Frat Boy’s Bitch Boy – Part 13

By Greg Alexander

After the ordeal with the itching gel, in fact, as I have explained, I finally began to quickly get most of the feet in the frat down my heart.

As I got better and better at that task, of course, the frat brothers began to look for now excuses to punish me, and began to stress more and more the importance, not just of learning to identify each frat boy not just by licking and smelling his feet, but also by sucking his cock, licking clean his ass crack and swallowing his piss.

Each cock of course had it’s very distinctive own shape, and in time I also became better and better at identifying each one. Some of them were easier than others . . . Bryce’s cock especially was so enormous that it was hard to mistake for anyone else’s. It was a question of identifying which particular way their cocks curved when they were fully erect, obviously whether they were circumcised or not, how much pubic hair they had and how clean they generally kept it, and countless other more subtle sensory cues. Some of the guys moaned softly as I sucked them off, some of them grunted, some of them even w some of them were stone silent.

Licking ass cracks and drinking piss, perhaps predictably, were the more difficult forms of identification. Some of the guys kept their cracks clean, and it wasn’t long before I reached the point where I was able to tell the difference between the two groups. I paid close attention to each ass crack I licked, trying to get to the point where I could distinguish between the unique different smells, the feeling of different kinds of ass hair as it brushed against my cheek. Likewise, I started to pay close attention to the smell and subtle different flavors of piss.

Of course, it wasn’t enough for the frat boys. The more skilled I became at identifying each member of the frat by licking their feet or sucking their cocks, the more the frat boys began to enter the basement while I was blindfolded and, rather than present their bare feet for me to worship, would silently stick out their cocks and began pissing into my mouth, knowing full well that was increasingly the surest way to stump me and thus have the opportunity to fuck me. Meanwhile, as a byproduct, the constant spanking continued, at a slightly less frenetic but nevertheless brisk and painful clip.

One day, Bryce was sitting down in the frat’s basement, his feet outstretched, while I, strapped down firmly to the spanking bench, obediently licked the soles of his feet. I was blind-folded, but of course by now it didn’t matter; I knew Bryce’s feet like the back of my hand, and I could have recited his sports facts in my sleep.

Of course, it was never good enough for Bryce.

On this particular occasion, Trevor was also in the basement.

“Ya know, Trev,” Bryce was saying with a yawn. “We’ve been at this for weeks now. You’d think the little fucker would have learned his lesson by now, but he still can’t get our piss right. I swear to fucking God, I’ve pissed in the boy’s mouth like 100 times by now, and the asshole still has no idea what my piss tastes like.”

“Me too, dude,” Trevor agreed. “What do you think we should do about it?”

“Well,” Bryce said. I was blindfolded, but I could tell quite clearly from his tone of voice that he was grinning. “Well Trev, ya know . . . practice makes perfect. I think I have a pretty good idea.”

Things continued in the usual routine for several more days without incident, leaving me with plenty of down time in the basement in between my usual regimen of foot-licking, cock-sucking, ass-licking, piss-drinking, spanking and fucking to wonder what the hell Bryce and Trevor were planning for me this time.

Then, a few days later, the door opened and Bryce and Trevor entered, followed by several additional frat boys, bearing that look of high anticipation that I had come to dread.

“Guess what slave?” Trevor said, pulling off my blindfold. “You’re actually gonna leave the basement today!”

I blinked. That, at least, sounded encouraging.

I was untied from the spanking bench, then my ankles were shackled, a soft length of rope was tied around my knees, my wrists were cuffed in front of me. Someone produced my old “friend,” the chastity device and cock cage that I had worn for so long, and slipped it over my attention-starved cock. “Sorry, bitch boy; can’t take any chances,” Trevor explained with a smirk. Then, finally, Bryce produced a gag that I would have been quite happy never to see again: the humiliator gag he had used to make me support his flip-flops for two consecutive nights. He reinserted it into my mouth, with the carrying tray once again protruding from my head.

Finally, a leather dog collar was attached around my neck. It in turn was attached to a leash, the end of which Bryce held in his hand.

“Alright. Come on, slave. Follow me,” he said.

Of course, as always, while all the other frat boys were clothed, I was completely naked.

Feeling as vulnerable as ever, I began to follow Bryce up the stairs to the main floor of the frat house. I was hobbling awkwardly, of course, with my ankles shackled, my knees constricted, and my hands cuffed in front of me.

Halfway up the stairs, Bryce wheeled on me and gazed at me fiercely. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, foot slave?”

Unable to speak with the gag inserted into my mouth, I just gazed back at him, puzzled.

“You’re obviously not allowed to stand up straight, faggot,” Bryce snapped, slapping me across the face. “Real men stand up straight. Bitch boys like you crawl on all fours whenever they have the privilege of following their frat boy masters anywhere.”

I nodded obediently, dropped to my hands and knees, and awkwardly crawled the remainder of the way up the stairs behind Bryce.

On the main floor of the frat house, I blinked my eyes, allowing them to adjust to the sudden light. The truth was, I hadn’t actually seen natural sun light since that first day I was brought to the frat. In fact, I realized, the only time I had actually left the basement at all since my first day had been the very brief interlude when the frat members had tested my ability to recognize their names and sports facts (only, of course, to find my performance woefully inadequate and promptly sentence me to my current regimen of torments) and during that period of time it had been night and the room upstairs had been darkened. Now I could see that it was late afternoon or early evening outside, still plenty of daylight. I blinked rapidly.

With Bryce leading me by the leash, I followed him into the main living room of the frat house. There, once again, a cluster of frat brothers were waiting for me. They were gathered all around the room, sitting on chairs, tables, countertops, eying me with their usual mixture of cocky scorn and eager anticipation. Once again, nearly the entire complement of frat brothers and pledges was assembled; nearly 70 guys were crammed into the room, I estimated.

Something about being bound and totally naked, in broad daylight, totally surrounded by a bunch of fully-clothed, athletic, sadistic frat boys, made me deeply vulnerable. You would have thought by now I’d be used to it, but I wasn’t.

I noticed that a lot of the furniture had been cleared away or pushed to the side of the room, so that the room felt much more open. I also saw several large kegs off to the corner of the room, and a big stack of 30 packs of cheap beer. There were several big tubs lying out in the open; I could tell they were fully stocked with a massive stash of buds, coors, natty lights, sam adams, and a range of other frat-like beers.

“Guess what, bitch boy,” Collin said. He jumped down from off the side of the table he had been sitting on and landed squarely in front of me, so that I was staring at his flip-flopped feet. “Delta Psi’s having a party tonight!!”

The room spontaneously erupted into cheers and whistles of excitement. I could clearly sense the energy in the room.

Shane chimed in. “It’s gonna be a big one, cocksucker. We’ve invited the entire campus. There are fliers up everywhere. Word is out . . . honestly I think we could get over 1,000 people!”

“The kappa girls are definitely all coming,” Reid added slyly.

This brought another round of cheers. I knew why; the kappa kappa gamma sorority girls were widely recognized as by far the hottest girls on campus. Not that I really knew much about that.

“So . . .” Bryce said simply, taking charge as he always did. “We thought, bitch boy, that it would simply be inhumane to not include you in the festivities.” He was still holding the leash that was connected to my dog collar. It was a long leash, and as he spoke, he walked over to the side of the room. I saw a metal I-hook embedded unobtrusively in the brick wall. Bryce tied the leash to the hook, so that I was now securely anchored to the wall. “We just wanna make sure you don’t try to skip out on us before the party is over,” he explained matter-of-factly. “Alright, boys, let the pre-gaming begin.”

From off to the side of the room, Trevor spoke up. “Hey bitch boy,” he said, with a big, shit-eating grin. “Get me a fucking beer.”

“Me too!” Shane chimed in. “Make it a bud, slave.”

“Bring me a natty light, bitch boy,” Reid ordered.

Someone fiddled with an ipod, and I heard music blaring from speakers on one side of the room.

“What are you waiting for, faggot?” Collin demanded, shouting at me. “Are you deaf? These boys told you to go get us some beer!”

I scrambled over to the side of the room, still on my hands and knees, where the oversized ice-filled tubs of beer sat. I sat up on my hind legs, like a well-trained dog, peering into the tubs of beer, and fished around searching for a natty light, a bud, and a third beer (I grabbed a coors, since Trevor hadn’t specified). It was very difficult to maneuver, of course, with my hands cuffed, but I managed cradle the three beers awkwardly underneath my armpit. Then, awkwardly, I began to crawl back across the room to w here Trevor, Shane and Reid were waiting.I reached the couch where they were chilling out waiting for me. Just as I arrived there, I felt a sharp painful crack on my rear end. I yelped with pain. I turned around to see Bryce standing there, wielding one of the long, flexible straps that had been used so many times on my ass in the basement. I whimpered.

“Stupid cunt,” Bryce growled. “Why the fuck do you think we strapped hat fucking tray gag into your worthless faggoty mouth? Because we like looking at it? Or because we expect you to use it to fucking serve us?”

I stared down at the floor, my face flushed with shame.

“Say you’re sorry, bitch boy,” Bryce ordered.

I glanced up at him helplessly. I tried to say I was sorry, but of course it only came out as a very garbled “Mmmm fffffeeeerrry” through my heavy humiliator gag.

Bryce cupped his hand behind his ear theatrically. “What’s that, bitch boy? I can’t hear you?”

“MMMMM FFFFFFEEERRRRYYY,” I grunted again.

Crack! I felt the strap snap against my ass again, then again, then a third time.

“Stupid bitch boy,” Bryce said. “Can’t even offer a simple apology. Go back and do it again you fucking slave. Do it right this time.”

I crawled back across the room to the beer-filled tubs of ice. I could hear the frat boys laughing in the background. I obediently placed the three beers gingerly onto the tray mounted to my gag (it was considerably more difficult to place them with my hands cuffed, but I managed). Then, slowly, carefully balancing my cargo on the tray, I crawled again across the room to the couch.

Reid took his natty light, popped it open, and began to drink greedily from it. It was a can, the other two beers were bottles.

Shane eyed his bud. Then he glanced at me with a mischievous look. “How the fuck do you expect me to drink that, bitch boy? It’s in a fucking bottle.”

His key ring was clipped to a belt loop on his jeans. On the key ring, I could clearly see a bottle opener dangling. He followed my gaze and smirked. “What, slave? You expect me to get my opener all the way off my ring on my own? Why the fuck would I want to do that when I got my own slave to bring me a bottle opener?”

Trevor eyed his Coors. “Same with me, faggot. Bring me a bottle opener.”

Suppressing my feeling of helpless despair, I crawled back across the floor once again, still balancing the two beer bottles carefully, determined the hold the trey mounted to my humiliator gag absolutely level, searching for a bottle opener. By now, half the frat boys in the room were in stitches, doubling over with laughter as they chortled at my predicament.

I finally found a bottle opener sitting hidden behind one of the big ice tubs filled with beer. I gingerly placed it on the trey and crawled back across the room to Shane and Trevor.

Shane looked at the bottle, then at me, like I was a complete moron. “What the fuck is wrong with you, slave boy? You didn’t bother to pop open the fucking bottles before you brought them to us?”

At this, Bryce chimed in too. “You fucking dumbass bitch boy. Go back and do it right this time. Fuck this up again, and you’re gonna get punished.”

This prompted new ways of laughter. Feeling completely defeated, and trying my best to hide it, I once again crawled back to the other side of the room, gingerly took the beers off with my cuffed hands, and one by one popped them open with the bottle opener. I placed the beers carefully back on the tray and crawled, once again oh so carefully so as to avoid spillage, back to Trevor and Shane. Finally my service was accepted.

“Alright,” Bryce said, before I had a chance to so much as breathe. “Now. . . bitch boy, bring me a corona.”

“Bring me a guiness!” Wes ordered.

“I want a sam adams,” another frat boy shouted out.

I quickly turned to crawl back across the room to fetch the drinks I had been directed to bring.

“Oh, and bitch boy,” Bryce called after me, raising his voice over the sound of the ipod. “Just so you know . . . we paid a lot for this beer. You spill so much as a drop of it tonight while we pregame, and we got a very fucking special way to make sure you pay us back.”

For at least the next hour, the frat boys had a real hoot turning me into their beer slave.

I must have had over 250 beer orders shouted at me in the space of that time. I was crawling back and forth, across the room, the tray mounted to my humiliator gag loaded up with the beers ordered by the rowdy, boisterous group of frat boys. Somehow, I managed not to spill a drop.

“Hey dude,” Collin finally suggested over the music, when almost every brother in the room had a beer in his hand, “who wants to play a game of beer pong?”

“I’m down,” one of the guys said gamely.

“Me too,” agreed another. “But we already cleared out the pong table and put it in the other room, man.”

“Dude, no sweat,” Collin said. He glanced down at me as I crawled past, on my way to bring one of the brothers a refill. “We got a pong table right here bro.”

One of the other brothers eyed the tiny tray mounted to the humiliator gag incredulously. “No way dude,” he said. “No way we can set up a game on that thing.”

“Just watch,” Collin replied confidently. “Bitch boy kneel!” he barked gruffly at me. I automatically obeyed. “Good boy. Stay!” Collin disappeared into another room and then returned, carrying with him a square sheet of plywood. It was very thin and relatively small, only about 2 feet by 2 feet, I estimated. As I knelt there, he balanced the sheet on top of the smaller tray, so that it lay precariously in front of my face, the edge just an inch from the tip of my nose, if that.

“Now, I’d hold this level, slave,” Collin said calmly.

Two triangles of 9 red paper cups each were formed on the tray, packed together tightly; they barely fit onto the tiny platform. Collin beckoned me over to one of the row of kegs; he filled each cup to the brim, pumping the keg handle up and down, smirking at me as the cheap beer flowed.

“Back to the center of the room,” he ordered. “Better not spill.”

Moving with painful deliberateness, I crawled back to the center of the room on my knees, the full cups of beer sloshing dangerously, the sheet of plywood balanced delicately. I could feel the weight of my cargo pressing down on my gag.

“Now stay still, cocksucker,” Collin advised, his voice dangerous.

Trevor and Wes teamed up against Collin and Shane, and they began competing against each other, taking turns throwing a ping-pong ball into the triangle of cups while I knelt there, immobile. The losers downed the cups as the winners sank their shots, re-wracking the cups to keep them balanced. For the duration of the game, the cheering assholes on either side of me pretended that I was simply part of the furniture.

The game finally ended. “Dude, I wanna a rematch,” said Trevor, who had been on the losing side.

A new round of cups was poured and placed on the gag, and I was ordered back to the center of the room.

“Let’s make it interesting this time,” said Shane, the sadistic fuck. “Let’s see if the bitch boy can hold our board steady when his feet are being tickled.”

He produced an old toothbrush. Smirking at me, he directed me to kneel on my knees, so that my bare feet were sticking straight back. I groaned and braced myself.

“Alright . . . but here are the rules,” Reid chimed in, from the sidelines. “Each of the four players can only tickle the bitch boy’s feet once, as the other team is throwing.”

They liked that idea.

They toyed with me, allowing several other boys to sink ping pong balls and drink before the tickling started.

As Wes stepped up to take his shot, with about 2 cups drained so far, I finally felt the bristles at work on my soles as Wes took aim. I gritted my teeth, fighting with all my might to hold the board steady. The sheet of plywood lurched dangerously to one side, but miraculously nothing spilled.

“Take your shot dude!” Trevor shouted animatedly. Wes shot but missed. “Your turn,” he grinned.

I saw the toothbrush change hands. Now as Collin stood to carefully take aim, I felt the bristles suddenly dig in between my toes as Trevor began to torment me. I strained mightily but this time I lost control, jolted the gag to the side, and capsized the entire makeshift board. The cups went flying. Beer spilled everywhere.

“You clumsy fuck!!” Shane instantly shouted into my ear, as rivulets of beer gushed in every direction. “Look what you did to our fucking floor!”

Bryce stepped in front of me and sighed with mock sorrow.

“Bitch boy, Delta Psi simply can’t tolerate this kind of clumsiness from any of its members . . . even from it’s bitch boy. I’m afraid you’ll have to be punished.”

The first thing they did was make me clean the mess up.

My hands were swiftly recuffed behind me, so that I was even more helpless. Then, before I even knew what had happened, the serving tray had been snapped off the humiliator gag. I realized it was one of several accessories that could be snapped onto the steel cylindrical protrusion that jutted out from the gag. Now Bryce produced a new accessory: this one was a squeegee, clearly designed for mopping floors, with a cylindrical attachment to connect it to the gag.

A bucket of water was placed in front of me. “Now get that beer off the floor, slut,” Bryce directed. Unable to support my front with my hands, I awkward pitched partially forward as I dunked the squeegee into the bucket, then managed to arch my back and heave the squeegee out of the bucket and onto the floor with some difficulty. Frat boys laughed caustically to either side as I pathetically scrubbed the floor clean with my gag-mounted squeegee, wondering, as I cleaned, who the hell came up with these devices.

“Pretty fucking functional,” Reid declared, arms crossed, observing my work, evidently impressed. “Why don’t we have the bitch do the bathroom floor ahead of the party too?”

Trevor nodded. “Good idea. And we can show him his punishment while we’re at it.”

Leading a pack of eager frat boys, Bryce took hold of my leash, and he and Trevor dragged me down the hallway, into the bathroom on the main floor of the frat.

“Here ya go, bitch boy,” Bryce said with a chuckle, as he shoved the door open. “Time for a little show and tell.”

He led me into the bathroom, and before I knew it I was kneeling on the bathroom floor, the pack of frat boys standing at the doorway, smirking expectantly at me.

Bryce drew my gaze toward the wall. I saw that there was a urinal mounted on the wall of the bathroom. Beyond that there was a normal bathroom stall, with a toilet; other than the lone toilet, the urinal was the only place to piss.

Like most urinals, this one had a silver vertical pipe that was connected to the urinal at its base. Except . . .now that I looked at it again, I realized something that I hadn’t noticed before. The very top section of the metal pipe leading away from the base of the urinal, where the water would usually drain after flushing, had been disconnected. There was nothing there now, if someone peed into the urinal, it would drop straight through onto the tiled bathroom floor.

“Bitch boy,” Bryce said, “care to hazard a guess as to what room is underneath us right now?” He looked at me expectantly; of course, with my mouth still gagged, I couldn’t answer. “Not sure? Well, I’ll tell you: it’s your bedroom!”

That drew some guffaws and chuckles from the frat boys.

“Yeah bitch boy, that’s right; that cozy little nook where you’ve spent so much of your time the last few weeks. Well, guess what? We’ve figured out a heating duct that runs straight from this bathroom down to your little home . . . and we’ve found a great way to connect them.” Bryce pushed his hand forward, and I realized suddenly that he had dislodged a tile in the wall. Behind the tile there was an empty dusty dead space. Next, Bryce reached into the space and pulled out . . . I looked at it carefully . . . a rubber hose, the kind you might see in your garden.

Another fratboy produced a roll of duct tape. Trevor held one open nozzle of the hose at the base of the urinal; as he did so, two other frat guys helped him secure the opening of the hose to the gaping mouth at the bottom of the urinal, ripping strip after strip of duct tape off to make sure the connection was airtight.

Finally, Bryce and Trevor taped up a sign, scrawled in large black marker, to the bathroom stall:

“Dudes, urinal works fine. Chicks, toilet doesn’t, use one upstairs.”

The frat boys, reading the sign, doubled over in laughter.

“Alright,” Trevor said finally. “Our guests are start coming soon.” He gestured toward the tiled bathroom floor . . .which, of course, I noticed was filthy. “Clean the floor quickly bitchboy. We gotta secure the bitch boy and get this party started!”

That brought more cheers. Half the frat boys were still holding beer bottles or red cups of foamy cheap beer in their hands, they were in a jovial mood, and they laughed as I awkwardly crawled up and down the bathroom floor, squeegeeing it clean as best I could.

“Missed a spot!!”

“Over here!”

“Faster cum bucket, we don’t have all day!”

“Alright slave,” Shane finally grinned when the floor was adequately cleaned. “Follow me.”

He quickly recuffed my hands in front of my body, then tugged at my leash. I obediently followed him out of the bathroom, down the stairs, and back into the basement, crawling naked on my hands and knees (of course) the entire way. Trevor, Bryce and the rest of the frat boys followed eagerly behind.

With an intense feeling of dread, I reentered dingy, poorly lit “bedroom,” as Bryce had called it.

I felt strong arms hoist me into the air. The shackles quickly came off my knees and then my ankles. Before I knew it I had been retied over the spanking bench, my body once again immobile, my naked ass once again fully exposed, my neck once again trapped in the wooden stockade.

Next, I felt one of the boys undoing my “humiliator” gag, so that the head gear was detached from my skull and the serving tray was no longer attached to the mouth piece. I savored the liberating feeling of being to actually open and shut my mouth without any large restraints. But the feeling was fleeting.

Bryce was holding something in front of my trapped face now: studying it closely, I could see it was another gag. A rubber gag. It was very different from the one had been wearing, and much simpler . . . what was it? There was just a simple long thick strip, obviously to go around my head. The mouthpiece itself was thick and rubbery, and was most notable for having a single, long, thick, hollowed-out cylinder built into it.

“You know what this is called?” Bryce inquired, dangling it before me.

I swallowed. “No sir . . . I don’t sir.”

Bryce smirked. “It’s called the `heavy rubber piss gag.’ Another goodie purchased online with your savings, of course. Open wide, bitch boy.”

I obediently opened my mouth. To broad grins all around the room, Bryce slipped the gag into my mouth. The thick rubber cylinder filled my mouth and immediately plunged toward the back of my throat (I almost gagged).

Bryce tightened the gag around my head. As he did so, the brutal effectiveness of the gag sunk in; my mouth was held firmly wide open by the thing, and with the empty tube protruding out from my mouth, my entire throat was vulnerable. Anyone could drop anything into the entrance side of the gag and it would slip neatly down through my mouth and into my throat. I was completely powerless to refuse to swallow anything.

I already had guessed what they were going to do next. Another heating duct was opened (this one in the ceiling of my downstairs, prison-like room) and the bottom half of the rubber hose was produced, which was now threaded neatly from the urinal in the bathroom on the main floor, down through the wall, into the basement.

Six frat boys, their muscular upper bodies flexing and sweating, shoved my unwieldy spanking bench 8 feet forward, so that my vulnerable body was positioned directly underneath the bottom entry point of the hose. My position across the bench was next adjusted; the restraints on my arms were loosened and raised up a foot, and the stockade that my head was trapped in was likewise raised, so that, for the first time, I wasn’t bent over the spanking bench fully, but rather stooped, halfway between standing and bent fully over. My ass was still vulnerable to violation, and my body still fully immobilized, but now at least my head wasn’t so close to the ground.

Their reason for the adjustment soon became obvious. The hose was lowered, and carefully inserted into the front opening of my piss gag. New strips of duct tape were yanked off a role and wrapped tightly around the hose, so as to firmly fix it onto my gag and seal the junction between the two.

As a final touch, I saw two frat boys flip open a macbook laptop and set it on the table in front of me, so that it was directly in my line of vision. I was confused for a moment about what it was showing: then I realized the computer screen was filled with an image of the upstairs bathroom we had just been in. It was a video image, somehow, they had hidden a tiny internet cam in the bathroom on the mainfloor, and it appeared to be trained directly on the urinal. I could clearly see the top end of the hose that was now connected to my mouth still firmly attached to the bottom drain of the urinal.

“We need someone to test it now,” Trevor said.

“I’m all over that shit, dude,” I heard Collin reply eagerly. “I hafta to piss like a racehorse already.”

He disappeared out the door. The rest of the frat boys looked at the computer screen expectantly; in no time, he reappeared on the computer monitor, having just entered the bathroom. I saw him wink theatrically at the camera, flip the bird (that was directed at me, I figured) then step up and address the urinal.

“Alright, bitch boy,” I heard Bryce saying. “We’ve been saying for a while that you’re still failing miserably at identifying us by our piss. Well, this is your chance on bone up on your piss drinking and recognition skills; think of it like flash cards.”

Laughter.

Bryce continued. “You better catch every single last drop. Not one single leak.” He paused. “Of course, with that gag, you don’t have much of a choice!”

The other frat boys chuckled again at that.

On the computer monitor I could see piss begin to flow into the urinal on screen. There was barely a second’s delay, and immediately, I began to feel warm liquid cascading down my throat as my mouth remained forced wide open. I shuddered, feeling the piss pour into my belly. It was salty and bitter.

“Drink up, bitch boy!” I heard one frat boy shout off to my side.

“Suck up that juice!” another chortled.

“Down the hatch, bro!”

On the computer screen, I could see that Collin was still standing there, taking his time, clearly emptying a very full bladder. Finally, he wagged his dick once, twice, three times, shaking loose the last few drops. The gushing sensation down my throat slowed to a trickle, then stopped altogether.

“Not bad!” one of the frat boys exclaimed. They seemed thoroughly impressed by their own combined engineering skills.

“Here,” Shane said, stepping forward from the amassed crowd. He was holding something in his hand; I saw it was a large black felt-tipped marker. He popped it open and began to write on my chest in scrawling black capital letters:

“FRAT BOY URINAL”

“Good thinking dude,” one of the other boys said, nodding approvingly. “Wouldn’t want to confuse him about what he is or let him forget.”

“Dude,” someone else jumped in. “Write it on his forhead too, man!”

Shane obliged.

Collin had reappeared in person by now. “How’d you like that, bitch?” He walked straight up to me, his crotch still unzipped. He bismarked me cheerfully, using my mat of hair like a roll of toilet paper to wipe his cock head clean. “Did you like my very special homemade lemonade??”

Bryce’s baritone voice cut in. “Alright gentlemen,” he said. “Our first guests will be arriving any minute, so we should get back to the party. We have a whole lot of beer to go through tonight . . . and a whole lot to piss out!”

There were more hoots of laughter at that. Bryce continued:

“Just remember the rules for the evening. One: any member of Delta psi who has to piss all night must use the urinal on the main floor. Two: any brother in the fraternity is more than welcome to come down here at any point during the evening to either spank or fuck the bitch boy, but under no circumstances is anyone from outside the fraternity to be permitted down here, or to know that this room exists. If anyone asks about the hose in the bathroom, they are to be told it is just a temporary leak and that the hose is set up as a temporary solution until we get it fixed.” He wheeled, and faced me. “And three: if at any point in the course of the night, before I authorize his release and ungagging, the bitch boy pees so much as a drop, he is going to be further punished.” He pinched my cheeks condescendingly. “You’ll just have to hold it, slut. Hope you enjoy the party!”

With that, the frat boys filed out of the room, bolting the door behind them as they left.

For that entire night, as I crouched there, trapped, staring fixedly ahead at the computer screen, I saw a never ending stream of dudes cycling through the bathroom, pissing at the urinal. It was constant; there were generally 1 to 2 dudes waiting in line to use it. Many of them were frat boys I recognized from Delta Psi, but many, many more were dudes from other frats, blissfully unaware of where (and into who) their piss was draining. At almost no point was the urinal ever not actually being pissed in.

And, of course, every time the urinal was used, the liquid piss stream ran straight down my mouth, through my throat and into my belly. It was constant. And it was unending.

At one point during the course of the night, I actually saw one of my friends from earlier in the year (before Trevor and his frat buddies had basically taken over my life) enter the bathroom and begin to pee into the urinal, totally unaware of course where the hose led. Seconds later I could feel his piss flooding my mouth. And once again, as I tasted the piss of the dude who I had counted one of my good buddies at the beginning of the year, I realized the frat had succeeded in reducing me to yet a new level of debasement.

 

Click for next part

Click for previous part

Click to start at Part 1

 

Metal would like to thank the author, Greg Alexander, for allowing this story to be posted here. You can contact the author at greg_alexander222@yahoo.com.

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

 

 

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.