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. I lay there, pinned down to the spanking bench, more and more piss flowing through the tube, through my piss gag, and into my mouth as the night wore on.
The screen on my laptop was never inactive for long. Through the grainy video feed, I could see guy after guy after guy after guy take his place in front of the urinal. As the hours passed, and as the beer kept flowing, they started staggering into the bathroom more visibly drunk, their stride more and more lopsided, their every movement more and more inebriated, but still they kept coming. And coming. And coming.
They were mostly frat guys, jocks, athletes, guys with popped collars, guys with backward baseball hats and sun glasses inexplicably still on, even though it was night and indoors . . . the types you’d expect to find at your typical frat party on our campus. I was sure there were plenty of girls, but of course, thanks to the signage the frat boys had left outside the bathroom, none of them were coming in.
