rest at her hips. Both hands reached around and fanned out over the girl’s incredibly tight ass cheeks, at first admiring their smooth curves, and then squeezing both humps to gauge their firmness.

. . . Just then his cell phone rings!

   “Shit!” yells the coach, before he frantically digs into the pockets of his sweatpants to retrieve his phone.  Oxana hasn’t moved at all; she remains an unblinking waxwork.

   Walker flips the cover open and answers with a frustrated tone. “Yeah . . .?”

   On the other end, a dry, wry female voice lacking any sort of emotion asks, “Walker, where in the hell are you?”

  The coach immediately recognizes the dry voice as the student advisor,  Mrs. Kessler.

   “It’s a done deal already; I’m standing here in the women’s locker room and looking right at her, right now,” answers Coach Walker, already knowing the purpose of the call.

   “Well then, what are you waiting for Albert? Get her down here and out of sight before somebody walks in there!” orders the woman on the other end of the phone.

   “Nobody’s going to be using the gym or the locker room at this late an hour,” assures the coach. “Besides, Oxana was one of my best girls! . . . I was just getting ready to look her over!”

   “Never mind that now; you can look her over to your heart’s content anytime you want once she’s on ice,” promises the advisor. “Now get your ass moving!” she rings off.

   Coach Walker flips his phone shut and dumps it in his front pocket, then retrieves a half-full linen towel basket from nearby and wheels it over in the girl’s direction with a dejected look on his face.

   Oxana continues to stand silent beside the wooden bench in her twisted pose. The gymnast’s eyes continue to stare fixedly at the row of lockers across from her, until her coach picks her rigid body up by the waistline and carefully places her inside the basket.

   With her eyes now staring up at the ceiling above, the coach leans in to offer the girl a bit of consolation. “Maybe I’ll get to bathe you before the professor puts you under. . . wouldn’t that be nice, sweetie?” . . . The immobilized gymnast offers no response, but continues to stare up in silence, as her mentor lightly caresses her soft, pale cheek.

   Less than ten minutes later, Oxana Penick, the contents of her locker, and any other evidence of the girl’s existence – including her student file – have been dumped into the linen cart. The girl is then casually wheeled off into the series of steam tunnels that run beneath the campus grounds. She will soon join up with her missing peers, a group that seems to be growing in number . . .


The Big Day:

   It was a rather pleasant afternoon in April, when a small collection of vehicles began to gather in one of Glendale Universities’ faculty parking areas. Buds were just beginning to form on the trees and the warm sun was in the air, as a light spring breeze blew across the campus grounds.

   From within a nearby building, a man watches as his fraternal brothers filter out of the parking lot, one by one. As each person walks up the slate walkway, they are carefully scrutinized through a series of high-tech surveillance cameras. Once a fellow brother is identified from the viewing monitors, the unseen observer checks the member’s name off from a long list beneath the palm of his hand.  But visual recognition alone is not enough.

   As one approaches the entry to the building simply known as “The Muse,” he would find no door handle, no bell, not even a keyhole. There weren’t any ground-level windows to peek into either. The only two features to be found would be the cast-iron doorknocker that at first looked to be in the shape of a lion’s head, but in fact was a stylized Medusa, and the armored surveillance camera perched above it. Privacy was an essential part in the mystique of the Muse and the Fraternal Order; it not only boasted of the group’s exclusivity, but it was a key factor in their continued existence and unique way of life as well.

   A member now approaches the medieval-looking door and grabs the wrought iron hoop within the gorgon’s mouth, before giving it a couple of good hard knocks.

   A hidden speaker crackles to life with a challenge: *SSSKRSH* . . . “Password?”

   The member looks up at the intrusive-appearing camera and says, “Stone Maiden.”

   There is a brief pause, before the sound of a hydraulic lock disengages and the big wood door creaks slightly open. The speaker crackles to life once again: *SSSKRSH* . . . “Good afternoon, Dr. Rosewood, you may enter.”

   The voice heard from the other side of that speaker belonged to none other than Dean Kessler. The Dean not only knew every name on that list in front of him, he knew his fraternal brothers by sight as well. He knew their occupations; their family situations, their aspirations, as well as all their dirty little secrets. Kessler wasn’t aware of these things only because he was nosy; he simply knew all about his fellow Brothers because it was his job to know.

   Dean Kessler wasn’t only in charge of the respected institution of Glendale University; he was also the Executive Director of the Pygmalion Brotherhood – a Fraternal Order that had remained as mysterious as the forbidding building that housed them . . .

   Although the Muse is one of the campuses most intriguing, (if not simplistic) shrines, its reputation wasn’t based on its imposing physical appearance alone. Few knew what went on inside those hewn-rock walls or what the enigmatic organization behind the institution was all about.

   For decades, the Fraternal Order’s secretive behavior, puzzling symbols and eerie-looking temple provoked speculation about rumored strange activities taking place within. As a result, a variety of local legends and campus conspiracy theories soon were spoken of; these were often of mythical, if not humorous, proportions!

   Fraternal Brothers, or Pygmalions (as they sometimes referred to one another), came from varying backgrounds including education, medicine, science, business, and even politics; they were often staples within their communities. Members tended to be intellectual “free thinkers” associated with scientific inquiry and the preservation of the fairer sex. An anonymous member had once said that their organization was dedicated to “making good men, greater and good looking women, impeccably beautiful!”

   Although the Pygmalions held campus council meetings on a bi-monthly basis, their coveted “Fellowship Dinner” came along only once every five years. The evening was designed to motivate established members into making a sizeable endowment in addition to their yearly dues. When it came to providing the compelling motivation for these important events, Dean Kessler didn’t mind pulling out all the stops . . .

   From inside the security room, Dean Kessler watches as a jet black 63’ Lincoln Continental with suicide doors pulls into to the parking lot. A few minutes later, the lone figure reaches the Muse and raps the doorknocker against the heavy wood surface, before waiting to reveal the password.

   The speaker crackles to life: *SSSKRSH* . . . “Can I take your order please?”

   The man outside looks up curiously at the security camera for a beat and then replies, “Yeah, I’ll take your best naked brunette, your cheapest bottle of wine, and a carton of Lucky Strikes . . . To go!”  He waits with a smirk on his face.

*SSSKRSH* . . . “There’s something to be said about a man that hasn’t changed his bad habits in over thirty years . . .”

   “Yeah, it’s called being pretty damned lucky! Now will you please open this damned door already?” returns the man on the outside.

*SSSKRSH* . . . “I’ll be right there, professor . . .”

   After a few moments, the hydraulic lock mechanism disengages, and Dean Kessler himself comes to the door! “I should’ve known we couldn’t keep a dirty old man like you away! . . . Jack Claussen, how’re ya doin’ you old dog!”

   The two men start with a steady handshake that soon erupts into a hearty bear hug . . .

   “You know, I kept looking at my watch, and for a while there, I honestly didn’t think you were going to show!” says Kessler, still beaming from ear to ear. “Are you still hassling those cute little girls over at the college?”

   “Yeah, more like they’re hassling me!” brags Claussen.  “I’m not as young as I used to be…”

   “Well I’ll give you credit: you always did bring the trim around back in the day!” admits Kessler. “Why don’t you come on in; the boys have been waiting . . .”

   The professor replies, “ . . . Don’t mind if I do, Sir!”

* * * * * *

   If one were lucky enough to tour the Fraternal Order’s crypt-like halls or the various side-chambers, one would feel as if he’d traveled back to medieval times. As soon as you step through the entrance door and into the lobby, you can’t help but notice the ancient weaponry that hangs on the castle-like, rock-hewn walls. On either side of the entrance are two steel bodied knights that stoically stand guard; each identical in armor and pose, while holding up menacing looking Halberds by their long handles. In addition to the mock guards, there are numerous pedestals with an assortment of blocks of sculpted stone that feature busts of current council leaders, as well as likenesses of those members that have passed on, placed every few feet from each other and on both sides of the entry foyer.

   Directly ahead through arched double-doors is the enclosed council room, flanked by two candle-lit hallways bordering either side. You walk ahead a bit towards that wall and notice a giant brass gargoyle that’s holding a pitchfork and staring down on you menacingly – this symbol represents the Pygmalion’s crest. Mounted just below the figure is a rather impressive carved granite tablet bearing the words “SERVO A RIGOR LABRUM” engraved into its surface (You summon dusty Latin teachings to interpret the meaning: Keep A Stiff Lip!)

   Your curiosity gets the best of you, and you decide to investigate one of the flanking hallways beyond the sculpted busts. Fighting the sudden urge to duck your head, you pass beneath a low-lying tapestry arch to enter the crypt-like aisle that’s only lit by burning tapers. It isn’t until your eyes adjust to the shadowy near darkness that you see the even more impressive collection beyond . . .

   Carved into the walls on either side of the long hallway are six-foot-tall recessed alcoves stretching into the gloom as far as you can see. In each of those niches stands an alabaster statue of a female form; every one rich with intimate detail and posed in the nude! Each stands mounted upon a short granite pedestal that features a polished brass plaque affixed to the front. Engraved into the surface of each of these plaques are various years, ranging from 2004 back into the early sixties, and possibly even before that!

   Focusing your attention back to the statues themselves, you’re immediately taken aback by the realism of the figures as you notice the lifelike aspects that the artist has rendered within each likeness; from the finely textured hair on their heads to the tiny mound of each breasts’ aureole to the ridges of the cuticles on their toes. Moving from one petrified masterpiece to the next, your pulse begins to quicken from the excitement of seeing so much stilled beauty around you.  Blank eyes stare into infinity; stony lips remain pursed.

   With your vision now fully adjusted to the candlelight, it isn’t long before you begin to take notice of the diversity between the statues; their body types, breast size, muscle tone, even their facial structure – each is distinct in character, yet uncommonly beautiful. Another noticeable difference is their varying hairstyles: the beehive; the up-do; the forward bob; the Farrah; the Rachel; the Hamill as well as countless others – all represented here, as if each lovely stony figure portrays a different era in time.

   Coming to the end of the aisle, you briefly glance down at a small easel in the corner of the hallway, bearing a sign that reads:

                                  All sculpted works by:

                                                             Gerald E. Bushwick

   “This Bushwick guy really knows his women!” you say under your breath, before crossing over to the opposite side of the aisle way to view more of the artist’s work on your way back to the council chambers.

   Just the mere presence of each figure’s enduring, eternal, beauty makes you alarmingly conscious of your own growing desire. A yearning which is due, in part perhaps, to the solitude and chilling silence of the crypt-like gallery - as well as the cumulative effect of the actual magnificence of the statues themselves. Now caught up in the moment, you suddenly find yourself fighting the urge to reach out and caress their naked bodies while nobody is looking, testing by a secret touch whether they are truly crafted of stone!

The Fraternal Council Room, two hours later:

   The room where the Fraternal Order held council was dramatic, in comparison to the building’s candlelit hallways and cold exterior appearance. In fact, some would say that the opulently decorated space almost had an old time movie theater or opera house-like feel and warmth. There were big extravagant floor-to-ceiling burgundy velvet curtains that draped half-parted against the walls, serving no meaningful purpose other than to look regal. There were majestic pillars made of richly veined marble that vividly fortified the sides of the room and supported the thick ornate trusses that buttressed the vaulted ceiling. The floor was composed of intricate veneer parquet mostly covered by thick shag carpeting that was brilliant red and nearly glowed in comparison to the room’s occult-like, black painted walls.

    Like in the entryway, more medieval weapons hung on the walls amid framed portraits of the Fraternity’s founding fathers. There were also several large framed nudes, artful poses featuring both current and former Glendale students who had unknowingly posed as models on countless occasions!

   But the centerpiece of the council chamber was undoubtedly the giant African mahogany conference room table. The massive imported piece was U-shaped in design and seated all twenty-two Brotherhood members at once, with room to spare. The table’s deep burgundy finish was hand rubbed and featured two inlaid “gargoyle with pitchfork” crests at either end. Above it hung an elaborate chandelier, while two-dozen “puffy looking” high-backed leather chairs surrounded it, leaving the center of the U open.

. . . Of course the pride and joy of the Fraternal Order sat in front of the executive’s chair at the head of the table. Displayed within the glass case, was the jeweled crown that waited to take its rightful place upon the latest Miss Pygmalion’s pretty little head.

   For this particular occasion, there were circular maroon draperies suspended from hoop-like brackets on the ceiling above. Nine of the mysterious curtains lined the walls on either side of the room to face each other. Each was ten feet tall by three or so feet in diameter to obviously conceal whatever was beneath . . .

* * * * * *

   By now, the Fraternal Brothers had finished the dinner portion of the evening, a lavish seven-course meal, prepared by the fraternity’s only chef and served by three of the fraternity’s newest members. The sharply dressed male waiters were just about finished clearing the tables, as the elder council members sat digesting their meals and downing glasses of liqueurs and fine wines. As those spirits began to take effect, the somber business-like mood of the room slowly changed to take on a more festive tone!

   Amidst the sound of clinking wine glasses and the free-form jazz music now playing spiritedly in the background, the idle chatter of several of the fraternal brothers can be heard; each offering their predictions on what will be behind the eighteen draperies that surround the council table. There has been a noted buzz of speculation and the occasional high-spirited side-bet circulating around the room, ever since the members began arriving earlier this afternoon . . . The staff and officials had already sworn their secrecy.

   Dean Kessler stands up from his high-backed chair at the head of the table, as if he were royalty preparing to address his subjects. The conversation continued around him, taking little notice. After several swift musical taps against his empty snifter with a spoon, the dean manages to get everybody’s undivided attention.

   “Gentlemen; I would like to take a moment, if I could, to introduce some of our longtime alumni, Brothers, and contributors here at Glendale. I realize that we’re all anxious to get started with the proceedings, but I want to give credit where it’s justly due. Guys, if you’ll just stand up briefly when I call out your names . . .”

   The Dean announces, “Albert Walker: Glendale’s Athletic Program Director, as well as our championship-winning gymnastics coach!” (The crowd begins to applaud for the coach, as he stands up briefly, turns to acknowledge his fellow members, and then sits back down). Kessler continues, “I often refer to Al as our “gentle giant” but make no mistake about it; he can be one tough bastard when it comes to coaching his teams during competition!”

. . . The crowd begins a second session of clapping, but the commotion is short lived as Kessler waves for quiet and goes on to introduce the next member.

   “Mr. Stanley Pitt . . .” (There’s a rather lengthy round of applause, as Mr. Pitt rises from his seat, more than a little tipsy by now) . . . “Stanley has been one of our greatest contributors over the last . . . what has it been: twenty, twenty five or so years?”

   “Thirty eight, ya’ bloody wanker!” yells Pitt, to a round of nervous chuckles, before he cinches up his slacks at mid-thigh in order to sit heavily back into his cushioned throne. The man then slams his drink down, spilling some of the amber fluid, and adds in a raspy voice, “ . . . And for the kind of loot I’ve been dumping into this place, there ought to be some bloody hookers up in here!”

   The Dean turns a bit red in the cheeks for a moment, before regaining his aplomb and stating to the other members, “Stanley is truly living proof that you actually can go through life, fat, drunk, and stupid and still go on to make millions!”

. . . The other members break out in a roar of laughter, as Pitt raises his clasped hands above his head triumphantly!   “You betch’er sweet ass…” he mumbles.

   Dean Kessler then moves on to the next Alumni member . . .“Our next fellow originally came all the way from Japan to attend Glendale U. back in the day! . . . The Honored Mr. Isaho Hideki, if you would please stand up?” An older Asian fellow with a full head of snow-white hair stands to take a slow bow, before returning to his seat. “Mr. Hideki is known for his tireless efforts in perfecting freeze-drying technology, as well as his vast expertise in human taxidermy!” . . . The crowd begins laughing, as the Dean further reveals, “He also stuffs exotic animals and fowl from time to time, so if you have anything you need to have permanently mounted, please feel free to talk to him after our meeting!”

   The crowd cracks up once again, as the Dean moves onward . . . “Now these next two gentlemen to my right may seem unfamiliar, which is good, because that’s the way they like it! Representing a certain “Family”, if you will, – straight from New Jersey – please welcome Tony and Christopher.”  The crowd approves with clapping and laughter as two well-dressed individuals stand up briefly; one is a stocky Italian with gold chains, a big nose and equally big hair; the other a big portly man with an even bigger smile and a noted sense of grandeur about him.

   The Dean goes on to explain, “Tony has made it possible to continue with our “special interest” programs through generous monetary donations, as well as providing the Brotherhood a few “test subjects” along the way.”

. . . There is another round of applause, and the big man with the smile rises up from his seat to contemplate a speech but eventually says, “Ah . . .fugedaboutdit!” and sits again.

   Moving on to the next seated gentleman, Dean Kessler announces, “This next guy might have graduated from Glendale back in nineteen sixty four, but he ideologically never quite made it past sixty nine! Jerry, if you’ll please stand up.” . . . A thin, rather hippy-ish looking fellow with sideburns, a salt-and-pepper beard, and long gray hair tied into a ponytail, stands up from the table and accepts his applause before sitting back down.

   Kessler continues, “Jerry, as many of you know - is the head of our art department and also the artist responsible for all of the beautiful commemorative statues that adorn our hallways outside. Now he tells me that he doesn’t make house calls any longer, but if you have a nagging wife, mistress, or mother in-law that you’re looking to dispose of . . . just stop down by his office near the sculpture room and he’ll see what he can do!”

   Most of the crowd cracks up in laughter, while a voice in the background says, “It’s true; I’ve actually seen it happen!”

   Kessler chuckles also. “Be quiet, Stanley; you’ve had your moment! Now this next guy, I’m sure you all know from our toga party days . . . Jack, could you please stand up? . . . Professor Jack Claussen everybody!”

. . . Professor Claussen stands up briefly and nods his head to the applause of the crowd, before sitting back in his seat.

   “Now one thing that some of you newbie’s might not be aware of: Jack is the son of the late Vernon Claussen, one of our founding members.” The dean points to a portrait of the elder Claussen that hangs in a place of honor on the wall. “Vernon, as many of you know, actually invented and built the first Ansco nullifier camera!” There is another round of applause, and a few cheers, before Kessler moves on to the last member at the table.

   “Now this gentleman seated immediately to my right needs no introduction,” admits the dean as he proceeds to introduce the  man anyway. “His countless experiments with liquid nitrogen and cryogenic-freezing have become the stuff of legend; both in scientific circles, as well as in the “so-called” cryonics underground. He’s our eldest brother, as well as another founding member of The Fraternal Order, and is still getting the job done at eighty-seven years old. Let’s hear a warm welcome for a cool character: Professor Otto Von Schultz, Glendale’s resident alchemist and cryo-biologist!”

. . . There’s an immediate round of applause, complemented by a standing ovation, as the eldest of the tribe slowly stands up from his chair and turns slowly to glance first at one branch of the table, then the other. That applause continues for nearly a minute before the humbled scientist motions his hands to sit down and requests, “Danke genzlemen, you are all much too kind! . . . Now pleaze, I muzt beg of you, zit down…  Zit!”

   Kessler praises, “. . . A sign of a true scientist, gentlemen: he’s so dedicated to his work that he fails to recognize his own genius!”

. . . The crowd nods their heads in agreement, standing once more, before their round of applause eventually fades off.

   Dean Kessler then announces, “Now, before we get this shindig truly rolling, I’d like to bring out the true Miss Pygmalion 2009:  The woman who helped us put this whole thing together; from screening the girls, to typing up the classy invitations, to helping to convince our lovely volunteers. Fellow Brothers, I present to you my lovely wife: Bebe Kessler!”

   There’s a polite round of applause, as Mrs. Kessler steps out from a side door in the back of the room. Dressed in a long dark evening gown, she has the classic beauty of the dancer she once was.  Her dark hair is done up high on her head.  She takes a little curtain call of a bow at first, and then eventually waves off the applause after a moment. The very business-like woman speaks out, "Gentlemen; this was all truly my pleasure. Now, please, enjoy your evening."

   With that said Mrs. Kessler takes a final quick bow and waves at the members of the Fraternal Order once more before she walks back into the kitchen entrance and vanishes behind a swinging door. Leaving the murmur of the Brotherhood meeting to fade behind her, the dean’s wife and student advisor makes her way down to the basement level and eventually finds her way into the steam tunnels that run beneath the buildings on campus.

* * * * * *

As she steps through a heavy steel fire door, she's completely surprised to find the stunningly lovely cheerleading coach – Ms. Jaksson – already waiting there for her there . . .

   Mrs. Kessler warns, "You really shouldn't have come down here, Famke!"

   Coach Jackson replies, "What? You didn't think I knew about the trap door at the back of the girl's locker room? Please! . . . So where are we going to do this?"

   "How about my husband's office; he's got a fairly sizeable couch in there and I know he won't be back there anytime soon – the ‘boys’ are having their fun!" replies Mrs. Kessler, before taking her co-worker by the hand to lead the other woman down the steam tunnel. Within just a few steps, Bebe’s clandestine lover holds up in place . . .

   “Aren’t you forgetting something?” asks the coach, with a devilish smile.

   Mrs. Kessler hesitates for a moment, then leans in to kiss the coach full on the lips. The two women embrace each other, as the kiss gets more intense, but the married woman suddenly backs away . . .

   Bebe looks into the coach’s mysterious dark eyes, before she leans in towards the woman’s ear to whisper, “Come on Famke; it’s definitely time for us to get outta here!”

* * * * * *

   Back at the meeting, a grateful Dean Kessler announces, “Fellow brothers; on behalf of the Fraternal Order, I thank you once again for your generous donations! Our successful athletics program would not be what it is today without your continued help. We as a fraternity could not survive without the collective insight that our brothers put into these projects of ours, year after year. And now, in celebration of this joyous quintennial occasion . . . I would like to propose a toast:

Here’s to the privileges of wealth . . . and eternal youth!”

   The council members hold up their goblets high and reply in unison, “Servo A Rigor Labrum!” before slamming down their dessert wines collectively.

   With that said, Dean Kessler picks up a remote control that he has held close for the entire proceedings. As he raises the remote upwards to take aim at an activation box on the ceiling, he announces, “Gentlemen: I present to you the chosen candidates for Miss Pygmalion 2009!”

. . . As the flush mounted ceiling lights in the council room begin to dim, one can almost hear the rhythm of heartbeats now racing in anticipation.

   In grand fashion, the velvet curtains on both sides of the room suddenly draw together and begin rise upwards into the heights – simultaneously revealing two facing rows of female figures that are now being bathed in spotlights!   As the brilliant illumination hits the lovely young women, they all remain absolutely fixed in position, unblinking and unwavering.

   The council room suddenly explodes with a mixture of applause, wolf-howls and high-pitched whistles as the Pygmalions express their approval!

   Set upon individual pedestals, each girl stands straight and rigid at stiff attention, collectively they appear like two rows of toy soldiers or life-size dolls; their fixed, glassy eyes staring obediently forward and reflecting nothing more than the spotlights from above. Each was dressed similarly in a revealing two-piece ensemble that was both generic and functional; a thin stretchy bandeau stretched across their breasts and was tied at the small of their backs, while a pair of low-rise compression briefs stretched across their lower waistlines. The colors of the suits alternated down the row of immobilized women, from royal blue to yellow, (those being Glendale’s school colors), but each had the familiar “Gargoyle” crest printed in the center of the chest.  Their legs were sheathed in shiny suntan pantyhose and all stood tall in matching black high-heeled pumps.  Around their throats, each girl is wearing an inch-wide choker necklace made of a silvery, almost metallic, material. At the back of the neck is the wider, thicker, lump of the freeze control module.

   Each attractive young woman had her own physical attributes and attractions, ranging from different heights and proportions to facial and body types, skin tone, and hair color. Due to Glendale’s diverse student population, their ethnicities and origins varied as well. However, each of these fantastic figures also possessed a few striking similarities: each was dazzlingly beautiful, athletically fit, within her prime condition . . . and remained perfectly still!   Placed next to each candidate atop a waist-high chrome shaft is a slotted receptacle made to accept the tokens the members have been given to cast their votes.

      The council members get up eagerly from their seats and begin approaching the rows of living statues in awe. Before long, some are wandering aimlessly between the frozen figures, while others take their time to study the silent exhibits closely . . . one on one.

   From just behind the revelers, Dean Kessler presses another button on his raised remote. A second later, both rows of motionless young women on either side of the room begin to slowly rotate around; each dais is now turning in perfectly timed unison with the next!

. . . The room suddenly erupts with uproarious applause once again!

   Smiling proudly, the Dean mingles with his fellow Pygmalions; now evaluating the impressive array of contestants.  He doesn’t know of all of them by name, but remembers some of the more striking young ladies and pauses to add a vote for his favorites. Of course he recognizes the first one in the row; one of Glendale’s competitive cheerleaders, (as well as streetwise basketball player), the tough - and equally beautiful - Shawna “Hoopz” Parker. The African American’s athletic body is so toned and tight, that every light muscle ripple is evident in her cream-n-coffee hued skin. “Hoopz” had a cute face that always held a warm and welcoming smile, but for now her lightly made-up visage stares blankly ahead while void of any expression whatsoever.

. . . Dean Kessler’s roving eyes followed the curve of Shawna’s exposed back, as it flows into the firm humps of her sporty buttocks. (The man especially likes the way the girl’s cheeks hung out of her snug little briefs!) . . . The song lyric, “brown sugar, how come you taste so good?” suddenly comes to the administrator’s mind . . .

   Also in this row are at least two members from the volleyball team, one of which is a cute Japanese exchange student – Nasuko something-or-other. With her pale skin and delicate features, the girl looks almost like a life-sized doll or even a boxed anime figure standing there in her school colors. Posed rigidly beside the petite Asian is a pretty young woman who looks vaguely familiar to the Dean, but doesn’t quite ‘click’ until he mentally adds thick gothic make-up to her face and somber black clothes in place. “Amazing; that’s really Patty Temple?” he exclaims to no one in particular.  Who knew she actually has natural ginger-colored hair and those adorable freckles across the bridge of her nose . . .

  “Yup; she cleaned up rather nicely, don’t you think, Sir,” adds one of the brotherhood’s youngest members, a very capable student, who had stepped alongside as they watch the transformed Goth girl statically pirouette on the turntable.

. . . Now attired in one of the eighteen standard issue, two-piece outfits, Patty’s sexy body is finally revealed within golden yellow spandex. Once gloomy and unsociable, this former loner now proudly shows off her elegant lines and smooth pale, buttery skin. Her slim but muscular legs and trim ankles stand in strapped high heels, (most likely for the first time). All in all, Patty turned out to be really cute on a day that it really counted!

   Kessler finally answers, “Yes, she cleaned up rather well indeed! . . . And by the way; there is no need to call me ‘Sir’ within these proceedings, my fellow Brother,” commented the leader of the fraternal order.  “We are all merely devotees of preserved beauty within these hallowed halls…”

  “Yes, and these are a rather nice variety of candidates, if I do say so myself,” adds the young man, trying to imitate the dean’s reserved tone as the two move along the row of motionless young women towards another still figure that was his personal favorite: ‘Juicy Jessica’ Fiori. From the sweet ass and shapely legs shown off delightfully by her short briefs, to the classic hourglass curves of her waist, the gorgeous Italian already looked like she belonged in one of the alcoves in the hallway. Not bothered by her smallish B-cup breasts, Dennis thinks she is the best of the chosen ones and votes accordingly, placing four of his medusa tokens in her collection box. The young man can hear them clink among other coins already in there, meaning Jesse might be doing well in the competition. The cute Italian looked almost content with just standing there, completely unaware she was stiffly immobilized and being ogled by a roomful of critical admirers!

  “You had a lot to do with getting them here; my thanks to you again Dennis,” smiles the Dean before patting the young man on the back and then parting ways with him. After all, there are still many girls to review . . .

   Meanwhile, on the opposite side of the room; Professor Claussen approaches his first row of rotating beauties, to get a closer look. While the figures are obviously represented by real human beings, they appear to be in a cataleptic state. Yet as their glassy eyes glare from stiff, expressionless masks at their admirers from both sides of the room, there somehow remains an air of something conscious behind those empty stares . . . an almost knowing awareness about their presence even though none of them can so much as move a muscle on their own.  Their exposed torsos taut with stasis, catching the overhead light as they turn, make them look even more like statues posed there.  All in due time, the professor muses . . .     

   Claussen looks up to admire a statuesque (literally) beauty; adorned by a tumbling mass of blonde curls that had a tousled – almost romantic – look, big turquoise eyes and a pointy, but delicate nose. She was obviously young, (college-age, as they all were), had smooth unblemished skin and a rounded jaw that underlined her adorable oval face. The girl’s nubile body was firm and the smooth flesh that wasn’t concealed by her skimpy attire featured what could be best described as a “farmer’s tan.”  The way her breasts pushed outward against the restrictive material of her tight bandeau top showed how fit she had kept herself despite her hell-raising ways.

   As the immobilized body of Claire Bennet rotates around to offer the professor a view of her perky backside, a voice unexpectedly speaks out from just behind his shoulder . . .“You probably don’t get to see a tight little ass like that up close everyday – now do you, old man?”

   The professor slightly flinches, before quickly glancing to his side to see none other than the grandfatherly personage of Gerald Bushwick standing there . . .

   “Well I’ll be damned,” says Claussen, before offering a firm handshake. “Let your freak flag fly, Brother!”

   The man in a suit with a psychedelic necktie, knotty gray hair, and a braided ponytail, returns the professor’s handshake. The eccentric artist flashes a nicotine stained smile, before confessing, “I wasn’t so sure you were going to show tonight, Brother!”

   The professor replies, “Well I have to admit that I didn’t expect this many members to come out . . . but they’re certainly here in abundance!”

   Bushwick pauses and folds his hands, before offering, "Well, look around and ask yourself: What could bring so many grown men together from so far away? I don’t see a sporting event taking place . . . Surely it isn't just for the remarkably good food!”

   Looking about quickly, Professor Claussen notices his fellow brothers now seeming to mingle among those figures that they’d come to see and choose. (Those members would be nearly indistinguishable from the display pieces, if it weren’t for the raised stands that each of the contestants were mounted upon!) . . . Of course, the girls continue to stand in all their immobile glory while circling around in frozen harmony!

    Bushwick didn’t need to answer directly. He cracks a knowing grin and says, “That’s right; only the admiration of a woman's beguiling beauty has that type of power, and what better way to show an admiration for that beauty than to preserve it forever."

   Claussen replies, “Well, Gerald, I would have to totally agree!”

   Just then, a handsome white-haired man who is a well-known politician suddenly interrupts the conversation to acknowledge his fellow Brothers of Pygmalion . . .

Senator:  “Hey there Jack . . . Jerry.”

   The two greet the politician in return and Bushwick asks, “So what do you think of the show, Senator?”

   “Oh, the girls are absolutely gorgeous! You fellows did an incredible job of preparing and displaying them to be sure . . .” complements the man, while glancing appreciatively for a few moments over the frozen curves of Zala Cooke, (who is posed beside her roommate Claire). The Senator then places a hand at Bushwick’s back and asks, “Jerry, ah . . . how are things coming along on that little project of mine?”

   The artist makes a regretful expression and replies, “Well, it’s sort of been on the back burner for the time being, because of preparations for the banquet and all. But I’ll get to them once things settle down.”

   The senator scrunches his eyebrows in a disappointed manner and then presses on in a lowered voice, “I thought we had an agreement, Jerry? I can’t stress the urgency enough: I need that . . . problem . . .  taken care of. . . ASAP!”

   At that point, Bushwick turns to Claussen and says, “Excuse me Jack; I have to discuss a few things with the senator here, but I’ll tell you what . . . you are going to be here in town for a while correct?”

   Claussen replies, “Sure; I could probably stick around for a few days. I already rented myself a nice suite downtown, ‘cause after all, its spring break for me too, ya’ know!”

   “Hey man, that’s cool,” replies Bushwick, before pulling a business card from his pocket and handing it to the professor. “My private cell number is on the back . . . Give me a call before you leave town and I’ll give you a detailed tour of my shop, ya’ dig?”

   Claussen answers, “I’ll certainly be looking forward to that, Jerry,” he says in parting.

   “Alright; that’s far-out man, I’ll see you then!” promises the aging hippie, turning back to the Senator.

   As the two men walk off to discuss their business, Jack looks down at the business card within his hand . . .

“Artistic Impressions”

By: Gerald E. Bushwick

 Erotic statuary for home decoration

 Custom garden sculptures made to order

Always seeking artistic models for top pay

   . . . The professor shakes his head and mumbles, “I’m glad he’s on our side!”

   It was then that Dean Kessler found his way through the crowd to catch up with his old buddy. “So what do you think of the presentation, Jack?”  They both look over the two rows of beautiful candidates and watch for a few moments as the girls rotate around on silent display.  By now, the turntables had gotten a little bit out of synch and so each motionless candidate presented a different side of herself to the on-looking judges.

   ““Wow, you guys really outdid yourselves this time!” compliments Professor Claussen, before firmly shaking the Dean’s hand. “You’ll get a healthy donation from me for sure!”

   “Thanks Jack - that means a lot to hear it from one of the masters!” admits the dean, before confessing, “. . . We had to put an awful lot of work into this one.”

   “Yeah, I can definitely see that,” observes the professor. “But what will become of these candidate girls when the convention is over?”

   Kessler replies, “These floor models will be unprocessed and released without their recognition of what has taken place. Of course you already know where Miss Pygmalion 2009 will end up . . .”

   Claussen inquires, “Are there any residual side effects of those necklaces you use?”

   “Well, from what my sources tell me, the girls often experience a sense of unbalance or disorientation, but it’s not any worse than the typical hangover, and any amnesia they experience only helps them dismiss any lingering impressions. The symptoms usually subside within twenty four hours,” explains Kessler.

   At this point, a lanky looking teenager approaches the two and Dean Kessler announces, “Jack, I’d like you to meet Dennis Wolcott, one of our latest recruits. The pair shake hands and nod heads. The dean goes on to explain, “Dennis was responsible for getting the candidates’ invitations into the right hands, and even managed to scout out some of the contestants appearing here tonight.”

   Professor Claussen reaches out to shake the young man’s hand and complements, “Nice work, Brother – these young ladies are lovely!”

   “Well thank you, Sir,” accepts the clean cut male. “I hope you enjoy the view, as well as the remainder of your evening!”

. . . Gone were the tangled blonde surfer hair, faded concert jersey and jeans with holes. Gone was the careless and lazy attitude of the former Spicoli clone. The old Dennis was replaced by a refined preppie with carefully groomed hair, who stood up straight and wore a pressed shirt with tie and sported pleats in his slacks. Was his casual ‘stoner’ image just an act, simply a put on to fool his female peers? Perhaps; true Pygmalions always adapted to their surroundings when tracking their quarry . . .

   Dean Kessler watches Dennis walk away to join up with another recent recruit of approximately the same age. The elder was somewhat amazed at just how much this young man (or was he a boy?) had learned from him in such a short time. Like his mentor, Dennis exuded a fair amount of ambition, determination, and intelligence. He was also handsome and had a cunning sense of calculation – both traits that Kessler used to his own great advantage when he himself was a young man on the prowl.

   Professor Claussen looks up at a stiffly posed circling brunette just off to their right before he asks, “Maybe this is an obvious question, but won’t their friends and family find out that these young women have gone missing?”  The candidate in question is Zala Cooke, Claire’s roommate, but they had no way of knowing that and the girl herself would remember nothing of this night.

   “Mmmph . . . Well,” starts Kessler, before downing the remainder of his wine. The man swallows, clears his throat and then continues, “Dennis has this buddy who was going for a computer science degree. The kid was a total geek, but he’s one hell of a good hacker!”

. . . At this point, the Dean nods his head in the direction of the two recent recruits and calls out, “Alex, please come here, won’t you?”

   One could almost see the heat rising within the boy’s pale cheeks, as a bespectacled and nerdy looking teenager quickly came forward. With a tray full of fresh wine glasses upon his hand, the awkward looking male inquired, “How may I be of service, Sir? Could I possibly offer you another glass of wine?”

   The Dean glanced over at Claussen and cracked a smile, before taking two fresh glasses from the tray the boy was holding. “We certainly will, son, but that isn’t the reason I called for you. Alexander; this gentleman to my right is Professor Jack Claussen.”

   The young man quickly reaches for the professor’s out-stretched hand and says, “It’s truly a pleasure to finally meet you in person – Sir!”

   “. . . To finally meet me?  Have you been waiting very long?” jokes Claussen.

    “Well, the stories they sometimes tell of you in your early days – especially the Toga Party – that’s the stuff of legends, Sir!” explains the nerdy looking boy, before pushing his glasses up on his nose a bit further.  Alex had inwardly marveled at the legacy of the Claussen family, and what they meant to the Fraternal Order over the years, ever since he was initiated into the Brotherhood at the beginning of the fall semester.

   Claussen just laughs and reminds the boy, “Well, I’m certainly flattered, but I wouldn’t believe everything that you hear; especially in this place.  Oh, and no need to call me ‘Sir’ – I’m not in the service, at least not that one…”

   It was then, that Dean Kessler stepped in to point out, and “Alexander here has hacked into our contestant’s computers and cell phones He managed to manipulate their email and sent out text messages explaining that there would be a short delay before the girls could leave for spring break, without of course saying why.”

   Claussen complements, “Welcome to the order, son. I hear that you’re a good guy to have around.”

    The boy readily admits, “My only wish is to follow by your example, Professor."

    “Well you’re quite a modest young man!” returns Claussen, before he gives the kid another appreciative nod.

   As Alex walks off to reload with a fresh round of drinks, the Dean smiles in a gloating manner. He is thinking of that point in the future when he would find himself retired from this position; a day when he could experience pride in revisiting the Muse and enjoying the fruits of the Brotherhood’s labors. Kessler announces to Claussen, “The seeds of tomorrow have already been planted, my friend!”

  Meanwhile, two Brothers, who had never met before, gaze up at the same motionless figure of Roselyn Ortega. The dark haired Latina has almond-shaped eyes and a deep honey tan that gives the young woman an exotic appearance. With ballroom dancing as a hobby, Roselyn has a dynamite bikini body.  Her long sinuous legs are complemented by her nipped waist and the smooth roundness of her sexy belly! Like all the other frozen contestants, the Latina holds an unblinking expression on her lovely face.

   “This is bloody well the most incredible Fellowship Dinner I have ever been to!” spouts Stanley Pitt, as he notices a tiny “dancing snoopy” tattoo on Roselyn’s right butt cheek. 

   “Mmm, I don’t know; their glazed staring eyes are almost as eerie as their blank, relaxed looks,” notes a renowned plastic surgeon that had flown all the way in from Los Angeles. (Secretly, he thought the petrified girls seemed like presentation waxworks or high-end mannequins - either way, a little to fake looking for his tastes).

   “Why would you be lookin’ at their friggin’ eyes mate?” inquires Stanley Pitt, who drunkenly stands beside the man with rock glass in hand. Pitt glances over and recognizes who it is, then adds, “. . . Especially with your background!”

   From just a few frozen figures down, the younger of the two New Jersey gangsters comments, “Hey Tone, are these Pygmalion guys a bunch of freaks or what?”

   “Ah . . . I don’t know: they actually might be on to somethin’ here,” says the big guy named Tony.

   Christopher looks back.  “I don’t get it?”

   Tony continues,  “Think about all the dough you spend on these broads: the cars; the clothes; the fucking credit cards; taking em’ out to a big fancy restaurant - all jis’ ta get laid. I don’t care if it’s your wife, your girlfriend, or the goomar – they’re all out to grab your hard earned money!”  (The big guy looks around like he’s got a bad taste in his mouth). “But then you look at dis setup and  everything you need is all right here jest waitin’; you stick it in, badda-bing badda-boom and she don’t say a word about anything. When your finished banging away, you clean off your prick, wipe off your little statue-girl there, then Bang - Zoom! (smacks one hand off the other like Jackie Gleason), you’re off to the races to bet on some horses . . .”

   Christopher bobs his head up and down in thought, and then replies, “I guess ya got a good point there, Tone; it’s totally fucked up, but it’s a good one.”

   Tony takes a big long toke from his Cuban cigar and blows off a smoke cloud into the air, before he says, “Ah . . . Fugedaboutdit!”

   “Nah, I see your point,” explains the younger mobster. “No bitchin’ about I got a headache, It’s too cold, it’s too fuckin’ hot, how come ya didn’t call me . . . Shit Tone, no more havin’ to cuddle afterwards!”

   “I know, that’s why I said: These guys are definitely on to somethin’ here,” assures the big guy, before blowing a smoke cloud at a fairly short, but definitely fully packed lovely with auburn-colored hair. “Jesus . . . Would you look at the rack on this one! Mama Mia!”

   “I know T; her tits are freakin’ awesome!” replies the younger Italian.

   “You ain’t kiddin’ blokes; a old man could lose his dentures in there,” blurts out Stanley Pitt as he weaves his way up to the thugs and claps the taller one heartily on the back. (He’s too smashed to notice the younger gangster start to reach into his jacket for the holstered 9mm!)  “Ya’ know, I knew her mother, back in the day. Stacked like a brick ship-horse – ah, shit-house – whatever they say . . . This was long before a bimbo could just order up their boobs from a cat’ log! . . . No sir, this one’s all natural, even tho’ they look almos’ fake anyway. . . Hey, ya wanna hear a hoot?” he slurs conspiratorially.

  “Not so much, gran-pops,” Christopher interrupts.  “Why don’t you take a hike before I bust a cap in ya ass…”

. . . Tony cuts his partner off in mid sentence and casually warns, “Hey, take it easy fa Christ sakes!”

  Pitt continues to spout, “Hope . . . Marie . . . Chess, thatss her name. Can ya . . . can you believe that’s what sweet Chastity stuck her kid with? . . . Hey, that’s ‘nother good one! . . . Course every guy calls this little bodacious honey ‘Hope Chest’, but not to her face, ‘course.” (Pitt starts to chuckle at his own comment, but it quickly turns into a hacking cough).

  “You should be, ah, maybe easin’ up on the drinks old timer,” says Tony with a laugh.

   “Yeah, and while ya at it; think about finding someone else to share your, ah, wit with,” comments Christopher with a displeased look on his face. (The thug retains a grip on his piece until the man walks on to the next contestant). Pitt never knew how lucky he was at that moment.

   “Jesus, what the hell did you bring that thing in here for?” scolds the boss. “I’m in her tryin’ ta enjoy the presentation and your over here actin’ like Billy the fuckin’ Kid at the OK Corral!”

. . . In the background, Hope continues to slowly revolve around in place, with the stretchy micro- fibers of her bandeau top struggling to contain her breasts within its confines!

   In between picking up empties, and offering up fresh glasses of wine, one of the newbies slows in front of a girl by the name of Lana that he had often passed in the hall. The 5'7'', 120 lb. cheerleader rarely wore makeup, (as her natural complexion and facial features made it unnecessary), but on this evening her face almost looked airbrushed. Lana’s dark brown hair ran to her shoulders, where it sat just above her perfect C-cup breasts, (as Alex estimated). The brunette was wearing one of the blue bandeau-style tops and it was doing a good job of holding her double entrée of delights within! The boy’s hungry eyes quickly scanned downward over the girl’s flat and firm tummy, until coming to a stop at her crotch. Alex barely got a clear look at Lana’s spandex-cupped vagina, before she slowly rotated around to offer a view of her tight athletic ass. (Alex loved the way her briefs rode up high into her crack back there as well!) A moment later, her camel toe rotated into view once again . . .

(Alex was standing so close now, that he could make out the peach fuzz around her navel region!)

   “Well Lana, I guess I have to get back to work, but maybe I’ll get a chance to see you a little later, once everyone leaves?” asks Alexander.

   Lana silently continues to circle around beneath her light, as if she’s mounted on some type of axis. Her concentration remains unbroken . . .

   “Ok; I’ll see you then, sweetie!” promises the boy, before going on his way . . .

Meanwhile, further down the row . . .

   “Where did these girl’s come from?” wonders Maxwell Abner. “ . . . Are they dancers, strippers, artist’s models perhaps?”

. . . Max spots Dean Kessler and Jack Claussen “chatting it up” in the crowd and decides to ask the Director that same question. Unfortunately, when he finally does ask, the Robotics Engineer somehow manages to insult the man!

   “I beg your pardon?” says Dean Kessler with a startled look. “These girls are all students of this fine University! Not only do they represent the diversity of our student body, but they express their tireless dedication to maintaining the art of the female form, just as any respective council member would! The Fraternal Council has spent months looking through profiles, debating over which are the best candidates and then finally grooming our fair maidens into what you see here! . . . These girls are the best of the best! Perhaps you find your ideal women standing on street corners, Sir, but we here at the Muse create them!”

   “Whatever man; don’t get your “jockeys” in a bunch . . .” mumbles Abner, before turning away from the Dean.

   Stanley Pitt smacks his embarrassed, awkward buddy loudly on the back and says, “Don’t mind that bloody wanker: he’s just miffed cause he can’t get it up for that dyke he’s married to!”

   The two men begin laughing amongst themselves, before walking over to the next immobilized candidate with drinks in hand . . .

      At this point, the Dean pulls Claussen away from Pitt and Abner, who are still standing nearby and looking up in awe at the next frozen figure . . .

   “What’s up?” asks Claussen, now stepping a few feet away with the Dean.

   “I just didn’t want to be within earshot of those two . . . Especially that drunken hoodlum!” says the Executive Director in a lowered voice, (while nodding his head in Pitt’s direction at the same time). “And who’s the one that came with him, in the cheap suit?”

   “That’s Maxwell Abner, the Robotics Engineer,” replies the professor. “Max is alumni, but he’s been out of the loop for awhile.”

   *PFFFT* “Engineer? . . . He looks like a damned used car salesman! . . . Wait a minute; did you just say Abner? . . . Didn’t he do time in prison?” asks the director in an accusatory voice.

Claussen admits, “Well . . . he did for a little while anyway, but . . .”

   “Never mind – it’s not important!” snaps the director.

   “ . . . Oooo-kay,” says a confused Claussen, (now giving the man an odd look). “Well anyway, like I was saying, you guys have quite an impressive crop this year. In fact there’s a few ladies here I wouldn’t mind having for my own collection! Your dedication to quality and everlasting pulchritude shows, and I respect that.  But, I have to ask you something?”

  “Go ahead; what’s on your mind? We’re all Brothers here, no question is off-limits,” assures Kessler.

  Claussen then inquires, “I’ve always wondered, why hold this Fellowship Dinner every five years, when most students only spend four here at the college?”

Kessler replies, “Well quite simply because; within five years our contestants will have completely cycled through.”

   “I can imagine with the wrong timing, you might just miss a promising candidate if they matriculate between events,” considers Claussen. “. . . That is, unless you hope they go into pre-law or pre-med.  I was thinking back to a pretty young thing that I saw here a few years ago; she stopped to ask me for directions. Her name was Alicia-something, if I recall. She was a particularly striking girl with this enchanting smile and had a brilliant mane of red hair…”

  “Ah yes; I know who you mean; she was a rather vibrant girl,” recalls the Dean. “Yes, it is a shame that she’s not a contestant tonight. That doesn’t mean the Brotherhood hasn’t noticed her, however.  Oh, and also don’t tell your buddies Abner and Pitt, but we do occasionally recruit alumni and others for contestants; being a student isn’t so much a ‘rule’ as it is a ‘guideline’ so to speak,” the Dean explained.

  “So, you have her here?” presses Claussen. “In what year was she Miss Pygmalion?”

   “Well now, I didn’t exactly say she was Miss Pygmalion, but I can assure you that what you see here isn’t all that we’ve accomplished,” confides the Executive Director, rather cryptically.

   Claussen gets a rather confused expression and confesses, “I’m not sure, Vernon . . . what is it you’re trying to tell me?” 

   Vernon looks around with caution before saying, “Maybe it would be easier just to show you . . . Why don’t you follow me to the basement for a minute.”

   The two men exit the council room without being noticed and make their way down one of the mysterious hallways filled with amazingly lifelike alabaster statues. . .

   As Professor Claussen walks along and admires the Miss Pygmalions of years past, (some of them dating back into the early sixties), he can’t help but notice the contrast between the beauty of the statues and the creepiness of the candlelit chamber that they’re displayed in. Even back in his drunken fraternity days, he always had felt as if he was passing through one of those upscale, “walk-through” mausoleums, rather than a gallery. Just the sound of the men’s “clunking” dress shoes now echoing through the unusually quiet chamber, was enough to send a chill down one’s spine!

   Dean Kessler breaks the silence when he asks, “So, Jack, are you ready to donate that other camera to the cause yet? . . . We could always use a back-up.”

   “You were lucky enough that my father gave you the first one,” reminds Claussen.

Kessler:  “Come on Jack: that old Ansco is probably sitting up in your attic covered with dust! What’s a man like you going to do with an old antique like that; you can’t sell it to the public – that would be illegal.”

Claussen:  “Oh, every once in awhile I get it out when I’m looking to make an addition to the collection. Trust me; it can still get the job done.”

Kessler:   “Collection? . . . You mean to tell me you’re still playing with dolls Jack?”

Claussen:  “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do . . .”

Kessler laughs and reveals, “Someday I’ll have to invite you over to show you my own little collection.”

Claussen gasps: “You have a collection? . . . How do you manage that, with Bebe around?”

  Kessler chuckles:  “Oh believe me; she knows about the doll collection Jack . . . she definitely knows!”

   Professor Claussen raises an eyebrow, completely surprised, but impressed all the same by Dean Kessler’s revelation!  He’d always thought the man was interested in the more abstract pleasures of the Brotherhood.

   The two men come finally to a steel door at the end of the crypt-like hall, and Kessler opens the press-button lock to invite the professor inside. As the pair descends a small flight of stairs to the basement, the Dean asks, “Do you recall the council members once discussing the idea of building a trophy room?”

   “Mmm, I must have missed out on that meeting,” confesses Claussen, before stopping with the Dean at a second steel door at the bottom of the stairs.

   Dean Kessler slides an access card through a reader, types in more digits, and a second later there is a *beep* . . . followed by the hiss of a hydraulic latch releasing. As the man pushes the heavy stainless steel door open, a rush of cold air sweeps over the immediate vicinity. The director steps inside to turn on the overhead lights and announces, “Take a look at this . . .”

    In the adjoining room, two long rows of glass-covered tall booths face each other, containing “retired” athletes from the schools past history. Each booth was enclosed individually, even though they were built side-by-side and linked by piping and wires. The transparent panels have a fogged look around their glass edges, as a display window would in the middle of the cold winter, while the still bodies inside the chambers are cloaked by frost. The appearance immediately brings to mind a scene from Logan’s Run, where the runners enter the ice cave and view its frozen inhabitants. Even the recurring statement from the mechanical caretaker “Box” comes to mind: “. . . It’s all here. Ready, fresh as Harvest Day!”

   The figures within the booths – all female – stand posed at attention with arms placed close to their sides and legs pressed together due to the limited space within. Some are still dressed in their winning uniforms. They all have neutral expressions as they hopelessly stare out from the confines of their hibernation chambers, much like the girls on the pedestals back in the council room. However, the one noticeable difference is the light coating of frost that covers each of them . . .

   After briefly studying the dimensions of the secret room, the Professor began walking from booth to booth, marveling at the inhabitants. They all looked like dolls on display just standing there, with their nubile bodies pent-up in stasis. The man couldn’t discern if they were just unconscious or even alive at all . . .     

   “What happened to them?” asks Claussen, while looking into the booth of the first girl; her long eyelashes were rimed with ice crystals, while her lips were noticeably blue. She was undoubtedly a swimmer, judging by the sleek one-piece bathing suit she wore and the tight swim cap on her head.

“They’re in total suspended animation . . . Each has been quick-frozen and instantly preserved, just as they were in their prime condition,” says the director.

   “Why have they been taken and stored away like this?” asks Claussen.

   “Some have been honorably retired from service to the school, much like a baseball team retires a number out of respect to that player,” replies the director. “Others have proved to be a considerable security risk, so as a precaution, they were placed in hibernation as well.”

   Claussen looks in on a rigid willowy blonde who wears a loose fitting “Gargoyle’s Cross Country” tank top and nylon running shorts. Her shoulders are a bit hunched forward and her mouth hung open slackly . . . she looked like she didn’t want to be here. (He wouldn’t know it, but the girl’s name was Karen Hunter). The professor questions, “So they’re still alive?”

   “Yes; their metabolism has been considerably altered, almost to a standstill. However, they can be fully thawed and then revived in a matter of hours, in the event they are required to “Win one for the team” once again.”

   “I see; how convenient,” says Claussen, still looking in at the cryonically suspended cross-country runner who’s staring back through the rime-cloaked glass between them.

   “That one you’re looking at is a new arrival,” says the Executive Director . . . “She had what I guess you would call loose lips”. . . The Dean paused for a moment, and then added in his own defense, “I didn't have her frozen for revenge, Jack . . . I simply gave the girl an alternative...”

   “Ah yes,” replies the professor, before moving on to the next booth where a cute Asian girl stands. She is dressed in a similar uniform as the cross county runner, only her top has “Glendale Soccer” printed across the chest. Claussen notices that there was a sense of bemusement in the girl’s solidified expression.

   From just over the professor’s shoulder, the Dean speaks out, “This is Allyson Ling; one of the University’s most promising soccer stars. Miss Ling qualified as an All-American candidate and still managed to maintain an impressive 4.4 GPA!”

   The professor studies the girl’s pretty facial features (although light blue and frosted) and asks, “So why is she here in the cooler?”

   The Dean goes on to explain, “Well unfortunately, Miss Ling felt that she had outgrown Glendale, and she was planning to transfer to Stanford in the fall.”

   Claussen offers, “. . . And the University couldn’t afford to lose such a remarkable talent, so you had her pickled away.”

   Kessler cracks a smile, before countering, “Well, we also couldn’t afford to see Stanford gain such a remarkable talent either! So I had Bebe and Walker pick her up on the jogging trail one morning.” 

   The professor shakes his head while moving on and says, “I never fully understood the political side of college sports.”

   “Well it is a dirty game at times, and unfortunately there are winners and losers. I have to consider what’s in the University’s best interest,” confesses the Dean.

      The professor passes by a booth and glances at a West African girl; she’s wearing a spandex shimmel, as well as an Adidas track brief that was snug to her lower body and cut high on the thighs. Her body and limbs were tight and muscular, while the girl’s face was chiseled and angular. The runner’s face held a strong sense of discipline. . .

   The professor gives an appreciative nod, before moving on to the next frosty enclosure, where he lets out a gasp of recognition. The icy chamber contains a gloriously red-haired girl; costumed as a cheerleader who stands centered in her full uniform with pom-poms. She was in the same rigid upright pose and had the same appearance as the others: pale blue skin, darker blue lips and skin lightly coated with frost. However, her pretty round face held a jubilant smile that seemed to contradict the terror in her glazed, unseeing eyes. Even though it was covered with frost, Alicia’s long mane of hair still managed to flow out over her shoulders.  She was certainly vibrant, but . . .

. . . “I know a forced smile when I see one!” thinks Claussen to himself.

   Is this the young lady you were asking about?” asks the Dean with a sly smile, (he had no doubt that this was the very Alicia that Jack had met so long ago).

   “Of course, you sly dog.  I should have suspected you had something up your sleeve.”

  “I don't know what it is about a woman with red hair, but my heart always skips a beat whenever I see one!” reveals Kessler.

   “Yes, I know the feeling,” admits the professor. Jack then crosses an arm over his waist and props his chin up with his hand in thought. “It was true: redheads always had that little something extra about them . . .”

   “ . . . Since you met her, she became captain of the cheerleading squad and recently won the state championship exhibition!” brags the director, as he steps up to the enclosure beside the professor. “Alicia here was scheduled to graduate in the spring, but we thought she deserved a more permanent position in our prized display case!”

“ . . . To be stored as a trophy,” adds the professor, wishing for once he could be able to talk with this girl, not simply admire her as a statue.

   “Perhaps,” is the director’s reply. “I feel that it’s not only an honor to keep her here, but in someway a responsibility as well.”

   The professor considers the dean’s point, but is suddenly taken aback by another “human trophy” as he glances over the director’s shoulder. Claussen lets out an obvious *sigh* before crossing the aisle . . .

   Dean Kessler cracks a knowing smile, as he watches the professor step away. It seems that another of his “frozen mementos” has struck the man’s fancy . . .

   The professor’s breath stopped as he paused before the enclosure on the opposite side of the room. Inside was a young gymnast that stood in a white leotard, with a yellow and blue band going from her shoulder to her hip. The professor had always been a women’s gymnastics fan, and this girl looked like the rhythmic type: Long, lean, and ballerina-like!

   A few moments later, the dean steps up beside his fellow brother; the men’s reflections now cast faintly upon the glass surface before them. Kessler then reveals, “This trophy is Oxana Penick, an eighteen-year-old immigrant from Romania.”

   “She’s a goddess, that’s what she is!” exclaims Claussen, now pressing his hands against the cold surface of the glass. The professor is so close that his breath fogs up a small spot in the middle of the enclosure!

   The Dean continues, “Oxana placed first in state finals this year, which is remarkable considering it was her first year in the states and having just entered a new school. Unfortunately, she was already considering a transfer to another school after only two semesters. In the end, we obviously had other plans for her . . .”

   Although she was fairly tall for a gymnast, Oxana’s body was tight; the professor could clearly see that through her thin, close-fitting leotard! She had light blonde hair that was pulled into a ponytail, and glazed blue eyes that stared through the man that admired her.

. . . Just then, the door to the cooler room opened and in walked Professor Schultz, the creator and caretaker of Claussen’s surroundings!

   “Hey, there he is!” exclaims Dean Kessler, as the eccentric scientist approaches . . .

   “Ah Profezzor Clauzzen, I zee you’ve found my lovely ladies!” greets the German, now raising his hand. He surveys the scene with fierce pride and asks, “Zo vhat do you think?”

   Claussen returns the handshake and replies, “I see you’ve been playing with liquid nitrogen again . . . this is quite impressive, Otto!”

   Dean Kessler cuts in and reveals, “Jack has become smitten with one of your gymnasts, professor!”

   Schultz cracks an appreciative smile before adjusting the glasses to the tip of his nose and taking his time to look into the enclosure . . .

      “Yez, vell . . . he’s made a veddy good choize with ziss vone!” complements the old man, before going on to explain, “Oxana haz zee perfectly fit body: muscular armz, legz; and buttocks - all good for catapulting her through zee air. Zee breaztz aren’t too big zo zey don’t get in zee vay on zee bars!”

 . . . Claussen looks to the girl’s chest, and indeed her breasts were larger that those of most female gymnasts, but they seemed compacted by her tight uniform. It was also at that point that he noticed the imprint of her nipples, which stood proudly erect from the unbearable coldness of her icy tomb!

   Schultz explains, “Oxana haz vhat vee call a rhythmic type of gymnast body . . .”

. . . At this point, the professor points to the icy chamber next door, where another pony-tailed blonde stood wearing an identical uniform, but noticeably petite and more muscular in build than Oxana. She literally looked doll-like with her big doe-like eyes and wide beaming smile that displayed a row of perfectly white teeth; her face had an innocent sweetness about it. Although clearly of college age, the girl looked more like she was about fifteen . . . 

   Schultz then continues, “Now Zarah here iz vhat vee call zee artistic type: Short; ztocky; with nize thick leg and calve muzzles. Zee buttocks on ziz frauline iz goot too!” The man then shrugs his shoulders and concludes, “Zis right here . . . iz alzo an ideal body type for zee competitive gymnast!”

   Professor Claussen turns his attention from the jubilant looking Sarah, to the gymnast directly before him. Only a glass window separated him from Oxana, still dutifully standing there in frozen submission. The girl’s face was cold and expressionless, her eyes bleak . . . It was as if she had on her game face.

   Professor Schultz takes off his specs for a moment; breathes on the lenses; and then rubs the fog off on his shirt before asking, “Have you zeen my angel with zee red hair?”

   “Yes . . . She’s quite lovely; we once met,” replies Claussen in complementary fashion.

   Schultz returns his glasses to his nose, while briefly reflecting back to the memory of Alicia’s glistening body standing nude in his shop, along with the two other suspensions he had performed that evening.

   The scientist then explains, “Zis method I uze iz induced suzpenzion. I introduce ziz through zee skin by uzingk zee hibernazion gel to ztiffen zee body firzt, zen I permanently prezerve zhem wifk zee liquid nitrogen! . . . Az you can zee, it works sehr goot, yah?”

   “Yep . . . Absolutely!” said both of the other men, while quickly nodding their heads in agreement.

   The trio moves onward and continues to admire the frozen occupants in the various hibernation booths. Once they reach the end of the aisle way, Claussen sees that the hallway sharply turns at an L. In that second aisle way, two dozen more booths appear. Most of these chambers were empty back here, indicating that the Fraternal Order had future acquisitions in mind. (Professor Claussen shows a brief look of disappointment!) However, the occupants of the first two enclosures would quickly make up for that . . .

   Professor Claussen rubs the icy rime coating off of the outside of the glass and is surprised to see a blonde-haired woman with dark roots glaring back at him from inside. She was completely nude and had an incredible body, with great breasts and a cleanly shaven pussy. The woman’s nipples had turned blue, as well as the rest of her curvy body, which sparkled from the coating of frost. Both of the woman’s hands were at her sides and clenched into fists. Between her furrowed eyebrows and noticeable scowl, there was no doubt about it; this woman had a look of defiance she would now hold forever . . .

   “Now who is this unhappy young lady?” jokes Claussen.

   “She, I’m told . . . is Adriana, a personal donation by our friends from New Jersey,” reveals Kessler. “One day I received a call asking for a favor; it seems that they had a problem that needed to “go away” . . . A couple of days later, one of their “associates” arrived with her handcuffed inside a van and the rest, as they say, is history.”

   “Jesus, no wonder why they’re donating money!” says Claussen, before shaking his head. “I can’t believe you actually got the mob involved with the Brotherhood!”

   “Well now, it’s not all that bad a deal; they make their contributions and occasionally toss in a stripper for Bushwick. Sometimes they request a custom order – you know how Italians love their garden ornaments and fountains!” jokes Kessler.

   From behind them, Professor Schultz recalls, “Zis frauline vas a fiesty vone! . . . A real tiger. . . Vee had a veddy hard time viz her . . .”

. . . At that point, Schultz steps over to wipe the sweat off of the enclosure beside Adriana. The old man then announces, “Now zis frauline here iz vhat I like: zee big breaztz, curvy hipz . . . Ziz iz real woman!”

   Jack Claussen looks into the next enclosure to see another nude female; this one appearing to be in her mid-forties. She is an older Italian-descended beauty, with silver-streaked black hair that was pinned into a half-up do with side swept bangs. Her still pretty face had sculpted cheekbones, a pair of pouting full lips, and was faintly lined with years of knowledge. She had a formidable pair of DD-sized breasts that protruded outward with swollen blue nipples. Her stomach was perfectly round, and bowed outward from the middle of her curvy hips like a belly dancer’s. The woman’s legs had thick sexy calves that were set a foot apart, while her hands were splayed out over the middle of her thighs. In a comatose state, the attractive woman stared out from behind the glass, seeming to beg to the men with her dark frozen eyes . . . 

   Professor Claussen asks, “So who is this ripened peach, anyway?”

   Dean Kessler answers, “This is Dr. Connie Patrilla, our former campus psychologist.”

   Jack inquires, “. . . And why is your campus psychologist now frozen in stasis?”

   “Well I’m afraid old Connie here was asking one too many questions, and had to be dealt with accordingly,” replies the director, rather matter-of-factly. “It’s a damned shame too; who would have ever known she was packing all that underneath those loose business suits!”

   Professor Claussen replies, “So I see . . .”

   The men walk onward, passing several empty chambers until coming to half dozen or so males that stood pent at attention like the females. Some wore athletic briefs, while others had nothing more than simple jockstraps . . .

   “And who are these unfortunate looking fellows?” asks Claussen, now looking in at a young man that stood in a braced stance with his hands clasped behind his back.

   Kessler answers, “These are some more athletes that were looking to transfer, so we decided to put them on ice as well. A couple of them were just suspicious boyfriends that simply “got in the way” when we were collecting the ladies.”

      Schultz reveals, “I freeze zee men zee zame way az zee women . . . But I don’t enjoy spreading zee suzpenzion gel quite az much!” The scientist then abruptly concludes, “Vell genzlemen, I muzt get back to zee lab, but I hope you enjoy your evenink!” 

   Claussen and Kessler both shake the scientist’s hand to bid the man farewell, before he turns around in the opposite direction. Now heading towards his workshop door and seemingly lost in thought, the eighty-seven-year-old Schultz couldn't help but wonder if there was only some way to make himself immortal...

   The two remaining associates then turn around and head back towards the entrance through the trophy room to pass by the foggy-looking occupied booths once again . . .

   As he walks along, the professor notices a tall, big-boned, girl in a “Glendale Basketball” jersey. Beside her is a cute blonde majorette in a sparkling blue leotard, who stares out eerily from her frosty enclosure . . .

    Claussen observes, “Man, you’ve got em’ packed like sardines in here!”

   “Yes; space is at a minimum, so we work with what we have available,” states the director. “However, I don’t think being uncomfortable is much of a concern for them at this point in their current condition!”

   As the pair passes by the frosty enclosures, the professor could feel the cold, coma-like gaze of Glendale University’s missing athletes and co-eds staring out at him. Each stood complacently silent in all their suspended glory, as they represent their proud University . . .

   Within his own thoughts, the Professor considers that maybe some might say that the very idea of college athletes being abducted, frozen solid, and stored away like sides of beef in a giant freezer sounded seriously far fetched. But if one were to take into account the seriousness of such rampant issues as pay-offs, illegal gambling on sports, rising education costs, and the importance of brand name and collegiate reputations; could one honestly prove that it couldn’t happen? Jack didn’t need any further proof - it was standing all around him . . .

   As Dean Kessler opens the tightly sealed door, the professor takes one last look around to absorb every detail of the trophy room into his consciousness; he wanted to fix this memory in his mind forever.   Especially that haunted look on Alicia DeWitt’s face . . .

* * * * * *

   The professor and the dean exit the secret trophy room to make their way back up the stairway that eventually leads to the “Hall of Statuary.” The pair can’t help but admire again the Miss Pygmalions of years past as they pass through the silent, candlelit, hall.

   Professor Claussen stops in front of a classic beauty with well-defined hips and a pair of perfectly proportioned breasts. The flickering candles around them casts a pale light over the woman’s shapely white curves, serving to further enhance her flawless form! The statue stands holding a bouquet of leafed roses at her side, while her other hand grasps a single white rose that is raised just out in front of her. The professor eventually glances upward to notice a pair of smooth, pupil-less eyes that stare back at him from beneath a bouffant hairstyle . . .

   Claussen glances away from the solidified beauty and asks, “So about these new recruits; can they be fully trusted with our little secret?”

   “Who: Alex and Dennis? . . . Oh absolutely!” answers Kessler. “Both of them read the Book of Pygmalion and were tested afterwards. Each went through the blood initiation and wears the sacred ring. Dennis even sold out his own girlfriend to prove his loyalty to the brotherhood!”

   The professor nods his head with approval, before advancing on to the next exhibit; a figure with a beehive hairdo and a set of voluptuous curves that more than equaled her neighbor’s . . .

   “I just tend to get a little nervous when you bring some new ones into the fold,” confesses Claussen. “I mean this thing we have here took a lot of dedicated work from many people over the years . . . I’d hate to see it come crashing down over some loose-tongued kids.”

   The dean replies, “I fully understand your concerns Jack . . . Hell, we’re all taking a risk with this little “club” of ours.”

   At this point, Dean Kessler walks up to a rather petite figure with rather lengthy, ribbon-like hair. Titled: “The Shy Woman,” this statue depicts a bashful and partially nude female appearing to cover herself with a long, flowing sheath that’s clenched over her crotch. The figure’s other arm crosses over her chest to effectively hide her breasts from view . . .  

   The dean continues, “These rooms can confuse or even alienate potential members. . . . And when people don’t know or understand an organization, they often fear it. But if the Fraternal Order hopes to survive, we obviously have to bring in new brothers to carry on the legacy.”

  “. . . This is true,” admits Claussen.

   Dean Kessler turns his attention away from the nude subject before him and pats his former schoolmate on the shoulder. He then reminds his old buddy, “You may have forgotten by now Jack, but we were all a bunch of newbie’s when this whole thing started!”

   The professor lets out a sigh and raises his eyebrows, before admitting, “That was a very long time ago, Mr. Kessler.”

 The dean laughs before suddenly remembering, “Hey! Speaking of which; I recently came across an old photo of the entire gang back in our prime. What do you say we make a run up to my office for quick look? . . . I have a bottle of premium blend brandy that’s nineteen years old and was shipped straight in from France . . .”

   “That’s a good age for anything,” replies Claussen, “How could I possibly resist?”

   “Come on then; we’ll take the steam tunnel,” suggests the dean, before excitedly leading the way…


The Office Scene:

   By now, Mrs. Kessler and Coach Jaksson were well on their way to getting cozy with each other within the dean’s office. The married woman had thought to light two scented candles and dim the lights, in an effort to make their surroundings a little more romantic at least. The two coworkers had known of each other for years, with Famke having been a former Glendale student herself, but their mutual erotic attraction for each other had certainly grown over the last few months . . .

   “You’ve been such a stranger these last few weeks; I was beginning to think that you were having second thoughts about being with me,” admits Coach Jaksson.

   Bebe pulls her hair out of its bun and sweeps her long hair back out over her shoulders. As the woman tosses her crystal bow hair clip to the desk before her, she confesses, “I’ve been so busy over the last few weeks helping to prepare for my husband’s dinner, that I haven’t had time for you. But please don’t think that I was blowing you off . . .”

   The coach reveals, “Well I wasn’t sure if it was a good idea in the first place, with you being married and considering we work in the same . . .” 

    The student advisor cuts the coach off in mid-sentence by pressing two delicate fingers up against the young woman’s lips. “Shusssh! . . . Like I said; I’ve been busy lately, but don’t worry about it . . . we finally have the chance to make up for lost time.”

   Mrs. Kessler had been seated in a big leather office chair for this entire speech, as her admirer leaned back against the dean’s desk and facing her. The older woman now leans forward and reaches out while gesturing to the coach to come to her. Ms. Jaksson obeys, choosing to stand at the advisor’s kneecaps, as the older woman caresses her hands over the soft curves of the young woman’s thighs . . .

. . . The cheerleading coach swallows hard and reaches out to brush away a lock of hair from Mrs. Kessler’s forehead in return.

   Mrs. Kessler looks up at Famke in the dimmed office light, searching her big dark eyes for clues, answers, or even questions; but saw none save pleasure. The young lady’s face looks unusually relaxed, even though the advisor could see her ample chest quickly rising and falling beneath her sweatshirt. The older woman decides to explore a bit further . . .

   Completely aware of every move, Coach Jaksson feels the advisor’s hands sneak around her hips, slide down into the small of her back and then glide out over the curves of her backside to pull her even closer to the seated woman. Famke says nothing, but is getting so caught up in the moment that she loses a bit of her balance! The young lady lets out a giggle as she quickly leans on her lover’s shoulders to steady herself . . .

   With her forehead now resting against the taut tummy of her lover, Mrs. Kessler reaches to untie the draw-cord on the coach’s track pants and tugs them downward.

   Famke steps free of the nylon pants before she lifts her “Glendale Athletics” sweatshirt above her head and sends it flying across the room. Her fingers make short work of the laces on her sneakers, while a few tugs remove the socks from her ankles. A moment later, all four items are kicked off to the side.

   From her seated position, Mrs. Kessler admires the way her lover’s athletic body looks in the candlelight. Her eyes move up and over the curves of coach’s hips, and then to her bare midriff, where she is amazed by the distinct muscle tone. Although in her late twenties, Famke’s luscious body is just as tight as the eighteen young candidates that the advisor had recently dressed for the Fraternal Diner! The older woman soon feels a set of fingers tangle themselves within her long hair, before she raises her head to look into Coach Jaksson’s eyes . . .

   Famke cups her lover’s face within her hands, before leaning down for a hungry kiss. The coach explores Mrs. Kessler’s deep, opened mouth with her tongue for several seconds, but begins to blush as her lover giggles against her supple lips! She immediately slows as if something’s wrong . . .

The coach:  “What is it?”

The advisor:  “Mmmph . . . Wh . . . Why did you stop?”

The coach:  “. . . Why were you laughing?”

The advisor:  “. . . I’m laughing because you’re so damned good, that’s why!”

    "Really? . . . Well, thank you!" says Famke, before she fondles the older woman again even more aggressively.

   As the pair continues to kiss, the younger woman can feel the advisor’s roving hands mapping her out, enjoying the curves of her hot body. Despite all of the reasons that this shouldn’t be happening, Famke doesn’t care at this point; she is ready to give in!

   Bebe gasps and lets out an "Oh . . . uh!" as she feels the coach’s fingers unzipping the back of her black evening gown. (The married woman finds her mouth sealed once again, once Famke has peeled the dress off the front of her shoulders and off of her arms).

   “By the way . . . ( between smooching sounds) . . . you looked absolutely stunning . . . (even more smooching) . . . in that evening gown!” compliments the coach as she unclasps the front of Bebe’s lacy, nearly transparent, black bra and cups her breasts with opened hands. (Ms. Jaksson’s lover reaches behind the younger woman’s head and pulls her firmly into her bosom). Now taking one of the advisor’s taut nipples into her mouth, Famke sucks away, while her free hand squeezes and pinches at the other!

   Mrs. Kessler is totally amazed at how her pent-up passions were being suddenly awakened by this dark-haired beauty. The older advisor pushes her lover back for a moment, just to catch her breath and then excitedly announces, "Honey, I want you; right here . . . right now!"

   The older woman jumps up from her chair and backs her lover up against the edge of her husband’s desk. With a look of lust within her eyes, Bebe reaches behind the taller woman and in a rush pushes everything off of the desk onto the floor! Gripping the coach’s thin waist with both hands, Mrs. Kessler helps Famke hop up the short distance onto the cleared surface.

   “ . . . On your back,” suggests the older woman.

   Coach Jaksson obliges; first lying backward onto the smooth wood surface, she arches her torso upward to unclasp her bra and fling it off. She then kicks up her legs and slides a pair of white cotton briefs off of her hips. Now lying on the desk with her back slightly raised, leaning on her elbows, Famke cracks a mischievous smile and waits for her lover to fully undress . . . 

   Bebe wastes no time; she unfastens the sash at her waist, allowing her evening gown to drop to the floor around her ankles and then steps out of it. The unclasped demi-bra that hangs from her shoulders is quickly discarded thereafter. Mrs. Kessler now stands proudly in her high heels, wearing nothing more than a pair of embroidered silk panties, thigh high stockings and a garter belt all in matching black lace. The woman toys around briefly with a strand of genuine pearls that hang from her neck . . .

   “So what do you think?” asks the older woman, spreading her arms wide.

 "Mmm…Me likey!" says Famke, before she stretches her legs out and points her toes at the ceiling.

. . . Mrs. Kessler cracks a rarely seen smile in appreciation at the comment before her eyes focus upon that very same pair of long muscular legs, along with the narrow ‘landing’ strip of groomed black hair that’s at one end of them! The advisor crawls up to the desk, spreads the coach’s legs, and then leans her body into Famke’s. The older woman feels the tight coils of pubic hair tickle her belly and suddenly shivers in delight as her lover’s nipples brush against her own!

   "You're so damned beautiful," Bebe purrs, as she interlocks her fingers together with Famke’s. A moment later, the advisor leans down and claims the girl's willing lips once again. 

   Famke eagerly returns the kiss, while releasing her hands at the same time to pull the older woman in closer to her. The young coach immediately feels the advisor’s soft breasts crush against her own! Ms. Jaksson soon began to grope around her lover’s back in an attempt to find the upper nook of her ass crack . . . 

   Mrs. Kessler groans, "Mmm…Famke!” from above, as she continues to play with the flickering tongue in the young lady’s throat.

   From below her, Coach Jaksson continues on with her curious surveying. She finds the waistband of Kessler’s panties before slipping her hand inside. Famke is immediately surprised at just how wet the other woman had become . . .

   Mrs. Kessler decides to reciprocate by slipping a finger into Famke’s moist labia to find that ever-so-sensitive button. The woman watches intently as her bold provocative touch causes goose bumps to form on her lover’s skin!

   "Uh . . . Oh,” gasps the coach from below. The young woman is already slick with excitement as the advisor’s hand expertly manipulates her clitoris, causing her legs to reflexively spread a bit wider. Famke begins to arch her hips towards the older woman's touch, just as she feels the finger slip deeper inside her. She cries out: "Oh . . . Bebe, Uh- UNGH!”

   Mrs. Kessler replies, "Yes, my darling . . . Just relax.”

. . . The advisor slowly works a second finger inside, as Famke wraps her strong legs around the older woman’s waist. Bebe continues to increasingly excite her young lover by gently sliding her fingers back and forth for several minutes. It wasn’t long before she could feel the younger woman’s vaginal walls begin to tighten around her deeply probing fingers. The twenty-seven-year-old began moaning her lover’s name aloud and raising her hips up off the desk, as the advisor’s fingers picked up the pace . . .

. . . Meanwhile, Dean Kessler and Professor Claussen have been listening to the erotic hi-jinks for the past few rousing minutes after entering the office’s anteroom quietly.  Motioning the visiting professor to silence (despite Claussen’s wide grin), the Dean steps quickly to a large trophy case, unlocks it, and removes a very familiar object from behind a framed picture of the winning basketball team.

   “You’re keeping it here, almost out in the open?” hisses Claussen.

   The Dean warns, “Shhh, they’ll hear you!” 

   “At this point, they wouldn’t hear a crack of thunder,” offers the Professor.

   “Shhhush!” warns Kessler once again . . .

. . . "Yeesss . . . Mrs. . . Kessler!” pants the coach.  Famke knew she was getting close to her own point of climax; she had wanted the older woman for so long, so feeling Bebe’s skilled fingers deep inside of her was more than she could take! The young woman felt herself tremble deep inside, as her eyes shut tightly.

   “Come on Famke; just let go!” encourages the advisor between kisses.

   In the anteroom, Kessler shrugs his agreement with a wry expression as he switches on the camera and hears the rising tone of the flash charging.  “Besides, not to worry; I have the only key to that case.”

   It’s Claussen’s turn to shrug, but he’s thinking that he’ll hang onto the older modified Ansco for the time being in case something should happen.  Another moan from the other side of the door brings his mind back to the sexy scene he’s imaging going on inside.

   The combined smells of jasmine from the candles, Mrs. Kessler’s perfume, and her own feminine musk - all heightened Famke’s senses as she looked up passionately at her lover. The young woman was completely dazed; she had all she could do to find something to grab hold of. With both hands now clamped on to the outer edge of the desk, the coach’s eyes rolled back into their sockets as her mouth fell open . . .

   Famke deeply arches her back and yells out, "Oh - Uh! Oh - god! I . . . I think I’m there! - Oh yes! . . . Oh God Yes! . . . Yes!-Yes!" The young woman is bucking so wildly, that her tight bare tush slaps against the wood surface of the desk, while her head swings back and forth - at one point unexpectedly smacking a brass reading lamp with substantial force!  It’s a good thing the building was empty; otherwise everyone would have heard their frenzied lovemaking.

   Mrs. Kessler feels her fingers being squeezed even tighter, as Famke’s body shimmies and shakes from head to toe with a powerful orgasm. Her own body was nearly on the verge of ecstasy as well upon hearing the whimpering joys of the woman beneath her.

   Before long, Famke’s spent body collapsed upon the table, as the older woman gently removed her slimy fingers. Both women were out of breath, and inhaling deeply!

   Dean Kessler steps silently to his inner office door, camera fully charged and ready.  Both he and Claussen are now wearing their protective goggles as the Dean gets ready to throw the door open.  But his wife’s voice makes him pause.

   " . . . Famke," the older woman gasps, as she attempts to get her breathing under control.

   "Mm . . . hmm?" the younger woman coos, as her writhing hips slowly grind to a stop.

   "Are you . . . okay?" asks the advisor, now running her sticky hands over her lover’s rising and falling chest. She then leans in to kiss Bebe’s mouth gently.

   Coach Jaksson blinks her flirty eyelashes a couple of times, and then expels a heavy breath. "That was . . . fucking awesome!” She then raises a delicate hand to caress the face of her talented lover above her. There was no doubt in her mind – this woman possessed some mad skills!

   Suddenly, there’s a creak of the door opening, followed by an oddly hollow sound as a


. . . fills the small inner office.

  Both naked women freeze in place for a moment as the two men take in the sight of them sprawled on Kessler’s large desk. 

  Then Mrs. Kessler turns towards the Dean and screams out, “Vernon, what the hell are you doing here? I thought you were staying at the dinner!”

  “Looks like you’ve started early on the dessert course, my dear,” Dean Kessler’s voice drips with sarcasm.  “A European tart, I see…” he continues, glaring at Famke Jaksson, who remains completely frozen in her flagrant legs-spread-wide pose.

   “She was threatening to expose us all, go to the authorities about the recruitment for the Dinner, the kidnapping of those co-eds, the Brotherhood; everything,” his wife concocted a fantastic lie on the spur of the moment.

   “So you decided to shut her up by sticking . . . your tongue in her mouth?” the Dean continued to needle his spouse as she reddened and began collecting her discarded items of lingerie.

   Jack Claussen clears his throat, distracting Mrs. Kessler from making another self-incriminating comment.  “Ah . . . I think we’ll wait out in the hall, while you two sort this out!” he announces, then leaves the inner office before anyone can object.

   Mrs. Kessler tries to keep her voice low, but continues to argue, “Well what was I supposed to do? She knew about the candidates and the trap door in the locker-room, for god sakes – the woman came down through the tunnel to find me – then blackmailed me into doing those . . . things to her!”

   “ . . . And you swear on your life that you never had anything to do with Coach Jaksson, prior to this evening?” interrogates the dean.

   Bebe lies, “I swear, the woman was stalking me . . . I almost got sick to my stomach when she made a pass at me! The next thing I know, she has me pinned down to your desk . . . I felt so humiliated!”

   The dean looks down at his wife with an expression of doubt on his face . . .

   Mrs. Kessler steps up to her husband and wraps her arms around his neck, before looking up with sincerity in her eyes. “It was the only way I could milk her for information . . . I was only protecting the Fraternal Order!”

   The Dean looks at the immobilized body of the coach, noting how juicy her sex was and the sheen of perspiration on her skin.  Well, somebody was doing some milking, he thinks but decides to drop the argument, for now.

   “OK Bebe . . . Ok,” says the dean in acceptance.  “However, I think Ms. Jaksson is going to have to disappear before she creates any more mischief.  Leave her here; I’ll have Otto come by this evening.

   Mrs. Kessler’s eyes dart back and forth between her husband and her immobilized lover, trying not to think of Famke in the trophy room or one of the wall alcoves.  With a sigh, she runs her fingers through what’s left of his hair. “Speaking of this evening, now don’t you have a beauty contest to judge?”

   “That I do,” admits the dean, before kissing his wife on the lips. As he does so, he can’t help but notice the smell of sex on the woman . . .

   “By the way,” Bebe Kessler says as they separate, “how did you know I was wearing my protective contact lenses?  Otherwise, I might have been frozen too.”

   “Um, well, I didn’t know,” admits the Dean, leaving his wife to digest that bit of information.

   Dean Kessler steps out of the inner office, red from either embarrassment or anger.  “Looks like the Brotherhood just acquired a new artwork, but please keep what you’ve seen and heard tonight to yourself, on your oath as a Pygmalion.”

   The professor turns to his old college mate and says, “Of course; goes without asking, though I do approve . . . Nice girl. Good looking, too!”

   The dean replies, “Yeah, she’s a real piece of work . . . or at least she will be, once I get through with her.”

   “You’ll have to invite me back for the unveiling!” Claussen comments enthusiastically.

   “Wouldn’t have it any other way; now let’s get back to the contest before folks start wondering where we’ve gone off to …” the Dean nods as he starts walking towards the stairs.

   . . . Meanwhile Bebe listens to the receding sounds of their voices as she pauses in getting redressed. She gazes down at the rigidly spread body of her lover, immobilized in that position for at least the next hour or so. Mrs. Kessler remembers an offhand remark from that old lecher Schultz about how much the girls can feel and recall while being in frozen limbo. She decides to give Famke a little encore and test that theory.   After all, he never said when I was supposed to call Otto, she thinks, before undressing herself once again.

* * * * * *

   As Professor Claussen and Dean Kessler reenter the Fraternal Council room, they find that the level of excitement has leveled off a bit. The Executive Director claps his hands together in a loud fashion to gain everybody’s attention . . .

   “My fellow brothers: May I remind you to finish casting your ballots for your favorite candidate,” yells Kessler. “One of these lovely young ladies is about to become ‘Miss Pygmalion 2009 and she may very well be counting on your vote!”

. . . The Dean then turns to the professor and suggests, “Before we do so, why don’t we get us a couple of drinks . . . some very strong ones!”

   Claussen turns to his old chum and jokes, “It’s like all night long you’ve been reading my mind, I swear . . .”

   They walk towards the bar, casually side-stepping a passed-out Stan Pitt, who is draped halfway on one of the turntables. The intoxicated man had been attempting to restore the receptacle that he knocked over, when he collapsed at the ankles of one of the contestants! (A very well endowed young lady still manages to barely rotate, while maintaining her lofty pose).

* * * * * *

   Minutes later, Dennis Wolcott comes by to collect the votes, finds the scene and sarcastically mutters, “really classy,” beneath his breath, before stepping around Pitt. As the boy does so, he takes a lingering look at Hope’s abundant chest. Dennis playfully winks as if the girl may notice . . .

  Nearly a half an hour later, the members of the brotherhood sense that the moment they’ve been waiting for is approaching. The men slowly disengage from examining the displayed contestants and return to their high-backed seats around the table. There is a steady sound of chatter throughout the area as the Fraternal Brothers speculate who the winner might be. Dean Kessler is handed the final envelope made of crushed black velvet and unties its delicate bow. The Executive Director removes the card inside and scans it briefly, a hint of a smile on his poker-faced expression, before standing and signaling silence with a few taps on his liqueur snifter.

   Dean Kessler advises, "Gentlemen, your votes have all been accounted for; once more in time-honored tradition the Brotherhood has spoken. It brings me great pleasure to proudly announce that the candidate chosen to be crowned Miss Pygmalion 2009 is . . . Miss… Jess-ica… Fi-o-ri!”

   If she were somehow able, the sexy Italian would look quite surprised as her name was announced and most likely shed a tear as she hears the roaring approval of the crowd. “I’m only a freshman and I won! . . .Oh my God I really won it! YEEHEEEW!"

. . . That’s how events would usually unfold in the real world, at a traditional beauty contest. However in this secret world of Pygmalion, there would be no tears shed, no blushing acceptance. There would be no cosmetics contracts, free sports cars or college scholarships. None of her competitors would reach out to the trembling winner to congratulate or even cry with her. They would simple stop rotating around to face Jessica’s pedestal in their frozen state and fade into the shadows beneath the dimming lights, as their lucky fellow contestant unknowingly receives her jeweled crown at center stage . . .

. . . The crowd continues clapping and whistling in approval of their winner, as Dean Kessler reaches up to place Jessica’s hard-earned tiara upon her head. The commotion fades a moment later, as the director motions with his hands for silence. The Dean then goes on to introduce their latest inductee to the Pygmalion’s Hall of Statuary.

“. . . Gentlemen; Jessica Fiori is an eighteen-year-old freshman from New Jersey, studying to be a phlebotomist! Standing at 5'6'' and weighing 114 lbs., this beautiful Italian goddess may never get around to taking a blood sample, but I’m certain that this sexy nurse would be able to get a “healthy rise” out of any one of her patients!”

   The petite Italian stood proudly erect on her pedestal, with her sparkling tiara set upon her head. Now an exquisite embodiment of all that is young and beautiful, Jessica’s stiffened form stands in waiting – to serve as an everlasting monument to that ideality. The freshman’s glassy eyes were wide as saucers and are held rapt by the overhead lights that shine down on her. Now forever lost in this glorious moment, the exquisite beauty somehow commands the respect of her admirers, despite her helplessly frozen state!



   It had been only two days since the Pygmalion Brotherhood’s sacred dinner had taken place, but Professor Jack Claussen was eager to get back to campus to cash in on his invitation to Gerald Bushwick’s studio. The eccentric artist had invited his old college buddy to witness his latest piece of work; the creation of Miss Pygmalion 2009.

   With a few minutes to kill, Professor Claussen stops at a filling station just outside of campus. As he wheels into the parking lot, Jack notices a Ford Explorer that’s packed full of suitcases and laundry baskets full of clothes sitting idle at the pumps. As the professor pulls into an empty parking spot at the front of the station, he notices two cute girls walk away from a nearby SUV and enter the store; one is a pony tailed blonde, the other has tangled crimson hair. From the looks of their wrinkled clothes, lack of make-up and disheveled hair, both appeared to be hung over.

   A moment later, the professor enters the gas station and steps in line behind the two girls. The older man couldn’t help but stare at the girl’s perky little behinds, and the way their sweat pants hugged their arched humps. (The blonde’s sweats were so tight that Claussen could clearly make out her black panty lines creeping up her tush, while the white material of her friend’s pants did little to hide the red strip of a thong!)

   The pony tailed blonde requests in a weary voice, “Two cups of coffee with light cream and heavy sugar, and I also got a fill on the gas . . .”

  The attendant asks, “You want decaf or regular?”

   The groggy blonde replies, “Make it the hard stuff; I have a long drive ahead of me.”

   The attendant nods his head, and turns to pour some coffee in a pair of complimentary plastic mugs behind the counter . . .  

   The crimson haired cutie fires at her blonde friend, “How could you let me over-sleep for an entire week? . . . I mean, is that even physically possible?” (The girl tugs at the neck of her T-shirt and takes a whiff of herself to check for odor).

   “Hey, the last thing I remember; I was at this awesome kegger and then getting dropped off at the sorority house . . . I honestly don’t remember much after that!” confesses the bleary blonde.

   “Claire, are you sure you weren’t given some type of date rape drug or something?” asks the dark haired girl.

   “Zala; I’m pretty sure somebody didn’t try to drug me - or rape me for that matter. Maybe I was just burnt out and needed some rest!” replies the blonde.

   “And why does my body feel so stiff?” asks Zala. (The girl then stretches her arms up over her head and arches her back in a sexy way, so that her firm little butt sticks out even further!)

   “I know; I feel so stiff this morning too,” complains the blonde, before twisting her torso from side to side. “I just can’t believe that Alicia and Oxana left without me!”

   “Yeah, what’s up with that anyway?” inquires the dark haired girl.

   Claire grumbles, “I don’t know; it’s kind of hard to check my messages when I can’t find my damned cellphone!”

   “I know, and so weird that we both lost our phones at the same time!” reminds Zala.

   At that point, the girls pay the attendant for their fuel and their steaming hot cups of coffee. As they sleepily turn around to exit the store, they are stopped by an older-looking man waiting in line behind them . . .

   Professor Claussen mistakenly starts to say, "Hey, you’re Claire, right? . . . From– " . . .  Jack catches his misstep at the last second, and pauses in mid sentence!

   The two girls give him an annoyed look, before the cute blonde asks in a sarcastic tone, "Should I know you?"

   “Mmm, perhaps I’m mistaken,” confesses the older man. “My sincerest apologies, miss.”

   The two girls roll their eyes while making a disgusted face at each other, and start to giggle as they walk away. Still within earshot of their admirer, the one named Zala comments, “That old creep must be one of your cheerleading fans!”

   “You’d probably do it with him!” jabs the blonde.

   Zala:  “Would not!”

   Claire jokes, “Would too, you dirty little slut!”

   Zala stops in her tracks and warns, “I swear; I’ll go back right now and give him your number!”

   Claire reminds, “That’s fine by me – I lost my phone, remember?” (She sticks out her tongue in a playful manner).

   Professor Claussen waits there in line, replaying in his mind how gorgeous the two girls looked while obediently standing there motionless on their rotating pedestals and staring naively forward. He recalls the way their sexy two-piece bandeau undergarments hugged their tight, athletic frames like a second skin . . .

   “Hey buddy . . .”

   The professor sighs as he reminiscences about the way Claire’s tumbling mass of blonde curls flowed around her shoulders, and just how glamorous she looked on that day . . .

   “Hey pal, are you going to pay for your gas or what?”

. . . Claussen snaps out of his daydream to see an annoyed-looking guy in a propane delivery uniform staring at him. The professor quickly turns around to face the attendant who leans against the counter with an equally annoyed look!

   “Ah, sorry about that guys!” apologizes the professor. “I’ll take a pack of Marlboro’s and one of those cups of coffee back there; make it a premium!” Jack thinks to himself, it’s shaping up to be another one of them days already!


To be continued…with a Visit To The Studio

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