Date: Fri, 23 Jul 2010 23:12:32 -0700 (PDT)
From: Greg Alexander <greg_alexander222@yahoo.com>
Subject: "Frat Boy's Bitch Boy" - Part 14

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 14 I lay there, pinned down to the spanking bench, more and more
piss flowing through the tube, through my piss gag, and into my mouth as
the night wore on.

The screen on my laptop was never inactive for long.  Through the grainy
video feed, I could see guy after guy after guy after guy take his place in
front of the urinal.  As the hours passed, and as the beer kept flowing,
they started staggering into the bathroom more visibly drunk, their stride
more and more lopsided, their every movement more and more inebriated, but
still they kept coming.  And coming.  And coming.

They were mostly frat guys, jocks, athletes, guys with popped collars, guys
with backward baseball hats and sun glasses inexplicably still on, even
though it was night and indoors . . . they types you'd expect to find at
your typical frat party on our campus.  I was sure there were plenty of
girls, but of course, thanks to the signage the frat boys had left outside
the bathroom, none of them were coming in.

As always, it was funny, the things I suddenly observed.  I couldn't help
but notice how each guy addressed the urinal just a little bit differently.
One dude would sort of saunter in, lean up against the wall with one hand
outstretched, and hold onto his dick with his free hand while he pissed.
Another guy would lean forward, gazing down in concentration, like it took
a lot of thought to get it right.  Other guys still would sort of clutch
their ball sack with both hands, arch their back, and gaze up at the
ceiling, as if for all the world they wanted to look anywhere but down into
the urinal.

The guys who belonged in Delta Psi, and knew where the urinal pipe led,
behaved a little differently of course, at least when there was nobody else
in the bathroom at the moment.  Usually they would face the camera, so they
were staring directly at me through the laptop screen, then gleefully flick
me off, before finally sauntering over to the urinal and theatrically
unloading.

The other thing I noticed, of course, was how different piss seemed to
taste, depending on the dude whose piss I was drinking.  I had been vaguely
aware of the different flavors over the last few weeks, as the boys had
ordered me to identify them based in part on piss flavor, but I had never
really completely been able to differentiate effectively.  Now, for the
first time, I was tasting load after load of piss in a row, and I could
compare the flavor of each one.  I was amazed by the variety.  Sometimes it
tasted way salty, sometimes less so.  It was always warm, but the warmth
varied . . . and did countless other little details.

The party went on.  I could dimly hear the loud rock music overhead,
sending vibrations through the floor boards, with the occasional whoop and
holler and shout standing out of the din.  Of course, my room was pretty
sound proof, and the most I could hear was a very dull roar.

At one point during the night, a group of seven or eight of the Delta Psi
guys, with Wes as the ring leader, slipped into the bathroom, visibly
giggling and snickering on camera.  I guessed that most of them were pretty
wasted by that point.  Facing the camera, they all flipped me the bird in
unison.  Then, grinning, they produced a red classic frat party plastic
cup, and quickly passed it around.  One by one, each of them spat into it.
I realized as I watched that at least 3 of the guys were using chewing
tobacco -- it was the group of frat boys that all used dip, I suddenly saw.

They kept passing the cup around and around, until it was basically full.
Wes flipped me the bird one more time . . . and then he walked up to the
urinal and dumped the whole cup in.

I winced and braced myself.  I mentally counted out 1 . . . 2 . . . and
then, sure enough, by the third beat, the foul brew they had just concocted
for me washed down my helpless throat.  I gagged.  I mean, don't get me
wrong, the piss tasted pretty awful, but at least I was getting used to the
flavor.  This was much worse.

Periodically, in the later hours of the party, a handful of horny Delta Psi
guys did stumble through the entrance into the basement room, saunter over
to take their place behind me, drop their jeans or their Nantucket red frat
boy shorts, and roughly start fucking me, jamming their erect dicks down my
ass chute (presumably, many of them would have preferred that I suck them
off first, as was traditional, but of course my mouth was otherwise
occupied).  The vast majority of the frat never came by to fuck me, and I
guessed it was because most of these jocks were too busy scoring with one
or another lady visitor frequenting the frat house that night.

After hours, and hours, and hours had passed, the traffic through the
bathroom dropped to a slow trickle.  One dude, completely trashed, stumbled
into the bathroom, into the camera's line of sight.  He bent forward, and
puked a massive, nasty geiser of liquid onto the floor (thankfully, not
into the urinal!)  Then he sauntered another step or two forward, and
promptly collapsed, sprawled out like a big mat on the bathroom floor.
Another guy or two used the urinal after him, stepping gingerly over him
and unloading their piss, and then after that, finally, quiet.  Of course,
I had no idea what time it was.

Now, as you might have guessed, by this point in the night, I had another
burning, urgent problem.  Bryce had ordered me not to piss "a single drop."
Well, inevitably, as the night had wore on, and as I had swallowed more and
more urine, my need to piss had grown . . .  slowly at first, then a bit
more, then worse, and worse, and worse.  Hours before the party had started
winding down, it had reached an urgent point; my entire bladder felt
utterly full, on the verge of bursting.

With the last stragglers slipping into the bathroom, I had reached a
critical breaking point.  Every last ounce of my mental energy was being
devoted to the task of regulating my bladder, of controlling my muscles, of
willing myself not to unleash the torrent of piss I could feel building up
inside of me like some welled up dam.

I clenched my teeth.  I shut my eyes.  I concentrated with all my might on
holding it in.  I was aware . . . only too keenly aware . . . that Bryce
had ordered me not to piss.  And of course, if I failed to follow Bryce's
order, I knew there would be terrible consequences.  As there always was.

The door swung open again.  I opened my eyes.  I was hoping against hope
that they were here at last to untie me, release me from the piss pipe, and
allow me to relieve myself.

Instead, standing in the doorway, silhouetted against the light coming down
the stairwell, I could see the figure of Shane.  That sadistic shit.  I
shuddered.

Shane didn't say a thing.  All he did was pad softly across the room, to
the corner of the basement.  There was a sink there - the sink that so many
of the frat boys had used to fill up their bucket with soapy water, in
order to scrub the demerits off the soles of my feet, back when I was still
trapped in the "penalty box."  Now, I saw Shane reach for the faucet
handle, give it a turn, and then, just like that, pad silently back out of
the room, shutting the door behind him, and leaving me in darkness as
before.

Except . . . now, of course, there was the distinct sound of the faucet
running as I lay there, trapped, hunched over the spanking bunch.

The sound of running water was brutal.  If my bladder had already been
close to bursting, the running water pushed me to the edge.  All of a
sudden, my head was filled with thoughts of running water: water flowing,
waterfalls, gushing, cascading.

Pissing.

I shut my eyes.  I gritted my teeth harder.

Can't piss myself, I thought over and over.  Bryce told me not to piss
myself.  I'm sure there will be terrible consequences if I disobey Bryce.
Concentrate.  Focus.  Focus . . .

Running water.

Gushing water.

I'm not sure how long I lay there, trussed and bound tightly to the bench,
trying with all my might to shut out the sound of the faucet and to hold
the gallons of piss in.  Finally, as I clenched my teeth and tried to block
the sound out, I was vaguely aware of a warm, wet feeling bubbling up just
below my midsection.

Shit, I thought.

Once I started, there was no stopping it.  The piss kept flowing.  And
flowing. And flowing.  Warm piss, and more warm piss.  It flooded down into
the spanking bench to which I was securely tied.  It gushed down my legs,
and I could see it forming below me in a big puddle.

Still, it kept flowing.  The puddle kept expanding.  I tried to shut it
off, to stop, but once the dam was open it was impossible to close. A sense
of immense physical relief washed over me, combined, of course, my a
visceral accompanying fear of what Bryce and the other frat boys would do
to me for having, once again, in spite of my best efforts, disobeyed them.



I managed, finally, to doze off for at least a few hours.  In what I took
to be the very late morning, I was awoken by the sound of voices.

I opened my eyes to see Bryce standing there, looming in front of me,
flanked on either side by a small cadre of frat boys.  They all looked to
be in various stages of hang overs.

Bryce did not look very happy.

"Fucking cunt.  I give you one fucking instruction.  One, you little cum
slut.  What was my one order?"

I of course couldn't say a word with the piss gag still in my mouth.  Sam,
one of the frat boys standing off to the side, decided to helpfully chime
in:

"You told him not to piss himself, Bryce."

"Damn fucking straight."  Bryce folded his arms, glared at me, then glared
at the pool of piss that was still collected underneath the spanking bench.

"Let's see what the bitch boy has to say for himself?" Shane suggested,
from off to the side.

In a gruff gesture, Bryce detached the tube from my gag, then tore the piss
gag out of my mouth.  I coughed and sputtered, grateful to be free of the
wretched thing.

"Well.  I explicitly ordered you not to piss yourself, boy.  So why did you
disobey me?"  Bryce demanded.

I was absolutely sure there was no power on earth that could induce Bryce
not to punish me for my disobedience; I could see in his scheming eyes, in
fact, that he was already relishing the opportunity to dole out yet another
punishment.

"I am so sorry I disobeyed you sir," I said, fear welling up inside me.  "I
tried my absolute best to hold the piss in, but there was just so much
. . . after holding it for hours and hours and hours I tried so hard sir,
but I couldn't hold it any more."

Collin, smirking, wearing his frat boy flip flops as always, stepped
forward.  "Shut the fuck up bitch boy.  No one cares about your pathetic
excuses.  Repeat after me: I'm a bad little bitch boy, and I wet myself
without the permission of the big boys."

I felt myself flush with shame.  "I'm a bad little bitch boy, and I wet
myself without the permission of the big boys," I muttered.

Shane cupped his hand behind his ear.  "What's that, slut?  I can't hear
you?"

"I'm a bad little bitch boy, and I wet myself without the permission of the
big boys!" I said, louder this time.

"Open your fucking mouth, and shout it slave," Bryce growled.

"I'M A BAD LITTLE BITCH BOY, AND I WET MYSELF WITHOUT THE PERMISSION OF THE
BIG BOYS!" I hollered at the top of my lungs.

"I deserve to be punished for pissing myself," Collin continued, directing
me.  "Say it, slut."

"I DESERVE TO PUNISHED FOR PISSING MYSELF!!!"

"That's right you do, bitch boy," Bryce said gruffly.  He roughly untied me
from the spanking bench.  He quickly reshackled my ankles and knees, and
then he recuffed my wrists behind my back, so that I remained as helpless
as ever.

"Well, first things first, boy, you've got to clean up your mess.  Get to
it."  He snapped at the puddle of urine that had collected on the floor.  I
wasn't even surprised; I knew immediately that with my hands trapped behind
me, he wanted me to use my tongue.  I knelt, leaned forward, and began to
lap it up.

"Fucking little bitch.  Get it all up, you slut," Collin shouted down at
me.

I licked faster.


Finally, they seemed satisfied that I had gotten it all.

Bryce reattached a leash to the collar around my neck.  Once again, for the
second time in as many days, he led me up the stairway to the main floor of
the Delta Psi frat house, with me awkwardly struggling after him, and the
other frat boys in tow.

I reached the main room, where I had been yesterday, serving the frat boys
beer and acting as an unwilling beer-pong table.  Other frat boys milled
around in this room, sprawled out on sofas and chairs.  I spotted Trevor,
reclining on a soft padded chair.  He was drinking water, and he raised his
glass to me in an ironic salute as I appeared.  Most of the guys looked
totally hung over, not surprisingly.

The frat house, I could immediately see, was in a disastrous state.  The
main room was a total mess; evidence of last night's revelry was
everywhere.  There were red fratty cups strewn about every which way, many
of them still with beer and various other cocktails, some of which had
spilled out and were staining the wooden floor below.  Every inch of the
floor seemed to be coated with a sticky, drying drink of some kind; mostly
beer, I suspected.  There were discarded empty kegs, beer cans, beer
bottles, and beer boxes everywhere, along with all manner of trash, and
even a few pieces of dirty laundry, random baseball hats and discarded
brown flip flops randomly strewn around. Little pools of spilled beer
leading into the adjoining rooms suggested the rest of the house, or at
least the main floor, were no better.

The place, in short, was a total disaster.

Bryce and Collin moved around me, adjusting my bondage once again.  My
hands were uncuffed from behind my back, and recuffed in front of me, this
time using a chain with a lot more slack than I had ever had before, so
that I could actually move my arms around with some degree of freedom.  My
ankles and knees remained tightly cuffed. A familiar standby now, the
"humiliator gag" with the cylinder protrusion jutting out, which could be
attached to various accessories (previously the carrying tray for Bryce,
and the squeegee I had used to clean up the spilled beer and the bathroom
floor last night, before being officially secured as the party's urinal).
This time no accessory was attached to the gag, at least not yet.  Bryce
gruffly indicated for me to open my mouth, and I reluctantly accepted the
gag as Bryce secured it in place.

Finally, Collin produced a long metal chain . . . very long, say at least
150 feet.  (Not for the first time, I wondered where the hell these guys
got all this stuff.  And I remembered, not for the first time either, that
most of this was probably coming out of my bank account, which Trevor had
long ago accessed).  Just like the night before, he attached one end of the
chain to my dog collar, and the other end to the metal eye-hook embedded in
the brick well.  This time I had more length to work with and a longer
radius, but I was, nevertheless, once again anchored to the wall and unable
to escape.

"Alright, slave," Bryce explained with his customary terseness.  "Don't
worry.  We haven't forgotten about the punishment we still owe you for
pissing yourself last night, in spite of my direct orders.

"But first, we need you to take care of this mess for us."  He gestured
around at the room we were standing in.  "As you can see, we had a pretty
awesome party last night.  I know you enjoyed it thoroughly."  There were
snickers at this.

Collin interjected.  "Well bitch boy . . . to be blunt, nobody much feels
like cleaning up the spectacular mess we all made.  Of course, then we all
realized . . . that's what our fucking bitch boy is for, right?"  More
laughter.

"So . . . here's the deal, slut.  It's a fucking 3 day weekend.  And Delta
Psi goes big on 3 day weekends.  Tonight the frat is having a frat-only BBQ
out in our backyard.  And it's gonna be fuckin awesome, dude.  But this
whole place needs to be cleaned up by then.  It's late morning now. We're
giving you the whole afternoon .  . . until 5 PM. . .  to clean this whole
fucking place.  And it better be fucking spotless dude . . . I mean,
absolutely fucking spick and span.  Floors spotless.  Laundry pressed and
folded.  Trash picked up.  Floors mopped the fuck up.

"We'll give the place a thorough inspection at exactly 5," one of the other
frat boys chimed in.  "And then, bitch boy, we'll rate your overall
performance."

Trevor had been sitting off to the side, on one of the pool tables, his
flip-flopped legs dangling down.  But now he swung his legs off and jumped
smoothly to the floor, looking closely at me as he walked.  "And of course,
slave, needless to say, if the house isn't spotless by then, you'll hafta
to be punished." He grinned.  "Which, combined with the punishment we
already owe you for pissing yourself, means that you'll have to take a
double punishment."  He paused, then glanced over at Wes.  "Also . . .
dude.  Grab the cock cage.  We gotta make sure our bitch boy can't touch
his dick while he cleans."



Once my dick was secured, the frat boys laid out in a neat row the
different "accessories" they said I would need throughout the day.  They
were all extensions meant to be added to my humiliator gag, each one with a
cylindrical protrusion, so as to attach more easily to my gag.

I stared at the layout.  I saw the squeegee attachment they had made me use
last night to clean up the spilled beer . . . that one looked familiar, of
course.

But there were others. I saw an attachment piece for a broom, a mop, a
feather duster, and a toilet bowl cleaner.  I was told that whenever I
wanted to switch one piece out for another, I would have to approach one of
the frat boys and massage his feet first for 5 minutes in order for my
request to be granted.

With a such a long chain connecting my collar to the wall, I realized that
I actually had enough slack to move around the house . . . even enough to
go to the upstairs rooms of the house, where I had never been before.  And
with my wrists connected by such a long chain, I actually had enough
freedom of movement to move my arms around and pick things up.  But of
course, with my ankles tightly bound together, I still had to awkwardly
hop, one halting hop at a time, to get anywhere.

Well, it didn't go very well.

I started off trying just to pick up all the trash from the party and bag
it, but that in and of itself took hours, especially with my ankles tied
together, and the frat boys made matters worst by deliberately leaving
messes everywhere as they went around the house about their business.  They
would discard dirty underwear carelessly onto the floor, they would
deliberately kick over trash cans.  They kept interrupting me, demanding
that I bring them more beers from the fridge.  They kept tossing smelly
flip-flops at me, and demanding that I wash them clean with soap and water.
And they derived enormous amusement from making me grovel just to get them
to switch one cleaning implement in for another. In short, they made an
already nearly impossible task utterly impossible.

By the time it was early afternoon, I had finally gotten most of the trash
bagged and thrown it in the back of the house -- although, of course, I
kept having to bag more as the asshole frat boys dropped more and more
trash onto the floor.  I had managed to collect the disgusting piles of
dirty laundry and get several loads into the washing machine on the second
floor of the frat house (come to think of it, I was surprised they even had
one), but my life was further complicated when Collin informed me that I
would be punished unless I kept track of which article of clothing belonged
to which frat boy . . . a nearly impossible task, of course, especially by
that point.  I persuaded Hank, the cowboy frat boy who was always just a
little nicer than the others, to attach the mop accessory to my humiliator
gag, and I set to work crawling around the frat house (butt naked, of
course) cleaning the floors.

As the day wore on, as the frat boys kept drinking beer and lounging around
the house, they got more and more brazen in their obnoxious antics, doing
more and more to create new messes for me to clean up.

"Here, slave.  Catch."  As I mopped, Shane suddenly hurled a series of eggs
down the hallway at me.  One hit me squarely in the forehead, splattering
messily, yolk running down my face onto the floor.  It felt a lot like cum,
I thought to myself (by that point I had a pretty good feel for what cum on
my face felt like!)

Another frat boy deliberately spilled a bottle of beer on the floor.  Still
another dumped a container of food all over the kitchen.

Needless to say, in spite of my best efforts, by the time 5 PM rolled
around, despite all the frantic work I had done, with 40 frat boys prowling
around the house all day making new messes, the house was very, very far
from "spotless."

"Bitch boy," Bryce demanded, as he circulated throughout the house,
inspecting my work when the deadline had passed, "did you even clean the
bathrooms at all, you lazy slut?"

I hung my head in shame.  The truth was that, in trying to do everything
else, I hadn't even gotten to that.

"What about the upstairs, dude?"

I hadn't gotten to that either.

Bryce shook his head.  "Totally unacceptable, slave."

Collin flashed his sexy grin.  "I think it's safe to say we're giving you
an `F,' Bitch Boy."

The frat boys agreed that they would make me come back later and finish my
clean up, but that for now, it was important that my punishment not be
deferred any longer.  "Otherwise, who knows . . .  the little bitch will
get the idea he can do anything he wants," Trevor pointed out sagely.

My wrists were recuffed behind my back, and I was dragged back to the main
floor of the frat house.  The broom accessory (which had previously been
attached to the gag) was removed, the serving tray was fixed back into
place, it was loaded up with several bottles of beer, and I was made to
squat in the middle of the floor, while around 30 of the frat boys circled
me, sipping beer and discussing what my next punishment should be.

Various ideas were tossed around.

"Dudes," Shane finally said, gulping on his beer.  "Can I tell you what was
fucking sweet in high school?  Giving wedgies to the tools who deserved it.
Man, I gave a good wedgie when I was a senior.  I sure would love to give a
really good one to the bitch boy now."

There was immediate enthusiasm for this idea.  Apparently, most of the
members of Delta Psi had fond memories of giving high school wedgies, and
felt universally deprived of opportunities to deliver really good wedgies
now that they were all in college.

"Whoa," muttered Sam, one of the juniors.  "How the fuck have we not
thought of that before??"

Reid chimed in.  "Dude . . . it's fucking brilliant."

"Man, that's an awesome theme!" another frat boy agreed.

"In fact . . .  let's just make the entire rest of the night a high school
themed punishment for the fucking bitch boy!"

While I knelt there, bound and gagged and immobilized, the frat boys all
warmed to their theme.  They began to confer in hushed whispers and giggles
in a clump, so I could no longer hear what they were saying.  My
trepidation grew.

Finally, they sent two of their pledges off to make a quick run at the
Walmart. They came back in just a few minutes carrying . . . several
grocery bags full of tidey widey underpants.

"Don't worry, bitch boy," Bryce chortled, as they emptied the contents on
the floor.  "We got you the extra small size."

The frat boys began to stack them in a pile. One of the frat boys produced
a black sharpy marker, and began to label each set "frat boy's bitch boy"
in illegible masculine scrawl as each pair of underwear was torn from it's
plastic packaging.

Trevor patted me on the head in a gesture of mock comfort.  "Awww.  Don't
worry bitch boy.  We didn't spend any frat money on these, as usual.  These
all came out of your bank account. Just in case the first few ripped, we
have a bunch of backups . . . so we can wedgie you all weekend."

Bryce flashed me his no-nonsense glare.  "Now . . . get into the first set
of tighty whiteys, you little bitch."

My ankles were uncuffed, and my cock cage removed.  The frat boys circled
me, smirking.  It was incredibly awkward, trying to get the things on with
my hands still cuffed behind me, but somehow I managed without tripping.
It was definitely the case that they had gotten an extra small size . .
. it might even have been a child's size, I thought . . . and I barely was
able to squeeze into them.  They were extremely constricting.

I realized, absently, with a sense of incredulity, that it was the first
time I had been allowed to wear a single article of clothing since I set
foot into the frat weeks ago.

They left the ankle cuffs discarded on the floor.

"Dude," Cliff, one of the boys, smirked.  "Let's do it just like in high
school .  . . duct tape him, man!!"

"yeah!" another guy explained.  "I love it!"

Someone produced a roll of duct tape.  A very long strip was pulled off and
wrapped repeatedly around my ankles.  Then my handcuffs were removed, and
the same thing happened to my wrists.

"Alright, Shane," Bryce was saying.  "It was your idea . . . so it's only
fair you get first dibbs."

Shane took his position behind me.  He leaned forward, so his lips were
pressed up against my ear. "Beg me," he whispered.  I could feel his hot
breath.  "Beg me to give you a wedgie."

I hesitated only a moment. "Please sir," I gasped.  "Give me a wedgie,
sir."

"Admit that you're a fucking tool."

"I'm a fucking tool."

"Louder!!"

"I'M A FUCKING TOOL SIR!!"

As the frat boys laughed at me, I felt Shane lunge forward and grab my
waste band from behind.  I felt a little shock of pain as he yanked once,
HARD, yanking the fabric up into my butt crack.  It was surprising, really,
how painful a wedgie can be when you're wearing tidey-whiteys that are way
too tight.  The pain was compounded from the fact that my poor
understimulated cock, freed of the cock cage I had been forced to wear all
day, was already starting to get hard again, simply from the contact with
the fabric of the briefs.  The sudden sensation of having the whitey tideys
yanked from behind also had the effect of smashing my ballsack.  I felt
like all the wind had been knocked out of me.

Shane pulled again, HARD, and I involuntarily cried out, as the fabric tore
into my ass crack.  This time, Shane actually hoisted me off the ground by
my underpants, so that my bare feet were hovering above the floor.  He held
me there for at least the count of ten.  The pain tripled now; the wedgie
sensation between my ass crack was suddenly unbearable.

Shane finally set me down.  "Who's next?"  he inquired cheerfully.

"I'll go," Collin quickly volunteered.  He positioned himself behind me.
Again I felt the burning sensation in my crotch as I was hoisted into the
air by my undies.

Wes was next.  He too flashed an unhealthy smirk as he moved behind
me. "Man," he said with a sigh of contentment."It's like the best fuckin
wedgies I gave when I was on varsity soccer . . . except, with the little
bitch trussed up like he is, he can't even try to fight back!  It's fuckin
pathetic, dude." As he became the third frat boy to hoist me into the air
by the seat of my pants, I let out another cry of pain.



Sam Hamilton, one of the juniors in the frat, came next.  "Dude," he said
cheerfully.  "Let's not forget about the fucking Melvin variety."  Rather
than take his place behind me, Sam suddenly yanked my wasteband from the
front, and hoisted me into the air by my front side.  The pain was just as
bad . . . maybe even a little worse.  And this form REALLY ended up
crushing my nuts.

"Fucking awesome!" Reid said, watching.  He stepped forward and took his
place behind me.  "Dude . . . let's make it a squeaky clean wedgie!!"

As I stood there, totally helpless, Sam smoothly released the front of my
undeys, and at the same moment, in one fluid gesture, Reid yanked my
tidey-wideys back behind me, so that the fabric whipped painfully back
behind me, making a painful whistling sound.  I cried out in pain again.

Sam smoothly took the front of the wasteband and pulled up as Reid
released.  Then back, and forth.  Back and forth.  As I stood there,
helpless as the tidey wideys were used like the dental floss strand from
hell, the frat boys hooted with laughter.

Finally, I heard a loud RIPP!!!  I looked down and realizd, with a sense of
relief, that the virgourous Melvin-squeaky clean-wedgie torture had caused
my tight tightie whiteys to rip in two.  Reid stood there, holding a shard
of underwear (which he hastily discarded).

Thank god, I thought to myself for a deluded moment.  They can't give me
more wedgies now.

"Alright, bitch boy," Trevor said, undoing the duct tape around my legs,
making me wince slightly.  "Now put on the next pair of tightey-whiteys."

"And don't worry, slave," Bryce chimed in.  "We have over 40 more pairs.
And the wedgieing ain't stopping until we go through every last one."

I groaned.





About 40 wedgies, melvins and squeaky-clean wedgies later, after each frat
boy had gotten some fun yanking me up by the wasteband of my tightey
whiteys, and after tearing through about 7 more pairs of underwear, my ass
crack and ballsack felt destroyed.


But unfortunately, the frat boys were only getting started.  These guys
were like alcoholics falling off the wagon; most of these guys had been
asshole jocks who had gotten a big kick out of wedgieing victims in high
school.  Now that they had started down this road, there was simply no
stopping them.

"Fuckin' A, Dude," one of the frat boys, Gabe, said.  "I feel like there
are other kinds of wedgies we're forgetting.  What else are we missing?"

Wes, ever the foot worship enthusiast, piped up.  "Let's make the bitch boy
kiss and lick our feet and beg for more wedgies while we look more up."

The frat boys liked this idea.

Collin already had his iphone out.  "Fuck, man . . . here's a site that
lists . . .  like, every type of wedgie there is.  Dude . .  . how could we
have forgotten about fucking atomic wedgies?"  He looked up, made eye
contact with me, and snapped commandingly down toward his flip-flops.
"Crawl over here, start licking my feet bitch boy, and beg for your atomic
wedgie."

With my wrists and ankles duct taped together, I crawled over to Collin's
feet and begin to kiss them.  "Please, sir, please give me an atomic
wedgie."



Collin made me beg for another minute or so while the frat boys laughed at
me.  Then, finally, with a big muscular gesture, he took hold of the
wasteband and gave it a mighty heave.  "Hold his legs down!" he urged
Danny, another frat boy, as he yanked.  The fabric stretched and stretched.
Finally he was able to actually stretch it over my head, and secure the
back wasteband to my forehead . . . in classic atomic wedgie style.

"I love it!" Trevor hooted.

Collin grinned.  "Now," he said cruelly, "get back down on the floor, kiss
my feet again, and thank me for your atomic wedgie."


Of course, moving around at all with my tighty-whiteys hiked up over my
head was excruciating.  I crawled forward, wincing, and kissed Collin's
feet again.  "Thank you for my atomic wedgie, sir," I said pathetically.

Two other frat boys made me beg them for atomic wedgies until that pair
tore.  Then I suffered through another humiliating round of melvins and
squeaky clean wedgies, with each of my tormentors now making me kiss their
bare feet begging them for my wedgie, with detail about exactly what kind
of wedgie I wanted (dictated to me by them, of course) and then thanking
them for my wedgie before and after each one.

"Dude . . . I've got another one," Trevor suddenly said, looking one up on
his iphone.  "Oh, man, little bitch isn't gonna like this one.  It's
called, uh, the `messy wedgie.'  It's a wedgie where you put something down
the victim's underpants before you wedgie him!

"Hysterical," one of the other boys chortled.

"What do you put down the pants?" a third boy wanted to know.

"Whatever we feel like!' Trevor grinned.

"How `bout eggs, for starters?" Shane suggested with an evil glint in his
eye. Of course, Shane had also earlier been the one to pelt me with eggs
while I was trying to clean up the house.  Clearly, the boy had eggs on the
brain.

The frat boys loved the suggestion.  One of them went to retrieve a carton
of eggs from the fridge, then returned.


"I bet I can crack 6 at once," Trevor boasted.

"10 bucks says you can't!" Jared shouted from off to the side.

Trevor grinned.  "Oh, just fucking watch."  He glanced down at me.
"C'mere, bitch boy. Lick uncle trevor's feet and beg for some of your very
own scrambled eggs!"

The frat boys sniggered.  Obediently, I crawled over to Trevor.  He kicked
off his flip-flops, and I began to lick the soles of his feet.

"Please, master Trevor, drop 6 eggs down my underpants and then try to
crack them all by giving me a wedgie, sir."

Trevor made me beg a little more.  Than he ordered me to stand up
(awkwardly, of course, with the duct tape).  He dropped the 6 eggs into my
tidey wideys.  I shut my eyes and braced myself.

Trevor toyed with my anticipation for a few seconds, then in one savage
move, he grabbed me by the back of my wasteband and with a muscular heave,
he ripped me into the air.  I felt a searing shock of pain as I felt all 6
eggs simultaneously explode, the shells biting painfully into my ass.  The
gooey contents of each egg erupted in my tidey-wideys.

I screamed, from a combination of shock and pain.  Trevor cruelly dangled
me for a few seconds, then dropped me painfully to a floor in a heap.  I
could feel the yolk running down my ass crack and down my legs.

"The little fucker is dripping!" one of the frat boys exclaimed.

"Lick that shit up, slave boy," Trevor said sternly, pointing to the yellow
yolk that was dribbling on the floor.

"Yes sir," I immediately said, kneeling and licking the mess up.

"Some got on my toes," he said, pointing down at his flip-flops.  "Lick
that up too."

I did.

We went through several more pairs of tightey whiteys while the frat boys
gleefully experimented with other types of "messy wedgies."  Cliff in
particular got a kick out of dropping a peeled banana down my undies,
giving me a massive wedgie, and then making them eat the totally crushed
banana.

Bryce, of course, could be counted on to top them all.

After some time, I saw him looming there, holding a big bowl of something.
At first I couldn't make out what was in the bowl.  Then I realized.

It was a bowl filled with pine cones.

I was immediately gripped with fear.  I knew that being wedgied with those
in my undies would be excruciating beyond anything I thought I had
experienced to date.

Bryce grinned.  "Time to start begging me, bitch boy."  He instructed me to
kneel at his feet and begin to lick them.  The other frat boys watched,
transfixed.  "Now, bitch boy," he said, contemplatively.  "I really haven't
decided whether to give you a pinecone wedgie.  It would be . . .  well,
pretty mean.  I might do it anyway, cuz I want to see your reaction and
I've never gotten to do a pine cone wedgie.  But spend the next 5 minutes
groveling and begging me for mercy, and I'll see how I feel."

I groveled, utterly pathetically, in front of Bryce.  I licked his feet
frantically, protesting my total unworthiness, and begging Bryce not to use
the pine cones.  Finally, Bryce shrugged lazily.

"I still might do it anyway, but haven't completely decided.  Anyway, I
like the idea of making you wait for it, just anticipating it later," he
said with a nasty smirk.  "Meanwhile, who's sick of listening to the bitch
boy whine??"

A forest of hands shot up around the room.

"Speaking of high school night . . ." Cody, one of the more muscular frat
boys, a sophomore, spoke up.  "You know what we did once on the football
team in high school to one of our freshmen?  We gagged him with someone's
used undies!"

"We did that on the soccer team too, dude!" Wes exclaimed.

"OK," Bryce said.  "Next question . . . who in this frat is currently
wearing the nastiest undies??"

An extended debate followed.  It was finally decided that the answer was
Reid, who had just worked out for 2 hours earlier in the day, had not
changed his undies yet, and had in fact been wearing them for over 2 days.

Bryce grinned.  "Ok, you win Reid.  Take your nasty ass boxers off and put
on fresh ones, dude.  It's time to re-gag the bitch boy.  It's high school
wedgie night at Delta Psi, and for our bitch boy, everything is underwear
themed tonight!!"

Reid produced his underwear.  They were, indeed, totally disgusting
. . . they smelled foul, they had streak marks, the were rank with sweat,
and I could even see little pubic hairs on them.

"Gag him, dude," Bryce ordered.  He paused.  "But first, untape his wrists
for a few minutes, and make him massage your feet and beg for that a little
bit too.  It'll feel awesome dude . . . trust me."





When Reid's foul underwear had been jammed into mouth and secured (with
more duct tape) Bryce announced it was time for the next phase of the
evening.

"Alright, bros, it's almost dinner time.  And you know what that means
. . . it's time for some BBQ!"

The Frat boys cheered.  I recalled them saying that they were having a
frat-only BBQ, and, as usual, I wondered helplessly what was in store now.

I was taken back outside, to the frat house's backyard.  It was the first
time I had been out there since my first night in the frat, when they had
made me play that game of "frat boy foot board" in the mud.  I shuddered at
the memory.

The sun was just starting to set, but it was still light out (it had been
totally dark last time I was out there).  This time, I could see that the
frat's back yard was completely surrounded by tall trees, which meant the
neighbors couldn't see into the yard at all.

I looked out beyond the frat's porch, and realized there was a small
concrete outdoor basketball court tucked up against the back of the house,
with a basketball hoop mounted to the side of the house.  A big grill had
been set up, with a ton of meat.  It was obvious the frat boys were
preparing a huge meal.  There was a huge table set up to one side of the
yard.  In what I took to be one of his classic sadistic touches, Bryce took
the bowl of pine cones and placed it gingerly on the table, as if it were
some absurd center piece.

Finally, I saw that a ladder had been set up to one side of the yard.  I
wasn't sure why.

"Alright, wedgie slave," Collin was now saying theatrically.  "Soooo
. . . we gave you quite a few wedgies.  We gave you quite a few melvins.
We threw in a few squeaky clean wedgies, atomic wedgies, and of course
. . . for variety . . . messy wedgies."

"And we might give you a pine cone wedgie later, depending on how you
behave," Bryce added with an ominous chuckle.

"But . . . I can't help but feel like we missed one major wedgie in the
world of wedgies . . ." Collin was saying.  His voice drifted off.  I could
see the other frat boys standing around smirking with anticipation.  "Think
it over, bitch boy, can you think of the one truly classic wedgie we've
missed?"

I recognized the question was rhetorical, largely because Reid's foul
boxers were completely plugging my mouth.

"Oh . . . of course!" Collin thumped his head theatrically.  "How could we
be so stupid.  The one we forgot is the .  . . HANGING WEDGIE!!"

I was now, of course, wearing yet another fresh pair of whitey tighties.
At that, on cue, four frat boys pounced on me, grabbed me, and carried me
over to the basketball court just off the back porch.  2 more frat boys
grabbed the ladder, and brought it over to the court.  I suddenly realized
what they were doing.

"Get the rope!" I heard someone shout out.

I saw Cliff reemerge from the house, carrying 2 lengths of not terribly
thick but firm rope . . . the kind you might use for rock climbing.

"Wait!" Wes shouted.  I saw him pick up one of the bottles of ketchup that
had been set out at the table, in anticipation of the barbeque to come.  He
shrugged.  "We might as well make this a messy wedgie while we're at it,
too!"  He jogged over to where the four frat boys were holding me, snapped
open the band of my whitey tideys, and squeezed a massive dose of ketchup
into the undies.


"Nice," Shane said enthusiastically.  "Get some mustard too, dude!"
Someone else grabbed a bottle of mustard and did the same treatment with
it.  I felt a disgusting slimy and cold sensation in my pants . .  . like I
had just shit them, I thought with disgust.

"Hot dog!" Shane quipped lamely, nevertheless to laughter.

"Alright . . . STRING HIM UP!!" Sam shouted enthusiastically.

The frat boys carried me to the top of the ladder, which was now positioned
right next to the basket ball hoop.  I wasn't sure how they were going to
do it for a moment or two . . . then they started looping the rope through
each leg of my tightey whiteys.  They looped it through several times, to
make it extra secure, and then they tied the rope around and around the
basketball rim.  In just a few seconds, my tightey whiteys were securely
lassoed to the rim.

"Ok, bitch boy is ready for his hanging wedgie," Collin announced.

"Oh man.  This is gonna hurt a little, bitch boy," Trevor sniggered.

"Someone grab a camera," Bryce directed.  One of the pledges did, and aimed
the lens squarely at me.

"Grin!" someone shouted at me. They laughed.

"Ok," Bryce said, cracking a grin.  "Drop the fucker."

The four frat boys simultaneously released me.  I dropped like a stone,
then was immediately arrested in midair as the rope cut against the leg
holes of my briefs, giving by far my most violent wedgie to date.  The
undies hiked up with a sudden horrific lurch, catching me squarely in the
groin and in the ass crack.  The wedgie sensation was totally excruciating.
If I had not been gagged with Reid's nasty briefs, I absolutely would have
screamed again, much louder this time.

The frat boys all doubled over, laughing.  Now I was dangling, my feet
about 6 feet in the air, suspended from the edge of the basket ball hoop,
my bodyweight stretching out my boxers, giving me a truly epic wedgie.  The
liberal amount of ketchup and mustard they had dumped into my
whitey-tighteys a moment earlier went straight into my ass crack, producing
a painful burning sensation.

"Ah, poor little wedgie slave," Bryce said, shaking his head in mock
sorrow.  "Should have just cleaned up the frat house, and also not pissed
in our basement, like we told you, bitch boy," he said.  "Well, don't
worry, there's still more punishment coming up bitch boy.  But meanwhile,
just hang out here, relax, and try to enjoy the barbeque!"

Drop me a line at greg_alexander222@yahoo.com to tell your thoughts on the
story.  Suggestions welcome.  I know it usually takes me months to update
this, but this time I absolutely promise the conclusion of "high school
night" will be up in the next few weeks!