Delta Alpha Mu

Delta Alpha Mu 1

DELTA ALPHA MU

CHAPTER I

Friday Night

Orientation / Indoctrination

Cum filled Jordache briefs versus piss stained Everlast jock. That was my choice tonight. Which humiliation would my frat mates expect me to make Scott, our mascot pledge, endure on Monday. As I contemplated that, our Frat President interrupted my train of thought.

"Delta Pledges, have you signed your Hell Week Waivers?" Whitney asked the twelve guys lined up shoulder–to–shoulder in front of him. Because of a lot of bad press regarding fraternities in general over the past few years, it was becoming more and more difficult to attract pledges. The frat council believes it was only because of a few recent comedy movies about college life that we were able to attract these twelve.

"Yes, sir," they replied in unison.

I looked around the frat mansion's Great Room and saw, here and there, about fifteen or twenty of my frat brothers casually lounging with apparent disinterest in the familiar proceedings. It was, of course, merely a ruse. They were all excited about what was planned for the pledges over the next week. But it was of special importance to the pledge 'sponsors' because this year the rules had been modified. There were forty–six other frat brothers presently living in the house. The twelve pledges along with Scott and me rounded out the total to sixty.

"Do you understand that by signing the waiver, you agree not to sue or in any other manner attempt to retaliate for anything that might transpire over the next seven days and nights?" Whitney asked.

"Yes, sir," they said.

"Are there any 'nays'?" Whitney allowed a moment which was met with silence. "'Nays' is the official word for 'NO'! Do I hear any nays?" Again he allowed time for a response but was met with silence. "Does everyone understand that all the challenges will be embarrassing or painful, but none will be life–threatening or do permanent damage?"

"Yes, sir," a couple of pledges murmured.

"I can't hear you."

"Yes, sir!" they all shouted in unison.

"You have all been given the same watchword. Any pledge that yells the watchword will be permitted to cease the current activity and be allowed to leave without fear of reprisal—except; of course, you forfeit your opportunity to join D.A.M. Furthermore, any pledge that taunts or makes fun of any other pledge will automatically have their membership application rejected."

"Yes, sir," several yelled.

"I didn't ask for a response. The next one who speaks out of turn will be punished." Turning to the Vice President, Whitney said, "Kent, you're up."

"This is where we separate the roosters from the hens. Strip to your underpants and, using your left hand, drop your clothes beside your left foot."

Whitney said, "For those of you who are left–handed, that's the hand you use to jack–off with."

Slowly, twelve pledges quietly began getting undressed.

"NOW!" Kent yelled.

The pledges speeded up. Some, I noticed, were not self–conscious while others started to blush. I made a mental note, as best I could without knowing their names yet, of how each one reacted.

When the pledges were down to their skivvies, Kent yelled, "Scott, get in here!"

Scott rushed in and stood facing Kent, their noses about two inches apart. The only difference was, Scott was stark naked. For a slim fellow, he had good upper chest development, a slender waist and strong thighs. His long blond hair … to about to the middle of his back … made him look almost feminine. His cock was soft and to all appearances, he was not well hung, but he showed no reluctance to being naked. That kind of unconditional confidence in himself is one of the qualities that caused our frat to accept him as our mascot.

"Turn around and tell me what's wrong with these pledges," Kent said.

Scott turned and gave the appearance of the twelve some thought. As The D.A.M. Mascot, his initiation had begun the previous night. Some things he was told in advance, like always being naked in the house … whether women were present or not … while others he had to figure out on his own. He knew everything he did or said after he signed his waiver was being judged. He also knew he was walking a tightrope because to get the answer right might display unintentional arrogance, while getting the answer wrong would display outright stupidity.

"Sir, their uniforms don't match."

Kent slapped Scott's right butt cheek so hard the loud crack resonated through the high–ceilinged Great Room, making the new pledges jump from the unexpected loudness and reverberation … and a couple of the frat brothers, too. "Good boy. That's a right answer."

If these pledges were anything like me when I pledged, they were wondering if getting a swat on the ass that hard was for a right answer, what would have happened to Scott if he had given a wrong answer.

"Scott," Kent said, "is our Mascot Pledge. He will do everything you pledges are required to do but he has requested we test his endurance to the extreme. If he survives this ordeal, he will hold special status in the frat house following his initiation."

Whitney interrupted, "Although he will be subservient to frat brothers during his trial period, his current status puts him superior to you. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir," the twelve pledges said.

"Will you pick up the clothes and put them away, Scott?" Kent asked politely.

"Yes, sir," Scott said as he systematically picked up all the trousers, then all the shirts in that order before he left the room. As he walked out I knew another frat brother, Marshall, would intercept him in the hallway. Between them, they would check the waist sizes of the new pledges and Marshall would supply Scott with each pledge's new 'alternative underwear' and a mini laundry basket in which to transport them.

While those two worked in the hall, unseen by the pledges, Whitney said, "Drugs, of any kind, are prohibited except those prescribed by a physician for a valid medical condition. That includes in the frat house, anywhere on campus and everywhere off campus. We keep a physician on retainer who comes in to test us periodically … and I might add, without advanced notice … for drugs and also STDs.

All frat brothers when engaging in sexual activity outside the frat house wear appropriate protection so, as pledges, you are required to abide by these regulations, too. Any infraction of these two rules will result in expulsion from the Frat with no chance for appeal."

Scott walked in with the laundry basket resting on his left hip. As a mascot, he knew he was not allowed to deliberately hide his nakedness. He stopped in front of Whitney. Again, their noses were two inches apart when he said, "Sir, they're in order from left to right."

"Thank you, Scott."

Whitney insisted we all show Scott respect except when he was performing a pledge challenge. So, while he performed routine daily activities for us, we were to remain aloof but courteous.

"Kent, if you will please," Whitney said.

Striding arrogantly over to the first pledge he yelled, "What's your first name, pussy?"

"Frank, sir."

Pulling an indelible laundry marker out of his pocket, Kent wrote Frank's name in big letters on Frank's left pectoral muscle. Moving to the next pledge, Kent repeated the process until all twelve were wearing their permanent marker 'nametags.' It would take more than a week for the marker to wash off, even with regular showering and other water related activities.

While Kent was 'tagging' the new pledges, Whitney, with Scott's help, was simultaneously writing the pledge's name on the waistband of their new underwear. For all practical purposes, it was an elastic waistband with a pouch. That was about all, except for an abbreviated strip of material barely covering the ass crack and a little of each ass cheek … apparently designed by some sadistic clothier to ride uncomfortably up into the ass crack.

"Scott, please light the fire in the fireplace," Whitney said.

"Yes, sir."

"Everyone wearing boxer shorts, strip now!" Whitney ordered. There were four pledges that had to comply. "Toss them in the fireplace," Whitney said, "then, step back in line." Once back in place, Whitney, matching names in the waistbands to the names on their chests, put the 'Boxer Boys' new frat underwear on their heads like a nun's wimple.

"Now the rest of you, strip," Whitney ordered. "Scott, please pass these out to the appropriate pledges."

Scott followed his orders by also matching the names in the waistbands to the names on their chests.

While Scott was distributing them, Whitney said, "Since those of you wearing briefs have displayed confidence in your masculinity by not hiding your dicks in loose fitting shorts, you will be allowed to wear your new frat garments the way they were intended. The Boxer Boys, however, will wear theirs on their heads for the rest of the night."

As eight pledges began stepping into their new underwear, they realized the pouch–only style briefs were two sizes too small. Although some of the guys had no problem covering their genitals, at least three were more exposed than covered.

Whitney called out a name, pointed and in that way assigned each pledge a place to stand along the four walls. "During the next week, whenever you're in the Great Room, this will be your place. You will be a statue. Any brother can adjust you into any position he chooses. Also, while in this room, the only person to whom you can speak without first being spoken to is your frat sponsor. Do you all know your sponsor by name and by sight?"

"Yes, sir!"

Kent said, "You have permission to talk among yourselves anywhere else in the frat house except in the Great Room. As a matter of fact, when studying in the frat library, we encourage discussion."

Turning to me he said, "Randy, it's your turn."

As I walked along the perimeter of the vast Great Room, as if inspecting each pledge as carefully as a general reviewing his troops, I raised my voice so all could hear. "Listen up for the obligatory part of my speech. Hazing was banned at our university years before the incident that caused litigation to be passed in most states outlawing the practice. Because of the ban, our frat antics are tame compared to our predecessors. Any of you who have fathers or grandfathers who are Alums already know this. Although tame by previous standards, I think some of the Frat Alumni would, however, give us a four–point this year for innovativeness. If you think it's gonna be easy pledging this frat because of things you've heard about past years' activities you are wrong."

I continued a slow pace around the room. While I spoke, I turned and retraced my steps because I had plans for one of the pledges I'd just passed. "Activities for all the pledges, other than Scott, were agreed upon by a simple majority of the frat brothers before Hell Week began and are carefully choreographed to get progressively more demanding. So remember your watchword. No one will remind you what it is after tonight."

With a wicked smile in Scott's direction I said, "Scott on the other hand, not only has to endure everything the other pledges do, but it was mutually agreed his watchword will be ignored three times before he will be released from his pact. So, if you see us ignoring it, you now know why."

I stopped in front of the Boxer Boy sporting the biggest dick. "Do you have a problem with homosexual activity, Pledge Jamie?"

"No, sir," he said confidently, although he looked a little nervous.

I lifted his cock in my open palm. "Everyone! Eyes on me." As heads turned, I bounced Jamie's cock as if doing it absentmindedly, feeling it plump as I continued my soliloquy. "What a lot of people don't realize is that almost every frat house is straight—or predominantly straight. I mean, think about it. Only six to ten per cent of the United States population is estimated to be gay, so why wouldn't that be true for fraternities? Unless, of course, their charter indicates they are a gay fraternity. But what ignites the college campus imagination most is that brief period each year when pledges, like you, are recruited to 'join the Greeks.'"

I could no longer bounce Jamie's cock because it had risen to full erection status. I moved along casually until I came to the next Boxer Boy. "Jason, do you have a problem with gays?"

"Permission to speak freely, sir."

"This time," I said, implying it was not to become a habit.

"Sir, although I have nothing against gays, I personally find it difficult to understand what enjoyment they get out of doing what they do … sir."

"Yet you choose to 'join the Greeks,'" I said. Then, speaking to everyone again, I said, "So you realize then, the phrase itself opens a door that would otherwise remain closed for a lot of straight guys. Historically, the Greeks were notorious for accepting—and in some city–states, mandating—homosexuality. So it would follow suit then, that Greek Fraternities would encourage this practice when putting pledges through their paces. If any of you will have difficulty embracing that Greek philosophy for the next seven days, say your watchword, now."

There was a long moment of silence. I reached up, put the palms of my hands on either side of Jason's face, leaned in close as if to kiss him and whispered, "Silence is consent." After his continued silence, I asked, "Do you wish to speak to your sponsor?"

"No, sir."

"Good boy," I said with a wicked smile. Then I kissed him, forcing my tongue into his reluctant mouth. I can't say he returned the kiss, but his tongue tentatively explored mine. He was probably thinking I'd torture him if he didn't respond kindly.

I moved on to one of the pledges I had seen blushing profusely earlier, and stood in front of him, eye–to–eye. A sudden nervous exhale of his breath proved to me he had hoped he wouldn't be singled out on the first night. Stepping back a pace, I assessed his body like a rancher would horseflesh. His sandy brown hair carried through to his chest, thighs and of course, those pubes spilling over the top of his waistband. His too–small pouch was well mounded in the front and forced up and away from the apex of his crotch by what looked like a healthy set of overly large balls.

Speaking loud enough for all to hear, I said, "The Frat Council chose me to coordinate Hell Week's activities because I'm gay and, therefore, more Greek–minded." From the look on most of their faces as I looked around the room, that came as a shock. I'm glad because I'm not what people typically think of when they hear the word 'gay.'

"We knew Randy was gay before he pledged last year and we actively recruited him for what he could bring to Hell Week this year," Kent said menacingly, raising his left eyebrow as he spoke.

"I was glad to see my frat brothers didn't have a problem with my homosexuality," I said. "I was allowed to pledge, and ultimately join, with the understanding that I would not force another brother to engage in homosexual activity against his will. That includes alcohol induced stupors," I said with a wry smile and a stealthy glance at one of my frat brothers, Russell, who always talked about sex with me but was always drinking or drunk at the time.

"As pledges, however," Whitney said, "for the next week that rule does not apply to you."

"How do you feel about that, Luke?" I asked, addressing my blushing crotch bulging pledge.

"I'm pledging the frat, sir, not one individual person. If you are what it takes to make this the best damn frat on campus, then I accept the frat brothers' decision."

"Good answer, son."

"Thank you, sir."

Like a man with a split personality, I yelled in his face. "I didn't ask you a question or tell you to speak! Strip!" As he removed his too–tight underwear I said, "Drop and give me twenty." As he performed his punishment pushups, I turned to Scott and asked politely. "Do you think you could find me a paddle?"

Scott raced out of the room and was back with the D.A.M. paddle before Luke finished his pushups.

"It's a damn good thing I didn't have the D.A.M. paddle when Luke spoke without permission," I said, waving the paddle so all the pledges could see the Greek letters burned into the rock maple. "Beginning with the next infraction, we use this in addition to any punishment meted out, understood?"

"Yes, sir!" everyone yelled, including Luke while finishing his last two pushups. When he was done, he sprung up and back into his position along the wall like he was on a bungee cord.

After putting his fratwear on his head, I positioned his arms akimbo, pointed only the forefingers of both his hands at his newly–exposed cock and said, "Eyes on Luke. Move if you need to see this better and then step back in your assigned position." Two or three on the same wall as Luke stepped away from the wall and back immediately.

"This is called the 'I'm a dick' pose. You will strike it whenever you're told 'you're a dick,' and you will hold it until another frat brother releases you from it by issuing you another command, such as, um … 'get me a beer.' Does everyone understand?" Again, as a unanimous voice of agreement arose, I strode along the quad of pledges. From their positions, with their backs along the walls, most all of the pledges would be able to see what was being inflicted on other pledges, and hopefully benefit from it.

Stopping at another Boxer Boy who was blushing because he was sporting a hard–on, I said, loud enough for everyone to hear, "Often, straight people look at nudity as a form of humiliation and therefore, consider it a punishment. Since male nudity, especially in front of other men, occasionally results in embarrassing erections, the penis invariably becomes a target for ridicule. Also, since college fraternities consider punishment to have a redeeming quality, straight men readily inflict sexual abuse on other men's genitals. Oddly enough, though, straight men willingly accept that sexual taunting to facilitate becoming a Greek."

Boxer Boy Martin had a pained expression on his face like he knew his cock and balls were going to be tortured unmercifully because he had a hard–on. His eyes never lost sight of the D.A.M. paddle. I looked over at Jamie to discover his cock, the one I had induced into a hard–on by bouncing it, had gone soft.

"I believe what Randy is trying to say," Whitney said, "is that Martin, here, has a hard–on."

"And," Kent said, "Martin is proving to his frat brothers that his whole body is willing to become Greek." Looking around, Kent observed there were no other hard–ons. "Get 'em up, boys. But you cannot use your hands, only those fertile imaginations of yours that got you into this college. If you're wearing them and you need to leave your panties on to get yourself hard, then do so. If you think you'll need to take them off, do so right now. The last one to achieve an erection gets to worship, using his mouth, Martin's outstanding Statue of Dedication. Now, who decides who that will be?"

"You do, sir," twelve pledges said simultaneously.

Martin breathed a sigh of relief, but stiffened again when I glared at him as if he'd spoken without permission.

Fifteen or so frat brothers rose from their comfortable over–stuffed chairs to patrol the room, keeping a close eye on the 'upcoming' events. However, they didn't say or do anything that would break the pledges concentration. Our rules were changed earlier this year so that if a pledge couldn't fulfill his challenge, his sponsor would have to perform the required task. Moreover, if the pledge chose to use his watchword, thereby dropping out, his sponsor had to replace him for the balance of the week, as punishment for sponsoring a substandard pledge, because most of our challenges were scheduled to be done in 'brotherhood building' pairs or 'team cooperation' groups.

I was glad to see it was Whitney and Kent who were introducing a sexual twist into the proceedings. I knew if they were the ones to initiate some homosexual activity among the pledges, my other frat brothers would more willingly accept the proceedings I was contemplating for Scott later during the semester.

When I pledged last year, I was kind of disappointed that I wasn't subjected to any homosexually oriented activity. But, since then, I have to give my brothers credit. Over the last year, from time to time, they asked me what I would have done to make the pledge program more grueling. Since I'm carving out new territory for D.A.M., I don't know which pseudo–homosexual activities my frat brothers are going to be willing to tolerate themselves.

I use the term pseudo–homosexual because, as I have it planned, the brothers will not actively participate in the activity, only the pledges. Not everything will be homosexual by nature but it might be in overtone.

"For the next week, whenever you're in the frat house, each of you," Whitney said, "will be naked, except for your fratwear. You will wear your fratwear at all times, even if it's on your head. This weekend is going to be mild compared to the rest of the week. So, since you need to go to class, and study ... because why?"

"I must maintain my grade–point average, sir!" most of them said.

"You'll be in the frat House at all other times. If you fuck up, your punishment time will cut into your sleep time, not your study time ... because why?"

All of them yelled, "I must maintain my grade–point average, sir!"

"For tonight," Kent said, "you will sleep in the same room as your sponsor. Any pledge who sleeps in his sponsor's room all six nights will be afforded a special honor by his sponsor—one that the honoree chooses, not your sponsor. So, you see, there are incentives for succeeding. If however, you do something improperly, you will be given a demerit. One demerit, you get to wear your fratwear on your head, a crown of shame so to speak. Two infractions, or two demerits and you get some kind of punishment … similar to the one Luke just demonstrated. Three demerits and you get to sleep in the bathtub. That brings with it, its own set of punishments."

Looking around the room at all the limp dicks, Whitney said, "It appears that our carefully selected band of recruits are too simple–minded to get an erection by using their imaginations."

"Well, if they can't comply with one simple little request, perhaps they don't want to be D.A.M.s," Kent said, knowing that while he spoke the pledges were concentrating on learning the rules that were being explained rather than the assigned task.

"Scott, dance!" I ordered as I pointed to the oak table positioned under an immense gothic chandelier in the center of the room.

Bounding onto the table, Scott began a gyration of his hips to music only he could hear. He swiveled his hips like a seductive Middle Eastern belly dancer, switched to a revolving ellipses and on to a bump–and–grind motion. His dick and balls swung, swayed, flipped, flopped and finally his cock began to rise.

Because of his rotating dance routine, all the pledges could enjoy the erotic display of his charms. There were his delectable butt cheeks like two half moons glued at the center. Man and woman alike could admire his chest and abdomen for their subtle musculature and soft contours. His shoulder blade–length hair swirled as if in the slow motion of a shampoo commercial. When he bent backward like he was going into a back bend, while still dancing, his hair touched the tabletop.

Any one of the pledges could have envisioned Scott as their girlfriend if it weren't for the fact that his somewhat small–sized flaccid cock grew to an astounding eight–inch tower of tumescence. Nevertheless, his sultry seduction was working its magic on the pledges as one after another their cocks began to firm up. Most likely it was because they could concentrate on thinking about their girlfriend or some favorite prono video, since no one was chattering at them about the rules.

Several had pulled the pouch off to the side … remembering not to touch their gradually expanding cocks. Others had pulled the waistband down to about mid thigh. Of those who continued to wear their frat wear, one pledge's cock began to poke out the top, oozing pre–cum as it did. The cocks of the other two forced the material of the pouch away from their body until their cocks popped free out the side.

When Scott began sucking three fingertips of his right hand and gently running them slowly and delicately along his ribs, down his waist, then forward across his hip to dip eventually beneath his balls to his perineum, all but two pledges threw full–fledged boners. Jason, who doesn't understand why gays do what they do, and Luke, who wants to join the frat no matter how challenging the task, were neck and neck for the Limp Monkey Award.

"Whitney," I said, "if Scott takes it to the next level, in order to get one of these two guys hard, I'm afraid Jamie's gonna squirt. Think we should go for it?"

Everyone looked at Jamie whose cock was thumping with each beat of his heart and oozing enough pre–cum to slick down an airport runway for a crash landing.

"We can only have one winner of the last–to–get–a–hard–on challenge."

"Scott, what do you need?" I asked.

Without missing a pivot or a pirouette, he said, "A frat tie and an empty wine bottle."

I ran upstairs, snatched my tie off the rack, raced downstairs to the kitchen and frantically searched for a wine bottle.

"I could only find a full one," I said, handing Scott the tie.

"Even better," he said. "Thank you, sir." Continuing to gyrate sensuously, he draped the tie across the back of his neck. Taking the wine bottle from me, he began trailing the cork end along the contours of his body. It snaked from his left nipple over to his right. He traced the lateral ridges of his abs left to right, then right to left from the top ridge down his belly to his navel, then around and around his cock and balls before crossing the cork end over his hip and around to his butt where he ran it up and down the crack of his ass. With gentle thrusting motions, he pretended to be fucking himself with it.

Setting the bottle in the center of the table, he straddled one foot on either side. Then he wrapped the wide end of the tie into a loose knot around his neck, all the while moving his hips seductively. Looping the thin end of the tie under his balls, he slowly pulled up on the loose end. As the swag of the tie shortened, Scott leaned down, his tongue coming closer and closer to the head of his dick.

When there was no more benefit from the tie in a standing bent–over position, Scott began bending at the knees. Slowly, very slowly, his ass began getting closer to the neck of the wine bottle. Just as slowly, but just as effectively, the tie was bringing his mouth toward his cock.

From the moans in the room, even the frat brothers were enjoying the show. I was surprised someone didn't start taking bets as to which end would engage in a docking maneuver first—Scott's ass with the cork in the bottle or his mouth with his cock.

I walked around the table slowly enjoying every angle, motioned for all the pledges to quietly come closer, too. Drool was dripping from Scott's tongue onto the head of his erection while around back his asshole was winking spasmodically. I wondered if it was from the tension of his butt cheeks being so widespread or from anticipation of being impaled.

I positioned Luke on Scott's right side and Jason on his left so they could see both events with a simple twist of their neck. As Scott's drool dribbled down his erection, across his balls to drip onto the table top, Jason began to respond. His cock lifted until it was at a forty–five degree downward angle. As Scott's ass got closer to the bottle cork, Luke's cock caught up to Jason's.

Apparently Jason was keeping an eye on Luke's progress, too, because Jason said, "Sponsor Russell, sir?"

"You may speak, pledge," Russell said, somewhat irritated because he was being distracted from the show.

"This is as hard as I get, sir. It doesn't stand up, sir. It just gets hard," Jason said.

Russell wrapped his hand around Jason's cock. "What do you think, Randy? You're the expert."

I squeezed Jason's cock. "It feels pretty firm, but I better get a second opinion." I nodded to Scott to stand up so he wasn't in pain while we completed our assessment.

"Let me see!" Carson said, since he was Luke's sponsor. Carson wrapped his hand around Jason's cock and pulled on it a couple of times in a jacking motion to see if it would get harder. "Luke, come here." When Luke was standing beside Jason, Carson grabbed Luke's half–hard dick and flopped it back and forth. There was still a rubbery consistency to it. "Feel Jason's cock and tell me if he's harder than you are."

Shyly Luke gripped Jason's cock as it began to leak pre–cum. "Yes, sir, it is."

"We have a winner," Carson said, holding Luke's free hand in the air.

"Scott, you can get down, now," I said.

"Martin, rest your ass on the edge of the table," Whitney said.

"Luke, you may worship Martin's Statue of Dedication," Kent said, "by using your mouth."

Luke, being the winner of the last–to–get–hard contest was actually the loser and he was bright red from embarrassment. He had failed to get an erection when everyone else had gotten one. He had just had his hand on Jason's dick … the first dick he ever touched except his own … and now he was expected to use his mouth on Martin's cock.

He closed his eyes, hesitated momentarily and grimaced just before his lips capped Martin's crown and he kept them closed until he had his mouth full. It was obvious to all present that he wouldn't be able to take the whole cock in his mouth, so he backed off and stood up.

"Good job, Luke," Russell said. "Of course, it if were MY mouth I was using to worship a cock, I'd have just kissed it. But what the hell, it gave you a hard–on, so it wasn't a total waste."

Luke looked down, mortified, to see his cock head touching his navel.

"Pledge brother Luke has just set the standard for the rest of you," Kent said, "therefore, from now on, all oral contact will be total penetration, not just a lick or a kiss."

Seeing several scowls of displeasure and Luke's worried look of possible reprisal in the future, I reinforced Kent's news with a positive spin by adding, "It's always a pleasure to see a new pledge so dedicated to joining the frat that he's willing to excel beyond expectations when expressing his desire to be accepted."

To relieve the tension somewhat Whitney asked, "If any of you guys play basketball, raise your hand." Eight of the twelve hesitantly raised their hands, probably thinking it was some kind of trick question. "Good, we have a game scheduled at ten in the morning. The four of you who don't play will attend, also. Pretty much, except for classes, you will all be together over the next seven days. Get to know each other well—each others strengths, weaknesses, fears and dreams."

"Since you all now have erections, we can begin there," I said. "Form a circle around the table and commence jacking off. Watch how your pledge brothers' jack off. Remember their names and their jack–off style. You never know when such knowledge will come in handy … like during a challenge when you're expected to blindly identify one or your frat pledges by their technique … or ordered to jack one of you pledge brothers off."

There were some expressions of surprise and some of displeasure at that announcement.

Jamie, as I predicted, announced, "Sir, I'm gonna cum."

"Catch it in your hand!" I commanded.

Cupping the whole head of his cock in his hand as he began squirting his load he agonized, "… but sir there's gonna be too much."

We all watched as his cupped hand filled with jism and spilled over onto the floor in front of him. He backed away from the oak table apparently not wanting to do damage to such a fine piece of antique furniture.

"Damn!" Russell, our resident cum–a–cupful frat brother, said with admiration. "Looks like I've got a worthy competitor for the Champion Cum King title."

"Scott!" I said pointing to Jamie. Once Scott was standing in front of him, I said, "Jamie, you can wipe your hands on Scott. From now on, everyone will use Scott as the frat cum rag … unless you're told otherwise during a challenge."

Around the room, there were just as many looks of disgust (mostly pledges) as there were looks of respect (mostly frat brothers). Whitney gave me a thumbs up for coming up with a new degradation for Scott on the spur of the moment.

Snapping my fingers and pointing to the mess on the floor, I commanded, "Scott!"

Obediently, Scott knelt and began lapping the spent cum off the floor.

The surprised look on the pledges' faces told me they now knew I wouldn't be lenient when it came to punishment. The looks of admiration from many of my other frat brothers told me I had just attained a new level of debauchery for the house.

To the other pledges, Whitney said, "Cum in you hand and clean up with Scott as quickly as you can. We have other business to attend to." One by one, hands were filled with cum. Some was as thick as custard and as white as snow. Other loads were thin, clear and watery. One rather large load was a tawny yellow color.

Apparently, none of them wanted to get the cum of some other guy on their hands so, as each pledge wiped his hand … or hands … off on Scott, Scott had to turn, twist and bend to give them a dry spot to use. Naturally, that meant the first to cum got to use Scott's chest, back, hips, arms legs and thighs. It was the last two to cum that realized it was now a speed contest because the next to last could use his ass cheeks to clean up with. That meant the last one to cum would have to wipe his hands off on Scott's cock and balls. As it turned out, Luke was the one humiliated by coming in last, again.

Luke kept his eyes closed as he wiped his cum–drenched hand on Scott's cock and ball area but Luke's cock didn't deflate while he was doing it, either.

"Are there any questions?" I asked.

"Sir, I have to piss," one of the pledges said. From where I was standing, I couldn't read his name.

"Scott, get the tureen," I said as I walked up to the pledge whose name was Kevin. Upon close examination, I saw Kevin's fratwear had a pre–cum spot over his right hipbone. His erection must have deflated quickly from his need to pee because there was now a wet spot at the bottom center of his pouch, too.

"You've been given your instructions, Scott."

Slipping into a kneeling position, Scott raised the four–quart porcelain tureen up under the pouch between Kevin's legs.

"Piss at will," I said.

Kevin started to reach for the waistband of his fratwear because there was no fly front.

"I didn't tell you to touch yourself," I said.

Kevin, because his head was already pointed down, looked at Scott but got no reaction. He looked up at me and from the look on his face, I could tell it had just dawned on him that he would have to hold off peeing or piss in his underpants.

"Scott has work to do. Are you going to pee or not?"

Closing his eyes, Kevin willed himself to wet himself rather than endure the pain of an overly full bladder. The piss wet the bottom of the cloth pouch, which slowly allowed the urine to dribble into the bowl with the dark blue floral pattern. As the pee backed up in the pouch, the fratwear began to get saturated until it reached the low–rise waistband. Then, the floodgate released and a waterfall of fluid spilled into the tureen, a little of it splashing up into Scott's face.

When Kevin was done I asked, "What do you say?"

Kevin thought for a moment and said, "Thank you, sir." Then seeing the drops of piss dribbling down Scott's cheeks he said, "Oh, I'm sorry, man. I didn't know! I'm sorry." His sincerity was evident in his almost tearful outburst.

Because I had asked a question, I couldn't reprimand him for apologizing to Scott.

"Scott, you can wash your face and hands and start tending bar," I said as I made a point of staring at Kevin's piss soaked fratwear. They were transparent now and I could see he was uncircumcised. Kevin looked down to see he might just as well be naked. His expression revealed he realized he would have to endure the uncomfortable wetness until his fratwear air–dried.

"Does anyone else have any questions?" After the silence I said, "Okay, pledges, take your positions. Scott, tap the keg."

Scott pumped the glasses and mugs full as each frat brother passed through the line. Several other brothers arrived and joined the line. Jason's sponsor, Russell The Cum King, filled two mugs. He took one over to Jason, handed it to him and then went to sit by the fireplace. Talk of faculty unrest over the upcoming Hell Week activities dominated the conversation.

When Russell finished his beer, he got up, got another and walked over to Jason. "You didn't drink your beer," he said casually.

Jason gave no response. Since it was not a direct question he knew better than to answer.

"Why?"

"I was not told I could drink it, sir," Jason said.

"Good boy. But I bet you'd like to wash the taste of that sloppy kiss Randy gave you out of your mouth, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"That's what I thought." Russell took Jason's beer, handed it to the pledge on his right and said, "Drink it." Then he pulled the pledge on Jason's left over in front of Jason and said, "Wash Randy's taste out of Jason's mouth." Then, looking at his name, he said, "Diego."

The pledge looked around for something to use.

"Wash his mouth with your tongue!" Russell ordered. "That's demerit number one, Diego," he said, menacingly.

After about thirty seconds of tongue washing, Russell said, "Now dry him off."

Again, the pledge looked around.

Enunciating each word like he was talking to an errant child, Russell asked, "What do you have at hand that is dry, or almost dry, that you can use?"

Diego stripped off his pre–cum stained fratwear, swabbed Jason's mouth inside and out and bent over to put them back on.

"On your head, Diego. Since that's number two, drop and give me ten. One more, and you get to sleep in the bathtub tonight.

As Diego was doing his ten pushups, Russell was delivering ten swats with the paddle.

After Diego finished and stood back in his assigned place, Russell said, "You're a dick!"

Diego immediately snapped into the 'I'm a dick' pose pointing to a fat Hispanic–brown cock.

Throughout the rest of the night, frat brothers from time to time positioned the pledges into different statutes, like The David, The Archer, a ballerina in on her toes, and such. At one point, two naked pledges were told to ride two other pledge's shoulders and pretend to do battle in slow motion. Their cocks rubbed sensuously against the backs of their pledge brother's necks until they got erections. They were told to keep moving until both of the riders came all over the necks of their 'mounts.'

Later, two pledges were placed in the 'Great White Hunter' position. One was flat on his back while the other rested one victorious foot on the chest of the 'beast.' An imaginary rifle in his outstretched hand gave his aching arm no support whatsoever. After several minutes, he called out, "Sir?"

I walked up to him. "You have something to say?"

"Sir, I have to pee."

"Scott! The tureen."

The bowl still had its previous offering sloshing around in it when I told Scott to place it on the chest of the 'fallen beast.' When the ball–and–claw feet of the cold porcelain bowl touched his skin, he flinched but otherwise he laid still.

"Piss, Chris," I said, checking out his nametag.

The slight trickle caused the pee to drip out the bottom of the pouch beneath Chris' balls into the bowl. Once the pouch was soaked and the force of the stream became stronger, the piss began to flow out of the material in an up and outward stream creating a fountain spout. Luckily for the 'beast' it landed in the tureen. Not so luckily, the downward force caused it to splatter droplets from the bowl out onto his chest and face.

Chris swiveled his hips slightly to redirect the flow from the center of the bowl and away from his 'trophy's' face. That was, in my estimation, a show of concern that the other frat brothers would consider a praiseworthy trait. I'd make a note of it when I got back to my room. The dead 'beast' never made a move after that initial flinch from the cold tureen. Considering a few drops pooled in the corners of his eyes and mouth, even though they were closed, that showed admirable restraint, too.

That's when I saw frat brother Tomas glaring at me. A third year frat brother, Tomas, had caught up with me after class on Thursday to lodge a complaint. Because of his dagger–eyed reminder, I sought out Whitney first. I said, "Tomas wants to meet with the Frat Council."

"Can it wait until after Hell Week?"

"I tried. He wants it sooner than that."

"What's on for tomorrow?"

"The basketball game and studying."

"Can you arrange a meeting for after the game?"

"If the other three council members don't have conflicting schedules."

"Do you know what it's about?"

"He wouldn't say, but ... "

"But we both know it's about Hell Week."

"Well, yeah," I said. "But more specifically, the gay related issues. He's been against them from the start. I just know he gonna ... "

"Let's not start worrying about conjecture. Save it for after the meeting. Is everything set for tonight?"

"All set."

The evening progressed pretty much along the same lines until it was time to go to bed—at least for the sponsors and their pledges. Since I was appointed to be Scott's sponsor, I excused him from bartender duties and told him we were going to bed. When we all got upstairs, Russell pointed out the tear–off pads on each of the sponsors' doors. Walking over to Diego, Russell ripped the number ten and the number nine off his sponsor's pad.

"Two demerits. When all the numbers are gone," Russell said speaking to everyone in the hall, "you'll be required to perform other pledges's punishments right along with them, whether you committed an infraction or not. Understood?"

"Yes, sir!" they said.

"Time to hit the sack. Did anyone else receive demerits?"

Three pledges ripped off one sheet each and everyone went to bed.

Once Scott and I were in our room I said, "You are to quietly awaken every pledge beginning at six in the morning. Their sponsors are telling them right now, how and when they want their pledges to wake them up. You then come back here and wake me up."

Scott nodded.

"In the privacy of the bedroom, you are allowed to speak at will."

"Privacy means just you and me, not when anyone else is in the room, right?" Scott said.

"Exactly. Oh, but since you're a mascot pledge, you can ask questions at any time if they directly relate to the administration of the frat house."

"How do you wish to be awakened, sir?"

With an evil smirk, I said, "For now, a nice backrub will awaken me."

"And if you're on your back, sir."

"You really do want to please, don't you?"

"Yes, sir. More than you know."

"Not just me but all of us, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Okay, if I'm on my back, then I'll let you kiss ... " I paused for dramatic effect before I said, "my lips." Hell, I thought, why didn't I go for the cock? Then I thought, No, we've got a whole semester to room together. If I did that, I'd be the one who ends up being uncomfortable.

"Can I help you with your clothes, sir?"

I extended my arms out to my sides and Scott pulled my T–shirt off over my head. After I lowered my arms, he knelt before me to slip off my shoes and pull off my socks. Then, still kneeling, he reached up to unbutton my jeans. They fell off my hips after the third button was released.

"Do you sleep in these?" Scott asked running the back of his hand over the bulge in the crotch of my briefs.

"Usually I sleep naked," I said, "but before we go any further, let's have an understanding." He listened while looking up at me past my abdomen and chest. "I'm gay. I'm going to request the pledges to get involved in what some people might consider homosexual activities. But—and this is important—unless it's a challenge, you are not required to perform any homosexual act … for anyone."

"Thank you, sir. That's nice to know. Can I take these off, now?" he asked, gently gripping the waistband of my underwear.

"Yes." I stood there like a little boy being undressed by his father before his bath.

"Sir, where would you like me to sleep?"

I took a slow deep breath and exhaled loudly. "The choice is yours. I sleep nude, so you can get the sleeping bag out of the closet and sleep on the floor, or you can sleep in the bed with me."

After Hell Week, we would move to a larger room where there were two double beds but I wasn't about to let Scott know that, just yet. Besides, the rest of the pledges were being given the same choice tonight.

"Thank you sir." Scott went to the closet and untied the bedroll. Once he had it set up, conveniently out of the way, he asked, "When do we shower, sir, before bed or in the morning?"

"What's your pleasure?" I asked. "You can be candid, but remember, once I know about something you like, I might withhold it as a form of punishment."

"Thank you for your candor, sir. But I have chosen to serve, so use your best judgment when it comes to manipulating me."

"Ooooh, that stings," I said.

"I didn't mean for it to. I'm sorry, sir."

After a moment of silence I asked, "So?"

Scott looked at the dried cum caked all over his body from the circle jerk and said, with a smirk, "Uh ... morning."

"Morning it is. Let's get to bed." I climbed in my double bed while Scott slid into the sleeping bag. Turning off the bedside lamp I said, "See you in the morning."

"I'll see you first," Scott said, followed by, "sir."

That was the first time he hesitated to use that word. I thought, Did I lose his respect when I told him he could sleep with me? Did I send a wrong message when I told him he could speak at will in private? Does he want our private relationship to be as lovers or friends? As I laid there my thoughts turned to Scott's problem. I wonder if Scott has an internal alarm or if he's going to fuck up on his first official day by sleeping in. Did he refuse to shower tonight just to throw my thinking off guard so that in the future I'll force him to shower before bed if he's covered in cum? Damn, he's clever.

To be continued. Send comments, if you so choose, to jockhunger@yahoo.com,