Tag Archives: Straight Fraternity

Story

Over the Line – Part 1: First Down

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By ty dehner

ropedweb stories by ty dehner

Long distance, I hate those words. There never seems to be anything positive about the two of them. We know it costs money anytime you want to talk to someone on the phone, long distance. Then there is that night you meet a hot guy, a guy that looks fucking awesome in his jeans and football jersey, a guy that grabs you by the neck, spits in your face then slams his tongue down your throat, trapping you in the spell of is blue eyes.

That night that you go back to his hotel room and talk all night, lying in the pair of football pants he allows you to wear that he has sweated in for weeks while working out in the gym. Nothing matters but lying next to him, laying your head on his chest as you listen to him breathing and sharing his life with you. In the morning as you’re driving home, it dawns on you that he isn’t from your city and if you want things to continued, yes, it has to be a long-distance relationship. You see, long distance is never good.

Yea, I was a fool for allowing me to be sucked in, but when you meet the right guy, you must believe don’t you? But damn if the Gods didn’t conspire against us.

Continue reading Over the Line – Part 1: First Down →

Story

Chronicles of a Slave Trader – Chapter 13

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By PredicamentBondage

As it turns out, by the time I’d slurped my coffee, sent a few emails, made a few phone calls, collapsed in front of the television to relax, and relaxed a bit too much and fell asleep, I left fuck-face being tortured by the unsympathetic computer somewhat longer than I’d planned.

I awake with a start. Checking my watch, I realise that fuck-face has been tormented by the tireless machine for a full nine and a half hours. “Oops!” I say out loud. “Guess I should have set an alarm. The scally-lad will be well-done by now; charred around the edges I expect.” I smile.

Rubbing the sleep from the corner of my eyes, I muscle myself out of the too-soft sofa, and stroll back to the rack-room.

Not quite sure what to expect, I tentatively open the door, enough to squeeze my head into the room to assess the damage. First impression is of an overwhelming smell of sex, testosterone and musty sweat. I open the door enough to step through and hesitantly step towards the prisoner’s prone body.

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Story

Frat Boy’s Bitch Boy – Part 15

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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.

Continue reading Frat Boy’s Bitch Boy – Part 15 →

Story

Frat Boy’s Bitch Boy – Part 11

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By Greg Alexander

The brothers of Delta Psi were out, and they were getting hammered.

Trevor was downing his 6th beer of the night, and compared to most of the other guys, he was taking it easy. Across the table from him, Hank, his face flush with red under his Stetson, was gulping down another pint of Guinness. Collin and Reid were grinning and slamming their glasses together forcefully as they gulped down their Logger’s ale. Bryce, for his part, was doing shots of vodka, and although the bottle of absolut in front of him was more empty than full, he seemed only mildly affected. Wes and Shane were the only two pledges who had been invited along. Wes was downing shots with Bryce, trying to keep up, and obviously not succeeding, he was already completely smashed. Shane was sitting next to Trevor and tapping his flip-flop to the beat of the background music in the bar. He had also had his fair share of shots, and his tongue was loose.

They were at Dirty Nick’s, the frat’s favorite hangout. Midterms were finally over, and nobody in the frat had seen their GPA so low that they were in danger of being kicked off any of their teams. It was reason enough to celebrate.

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Story

Billy and Me – Part 1

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By Tommy Guns

I was on my daily run, wearing nothing but a pair of red nylon jogging shorts and tennis shoes, when a panel van first passed me and then turned abruptly to block my path. Two guys jumped out of the side door and tackled me. They forced me to the ground and handcuffed my wrists behind my back. I tried to kick out at them, but they quickly snapped a set of short chain leg irons on my ankles.

They then lifted me roughly shoved me into the van. Next they forced a penis shaped rubber gag into my mouth, fastening it with a strap behind my neck. A leather hood was pulled over my head and was laced tightly behind it, and a locking collar was fastened over it to keep it in place. They then forced me on to my stomach and attached a short chain from the leg irons to the chain between the handcuffs. The final assault was when they cut off my shorts and shoved what I could only guess was a huge butt plug up my ass I would have gasped out a scream of incredible pain, but all that escaped my gag was a muffled and unintelligible sort of grunt. I was hogtied and could neither speak nor move a muscle, and my asshole was on fire. Resistance was futile.

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Story

To Defile

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By Bikermike

Defile (transitive verb) to befoul; to pollute or corrupt; to violate (Chambers 20th Century Dictionary 1983 edition)

I walked round, assessing what needed to be done. How long would it take? What instruments would I need?

I gave a few prods and punches to the object hanging there in the middle of the room. I suppose it could be described as a perfect specimen of masculinity, secured by chains from its wrists to an electric winch attached to a beam across the ceiling. It was naked except for a tiny pair of red lycra shorts that left very little to one’s imagination: if its penis became erect the shorts would be of little use as far as modesty was concerned.

This boy (for that’s what he was) was, I suppose about twenty five, six feet four with a swarthy complexion, zero crop hair and with about a week’s beard growth on his face. He also looked as though he had spent every day for the last eight years in the gym.

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Story

Busman’s Holiday – Part 20

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By lthr_jock

Clark stared at the computer in disbelief. Grumbling, he headed into the shower and started to lather himself down. He could barely believe what had happened to him – or what Vickers had made happen to him. He was abused, violated – and yet, on top of it all, he was still horny. A pain from his crotch reminded him of the cage still on him – a pain caused by his cock trying to get erect. He smiled ruefully as he realised that he had enjoyed the experience.

As he stood in front of the mirror towelling off, he looked at himself. His new haircut looked strange, but combined with his clean-shaven chin made him look 10 years younger. His body looked off without his covering of hair, but it gleamed and shone as he towelled down, and he wondered what it had looked like with the posing oil on. As he thought this through, his cock swelled again in the cuff, and he looked down, wondering what it would look like now that his pubic hair was gone. His muscles still held the marks of the harness chains, and there were red marks all over him from the bondage. Although he hadn’t been doing any exercise he ached, and with a towel wrapped around him he went back into his room and crashed out on the bed.

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Story

The Convict – Part 15

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By Joshua Ryan

I unfolded the shorts. They were cheap and stiff and pasty white, with the same black brand on the leg and rump: CONVICT 353308. Even in your underwear, you had to be labeled. Your rump needed to be numbered so that nobody would mistake it for the rump of the inmate who was next in line. You could never forget that you were a convict, a package of meat with a barcode.

I pulled the right leg of the boxers over my iron and drew them up to my crotch.   I’d never worn whites before. Even when I was a kid, my mother always bought me something “colorful,” something “artistic.” And I’d never worn anything next to my body that felt as coarse and rough as those things felt when I pulled them on for the first time, watching my balls and dick vanish beneath the harsh white cloth that covered them like some exotic disease. I shuddered and reached blindly for the t-shirt.   The thing was as heavy and coarse as the boxers, and just as white, except for the familiar message stamped on the front and back — CONVICT 353308. I pulled it slowly over my chest. Now I was dressed in my prison underwear, with my prison name and my prison number glaring black from the naked white . . . and my dick was rising again. I never knew I could feel this way, sick and eager at the same time . . . Through the thick cloth of my t-shirt, I could see my nipples starting to tube . . .

“What’s the matter, convict?” College Boy asked. “You one of these boxer queens? Can’t get enough of your undies, man? I want you dressed out, convict. Make it snappy.”

Continue reading The Convict – Part 15 →