Date: Mon, 21 Aug 2006 05:01:15 -0700 (PDT)
From: greg_alexander222@yahoo.com
Subject: Frat Boy's Bitch Boy Part 1

I could hardly contain my excitement when I walked into my freshman dorm
room and saw Trevor standing there.

Sure, I had known I was going to be rooming with a big jock, a much
discussed new recruit for both the university crew team and tennis teams,
and I'd heard he was already planning on pledging Delta Psi, the most
hardcore frat on campus.  But I hadn't realized how stunningly hot he'd be.

When I walked in, he was just wearing work-out shorts, a tight undershirt,
and a big pair of white sneakers with no socks, so that his ankle bones
were clearly visible.  I almost sprang a boner there on the spot.  He was
incredibly tall, with a lean and muscular frame, and broad shoulders.  He
had jet black hair, curly yet cropped very short and close to his head,
which made him look even more masculine.  His face was boyish, cleanly
shaved and with delicate features, but you could tell from his fiery blue
eyes the boy meant business.  I knew right away I didn't want to cross
Trevor.

I tried to make conversation with him when I walked in -- he was unpacking
his socks and underwear and athletic gear from a large, old fashioned trunk
in which he seemed to have packed most of his clothing.  As he removed his
undershirts and underwear by the bundles, he spread them out onto a padded
reclining chair and a large coffee table he had already moved into the
room.  He was distant, and his mind was definitely otherwise engaged.

"Whatya up to?"  I asked.

"Nothin.  I'm late for practice," he grunted.  On his way out of the dorm
room, he kicked off his shoes for a second to pull on a pair of thick white
tennis socks.  For that one brief second, I caught a glimpse of his bare
feet, and my jaw almost dropped.  They were big feet, beautifully tanned,
nice and moist too.  I got the idea that Trevor always liked to keep his
feet shielded -- not a big fan of walking around the dorm room barefoot,
judging by his unmarked soles.  Maybe he wanted to make sure they didn't
get spoiled for his tennis games, I thought to myself.

To be honest, I was torn.  On the one hand, I was thrilled that I would be
living, for at least the semester, with a hot stud with hot feet.  But I
also knew it was going to be a huge distraction.  How was I ever supposed
to do work in my room, when all I wanted to do was stare at my gorgeous
roommate?

As it turned out, that was the least of my problems.


At first I saw very little of Trevor, and talked to him even less.  As
classes began, I was home a lot studying, and Trevor was hardly ever around
our room -- he spent almost all his free time with his new teams and his new
frat.  He sometimes came in late at night those first few weeks, drunk as
hell and muttering about how all the University's girls were cunts who
refused to give good head.  On these nights I could hear him noisily
whacking off before he feel asleep.  The sound of him rubbing at his horny
dick was aways enough to make me rock hard myself.

From the start, I can't say Trevor was a friendly roommate.  When he did
talk to me, it was usually to tell me to do something.

"Hey Stevie, could you turn off that fucking music?"

Or "Hey Stevie, try not to make so much fucking noise when you get up in
the morning, K?  Some of us have to go to practice."

Or "Steve, what are you doing in that shower, pissing?  I gotta use it."

One night, Trevor and I were both sitting on our twin beds, crammed side by
side into the narrow freshman dorm room.  I was trying to finish my reading
for class.  Trevor was, in a departure from the norm, staying in that
night, mostly because his favorite football team was playing and he wanted
to follow the game.  This he was doing noisily, partly because the TV
volume was cranked up, but mostly because Trevor constantly added his own
steady stream of either curses or whoops of enthusiasm, depending on the
score and the on-screen action.

Finally I couldn't take it.  I had an exam the next morning.  "Hey, Trevor,
you mind turning that volume down a notch or two?" I asked mildly.

Trevor kept watching the game without visibly reacting to what I had said.

I spoke a little louder.  "Trevor . . . turn that down a notch, if you
don't mind?"

This time he lifted his index finger to his mouth and shushed me.  He
didn't even look at me.

I scowled and felt pissed, but I didn't really want to confront him.  I
grabbed my books, visibly annoyed, and left the room to go to the library.


After that night, I noticed Trevor came back to the dorm room a little more
often to watch TV.  I thought maybe, as the semester progressed, the
fraternity took up less of his time and he had more nights to chill, or
something like that.  But whatever the reason, the upshot was that he spent
more and more time in our dorm room with the TV on, and the volume on high,
watching his sports games.

He often slipped his shoes off as he sat on his bed, his feet extended clad
in ankles socks that were often dripping with sweat from his practices
earlier in the day, or from the runs that he liked to take in the
afternoon.  The feet were irresistibly sexy, and distracted me to no end.
But Trevor's TV watching habits annoyed the hell out of me.  I had a lot of
work, and I wanted to do it in our room.  I tried, once or twice again,
asking Trevor to turn it down, but he always either brushed me off or
ignored me completely.  I didn't really know what to do about it, so I
didn't do anything.  Anyway, I did like staring at his socks.  Instead, I
decided I would sidestep the whole problem -- mostly, anyway -- by buying an
ipod, so that I could block most of the TV noise out.

Still, somehow, things got worse.  Trevor started bring his friends over to
watch the games with him -- his frat brothers and teammates were even louder
than he was.  I came home one night to find that Trevor had 3 of his
friends over in our room, watching basketball.  Trevor was lying on his
bed, a second guy was sitting in Trevor's padded armchair on the far side
of the room, and the remaining two were sprawled out on my bed.  I wanted
to go to sleep, but I didn't want to tell them they had to get up -- plus,
they were pretty hot.  So I just let them stay there.  I waited outside in
the hall for them to leave, but they never did -- it turned out they had all
been drinking, and they just passed out where they were lying.  I ended up
falling asleep in the hallway at 4 in the morning, feeling exhausted.

The next morning, I was shaken roughly awake by Trevor.  I was still
slumped in the hall, and he was standing over me prodding me with his
sneaker.

"There you are," he said curtly.  "Listen, dude, can I borrow your ipod
today?  The team's going away for the night and I wanna have some extra
music to listen to."

I scowled.  I felt tired and cranky.  "Uh, sure," I said with a sigh.

When Trevor got back, he didn't give me back the Ipod.  I figured he'd just
forgotten and would get around to it, so I didn't prod him at first.  But
then, that night, he came back to the room with several of his buds --
again.  It was really late, and I had already had my lights turned out, so
I was pretty miffed to have a bunch of frat guys file into the room, turn
on the lights, switch on the TV, and pile onto Trevor's bed.

"Dude," Trevor rumbled.  "We're just gonna catch the tail end of this show
we're watching, K?"  He was not asking permission -- he was telling me.

"Uh . . . OK," I stammered.  "Could you just gimme my ipod then?"

"Oh . . hey, sorry man, I forgot to tell you.  I'm afraid it got broke.  We
tried to fix it but the damn thing's totally fried . . . sorry, man."

I stared at him, but he and his frat brothers were already deeply involved
in the TV, and seemed to be ignoring me completely.


The next day, Thursday afternoon, when Trevor switched the TV on again
while I was trying to work, I decided, reluctantly, that I finally had to
do something.

"Dude . . ." I said, as sternly as I could.  "We gotta talk."

He didn't turn to look at me -- he kept his eyes on the TV -- but he said
"Dude.  Ok."  I felt faintly like I was being mocked.

"Look," I finally said.  "Are you gonna buy me a new ipod or what?"

This made him turn and look at me, with surprise.  "Why would I?"

"Well, you broke the one you borrowed."

"I didn't break it.  It just broke."

"While you had it!"

"I don't see how the fuck that matters."

I finally exploded.  "Oh, you don't see, do you, you brainless moron?  I
bought that fucking Ipod so I could block out the noise of your football
and basketball games while I study, since you never turn the fucking volume
down and you bring your friends over without asking, and then you go and
take my ipod and you break it, and then you won't even pay for a new one??
What's your problem, Trevor?"

This breathless monologue left me panting.  Trevor just sat there, looking
at me.  He was wearing sunglasses, something he liked to do, so I couldn't
really see his eyes, but his face didn't seem to register anything.  Very
calmly, he stood up, walked to the door in his athletic shorts, and closed
it.  And then he locked it.

"What are you doing?"

"I think you're right . . . dude.  We need to talk."

"Yeah, I'm glad . . ."

"Shut up, Steve.  Don't say another word.  Let me make one thing very
fucking clear -- no one talks to me that way.  And certainly not a spineless
little faggot like you.  In this room, I will do whatever the hell I want,
whenever I want, and you're not gonna try to stop me.  You're not gonna ask
me to turn the volume down.  You're not gonna glare at me when I bring my
buds here.  And you're sure as shit not gonna talk to me like that."

I stared at him, almost mesmerized.

"Now," he said.  "Say you're very, very sorry."

I just stared at him. My throat had gone dry and I didn't have words to
answer him.

He looked at me again.  "Say you're sorry, mother fucker."

I found my voice.  "Fuck you, Trevor."

"I'm gonna give you one last chance, Steve.  One very last chance.  I
strongly, strongly urge you to say you're sorry, or I can promise you
you're gonna be sorry you didn't."

I stood up.  "I've had enough of this."

He moved toward me, and all of a sudden I was afraid.  I bolted to the
door, trying to get out -- but then I realized he had locked it.  I was
fumbling with the lock, when I felt his hands grab me from behind.

I kicked.  I struggled.  I writhed furiously.  It didn't make any
difference.  At 6 and a half feet, Trevor was a foot taller than me and far
stronger.  He easily dragged me down to the floor, and then pinned me on my
back.  He straddled me and sat on me, so that his enormous body mass was
suddenly crushing me down to the floor.  With one big strong hand, he took
both of my wrists and pinned them down above my head, so that I was
completely trapped beneath him.

"Are you crazy?"  I gasped.  "They'll kick you out!"  I was panicked, but I
was also getting incredibly hard at the same time.

For the first time, Trevor smiled faintly.  "I guess I better make sure you
can't talk to an RA then, huh?" He reached for a role of duct tape sitting
on his night stand.  As though he were tossing around a sack of flour, he
flipped me heavily over onto my belly, still pinning my body to the ground.
He brought my hands back behind my back, then looped a long strip of heavy
duct tape around my wrists, so that they were trapped behind me.

I started to shout.  I was getting pretty freaked out, as turned on as I
was.  Trevor acted calmly and quickly: with my hands immobilized, he turned
around and yanked my tennis shoes off, followed closely by my thick white
sweaty athletic socks.  My mouth was still open as I shouted for help, so
Trevor surprised me by jamming one sock into my open mouth.  He tried to
fit the other one in as well, but quickly found that it wouldn't fit -- the
first sock more than filled my entire mouth, quickly shutting off the
noise.  I tried to spit it out, but again, Trevor was too fast for me -- he
yanked off another strip of duct tape and sealed my mouth closed with it,
so I was securely gagged. My sock tasted terrible.

As he sat on top of me, I realized the duct tape around my wrists was not
too firm, and I slowly began to wiggle free of it, hoping that I could
suddenly free my hands and take him by surprise.  But again, Trevor was way
too quick for me.

He smirked at me.  "I guess the duct tape won't be enough, huh?  I can see
I'm gonna need some rope.  But unfortunately we don't have any in the room,
and somehow I'm afraid you won't wait here for me if I go get some. So, I'm
sorry buddy, but I guess there's only one choice."  With that, he hefted me
up into the air with his big strong hands, taking me, once again,
completely by surprise. In one fluid athletic motion he kicked open the big
trunk in which he had packed all of his college belongings -- it was an old
fashioned trunk, and it was quite large, and almost entirely empty.  Or it
had been.

I saw what he was going for, and I struggled and flailed even more.  But
Trevor simply dropped me inside the gaping empty space and slammed the lid
shut.  I was in total darkness -- I could hear the sound of the lock
clicking shut.

"Now, stay there," Trevor snickered.  I thrashed around, kicking, but I
quickly realized it was totally useless.  I was stuck there until Trevor
decided to let me out.

I heard Trevor walk over to the door.  Then he stopped.  "Oh, I almost like
forgot.  I wouldn't want to deprive you of some entertainment."  He
snickered again.  I heard the sound of the TV being turned on -- it sounded
like ESPN.  "Now, listen closely, faggot.  I've got a fun game for you.
This is a hockey game, and it's only the first period.  There's another
game after that.  I'm gonna go hang out at the frat with some buds, so I'll
miss both.  I want you to tell me the scores of both games, and give a
rundown of how each one went."  He paused.  "If you fuck up, when I get
back, I'm gonna punish you."  I heard him fiddle with the remote.  "Here.
I'll turn it all the way up so that you can hear every detail."  The TV was
blaring loudly as his footsteps receded down the hallway and the door
closed behind him.


He was gone for most of the afternoon.  I didn't know the first thing about
hockey, and it was impossible to figure out what was going on.  I did
manage to figure out the scores for both games -- or at least, I thought I
figured them out, it was hard to be sure.

It seemed like Trevor was gone for ages.  Of course, trapped in the trunk,
with my own sock crammed into my throat, barely any room for me to move my
arms or legs around at all, ESPN blaring in the background, it seemed like
every minute was an hour.  Soon I had completely lost track of time.  I
started to feel claustrophobic and panicky, like I would never get out.  I
tried several times to kick at the trunk walls or the lid, but it was very
secure -- all I did was stub one of the toes on my vulnerable bare feet.  So
I stopped trying to escape and tried to resign myself to my fate.

Long after both games had ended -- my only reliable measure of time -- I
heard the door swing open. I could hear Trevor walking around the room.  It
sounded like he was fiddling with the door for a while. Then I heard the
springs squeak above me -- he was lying down on his bed, but he wasn't
opening the trunk.  I tried to moan through my sock gag, but if Trevor
could hear me, he just ignored me.

Finally, a while after I had stopped moaning, I heard him get off the bed
and fiddle with the trunk latch.  The lid swung open and I winced, blinded
by the sudden burst of light.  He loomed over me, still, as always, in his
work out clothes.  He was drenched in sweat -- he had been running, I
guessed.

"Hey, roommate" he said.

I just stared at him, unable to do anything else.

"You wanna come out of the trunk now?" he said after a second.

I nodded quickly.

"Well . . .  I dunno.  It's kinda nice being able to stuff your loud, whiny
ass in there and forget about it."

I thought he was going to lock me back inside, and the thought suddenly
made me feel sick.  I couldn't spend another second locked in that cramped
dark space!

Quickly, before I could even stop myself, I sprang out of the trunk.  I had
managed to free my wrists from the remnants of the duct tape, so my limbs
were completely free now.  I was gagged, but that was it.  This might be my
chance to escape.

Adrenaline pumping through my body, I rushed for the door, my bare feet
pounding on the floor as I sprang for the door handle.  I got there!  I was
home free.  Once I made it to the hall, surely I'd be safe?

The handle wouldn't budge.  The door was still locked!  As I fumbled with
the lock, I suddenly realized that Trevor was not coming after me -- he was
calmly standing in place, looking at me with an expression of detached
interest.  Why?

Then I realized, suddenly, that the lock wouldn't move.  It seemed to be
frozen in place.  What the fuck??  Desperately, I started pounding on the
door with my fists.

"Looking for this?" Trevor said quietly, with a tight smile.  I turned
around, and realized he was holding both room keys in his hand.  "I
reversed the lock while you were resting in that nice trunk.  Now you need
a key to get out, instead of in.  Sorry . . . guess I forgot to mention
that.  Huh."  He suddenly grinned happily, and slipped both keys in his
pocket.  "I think I'll hang onto both of these."

Not knowing what else to do, I just stood there and looked at him stupidly.

"Hey," he said casually, taking his time.  "Can I show you what I got while
I was out?"  He didn't wait to hear whether he could -- he reached down on
the ground and picked up a plain white plastic bag and turned it upside
down, so that it's contents spilled out all over the bed.

It was filled shoe laces -- long, white tennis shoe laces.  There were some
smaller bags as well, but I wasn't sure what was in them.

"I bought these just now at a shoe store," Trevor explained casually.
"Thought I might get some use out of it."  His tone changed abruptly.  "I'm
gonna fucking own you, bitch.  And the first thing I'm gonna do is tie you
up so tight with these shoe laces won't be able to move without my
permission.  Now . . . c'mere."

I looked around desperately, trying to find some other way out of the room.

Trevor snickered.  "Face it, fuckface.  You're screwed.  There's no other
way out.  Your only hope is to try to get the key from me.  I'm like 4
times as strong as you, and a foot taller, and I'm on two varsity teams.
If you wanna fight me, by all means, go ahead.  But if you fight me, when
you lose, after I've tied you up, I'm gonna punish you.  I mean, I'm really
gonna punish you.  And when you beg me for mercy, I'm gonna laugh at you
and punish you some more."

I couldn't say anything through my sock gag, but I silently bowed my head
in a gesture of defeat.

"Good."  He grinned.  "Then lie down on the floor."  He looked thoughtful.
"But first, take off all your clothes.  I want to tie you up naked."


While Trevor stood there, a big wad of shoelaces balled up in his hand, he
made me strip off each piece of clothing that I was wearing, item by item,
fold it and stack it neatly in a pile.  When I got to my underwear, I began
to freak out, because I knew I still had a massive hard-on, and I was
afraid Trevor would see it.  I tried persuade Trevor not to make me take my
colored briefs off, using emphatic hand motions, but he simply marched
behind me and in one fluid motion yanked my underwear up, delivering a
crippling wedgie.  Nor did he let go -- he simply lifted me up into the air
by the backside of my briefs.  I tried to cry out, but I couldn't through
my gag.  It hurt even more because it was crushing my mammoth erection.

"I said take off ALL your clothes.  That means ALL."  Trevor hissed.

I wiggled free and yanked my undies off as fast as I could.  Trevor glanced
briefly at my drooling dick, and flashed me a terrifying evil smirk, but he
didn't say anything.  I felt my whole body flushing red.

"OK, dick.  Kneel down on the floor, hands over your head, soles of your
feet pointed back at me."

I hurried to obey.  In this pose, my bare ass was pointing up straight at
him -- I had never felt so exposed and vulnerable in my entire life.

Still, it was about to get worse.  Demonstrating an expert knot-tying
ability, Trevor looped two shoe laces around my bare ankles and yanked the
knots tight, so that my feet were hooked together.  He used more shoe laces
to tie my knees together, so that I really was completely immobilized -- I
couldn't move my legs at all now. As if none of this were enough, he tied
my wrists together securely behind my back, then looped that rope back
around my ankles, forcing my hands back to my feet and effectively hogtying
me.

He took a step back and surveyed his work.  He had tied the rope tightly
and very securely -- I could barely move.  He smirked at me -- he looked
satisfied.

"That's better, fuck face.  I think I like you better when you're tied up."
He studied me thoughtfully.  "I need to think about what I'm gonna do with
you.  For now, you can just kneel there."  He thought about what he had
said and suddenly smirked.  "Not like you can do much else, huh?  I'm gonna
watch some TV."

He climbed back up into his bed, reached for the remote, and switched ESPN
back on.  "Oh," he added, as an afterthought.  "By the way, when I
eventually decide to ungag you, I'll need the full rundown from those
hockey games right away."

That was when I realized I had already forgotten the scores.


Trevor watched a football game for a while, as I knelt there on the floor
beside his bed.  As usual, he had the volume turned up loud, but I couldn't
see the screen and so couldn't follow the game.

"Ya know," Trevor finally said, after the halftime.  "This is pretty
comfty, flopping down on the bed and all, but I've always thought watching
the TV around here could be a little more comfty.  I think the furniture
could use a little rearranging."  He looked at me.  "Don't you think so?"

I just looked back at him, unable to either agree or disagree through my
sock gag.

He looked at me again.  "Don't you, though?"

I realized he actually wanted an answer.  I was starting to get the idea
that it was a bad idea to ever contradict Trevor about pretty much
anything, so I nodded quickly and vigorously.

"Good!" Trevor said with a broad smile.  "Well, you're gonna arrange it for
me.  See, the way I figure it, you won't be needing your own bed for a
while.  So you're gonna push it up against mine, and then you're gonna
remake my bed into a double for me, while I watch the game."  He sighed, as
if I was imposing on him, and slowly rose up off the bed.  "I suppose I'm
gonna have to untie your arms first," he said, walking over to me. "But
your ankles stay tied together.  And just to make sure you don't even think
of trying to get away, I'm gonna put this on you."  Looking pleased with
himself, he held a dog collar up in front of my face -- it looked like he
had grabbed it out of the big bag with all the shoe laces.  In his other
hand, he was holding a long black leash.  Before he untied my hands, Trevor
fastened the collar around my neck, fastened the leash to the collar, and
then, for good measure, looped the leash around his wrist, so that I was
connected to him.  "Now," he chuckled.  "Get moving."

Trevor sat back down in his big easy chair, on the far side of the room.
With my arms now blessedly free but my barefeet and knees still tightly
woven together and the sock gag still stuffed in my mouth, I had to hop
awkwardly over to my bed, strip it down, push it across the room (still
limping one step at a time), line it up carefully next to Trevor's bed, and
then change the sheets so that it became an impromptu double bed.  It took
me almost half an hour.

"That's good," Trevor finally declared from his easy chair.  He yanked
lightly on the leash, pulling me back toward him.  "Now come over here and
push this chair into the center of the room, so it's right in front of the
TV."

I limped over to where Trevor was sitting. I thought he would stand up, but
he just sat there for like a minute, fiddling with the remote, before he
finally looked at me impatiently and said, "what are you waiting for?"

Sighing, I leaned over and slowly began to push Trevor and his chair over
toward the center of the room.  The two combined were incredibly difficult
to move, especially since, with my ankles tied firmly together, it was
almost impossible to anchor my feet to the floor and push forward.

"Hurry up," Trevor grunted impatiently.  "I don't have all day."

I shifted position, lying flat on my belly in front of Trevor and the
chair.  I hooked my free arms around the chair's base, and managed to drag
it inch by inch across the dirty dorm room floor.  When it was finally in
position, I stood up.

Trevor took his eyes off the screen for the first time in a while and
looked at me.  "What are you doing?" he said sharply.

I couldn't answer him through the gag, and didn't know what his problem was
now anyway, so I just looked at him.

"You stupid little bitch, you're standing up.  You're not allowed to stand
up unless you have my permission."  He yanked the leash toward him and I
fell roughly to the ground, feeling bruised.  "Get back down on the fucking
floor."

I dropped back down to my knees quickly.

"That's better," he said.  Still not moving from his comfortable chair, he
produced two more shoe laces -- he seemed to have an infinite supply -- and
curtly told me to put my hands out, whereupon he promptly retied them
together.

"Wow," he said in a loud voice.  "You know, it's great that I got that
double bed now -- can't wait to bring the cunts home to sleep with me in
that fucker.  And I love having this chair right in the center of the room,
where it's always belonged.  But ya know the one thing I've always thought
we could use?"

I just waited, with a bad feeling.

"A foot rest."  Trevor explained.  "I've always wanted a foot rest for this
chair.  But I've never had one."  He suddenly smirked at me.  "Till now."
He snapped his fingers briskly and pointed to the ground directly in front
of his shoes, right between him and the TV.

I suddenly felt my cock getting very, very hard.

I tried to control my horniness, but the idea of becoming Trevor's "foot
stool" was at once incredibly degrading and indescribably hot.

"C'mon," he was saying, tugging impatiently at the leash.  He was tying his
end of the leash to the side of the chair, so I couldn't move more then 5
feet away from the chair in any direction.  "I don't have all fucking day,
foot stool."

With a dry throat, I scooted my body forward along the floor until I was
positioned directly in front of the chair.

"Kneel there," Trevor directed.  "Put your hands on the floor so your back
is nice and flat."

I could see from my position that Trevor was still wearing his enormous
white running shoes, and a thick pair of sweat socks on underneath -- he had
not taken his shoes off since he got back from his run.

Then, unexpectedly, he swung his legs up, and set his big shoes heavily
down on my bare back.  I grunted with pain.

Trevor sighed with satisfaction.  "Mmmm.  That's much better," he said.
"It sure is nice to put my feet up."  In spite of everything, I found
myself glancing sidewise at his crotch.  He was wearing jeans . .  . but
did I see a bulge?  Or was it just my imagination?

" Keep your eyes on the floor foot stool -- don't even look there, you
faggot," Trevor rumbled.  "Eyes on the floor, and don't move a muscle!" He
lifted his right foot up and kicked down on my back with the hard heel of
his tennis shoe.  I winced, and I kept my gaze fixed downward.

I heard Trevor turning up the volume.


Trevor made me kneel there for the entire fourth quarter, his shoes propped
up on my back.  I was still naked, save the dog collar, as I had been the
entire time, and my knees hurt like hell, and anytime I shifted my position
or rocked my back even slightly, Trevor kicked me again and told me that
"foot stools don't move around."  My cock was of course drooling precum the
entire time.

Finally, Trevor said, "well, It looks like the fourth quarter is over foot
stool."

My shoulder's slumped with relief.

He grinned at me.  "But the game's heading into overtime."

I groaned into my gag.

"I know.  I'm also really happy that you can continue to serve as my foot
stool."  He sighed off into the distance as the game went to another
commercial break.  "Wow, you know, my feet are absolutely killing me in
these shoes.  They haven't breathed all day -- and they are so sweaty from
all the running I did earlier.  Plus, man, I gotta say, I haven't had time
to do any fucking laundry this week, so I've been wearing the same pair of
socks for three days.  It must smell so foul in there."  He looked at me
with a mischievous glint, and with his index finger gestured for me to move
toward him.  He lifted his shoes off my back, and I crawled forward.
Unexpectedly, he yanked the duct tape off my mouth -- which made my face
suddenly sting like crazy, since I had been wearing the gag for hours now.
Coughing, I gratefully spat out my putrid sock gag.

Trevor yanked me up by my hair, so I was forced to look into his steely
blue eyes.  He fixed me with a no nonsense expression.  "OK, cum breath,
I'm ungagging you because I wanna use your mouth, but don't for a fucking
second confuse that with me wanting to hear the sound of your girly ass
whiny little voice.  You are to speak only when I ask you a direct
question, is that clear?  Other than that, unless specifically instructed
otherwise, I want to hear only one thing come out of that faggoty mouth of
yours: "yes sir."  Is that clear?

I nodded.

"Answer the fucking question!"

"Uh . . . yes sir, it's clear."

Trevor's hand shot suddenly forward and caught ahold of my balls.  I was so
surprised I gasped.  I was still hard as a rock, but Trevor took a firm
hold of my sack and suddenly gave it a tight squeeze in his firm hand.  I
gave an involuntary cry of pain.

"Listen, fucker, I wanna make this real clear.  You don't say, "uh
. . . yes, I guess so, maybe, sometimes, sir?" His voice was high pitched
and whiny as he mockingly imitated me.  His squeeze tightened -- the pain
was excruciating.  Now he was talking in his normal, deep masculine voice
again.  "You say "THANK YOU, SIR!  You say it loud and fast!  You say it
like you really mean it.  You say it because you DO mean it.  You say it
because you aren't my roommate anymore.  You are my servant, and you are
here to do what I tell you to from now on, and you say it because you know
if you don't say it right every time I will hurt you."  He was still
squeezing down on my nuts, as I writhed with pain, trying to free my arms
and legs from the knots he had tied them in and failing.  He kept talking.
"I own you now bitch, and today I'm breaking you in.  Do you understand
that?"

He looked at me.  I looked at him.

His grip tightened even more.  I thought I'd never be able to pee again.

"YES, SIR!" I shouted, blinking back tears of pain.

"What was that?"  He cupped his free hand behind his ear.

"YES, SIR!!!!"

"You accept that I own you?"

"YES SIR!"

"And you look forward to serving as my foot stool, door mat, toilet slave,
ball licker or any other role that I choose for you, from now on?"

"YES SIR!"

"You accept that I am the frat boy, and you are my bitch boy?"

"YES SIR!"

"Good.  Now, like I was saying, my feet are fucking sore, and they're dirty
and smelly.  And they need to be cleaned.  So, are you ready to clean 'em
with your tongue?"

"YES SIR!"

"Good."  He finally released my balls, and I collapsed to the floor between
his legs, still groaning.  "Unlace my tennis shoes -- using only your
teeth," he instructed, settling back in his chair and turning up the volume
of the game, now in overtime.

I did.  Trevor made me bite down on the worn shoe leather and pull his
shoes off one by one, with my teeth.  Then he made me do the same thing for
his socks.  The smell of his feet was now completely overpowering, and his
soles were coated with sock lint.  I felt so low -- and yet, despite the
punishment my balls had just received, I was fully erect again.

"Kiss my feet," Trevor instructed from above.

"Yes sir."

"Good.  Now, kiss each toe."

"Yes sir."  He had the most masculine, smooth feet I had ever seen.  I
wanted badly to touch my throbbing dick.

"Good, slave.  What do you think of my feet?

"They're incredible, sir," I said immediately.  I absolutely meant it.

"Shut the fuck up and lick them clean, bitch."

"Yes sir."


He kept me at his feet for half an hour, licking and massaging, as he
watched the game.  When it finally ended in double overtime, I was so horny
I felt I would burst.

"Ok, foot slave," Trevor said, switching the TV off.  He untied the leash
from the chair and took a hold of his end again, giving me a wider radius
of movement.  "Go get me a beer from the fridge.  And bring over that copy
of Sports Illustrated sitting on my bed."

"Yes sir."  I struggled to stand up, with my ankles, knees and wrists still
bound tightly together.

"What the fuck are you doing?"  Trevor demanded, yanking at my dog collar
suddenly.

"I'm just getting you . . ."

"Did I tell you to stand, bitch?"

I swallowed.  "No . . . sir."

"OK.  Then I guess you'll have to crawl."

I managed to scoot across the floor, pick up the magazine with my teeth,
get inside the fridge, and lodge a Sam Adams under my arm.  I even,
anticipating his next order, grabbed a bottle opener while I was over
there.

I crawled back to his chair.

"So," he said, with a little smirk, as he opened the beer an took a chug.
"It looks like you almost enjoy this, you sick fuck."  I followed his gaze
to my drooling cock.

"You're gayer than a french trombone, aren't you, faggot?"

I felt myself blush with shame.  "Yes . . . sir," I mumbled.

"And you have the hots for my feet, don't you?  You like being my little
foot slave."

I blushed even more.  "Yes sir."

"And you've been horny down there for hours, haven't you?"

"Yes sir."

"So that means you want to whack off?"

I groaned.  "Yes, sir.  Very badly."

"Well, my little roommate, I might just let you."

"Thank you, sir!" I said with enormous relief.

He suddenly squeezed my chin between his forefingers and forced me to look
straight into his eyes.  He looked chillingly smug.  "Just answer me one
question first."

"Uh . . . OK."

He grinned. "Can you tell me the scores of those hockey games?"


Two minutes later, Trevor had gagged me again -- this time, with his smelly
socks, which I had just taken off his feet with my teeth earlier, which he
had indeed been wearing for 3 days, at least.  He had also ordered me back
into the footstool position -- knees planted painfully on the hard wood
floor of the dorm, back perfectly flat, eyes fixed downward -- and he had
his now barefeet propped up on my back, toes wiggling luxuriously, while he
gulped at his beer and flipped through Sports Illustrated.

"It's too fucking bad, pervert," he was saying.  "Just think.  If only you
could have remembered the scores of two little hockey games, like I told
you, you could be cumming in your pants right now."  He flipped a page.
"Fuck . . . I never realized having a roommate could be so much fun.  Keep
your fucking back flat -- don't let your ass sag."

I knelt there for another hour, while Trevor finished his beer and his
magazine.  My knees were killing me, and my back felt like it was on fire.
Just when I thought I would collapse, I heard heavy breathing from Trevor,
and I realized he was dozing off.  I wearily allowed my torso to slump to
the floor and my legs to straighten.  My wrists and my bare ankles were
still tied tightly together, of course, but it still felt wonderful.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Trevor asked.

I looked at him -- the movement of his footstool had roused him.  Though I
was gagged with his putrid socks, I begged for a rest with my eyes.

"Did I tell you you could do that, you little cunt?  Did I?  Did I say you
were done being my foot stool?

I shook my head slowly.

"That's right.  And can foot stools lower themselves to the ground?"

Again, I shook my head.

"Well, guess who can lower himself to the ground?  My wussy little roommate
when I make him do 100 push ups for me.  Ready?"

Trevor kept his feet propped up on my back the whole time while, smirking
at me, he made me start at the top of the push up position, with my tied
hands planted on the floor and my whole torso rigidly straight.  Then, as
he pushed fiercely down on me with his ankles, he counted out each push up.
Whenever he saw a push up with less than perfect form -- a push up that
didn't bring me all the way down to the floor so that my nose touched it,
or in which my belly touched the floor, or in which my back seemed bent or
my arms were crooked -- Trevor would refuse to count it, signifying his
dissatisfaction by jerking on the dog leash, and would make me do three
penalty push ups.  And of course, if I screwed up a penalty push up, he
made me do three more.

I just couldn't do it.  I had never even gotten to 50 pushups in a row,
much less a hundred, under even the best of circumstances.  I had scarcely
gotten to 25 this time when I collapsed beneath Trevor's feet, an exhausted
mess, gasping for a breath.  Trevor told me to get back up and keep going,
or I was going to regret it.  Something in his voice made me push myself
back up into the push-up position, and I managed to do 5 or so more.  By
that time, my arms absolutely felt like they were on fire.  Trevor clucked
his tongue.

"Pathetic.  Absolutely pathetic.  You make a terrible fucking foot stool,
you can't remember a simple fucking thing like a hockey score, and you're
such a dumbass you can't even do pushups right.  Look, this really isn't
that hard.  You do what I tell you to do, or you face the consequences."
He smirked at me even more broadly now, an evil smirk that sent chills
through my spine.  "I think it's time for some good old fashioned
punishment."


Leading my by the leash like a master leading an unwilling puppy, Trevor
dragged me over to the foot of his newly created double bed, and ordered me
to kneel there.  Then he dragged our cheap Akia coffee table from the far
side of the room over to where I was kneeling, and pushed it up against the
foot of the bed, so that an especially tall guy like Trevor lying in bed,
if he stretched all the way out, would have his feet protruding out onto
the coffee table.  It was a big coffee table -- roughly five feet long and
three feet wide.

Trevor ordered me to kneel on the far side of the coffee table, so that I
was staring over the table toward the big double bed.  He untied my ankles
and knees.  It was a relief but a short-lived one -- he then ordered me to
stand and spread my legs as wide as they would go.  I thought I had them
spread pretty wide, but Trevor forced them even wider.  When he was finally
satisfied, he took the those laces he just removed, and used them to tie my
left ankle to the left leg of the coffee table, and my right ankle to the
right leg.  He used more shoe laces to strengthen the bondage, freezing my
lower half into a dramatic spread eagle position.

His next step was to untie my hands, and then retie them behind my back,
with the arms crossed, giving me absolute minimum flexibility.  Apparently
that didn't satisfy Trevor -- he fished into his "bag of goodies," and to my
horror I saw him take out not one, but three pairs of metal handcuffs -- the
good kind you see police wearing on their belt.  He used one pair to secure
my wrists firmly behind my back.  The other two pairs he used to further
connect my ankles to the table legs.

Trevor examined me.  The only thing I could now move was my torso -- and
Trevor was about to take care of that.  Taking all the slack out of the
leash that was still connected to my dog collar, Trevor yanked the dog
collar up to the front of the coffee table and pulled down on it, hard.
This forced me to plant my chin and belly firmly on the coffee table top,
so that my head was just a foot or so from the edge of the table.  I was
now looking forward straight at the foot of the bed.  Trevor draped the
leash down in front of the table, and then pulled on it, hard, back
underneath the table.

What happened next freaked me out.  Chuckling, Trevor tied the leash
securely to my balls -- he looped it around and around my balls, and then
tied it tight, effectively creating a cock ring to go with my overexcited
cock.  For good measure, Trevor took the remaining dangling end of the
leash and pulled it up between my legs -- making sure to wedge it deeply
into my ass crack -- and yanked it tightly up, over my back, to my dog
collar, where he tied it tightly.  Now the leash had completed a journey
around the coffee table.

Trevor stepped back and surveyed his work with evident satisfaction.  I
could still wiggle my toes, but that was pretty much it -- in every other
way, I was completely immobilized.  My legs were spread painfully far apart
and couldn't be moved at all -- the strain on my inner legs and thighs was
excruciating.  I couldn't even move my ass.  My hands were completely
trapped behind my back.  Worse, my torso and head were trapped in a
sadistic faceplant -- if I tried to raise myself even slightly, I found the
leash squeezing off my balls, and yanking them forward at the same time,
and biting into my ass as well.  On the other hand, because the leash was
attached to my dog collar and was pulling forward on it, I couldn't even
put my head down -- my gaze was fixed straight ahead.  The entire posture
was not only humiliating as hell -- it was also fiendishly painful.  But
there was absolutely nothing I could do, as long as Trevor wanted to keep
me tied up there.

"See?" Trevor said, hardly able to keep the mockery out of his voice.
"Wouldn't it have just been easier to do the pushups?  Or remember the
scores?"  He squeezed my ass cheek suddenly, and I practically jumped out
of my skin -- or would have, if I'd been able to move.  "Or just let me and
my buds watch TV here and let me have your ipod without so much bitching?"
He sighed.  "Well, to be honest, I guess I am glad that you didn't do any
of those things, because I'm enjoying this an awful lot."  As he said this,
Trevor undid his belt and dropped his pants, then also took off his boxers.
I was amazed to see that his cock was also hard as a rock -- completely
erect and drooling precum.  His cock was massive -- it must have been at
least eight inches long, and very thick.  I was completely mesmerized.

Trevor was rubbing his cock now.  "I know what you need, roommate.  I know
what you need real good.  And I'm gonna give it you."  He flopped down on
the bed, still rubbing his cock -- his bare feet were directly in front of
my face, just a foot or so away.  He shoved them closer.

"Oh man," he said.  "Just thinking about what I'm about to do to you is
giving me such a massive boner.  Bitch, I want you to lick my feet while I
stroke my cock and think about your punishment."

It seemed the final act of degradation.  As I began to lap again at the
soles of his feet, I glanced up at his wicked smirk and wondered helplessly
what he had planned for me . . .


Story to be continued, hopefully soon.  Drop me a line at
greg_alexander222@yahoo.com if you like my work, or for ideas on how to
proceed.