We stop in front of the unassuming door, my heart in my throat. They both seem to be waiting for something; what it is, I have no clue.
“Well, open it.”
Wrapping my fingers around the handle, I hear a small hiss as what I’m assuming is a lock disengages. Surprised, I look both to Bethany and then Chelsea for confirmation.
“It’s coded to your fingerprints. That’s why we shut it after bringing everything up,” Bethany explained, leaving Chelsea to examine her nails. I wanted to make sure you could get in.”
“So, that means only I can open it, right?” A spark of happiness, the first one since I was caught this morning, flashes through me. I can be safe here!
“Not exactly.” Chelsea’s grating voice fills my ears. “Every member of The Society has access as well. We just can’t make unexpected visits, and neither can outsiders or shunned members. It’s a small way to keep us safe. That, and if something ever happens, all they have to do is go through the log and see who opened the door last.”
My guts twist about as I picture the sort of people who would have access to me. Surely, they don’t let really, really bad people in. Right? I ease my way inside and stop short. Unhappiness swamps me for a moment. Instead of my bright, cheery dorm walls, full of photos and artwork, I'm greeted with walls that are stark, white, and blank. Even the bedding is a neutral cream, with no patterns or splotches of color. Looking about, the only thing I see that's mine is my laptop. The screen is open, and sticky notes surround the frame.
Tears prick the back of my eyes. Nothing in here is mine. Not really. And anything that is mine has been touched and pawed at by strangers. My insides twist and burn with anger. Even in my militant household, I hadn't felt so violated. Hysteria rises up, and it takes every bit of effort to tamp it down. I can't lose it here. I can't afford to have reports of my ill behavior getting back to the professor. Or worse, the dean. I didn’t think I’d ever miss my roommate’s mess or loud music, but now, I’d give anything to be annoyed at her again.
"I know it's overwhelming at first," Bethany starts, wrapping her arm around my shoulders.
"None of my things are appropriate? What's wrong with my pictures? My drawings? None of that?"
Chelsea's face pinches up into a sour expression. "Don't be so dramatic." She walks over to the desk where my laptop sits and opens a cabinet underneath. All of my textbooks line the top shelf, and the bottom shelf holds several binders I don't recognize. She pulls one from the bunch and walks it over to me. "It's all there, down to the very last scribble."
Scribble? My muscles burn with the need to lash out at her. Keeping silent, I take the binder and flip through it. The tight band around my heart eases more and more as each piece of artwork comes into view. At least some part of me is still here. They haven't stripped me of everything yet.
"Hey, these are pretty good!" Bethany peers over my shoulders. "So, you're an art major?"
"Undecided. Probably not, though. There's no money in that."
She stops short. "You're still thinking like a poor student with no connections. Do you not understand what's happening here?"
I walk over to the bed and run my finger along the bedspread. Though plain, the fabric slides under my fingers like silken butter. A far cry from the worn, rough comforter I brought with me. "I'm not entirely sure. I know I'm now some sex slave to a bunch of strangers."
Bethany laughs. "Okay, real talk. I've had sex with maybe ten guys since I've been here. Yeah, they're a bit rough, and what they like can be super weird, but that's ten guys in about six semesters. You know what I got in return? Money to actually buy stuff that I need and want. The best food I could ever eat. A room all to myself for free. If you're gonna make it here, you have to stop being so negative." She grabs the binder from my hand and flips it open. "You can pursue your dreams. Your art. You can do all of it. Trust me, when you leave here, you're going to have so many doors open to you. I already have a position opened up for me at an architect firm. Apparently, the guy that runs it is a member. I haven't met him, thank God, but I've already got a job lined up. Trust me, they will pair you with someone who's a member, and no one here is a member that doesn't have influence."
"Unless you're claimed, of course."
Chelsea looks over her shoulder, taking a break from poking through my other binders. I tamp down the flash of anger that courses through me. Her face pinches up in disgust as she flips through my abstract pieces. What does she know about art anyway? She sets my work down and pins me with a glare. "If you're claimed by the wrong guy, all bets are off. They decide what you do, what you study, where you go. If I were you, I'd fade into the background. Better to be used and forgotten than claimed and shackled."
Bethany rolls her eyes. "Don't listen to her. Several girls have been claimed, and they're doing just fine."
"Ha! That's what you think." My binder hits the desk with a loud clatter. I wince as a few of my pieces jostle loose. "That's what they tell you. Everything is monitored here. If someone is unhappy, they damn well can't say anything about it."
"Please, don't listen to her. I've been here for a bit longer than she has. She's trying to scare you. Dean Anderson has released girls from being claimed if it doesn't work out. Just because no one's wanted you don't mean that being claimed is all bad. I've had offers, you know. But I'm holding out. As long as I perform my duties, I'm in the clear. Nothing in the contract says you have to be claimed. " She tosses me a small smile. "I promise you, being claimed is completely beneficial to you. Instead of strangers forcing themselves on you, you just have one person to deal with. And trust me, most of them are so busy, you'll barely even see them."
Chelsea flounces over to the door frame. "Offers. You haven't had offers. You'd be claimed by now if you did. You know we're not allowed to say no. What makes you think you're so special?"
An ache forms in my neck from how fast my head is ping-ponging between the two of them. I reach up and knead the sore muscles. I just want both of them out so I can search my room in peace. Why are they still here?
"Offers as in we've talked about it," she bites out. "But we haven't been compatible. No person here wants to claim someone, then realize they've made a mistake." Bethany glances over at me. "Sorry. We'll step out for a bit and let you get acclimated." She pulls out her phone and glances at the time. "We don't have long, so I'm giving you ten minutes. I'll need your phone, please."
I slide my fingers towards my pocket, clutching the device for a moment before easing it out. This stupid phone that's already gotten me into so much trouble. "Why do you need it?"
"Oh, for God's sake, just give her the phone already. This isn't summer camp. We aren't your friends and guides. Stop being so damn difficult!" Stomping over, Chelsea yanks the phone from my hand. My hands flail out, trying desperately to grab it from her. Her lips twist up in an ugly grin as she holds it high in the air, just out of reach.
Bethany reaches out and easily plucks it from her hand.
"Leave the room, Chelsea."
The room drops about ten degrees as Chelsea and Bethany stare each other down.
"I don't have to. I'm the one in charge of preparing her for tonight."
Bethany swipes her phone open, pulls up an app, and starts furiously typing. The more the words clack from her fingers, the paler Chelsea becomes. She waits a few moments before her phone dings. With a bright smile that doesn't fully reach her eyes, she pins Chelsea with a glare. "Not anymore. That job is now mine. Go to your room. Professor Richards will meet you there in a few minutes. He wants you in the position. I'm assuming you know what that means."
I didn't think her pallor could become whiter, but she stands there like a ghost. Her whole frame vibrates with what I can assume is fury if her face is any indication. But she nods briefly and heads out the door.
"Now that that's taken care of, I'll leave you to it. Not a minute more." Bethany eases out the door, the loud click the only proof that she actually left. Dropping my binder over on the desk, I wrap my arms about myself as I ease myself down onto the mattress. I don't even know where to begin. Thoughts rise to the surface and threaten to overwhelm me, so they plummet back down to weigh heavily in my stomach. Looking around the room, I try to acclimate myself to the fact that this prison is now my home. Maybe the only reason it's blank is that they're waiting for me to put my touch on it.
Looking around the room, I see a bathroom through an open door, and another closed door that I can only assume is a closet. Walking over, I open it up, surprised to see that it's practically empty. The only things in there are some jeans, my nicer shirts, and the two fancy dresses I brought with me in case I needed to dress up for something. I glance about and eye the three dressers about the room. Maybe my clothes are in there. The first dresser, the one closest to the closet, has three deep drawers to it. The top drawer has two pairs of my underwear in it. The only two that I brought with me that weren't cotton briefs. A tear finally manages to slide down my cheek as I finger the lacy material. These were the two pairs I snuck with me in case I got lucky on campus. Since they're in this drawer, it's safe to say they'll do the job.
The drawer below houses a few of my more casual shirts and bottoms, and the drawer below has sleepwear, socks, and sports bras. Since they're all the way at the bottom, I'm guessing they need not apply in the sexy department. Exhaling a large breath, I go over to the other dresser sitting in front of the bed. The first drawer is filled with metal objects. I stand there, just staring at them. I have no frame of reference for anything I'm seeing. Closing that one, I open the one below it. Paddles of all shapes and sizes line the inside. That one I'm really not interested in. I shove the drawer shut and open the third. Wooden, cylindrical objects fill this one up. They are all in varying lengths and widths. Reaching out, I slide my finger across the slick wood. My body quivers for a moment, and I close it back up.
One dresser remains, and I'm hesitant to go look inside. Creeping over, I ease the drawer open, just barely, enough for me to peek inside. Belts fill this one up. Nope. I slam it shut, but not before arousal gathers down below and my insides clench with need. The sting of Professor Richards’ belt fans to life for a brief moment. My gut twists even as my core aches. Reaching down, I slide my palm over my mound, pausing just a moment before I rest the heel against my clit. I grind for a few moments, just to take the edge off.