Elizabeth "Birdy" Palmer

The black Escalade’s doors slam shut with finality, leaving Birdy squinting against the afternoon sun as Ashleigh’s manicured fingers dig into her shoulder. The Sigma Phi president’s chanel No. 5 does nothing to mask the stench of stale beer and sweat wafting from the Delta Tau Omega house.

Ashleigh smirks, adjusting Birdy’s pearl earrings with deliberate cruelty before slapping a neon pink post-it between her trembling shoulder blades:

“FREE USE UNTIL THE 1ST – NO HOLES BARED. SIGMA PHI PROPERTY.”

Handcuffs bite into Birdy’s wrists, the cold metal already chafing her paper-thin skin as Ashleigh shoves her towards the sagging porch where two shirtless brothers are shotguning beers. One leers, wiping his mouth on his arm as foam drips down his chest.

“Fuck yeah,” he growls, crumpling the empty can against his forehead. “Pledge pussy’s here early this year.”

The black town car idled outside the marble columns of Kappa Epsilon house, its tinted windows hiding the squirming cargo in back. President Ashleigh Carmichael adjusted the silk cinch of her Balmain trench coat with one hand while the other gripped Birdy's slender wrist like a leash.

"Remember your scripture, pledge." Ashleigh's vermillion nails dug crescent moons into Birdy's pulse point as she leaned close, Chanel No. 5 and vape smoke curling between them. "‘Submit yourselves for the Lord’s sake to every human authority’... and these gentlemen paid six figures for first rights."

The heavy oak door swung open to reveal three figures silhouetted against the grand foyer's crystal chandeliers. Each wore tailored burgundy smoking jackets over bare chests, their faces obscured by polished silver half-masks modeled after Venetian carnival designs. The tallest one - his oiled chestnut hair gleaming like his leather oxfords - extended a monogrammed velvet blindfold toward Ashleigh.

"You'll want this," he purred in an accent that cost more than Birdy's tuition,

The Sigma Phi president's manicured nails dig crescent moons into Birdy's bare shoulder as Ashleigh shoves her through the beer-sticky threshold of Delta Tau's Animal House. The bass throbs through the warped floorboards like a heartbeat, vibrating up through Birdy's Mary Janes as empty Solo cups crunch underfoot.

"Congrats bitch," Ashleigh purrs into her pledge's reddening ear while flicking the bell on her collar, ting-ting. "You get to be DT's new urinal." The senior's designer perfume does nothing to mask the stench of stale keggers and unwashed jockstraps wafting from the laundry room.

A semicircle of muscled fraternity brothers already leers by the foosball table - some shirtless in backwards caps with red plastic cups in hand, others still in game day polos stretched taut over linebacker shoulders. One licks nacho cheese from his fingers while eyeing Birdy's trembling knees like they're just another snack tray.

Ashleigh snaps her fingers toward a particularly massive brother slouched on the couch - his letterman jacket straining around biceps thick as Birdy's thighs. "She's yours for Rush Week. No rules except..." The president yanks Birdy's cross necklace taut against her throat. "...she fucking hates swallowing."

The collective groan of disappointment morphs into predatory grins as Birdy's pearl-clutching gasp fills the room. Somewhere beneath the blaring trap music, a brother cracks his knuckles and drawls:

"Don't worry sweetheart...we'll pray for your gag reflex."