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The Fraternal Order: part 10 - 1 (Remastered)
By Zapped!
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Previous part _____________________________________________________________________________________ Prologue: Our tale begins in the industrial part of the First Ward, where stripped
vehicles and boarded-up warehouses dot the crumbling landscape, and the
presence of law enforcement is sporadic at best. In the middle of this deserted
wasteland stands an old playhouse, its historic grandeur faded with time. The
marquee out front displayed the words “The Magnolia Theatre” in worn-out letters,
barely catching the attention of a homeless man as he pushed his shopping cart full
of belongings past. Through several grants, the long-abandoned building had
been recently converted into a private art gallery (and a rather spacious one
at that). On view in the high-ceilinged space are monumental portraits, carved
wooden sculptures, religious altarpieces and priceless collections of period
glass and ceramics. But the underlying buzz to the event, or the pièce de
résistance, would be the collection of life-sized statues that sat or stood
by themselves in a far corner of the room, bathed in halogen floodlights. The adjustable
accent lighting was well-suited for drawing attention to detail as much as it
was for creating a dramatic visual effect in the presentation. The nude grouping, appropriately titled ‘Sirens’ featured six female
sculptures with uncannily realistic detail. Posed in rather erotic positions,
these sultry statues solicit stares and admiration – often raising eyebrows and
even provoking conservative types. Snooty art critics could be seen standing around,
fondling their oddly trimmed goatees and sipping cappuccino or white wine,
while arguing for hours about what the statues meant. The display’s creator, a rather eccentric artist by the name of
Gerald E. Bushwick, is rarely seen mingling at the gallery while his work is
being shown. The stuffy atmosphere of showings like this was usually enough to
irritate the man; from the constant whispering and gossip, to the inevitable
questions of “How did he do it?” - The prattle of critics and devotees alike didn’t
interest him in the least. Only the most astute of connoisseurs were even acquainted with
Bushwick and his unique works, which appeared on the scene sometime in the late
seventies. Since then, the unconventional artist had sold merely a limited
number of pieces, while at the same time, earning the respect of his artistic
peers. It wasn’t surprising to those involved with the fickle art world
that Bushwick’s name was unfamiliar to the mainstream media. “I’ve never been
into this for the fame or recognition,” revealed the artist once, in a rare
magazine interview. “Do something for the pure love of it, and you’ll never have
to work a day in your life. I function best when I’m fully immersed in a
project and engaged intimately with my subject. I would liken it to two lovers sharing
a moment of rapture together; one of those rare moments when art and life
become one.” Talk about blurred lines. So, it was with much regret that Gerald Bushwick took one last toke
from his hand-rolled spliff and held it deep inside his lungs. After a long moment,
he blew a smoke cloud out into the stary sky and then rubbed the joint out on the
second-story fire escape. The artist expelled a deep breath as he snapped the
lapels of his tan corduroy blazer in place. “Alright,” he grumbled to himself, “Let’s get this shitshow over
with.” Gerald stepped from the metal structure through an opened window and
casually ventured out into the gallery to observe the latest reactions… Within a minute of returning to his display, Bushwick heard the distinct
sound of high heels click-clacking across the old plank flooring. A pair of
fashionably dressed women; one an older redhead that screamed of wealth and self-importance;
the second a considerably younger brunette (presumably a daughter or assistant
to the first) wore a wide-brimmed sunhat crowned
with a satin bow; both held up their glasses of wine in an elegant manner. Between
their stylish attire and confident gate, Bushwick supposed they might look more
at home at the Kentucky Derby. Or posed in the window at Saks Fifth Avenue.
To the artist’s surprise, the pair not only came right up to him, but the older
of the two described in gushing terms how much she loved the display. Neither
one claimed to be artists, they simply admired the man’s work. The admiration was entirely mutual. The older one had a certain air of sophistication about her. She
stepped up beside the artist to confess, “I just can’t get over your statues, sir.
Their accuracy and the realism are quite uncanny!” “Well thank you; they took me quite a long time to complete.” “I don’t want to be taken the wrong way, but I’ve always had a
certain, well… appreciation for the female form,” she confessed. “The upsweep
of a perky breast, a defined waistline, some pronounced hips, the way the lower
back arches out into a lovely bottom… You’ve certainly managed to capture it all
here.” “Mrs. Spivey!” exclaimed the younger woman in obvious embarrassment.
She leaned in closer to him and pressed a delicate hand to his arm, squeezing it
gently, almost intimately. She cautioned in a lowered voice, “Don’t mind her;
she downs a few glasses of Chardonnay, and she suddenly turns into a total
lush!” “Who, me?” the older woman gaped and touched a hand to her chest in
faux offense. “Darling, I’m quite certain you’ve had far more wine than I
have!” …And bad decisions make for the best stories, thought the artist. They’ve also been known to provide a chance
statue. Maybe two. Bushwick made a motion with his hand, inviting them to come and take
a closer look. He went onto explain: “The models I used for this piece were blessed with remarkable looks.
When they’re this attractive to begin with, it makes my work that much easier
in the end.” As the older woman pressed against the velvet rope for a closer
look, Bushwick made a quick study of his own. She was quite attractive for her
age, which he presumed to be in her fifth decade, and she had this infectious grin
that further complemented the smile lines on her face. Her fiery red mane was swept
into an updo that highlighted the elegant curve of her neck, a few of its
ribbony tendrils were already beginning to escape its bounds and were curling
around a string of genuine pearls. Then his gaze drifted downward. And a good day to you. The woman also had a superb figure, both curvy and sturdy legged, (it
helped that the redhead’s pumps were doing amazing things for her thick calves).
The further she leant forward against the velvet rope, the more taught the
material of her dress pulled across her perfectly round bottom. An appreciative
smile tugged at his lips. Without warning, the woman suddenly teetered in her heels and pitched
forward; she quickly grasped one of the stanchions in an effort to retain her balance
while holding up her wine. “Mrs. Spivey!” her friend shouted. A quick-thinking Bushwick grabbed the woman by the hips, preventing
her from falling any further and completely over the barrier. The redhead eased herself back and relaxed within his strong grip. She looked up at him with her pale blue eyes and smiled
thankfully. “Finally, a man that knows how to handle a woman like me.” “Well, I’ve had some practice over the years.” “I’m sure.” The woman acknowledged with a wink. “…You can probably let
go of me now, dear.” “Oh, uh, sorry.” the creator apologized. He released his firm hold
on her hips, (albeit reluctantly), before extending a hand in greeting. “I’m Jerry,
by the way─ Gerald Bushwick, the featured artist." “I’m well aware of who you are, Mr. Bushwick; your reputation precedes
you.” The woman accepted his outstretched hand in greeting. “Gloria Spivey, and
this is my personal assistant: Ms. Andi Dupré.” Bushwick turned to greet the younger of the two women, who appeared
to be in her mid-twenties. “It’s truly a pleasure,” complemented the artist. The brunette looked up at the man with her rich-brown bedroom eyes,
and Jerry nearly forgot that he was more than twice her age. She offered her
hand and flashed her pearly whites, before purring, “The pleasure’s all mine,
Mr. Bushwick.” As the artist struggled to keep eye contact, he could tell from the
lower edges of his peripheral vision that the young lady was as well put
together as she was strikingly beautiful. At 5′ 7″, Andi was
slightly taller than her boss, but equally well-endowed. Her trendy attire
consisted of a stretchy jumpsuit in sable black, which featured a halter neckline
and a plunging front cutout that offered a teasing glimpse of her firm and unrestricted
breasts. Gold bangles, matching hoop earrings, strappy heels, and the
aforementioned wide-brimmed hat completed the striking ensemble. The eye-catching brunette never lost eye contact as she threw back
the rest of her wine. She finished just in time to place the empty glass on the
tray of a passing waitress. Closing her eyes, she let the wine settle in her
stomach and warm her. When she reopened her eyes, she found the artist staring
at the daring cutout of her jumpsuit. “Like what you see?” “Uh, well, who wouldn’t? ─Heh!” Andi gave him a knowing look and then smiled pleasantly. “She’s
right you know; your work shows a strong appreciation of the female form.” “Well thank you, Ms. Dupré. But my appreciation goes much deeper
than the good genes of an artist’s model who’s merely posing for money. And I
don’t just sculpt anyone random; each of my models are specially handpicked. I
tend to have a deeper, much more personal connection with all of my subjects.
That’s why each of my works hold a fascinating psychological element as well.” Feeling a bit upstaged, Gloria inserted herself between Bushwick and
her assistant to teasingly pick at an unseen piece of lint on the artist’s
jacket. She readjusted his lapels with a domestic proficiency and then smoothed
them out with the palms of her hands (copping a feel of his chest in the process).
Her cool, blue eyes flicked up at him, glinting with adoration. “So, tell me, Mr. Bushwick; what are the criteria
for being one of your models?” Andi expelled a dismissive little snort behind her. Gloria’s eyes narrowed in annoyance. “…I’m waiting, Jerry.” “Well, good looks and a personal connection are certainly part of
it. I also have to consider who my target audience is and what type of story I
intend to tell.” In the background, a waiter had stopped to offer another
complimentary glass of wine, which Andi eagerly accepted. She put her head back
and guzzled it down like a sailor on shore leave. Bushwick raised his brows skeptically. Gloria snapped her fingers in his face as if he were her disobedient
lapdog. “Eyes over here, Jerry.” The artist’s furrowed a brow, this time in irritation. It was becoming
readily apparent that there was some sort of underlying conflict brewing
between the two. Granted: it wasn’t completely out of the ordinary to draw the
attention of one of his adoring and impressionable young students, but to have
two mature (not to mention incredibly attractive) adults vying for his
attention ─ at the same time? Who was he to question their motives. And never look a gift horse in the mouth. Gloria cleared her throat and broke his reverie. “It really amazes me what these young girls get away with these days:
belly-baring crop tops, exposed bras, and yoga pants so tight you can see their
lady bits… Oh to be that young and brazen again!” “But you are young,” the artist protested tactfully, “and you’re
still very attractive.” “Thank you kindly, dear.” Gloria replied with a theatrical flutter
of her thick lashes. Andi merely rolled her pretty eyes behind her. What her boss asked next was a bit surprising: “Are you happily married, Mr. Bushwick?” “You’d have to ask my special lady friend; she makes those
decisions.” “How dull.” “Mrs. Spivey!” Andi intruded. “You’re married! What would the
senator think?” “Oh, fiddlesticks! That fuddy-duddy hasn’t touched me in years!” the
woman scoffed. “He’s got his ready-made whores; why can’t I have a little fun
of my own?” Andi’s eyes immediately narrowed, and she gave the older woman a
steamed look. She dove into her Gucci handbag and retrieved a pack of
cigarettes. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Bushwick, I need to step outside and get some
fresh air!” “Sure, knock yourself out…” He watched as the woman stalked off toward
the fire escape, her tight little behind flexing back and forth within the snug
confines of her designer jumpsuit. “That little tart needs to lighten up,” Gloria tutted beside him. “Life
is far too short to have to walk around being an uptight bitch.” The artist merely smiled. “Well, it’s nice to see a shining example
of employee relations in a social setting.” “Please, sir; if it were up to me, that hussy would’ve been fired
the first time she gave me a dirty look. It’s fairly obvious why my husband keeps
her around…” My filthy mind can only imagine. “So, back to my question, Mr. Bushwick… The criteria for being one of your models?” Before the artist could even answer, Gloria did a saucy little
pirouette for him and asked, “What do you think? Will this do?” The woman began voguing and striking different poses for his
consideration: the flirty glance over the shoulder, the finger on the pouty lip,
the gravity defying forward lean. Pose and hold, pose and hold. One after
another. But it was the typical mannequin pose with her fingers gracefully fanned-out
on one hand, and the other braced behind her neck ─ all while sucking her
tummy in ─ that elicited a wolf whistle from the artist… “It would appear that you have had some prior experience at this.” For a long moment, Gloria stood unmoving, her bright eyes vacantly staring
off at an unseen point in the distance. Graceful. Poised. It wasn’t until the
artist stated “Very impressive” that the woman (who remained frozen despite the
interruption) went on to confess, “I was an artist model in a former life. Graduated
from the Marjorie School of Dance, was runner-up for Miss New York, went on to perform
as a showgirl at the Dunes in Vegas.” “No, I did not know that… From the looks of it, I’d say you were
pretty good!” Gloria finally broke out of her trance-like state, but only so she
could change positions. Placing both hands on her hips, she drew her shoulders
back, thrust her chest out, and placed all of her upper bodyweight on one foot.
It was a classic pageant pose that the artist was more than familiar with. “Are you kidding’ me? With these million-dollar legs, I was the hottest
thing in heels, baby!” She thawed again, this time to perform a quick tap dance number to
stress the fact. “I’m sure. You still look like you could reel them in off the
strip.” “Aw, thank you, sir.” Gloria said with a giggle. “You’re so sweet!” The woman leaned in, cupped her long, delicate fingers around his
bearded chin, and placed a gentle kiss on his cheek. The artist got a brief whiff
of her flowery scent before she slowly backed away… Oh boy. Bushwick shook off the surreal moment with a gruff clearing of his
throat. “So, what happened?” All of the woman’s joy seemed to drain right out of her. “What happened? Well, I’ll tell you what happened; I became Mrs.
Elliot Spivey! The glamorous life as I knew it was over, and my world turned completely
boring. I can play a lot of rolls, Jerry, but I’m not
some trophy wife to be set in the corner.” The artist had to grit his teeth at that one. It was at that moment that the artist’s flip phone rang. He quickly
retrieved it from the pocket of his blazer, opened the clamshell cover, and then
looked at the screen. Hmm. How ironic… “You’ll have to excuse me for just a moment, Mrs. Spivey.” “By all means, dear...” Bushwick walked far enough away to a point where he could keep an
eye on his supporter without her overhearing his conversation. He held his
phone up to his ear… “Yeah?” The voice on the other end announced, “Jer, this is Elliott.” “Yeah, I know. What’s up?” “I gave her the tickets, is she there yet?” Bushwick glanced over to where the woman in question was inspecting
one of the porcelain statues – from behind the velvet rope. He raised a
hand and waved, “Hey, ma’am, you’re not…” Dang-it-all! “─I beg your pardon?” “Yeah, yeah, of course she is. But there’s some other woman with
her.” “What other woman?” “Some hot brunette named Andi. Claims she’s your wife’s assistant.” “WHAT?! ─ Andi Dupré is there? …And
my wife is there with her?” “Yeah man, your wife actually introduced us. You’re a lucky guy, by
the way… Your old lady is pretty far out. Very free-spirited.” “You numbskull! …Andi Dupré is my mistress!” “Yeah, well, that would probably explain the bad vibes between those
two.” “I’m telling you, Jerry; she’s a conniving little bitch. I think
she’s setting me up for something!” Bushwick glanced over in Gloria’s direction and raised a bushy
eyebrow in surprise. The woman was running an appreciative hand over one of the
statues glossy thighs. “Uh, listen man; I gotta get back to the exhibition.” “Don’t you dare hang up on me, Jerry! If you mess this up, I’ll have
your ass, you pot smoking degenerate! Do you hear me? I’ll bury your ass so
deep in the system, you’ll─” “Yeah, yeah. Give my regards to the state assembly,” Bushwick
replied as he absently flipped the cover shut. The artist turned his phone completely off before slipping it back
inside his pocket. He spent some time studying Gloria from afar, and after a
while, he felt like a voyeur observing her doing something private through her bedroom
curtains. He finally began to walk towards the woman, being mindful not to
interrupt her curious exploration and allowing her to enjoy the moment… Gloria was blinded by pure want. She had progressed to the statue’s
breast, brushing the tips of her long fingers over the slippery-smooth
porcelain and appreciating its rounded contours. Biting her lower lip, she
pinched a hardened nipple as if she were trying to stimulate the statue even
further than it already was. “What on earth?!” It was Andi returning from her smoke break. Gloria swiftly recoiled and averted her gaze from her impromptu
lover. She looked like a kid that was caught with its hand in the cookie jar. Her assistant raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms over her chest
in a concerned gesture. Bushwick had a knowing smirk on his face and didn’t say a word. Gloria quickly averted the situation. “Is everything alright, Mr.
Bushwick?” “Um, yes. It was actually a customer inquiring about a piece that
he’s having commissioned.” “I see. Will it be another nude?” “I suppose they’ll both be naked, eventually.” “Ooh, a coupling! Sounds kinky!” Andi gritted her teeth and shot her boss a look. “Well guess what, Mr. Bushwick.” “Mm?” “I’ve decided I want to commission a sculpture of myself, just to
have in my bedroom. Like a full-body, Grecian goddess statue of myself. That
way, when my husband is banging one of his whores, she’ll be looking at me in
the process.” “Mm, okay.” Andi shook her head and rolled her eyes in exasperation. Gloria cupped her raised hand as if she were about to reveal a
secret that could only pass between the two of them. She whispered, “With a
little luck, maybe he’ll be inspired to get frisky with me!” “Yes, well, wouldn’t that be something.” And with that, Gloria clapped her hands at her waiting assistant.
“Come on, Andi. We have to go pick out a spot for my statue.” Sensing a missed opportunity, Bushwick found his voice. “Hey, I’d really like to show you my studio sometime, maybe give you
a sense of how my creations are born. There’s far more than what you see here. If
you’re interested, that is. What do you think?” “I’m definitely interested!” Gloria replied, her heart racing. “How
about right now?" “Well, if you’d like to, then yes.” “Besides...” Gloria’s voice had dropped lower, the tone rougher,
smokier. She leaned up against him. “I suspect your talents extend beyond just sculpting.” Bushwick felt the crush of her bountiful breasts against him; experienced
the stirrings of unrequited need as the heat arose in his cheeks. Gloria’s hand
had found its way underneath his blazer, her fingers gently tracing his side. “My studio has excellent lighting,” the artist managed. “It’s perfect
for studying intimate details.” “I’ve always appreciated...” Gloria paused, her fingertips snaking
around to lightly trace the artist’s beltline, “…the finer details.” “I think I'll go too!” Andi interjected. “I’d like to see where all
this magic happens.” Gloria shot her assistant a look of contempt over her shoulder. “Things are getting a little stale around here anyway,” the artist
supposed while looking around. “We’ll all go back to my studio, maybe discuss
what pose I will use over a nightcap…” “That sounds like a great idea,” Andi confirmed. Gloria made a face and grumbled something about three being a crowd
under her breath. She went on to command: “Let’s go, Andi!” As the trio made their exit, another group of onlookers approached Bushwick’s
work. They all looked strait-laced and snobbish, but even their Brahmin disdain
couldn’t ruin his mood now. The evening was shaping up to be a memorable one,
and the artist was already preoccupied with his latest subjects and how they
might be posed in the coming hours… * * * * Trinity, the all-female floor, basement level of Robinson Hall, 2 days
before the Fraternal Order dinner. Miley Hallowell struggled to crack an eye open, her pretty little head
pounding from the wild night before. Despite her blurry vision, she could see daylight
filtering through the blinds of her dorm room. Said eye flicked over to the
alarm clock on her nightstand. Holy shit! Three in the afternoon already? Fuck me! Her eye slammed shut and she moaned in irritation. After a long moment of questioning her life choices, the freshman
tried to raise her head up from her pillow, but the constant throbbing was too
much to bear. It almost felt like she’d been drugged. Or had a massive hangover.
Or both. It was hard to tell, but her head was splitting and every part of her being
felt like it was weighed down with lead. Miley attempted to stretch out in the bed, but it felt like she was pinned
to the mattress. It was only then that she realized that someone was right beside
her, their arm possessively curled around her abdomen. Whoever it was, their erect
penis was pressed up against the crack of her bare ass. What did I get myself into now? She hesitated for a long second. Then, and with much reluctance, she
rolled over in the opposite direction. Oh god, no. Anyone but him. A boy smiled back cheerfully from the other side of her bed. “Mornin’,
sunshine.” Milley sighed in reply. His smile slowly morphed into a frown. “Are you alright?” “Not really,” she croaked. The guy lying next to her was Ian Hardwick. He was a very capable
student, an overachieving preppy-type who often got his way… even when it came
to disinclined lovers. It was rumored that he did special “favors” for the
corrupt administration and that they, in return, looked the other way when it
came to his questionable conduct. Whether you call it white privilege or systemic
bias; everyone knew Ian was untouchable. She should have known he would try and worm his way into her bed
last night. He’d tracked her down at the bonfire and then followed her and her
friends to the bar, even buying them a few rounds. It wasn’t very hard to find
out where she went afterwards; he was the Residence Hall Director at Robinson
Hall. He had as much access to her personal information as the college did.
Maybe more. “What happened last night?” “You mean you don’t remember?” “Maybe it’s best if I don’t.” “You said the campus was creepy when it’s this empty, and that you
didn’t want to stay in your room all alone.” “I did?” “M-hm.” It was true: the campus was a ghost town with nearly everyone having
left for spring break. But there was no way in hell she could ever be that
lonely or scared. A shoulder to cry on was one thing, but to lay the guy that
was more of a nuisance than a friend wasn’t likely. Shit. Was I really that drunk? Could I have been that desperate? Regardless of what may or may not have happened, she wanted him out
of there. ASAP. “Look, I have to get up and take a much-needed shower. Then I have
to pack my things, call an Uber, and then catch the 6:15 Greyhound for Tennessee.” “Right.” “Sooo… if you need to use the bathroom or something before you leave,
now’s the time to do it.” “Nah, I’m good.” It was beginning to appear that Ian was in no hurry to leave. “Alright dude, I’m going in there to take my shower. When I come out,
I want you gone. Got it?” “Whatever.” Dammit. Miley expelled a deep breath in exasperation. The coed yanked the
covers off and got up from the bed, revealing her naked backside to him. She angrily
stalked into the bathroom, being sure to slam the door and lock it. “The nerve of that prick,” she complained
in a lowered voice. “He better be gone when I’m done!” The drowsy brunette looked at herself in the mirror and cringed at
what she saw. Her eyes were bleary red, her hair a straggly mess, and her
makeup was smeared. “Well one thing’s for certain; you look like shit,” she
told her reflection. Miley popped a couple of aspirin and washed them down with a cup of
water. When she leant forward to draw the shower curtain back and turn on the
water, she felt a little lightheaded. This wasn’t normal. This was nowhere near
the realm of normal. She shook her head, trying to clear away the cobwebs. Yeah,
like that might work. She took a few deep breaths, trying to push down the
nausea. This wasn’t just a hangover; she was feeling physically exhausted. These
last few weeks had also been emotionally draining: the stress of upcoming
finals, the counseling from those recurring nightmares that were causing her so
many sleepless nights. The one’s where she was posed naked in front of a classroom
full of strangers, unable to move a muscle... Dr. Connie Patrilla, the campus psychiatrist, had given her some meds
to take, but they made her pretty loopy. Milley stepped underneath the showerhead and let the powerful stream
hit her body. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, enjoying how the
hot water made her skin tingle and awakened her senses. As the
eighteen-year-old lathered herself up, she was hopeful to forget about last
night. It would be nice to leave this shitty town behind for a while and visit
some old friends back home… On the other side of the bathroom door stood a naked Ian Hardwick.
The boy had come prepared (albeit with specific instructions from his
superiors). He went through a mental checklist to make sure he had everything
he would need: a burner phone, the protective welding goggles perched on top of
his head, and the most important tool of all; the special camera they’d given
him; the one that induced a temporary state of suspended animation in its
intended target. He wasn’t exactly sure how the thing worked, something about
molecular immobilization. But he could’ve cared less about the scientific
aspect; he just knew that it did its job. He’d already seen the direct results
on a few of their “acquisitions” as they were often called. He also recalled
the Dean’s stern warning: “You break that camera, it’s your ass! Got it? You’ll
be the one getting the doll treatment!” He had no intentions of becoming another one of their frozen
playthings. The R.D. was proud of how he was able to manipulate the troubled girl,
how he’d insinuated that he actually cared about her. In just a few short
weeks, he’d managed to gain her trust, learnt of her recent nightmares and the
subsequent visits to the campus psychologist, Dr. Connie Patrilla. But Ian had
his own secret; a hidden dark side that would be instrumental in carrying out
the evening’s plans. It started the night before, when he’d followed the coed and her
friends from the bonfire to the local bar; he bought them a few rounds and
managed to spike Miley’s drink. He patiently waited for her friends to drop her
off at the dorm and then let himself in with his key, (R.A.s were issued a
master key to all the dorm rooms in their respective quads in the event of a
medical emergency or fire). As the Residence Hall Director, Ian had sole access
to the locked cabinet that held duplicates of all of the keys. Great responsibility comes with certain privileges. Ian reflected back on how he raised Miley’s eyelids with his thumbs,
how her pupils were rolled up and glassy. How limp she felt as he lifted her up
and moved her to the other side of the mattress. How her head lolled from side
to side as he carefully undressed her. The poor thing was completely out of it.
It would’ve been so easy to take full advantage while she lay there like a log… But this assignment wasn’t about having unprotected sex with some
hot coed. It was about honoring the legacy of the Pygmalion’s. More
importantly, it was about proving his worth to his fraternal brothers, and
(hopefully) advancing up a rung or two on the hierarchical ladder. No, the sex would come later. If not with Miley, then perhaps with
one of the other contenders they’d salted away over the last few weeks. The
candidates for Miss Pygmalion. Oh, he’d seen them down in the secret storage room one night; the
night he’d decided to go snooping around down in the maze of catacombs beneath
campus. It was quite a sight to see; all the targets they’d carefully selected
(some he’d even helped to acquire), standing there in evenly spaced rows, some
still wearing their street clothes, others already redressed in their skimpy
bandeaus. The ones they’d never know they’d even worn. But then Vladimir, the creepy janitor’s head popped up. Ian snuck
away in fear of catching the blame. When he returned hours later for a better
look, the light was off and the door was locked again. The boy felt his luck was about to improve. Alright, alright, stay focused! Ian reminded
himself. He glanced over to his right, where he happened to notice his naked reflection
in a full-length mirror. The boy looked himself up and down and winked in
approval. “Lookin’ good, stud.” No shortage of vanity here. Ian gently inserted the master key into the lock. He slowly turned
the knob and pushed the bathroom door open… That’s when his eyes widened in surprise. Despite all the heat and moisture in the steamy room, he could still
make out Miley’s naked silhouette behind the clear shower curtain. She was
running a soapy washcloth all over her body, taking extra care to clean
underneath her armpits and down into every crack and crevice in between her
legs. A creepy smirk curled the R.D.’s lips as he briefly thought of drawing
back the curtain and joining her. But then his breath suddenly caught in his throat. Miley had turned
around inside the shower; she was now facing him, literally two feet away, with
nothing but a thin sheet of PVC separating them! Luckily, her eyes were closed as she was rinsing the shampoo from
her hair. Steeling his resolve, Ian continued on with his assignment. You’ve
come way too far to turn back now, he thought as he pulled his protective
goggles down over his eyes. The boy removed the lens cover, and with one hand,
raised the special camera… With his heart hammering away at his chest, he activated the camera
and hoped Miley wouldn’t notice the eerie winding sound it emitted as it
powered itself up. Phoo! …Here goes. With determination tightening his jaw, and with one swift flourish
of his hand, Ian yanked the shower curtain back. Miley reacted with a sharp
intake of breath and her eyes shot wide in alarm. The poor thing barely got the
chance to cover her nakedness when─ CHOOF! A brilliant flash illuminated the entire bathroom, briefly shielding
the startled coed from sight. For just a split-second, she felt the strange
power flow through her entire body as a fleeting thought flitted across her
mind: Why m─ Then she didn’t think or feel anything at all. Ian watched with growing anticipation. After the initial flash, the
intensity of the light began to diminish, and Miley looked like a negative of a
photograph, where the colors are reversed, and dark is light, and light is
dark. Within ten seconds, the bluish-green radiance slowly dissipated from
around the coed’s form. The poor thing stared out from the shower stall just as
she was a minute prior, with the left arm crossed over her chest, the right
still reaching downward as if to cover her womanhood. Her jaw was slack, while
her expression still held a mix of confusion and outright shock. Like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck. Ian cautiously lowered the camera, and a sly grin slowly crept
across his gawking mug. Eager to inspect his work, he quickly removed the
goggles and set them and the camera down on the bathroom vanity, where they’d
be well out of harm’s way. He returned to the shower, reached around Miley’s immobilized form,
and casually turned off the water. When Ian straightened, he was nearly face to face with Miley’s fixed
gaze. Her eyes seemed to bore right into him, almost accusingly. But as he
waived a hand in front of the coed’s staring face, she gave no indication that
she was aware of his presence. This was both perplexing and disturbing, as she
was alive, yet she wasn’t breathing, and she certainly wasn’t blinking. “Fuckin’ A.” For good measure, the RD poked the student squarely in the chest;
the poor thing wobbled precariously in place as if she might tip over.
Instinctively, he reached out and grabbed the girl’s arms, steadying her back
in place… After a moment, Ian’s eyes dipped down to where Miley’s arm was
shielding her breasts; each one was squished flat between her forearm and chest
plate. A little further below, her right hand cast a shadow over her freshly
waxed cleft. “Come on now, there’s no need to be shy.” The boy chatted with the
coed’s static form as if she were somehow able to hear. “I’ll show you mine, if
you’ll show me yours.” That’s when Ian got to work. Like a child posing their doll, he
manipulated Miley’s limbs, carefully moving her left arm out and away from her
chest like a hinge. He then moved onto the right one, drawing it away from her
torso and leaving it to hang off to her side. Ian took a step back. He cocked his head toward his shoulder and
then studied the student’s pose. With her one arm bent at the elbow and reaching out, and the other
hovering out from her side and crooked at the elbow, Miley looked like an influencer
who froze in place while doing the robot. Only naked. And to think that less than fifteen minutes prior, the coed was all
wrapped up in the warmth of her bedsheets, peacefully sleeping off a bad
hangover (albeit a hangover he’d been partially responsible for). Ian was staring shamelessly at Miley’s body. Her breasts were
smallish, yet pert and perfectly sized for her 5’ 4”, 106-pound frame. Each was
tipped with a rosy nipple that seemed to beg for attention. She had a narrow
waist that matched her flat and toned stomach, while a gold ring glinted in her
navel. The coed’s lightly tanned skin was adorned with a smattering of freckles
that only added to her natural beauty. And she could be all his if he played his cards right. Ian brushed a hand over her bare shoulder, traced her clavicle bone
with the tips of his fingers. He moved further down, to where Miley’s breasts
jutted out from her body so invitingly. He gave each nipple an appreciative
kiss, was pleased to feel them harden against his lips. At that moment, the boy
silently willed her to move or speak. To maybe tremble in place and say, Ooh,
that feels good. But in reality, he knew she wouldn’t – make that couldn't
- speak a single word. Just then, Ian’s phone began to vibrate, breaking the intimate
silence between the two… “Shit!” The RD quickly ran into the bedroom, his semi-erect member gleefully
bobbing around with every step. “Yeah.” “Yeah? What do you mean, yeah? …You were supposed to call me with an
update! What in the hell is going on over there?” “The target has been neutralized, sir.” “Oh, good, very good. So, everything went smoothly, then?” “I caught her in the shower, sir.” “Even better; I like catching them in the shower. Makes it that much
easier to wash away the─ Wait a minute! Please tell me you didn’t get
that fucking camera wet!” “No, sir. The camera is over there on the bathroom counter. She’s
still frozen inside the shower.” Indeed, Miley remained stick-still in the distant background,
unaware that she was the focus of the conversation (much less her fully exposed
state). “Nice, very nice. So, what I need you to do is towel her off right
quick. Then you’ll have to fold her arms and legs up in order to fit her inside
the suitcase…” “Um, there’s one minor problem, sir. I’m afraid I forgot to bring
the suitcase.” “You what?!” “I’m sorry, sir; it was an awful lot to remember.” “Dammit, Ian!” the caller fumed. “We SPECIFICALLY instructed
you: burner phone; disposable gloves; welding goggles; the camera, and a
rolling suitcase large enough to fit a body in!” “I suppose I could look around her room, sir. Afterall, she was
getting ready to leave campus for the break.” “Would you mind?” ─You bumbling clod! “Not at all, sir.” Ian dropped his phone on the bed and then wandered around the room
looking for a suitcase …or something suitable enough for removing a body. After
some frantic digging, he found a rolling suitcase buried beneath a mountain of
dirty clothes in the back corner of the closet. Ian returned to his phone a
moment later. “Okay,” the boy panted, “I found one. Got wheels on it too. Might be
a tight fit though.” “Wonderful. Now I’m not on campus at the moment, but I can be there
in say… an hour or so. That gives you plenty of time to pack her up and cover
your tracks. Be ready when I get there, and I’ll back the van right up into the
student loading area.” The pair couldn’t resist sharing a derisive chuckle at the irony in
that one. “Sounds good, sir.” “Oh, and Ian; try not to leave a big mess behind.” “Sir?” “You know what? …Oh, never mind.” “I’ll see you then, sir.” Ian hung up his phone and set it off to the side. He unzipped the
suitcase, studied the interior dimensions for a moment, and then glanced over
to where Miley stood. Man, I sure hope you’re flexible. Ian returned to the scene of the crime, rubbing his hands together
as if his evil little plan was rolling out perfectly. Even as he approached,
Miley’s glassy eyes remained locked on the spot where he’d once been standing
before he’d suspended her with the flash unit. Once again, he let his eyes roam
all over her nubile body: the small bumps around her areola, her deep oblong
belly button, the way her silky thighs curved gently outward from her hairless
apex. He couldn’t help but feel as if he were staring at something precious and
forbidden. Seeing her frozen like this, so fully exposed and unable to
react─ was really turning him on; his throbbing blood-filled member was
obvious proof. Ian bladed his hand, and making a sawing motioning, ran it back and forth
within the gap of Milley’s thighs. He marveled at the way her rubbery lips
rolled back and forth with each movement. He decided to take their one-sided
dalliance one step further by extending his middle finger and carefully
inserting it. The RD’s eyes lidded at the tight, velvety warmth of Miley’s core.
And when he reopened them, he studied her face with a devious smile. The coed
didn’t resist him at all, and in fact, seemed to “invite him in” with ease. Ian’s eyes flicked over to Miley’s left hand, which was still
semi-cupped from when she was attempting to cover herself. To him, it looked
like an open invitation… He made a mental note of the close proximity to his
engorged and leaky cock, and then his eyes flicked over to a bottle of shower
gel on the shelf. Well, well; how convenient. Ian reached out and grasped Miley’s hand by the wrist; he turned it
upright and proceeded to squeeze a sizable glob of gel in her cupped palm. The
RD braced the coed by the shoulder as he extended her arm and guided her hand
to his excited member. He gently placed his hand over hers and enclosed her
pliant fingers around the girth of his penis… “Atta girl,” he commented, “I thought you’d eventually see things my
way.” Ian methodically worked her hand back and forth with gentle strokes.
An evil smirk spread across his face. “I’m really enjoying this, how ‘bout
you?” Miley didn’t respond, of course. She was preoccupied with stroking
his dick, which had grown to seven inches in length. She just stared ahead with
that glazed look in her eyes. Ian was staring directly into said eyes, trying to perceive a spark
of awareness in them… Just the slightest bit of brightness. It was a wasted
effort. Miley’s eyes were still hazel colored, but they were no longer hers. He
didn’t know where the coed went to, but she wasn’t right there in the room with
him, jerking him off. At Ian’s prompting, Miley picked up the pace… The coed didn’t complain. A trembling sensation ran through Ian’s body, and those warm pulses
of euphoria intensified. He was moving Miley’s hand at a frenzied pace now,
thrusting his ass in the opposite direction to further enhance the friction. The boy buried his face in the crook of her neck, his hot breath
against her bare shoulder, a strand of drool spiraling downward to attach
itself to her breast. Miley remained still for him throughout the entire
ordeal. She didn’t have a choice. Ian knew her slippery palm was more than enough to make him weak in
the knees, to reduce him to a squirming mess, but a mere hand job wouldn’t
cover the trouble he’d gone through to get to this point. He needed
penetration, to be buried deep in that damp silky sheath between Miley’s
legs... “Come on, girl.” the boy instructed as he leaned forward and wrapped
his arms around the firm curves of her ass. “Up you go.” Ian hoisted Miley up from the shower floor and tilted her forward
against his shoulder. The coed assisted in the transition, releasing her hold
on him at the last moment, yet retaining her robotic pose. Ian waddled into the bedroom and carelessly tossed Miley on the bed;
she landed on the mattress with a forceful bounce. Unable to wait a second
longer, he yanked her legs apart and bent them upward at the knees. “You might belong to the Fraternal Order soon, but for the next
twenty minutes or so, you’re all mine,” Ian growled, his voice dripping with
possession. The boy shuddered as he pressed into her, emitted a low groan as he
felt her wet constricting warmth surround him. He pulled her unresisting arms
down around his back as if imploring her to hold on. Ian reached up, grasping
onto her shoulders, and then he began to thrust his hips… With every passionate heave, Miley’s head lolled around on her neck
like a bobblehead. Eventually her face would turn more toward her shoulder, but
Ian would force it back so that she was looking right at him. Or rather through him. The coed seemed far more interested in
the trowel patterns on the ceiling above them than looking into his eyes. Ian picked up the pace as he repeatedly drove into her. The bedframe
began creaking in protest beneath them, while their naked bodies slapped
together in a steady rhythm, creating a clap-clap-clap sound of their own. Poor Miley lay there beneath him on the mattress, her nipples
standing up like reddish-pink corks, her pert little tits nearly pancaked and
shifting back and forth on her chest. Before long, Ian’s hands dropped down to her hips, where he was able
to steer and guide her every motion, his own hips thrusting away at a frenzied
pace as he raced toward his inevitable climax. Miley was merely along for the
ride now, nothing but a receptacle to be used, like his own personal play toy…
A living sex doll. Suddenly, the boy threw his head back; his body tensed as he
dramatically cried out, “Oh shit! Uh, I… I’m gonna—” But Ian’s desperate words were cut short by a strangled groan, his
climax hitting him like a rogue wave. His back arched, and his ass cheeks
flexed with each powerful thrust, as he shot load after load into Miley’s
accommodating depths. Their rhythm soon changed, and the clap-clap-clapping
sound morphed into a squelching noise created by the suction of the coed’s
tight, but oversaturated pussy. After one final plunge, Ian’s body shuddered and a gasp in finality
escaped from his lips. The boy pitched forward and collapsed in a heap on top
of Miley, panting hard against her exposed neck. They lay together like that
for nearly a minute as his spent member continued to spasm and twitch inside
her. Once he regained his breath, he glanced over at the alarm clock on the
nightstand… Shit, I’ve still got twenty-five minutes. He looked down at Miley, who was still gazing sightlessly at the
stucco ceiling. Ian made an odd clicking sound with his tongue, as if considering
his options. “Fuck it, you only live once, right?” Miley continued to stare, apparently undecided. “─Rrrriight.” As Ian pulled out of Miley, tiny threads of ejaculate stretched the
distance from the coed’s pussy to the tip of his penis. Even more seeped out of
her opening and down into her ass crack. “Well, that’s bound to happen.” He said matter-of-factly. Using both hands, Ian clutched Miley by her slender hips and rolled
her completely over so that she lay face down on the mattress. Since she was
already bent at the waist, he reached for her pillows and strategically propped
her butt up so he could easily adjust her height. “Goddamn, just look at that!” Ian grabbed hold of Miley’s precious little ass and squeezed it so
hard that he left fingerprints on her fleshy cheeks. Using his thumbs, he then
spread them apart, revealing her pussy and anus at the same time. “Ooh, and what do we have here?” His mouth slowly turned up into a sinister smirk. Ian leaned over her shoulder, and in a lowered voice, he asked,
“Have you ever taken it from behind before? …No? …Not ever?” Took the girl’s silence was as a draught of a bitter chalice. The
girl’s silence was laden with unspoken questions. “Hey, no need for judgment here.” Miley’s pretty face was half-buried in the mattress, the tip of her
nose pressed to the side, her staring eyes and gaping mouth only partially visible
from his higher viewpoint. “In that case; ready when you are, girl.” Ian tilted his hips up and dragged the tip of his member through
Miley’s slick folds, gathering moisture on the tip of his cock before lining it
up with her hole. Miley gave no reaction as the head slowly pressed into her. For the second time in less than an hour. “God, you’re amazing,” Sam hissed in her ear, pawing her ass at the
same time. As Ian began to thrust his hips back and forth, he briefly thought
of the consequences of what he was doing. Sure, there was business to be done.
If he was ever going to get ahead in life, he couldn’t submit to his devious
desires. But it would be worth it. At least to him, anyway. Some twenty-five-minutes later. Ian Hardwick was tapping away on his phone, turning it this way and
that, as he captured Miley’s nakedness from every immoral angle. The coed’s
latest pose had her head hanging upside-down over the end of the bed, her brown
hair fanned out like a waterfall, her trim body laid out like some sort of
perverse offering to a pagan god. The upward positioning did little for her
smallish breasts, which had settled into a broader, much lower profile to the
sides of her chest, her rosy nipples pointed excitedly toward the heavens.
However, it did draw further attention to her narrow waist and the sharp sweep
of her hips. Her slender, shapely legs were slightly parted, her feet angled
outward from each other, the tips of the pretty little toes painted a bright
pink. Ian’s semen had already dried and created a glue-like sheen on parts
of Miley’s body. The musky scent of recent sex (mostly on his behalf) hung
heavy in the air. A sudden knock on the door interrupted the impromptu photoshoot. The
RD’s heart skipped a beat, and his head snapped toward Miley’s alarm clock, the
expression on his face more annoyed than surprised. “Oh shit! He’s already here?” Ian went from enjoying frozen pleasure to full panic mode in an
instant. “Uh, just a minute!” The boy dropped his phone on the bed and hopped off the mattress.
His flaccid pecker flopped around in between his legs, as he frantically
searched for his clothes. On the floor. Underneath the bed. Everywhere. A second knock, this one more urgent. “Ian? You in there?” Shit, shit, shit! The boy danced in placed as he struggled to aim one foot through a
leg hole of his bikini briefs. “Be right there!” he assured hoarsely. A third knock: loud, sharp, deliberate. “Open the damned door, Ian!” The boy looked over to where Miley lay limp on the bed. The coed’s eyes
stared vacantly from her upside-down point of view, her neck arched back like a
drawn bow, her luscious lips still forming the convenient O-shape that he’d molded
them in. He’d been posing her in lewd positions for the last ten minutes or so
and lost track of time. Receiving head without a gag reflex could have that
effect on a guy. More pounding on the door, this time so hard and violent, it seemed
as if it would fly right off the hinges. The voice spoke in a low growl, their
words hushed, yet urgent. “Listen, you little shit; if you don’t open this fucking door, I’ll
have two bodies to dispose of! Got it?” Ian wished that he could’ve spent another ten minutes with Miley. Hell,
make it another hour or two; there’s nowhere she has to be now. After drawing
in a long shuddering breath, he forced himself to reach for the knob and pulled
the door open. Albert Walker was standing on the other side looking more than a little
irritated. One of the university’s equipment vans was left idling in the
background some twenty feet behind him, the rear doors opened wide and waiting
to accept their frozen cargo. The coach’s doubtful eyes darted around the room beyond Ian’s shoulder. “Everything alright in there?” Walker asked before his eyes flicked
down to the boy’s groin area, where an obvious boner was tenting his
underwear. “Uh, yeah, sure.” Ian answered, summoning up a smile with some
difficulty. At least it was until you came along. “Why are you undressed?” “Um, well, I kind of slipped up and─” The coach cut the boy off as he pushed him aside and charged into
the room. He threw his hands up in frustration once he saw Miley on the bed. He
slowly turned around, a look of disgust forming on his weathered features. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” “Look, I don’t want to lie to you, okay? But she was standing there
all naked and frozen in the shower, and my urges got the best of me. Some weird
shit definitely happened, and I’m sorry about that. But I’ve been tracking that
girl all over campus for an entire semester now, and she was driving me crazy.
I just had to have her… Besides, it’s not like she’ll ever know.” Coach Walker was entirely aware of those urges; he’d been giving
into them for several decades, but he wasn’t about to tell Ian that. “Come on,” the boy pleaded. “Just give me a few minutes, and I’ll
clean her up like new.” “We don’t have time for that!” Walker fumed. “Now get dressed and
gather up your shit!” Walker grabbed the suitcase, carelessly dropped it on the floor at
the foot of the bed, and then swung the clamshell cover open. He straightened
in place and quickly calculated the coed’s dimensions inside his head: 5
feet 5 inches, 106 pounds soaking wet. The coach cast no more than an
evaluative glance at the girl; he had done this so many times over the years
that the days of seeing and handling a naked female weren’t quite as thrilling
as they used to be. For Albert, the chase was usually better than the catch. Walker leaned in toward Miley’s upside-down face, which continued to
stare blindly at the desk/ hutch combo across from the foot of her bed. Her odd
positioning wasn’t lost on him; the lips forming an inviting O, the craned
neck, the convenient height of the bed in relation to his waistline. The man
didn’t need a degree in Forensic Science to know what Ian had been doing prior
to opening the door; the evidence was in the form of the sticky trail of
ejaculate that had dribbled and dried from one corner of her opened mouth. “Well, hello there, sweetheart.” her captor whispered in a voice
dripping with ill-intent. “We meet once again. How unfortunate that you find
yourself in such a state. I sure hope you’re feeling limber today for your own
sake.” Walker couldn’t resist a derisive chuckle as he began to manipulate
Miley’s arms and legs, folding the poor thing up like a human origami. Now and
then a joint would make a popping noise, causing him to wince. It was a
fiendishly cruel, yet efficient procedure he’d become familiar with (and quite
good at) over the years. Anything for the cause. Even cold-hearted Ian grimaced at the sight as he sidled up beside
him. Miley lay on her side in a fetal position, her knees drawn up against her
chest, her pretty little head tucked against the cranny in between, as she
stared mutely at her squished breasts. Her own trim arms conveniently served as
bands to hold everything together in a neat little package. “Isn’t technology grand?” Walker said, nearly beaming. “Now grab the
other side and help me lower her down inside the case.” The narrow gap in between Miley’s inner thighs made for a convenient
handle for Ian’s left hand, his pinky coming to a rest against the rubbery
folds of her pussy. The right gripped her bare shoulder for added support. The
pair lifted her up from the mattress and carried her around the bed before
lowering her down into the suitcase. Walker handled all the final adjustments,
tucking and pressing her bits inside the tight confines. In afterthought, he
bladed his fingers and tucked her brown locks down in between her shoulders and
the rearward wall of the suitcase to avoid catching her hair in the zipper. After a moment, the coach straightened his back and looked down to
admire his work. “See; nothin’ to it, kiddo.” “Wouldn’t that hurt though, like, once she finally wakes up?” “Believe me, she won’t be feeling a thing once Bushwick collars
her.” Ian snorted at the thought. Miley Hallowell, frozen and available
─ at all times. The RD briefly pondered how he might get his hands on
one of those special collars. Could he buy one? Maybe earn one from the
brotherhood like some secret badge of merit? “I tell you what,” the coach spoke as he zipped up the suitcase, “a
gal like that’ll put lead in your pencil.” As Miley’s body was gradually sealed off from view, Ian couldn’t
help but wonder if he’d ever see her again. Walker raised the suitcase into an upright position, pressed a
release button, and then pulled the telescopic handle out to its fullest length.
“There you go,” said the coach, turning the handle over to his
underling. “Ready for transport to her new destination.” “Gee, thanks.” That’s when Walker placed a hand on Ian’s shoulder. “You do realize that this was a test, right?” “Yeah?” “Yes, a test to see how dedicated you are to the cause.” admitted
the coach. “Frankly, I’m surprised that you were able to pull this off. But
then, this was on a much smaller scale; I’ve collected four targets all at once
and at the same location.” “Wow. Four at once?” “That’s right, kid. So, stick with me and maybe you’ll get to that
level one day.” Ian wanted power, obviously. But he had to admit that the coach’s
ruthlessness was in a class of its own. “Alight, get ‘er loaded up so I can get the hell outta here.” Ian made his way across the concrete walkway, the suitcase bouncing
along behind him on its small wheels. When he reached the van, he lifted it up
and carelessly slid it across the floor as if it was the most natural thing to
do. He brushed his hands off as if he’d accomplished an important task, and
then slammed the rear doors closed. The coach watched his charge with a stoic appraisal, a smug smile
playing across his features. The young man had his own methods of getting
things done, and he would surely be an asset to the brotherhood. But it would
be he who would rise-up to a higher level within the fraternal
hierarchy, not Ian. He would personally see to it. * * * * Glendale campus, two days after the
Fraternal Order’s ceremonial dinner. Jack Claussen locked the doors on his 1963 Lincoln Continental.
Donning his vintage Ray-Bans, the professor began the long walk across the
grassy courtyard that would lead him to Galene Hall. Her four towers already
loomed in the distance, and Galene herself soon appeared through the gap in the
trees up ahead. It had been decades since he’d seen the aging structure, but
its remarkable design was just as he’d remembered it. Constructed in the early 1900’s, Galene shared its
collegiate gothic styling with other academic landmarks such as Blair Hall
(Princeton) and Brookings Hall (Washington University). All three buildings
featured massive arched gateways with four crenelated towers rising up from
their heights. For nearly a century, this majestic-looking structure housed
most of the University’s lecture halls and classrooms, as well as the art and
music departments. When Claussen finally reached the top of the three
levels of stone steps, he craned his neck back and regarded the enormity of the
octagonal embattlements. He imagined hooded watchmen peering out from the
squared openings; they’d lower their crossbows and take aim, ready to shoot any
unwelcome invaders. There wouldn’t be any flying arrows or launching of
catapults today. The professor was here to pay a visit to Gerald
Bushwick’s private studio and take a closer look at some of his handiwork. The
eccentric artist had assured him that the university’s finest artworks weren’t
created in the classrooms upstairs, but rather on the lowest level of the old
stone structure. The forgotten floor was a chilling testament to the passage of
time, and a place where urban legends and unsettling stories often converge.
Down in the basement, artworks of a different sort were being conceived. These
thought-provoking pieces were created long after school hours, and were viewed
by private invitation only… Upon entering, it was immediately clear that Galene’s
gothic styling carried over into her interior as well. All entryways were
pointed and arched, and there was a liberal use of dark mahogany trim
throughout. Iron chandeliers hung down from thick wooden beams dotted with
burning candles. Tastefully lit art dotted much of the surrounding walls, where
it shared space with ancient battle shields and crossed swords. Claussen came upon an arched opening in the wall at
left; inside was a painted black arrow that pointed to a lower level. The
professor walked out on the landing and peered down over the railing of a
spiral staircase. The light at the very bottom seemed about as meager as the
inadequate heating. Glad to see those alumni donations
are making a difference. Claussen made his way down the steps and onto the
lower floor. The air was noticeably chillier, and the entire level looked more
like a storage area than a place of higher learning. The corridor up ahead was
long and narrow, the steady click-clacking of his shoes echoing loudly off the
solid walls. The only source of light was the tubular fluorescent bulbs that
flickered overhead, further adding to the ominous atmosphere. As Jack
progressed, he passed engraved vinyl plaques on the doors that announced:
Boiler Room, Maintenance, and HVAC. Many other rooms were being used for
storage purposes; things such as old desks, outdated computer monitors, and
long obsolete AV equipment were carelessly stacked-up inside the narrow
windows. The professor eventually came upon a windowless door
and read the nameplate affixed to its wooden surface: ‘Room B001: Drawing and
Sculpting Studio, Professor Gerald Bushwick’ This is it, alright. Claussen turned the handle, and the hardwood door
opened with a low creak. He stepped inside, allowing his eyes to gradually
adjust themselves to the darkness. The professor came to realize that he was
standing in a reception area, complete with a desk and a cushy office chair,
along with other appropriate furnishings. “Hello?” his voice called out in the dim surroundings.
Claussen glanced over to the area at his right, which
was even darker still. He reached into the inner pocket of his Herringbone
jacket, withdrew his trusty penlight, and with a guarded click, swept the narrow
beam across the room. A black leather sofa, a few potted trees, and various
pieces of artwork embellished the cozy waiting area. But what really caught his
attention, was the mysterious object displayed on the floor in the center of
the space. The professor slowly moved the beam from left to right
and his eyes immediately widened… It appeared to be a rocking horse, and a most unusual
one at that. It had two curved rockers made of cherry wood, and two crosspieces
to hold the framework altogether. Black leather reins were fastened to a chrome
plated bit, (although these details seemed to be more decorative than
functional). Any resemblance to the childhood toy ended there. Instead of a horse, the body was that of a nude woman,
and quite an attractive one at that. She was down on all fours, her own limbs
forming the fore and hind legs of an Equine (or in this case, acting as the
structural foundation). Talk about a front-runner. Jack had never seen something so utterly perverse, yet
so artistically inspired, (and he’d seen some pretty weird shit in his
travels). His envious gaze followed the beam as it washed over the gentle curve
of a neck, the dramatic dip of her back, the flare of her hips—every line designed to mesmerize and tantalize. It
wasn’t long before the professor found himself wishing that he’d been
the one that envisioned the erotic piece instead of his equally talented peer.
“Are we looking for some horseplay?” Jack jumped at the unexpected sound. He spun around in
the direction of the familiar voice, but the sudden brightness from the office
lights nearly blinded him. “Ahh!” he complained before rubbing his eyes. “Still sneaking around in the dark, I see.” As the professor’s eyes readjusted to the light, a congenial
smile spread across his face. He stuck out a hand to greet his former
colleague, but Gerald Bushwick’s mug merely soured at the gesture. “We’re brothers.” the artist reminded. “Brothers hug
it out, man.” The pair embraced like old friends often do; a longtime
bond forged through the Fraternal Order as well as a mutual respect for each
other’s body of work. “Why didn’t you call first?” Bushwick asked. “I would’ve
left the lights on.” “What are we, saving electricity now?” “Well, you know, the suits and their ever-tightening
budgets.” “And here I thought you might be getting intimate with
one of your models,” Claussen joked. “You know me, man; I’ve never been the type to kiss
and tell.” Bushwick flashed him a roguish grin and asked, “So how’s the system
treating you? You still chasing those pretty coeds around SUNY-B?” The artist laughed and shook his head. “Same ole
Jack.” That’s when the pair shifted their attention to the
object on the floor below them. “So, I see you’ve met Jade.” the artist spoke as he began
to walk around the figure. Jack Claussen stood there like a seasoned art critic,
his chin resting on his curled fingers, his face exuding an air of curiosity. “Who is she, one of your students from the Theatre of
the Arts Group?” Bushwick merely chuckled at the thought. “Nah, a couple of years older than that, but I do have
a few of Glenwood’s finest salted away in the back. Jade’s
an escort that I hired off Tryst. I’ve found that the independents work the best
for what I do: no angry pimps, they’re usually in a tight spot financially, so
they’re more open to kinky ideas. Maybe they come from a broken home, have
daddy issues—whatever the case. The less family ties, the less chance
that someone will miss them right away.” “Like runaways.” “Exactly.” As the artist continued his slow arc around the
figure, he gave her bent rump a gentle push. Jade rocked back and forth on her
wooden runners like a normal rocking horse would. The fact that she was
completely immobilized, yet moving in a rhythmic manner seemed to enhance the
helplessness of her predicament. It was at that point that Jack finally noticed
the horse’s tail that had been plugged into her accommodating rectum. Nice touch there. Bushwick reached down and gave her leather reins a
swift tug, the effect of which, sent Jade in motion all over again. The artist
went on to explain: “When I initially came up with the idea of a pony
girl, I thought that it would be fitting to use someone that had a professional
understanding of the subject. Someone that was hip to the idea. Jade
here specialized in BDSM and contortion, and when I saw her profile photos, I
knew right away that she’d be the one.” The one indeed. Claussen continued to look on, his intrigue growing as
Jade slowly lost her momentum. It was strange to watch her slowly creak to a
complete stop, her fixed stare and unseeing eyes coming to a rest on a point just
a few feet ahead, yet without showing the slightest reaction. “Pretty neat, huh?” “I’ll say.” The professor made a motion with his hand, reaching
out to touch her, but then he lowered it at the last second. He turned to the
artist as if he were asking for permission. “Go ahead,” Bushwick urged, “she won’t bite.” “I’m not so sure.” The artist couldn’t help but grin at the irony. “She’s got a D-ring bit made of stainless-steel
clamped in between her teeth. There’s a rubber plug with genuine horsehair
inserted into her asshole. I injected two-and-a-half gallons of arterial
solution into her body which requires twenty-four hours to set. Think it’s safe
to say that this filly is fully broke at this point.” “You make a valid point, my friend.” Claussen lowered his face beside the pony girl to get
a closer look. He placed a fingertip to her cheek, but it was ice cold. He half
expected the skin to have some give, but it was hard as stone. “Perm-A-Crylic… Good stuff.” The professor gave a nod of approval. “You have to be right on top of it,” Bushwick
cautioned. “Height and weight have a lot to do with it, and you only have one
shot to get the formula right. Otherwise, the skin texture might be a little
off and they’ll stiffen up like a board before you can pose them.” From the looks of things, Jack secretly wondered if Bushwick’s
scale needed some recalibration. As the two men spoke above her, Jade remained
resolute, her features set, her intent to appear ready to bolt at the mere smack
of a hindquarter yet remain perfectly still during the interim. If one didn’t
know about her recent transformation, they might get the impression that she
was quite good at it. “So, uh, just out of curiosity… how much does
something like this cost?” “Well, you know what they say: if you have to ask...” “Oh, sure, sure.” “Most of my clients come from wealth, whether it be self-made
or inherited: affluent businessmen; oil barons; esteemed scholars and corrupt
politicians. Basically, your typical elite with deep pockets, or the machine
as we call it.” “So, money talks and bullshit walks.” “Absolutely,” the artist confirmed. But after a moment
of silent contemplation, he decided to add, “I should point out that personal
accessories such as a ten-gallon hat, six-shooters, a leather crop and spurs are
not included in Jade’s base price.” That brought forth a hearty laugh from his guest. “And
nothing makes a statement or pulls a display together like the proper
accessories.” That one brought forth a hearty laugh from both
men. Once the merriment subsided, Bushwick made a suggestion. “Hey, why don’t we take a walk out to the studio so I
can show you what I’ve been up to.” “Yeah, that’s why I came here in the first place.” As the two men left the waiting area, Bushwick
absently bumped one of the wooden runners with his foot, sending the pony girl
in motion once again. After a long moment, Jade slowly creaked to a stop in the
background. Like her admirers, she was none-the-wiser.
* * *
“They have to chase me around these days.”