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2022-07-05 00:00:03

I was thrilled when I got into Harvard, but honestly, it wasn’t much of a surprise. My family isn’t wealthy. I mean, I’ve never wanted for anything. I got an old Honda when I was old enough to drive, not a new Tesla like some of my classmates. Still, my mom is an Harvard graduate, Federal Judge and was an highly esteemed lawyer before that. I had excellent grades and excellent test scores. I was accepted to every school I applied - but Harvard, well that felt special.

The acceptance letter wasn’t the only surprise to arrive in my mail box that spring. I was even more surprised when I received an invitation to apply to a Harvard Finals Club, all before I graduated from high school. I was also confused.

Finals clubs are for the elite, the aristoclass. Not me. You also join them after you get to campus, not before you graduate high school. When I googled the club there was no information online. The group didn’t seem to exist. I wondered if it was some kind of joke.

I was almost ready to throw the embossed envelope and hand calligraphed card away when my mom arrived home and saw everything. She dropped her laptop and briefcase and just whispered, “Oh my God. You got in!”

“Got in to what?” I asked, as I tried to piece her laptop back together.

“Mercy Warren, you got in to Mercy Warren!” She didn’t even seem to care that her MacBook was toast.

“What is Mercy Warren?” I asked, somewhat shocked she was more excited today than the day I got my packet from Harvard.

“It is the oldest and most elite secret society for women in the country! When are you to pledge?”

“It says the 10 week pledge period begins June 10th. I signed a contract to work as a camp counselor this summer. I can’t pledge a fraternity instead.”

“Sorority, honey. Fraternities are for boys. And Mercy Warren isn’t a sorority. It is so much more. If you get in, well, you will have connections you can only dream of.”

“No, I want to spend the summer taking teenagers backpacking,” I said.

“What do you know about backpacking?”

“A lot more than I know about this bullshit,” I snapped.

“Just promise me you’ll think about it, ok,” my mom advised.

And I did think about it. I thought about what I wanted to accomplish in life. I wanted to follow my mother into the law, and fight for women’s rights. I wanted to fight for civil rights and be a positive change. But I also knew that would be a very difficult road.

Most lawyers didn’t have jobs these days, let alone the luxury to take on impossible cases with no promise of financial rewards. The more I thought about it the more I knew the cold truth. If I had any hope of getting where I wanted to go I needed help. I needed connections. Mercy Warren seemed to offer it. Finally I agreed.

I met the pledge class at a small ramshackle building on the outskirts of campus. They had given me a code word to get in the front door. Once in we were told to back up our phones to the cloud and leave all cameras, computers and screens behind.They searched our bags and loaded us on a bus. From the bus we climbed aboard a boat in the harbor.

Once we were out to sea we were told to dump our phones overboard. The blonde in charge insisted this summer would be about secrecy and sisterhood. This was a symbol of that sisterhood. One of the other eleven pledges protested. She insisted there was no way, she would do it.

The blonde in charge grabbed her hand and pulled her to the side of the boat, she told the pledge she could drop the phone over board or be thrown overboard herself. Either way, her phone gets ruined, but the second option ensures she has to swim back to Boston alone. The girl dropped her phone into the waves with the flip of her wrist and returned to her seat.

I got up, walked to the side, and nonchalantly threw my phone. The others followed. I wasn’t sure what this shit would be like, I was already anxious to quit, but I didn’t want to swim back to Boston. I believed this bitch was serious and would throw us overboard if we didn’t do what she commanded.

The ferry docked in Provincetown at a quaint mansion, if ever such a thing exists. The building was a beautiful light blue with white trim and had many guest houses on the premises. The beach was perfect white sand lined with Adirondack chairs and umbrellas. A gaggle of barely dressed highly preened girls were on the dock to welcome us. They called us sister and I was certain these would be the other cult members I was joining.

Before long, my negativity fell away. The girls came across as ditzes - at first. Within hours of arriving in Provincetown it was clear I was among the smartest and most driven women I had ever met. That summer I learned about female empowerment, feminist history as well as how to put my makeup on right. I learned how to dress to evoke attention while maintaining power and how to banter and flirt. All skills, I was told, were essential for success.

Mercy Warren dates back over 150 years, since before women were even allowed to attend Harvard. They are part of the reason women were educated by Harvard staff at Radcliffe College and later admitted fully to Harvard University.

The women of Mercy Warren have been changing the world for 150 years. Their mantra was to win by fighting and playing the game. The preening is part of the game. Men use sex as power so the belief is we can too - just differently. The girls seemed ditsy, but they were always ready to pounce.

It was the most illuminating time of my life.

On the night of July 4th the tone changed, though. That night was called the Rehabilitation. We were to be rehabilitated, whatever that meant.

We were gathered together in a dungeon bellow the floors of our resort. The only light came from torches latched to the walls. The members stripped us to our bras and panties and made us wait for hours, stone quiet. Finally the strong blonde leader walked in wearing nothing. She lead 12 men, naked, shackled and masked, into the room.

“You are part of a long history of women who fought against a society who saw them as objects,” the strong blonde said while holding a torch. “Things are different for us today, but we must still realize that most men continue to see us as objects. Tonight you will choose a man by casting lots. This man will be your husband for the month of July. You will each live with him in one of the guest houses. You will cook for him. You will clean for him, and you will fuck for him. You will fuck him any way he wants any time he wants.”

She threw two dice into a circle and commanded the first in line to roll them. Two fives flashed. The strong blonde in charge handed my pledge sister a key and one of the men held up his arms. The blonde lead the terrified girl to the man, she unlocked him.

“You belong to him, you must do as he commands,” the blonde said. The pledge broke down crying. With powerful movements the man tore the girls panties and bra from her body. She fell to her knees terrified. She refused to move.

The masked man made the most of the situation. He forced her mouth open and shoved his semi hard dick into her mouth. We could hear her gagging on his cock over her tears. The pledge didn’t fight though. She didn’t try to run either. She just sucked this strangers cock. In time he pushed her to the floor, flipped her over, lifted her hind quarters some and pushed his cock into her - no condom no protection. She screamed when he first entered her and cried the whole time he fucked her. But again, she didn’t fight back - she let him dominate her.

It was clear my pledge sister was a virgin because blood dripped down her leg. He had pierced through her hymen. I knew I would bleed tonight too. I wondered how many of us were about to lose our virginity in the harshest and coldest of ways.

We stood completely silent watching our sister get fucked for the first time. No one said anything. One of the other pledges began to cry. But none of us ran to her aid. We watched her, basically, get raped and didn’t intervene. I think fear stopped us cold. Fear that we were next. Fear that we would be cast out.

One pledge tried to look away from it all, turning her whole body. The strong blonde walked over to her and slapped her. It was the first time I had ever seen a woman hit. A bruise started forming over the pledges eye immediately.

“We will watch,” the blonde screamed. “We will recognize what men think of us.”

The man grunted loudly, like an animal as he came inside my beautiful sister. His cum dripped from her like a fountain ashe lifted my pledge sister from the floor and carried her over to what looked like a torture device. Her swollen pussy lips looked glazed with baby batter.. He tied her in place, then began to lightly whip her. The show was over. While my sister was whipped we would all roll the dice, cast lots, and meet our horrible fates.

When it was my turn I rolled snake eyes. “Oh shit,” I thought. “That can’t be good.”

I was right, my man was hulk of a man with deep black skin and an enormous punishing dick. I cracked a joke, “Isn’t it in poor taste to shackle a black man in America. Kind of points to slavery doesn’t it?”

The few pledges not being fucked laughed, but I barely heard them because the strong blonde struck me across the face with all her force. I fell to the ground and blood dripped from my lips. When I started to stand the blonde hit me again with a balled fist, throwing all her weight into the blow. I crashed to the concrete floor again. This time my left eye screamed in pain. I struggled to stand. The whole room was spinning and I saw double. But I got up, probably lifted only by my pride.

“Property doesn’t joke,” the blonde screamed. Everyone in the room stopped fucking and watched only us. “Property gets fucked. Men see us as property. Men don't pull their punches. For the next few weeks you ARE property and you will feel every blow. Fuck her here in front me - over the barrel.”

An old dusty barrel was rolled out. My “husband” bent me over the barrel, tied my hands, forced a gag into my mouth and spread my legs. Then with no lube and no foreplay he forced his dick into my dry pussy. The pain was excruciating. I was a virgin just two minutes ago, but I didn’t feel my maiden head tear. The pain of a dry fuck masked the feeling of that symbolic crossing into womanhood. Instead I only felt 9 inches of dick tearing and ripping my dry pussy apart.

There was no lube, nothing to ease his movement. Every thrust felt like a rug burnagainst my vaginal walls. I screamed and cried every time he pulled his dick from my body and screamed and cried once again as he forced himself back into me. The pain was so great I couldn’t breathe. If it weren’t for the screaming I may have failed to take in any oxygen during the torment. I turned my head to the side to see my pledge sisters. They all looked horrified. One of the older girls, naked and beautiful, ran and vomited in the corner. My torment was too much for her.

In time my vagina lubed itself - likely out of self preservation - and the punishing did subside some. But every moment of my first sexual experience was excruciating. It was something I wanted to forget but was sure I would remember all to well. Finally, mercifully, the brute came in my pussy. When he finished he whipped his blood cum covered dick across my face.

He untied me, flipped me over his shoulder, and carried me to a platform. He tied me once more and began to fuck me again. I wasn’t bent over this time. Instead, I was on my back and he climbed on top of me. His weight was crushing to my sleight frame. He lifted my legs over his shoulders and bent me in half. His dick was able to dive ever deeper into my body at this angle. I swore I could feel the tip of his penis near the small of my back.

I closed my eyes and tried to imagine the man on top of me was a long time lover. He was a secret I kept from my friends. I tried to fantasize myself away from this dungeon and to a better place. And the fantasy was working. I could feel my vagina come alive. My nipples became more prominent and excited me. I could feel his breath against my neck and I pretended it was the breath of a kind man. I could feel my body moving toward something, though I wasn’t entirely sure what. Then this man ruined even my fantasy. He came again, deep inside of me and pulled out of me before he could finish.

I laid perfectly still for 15 or twenty minutes, waiting for my husband to decide what was next. In his absence the strong blonde showed up. She screamed at me but I was too injured and to tired to pay attention. I was gagged an couldn't respond anyway. I was defenseless and afraid she would hit me. Instead, she got really close to me ears and whispered, "You're doing great. Hang in there, it will all be over soon." The encouragement did lift me up in some odd way.

My husband retruned and immidiately began to punish me again. He turned me, retied my hands and entered me again, another new angle. Every new angle lead to a different stimulation of my vagina, and this one was my favorite. I forgot about being fisted and tried to find my way back to my fantasy. I returned to my fantasy and my body started to respond again.

He pushed as deep into me as he could and held himself still - his dick deep deep inside my brutalized pussy. The head of his dick pushed hard against my cervix and his pubic bone rubbed hard against my clit.

The stimulation was enticing. I think I may have even begun to moan. The smallest sign of my pleasure angered him, though, and the man folded me up again and hammered away at my cunt until he exploded again. The hammering pulled me back into this world, into the dank dungeon. With the flick of a switch my body turned off again. His cum spewed from my pussy and I felt it trickle down my asshole. I was angry and humiliated at the feeling of his spunk sliding down my body.

When he finished he covered me eyes with a bandana and walked away for a rest once mroe. I tried to compose myself, but how? I had just been fucked three times in the most humiliating and painful ways I could imagine. This didn’t get me off and my imagination didn’t seem to get me there either. I didn’t know much about sex, but I wanted romance, not violence. It was too late now. Here I am, tied, gagged and blindfolded all so I could ensure the security of my future and career. It was too late, the damage had been done, but I was having second thoughts about my commitment to Mercy Warren.

When the man returned he took off my blindfold and shoved his cock into my mouth. He was placid again. It sounds cliche but all I could think was that I sucking on a wet noodle - a very, very large wet noodle. That didn’t last long, though. He became engorged quickly and began to face fuck me. He shoved his dick down my throat until I gagged, until I couldn’t breathe. My eyes teared and my throat scratched until he pulled his cock from my gullet. I coughed and gasped for air, snot dripping from my nose. Before I could compose myself he forced his dick down my throat again. Again I couldn’t breathe. This time I panicked.

I imagined this was what waterboarding must feel like, only this seemed like it might be worse. He pulled his dick from my mouth and as I gasped for air. He got his face real close to mine and growled, “Watch the teeth, bitch.”

I knew he said the words, but the pain and suffocation made it impossible for me to really understand them. He shoved his cock down my throat once more. And like last time I couldn’t breathe and panicked. I shook my head like a fish trying to escape the lure. He pulled his dick from my mouth once more slapped me hard, really hard. I think I passed out. When I woke up he growled, “Watch the teeth, BITCH!”

This time I heard him and it resonated. I opened my jaw as wide as I could while he shoved his dick down my throat. Finally he seemed happy with me and fucked my face with incredible vigor. I found if I relaxed the back of my throat I could control my gag reflex. I tried to tickle the underside of his dick with my tongue. My jaw and throat hurt so much. Still I tried to pleasure him. It seemed like my survival hinged on him cumming as quickly as possible. Unfortunately it takes a man a long time to reach a fourth orgasm in the same night. Finally he pulled his dick from my mouth and spewed semen all over my face. Cum dripped down my eyelids and nose and onto my tits. My cheeks were stained red and black from tears and mascara. The globs of cum were like the cherry on top of my disastrous look.

After another short break the man untied me, carried me to a bench, bent me over, tied my hands to my ankles and put lube on my asshole. I knew what was next, and frankly I didn’t care. This man had owned me all night. For hours he had done everything he could to humiliate and hurt me. He had used me for his disgusting pleasure. Getting fucked up the ass couldn’t be any worse than when he tore into my dry pussy, when he hit me or when he tore my throat apart. Then he did one thing that surprised me. He took a cigarette, put it between his lips, lit it, then forced it between my lips.

“Don’t let that fall from your lips, or I’ll smack you again,” he growled.

I drew in smoke with every breath and coughed with each exhale. It was putrid. I held the cigarette between my lips as the man muscled his way into my asshole. He grunted with his first thrust and it HURT! Having his dick 9 inches up my ass felt like a punch to the gut. It knocked the wind out of me.

Still, it didn’t hurt like that first fuck. It didn’t humiliate like being face fucked then gunked. He fucked me hard and I felt him deep in my bowels all while I smoked my first cigarette. For some reason he didn’t last long.Maybe the excitement of his anal attack got him off. Maybe anal sex really is that much better. No matter, he came deep in my ass before I finished my cigarette.

He wheezed, “Just about done,” and I relaxed my body at the idea the torture was over. But the ogre had one last indignity in mind. He walked around me, took the cigarette from my lips and forced his dick into my mouth. I was shocked. The idea that his dick, which had just been in my ass, was now in my mouth repulsed me. His dick tasted of lube and of something other than lube. Something awful. I wanted so badly to bite his dick in protest. I wanted to revolt. Instead I sucked quickly and in a moment it was over, his cum gurgling down my throat one more time.

He pulled his dick from my mouth, wiped his cock in my hair, put the cigarette back between my lips and left the dungeon. I sucked hard on that cigarette trying to find any cure to the taste his ass covered dick had left on my tongue.

Finished, I surveyed the room. Some of my other pledge sisters were in the same position I was - restrained but the punishing sex was over. Others were still being brutally fucked. Several of them cried no matter which position they were in. I watched one man finish fucking one of my sisters, wipe himself on her back then piss on her before he left. I realized it could always get worse. Despite the restraints at some point during the night I fell asleep.

I was awakened by the strong blonde untying my arms. Other young women untied or uncuffed the rest of my pledge class. They moved us until we all stood in line again. We were defeated by our experience and each of us slumped. We must have looked like a broken group of women.

I was covered in cum from head to toe. I felt semen frothing my ass and pussy. I could feel my left eye swollen shut and bruised. My wrists bled from the restraints and I had a streak of blood down my inner thigh, the last vestige of my virginity. Scarier still, I didn’t look as bad as some of the other girls.

“You aren’t the first to endure this,” the strong blonde said. “I went through Rehabilitation just like every woman of Mercy Warren. It is an important lesson. Now comes the next step. You are to be that man’s wife - for the rest of July. You will cook and clean and fuck for him. There is a lesson here, but you must learn it through experience.”

“So every morning, she continued, “your husband will leave for work. You are to cook him breakfast and have it ready by 6 am, pack him a lunch and have dinner waiting for him by 5 pm. You will clean the house from top to bottom while he is away at work. You will watch what he wants on TV, you will do what he wants and you will fuck when he wants. Now go.”

We began to walk away and I watched a brunette walk to the strong blonde and whisper something.

“Stop!” The blonde screamed. “One more thing. You are a very special class. You are the quadrennial class. Once every four years a new class of sisters joins us. One of those women becomes a Saint. The Saint is the pledge who goes through rehabilitation and comes out of it pregnant.”

We all started to protest until a a naked brunette girl screamd, “Quiet Down Whores!!!”

“When our society started,” the strong blonde girl said, “there was no birth control pill. We really had very little control of our bodies. To protect the women of Mercy Warren from unwanted pregnancies one woman was designated to sleep with the men who insisted on seeding, cuming in us. To protect us one woman would sacrifice herself and would sleep with our boyfriends, or sometimes even husbands, letting them ejaculate inside her. She of course became pregnant and bore our men’s children. But this gave the rest of us the freedom to wait, become educated and pursue professional interests before we had children of our own.”

To be our saint is to be a highly exalted woman,” the brunette began. “Yes, you will have a child, sure. You will fuck the men who refuse to wear condoms. You will experience humiliation and pain and childbirth. But in return we will bestow greatness on you while you are here and once we graduate. You will sacrifice greatly while you are in college, but the rest of your life comes with a pension, and honor and favors from all of your sisters. Those who are in school with you and those who graduated long ago.”

“Each of you have been taking vitamins,” the strong blonde chimed in. “In those pills was a fertility drug - ensuring you would conceive if you were truly inseminated. Eleven of the 12 men have had vasectomies after we recruited them. Each underwent the knife, but one of the men was left in tact. None of them know who can still father a child. Neither do we. But one of you will be fucking a cocked gun. One of you will be a mother before the school year ends. One of you will be the Saint.

“But don’t fear,” she continued. “After that first child you can go on some form of contraception. It isn’t 1899 any more after all. Still you will let our men inseminate you whenever they want. Now go to bed so you can rise early and prepare your husband’s breakfast.”

I don’t know how I got to bed but I woke at 5:30 am with my brutes arms around me. I wasn’t sure, but I think he fucked me again when I climbed into bed. I was too tired to remember, but I had fresh semen dripping from me, matting my pubic hair.

I didn’t have time to shower and cook, so I prepared his eggs and pancakes with his cum still dripping from me. I still had his semen and my blog dried in my hair and skin. When he walked into the kitchen he laughed at the site. He laughed at my humiliation.

The first few days were rough. I didn’t know how to cook or clean so I struggled to keep up. I also had no experience with sex prior to the Rehabilitation. So I struggled to please my man. The good news is he never hit me again, or forced himself on me. It was never again like in the dungeon. The only thing, he insisted I smoke. It was his fetish. He needed me to smoke to get off most nights. Really, he was quite sweet. But I hated it all none the less.

In time I got better at all of it. Sure I was chain smoking, and found myself craving cigarettes, but everything else was going great. I became very skilled at cooking quick meals, and I was able to do even the most complex recipes in my 1950’s era Betty Crocker Cook Book.

I got much better at sex too. In fact, I got so good that with the most subtle of manipulations I could make sex about me not him. I could climb on top to control the pace and depth of each thrust. I could angle my hips, just so. to keep him from hammering me. With the right hip twists I could make him last long enough for me to orgasm. And I liked orgasming.

By the end of the second week everything was going smoothly, until the thought started to work its way into my mind. The Saint. One of us would leave this camp pregnant, our life irrevocably changed.

The first nights the thought crept in I calmed myself by thinking my odds were one in twelve, amazingly small, all things considered. Only I couldn’t shake the feeling.

Then one night I remembered. Snake eyes. I rolled snake eyes. It would only make sense that such an unlucky roll of the dice would condemn a woman.

But that seemed crazy. I wasn’t superstitious.

I tried so hard to remember when my last period was. I needed to know when to expect the next one. But I couldn’t remember. I use a period tracking app on my phone, and without even a calendar I couldn’t land on date. I just prayed every night that I would be greeted by my menses the next morning. Sadly my period never arrived.

Then I noticed some of the smallest of signs. The first one happened during the final week of my marriage. My husband came home and gave me a big hug. No big deal. But my breasts. They hurt.

My breasts had a twinge of pain from the embrace. Something I had never experienced before. For the first time the felt fuller, rounder even. That night my tits were so sensitive I couldn’t stand it when my husband sucked on them during sex.

That thought that was hiding in the recesses of my mind moved front and center. It was the only thing I could think about.

I didn’t sleep all week. One morning I found my bra tight, maybe too tight. It was now too small for me. For a few minutes I lost my shit, crying and dry heaving.

I tried to convince myself that I was overthinking it. It was crazy that my tits were growing. Even if they were, my breasts had never really filled in much. I was just getting bigger because I was finishing puberty.

Everything was confirmed when my husband came home and did a double take even mentioning how much bigger my tits seemed. I was so angry at him I withheld sex.

I realized I couldn’t believe I was able to do that to him. I couldn’t believe I had taken so much of the power in the relationship. Under different circumstances I would have jumped for joy. But tonight I laid awake and fretted. I wished so much I had my phone so I could search the internet for answers.

On the last morning of my marriage I was cooking my husbands his last batch of eggs and my stomach churned. It had never happened before but the smell of the eggs repulsed me.

I sprinted to the bathroom and hugged the toilet as I puked. Food poisoning, I tried to reassure myself. Instead, the thought returned as a full on panic attack set in. I laid on the bathroom floor, my heart racing, cold sweat beading on my forehead. No, I couldn’t be a mother, not now, not so young.

I threw the eggs out, gave my man a pop tart and shook his hand as he walked out the door for the last time. Instructions arrived shortly after. I was to spend the day drinking 10 pints of water and cleaning the house, before a final meeting back in the dungeon. I was to arrive naked.

I did as told, and when we all arrived at the dungeon we hugged and celebrated completing the rehabilitation.

The strong blonde lead the ceremony. Each of us shared how it felt to have our power taken on that first night, how it felt to be helpless as a servant and house wife, and the small things we did to take back some of the power. That is the fight. The fight has always been in some way that women and men are vying for power.

I realized then that we would grow as sisters and leave Harvard some of the strongest most united women in the world. Some of our most notable sisters even joined us - some much older, talking about their accomplishments naked in the dungeon. It was all so inspiring.

“Now,” the blonde said, her tone changed. “One more matter to handle. We must find out which of you is the saint.”

Once the topic had been raised we all looked at each other trying to identify any small changes to our bodies that would signal which of us was to be a new mother. A few of the girls closest to me stopped glancing around when they saw how my breasts had grown. They honed in on my body. I had barely filled an A cup bra the first days of pledging. Tonight I was now a solid B cup. You could tell by my breasts’ shape they had only started to bulge and a C cup wasn’t far off. If the light had been better I was sure all eleven of my sisters would be staring at me.

The brunette walked to each of us handing us a bucket and a pregnancy test.

“Squat over the bucket girls,” the blonde said, clearly enjoying the humiliation and drama, “and in five minutes we will wish one of you joy over your impending motherhood!”

I hunched over the bucket unable to go. But holding back all that water was impossible for long. It was dead quiet except for 12 sprays of urine against metal milk pails.

We we all stood shaking our test, each hoping that we wouldn’t be the one with the positive sign. After a few minutes we were all glancing at each other’s tests rather than our own. I was so eager to see another girl pregnant I was calling to god, any god that would listen, “Please, please, make one of these other bitches knocked up. Anyone but me!”

But the gods were not one my side. I noticed the positive sign on my test, but I ignored it. I was sure I was seeing things. I felt certain that if I looked hard enough another girl had lost the lottery. Then the girl next to me started shrieking.

“Miriam! It’s Miriam. She’s pregnant,” holding my test in the air for all to see.

My sisters all circled around me celebrating. They pretended their excitement was for me, but I knew they were thrilled their wombs were still empty.

The last few weeks of pledge went well. I bonded with the girls. As the Saint I was treated like a goddess. I couldn’t believe the honor that went with being in my position. The morning sickness was brutal, and my tits were extremely sensitive. These were relatively small signs.

I was still so far from motherhood it was easy to ignore. Instead I reveled in being the most popular girl at the ball.

The thing I was more concerned about than anything was the smoking. I couldn’t quit no matter how hard I tried. In fact, about half the girls were hooked because it turned on their husbands too. The joke was that was the sign you were in Mercy Warren. No one smokes anymore except us.

Reality hit when pledging ended and I walked through the door of my house. My mother was there to greet me and ran to get a hug. But she stopped in her tracks when she saw how much my breasts had grown. My belly was even beginning to protrude bit.

“You’re the Saint!” she whispered sadly.

I hung my head and said, “Yes,” somewhat exasperated.

Then it dawned on me. “Wait, how do you know about the Saint?”

My mom cooked me dinner and we stayed up talking all night. It all came out. My mom was also a member of Mercy Warren, recruited because her mom had fought abortion laws in the sixties, and her grandmother, my great grandmother had been a union leader for women building planes during World War II. My great-great-grandmother had even been a suffragette. Mercy Warren wanted that lineage as part of their sisterhood - once my mom had been accepted into Harvard.

Then I learned the ugly truth about my father. He wasn’t an engineering major who had run off because he was scared of commitment. My mom had been a Saint as well.

“The truth is I am a great lawyer, but my career has certainly been helped because of my sisters, because of my sainthood.”

“So this is a good thing?” I asked.

“No, not really. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, least of all my daughter. The girls will support you, of course. But motherhood is hard, even under the best of circumstances. And you will be fucked by many, many, many men while you are there. Used even,” she whispered stretching every vowel in the word. “It isn’t easy. You will feel like a castoff some nights. But when you do fell that way go talk to the sisters. They will help you and support you.”

Then I did some quick math. I am 18. My mom became pregnant 19 years ago. That can’t be divided by 4. I asked her how that happened.

“The truth is, many of the saints graduate early to get out of the situation. I graduated in two years almost unheard of, but I couldn’t take it anymore. The saint after me graduated in three. It can be a big motivator.”

“So graduation ends the commitment.”

“Just go to graduate school somewhere else so we don’t find out if the commitment truly ends with graduation. That is what the other saints have done.”

Finally I asked my last question, “Won’t some of the girls resent me for fucking their boyfriends? I’m afraid they’ll all hate me.”

“The truth is, anymore, most of the girls are on the pill. So you won’t have to fuck as many guys as a Saint did a hundred years ago. The story is those saints earned their degrees on their backs. Never stepping a foot in the classroom, never leaving their bedrooms. And most of the saints kind of enjoy it. Many of us become exhibitionists.”

“You too?”

“No, not me. I am a lesbian honey. I would have guessed you had figured that out by now. Why do you think so many of my friends are lesbians? I don’t date because I don’t have time. But I am hoping to meet the special someone just like you are. So my time as a Saint was a different kind of hell. I don’t think you’ll experience it the same way.”

And I did find pleasure in it, some times. I found anonymous sex to be a real turn on. And pregnancy sex - well I can’t explain it. I had twins during my first year at Harvard. TWINS!!! What the fuck. As if it wasn’t hard enough to be the Saint. Fertility pills in a healthy 18 year old, I am probably lucky I didn’t have a liter of black babies.

I fucked hundreds of men during my time at Harvard. I don’t know if enjoyed it, but I had a lot of orgasms myself. An I love smoking while riding a guy, blowing smoke in his face.

I start law school in the fall. As much as I enjoyed my sisters, I decided to go to Yale. I didn’t want to try my luck.