"The Automatic Sorority."

“I call this one the Automatic Sorority,” says Dr. Mungus, around three hours and forty-five minutes later. “It’s groundbreaking, don’t you think?”

“I heartily agree,” says Dean Lucinda Treadwell, clinking champagne glasses with him in celebration. She’s an elegant, well-put-together professional woman in a flowing wine-coloured dress, with an uncanny resemblance to Gillian Anderson. “You’ve outdone yourself this time, doctor. I think this is the most radical and challenging piece of sapphodynamic installation art I’ve ever seen in my life. Don’t you agree, Lily?”

“OW!”

“A most incisive commentary,” says Dr. Mungus, grinning and swallowing half his champagne at one gulp. They’re standing in the Downknicker Gallery on the Arts Building’s first floor, named of course for prominent nineteenth-century philanthropist Julius Q. Downknicker. The doors have just opened to the public. “Can you believe I didn’t find the perfect performers until only a few hours before tonight’s grand opening? I’ve had the machine ready for weeks, but it’s been the devil of a time finding people willing to occupy it.”

“You’re so lucky Lily volunteered. What a brave girl.”

“Well, I blackmailed her.”

“Oh, how clever! You’re a sly devil, Greg. And her students are just the perfect fit.”

“OW!” A chorus of wails emanate from the huge clunky machine installed in the center of the room. Ten naked punk lesbians, with Lily in the middle, lie across a long padded black leather table, bottoms elevated on one side and breasts dangling down on the other. Their wrists and hands are locked in stockades cobbled together from scrapped iron pipes. More iron pipes hold them in place, wrapping around them to make it look like they’re in the grip of some horrible scrap-metal octopus. Their nude asses, some pink, some dark, some small and perky, some plump and jiggly, are presented in a row for ease of comparison.

A long revolving drum has been mounted above the girls’ bottoms. Long strips of stiff leather are attached to it. As it revolves, the strips catch on a bar, are pulled back, then release at top speed to land against the girls’ naked buttocks with swift, stinging slaps.

“OWWWWW!”

“Having fun, Lily?”

You’re in a tuxedo. Meg’s in an evening gown. Both of you are holding champagne flutes, sauntering arm in arm through the crowd. The reception’s a smash hit. Professors, rich alumni, curious students and art critics from across the nation stroll around the room, admiring Dr. Mungus’ gigantic blown-up photos of that afternoon’s sapphic picture shoot. A small group of actual sorority girls stand in front of the spanking machine, giggling and taking notes.

“OW! OWWWW! MEG! WHY? WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS?”

“Aww. Are you mad because you got pranked again?”

“NO! SHUT UP!”

The spanking machine shifts into a higher gear, making the drum revolve faster. The nude lesbians squeal in outrage as the spanks fly thick and fast, peppering their already sore and crimson bottoms with vicious, musical blows. Meg ruffles Lily’s hair, enjoying the pout on the flustered redhead’s face.

“You know what we forgot?” she says.

“No. What?”

“We forgot there’s two more people who need pranking!” Meg snaps her fingers. Immediately, Beth and Kitty are teleported into the middle of the crowded gallery, full of people in formal attire, who raise their glasses and cheer as they see the two astonished girls materialise on the polished floor. “Welcome to the party, girls!”

“AHH! MEG! I HATE YOU!”

“EEK! NO!”

Beth and Kitty are, of course, both naked. Meg throws her arms around the shoulders of the pair and steers them towards Dr. Mungus, who obligingly raises his camera. “Smile, girls! No covering up!”

“Say, I caught your show last night,” says Dr. Mungus, snapping away. Meg’s got a huge smile on her face. Beth and Kitty wear hot red blushes and mortified pouts as she pulls them in close, squeezing Beth’s left breast and pinching Kitty’s bottom. “Very sexy. Loved all the musical numbers. Will you be staying for the party?”

“No!”

“Oh, yes they well.” Meg clicks her tongue. Beth and Kitty emit gasps of horror as they find themselves in frilly white maid headdresses, frilly white aprons, frilly black stockings, frilly garter belts and high heels, with trays of drinks supported by shoulder straps at their waists. “You’re going to make lovely little waitresses, aren’t you, best friends?”

“I’m totally going to get you for this, Meg!”

“That’s what you always say. Hasn’t happened yet.”