“You swear to God? On your life? On your mother’s soul?”
Emily hesitated. That was a strong oath. But then, how much worse would her mother think of her for being rude to DJ? “I swear.”
He relaxed, the last of his skepticism vanishing. “Well OK, then. Let’s go do rounds.”
Wait, WHAT?! She blinked. She was sure he’d been about to throw her on the bed and fuck her senseless. Probably use those stupid handcuffs or something, destroy the happy memory she had of her boyfriend doing just that. She’d been prepared for that. But this! To have to go out into the public eye dressed like this! He took a step toward the door, turning to hold out a hand to guide her by.
What choice did she have?
Swallowing the last shattered fragments of her pride, she took his hand and stepped out into the hallway.
As they went through their midnight rounds, she tried to maintain her sanity by taking every horrible indignity she suffered and making herself say something positive about the situation.
“C’mon, Em, put a little wiggle into your step,” DJ urged as they proceeded. She complied, of course, putting one foot in front of the other, her buttocks jiggling like crazy as she walked, the tiny little dress unable to keep up with the fleshquake of it and revealing far more than even the designers of this skimpy thing had intended. At least it’s making him happy.
As they descended the first flight of stairs, two guys stopped in their tracks at the sight of her, plainly looking right up the tiny dress at her glossy black thong. DJ took her by the waist to stop her, inviting the guys to take a nice long look. Good to know I have the body to pull this off, anyway.
The next floor was a guy’s floor; one fratty-looking douchebag was leaving the shower in a towel and stopped to leer at her perky little breasts jiggling slightly between the gap in the zipper. He invited her to frisk him, and she ignored it. As she walked past him, he griped that for being so fresh, he ought to at least get a little spanking. DJ had laughed; he obviously thought it would be funny. Mortified, she about-faced and gave him a few playful swats on his behind. This is still better than the last time. I have my clothes on. Kind of. And no jizz on me.
She kept track of the slights she heard in her wake (some of them meant as compliments). “Skank.” “Hot-ass bitch.” “Should fire her.” “No self-esteem.” “Sweet piece of ass.” “Slut.” “Fucking slut.” “Shameless slut.” “Gutterslut.” Forget them. No matter how I’m dressed, I still know my own self-worth. What’s left of it.
And so on. JP took his time, indulging her admirers periodically by stopping her so they could get a good long look, posing her. Once again, bold horny geeks managed to get snapshots of her. This time she at least was technically covered, but now she was also adopting sultry poses, clearly playing along with what was happening.
They were on the second-to-last floor when they hit a snag. They could hear the tell-tale sounds of a party as soon as they stepped onto the floor—loud voices, louder music, bottles clinking. It was a no-brainer of a bust. Emily was the sort who did her job, rain or shine; she was pro-legalization and pro-lowering the drinking age, but the people who paid her room, board and stipend said to address it, so she did. Besides, the campus judicial system was a joke anyway; people got pissed off when they got busted, but the sanctions were usually just a slap on the wrist.
Except tonight, she was dressed like a police whore.
DJ clearly heard it too. “Should we?” she asked. Normally not a question for her, but she’d be happy to avoid it this time. She tried to inflect it to suggest it wasn’t worth dealing with.
“Hey, be a shame if you got all dressed up like this for nothing,” DJ laughed. “C’mon, let’s give ’em a little thrill.” He approached the door behind which the noises were coming, and knocked firmly. There was the usual scuffle: someone looking out the peephole, a hiss that it was the RAs, the sounds of bottles and cans and cups being hidden away, the music silencing as someone stalled them with questions and excuses shouted in a nervously guilty tone. Routine.
They didn’t take quite long enough to merit a second knock. The door opened to a room of five college students, two guys and three girls. It was one of the guys who answered the door—it was a men’s floor, so probably the guy who lived here—while two of the girls sat cross-legged on the bed as the final two occupants lounged together on a bean-bag chair on the floor.
“Hey, sorry about the noise,” said the resident. Robbie, if the nametag on the door was to be believed. “We’ll keep it… um… we’ll…” He trailed off, his eyes diverting from DJ to Emily. “Wait, are you RA’s?”
“We sure are,” DJ replied.
“Uh, both of you?” He looked skeptically to Emily, where his eyes remained.
“What, she doesn’t look authoritative?” DJ joked. “So c’mon, we know you were partying, let’s see the booze and get on with this.”
“Booze? We weren’t drinking—we were just hanging out.” His friends nodded as one to verify their innocence.
“Ugh. Already sick of being lied to. Emily, slap him.”
It was hard to say whether Emily or Robbie looked more startled. “You… want me to slap him?”
He just nodded. What should she do? Hitting someone was… wrong. Illegal. Fireable. Mean, dangerous, nothing like her.
But it might help make DJ happy.
“OW!” Robbie yelled, rubbing his sore cheek. His friends looked around at one another nervously.
“Now, where’s the booze…” DJ looked at the name on the door. “Robbie?”
He looked to his friends. “Um, like I said, there isn’t any.”
DJ sighed, annoyed. “Well, I’d wanted to do this the easy way, but sure. Let’s make it fun.” He pointed to one of the girls, a cute-ish blonde, pale and waifish. “You there, blondie. C’mere.”
She looked around, like he might have meant some other blonde, then reluctantly stood up. (Emily noticed the neck of a bottle of rum poking out from under the blanket she’d been sitting in front of.) The girl stopped in front of DJ.
“Can you touch your toes, Miss…?”
“Chloe.”
“Can you touch your toes, Chloe?”
“Yeah,” she said nervously.
“Oh? Good, go ahead then.” He put a hand on her back and pushed until she complied, which didn’t take long. She held still even as he grabbed her work-out shorts and pulled them down, along with her little pink panties. Pale as she was, there were still tan lines visible on her even paler ass as it sat out on display.
“Not bad, not bad. I think Emily here’s got a better one—dare say she’s got one of the nicest asses I’ve seen—but not bad. Speaking of Emily…” He gestured for her to approach him and blondie, and she did, of course.
“Emily, I want you to spank this girl. Good and hard. Then count down from three, slowly, and do it again, and again, and so on.”
Emily sighed, horrified to be a part of humiliating and harming this poor girl, but she had no choice. With an open palm, she cracked down, hard. The girl yelped. “Three… two… one…” Smack. “Three… two… one…” Smack.
“Now Robbie, you can save your little friend here—” Smack. “—a lot of pain and embarrassment if you just cooperate—” Smack. “—with us.”
“Ow! C’mon, you guys, this really hurts!” Chloe pleaded. DJ grabbed a sock from the floor and shoved it in her mouth. She squealed around it fretfully.
Robbie and his other friends were sufficiently mesmerized by the slut cop punishing their friend’s cute little ass that she got another in before he finally launched into action, urging his friends to cooperate. With a nod from DJ, Emily kept at it as they produced the rum, a bottle of JD, and a partially empty 24-pack of some cheap-ass beer from under some dirty laundry in the closet.