By Greg Alexander

As I dangled from the basketball hoop, trussed up, totally helpless, and in constant pain from the excruciating hanging wedgie, the frat boys proceeded to ignore me completely for the next hour or so, as they fired up the grill and begin to whip up a spectacular feast. The frat boys had given me some dog food mixed with peanut butter for lunch, but I realized, in spite of everything, that I was pretty hungry . . . and of course, suffice to say, no one offered me any of the food.

The frat boys ate burgers, hot dogs, grilled corn and peppers and chicken.

They also made tacos and burritos, and, as if that weren’t enough, someone brought out a massive bowl of beans, which they eagerly began to devour.

During the whole time that they grilled, I simply dangled there, smelling the delicious aroma of food that I was not allowed to have.

Later, as the light began to fade, as the frat boys ambled around the yard and chowed done on their ample food, they began to pay attention to me again . . . much to my chagrin.

Reid . . . who had since changed into a fresh pair of underwear . . . strolled over to the basketball court, a paper plate stacked high with meat and beans in one hand, a beer in the other, a picture of total contentment.

He studied me absently.

“Dude,” he said to another frat boy beside him.

“You know what was fuckin awesome . . . this one time, in high school, we gave this total wussie an epic hanging wedgie.

So this little freshman, right, he’s this tool, and everyday he’s carrying this big stack of text books to class, and he always drops `em, right? So one day, we string him up, give him a hanging wedgie, and then we fucking tie his back-pack to his feet, and load it up with all his fucking text books.

The little dweeb squealed like a pig . . . it was fucking awesome, dude.”

He paused.

“Oh man,” the frat boy listening to him exclaimed excitedly.

“Let’s try it on the bitch boy.”

The frat boys loved the idea.

One of them went into the house to grab a backpack.

My feet were a good six feet off the ground . . . the backpack was tied securely around my ankles, using another rock climbing rope, and of course some more duct tape.

“Alright dudes,” Bryce said, “everyone go inside and grab two of your least favorite and your heaviest fucking text books.

And then come back.”

I was left there, dangling (of course) while the hordes of frat boys vacated the back yard for a few minutes.

Then, swiftly, they all returned, each carrying a text book or two in their hands.

“Here guys,” Shane said.

He was holding a second backpack.

“We’re gonna need two to hold `em all.

Let’s readjust.”

They retied the backpacks, so there was now one dangling from my left ankle, and one from my right.

“Man,” Reid exclaimed with sigh.

“This is so awesome.”

He grinned.

“Brings back old times!! I fuckin love this high school night.”

He paused.

“Alright, let’s load `er up!”

Shane and Wes held each back pack steady and open for a few minutes, while the frat boys loaded up text book after text book into the two backpacks, until both were absolutely full.

Both backpacks were pretty big too . . . there were definitely around 40 text books between the two, I estimated.

Both were completely packed, although there was still another 20 textbooks or so stacked off to the side, which simply hadn’t even fit.

“Alright . . . ready for the ultimate hanging wedgie, bitch boy??” Bryce asked.

Of course, with Reid’s undies stuffed in my mouth, all I could do was issue a frightened grunt.

“Let `em go,” Bryce instructed casually.

Shane and Wed released the backpacks.

They plunged downward.

You would think I’d be numb by that point, but it felt like an electric bolt shot through my asscrack — the sensation of being suddenly pulled so violently downward, with my tidey-wideys still securely lashed to the basketball hope, was absolutely excruciating.

My underwear was yanked deeply into my ass.

With a normal wedgie at this point, my undies would have torn, but the way Bryce the frat boys had secured me, my underwear was almost unbreakable.

I would just have to dangle there and endure it.

I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth.

The frat boys hooted, hollered, cheered, and drank more beer. (I wondered absently if there was ever a weekend night these guys WEREN’T drinking beer).

The weight of the backpacks was now stretching my entire lower body out, like I was on a rack.

My underwear were now elongated by a good additional foot or two.

“Man,” Collin said, wandering over in front of me, munching on a hot dog.

“The bitch boy looks so fucking pathetic, dangling there. . . what else can we do to him, while he’s up there?”

Sam, who as I remembered well from the sports facts I had been forced to memorize over the last few weeks was an all-star lacrosse player, stepped smoothly forward.

“I have a great idea . . . going along with the high school theme. Did any of y’all play `smear the queer’ in high school and middle school?”

It turned out quite a few of them had.

“It’s a lacrosse game,” Sam was explaining, for the benefit of the frat boys who hadn’t.

“You throw a ball against the side of a brick wall, using your lacrosse stick.

But, if you don’t catch it when it bounces back at you, you hafta run up to the wall and touch it.

If another player gets the ball first, before you touch the wall, he’s allowed to try to nail you in the back with the lacrosse ball.

It’s a fuckin awesome game,” he grinned.

“Although, in the case of the little bitch, I’m thinking of a few twists.”

Sam disappeared back inside the frat house.

He grabbed a lacrosse stick (not one of the ones with the dildo attached to it, I saw with some relief) and a rubber lacrosse ball.

He also had a black sharpy in his hand.

He strode over to my dangling body, and proceeded to draw several rings of concentric circles on the extremely stretched fabric of the whitey tighteys that now centered on my balls . . . in essence, forming a tiny drawn circular target.

Then, as if for good measure, Sam reached up and drew “the queer” in big lettering on my chest.

The frat boys laughed.

“Do you see how this version is played, faggot?” Sam asked.

Unfortunately, I did.

“Ok,” Sam said, walking backward, and cradling the lacrosse ball expertly in his net.

The frat boys milled around, sipping beer, continuing to chow down an enormous meal, looking generally happy.

The sky was just getting dark, it was beautiful weather, and they were obviously enjoying themselves immensely.

“So this is smear the queer, except there’s only one queer, and in this version, he’s such a little bitch that he’s not allowed to move.”

Sam stepped back, off the small concrete basketball court, past the grill, halfway across the back yard, where he finally stopped.

He drew a line in the dirt with his foot.

“Pretty simple game,” he was saying.

“You hafta stand behind this line.

You take turns taking shots with the lacrosse stick.

The objective is to hit the bitch boy directly in the balls, as hard as you can.

And the first guy to score a direct hit gets to decide the bitch boy’s next punishment.”

The frat boys clearly loved the idea.

For at least the next half hour, while they continued to eat, the frat boys took turns standing behind the line in the ground they had drawn, whipping back the lacrosse stick, and flinging the ball in my direction as hard as they possibly could.

Fortunately, some of the boys were not very skilled lacrosse players, and a number of the shots went whizzing past me entirely, missing a bit to the left or the right.

One of the frat boys, Eric, was the first one to score a hit.

He pasted me directly in the chest, leaving me totally winded.

I gasped for air as the frat boys cheered.

“Close, dude!” Sam said encouragingly.

The next two or three missed.

The pledge Jared threw a shot that glanced off my arm.

Then a few more misses.

They kept at it.

I took a few more shots directly in the chest.

Then finally, one of the frat boys, Eric (who I also knew to be a star lacrosse player), stepped up to the line and let loose.

The ball whizzed across the yard and slammed directly into the center of the target that Sam had carefully drawn, smashing into my groin.

I would immediately have doubled over in pain, but of course I couldn’t with the back packs weighing me down.

A feeling of intense dizziness washed over me, and I felt like I was suddenly on the verge of losing consciousness. It was bad . . . it was hard to tell, but probably the most excruciating sensation I had felt so far.

“Alright dude. . . you get to pick his next punishment!” someone else said to Eric.

Eric paced forward onto the basketball court, eyeing me contemplatively.

I was still gasping, trying to recover from the sensation of having my balls smashed.

His gaze dropped . . . I saw he was glancing at the large stack of textbooks that they hadn’t been able to fit in either backpack.

“Seems a shame to waste those books,” he said.

“Anyone got a third back pack? And while you’re at it: some scissors and some rope?”

Someone went into the house and grabbed yet another backpack, and some more rope and scissors.

I thought Eric was just going to attach this yet again to my feet, and was already bracing to be further stretched (I was still breathing heavily, trying to recover from the excruciating throbbing in my ball sack).

But what he did was actually much worse.

He took the scissors in hand, and moved toward the front of my stretched out tightey-whiteys.

At his instructions, two other frat boys held the two backpacks, temporarily relieving some of the extreme pressure on the fabric.

Then Eric very gingerly cut the fabric away, right around the target Sam had drawn, so that there was an open circle in the front of my wedgied undies.

My cock and balls immediately spilled out into the open.

It’s funny . . . a few months ago, I would have felt utterly humiliated at that moment, seeing my dick out in the open, on display in front of 45 drunken frat boys, but I was long past the point of worrying about that.

Grinning, Eric looped the rope around and around and around my ballsack, then tied it securely. Now of course I saw what he was doing, and began to shake my head emphatically.

NO.

NO.

NO!!! I thought desperately.

PLEASE DON’T!!! Of course, I couldn’t say a word with Reid’s underwear stuffed in my mouth, and the frat boys laughed and ignored my feeble protests.

“I think he’s excited about your idea,” Trevor observed dryly.

“Good,” Eric said.

“Bitch boy should be.”

He finally took the other end of the rope, and tied it securely to the 3rd backpack.

“Ok,” he directed.

“Now . . . release the other two backpacks.”

They fell, rewedgying me once again.

The third backpack was now dangling from my ballsack.

It was empty . . . but not for long.

“Ok,” Eric said.

“Last step . . . let’s stretch the bitchboy’s ball sack! Hand me the text books.

We’ll drop `em in one at a time.”

As each textbook fell into the third backpack, I felt the downward pull on my ballsack get more and more intense, and my sack dropped lower and lower to the ground.

By book number 10, the stretch was already extremely unpleasant.

Still the books kept falling in . . . I was totally helpless to do anything to stop them.

Of course, the additional weight also meant my wedgie was even more unpleasant.

But I was more concerned at that point with my poor ballsack, which felt like it was getting torn off.

“Wow,” Wes said, when the backpack had finally been completely loaded up, to the point where it seemed that adding any more textbooks could cause it to burst. “That’s gotta hurt.”

Shane reemerged from the frat house (he had briefly gone inside), walked over, so that he was standing below my dangling body.

“I sure hope the bitch boy can manage to avoid squirming around too much, guys . . . I have a feeling, with 20 big fat text books clipped to his cock and balls, that would get pretty uncomfortable.”

He flashed that mischievous smirk, which I had come to learn meant big trouble from Shane.

And, knowing Shane, I should have predicted what came next.

He pointed to the undersides of my feet, which were of course bare, and with the other 2 back packs weighting them down, and with my ankles still bound together with duct tape, utterly unmovable.

“Now,” Shane said, producing an electric tooth brush from his pocket, “on a totally unrelated note, who wants to try tickling the bitch boys’ bare feet?”

As it turned out, everybody did.

For the next half hour, I dangled there, as one by one, frat boy after frat boy lazily strolled up to my dangling body, continuing to munch on food and gulp down beers, of course.

With Shane acting as a sort of MC for this phase of the BBQ, the electric tooth brush was handed off to one frat boy after the other . . . first to Cody . . . then to Wes . . . then to Trevor . . . then to Collin . . . then to Reid . . . and on, and on, and on.

As each new tormenter stepped up to the plate, Shane would offer expert tips: “Get him between his toes, that’s totally the best spot dude . . . try this comb, I bet that’ll get him . . . yeah, just like that, right there!”

And so on, and so on. Try though I might, with the backpacks lashed to my ankles, I could not move my feet aside.

And with the third backpack weighing down my balls, Shane’s prediction was only too true: my twitching and convulsions as I reacted to the foot tickling made the strain on my ballsack twice as painful as it otherwise would have been.

Finally, after at least half the frat had their fun with this latest torment, the frat boys seemed ready to move onto yet more entertainment. “Dude,” Wes said.

He was chewing on some dip and looking lazily up at me, but he was clearly directing his comment at Bryce, who was sitting next to him. “This has been fucking awesome.

But ya know what? I’m horny as fuck.”

“Me too,” Collin agreed.

“Yeah, me too,” Sam concurred.

A chorus of frat boys murmured their assent.

Wes leaned forward, cupped his hands together, and whispered something in Bryce’s ear.

Bryce suddenly got a huge, shit-eating grin, and looked at me eagerly.

I had another bad feeling.

“Awesome point, Wes!”

He gestured at me, and whispered to several other boys around him.

Then he said, in a loud voice: “Cut him down, boys.”

Several frat boys carried the ladder back over to the basketball hoop and one ascended, as others untied the backpacks, first from my ball sack, then from my feet.

The frat boy on the ladder pulled out a pocket knife and proceeded to cut the rope lashing me to the hoop, while two other frat boys reached out and grabbed me roughly as I fell.

By this point, I was a total mess.

I was sporting several forming bruises on my chest where lacrosse balls had slammed in to me.

My tightey-whiteys had practically been ripped to shreds.

Of course, ketchup and mustard had been smeared all over my ass during that massive wedgy, with a ton of it jammed up my asshole, where it was still burning.

My ballsack was in agony from the combination of the impact and the stretching.

I felt totally broken.

“Aren’t you enjoying high school night?” Bryce asked.

All I could do was nod feebly (I knew no other response would be acceptable), and pray that my hell night was finally close to over.

But of course, it wasn’t.

“Well, don’t get too comfortable, boy,” Bryce said lazily.

“String him up, Wes.”

Wes grabbed a new length of rope.

He produced a familiar set of ankle manacles and hand cuffs. The rope was tied securely around my ankles and around the ankle manacles, so that they were inseparable.

Then, with the help of two other frat boys, Wes hoisted me back up into the air. . . but this time, feet first.

They ascended the latter they had used initially to tie me to the basketball hoop.

But this time they strung me up to the hoop by my feet, so that I was dangling in midair, upside down.

As Wes tied me there securely, other frat boys reattached the back packs, this time to my wrists.

They loaded them up with books once again.

It was certainly less excruciating than the hanging wedgie I’d been enduring for the last several hours, but it still hurt, and I was still wracked, my naked body splayed out, stretched out, and utterly vulnerable.

“OK, cocksucker,” Bryce said.

As a final salvo he removed Reid’s disgusting underwear that had been jammed in my mouth for the last several hours.

“Like we said, we are all fucking horny and we need our cocks sucked.

Fortunately, you’re now in a position to do something about it.

Here’s the deal: you are gonna dangle there and suck cock for the next little bit while we keep eating and drinking.

Every blow job better be fucking flawless, faggot, or there will be hell to pay . . .not a single tooth.

In keeping with the high school night theme, we’re gonna add something else.

Each time a frat boy presents his cock to you for sucking, you’re gonna express how pathetically glad you are to have a real man’s cock to suck, and how you understand why you are never allowed to actually get off with your own cock.

Then, one more thing: you are gonna, with the whole frat listening on, repeat a particularly embarrassing or humiliating memory from high school.

You’re a faggot, so I’m sure you got lots.

We’re gonna grill you with follow-ups.

If we think the story isn’t true faggot, punishment.

If we think you’re not being forthcoming enough about all the little embarrassing details, punishment.

Do you understand, cock whore?”

“Yes sir.”

First up was Wes.

A tall wooden block was laid in front of me.

Wes stood on top of it and dropped his jeans . . . his cock was now exactly even with my face.

The frat boys were mostly milling around, eager to hear what I had to say.

“Thank you for allowing a lowly bitch boy like me to suck off your glorious amazing cock, Master Wes,”

I murmured slavishly.

“I know it’s just what I need, sir.

I know I don’t deserve to ever get off sir.”

I hesitated, trying to come up with a memory that would satisfy the horny sadistic frat boys. “Sir, when I was in 9th grade, a bunch of high school senior boys shoved me into a locker and left me there for 2 periods, sir.”

“How did that make you feel, bitch boy?”

“It was so humiliating, sir.”

“How did you finally get out?”

“I had to pound the inside of my locker to get a teacher to finally help, sir.”

Wes finally presented his cock to me.

I swallowed it greedily, and sucked energetically, washing and rinsing it with my tongue, forcing myself to swallow the whole thing.

In little time, I felt Wes spasm and shoot his load down my throat.

He drew away from me, Collin stepped forward, grinning, and the process began again.

For the next hour, I sucked about 8 more frat boys off, each time providing humiliating personal high school memories. I recounted being dropped naked into dumpsters, being depantsed in the middle of hallway.

Finally, right before one blow job, I recounted the time I had been given a swirlie in the locker room bathroom by a bunch of varsity baseball players.

“Huh,” Bryce said enthusiastically, when he heard this story.

“That actually reminds me . . .Ya know what goes really, really, really well with wedgies, slave? And is an indispensable part of any fun high school night?”

I just stared back helplessly.

“Come on, boys,” Bryce said, urging them along. “Obviously, the answer is . . .” He leaned over and whispered something.

Several of the frat boys spoke up at once, with excitement: “SWIRLIES!!!!!”

A group of the frat boys suddenly pounced, grabbed me, lowered me from the basketball hoop, and with the rest of the frat boys rowdily following behind, carried me into the frat house’s main bathroom.

“Bet ya wish you cleaned these fucking bathrooms properly now, don’t ya, bitch boy??” Collin asked me gleefully.

The bathroom was in fact filthy.

Because I had not gotten around to cleaning it earlier that afternoon, there was trash everywhere, discarded plastic red paper cups strewn across the floor, spilled beer that had long ago gotten sticky . . . pretty much the works.

“SWIRLIE!!!” I suddenly heard several of the frat boys shout gleefully from behind me at once.

I was thrown off balance and taken by surprise as three frat boys hoisted me recklessly into the air, carried me swiftly into the dirty toilet stall, and plunged me face first into the toilet bowl, with two frat boys holding my legs up, in classic swirlie/keg stand style.

A shock of cold water rushed over me as my face was submerged, and then I gasped as another frat boy flushed the toilet.

The water swirled down the drain and disappeared.

“That’s fuckin awesome,” one of the frat boys . . . I couldn’t quite tell who . . . chortled.

“Just like old times!”

“Again!” someone else called out.

I was submerged a second time, this time by a different set of hands.

Each frat boy seemed only too eager to participate.

“Again!”

All told, I was dunked in the toilet four times.

“Ok, enough!” Bryce finally said.

I thought that mean the swirlying was done, and I gasped with relief.

Boy, was I wrong.

“Someone find the duct tape roll!” Bryce next instructed.

Three frat boys stood in the stall, holding my body suspended upside down, while someone found the roll of duct tape that they had used on me earlier.

I wondered what could possibly be coming next.

“Here . . . found it!” someone finally shouted.

“Awesome,” Bryce said.

He whispered something I couldn’t hear into the ears of the guys who were holding me.

Without hesitation, my captors dropped me roughly to the floor of the stall, belly first.

The tiled floor was filthy and grimy underneath my body. Then they hooked their arms underneath my shoulders and forced me up on my knees, so that I was now kneeling in front of the toilet bowel.

Next, strong arms ripped off the duct tape that had bound my wrists together behind my back, freeing my hands momentarily.

They also took off the disgusting underwear I had been wearing (which were of course riddled with ketchup and mustard, torn, and severely stretched) so that I was now, once again, totally naked, and also ripped the duct tape off my mouth . . . with some relief, I was finally able to spit out the putrid nasty underwear gag.

But my relief was short-lived.

Next, the frat boys took my arms and hooked them forcibly around the toilet bowel, so I was actually almost clutching my outstretched arms around the base of the bowel.

Someone took the roll of duct tape and ripped strip after strip off, and proceeded to use it, first to bind my hands back together, then to connect my forearms to the back porcelain surface of the toilet.

Now I was effectively trapped there, kneeling in front of the toilet, like someone who’s had way too much to drink at the end of the night.

My ankles, of course, were still duct taped together . . . and for good measure, someone now wrapped a long strip of additional duct tape around my knees as well, further immobilizing me.

“Alright,” Bryce was saying.

“Now, listen very closely, toilet slave.

I’m only gonna go over this once.

This is what’s known as an `all night swirlie.'”

The frat boys sniggered.

“I’ll explain how it works.

You are going to kneel there, in place, just like that, for the rest of the night.

You are, throughout that entire time, going to keep your head tucked into the toilet bowl.

Obviously your face will be above the water line, but your head must be in the bowl at all times unless otherwise ordered.

“Throughout the course of the night, any time a member of the frat needs to use the bathroom, they will come use this toilet.

There is no good reason I can see why your head should come out of the toilet while we are using it, so you’ll keep it there.

When each frat boy is done, he will lift you up by the legs, and deliver a classic swirlie as he flushes his piss or his shit down the toilet.

When the swirlie is done, you will thank the frat boy for the honor of the swirlie, and then go back to keeping your head in the toilet bowl.

If the member of the frat does not believe your gratitude to be genuine, you will be further punished.”

Bryce paused.

“One more thing, toilet slave.”

He grinned.

“Since you’re a little bitch boy, I assume you are afraid of being left alone for too long.

Isn’t that right?”

There was a brief pause.

“Well . . .

isn’t that right??” His voice had a dangerous edge.

I swallowed.

“Yes sir.”

“Say it out loud,” Bryce commanded sternly.

I was confused. “Uh . . . wha . . ?”

Bryce slammed his hand into my bare ass, hard.

I cringed.

“Fucking stupid toilet slave.

Repeat after me.

I’m a scared little bitch boy who’s afraid of the dark.”

“I’M SCARED LITTLE BITCH BOY WHO’S AFRAID OF THE DARK!!”

“I want the big boys to keep me company all night long.”

“I WANT THE BIG BOYS TO KEEP ME COMPANY ALL NIGHT LONG!!!!”

Bryce smirked.

“Well, you’re in luck, slave. As you may have noticed, we just had a pretty hefty barbeque.

We totally stuffed ourselves dude.”

He grinned.

“So I guess what I’m saying is, don’t worry too much about being lonely . . . cuz I think over the next few hours you’re gonna get a lot of visitors.”

As always, Bryce was right.

Over the next hour or two, as I did my very best to remain kneeling motionless in front of the toilet, my arms duct taped around the base, my ankles and knees also duct taped together, a steady stream of frat boys came in, one by one, to use my stall and my toilet.

With all the beer they had drunk and food they had eaten, it was, of course, inevitable.

About two thirds of them were just there to piss.

That was bad enough . . . kneeling there, with my head tucked into the bowl (as Bryce had ordered), they would address the toilet bowl, straddling my kneeling body with their muscular legs.

(What was worse of all . ..it was a turn-on for my poor cock which still, even then, had not been allowed to get off once for weeks and weeks).

They would let loose a stream of piss, usually drenching my hair and splattering all over my face.

Then they would pick me off the ground, and gleefully plunge me, face first, into the toilet bowl as they flushed.

Of course, as you can imagine, there was also a steady stream of guys who came in, actually sat down on the toilet seat, and took a dump in the toilet bowl, with my poor head still tucked in between their legs.

After they were done, they too would pick me up and plunge my head into the water as they flushed. As you might be able to imagine, those were far and away the worst swirlies.

Two hours into this new ordeal, Bryce returned to my stall.

He snuck up on me so I didn’t hear him right away . . . and unfortunately, at that moment, I had taken a brief breather, moving my aching neck from the toilet bowl.

“What are you doing, fuck face???” Bryce immediately roared.

“You’re supposed to have your face in the fucking toilet bowl!”

Bryce entered the stall, straddled the toilet seat, and sat down over my head. I obediently kept my head bowed and dipped inside of the toilet bowl.

Bryce farted and proceeded to take his sweet time taking his shit.

He sat there for a good 10 minutes or so, tapping his bare feet rhythmically against my back . . . based on the sound of him flipping pages, it sounded like he was flipping through a magazine while he proceeded to relieve himself.

It was disgusting.

I grimaced and tried to keep my eyes shut.

Finally, Bryce stood up.

Like every other frat boy who had used the toilet over the last two hours, he picked me up by my back legs, so I was doing a forced keg stand over the toilet.

“You’ve been a very naughty little bitch boy,” Bryce said.

He sounded a little drunk, and gleeful.

“I told you to keep your head tucked into the toilet bowl at all times.

What the fuck, bitch boy?

Why do you continue to disobey my orders?

It’s almost like you LIKE getting punished.”

While I dangled there, suspended in midair, Bryce whipped out his dick with his free hand and began to piss as well — his stream cut me squarely in my inverted jaw, where I was just suspended above the water line, then dribbled down into the bowl.

With my wrists still stretched out and duct taped around the outer rim of the toilet bowl, I was, of course, completely helpless.

Finally, when Bryce had finished pissing, he put his dick back into his underpants.

“Swirlie!!!” He shouted happily.

The frat boys always seemed to delight in actually shouting the word out.

I wondered why.

Then, in one forceful movement, he plunged my head below the water line.

Normally, at this point, my tormentor simply flushed the toilet and held me there while the water went down.

Bryce, however, improved on the concept.

With my head under water, he kept one large paw wrapped around my ankles (which were, of course, duct taped together, and as such, could not be moved anyway).

With his other hand, he began to tickle the soles of my feet.

He had some experience with this by this point, of course, and he knew the best places to get me. . . probing in between my toes, drawing devilish little circles around the balls of my helpless bare feet.

As a consequence, I immediately began to thrash around uncontrollably inside the toilet bowl.

My head banged painfully against the porcelain, but I was powerless to stop.

In just 30 seconds or so, my thrashing had mixed the shit thoroughly into the water. Finally, Bryce flushed, and the water was sucked down.

He held me there until it had all disappeared.

Bryce held me there for another minute or so, as I coughed and spluttered.

Finally, he shook my body impatiently.

“What do you say, slave boy?”

I quickly remembered.

“Thank you so much for my swirlie, sir,” I said fervently.

“I know I need that, sir.

It was so refreshing, sir.”

Bryce dropped me back to the grimy tiled floor in a gesture of disgust.

“I can’t believe I have to fucking remind you to thank me, you ungrateful slut,” he said.

“I was clear about that order too.”

He paused.

“What the fuck are you waiting for, you little faggot? Get that fucking head back in the toilet bowl like you’re supposed to.”

I scrambled to hastily obey.

“You’re pathetic,” Bryce said, unnecessarily.

He walked out of the stall.

I thought he was leaving for good, and my shoulders slumped with relief for a moment, but he was back just a few seconds later.

From my peripheral vision barely outside the bowl, I could see he was carrying two objects . . . it looked like maybe a black sharpie, and a banana? I could tell from his tone of voice that Bryce was grinning.

“I think tickling the soles of your feet makes for a much more effective swirlie, slave.

Lie still.”

I could feel him drawing with sharpie marker on my lower legs and the soles of my feet.

The drawing further tickled the soles of my feet, and involuntarily, I giggled and squirmed.

“Lie still, bitch,” Bryce barked. I forced myself to obey.

“I’m writing a message letting the rest of the boys know that tickling your feet makes for a better swirlie,” Bryce explained, also unnecessarily.

Finally, Bryce took the banana in hand.

It was still in its yellow peel.

It was large.

With one violent gesture, he shoved it forcefully into my ass-hole . . . he had to push it in a few more times before it was wedged in securely.

I winced and gasped. “Alright, bitch boy.

Final treat for you.

I don’t wanna fucking hafta go over this again.

This is an all night swirlie.

The rules are you keep your fucking head in the toilet bowl all night, and you thank each frat boy sincerely and emphatically after each swirlie.

Now, if you forget about those rules, we’re gonna punish you again, with a very special game called “Ice Cream Sundae.”

If you let that banana fall out of your ass, in the morning, we’ll also play “Ice Cream Sundae,” so you better keep it in.

Cuz trust me, bitch boy, you don’t wanna play Ice Cream Sunday, as fun as it will be for the rest of us.”

With that, Bryce dropped the sharpie to the tiled floor and strode out of the bathroom, leaving me kneeling there, my head tucked fearfully into the toilet bowl, afraid to shift around lest I somehow remove my head even for a split second.

Ice Cream Sunday, I wondered.

What on earth did they have planned next?

The procession of frat boys using the bathroom stall did not slow down even a little bit.

If anything, as the evening wore on, more and more frat boys filed in, and a higher and higher percentage of them were there to take a shit.

The sadistic frat boys had timed the whole thing brilliantly . . . with such a hefty barbeque, the need of the frat boys to use the toilet was constant.

Reid came in.

Then Wes.

Then Sam, then Collin, then many, many others.

Even Hank, usually the more soft-hearted frat boy, came into the stall, took a dump, and then dunked my head into the water.

With Bryce’s sharpie note now scrawled messily all over the soles of my feet, the more sadistic frat boys all delighted in dangling my head into the toilet while they went to work on my bound bare feet, making my swirlies ten times worse.

“Keep your toes spread wide open,” Trevor grinned, as he dangled me sadistically over the foul toilet.

“I’m not letting you up until you prove that you can keep your toes spread wide open for 15 whole seconds.”

Trevor, of course, proceeded to tickle me in my most vulnerable spots in between my toes, and it was completely impossible for me to keep my toes spread apart . . . I felt like I would go crazy if I tried.

As punishment for my inability to obey, Trevor dunked me in and out of the toilet for ten whole minutes, ordering me to keep my toes spread as I pleaded for mercy.

Of course, with all this tickling and upside-down suspension, it was only a matter of time before the inevitable happened.

I had endured this ordeal for hours, suffering thrugh well over 50 malicious frat boys shitting and then swirlying me, and innumerable others pissing and swirlying me, Finally, late into the night, as one of the sophomore jocks dunked me in and went to work on my soles, I lost control completely, and the banana slipped out of my ass-crack and fell onto the floor.

“Uh oh, bitch boy,” the sophomore frat boy said with mock sorrow.

“You know what that means.”

20 minutes later, despite the lateness of the hour and the general atmosphere of drunken revelry, the entire frat had roused itself and was once again lingering eagerly outside the stall, watching my next torment with breathless anticipation.

Bryce, as always, took the lead.

“Guess bitch boy really wanted to find out how to play ice cream Sundae,” he said with a grin.

I was still kneeling on the filthy tiled floor, on Bryce’s orders, with my head lowered into the porceline bowl.

“Get your head out of the toilet bowl, faggot,” Trevor chimed in.

“You should be watching all this closely.”

“First step,” Bryce explained, patiently.

I could feel the frat boys behind me, gazing on in wonder and anticipation.

Bryce stooped down, and picked the large yellow banana off from the floor.

He peeled it gingerly, then, while I knelt there, looking on, he dropped the naked banana gingerly into the toilet water.

“Alright, fuckers,” Bryce said.

“Next step: I need some volunteers.

Who still needs to take a shit?”

As it turned out, a number of frat boys still did.

I saw a number of hands shoot up . . . almost hadn’t everyone who hadn’t already taken a shit so far, I was vaguely aware.

“Good,” Bryce explained.

“Step right up to the front of the line, boys!”

Jared went first.

He stepped forward.

“Lazy fucking bitch boy.

Get down on the floor, so that your entire body is pressed against the floor!” Trevor barked at me, as I hastily complied, throwing myself completely prostrate to the grimy tiled floor.

(My wrists were of course still duct taped around the toilet bowl, so that my arms were outstretched around the base of the toilet). Trevor smirked at Jared.

“Now, go ahead Jared . . .but make sure to wipe your feet on the frat’s bath mat as you do it.”

Jared, warming to his theme, kicked off his flip-flops. He trod roughly across my back, so that his bare feet dug painfully into my naked back.

I felt him mount the toilet set . . . of course, he used his bare feet to mash my head down, so that my face was pressed against the filthy floor as he shat.

When he was finally done, we walked back across my back, then slipped his flip-flops back on.

2 more frat boys followed suit, each doing exactly what Jared had done, doing a number two on the toilet, and using my back as a bath mat while they did it.

I was vaguely cognizant of the fact that none of them had flushed.

As a final salvo, Bryce produced a container of whipped cream.

He proceeded to spray a massive dose of cream into the toilet bowl, until it was completely filled up.

“Dude,” I heard one of the frat boy whisper, elbowing another, “this is gonna be fucking awesome.”

“Get back up on your knees, bitch boy,” Bryce ordered me.

I scrambled to obey, my wrists still taped around the toilet base.

Now I was staring into the toilet bowl. I literally couldn’t see the contents of the toilet bowl, with all the whipped cream sprayed on top.

Bryce looked at me, with a sadistic glint in his eye.

“Now do you understand how you play Ice Cream Sundae, slut?”

I felt stupid, but in truth, I didn’t.

Bryce sighed.

“Such a dumb fucking toilet slave and bath mat,” he sighed.

“Alright, as usual, let me spell it out for you.

“See, bitch boy, you just saw 3 of the frat’s brothers shit in this toilet. So, what you have in that toilet, is a crap load of whip cream, a banana, and 3 pieces of shit.”

Bryce next took out a red bandana from his pocket, and wrapped it around my eyes and tied it behind my head, blindfolding me.

“Have you ever bobbed for apples, bitch boy?” he asked.

I finally saw where this was all going, and wasn’t quite able to suppress a moan of despair . . . which of course elicited further snickering from the frat boys behind me, egging Bryce on.

I didn’t respond right away, I was so stunned by the realization of what they were about to make me do.

Bryce slapped me on the ass, hard.

“I asked you a question, slave boy.”

I winced.

“Yes sir.

I’ve bobbed for apples, sir.”

I could hear the sadistic grin in his voice.

“Well, faggot, now you’re gonna bob for the banana.

Using only your teeth, you hafta extract the banana from the toilet bowl.

And I sure hope you don’t pull out the wrong thing.

Lord knows, that could get messy.

And by the way, if it takes you too long to pull out the banana, in the morning, we’ll play another game of ice cream Sundae all over again.”

I plunged my head into the toilet bowl, the roar of the cheering frat boys a low background din in my ears.

It seemed far away.

Fighting down a feeling of revulsion I somehow managed to sink my teeth into the banana on the first try.

I fished it out of the toilet bowl and spat it on the ground.

The frat boys applauded.

I could tell that some of them were disappointed I had gotten on the first try.

I tensed myself, expecting Bryce to order me to do it again.

Instead, Bryce shrugged. Finally, at long last, he cut the duct tape around my wrists, and detached me from the base of the toilet bowl (my ankles and knees, however, remained duct taped together) Then he reattached the leash to my collar, and proceeded, with the other frat boys following behind, to lead me (crawling, of course, on my hands and knees) into yet another room in the basement.

It was dark.

I blinked, trying to adjust my eyes to the light.

I realized almost every single square inch of the wooden floor paneling in this room was covered with . . . I blinked again.

With shoes.

An assortment of shoes.

There were a bunch of formal black lace up mens’ shoes . . . the kind you would wear with a suit.

They were lined up neatly in orderly pairs on one side of the room.

I estimated there must be 25 pairs of that kind alone. Then, scattered more randomly across the rest of the floor, there were other shoes.

Brown loafers and lots of brown sperry topsiders (boat shoes).

Athletic cleats.

I noticed off to the side a pair of cow boy boots that I decided had to belong to Hank.

And, of course . . . what else? . . . lots and lots and lots of brown rainbow flip flops.

I estimated there had to be over 100 different pairs of shoes.

Looking more closely, I realized that most of the shoes had something in common; they were all filthy.

The formal shoes on one side of the room, instead of being shiny and black, the way suit shoes were supposed to look, were all grimy and caked with mud.

The cleats were even worse . . . they were completely coated in dried mud caked on to each shoe. The flip-flops had less dirt, but even from up here, I could tell they all smelled bad, as did the sperry top-siders and the other brown boat shoes.

Bryce tied the opposite end of my leash to another metal ring that was built into the wall, and then produced still more duct tape, and used it to bind my wrists behind my back.

I wondered if they actually worried I might somehow escape, or whether at this point doing stuff like that was purely to deepen my humiliation. “Alright, bitch boy,” Bryce said sternly.

Whether or not high school night ends now is up to you.

It’s time we put your boot cleaning skills to good use, slut.

Every fucking shoe in this room belongs to a member of the frat.

You have 12 hours.

In 12 hours, using just your cock sucking mouth, you need to have every goddam shoe in this room totally fucking spotless.

We better be able to see our reflection in these dress shoes, and the dirt better be totally cleaned off the others, by the time I get back, bitch boy, or there will be hell to pay.

Here’s a few quick hints: pine cone wedgie. And more ice cream sundaes.”

I shuddered.

Bryce pulled a pine cone and another banana out of his pocket and set them down on a stool on the far side of the room. “Here,” he said, with a sadistic grin.

“This oughta help keep you focused.”

He pointed to his bare feet.

I realized most of the frat boys had bare feet at the moment . . . obviously because they had already kicked their sandals and shoes off in this room.

“Now kiss my feet bitch boy, and thank us for the honor of licking the frat’s sandals and shoes clean.”

I crawled over to Bryce’s feet, kissed both feet, and thanked him.

He laughed, and then he and the other frat boys walked out, locking the door behind them, and leaving me to begin.

 

THE END

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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 greg_alexander222@yahoo.com.

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