Frat Boy’s Bitch Boy – Part 08

By Greg Alexander

I was so scared I could have shit my pants. There I was, bound, gagged and completely helpless, at the mercy of a bunch of muscular frat jocks who at this moment had every reason to hate me, and every motive to extract their revenge. All I could do is crane my neck and stare up at them, a desperate pleading look in my eyes, as the row of pledges stared back at me, distinctly unforgiving smirks on each of their faces.

“Remember,” Trevor was saying to them, as they all looked down at me, none of them taking their eyes off of me, “the little shit bag has pictures on his hard drive of all of you naked, elephant walking around the basement of this fraternity. Little creep likes to sneak in here and take pictures of us late at night. Don’t ask me how. Now, pledges, it is up to us, the brothers of Delta Psi, to scare the cocksucker straight.”

The pledges were nodding enthusiastically at this.

Jared, the blond young guy working for the bookstore, spoke up. “This guy’s a total dick, anyway. He’s the one who almost got me fired from work the other day!”

Shane, the waiter I had yelled at and refused to tip, murmured his agreement. “Yeah! He was a total asshole to me at the restaurant the other night too!”

“He fucking ruined my laptop and said it was my fault!” Cliff said.

“I was on a hot date with Emily and the little fag called me gay!” Eric shouted.

“So . . .” Bryce said, after a moment’s silence. “Pledges . . . for the last several months, you have undergone the often rigorous and occasionally hellish process Delta Psi requires all of its entering brothers to undergo. Well, now, you have just about made it through, and the tables are turned. This is your final test as a pledge class. This fucker has gone way beyond the bounds of what is acceptable. No one treats members of our frat this way. So. . . what are you going to do about it?”

Another pregnant pause. Shane spoke up now. He was short, had jet black hair, and like every other boy in the room, had a muscular athletic build that made me emphatically not want to mess around with him.   “I think we should make him beg a little bit first,” he said.

The other boys seemed to like the suggestion. Grinning broadly, the pledges surrounded me, so that I lay there, bound, on the floor in the center of a circle of alpha males that were forming eagerly around me.

One of them roughly yanked the duct tap away from my mouth and pulled my saliva-soaked sock gag out.

“Alright, Steve . . .” one of the pledges began.

“I told you,” Bryce rumbled from the side of the room, his underlying tone threatening. “That is NOT his name.”

The pledge grinned again. They were loving this. “Alright . . . BOY” he said loudly. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

My voice trembled. “Please . . . I’m sorry,” I whimpered. “Don’t hurt me!”

“Do you admit to breaking and entering our house and taking pictures of us during hellweek . . . BOY?” another pledge shouted into my ear.

I hesitated for a second. Off to the side, I could see Trevor and Bryce, leaning against the wall. Trevor fixed me with a death stare. I gulped. “Yes, I do. I’m sorry. It was a terrible mistake.”

The pledge who had asked the question bent over still further and screamed into my ear “IS THAT HOW YOU ADDRESS ME???”

“Sir, no sir!” I exclaimed automatically.

“WHY did you do it, FAGGOT?” another of the pledges loudly demanded of me.

Again, I could feel Trevor’s glare boring into my skull. I felt like I could almost hear his voice . . . you better be pretty fucking convincing cocksucker …

I had become nothing if not a good actor. “I did it because I wanted to see all of you naked . . . sir,” I grunted miserably. “I did it because I wanted to . . . ah . . . jerk off to pictures of you all holding each others’ dicks late at night, sir.”

The pledges snickered at that.

“Trevor said you were going to email the pictures out to five hundred other students, you lying sack of shit!” one shouted.

“I was . . . um . . . considering it . . .”

Shane, who seemed to be emerging as a sort of unofficial ring-leader of the pledges, and certainly seemed to have the most intense, malicious look in his eye of any of them, cut in. “I’ve fucking heard enough!” he said. “I say we give the pathetic little shit head one chance exactly one chance to beg us for mercy before we get to work.”

There were grunts of agreement from the other boys.

“Alright,” Shane said, staring down on my tied up body. “BEG!”

I stared at him, so taken aback for a moment that I could do nothing but stare.

Suddenly Shane kicked me, hard. I groaned. “BEG!!!”he roared.

“Please sir,” I said quickly, gasping form the pain. “Please, I’m very sorry about everything. Please, I’m begging you, please, go easy on me.”

“Not nearly good enough, faggot,” one of the other pledges snarled from beside me. “Beg harder, you fucker!”

“This is your last chance to say anything to us other than `yes sir,’ `no sir,’ and `thank you, sir, I’d like more, sir,'” a third pledge giggled. “I’d make it pretty convincing!”

“Please, master pledges,” I cried, wheeling around in a circle on my hands and knees, “please, I’m BEGGING you, go easy on me. I know I don’t deserve your mercy. I am just a poor pathetic faggot. I am not worthy of you. I am not even worthy of your toe lint. But I beg you to please go easy on me anyway.”

The pledges were chortling gleefully.

“What a pathetic fucking cocksucker,” one of them said.

“Oh and hey! Look at that. He’s hard!”

It was true. Once again, my dick betrayed me: locked within the steel confines of my new cruel chastity device, it was hard as a rock and drooling precum, as agonizingly unreachable as ever.

This only made the pledges laugh harder. “He likes this. He fucking likes this,” one of them shouted.

They pressed on. “Not worthy of our toe lint, huh?” one of them said. “Maybe you should try kissing our feet. Maybe if you do that, and beg for mercy, we’ll feel like being lenient.”

“I like it!” the one named Cliff said. I saw him reaching for his athletic tennis shoes, as though to untie them.

“Dude, make him take off your shoes with his teeth,” Shane suggested helpfully.

The shoes appeared in front of my face. “You heard the man,” Cliff said. “Unlace my shoes, bitch.”

I scooted myself forward and took hold of his dirty shoe laces between my teeth. As I pulled, the knot got tangled. The shoe tapped impatiently.

“Hurry the fuck up, slave,” one of the pledges said.

I got the laces untied, with much effort. Cliff promptly took off his shoe and kicked the heal back against my head, hard, using my skull as a convenient shoe horn. His shoe popped off, and he did the same thing on the other side. I winced.

Now I was staring at his dirty sweat socks. Even before he barked out the fresh order, I had leaned out to bite down on the smelly sock and remove each, one by one. I was now staring at the toes of his bare feet; and the smell, I suddenly realized, was overpowering. Far stronger than for even for Trevor or Collin. . .

Cliff planted his foot squarely on my face and pressed down, hard. The smell of his sweaty feet almost knocked me out. “Beg me,” he said, with a grin. “Lick my feet, and beg me.”

“Please sir, I’m sorry I spilled water on your laptop, sir!” I blubbered pathetically as I licked the sock lint away from in between his toes. “Please, sir, please have some pity for me.”

His foot mashed down on my face with greater pressure, to the point where I could hardly breath. “Are you a fucking fag, fag?” Cliff asked. He was obviously really enjoying his revenge . . . or at least, I thought grimly, the start of it.

“Yes,” I managed to squeak.

“What’s that, fag?” Shane shouted down at me.

“I’m a fag, sir!”

“WHAT KIND OF FAG??” he bellowed.

“I’m a fucking fag, sir!! A dirty, lowly fucking fag! Sir!”

From the corner of the room, Trevor, who had been observing the unfolding drama with detached interest, finally interjected. “Well, Pledges,” he said. “We got it straight from the horse’s mouth. He’s a dirty, lowly fucking fag. Now the question you boys are going to answer is this: are you men enough to dole out the punishment he so richly deserves?”

The pledges, along with Trevor, Bryce, Collin, Reid, Hank and several other brothers, all left me alone in the room for about a half hour, still of course naked and completely tied up. Outside, I thought I could hear them laughing as they continued to hatch their plans for me.

Finally, the pledges came back into the basement. Four of them picked me up, each one lifting a corner of me, as though I was a sack of potatoes. Laughing, they trooped up a flight of stairs, then out through a back door into what I understood to be the Frat House’s back yard. It was fenced in. I had lost track of time down in the basement, but it was already basically dark outside.

I was set down on the flat wooden porch, belly down, so that I was staring down at the yard below me. Unsurprisingly for a frat house, it was not a very well kept yard; there was some grass, but mostly it was just a very large area of dirt.

“Alright,” said Shane, who had clearly emerged as the pledge ring-leader. “Let’s get things ready for the faggot.”

Grinning, the frat boys formed a line along the porch, facing toward the dirt covered ground. One by one, I saw them unbuckle their belts, drop their pants, remove their dicks from their underwear, and take steady aim. As the brothers hooted and hollered them on in the background, the pledges began to release steady yellow streams of piss, which cascaded down onto the dirt like rows of yellow waterfalls.

In no time at all, the row of frat boys had transformed the dirt below into a muddy mass of dirty, piss-made puddles. As the piss continued to shoot out into fountain-like spurts, the puddles began to run together.

Apparently it wasn’t enough. The first two pledges who finished wagged their dicks to shake off the last few drops of piss, zipped up their flies, and grinning, headed back into the house. They returned carrying a big, classic silver keg. As one of the pledges began to pump it, the other one took the nozzle in hand and, after a moment, began to spray the keg’s contents out into the yard . . . even as the other pledges were just finishing up pissing and zipping their flies.

I lay there and watched. At first, as the liquid shot out from the keg’s hose into the dirt below, I assumed it was the same cheap college beer you get in most frat kegs. Why were they shooting perfectly good (or at least barely drinkable) beer out into their yard?

Then, suddenly, I had a horrible feeling that it wasn’t beer.

Standing off to the side, Trevor was watching me with interest. He seemed to be reading my mind. “In case you’re wondering, slave, we made that keg special for you.”

Some of the pledges standing nearby snickered. As I studied the keg, and watched the stream continuing to jet out of its nozzle, I realized that it was more piss.

It was an entire keg full of piss.

“We took the thing apart and had our pledges pissing in it non-stop for the last week,” Bryce grunted in explanation. “Alright, boys. Don’t use it all. We gotta save some for later.”

The two pledges working the keg finally stopped pumping it. As I surveyed the ground below, it looked to me like the yard had been practically flooded with piss; the whole area around the frat house porch had turned into a slippery, muddy sea. It would have been unappealing enough if it had been ordinary mud, but I know how the mud was made, and it smelled especially foul.

“Get him ready,” Bryce said, with a grin.

The pledges, led by Shane, came over to my bound body and picked me roughly up off the porch. I could feel one of them fumbling with my bondage. As I was held up in the air by 10 different sets of hands, I felt my wrists being un-handcuffed from behind my back, and then re cuffed out in front of me. Now I was tied up, once again, superman-style, with my body stretched out straight, and my ankles and wrists tied tightly together. Of course, I was still totally naked. I wondered darkly, for a moment, how many different positions I had been tied up in naked over the last few weeks. Certainly too many to count . . .

The pledge Cliff grabbed a dog collar from somewhere and snapped it around my neck; it was tight and felt constraining. To one side, I could see another pledge attaching a very long leash to the collar.

“Alright,” I heard Shane say, as he and the other pledges grabbed a hold of me. “Your punishment begins now.”

“We’re about to play a little game,” Jared offered by way of explanation. “It’s really fun. You’ll see.”

“What’s the game called?” another pledge asked, egging him on.

“Um. . . how `bout `bitch boy mud ride?'”

All the pledges chuckled at that.

“I got a better idea,” Cliff said. “How `bout frat boy foot board?'”

More laughter.

“And you better not make a fucking sound,” Shane told me sternly. “If you wake up the neighbors, you’ll be awfully fucking sorry. OK, ready boys?” Shane flashed another of his big, sadistic grins. “1 . . .2 . . .”

On the count of 3, I felt myself swung back, and suddenly hurled forward as the pledges released me all at once. I went flying through the air, and it was all I could do not to scream with terror. I belly-flopped down onto the ground about 10 to 15 feet away from the edge of the porch, in the middle of the big pool of piss soaked mud they had just created. The wind was knocked completely out of me, and I grunted with pain.

I lay there for a moment, trying to recover my breath, my body aching from the impact. I was face down in the piss soaked mud.

“Get the little bitch back over here!” I heard one of the frat boys shout eagerly from the porch.

Suddenly, I coughed and gasped for breath as I felt myself being dragged through the filthy mud by my neck collar. I sputtered and tried to avoid swallowing any of the dirt. It took me a second to realize that my tormentors had held onto the other end of the leash, and were using it to tow me back across the muddy dirt yard. By the time I got there, my total naked underside was a muddy mess.

I looked up to see Trevor standing there on the edge of the porch, looming over me. “OK, slave,” he said. “I’m gonna show you how this is done.”

He untied his tennis shoes, kicked them to one side, and pulled off his sweat-soaked athletic socks, so that he was standing there with just his familiar to me by now bare feet. Then, without warning, he jumped down from the porch and landed squarely on my naked back. I grunted with pain as he landed with a solid thunk, my body completely absorbing the weight of his feet as he planted them on me.

“Alright, bitch boy,” Trevor said. “Now. Take me to the edge of the yard, and back. Do it fast. And it better be a smooth fucking ride, or you get punished.”

I would have stared at him incredulously, if my face hadn’t been planted in the mud at that moment. I would have thought it would have been impossible to feel any lower, any more humiliated and degraded, then I had been already. But I had once again underestimated the sadistic creativity of Trevor and his frat buddies.

I could hear the frat boys taunting me from the porch.

“What are you waiting for, you slow poke cock sucker?”

“Ride that bitch, Trev! Show him how it’s done!”

I could feel Trevor’s sweaty foot tapping impatiently on my back. Hastily, before he could decide to order me to do anything further, I began to wriggle and writhe my way forward, on my belly, through the mud, with Trevor on board riding me the way a surfer rides his surfer board. His weight ground me down into the muck. Moving every inch was exhausting. With my wrists and ankles tied together, there was a limit to fast I could move . . . and it didn’t seem nearly fast enough for Trevor. He barked at me: “you’re gonna have to go faster than this!”

Somehow I made it all the way to the edge of the yard with Trevor standing on my back. He had demonstrated a remarkable balance so far, maintaining a firm toe-hold on my back. But now . . .

“OK, turn around, bitch boy, and take me back to the porch. Do it fucking fast!” Trevor barked.

Wincing, I managed to wheel myself 180 degrees. But I somehow managed to do it jerkily enough that Trevor slipped a bit to one side and stumbled. He recovered quickly, but not before both of his bare feet had been immersed in the mud.

The mass of frat boys congregating on the porch roared their emphatic disapproval. “You clumsy fucking cunt,” Trevor grunted. “You’re gonna get it for that. Alright, here’s the rule. Every time you let someone fall off your back, you have to give us 10 pushups, right there in mud, before you can go on. So fuckin’ give me 10!”

For good measure, Trevor planted one of his filthy mud-covered feet on my back, and kept it fixed firmly there as he made me count out push-ups one at a time.

Each time I touched my nose to the muddy ground, I could hear the frat boys counting out loudly: “one . . . two . . . three. . .”

“Faster, you cunt!” Trevor roared above the noise. “And keep your fucking backside straight!” With my wrists stuck together, my body planted there in the slippery mud, it was harder than ever for me to execute the pushups up gracefully and with the good form Trevor would demand.

When I completed the 10, Trevor kicked me in the side with his muddy bare foot, then immediately hopped back on top of my back, once again shoving me deeper into the mud with the weight of his body. “Now go, you maggot. Get us back to the porch! And just so we’re clear: you’re being timed!”

I writhed my way forward, back toward the back porch of the frat house, as the frat boys standing there loudly cheered Trevor on (I could hear masculine chants of “Trevor! Trevor! Trevor!”) Sure enough, as I glanced up through my mud-coated vision, I could see Collin standing there with a stopwatch in his hand.

Trevor balanced on me like a pro. Of course, now that he had actually stepped in the mud, I could feel that his feet were muddy and slippery, making his grip all the more precarious.

Finally, I made it back to the porch, feeling worn out, my muscles aching, every inch of me covered in vile mud. It was everywhere: all over my body, smeared throughout my hair, and since I was totally naked, it had even penetrated into my ass crack and had gotten inside my cock cage (wearing the cock cage made sliding along in the mud on my belly that much harder).

As Trevor hopped up from my back and planted his behind on the porch, I thought my ordeal was over. I should have known better.

“Don’t stop the clock yet Col,” Trevor said. “We got one more critical step.” He stared down at me. “The little fucker made me step in the mud. Not OK. The ride’s not ever until the bitch boy has licked my feet totally clean.”

I groaned inwardly as Trevor presented me with the filthy undersides of his feet. But of course I immediately began to lick them totally clean. What else could I do? As I licked, the frat boys standing around Trevor whooped and cheered, laughing at my total, utter and complete degradation. I realized that a party seemed to have started up someone had busted out some raucus music on an ipod and speakers, and everyone seemed to be holding a beer in hand as they stood or sat there and watched me. It WAS a party, I thought, and I was the principal entertainment.

“What do you say???” Shane, the ring leader of the pledges, hollered at me.

I hesitated for a second. “Thank you, sir!” I said quickly to Trevor, as I licked mud from off his feet.

“Thank you for what?” Trevor pressed, smirking at me.

“Thank you . . . for . . . allowing me to serve as your frat boy foot board . . . sir,” I stammered as I lay there, licking, trying to come up with something that would seem appropriately slavish.

Trevor made me lick his feet for over 5 minutes, while the other frat boys milled around and drank beer. Licking feet clean in fact seemed to present an unusual challenge for me; my face was so filthy, and so fully covered in grimy mud, that I had to be careful not to touch my face to the soles of Trevor’s feet, lest I undo my work.

After a while, I pulled away, thinking I had adequately licked the mud away. But Trevor stretched his foot out toward one of the pledges and ordered the pledge to examine it.

“Definitely still some dirt caked on there, Trev,” the pledge said with a grin.

Moving swiftly and suddenly, Trevor brought his foot back down on my upturned face lying in the mud, HARD. I groaned as his sole made contact, scrunching my nose downward. “Keep licking, you fucking bitch,” Trevor hissed. I did. This time I didn’t dare to stop until his soles were totally spotless.

Then, without warning, Bryce stepped forward, holding a big portable chalk board that had printed on it, in capital letters, “BITCH BOY DEMERITS.”

“OK, bitch boy.” Bryce said. “This is a crucial part of the evening.” His broad smirk betrayed a sadistic glee that arguably surpassed even Trevor and Shane’s. “Definitely some demerits we need to allocate there.” He turned to Collin. “How long was he?”

“Are we including the whole time it took him to clean Trevor’s feet?”

“Of course.”

Collin glanced at his stop watch. “I have him down at 11 minutes and 20 seconds.”

Bryce shook his head. “Too fucking bad. That’s pretty fucking slow . . . don’t you boys think?”

He was facing the pledges now. They nodded, eager.

“Way too slow,” Shane agreed.

“How fast do you think we should expect our mud board to be?” Bryce asked.

“I’d say 5 minutes, at the most,” said Jared, as he took another chug from his beer.

“Faster,” suggested Eric. “4 minutes.”

“Why make it easy on him?” Shane asked, chugging down his beer too. “Three minutes.”

There were murmurs of agreement as the other pledges settled on Shane’s time.

“OK,” Bryce said. “Rounding up, that means he was 9 minutes too slow. We’ll call the first minute one extra demerit, the second one two, and every minute after that three. So . . . that’s a total of 24 demerits.” He took a marker and marked out 24 dashes, separated into blocks of five, on the white board, as I lay there watching. When he had finished, he glanced down at me. “Believe me, faggot, you want to keep your demerit tally as low as possible. Let’s just say that getting rid of the demerits you earn tonight . . . well, isn’t gonna be nearly as easy as earning `em.”

There were scattered knowing snickers from the crowd of frat boys watching me on the porch. I had a bad, bad feeling about those demerits, I realized suddenly, and urgently wanted to avoid receiving any more.

Trevor was still sitting there on the porch. “Just so we’re clear,” he said. “If the frat boy who is riding you for any reason loses his footing at some point and steps in the mud, like I did, then it’s your responsibility to completely clean his feet off at the end of the ride with his tongue. That’s gonna massively add to your total time, because you gotta stop to do pushups, and then stop at the end to lick his feet clean. And of course, that means more demerits. And Bryce is right. Trust us: you don’t want to earn demerits.”

“Ok,” Bryce said with a grin. “Who wants to go next?”

Shane, the apparent ringleader of the pledges, had been sitting with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other, but at these words he jumped up. “It’s all me,” he said. “I’m gonna show y’all how this is fucking done.”

Like Trevor before him, he kicked off his sneakers, peeled off his sweaty sport socks, then suddenly bounded off the side of the porch, his muscular mass landing squarely on my midsection as he planted the soles of his feet firmly on my back with all the skill of an Olympic gymnast. Totally winded, I shouted out in pain. I felt like I’d just taken a body blow.

“Alright, footboard, let’s go,” Shane said with a smirk, prodding my naked ass with his toe. “Ya better beat Trevor’s time, or I’ll make you sorry you didn’t!”

I did beat Trevor’s time. Shane was an adroit athlete, and he managed to not to fall off my body once during the ride, so I made it back with only a few demerits.

After that, things went downhill. None of the other frat boys could match Shane’s coordination, athletic though they all were. I think the beer probably didn’t help much. The upshot was that Wes, Cody, Eric, Jared, Cliff, Reid, Collin and Hank, as well as several other pledges and brothers, all planted at least one foot in the mud in an effort to maintain balance, and all made me lick their feet clean afterward, massively increasing my overall demerit score. As the number of pushups I had to do mounted, and as I continued to give “frat boy foot board” mud rides, the muscles in my body began to ache terribly, and I got more and more tired of moving.

As the frat continued to guzzle beer and generally party as I continued to slave away as its foot board, the boys also continued to “water” the backyard with streams of frat boy piss. Some of them waited until I was back by the porch, licking someone’s feet clean as fast as I could, before they let loose a stream of piss and drenched me with it, prompting the frat to break out in peels of laughter.

Bryce went last, and he was by far the worst. By that point he had already had several beers. I watched as he pulled off his shoes and stripped off his sweat drenched socks. I had seen so many frat boy feet up close at this point that you would have thought I would be immune by now, but I wasn’t: Bryce Adams had the absolutely most irresistible male feet I had ever seen. They were perfect: smooth, tanned, enormous, muscular. As I stared at them, I felt my cock getting even harder, and drooling even more pre cum then it usually did.

Bryce saw me looking at his feet, and smirked. “You like `em, slave?” he asked.

I stammered, not knowing what to day.

“I asked if you liked my feet,” Bryce said, his voice darkening.

“Yes sir, I do,” I said quickly.

“Good,” Bryce said. “This ride is gonna be a little bit different, bitch boy. Flip your body over.”

With effort, I managed to roll myself over, so that my back was now in the mud, and my filthy muddy underside was now pointed up toward Bryce.

Bryce stepped down on top of me, like everyone else already had, but with my front side now up, he planted one smelly athletic foot on my chest, and the other firmly on my muddy face. Now his foot was pressing down on my nose and my face and it hurt!

“Alright, bitch boy, give me a mud ride . . . on your back!” Bryce commanded.

There were cheers of approval at this. If moving through the mud with my wrists and ankles bound had been hard before, now it was just plain impossible. I tried to propel myself away from the porch, doing everything I could to push my exhausted muscles forward, but with Bryce’s muscular bulk bearing down on me, I simply couldn’t manage to make my muscles respond.

“I can’t,” I gasped, totally defeated.

Bryce’s eyes flashed. “You better,” he said, pushing down harder on my face, “or we’ll punish you, and then tomorrow we’re gonna make you give mud rides for everyone all over again.”

Somehow, I did manage to begin, slowly, painstakingly, to writhe my way through the mud, on my back, with Bryce’s sweaty, muddy foot planted firmly over my mouth and nose, and completely dominating my field of vision. As I began our tortoise-speed journey toward the other side of the yard and back, Bryce constantly lost his balance just enough that he had to plant one of his two feet in the mud. Every time this happened to his right foot, he simply kept stomping it back on my face, so that fresh layers of mud kept getting mashed into it. Unlike every other frat boy who had ridden me so far, Bryce didn’t require me to flip over and give him 10 pushups whenever this happened. He did, however, order me to lick the dirt from off the sole of his foot as I writhed my way forward. As I reached the edge of the yard and prepared to undergo the slow, painful task of inching my way 180 degrees around and heading back, Bryce smirked at me again.

“You enjoying this?” he asked me, briefly easing up on the pressure from his foot so that I could answer the question.

“Yes sir,” I stammered, gasping for air.

Bryce shook his head. “No. For once I want an honest answer from you faggot. Are you enjoying this? Do you actually like having my big sweaty feet pressing down on your face?” I glanced down, and I could tell he was looking through the filthy mud-caked bars of my cock cage, and had noticed that, against all odds, I was hard as a rock.

I hesitated. I had been conditioned by this point to never express any emotion to Trevor other than gratitude and groveling submission. But Bryce seemed serious.

“No,” I said horsely. “I mean, I know I’m hard and everything, but it’s only cuz Trevor hasn’t let me have an orgasm in weeks.”

Bryce smirked at that. “Ya know,” he said, “all these other frat guys are getting a huge kick out of using you like this, but it’s pretty asexual. Just a chance to see you totally humiliated, degraded, and enjoy their total control over you. Well, here’s the shitty news for you, little guy. I DO enjoy this. In fact, I’ll tell you a little secret: I’m getting a massive boner just staring down at you. You’re so fucking helpless and pathetic right now. Just look at you. Covered in dirt, all tied up, and all you can do is writhe around in the mud, lick my feet, and beg me for mercy.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I’m getting hard just thinking about it, faggot. And guess what? I’m getting hard just thinking about all the things I could still do to you. And guess what else? I can do whatever the hell I want to you. Because I run this frat.” He grinned again. “Now, take me back to the porch.”

 

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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!

 

 

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