A Betty's Pledge: Volume One (3 page)

The Rabbit Hole

~ Madeline Cain ~

I was staring at my reflection in the full-length mirror, trying to find some semblance
of courage deep within me. The costume fitted my body perfectly, accentuating my hips
and bustline like some kind of burlesque starlet. It wasn’t my style, but I guessed
it would work for the purposes of the evening.

It had been five days since that afternoon of the trial, and I had waited with bated
breath to hear back from the Grants. I tried to squash down the negative repertoire
in my head, relentlessly reliving every mistake I could have made inside that room.
Was I erotic enough? Did I misread the instructions? Did I do something wrong?

I thought I had done exactly what they’d asked me to, but not hearing any response
had driven me to the point of self-doubt. On the fifth day, I’d finally acknowledged
that maybe it just wasn’t meant to be. I was disappointed but ready to move on with
my life.

Later that afternoon, a courier arrived at my home with a priority package addressed
to me. I hurriedly signed for it and tipped the deliveryman a measly four bucks—it
was all I had on me. With trembling fingers, I took the package into my living room
and ripped it open.

Nestled inside a wrapping of silk fabric was a single off-white envelope. The outside
of it was addressed to me in the same slanted handwriting I’d found on the instruction
cards at the mansion the day of my trial.

Tonight is a costume ball at the Mansion.

You are to attend dressed in the outfit provided.

A limousine will pick you up promptly at eight.

Find the Queen of Hearts.

She is to be your Dame for the program.

Welcome to the Grants, Betty Pledge.

Beneath the satin was a scant scrap of clothing that I assumed they considered to
be a costume. Apparently, I would be attending the event as some sort of sailor, though
I thought this type of uniform was better suited for the strip clubs than any naval
base. I guessed I’d missed the update on the government having decided silk and miles
of leg were appropriate.

Seriously, the garment barely left anything to the imagination. When I put that thing
on, not even my nipple color would remain a mystery. It was a sheer white minidress
with navy trim that ran around the top edge of the extremely low-cut and deep plunge
of the upper half of the dress, leaving most of my breasts exposed. A matching bow
sat low in my cleavage, drawing attention to the ample amount of bare skin. The trim
had gold anchors embossed into the fabric, which was the only clue it was supposed
to be naval related, along with the little sailor hat that went with the ensemble.
The matching shoes were adorable, navy and white with a little accent bow at the peep
toe, and the heels were tall but not spiked so much that I’d get stuck walking in
grass. The dress was tight and thin, both of which I could live with. The problem
was it was white—like, transparently so.

I wasn’t kidding about the nipple color . . .

It didn’t leave much room for intrigue, and that fact left me feeling a sense of disappointment.
I was hoping that the Grants were about more than commercial sexuality. I found all
the carnality and harshness of the pornographic world completely pathetic and disingenuous.
After all, it doesn’t take much to simulate a whore, right? This city had too many
men who favored the trashy crap that often paraded around the local bars and college
hangouts. I felt like the men in this city would rather drool over a girl with a fifty-thousand-dollar
plastic surgery bill and clothes that would better fit a five-year-old than find some
substance and passion in a woman.

I wanted more than stale, bland, fake sex, and my girlfriend who’d sponsored me into
the Grant program on sort of a scholarship arrangement had promised me it was more
than that. Apparently, the Grants relied on the pledges’ bank accounts to deal with
the costs of running the program, and my financial situation was very humble—meaning
nonexistent.

But my friend had insisted that it was the place for me to be. She’d gone through
it and had come out the other side thoroughly satisfied. She’d even found her long-term
boyfriend at the Grants, and they were a hot item now. The changes in her were so
drastic that I actually found myself considering her offer to help me apply. She seemed
fulfilled, content. I wanted what she had found, and there were hardly any leads where
I’d been looking.

So, after much enthusiastic begging and whining, I’d finally given in to her offer
to help me through the program. I was hoping that she wouldn’t have to support me
for long, but I was excited to begin a new adventure—and my loins were practically
drooling at the prospect of getting some much needed attention, no matter how gross
that sounded.

I was anxious, and nervous, and completely on edge about everything the night would
bring. I had been gawking at my own reflection for about thirty minutes, analyzing
and reassessing every aspect of the whole outfit. Not that there was much I could
change with the scant material.

My breasts were perky enough that I could get away without wearing a bra to avoid
lines and suggestive shading from my undergarments. However, I’d put in those plastic
chicken breast thingies they said were supposed to be a strapless support bra. Ha!
The only purpose they served was to hide said areolas from unnecessary perusal, so
I guessed they did their job well enough.

The other issue that was causing me pause was that my ass was hanging out of the minuscule
dress. Literally, the skirt on the pseudo-sailor suit was so short that the navy trim
matching the top was almost all there was to it. I was afraid that if I did something
as mundane as to cough or hiccup, the bottom of both cheeks were going to be exposed.
As I stared at myself, trying to understand the depths of my situation, I became fully
aware that I’d have to be on guard the entire night so as not to give people a show.

And that was when I realized I was probably not going to be the only one dressed this
way. If they had sent me this outfit, most likely it meant that I was going to be
in a huge house filled with mostly naked people the entire night. And that thought
made me smile while I simultaneously begin to chew my thumbnail to bits.

At eight o’clock sharp, there was a knock at my door. A short, plump man in a black
suit introduced himself as my driver for the evening. My heart fluttered as I reached
for my house key and a small navy wristlet, and made my way out into a black stretch
limousine that was probably commissioned by the wealthiest celebrities of Los Angeles.

I climbed in with my heart in my throat, taking the driver’s proffered hand to help
me settle into the plush leather seat. I was surprised to find that I wasn’t alone
in the car. There were several other ladies in similarly scanty attire, watching me
with mixed expressions of curiosity, disdain, and apathy. I figured these were the
other Betties, and I didn’t want to start this off with a sense of competition.

“Hello,” I said warmly, trying to offer them a polite smile. Two of them grinned and
another returned my greeting. The last one just rolled her eyes and continued sipping
on her goblet of champagne like the sound of my voice was offensive to her in some
way.

I took a quick moment to survey their appearance. The girl who greeted me had kind
eyes and a sweet face. Her eyes were a sharp hazel, outlined by a thick row of black
lashes. She had tanned, olive skin with a thick mane of ebony hair that was curled
in chunky waves flowing down her back. She was small, like me, with toned arms and
legs. Her breasts were not small, but they weren’t large either.
Natural
, was a good way to describe them.

She was wearing a black, strapless minidress that tightly fitted her hips, where it
then flared out into a skirt just as short as mine. There was soft pink trim running
across the low-cut top, down the front, over her breasts and down her stomach. They
met matching bows at her hips. The trim along the bottom of the skirt was the same
pale pink, only it was a soft fringe of feathers, drawing your eyes to her legs. I
found myself beginning to wonder what her costume was supposed to be—other than a
suggestive piece of lingerie. It was then I noticed the smallest of black cat ears
sitting on top of her head of silken curls, with little pink triangles on the insides.
The outfit was kind of cute and it made her look innocently sweet, if it wasn’t for
the fact that her goods were on display like a cheap stripper.

Next to her was another beauty. She had dark, curly hair with bright green eyes that
made her look somewhat exotic against her tanned skin. She was a bit taller than me,
it seemed, but her figure was nice and trim. The thing that was drawing most of my
attention was the fact that her boobs were about to spill out of her outfit. Seriously,
she probably wore a size two in her waistline and an extra-large for her bustline.
The poor girl looked like she was about to topple over from the weight but they didn’t
have that fake look to them. I wondered what genetic mixing had concocted that kind
of metamorphosis.
Maybe she’s Italian . . .

Her costume was easier to decipher. She was the classic schoolgirl, pimped out with
the pleated pink plaid miniskirt and knee-high white socks with matching pink bows.
The sides of her low-cut and nearly translucent white top were held together by thin
white ties that left most of her torso bare in the back. The unattached matching white
collar had a pink tie that rested on the rise of her breasts.

These two girls appeared to be shy and uncomfortable in their attire, continually
pulling at the hem or bustline in a self-conscious manner. I immediately felt a kinship
for that fact alone. But the final two girls seemed anything but uncomfortable. They
exuded and radiated sexuality from every pore of their beings, only emphasized by
the confidence and attitude laced in that essence. It was sort of intimidating, and
I wondered if the Grants had arranged it so we could size each other up.

The woman who sat next to the School Girl was almost the picture of perfection. She
had fair skin, but not so much you’d feel sorry for the girl for never being able
to tan. Her skin looked more like porcelain, and I had an odd desire to reach out
and see if it was as soft as it looked. Her hair was straight and strawberry-blond
and her features were perfect and sharp, angular. Her body was amazing. She was tall,
toned, and trim, with curvy hips and small waistline. The only thing about her that
might have been a turn-off for me was the fact that her tits were obviously fake—like
bounce a quarter off them, hard as a rock, could play the bongos, plastic balloons.

She was wearing a French maid costume, classic yet with a similar adult edge. It had
white lace trim following the neckline straight down into her cleavage. There was
a tiny white apron that was nearly the length of the skirt. The skirt had the same
white lace trim as the top of the dress but even with the thigh-high sheer black stockings
being held up by a garter belt, there were several inches of her incredible legs exposed.

The last girl’s beauty made me slightly envious. She was stunning: golden skin, toned
body with elegant curves in all the right places. Her hair was blond and curled, falling
almost to her shoulders. The thing that made me green with envy was a pair of bright,
electric blue eyes that were both piercing and probing. She was looking at me with
one eyebrow cocked and an expression of disdain on her face.

Her black minidress was of the same design as the rest, tight fitting to low on her
waist before flaring out, barely covering her assets. The bottom of the skirt was
different in design from the others. It was made out of waving pieces of the same
soft, nearly sheer red that trimmed the top of the dress. Only the thigh-high red
fishnet stockings being held up by a black garter belt and the pointed devil horns
resting in her hair turned the outfit from barely appropriate for bedroom activity
to a costume. She also had on thigh-high, patent-leather boots that were tall and
fabulously hot. Those were more my style than anything else I’d seen.

“What’s your name?” she asked me with a flat, disinterested tone.

“Mady,” I said, forgoing my last name as was protocol for the pledges. We were to
keep anonymity until the end of the trials, just in case we didn’t make the final
cut.

“That’s pretty,” Kitty Cat replied with a soft smile. “Is it short for something?”

“Madeline,” I answered, returning her warm smile with one of my own. “I hated the
name growing up, though. So I’ve always gone by Mady. My mother calls me Madeline
every now and then, but I always give her crap for it.” I was rambling and I knew
it, giving these people too much personal information about myself because I was so
nervous. The cat smiled again and reassured me with her kind eyes.

“My name is Marissa,” she said informally, her tone light and friendly. “This is Sarah.”
She pointed to School Girl, who gave me a small wave in greeting.

“Tricia,” Porcelain Goddess said, a curt tone in her greeting. I smiled and said my
hellos.

“I’m Sonia,” the stunning blonde said as she continued to stare icily at me.

“So are you excited for tonight?” Marissa asked me with a bright smile. “It looks
like it’s going to be a lot of fun.”