Date: Sat, 17 Jan 2009 09:35:50 -0800 (PST)
From: Greg Alexander <greg_alexander222@yahoo.com>
Subject: "Frat Boy's Bitch Boy" - Part 11

Drop me a line at greg_alexander222@yahoo.com to tell your thoughts on the
story.  Suggestions welcome.  Emails from readers with feedback help a lot.

The following is an original work of fiction that contains graphic
depictions of sexual activity between males.  All characters are portrayed
as being over 18 years of age, as you must be to read this.  If you
aren't,or if such material is offensive to you or illegal to read where you
are, then stop reading.

All rights are reserved by the author.  Please download for personal use
only.

Chapter 11

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
Guiness.  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
â€" 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.

"Hey," Shane said into Trevor's ear.  "So by my count, the bitch boy has
been in the penalty box for 2 weeks now."

Trevor nodded and didn't say anything.

Shane went on.  "And he's finally worked his demerits down to the single
digits.  I checked before I came down here.

Trevor took another gulp of his beer.  Again, he said nothing.

Shane looked at him.  "So . . . what are we doing about him when we finally
scrub off all of his demerits?"

There was a pause.  Then Trevor shrugged.  "Well," he said.  "What do you
think we should do?"

Shane didn't hesitate.  "Listen," he said.  "I've been thinking.  In fact,
I've been talking to a few of the other pledges.  You're not thinking of
letting him go after we let him out of the box, are ya?  Cuz I gotta tell
you, we're all having a lot of fun with your little bitch boy.  It's the
frat's best perk yet.  Nobody wants to give him up.  Some of the guys have
started coming up with other ideas for how we could put him to use.  I know
I've got some."

"Like?" Trevor egged him on.

Shane downed another shot.  He was starting to feel a little loopy.  "Well
. . . uh . . . hell, I'll just say it.  You know, a lot of the guys have
told me in confidence, uh, that that they want to go beyond just getting
head.  I mean, don't get me wrong, the head's awesome.  It's fucking
amazing head, on demand.  But some of the guys, when they're horny, what
they really want to do a lot of the time is fuck him."  Shane paused, his
voice lowered.  "And to be honest, so do I, Trev.  I mean, don't get me
wrong, I'd rather fuck pussy.  But on a lot of nights when that doesn't
happen, I really want to ram my cock up your bitch boy's little ass and
make him struggle."  He gulped more beer.  "I mean, fuck, how often do you
have some bottom boy you totally own and can just fuck whenever you feel
like it?  When's another opportunity like this coming along?"

Trevor nodded.  "Yeah," he said, as he took another gulp.  "I've been
thinking about that.  A lot of the brothers have come up to me and told me
more or less the same thing.  Fuck, I haven't done it yet, but I'd be
willing to give it a go.  I know Bryce wants to.  The two of us have been
brainstorming.  Let me fill you in on our plan . . ."



I had lost track of all time.

I no longer knew how many days I had been in that room, imprisoned in that
box, my feet stretched out, the demerits tallied up on my soles,
continually being scrubbed away, then redrawn, then scrubbed away again,
then redrawn . . . I had lost all count.

I had lost count of how many frat boys had come down to that room, had lost
count of how many times I had been made to swallow their piss, had lost
count of how many loads of cum they had deposited into my mouth, had lost
count of how many times I had licked their ass cracks clean.  I didn't know
how many feet I had licked clean, how many truly vile meals I had licked
from their soles, or how many degrading slurs had been magic markered on my
face in a drunken frat boy scrawl.

Above all, I had lost track of how many times I had felt that crackle of
electric static shoot through the metallic cock and into my asshole
. . . inducing first pleasure . . .then pain . . . then pleasure . . . then
pain . . . until I was nearly losing my mind from the unbearable sensation,
and wishing like hell that a pair of sadistic pledges or a drunken brother
would appear and stick their feet gleefully into my face so as to depress
that infuriating button and release me from the agony, if only for a few
minutes.

I had no way of telling what time of day it was, of course.  The only vague
sense I had of whether it was day or night was the rate of traffic through
my basement prison â€" during the day and into the evening, there was
usually a steady stream of frat boys coming through.  At night for several
hours there was a dead spell.  Occasionally, if I got lucky, one of the
more soft-hearted boys would come downstairs, pull up a chair, stick his
feet in my face, and doze off, allowing me a few hours rest (so long as I
was able to ignore the feet in my face).  Often though, this didn't happen,
and I simply could not fall asleep, hard though I might try, with that
terrible current ripping through my anus.

I guessed it was the dead of night, because nobody had been by for several
hours.  (Because the room was soundproof, it was impossible to so much as
tell if anything was going on in the rest of the frat).

Suddenly, the door to the room opened.  In tumbled, one by one, Trevor,
Bryce, Collin, Reid and Shane â€" the ultimate alpha males of the frat,
I thought warily.

"Whass-UP bitch boy???" Collin shouted out enthusiastically, swaying from
side to side.  He was clutching a budlight in his fist and waving it
emphatically.

"BITCH BOY!!!" rumbled Reid.  He was laughing hysterically.

They all started saying it loudly, laughing.  "BITCH BOY!!  BITCH BOY!!"

I realized, in a daze, that they had just gotten back from carousing one of
the local bars.  They were all drunk, and Reid, Collin and Shane looked to
me to be completely smashed.

Shane eyed me with a sleepy smile.

"Listen, slut," he said, swaying from side to side as he sauntered forward.
He fumbled with his fly, unzipping it.  "It's your lucky day today, slut.
You just don't know it yet."

His cock was out now.  "I have to piss, like, SOOOO bad, dude . . ." he
mumbled.

That was all.  The rest was, by now, an almost unconscious impulse.  I
could have done it in my sleep.  I opened my mouth and gratefully inhaled
Shane's piece of meat, just in time, as Shane awkwardly, drunkenly
straddled the box.  His drunken body pressed down on the button, relieving
me of the electric jolting sensation.  The flood of piss let loose, like a
fire hose in my mouth, gushing down my throat.  I swallowed and swallowed
and swallowed, concentrating on swallowing every last drop.  The sheer
volume of piss was impressive â€" I had swallowed a lot of piss loads
over the last 2 week, including from a number of beer-swilling,
drunk-off-their-asses brothers, and this had to take the cake, I thought.

"Thank you sir," I said automatically, crisply, when Shane was finally
finished.  You'd think, given how drunk they were, they wouldn't notice
minor infractions, but I wasn't taking any chances.

Shane smirked at me.  "Fuck youuuuu, bitch boy," he drawled, as he slid off
the box.

Bryce went next.  He seemed the most sober of the group â€" but even he
too had clearly been saving up a mammoth load of pee just for me.  Same
with Reid.  Same with Collin.  Same with Trevor.  As I inhaled their cocks
and swallowed their piss, in the back of my mind, it occurred to me once
again, as it had so often, to marvel at the sheer size of the average Delta
Psi cock.  Shane, Reid, Collin, Trevor, especially Bryce â€" they were
all enormous, all over eight inches erect, and many, many other frat
members fit in that category.

"Suck me off now, bitch," Reid barked at me, when Trevor had finished.  As
Trevor stepped back, Reid stepped forward, straddling the box, dropping his
jeans, and thrusting his enormous stiff cock in my face.  "Holy SHIT dude
. . . .I'm," he belched loudly, then continued, "horny as all fuck.  Make
this a fucking good one.  And . . . I better not feel a single tooth
. . .you SLUT . . . or I'll add more of those fucking DE-merits."

I heard the other frat boys laugh, then break into another loud chant:
"DE-merits!  DE-merits!  DE-meritis."  I obediently complied, swallowing
Reid's enormous organ and working it with my tongue, taking special care to
not let my teeth touch his penis once as I pleasured him to the best of my
abilities, until I finally felt a geyser of cum explode into my mouth.  I
did the same thing for Collin, then for Bryce.

When I had finally satisfied them all fully, I saw my frat boy masters were
reaching for the bristled brush and the pale.

"You only had eight demerits left to work off, BOY," Shane told me with a
drunken lopsided grin.  "And you know what that means . . ."

I caught my breath, hardly daring to hope.  Was that really true?  Was I
really down to that few?  And did I really dare hope that I would actually
be released from this box when the demerits were gone?

I gritted my teeth and choked horsely with laughter at the now
all-too-familiar sensation of the bristles working over my soles.  But
there were no quill strokes to follow â€" the re-inking of the soles of
my feet with fresh dashes, which I had become all too familiar with, did
not come.

Had I really worked off all my demerits?  It seemed impossible to believe.

Suddenly, an enormous sensation of relief washed over me as Bryce flipped
open the hatch in the top of the box, flipped the red switch, and the
current in the box abruptly shut off.

I gasped.

Now Bryce and Trevor were drunkenly fumbling with the keys.  First the
ankle stock holes in the front of the box opened up, then the front swung
forward and my ankle manacles were unlocked as my feet were released, then
my head was in turn freed from the firm grip of the opening in the top of
the box as that too was released.  Finally, as the box opened up
completely, I grunted in pain as strong arms heaved me out of the box, my
abused asshole sliding slowly off the tortuous electrified dildo on which
it had been impaled, with only the briefest interruptions, for weeks now.

I collapsed on the cold floor of the frat's basement, breathing heavily.
My wrists were still handcuffed together behind my back and my knees still
tied tightly together, but still, the relief was tangible.

"Good job, bitch boy," Trevor slurred.  "You fucking worked off your
demerits."  He paused.  "And we've decided to move on to something . . . uh
. . . new."

All the frat boys standing around me snickered, and I had a familiar
feeling of forboding. But frankly, I was too relieved to finally be out of
that box to care at that moment.

In a comfortable and familiar gesture, Trevor snapped a dog collar around
my neck and connected it to a leash that he held in his hand.  Then he led
me roughly toward the doorway, out of the room in which I had been
imprisoned for the last 2 weeks, and out into the basement hallway, with
the pack of frat boys sauntering behind him.  I was led into a new room in
the fraternity basement â€" this one was much smaller.  There was almost
nothing in it â€" just a few old used kegs, a bunch of discarded plastic
cups and pack boxes.  The place was a mess.

"Alright, bitch boy," Bryce said.  "So, you've worked off your demerits.
Nice fucking work.  Bet you feel pretty proud of that, huh slave?  Well,
don't get too cocky."  He looked at me and then barked: "Stand up, bitch
boy."


Abruptly, I did.  It had been forever since I had actually stood up on my
own accord, and the sensation was both acutely difficult and very strange.
Despite the fact that my knees were bound and hands still cuffed behind my
back, I was able to manage it, but my muscles were incredibly cramped and
ached horribly from being scrunched up, more or less non-stop, inside of
the box for two weeks.  I trembled involuntarily.

Bryce suddenly moved forward, and gave me a violent shove.  I tumbled
backwards into an open closet that the frat brothers had positioned me in
front of.  I cried out, as I heard them slam the door shut and lock it.

They were all laughing again, drunkenly.  I could hear them through the
closet doorway, of course, as I lay there on the floor.

"Listen, fucker," I heard Reid slur.  "Alrighty.  Yeah, so you're out of
the penalty box.  Big fucking deal.  Don't forget, we can give you more
demerits, and put you back there in a fucking blink of the eye, if we feel
like you don't respect us."

"Yeah," I heard Shane guffaw, hiccupping.  "A lot of the pledges are still
fucking PISSED at you, dude.  A lot of them still don't think you've
suffered enough."

"So," I heard Bryce say.  "We're gonna put you through a little test, bitch
boy.  As you know, this frat is known on campus for accepting only the best
athletes into our house.  A lot of dudes want to join us, and we turn most
of them down, unless they're jocks who have really proven themselves â€"
men who have risen to the fore with feats of particularly amazing athletic
ability."  Bryce paused.  As always, he was coldly and disdainfully
collected.  I was sure he had drunk as much as the others, maybe more, but
he was showing it by far the least.  He continued: "not that I'd expect a
fucking dickwad cumslut like you do understand anything about what sports
means to our frat, but it's important."

Trevor went on.  "So . . . us guys here have been talking things over, and
we all agree you still need some attitude adjustment, slave.  You've come
to accept that we own you, but you need to understand WHY we own you, and
to do that, you need to understand what makes us frat brothers so fucking
sweet.  Which means you gotta start respecting each of us for what we've
fucking accomplished on the field."

Bryce went on.  "Over the next day or two, you are going to sit in that
little closet.  We'll give your fried little asshole some relief, sure, at
least for now.  But you better listen closely, cuz every single brother and
pledge that belongs in this frat is gonna come in here and tell you the
FIVE sports achievements they're proudest of in their athletic careers
here.  And you are gonna fucking retain all that fucking info, and you're
gonna recite it back to us when we order you to, or you'll be sorry."



As I lay there, trapped in the closet, my hands handcuffed behind me, one
after the other of the drunken frat boys stepped up to the closet the door
and began reciting a litany of their sporting accomplishments.

"Alright, slave, listen up," Trevor began.  "Number 5: On October 21, at
the Men's Tennis semi-finals, I served 3 back to back shut-out games, and
won second place in the Men's Division I all-state tournament.

Number 4: I rowed for the heavyweight crew team and was on the team that
came in third in the national eastern cup on November 9 . . ."

Trevor went on, reciting off 5 tennis and crew achievements, filled with
dates, cups, tournaments, trophies that meant little to me.  I listened
carefully, straining to hear every word through the closet door.  The
trouble was, with my hands cuffed behind me, trapped in the closet, I of
course had no way of writing anything down.  I repeated each achievement in
my head.  October 21, Men's Tennis Semi-finals, 3 back to back shut out
games . . .

Bryce stepped up to the closet door.  "My turn," he declared.  "Number 5:
In May 2006 I won the Achievement trophy for Most Valued Starting Center in
the Eastern Conference in Men's College Basketball . . . Number 4: Over 4
years of playing college Basketball, I've scored more 3-pointers than any
other player in our division on the east coast . . ."

On it went.  By the time Bryce was done, my head was already spinning.  I
was trying my best to retain it all.  "Excuse me, sir," I stammered from
within the closet, "Could you please, sir, please allow me the privilege of
a pencil or pen and uncuff my hands so that I can record your impressive
accomplishments?"

I heard the fratboys outside guffaw drunkenly.  My request was ignored
completely.  As soon as Bryce was done, Collin stepped up, and began to
talk about his record times on the Swim Team in the Butterfly and
Backstroke events.  His were even harder to remember because of the exact
race times he recited, down to the hundredth of a second.

By the time they had gotten to Shane and Reid, my mind was completely
reeling.

"Alright," Bryce said, when they had all finally finished.  "Better
remember that all, slave.  Don't fuck up."

And with that, they walked out of the room, laughing and backslapping each
other, presumably finally going off to their rooms and to bed, leaving me
to sit in that closet, my mind whirring as I furiously reviewed the litany
of sporting achievements I had just heard recited over and over and over.

As I recited as much of the information as I could possibly remember, I
realized that my little closet had been prepared ahead of time.  There were
two dog dishes on the floor; one filled with water, one with food.  I
realized how thirsty I was, and I lapped up the water eagerly, on my knees,
my hands of course still trapped behind my back.  I realized the food in
the other bowl was actually dog food, but also realized, with only a
modicum of shame, that I didn't care.  After all, the frat boys had been
feeding me dog food regularly for weeks now, and that was when I was lucky.
When I was unlucky, of course, they had made me eat much worse.  I was
hungry, and so I lowered my head and without a second thought nibbled at
the dog food, lapping it up.

I tried to keep repeating the sports facts Shane, Bryce, Trevor, Reid and
Collin had just water-hosed me with, knowing inevitably that the
consequences for forgetting even the smallest detail would be severe.  I
was so exhausted from my 2-week ordeal in the "penalty box," however, and
so physically relieved to actually be lying there, on the floor of the
closet, without the electric sensation pulsing up my asshole that I had
come so accustomed to over the past two weeks, that I quickly passed how
from exhaustion.



The next day, I awoke bright and early to the noise of another frat boy
speaking to me through the closet door.  This time I had a harder time
identifying the voice: I was pretty sure it was Cody, but I wasn't
absolutely positive.  Whoever he was, he was obviously on the football
team, and regaling me with stories of his heroism there.

For the rest of the day, the tide of frat boys trooping down to the
basement seemed unstoppable.  To my consternation, none of them identified
themselves: they simply launched immediately into their 5 sports
achievements, which they recited with almost robotic precision, before
walking away, leaving me scrambling to try to remember what they had said
and piece together who had said it.

Wes came by to tell me about his impressive feats on the soccer team.  I
heard from a phalanx of football players, a gaggle of eager pledges, jocks
on the track team, jocks on the baseball team, and a ton of guys from the
LaCrosse team. The problem was, there were so many frat brothers in Delta
Psi, I still wasn't even close to being able to recite all their names, let
alone recognize them based solely on their voices.

And still, the jocks kept coming.  For 2 solid days, they trooped in and
out of the room.  The impressive avalanche of Delta Psi sports achievements
kept raining down on me.  All I could do was kneel in that closet, eyes
closed in concentration, trying with all my might to commit to memory as
much of the information as I possibly could.  Lap up water, nibble some dog
food, recite an bewildering array of sports achievements in my mind over
and over and over, listen to the masculine voice of some barely
identifiable brother tell me more about the trophies he won on the track
team, and sleep.  That's what I did for 2 days.



At the end of the 2 days, the reckoning finally arrived.

I was let out of the closet prison (my ankles were re-shackled first),
blind folded, and led upstairs into the fraternity's main living room.  I
was told to kneel, and my blindfold was removed.

In spite of everything, I found myself taken aback.  The room was darkened,
with candles lit all around me, giving the room the real aura of a frat
hazing.  It was light enough that I could see the other people in the room.

Every frat brother and every pledge in Delta Psi was there, the whole crowd
of them packed into that room, staring at me with the mixture of disdain
and sadistic enjoyment I had come to know so well.

 With the seemingly endless stream of frat boys who had trooped steadily
through the basement over the last 2 weeks to torment me, with the endless
series of frat boy feet I had licked and cocks I had sucked and piss I had
been ordered to drink and asscracks I had been made to clean, I had really
almost completely lost track of how many boys there were in the frat.
Seeing them all packed together was a stark reminder of how wide my circle
of tormentors had grown.  I wondered, helplessly, what they had planned for
me this time.

"Bitch boy," Bryce said solemnly.  He was standing at the front of the
pack, directly in front of me.  He was wearing flip-flops, and he loomed
over me.

Needing no further prompting, I submissively bowed my head and kissed both
of Bryce's feet.  "Yes sir, yes master," I murmured.  I wanted to avoid
unnecessary punishments as much as possible.

There was appreciative mocking laughter from the onlooking pack of frat
brothers.

"Bitch boy," Bryce continued, "The brothers of Delta Psi have gathered here
to test your knowledge and memory of the frat, and by extension, the true
respect you have for us.  Each brother and pledge gathered here has shared
with you five key athletic accomplishments from their college careers to
date.  As you know, this frat is a frat for jocks who have proven
themselves; one of many, many, many reasons why a worthless little faggot
like you could never ever belong here."

There were more chuckles and guffaws at this.  As always, I thought, the
frat guys were enjoying my discomfort and degradation.

"Right," Bryce continued.  "So, the brothers of Delta Psi are now putting
you to the test, bitch boy."  He paused, and smirked.  "Let's see how much
respect you really have for us.  I will select a brother or pledge at
random from the room.  He will step forward.  You will crawl forward and
immediately kiss his feet.  You will then recite his full name, his class
year, the team he belongs to, and list his 5 sporting accomplishments.
Delta Psi expects you to be able to recite all this information clearly,
promptly, and accurately.  Do you understand, you piece of shit?"

I swallowed.  "Yes sir.  I understand sir."

I knew, somewhere in the back of my mind, that this was all an act.
Nobody, as Bryce knew better than anybody, had ever even so much as
introduced me to the 70 plus members of the frat when I had been
unceremoniously abducted and imprisoned in the basement over 2 weeks ago.
Most of the first names I had pieced together through overheard
conversations and off-hand remarks during my captivity, but there were a
ton of last names I didn't know at all, and I certainly couldn't recognize
the voices well enough through the closet door to match the "5 sports
facts" with more than half of the frat boys, if that.  And of course, even
for those frat boys I did know well enough to have their full names, I
wasn't feeling at all good that I had even close to all the "sports facts"
memorized.  Without the ability to write anything down, it had been almost
impossible.

The other frat boys had to know that, I realized.  I was being set up for
failure.  And based on the wide grins I saw all around the room, they were
enjoying it.

A tall blond guy stepped forward, a few inches from me, gazing down at me
expectantly.  I promptly kissed his feet â€" he was barefoot.  But that
was all I could do.  I didn't know his name at all.  Fuck, I thought.

I gazed at him stupidly, as the rest of the frat stared at me expectantly.

"I'm so sorry sir," I stammered finally.  "I'm afraid I don't know your
name, sir."

"You fucking worthless cunt," Trevor spat out loudly, from the back of the
room.

"Tell him, Sam," Bryce said, with a sigh of exaggerated disappointment.

"Name: Sam Hamilton, Junior," Sam said.  He proceeded to recite 5 of his
major accomplishments from the Lacrosse team.  I concentrated as hard as I
could.

"Now, repeat them back to me," Sam instructed.

I did.

Sam told me I had screwed 2 of them up already, getting key details wrong.
He repeated the 5 Lacrosse facts.  Stammering badly, I managed to recite
them all correctly on the second try.

I heard more snickering.

"Well, that was pathetic," I heard Trevor say loudly.  "Totally pathetic,
you piece of shit."

"Give the boy a few more chances," someone else suggested.  "Maybe he just
got unlucky on that one."

13 more frat boys came to the front of the room and stood in front of my
kneeling bound body.  In at least 2 cases, I had no idea of the boy's name
at all.  In 4 other cases, I knew the name, but didn't know the last name,
and didn't know the voice well enough to be able to identify any of the
facts he might have told me in the past 2 days through the closet door.  Of
the remaining 7 cases, one of them was Wes, another Shane, a third the
pledge Jared, 2 other brothers, and finally Bryce and Trevor themselves, I
at least got the full names, and was able to recall at least some of the
sports facts accurately.  But in no single case was able to accurately
recite every single sports fact.

"Unbelievable," Trevor said, shaking his head, when the "testing" was
finally declared over.  "Fucking unbelievable, you little cum slut.  After
serving as this frat's bitch boy for over 2 weeks, you still obviously
haven't learned your lesson."

Bryce surveyed the frat boys assembled in the room.  "Let's put it to a
vote.

"Raise your hands if you think the little bitch has learned his lesson."

The room was still.  Not a single hand went up.

"Alright.  Not exactly an overwhelming response.  Now raise your hand if
you think this pathetic performance demonstrates that the bitch obviously
still has to learn some respect for us."

Every hand in the room shot up.

"OK."  Bryce turned and faced me with satisfaction.  "Bitch boy," he
sneered, "the frat has spoken and deemed you woefully inadequate.  What do
you think about that?"

I looked at him.  It took me a second to realize it was not a rhetorical
question.

"What do you THINK ABOUT THAT??" Bryce said again, leaning forward and
shouting now.  "Do you AGREE with the frat, boy?"

"Yes, master," I said quickly, stooping over further so that my forehead
was nearly touching the floor.  "Yes sir, absolutely sir.  The frat is
correct sir."

"Correct about WHAT???"

"That I need to respect you and your accomplishments more, sir."

Bryce pressed on, relentless. "So what should we do about that, slave?

"You should teach me respect, sir."

Bryce's face flushed.  "Oh COME ON, you FUCK FACE!!!" he roared.  "You can
fucking DO better than that!!!  Come ON!!1 Let's see you grovel, bitch!  I
asked you what we should DO about that!!"  I knew Bryce well enough by now
to know what he wanted.

"You should punish me, sir!!" I cried out.  "I deserve to be further
humiliated and punished for my disrespect, master!"  All the frat guys were
in hysterics now.  I kept going.  "I am your Butt-munching cum lover," I
whimpered.  "I am your cock sucking, toe-jam chewing, ass-kissing
plaything.  I am your piss-drinking toilet slave.  And I deserve to be
punished by you, master!"

Bryce finally smiled a satisfied smile.

There was a moment of silence "Alright," Wes piped up.  He sounded eager.
"So does that mean we're taking the bitchboy back downstairs?"

"Yeah," Trevor said.  "But with a twist this time."  He smirked.  "After
all, we have plenty of other equipment down there we haven't used yet."



I knew better than to struggle as strong arms seized my body and I was
lifted into the air and carried, once again, down the flight of stairs into
the basement.

It was true.  As 4 frat brothers carried me back into that dark room in
which I'd spent the last 2 weeks locked in the penalty box, I remembered
that there was, in fact, other equipment in that room, which I had noticed
at first, but had somehow managed to forget about since, because when I had
been stuck in the penalty box, my head had been turned toward the doorway
and immobilized, so I hadn't been able to see the rest of the room.

Now I could.

All over the walls, I could see the frat's insignia and its big block greek
letters.  One the wall opposite me, once I again I could see the rows and
rows of pegs.  Dangling from these pegs were an assortment of strange and
different devices â€" clothes pins, long flexible bending rods, ping
pong paddles, several leather belts, a number of different sets of
handcuffs, ankle shackles, huge bundles of rope and smaller bundles of
twine, and most strikingly, a long row of fake dildos, which varied in size
from just a few inches to truly massive foot-long fake dicks.  The bottom
row was nothing but a long series of wooden frat paddles, lined up one
after the other, each looking wickedly long, each with the Delta Psi
lettering emblazoned on it.

Pushed up against this wall, I also saw again a big set of classic medieval
wooden stocks, with one big hole for the head and two smaller holes for
hands, and a padlock on the side to keep the intended victim trapped in
place.

I also saw some new items I either hadn't noticed before, or were new.

One was a long but narrow padded bench.  It was quite similar to the pommel
horse gymnasts vault over, but much lower to the ground: only about 3 feet
high.  There were other modifications that made it obvious that it had been
designed for something different than gymnastics.  In particular, the
"pommel horse" was mounted on a large piece of plywood, with a raised beam
in the center of the plywood that ran from one edge to the other, so that
it passed directly underneath the width of the padded bench.  Sticking out
from this plywood beam on one side of the pommel horse was a long narrow
tube, and at either end of the cylinder there was a very thick padded
circular loop.  In addition, running along each of the four legs of the
pommel horse were a series of what appeared to be thick leather straps.

"Alright," I heard Bryce say.  "Get him ready."

I was dropped to the floor.  I felt the familiar sensation of strong hands
running along my body.  My ankle manacles were uncuffed, my knees were
finally freed, and I felt a key unlock the cuffs that bound my hands behind
my back.

"What about the cock chastity cage?" I heard someone say.

"Yeah, even that one," I heard Trevor say.  "Here, you'll need this.  Bryce
and I are the only ones with the keys."

I felt someone fumbling the chastity enclosure on my cock, and then that
too sprang free, first the attachment behind my ballsack sliding loose,
then the cursed cage itself gliding off.  For one startling instant, for
the first time in 2 weeks, I had the glorious sensation of having no
restraints of any kind on my body, with the lone exception of the leather
dog collar that was still clasped around my neck.

That didn't last long.

"Come on, boys, get him positioned," Shane said gleefully.

With immense trepidation, I felt more hands pick my body up and carry me
over to the leather padded bench that resembled a pommel horse.

One frat boy set my feet down, in place, in standing position, so that for
a moment I was standing on top of the sheet of plywood that constituted the
base of the bench, addressing it precisely as a gymnast would stand before
a pommel horse in the instant before he vaulted over it.

"Spread your legs, boy," I was told gruffly.  I didn't dare disobey
. . . but apparently I didn't have my feet wide enough apart, because
whoever was holding me from behind forced my feet apart still wider, so
that I was now straddling dramatically, with my feet spread out at over 3
feet apart. My feet were now wide enough, barely, for that metal pole
embedded in the raised plywood beam to be forced between my ankles.

Suddenly, I understood what it was for.

The thick padded circular loops at either end of the metal pole, I noticed,
also had padlocks on them.  The two frat boys standing at either side of me
now knelt down and slid these loops around my bare ankles, and pulled them
tight . . . very, very tight . . . before padlocking both sides.

I was now trapped naked in a standing position, my legs extremely and
uncomfortably wide apart, so that my legs now formed a nearly equilateral
triangle with the floor.  The metal pole was now separating my 2 ankles,
forcing them to stay apart, and was absolutely secure, so as to freeze my
feet into place as surely as if they had been sunk into wet concrete that
had been allowed to dry.  I could wiggle my toes up and down, of course,
but I couldn't move my ankles at all.  The stance, predictably, placed an
uncomfortable strain on my inner thigh muscles.

Of course, that was only the preliminary part.

The position that my ankles had been frozen into placed me directly in
front of the padded bench, which was just inches away from my body and came
up to about my waist.  Shane and Collin now both took hold of my arms, on
either side of me, and in one smooth powerful movement pulled my arms over
and across the width of the bench.  They then forced my arms down, so that
they were stretched down on the opposite side, leaving my whole body arched
over the arch of the pommel horse, with my ass stretched high into the air
and my naked belly pushed hard against the padded surface of the bench.

Shane and Collin swiftly set to work further binding my body into place by
positioning my arms against the sides of the wooden bench legs.  These legs
each had leather straps, and I felt these being tightened around each of my
arms, freezing them into place.  For good measure, one of the brothers
pulled out a roll of duct tape, and ring after ring of duct tape was ripped
violently off the role and drawn tightly around my arms and the bench leg.
In no time at all, I couldn't move my arms at all either.

Now I was really helpless.  With my ankles and wrists locked ingeniously
into place on either side of the padded bench, I was totally splayed out,
naked, bent over and exposed.  I realized the bondage left my ass in an
extraordinarily vulnerable position.  With my legs forced so far apart,
with my torso splayed out across the pommel horse, with my arms tied down
at their sides toward the floor, I realized the net result was to force my
bare ass up so that it was by far the highest point of my body, and leave
it completely exposed.

Even now, they weren't finished.  As it was, my head and neck were still
free, at least enough to rotate around, to nod and shake vigorously.  This
was quickly stopped when the big set of wooden stocks I described earlier
was pushed up against the padded bench, and my head was forced through it
before it was padlocked into place.  Now my head was frozen into place as
well.  I literally couldn't move.

As if for emphasis, I felt someone grab my newly freed cock and balls.
Just feeling something, ANYTHING, on that severely deprived region gave me
a powerful jolt.  But whichever sadistic brother was touching my privates
was doing so only to further torment me; I felt rope being tied around my
ball sack once, twice, three times, then tightened firmly, then tightened
further, so that my balls were being squeezed enough that it HURT.

My cock and balls at that point were hanging loosely off the edge of padded
pommel horse.  The frat boy who was tying up my ballsack now proceeded to
change this drastically by pulling the rope HARD in a forward direction, so
that it was taught, and tying the other end around an eye-hook that was
embedded in the structure of the pommel horse.  Now even my dick, hard and
drooling pre-cum as always, more desperate than ever for some kind, any
kind of release, was stretched painfully out and away from my body.  I
winced.

"Comfortable, slave?" Trevor asked, when they had finally finished locking
in the nuts and bolts of my latest bondage position.

There was some general chuckling at that.

"Alright," Bryce finally said.  "So, listen up, bitch boy.

"I told you . . . I ORDERED you . . . to remember five sports facts about
every member of this frat.  You didn't.

"We tried doing this the easy way.  Now . . ." here he paused, and smirked,
"we're gonna do this the fucking FUN way."

There were some scattered hoots at that.

Bryce looked at Shane.  "Shane . . . do you wanna explain?"

Shane looked eager.  "Sure thing dude."  He grabbed the big overstuffed
padded chair from the other side of the room (the one the frat boys had sat
in for the last 2 weeks while using my face as a foot rest) and set it just
in front of the big wooden stocks that my face was currently trapped in.
Then he came to the front of the padded bench, in front of the wooden
stocks, and stared me in the face.

"OK, bitch boy."  Shane reached into his pocket, pulled out a handkerchief,
and tied it around my forehead, effectively blindfolding me.  "So, we're
gonna make this interesting.  So, you're down here, chilling out, right?
Some dude from the frat comes down here, wants to kick back, relax, maybe
have a beer, and, of course, chill out with our favorite bitch boy."  I
heard him sit back into the chair.  "Now, as we all know, you've spent a
lot of time at all of our feet, right?  So much so that, really, you should
be an expert on them by now."  I heard Shane kicking off his flip flops.
Next thing I knew, he had thrust his feet into my face.  "Now, lick those
soles, bitch."

I did.

"Thank for allowing me to lick your feet sir," I said, almost
automatically.

"Shut the fuck up, cunt, I'm trying to make a point here.  Now, how often
would you say you have had the honor of licking my feet in the last 2 weeks
bitch boy?"

"I . . .  I don't know sir . . . maybe like 20 different times?"

"Quit fucking stammering, bitch boy.  Answer me again!"

"I have licked your feet 20 times, sir!"

"Right."  Shane paused.  "So you should be pretty much an expert in what my
feet taste like by now.  In fact, you should know what everyone's feet here
taste like.  Well, from now on, until we're convinced you got this shit
down pat, whenever any brother or pledge comes into this room, you will be
blindfolded.  They will not speak.  They will not say a fucking word.  They
will, however, present their feet for you to worship, or their cocks for
you to suck, or their piss for you to drink, or their assholes for you to
lick.

"Delta Psi expects you to be so familiar with every fucking inch of our
bodies from worshiping us that, based solely on licking our feet, our
assholes, or our dicks, we expect you to be able to identify us, even when
blindfolded, and then do what you were so pathetically incapable of doing
before: state our full name, class year, and list ACCURATELY our 5 sport
facts.

"So, let's try this again.  WHO's feet are you licking boy?"

I swallowed.  "These feet belong to Master Shane Connor, sophomore, sir!"
I then began to recite Shane's 5 sport facts.

"Alright, slave," he said disdainfully when I had finished.  "You got 4 of
those right.  But the Lacrosse trophy I won in fact number five was called
Piedmont trophy, and you totally butchered that."

Shane pulled off my blind fold now and set it to the side.  "OK, so, at
this point, I take off the blindfold so that you can see whether you
identified me correctly.  This is where I would also correct any errors in
your recitation of my 5 sport facts, like I just did.

"So," Shane paused.  The 70 plus frat guys packed into the room were
silent, hanging on his every word, transfixed.  "So," Shane continued.
"Say . . . just for the sake of argument, that an error is made.  Like you
just did by butchering one of my facts.  Or say you can't even figure out
who the fuck I am in the first place because you're such a stupid bitch."
He looked me in the eye.  "So what do you think happens then?"

It took me a second, again, to realize he actually wanted me to answer.

"I'll give you a hint," Shane said.  "It rhymes with `it is funnish.'"

I swallowed.  "I get punished."

"Ding ding ding!! We have a winner!"

Bryce took over at this point.  He was addressing the rest of the frat, I
realized, more than he was talking to me at this point.  "Alright," he
said.  "So, Trev and I have drawn up another `Bitch Boy Rubric,' back by
popular demand."  He flipped over another big white board, which had been
carefully written on. Comparing it to the last bitch boy rubric (for when I
was in the penalty box, laying out how many demerits cocksucking,
piss-drinking and ass-licking would buy me) it somehow randomly crossed my
mind that someone in the frat had good handwriting.

This is what it said:

Bitch Boy Spanking Rubric For each sports fact Bitch Boy gets wrong: 5 to
15 spankings For incomplete identification (no last name, no class year): 5
to 15 spankings For failure to identify frat brother at all: 15 to 30
spankings

Bryce continued to explain the rules to the frat.  "As you can see, arrayed
along this wall, we've assembled an extraordinary diversity of spanking
implements.  We've got ping pong paddles, belts, bending rods, and, of
course, the old standby â€" an assortment of different frat paddles.
It's entirely up to you what to use in carrying out the punishments â€"
help yourself to whatever the fuck you want down here.  It's all up for
grabs.

"Let me clarify one important point here.  If the bitch fails to
successfully identify the frat boy whose feet he is licking, who's cock he
is sucking, whose ass he is licking, or who's piss he is drinking, he
automatically gets the 15 to 30 spankings.  Then his blindfold is removed,
but of course, he is still required to at that point identify member of the
frat fully, and recite his five sports facts.  So it's in theory possible
for the bitch boy to incur up to 120 spankings at a time if he does
absolutely everything wrong.

"Now, let's have a REAL demonstration."

The boys surrounding me seemed positive giddy with anticipation.

The blindfold was placed once again over my eyes.  I heard movement around
me, whispering, then the sensation of someone sitting down in the big chair
directly in front of my face and locked stocks.  There the sounds of
flip-flops popping off and failing to the cold stone floor.  SLAP SLAP.
Then, suddenly, the soles of two big feet pressed into my face.

"Alright, bitch," Trevor said from off to the side.  "$64,000 question.
Which frat master are you worshiping right now?"

My stomach churned.  I didn't want to be paddled if I could possibly help
it.  I remembered how it felt the last time I had undergone it, back in our
dorm room with Trevor.

I inhaled deeply, smelling the foot odor.  The smell was definitely
powerful, that much was clear, and deeply masculine.  I licked.  It tasted
salty and distinctive.  They were very large feet with smooth soles.

I knew I had worshipped that foot before.  KNEW it.  I had smelt it, licked
it, tasted it.  I ran my tongue up and down the flesh of the sole, trying
desperately to remember, to no avail.

"Time's up, bitch boy," I heard Trevor say.  "Moment of truth."

"It's . . ." I strained my mind.  Familiar as that foot tasted, I simply
could not place the owner.

"It's . . . uh, master Jack," I finally guessed wildly, referring to one of
the brothers who had enjoyed coming down to the basement frequently over
the past 2 weeks to use me as a foot rest.

"WRONG!!" I heard several voices shout at once.

My blindfold was removed, and I saw it was none other than Collin.
Collin!!  I felt stunned.  I had worshipped Collin's feet many many times,
dating back, of course, to the dorm, when he and Trevor had made me lick
their feet clean repeatedly through a variety of ordeals.  If I couldn't
identify even Collin with the blindfold on, what chance did I have??

I quickly identified Collin's full name and class year (senior), and said
he was on the varsity mens swim team.  I then began to wade through his
sports facts: they were the ones that were especially heavy on race times
for different swim racing events.  As it turns out, I messed up fully 4 out
of 5.

"Alright, Col," Bryce said with a grin.  "Ball's in your court now.  The
slave couldn't figure out it was you with the blindfold on, so that's 15 to
30 swats, and he only got 1 out of 5 fact right, incurring an additional 5
to 15 for each mistake.  That means you have a range of between 35 and 90
spankings you get to administer the bitch boy.  Totally at your discretion
within that range.  Pick your preferred spanking implement."

Like a kid browsing through a toy store, Collin ran his eyes up and down
the wall of pegs.  Finally his eye settled on a thick leather strap hanging
on one side of the room.  Collin examined it carefully, took it in one
hand, and snapped it against the palm of his other hand.  It made a loud
cracking sound.

"OK," Collin said with a grin.  "Ready."

The horror of my situation was still sinking in.  Somehow, at every
juncture, the frat boys always seemed to find a way of making things even
worse for me.

Tied down over the padded bench, totally immobilized, my ass pointing high
in the air, my legs forced wide apart, my naked buttocks completely at the
mercy of this pack of sadistic frat boys, I felt this was surely my most
vulnerable position yet.  I had no wiggle room.  I couldn't move my legs,
my torso, my arms, and certainly not my bare ass.

Collin positioned himself behind me.

"Alright, slave," he said.  "Do you feel like 35 or 90 today?"

"Please sir, give me 35, sir," I whimpered.

"Look, bitch boy, I've made you lick my feet clean many, many, many times
before.  You really have no excuse for not being able to identify me.  Get
ready to take 90 swats, you bitch."

The crowd of frat boys cheered.

"Now bitch boy," Bryce explained sternly, "it is of course your job to
count each stroke, and after each stroke, shout out: `thank you sir.  May I
please have another sir?'  You need to say it IMMEADIATLY and QUICKLY
â€" this cannot in any way slow down the pace of the paddling.  If after
any stroke you fail to say that, there will be further punishment."  He
produced a box of clothespins and held it menacingly in front of my nose.
"Specifically, if at any point you forget, the brother or pledge paddling
you is entitled to clip one of these to your ballsack, where it will likely
stay for at least 24 hours, and then start the paddling over from scratch.
Alright, Col, go ahead."

Collin took his muscular arm back, winding up fully, then released, sending
the leather strap snapping into my buttox at full speed.  I winced.  It
STUNG.  It felt lighter than a frat paddle, but the sting of it on my flesh
was somehow more intense.

"1.  Thank you sir.  May I have another sir?"

WHAP!

"2.  Thank you.  May I have another sir?"

WHAP!

"3!  Thank you.  May I have another sir?"

"Hold it!"  Reid shouted suddenly, from off to the side.  "Hang on.  Bryce
told the bitch boy to count the strokes, then say `Thank you sir. May I
have please have another sir.'  Isn't that right?  Well the fucking slave
isn't saying it right!  The first time he didn't say `please.'  The second
and third time he only said sir once, and he didn't say please!"

There were murmurs of assent.

"Wow," I heard Trevor say.  "Bitch boy, this just isn't your day, is it?
Collin, you wanna do the honors?"

Because rope had been tied around my ball sack and then pulled sharply
forward and tied to a metal hook embedded in the bench, my cock and balls
were already cruelly stretched out, pulled at the root uncomfortably far.
Now I felt Collin's man-paw take my ballsack in the palm of his hand, and
then, in succession, attach 3 clothespins to the flesh of my ballsack in
three different locations.  Each time, I winced, blinking back tears.

Then Collin began again.

WHACK!

This time I made sure to say it perfectly.  "1. Thank you sir!  May I
please have another sir?!" I declared in rapid fire succession.

"Much better, slave."  WHACK!

"2.  Thank you sir!  May I please have another sir!?"

WHACK!

"3.  Thank you sir!  May I please have another sir!?"

I closed my eyes and winced.  The sting at each moment that the strap made
contact with the tender flesh of my ass was already acute.  Tied so tautly
over the padded bench surface, my hind-muscles felt completely stretched
out and at their maximum vulnerability, my bare ass totally exposed and
already crying out in pain.  My overwhelming reaction was to recoil with
each strike, jerking my body away, jumping my legs up in an almost
automatic, jerk-like response, but of course I was completely immobilized.
I just gritted my teeth.

"Man, this is fun," I heard Collin say.

The strokes kept coming.  WHACK.  WHACK.  WHACK!!!

"Forty-three.  Thank sir, may I please have another sir!!"  "Forty-four.
Thank sir, may I please have another sir! Forty-five.  Thank sir, may I
please have another sir!""  Each time I said it, my voice got a little
louder.  Raising my voice seemed to be the only way to handle the pain.
Every time that fucking strap hit one of my ass-cheeks it felt like it was
on fire.  "Fifty-seven.  THANK YOU SIR MAY I PLEASE HAVE ANOTHER SIR!!!!"

Collin paused for a split second.  "Quit fucking shouting, or I'll start
from scratch," he threatened.

"Yes sir," I groaned miserably, forcing myself to soften my voice and
bottle the pain up entirely.

When we reached 90, my whole body trembling involuntarily, sweat coating my
body, my ass on fire, Collin finally set the strap aside.

"Now," I heard Bryce say, "there's just one more step in the bitch boy's
punishment before you're done Collin.  This part is of course entirely
optional."

"Oh, no," Collin said.  His voice sounded tense and excited.  "This is the
part I've been looking forward to most."  I heard him unbuckle his belt,
throw it aside, then fumble this his jeans as he undid them and dropped
them to the floor.  I wondered what could possibly be coming now.

Trevor, standing by my head, could be counted on to explain.  "OK, bitch
boy," he said.  "We've had a lot of fun with you over the last few weeks.
Well, as great as all that free head is, there are quite a few dudes in the
frat who want to see what it's actually like to fuck a bitch boy like you
before they leave this place.  Well, we figured, why the fuck not?"  He
paused.  "So, whenever one of the frat dudes comes down here, if you aren't
able to identify them fully with the blind fold on after worshipping their
feet, their cocks or their ass, after you take the proscribed number of
strokes on that tender, vulnerable ass of yours, if the frat dude wants it
to, that tender, vulnerable ass is also gonna have to take something else."
He chuckled.  "You probably know by now that the men of Delta Psi have some
truly ginormous long dong silvers tucked away.  Well, the next week or two
is gonna be interesting for you.  Ready Col?"

"Oh yeah," Collin said.

"Well he's all yours."

Collin first marched around to the front side of the horse, to where my
head was imprisoned in the stocks.  His jeans were completely off now, and
his massive cock hung in front of my mouth.

"Suck me off, bitch boy," he said simply.

His cock plunged into my mouth, and I went through the familiar motions,
pleasuring his organ with my tongue.  It rapidly inflated to its usual
erection, as he thrust in and out, in and out, my saliva lubricating his
big juicy dick.

"Come on, boys.  Help me loosen his shit slit while I get my dong ready,"
Collin said with a grin.  He looked down at me sharply â€" I had paused
for a moment.  "What the fuck are you doing, bitch boy.  Keep sucking."

As I continued to slide my lips up and down his shaft, I saw Wes and Shane
come into view.  They were holding . . . Lacrosse sticks???

I blinked.  No, I wasn't seeing things.  Both boys were wielding long white
lacrosse sticks in their hands, the polycarbonate/plastic shafts gleaming
even in the darkness of the basement.  At one end were the familiar wide
webbed nets, that I had seen helmeted Lacrosse players use to cradle and
then sling balls across fields a hundred time before.

Then in a fluid motion both Wes and Shane flipped their sticks over, and I
saw, with a familiar sense of fascination mixed with horror, that these
sticks had in fact in modified.  On the butt of each stick, where normally
there would just be a dull point, a penis-shaped dildo had in fact been
welded onto the stick, so that the stick was double sided: net on one end,
dildo on the other.

The first stick had a very tiny dildo.  The second was larger - not quite
the size of a real dick, but definitely close.

I eyed them, too stunned to do anything for a moment.  My jaw went slack
and for a moment, and I forgot to keep sucking Collin's dick.

Collin pulled back abruptly, took his enormous eight inch cock, and whacked
me with it across the cheek.  He did it a second time, then a third, in
rapid succession.

"Surprised by our modified lax sticks, you cum slut?" he demanded.  "You
haven't seen fucking anything yet.  There are 4 more lacrosse sticks we
made special for you."

"Show him the one we made for if he's especially naughty," Shane suggested
with a wicked look.  One of the other frat boy's went across the room and
grabbed from a corner another Lacrosse stick.  This was held out in front
of my face so I could examine it more closely.  I winced involuntarily.
Like the others, this one too had a dildo welded onto its butt, but this
dildo was enormous â€" over a foot long, uncomfortably wide, and studded
all over its side with tiny little diamond sized corrugations.

"Now fucking keep sucking my dick, unless you want that used on you,"
Collin instructed.  Obediently, without taking another second to think it
over, I continued to swallow his dick enthusiastically.

The evil corrugated oversized dildo was put away, but Shane and Wes
continued to wield the original two.

Collin pulled away from my mouth for a moment, and Shane held the two
smaller Lacrosse stick mounted dildos in front of me.  "Suck on these bitch
boy," Shane ordered.  "I'd use as much of your slave saliva as you can, cuz
it's the only lube you're getting on these."

There were chuckles around the room at this.

Shane gave me just a few seconds to wet each dildo with my tongue.  Then as
Collin continued to face-fuck me, they brought them back around behind me
to my vulnerable, tied down ass.

"Put the smaller one in first.  Loosen him up," I heard Bryce instruct
them.

I felt the searing thrust of the under-lubricated dildo burst into my
helplessly spread asshole.  I would have screamed like a stuck pig if I
hadn't had a mouthful of cock.

"Yeah," I heard Shane say from behind me, as he shoved the Lacrosse-stick
mounted dildo into my rectum.  "Yeah.  You like that, bitch boy??"  I felt
him withdraw, then thrust back in, then withdraw, then in again, all the
while as Collin's dick got more and more rock hard in my mouth.

"Boy obviously enjoys it.  Look how wide his legs are spread," I heard one
of the other frat boys guffaw.  There were more hoots of amusement.

In, out, in out.  I wanted to cry out in pain but couldn't.

"Put the second one in," one of the other boys shouted.

The dildos were swapped, the slightly larger one in now.  The pain was even
more acute.

"Alright," Collin finally said, withdrawing his dick.  Precum was drooling
down toward the floor.  "I gotta go in now or my nuts are gonna bust all
over the cum slut's face."

 Without another word, he yanked out a condom and pulled it over his
rock-hard dick.  I saw him slathering it with a tube of lube.

"Alright, bitch boy," he grinned.  "Let's see how that pussy of yours likes
taking a real man's cock."

He stepped back behind me again.  I felt his large muscular hands take hold
of my torso, clutching my midsection like it had hand-holds.

"I'm going in, boys!" Collin said, to hoots and shouts of encouragement
from all around the room.

And with that, without any further fanfare, Collin pounced.

The sensation was electrifying.  With my whole body still trapped in that
fiendish position, my legs completely spread, my torso bent over the padded
bench, my ass sticking up into the air, Collin thrust his muscular bulk
into me and slammed his erect penis into my ass shoot.  You would have
thought the sensation from the dildos would have prepared me, but having an
actual man's cock surge into your asshole is another experience altogether.
This time I did cry out â€" LOUDLY.

"Oh god!!!"  I shouted involuntarily.

"Ride that bitchboy, cowboy!!" one of the frat brothers cheered.

"YEEE-HAW!!" shouted an overzealous other.

Like a piston furiously firing an engine, Collin churned back, forth, back
forth, up, down, up, in out in out in . . . .pain shot through my body with
each thrust of his oversized cock.  I panted.

Inevitably, to compound my dilemma, as I had not been allowed to come for
weeks upon weeks now, as soon as the fucking began in earnest, precum began
to gush out of my piss slit.  Of course, it was not relief â€" my poor
aching cock still yearned, nightly, almost hourly, for a release that never
came.  Now, with over a month's cum pent up, even this highly indirect
stimulation was enough to make me drip like the leakiest faucet.

Collin was speeding up now.  THUMP.  THUMP. THUMP.  THUMP THUMP THUMP.  He
was putting all his weight into each thrust, the very opposite of gentle.
The sensation was painful and incredibly violating.  Somehow the position
in which I was trapped, with my ankles and legs spread wide apart, allowed
him to shove in at what I felt to be an unprecedented depth.

"What does it feel like?" one of the frat boys asked eagerly.

"Fucking AMAZING," Collin shouted.  He sounded like he was in ecstasy.  "Oh
SHIT, I'm gonna blow!!!"

He cried out as he erupted, spasm after spasm shaking his body.  Finally,
he slumped over me, his bulk collapsing over my back.  He lay there,
panting, sweating all over me, while I gasped for air, tied down, my
asshole feeling like a truck had just been driven through it.  Eventually
he pulled away, panting.

"Alright," I heard one of the frat boys shout eagerly, almost immediately.
"Let's move on to the next one!"

Bryce nodded.  "OK," he said.  "One at a time.  Plenty of time and room for
everyone who wants a go, boys."  He reproduced the blindfold and strode
over to my trapped head.  "First let me just reblind the bitch boy."

My heart sank, and I just managed to suppress a groan of despair.



Over the next 3 hours, with the blindfold on, I licked the feet of 6 frat
boys, sucked on 3 frat boy cocks, swallowed the piss of 2 more, and licked
the asscracks of 4 more.

In no single case was I able to identify my tormentor with the blindfold on
â€" not for lack of effort!  This despite the fact that among the frat
boys who presented me their feet to lick were such familiar tormentors as
Bryce and Wes, and Reid was one of the guys who made me drink his piss, and
Shane was among the guys who presented me their asscracks.  These were men
who I had worshipped so extensively for the past 2 weeks and yet I was
still unable to recognize them with the blindfold on.

It didn't bode well.

During those 3 hours, in no instance was I able to identify all 5 sports
facts correctly, either, though in only one case did I get all of them
wrong because I didn't even know who the guy was.

My punishments for these failures were, of course, also swift and brutal.
As my vulnerable and exposed ass grew redder and redder, a few of the boys
did take some pity on me by not imposing the maximum number of swats, but
of course some of them imposed the maximum with relish.  Each guy had so
many different options to choose from: Bryce, Reid and Shane all opted for
frat paddles, while Wes opted for a leather belt, and other guys chose
ping-pong paddles or flexible wooden rods.

Each swat made me grit my teeth even harder with pain.  On two more
occasions, under the pressure of the moment, I found myself once again
screwing up the ritual begging â€" "5.  Thank you sir. May I please have
another sir?" â€" and the frat boys eager seized on my failure to attach
more clips to my stretched out ball-sack.

"You know what we should totally do?" one of the frat boys said at one
point while more clips where being attached.  "We should have a competition
later.  Anyone in the frat can compete.  The challenge is to see how many
clothespins you can pin on the bitch boy while he's tied up like that over
the bench.  Winner gets . . . I dunno . . . unlimited rights to fuck the
bitch boy whenever he wants."

The frat boys loved this idea and agreed they should do it soon.  Thinking
about having over 30 different frat brothers and pledges attach and then
detach, one at a time, as many clothespines as they possibly could on my
naked stretched out body, I shuddered.

Even more than the punishment spanking sessions was the ass-fucking.  Of
the 15 boys who I worshipped and could not identify, every single one of
them opted to exercise their right to fuck me.  Somehow it seemed to feed
on itself â€" as the frat boys saw how much fun each successive member
of the frat seemed to have plowing my ass, the rest of them wanted to do it
even more.  So many of them had impressively large cocks, which made the
repeated fucking in my ass that much harder to take.

Bryce, of couse, was the worse.  His penis was absolutely immense,
something on the order of 10 inches when fully and completely erect.  As I
gagged repeatedly on his huge organ as he ordered me to fellate him, as
another frat boy got my backend ready by plunging one of the lacrosse-stick
mounted cocks into my rear, Bryce smirked.  "You think that dildo hurts,"
he said, observing my wince, "wait until you feel this monster."

The frat boys laughed.


Drop me a line at greg_alexander222@yahoo.com to tell your thoughts on the
story.  Suggestions welcome.