By Greg Alexander
The brothers of Delta Psi were out, and they were getting hammered.
Trevor was downing his 6th beer of the night, and compared to most of the other guys, he was taking it easy. Across the table from him, Hank, his face flush with red under his Stetson, was gulping down another pint of Guinness. Collin and Reid were grinning and slamming their glasses together forcefully as they gulped down their Logger’s ale. Bryce, for his part, was doing shots of vodka, and although the bottle of absolut in front of him was more empty than full, he seemed only mildly affected. Wes and Shane were the only two pledges who had been invited along. Wes was downing shots with Bryce, trying to keep up, and obviously not succeeding, he was already completely smashed. Shane was sitting next to Trevor and tapping his flip-flop to the beat of the background music in the bar. He had also had his fair share of shots, and his tongue was loose.
They were at Dirty Nick’s, the frat’s favorite hangout. Midterms were finally over, and nobody in the frat had seen their GPA so low that they were in danger of being kicked off any of their teams. It was reason enough to celebrate.
“Hey,” Shane said into Trevor’s ear. “So by my count, the bitch boy has been in the penalty box for 2 weeks now.”
Trevor nodded and didn’t say anything.
Shane went on. “And he’s finally worked his demerits down to the single digits. I checked before I came down here.
Trevor took another gulp of his beer. Again, he said nothing.
Shane looked at him. “So . . . what are we doing about him when we finally scrub off all of his demerits?”
There was a pause. Then Trevor shrugged. “Well,” he said. “What do you think we should do?”
Shane didn’t hesitate. “Listen,” he said. “I’ve been thinking. In fact, I’ve been talking to a few of the other pledges. You’re not thinking of letting him go after we let him out of the box, are ya? Cuz I gotta tell you, we’re all having a lot of fun with your little bitch boy. It’s the frat’s best perk yet. Nobody wants to give him up. Some of the guys have started coming up with other ideas for how we could put him to use. I know I’ve got some.”
“Like?” Trevor egged him on.
Shane downed another shot. He was starting to feel a little loopy. “Well . . . uh . . . hell, I’ll just say it. You know, a lot of the guys have told me in confidence, uh, that that they want to go beyond just getting head. I mean, don’t get me wrong, the head’s awesome. It’s fucking amazing head, on demand. But some of the guys, when they’re horny, what they really want to do a lot of the time is fuck him.” Shane paused, his voice lowered. “And to be honest, so do I, Trev. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’d rather fuck pussy. But on a lot of nights when that doesn’t happen, I really want to ram my cock up your bitch boy’s little ass and make him struggle.” He gulped more beer. “I mean, fuck, how often do you have some bottom boy you totally own and can just fuck whenever you feel like it? When’s another opportunity like this coming along?”
Trevor nodded. “Yeah,” he said, as he took another gulp. “I’ve been thinking about that. A lot of the brothers have come up to me and told me more or less the same thing. Fuck, I haven’t done it yet, but I’d be willing to give it a go. I know Bryce wants to. The two of us have been brainstorming. Let me fill you in on our plan . . .”
I had lost track of all time.
I no longer knew how many days I had been in that room, imprisoned in that box, my feet stretched out, the demerits tallied up on my soles, continually being scrubbed away, then redrawn, then scrubbed away again, then redrawn . . . I had lost all count.
I had lost count of how many frat boys had come down to that room, had lost count of how many times I had been made to swallow their piss, had lost count of how many loads of cum they had deposited into my mouth, had lost count of how many times I had licked their ass cracks clean. I didn’t know how many feet I had licked clean, how many truly vile meals I had licked from their soles, or how many degrading slurs had been magic markered on my face in a drunken frat boy scrawl.
Above all, I had lost track of how many times I had felt that crackle of electric static shoot through the metallic cock and into my asshole . . . inducing first pleasure . . .then pain . . . then pleasure . . . then pain . . . until I was nearly losing my mind from the unbearable sensation, and wishing like hell that a pair of sadistic pledges or a drunken brother would appear and stick their feet gleefully into my face so as to depress that infuriating button and release me from the agony, if only for a few minutes.
I had no way of telling what time of day it was, of course. The only vague sense I had of whether it was day or night was the rate of traffic through my basement prison, during the day and into the evening, there was usually a steady stream of frat boys coming through. At night for several hours there was a dead spell. Occasionally, if I got lucky, one of the more soft-hearted boys would come downstairs, pull up a chair, stick his feet in my face, and doze off, allowing me a few hours rest (so long as I was able to ignore the feet in my face). Often though, this didn’t happen, and I simply could not fall asleep, hard though I might try, with that terrible current ripping through my anus.
I guessed it was the dead of night, because nobody had been by for several hours. (Because the room was soundproof, it was impossible to so much as tell if anything was going on in the rest of the frat).
Suddenly, the door to the room opened. In tumbled, one by one, Trevor, Bryce, Collin, Reid and Shane, the ultimate alpha males of the frat, I thought warily.
“Whass-UP bitch boy???” Collin shouted out enthusiastically, swaying from side to side. He was clutching a bud light in his fist and waving it emphatically.
“BITCH BOY!!!” rumbled Reid. He was laughing hysterically.
They all started saying it loudly, laughing. “BITCH BOY!! BITCH BOY!!”
I realized, in a daze, that they had just gotten back from carousing one of the local bars. They were all drunk, and Reid, Collin and Shane looked to me to be completely smashed.
Shane eyed me with a sleepy smile.
“Listen, slut,” he said, swaying from side to side as he sauntered forward. He fumbled with his fly, unzipping it. “It’s your lucky day today, slut. You just don’t know it yet.”
His cock was out now. “I have to piss, like, SOOOO bad, dude . . .” he mumbled.
That was all. The rest was, by now, an almost unconscious impulse. I could have done it in my sleep. I opened my mouth and gratefully inhaled Shane’s piece of meat, just in time, as Shane awkwardly, drunkenly straddled the box. His drunken body pressed down on the button, relieving me of the electric jolting sensation. The flood of piss let loose, like a fire hose in my mouth, gushing down my throat. I swallowed and swallowed and swallowed, concentrating on swallowing every last drop. The sheer volume of piss was impressive, I had swallowed a lot of piss loads over the last 2 week, including from a number of beer-swilling, drunk-off-their-asses brothers, and this had to take the cake, I thought.
“Thank you sir,” I said automatically, crisply, when Shane was finally finished. You’d think, given how drunk they were, they wouldn’t notice minor infractions, but I wasn’t taking any chances.
Shane smirked at me. “Fuck youuuuu, bitch boy,” he drawled, as he slid off the box.
Bryce went next. He seemed the most sober of the group, but even he too had clearly been saving up a mammoth load of pee just for me. Same with Reid. Same with Collin. Same with Trevor. As I inhaled their cocks and swallowed their piss, in the back of my mind, it occurred to me once again, as it had so often, to marvel at the sheer size of the average Delta Psi cock. Shane, Reid, Collin, Trevor, especially Bryce, they were all enormous, all over eight inches erect, and many, many other frat members fit in that category.
“Suck me off now, bitch,” Reid barked at me, when Trevor had finished. As Trevor stepped back, Reid stepped forward, straddling the box, dropping his jeans, and thrusting his enormous stiff cock in my face. “Holy SHIT dude . . . .I’m,” he belched loudly, then continued, “horny as all fuck. Make this a fucking good one. And . . . I better not feel a single tooth . . .you SLUT . . . or I’ll add more of those fucking DE-merits.”
I heard the other frat boys laugh, then break into another loud chant: “DE-merits! DE-merits! DE-meritis.” I obediently complied, swallowing Reid’s enormous organ and working it with my tongue, taking special care to not let my teeth touch his penis once as I pleasured him to the best of my abilities, until I finally felt a geyser of cum explode into my mouth. I did the same thing for Collin, then for Bryce.
When I had finally satisfied them all fully, I saw my frat boy masters were reaching for the bristled brush and the pale.
“You only had eight demerits left to work off, BOY,” Shane told me with a drunken lopsided grin. “And you know what that means . . .”
I caught my breath, hardly daring to hope. Was that really true? Was I really down to that few? And did I really dare hope that I would actually be released from this box when the demerits were gone?
I gritted my teeth and choked hoarsely with laughter at the now all-too-familiar sensation of the bristles working over my soles. But there were no quill strokes to follow, the re-inking of the soles of my feet with fresh dashes, which I had become all too familiar with, did not come.
Had I really worked off all my demerits? It seemed impossible to believe.
Suddenly, an enormous sensation of relief washed over me as Bryce flipped open the hatch in the top of the box, flipped the red switch, and the current in the box abruptly shut off.
Now Bryce and Trevor were drunkenly fumbling with the keys. First the ankle stock holes in the front of the box opened up, then the front swung forward and my ankle manacles were unlocked as my feet were released, then my head was in turn freed from the firm grip of the opening in the top of the box as that too was released. Finally, as the box opened up completely, I grunted in pain as strong arms heaved me out of the box, my abused asshole sliding slowly off the tortuous electrified dildo on which it had been impaled, with only the briefest interruptions, for weeks now.
I collapsed on the cold floor of the frat’s basement, breathing heavily. My wrists were still handcuffed together behind my back and my knees still tied tightly together, but still, the relief was tangible.
“Good job, bitch boy,” Trevor slurred. “You fucking worked off your demerits.” He paused. “And we’ve decided to move on to something . . . uh . . . new.”
All the frat boys standing around me snickered, and I had a familiar feeling of foreboding. But frankly, I was too relieved to finally be out of that box to care at that moment.
In a comfortable and familiar gesture, Trevor snapped a dog collar around my neck and connected it to a leash that he held in his hand. Then he led me roughly toward the doorway, out of the room in which I had been imprisoned for the last 2 weeks, and out into the basement hallway, with the pack of frat boys sauntering behind him. I was led into a new room in the fraternity basement, this one was much smaller. There was almost nothing in it, just a few old used kegs, a bunch of discarded plastic cups and pack boxes. The place was a mess.
“Alright, bitch boy,” Bryce said. “So, you’ve worked off your demerits. Nice fucking work. Bet you feel pretty proud of that, huh slave? Well, don’t get too cocky.” He looked at me and then barked: “Stand up, bitch boy.”
Abruptly, I did. It had been forever since I had actually stood up on my own accord, and the sensation was both acutely difficult and very strange. Despite the fact that my knees were bound and hands still cuffed behind my back, I was able to manage it, but my muscles were incredibly cramped and ached horribly from being scrunched up, more or less non-stop, inside of the box for two weeks. I trembled involuntarily.
Bryce suddenly moved forward, and gave me a violent shove. I tumbled backwards into an open closet that the frat brothers had positioned me in front of. I cried out, as I heard them slam the door shut and lock it.
They were all laughing again, drunkenly. I could hear them through the closet doorway, of course, as I lay there on the floor.
“Listen, fucker,” I heard Reid slur. “Alrighty. Yeah, so you’re out of the penalty box. Big fucking deal. Don’t forget, we can give you more demerits, and put you back there in a fucking blink of the eye, if we feel like you don’t respect us.”
“Yeah,” I heard Shane guffaw, hiccupping. “A lot of the pledges are still fucking PISSED at you, dude. A lot of them still don’t think you’ve suffered enough.”
“So,” I heard Bryce say. “We’re gonna put you through a little test, bitch boy. As you know, this frat is known on campus for accepting only the best athletes into our house. A lot of dudes want to join us, and we turn most of them down, unless they’re jocks who have really proven themselves ” men who have risen to the fore with feats of particularly amazing athletic ability.” Bryce paused. As always, he was coldly and disdainfully collected. I was sure he had drunk as much as the others, maybe more, but he was showing it by far the least. He continued: “not that I’d expect a fucking dickwad cumslut like you do understand anything about what sports means to our frat, but it’s important.”
Trevor went on. “So . . . us guys here have been talking things over, and we all agree you still need some attitude adjustment, slave. You’ve come to accept that we own you, but you need to understand WHY we own you, and to do that, you need to understand what makes us frat brothers so fucking sweet. Which means you gotta start respecting each of us for what we’ve fucking accomplished on the field.”
Bryce went on. “Over the next day or two, you are going to sit in that little closet. We’ll give your fried little asshole some relief, sure, at least for now. But you better listen closely, cuz every single brother and pledge that belongs in this frat is gonna come in here and tell you the FIVE sports achievements they’re proudest of in their athletic careers here. And you are gonna fucking retain all that fucking info, and you’re gonna recite it back to us when we order you to, or you’ll be sorry.”
As I lay there, trapped in the closet, my hands handcuffed behind me, one after the other of the drunken frat boys stepped up to the closet the door and began reciting a litany of their sporting accomplishments.
“Alright, slave, listen up,” Trevor began. “Number 5: On October 21, at the Men’s Tennis semi-finals, I served 3 back to back shut-out games, and won second place in the Men’s Division I all-state tournament.
Number 4: I rowed for the heavyweight crew team and was on the team that came in third in the national eastern cup on November 9 . . .”
Trevor went on, reciting off 5 tennis and crew achievements, filled with dates, cups, tournaments, trophies that meant little to me. I listened carefully, straining to hear every word through the closet door. The trouble was, with my hands cuffed behind me, trapped in the closet, I of course had no way of writing anything down. I repeated each achievement in my head. October 21, Men’s Tennis Semi-finals, 3 back to back shut out games . . .
Bryce stepped up to the closet door. “My turn,” he declared. “Number 5: In May 2006 I won the Achievement trophy for Most Valued Starting Center in the Eastern Conference in Men’s College Basketball . . . Number 4: Over 4 years of playing college Basketball, I’ve scored more 3-pointers than any other player in our division on the east coast . . .”
On it went. By the time Bryce was done, my head was already spinning. I was trying my best to retain it all. “Excuse me, sir,” I stammered from within the closet, “Could you please, sir, please allow me the privilege of a pencil or pen and uncuff my hands so that I can record your impressive accomplishments?”
I heard the frat boys outside guffaw drunkenly. My request was ignored completely. As soon as Bryce was done, Collin stepped up, and began to talk about his record times on the Swim Team in the Butterfly and Backstroke events. His were even harder to remember because of the exact race times he recited, down to the hundredth of a second.
By the time they had gotten to Shane and Reid, my mind was completely reeling.
“Alright,” Bryce said, when they had all finally finished. “Better remember that all, slave. Don’t fuck up.”
And with that, they walked out of the room, laughing and backslapping each other, presumably finally going off to their rooms and to bed, leaving me to sit in that closet, my mind whirring as I furiously reviewed the litany of sporting achievements I had just heard recited over and over and over.
As I recited as much of the information as I could possibly remember, I realized that my little closet had been prepared ahead of time. There were two dog dishes on the floor; one filled with water, one with food. I realized how thirsty I was, and I lapped up the water eagerly, on my knees, my hands of course still trapped behind my back. I realized the food in the other bowl was actually dog food, but also realized, with only a modicum of shame, that I didn’t care. After all, the frat boys had been feeding me dog food regularly for weeks now, and that was when I was lucky. When I was unlucky, of course, they had made me eat much worse. I was hungry, and so I lowered my head and without a second thought nibbled at the dog food, lapping it up.
I tried to keep repeating the sports facts Shane, Bryce, Trevor, Reid and Collin had just water-hosed me with, knowing inevitably that the consequences for forgetting even the smallest detail would be severe. I was so exhausted from my 2-week ordeal in the “penalty box,” however, and so physically relieved to actually be lying there, on the floor of the closet, without the electric sensation pulsing up my asshole that I had come so accustomed to over the past two weeks, that I quickly passed how from exhaustion.
The next day, I awoke bright and early to the noise of another frat boy speaking to me through the closet door. This time I had a harder time identifying the voice: I was pretty sure it was Cody, but I wasn’t absolutely positive. Whoever he was, he was obviously on the football team, and regaling me with stories of his heroism there.
For the rest of the day, the tide of frat boys trooping down to the basement seemed unstoppable. To my consternation, none of them identified themselves: they simply launched immediately into their 5 sports achievements, which they recited with almost robotic precision, before walking away, leaving me scrambling to try to remember what they had said and piece together who had said it.
Wes came by to tell me about his impressive feats on the soccer team. I heard from a phalanx of football players, a gaggle of eager pledges, jocks on the track team, jocks on the baseball team, and a ton of guys from the LaCrosse team. The problem was, there were so many frat brothers in Delta Psi, I still wasn’t even close to being able to recite all their names, let alone recognize them based solely on their voices.
And still, the jocks kept coming. For 2 solid days, they trooped in and out of the room. The impressive avalanche of Delta Psi sports achievements kept raining down on me. All I could do was kneel in that closet, eyes closed in concentration, trying with all my might to commit to memory as much of the information as I possibly could. Lap up water, nibble some dog food, recite an bewildering array of sports achievements in my mind over and over and over, listen to the masculine voice of some barely identifiable brother tell me more about the trophies he won on the track team, and sleep. That’s what I did for 2 days.
At the end of the 2 days, the reckoning finally arrived.
I was let out of the closet prison (my ankles were re-shackled first), blind folded, and led upstairs into the fraternity’s main living room. I was told to kneel, and my blindfold was removed.
In spite of everything, I found myself taken aback. The room was darkened, with candles lit all around me, giving the room the real aura of a frat hazing. It was light enough that I could see the other people in the room.
Every frat brother and every pledge in Delta Psi was there, the whole crowd of them packed into that room, staring at me with the mixture of disdain and sadistic enjoyment I had come to know so well.
With the seemingly endless stream of frat boys who had trooped steadily through the basement over the last 2 weeks to torment me, with the endless series of frat boy feet I had licked and cocks I had sucked and piss I had been ordered to drink and asscracks I had been made to clean, I had really almost completely lost track of how many boys there were in the frat. Seeing them all packed together was a stark reminder of how wide my circle of tormentors had grown. I wondered, helplessly, what they had planned for me this time.
“Bitch boy,” Bryce said solemnly. He was standing at the front of the pack, directly in front of me. He was wearing flip-flops, and he loomed over me.
Needing no further prompting, I submissively bowed my head and kissed both of Bryce’s feet. “Yes sir, yes master,” I murmured. I wanted to avoid unnecessary punishments as much as possible.
There was appreciative mocking laughter from the onlooking pack of frat brothers.
“Bitch boy,” Bryce continued, “The brothers of Delta Psi have gathered here to test your knowledge and memory of the frat, and by extension, the true respect you have for us. Each brother and pledge gathered here has shared with you five key athletic accomplishments from their college careers to date. As you know, this frat is a frat for jocks who have proven themselves; one of many, many, many reasons why a worthless little faggot like you could never ever belong here.”
There were more chuckles and guffaws at this. As always, I thought, the frat guys were enjoying my discomfort and degradation.
“Right,” Bryce continued. “So, the brothers of Delta Psi are now putting you to the test, bitch boy.” He paused, and smirked. “Let’s see how much respect you really have for us. I will select a brother or pledge at random from the room. He will step forward. You will crawl forward and immediately kiss his feet. You will then recite his full name, his class year, the team he belongs to, and list his 5 sporting accomplishments. Delta Psi expects you to be able to recite all this information clearly, promptly, and accurately. Do you understand, you piece of shit?”
I swallowed. “Yes sir. I understand sir.”
I knew, somewhere in the back of my mind, that this was all an act. Nobody, as Bryce knew better than anybody, had ever even so much as introduced me to the 70 plus members of the frat when I had been unceremoniously abducted and imprisoned in the basement over 2 weeks ago. Most of the first names I had pieced together through overheard conversations and off-hand remarks during my captivity, but there were a ton of last names I didn’t know at all, and I certainly couldn’t recognize the voices well enough through the closet door to match the “5 sports facts” with more than half of the frat boys, if that. And of course, even for those frat boys I did know well enough to have their full names, I wasn’t feeling at all good that I had even close to all the “sports facts” memorized. Without the ability to write anything down, it had been almost impossible.
The other frat boys had to know that, I realized. I was being set up for failure. And based on the wide grins I saw all around the room, they were enjoying it.
A tall blond guy stepped forward, a few inches from me, gazing down at me expectantly. I promptly kissed his feet, he was barefoot. But that was all I could do. I didn’t know his name at all. Fuck, I thought.
I gazed at him stupidly, as the rest of the frat stared at me expectantly.
“I’m so sorry sir,” I stammered finally. “I’m afraid I don’t know your name, sir.”
“You fucking worthless cunt,” Trevor spat out loudly, from the back of the room.
“Tell him, Sam,” Bryce said, with a sigh of exaggerated disappointment.
“Name: Sam Hamilton, Junior,” Sam said. He proceeded to recite 5 of his major accomplishments from the Lacrosse team. I concentrated as hard as I could.
“Now, repeat them back to me,” Sam instructed.
Sam told me I had screwed 2 of them up already, getting key details wrong. He repeated the 5 Lacrosse facts. Stammering badly, I managed to recite them all correctly on the second try.
I heard more snickering.
“Well, that was pathetic,” I heard Trevor say loudly. “Totally pathetic, you piece of shit.”
“Give the boy a few more chances,” someone else suggested. “Maybe he just got unlucky on that one.”
13 more frat boys came to the front of the room and stood in front of my kneeling bound body. In at least 2 cases, I had no idea of the boy’s name at all. In 4 other cases, I knew the name, but didn’t know the last name, and didn’t know the voice well enough to be able to identify any of the facts he might have told me in the past 2 days through the closet door. Of the remaining 7 cases, one of them was Wes, another Shane, a third the pledge Jared, 2 other brothers, and finally Bryce and Trevor themselves, I at least got the full names, and was able to recall at least some of the sports facts accurately. But in no single case was able to accurately recite every single sports fact.
“Unbelievable,” Trevor said, shaking his head, when the “testing” was finally declared over. “Fucking unbelievable, you little cum slut. After serving as this frat’s bitch boy for over 2 weeks, you still obviously haven’t learned your lesson.”
Bryce surveyed the frat boys assembled in the room. “Let’s put it to a vote.
“Raise your hands if you think the little bitch has learned his lesson.”
The room was still. Not a single hand went up.
“Alright. Not exactly an overwhelming response. Now raise your hand if you think this pathetic performance demonstrates that the bitch obviously still has to learn some respect for us.” Every hand in the room shot up.
“OK.” Bryce turned and faced me with satisfaction. “Bitch boy,” he sneered, “the frat has spoken and deemed you woefully inadequate. What do you think about that?”
I looked at him. It took me a second to realize it was not a rhetorical question.
“What do you THINK ABOUT THAT??” Bryce said again, leaning forward and shouting now. “Do you AGREE with the frat, boy?”
“Yes, master,” I said quickly, stooping over further so that my forehead was nearly touching the floor. “Yes sir, absolutely sir. The frat is correct sir.”
“Correct about WHAT???”
“That I need to respect you and your accomplishments more, sir.”
Bryce pressed on, relentless. “So what should we do about that, slave?
“You should teach me respect, sir.”
Bryce’s face flushed. “Oh COME ON, you FUCK FACE!!!” he roared. “You can fucking DO better than that!!! Come ON!!1 Let’s see you grovel, bitch! I asked you what we should DO about that!!” I knew Bryce well enough by now to know what he wanted.
“You should punish me, sir!!” I cried out. “I deserve to be further humiliated and punished for my disrespect, master!” All the frat guys were in hysterics now. I kept going. “I am your Butt-munching cum lover,” I whimpered. “I am your cock sucking, toe-jam chewing, ass-kissing plaything. I am your piss-drinking toilet slave. And I deserve to be punished by you, master!”
Bryce finally smiled a satisfied smile.
There was a moment of silence “Alright,” Wes piped up. He sounded eager. “So does that mean we’re taking the bitchboy back downstairs?”
“Yeah,” Trevor said. “But with a twist this time.” He smirked. “After all, we have plenty of other equipment down there we haven’t used yet.”
I knew better than to struggle as strong arms seized my body and I was lifted into the air and carried, once again, down the flight of stairs into the basement.
It was true. As 4 frat brothers carried me back into that dark room in which I’d spent the last 2 weeks locked in the penalty box, I remembered that there was, in fact, other equipment in that room, which I had noticed at first, but had somehow managed to forget about since, because when I had been stuck in the penalty box, my head had been turned toward the doorway and immobilized, so I hadn’t been able to see the rest of the room. Now I could.
All over the walls, I could see the frat’s insignia and its big block greek letters. One the wall opposite me, once I again I could see the rows and rows of pegs. Dangling from these pegs were an assortment of strange and different devices, clothes pins, long flexible bending rods, ping pong paddles, several leather belts, a number of different sets of handcuffs, ankle shackles, huge bundles of rope and smaller bundles of twine, and most strikingly, a long row of fake dildos, which varied in size from just a few inches to truly massive foot-long fake dicks. The bottom row was nothing but a long series of wooden frat paddles, lined up one after the other, each looking wickedly long, each with the Delta Psi lettering emblazoned on it.
Pushed up against this wall, I also saw again a big set of classic medieval wooden stocks, with one big hole for the head and two smaller holes for hands, and a padlock on the side to keep the intended victim trapped in place.
I also saw some new items I either hadn’t noticed before, or were new.
One was a long but narrow padded bench. It was quite similar to the pommel horse gymnasts vault over, but much lower to the ground: only about 3 feet high. There were other modifications that made it obvious that it had been designed for something different than gymnastics. In particular, the “pommel horse” was mounted on a large piece of plywood, with a raised beam in the center of the plywood that ran from one edge to the other, so that it passed directly underneath the width of the padded bench. Sticking out from this plywood beam on one side of the pommel horse was a long narrow tube, and at either end of the cylinder there was a very thick padded circular loop. In addition, running along each of the four legs of the pommel horse were a series of what appeared to be thick leather straps.
“Alright,” I heard Bryce say. “Get him ready.”
I was dropped to the floor. I felt the familiar sensation of strong hands running along my body. My ankle manacles were uncuffed, my knees were finally freed, and I felt a key unlock the cuffs that bound my hands behind my back.
“What about the cock chastity cage?” I heard someone say.
“Yeah, even that one,” I heard Trevor say. “Here, you’ll need this. Bryce and I are the only ones with the keys.”
I felt someone fumbling the chastity enclosure on my cock, and then that too sprang free, first the attachment behind my ballsack sliding loose, then the cursed cage itself gliding off. For one startling instant, for the first time in 2 weeks, I had the glorious sensation of having no restraints of any kind on my body, with the lone exception of the leather dog collar that was still clasped around my neck.
That didn’t last long.
“Come on, boys, get him positioned,” Shane said gleefully.
With immense trepidation, I felt more hands pick my body up and carry me over to the leather padded bench that resembled a pommel horse.
One frat boy set my feet down, in place, in standing position, so that for a moment I was standing on top of the sheet of plywood that constituted the base of the bench, addressing it precisely as a gymnast would stand before a pommel horse in the instant before he vaulted over it.
“Spread your legs, boy,” I was told gruffly. I didn’t dare disobey . . . but apparently I didn’t have my feet wide enough apart, because whoever was holding me from behind forced my feet apart still wider, so that I was now straddling dramatically, with my feet spread out at over 3 feet apart. My feet were now wide enough, barely, for that metal pole embedded in the raised plywood beam to be forced between my ankles.
Suddenly, I understood what it was for.
The thick padded circular loops at either end of the metal pole, I noticed, also had padlocks on them. The two frat boys standing at either side of me now knelt down and slid these loops around my bare ankles, and pulled them tight . . . very, very tight . . . before padlocking both sides.
I was now trapped naked in a standing position, my legs extremely and uncomfortably wide apart, so that my legs now formed a nearly equilateral triangle with the floor. The metal pole was now separating my 2 ankles, forcing them to stay apart, and was absolutely secure, so as to freeze my feet into place as surely as if they had been sunk into wet concrete that had been allowed to dry. I could wiggle my toes up and down, of course, but I couldn’t move my ankles at all. The stance, predictably, placed an uncomfortable strain on my inner thigh muscles.
Of course, that was only the preliminary part.
The position that my ankles had been frozen into placed me directly in front of the padded bench, which was just inches away from my body and came up to about my waist. Shane and Collin now both took hold of my arms, on either side of me, and in one smooth powerful movement pulled my arms over and across the width of the bench. They then forced my arms down, so that they were stretched down on the opposite side, leaving my whole body arched over the arch of the pommel horse, with my ass stretched high into the air and my naked belly pushed hard against the padded surface of the bench.
Shane and Collin swiftly set to work further binding my body into place by positioning my arms against the sides of the wooden bench legs. These legs each had leather straps, and I felt these being tightened around each of my arms, freezing them into place. For good measure, one of the brothers pulled out a roll of duct tape, and ring after ring of duct tape was ripped violently off the role and drawn tightly around my arms and the bench leg. In no time at all, I couldn’t move my arms at all either.
Now I was really helpless. With my ankles and wrists locked ingeniously into place on either side of the padded bench, I was totally splayed out, naked, bent over and exposed. I realized the bondage left my ass in an extraordinarily vulnerable position. With my legs forced so far apart, with my torso splayed out across the pommel horse, with my arms tied down at their sides toward the floor, I realized the net result was to force my bare ass up so that it was by far the highest point of my body, and leave it completely exposed. Even now, they weren’t finished. As it was, my head and neck were still free, at least enough to rotate around, to nod and shake vigorously. This was quickly stopped when the big set of wooden stocks I described earlier was pushed up against the padded bench, and my head was forced through it before it was padlocked into place. Now my head was frozen into place as well. I literally couldn’t move.
As if for emphasis, I felt someone grab my newly freed cock and balls. Just feeling something, ANYTHING, on that severely deprived region gave me a powerful jolt. But whichever sadistic brother was touching my privates was doing so only to further torment me; I felt rope being tied around my ball sack once, twice, three times, then tightened firmly, then tightened further, so that my balls were being squeezed enough that it HURT.
My cock and balls at that point were hanging loosely off the edge of padded pommel horse. The frat boy who was tying up my ballsack now proceeded to change this drastically by pulling the rope HARD in a forward direction, so that it was taught, and tying the other end around an eye-hook that was embedded in the structure of the pommel horse. Now even my dick, hard and drooling pre-cum as always, more desperate than ever for some kind, any kind of release, was stretched painfully out and away from my body. I winced.
“Comfortable, slave?” Trevor asked, when they had finally finished locking in the nuts and bolts of my latest bondage position.
There was some general chuckling at that.
“Alright,” Bryce finally said. “So, listen up, bitch boy.
“I told you . . . I ORDERED you . . . to remember five sports facts about every member of this frat. You didn’t.
“We tried doing this the easy way. Now . . .” here he paused, and smirked, “we’re gonna do this the fucking FUN way.”
There were some scattered hoots at that.
Bryce looked at Shane. “Shane . . . do you wanna explain?”
Shane looked eager. “Sure thing dude.” He grabbed the big overstuffed padded chair from the other side of the room (the one the frat boys had sat in for the last 2 weeks while using my face as a foot rest) and set it just in front of the big wooden stocks that my face was currently trapped in. Then he came to the front of the padded bench, in front of the wooden stocks, and stared me in the face.
“OK, bitch boy.” Shane reached into his pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and tied it around my forehead, effectively blindfolding me. “So, we’re gonna make this interesting. So, you’re down here, chilling out, right? Some dude from the frat comes down here, wants to kick back, relax, maybe have a beer, and, of course, chill out with our favorite bitch boy.” I heard him sit back into the chair. “Now, as we all know, you’ve spent a lot of time at all of our feet, right? So much so that, really, you should be an expert on them by now.” I heard Shane kicking off his flip flops. Next thing I knew, he had thrust his feet into my face. “Now, lick those soles, bitch.”
“Thank for allowing me to lick your feet sir,” I said, almost automatically.
“Shut the fuck up, cunt, I’m trying to make a point here. Now, how often would you say you have had the honor of licking my feet in the last 2 weeks bitch boy?”
“I . . . I don’t know sir . . . maybe like 20 different times?”
“Quit fucking stammering, bitch boy. Answer me again!”
“I have licked your feet 20 times, sir!”
“Right.” Shane paused. “So you should be pretty much an expert in what my feet taste like by now. In fact, you should know what everyone’s feet here taste like. Well, from now on, until we’re convinced you got this shit down pat, whenever any brother or pledge comes into this room, you will be blindfolded. They will not speak. They will not say a fucking word. They will, however, present their feet for you to worship, or their cocks for you to suck, or their piss for you to drink, or their assholes for you to lick.
“Delta Psi expects you to be so familiar with every fucking inch of our bodies from worshiping us that, based solely on licking our feet, our assholes, or our dicks, we expect you to be able to identify us, even when blindfolded, and then do what you were so pathetically incapable of doing before: state our full name, class year, and list ACCURATELY our 5 sport facts.
“So, let’s try this again. WHO’s feet are you licking boy?”
I swallowed. “These feet belong to Master Shane Connor, sophomore, sir!” I then began to recite Shane’s 5 sport facts.
“Alright, slave,” he said disdainfully when I had finished. “You got 4 of those right. But the Lacrosse trophy I won in fact number five was called Piedmont trophy, and you totally butchered that.”
Shane pulled off my blind fold now and set it to the side. “OK, so, at this point, I take off the blindfold so that you can see whether you identified me correctly. This is where I would also correct any errors in your recitation of my 5 sport facts, like I just did.
“So,” Shane paused. The 70 plus frat guys packed into the room were silent, hanging on his every word, transfixed. “So,” Shane continued. “Say . . . just for the sake of argument, that an error is made. Like you just did by butchering one of my facts. Or say you can’t even figure out who the fuck I am in the first place because you’re such a stupid bitch.” He looked me in the eye. “So what do you think happens then?”
It took me a second, again, to realize he actually wanted me to answer.
“I’ll give you a hint,” Shane said. “It rhymes with `it is funnish.'”
I swallowed. “I get punished.”
“Ding ding ding!! We have a winner!”
Bryce took over at this point. He was addressing the rest of the frat, I realized, more than he was talking to me at this point. “Alright,” he said. “So, Trev and I have drawn up another `Bitch Boy Rubric,’ back by popular demand.” He flipped over another big white board, which had been carefully written on. Comparing it to the last bitch boy rubric (for when I was in the penalty box, laying out how many demerits cocksucking, piss-drinking and ass-licking would buy me) it somehow randomly crossed my mind that someone in the frat had good handwriting.
This is what it said:
Bitch Boy Spanking Rubric For each sports fact Bitch Boy gets wrong: 5 to 15 spankings For incomplete identification (no last name, no class year): 5 to 15 spankings For failure to identify frat brother at all: 15 to 30 spankings.
Bryce continued to explain the rules to the frat. “As you can see, arrayed along this wall, we’ve assembled an extraordinary diversity of spanking implements. We’ve got ping pong paddles, belts, bending rods, and, of course, the old standby – an assortment of different frat paddles. It’s entirely up to you what to use in carrying out the punishments. help yourself to whatever the fuck you want down here. It’s all up for grabs.
“Let me clarify one important point here. If the bitch fails to successfully identify the frat boy whose feet he is licking, who’s cock he is sucking, whose ass he is licking, or who’s piss he is drinking, he automatically gets the 15 to 30 spankings. Then his blindfold is removed, but of course, he is still required to at that point identify member of the frat fully, and recite his five sports facts. So it’s in theory possible for the bitch boy to incur up to 120 spankings at a time if he does absolutely everything wrong.
“Now, let’s have a REAL demonstration.”
The boys surrounding me seemed positive giddy with anticipation.
The blindfold was placed once again over my eyes. I heard movement around me, whispering, then the sensation of someone sitting down in the big chair directly in front of my face and locked stocks. There the sounds of flip-flops popping off and failing to the cold stone floor. SLAP SLAP. Then, suddenly, the soles of two big feet pressed into my face.
“Alright, bitch,” Trevor said from off to the side. “$64,000 question. Which frat master are you worshiping right now?”
My stomach churned. I didn’t want to be paddled if I could possibly help it. I remembered how it felt the last time I had undergone it, back in our dorm room with Trevor.
I inhaled deeply, smelling the foot odor. The smell was definitely powerful, that much was clear, and deeply masculine. I licked. It tasted salty and distinctive. They were very large feet with smooth soles.
I knew I had worshipped that foot before. KNEW it. I had smelt it, licked it, tasted it. I ran my tongue up and down the flesh of the sole, trying desperately to remember, to no avail.
“Time’s up, bitch boy,” I heard Trevor say. “Moment of truth.”
“It’s . . .” I strained my mind. Familiar as that foot tasted, I simply could not place the owner.
“It’s . . . uh, master Jack,” I finally guessed wildly, referring to one of the brothers who had enjoyed coming down to the basement frequently over the past 2 weeks to use me as a foot rest.
“WRONG!!” I heard several voices shout at once.
My blindfold was removed, and I saw it was none other than Collin. Collin!! I felt stunned. I had worshipped Collin’s feet many many times, dating back, of course, to the dorm, when he and Trevor had made me lick their feet clean repeatedly through a variety of ordeals. If I couldn’t identify even Collin with the blindfold on, what chance did I have??
I quickly identified Collin’s full name and class year (senior), and said he was on the varsity mens swim team. I then began to wade through his sports facts: they were the ones that were especially heavy on race times for different swim racing events. As it turns out, I messed up fully 4 out of 5.
“Alright, Col,” Bryce said with a grin. “Ball’s in your court now. The slave couldn’t figure out it was you with the blindfold on, so that’s 15 to 30 swats, and he only got 1 out of 5 fact right, incurring an additional 5 to 15 for each mistake. That means you have a range of between 35 and 90 spankings you get to administer the bitch boy. Totally at your discretion within that range. Pick your preferred spanking implement.”
Like a kid browsing through a toy store, Collin ran his eyes up and down the wall of pegs. Finally his eye settled on a thick leather strap hanging on one side of the room. Collin examined it carefully, took it in one hand, and snapped it against the palm of his other hand. It made a loud cracking sound.
“OK,” Collin said with a grin. “Ready.”
The horror of my situation was still sinking in. Somehow, at every juncture, the frat boys always seemed to find a way of making things even worse for me.
Tied down over the padded bench, totally immobilized, my ass pointing high in the air, my legs forced wide apart, my naked buttocks completely at the mercy of this pack of sadistic frat boys, I felt this was surely my most vulnerable position yet. I had no wiggle room. I couldn’t move my legs, my torso, my arms, and certainly not my bare ass.
Collin positioned himself behind me.
“Alright, slave,” he said. “Do you feel like 35 or 90 today?”
“Please sir, give me 35, sir,” I whimpered.
“Look, bitch boy, I’ve made you lick my feet clean many, many, many times before. You really have no excuse for not being able to identify me. Get ready to take 90 swats, you bitch.”
The crowd of frat boys cheered.
“Now bitch boy,” Bryce explained sternly, “it is of course your job to count each stroke, and after each stroke, shout out: `thank you sir. May I please have another sir?’ You need to say it IMMEADIATLY and QUICKLY – this cannot in any way slow down the pace of the paddling. If after any stroke you fail to say that, there will be further punishment.” He produced a box of clothespins and held it menacingly in front of my nose. “Specifically, if at any point you forget, the brother or pledge paddling you is entitled to clip one of these to your ballsack, where it will likely stay for at least 24 hours, and then start the paddling over from scratch. Alright, Col, go ahead.”
Collin took his muscular arm back, winding up fully, then released, sending the leather strap snapping into my buttocks at full speed. I winced. It STUNG. It felt lighter than a frat paddle, but the sting of it on my flesh was somehow more intense.
“1. Thank you sir. May I have another sir?”
“2. Thank you. May I have another sir?”
“3! Thank you. May I have another sir?”
“Hold it!” Reid shouted suddenly, from off to the side. “Hang on. Bryce told the bitch boy to count the strokes, then say `Thank you sir. May I have please have another sir.’ Isn’t that right? Well the fucking slave isn’t saying it right! The first time he didn’t say `please.’ The second and third time he only said sir once, and he didn’t say please!”
There were murmurs of assent.
“Wow,” I heard Trevor say. “Bitch boy, this just isn’t your day, is it? Collin, you wanna do the honors?”
Because rope had been tied around my ball sack and then pulled sharply forward and tied to a metal hook embedded in the bench, my cock and balls were already cruelly stretched out, pulled at the root uncomfortably far. Now I felt Collin’s man-paw take my ballsack in the palm of his hand, and then, in succession, attach 3 clothespins to the flesh of my ballsack in three different locations. Each time, I winced, blinking back tears.
Then Collin began again.
This time I made sure to say it perfectly. “1. Thank you sir! May I please have another sir?!” I declared in rapid fire succession.
“Much better, slave.” WHACK!
“2. Thank you sir! May I please have another sir!?”
“3. Thank you sir! May I please have another sir!?”
I closed my eyes and winced. The sting at each moment that the strap made contact with the tender flesh of my ass was already acute. Tied so tautly over the padded bench surface, my hind-muscles felt completely stretched out and at their maximum vulnerability, my bare ass totally exposed and already crying out in pain. My overwhelming reaction was to recoil with each strike, jerking my body away, jumping my legs up in an almost automatic, jerk-like response, but of course I was completely immobilized. I just gritted my teeth.
“Man, this is fun,” I heard Collin say.
The strokes kept coming. WHACK. WHACK. WHACK!!!
“Forty-three. Thank sir, may I please have another sir!!” “Forty-four. Thank sir, may I please have another sir! Forty-five. Thank sir, may I please have another sir!”” Each time I said it, my voice got a little louder. Raising my voice seemed to be the only way to handle the pain. Every time that fucking strap hit one of my ass-cheeks it felt like it was on fire. “Fifty-seven. THANK YOU SIR MAY I PLEASE HAVE ANOTHER SIR!!!!”
Collin paused for a split second. “Quit fucking shouting, or I’ll start from scratch,” he threatened.
“Yes sir,” I groaned miserably, forcing myself to soften my voice and bottle the pain up entirely.
When we reached 90, my whole body trembling involuntarily, sweat coating my body, my ass on fire, Collin finally set the strap aside.
“Now,” I heard Bryce say, “there’s just one more step in the bitch boy’s punishment before you’re done Collin. This part is of course entirely optional.”
“Oh, no,” Collin said. His voice sounded tense and excited. “This is the part I’ve been looking forward to most.” I heard him unbuckle his belt, throw it aside, then fumble this his jeans as he undid them and dropped them to the floor. I wondered what could possibly be coming now.
Trevor, standing by my head, could be counted on to explain. “OK, bitch boy,” he said. “We’ve had a lot of fun with you over the last few weeks. Well, as great as all that free head is, there are quite a few dudes in the frat who want to see what it’s actually like to fuck a bitch boy like you before they leave this place. Well, we figured, why the fuck not?” He paused. “So, whenever one of the frat dudes comes down here, if you aren’t able to identify them fully with the blind fold on after worshipping their feet, their cocks or their ass, after you take the proscribed number of strokes on that tender, vulnerable ass of yours, if the frat dude wants it to, that tender, vulnerable ass is also gonna have to take something else.” He chuckled. “You probably know by now that the men of Delta Psi have some truly ginormous long dong silvers tucked away. Well, the next week or two is gonna be interesting for you. Ready Col?”
“Oh yeah,” Collin said.
“Well he’s all yours.”
Collin first marched around to the front side of the horse, to where my head was imprisoned in the stocks. His jeans were completely off now, and his massive cock hung in front of my mouth.
“Suck me off, bitch boy,” he said simply.
His cock plunged into my mouth, and I went through the familiar motions, pleasuring his organ with my tongue. It rapidly inflated to its usual erection, as he thrust in and out, in and out, my saliva lubricating his big juicy dick.
“Come on, boys. Help me loosen his shit slit while I get my dong ready,” Collin said with a grin. He looked down at me sharply. I had paused for a moment. “What the fuck are you doing, bitch boy. Keep sucking.” As I continued to slide my lips up and down his shaft, I saw Wes and Shane come into view. They were holding . . . Lacrosse sticks???
I blinked. No, I wasn’t seeing things. Both boys were wielding long white lacrosse sticks in their hands, the polycarbonate/plastic shafts gleaming even in the darkness of the basement. At one end were the familiar wide webbed nets, that I had seen helmeted Lacrosse players use to cradle and then sling balls across fields a hundred time before.
Then in a fluid motion both Wes and Shane flipped their sticks over, and I saw, with a familiar sense of fascination mixed with horror, that these sticks had in fact in modified. On the butt of each stick, where normally there would just be a dull point, a penis-shaped dildo had in fact been welded onto the stick, so that the stick was double sided: net on one end, dildo on the other.
The first stick had a very tiny dildo. The second was larger – not quite the size of a real dick, but definitely close.
I eyed them, too stunned to do anything for a moment. My jaw went slack and for a moment, and I forgot to keep sucking Collin’s dick.
Collin pulled back abruptly, took his enormous eight inch cock, and whacked me with it across the cheek. He did it a second time, then a third, in rapid succession.
“Surprised by our modified lax sticks, you cum slut?” he demanded. “You haven’t seen fucking anything yet. There are 4 more lacrosse sticks we made special for you.”
“Show him the one we made for if he’s especially naughty,” Shane suggested with a wicked look. One of the other frat boy’s went across the room and grabbed from a corner another Lacrosse stick. This was held out in front of my face so I could examine it more closely. I winced involuntarily. Like the others, this one too had a dildo welded onto its butt, but this dildo was enormous – over a foot long, uncomfortably wide, and studded all over its side with tiny little diamond sized corrugations.
“Now fucking keep sucking my dick, unless you want that used on you,” Collin instructed. Obediently, without taking another second to think it over, I continued to swallow his dick enthusiastically.
The evil corrugated oversized dildo was put away, but Shane and Wes continued to wield the original two.
Collin pulled away from my mouth for a moment, and Shane held the two smaller Lacrosse stick mounted dildos in front of me. “Suck on these bitch boy,” Shane ordered. “I’d use as much of your slave saliva as you can, cuz it’s the only lube you’re getting on these.”
There were chuckles around the room at this.
Shane gave me just a few seconds to wet each dildo with my tongue. Then as Collin continued to face-fuck me, they brought them back around behind me to my vulnerable, tied down ass.
“Put the smaller one in first. Loosen him up,” I heard Bryce instruct them.
I felt the searing thrust of the under-lubricated dildo burst into my helplessly spread asshole. I would have screamed like a stuck pig if I hadn’t had a mouthful of cock.
“Yeah,” I heard Shane say from behind me, as he shoved the Lacrosse-stick mounted dildo into my rectum. “Yeah. You like that, bitch boy??” I felt him withdraw, then thrust back in, then withdraw, then in again, all the while as Collin’s dick got more and more rock hard in my mouth.
“Boy obviously enjoys it. Look how wide his legs are spread,” I heard one of the other frat boys guffaw. There were more hoots of amusement.
In, out, in out. I wanted to cry out in pain but couldn’t.
“Put the second one in,” one of the other boys shouted.
The dildos were swapped, the slightly larger one in now. The pain was even more acute.
“Alright,” Collin finally said, withdrawing his dick. Precum was drooling down toward the floor. “I gotta go in now or my nuts are gonna bust all over the cum slut’s face.”
Without another word, he yanked out a condom and pulled it over his rock-hard dick. I saw him slathering it with a tube of lube.
“Alright, bitch boy,” he grinned. “Let’s see how that pussy of yours likes taking a real man’s cock.”
He stepped back behind me again. I felt his large muscular hands take hold of my torso, clutching my midsection like it had hand-holds.
“I’m going in, boys!” Collin said, to hoots and shouts of encouragement from all around the room.
And with that, without any further fanfare, Collin pounced.
The sensation was electrifying. With my whole body still trapped in that fiendish position, my legs completely spread, my torso bent over the padded bench, my ass sticking up into the air, Collin thrust his muscular bulk into me and slammed his erect penis into my ass shoot. You would have thought the sensation from the dildos would have prepared me, but having an actual man’s cock surge into your asshole is another experience altogether. This time I did cry out – LOUDLY.
“Oh god!!!” I shouted involuntarily.
“Ride that bitchboy, cowboy!!” one of the frat brothers cheered.
“YEEE-HAW!!” shouted an overzealous other.
Like a piston furiously firing an engine, Collin churned back, forth, back forth, up, down, up, in out in out in . . . .pain shot through my body with each thrust of his oversized cock. I panted.
Inevitably, to compound my dilemma, as I had not been allowed to come for weeks upon weeks now, as soon as the fucking began in earnest, precum began to gush out of my piss slit. Of course, it was not relief. My poor aching cock still yearned, nightly, almost hourly, for a release that never came. Now, with over a month’s cum pent up, even this highly indirect stimulation was enough to make me drip like the leakiest faucet.
Collin was speeding up now. THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. THUMP THUMP THUMP. He was putting all his weight into each thrust, the very opposite of gentle. The sensation was painful and incredibly violating. Somehow the position in which I was trapped, with my ankles and legs spread wide apart, allowed him to shove in at what I felt to be an unprecedented depth.
“What does it feel like?” one of the frat boys asked eagerly.
“Fucking AMAZING,” Collin shouted. He sounded like he was in ecstasy. “Oh SHIT, I’m gonna blow!!!”
He cried out as he erupted, spasm after spasm shaking his body. Finally, he slumped over me, his bulk collapsing over my back. He lay there, panting, sweating all over me, while I gasped for air, tied down, my asshole feeling like a truck had just been driven through it. Eventually he pulled away, panting.
“Alright,” I heard one of the frat boys shout eagerly, almost immediately. “Let’s move on to the next one!”
Bryce nodded. “OK,” he said. “One at a time. Plenty of time and room for everyone who wants a go, boys.” He reproduced the blindfold and strode over to my trapped head. “First let me just reblind the bitch boy.”
My heart sank, and I just managed to suppress a groan of despair.
Over the next 3 hours, with the blindfold on, I licked the feet of 6 frat boys, sucked on 3 frat boy cocks, swallowed the piss of 2 more, and licked the ass cracks of 4 more.
In no single case was I able to identify my tormentor with the blindfold on – not for lack of effort! This despite the fact that among the frat boys who presented me their feet to lick were such familiar tormentors as Bryce and Wes, and Reid was one of the guys who made me drink his piss, and Shane was among the guys who presented me their ass cracks. These were men who I had worshipped so extensively for the past 2 weeks and yet I was still unable to recognize them with the blindfold on.
It didn’t bode well.
During those 3 hours, in no instance was I able to identify all 5 sports facts correctly, either, though in only one case did I get all of them wrong because I didn’t even know who the guy was.
My punishments for these failures were, of course, also swift and brutal. As my vulnerable and exposed ass grew redder and redder, a few of the boys did take some pity on me by not imposing the maximum number of swats, but of course some of them imposed the maximum with relish. Each guy had so many different options to choose from: Bryce, Reid and Shane all opted for frat paddles, while Wes opted for a leather belt, and other guys chose ping-pong paddles or flexible wooden rods.
Each swat made me grit my teeth even harder with pain. On two more occasions, under the pressure of the moment, I found myself once again screwing up the ritual begging “5. Thank you sir. May I please have another sir?” and the frat boys eager seized on my failure to attach more clips to my stretched out ball-sack.
“You know what we should totally do?” one of the frat boys said at one point while more clips where being attached. “We should have a competition later. Anyone in the frat can compete. The challenge is to see how many clothespins you can pin on the bitch boy while he’s tied up like that over the bench. Winner gets . . . I dunno . . . unlimited rights to fuck the bitch boy whenever he wants.”
The frat boys loved this idea and agreed they should do it soon. Thinking about having over 30 different frat brothers and pledges attach and then detach, one at a time, as many clothes pins as they possibly could on my naked stretched out body, I shuddered.
Even more than the punishment spanking sessions was the ass-fucking. Of the 15 boys who I worshipped and could not identify, every single one of them opted to exercise their right to fuck me. Somehow it seemed to feed on itself as the frat boys saw how much fun each successive member of the frat seemed to have plowing my ass, the rest of them wanted to do it even more. So many of them had impressively large cocks, which made the repeated fucking in my ass that much harder to take.
Bryce, of course, was the worse. His penis was absolutely immense, something on the order of 10 inches when fully and completely erect. As I gagged repeatedly on his huge organ as he ordered me to fellate him, as another frat boy got my backend ready by plunging one of the lacrosse-stick mounted cocks into my rear, Bryce smirked. “You think that dildo hurts,” he said, observing my wince, “wait until you feel this monster.”
The frat boys laughed.
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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 firstname.lastname@example.org.
Also thanks to Metalbond reader John for his assistance in preparing this story for posting!