Frat Boy’s Bitch Boy – Part 10

By Greg Alexander

It was a warm afternoon, and as Wes walked down the street, he was sweating heavily.

He was sweating, less because of the heat, and more because he had just gotten back from soccer practice and hadn’t had any time to change. He had been (deliberately) wearing the same white athletic socks for 7 solid days now, and he knew his athletic feet were starting to smell. In fact, his teammates had commented on it in the locker room earlier today.

Wes sighed as he trudged on, still wearing his soccer cleats and those socks. He knew he should change them. But he couldn’t help it.

In one hand, he was carrying a grocery bag. He had visited the convenience store earlier in the day, where he had bought a supersized jar of peanut butter, a big container of mayo, a bottle of ketchup and a can of puppy chow dog food. He was walking fast, and his heart rate was a little bit up. He felt excited. Was that wrong? Maybe a little bit. Did Wes care much? Not really. He figured life was too short. He was going to have fun where he could.

The Delta Psi frat house came in view up ahead, the big Greek lettering hovering over the frat house front door. Wes had to admit that it felt pretty sweet to live there, even if he was still only a pledge, at least until the end of the semester.

As he walked inside, he dropped his Nike sports bag, and brushed his sweat-laden bangs to the side.

Reid and Collin, two of the frats most senior brothers, were at the front of the house, lounging lazily on the sofa and channel surfing. They each acknowledged Wes with a lazy grunt. Wes didn’t mind — he was used to it.

“Hey man,” Collin said, as Wes passed by. “You fuckin’ stink.”

“Yeah,” Wes said. “I’m gonna go take a shower eventually. But I’m headed downstairs first. And I think I’ll be a while.”

Reid shot him a side-long look. “Oh yeah?” he said. “You paying a little visit to the fag?”

“Yeah,” Wes nodded. “It’s my night to feed him.”

Collin grinned. “Have fun,” he said. “I was just down there earlier today. Little cum slut begged me not to leave him until Cody came and took my place. He just hates being left alone down there. Maybe he’s afraid of the dark.”

The three of them chortled. Wes felt good. He liked it when the brothers treated him as an equal.

“I did hafta take Hank’s boots off the button . .. again,” Collin grumbled. “We gotta remind him of the fucking rules down there.”

“Tell him next time, we’re throwing his boots away,” Reid suggested loudly. “That’ll set his cowboy ass straight.”

The three of them laughed again.

“Hey, one other thing,” Collin added. He still hadn’t sat up from the couch, and the TV was still blaring in the background. “Check his piss sack. It’s probably time to change that fucker.” He reached into his jean pocket and lazily tossed Wes a big silver key.

“Got it,” Wes assured him. He picked up the grocery bag, grabbed a bud light from the fridge in the other room, and then moved toward the door to the basement.

A long staircase led down into the lower level of the frat house. Wes moved past a few of the spare rooms and on to the frat’s inner sanctum: the Delta room, where the frat stored anything it didn’t want accessible to the outside world. In the past, that had usually covered the frat’s keg stash, but of course now the room had mainly been given over to another purpose.

A big set of double security doors momentarily blocked Wes’s passage. There were two locks. One had to be undone using a key each brother and most of the trusted pledges had in their possession. The other was sealed with a padlock, to which Wes knew the combination. Among several of its other features, the room was completely sound proof when the doors were shut. Now however, as Wes undid the locks, the doors swung open. Wes barged through, shutting them behind him.

The room was dimly lit, but not completely dark. Immediately, Wes fixed his gaze on the obvious object of interest: the big wooden box in the center of the room, with two bare feet protruding from its front, and one very unhappy-looking face sticking awkwardly out of the box’s top.

“Hello bitch boy,” Wes said with a smirk. “I hope you’re hungry, faggot.”

Of course, Wes knew that he probably was. The frat had finally set up a feed schedule, with one brother or pledge slated to feed the bitch boy every morning and every evening. Those were pretty much his only opportunities to eat, so long as he remained in the box.

Wes examined the captive closely. His entire face was animated by a look of pain. Wes knew, of course, that with none of the frat members in the basement currently abusing him, the electric current had to be flowing. Wes couldn’t help but repress a shudder. The idea of having a dildo jammed up your ass crack, with an electric current running through it . . . it was yet another reason Wes was glad their positions were not switched.

Steve was, in general, a mess. He had been in the box for nearly a week now. In that time, the stream of frat boys who had trooped through the basement had taken full advantage of Steve’s vulnerable, trapped head by turning it into a virtual graffiti wall. All manner of messages and slurs had been scrawled, in various colors of magic marker, across his face. “COCKSUCKER” was inscribed in angry all-caps on his forehead, “BITCH BOY” was scrawled across his cheek along with “I’M A TOTAL LOSER,” and all manner of less relevant drunken messages, like “Reid’s mom is a whore” had been written in smaller letters. Steve’s hair was coated with dried cum, and in fact there were little splotches of dried cum all over his face.

Glancing at the soles of his trapped bare feet and at the big white board, Wes saw that he was down to 67 tally marks. 67 demerits left to work off. That wasn’t too bad, Wes thought, considering he had started out with well over 200. But on the other hand, he’d been down here for over a week.

As Wes advanced, Steve immediately asked the obvious question. “Please, please, please master, may I please lick the sock lint from the soles of your feet, sir?”

Wes smiled. “I know how much you like licking my feet, slave boy, but let me tell you something. I’ve just gotten back from my soccer practice, and I haven’t changed these sweaty socks for 7 days. That’s right, you heard me. I’ve been walking in these suckers. I’ve been running in them. I’ve gone to soccer practice in them. I’ve been wearing them, and sweating in them, constantly, for 7 days. And boy, let me tell you, my feet, they fucking stink.” He paused. “You sure you still want to lick my feet?”

Steve’s answer was absolutely unhesitating. “Yes sir! No question sir! It would be an honor for me to lick the sock lint from your soles, sir!”

Wes collapsed in the chair opposite Steve and stared down at him. He had to admit it: the idea of having another man begging to lick his incredibly sweaty athletic feet was not only a turn on. It was a huge power trip. Wes had never felt this level of control over another guy. He loved the feeling, and he wanted more of it.

It was made all the sweeter, of course, because Steve had pissed Wes off, along with so many of the other pledges, so royally in the week leading up to his capture. Without any apparent provocation, the little slut had walked up to Wes one day and asked him “if he was trying to prove anything.” Wes, confused, had tried to ask Steve want he meant. “Oh, you know, dressing up like your typical asshole fratboy, ya know, popped collar, sun glasses, salmon-colored shorts . . . I was just wondering if it was cuz you were insecure.”

It wasn’t as bad as some of the stories Wes had heard from the other pledges. And the knowledge that Steve was really a cocky little shit removed whatever scruples Wes might have had to begin with.

Steve’s face continued to suffuse with pain. You might have thought, Wes reflected, that being trapped in the box for as long as Steve had might have numbed his sensitivity to the pain of the electric dildo, but no such luck.

“Please, sir, I need to worship your manly feet,” he pleaded again.

Wes popped open his cold Bud Light and took a few refreshing gulps. He raised one of his muscular legs, so that his soccer cleat was resting on the surface of the box, just a foot or so short of the magic button Steve wanted so urgently to see depressed. Wes could see the bitch boy studying the grass and dirt-coated bottoms of his spikey cleat soles. “I’m not letting you at my feet,” he said, “until you’ve licked all the dirt and grass completely from my cleats.”

Steve sighed, looking resigned. “OK, yes master.”

Wes shook his head. He could feel himself getting hard. “Not good enough,” he said. “I want to see how much you want me to thrust my soccer cleats into your sad little bitch boy face and press down on it with my spikes as you whimper and grovel to lick my feet. How much do you want that, bitch boy?”

Steve only hesitated for an instant. “Please, let me lick your cleats,” he begged. “I need to lick your cleats, sir.”

Wes let him beg a bit more, then thrust his cleats forward. As his ankles made contact with the button, Steve sighed with relief. Wes smirked, and pushed his feet down savagely onto Steve’s face. He heard a small whimper or two as the cleat spikes pressed against the bitch boy’s flesh.

“No whining, fag,” Wes said roughly. The whimpering stopped abruptly. “Just shut up and start licking.”

Wes took his time, allowing Steve to lick the dirt and the little chunks of grass from in between the treads of the cleat. He was pretty sure that licking the bottom of a soccer cleat had to be at least somewhat painful. When he felt satisfied, upon examination, that the dirt had been thoroughly cleaned and that the bottoms of his cleats were pristine, he kicked off his cleats and let them fall to the floor. As he did so, he removed his feet from the button.

The effect was almost automatic. “Please sir, please let me worship your feet,” Steve groveled.

“Hold your fucking breath faggot,” Wes replied coolly. “First I want to see you worship my sweaty fucking socks.” Without hesitation, he pulled off his white, sweat soaked athletic socks. Wes noted, with amusement, that they were so powerfully pungent that he had to hold them at a distance from his own nose. “Alright, slave, 7 days of foot stink, way more masculine than anything you’ve ever committed yourself to. Open wide, bitch boy. You’re gonna fuckin’ love it!”

The look of disgust on Steve’s face as Wes shoved the vile socks into his mouth made Wes harder, and more excited. “Uh uh, you bitch,” he said sternly. “You better fucking wipe that disrespectful look off your pathetic shit-bag face right now. I want you to show my socks some respect. I want you to show me that those socks are the most sweet-smelling, delicious, candy-like morsels of goodness that you’ve ever fucking tasted. You better do it, to, or my socks are the only dinner your gonna fucking get tonight.”

That threat hit home, Wes observed with satisfaction. As he had surmised, Steve was obviously hungry.

Steve’s face, previously a mask of humiliation, disgust, and pain (the current was, after all, once again flowing), immediately, with visible effort, assumed a look of happiness and deliciousness.

“That’s more like it,” Was sniggered. “Now, chew that a while, and think about what a privilege it is to taste my socks. And while you do that, I’m gonna think about whether you really deserve my feet tonight.”

As Steve chewed and sucked and attempted to smile, Wes leaned back in the chair, unzipped his fly, and whipped out his cock. It was hard as a bone, and as he stroked it, staring down at the hapless bitch boy who was currently being forced to swallow socks that Wes had been wearing for 7 days, Wes felt a rush of power and control that was almost intoxicating.

And it wasn’t over yet. Not by a long shot.

“Alright, bitch boy,” Wes said finally. “I think my socks should be thoroughly rinsed by now. You may spit them out.”

Steve did, gasping for air.

“How would you describe the experience of sucking on my socks?” Wes asked.

“It was an honor, sir,” Steve assured him. “Now, master, will you please do me the even greater honor of allowing me to lick the sock lint from your feet?”

Wes shook his head in wonder as he mashed his bare feet into Steve’s face (depressing, of course, the button as he did so) and Steve responded by eagerly lapping at his soles. His feet reeked so badly that Wes could smell his feet clearly and powerfully, even with them stretched out a body length away. He wondered how Steve could possibly stand it. But then, he thought with some satisfaction, Steve really had no choice.

As Steve licked, Wes relaxed, sighed with contentment, and wiggled his toes luxuriously as he continued to down his beer. After having been on his feet all day, confined in his sweaty cleats for 2 hours of running up and down the field in the heat of the day during soccer practice, Wes marveled at how awesome it felt to let his feet air out while another dude was forced to lick them. Actually, the licking felt great, but what felt even better was, at the same time, using Steve’s face as a kind of stationary massage ball. Wes found himself mashing the soles of his feet into Steve’s face at all different angles, using Steve’s noise, his cheek bones, and his hair as pressure points to press in forcefully with his feet, massaging the sore arches and balls of his aching soles. It felt awesome.

When, after some length of time, Wes felt sufficiently satisfied that his feet had been fully worshipped, he said, “are you still hungry, slave?”

Steve nodded.

Wes grinned, and reached for the grocery store bag he had brought down into the basement. Off to the side of the room, he also grabbed a big oversized bucket.

Feeding the bitch boy had, over the last week that he had been imprisoned in the box, become something of a frat-wide pastime. A schedule had been drawn up and placed inside that basement room, assigning a time slot to pledges and brothers in the frat who wanted the honor. All time slots where either in the morning or evening, the only times during the day the bitch boy was allowed to eat. The rules were simple: during his allotted time, the brother or pledge could offer a meal of his choice to the bitch boy, in whatever manner he chose.

“Alright,” Wes was saying. “I’m gonna feed you your dinner . . . on just one condition. You hafta eat the whole thing. Everything I serve to you tonight, you eat, or you get punished. Can you promise me that?”

Looking fearful, Steve reluctantly nodded.

Wes knew he had good reason to be afraid. Over the last week, a number of different meals had been served. Some of the frat boys chose to be soft-hearted and give Steve good food, but most of them had used the occasion to amuse themselves. Three days ago, as a special challenge, Bryce had made a ham sandwich for Steve early in the morning. But instead of feeding it to him right away, he had left the sandwich on a table in the basement, just a few feet in front of Steve’s box, and he had encouraged every member of the frat to “add something special” to the bitch boy’s sandwich. Boy, had the frat ever responded . . . as it always did whenever Bryce suggested something. A notebook that Bryce had left on the table next to the sandwich had been used, at Bryce’s suggestion, by every member of the frat who came by that day to record his own particular contribution.

The contributions had been various. Several of the guys had come down, dropped their underwear, and farted on the sandwich. Several had pissed on the sandwich, and fully 7 frat guys had taken the time to masturbate and cum on the sandwich . . . much to the frustration of Steve, according to a couple of them, who had begged them to cum into his mouth instead so that he could work off his demerits. One pledge had added an entire vial of Cayan pepper. One brother had added several of his pubic hairs. Another had, in a singular act of inspiration, added the bodies of several dead earthworms, each extracted from the frat’s backyard. Several frat boys had actually spat into the sandwich. Another, improving on that concept, had spat his chewing tobacco into the sandwich. Another had taken his filthy work-out jockstrap and rubbed it all over the sandwich, and several had taken the sandwich off the plate, placed it on the floor, and stepped on it with their sweaty bare feet. One brother had used the sandwich to wipe the toilet seat on the ground floor clean, and another, inspired, had actually dropped his trousers and wiped his ass crack clean, using the sandwich. Finally, in a move that was widely acknowledged to have taken the cake, one member of the frat had actually taken a pickle from a pickle jar, jammed it all the way up his asshole (without, it was noted in the notebook, having taken a shower in the last 48 hours), then gone for a jog with the pickle inside his asshole, and then finally, in front of the bitch boy, removed the pickle and placed it inside the sandwich.

Of course, what made the whole thing even more hilarious was that, as each frat member debased the sandwich, poor Steve nevertheless would ask to worship his feet, suck his cock, lick his ass crack, swallow his piss, and then thank him.

In the particularly memorable final salvo, that evening, Bryce called the entire frat down into the basement, and as all the brothers and pledges stood in semicircle around the box, smirking and sniggering and occasionally roaring with expressions of delightfully shocked glee, Bryce had read each entry in the journal out loud, itemizing one by one the atrocities committed to the sandwich while the rest of the frat listened on. “Wow,” Bryce said at the end. “That’s some sandwich.”

Finally, Bryce had set the journal down, looked Steve straight in the eye, and said: “Now, bitch boy, I order you to beg me to feed you this sandwich.”

And Wes recalled, for the next 2 minutes the entire frat had listened with awe as Steve begged to be allowed the honor of eating the delicious sandwich Delta Psi had prepared for him. The episode had ended with the entire frat laughing as Steve ate the whole thing bite by bite, thanking the fraternity of Delta Psi for taking so much effort to prepare such a delicious sandwich after every bite.

Wes had loved it. And now it was his turn. He certainly knew he wasn’t going to top Bryce. But he still was enjoying the moment.

“Alright, bitch boy,” he said. “Time to eat.” He took out the super sized can of peanut butter, and using a big spoon, scooped the entire thing into the bucket on the floor. Then Wes mashed his bare feet in the bucket, until each of his soles were covered with a thick coat of creamy peanut butter.

“Supper time!” Wes declared, and then suddenly thrust his peanut-butter coated feet into Steve’s trapped face. “And make sure you lick every last bit of peanut butter off, you faggot.”

As Steve licked, Wes gulped down his beer, then grabbed a magazine and began to flip through it (a stack of Sports Illustrated, Maxim and Playboy had began to pile up next to the big stuffed chair for the guys to read as Steve worshipped their feet and sucked their dicks).

At length, Wes heard the face at his feet declare, submissively: “I’m done, sir.”

Wes removed one of his soles, studied it critically, then, suddenly, with coiled up energy, struck Steve’s face viciously with a forceful kick from his foot. Steve cried out in pain.

“You’re not done, bitch,” Wes barked. “I saw a streak of peanut butter between my toes. Now lick my fucking feet until they’re fucking spotless.”

Wes continued to flip through his magazine until Steve again claimed to be done. This time, upon examination, Wes decided he was satisfied. Then, as his cock continued to harden, he dunked his feet back into the bucket, coated them with a second layer of peanut butter, and again thrust them into Steve’s face. “Keep at it, faggot,” he said. “We gotta lot of peanut butter to get rid of.”

Steve licked and licked. Wes flipped through his magazine, then picked up a second one and began to skim through that. Each time the bitch boy painstakingly licked every last streak of peanut butter away and declared his soles clean, Wes looked up from his magazine just long enough to plunge his feet back into the bucket of peanut butter.

This went on for at least half an hour. When Wes had finished the second magazine, he reached for the remote control sitting next to the chair and flipped on the TV, which had been specially brought down and positioned so that one of the frat boys could comfortably sit in that chair and see the TV screen directly over the bitch boy box.

“Hey man.”

Wes jumped with a start, then turned around and realized that it was just one of the other pledges, Jared.

“Oh, hey man,” Wes said, relaxing again. “What’s up?”

“Nothin’ too exciting,” Jared said. “The guys upstairs just said it was your night to feed the bitch.” He glanced at Wes, with this feet outstretched, the bucket with the remaining peanut butter below on the floor, and Steve working feverishly to lick his feet clean. “Looks like you got everything under control. Anyway, the guys are barbequing burgers, and I thought I’d bring you one. We got plenty.”

Wes saw the hamburger on the plate that Jared was holding, and without rising from his chair, he grabbed it and began to chew eagerly. “Hey, thanks man. That hits the spot.”

Jared glanced at Steve, then looked back to Wes. “The one other thing is, uh, I gotta piss pretty bad, and Reid’s taking his time in the bathroom upstairs. You don’t mind if I interrupt, just for a second?”

“I got shitloads of time,” Wes assured him. “Go ahead.” He withdrew his peanut butter coated feet for a moment, and Jared promptly stepped forward, straddled the box, unzipped his fly, and mindlessly stuck his penis into Steve’s mouth. He turned his face around to face Wes as the piss began to flow. “Hey, have you started studying for that fucking econ midterm?”

“Nah . . . been procrastinating. The team’s gonna pass around the answers tomorrow morning anyway, I think, so I’m not to worried. I guess I’ll do a little review while I’m down here once I finish watching the game.”

The piss was still going. Man, he obviously had to piss bad, Wes thought.

“Ya mind if I get the answers from you tomorrow then, man?”

“No problem, dude.”

The piss finally slowed to a trickle. Jared shook his dick one last time, to shake loose the last few drops, then stepped away from the box as he zipped up his fly.

“He’s all yours again,” Jared said. “Let me just erase one of his demerits.”

Wes glanced at Steve. “Don’t do that,” he said. “Look. The little bitch boy didn’t get all your piss. See? There’s several drops down the corner of his mouth. And to lose a demerit, he has to swallow every drop.”

“Damn, your right.” Jared laughed. “Stupid bitch boy. Maybe he really likes that box. Maybe he wants to stay there forever! Anyway . . . enjoy the hamburger, dude.”

“Thanks man,” Wes replied, as Jared ascended the stairs.

Wes took another bite out of the delicious hamburger as he kicked his feet back up and ordered Steve to continue licking. “Mmmmm,” he said between bites. “This hamburger is fucking amazing.” He held it forward so that for a moment, it was just a foot away from Steve’s nose. “Doesn’t that smell great? Just think, boy. If only you were a real man, like me, you could be eating one of these too, instead of eating peanut butter off of my sweaty feet.” He glanced into the bucket. “Hey, speaking of, it looks like the peanut butter is nearly gone,” he observed.

Steve, who continued to lick, sighed audibly with relief.

“Which, of course, means it’s time to move onto the next course,” Wes continued. He fished into the supermarket bag and pulled out the bottle of ketchup. He opened it, squeezed out a little bit onto his hamburger, then turned it upside down and squeezed the rest into the bucket. He mashed his feet into the bucket, then for a countless time, stuck his feet back into Steve’s feet. The ketchup was now intermingled with the remnants of the peanut butter “Don’t you worry, slave,” he said. “Once you get through all that ketchup, I gotta big jar of mayo to go through next.”

For the next 2 hours, Wes relaxed in the chair. He watched TV for most of the first hour, stopping only when Steve would moan “I’m finished, sir,” to dip his feet back into the bucket.

In the second hour, Wes reached into the grocery bag and, as promised, produced the can of mayo. He had inadvertently left it out in the sun for most of the afternoon during his soccer practice, and he realized as he opened the top that it smelled a little funny. He shrugged and dumped it into the bucket, along with the remnants of the ketchup and the peanut butter. Wasn’t his problem.

As Steve began to lick the funny smelling mayo off his feet, Wes finally cracked open the econ text book. He figured he might as well study, at least for an hour.

They continued to be interrupted by an occasional trickle of frat brothers and pledges coming down into the basement to avail themselves of their bitch boy’s “services.” Usually there were quite a few more visitors, Wes knew. After all, usually Steve was begging people to let him worship their feet. But for the most part, with word out that Wes was busy feeding Steve, most of the frat was content to leave them alone.

“Hey man.”

Wes turned around, again, and saw that Reid had come down to join them. “Hey dude,” he said with a friendly wave.

Reid peered into the bucket. “Looks like your keeping our friend well fed, huh?” he said. He grimaced. “Man . . . there’s something not quite right with that fucking mayo!”

Wes gestured toward Steve, who continued to lick the Mayo (along with the peanut butter and ketchup mixed in) from between his toes. “Well, our friend here seems to like it just fine.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice condescendingly, like he was speaking to a dog. “Isn’t that right boy?”

“It’s delicious, sir. It’s nothing but a privilege to lick this Mayo from your feet, sir,” Steve said automatically, sounding like it were anything but.

“See?” Wes said with a grin. “Don’t you want some?”

“Nah . . . I’ll leave that all to bitch boy,” Reid sniggered. “Hey, hate to interrupt, but can I borrow bitch boy for a sec?”

“You gotta pee?”

“Nah. . . it’s kind of a . . . special project.” He scratched the back of his neck and looked ever so slightly sheepish. “I’m heading out on a date with Kara Clayton in a few minutes.”

Wes suddenly noticed Reid had a nicely pressed dress shirt on. “Dude, you bagged that hottie? Nice. High five, man.”

Reid grinned as they high-fived. “Anyway, I was just gonna grab my condoms, and I realized I was out.” He paused, and grinned. “Of clean ones, that is.”

Reid dug into his pocket and produced 4 or 5 condoms that had obviously been used. They had that distinctly battered look, and you could see what were obviously cum stains on the inside of each one.

“Alright, bitchboy,” Reid said. “Open wide. Make sure you rinse each one thoroughly. And don’t you dare even think about breaking one of `em.”

Wes watched in amusement as Reid fed his used condoms into Steve’s mouth one by one and instructed Steve to rinse each one with his own saliva.

“Yah really think those condoms are gonna be useable now, Reid?” Wes asked as he looked on.

Reid shrugged. “I dunno. But why not try?” He fed the final condom into Steve’s mouth. “Anyway, it’s probably gonna be a moot point. Bitch probably isn’t putting out tonight anyway, and I’ll have to just use the little slut here as my cum receptacle again.”

Wes laughed.

Reid peered into grocery store bag. “Man. You got MORE to feed to the fag tonight?”

Wes smirked. “Well . . . just one more course.” He reached into the bag, and fished out a can opener, and the final item on the meal he had prepared for the night: A big can of puppy chow dog food.

“Oh man,” Reid said, whistling. “That stuff’s nasty.”

“Well, hopefully not too nasty,” Wes said, as he pupped the lid off and began to pour it into the bucket. “Cuz the fucker is about to lick it off my feet.”

At this, Wes finally heard Steve groan with despair. “Please, sir,” he whimpered. “Please, master, I want to keep licking your feet, and I will do anything I can to continue worshipping you, but I think if I have to lick dog food, on top of all the peanut butter, the ketchup, and the mayo I’ve already licked . . . I’m afraid I’m going to throw up, sir.”

“No,” Wes said calmly, as he finished pouring the remains of the dog food into the bucket and began to immerse his feet in the pungent goo. “You’re not going to do that. I’m ordering you to shut the fuck up and lick his dog food off my feet. And if you can’t do that, then the frat is gonna punish you.” Wes grinned. “And I don’t think you want that. Do you?”

A pause. “No sir.”

“Good. Alright bitch, then shut up and lick.”

Steve did.

“Nice,” Reid said. “Don’t forget about the piss sack.”

“I won’t,” Wes assured him.

It took about another hour for Steve to finish off the dog food to Wes’s satisfaction. He was through studying for his exam, so he watched more TV while he mashed his dog food coated feet into Steve’s face.

Steve was definitely starting to gag, or at least make gagging sounds, by the end of the exercise, and Wes didn’t actually want him to throw up, so he decided to have mercy on the bitch boy and put the last remnants of the dog food away.

It was time for the climax . . . so to speak. For hours now, as Wes had sat there in that chair and watched as the little bitch licked peanut butter, ketchup, mayo and dog food off the soles of his sweaty feet, Wes had felt himself getting harder and harder, hornier and hornier.

Now, finally, he wanted to get some relief for his aching hard-on. Wes smirked. He loved that the frat now had its own live-in cock sucker. It was just another one of those intangible benefits you got from membership in an awesome jock frat like Delta Psi, Wes thought. His star status on the soccer team already meant that the hot but slutty girls were falling over each other to suck his dick. Still, he’d been busy for the last few days and hadn’t been time to get some action. And that’s where having Steve came in so much handy.

Wes rose from the chair, dropped his athletic shorts, pulled down his sweaty jock strap, and thrust his rock hard dick forward. As he set his bare feet, the last remnants of dog food still caked onto his soles, onto the cold concrete floor of the frat basement, he saw Steve’s familiar wince as the button on the top of the box became un-pressed. He’d fix that in a fucking hurry. He lunged forward, so that he was sitting on the button with his bare ass.

Steve’s relief was brief. Wes grabbed his mussed up, cum-stained hair, pulled hard, and rammed his cock violently down the slut’s throat. He’d made Steve suck his cock before, of course, but this was way more violent and invasive than anything he’d done before . . . to anyone. Girls might line up to suck his jock cock by the dozen, but you couldn’t get them to do it that well, really, and they certainly weren’t willing to deep throat him. Well, Steve had no choice.

“Fucking suck it!” Wes cried. “Fucking do it, you bitch! Take that fucking cock! And don’t you even think about gagging on it, you little cum slut, or I’ll go get another can of dog food and make you lick it off my feet all over again. Yeah, that’s right, you fag.”

The violent thrusting of his man shaft in and out of Steve’s mouth completely silenced his whimpering. Wes felt himself on the verge of a mind blowing orgasm. But he forced himself to make it last, prolong the ecstasy. He pulled out, panted, then grabbed Steve again, this time roughly, by the ears, using them like 2 handles, and plunged back in. In, out. In, out.

“That’s right, you fucker,” Wes panted. “Betya wish your cock wasn’t all cooped up inside of that box, huh? Betya wish we didn’t keep your little dick under lock and key so you could spew your pent up jisam like me, huh boy?”

Wes smirked as he felt himself, for the 5th time, on the very verge of a completely mind-blowing orgasm. He wanted to pull out again, but this time, he simply didn’t have the will power.

“You . . . fucking . . .cunt. . .” he grunted with an almost animal desire, “fucking . . . swallow . . . every . . . last . . . DROP!”

That was another thing. Girls generally didn’t like to swallow. Wes didn’t get guys who pulled out before they came. He liked the feeling of having his cock submerged in her throat until the end. Or, in this case, in his throat.

He cried out, again, and again, and again, as geyser after geyser of cum erupted into Steve’s mouth and down his throat. He felt himself spurt 3 loads . . . 4 loads . . . 5 loads . . . again and again he pumped, thrusting his entire muscular frame against Steve’s trapped face, giving into the euphoric feeling.

Finally, his body slumped, totally spent. He sat there for a few quiet minutes, sweating, panting, heaving, his sweat dripping down and pooling into the matted mess that was Steve’s disheveled hair. It was totally quiet.

He glanced down, finally, and saw that Steve had, in fact, swallowed every last drop.

Somehow, having blown his wad took the edge off of Wes’s sadism. He decided to give the fag his due . . . 3 full demerits, subtracted. It had, in all fairness, been a truly mind blowing orgasm.

Wes felt drained, and was suddenly tired of being in that basement, but he knew the rules, as Bryce and Trevor had spelled them out. Subtracting 3 demerits would bring Steve down to 64. That meant crossing a 5-demerit threshold, which meant, of course, that the score board had to be reset. Those were the rules. Maybe Hank could skirt them, but Wes was just a pledge, still. He was afraid of Bryce, and he didn’t dare to deviate from them.

So he grabbed the bucket of soapy water, the bristled scrup brush, the toothbrush, and set to work on Steve’s soles, his toes still tied all the way back, scrubbing vigorously to remove all the ink demerit marks. Steve, of course, began to shriek with laughter. Goddam, Wes thought irritably. How could one guy have feet that were that sensitive?

He didn’t want to listen to the noise, so he picked up one of the gags the frat had placed next to the box, specifically for this purpose. It was one of those dildo gags, designed to stick all the way in the fag’s mouth and strap around his head, securely silencing him. Once Wes had put it in, he continued to scrub, Steve’s shrieks of laughter now fully clogged. Once the ink had come off, Wes picked up the quill and the bowl of ink and gingerly reapplied 64 tally marks to the soles of his feet. Then he removed the gag.

Almost done, he thought.

Before he left, he remembered Reid’s repeated reminders. He took out the silver key Reid had tossed him earlier. Not many members of the frat had a copy of that key, Wes knew. In any event, it was just for the front of the box. You couldn’t actually release the fag without also undoing the top, where his head was trapped, and you needed a second key to unlock that, of which, as far as Wes knew, only Trevor, Bryce, and maybe Collin had copies. They were the only guys in the frat who actually had the ability to remove Steve from his box prison.

First Wes carefully undid the little strings that pulled back each of Steve’s toes, so that Steve could actually curl his toes. Then he undid Steve’s ankle cuffs. Then he found the keyhole

As Wes turned the key, the lock to the front of the box came undone. First, the ankle openings in the front of the box, through which Steve’s vulnerable feet protruded, opened up wider, so that Steve’s feet could fit through them. Then, as Steve retracted his feet through the holes, Wes swung the front of the box off to the side, allowing him access into the box, (all the while, of course, keeping the top of the box in place).

Wes peered inside and marveled, not for the first time, at the devilish ingeniousness of the box’s design. He had no idea where Trevor and Bryce had gotten the thing from. He knew it had cost a fortune to order . . . money that Trevor had already of course extracted from the doubtless dwindling funds in Steve’s bank account.

Steve was still pinned like an insect on the big metal dildo implanted in the base of the box, and from the soft hum, Wes could tell that it was, of course, turned on. Steve’s hands were still cuffed tightly behind his back (not that he could have done anything with them even had they been free). His knees were still bound together, and although the ropes were soft, he had been restrained that way for so long now that a soft red rope-burn mark had formed around his knees.

Wes ignored everything else and focused on the cock cage, which was, of course, still fully encasing the bitch boy’s piece of meat. There was a change, though: pulled tightly over the open tip of the cock cage, where normally there would be a tiny piss slit for the victim to pee without having to remove the device, there was a big, latex, balloon-like sack. It had been taped tightly onto the cock cage for good measure, and it was resting on the floor.

This was his piss sack.

That had been Shane’s idea, Wes knew. By the end of his first few hours trapped in the box, Steve had already been whining about how badly he had to go piss. Nobody wanted to have to release him from the box frequently enough to allow him to relieve himself . . . after all, he was supposed to stay in the box 24 hours a day until he worked off the demerits. That was the whole point of the punishment. Nobody liked the idea of loopholes.

So the piss sack had been devised and rigged.

It had to be changed at least twice a day, of course, and replaced with a fresh one. But these over-sized latex balloons had been judged adequately durable to handle the job.

Wes reached in, lifted the sack gingerly, and heard the liquid slosh around. He nodded, satisfied, then carefully separated it from the front end of Steve’s cock cage. He reached into the box, took out a new latex balloon, slid it onto the tip of the metal enclosure, and sealed it tightly.

Of course, Wes knew, there was one other potential loophole. But that was already taken care of as well. Once a day, Trevor or Bryce would come down into the basement, and offer him exactly ONE chance to be released from the box in order to take a dump. But there was a catch. If he accepted, he had to accept an automatic penalty of 5 demerits, plus an additional demerit for every minute he was outside of the box. He was not allowed to leave the basement, so his ankles would be tightly cuffed, and he would have to endure the added indignity of squatting over a bucket while he took a shit. With his ankles cuffed together and his wrists cuffed behind him, successfully positioning himself over the bucket was nearly impossible. Generally, Bryce or Trevor preferred to bring several of the other frat members down into the basement to witness this spectacle. Wes had been there once, and he had to admit, there was something uniquely amusing about watching the poor guy desperately attempt to shit in a bucket, bound head to foot, as Trevor or Bryce called out each passing minute (and each additional demerit).

Steve had asked for bathroom breaks remarkably rarely.

There was one last piece of the ritual yet to be completed. Wes waited a moment. Then it came.

“Please, sir,” Steve said. “Please, allow me to drink my own piss.”

On Bryce’s orders, Steve was to be punished whenever he forgot to ask.

Wes shrugged, took the full piss sack, and placed the open end into Steve’s mouth. As he threaded his bare feet back through the stock openings and resealed the front of the box, Steve, with an air of wear resignation, mumbled “Thank you, sir,” and began to slurp up his own piss.

Wes, feeling drained, picked up his shoes and socks, and headed back up the stairs to the main floor of the frat house. It was getting late, but a number of the guys were still up. Wes saw Cody sitting on the porch outside, smoking a cigarette.

“Hey man, bitch boy’s free,” Wes said as he headed up the stairs.

“Cool,” Cody said. “I’m horny as fuck.”

“I hear ya,” Wes said with a grin.


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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


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



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