Frat Boy’s Bitch Boy – Part 01

By Greg Alexander

I could hardly contain my excitement when I walked into my freshman dorm room and saw Trevor standing there.

Sure, I had known I was going to be rooming with a big jock, a much discussed new recruit for both the university crew team and tennis teams, and I’d heard he was already planning on pledging Delta Psi, the most hardcore frat on campus.  But I hadn’t realized how stunningly hot he’d be.

When I walked in, he was just wearing work-out shorts, a tight undershirt, and a big pair of white sneakers with no socks, so that his ankle bones were clearly visible.  I almost sprang a boner there on the spot.  He was incredibly tall, with a lean and muscular frame, and broad shoulders.  He had jet black hair, curly yet cropped very short and close to his head, which made him look even more masculine.  His face was boyish, cleanly shaved and with delicate features, but you could tell from his fiery blue eyes the boy meant business.  I knew right away I didn’t want to cross Trevor.

I tried to make conversation with him when I walked in — he was unpacking his socks and underwear and athletic gear from a large, old fashioned trunk in which he seemed to have packed most of his clothing.  As he removed his undershirts and underwear by the bundles, he spread them out onto a padded reclining chair and a large coffee table he had already moved into the room.  He was distant, and his mind was definitely otherwise engaged.

“Whatya up to?”  I asked.

“Nothin.  I’m late for practice,” he grunted.  On his way out of the dorm room, he kicked off his shoes for a second to pull on a pair of thick white tennis socks.  For that one brief second, I caught a glimpse of his bare feet, and my jaw almost dropped.  They were big feet, beautifully tanned, nice and moist too.  I got the idea that Trevor always liked to keep his feet shielded — not a big fan of walking around the dorm room barefoot, judging by his unmarked soles.  Maybe he wanted to make sure they didn’t get spoiled for his tennis games, I thought to myself.

To be honest, I was torn.  On the one hand, I was thrilled that I would be living, for at least the semester, with a hot stud with hot feet.  But I also knew it was going to be a huge distraction.  How was I ever supposed to do work in my room, when all I wanted to do was stare at my gorgeous roommate?

As it turned out, that was the least of my problems.

At first I saw very little of Trevor, and talked to him even less.  As classes began, I was home a lot studying, and Trevor was hardly ever around our room — he spent almost all his free time with his new teams and his new frat.  He sometimes came in late at night those first few weeks, drunk as hell and muttering about how all the University’s girls were cunts who refused to give good head.  On these nights I could hear him noisily whacking off before he fell asleep.  The sound of him rubbing at his horny dick was always enough to make me rock hard myself.

From the start, I can’t say Trevor was a friendly roommate.  When he did talk to me, it was usually to tell me to do something.

“Hey Stevie, could you turn off that fucking music?”

Or “Hey Stevie, try not to make so much fucking noise when you get up in the morning, K?  Some of us have to go to practice.”

Or “Steve, what are you doing in that shower, pissing?  I gotta use it.”

One night, Trevor and I were both sitting on our twin beds, crammed side by side into the narrow freshman dorm room.  I was trying to finish my reading for class.  Trevor was, in a departure from the norm, staying in that night, mostly because his favorite football team was playing and he wanted to follow the game.  This he was doing noisily, partly because the TV volume was cranked up, but mostly because Trevor constantly added his own steady stream of either curses or whoops of enthusiasm, depending on the score and the on-screen action.

Finally I couldn’t take it.  I had an exam the next morning.  “Hey, Trevor, you mind turning that volume down a notch or two?” I asked mildly.

Trevor kept watching the game without visibly reacting to what I had said.

I spoke a little louder.  “Trevor . . . turn that down a notch, if you don’t mind?”

This time he lifted his index finger to his mouth and shushed me.  He didn’t even look at me.

I scowled and felt pissed, but I didn’t really want to confront him.  I grabbed my books, visibly annoyed, and left the room to go to the library.

After that night, I noticed Trevor came back to the dorm room a little more often to watch TV.  I thought maybe, as the semester progressed, the fraternity took up less of his time and he had more nights to chill, or something like that.  But whatever the reason, the upshot was that he spent more and more time in our dorm room with the TV on, and the volume on high, watching his sports games.

He often slipped his shoes off as he sat on his bed, his feet extended clad in ankles socks that were often dripping with sweat from his practices earlier in the day, or from the runs that he liked to take in the afternoon.  The feet were irresistibly sexy, and distracted me to no end. But Trevor’s TV watching habits annoyed the hell out of me.  I had a lot of work, and I wanted to do it in our room.  I tried, once or twice again, asking Trevor to turn it down, but he always either brushed me off or ignored me completely.  I didn’t really know what to do about it, so I didn’t do anything.  Anyway, I did like staring at his socks.  Instead, I decided I would sidestep the whole problem — mostly, anyway — by buying an ipod, so that I could block most of the TV noise out.

Still, somehow, things got worse.  Trevor started bring his friends over to watch the games with him — his frat brothers and teammates were even louder than he was.  I came home one night to find that Trevor had 3 of his friends over in our room, watching basketball.  Trevor was lying on his bed, a second guy was sitting in Trevor’s padded armchair on the far side of the room, and the remaining two were sprawled out on my bed.  I wanted to go to sleep, but I didn’t want to tell them they had to get up — plus, they were pretty hot.  So I just let them stay there.  I waited outside in the hall for them to leave, but they never did — it turned out they had all been drinking, and they just passed out where they were lying.  I ended up falling asleep in the hallway at 4 in the morning, feeling exhausted.

The next morning, I was shaken roughly awake by Trevor.  I was still slumped in the hall, and he was standing over me prodding me with his sneaker.

“There you are,” he said curtly.  “Listen, dude, can I borrow your ipod today?  The team’s going away for the night and I wanna have some extra music to listen to.”

I scowled.  I felt tired and cranky.  “Uh, sure,” I said with a sigh.

When Trevor got back, he didn’t give me back the Ipod.  I figured he’d just forgotten and would get around to it, so I didn’t prod him at first.  But then, that night, he came back to the room with several of his buds — again.  It was really late, and I had already had my lights turned out, so I was pretty miffed to have a bunch of frat guys file into the room, turn on the lights, switch on the TV, and pile onto Trevor’s bed.

“Dude,” Trevor rumbled.  “We’re just gonna catch the tail end of this show we’re watching, K?”  He was not asking permission — he was telling me.

“Uh . . . OK,” I stammered.  “Could you just gimme my ipod then?”

“Oh . . hey, sorry man, I forgot to tell you.  I’m afraid it got broke.  We tried to fix it but the damn thing’s totally fried . . . sorry, man.”

I stared at him, but he and his frat brothers were already deeply involved in the TV, and seemed to be ignoring me completely.

The next day, Thursday afternoon, when Trevor switched the TV on again while I was trying to work, I decided, reluctantly, that I finally had to do something.

“Dude . . .” I said, as sternly as I could.  “We gotta talk.”

He didn’t turn to look at me — he kept his eyes on the TV — but he said “Dude.  Ok.”  I felt faintly like I was being mocked.

“Look,” I finally said.  “Are you gonna buy me a new ipod or what?”  This made him turn and look at me, with surprise.  “Why would I?”

“Well, you broke the one you borrowed.”

“I didn’t break it.  It just broke.”

“While you had it!”

“I don’t see how the fuck that matters.”

I finally exploded.  “Oh, you don’t see, do you, you brainless moron?  I bought that fucking Ipod so I could block out the noise of your football and basketball games while I study, since you never turn the fucking volume down and you bring your friends over without asking, and then you go and take my ipod and you break it, and then you won’t even pay for a new one??

What’s your problem, Trevor?”

This breathless monologue left me panting.  Trevor just sat there, looking at me.  He was wearing sunglasses, something he liked to do, so I couldn’t really see his eyes, but his face didn’t seem to register anything.  Very calmly, he stood up, walked to the door in his athletic shorts, and closed it.  And then he locked it.

“What are you doing?”

“I think you’re right . . . dude.  We need to talk.”

“Yeah, I’m glad . . .”

“Shut up, Steve.  Don’t say another word.  Let me make one thing very fucking clear — no one talks to me that way.  And certainly not a spineless little faggot like you.  In this room, I will do whatever the hell I want, whenever I want, and you’re not gonna try to stop me.  You’re not gonna ask me to turn the volume down.  You’re not gonna glare at me when I bring my buds here.  And you’re sure as shit not gonna talk to me like that.”

I stared at him, almost mesmerized.

“Now,” he said.  “Say you’re very, very sorry.”

I just stared at him. My throat had gone dry and I didn’t have words to answer him.

He looked at me again.  “Say you’re sorry, mother fucker.”

I found my voice.  “Fuck you, Trevor.”

“I’m gonna give you one last chance, Steve.  One very last chance.  I strongly, strongly urge you to say you’re sorry, or I can promise you you’re gonna be sorry you didn’t.”

I stood up.  “I’ve had enough of this.”

He moved toward me, and all of a sudden I was afraid.  I bolted to the door, trying to get out — but then I realized he had locked it.  I was fumbling with the lock, when I felt his hands grab me from behind.

I kicked.  I struggled.  I writhed furiously.  It didn’t make any difference.  At 6 and a half feet, Trevor was a foot taller than me and far stronger.  He easily dragged me down to the floor, and then pinned me on my back.  He straddled me and sat on me, so that his enormous body mass was suddenly crushing me down to the floor.  With one big strong hand, he took both of my wrists and pinned them down above my head, so that I was completely trapped beneath him.

“Are you crazy?”  I gasped.  “They’ll kick you out!”  I was panicked, but I was also getting incredibly hard at the same time.

For the first time, Trevor smiled faintly.  “I guess I better make sure you can’t talk to an RA then, huh?” He reached for a role of duct tape sitting on his night stand.  As though he were tossing around a sack of flour, he flipped me heavily over onto my belly, still pinning my body to the ground. He brought my hands back behind my back, and then looped a long strip of heavy duct tape around my wrists, so that they were trapped behind me.

I started to shout.  I was getting pretty freaked out, as turned on as I was.  Trevor acted calmly and quickly: with my hands immobilized, he turned around and yanked my tennis shoes off, followed closely by my thick white sweaty athletic socks.  My mouth was still open as I shouted for help, so Trevor surprised me by jamming one sock into my open mouth.  He tried to fit the other one in as well, but quickly found that it wouldn’t fit — the first sock more than filled my entire mouth, quickly shutting off the noise.  I tried to spit it out, but again, Trevor was too fast for me — he yanked off another strip of duct tape and sealed my mouth closed with it, so I was securely gagged. My sock tasted terrible.

As he sat on top of me, I realized the duct tape around my wrists was not too firm, and I slowly began to wiggle free of it, hoping that I could suddenly free my hands and take him by surprise.  But again, Trevor was way too quick for me.

He smirked at me.  “I guess the duct tape won’t be enough, huh?  I can see

I’m gonna need some rope.  But unfortunately we don’t have any in the room, and somehow I’m afraid you won’t wait here for me if I go get some. So, I’m sorry buddy, but I guess there’s only one choice.”  With that, he hefted me up into the air with his big strong hands, taking me, once again, completely by surprise. In one fluid athletic motion he kicked open the big trunk in which he had packed all of his college belongings — it was an old fashioned trunk, and it was quite large, and almost entirely empty.  Or it had been.

I saw what he was going for, and I struggled and flailed even more.  But Trevor simply dropped me inside the gaping empty space and slammed the lid shut.  I was in total darkness — I could hear the sound of the lock clicking shut.

“Now, stay there,” Trevor snickered.  I thrashed around, kicking, but I quickly realized it was totally useless.  I was stuck there until Trevor decided to let me out. I heard Trevor walk over to the door.  Then he stopped.  “Oh, I almost forgot.  I wouldn’t want to deprive you of some entertainment.”  He snickered again.  I heard the sound of the TV being turned on — it sounded like ESPN.  “Now, listen closely, faggot.  I’ve got a fun game for you. This is a hockey game, and it’s only the first period.  There’s another game after that.  I’m gonna go hang out at the frat with some buds, so I’ll miss both.  I want you to tell me the scores of both games, and give a rundown of how each one went.”  He paused.  “If you fuck up, when I get back, I’m gonna punish you.”  I heard him fiddle with the remote.  “Here. I’ll turn it all the way up so that you can hear every detail.”  The TV was blaring loudly as his footsteps receded down the hallway and the door closed behind him.

He was gone for most of the afternoon.  I didn’t know the first thing about hockey, and it was impossible to figure out what was going on.  I did manage to figure out the scores for both games — or at least, I thought I figured them out, it was hard to be sure.  It seemed like Trevor was gone for ages.  Of course, trapped in the trunk with my own sock crammed into my throat, barely any room for me to move my arms or legs around at all, ESPN blaring in the background, it seemed like every minute was an hour.  Soon I had completely lost track of time.  I started to feel claustrophobic and panicky, like I would never get out.  I tried several times to kick at the trunk walls or the lid, but it was very secure — all I did was stub one of the toes on my vulnerable bare feet.  So I stopped trying to escape and tried to resign myself to my fate.

Long after both games had ended — my only reliable measure of time — I heard the door swing open. I could hear Trevor walking around the room.  It sounded like he was fiddling with the door for a while. Then I heard the springs squeak above me — he was lying down on his bed, but he wasn’t opening the trunk.  I tried to moan through my sock gag, but if Trevor could hear me, he just ignored me.

Finally, a while after I had stopped moaning, I heard him get off the bed and fiddle with the trunk latch.  The lid swung open and I winced, blinded by the sudden burst of light.  He loomed over me, still, as always, in his workout clothes.  He was drenched in sweat — he had been running, I guessed.

“Hey, roommate” he said.

I just stared at him, unable to do anything else.

“You wanna come out of the trunk now?” he said after a second.

I nodded quickly.

“Well . . .  I dunno.  It’s kinda nice being able to stuff your loud, whiny ass in there and forget about it.”

I thought he was going to lock me back inside, and the thought suddenly made me feel sick.  I couldn’t spend another second locked in that cramped dark space!

Quickly, before I could even stop myself, I sprang out of the trunk.  I had managed to free my wrists from the remnants of the duct tape, so my limbs were completely free now.  I was gagged, but that was it.  This might be my chance to escape. Adrenaline pumping through my body, I rushed for the door, my bare feet pounding on the floor as I sprang for the door handle.  I got there!  I was home free.  Once I made it to the hall, surely I’d be safe? The handle wouldn’t budge.  The door was still locked!  As I fumbled with the lock, I suddenly realized that Trevor was not coming after me — he was calmly standing in place, looking at me with an expression of detached interest.  Why?

Then I realized, suddenly, that the lock wouldn’t move.  It seemed to be frozen in place.  What the fuck??  Desperately, I started pounding on the door with my fists.


“Looking for this?” Trevor said quietly, with a tight smile.  I turned around, and realized he was holding both room keys in his hand.  “I reversed the lock while you were resting in that nice trunk.  Now you need a key to get out, instead of in.  Sorry . . . guess I forgot to mention that.  Huh.”  He suddenly grinned happily, and slipped both keys in his pocket.  “I think I’ll hang onto both of these.”

Not knowing what else to do, I just stood there and looked at him stupidly.

“Hey,” he said casually, taking his time.  “Can I show you what I got while I was out?”  He didn’t wait to hear whether he could — he reached down on the ground and picked up a plain white plastic bag and turned it upside down, so that its contents spilled out all over the bed.

It was filled shoe laces — long, white tennis shoe laces.  There were some smaller bags as well, but I wasn’t sure what was in them.

“I bought these just now at a shoe store,” Trevor explained casually. “I Thought I might get some use out of it.”  His tone changed abruptly.  “I’m gonna fucking own you, bitch.  And the first thing I’m gonna do is tie you up so tight with these shoe laces won’t be able to move without my permission.  Now . . . c’mere.”

I looked around desperately, trying to find some other way out of the room.  Trevor snickered.  “Face it, fuckface.  You’re screwed.  There’s no other way out.  Your only hope is to try to get the key from me.  I’m like 4 times as strong as you, and a foot taller, and I’m on two varsity teams. If you wanna fight me, by all means, go ahead.  But if you fight me, when you lose, after I’ve tied you up, I’m gonna punish you.  I mean, I’m really gonna punish you.  And when you beg me for mercy, I’m gonna laugh at you and punish you some more.”

I couldn’t say anything through my sock gag, but I silently bowed my head in a gesture of defeat.

“Good.”  He grinned.  “Then lie down on the floor.”  He looked thoughtful.  “But first, take off all your clothes.  I want to tie you up naked.”

While Trevor stood there, a big wad of shoelaces balled up in his hand, he made me strip off each piece of clothing that I was wearing, item by item, fold it and stack it neatly in a pile.  When I got to my underwear, I began to freak out, because I knew I still had a massive hard-on, and I was afraid Trevor would see it.  I tried persuade Trevor not to make me take my colored briefs off, using emphatic hand motions, but he simply marched behind me and in one fluid motion yanked my underwear up, delivering a crippling wedgie.  Nor did he let go — he simply lifted me up into the air by the backside of my briefs.  I tried to cry out, but I couldn’t through my gag.  It hurt even more because it was crushing my mammoth erection.

“I said take off ALL your clothes.  That means ALL.”  Trevor hissed.

I wiggled free and yanked my undies off as fast as I could.  Trevor glanced briefly at my drooling dick, and flashed me a terrifying evil smirk, but he didn’t say anything.  I felt my whole body flushing red.

“OK, dick.  Kneel down on the floor, hands over your head, soles of your feet pointed back at me.”

I hurried to obey.  In this pose, my bare ass was pointing up straight at him — I had never felt so exposed and vulnerable in my entire life.  Still, it was about to get worse.  Demonstrating an expert knot-tying ability, Trevor looped two shoe laces around my bare ankles and yanked the knots tight, so that my feet were hooked together.  He used more shoe laces to tie my knees together, so that I really was completely immobilized — I couldn’t move my legs at all now. As if none of this were enough, he tied my wrists together securely behind my back, then looped that rope back around my ankles, forcing my hands back to my feet and effectively hogtying

me.  He took a step back and surveyed his work.  He had tied the rope tightly and very securely — I could barely move.  He smirked at me — he looked satisfied.

“That’s better, fuck face.  I think I like you better when you’re tied up.” He studied me thoughtfully.  “I need to think about what I’m gonna do with you.  For now, you can just kneel there.”  He thought about what he had said and suddenly smirked.  “Not like you can do much else, huh?  I’m gonna watch some TV.”

He climbed back up into his bed, reached for the remote, and switched ESPN back on.  “Oh,” he added, as an afterthought.  “By the way, when I eventually decide to ungag you, I’ll need the full rundown from those hockey games right away.”

That was when I realized I had already forgotten the scores.

Trevor watched a football game for a while, as I knelt there on the floor beside his bed.  As usual, he had the volume turned up loud, but I couldn’t see the screen and so couldn’t follow the game.

“Ya know,” Trevor finally said, after the halftime.  “This is pretty comfy, flopping down on the bed and all, but I’ve always thought watching the TV around here could be a little more comfy.  I think the furniture could use a little rearranging.”  He looked at me.  “Don’t you think so?”

I just looked back at him, unable to either agree or disagree through my sock gag.

He looked at me again.  “Don’t you, though?”

I realized he actually wanted an answer.  I was starting to get the idea that it was a bad idea to ever contradict Trevor about pretty much anything, so I nodded quickly and vigorously.

“Good!” Trevor said with a broad smile.  “Well, you’re gonna arrange it for me.  See, the way I figure it, you won’t be needing your own bed for a while.  So you’re gonna push it up against mine, and then you’re gonna remake my bed into a double for me, while I watch the game.”  He sighed, as if I was imposing on him, and slowly rose up off the bed.  “I suppose I’m gonna have to untie your arms first,” he said, walking over to me. “But your ankles stay tied together.  And just to make sure you don’t even think of trying to get away, I’m gonna put this on you.”  Looking pleased with himself, he held a dog collar up in front of my face — it looked like he had grabbed it out of the big bag with all the shoe laces.  In his other hand, he was holding a long black leash.  Before he untied my hands, Trevor fastened the collar around my neck, fastened the leash to the collar, and then, for good measure, looped the leash around his wrist, so that I was connected to him.  “Now,” he chuckled.  “Get moving.”

Trevor sat back down in his big easy chair, on the far side of the room. With my arms now blessedly free but my barefeet and knees still tightly woven together and the sock gag still stuffed in my mouth, I had to hop awkwardly over to my bed, strip it down, push it across the room (still limping one step at a time), line it up carefully next to Trevor’s bed, and then change the sheets so that it became an impromptu double bed.  It took me almost half an hour.

“That’s good,” Trevor finally declared from his easy chair.  He yanked lightly on the leash, pulling me back toward him.  “Now come over here and push this chair into the center of the room, so it’s right in front of the TV.”

I limped over to where Trevor was sitting. I thought he would stand up, but he just sat there for like a minute, fiddling with the remote, before he finally looked at me impatiently and said, “what are you waiting for?”

Sighing, I leaned over and slowly began to push Trevor and his chair over toward the center of the room.  The two combined were incredibly difficult to move, especially since, with my ankles tied firmly together, it was almost impossible to anchor my feet to the floor and push forward.

“Hurry up,” Trevor grunted impatiently.  “I don’t have all day.”

I shifted position, lying flat on my belly in front of Trevor and the chair.  I hooked my free arms around the chair’s base, and managed to drag it inch by inch across the dirty dorm room floor.  When it was finally in position, I stood up.

Trevor took his eyes off the screen for the first time in a while and looked at me.  “What are you doing?” he said sharply.

I couldn’t answer him through the gag, and didn’t know what his problem was now anyway, so I just looked at him.

“You stupid little bitch, you’re standing up.  You’re not allowed to stand up unless you have my permission.”  He yanked the leash toward him and I fell roughly to the ground, feeling bruised.  “Get back down on the fucking floor.”

I dropped back down to my knees quickly.

“That’s better,” he said.  Still not moving from his comfortable chair, he produced two more shoe laces — he seemed to have an infinite supply — and curtly told me to put my hands out, whereupon he promptly retied them together.

“Wow,” he said in a loud voice.  “You know, it’s great that I got that double bed now — can’t wait to bring the cunts home to sleep with me in that fucker.  And I love having this chair right in the center of the room, where it’s always belonged.  But ya know the one thing I’ve always thought we could use?”

I just waited, with a bad feeling.

“A foot rest.”  Trevor explained.  “I’ve always wanted a foot rest for this chair.  But I’ve never had one.”  He suddenly smirked at me.  “Till now.” He snapped his fingers briskly and pointed to the ground directly in front of his shoes, right between him and the TV.

I suddenly felt my cock getting very, very hard. I tried to control my horniness, but the idea of becoming Trevor’s “foot stool” was at once incredibly degrading and indescribably hot.

“C’mon,” he was saying, tugging impatiently at the leash.  He was tying his end of the leash to the side of the chair, so I couldn’t move more than 5 feet away from the chair in any direction.  “I don’t have all fucking day, foot stool.”

With a dry throat, I scooted my body forward along the floor until I was positioned directly in front of the chair.

“Kneel there,” Trevor directed.  “Put your hands on the floor so your back is nice and flat.”

I could see from my position that Trevor was still wearing his enormous white running shoes, and a thick pair of sweat socks on underneath — he had not taken his shoes off since he got back from his run. Then, unexpectedly, he swung his legs up, and set his big shoes heavily down on my bare back.  I grunted with pain. Trevor sighed with satisfaction.  “Mmmm.  That’s much better,” he said. “It sure is nice to put my feet up.”  In spite of everything, I found myself glancing sidewise at his crotch.  He was wearing jeans . .  . but did I see a bulge?  Or was it just my imagination?

“Keep your eyes on the floor foot stool — don’t even look there, you faggot,” Trevor rumbled.  “Eyes on the floor, and don’t move a muscle!” He lifted his right foot up and kicked down on my back with the hard heel of his tennis shoe.  I winced, and I kept my gaze fixed downward. I heard Trevor turning up the volume.

Trevor made me kneel there for the entire fourth quarter, his shoes propped up on my back.  I was still naked, save the dog collar, as I had been the entire time, and my knees hurt like hell, and anytime I shifted my position or rocked my back even slightly, Trevor kicked me again and told me that “foot stools don’t move around.”  My cock was of course drooling precum the entire time.

Finally, Trevor said, “well, it looks like the fourth quarter is over foot stool.”

My shoulders slumped with relief.

He grinned at me.  “But the game’s heading into overtime.”

I groaned into my gag.

“I know.  I’m also really happy that you can continue to serve as my foot stool.”  He sighed off into the distance as the game went to another commercial break.  “Wow, you know, my feet are absolutely killing me in these shoes.  They haven’t breathed all day — and they are so sweaty from all the running I did earlier.  Plus, man, I gotta say, I haven’t had time to do any fucking laundry this week, so I’ve been wearing the same pair of socks for three days.  It must smell so foul in there.”  He looked at me with a mischievous glint, and with his index finger gestured for me to move toward him.  He lifted his shoes off my back, and I crawled forward. Unexpectedly, he yanked the duct tape off my mouth — which made my face suddenly sting like crazy, since I had been wearing the gag for hours now. Coughing, I gratefully spat out my putrid sock gag. Trevor yanked me up by my hair, so I was forced to look into his steely blue eyes.  He fixed me with a no nonsense expression.  “OK, cum breath, I’m ungagging you because I wanna use your mouth, but don’t for a fucking second confuse that with me wanting to hear the sound of your girly ass whiny little voice.  You are to speak only when I ask you a direct question, is that clear?  Other than that, unless specifically instructed otherwise, I want to hear only one thing come out of that faggoty mouth of yours: “yes sir.”  Is that clear?

I nodded.

“Answer the fucking question!”

“Uh . . . yes sir, it’s clear.”

Trevor’s hand shot suddenly forward and caught ahold of my balls.  I was so surprised I gasped.  I was still hard as a rock, but Trevor took a firm hold of my sack and suddenly gave it a tight squeeze in his firm hand.  I gave an involuntary cry of pain.

“Listen, fucker, I wanna make this real clear.  You don’t say, “uh . . . yes, I guess so, maybe, sometimes, sir?” His voice was high pitched and whiny as he mockingly imitated me.  His squeeze tightened — the pain was excruciating.  Now he was talking in his normal, deep masculine voice again.  “You say “THANK YOU, SIR!  You say it loud and fast!  You say it like you really mean it.  You say it because you DO mean it.  You say it because you aren’t my roommate anymore.  You are my servant, and you are here to do what I tell you to from now on, and you say it because you know if you don’t say it right every time I will hurt you.”  He was still squeezing down on my nuts, as I writhed with pain, trying to free my arms and legs from the knots he had tied them in and failing.  He kept talking. “I own you now bitch, and today I’m breaking you in.  Do you understand that?”

He looked at me.  I looked at him. His grip tightened even more.  I thought I’d never be able to pee again.

“YES, SIR!” I shouted, blinking back tears of pain.

“What was that?”  He cupped his free hand behind his ear.

“YES, SIR!!!!”

“You accept that I own you?”


“And you look forward to serving as my foot stool, door mat, toilet slave, ball licker or any other role that I choose for you, from now on?”


“You accept that I am the frat boy, and you are my bitch boy?”


“Good.  Now, like I was saying, my feet are fucking sore, and they’re dirty and smelly.  And they need to be cleaned.  So, are you ready to clean ’em with your tongue?”


“Good.”  He finally released my balls, and I collapsed to the floor between his legs, still groaning.  “Unlace my tennis shoes — using only your teeth,” he instructed, settling back in his chair and turning up the volume of the game, now in overtime. I did.  Trevor made me bite down on the worn shoe leather and pull his shoes off one by one, with my teeth.  Then he made me do the same thing for his socks.  The smell of his feet was now completely overpowering, and his soles were coated with sock lint.  I felt so low — and yet, despite the punishment my balls had just received, I was fully erect again.

“Kiss my feet,” Trevor instructed from above.

“Yes sir.”

“Good.  Now, kiss each toe.”

“Yes sir.”  He had the most masculine, smooth feet I had ever seen.  I wanted badly to touch my throbbing dick.

“Good, slave.  What do you think of my feet?

“They’re incredible, sir,” I said immediately.  I absolutely meant it.

“Shut the fuck up and lick them clean, bitch.”

“Yes sir.”

He kept me at his feet for half an hour, licking and massaging, as he watched the game.  When it finally ended in double overtime, I was so horny I felt I would burst.

“Ok, foot slave,” Trevor said, switching the TV off.  He untied the leash from the chair and took a hold of his end again, giving me a wider radius of movement.  “Go get me a beer from the fridge.  And bring over that copy of Sports Illustrated sitting on my bed.”

“Yes sir.”  I struggled to stand up, with my ankles, knees and wrists still bound tightly together.

“What the fuck are you doing?”  Trevor demanded, yanking at my dog collar suddenly.

“I’m just getting you . . .”

“Did I tell you to stand, bitch?”

I swallowed.  “No . . . sir.”

“OK.  Then I guess you’ll have to crawl.”

I managed to scoot across the floor, pick up the magazine with my teeth, get inside the fridge, and lodge a Sam Adams under my arm.  I even, anticipating his next order, grabbed a bottle opener while I was over there.

I crawled back to his chair.

“So,” he said, with a little smirk, as he opened the beer and took a chug. “It looks like you almost enjoy this, you sick fuck.”  I followed his gaze to my drooling cock.

“You’re gayer than a french trombone, aren’t you, faggot?”

I felt myself blush with shame.  “Yes . . . sir,” I mumbled.

“And you have the hots for my feet, don’t you?  You like being my little foot slave.”

I blushed even more.  “Yes sir.”

“And you’ve been horny down there for hours, haven’t you?”

“Yes sir.”

“So that means you want to whack off?”

I groaned.  “Yes, sir.  Very badly.”

“Well, my little roommate, I might just let you.”

“Thank you, sir!” I said with enormous relief.

He suddenly squeezed my chin between his forefingers and forced me to look straight into his eyes.  He looked chillingly smug.  “Just answer me one question first.”

“Uh . . . OK.”

He grinned. “Can you tell me the scores of those hockey games?”

Two minutes later, Trevor had gagged me again — this time, with his smelly socks, which I had just taken off his feet with my teeth earlier, which he had indeed been wearing for 3 days, at least.  He had also ordered me back into the footstool position — knees planted painfully on the hard wood floor of the dorm, back perfectly flat, eyes fixed downward — and he had his now bare feet propped up on my back, toes wiggling luxuriously, while he gulped at his beer and flipped through Sports Illustrated.

“It’s too fucking bad, pervert,” he was saying.  “Just think.  If only you could have remembered the scores of two little hockey games, like I told you, you could be cumming in your pants right now.”  He flipped a page. “Fuck . . . I never realized having a roommate could be so much fun.  Keep your fucking back flat — don’t let your ass sag.”

I knelt there for another hour, while Trevor finished his beer and his magazine.  My knees were killing me, and my back felt like it was on fire. Just when I thought I would collapse, I heard heavy breathing from Trevor, and I realized he was dozing off.  I wearily allowed my torso to slump to the floor and my legs to straighten.  My wrists and my bare ankles were still tied tightly together, of course, but it still felt wonderful.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Trevor asked.

I looked at him — the movement of his footstool had roused him.  Though I was gagged with his putrid socks, I begged for a rest with my eyes.

“Did I tell you you could do that, you little cunt?  Did I?  Did I say you were done being my foot stool?

I shook my head slowly.

“That’s right.  And can foot stools lower themselves to the ground?”

Again, I shook my head.

“Well, guess who can lower himself to the ground?  My wussy little roommate when I make him do 100 push-ups for me.  Ready?”

Trevor kept his feet propped up on my back the whole time while, smirking at me, he made me start at the top of the push up position, with my tied hands planted on the floor and my whole torso rigidly straight.  Then, as he pushed fiercely down on me with his ankles, he counted out each push up. Whenever he saw a push up with less than perfect form — a push up that didn’t bring me all the way down to the floor so that my nose touched it, or in which my belly touched the floor, or in which my back seemed bent or my arms were crooked — Trevor would refuse to count it, signifying his dissatisfaction by jerking on the dog leash, and would make me do three penalty push-ups.  And of course, if I screwed up a penalty push-up, he made me do three more.

I just couldn’t do it.  I had never even gotten to 50 pushups in a row, much less a hundred, under even the best of circumstances.  I had scarcely gotten to 25 this time when I collapsed beneath Trevor’s feet, an exhausted mess, gasping for a breath.  Trevor told me to get back up and keep going, or I was going to regret it.  Something in his voice made me push myself back up into the push-up position, and I managed to do 5 or so more.  By that time, my arms absolutely felt like they were on fire.  Trevor clucked his tongue.

“Pathetic.  Absolutely pathetic.  You make a terrible fucking foot stool, you can’t remember a simple fucking thing like a hockey score, and you’re such a dumbass you can’t even do pushups right.  Look, this really isn’t that hard.  You do what I tell you to do, or you face the consequences.” He smirked at me even more broadly now; an evil smirk that sent chills through my spine.  “I think it’s time for some good old fashioned punishment.”

Leading my by the leash like a master leading an unwilling puppy, Trevor dragged me over to the foot of his newly created double bed, and ordered me to kneel there.  Then he dragged our cheap Akia coffee table from the far side of the room over to where I was kneeling, and pushed it up against the foot of the bed, so that an especially tall guy like Trevor lying in bed, if he stretched all the way out, would have his feet protruding out onto the coffee table.  It was a big coffee table — roughly five feet long and three feet wide.

Trevor ordered me to kneel on the far side of the coffee table, so that I was staring over the table toward the big double bed.  He untied my ankles and knees.  It was a relief but a short-lived one — he then ordered me to stand and spread my legs as wide as they would go.  I thought I had them spread pretty wide, but Trevor forced them even wider.  When he was finally satisfied, he took the laces he just removed, and used them to tie my left ankle to the left leg of the coffee table, and my right ankle to the right leg.  He used more shoe laces to strengthen the bondage, freezing my lower half into a dramatic spread eagle position.

His next step was to untie my hands, and then retie them behind my back, with the arms crossed, giving me absolute minimum flexibility.  Apparently that didn’t satisfy Trevor — he fished into his “bag of goodies,” and to my horror I saw him take out not one, but three pairs of metal handcuffs — the good kind you see police wearing on their belt.  He used one pair to secure my wrists firmly behind my back.  The other two pairs he used to further connect my ankles to the table legs.

Trevor examined me.  The only thing I could now move was my torso — and Trevor was about to take care of that.  Taking all the slack out of the leash that was still connected to my dog collar, Trevor yanked the dog collar up to the front of the coffee table and pulled down on it, hard. This forced me to plant my chin and belly firmly on the coffee table top, so that my head was just a foot or so from the edge of the table.  I was now looking forward straight at the foot of the bed.  Trevor draped the leash down in front of the table, and then pulled on it, hard, back

underneath the table.

What happened next freaked me out.  Chuckling, Trevor tied the leash securely to my balls — he looped it around and around my balls, and then tied it tight, effectively creating a cock ring to go with my overexcited cock.  For good measure, Trevor took the remaining dangling end of the leash and pulled it up between my legs — making sure to wedge it deeply into my ass crack — and yanked it tightly up, over my back, to my dog collar, where he tied it tightly.  Now the leash had completed a journey around the coffee table.

Trevor stepped back and surveyed his work with evident satisfaction.  I could still wiggle my toes, but that was pretty much it — in every other way, I was completely immobilized.  My legs were spread painfully far apart and couldn’t be moved at all — the strain on my inner legs and thighs was excruciating.  I couldn’t even move my ass.  My hands were completely trapped behind my back.  Worse, my torso and head were trapped in a sadistic face plant — if I tried to raise myself even slightly, I found the leash squeezing off my balls, and yanking them forward at the same time, and biting into my ass as well.  On the other hand, because the leash was attached to my dog collar and was pulling forward on it, I couldn’t even put my head down — my gaze was fixed straight ahead.  The entire posture was not only humiliating as hell — it was also fiendishly painful.  But there was absolutely nothing I could do, as long as Trevor wanted to keep me tied up there.

“See?” Trevor said, hardly able to keep the mockery out of his voice.  “Wouldn’t it have just been easier to do the pushups?  Or remember the scores?”  He squeezed my ass cheek suddenly, and I practically jumped out of my skin — or would have, if I’d been able to move.  “Or just let me and my buds watch TV here and let me have your ipod without so much bitching?” He sighed.  “Well, to be honest, I guess I am glad that you didn’t do any of those things, because I’m enjoying this an awful lot.”  As he said this, Trevor undid his belt and dropped his pants, then also took off his boxers. I was amazed to see that his cock was also hard as a rock — completely erect and drooling precum.  His cock was massive — it must have been at least eight inches long, and very thick.  I was completely mesmerized.

Trevor was rubbing his cock now.  “I know what you need, roommate.  I know what you need real good.  And I’m gonna give it you.”  He flopped down on the bed, still rubbing his cock — his bare feet were directly in front of my face, just a foot or so away.  He shoved them closer.

“Oh man,” he said.  “Just thinking about what I’m about to do to you is giving me such a massive boner.  Bitch, I want you to lick my feet while I stroke my cock and think about your punishment.”

It seemed the final act of degradation.  As I began to lap again at the soles of his feet, I glanced up at his wicked smirk and wondered helplessly what he had planned for me . . .


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6 thoughts on “Frat Boy’s Bitch Boy – Part 01”

  1. Didn’t like how it started… Bullies are not hot, not for me. Once the action started though, that’s pretty great.

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