The Fraternal Order Part VI (remastered edition) by Zapped!
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The Fraternal Order Part VI (remastered edition)

By Zapped!

All characters & content copyright © 2022 This story will not be reproduced in any form without the express written consent of the author. Accept no cheap knockoffs...

Previous part

The Big Day

There was a flurry of activity going on at The Muse on the day of the Fraternal Order’s ceremonial dinner. Final preparations were still underway, even as various alumni made their way across busy interstates in stretch limos and high-end luxury cars. Inside the Great Room, a select crew of banquet servers set down cutlery and wineglasses along an extensive dining table adorned with five-branch candelabras and floral arrangements of white blooms and red roses. At each setting, a small white place card edged in gold and embossed with the head of Medusa—the Pygmalion crest—clearly identified where the dozen guests would be seated. Two illuminated spheres were set into the walls high above either end of the table. Each porcelain lens featured the snake-covered head of Medusa, whose watchful eyes gazed down upon the room as if to supervise the proceedings. A trio of cocktail waitresses dressed in Playboy Bunny uniforms stand in wait off to the side. Each one is braced at attention and motionless, their glazed eyes averted from the preparations as well as each other. But the main draw of the evening, or the pièce de résistance, was concealed behind a massive curtain that hung from a track on the ceiling opposite. From the violet colored accent lighting to the beautiful decor, the guests would swoon over how wonderfully everything came together...

That afternoon

A jet-black 1963 Lincoln Continental turned into one of Glendale University’s administrative parking areas. The driver rolled past numerous limos and other high-end luxury cars before steering the big hardtop into an empty space at the end. Jack Claussen stepped out of his car a moment later. The professor had nearly forgotten how nice his former campus was this time of year. Some of the trees still wore their winter nakedness, but flowers were beginning to bloom and birds were chirping all around. A squirrel darted back and forth across the lush green lawn as he made his way up one of the concrete walkways. “Well hello there, stranger,” he said to the squirrel (as if it might hear). The furry grey critter stopped, stood up on its hind legs, and then looked at him with curiosity. After a moment, it scurried off, the human’s existence quickly forgotten.

“Same to you, buddy.”

The professor progressed further up the path, taking in the many landmarks that dotted the campus. Many of the structures shared the same collegiate gothic styling, like the student resource center or the impressive Galene Hall, with its four crenelated towers rising up from its heights. Traversing the lush green courtyard triggered a tsunami of memories from the professor’s college years.

He saw himself as a young man participating in many self-indulgent rituals: like the recruiting of pledges during rush week, binge drinking, or the decadent toga party, which might involve the exploitation of an attractive young woman (or two). He walked beside a long wooden bench, which sparked off the memory of his first major crush, Kathie Lee, the beautiful girlfriend of his old rival Pete. As the cheerleader bent over to tie one of her shoelaces, a light breeze had caught the lower hem of her pleated skirt, flipping it up just high enough to reveal the lower creases of her shapely ass. He couldn’t help but sneak a peek, (much to the displeasure of her boyfriend and his brutish buddies).

And who had the last laugh with that one.

Now he could stare at her whenever he wanted. Do to her as he pleased.

The Muse loomed ahead like an ancient fortress that had withstood a thousand wars. After all these years, Jack was still taken aback by the stone workmanship of its façade, with its arcaded porches and two lofty watchtowers rising up in the back. They really don’t make ’em like this anymore.

There weren’t any keyholes, a doorbell to ring, or any windows to peek through at the Muse. The only (known) entryway was through the thick oak door inside the covered vestibule out front. Little dome cameras dotted her exterior, keeping an eye out for any unwanted visitors. Privacy was an essential part of the mystique of The Muse and her Fraternal Brothers; it not only boasted of the group’s exclusivity, but it was a key factor in their unique way of life and their continued existence.

Sometimes eternal solitude makes for the best society.

Jack walked up the slate steps that led to the portico at the front of the building. And as he stood inside, he looked up at the chrome-plated gorgon that served as a doorknocker. How many times have I banged that thing over the years? Now it only serves as decoration. Like so many other things around here.

Jack withdrew his electronic key card and inserted the chip into the reader. There was a long pause before a narrow slot opened in the door and a pair of old grey eyes appeared. A low voice accompanied them.

“State your business, sir.”

“Jack Claussen; I’m here for the banquet.”

“And the pass phrase, Sir.”

Jack rolled his eyes and tried to remember all of the words. “Um, oh; ...Beware the Medusa’s head, which men seek to sever, or be caught in her gaze and be turned to stone forever...”

The slot slid closed. There was a beep, and a green light glowed, followed by a hydraulic click of the lock.

The heavy door opened with a slow creak, and an elderly gentleman dressed in formal livery stepped into view. Higgins always acted as professionally as he dressed. A dedicated servant for many decades, his duties ranged from daily caretaking to courier, and nearly everything in between. Today he guarded the door and escorted members to the banquet room.

Jack shook Higgins’s hand, and the man nodded respectfully.

“Good afternoon, Sir.” With a flourish, the attendant directed, “This way, please.”

Jack stepped past Higgins, and the attendant closed the door behind him with a loud thud. The electronic bolt gave a hiss and locked itself in place. The professor tailed the attendant as they moved forward... Walking through the entrance hall was like taking a trip back to medieval times. Two steel-bodied knights stood guard on either side of the ingress; each held up their halberds as if to give fair warning to any evildoers. Ancient shields with crossed swords and pikes hung on the walls, while stone gargoyles grinned down evilly from their pedestals.

A stone portico separated the entrance room from the arched corridor beyond. A plaque mounted on the wall at right announced: “The Hall of Our Forefathers.” A red carpet runner ran down the length of the passage, while framed portraits of departed fraternal members were mounted on the facing walls. Claussen didn’t recognize many of them, (save for one particular fellow near the mid-way point). A young man with horn-rimmed glasses, a set jaw, and a crew cut that befitted his dashing white military uniform stared back at him.

Hello, Dad; I guess it’s been a while...

Marty Claussen might be considered part of the old guard, but his quirky inventions still aid the Order of Pygmalion to this day. The Neutrafier Flash camera was his own design that he originally pitched to the U.S. military; the powerful flash bulb could suspend all molecular activity within the intended target, literally freezing them in place. Jack was certain that the instrument was used (initially, anyway) to incapacitate many of the candidates that would be presented today.

A gentle cough snapped Jack out of his reverie. He spun around to see that Higgins was already standing beneath the archway at the other end of the hall.

“They’re waiting for you, Sir...”

“Oh, right,” the professor replied, before moving along. Higgins came to a stop in front of a pair of arched, double-leaf doors on the right. He opened one of them, and with another flourish of his gloved hand, he gestured toward the room beyond.

“Enjoy your evening, Sir.”

“I will,” Jack replied, “and thank you.”

Higgins gave a nod, waited for the professor to pass, and then gently closed the door behind him.

Like The Muse herself, entering “The Great Room” was like stepping into a grand dining hall in a centuries-old castle. The chamber was spacious, with a high vaulted ceiling supported by heavy wooden beams. A long table in the center of the floor is set with crystal stemware and porcelain plates, which are illuminated by five-branch candelabras with floral arrangements surrounding each of the iron bases.

Button-tufted high-back chairs lined one side, while a larger, throne-like armchair was placed at the head of the table for the master of ceremony. Dark wood with ornately carved moldings covered most of the walls, while massive, plumb-colored drapes hung from a support rail and dominated the far side of the room. Burning candles, along with a combination of magenta, fuchsia, and violet accent lighting, provided the ambiance...

A glimpse around the room revealed an even mix of middle-aged and seasoned old men, all dressed in tailored suits and expensive Italian shoes. Each had fittingly accessorized with black bowties, solid-gold cufflinks, and expensive Rolexes. Affluent businessmen (whether self-made or inherited) mingled with inventors, esteemed scholars, and corrupt politicians. The air above them was filled with swirling cigar smoke and the heady scent of strong cologne. Members shifted from one grouping to the next, drinks in hand, as Joseph Lanner’s Die Romantiker Waltz played on a loop in the background.

Then something caught his eye; across the room, a distinguished-looking couple mingled within one of the groupings. The man appeared to be in his fifth or even sixth decade, yet he still looked dashing and self-assured in his black Armani suit. His female companion appeared to be a decade or two younger; she stood tall in raised heels and looked glamorous in a sparkling black evening gown, her raven locks stacked high on her head. They were the very picture of sophistication and power, and both seemed to be completely in their element. At one point, the man turned his head and glanced over in Claussen’s direction. A look of recognition immediately appeared on his face, and he enthusiastically pointed a finger at the professor. Jack raised his own hand and pointed right back.

Vernon Kessler was not only the dean of Glendale University; he was also the Executive Director of the Pygmalion Brotherhood. The man politely excused himself from the group and walked in the professor’s direction.


“Vern, ole buddy!” The pair gave each other a hearty bear hug and drew back, grinning at one another.

“How long has it been?”

“A pretty long time,” Jack admitted.

“So how are you?” the dean asked before looking the professor over. “Still working like a dog and chasing those pretty coeds, I presume.”

Jack shrugged. “You know me too well.”

“That explains why you look so happy and healthy!”

“They do keep me young,” the professor confessed as he scanned over the room. He went on to remark, “Looks like the whole gang is here.”

“Yeah,” Kessler admitted, “and then some.” A man’s raucous laughter suddenly rang out over the hubbub. The dean looked over in the direction of the outburst and shook his head in exasperation. He didn’t need to tell the professor who it was...

“Sounds like Pitt’s in full flight already.”

“Stanley arrived a little over an hour ago,” Kessler advised. “He’s already drunk off his ass, telling his corny jokes and harrassing the cocktail waitresses.”

“Some people never change.”

“No, they don#8217;t.”

As the pair continued to observe their surroundings, Jack noticed someone approaching in the corner of his vision. It wasn’t until they were within a few feet that he finally turned his head to the left...

And then his eyes nearly popped out of their sockets.

Holy smoke!

Only, a phrase like that didn’t do her justice.

A fresh-faced blonde in a black Playboy Bunny suit and pointed ears had stopped to serve them. Her strapless corset teddy was cinched-in tightly at the waist, further highlighting the young woman’s trim torso and ample bust. The leg holes were cut high on the hip, exposing a floral tattoo that covered her right flank, while the tapered V-shape in front revealed that she’d likely been waxed for the secretive event. Dusky sheer-to-waist pantyhose, wrist cuffs, satin bunny ears, and a black bow tie over a white collar completed the sexy ensemble.

“Well, look at you!” Jack remarked as his wandering eyes continued to assess her impressive physique. However, the professor’s comment seemed to fall on deaf ears. The cocktail waitress just lowered her serving tray in front of the two men and offered them a drink of their choice:

“Brandy... Scotch... Vodka... Tennessee whiskey...”

At first, Jack expected her voice to sound all bubbly and sweet; instead, it sounded low and flat, as if she were in some sort of trance.

“I’ll take a whiskey, my dear.”

The server leant back whilst simultaneously bending at the knees to execute the perfect bunny dip. The professor looked on in wonder as she methodically lifted one of the glass tumblers from the tray and slowly swiveled her upper body in his direction. The woman did appear to be in some sort of trance; she just stared through him with dull eyes, as if she wasn’t all there. When the dean requested a glass of vodka beside him, the waitress repeated her stiff movements; she looked like a crane mechanically lifting a toy prize in an arcade game.

Jack wasn’t fooled; he knew a hypnotized subject when he saw one. The professor gave the dean a curious look as if to ask, What is going on here?

Kessler gave him an assuring wink and then turned to their waitress...


” the dean asked, “What does a good bunny do?”

“A good bunny wiggles her fluffy tail, Sir.”

Without missing a beat, the blonde rotated around 180⁰ and wiggled her shapely ass at the man. Kessler reached out and gave one of her cheeks a playful smack in return. The Kimmy-bunny rotated back around and gave him an appreciative bow.

“Thank you. Will that be all, Sir?”

“We’re all good here.”

And with that, Kimmy-bunny pivoted on a heel and walked away, her cottony-white tail shifting back and forth in counterpoint to the sandy-blonde mane that swung on her head...

As the men watched their server cross the room, Kessler felt compelled to ask, “What do you think?”

“I think ole Heff would be proud!”

“Without a doubt! A toast to sexy women in uniform.”

The pair laughed, clinked their glasses together, and each took a hearty swig.

The dean winced at the aftertaste of his vodka and went on to gasp, “We thought the bunny get-up would be a little more visually appealing than the standard collared white blouse and black slacks.”

“I’ll say!” Claussen coughed. “And why did she look like she was in a daze?”

“We held private interviews a month ago,” Kessler replied. “We selected a few choice candidates with the right, um, qualifications: single, preferably with a family that lives out-of-state, and maybe just a little down on their luck...”

“I know the type,” Claussen cut-in. “The kind that nobody would miss right away.”

“Exactly. So we brought them in, sat them down in front of a laptop, and made them watch a video under the guise of employee orientation. That Kinetic Reflex Inducer, or K.R.I., really does a number on them.”


The dean gave a nod of his head and went on to explain, “It’s quite a remakable programming tool for getting folks to do what you want them to; a little something that Otto Schultz came up with. During a normal hypnosis session, the subject listens to a live or prerecorded voice induction and is given a series of instructions which, if they follow them, are intended to assist them in achieving a hypnotic state. The K.R.I. skips over all that nonsense and immediately places the subject into a suggestible state; just hook up a couple of electrodes and flip the switch. Run the program through their minds and observe how they avoid arguments and uncomfortable questions.”

The professor’s eyebrows had gone up at the mention of a programming tool for getting folks to do what you want them to.

“And where would a dirty old man like myself get his hands on one of these trusty machines?”

“Sadly, it’s the only one in existence.”

“Just my rotten luck,” Claussen grumbled.

The dean couldn’t help but chuckle at the professor’s response.

“Anyway, we had a professional costumer measure them up for their uniforms, and then put them back on the K.R.I. to give them some post-hypnotic triggers. Each one received a text message to report back to work this morning for wardrobe. Once this is over with, we’ll erase their memories and release them back into the public―no harm, no foul.”

“...How convenient.”

“I wouldn’t want it any other way. Kimmy is studying photography and she’s an exotic dancer in her other life.”

The dean then pointed out a raven-haired bunny serving hors d’oeuvres on the opposite side of the room.

“Jennifer normally works as a waitress at Chez Paul, a posh restaurant downtown.”

Kessler indicated a third bunny, this one a biracial beauty with kinky black hair and caramel skin. She stood against a wall in the far corner, dutifully holding up a gleaming serving tray in her hands. At the center of its polished surface was an open humidor lined with Cuban cigars. The young woman stared ahead with a distant expression on her face. Claussen thought she looked more like a piece of furniture than a cocktail waitress (which was surely the whole point).

Like a cigar store Indian.

“Kiersey over there is one of our exchange students. She couldn’t afford to fly overseas for the break, so we provided her with another alternative.”

“Talk about an exclusive opportunity.”

“Exclusive indeed, although there’s one male serving as the banquet houseman. I’m told that he poses as a nude model for Bushwick in his spare time.”

“Ah yes, the Glendale Theater of the Arts program.”

“Still suspending students after all these years,” bragged the dean.

“Hear, hear.” Jack approved before raising his glass in salute. “To those of us who keep this place running.”

The two men clinked their glasses together in a celebratory cheer and then tilted them back simultaneously.

For the next few minutes, the pair stood gazing at the goings on around them; Dean Kessler spoke about monetary contributions and rising tuition costs, while Jack Claussen pretended to listen. In truth, the professor was actually watching the woman in the black evening gown work the room. She’d approach a group of men with a trained smile, offer them a warm hug or a peck on the cheek, and then fully engage herself in conversation. Now and then she’d subtly touch an arm or a chest as she made her point. Jack finally tapped the dean’s forearm and nodded in her direction. “So who’s the pretty dame?”

“That, my friend, is Bebe, the new wife.”

The professor nearly choked on his drink. “The new wife? Whatever happened to the first one, Marion?”

“Marion became, well, difficult. But after a very messy divorce, we came to what might be described as a mutual settlement; she’s in a much better place now.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No need to be; we keep in touch now and then whenever I feel like taking a trip down memory lane.”

“I see.”

“You really should; a guy like you would certainly appreciate it.”

The dean gave him a knowing wink that made Jack wonder about Marion’s true fate.

“So this new wife of yours; kinda young for your tired old ass, isn’t she?”

“Twenty years my junior, but don’t remind her,” Kessler said with a chuckle. “You should say hello; I’m sure she’d love to finally meet you.”

The dean gave a low whistle to attract the woman’s attention.

Claussen watched as she politely excused herself from a conversation and turned in their direction. The woman was striking, demanding attention and respect just in the way she moved; she seemed to glide across the room, the hem of her foil-like gown swirling around her ankles, the slit up one side offering teasing glimpses of her nylon-sheathed leg. Her long raven locks were styled into a French Twist, with the bangs left loose to frame her attractive face. Long diamond earrings dangled from her exposed ears, while a host of sparkling accessories completed her elegant look.

With an elaborate flourish of his hand, the dean introduced his wife to his old buddy.

“Bebe, I’d like you to meet Professor Jack Claussen... And Jack, this is Bebe; she’s the one that made this whole damned thing happen.”

The woman flashed a pleasant smile and offered her hand to Jack. The professor took her hand in his, and in a chivalrous gesture, placed a gentle kiss on top of her knuckles.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Madame.”

“And you as well,” Bebe returned.

“Now that is one helluva dress.”

“Oh, you like?”

Like a runway model presenting the latest fashion, Bebe did a sexy little pirouette for him, her hands alluringly gliding over her lush curves. Even in the dim violet light, the advisor’s skin gleamed pale and smooth, the tops of her breasts forced up and left on display in the low neckline of her dress. She could feel his not-so-subtle gaze upon her cleavage, but the advisor didn’t mind; she even seemed to welcome it.

“Damn your eyes, Jack Claussen,” the dean swore.

“Oh, don’t be silly,” his wife cut in. “What older woman doesn’t like to be adored by a handsome stranger?”

“Don’t let his age fool you,” the dean cautioned. “He’s a goddamned wolf.”

Bebe just shrugged off the warning.

“So, Mr. Big Bad Wolf, I've heard some pretty remarkable stories about you.”

“Well, don’t believe everything you hear, and only half of what you see,” Jack advised before quickly changing the subject. “You seem to be quite a hit at this gathering.”

“It has nothing to do with popularity, but rather staying on my good side,” the woman confessed. “Like my husband, it’s my business to know a little bit about each one of these people on a personal level: their occupation and net worth; any future aspirations; the names and ages of certain family members; their secret little kinks. It’s called insurance, Professor. It would be a shame if someone’s trophy wife or pretty young daughter wound up in the permanent collection due to a foolish blunder—namely exposing what we have going on here.”

“Makes me wonder what sort of dirt you have on me.”

“Oh, let’s see: a highly respected professor at SUNY Binghamton; happily single, yet very popular with your female students; and you have a certain knack for amassing beautiful things and displaying them in the bomb shelter beneath your house.”

“Well, when something really desirable crosses my path, and I know I have to have it, I rarely let it get away from me...”

Bebe turned to her husband and flashed a knowing glance. “Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”

“Jack is a collector from way back,” her husband assured.

“In that case, maybe you’ll see something tonight that catches your eye.”

“I can hardly wait,” Jack acknowledged, wiggling his eyebrows in anticipation.

“Mm.” Bebe’s gaze dipped to the erection tenting the front of the professor’s pants. Her eyes then returned to his own lingering stare. “Well, I certainly hope so...”

“Speaking of waiting,” the dean interrupted, “what time does this thing start? My stomach has been grumbling for over an hour now.”/p>

Bebe glanced down at the expensive Cartier on her wrist and her eyes widened. “My goodness, just look at the time!... If you gentlemen would excuse me, I have to retreat to the kitchen to oversee the serving of the first course. It should be out in ten minutes or less. Honey, if you could encourage the members to get themselves seated, I’d really appreciate it.”

“I could do that for you, my dear.”

Bebe leaned in, cupped the dean’s cheek with her delicate hand, and gave him a quick kiss on the lips.

“That’s a good hubby.”

Claussen smiled at the couple. Bebe’s love for her man was clear (if not a little perplexing). He still couldn’t imagine Marion agreeing to a divorce (especially if there was a younger woman involved). It all seems just a little too convenient. That’s when Bebe turned to Jack. To his surprise, the woman reached up and carefully adjusted his necktie within his shirt collar. Satisfied with the results, she brushed a hand over his chest and flashed a bright smile...

“It was nice to finally meet you, Professor.”

“The feeling is mutual.”

“I hope you enjoy your evening.”

“I’m confident I will.”/p>

The advisor turned on her heel and glided off in the direction of the kitchen door. The professor watched after her with a sinful gaze, admiring the way the cut of her metallic black gown further accentuated her hourglass shape and the gentle sway of her rounded ass...

“That’s one dangerous woman you’ve got there,” Jack commented.

“I know, I’m just glad she’s on our side.”

“No kidding. So how long have you two been married?”

“A little over a year now, but we were involved for much longer than that.”

“I see. And she’s cool with, you know, the whole collecting aspect?”

“I can’t say she’s completely comfortable with it yet, but I’m working on it.” Then Kessler looked around, as if someone might overhear their conversation, and he went on to add,

“... Though lately, it seems that she’s turning a little, um... bi-curious.”

“Oh, no shit.” The dean laughed and shrugged his shoulders. “Welcome to my world.”

...Yeah, no kidding, you lucky son-of-a-bitch!

“Well, I guess I better get these people seated; I wouldn’t want to disappoint the little lady.”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t either.”

“You’re a very wise man, Jack Claussen.”

And with that, the dean turned to address his fraternal brothers.

“Fellow Pygmalions and honored guests; the first course will be coming out soon. If you gentlemen could find your way to your assigned seats, we’ll get this thing underway.”

There was a collective sigh of relief as members disengaged from their conversations and leisurely made their way over to the lengthy dining table.

The dean turned to Jack and said, “I hope you brought your appetite with you.”

“Which one would that be,” Claussen asked, “the desire for fine dining, or whatever it is you have hidden behind those big curtains?”

“Nothing ever gets by you, does it Jack?”

“Very rarely,” the professor admitted before slamming the rest of his drink back. He fought the urge to cough and added, “I guess we better get to our seats before they start without us.”

“I can absolutely guarantee you that that will never happen, my friend.”

* * * *

Over an Hour Later

Bebe Kessler, the hostess and organizer of the fraternal gathering, stood on a balcony high above the banquet room floor. She looked as regal as a queen in her sparkling black gown, her hands firmly braced on the thick balustrade. The advisor’s high vantage point allowed her a clear view of every corner of the Great Room (including her associates seated below). Various sighs and groans filled the room as those members sat back in their tufted chairs, their bloated bellies satisfyingly full after consuming their three-course meals.

... Ah, the glorious high-life, where gluttony and greed are not only encouraged, but openly celebrated.

Bebe leaned further forward to peer down at two of the rabbit-eared servers as they cleared plates, silverware, and unused glasses away from the table. A third leaned forward to refill an upraised brandy snifter, her weighty bosom straining against her black bodice and threatening to burst forth. At that same moment, an intoxicated Stanley Pitt raised a shaky arm from across the table, took aim, and somehow managed to throw a lime directly into Kimmy-Bunny’s cleavage!


In contrast to Bebe’s stunned reaction, the juvenile act didn’t even faze the server below; the woman straightened in place, turned on a heel, and then strode off with pitcher in hand, apparently unaware of the lime now wedged between her breasts!

The student advisor just shook her head. Further proof that boys will be boys, regardless of their age or wealth...

* * * *

Down on the banquet floor...

Jack Claussen’s belly was so full that he could hardly breathe. He sighed in contentment and slumped back in his chair. “Now that was delicious.”

The professor turned to Stanley Pitt, who was listing sideways in his chair like a sinking ship. The businessman had parted his blazer and was fumbling around with his gorgon belt buckle. Stanley belched loudly and laughed at his own crudeness...

“God, that felt bloody good, mate.” The old man then nodded at something just beyond Claussen’s shoulder. “Speaking of tasty dishes.”

At that moment, the Kiersey-Bunny appeared to clear their corner of the table. As she leaned forward to fetch his plate and utensils, Jack got an eyeful of her bent posterior. He liked the way the strapless bodice of her uniform cinched in tightly at the waist, flared out over her hips, and then tapered from a triangle down to a mere strip in the back. His indebted gaze flicked even lower to her shapely gams, each curve enhanced by the black seams of her dusky pantyhose. A pair of do-me pumps made her calves stand out just so.

Pitt, on the other hand, took a more daring approach, reaching over and allowing his hand to dip into the arch of Kiersey-Bunny’s lower back before rising out over the bubble-like curves of her cheeks. The old man then reached around and clutched a handful of her ass meat, his stubby fingers noticeably dimpling the pliable flesh.

“Look at this, Jack!... Now this is a bum worth grabbing!”

“So I see.”

Kiersey-Bunny remained calm and unfazed; she went about her required task, while the total stranger slipped a hand down into the crack of her ass, extended a middle finger, and began to massage the tiny bump of her rosebud through her satin bodysuit. Once the attendant completed her chore, she straightened in place, politely smiled, and then walked away, seemingly none-the-wiser.

“You see,” Pitt started, his eyes still distracted by Kiersey-Bunny’s swaying hips as she disappeared behind a swinging kitchen door. “...Sexy birds like that were put on this planet to make our cocks happy, and us blokes were put here to worship them. We’ve been paying the bloody price ever since!”

Jack rolled his eyes as if to say, Mm, okay...

Pitt slammed the rest of his drink back and then frowned at his empty glass. “I should’ve told that lass to grab me another!”

“Like you need one.”

“Bollocks; I’m not even pissed yet!”

Then Pitt leaned in close, as if to share a long-kept secret...

“A bit of advice, mate; if one of your dolls gets a runny nose, it’s not because she’s sick; it’s because she’s full!”

“Alright,” Jack said with a chuckle, “I’ll give you that one.”

The professor looked down the row of those in attendance. Stanley Pitt wasn’t the only one getting soused; the drinks were flowing, and their fellow associates seemed to be throwing their glasses back nearly as fast as the attendant could refill them. Those spirits were in full effect, and the business-like mood of the room had taken on a more festive tone.

Amid the sound of clinking glasses and opera music, the animated chatter of several of the fraternal brothers could be heard; each member offered their own prediction of what might be hidden behind the draped partition on the opposite side of the room. (There had been a noted buzz of speculation and the occasional high-spirited side-bet circulating around, ever since the members began arriving earlier that afternoon).

Of course, the hired help was sworn to secrecy.

A sudden outburst from the far end of the table drew everyone’s attention...

“What’s the hold-up?”

“Yeah,” another member complained. “On with the show!”

“These bloo-ey wankers ain’t getting’ any younger,” Pitt slurred.

“Better get on with it,” Jack warned, “the natives are getting restless.”

“Very well then.”

Dean Kessler arose from his throne-like chair at the head of the table; he wiped his hands off with a cloth napkin and eyed those in attendance like a king ready to address his loyal subjects.

“There are many organizations and privately-owned businesses that support what we do here, most of which prefer to remain nameless. It would surely be difficult to provide the level of discreet privileges we offer our members without their generous donations.”

The Pygmalions not only nodded in agreement, but some even nodded at each other.

“A great big thank you goes out to them, as well as those longtime supporters that are here in attendance. Guys, if you’d just stand up for a bit when I call out your names...”

Each of the members summoned arose briefly from their seats. One such associate was Isaho Hideki, who’d flown all the way in from Japan...

...“Mr. Hideki is known for his tireless efforts in perfecting freeze-drying technology, as well as his vast expertise in human taxidermy.”

There was a lengthy round of applause before the dean announced another member.

...“Doctor Otto Von Schultz, the eldest of our tribe and Glendale’s resident alchemist. The doctor’s countless experiments with liquid nitrogen and cryogenic-freezing are the stuff of legend, both in scientific circles as well as in the cryonics underground.”

...Another round of applause filled the room.

...“This next fellow is not only the head of our art department; he’s also the artist responsible for several of the commemorative statuettes that adorn our hallway outside. Glendale’s resident hippie, Mr. Gerald Bushwick!”

A tall, rather free-spirited looking fellow with a salt-and-pepper beard and long wavy hair stood for an extensive round of applause. He held up his White Russian in a toast and proclaimed, “This revolution won’t be televised!” before easing back down in his chair.

“Now Jerry no longer makes house calls, but if you’re looking to dispose of that nagging wife, mistress, or mother-in-law, just stop by his office and he’ll see what he can do!”

Most of the crowd broke out in laughter, while one lone voice yelled out, “It’s bloody true; some of his handiwork decorates my manor!”

Bushwick looked over in Stanley Pitt's direction and raised his rock glass in acknowledgement.

“As you’ve all heard, it would be awfully hard to miss this next character. He’s louder than Yosemite Sam, and about as predictable as a tornado; our spirited Brit, Mr. Stanley Pitt!”

Stanley rose from his seat to a round of riotous applause. He teetered in place for a moment, waving to his surrounding peers like a Hollywood celebrity greets their adoring fans. And then he dropped back down into his seat like a sack of potatoes.

“Stanley has been one of our strongest contributors over the last... what has it been: twenty-five, maybe thirty years?”

“Over forty, ya’ plonker!” Pitt leaned forward in his seat and reached for his glass, only to discover that it was empty. He gave it a dirty look, as though it had personally wronged him. “And there should be better service for the amount of pounds I’ve dumped into this place!”

The dean gave a nod to his wife, who was waiting in the wings. She, in turn, summoned one of the bunny-girls to refill all the snifters for the impending toast. Dean Kessler went on, “Stanley is living proof that you actually can go through life completely inebriated and still make your millions!”

The other members broke out in laughter as Pitt raised his clasped hands above his head in a sign of triumph!

“You betch’a arses, ya’ tossers!”

“Now a couple of you will recall this next guy from way back in our toga party days... The Godfather himself, Professor Jack Claussen!”/p>

Never one for adoration, the professor stood up just long enough to acknowledge the applause, and then he motioned for everyone to be seated.

“Jack was a legacy when he pledged back in 1962; he’s the son of the late Marty Claussen, one of the founding members of the Pygmalions. Marty invented the Ansco flash bulb, a very effective tool that our organization uses to this very day.”

There was another round of applause, before the dean turned his attention to two unknown individuals seated at the far end of the table. The mysterious duo had mostly kept to themselves ever since they’d arrived.

“Now these next two gentlemen are probably unfamiliar to all of you, which is probably for the best. Representing a certain, um, family out of North Jersey, please give a warm welcome to Anthony and Vincent.”

The members applauded their presence as the pair rose from their seats. Vincent, the shorter and edgier-looking of the two, shouted above all the acclaim, “Make that union delegates.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“We prefer union delegates; guys like us don’t need to advertise.”

“Of course,” the dean replied. “Sorry for the misstep.”

Vincent made an annoyed face and turned to his superior. “Can you believe this guy?” Tony, the substantially larger and more somber of the two, took several tokes off his cigar. He rolled it around in his mouth while staring ominously across the room (whether he was considering the severity of the gaff, or just savoring the taste of the tobacco, no one was really sure). After an intense moment, he cracked a toothy grin, swung his opened palms out to his sides, and in a thick Jersey accent, he said, “Heeey, fugedaboutdit!”

Looking pretty uncomfortable, the dean hooked a finger in his collar, gave it a forceful tug, and then cleared his throat.

“Ah-hem. So through several monetary donations, the union has made it possible to continue with our special interest programs. They’ve also provided us with a few, um, test subjects along the way.”

The big man nodded in approval, blew a long cloud of smoke up toward the ceiling, and then settled back down into his chair. His younger associate followed.

The dean heaved a sigh in relief.

“And let’s not forget those operating down in the lab,” Kessler continued. “Our crack team literally worked around the clock these last few days to pull this thing off. Otto, Jerry, Albert, if you guys could stand up one more time.”

The trio rose from their seats as another round of acclamation filled the hall.

Kessler waited for a moment for all the clapping to die down. He took a deep breath, as if trying to keep his composure, and then an adoring look came over his face. The dean’s eyes locked onto his spouse, who waited unquestioningly on the far side of the room. And she, mindful of his stare, stood with her hands demurely clasped down in front, her scarlet lips parted in anticipation. Her own expression looked expectant, if not a little impatient.

“Lastly, I would like to thank someone who has as much time invested in this thing as anybody. The real brains behind this entire operation, and the woman that’s supported me through all the highs and lows, my beautiful wife, Bebe Kessler!”

Bebe stepped out from the wings, her form-fitting gown sparkling in the dim light. The 41-year-old advisor appeared to be the pageant finalist she once was, beaming from all the attention. She mouthed the words “thank you“ with such sincerity that it was as if she was amazed that they would extend her such a compliment. Toward the end of the nearly minute-long ovation, she blew the members several kisses and then looked over to see her proud husband, who beamed right back. She gave a nod, as if to say, Thank you so much, but do get on with it!

“When I asked Bebe to take over the planning for the ceremonial dinner less than a year ago, she dove right in. She spent the last six months preparing for this day: handling the invitations; planning the menu; selecting, amassing, and preparing our lovely candidates; and then finalizing all of the logistical odds and ends that come with a momentous occasion such as this. I think you’ll be able to tell by the results that the effort was well worth it.”

Vernon Kessler reached toward the table and raised his fluted glass in a toast. His fellow brothers quickly followed suit.

“Here’s to old friendships,” he said brightly, “and the pursuit of eternal beauty!”

“Hear, hear!” praised the others, before they tilted their heads back and emptied their glasses as one.

The dean winced as the alcohol burned down the inner walls of his throat. He slammed his emptied glass on the table and then made a motion toward his wife to open them up...

Bebe Kessler revealed a special remote control that she’d held close for the entire afternoon. She raised the custom-made instrument, took aim at the receiver box, and as the lights began to dim, one could almost hear the rhythm of heartbeats pounding in anticipation. So here it goes.

“Gentlemen,” she addressed the eager crowd, “I now present your candidates for Miss Pygmalion 2009!”

The administrator pressed a second button, which activated the floor-length drapes. In grand fashion, the curtains slowly parted in the middle, and there was a collective gasp when those in attendance were allowed the first teasing glimpse of what was concealed beyond...

The first pretty candidate came into view, and then two more on either side of her. Four, six, then eight. By the time the drapes were fully separated, a dozen contenders stood in a row before them.

The smattering of applause quickly grew to a wild, rapturous ovation, complete with spirited whoops, wolf-howls, and high-pitched whistles, as the Pygmalions expressed their full approval!

The anxious look on Bebe Kessler’s face broke into a beaming grin at the realization that her presentation was resonating with her audience. The advisor was very proud of her girls, and although they were completely unaware of their surroundings, she imagined that they too would be proud if they were somehow able.

Those contenders stood taut at attention like wooden soldiers: shoulders back; chests thrust out; trim tummies in; their hands pressed to their outer thighs. Set upon individual pedestals, each stared ahead with glassy-eyed indifference, their fresh young faces devoid of any emotion. They’d been relieved of their personal clothing and redressed in two-piece shapewear that was as generic-looking as it was functional.

A thin bandeau made of spandex stretched across the breasts, while low-rise compression briefs hugged the bottom end; both articles were done in Glendale’s familiar purple with a white-striped motif. Their legs were sheathed in shiny suntan pantyhose, and they all stood tall in matching black high-heeled pumps.

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

Their ethnicities varied from Asian, Caucasian, Middle Eastern, and African American in order to reflect Glendale’s diverse population. But they all had one thing in common: they were all stunningly beautiful, athletically fit, and in peak condition. Placed next to each hopeful atop a waist-high chrome shaft was a slotted receptacle made to accept the Medusa tokens the members had been given to cast their votes.

Bebe Kessler raised her trusty remote and pressed a third button for the clincher. Slowly, elegantly, each platform began to turn. All twelve aspirants began to rotate as one, their bodies circling around like life-sized dolls on display, their glassy eyes gazing unseeingly. The captivated audience applauded this latest development; now they could enjoy the enticing views from every angle.

The applause intensified once again, and Stanley Pitt was heard to exclaim, “Bloody excellent!”

“Gentlemen,” Bebe called out. The advisor paused for a moment to take in all the praise, even steepled her fingers and took a bow in appreciation. She finally raised her hand in a gesture of silence. “Thank you so much, guys; it really means a lot to me. Enjoy your evening, vote wisely, and do remember: you can look, but please don’t touch the contestants!”

The host’s last request fell on deaf ears, as the Pygmalions were already rising from their high-backed chairs and eagerly making their way over to the exhibition on the opposite side of the room. Some looked like kids in a toy store, feverishly moving from one contestant to the next, while others seemed to approach them with looks of mild curiosity.

Bless their filthy little hearts.

Bebe abruptly turned away from the scene and made her way over to the kitchen entrance, where she quickly vanished behind a swinging door. Moments later, a reinforced door creaked open, and she reappeared in the maintenance tunnel one floor level below. The advisor barely closed the door when she heard a sound...


The sudden noise behind her made Bebe jump. She spun around, her mouth barely forming the words, “What the?”

A second mouth locked over hers and muted the sound. The lips were soft, feminine, and eager; they belonged to Ms. Jackson, the Gargoyle’s cheerleading coach.

Bebe broke away from the kiss and pushed back against the other woman’s chest.

“Famke, you really shouldn’t be down here!”

“What, you thought I didn’t know about the trap door at the back of the girl’s locker room? Pa―lease!”

“No, really,” the advisor stressed, glancing around with a worried look. “If my husband were to find you down here, he’d put both of us on ice!”

“Oh, stop being such a worrywart!” Famke complained as her eyes skimmed over Bebe’s exposed cleavage. She seductively drew her hands over the administrator’s bare shoulders, swept them down over her arms, and let them come to rest on the older woman’s flanks. “God, you really fill that dress out! I could just eat you up!”

Bebe blushed as she felt the coach undress her with her eyes. She lowered her head in thought...

“We won’t have much time.”

“Look at me,” Famke ordered. She raised Bebe’s chin up to meet her ravenous gaze; the advisor’s dark brown eyes searched her face, their heat and hunger nearly as obvious as her own. “Any amount of time we get to spend together is worth it to me.”

The coach pulled the advisor in closer to her body and gave her bottom a possessive squeeze.

Bebe gave a frustrated sigh when she saw the serious look on Famke’s face; she knew how determined the coach could be when she set her mind to something. And on top of that, the woman had a legitimate point: she had been neglecting her secret lady friend with all the late-night preparations being made for the dinner. Business before pleasure.

“I suppose we could use my office.”

“Sounds good to me.”

“Alright, let’s do this before I think better of it.”

The pair locked hands, and Bebe drew the slightly younger woman further into the tunnel behind her. The advisor managed to progress about ten feet or so when she suddenly stopped short. Famke ran into her back, nearly knocking her over.

“What is it?”

“These fucking heels!

“Shoot, I was kind of hoping you’d leave them on.”

Famke offered a shoulder to lean on as Bebe expertly balanced herself on one shapely leg.

“Can I ask you something, um, sort of personal?”

“It never stopped you before,” the coach replied with a chuckle. “What’s up?”

“Do you know what freeze modeling is?”

Even though Famke’s gaze was trained on the cleavage that was nearly spilling out of the gap in Bebe’s gown, she still managed to twist her face in thought. “You mean like when teenagers pose as mannequins in store windows at the mall?”


Famke furrowed her eyebrows in thought. “And what does this have to do with us?”

“Well,” Bebe started. The advisor made a sexy little grunt as she yanked her second heel free from her pointed foot. She went on,“...I was sort of hopeful that you might do it for me sometime.”

“And this would excite you how?”

Bebe held her heels up in one hand and tugged at the zipper on the front of Famke’s tracksuit with the other. As the teeth parted, she caught a teasing glimpse of the upper halves of the sports bra the coach wore beneath.

“The idea is that I can do anything to you, but you’d have to remain frozen for me regardless.”


“Yes, anything and everything. You’d be my poseable little doll; the literal object of my affections, yet holding it all inside, unable to react in anyway.”

“Oh.” Famke swallowed hard in her throat (not because she was shy, but rather due to the countless possibilities).

“So you’d be the one in control this time.”


“That actually sounds pretty kinky to me.”

“Kinky indeed.”

“Let’s do this.”

* * *