By Greg Alexander
My situation did not improve over the course of the next several days.
By the end of my first day tied down over the spanking bench, no fewer than 23 alpha males on testosterone overdrive had, in the course of that single afternoon and evening, made me worship their feet and suck their dicks, and then, in punishment for my consistent inability to identify even one of them with the blindfold on, much less recite their sports facts, aggressively spanked and then fucked me.
The spanking, in particular, was excruciating. Nothing, nothing, could quite compare to having 23 muscular athletes in rapid succession deliver a stream of unrelenting punishments to my behind. By the end of the day, my ass felt like it had been seared by a blisteringly hot iron, and it felt like a train had careened through my asshole. My legs were frozen in an wide open spread eagle, my ass was as defenseless as ever, and my inner sphincter and prostrate were throbbing relentlessly from the repeated violent large-scale invasions to which they had been subjected over the course of the past 6 hours. My legs quivered uncontrollably, even though I was unable to move them at all.
When Shane finally entered the basement at the end of the day, I of course I didn’t know it was him, because the blind fold was on. He silently clambered into the chair in front of my face that was still trapped in the wooden stockades. Then came the familiar sound of brown rainbow flip flops dropping to the concrete floor with soft little slapping noises, followed swiftly by the wordless and increasingly familiar sensation of two large, moist bare feet being thrust forcefully into my face.
That first night, I still wasn’t able to identify them as Shane’s . . . and not from lack of effort. Even worse, when he scornfully removed the blind fold and revealed his identity, I wasn’t able to get 3 of the sports facts right. It had been a long day, and I was completely exhausted.
“I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, master Shane. I’m sorry. I’ll get it right next time, I swear . . .”
Shane reached for the flexible bending rod. He shook his head in mock sorrow. “Spare the rod, spoil the child,” he said with a little snicker. And then, like the 23 guys who had preceded him that day, he made me count out every swat before producing the lacrosse-stick mounted Dildo and then fucking me silly, first with it, then with his own fully erect cock.
As I lay sprawled across the spanking bench, whimpering, Shane at last uncuffed my hands and, grabbing me roughly under the armpits, stood me up straight up. My aching muscles cried out. Next Shane untied the cruel knot around my ballsack, releasing that, and finally undid the manacles from around my ankles.
“Come on bitch boy,” Shane said gruffly. He led me over to the side of the room, where I noticed there was an empty enormous door frame. It didn’t lead anywhere . . . it was just a wood rectangular frame standing along the side, next to so much of the other “equipment” that was in that room (purchased, as Bryce and Trevor had already so helpful explained, using my savings). Dangling from each of the 4 corners of the frame I noticed 4 leather cuffs. The top two cuffs were connected along the top of the frame by a chain, which itself was connected to an odd lever attached to the frame’s edge. It was the sort of lever you’d expect to use to manually open or shut a house window. The same thing was true for the two cuffs on the bottom of the frame.
Shane positioned me inside the wooden frame, guided my arms up into the air, and then attached the two leather cuffs dangling from the top of the frame to my wrists. He did the same thing with my ankles and the lower cuffs. Then he stepped back.
“A few of us pledges built this the other day, faggot. Do you like it?”
I blinked. “Yes sir. Of course sir. If you built it sir I’m honored to stand in it, sir.”
“Good answer, faggot. Would you like to see how it works?”
“Yes sir. I’d be honored sir.”
Shane reached for the lever on the top of the wooden frame and began to turn it clockwise. As he turned it, I realized what it was: it was a winch, and as it rotated it was gathering up the extra slack in the top chain. As a result, as it turned, the chain tightened, and the leather cuffs on the top corners of the wooden frame began to retract, pulling into the corners and taking my trapped wrists with them. As Shane turned the winch further, my arms were pulled further and further up and apart, forming a massive Y. As this happened, the force of the upward tug on my arms lifted my entire body off the ground, so that my bare feet were actually dangling in the air.
When my arms were pulled fully into the air and had almost no give in them at all, Shane turned his attention to my legs. He rotated the winch at the bottom of the frame, and as he turned and turned, my legs too began to widen as my ankles were pulled apart and downward.
In no time flat my entire body was splayed out across the wide door frame, forming a massive stretched out X. My legs were stretched into a painful split, and my toes were just barely able to lightly graze the floor now.
Shane gave the winch on the top of the frame an additional sharp turn or two. With each turn, the chain tightened further, my wrists were yanked just a little further apart, and my entire body grew just a little more taut. By the time he was done, my feet were once again completely off the ground, and my arms were stretched painfully far apart.
Whistling contentedly, Shane strolled out of the basement room and shut the door with a clang, leaving me dangling there.
A short while later (maybe half an hour or so . . . of course, as always, it was impossible to keep track of time) the door opened again, and in strode Trevor.
He was only half-dressed . . . bare foot, wearing just jeans and no shirt, and his chiseled abs glistened almost mesmerizing as he stood in front of me. He slapped my cheek lightly with mock big-brotherly friendliness. I gazed at him. It was crazy, I thought to myself. After all this time, after every humiliation Trevor had subjected me to, after all the awful punishments and agonies he had heaped on me with giddy and almost transparent glee, the sight of him standing there was still enough to wildly reignite the latent horniness that always burned in my perpetually frustrated cock.
“Sorry, bitch boy. Hate to leave you hanging there. But it’s for your own good. The frat intends to keep up this fun little activity; I think we’ve decided to call it the `spank and fuck the bitch until he knows his shit’ game. Not very catchy, I admit, but it’s fucking descriptive. We figure as long as you’re strapped to that fucking fantastic padded bench that we ordered special for you by day, Christ knows we wouldn’t want you to get CRAMPED or anything. So we want to make sure you get a chance at night to . . . stretch out.”
His cold blue eyes drilled into mine, and the flash of playful amusement vanished. His gaze still sent a chill down my spine. “Alright bitch,” he said. “Let’s get a few things straight. One, you’re down here until you show the men of Delta Psi the respect we deserve. Until you are able to rattle off the name, class year, and 5 athletic achievements for every fucking brother and pledge in this frat within seconds, blind folded, you are going to spend every fucking day with your naked ass tied to that spanking bench.
“Every weekday morning at 6 am on the dot, and every weekend morning at 9 am, Bryce and I have arranged for one of the pledges to come down here, retie you to the spanking bench and blindfold you. If you’re very good, maybe we won’t retie that rope around your cock and balls, stretch it, and then connect it to the eye-hook mounted on the bench like we did today, but there’s a good chance we will. At any rate, that is up to the discretion of myself, Bryce and the pledge that sets you up every morning.
“For the remainder of the day, you will follow the rules that have already been perfectly clearly explained to you. You will remain down here, in this basement, tied to this bench, with your head in the stocks and with the blindfold on. Whenever a frat boy sits down in the chair in front of you, you will obediently either lick his feet clean, lick his ass crack clean, swallow his piss or suck his cock . . . whichever one he chooses. When the frat boy is ready, he will poke you in the face with one of the lacrosse sticks or slap you with his feet to indicate his readiness. At that point you will promptly recite his full name and class year, as well as all 5 of his sports facts. If you can’t identify the frat member in question, you will be punished with between 15 and 30 spankings, and between 5 and 15 spankings for each sports fact you screw up on top of that. If you screw up, the frat member in question also reserves the right to fuck you.
“Until the frat decides you have this shit down cold . . . until you can correctly identify every member of the fraternity, and his five corresponding sports facts, with the blindfold on for every member of the fraternity . . . you will stay in this basement, and you will stay strapped to that bench.”
Trevor continued to talk. “Every weekday at midnight, and every weekend at 3 am, a pledge will return to the basement to release you from the spanking bench. Generally I expect they will retie you to this wooden frame and stretch your body out. Like I said, we wouldn’t want you to get all cramped up. In case you’re wondering why we’ve selected these hours, bitch boy, it’s simple: anytime one of the brothers is awake, we think it’s important that he have the right to spank and fuck you.”
Trevor glanced across the room and pointed dismissively at a large dog cage that sat in another corner of the room. I had noticed it earlier. “If you’re very very good, slave, during your brief night off-hours, one of the pledges may decide to allow you to spend your time in that dog cage, rather than here on the rack. Again, that is strictly a reward for good behavior, and will be awarded at the discretion of myself, Bryce and the pledge who unties you from the spanking bench.”
Trevor glanced disdainfully down at my cock and balls. At least 7 clothespins were still painfully attached to my scrotum. My ass was still so sore it was almost possible to forget about the acute pain they were still inflicting to my ballsack. Almost possible . . .but hardly easy. They still throbbed angrily.
“As for the clothespins,” he continued, “remember that anyone in the frat has an absolute right to clip them onto your ballsack throughout the course of the day if you for any reason displease any of them, and especially if you forget to thank any of the members of the frat every time they paddle, cane or whip your ass.” As if for emphasis, Trevor opened the hatch of a large crate sitting next to the padded bench. It was filled to the brim entirely with wooden clothes pins. I swallowed hard.
“Yes sir,” I said obediently.
Trevor continued. “Now . . . at the end of every day, again, if you’ve been good, the clothes pins will be removed from your ballsack for the night.” On that cue, he took my ball sack in his oversized palm, and man-handling it, he roughly released the 7 clothes pins that had been affixed as earlier punishments. As they fell one by one to the floor, an intense shot of pain registered as the pinched skin came free at each location. It was amazing, how painful the sensation was. Who would have thought it hurt so much to have pins come off?
Involuntarily, I winced, sucked in my breath, and whimpered.
Trevor slapped my face again, harder this time. “You fucking pussy,” he growled. “Shut your fucking hole.”
I clamped my jaw shut.
“Catch some sleep, bitch boy,” Trevor smirked. “Starting at 6 am, you’ve got a busy day tomorrow, buddy.”
He reached into a box at the side of the room and produced, unexpectedly, an alarm clock. It was one of those digital clocks with big red dashes, unmistakable and impossible not to clearly see in the dimly lit room. I saw, according to the clock, that it was just half past midnight. In a final, quintessentially Trevorish touch of sadism, Trevor set the alarm for 6 am, then rotated the clock so that it was facing directly toward me.
Here ya go, bitch boy,” he smirked. “Now you can count down the hours till your exciting new day begins.”
Then he left, leaving me strung up on my vertical makeshift rack, toes off the ground, my arms and legs pulled in 4 different directions.
Trevor was as good as his word.
At 6 am, the buzzer on the digital clock went off like a fire alarm, waking me from my fitful nap.
As if on cue, the door swung open. This time it was Wes, dressed in soccer gear, obviously on his way to his morning practice, who gingerly loosed the winches on the wooden frame and lowered my aching body to the ground, only to reposition me over the spanking bench and render me once again completely immobile, my bare ass sticking up into the air, my legs spread, my head once again trapped in the wooden stockade.
Wes glanced down at my body. He took a second to sit down in the chair facing me, and kicked off his soccer cleats. “Lick my feet, and maybe I won’t tie your ballsack to the spanking bench today,” he suggested.
I sighed. Wes, of course, was especially into the power trip of making me lick the soles of his feet clean. As I well remembered from some of my sessions in the penalty box, he was perfectly happy to have me do it for hours on end.
I obediently licked sock lint from between his toes as he wiggled his feet in my face luxuriously. Then he stood up. “Not bad,” he said after a few minutes. He shrugged. “But I still think I better tie your ball sack to spanking bench,” he said, looping rope around my ballsack and then pulling my balls sharply away before tying a knot to the eye-hook embedded in the frame of the spanking bench. A fresh stab of pain shot through my ball sack as my cock and balls were stretched out in front of me once again.
Wes slipped the blindfold on over my eyes. Then, abruptly, I heard him sit back down in the chair in front of my me and shove one of his feet back into my face.
“Keep licking, slave,” he said. He chuckled sadistically. “Count yourself lucky. If you do as bad today as you did yesterday, odds are this will be the last set of feet you lick that you can actually identify.”
With one exception (which I will explain further), more than 5 weeks passed before I left the basement room again.
It was funny (and more than a little impressive, really) how by the end of that particular month-long ordeal I was forced by sheer necessity to pick up on these little cues. By the time that phase of my training/punishment was done I knew, for instance, that Shane always wore brown classically fratty rainbow flip flops and he kicked them off roughly, so that they fell to the floor and made a distinct slapping sound, whereas Wes (often coming from or going to soccer practice) tended to kick off soccer cleats first, which made a much heavier thudding noise. Other pledges tended to set their flip-flops or sneakers down rather than kick them off. It was all in the details.
With so much now riding on my ability to successfully identify my tormentor, in time I became all too familiar with every subtle whiff and flavor of every foot in the frat. Shane’s, for instance, had an especially strong salty flavor, while Wes, in marked contrast, had a much stronger locker-room athletic wisp. Reid’s feet just smelled generally foul (I don’t think the guy ever took showers), Hank’s of course had the overpowering musky sent of cowboy boot leather. Jared had a ton of lint between his toes, as did Cliff, but the difference was that Cliff always wore the same flip flops, and his toe lint always smelled like leather flip flops, while Jared’s toe lint always smelled like the sweat-soaked athletic shoes he always opted to wear without socks. Bryce’s feet were especially sweaty, and just big . . . very big, and very muscular. He had a tendency to ground the soles of his feet into my face with extreme force, to such a degree that I could barely breathe; my face was generally so flattened by his enormous manly feet that it was generally all I could do to comply with his orders and lick his feet clean.
Of course, it was no easy task getting to the point where I could identify all these different feet so thoroughly, simply by licking and smelling them while blind folded. The first few days of my new confinement were, beyond doubt, the most agonizing days I spent during my entire months long period of enslavement to Trevor and the Delta Psi fraternity. From 6 am to midnight every weekday, and from 9 am to 3 am on weekends, a seemingly endless of stream of eager, sadistic and horny frat boys trooped down to the basement of the frat house.
This had also happened, of course, during my confinement in the wooden box during my first 2 weeks in the frat, when an endless river of frat guys had delighted in coming down to the basement to abuse me. But the difference was, badly though they had treated me, I had always been perversely relieved to see the arrival of each new frat boy; it usually meant that the electric current running through the dildo that was frying my asshole would be temporarily and mercifully shut off. Now, it was a very different feeling every time I heard the door open and heard the soft clip-clop of frat boy flip-flops or tennis shoes approaching me as I strained (always in vain) to make out my new tormentor through my blindfold. As the bare feet slapped the side of my face commandingly or the butt of the lacrosse stick poked persistently at my face, and I began to obediently lick clean the soles of the feet with which I had been presented, those first few days I always I had to suppress a rising tide of horrified panic every time as I realized, with a sinking sensation, that I really didn’t know whose feet I was licking. I would try my hardest to concentrate fiercely on the precise flavor, the shape of the feet, the build of the toes, the aroma, as I swished my tongue from side to side. Then, my heart sinking, I would feel the feet withdrawing; a signal that my time was up.
I would guess wildly. “Thank you for the honor of your feet, sir, master Eric . . . master Ben . . . Master Danny . . .”
Those first few days, I almost never got it right. Then, flustered, I would be forced to apologize profusely as the blindfold came off, always revealing a smug, glistening and athletic frat boy, reclining luxuriously in the chair and wiggling his toes mockingly in my face, not quite the frat boy I had just identified, leaving me stranded there trying with all of my mental power to associate the aroma, the taste, and the foot worship experience I had just endured with the frat boy I now saw in front of me so that I would get it right the next time.
“Nice try, bitch boy,” Sam would smirk.
“A for effort, toe slave,” Gabe would chortle.
“So close and yet so far,” Jared would sigh.
Then of course came the sports facts. I was learning those . . . but not nearly quickly enough for my frat boy masters. You try memorizing five incredibly random athletic accomplishments for over 70 frat guys, many of whom you barely know at all, all at once without the aid of paper or pen. Trust me: it isn’t easy.
The inevitable result, for every single horny frat boy who trooped down to the basement to torment me, was that I was spanked by nearly every guy who came down to see me. They selected an array of different implements: flexible bending rods, canes, whips, belts, and of course, most frequently, frat paddles. Each time they spanked me, I obediently shouted out the required phrase: “Thank you sir! May I please have another sir!”
The agony of this constant abuse to my ass after several days was beyond anything I had experienced so far. After just two days of doling out 15 to 30 spankings for every frat boy I failed to identify, and 5 to 15 spankings for every sports fact I mangled, with the traffic that was coming through the basement, I was taking literally hundreds of swats each day. It was excruciating. The frat boys really seemed to know what they were doing: the range of different tools used on my ass, and the slightly different points of contact (my upper thighs versus my left or right buttocks) meant that I could be spanked for a very long time, swat after swat after agonizing swat, without ever breaking the skin. Nevertheless, by the end of each day, my behind was fluorescently red, and after a few days there were welts forming.
At that point, even the truly sadistic boys, perhaps bowing to the reality that no one in the frat wanted to see my ass bleed so badly that it became uninviting, began to come up with equally unpleasant alternative punishments when my ass truly got to the “breaking point.”
Some of the frat members opted to clip clothes pins to my ball sack and the rest of my body (1 clip for every 3 spankings), so that by the end of the day my body was coated with clothespins.
Another favorite alternative punishment the frat boys used they called “the whip and wax.” If a frat boy deemed that my ass was too raw at that moment for further pummeling, instead he would light a candle and drip hot wax onto my immobile back as I remained trapped bound over the spanking bench. Each deposit of wax was treated as the equivalent of three spankings (so a frat boy who would have delivered 60 blows to my ass instead got to drip wax on my back 20 different times). This would go on until my entire back was completely coated with hot wax. Then, when my skin was fully coated, each frat boy punishing me would use a light flexible whip to attack my back (1 whipping for every 3 spankings), until finally all of the wax had been fully cleared away (by which point my ass was usually deemed ready for further abuse). This process was thoroughly excruciating, as you can imagine. These alternate punishments were all added to the “bitch boy rubric” as formal alternatives to the spanking, and of course I had to say “Thank you sir! May I please have another sir!” every time I was clothes pinned, waxed or whipped as well.
To some of the horniest frat boys of course, all this punishment was only a fun prelude to what they most relished. As a final climax, after he had finished spanking, clipping, waxing or whipping me, each horny frat boy finished off by fucking me.
First, each of them ordered me to suck his cock until it was fully erect. Sometimes a friend would come down for this stage and laughingly prime my asshole with one of the lacrosse stick mounted dildos, sometimes the frat boy preferred to do that himself. And then the frat boy would, relishing the moment, position his muscular frame behind my spread eagled behind, utterly helpless, jam his massive cock up my asshole, and thrust himself in and out violently, totally heedless to my shouts of pain.
This traffic seemed to never end. It began from the minute I was bound to the spanking bench at 6 in the morning, with a stream of early risers who seemed to enjoy abusing, spanking and fucking me as part of their new daily morning routine, and it went all the way through to the end of the day, with the frat boys who enjoyed staying up late and finishing off their day with a late night fuck. Weekends were even worse; a veritable stream of horny athletes swarmed the basement after midnight, all the way until the 3 am closing. Often sexually frustrated, having been denied the heterosexual sex they had hoped for, their abuse of me on Friday and Saturday nights was that much fiercer. By the time I was done for the day, and Shane or Wes or another pledge came down to untie from the spanking bench and stretch my body out for a few hours on their vertical makeshift rack, the stretching treatment, painful though it was, came as an enormous relief. But of course the alarm clock was always on, facing me, counting down minute by minute until the torture began again the next day . . .
As always, there was an intense element of sexual frustration that underlay every moment of my torment and captivity. By the end of my protracted period of punishment and training on the spanking bench, it had been well over two months since that fateful first day when I had so unwisely challenged Trevor in our dorm room by confronting him over my broken ipod, and first been confined, bound and turned into his slave. (In all truthfulness I could not have told you by that point precisely how many weeks had elapsed since that day . . . I had lost my sense of the normal passage of time).
In all that time, I had had precisely two chances to masturbate or pleasure myself in any way: that lone opportunity, on the day right after this whole ordeal began, when Collin had left me in his dorm room just long enough for me to attempt to rub my dick against his Delta Psi shirt, and the day Trevor had deceptively pretended to release me, only to give the frat pledges the chance the abduct me in an unmarked van minutes later. Circumstances had not allowed me to actually masturbate on either of those two occasions, though now I felt that I would have paid any price imaginable to go back and give myself just five minutes, at either of those moments, to erupt in what I felt certain would have been a truly mind-blowing orgasm.
The truth is, until Trevor had first captured me, I had always been a pretty horny guy. I had never really been out, but I had fantasized about men constantly, and had whacked off certainly every day, many days multiple times. I had just never been the kind of guy who could concentrate for very long without slipping away for a few minutes to release myself. The idea that I would ever have to go more than two months without once ejaculating would have been totally inconceivable to my former self.
Now, bound in the frat’s basement for this new extended phase of punishment, my sexual frustration continued to consume me. The pain and humiliation I endured every day were immense, but so too was the fierce urgency of my constant need to cum. Male feet had always been a turn-on for me, and yes, all the endless foot worship Trevor and his frat boy friends had forced on me had consistently intensified my ever-present need to release myself, but now, as I have explained, my survival seemed to literally hinge on my ability to identify every member of the frat by blindly licking the soles of his feet, heightening my awareness of every minute detail of ever foot that I was ordered to lick. The result, intentional or not, was that my thirst to stroke my cock reached new levels, even as this aspiration remained as unattainable as ever, for though my cock and balls were finally free of the terrible cock cage, in neither of the two positions in which I was constantly bound did I have any access whatsoever to my cock. I was getting fucked constantly of course, but it wasn’t the same thing at all . . . given how roughly the frat boys treated me, it was usually painful, and it certainly never led to orgasm.
In my first week, one of the pledges (Cody) was releasing me from the spanking bench and leading me over to the rack for my nightly suspension. Cody had always seemed like one of the less sadistic pledges, and in my utter desperation, keenly aware that this was almost certainly not a good idea, I begged Cody for release.
“Please,” I burst out. “Please, please, master Cody. I beg you, allow me the chance to cum sir! I haven’t come in two months sir! My cock just can’t take it anymore sir! Please just give me one minute sir! I swear that’s all I need sir. No one ever has to know sir!”
Cody laughed as he led me to the rack. “What a fucking bitch,” he said, ignoring my pleas as he bound my wrists to opposite corners of the frame.
Word spread. The next day, at least a dozen members of the frat made snide comments about how pathetic it was that I had been reduced to begging Cody to allow me to cum. “Dude . . . talk about being OWNED.”
The whole thing was obviously terribly funny to the frat boys, who delighted in rubbing my inability to cum in my face every opportunity they got. One of them even immortalized my brief breakdown before Cody in a cartoonish drawing, which one of the members of the frat created and which everyone else obviously thought was hilarious. The drawing was ultimately pinned up on the wooden frame from which I was suspended every night, so that I could see it every day. It was a stick figure drawing which depicted me kneeling in front of Cody (Cody was labeled “Cody,” and I was labeled “Delta Psi Bitch boy” in the drawing). A little bubble coming out of my mouth read “I wanna cum too!”
Worse, a few of the frat boys (and in particular the pledges who suspended me from the wooden frame every night), obviously encouraged by my moment of weakness, delighted in teasing my poor tortured cock, brushing it lightly with a feather, massaging my nutsack, or stroking my shaft with tantalizing brief teasing tugs. One of the pledges actually even licked it from time to time (though he swore he would punish me terribly if I ever breathed a word of this to anyone).
The upshot of this was that my cock was constantly stimulated, constantly aroused, but always denied the orgasm that I craved so desperately. And meanwhile, every single day consisted of me concentrating intently on identifying the 70 odd members of the fraternity by worshipping their feet, and then enduring helplessly as they ruthlessly used my bound body as a toy with which to pleasure themselves to ejaculation, always spewing buckets of cum and frequently literally rubbing it in my face.
“Don’t you wish you could cum too, bitch boy?” they would chortle. “Does bitch boy want to cum too?”
Boy did I ever.
My first real victory came by the second day, when I managed to identify Trevor’s feet with the blindfold on. There was just something so distinctive about the smooth masculine quality of his feet . . . and I had worshipped them so many times before that the smell and taste was incredibly familiar to me. By the next day, when Trevor came down again, I was able to identify him again . . . and this time I also got all of his tennis sports facts right, sparing me a spanking from him altogether. The day after that, I identified Collin’s feet correctly (whose feet, from my previous experience in Trevor’s dorm, were also very familiar to me).
Of course, identifying their feet before anyone else in the frat that first week also got me in some real trouble.
Bryce was chilling out in the frat’s tv room, sprawled out on the ouch, when Trevor stuck his head in.
“Hey, good news,” he said with a smirk. “The bitch boy has my feet down. He knows its me.” He paused for a second. “And he has Collin’s down too, I hear. Has he got yours down yet?”
Bryce sat up slightly, and scowled. “Shut the fuck up, Trevor.”
Trevor grinned. “Looks like he might stay my slave after all.”
Bryce’s scowl deepened. “The faggot is going to have my feet down soon enough, Trev. Just you fucking wait.”
That evening, shortly after midnight, I was hanging in my customary position from the rack, my whole body perfectly vertical. Cliff had just come in to position me for the night, and as always the alarm clock was facing me. It read 12:14. 5 hours and 46 minutes until my torment continued.
Then the door opened, and Bryce walked in.
As always happened whenever Bryce entered the room, especially when he was alone, my heart began to pump in fear. More than any other frat boy in the house, Bryce scared the crap out of me.
Bryce had obviously just come from the gym. He was dripping with sweat, his exercise clothes hung damply from his enormous muscular frame, and his oversized brown leather flip-flops slapped softly against the bare floor as he walked past the spanking bench on which I had been strapped for the entire afternoon, over to the vertical improvised rack on which I was currently strung.
“How’s it hanging, bitch boy?” he said. It was a joke, but he didn’t laugh.
“It’s an honor to see you, sir,” I said, swallowing.
His intense blue eyes bore into mine. “Are you learning your lesson down here, slave?”
“What do you say to me for arranging this for you, boy?”
By now, I knew exactly what Bryce wanted to hear. “Thank you sir. Thank you for these punishments sir. I know this is what I deserve for disrespecting the frat sir. I am the frat’s butt-munching cum lover sir. I am this frat’s cock sucking, toe-jam chewing, ass-kissing plaything. I am its piss-drinking toilet slave, sir.”
Bryce managed to look ever so slightly satisfied. But he continued to stare coldly at me. “Let me explain something to you slave,” he said. His voice was quiet and deliberate. “The reason you’re down here can be summed up in one word. What do you think that one word is?”
I looked at him, trying to guess what he wanted to hear. “Uh . . . I don’t know, sir.”
“You don’t know,” Bryce said with contempt. “Of course you don’t, you fucking faggot. Well, I’ll tell you: Respect. Let me hear you say it.”
“That’s fucking right, bitch. Respect. Respect for the men of Delta Psi, for their achievements, for their athleticism, and for the fucking masculinity that you can’t possibly understand.” Bryce paused, then continued.
“Now, when we told you to remember the five sports facts about every member of this frat, why did we tell you to do that, slave?”
I swallowed. “To show respect, sir,” I stammered.
“And when we blindfolded you down here and instructed you to be able to identify every member of the frat simply by worshiping his feet, sucking his cock, licking his ass crack or swallowing his piss, why did we order you to do that?”
“To show respect, sir,” I said again.
Bryce nodded. “That’s right, slave. To show respect.” He leaned in closer. “Now, I am the pledge master of this frat. As I have told you several times by now, I run this fucking place. You have licked my feet clean many many times. And yet, when I came down here earlier today, and presented you with my feet for cleaning, who did you think I was?”
I hung my head in shame, remembering all too well. “I thought you were Master Jared, sir.”
Bryce glowered at me. “That’s right, you worthless cunt. You thought I was a pledge!” He paused. “Now . . . what do you think that shows?”
I hesitated for a moment while he looked at me expectantly. “Disrespect, sir,” I whispered finally.
Bryce nodded. “That’s right, slave.”
“I’m so sorry I . . .”
Bryce cut me off smoothly. “When I want to hear your whiny girly-ass voice I will tell you,” he said calmly.
I swallowed again. “Yes sir,” I said.
Bryce continued. “After I took off your blindfold and revealed that I was not, in fact, a pledge, I instructed you to recite my 5 sports facts. You fucked them up. Again . . . what do you think that shows?
I sighed. “Disrespect, sir.”
He held my gaze. “Bitch boy, I want you to recite my 5 sports facts, verbatim, NOW. And you better not fuck them up.”
Terrified, I strained to recall them. “Yes sir . . . ah . . . number 5. In May 2006 . . . you 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, you’ve scored more 3 pointers than any other player in your league . . .”
“Division,” Bryce corrected.
“Right . . . division,” I hastily corrected myself.
Bryce wasn’t letting it go. “Do you even know the difference between a division and a league?”
I looked away. “No sir,” I said.
“What do you think that shows me, slave?”
“Disrespect, sir. I’m sorry sir.”
“You know what . . .shut the fuck up bitch boy. I don’t want to hear my athletic history mangled by you any further. I’m gonna gag that fucking pussy mouth of yours this fucking minute.”
From the wall with so many assorted devices hanging from it, Bryce retrieved a large round leather gag dangling on a peg, which I had not seen before. As he brought it closer, I saw it was a truly imposing gag. It had several thick, intimidating looking leather straps, and . . . I looked at it more closely . . . an actual DILDO protruding from it.
“We ordered this one special. Appropriately enough, it’s actually called the “humiliator,” Bryce smirked. “Open wide, bitch boy.”
I didn’t dare to disobey. The dildo went straight into my mouth, producing a violent gag reflex which I barely managed to stifle. A thick mouthpiece was pressed against my lips, clamping my mouth securely closed. Then Bryce fixed the heavy reinforced strap behind my head, forming a head piece from which it was completely impossible to escape.
Now that the gag was on, I noticed a new extraordinary feature of the device. Protruding out from the gag piece, in the opposite direction from the artificial dildo which had been plunged forcefully into my mouth, was a short metal tube. I wasn’t sure what the point of the tube was.
Then I saw Bryce produce a second metal tube, which he inserted into the tube mounted to my gag. They snapped together with a single metallic click. Now there was long metal tube, which jutted straight out at least 8 inches from the gag, like a metal pipe. At the end of the tube (the piece that Bryce had just inserted), there was a small metal platform, like a miniature helicopter pad.
As I was still examining the curious gag Bryce had just attached, trying to decipher its purpose, Bryce next reached toward the top of the wooden frame within which I was still bound. For one impossible second I had a bizarre hope he would let me down from it. Instead, he reached for the winch, and taking it firmly in his muscular hand, he began to rotate it, tightening it still further.
I was already of course stretched taut in a vertical spread eagle position, which was after all the whole point of the rack. But Bryce was now stretching my body out even further. With each additional crank, my arms were pulled further away from my body. It was sharply painful.
Then Bryce reached for the lower winch, and applied the same treatment to my legs, cranking that winch a full 3 more turns, then returned to the upper winch for one last, final, cruel rotation. By the time he had finished, it truly felt like my legs and arms were about to be yanked out of their sockets. If a dildo gag had not been firmly planted in my mouth, I would have cried out in pain. My body was literally being stretched to its breaking point.
As I was dangling there, pulled completely rigid, Bryce faced me squarely again. With that sadistic twinkle in his eye that always gave me chills, he kicked off his brown leather flip-flops. He picked them up with one hand, then dangled them in front of my eyes. I could see that they were damp, practically dripping with sweat. “You say you want to respect me? Let’s see you put your money where you mouth is, faggot,” he said, amused by his own joke.
In one delicate unexpected movement, he positioned the flip-flops on top of the metal platform mounted to the gag, so that they were balancing precariously side by side, with the brown toe straps facing my face, just an inch or so from my nose, so that I could smell the sweat-soaked leather, and see the individual frayed strands protruding from the classicly fratty ragged straps. The platform was rectangular and tiny, perhaps 6 inches by 6 inches, functioning as a sort of perfectly smooth flat tray. Bryce’s oversized flip-flops fit on top of it, but just barely, with the front and back part of the flip flops, where the toe and heal would go, hanging off on either side.
Bryce stepped back and looked at me, cocking his masculine head to one side, as if considering a painting. My body dangled there, stretched as far as it could possibly go. Every joint felt like it was being pulled slowly apart. I was, as I had been ever since setting foot in the frat house, completely naked. In the morning, a pledge would come back downstairs to re-secure me to my spanking bench, to be further paddled and violated by oversexed men of Delta Psi. And meanwhile I had an oversized dildo gag shoved down my throat, and my mouth had been turned into a little carrying tray for a frat boy’s smelly brown leather flip flops.
I marveled at how consistently Trevor, Bryce and their frat buddies were able to sink my humiliation and degradation to still lower depths.
“Alright bitch boy,” Trevor said. “I guess you’ll just have to `hang out’ there. And listen very carefully to me, because this is important. I’m going to check in on you tomorrow morning before we let you down from there. Shane is scheduled to reposition you over the spanking bench tomorrow at 6 am. Well, I’m gonna put the frat on notice that we’re gonna let you sleep in till noon tomorrow. Special treat for our little slave.” His cold smile flashed again, then vanished.
“I’m sleeping in tomorrow. I’ve been working too hard. Training our new bitch boy is a busy job, you know? Need to get some R and R. Tomorrow, I figure I’ll get up around 11, fix myself some breakfast, then come down and grab my flip flops before I get my day started. So here’s the deal faggot: those flip flops better still be sitting on that tray, just like that, when I come down to check in on you. Until I come back down here, I expect you to study those flip flops and think about what you’re gonna do to make damn fucking sure you know it’s me next time I present my feet to you, and to make damn sure you get every fucking letter of my sports facts right.”
Bryce grabbed one of the LaCrosse sticks that lay against one of the walls . . . the LaCrosse sticks on which the frat brothers had mounted dildos of different sizes. I saw that the one Bryce had grabbed was the one enormous dildo I had seen earlier . . . a foot long, uncomfortably wide, and with tiny little diamond corrugations all over it. It was the stick I had been told would be used on me “if I was bad” by Collin, but thankfully I had not seen it since. Now Bryce held it in front of me with one hand. In the other hand, I saw with foreboding that he was holding a bottle of something. It looked like some kind of gel.
Bryce continued. “You better make damn sure that neither of those flip flops falls off before I return tomorrow. Because if they do, then I’m gonna punish you.
“First, I’ll order anyone in the Frat who fucks you tomorrow to first loosen you up by using this studded little beauty. Believe me, you think getting fucked the way we do it now is rough, just wait: this is gonna be a barrel of laughs. It’s gonna fucking HURT, dude.”
He held the gel closer so that it was just inches from my eyes. “Ya now what this is? No? Ok, I’ll tell you. It’s gel I got at a local prank shop. It’s a specially made itch-inducing cream. We used it on one of the pledges earlier this year, and let me tell you, this shit works! Just a little drop of that stuff and boy, dude, you wanna scratch yourself like none other for hours.” He paused. “So, if you drop one of these flip flops, I’ll tell the entire frat not only to sodomize you with the studded dildo every time one of them gets to fuck you, but to use this shit as the dildo’s only lube. You’ll itch so bad down there you’ll be BEGGING us to use the studded dildo more, just to scratch that insatiable fucking itching! And what’s more, when you get tied up at the end of the day, after the pledge ties you back up to this frame, I’ll come back down here to crank the winches even tighter than they are now. I’ll smear this beautiful little cream all over your cock and and balls, attach at least 30 pounds of weight to your nuts, and I’ll fucking leave you there over night.”
“And if you drop both flip flops . . . that’s what will happen to you for the next TWO days.
“And guess what? When I’m done punishing you, this gag will go right back into your sorry faggotty little mouth, and I’ll put these flip flops right back on the gag platform. And we’ll repeat this whole fucking process until we get it right.”
Bryce paused, then looked at me.
Quivering in terror, I looked at him. Of course I couldn’t speak.
His eyes locked with mine. “I said . . .do you understand, bitch?”
The dilemma, of course, was that the only way I could answer was by nodding. And nodding is not what you want to do when you’ve just been ordered, at all costs, to keep two flip-flops perfectly balanced on a flat narrow tray supported by your mouth.
Slowly, with excruciating care, I bowed my head ever so slightly, indicating I understood, my eyes fixated in terror on the flipflops that dominated my field of vision. They stayed in place.
Bryce’s intensity vanished and he smiled with fake ease. “Good. Glad that’s settled then, bitch boy. Sleep well. I wouldn’t fidget too much if I were you.”
He left the basement, leaving me strung there, looking after him as he left, the stunned expression on my face largely masked by the sizeable gag in my mouth and the metal hardware that accompanied it.
With the rack tightened to such a degree, and with my body splayed so taut, there were literally two parts of my body that retained any motion at all. I was able to wiggle my toes. And my neck was free, so that I could rotate or pitch my head from side to side.
The fiendish effect of this new directive from Bryce, of course, was to render me utterly terrified of moving my neck at all. My only hope was to keep the tray bearing the flip-flops perfectly still and perfectly flat. If I cocked my head just a tiny bit, I was terrified I would watch helplessly as, in front of my eyes, Bryce’s flip-flops slipped away and fell to the floor.
Normally, exhausted by the ordeal of each day, I managed to fall into a fitful sleep at night, as uncomfortable as the rack was. But that night, scared half to death by Bryce’s threat, I didn’t dare. I stayed awake the entire night, for close 12 whole hours, staring fixedly ahead, breathing evenly, inhaling with each breath the scent of the sweat-soaked flip flops that loomed in front of me.
I don’t know how, but that night, I managed to keep those flip-flops on the tray for the entire night.
The next day, late in the morning as promised, Bryce came down to the basement in shorts and a T-shirt. His feet were bare. Whistling contentedly as if he were idly reaching into his closet to grab a pair of shoes from his shelf, Bryce first took one, then the other flip-flop off of the makeshift carrying tray and placed them one at a time onto his feet. As he removed the second flip-flop, I allowed my painfully rigid neck to slump forward and heaved an enormous sigh of relief that was immediately stifled by the huge dildo-gag still plunged into my mouth.
“Not bad, fucker,” Bryce said. He undid the gag and removed it.
“Thank you sir,” I said.
“One of the pledges will be along in a few minutes to start your day,” Bryce said absently as he headed back to the door. “Just remember, if you fuck up and don’t identify me again the next time I’m down here, we’ll do this all over again tonight.
My response that day, not surprisingly, was to default to guessing that it was Bryce anytime I thought there was the slightest chance it could be.
On seven different occasions during the course of that day, I thought there was a chance that I was worshiping Bryce’s feet, and every time I guessed that it was Bryce. One time I was right.
“Not bad boy,” Bryce grinned, when I got it right and nailed all 5 of his sports facts flawlessly.
The other six times of course I was wrong, and was spanked and fucked in punishment.
At the end of the day, I was once again strung up and wracked on the wooden frame.
I was just preparing to nodd off when the door opened and Bryce entered the room again. This time he didn’t look so happy.
“You fucker.” He looked angry. “You fucking cunt. I just found out you guessed that 6 of the other guys were me. You know what that shows? That you still have no clue how to fucking respect me.” He grabbed the gag and shoved it once more into my mouth. Then he tightened it brutally. “Ok bitch boy. Let’s try this again.” He tightened the winches, strung me out with agonizing tightness a second time, and then once again placed his brown sweat soaked flip flops on the tiny flat tray mounted to the gag. This time they seemed, if it was possible, even more precariously perched there.
“All right. Same rules. Same punishments. I’m gonna go whack off now. Don’t you wish you could do that, you pathetic freak?”
He looked at me expectantly, and I saw that once again the sadistic fuck wanted an answer. I inclined my head with the slightest of nods.
“Yeah, of course you do. Well too bad. See you tomorrow morning. I’m gonna sleep in again.”
The second time things didn’t quite go as smoothly.
Once again, I was strung up there all night. I didn’t dare so much as rotate, pitch or cock my head in even the slightest direction, so petrified was I that in so doing one of the flip-flops would tip over the side, dooming me completely. I was totally exhausted; I had been awake for over 2 days, but I didn’t dare let myself nod off once.
By 6 AM the next morning, my neck was in agony from having to remain perfectly stiff, but I thought once again I would somehow make it to the morning.
Then the door on the opposite side of the room swung open. I was surprised; for a moment, I thought it would be Bryce, coming to retrieve his flip-flops, even though he had said he was sleeping in again.
Then I saw that it wasn’t Bryce at all. It was Shane and Wes: the two most sadistic pledges.
“How’s it hanging there, bitch boy?” Shane said with a little smirk.
“Hope you’re comfortable there, slave?” Wes added with mock concern. I eyed them warily.
The two frat guys each pulled up a chair and leaned over the side of them, facing me, eyeing my naked wracked body. With the gag in my mouth, of course, I was unable to say a word.
Shane eyed the flip-flops perched delicately on the tray mounted to my gag. “So . . . I hear Bryce is being a little bit . . . demanding lately,” he said.
Wes shrugged. “Demanding? What’s so demanding about it dude? If Bryce wants to use the little bitch as a place to store his flip-flops over night, who gives a shit?”
There was a dangerous mocking edge in each of their voices.
“Good point man,” Shane agreed. “Of course . . . the little bitch has almost gotten through 2 nights now without dropping those things. What a shame it would be if he dropped them now and ruined everything?”
“Yeah man,” Wes concurred. “When Bryce says he’s gonna do something, you better fucking take him at his word.” Wes took hold of the lacrosse stick with the foot long, uncomfortably wide dildo that had tiny little diamond corrugations all over it. (Bryce had left it out last night for me to gaze at all night). “I dunno know about you, foot slave, but I sure would hate to have this used on me. And that itchy cream . . . man! It’s true you know. They put just a tiny little drop on the tip of my nose during hell week and ordered me not to scratch my nose for 3 minutes. Test of my endurance. Man, I fucking thought I was going to DIE.”
“So . . .” Shane continued. He slowly rose from the chair and approached me. His hands were outstretched. “So . . . if I were you . . . I’d hold that tray very, very, very still.”
Wes got up from the chair too. “Yeah,” he concurred. “Especially because, if you do screw up, whatever the reason, I have a feeling Bryce is gonna punish you.”
They were both standing directly in front of me now.
“On a totally different subject, isn’t it true that the little fucking bitch is fucking ticklish?”
“Oh yeah! Like a little girl!”
As they said these words, the bottom seemed to fall out of my stomach. My eyes widened in horror.
“Hmmm!” Shane said. “Where do you think he’s most ticklish?”
“Well, I bet we could find out . . . let’s try his armpits first. I mean look at them! Right now they’re totally exposed!”
“Dude! His whole naked-ass BODY is totally exposed.”
“Yeah. Ok, well let’s start with his arm pits.”
Shane was wearing jeans. He pulled a single long feather out of his pocket and held it directly in front of my field of vision for a sadistic lingering second. Then he brought it closer, and closer, and closer to my arm pit . . .
My whole body began to quiver from nervous tension like it had an electric current running through it. I began to grunt through my gag, my pleas for mercy of course completely muffled.
“Kitchy kitchy koo!” Shane said.
The tip of the feather made contact with the inner center of my armpit. I had so little movement given the tension placed on my body, but my whole body nevertheless jolted as if I’d been shocked. Grinding the dildo gag between my teeth with determination, I held the gag-tray steady so as not to rock the flip-flops. They stayed level.
With careful deliberation, Shane traced an idle pattern of concentric circles slowly around my arm pit, a mischievous little glint in his eye. The sensation was intolerable: it consumed me. I had always been so ticklish. The truth is, the soles of my feet had always been my most vulnerable spot (I prayed against all hope that they wouldn’t realize that!) but I was incredibly ticklish all over my body. With my arms suspended so rigidly in the air, I was totally defenseless. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t do a thing to escape or to shield my poor pit; I just had to take it. As the sensation continued, I put every ounce of willpower I had into holding the gag steady. One sudden jerk of my head in response to the overpowering sensation and I know I was fucked.
“Here buddy,” Shane said to Wes, producing a second feather. “I brought one for you too!”
“Sweet dude!” Wes said. He took it and began to use it on my other pit. Now I was flanked by the two of them, going out of my mind as I took it from both sides. The tip of the feathers went round and round and round on both my pits. If I hadn’t been securely gagged I would have been giggling hysterically.
“Not bad,” Wes said after some time. “Not bad at all. He’s doing a remarkably good job of holding the tray steady.”
“Yeah. Not bad for a little bitch. But what do you think happens . . . when we use our fingers instead??”
As if on cue, the pledges both discarded their feathers and simultaneously went to town on both sides of my body . . . 20 wiggling relentless fingers dug in at once to my defenseless pits, side muscles, rib cage and belly. The attack was brutal; my tormentors had dispensed with the teasing foreplay and were digging in with relish now. My whole body quivered as I labored with total futility to avoid their roving finger tips. The brown flips began to rock precariously in front of my face. I couldn’t help it. I tried with all my willpower to steady the movements of my head.
“Kootchy kootchy coo!!” Shane sniggered mockingly.
They went on and on. Both tickling my pits. Shane from behind tickling my desperately tender lower belly and hips as Wes attacked my pits from in front. Wes from behind tickling my rib cage as Shane worked beneath my sensitive and immobile neck. Both of them going after my desperately ticklish inner thighs. Through it all, I kept my gag level and the flip-flops on board.
“Let’s blindfold him!” Shane suggested finally.
I was plunged into darkness as the blindfold went over my eyes. The tickling continued with renewed vigor. Not being able to see anything made the whole thing even worse. I could no longer keep my eyes fixed on the flip flops, and as a result I swiftly lost my visual sense of orientation; I couldn’t see whether they were still being held evenly on the tray, how precariously they were rocking, or even if they had already fallen. Worse, I could no longer anticipate even for a split second where they were mounting their next attack and brace myself for it; I felt their fingertips on my belly, then on that sensitive area just above and to the sides of my ballsack, then brushing my shoulders, then on my ballsack itself, then on both my pits again. Each new region was a total shock, dangerously jolting my body. I shuddered.
How much longer was this going to go on for? I was completely losing my grip. I knew if they didn’t stop I was not going to be able to hold the mouth gag even close to stationary much longer.
Finally, I heard one of them say. “Dude. . . take the blindfold off again.”
It came off and I could see. I was enormously relieved to see that both flip flops were there.
Shane sighed. “Dude,” he said. “I’m not sure this is working. The bitch boy sure does seem to want to hold that head still for some reason.”
Wes sighed too. “Yeah. Too bad man.”
I felt hope surge. Did this mean they were giving up?
I should have known better.
Shane sighed again, exaggeratedly. “Yeah . . . I guess there’s really only one thing left to do . . .” his look of disappointment gave way to his signature mischievous smirk. “There’s only one part of him we haven’t tickled yet . . . his feet.”
My face fell.
“Oh come on . . . you didn’t really think we’d forget about your FEET, did you foot slave?” Wes sniggered.
My legs were stretched out in a taut spread eagle below, only inches off the ground. Shane now reached again into his pocket and produced not one but two electric toothbrushes, which he held sadistically in front of my for a moment, one clutched in each hand. Shane dropped to the floor and rolled out on his back, so that his face was staring up at my exposed cock and balls several feet above. He reached his arms out wide, so that each hand and the bristles of each electric toothbrush was positioned directly beneath on of my bare exposed soles. Meanwhile, Wes positioned himself behind me and reached his arms around under my pits, so that his wiggling fingers were poised in front of my face.
“One . . . two . . . “I head them count in unison.
I steeled myself.
At precisely the same moment, Wes’s probing fingers dug into my exposed chest as the whirling, twirling, stiff bristles of Shane’s toothbrushes dug into the tender soles of my feet and ran ruthlessly across the little spaces between my toes. It was too much. I gritted my teeth for a second, then two, then I finally lost all control. Something snapped. My body jerked and all my willpower went out the window as my head jerked violently downward. I saw, as if in slow motion, the brown flip flops slide, then go over the edge of the tray, one after the other, tumbling down to the ground and landing below with sickening little smacks.
I heard Shane and Wes hoot and cheer.
Shane paused the brushes for a moment. “Hmmmm,” he said with mock sorrow. “I think somebody’s in TROUBLE.”
“Let’s keep tickling the fucker,” Wes said. “This is too much fun to stop just yet.”
They tickled my feet for another 20 minutes or so, as my body twitched and attempted futilely to flail. Then at last they left the room, leaving me to hang there, flip flops discarded on the floor, dreading Bryce’s return.
When Bryce finally did open the basement door at around 11 am that morning, his eyes fell at once on the discarded flip-flops laying on the floor. He shot me a look of intense. . . . what? It was an odd combination of anger and anticipation.
“Stupid slave,” he said with a sigh. “You really can’t do anything right.”
He slipped the discarded flip-flops back onto his bare feet, and then took off the gag.
“Please sir,” I said frantically, as soon as it was off. “Please, Master Bryce, I only dropped them because Master Shane and Master Wes came down here earlier this morning and tickled me for over an hour.”
Bryce slapped me across the face, hard. “You fucking whiner,” he growled. “Don’t give me these fucking lame excuses. I came down here expecting to find my flip-flops waiting where I left them last night. Instead they’re on the fucking floor. Not OK, slave. Don’t try to blame Shane and Wes for your clumsiness. You obviously need to be punished.”
Bryce was as good as his word.
10 minutes later, he had lowered me from the door frame and I found myself tied down over the spanking bench once again, legs spread wide, arms stretched out and tied down, ass sticking up into the air and completely defenseless, head held trapped in the wooden stockade.
“I gave you very simple instructions, foot slave,” Bryce was saying. “In fact, they couldn’t have been clearer. I told you to keep those flip-flops mounted on that gag — and you couldn’t fucking do it. You totally failed.” He reached for the lacrosse stick that had sat leaning ominously against the wall for the past two days, and held it up in front of my face, so that the oversize, foot long, uncomfortably wide dildo coated with little irregular corrugations was squarely in front of my face.
“I guess you must just really want to feel what this is like when it’s shoved into your ass hole, huh faggot?”
“Please, sir, no . . . .”
“Shut the fuck up you faggot. Show some respect.” Bryce grinned at me. “You know what I want you to do faggot? I want you to beg me to shove this thing up your asshole.”
“Please don’t do it sir . . .”
“SHUT THE FUCK UP,” Bryce roared suddenly. “Guess what slave? For that, I’m gonna give you a hundred fucking spankings before I fucking rape you with this thing. Now unless you want it to be two hundred spankings AND on top of everything else you want me to clip twenty clothes pins to your sorry ball sack, then I advise you to beg me to fuck you with this NOW. And make it fucking CONVINCING, slave!”
“YES SIR! Thank you sir. PLEASE SHOVE THAT OVERSIZE STUDDED DILDO UP MY ASS SIR. PLEASE DO IT NOW SIR.” I took a breath and went on. “I know this is what I deserve for disrespecting the frat sir. I am the frat’s butt-munching cum lover sir. I am this frat’s cock sucking, toe-jam chewing, ass-kissing plaything. I am its piss-drinking toilet slave, sir. And I need to feel that painful dildo up my ass NOW sir!”
Bryce chortled. “Now that’s more like it, slave.”
First, Bryce warmed my ass up with 100 paddles, delivered with his signature muscular force . “Thank you sir. May I please have another sir!” I cried out as required after each blow. Then, without further delay or ceremony, deliberately holding the dildo right in front of my eyes, Bryce slipped on rubber gloves.
“Alright. Time for the main event bitch.” He unscrewed the can of itching cream. “But first, let’s not forget about your special lube for the day.”
He then slathered a thick gelatinous layer of clear itch-inducing gel cream onto the dildo, so that the entire outer surface was coated with it.
“A little special lubricant for our special little guy,” Bryce smirked. Then he strode around behind me. “Open wide!”
The corrugated fuck stick did not disappoint.
As he plunged the shaft of the lacrosse stick into me with violent suddenness, the dildo tore into my asshole. I screamed. The sensation was excruciating. I felt like my asshole was being torn open. Bryce pushed again, harder this time. I felt the dildo plunge even deeper. It felt like it was lunging into my gut. I felt the corrugations studding its exterior dig into me. I screamed again.
From behind me, Bryce laughed. “Say `Thank you, master. Fuck me harder, master!'” he chortled.
The dildo plunged in for a third final salvo. Now it was all the way in. It was agonizing.
I screamed again.
“SAY IT!” Bryce roared.
“Thank you master! Fuck me harder, muster!” I gasped.
“THANK YOU MASTER! FUCK ME HARDER, MASTER!”
“That’s right, you fucking slave!” Bryce rumbled. “KEEP SAYING IT YOU BITCH!!”
“THANK YOU MASTER! FUCK ME HARDER, MASTER!”
“THANK YOU MASTER! FUCK ME HARDER, MASTER!”
It was sliding in and out now. The sheer friction being generated as those corrugated studs slid back and forth, back and forth, at an ever fast rate was enough to make me almost lose consciousness, so exquisite was the pain.
Bryce sustained this agony for . . . I’m not sure how long. In retrospect I think it must have been only 5 minutes, though it felt like hours upon hours.
Finally, Bryce set the lacrosse stick to the side. He clambered into the chair that always sat directly in front of me, studied me. I lay there, chest heaving, sweat pouring profusely down my face and dripping to the ground all over my body. I broke down completely — I began to sob softly and uncontrollably.
“Stop crying, bitch boy,” Bryce said softly, dangerously. “Unless you want me to repeat the whole thing again.”
That shut me up.
“Now.” Bryce kicked off his flip-flops and shoved his bare feet in my face. “I’m going to suggest that you take a few minutes to worship my feet. Because I am SURE, slave boy, that after today you don’t want to fuck up on identifying my feet again. So I strongly suggest, slave, that you take a few minutes to lick my feet now and make DAMN SURE you’ve got the Bryce flavor down.”
Mentally pulling myself together, doing my best to ignore the excruciating pain in my asshole, I began to obediently run my tongue up and down the surface of the soles of Bryce’s feet, focusing all of my mental power on memorizing every last minute detail . . . every whiff, every contour, every tiny detail of his manly oversized feet.
As I licked, the fierce pain in my asshole began to dull ever so slightly. I realized it was gradually being replaced with a new sensation — sort of like an odd tickling.
My ass twitched just a little.
Bryce, leaning back in his chair, eyes half-closed in a look of relaxed bliss as I licked his soles, chuckled. “If you’re wondering what that sensation is that you’re feeling, it’s the itching cream slowly sinking in to your skin and taking effect as it dries. In about 20 minutes, when it completely dries and can no longer get on, say, my dick when I fuck you, the effect will be complete.” He shook his head. “Man. I almost . . . ALMOST . . . feel sorry for you bitch boy. Just a few drops of that stuff is enough to drive a man crazy. I can’t even IMAGINE what the amount I just plunged into your ass crack is gonna do to you.” He grinned. “It’s gonna be fun to see, though. So . . . let’s just wait.”
I licked his feet, trying to focus on that, reasoning it was the only thing I could do to prevent this from ever happening again.
As the minutes ticked by, the tickling sensation in my asshole became more and more unmistakably itchy.
At first, it was just a minor irritation — an annoying little itch like so many I’d had before.
Then it began to change, subtly but unmistakably. As I lay bound over the spanking bench, it grew. My entire asshole began to itch. Barely at first. Then a bit more . . . . like a bug bite.
Then it grew still further. I began to shift uncomfortably in my strict bondage, my arms involuntarily struggling to come loose so that I could reach my asshole. Of course it was completely futile.
The itch became still worse. Now it was a burning itch. Like a fire eating up oxygen, it burned harder and harder. Every single square inch of my ass crack and now seemed to itch fiercely, urgently.
I thought that was as bad as it could get. But then it got even worse.
Now the itch was consuming me completely. It was out of control, raging. I rocked helplessly from side to side, fighting furiously to free my arms, wanting nothing more in the world than to be able to plunge my fingers into my asshole and scratch furiously until the itch went away. Of course it was all totally pointless. My wrists were anchored securely to the front o the spanking bench. I wasn’t going anywhere.
Bryce, observing my reactions, seemed to be enjoying this intensely.
“Ah . . .” he said with mock sympathy. “Does da little bitch want to scratch himself??”
“YES!!” I screamed.
“Yes what??” he taunted.
“Yes sir!! Yes master!! Please, sir, I want to scratch myself so bad!!”
“Ah,” Bryce said, frowning. “But here you are, all tied up. Pretty hard to scratch yourself, huh bitch boy.” He leaned forward. “What’s a bitch boy going to do?”
I had a desperate flash of insight. “Please sir!!” I shouted. “Please — fuck me sir!”
“FUCK ME SIR!! PLEASE HELP ME SCRATCH MY ASS BY FUCKING ME SIR!!”
Bryce wagged his finger tauntingly. “If you want me to do that, you’re going to have to worship my feet and recite my sports facts first, slave boy!”
After I recited the facts and had groveled an adequate amount, Bryce did finally consent to fuck me.
When he was done, before he left, he blindfolded me. A steady stream of frat boys continued to stream through the basement throughout the course of the afternoon. For the duration of the day, as was typical, they presented me with their bare feet and expected me to identify them by worshiping them. For once, I didn’t care. It was true. The itch was so terrible, I actually WANTED them to use that terrible corrugated dildo fuck stick, just to violently scratch at the itch exploding inside of my anus. Unbelievable as it seems, it was actually worth the pain of having my ass paddled and the pain of having that excruciating dildo rammed up my asshole just to have that terrible itch scratched.
I never once mistook Bryce’s feet for any member of the frat’s again.
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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 email@example.com.
Also thanks to Metalbond reader John for his assistance in preparing this story for posting!