When I woke up, it was just getting light outside and I saw Scott's sleeping bag was empty. I looked at the clock. It read 6:20. I rolled over and fell back to sleep, knowing my pledge was doing a good job. By him being such a natural at being a mascot, it's going to be difficult to find reasons for me to punish him. I thought$
The soft swirling motions on my back felt good, but as I became more aware I realized I was on my side. I rolled onto my back and Scott kissed my lips. The kiss lasted longer than a peck but not so long as to incite a romp in the hay. Although not passion–filled, it gave me hope that Scott could be more than just a mascot.
"What was that for?" I asked.
"We didn't make arrangements for the contingency of you being on your side, so I thought I'd better cover my ass, sir."
"Lie on your stomach and I'll cover your ass," I said only half joking.
Looking at the clock while absentmindedly scratching at the dried–cum residue from the previous night, he said, "Time to shower, sir."
"Let's go," I said, my morning wood preceding me as I got out of bed.
The frat house was a mansion built in the late 1800s by some robber baron or something who made his fortune from decimating natural resources. He lost his fortune in the 1929 stock market crash. In the 1940s it was, for a time, a home for orphaned girls and later abandoned. Although structurally sound, there was some overall dilapidation from lack of use.
It has four floors, the upper two of which the alumni have not yet renovated, a basement … which is in the process of renovation … huge bathrooms on the three upper floors with eight bathtubs in each bathroom and a separate gang–style shower room on each floor that could easily accommodate more than forty people.
By the time we got there, about thirty guys were either 'wet and drying off' 'or dry, heading for the showers.'
"Mother's here," Russell shouted. "get ready for inspection."
"Let's go piss," I said to Scott. As we headed to the urinals, I said, "A couple of the guys thought I was checkin' 'em out when I first joined. Then, once they got use to me being here, Russell kinda made a joke out of it."
"If I'm a good judge of character, sir, I'd say you were more uncomfortable than they were the first few times. I'm sure they made light of it as a peace offering for embarrassing you."
Out of habit, I looked in the tub room and saw Diego lying in one of them. "Uh, oh. We gotta make a detour."
"What's up, sir?" Scott asked.
"My dick, in case you haven't noticed," I said to Scott. Then, turning my attention to Diego I said, "So, Diego, you want to talk about it?"
"When we went to bed, Mike, my sponsor took off his underwear, so I did to."
"I believe Whitney said you were to wear them at all times."
Diego nodded, but remained silent. He remembered it was a statement, not a question.
"You must know by now how much of an inconvenience you've caused your pledge mates."
Another nod, as Diego thought about how his pledge mates had to stand in the tub, straddle his prone body and piss on him without removing their fratwear.
"Scott, Diego is your urinal this morning. Any time you need to piss, while on the second floor anyway, you must always check the tub room first. Anyone in the tub has received three demerits in one day."
"Yes, sir." Scott said. "Permission, sir."
"Whenever someone is in the tub, you don't have to ask permission, unless you're specifically ordered not to piss for some reason. Otherwise, the more often the better."
"Thank you, sir," Scott said as he let loose a strong steady stream.
"Everywhere," I said. "It helps warm him for a little while. It helps, doesn't it, Diego?"
"Yes, sir," he said seriously.
I sprayed him from the top of his head, where he was wearing his fratwear, to the tips of his toes and came back to finish by pelting his cock and balls. All the streaming piss hitting his cock and balls this morning caused his half–hard dick to rest in an upward position against his stomach.
"How many?" I asked.
"Fifty–five, including you two."
"And you've held off peeing, right?"
"Yes, sir."
Knowing four frat brothers refused to indulge in these activities, I said, "We're the last, then, so as soon as you piss on yourself, you can get out and shower."
"Thank you, sir." He'd been waiting almost an hour to pee, wet and cold the whole time. So, between the words 'Thank' and 'you,' his dick let loose with a stream of piss that landed straight in his face. He sputtered as some got in his mouth during the word 'sir.'
"Scott, would you help him out of the tub, please?"
"Yes sir."
As we walked back into the shower room, most of the others were drying off. "Put on your fratwear," I said to Diego.
He stepped into them and we started showering. Diego lathered up his fratwear and rinsed out the soap with the shower spray.
"So, Diego, do you play basketball?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Maybe you can redeem yourself after breakfast by playing a good game."
I went back to my room and put on some shorts and a T before heading to the dining hall. The rustic aroma of frying bacon and the sickly sweet smell of warm pancake syrup greeted me as I descended the stairs.
Before they sat down, each pledge had passed by the buffet table and told his sponsor what he wanted to be served from the buffet. So, by the time I got there, most of them were already eating—the pledges from a standing position to the right of his seated sponsor but with their plates still on the table. It made getting food from their plate to their mouth without spilling anything more difficult and, although no punishment was mentioned, I'm sure each pledge assumed there would be some ;retaliation if they made a mess.
Scott was also there serving all the frat brothers that weren't sponsors. Breakfast went well with me sitting next to Kent, as usual, while Scott filled two plates—one for him and one for me.
After breakfast, the twenty–eight of us—thirteen sponsors with their pledges, Whitney and Kent—all walked over to the gymnasium together. The sponsors wore their basketball shorts and shirts and the pledges were in their too–tight fratwear and sneakers. We walked double file with the sponsors on the left of the pledges who walked closest to the street … giving the occasional early morning motorist a better view. Scott was permitted to don his fratwear, but his were crimson, instead of white but just as brief.
When we got inside the gym, we had to wait about ten minutes until the coaches got there so we took that opportunity to choose sides. We had enough for two teams and a few left over—those who had never played basketball. Three other frats were using the other three courts, but there was one coach for each of the four courts.
"Okay, you twelve non–players, split into two equal groups," Whitney said. "Good, there's at least one sponsor for each group. You guys will be the pep squads."
Looking over the rest of the guys, Kent said, "Okay, two equal groups of eight each. This is working out nicely. We'll have three relief players for each team."
"It'll be the shirts versus the skins," Whitney said. "Since we have the shirts, you'll be the skins," he said to the pledges. Then, as prearranged, all the sponsors pulled a terry cloth sweatband out of their waistbands and stretched them around their foreheads.
"Oh," I said, with mock indignity, "that's not fair. These guys," I said, waving my upturned palm toward the pledges, "will get sweat in their eyes and the shirts will have an unfair advantage."
Kent said, "Scott, what would you suggest?"
Assuming it was a frat challenge, Scott shouted, "Headbands, boys!" as he stripped off his bright red fratwear and snapped the elastic over his forehead. The seven other pledges followed suit without question. The elastic would not be as effective as terry cloth but it would provide SOME assistance.
The skins pep squad sponsor stared at his five pledges who quickly got the message and put their fratwear on their heads, too. Once our two teams started playing, our naked cheerleaders were kept busy as the bleachers began to fill with spectators. Some students were here because of the other three frats playing basketball but because ours was a 'skins' game, our bleachers filled up first.
Four of our other frat brothers were on lookout duty at each of the four entrances to the gym. The first sign of campus police and they'd sound an air horn. All of our pledges would be back in their fratwear before the first rent–a–cop got through the door.
The fully clothed sponsors were being soundly defeated in the 'cheerleading' contest because the spectators were responding with a lot of noise to our nude skins cheerleaders while being almost mute with our shirts cheerleaders.
With all the flopping of their cocks against their thighs and bellies, most of the pledges on the court threw erections in no time. There was also a lot of flesh on silk shorts when they bumped against the frat brothers. To further frustrate the pledge's libido, they occasionally brushed up against each other, resulting in hot cocks against sweaty chests during some of the jump shots. All the bounding around the cheerleaders were doing resulted in them having boners, too.
Thanks to modern technology—cell phones and the Internet—word spread quickly across campus that there was a skins game in progress and all the other bleachers filled to capacity quickly … along with several hundred pairs of binoculars. What was crucial was to get out before our coach got in trouble, so we only played two twelve–minute periods instead of the regulation four. There was no guarantee, however, that another frat wouldn't attempt this stunt, but it couldn't be ruled out either, so most of the people stuck around, even after we left.
As the pledges put their fratwear on, their cocks became even more of a problem. Some of their cocks stuck straight up pushing past the waistband. Some stuck out straining the fabric of the pouch to the bursting point, while others, bigger than they were when they were flaccid, flopped ponderously out of the leg holes.
So, before returning to the frat house, we decided to take a walk through the botanical gardens to cool down after the game—and show off our new pledges. Although most of the pledges' lost their erections quickly, the sweat trickling down their bodies soaked their cock pouches makiing them transparent. There were several clusters of girls and one large group of giggling gay guys. Talk about gaydar, I thought. That can't be just sheer luck! Then I realized it was, once again, all due to the miracles of modern telecommunication.
Back at the frat house, Kent ushered the pledges into the dining hall and said, "This afternoon, after lunch, is study time. Two of you will be on duty in the Great Room at all times to wait on the frat brothers. It's only a one–hour shift, so when you're relieved of duty, you have to return to the frat library and study."
"Typically," Whitney announced, "Saturday lunches are individually wrapped sandwiches because the kitchen is staffed with a skeleton crew on the weekends. Personal–sized bags of chips and all the other finger food you'll need are also provided so you can eat and study at the same time. You know, fruit, celery sticks, carrots, olives, and stuff like that is also provided. The buffet will be available for two more hours, so eat when you get hungry. After everyone showers, Frank and Luke, you can assume your positions in the Great Room. Everyone else—study!"
"Is this a formal complaint Whitney asked Tomas once we were all seated in the private study that the frat used as an office."
"Randy, will you turn on the tape recorder?" Once he heard the click, Whitney said, "This is a formal complaint filed by Frat brother Tomas. This is being recorded so the secretary can later type up a formal set of minutes." After stating the day, date, and time along with the titles and first names of each person in the room, Whitney said, "Tomas?"
"I have to object to the activities planned for Hell Week."
"They were voted on and agreed to by a majority of the frat brotherhood in keeping with the bylaws of the fraternity."
"The activities are illegal. A fraternity vote does not have the authority to make legal something that is by law illegal."
I'm afraid I'll have to have you itemize those scheduled events you consider illegal," Whitney said. "We'll try to address them one at a time."
"This idea of Scott . . ." Tomas said.
"No name." Whitney said calmly. Then more firmly, "You know the rules. No names other than those of us in the room. Otherwise, use initials or nicknames only. If you can't abide by the Frat Council rules, I'll be forced to call an end to the meeting. Mr. Secretary, please strike the aforementioned name from the record."
That comment gave me, as secretary, the right to erase the name from the tape, unlike Rose Mary Woods questionable approach.
"This idea of . . . the mascot," Tomas said, "being naked all the time is unacceptable."
"Unacceptable to YOU, perhaps, but not to the brotherhood. They voted . . ."
"Public nudity is indecent and immoral."
"By your standards, Tomas, but nudity within the frat house is not public nudity."
"If I have to see him naked, then it's public."
"No more so than seeing you father naked at home, or you brother."
"We don't do things like that."
"So what you're saying is when you're in the showers at the gym after soccer practice, you and your teammates are fully dressed?"
"You know that's not what I mean."
"Nudity within the frat house is not illegal. What's your next issue?"
"During the basketball game," Tomas complained, "the pledges were forced to be naked in public."
"The pledges chose to strip," Whitney said. "They were not forced either by the sponsors or their fellow pledges."
"It's similar to the jumping off a bridge scenario. They didn't have to put them on their heads," Kent said.
"Besides, uh, … the spectators weren't forced to look," I said lamely.
Looking at his list, Tomas said, "Treating the pledges like statues is demoralizing and could result in permanent physical damage."
"What law is this violating?" Whitney asked.
"What about . . ."
"Perhaps you should make a list of your issues along with a list of the corresponding law or ordinance it violates. Then, we'll reschedule a meeting once you've provided the council with a copy to review. "
"Hell week will be over before I can do that much research," Tomas complained.
"Be better prepared, the next time," Whitney said. "Shall we adjourn?"
After the meeting, I joined Scott in the library and we studied until I had to go down to the Great Room between two and three to go on pledge watch. Since we had two pledges to wait on us, and all the frat brothers were supposed to be studying anyway, I allowed Scott to accompany me to the Great Room. He brought his English Lit anthology, since to him it was easy reading, and he wouldn't have to make notes.
"Whacha reading?"
"Sons and Lovers."
"Ahh yes. Oedipus of the Coal Mines." With a sideways glance at Scott I caught a scowl. "What?"
"You went and told me the ending," he said pouting like a spoiled child.
"There are still a few surprises in store." Then I thought, Am I being too friendly by allowing social familiarity? Am I being too lenient as a mascot sponsor because I want to jump Scott's bones?
I asked, "Can you read lying on your back?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good." I moved to sit at the left end of one of the extra long sofas. "Lie down with your head in my lap." Since I had to keep an eye on the two Great Room pledges, I wouldn't be studying anyway, so I decided to do something fun to keep ME entertained for the rest of the hour. When Scott was in position I said, "Read . . . no matter what happens."
Scott raised the book to eye level and I let him get engrossed in it for a minute or two. Then, in a feeble attempt to regain the upper hand as a sponsor,I lazily ran my fingertips along his supple belly and into his pubic hair. After a momentary ticklish flinch, he settled down. I traced my fingernails gently through his pubes but sneaked stealthily onto his ball sack to scratch lightly. An encouraging moan escaped his throat, but he continued to read.
Did he moan because he liked it and wants me to continue, or because he doesn't like it and wants me to withhold what I think is something he enjoys. Damn, he's good! My caresses took about ten minutes before Scott's small flaccid cock eventually hardened to its full eight inches. As the tips of my fingernails crawled at a snails pace up his cum tube, I felt my own cock stiffen.
One of the hired kitchen staffers came in and began clearing away the buffet table in the adjoining room. He smiled at me and winked knowingly as he saw what I was doing. He came and went three more times during the clean–up process, each time catching my eye and looking wistfully at the action. I wonder if I have a gay friend on the kitchen staff or if he just likes the idea of humiliating pledges. Damn! I can see Hell Week is also going to put ME through hell!
I couldn't tell if Scott rolled his head gently from side to side because he was reading or because he felt my cock hardening and decided turnabout was fair play. The tender attention to his genitals continued for the rest of the hour, until Russell relieved me of my pledge–sitting duty.
"Damn, Mother, how come you never study with me?" Russell said, looking at Scott's rampant cock.
"Because you're always drinking."
"But I don't get drunk."
"Rules are rules," I said, shrugging my shoulders in despair. "Drinking or drunk, the submarine doesn't get sunk."
"Maybe it would be worth sobriety to get some action from that clever mouth," Russell said.
Scott got up and, extending a hand, helped me up off the overstuffed sofa. His hand lightly grazed my jean–clad hard–on and he smiled. It could have been an accident, but the smile convinced me it was deliberate. Then, he dropped his gaze into a 'shy little boy' look. Is he a tease or what? I thought.
As I turned to leave, and looking over my shoulder seductively, I slapped my ass and said to Russell, "Or this." Jeez, Scott's teasing me and Russell's teasing me, this just might turn out to be a great year, I thought. Scott's erection led the way as we headed for the library, determined to get some studying done.
Dinner could easily have been transferred onto our china plates from a cardboard microwave container, for all I could tell. Airline meals had more flavor. I wonder if my kitchen helper is deliberately trying to serve bad tasting food, hoping I'll ask him out to a restaurant. How did he suddenly become MY kitchen helper? We'd merely exchanged a few lascivious glances. Besides, he doesn't prepare the food he just cleans up afterward. I'd let him clean me up afterward. No, that's Scott's job to clean up our frat messes. Now THERE'Ss a guy I'd like to watch make a mess, mentally visualizing Scott's eight–inch erection erupting like a volcano all over the plateaus and valleys of his abdomen.
I turned my head to look at Scott and from my seated position I was slapped in the face by his rising cock. I blinked and looked around the table at my frat brothers. "I'm sorry," I said, "I went on vacation there for a moment, but I'm back now. What's going on?"
"Time to get started for the night," Whitney said. "We're waiting for you to finish eating." I turned my head, sucked Scott's cock in my mouth for one quick slurp and said, "All done. Let's go." Then, looking up at Scott's face I said, "Desert was delicious."
When we got back to the Great Room the pledges took up their positions and the frat brothers began drinking. Usually, our fraternity was not big on drinking, but because it was Hell Week, we knew we were going to be called on to help out other frat houses. On most campuses, frats challenged other frats. Since the hazing ban, our frat houses decided to join forces and work together to deliver superior initiation trials to our pledges.
"Listen up, pledges," Whitney yelled. "It is your responsibility to keep track of how much beer your sponsor drinks tonight. It's called minding your Ps and Qs—your pints and quarts. This is not a game. However, when he starts his second beer, you must drink one, also. When he starts his fourth, you must drink your second one." After giving them time to digest that information, Whitney asked. "How will this help you in life?" Hearing no answer, Whitney scanned the room and called on Frank.
"Sir," Frank said, "It will . . . prepare me . . . us . . . for when we have to go to business–related cocktail parties."
"In what way?" Whitney asked, not letting Frank get away with an easy answer.
"Because we will be evaluated by management on how well we remain level–headed while all those around us get drunk, sir."
"Very good," Whitney said.
"Exactly," Kent said. "As your sponsor gets drunker, tonight, he might try to force you to drink more that you're allowed. This might or might not be a trick. You must refuse! If a frat brother becomes belligerent, Scott is here to come to your rescue. He will not be drinking. He might be tiny compared to some of our frat brothers, but he is certifiably lethal in several of the martial arts. For tonight only, you can call on him for protection without being given permission to speak, but you cannot otherwise engage him in conversation."
"Also," I said, thinking about Russell's banter with me earlier, "the frat does not condemn brothers who engage in homosexual acts. They just can't initiate anything while they're drinking or drunk. So, if any frat brother tries to force you to do something of a sexual nature while either of you are drunk—tonight or any other night for that matter, you can call on Scott for help. But remember, the accusation, if judged to be valid, brings with it immediate expulsion of that frat brother—not the pledge but the brother— without the benefit of appeal."
"What Randy is trying to say is D.A.M. has no tolerance for rape," Kent said, "but good clean fun between consenting adults is fine."
"Mighty fine according to Mother," Russell said with a smirk.
During the early evening, Scott and I kept an eye on our frat brothers to ensure they didn't overindulge. All but one were what I call 'funny drunks.' Everything that happened brought some kind of enjoyment to them and as the night wore on, they transformed into the class clowns—without becoming obnoxious. Imagine fifteen or twenty comedians in one room. For some, every phrase out of their mouth was witty. Others were the performing arts, pratfall–kind of funny. Still others made hilarious faces without even trying. There was even some good–natured crotch groping and goosing going on.
If these guys were the helium in our balloon, Mark was the lead weight tied to the string. In an attempt to fit in, he tried to make jokes, but instead of being funny they were crude. With each successive attempt, they descended into the abusive. I was asking Scott what he thought we should do about him when a clamor outside diverted everyone's attention.
All the frat brothers made their way to the balcony of the Great Room that overlooked the formal gardens out back. Once a horticultural showcase, they were now in bad need of attention, something I hoped to work on over the next three or four years. But as we looked over the balustrade wall we saw twenty frat boys from another fraternity holding ten pledges.
The pledges began chanting 'alms for the poor,' and 'donations to the needy.'
Whitney, as Frat President, was controlling his alcohol intake and responded the way the other fraternities expected. "What kind of donation do you seek, Greek friends?"
The spokesman for their frat said, "Beer. We don't have enough to quench our thirst."
Figuring they were being set up to be doused with beer, the pledges had a look of relief on their faces.
Still in the formal manner of speech and hoisting his half drained beer mug, Whitney said, "Our beer, I fear is in a keg. Alas, we cannot help you."
"Please kind sir," the spokesman said, expecting this prearranged response, "It's not for us, but for our women and children." The with a sweep of his arm toward the pledges he indicated these were the women and children he was talking about
"My beer is too strong for your women and children. They are too frail," Whitney shouted down to their spokesman, continuing the charade.
The spokesman ripped open the button–front shirt of his pledge to reveal a muscular football linebacker's body. "Kind sir, if you cannot provide some small offering, this body will end up looking like this one." With that, he stripped a T–shirt off another pledge.
Until the shirt was gone, I didn't realize he was totally naked underneath it. Compared to the linebacker, the poor lad looked almost emaciated.
"Even diluted beer would help this one from starving." Then he presented a funnel duct taped to a long clear plastic tube. He tossed the funnel end up to Whitney, who caught it one handed. The other end he stuck in the mouth of his linebacker pledge.
"Scott, a pledge please."
Scott raced into the Great Room, grabbed one of our pledges, who was totally oblivious to what was going on, and dragged him onto the balcony.
Whitney placed the pouch of our pledges fratwear and its jewel–like contents in the oversized funnel, looked at his laundry marker nametag and said, "Piss, Dale."
Dale had a hard time starting, but eventually a trickle turned into a torrent that soaked his fratwear and began to pour with remarkable force into the funnel. The pledge down below knew he wasn't allowed to spit it out and drank without so much as a grimace. He looked like the kind of guy who refused to believe anyone could subject him to something he couldn't endure but wouldn't admit it if they did.
He'd make a great Marine or Navy Seal, I thought.
When Dale finished and backed away, Whitney said to the beggars, "His obvious thirst has touched my heart." Then to Scott he said, "Bring out nine more pledges." One by one, each performed as admirably as Dale so each of the other beggars could quench their alleged thirst. The now–naked emaciated beggar was the last to receive a drink—and the only one to throw up. While the beggars bowed and thanked Whitney, Scott rushed down the side steps and hosed down the area without being told.
We returned to our Great Room for more drinking. "Fill up, boys," Whitney said to the pledges. "There will be more requests coming before the night is over, I'm sure."
"Will the guy who puked be thrown out of their frat?" Scott asked me.
"It depends on each frat's by–laws. Most frats will weigh all the pluses and minuses accrued during the week before making their decision. But they reserve one or two infractions that will result in immediate expulsion."
"Like D.A.M.'s drugs and unprotected sex regulations."
"Yes, but we might have others that pledges won't know about until they are asked to join."
"So if we break one of those rules, even if we don't know it's a rule, we could be expulsed."
"Right. It doesn't seem fair, does it?"
Scott wisely chose to remain silent even though it was in the form of a quesion.
A few minutes later, needy pledges from another frat house showed up with their sponsors. Their spokesman pleaded with Whitney. "Kind gentleman, our slaves are hot and sweaty from their long trek to the slave market and are in need of a shower before we get there."
The frat council was aware that several of the frats were holding a 'mock' slave sale. It was to raise money to benefit their favorite charities, an obvious concession to appease the anti–hazing lords. The purchased pledges were required to serve one day in the other's frat house sometime after Hell Week but before the end of the current semester. We had our own charity fundraiser scheduled for Sunday after the induction of the pledges.
Looking down on the new group of begging pledges, Whitney saw them shivering from the sudden dip in temperature. The thermometer, which hit 90 (32C) degrees earlier in the day, had dropped to about 60 (15C) degrees after the sun went down. Remembering ten of his twelve pledges had just recently drained themselves, and not wanting to embarrass his own frat by offering inferior services, he said, "We have only two showerheads, my good man." All Whitney needed to say was, "Scott," and he was gone to fetch the two pledges.
From his expression I got the idea Whitney delighted in the worried looks on the other frat brother's faces while they wondered how they could get all of their pledges showered. The visiting sponsors understood that Whitney, as Frat President, was supposed to comply with their prearranged demands. The other frat's sponsors talked excitedly, but somewhat disgruntled, among themselves.
Scott returned with the two pledges who had not yet drained.
"Worthy slaves," Whitney said shaking his head from side to side slowly, "it would be unfair for two of you to be freshly washed while the others go unclean to market. The value of such inferior slaves would greatly diminish their asking price."
"Sir," Scott said.
"Yes, Mascot," Whitney said, using his title to announce to all present that the naked Scott had a right to speak before being spoken to.
"If I may have your ear, sir," Scott said, enjoying using the vernacular of the event. The two stepped into the shadows and carried on a whispered conversation.
Stepping up to the balustrade, Whitney said, "If all goes well, it appears we will be able to honor our commitment to our brother frat house after all."
A roar of joy arose from the begging frat brothers while most of their slaves bowed their heads in despair.
While all this was transpiring, I was evaluating their slaves. All of them were completely naked. Of the sixteen pledges, ten were cupping their genitals with one or both hands. The six that weren't, also weren't bowing their heads. Not out of arrogance or defiance, but rather embracing this test as a learning lesson. I see these six guys moving quickly up the corporate ladders of their chosen fields, I thought. They'll be leaders, not followers.
Scott returned with the rest of the pledges and their sponsors.
"Your fraternity is rich while ours is poor," Whitney said. "As you can see, you have sixteen to our twelve. I regret and therefore am shamed that we cannot fulfill our end of the bargain."
Again there was the immediate worry in the eyes of the visiting frat's brothers. I got the feeling Whitney was doing this to them deliberately. The 'slaves' faces brightened at the news, but turned to a scowl when Whitney continued, "Unless our Pledge Mascot can conceive of an acceptable alternative."
"Sir," Scott said, "is there contingencies for the D.A.M. Frat Council to intercede? The frat sponsors will, of course, have to pee if their pledges can't. That's twelve, and I make thirteen. If you, Master Kent and Master Randy assist, we can assure D.A.M.'s success."
"I told you, Whitney," I said, "he's gonna make it tough for us to punish him."
Seeing five of our pledges wearing their fratwear on their heads, Whitney said, "Those still wearing them can lower your fratwear to mid thigh for this exercise. Then, move to the edge of the rail, aim and shower these poor deserving slaves."
Of the ten who pissed earlier, only Diego was able to get a flow started but it was weak and unable to get past the balustrade railing. Mike, his sponsor, laid a gentle hand on his shoulder and said, "Admirable attempt, pledge. Let me help."
Taking a step back, Diego made a space for Mike, while lowering his head in shame. Lifting Diego's chin with his right hand Mike looked him in the eyes. "There is no shame in not succeeding—only in not trying. There will be no demerits for this. Now, unzip me, pull out my shower head and aim it at that slave there," he said, pointing to no one in particular.
D.A.M.'s other sponsors, seeing their recently drained pledges were not peeing, instructed their pledges to assist them with their showerheads like Diego had helped Mike. Scott in the meantime, unzipped and hauled out Whitney's and then Kent's hoses like it was something he did every day. Then, turning to me, he unbuttoned my fly and pulled out my cock. Continuing to hold it, like his pledge brothers were forced to do, he grabbed his own and we began pissing.
To my delight, and the enjoyment of both fraternities' brotherhood, Scott alternated crossing our piss streams and uncrossing them so that two slaves got the piss from two different showerheads. My frat brothers joined in the oscillating crossfire until they were pissing indiscriminately on any slave within the range of their streams. Watching the display before me, I was reminded of Bilagio's Dancing Fountains in Las Vegas. When the last drop had dripped from the last dickhead, the slaves bowed and in unison said, "Thank you for this honor."
"Fratwear up," Kent said before we all walked back inside. Once the pledges were in their positions along the walls, Kent took the D.A.M. paddle off the fireplace mantle. Slapping it against the palm of his hand, he said, "Turn and face the wall. Now don't get me wrong. You all did a fine job of trying and for that, we commend you. However, it is not enough for one to try, but for one to succeed, also. Those of you who were able to succeed, remain standing. All the others kneel with your foreheads touching the floor."
Once in the position, Kent counted the number of kneeling pledges. He strode over to the kneeling Diego and with a mighty swat to his right butt cheek, he said, "I know you want to atone for your indiscretions earlier this evening by being paddled but that's not the way it works. Stand up!"
Diego stood facing the wall.
"Since nine of you had to rely on your sponsors for help," Kent said, "you will each receive nine swats. Diego, since you were the only one to rise to the occasion, so to speak, you get to administer their punishment."
Whitney said, "The punishment is to encourage you to always strive to be better. Therefore, Diego is instructed to administer the swats as hard as the one he just received."
"If he refuses or if he holds back," I said, "he will have to endure all the swats himself—all 81." I only saw two pledges slightly trembling, but no one would have noticed if they weren't specifically looking for it, like I was.
As the frat archivist, I was keeping track of all the emotions and reactions I was able to observe. The frat sponsors were instructed to tell me about anything their pledges did or said that would enhance next year's Hell Week. Also, all the other frat brothers were told to report anything they heard that the other fraternities were doing to their pledges. The D.A.M. Frat Council would then weed out those so despicable as to be undesirable activities, but more finely tune those that could be beneficial to both the pledges and the frat house.
Diego began his ordeal of inflicting pain on his pledge brothers. To his credit, he didn't hold back. Each pledge was ordered to count aloud each swat as he received it. On the surface, this appeared to be another form of degradation—being forced to take part in one's own punishment. But the underlying benefit was that it afforded the pledge an opportunity to shout out the number as loudly as he needed to release pent–up pressure from the pain.
When Diego was done, Whitney shouted, "Assume your positions." As the pledges stood up, Whitney asked, "Diego, how will this help you with your course of studies?"
While Diego thought about it, I scrutinized the pledges carefully. One of the two who were slightly trembling earlier had tears in his eyes but was not really crying. I'd guess the wetness was from scrunching his eyes too tight. The other one was silently crying but not sobbing. I looked at the pouch of his fratwear and saw it was moist. Since it wasn't dripping, I was reasonably sure it wasn't piss—especially since he wasn't able to pee just minutes earlier. But the pouch was wet enough to be transparent, so I guessed his tears were from shame for having cum while being paddled. I made a mental note of his name—Cameron.
Continuing to survey the room, I saw Boxer Boy Jamie, the one whose dick I bounced in my hand Friday night, had his fratwear on his head. I'm getting the impression Jamie likes to fuck up once a day just so he can be naked. He had boned up from the paddling and pre–cum was dripping slowly down the long length of his upright erection. Scanning the rest of the pledges, I noticed some fratwear pouches were fuller than before Diego began.
"I plan to major in business, sir," Diego said, "and this experience helps build my confidence when faced with having to make difficult decisions."
"Such as," Whitney said, not allowing him to get away with a vague answer.
"Uh . . . uh . . . for instance . . . having to fire someone . . . uh . . . like your best friend, maybe."
"Yes, firing your best friend would definitely be painful."
"If anyone else shows up," Kent said, "the frat brothers will have to take care of them. We have to get these boys to bed. I don't want them staying up until the vampires go to bed. Besides, they've got to be fresh for tomorrow so they can study."
Whitney's last order of the day concerned Sunday morning. We were, after our morning showers, expected to stand outside our bedroom doors until all of us were assembled and we could walk downstairs together.
To be continued. Send comments, if you so choose, to,