How I Became A Spanko - Sex Stories

How I Became A Spanko

... the girl ahead. Then the master-at-arms, who served as the moderator of the event, cuffed our wrists with those novelty furry handcuffs one can buy at sex shops or on-line.

The irony was not lost on me when the master-at-arms shouted, "Silence!" loudly enough to be heard outside of the sorority house. But I guess she had to display her authority.

Already self-conscious about my lean, gymnast body, I felt totally humiliated standing in the hallway of the sorority house, completely naked except for the fuzzy handcuffs binding my wrists in front of me, among the other pledges in line whose breasts were larger and bodies more voluptuous than my own scrawny frame. With no pubic hair, I looked like a child among women, and of this I was reminded often by the sorority members-at-large. If their intention was to hurt my feelings or make me feel inadequate, they succeeded. I tried to pretend it did not bother me, or compensate with smart-aleck remarks and wise-cracks, but that strategy only goes so far.

For as long as I could remember, and despite blossoming into womanhood at a slower pace, I always received more male-attention than any of the other girls my age. Presumably this was because I sucked and swallowed on the first and every subsequent date, in fact, fellatio had been my favorite activity ever since junior-high when I first discovered what mouth-watering delights the boys had in their pants. But in an all-female college, with hardly an opportunity to ...

... demonstrate my fellatio prowess, I felt like an ugly duckling. Getting into this sorority was very important to my eighteen-year-old self-esteem, and I was willing to submit to all manner of humiliation and torture to achieve that status.

An impromptu curtain hung from the doorframe of the president's bedroom, blocking our view of what was to be the final step of acceptance into the sorority, but we could hear everything clearly.

The six of us were given two choices for our final test: we could either bury our face between the legs of the sorority president and nuzzle her for thirty-seconds, while the rest of the girls in the sorority watched, made cat-calls and other lewd remarks, and used their cell-phones to record videos of the debauchery, or bend over her knee for thirty spanks with what appeared to be a ping-pong paddle, with the same enthusiastic audience.

So far, the two pledges in front of me had chosen the former. Those of us to follow could hear the slurping sounds as they explored the yawning vagina of their soon-to-be sorority sister with their lips and tongues, amid her exaggerated moans of pleasure, and the shouts of encouragement and insult provided by the girls in the peanut gallery. After passing their "test," each of the girls was released from her handcuffs, handed a robe embroidered with the name of our sorority, and invited to stay and watch the rest of the proceedings, their faces glistening with saliva and vaginal secretions.

"Next pledge," the ...