By Greg Alexander

After the ordeal with the itching gel, in fact, as I have explained, I finally began to quickly get most of the feet in the frat down my heart. I lay there, pinned down to the spanking bench, more and more piss flowing through the tube, through my piss gag, and into my mouth as the night wore on.

The screen on my laptop was never inactive for long. Through the grainy video feed, I could see guy after guy after guy after guy take his place in front of the urinal. As the hours passed, and as the beer kept flowing, they started staggering into the bathroom more visibly drunk, their stride more and more lopsided, their every movement more and more inebriated, but still they kept coming. And coming. And coming.

They were mostly frat guys, jocks, athletes, guys with popped collars, guys with backward baseball hats and sun glasses inexplicably still on, even though it was night and indoors . . . the types you’d expect to find at your typical frat party on our campus. I was sure there were plenty of girls, but of course, thanks to the signage the frat boys had left outside the bathroom, none of them were coming in.

As always, it was funny, the things I suddenly observed. I couldn’t help but notice how each guy addressed the urinal just a little bit differently. One dude would sort of saunter in, lean up against the wall with one hand outstretched, and hold onto his dick with his free hand while he pissed. Another guy would lean forward, gazing down in concentration, like it took a lot of thought to get it right. Other guys still would sort of clutch their ball sack with both hands, arch their back, and gaze up at the ceiling, as if for all the world they wanted to look anywhere but down into the urinal.

The guys who belonged in Delta Psi, and knew where the urinal pipe led, behaved a little differently of course, at least when there was nobody else in the bathroom at the moment. Usually they would face the camera, so they were staring directly at me through the laptop screen, then gleefully flick me off, before finally sauntering over to the urinal and theatrically unloading.

The other thing I noticed, of course, was how different piss seemed to taste, depending on the dude whose piss I was drinking. I had been vaguely aware of the different flavors over the last few weeks, as the boys had ordered me to identify them based in part on piss flavor, but I had never really completely been able to differentiate effectively. Now, for the first time, I was tasting load after load of piss in a row, and I could compare the flavor of each one. I was amazed by the variety. Sometimes it tasted way salty, sometimes less so. It was always warm, but the warmth varied . . . and did countless other little details.

The party went on. I could dimly hear the loud rock music overhead, sending vibrations through the floor boards, with the occasional whoop and holler and shout standing out of the din. Of course, my room was pretty sound proof, and the most I could hear was a very dull roar.

At one point during the night, a group of seven or eight of the Delta Psi guys, with Wes as the ring leader, slipped into the bathroom, visibly giggling and snickering on camera. I guessed that most of them were pretty wasted by that point. Facing the camera, they all flipped me the bird in unison. Then, grinning, they produced a red classic frat party plastic cup, and quickly passed it around. One by one, each of them spat into it. I realized as I watched that at least 3 of the guys were using chewing tobacco — it was the group of frat boys that all used dip, I suddenly saw. They kept passing the cup around and around, until it was basically full. Wes flipped me the bird one more time . . . and then he walked up to the urinal and dumped the whole cup in.

I winced and braced myself. I mentally counted out 1 . . . 2 . . . and then, sure enough, by the third beat, the foul brew they had just concocted for me washed down my helpless throat. I gagged. I mean, don’t get me wrong, the piss tasted pretty awful, but at least I was getting used to the flavor. This was much worse.

Periodically, in the later hours of the party, a handful of horny Delta Psi guys did stumble through the entrance into the basement room, saunter over to take their place behind me, drop their jeans or their Nantucket red frat boy shorts, and roughly start fucking me, jamming their erect dicks down my ass chute (presumably, many of them would have preferred that I suck them off first, as was traditional, but of course my mouth was otherwise occupied). The vast majority of the frat never came by to fuck me, and I guessed it was because most of these jocks were too busy scoring with one or another lady visitor frequenting the frat house that night.

After hours, and hours, and hours had passed, the traffic through the bathroom dropped to a slow trickle. One dude, completely trashed, stumbled into the bathroom, into the camera’s line of sight. He bent forward, and puked a massive, nasty geiser of liquid onto the floor (thankfully, not into the urinal!) Then he sauntered another step or two forward, and promptly collapsed, sprawled out like a big mat on the bathroom floor. Another guy or two used the urinal after him, stepping gingerly over him and unloading their piss, and then after that, finally, quiet. Of course, I had no idea what time it was.

Now, as you might have guessed, by this point in the night, I had another burning, urgent problem. Bryce had ordered me not to piss “a single drop.” Well, inevitably, as the night had wore on, and as I had swallowed more and more urine, my need to piss had grown . . . slowly at first, then a it more, then worse, and worse, and worse. Hours before the party had started winding down, it had reached an urgent point; my entire bladder felt utterly full, on the verge of bursting.

With the last stragglers slipping into the bathroom, I had reached a critical breaking point. Every last ounce of my mental energy was being devoted to the task of regulating my bladder, of controlling my muscles, of willing myself not to unleash the torrent of piss I could feel building up inside of me like some welled up dam.

I clenched my teeth. I shut my eyes. I concentrated with all my might on holding it in. I was aware . . . only too keenly aware . . . that Bryce had ordered me not to piss. And of course, if I failed to follow Bryce’s order, I knew there would be terrible consequences. As there always was. The door swung open again. I opened my eyes. I was hoping against hope that they were here at last to untie me, release me from the piss pipe, and allow me to relieve myself.

Instead, standing in the doorway, silhouetted against the light coming down the stairwell, I could see the figure of Shane. That sadistic shit. I shuddered.

Shane didn’t say a thing. All he did was pad softly across the room, to the corner of the basement. There was a sink there – the sink that so many of the frat boys had used to fill up their bucket with soapy water, in order to scrub the demerits off the soles of my feet, back when I was still trapped in the “penalty box.” Now, I saw Shane reach for the faucet handle, give it a turn, and then, just like that, pad silently back out of the room, shutting the door behind him, and leaving me in darkness as before.

Except . . . now, of course, there was the distinct sound of the faucet running as I lay there, trapped, hunched over the spanking bunch.

The sound of running water was brutal. If my bladder had already been close to bursting, the running water pushed me to the edge. All of a sudden, my head was filled with thoughts of running water: water flowing, waterfalls, gushing, cascading.

Pissing.

I shut my eyes. I gritted my teeth harder.

Can’t piss myself, I thought over and over. Bryce told me not to piss myself. I’m sure there will be terrible consequences if I disobey Bryce. Concentrate. Focus. Focus . . .

Running water.

Gushing water.

I’m not sure how long I lay there, trussed and bound tightly to the bench, trying with all my might to shut out the sound of the faucet and to hold the gallons of piss in. Finally, as I clenched my teeth and tried to block the sound out, I was vaguely aware of a warm, wet feeling bubbling up just below my midsection.

Shit, I thought.

Once I started, there was no stopping it. The piss kept flowing. And flowing. And flowing. Warm piss, and more warm piss. It flooded down into the spanking bench to which I was securely tied. It gushed down my legs, and I could see it forming below me in a big puddle.

Still, it kept flowing. The puddle kept expanding. I tried to shut it off, to stop, but once the dam was open it was impossible to close. A sense of immense physical relief washed over me, combined, of course, my a visceral accompanying fear of what Bryce and the other frat boys would do to me for having, once again, in spite of my best efforts, disobeyed them.

I managed, finally, to doze off for at least a few hours. In what I took to be the very late morning, I was awoken by the sound of voices.

I opened my eyes to see Bryce standing there, looming in front of me, flanked on either side by a small cadre of frat boys. They all looked to be in various stages of hang overs.

Bryce did not look very happy.

“Fucking cunt. I give you one fucking instruction. One, you little cum slut. What was my one order?”

I of course couldn’t say a word with the piss gag still in my mouth. Sam, one of the frat boys standing off to the side, decided to helpfully chime in:

“You told him not to piss himself, Bryce.”

“Damn fucking straight.” Bryce folded his arms, glared at me, then glared at the pool of piss that was still collected underneath the spanking bench.” Let’s see what the bitch boy has to say for himself?” Shane suggested, from off to the side.

In a gruff gesture, Bryce detached the tube from my gag, then tore the piss gag out of my mouth. I coughed and sputtered, grateful to be free of the wretched thing.

“Well. I explicitly ordered you not to piss yourself, boy. So why did you disobey me?” Bryce demanded.

I was absolutely sure there was no power on earth that could induce Bryce not to punish me for my disobedience; I could see in his scheming eyes, in fact, that he was already relishing the opportunity to dole out yet another punishment.

“I am so sorry I disobeyed you sir,” I said, fear welling up inside me. “I tried my absolute best to hold the piss in, but there was just so much . . . after holding it for hours and hours and hours I tried so hard sir, but I couldn’t hold it any more.”

Collin, smirking, wearing his frat boy flip flops as always, stepped forward. “Shut the fuck up bitch boy. No one cares about your pathetic excuses. Repeat after me: I’m a bad little bitch boy, and I wet myself without the permission of the big boys.”

I felt myself flush with shame. “I’m a bad little bitch boy, and I wet myself without the permission of the big boys,” I muttered.

Shane cupped his hand behind his ear. “What’s that, slut? I can’t hear you?”

“I’m a bad little bitch boy, and I wet myself without the permission of the big boys!” I said, louder this time.

“Open your fucking mouth, and shout it slave,” Bryce growled.

“I’M A BAD LITTLE BITCH BOY, AND I WET MYSELF WITHOUT THE PERMISSION OF THE BIG BOYS!” I hollered at the top of my lungs.

“I deserve to be punished for pissing myself,” Collin continued, directing me. “Say it, slut.”

“I DESERVE TO PUNISHED FOR PISSING MYSELF!!!”

“That’s right you do, bitch boy,” Bryce said gruffly. He roughly untied me from the spanking bench. He quickly reshackled my ankles and knees, and then he recuffed my wrists behind my back, so that I remained as helpless as ever.

“Well, first things first, boy, you’ve got to clean up your mess. Get to it.” He snapped at the puddle of urine that had collected on the floor. I wasn’t even surprised; I knew immediately that with my hands trapped behind me, he wanted me to use my tongue. I knelt, leaned forward, and began to lap it up.

“Fucking little bitch. Get it all up, you slut,” Collin shouted down at me.

I licked faster.

Finally, they seemed satisfied that I had gotten it all.

Bryce reattached a leash to the collar around my neck. Once again, for the second time in as many days, he led me up the stairway to the main floor of the Delta Psi frat house, with me awkwardly struggling after him, and the other frat boys in tow.

I reached the main room, where I had been yesterday, serving the frat boys beer and acting as an unwilling beer-pong table. Other frat boys milled around in this room, sprawled out on sofas and chairs. I spotted Trevor, reclining on a soft padded chair. He was drinking water, and he raised his glass to me in an ironic salute as I appeared. Most of the guys looked totally hung over, not surprisingly.

The frat house, I could immediately see, was in a disastrous state. The main room was a total mess; evidence of last night’s revelry was everywhere. There were red fratty cups strewn about every which way, many of them still with beer and various other cocktails, some of which had spilled out and were staining the wooden floor below. Every inch of the floor seemed to be coated with a sticky, drying drink of some kind; mostly beer, I suspected. There were discarded empty kegs, beer cans, beer bottles, and beer boxes everywhere, along with all manner of trash, and even a few pieces of dirty laundry, random baseball hats and discarded brown flip flops randomly strewn around. Little pools of spilled beer leading into the adjoining rooms suggested the rest of the house, or at least the main floor, were no better.

The place, in short, was a total disaster.

Bryce and Collin moved around me, adjusting my bondage once again. My hands were uncuffed from behind my back, and recuffed in front of me, this time using a chain with a lot more slack than I had ever had before, so that I could actually move my arms around with some degree of freedom. My ankles and knees remained tightly cuffed. A familiar standby now, the “humiliator gag” with the cylinder protrusion jutting out, which could be attached to various accessories (previously the carrying tray for Bryce, and the squeegee I had used to clean up the spilled beer and the bathroom floor last night, before being officially secured as the party’s urinal). This time no accessory was attached to the gag, at least not yet. Bryce gruffly indicated for me to open my mouth, and I reluctantly accepted the gag as Bryce secured it in place.

Finally, Collin produced a long metal chain . . . very long, say at least 150 feet. (Not for the first time, I wondered where the hell these guys got all this stuff. And I remembered, not for the first time either, that most of this was probably coming out of my bank account, which Trevor had long ago accessed). Just like the night before, he attached one end of the chain to my dog collar, and the other end to the metal eye-hook embedded in the brick well. This time I had more length to work with and a longer radius, but I was, nevertheless, once again anchored to the wall and unable to escape.

“Alright, slave,” Bryce explained with his customary terseness. “Don’t worry. We haven’t forgotten about the punishment we still owe you for pissing yourself last night, in spite of my direct orders.

“But first, we need you to take care of this mess for us.” He gestured around at the room we were standing in. “As you can see, we had a pretty awesome party last night. I know you enjoyed it thoroughly.” There were snickers at this.

Collin interjected. “Well bitch boy . . . to be blunt, nobody much feels like cleaning up the spectacular mess we all made. Of course, then we all realized . . . that’s what our fucking bitch boy is for, right?” More laughter.

“So . . . here’s the deal, slut. It’s a fucking 3 day weekend. And Delta Psi goes big on 3 day weekends. Tonight the frat is having a frat-only BBQ out in our backyard. And it’s gonna be fuckin awesome, dude. But this whole place needs to be cleaned up by then. It’s late morning now. We’re giving you the whole afternoon . . . until 5 PM. . . to clean this whole fucking place. And it better be fucking spotless dude . . . I mean, absolutely fucking spick and span. Floors spotless. Laundry pressed and folded. Trash picked up. Floors mopped the fuck up.

“We’ll give the place a thorough inspection at exactly 5,” one of the other frat boys chimed in. “And then, bitch boy, we’ll rate your overall performance.”

Trevor had been sitting off to the side, on one of the pool tables, his flip-flopped legs dangling down. But now he swung his legs off and jumped smoothly to the floor, looking closely at me as he walked. “And of course, slave, needless to say, if the house isn’t spotless by then, you’ll hafta to be punished.” He grinned. “Which, combined with the punishment we already owe you for pissing yourself, means that you’ll have to take a double punishment.” He paused, then glanced over at Wes. “Also . . . dude. Grab the cock cage. We gotta make sure our bitch boy can’t touch his dick while he cleans.”

Once my dick was secured, the frat boys laid out in a neat row the different “accessories” they said I would need throughout the day. They were all extensions meant to be added to my humiliator gag, each one with a cylindrical protrusion, so as to attach more easily to my gag.

I stared at the layout. I saw the squeegee attachment they had made me use last night to clean up the spilled beer . . . that one looked familiar, of course. But there were others. I saw an attachment piece for a broom, a mop, a feather duster, and a toilet bowl cleaner. I was told that whenever I wanted to switch one piece out for another, I would have to approach one of the frat boys and massage his feet first for 5 minutes in order for my request to be granted.

With a such a long chain connecting my collar to the wall, I realized that I actually had enough slack to move around the house . . . even enough to go to the upstairs rooms of the house, where I had never been before. And with my wrists connected by such a long chain, I actually had enough freedom of movement to move my arms around and pick things up. But of course, with my ankles tightly bound together, I still had to awkwardly hop, one halting hop at a time, to get anywhere.

Well, it didn’t go very well.

I started off trying just to pick up all the trash from the party and bag it, but that in and of itself took hours, especially with my ankles tied together, and the frat boys made matters worst by deliberately leaving messes everywhere as they went around the house about their business. They would discard dirty underwear carelessly onto the floor, they would deliberately kick over trash cans. They kept interrupting me, demanding that I bring them more beers from the fridge. They kept tossing smelly flip-flops at me, and demanding that I wash them clean with soap and water. And they derived enormous amusement from making me grovel just to get them to switch one cleaning implement in for another. In short, they made an already nearly impossible task utterly impossible.

By the time it was early afternoon, I had finally gotten most of the trash bagged and thrown it in the back of the house — although, of course, I kept having to bag more as the asshole frat boys dropped more and more trash onto the floor. I had managed to collect the disgusting piles of dirty laundry and get several loads into the washing machine on the second floor of the frat house (come to think of it, I was surprised they even had one), but my life was further complicated when Collin informed me that I would be punished unless I kept track of which article of clothing belonged to which frat boy . . . a nearly impossible task, of course, especially by that point. I persuaded Hank, the cowboy frat boy who was always just a little nicer than the others, to attach the mop accessory to my humiliator gag, and I set to work crawling around the frat house (butt naked, of course) cleaning the floors.

As the day wore on, as the frat boys kept drinking beer and lounging around the house, they got more and more brazen in their obnoxious antics, doing more and more to create new messes for me to clean up.

“Here, slave. Catch.” As I mopped, Shane suddenly hurled a series of eggs down the hallway at me. One hit me squarely in the forehead, splattering messily, yolk running down my face onto the floor. It felt a lot like cum, I thought to myself (by that point I had a pretty good feel for what cum on my face felt like!)

Another frat boy deliberately spilled a bottle of beer on the floor. Still another dumped a container of food all over the kitchen.

Needless to say, in spite of my best efforts, by the time 5 PM rolled around, despite all the frantic work I had done, with 40 frat boys prowling around the house all day making new messes, the house was very, very far from “spotless.”

“Bitch boy,” Bryce demanded, as he circulated throughout the house, inspecting my work when the deadline had passed, “did you even clean the bathrooms at all, you lazy slut?”

I hung my head in shame. The truth was that, in trying to do everything else, I hadn’t even gotten to that.

“What about the upstairs, dude?”

I hadn’t gotten to that either.

Bryce shook his head. “Totally unacceptable, slave.”

Collin flashed his sexy grin. “I think it’s safe to say we’re giving you an `F,’ Bitch Boy.”

The frat boys agreed that they would make me come back later and finish my clean up, but that for now, it was important that my punishment not be deferred any longer. “Otherwise, who knows . . . the little bitch will get the idea he can do anything he wants,” Trevor pointed out sagely.

My wrists were recuffed behind my back, and I was dragged back to the main floor of the frat house. The broom accessory (which had previously been attached to the gag) was removed, the serving tray was fixed back into place, it was loaded up with several bottles of beer, and I was made to squat in the middle of the floor, while around 30 of the frat boys circled me, sipping beer and discussing what my next punishment should be.

Various ideas were tossed around.

“Dudes,” Shane finally said, gulping on his beer. “Can I tell you what was fucking sweet in high school? Giving wedgies to the tools who deserved it. Man, I gave a good wedgie when I was a senior. I sure would love to give a really good one to the bitch boy now.”

There was immediate enthusiasm for this idea. Apparently, most of the members of Delta Psi had fond memories of giving high school wedgies, and felt universally deprived of opportunities to deliver really good wedgies now that they were all in college.

“Whoa,” muttered Sam, one of the juniors. “How the fuck have we not thought of that before??”

Reid chimed in. “Dude . . . it’s fucking brilliant.”

“Man, that’s an awesome theme!” another frat boy agreed.

“In fact . . . let’s just make the entire rest of the night a high school themed punishment for the fucking bitch boy!”

While I knelt there, bound and gagged and immobilized, the frat boys all warmed to their theme. They began to confer in hushed whispers and giggles in a clump, so I could no longer hear what they were saying. My trepidation grew.

Finally, they sent two of their pledges off to make a quick run at the Walmart. They came back in just a few minutes carrying . . . several grocery bags full of tidey widey underpants.

“Don’t worry, bitch boy,” Bryce chortled, as they emptied the contents on the floor. “We got you the extra small size.”

The frat boys began to stack them in a pile. One of the frat boys produced a black sharpy marker, and began to label each set “frat boy’s bitch boy” in illegible masculine scrawl as each pair of underwear was torn from it’s plastic packaging.

Trevor patted me on the head in a gesture of mock comfort. “Awww. Don’t worry bitch boy. We didn’t spend any frat money on these, as usual. These all came out of your bank account. Just in case the first few ripped, e have a bunch of backups . . . so we can wedgie you all weekend.”

Bryce flashed me his no-nonsense glare. “Now . . . get into the first set of tighty whiteys, you little bitch.”

My ankles were uncuffed, and my cock cage removed. The frat boys circled me, smirking. It was incredibly awkward, trying to get the things on with my hands still cuffed behind me, but somehow I managed without tripping. It was definitely the case that they had gotten an extra small size . . . it might even have been a child’s size, I thought . . . and I barely was able to squeeze into them. They were extremely constricting.

I realized, absently, with a sense of incredulity, that it was the first time I had been allowed to wear a single article of clothing since I set foot into the frat weeks ago.

They left the ankle cuffs discarded on the floor.

“Dude,” Cliff, one of the boys, smirked. “Let’s do it just like in high school . . . duct tape him, man!!”

“Yeah!” another guy explained. “I love it!”

Someone produced a roll of duct tape. A very long strip was pulled off and wrapped repeatedly around my ankles. Then my handcuffs were removed, and the same thing happened to my wrists.

“Alright, Shane,” Bryce was saying. “It was your idea . . . so it’s only fair you get first dibbs.”

Shane took his position behind me. He leaned forward, so his lips were pressed up against my ear. “Beg me,” he whispered. I could feel his hot breath. “Beg me to give you a wedgie.”

I hesitated only a moment. “Please sir,” I gasped. “Give me a wedgie, sir.”

“Admit that you’re a fucking tool.”

“I’m a fucking tool.”

“Louder!!”

“I’M A FUCKING TOOL SIR!!”

As the frat boys laughed at me, I felt Shane lunge forward and grab my waste band from behind. I felt a little shock of pain as he yanked once, HARD, yanking the fabric up into my butt crack. It was surprising, really, how painful a wedgie can be when you’re wearing tidey-whiteys that are way too tight. The pain was compounded from the fact that my poor under stimulated cock, freed of the cock cage I had been forced to wear all day, was already starting to get hard again, simply from the contact with the fabric of the briefs. The sudden sensation of having the whitey tideys yanked from behind also had the effect of smashing my ballsack. I felt like all the wind had been knocked out of me.

Shane pulled again, HARD, and I involuntarily cried out, as the fabric tore into my ass crack. This time, Shane actually hoisted me off the ground by my underpants, so that my bare feet were hovering above the floor. He held me there for at least the count of ten. The pain tripled now; the wedgie sensation between my ass crack was suddenly unbearable.

Shane finally set me down. “Who’s next?” he inquired cheerfully.

“I’ll go,” Collin quickly volunteered. He positioned himself behind me. Again I felt the burning sensation in my crotch as I was hoisted into the air by my undies.

Wes was next. He too flashed an unhealthy smirk as he moved behind me. “Man,” he said with a sigh of contentment. “It’s like the best fuckin wedgies I gave when I was on varsity soccer . . . except, with the little bitch trussed up like he is, he can’t even try to fight back! It’s fuckin pathetic, dude.” As he became the third frat boy to hoist me into the air by the seat of my pants, I let out another cry of pain.

Sam Hamilton, one of the juniors in the frat, came next. “Dude,” he said cheerfully. “Let’s not forget about the fucking Melvin variety.” Rather than take his place behind me, Sam suddenly yanked my wasteband from the front, and hoisted me into the air by my front side. The pain was just as bad . . . maybe even a little worse. And this form REALLY ended up crushing my nuts.

“Fucking awesome!” Reid said, watching. He stepped forward and took his place behind me. “Dude . . . let’s make it a squeaky clean wedgie!!”

As I stood there, totally helpless, Sam smoothly released the front of my undeys, and at the same moment, in one fluid gesture, Reid yanked my tidey-wideys back behind me, so that the fabric whipped painfully back behind me, making a painful whistling sound. I cried out in pain again.

Sam smoothly took the front of the wasteband and pulled up as Reid released. Then back, and forth. Back and forth. As I stood there, helpless as the tidey wideys were used like the dental floss strand from hell, the frat boys hooted with laughter.

Finally, I heard a loud RIPP!!! I looked down and realizd, with a sense of relief, that the virgourous Melvin-squeaky clean-wedgie torture had caused my tight tightie whiteys to rip in two. Reid stood there, holding a shard of underwear (which he hastily discarded).

Thank god, I thought to myself for a deluded moment. They can’t give me more wedgies now.

“Alright, bitch boy,” Trevor said, undoing the duct tape around my legs, making me wince slightly. “Now put on the next pair of tightey-whiteys.”

“And don’t worry, slave,” Bryce chimed in. “We have over 40 more pairs. And the wedgieing ain’t stopping until we go through every last one.”

I groaned.

About 40 wedgies, melvins and squeaky-clean wedgies later, after each frat boy had gotten some fun yanking me up by the wasteband of my tightey whiteys, and after tearing through about 7 more pairs of underwear, my ass crack and ballsack felt destroyed.

But unfortunately, the frat boys were only getting started. These guys were like alcoholics falling off the wagon; most of these guys had been asshole jocks who had gotten a big kick out of wedgieing victims in high school. Now that they had started down this road, there was simply no stopping them.

“Fuckin’ A, Dude,” one of the frat boys, Gabe, said. “I feel like there are other kinds of wedgies we’re forgetting. What else are we missing?”

Wes, ever the foot worship enthusiast, piped up. “Let’s make the bitch boy kiss and lick our feet and beg for more wedgies while we look more up.”

The frat boys liked this idea.

Collin already had his iphone out. “Fuck, man . . . here’s a site that lists . . . like, every type of wedgie there is. Dude . . . how could we have forgotten about fucking atomic wedgies?” He looked up, made eye contact with me, and snapped commandingly down toward his flip-flops. “Crawl over here, start licking my feet bitch boy, and beg for your atomic wedgie.”

With my wrists and ankles duct taped together, I crawled over to Collin’s feet and begin to kiss them. “Please, sir, please give me an atomic wedgie.”

Collin made me beg for another minute or so while the frat boys laughed at me. Then, finally, with a big muscular gesture, he took hold of the wasteband and gave it a mighty heave. “Hold his legs down!” he urged Danny, another frat boy, as he yanked. The fabric stretched and stretched. Finally he was able to actually stretch it over my head, and secure the back wasteband to my forehead . . . in classic atomic wedgie style.

“I love it!” Trevor hooted.

Collin grinned. “Now,” he said cruelly, “get back down on the floor, kiss my feet again, and thank me for your atomic wedgie.”

Of course, moving around at all with my tighty-whiteys hiked up over my head was excruciating. I crawled forward, wincing, and kissed Collin’s feet again. “Thank you for my atomic wedgie, sir,” I said pathetically.

Two other frat boys made me beg them for atomic wedgies until that pair tore. Then I suffered through another humiliating round of melvins and squeaky clean wedgies, with each of my tormentors now making me kiss their bare feet begging them for my wedgie, with detail about exactly what kind of wedgie I wanted (dictated to me by them, of course) and then thanking them for my wedgie before and after each one.

“Dude . . . I’ve got another one,” Trevor suddenly said, looking one up on his iphone. “Oh, man, little bitch isn’t gonna like this one. It’s called, uh, the `messy wedgie.’ It’s a wedgie where you put something down the victim’s underpants before you wedgie him!

“Hysterical,” one of the other boys chortled.

“What do you put down the pants?” a third boy wanted to know.

“Whatever we feel like!’ Trevor grinned.

“How `bout eggs, for starters?” Shane suggested with an evil glint in his eye. Of course, Shane had also earlier been the one to pelt me with eggs while I was trying to clean up the house. Clearly, the boy had eggs on the brain.

The frat boys loved the suggestion. One of them went to retrieve a carton of eggs from the fridge, then returned.

“I bet I can crack 6 at once,” Trevor boasted.

“10 bucks says you can’t!” Jared shouted from off to the side.

Trevor grinned. “Oh, just fucking watch.” He glanced down at me. “C’mere, bitch boy. Lick uncle trevor’s feet and beg for some of your very own scrambled eggs!”

The frat boys sniggered. Obediently, I crawled over to Trevor. He kicked off his flip-flops, and I began to lick the soles of his feet.

“Please, master Trevor, drop 6 eggs down my underpants and then try to crack them all by giving me a wedgie, sir.”

Trevor made me beg a little more. Than he ordered me to stand up (awkwardly, of course, with the duct tape). He dropped the 6 eggs into my tidey wideys. I shut my eyes and braced myself.

Trevor toyed with my anticipation for a few seconds, then in one savage move, he grabbed me by the back of my wasteband and with a muscular heave, he ripped me into the air. I felt a searing shock of pain as I felt all 6 eggs simultaneously explode, the shells biting painfully into my ass. The gooey contents of each egg erupted in my tidey-wideys.

I screamed, from a combination of shock and pain. Trevor cruelly dangled me for a few seconds, then dropped me painfully to a floor in a heap. I could feel the yolk running down my ass crack and down my legs.

“The little fucker is dripping!” one of the frat boys exclaimed.

“Lick that shit up, slave boy,” Trevor said sternly, pointing to the yellow yolk that was dribbling on the floor.

“Yes sir,” I immediately said, kneeling and licking the mess up.

“Some got on my toes,” he said, pointing down at his flip-flops. “Lick that up too.”

I did.

We went through several more pairs of tightey whiteys while the frat boys gleefully experimented with other types of “messy wedgies.” Cliff in particular got a kick out of dropping a peeled banana down my undies, giving me a massive wedgie, and then making them eat the totally crushed banana.

Bryce, of course, could be counted on to top them all.

After some time, I saw him looming there, holding a big bowl of something. At first I couldn’t make out what was in the bowl. Then I realized.

It was a bowl filled with pine cones.

I was immediately gripped with fear. I knew that being wedgied with those in my undies would be excruciating beyond anything I thought I had experienced to date.

Bryce grinned. “Time to start begging me, bitch boy.” He instructed me to kneel at his feet and begin to lick them. The other frat boys watched, transfixed. “Now, bitch boy,” he said, contemplatively. “I really haven’t decided whether to give you a pinecone wedgie. It would be . . . well, pretty mean. I might do it anyway, cuz I want to see your reaction and I’ve never gotten to do a pine cone wedgie. But spend the next 5 minutes groveling and begging me for mercy, and I’ll see how I feel.”

I groveled, utterly pathetically, in front of Bryce. I licked his feet frantically, protesting my total unworthiness, and begging Bryce not to use the pine cones. Finally, Bryce shrugged lazily.

“I still might do it anyway, but haven’t completely decided. Anyway, I like the idea of making you wait for it, just anticipating it later,” he said with a nasty smirk. “Meanwhile, who’s sick of listening to the bitch boy whine??”

A forest of hands shot up around the room.

“Speaking of high school night . . .” Cody, one of the more muscular frat boys, a sophomore, spoke up. “You know what we did once on the football team in high school to one of our freshmen? We gagged him with someone’s used undies!”

“We did that on the soccer team too, dude!” Wes exclaimed.

“OK,” Bryce said. “Next question . . . who in this frat is currently wearing the nastiest undies??”

An extended debate followed. It was finally decided that the answer was Reid, who had just worked out for 2 hours earlier in the day, had not changed his undies yet, and had in fact been wearing them for over 2 days.

Bryce grinned. “Ok, you win Reid. Take your nasty ass boxers off and put on fresh ones, dude. It’s time to re-gag the bitch boy. It’s high school wedgie night at Delta Psi, and for our bitch boy, everything is underwear themed tonight!!”

Reid produced his underwear. They were, indeed, totally disgusting . . . they smelled foul, they had streak marks, the were rank with sweat, and I could even see little pubic hairs on them.

“Gag him, dude,” Bryce ordered. He paused. “But first, untape his wrists for a few minutes, and make him massage your feet and beg for that a little bit too. It’ll feel awesome dude . . . trust me.”

When Reid’s foul underwear had been jammed into mouth and secured (with more duct tape) Bryce announced it was time for the next phase of the evening.

“Alright, bros, it’s almost dinner time. And you know what that means . . . it’s time for some BBQ!”

The Frat boys cheered. I recalled them saying that they were having a frat-only BBQ, and, as usual, I wondered helplessly what was in store now.

I was taken back outside, to the frat house’s backyard. It was the first time I had been out there since my first night in the frat, when they had made me play that game of “frat boy foot board” in the mud. I shuddered at the memory.

The sun was just starting to set, but it was still light out (it had been totally dark last time I was out there). This time, I could see that the frat’s back yard was completely surrounded by tall trees, which meant the neighbors couldn’t see into the yard at all.

I looked out beyond the frat’s porch, and realized there was a small concrete outdoor basketball court tucked up against the back of the house, with a basketball hoop mounted to the side of the house. A big grill had been set up, with a ton of meat. It was obvious the frat boys were preparing a huge meal. There was a huge table set up to one side of the yard. In what I took to be one of his classic sadistic touches, Bryce took the bowl of pine cones and placed it gingerly on the table, as if it were some absurd center piece.

Finally, I saw that a ladder had been set up to one side of the yard. I wasn’t sure why.

“Alright, wedgie slave,” Collin was now saying theatrically. “Soooo . . . we gave you quite a few wedgies. We gave you quite a few melvins. We threw in a few squeaky clean wedgies, atomic wedgies, and of course . . . for variety . . . messy wedgies.”

“And we might give you a pine cone wedgie later, depending on how you behave,” Bryce added with an ominous chuckle.

“But . . . I can’t help but feel like we missed one major wedgie in the world of wedgies . . .” Collin was saying. His voice drifted off. I could see the other frat boys standing around smirking with anticipation. “Think it over, bitch boy, can you think of the one truly classic wedgie we’ve missed?”

I recognized the question was rhetorical, largely because Reid’s foul boxers were completely plugging my mouth.

“Oh . . . of course!” Collin thumped his head theatrically. “How could we be so stupid. The one we forgot is the . . . HANGING WEDGIE!!”

I was now, of course, wearing yet another fresh pair of whitey tighties. At that, on cue, four frat boys pounced on me, grabbed me, and carried me over to the basketball court just off the back porch. 2 more frat boys grabbed the ladder, and brought it over to the court. I suddenly realized what they were doing.

“Get the rope!” I heard someone shout out.

I saw Cliff reemerge from the house, carrying 2 lengths of not terribly hick but firm rope . . . the kind you might use for rock climbing.

“Wait!” Wes shouted. I saw him pick up one of the bottles of ketchup that had been set out at the table, in anticipation of the barbeque to come. He shrugged. “We might as well make this a messy wedgie while we’re at it, too!” He jogged over to where the four frat boys were holding me, snapped open the band of my whitey tideys, and squeezed a massive dose of ketchup into the undies.

“Nice,” Shane said enthusiastically. “Get some mustard too, dude!” Someone else grabbed a bottle of mustard and did the same treatment with it. I felt a disgusting slimy and cold sensation in my pants . . . like I had just shit them, I thought with disgust.

“Hot dog!” Shane quipped lamely, nevertheless to laughter.

“Alright . . . STRING HIM UP!!” Sam shouted enthusiastically.

The frat boys carried me to the top of the ladder, which was now positioned right next to the basket ball hoop. I wasn’t sure how they were going to do it for a moment or two . . . then they started looping the rope through each leg of my tightey whiteys. They looped it through several times, to make it extra secure, and then they tied the rope around and around the basketball rim. In just a few seconds, my tightey whiteys were securely lassoed to the rim.

“Ok, bitch boy is ready for his hanging wedgie,” Collin announced.

“Oh man. This is gonna hurt a little, bitch boy,” Trevor sniggered.

“Someone grab a camera,” Bryce directed. One of the pledges did, and aimed the lens squarely at me.

“Grin!” someone shouted at me. They laughed.

“Ok,” Bryce said, cracking a grin. “Drop the fucker.”

The four frat boys simultaneously released me. I dropped like a stone, then was immediately arrested in midair as the rope cut against the leg holes of my briefs, giving by far my most violent wedgie to date. The undies hiked up with a sudden horrific lurch, catching me squarely in the groin and in the ass crack. The wedgie sensation was totally excruciating. If I had not been gagged with Reid’s nasty briefs, I absolutely would have screamed again, much louder this time.

The frat boys all doubled over, laughing. Now I was dangling, my feet about 6 feet in the air, suspended from the edge of the basket ball hoop, my bodyweight stretching out my boxers, giving me a truly epic wedgie. The liberal amount of ketchup and mustard they had dumped into my whitey-tighteys a moment earlier went straight into my ass crack, producing a painful burning sensation.

“Ah, poor little wedgie slave,” Bryce said, shaking his head in mock sorrow. “Should have just cleaned up the frat house, and also not pissed in our basement, like we told you, bitch boy,” he said. “Well, don’t worry, there’s still more punishment coming up bitch boy. But meanwhile, just hang out here, relax, and try to enjoy the barbeque!”

 

Click for next part

Click for previous part

Click to start at Part 1

Metal would like to thank the author, Greg Alexander, for allowing this story to be posted here. You can contact the author at greg_alexander222@yahoo.com.

Also thanks to Metalbond reader John for his assistance in preparing this story for posting!