New MMSA spank logo

The Blister Boyz
Chapter 35: The Rump Roast

by Redspkscott

Go to the contents page for this series.

Copyright on this story text belongs at all times to the original author only, whether stated explicitly in the text or not. The original date of posting to the MMSA was: 24 Sep 2008


The Blister Boyz
Ch. 35: The Rump Roast

The heroes:
Troy Manning — Heat Blister
Jason Klein — Ice Hazer
David Mercer — Smaqdown
Dennis Lowder — The Humiliator
Walt Hemingway — Major Fry
Brian Tannon — Murky Menace
Jorge Vasquez — Poison Punisher
Keith Grady — The Sticking Point
 

These days, the Paragon University was never silent, but even so, the rush of activity the week before the fall semester started was a familiar sight.

Omega Upsilon Chi celebrated the return to school every fall with the Rump Roast, a barbecue and fundraiser held at their huge frat compound. Freshmen identified in advance as potential pledges were invited to attend, as were friendly brothers from nearby frats and alumni. It was even open to curious freshmen who hadn't had the good fortune to have a coach/alumnus from the Omega frat in high school to direct them here. That was how Dennis ended up joining.

The Blister Boyz had set up the frat in preparation for their brothers' return. Walt – who had a talent for cooking he declined to normally show off – would be operating the grill. Troy and Jason would be greeting the guests and circulating. Dennis and Jorge would chat up the freshmen. David had already decided on his victims for the rump roast entertainment to come later – three guys whose limits he were going to test to see if they were up to joining Brian as tributes to the trolls.

They had an official T-shirt printed up for the party. “I survived the 2008 Omega Upsilon Chi Rump Roast” was written on the back in big cartoon letters. On the front was an amusing drawing of a suckling pig on a big plate, like it was being served. His ass was facing front and his head was turned so you could see he had an apple stuffed in his mouth and he was crying. The pig's ass was red and blistered, and the official Omega paddle was resting on the table next to the plate, smoking lightly like it had been used so hard it had nearly caught fire. The pig was even wearing a jock strap. The drawing was done by Keith, who surprised everybody with his hidden skills. He shyly explained that he'd been drawing most of his life and made cash on the side designing art for tattoos and decals for skateboarders and T-shirt makers. He had designed all of his own tattoos. He was thinking about selecting graphic design for his major, but hadn't committed yet.

Brian had his part to play, too, based upon the “skills” he brought to the frat. Somebody had to make sure visitors to the party truly understood the frat wasn't messing around when it came to the use of the paddle. Brian was essentially the doorbell. The entrance to the party was in the wooden gate in the wooden fence leading to the frat complex's inner yard. A special hatch/hole was crafted into the middle of the fence, next to the door, big enough for an average-sized guy to squeeze through. Brian, after much pretend complaining, was forced through the hole by David, assisted by Dennis's telekinesis. He was stripped down to his jock and his wrists and ankles tied to hooks in the fence, leaving him helpless. His ass was facing outward to greet any guests. His tail was pulled up out of the way and tied to the fence as well. A big banner hung above Brian screamed “WELCOME TO THE ...”. And then, on Brian's ass, which was already quite red from David's abuse, “RUMP ROAST” was written in black marker. A small card table was set up next to Brian with a variety of paddles of different sizes or shapes. A sign on the table advised “Use to gain entry.” Anybody who walked up to attend the party who thought the frat was just kidding about its obsession with paddling would learn otherwise.

***********************

A few days earlier, in abandoned warehouse in Independence Port, a private meeting was taking place with two extremely powerful men: Mr. Hopkins, “bodyguard” and right-hand man for Countess Crey at Crey Industries, and Renaldo Marcone, one of the top dons of the Family, Paragon City's powerful Mafia organization.

The two organizations had a complicated relationship. Officially they were enemies, as Crey Industries was, among other things, the premier private security organization in Paragon City and operated the city's prison. Strip away the “official” story, though, and the two organizations relied heavily on each other. Crey Industries turned to the Family to deal with “obstructions” to their research and industrial efforts that couldn't easily be eliminated through conventional means. In exchange, members of the Family who ran afoul of the law or Paragon City's heroes often found it extremely easy to “escape” from official custody.

The two men met in the empty loading dock, each accompanied by a couple of guards. Hopkins' men wore slick dark suits, dark glasses, and ear pieces. Marcone's men wore more flamboyant white pinstriped suits. Hopkins at times was amused at the Family's insistence to playing to stereotypes, but the organization certainly hadn't lost any of their power due to it. Heroes underestimated them at their own peril – some Family members even secretly had super powers of their own.

Crey Industries was obsessed with developing its own controllable force of super heroes, which they would then contract out to the city. This would render conventional heroes unnecessary and subsequently Crey would rake in huge amounts of money while not having to worry about the “good guys” nosing around their operations. Hopkins's research team had invented the chemical that gave the Blister Boyz their powers and he was still looking for a way to prove to Countess Crey that it could be salvaged for their own use.

The two were sitting on opposite sides of a simple conference table that was dragged out there for the meeting. Marcone was looking over a collection of photos, making thoughtful noises.

“Paddles, huh?” he said, finally. “We're belt men, ourselves, in the Family. If a boy gets out of line, you've always got something on hand to correct his attitude, yes?”

“Ah indeed,” Hopkins said. “I prefer the cane myself.”

“Of course. A nice touch. Genteel. Suits you.”

“Thank you. But I understand jocks are drawn to the big and brash, and so they have these paddles. The bigger, the better.”

Marcone nodded. “So why do you need these Blister Boyz? Or is that on a need-to-know basis?”

“I can't get into too much detail, but they're the unplanned result of one of our research experiments. Testing is incomplete, and I need them in my custody for ... observation.”

“Crey Industries is certainly powerful enough to extract them without the Family's assistance. Why do you need us?”

“The boys have gone too public, too quickly. Their disappearance would be noted. And they're based at the university. Extracting them would lead to problematic questions. I figure the best way to get them into Crey's custody would be through legitimate legal channels.”

“How do you mean?”

“If the boys were arrested, they'd end up at the Zig temporarily,” Hopkins explained, referring to Paragon City's prison. “Anybody with powers gets sent there first, rather than the police jail, thanks to Crey's ability to manage superhumans.”

“Ah, where they'd be under the thumb of your security forces,” Marcone realized.

“Exactly.”

“So you want us to set 'em up for a fall?”

“Indeed.”

“What's in it for the Family?”

“How's the Family's take in college sports betting?”

Marcone stroked his chin. “It could be improved,” he admitted.

“All the boys in Omega are involved in college athletics – some are quite successful. You make inroads in there and protect them, you might find plenty of opportunities to... affect... upcoming games to your favor. And many of these guys go on to become pro athletes.”

The two men smiled at each other, two predators discovering they could take down difficult prey by working together.

“I like the way you think,” Marcone said.

********************************

The brothers had started trickling in to the party, their arrivals announced by Brian's cries of pain as they happily smacked paddles across his helpless ass.

It wasn't long before David's first mark arrived. Henry was the heavy hitter of the Paragon University baseball team, racking up close to a record in home runs. The dirty blond Alabama boy was almost, but not quite, as built as David in the upper body, but made up for it by having stronger legs and a nice thick butt.

Henry was essentially what David would be like if David were a total bottom. Henry liked to fight back against his paddlings – truly fight back, not merely pretending – and be forced to take his licks. He called it “getting Alpha Dogged.” David actually had to get some wrestling training from Brian in order to give Henry the punishment he wanted, which involved quite a lengthy, exhausting physical struggle in order to get him to submit. As David got to know Henry better, he discovered that Henry honestly wanted to get smacked around. Not just his ass – he wanted to be slapped across the face, on the back of his head, kicked in the balls, that sort of thing. He was a massive pain pig. When Henry confessed to David that he fantasized about David giving him a black eye, he decided to have Jason talk to him a bit. After a lengthy discussion, Jason explained to David that while Henry's pain fetish was a bit broader than the other boys, it wasn't to a degree that he felt it was unsafe. Jason pointed David to a number of fetish Web sites where men got sexually aroused by beating each other up. Henry had grown up in a huge family – nine siblings – and extreme physical horseplay with his brothers and father was very common, and not intentionally abusive in nature. He internalized it as a display of affection.

So, thinking it over, David decided to make Henry his sparring partner for boxing practice. After he worked Henry over in the ring, the guy was far too exhausted to resist getting put over David's knee. When Henry complained while David was paddling, David would respond by giving him a hard smack on the back of the head and beating him even harder. In privacy he would truly work the guy over, smacking him across the face, punching him in the side, literally kicking his ass, yanking his hair and fucking him roughly and without any mercy. All safely, of course. David was 100 percent certain that Henry would absolutely want to be at the trolls' mercy.

David didn't even want to give Henry time to take note of him to plan out a defense. He leapt out of the lawn chair the second he saw Henry round the corner behind the house and hit him with a deliberately hard flying tackle.

“Lookit who's here!” David shouted as he rolled around with Henry on the ground. “It's our first participant in the Rump Roast.” Henry knew exactly what that meant so fought back as best he could. Unfortunately for him, David's ambush gave him enough leverage to keep the guy under his control. He forced Henry's hands behind his back and marched him over to one of the picnic tables, Henry resisting and trying to escape the whole way. There, Keith assisted David in stripping and trussing Henry up in the same position as the pig on their shirts, ass up right on one of the picnic tables. David even painted a ball gag red to look like an apple. After a couple of rough minutes, Henry was bound and helpless, his butt up and trembling in his jock, waiting for swats he knew were coming eventually. He noted that in front of his face was a big digital clock with a sign next to it reading “roasting time left.” Currently the clock was off.

The guests and brothers all got a kick of the floor show. Those familiar with the frat laughed at the business as usual. Newcomers were a bit nervous, but intrigued by what had happened. Troy and Jason circulated to answer all their questions to make it clear that only brothers would be participating in the Rump Roast and guests, including incoming freshmen, need not worry about getting dragged off by David.

“Well, not unless they ask for it,” David added.

Meanwhile, one of the recruited freshmen arrived – a legacy, no less. It was Ryan Klein, Jason's “little” brother. The brothers marveled at the boy. He was two inches taller than Jason and about twenty pounds heavier, all muscle. His butt was just as massive as Jason's, so no doubt everybody was looking forward to getting their hands and paddles on it. Unlike Jason, he was blond and wore round glasses that looked a little delicate on his massive bulk. But like Jason, he was extremely friendly and modest, blushing at all the attention lavished on him by the brothers. According to Jason, Ryan took his punishment more stoically than Jason, so brothers looking for two quivering, moaning floor shows were going to end up disappointed.

Jason christened the term “spank horse,” in reference to Ryan. Different from a “spank hound,” who misbehaved regularly in order to get needed punishment, a spank horse was a guy whose skills and abilities notably improved after receiving corporal punishment. Jason was a spank horse too, really, but he felt that Ryan really epitomized the idea. The big boy was paddled by his teammates prior to every football game in high school and they could track the quality of his performance based on how much he was punished. The more he was paddled, the better he played. And he never complained about it, ever.

As Jason was introducing Ryan to everybody and noticing the number of eyes drawn to Ryan's pronounced ass, David's second mark arrived. Terrell was the star of the football team, a running back bound to be drafted to the pros if he had another stellar year. While he was a typical brash and flamboyant player on the field and before the cameras, he was actually much more low-key away from the field. He and David knew each other casually long before Paragon University and ran around with some of the same folks growing up. They had a good honest-to-god friendship that wasn't affected by their shared interest in corporal punishment.

Terrell was mostly a top at the frat, what with many of the brothers wanting to be paddled by the house “celebrity,” but he was really more of a bottom and turned to David to fulfill his needs. His game was blackmail. Years of exposure to macho posturing made it tough for him to be as openly submissive as he wanted to be. So when he started bottoming for David, he asked David to take some pictures of him in compromising situations together. David was to retain the photos, and then he could order Terrell to submit to him or else risk having the pictures come to light.

David would never do any such thing, but the roleplay was enough for Terrell to let go and bottom the way he wanted to. He had some specific needs as a bottom. David would show up in his room late at night. He'd wave a print of one of the pictures (Terrell giving him a blowjob) and tell Terrell he would do as he was told if he knew what was good for him. David would sit back in a chair and order Terrell to strip slowly for him. Terrell would comply as David rubbed his own crotch in pleasure. When Terrell was down to his jock, David would order “All of it off. Jocks are for studs, not bitches like you.” Terrell would slowly peel down the jockstrap, exposing his large cock, strong legs built for speed and a body built to withstand full tackles.

When he was naked, David would pull out a duffle bag and unzip it. Inside were some special undergarments. He tried to change them up now and then, but the one fact they all had in common was that they were women's lingerie. Secretly, Terrell longed to be forced to take his punishment in women's underwear. He'd beg David not to make him do it, but David would respond that he was going to get punished even harder for whining. Looking down in shame, Terrell would step into a lacy ladies' thong and work them on, struggling to get them past his large thighs. Garters and stockings completed the outfit. When David was feeling truly cruel, he'd make him wear high heels. He tracked down a pair Terrell's size in an online store designed for drag performers. When he was finally dressed, David would sit on Terrell's bed and force him over his knee. David had to note that Terrell's shapely hips and backside really did look quite sexy in the thong. “You're one sexy bitch,” he'd growl at the running back, and then went to work long and hard with the paddle, not stopping until Terrell was shaking and in tears, his smooth bottom marked up and bruised, and David pointing out that he was crying like a little girl. Sex would follow, Terrell on his back with his legs up like a woman. Afterward, Terrell was allowed to take off the women's clothes and the scene would end. And then the two of them would lay back in Terrell's bed and chat about things, like nothing had actually happened.

This time, David sidled up to Terrell, who was making the rounds greeting his buddies and whispered in his ear, “Unless you want those pics of yours sent in to the college newspaper's sports blog, you're gonna get your ass over to those picnic tables.” He looked at David, who smiled like a shark at him. David had picked Terrell in part so that potential candidates would understand that nobody – not even jock “stars” of the frat – was immune to a dose of the paddle. Terrell sighed and headed over to the table next to where Henry was trussed up and still squirming. The crowd hooted and hollered as Terrell stripped down to his jock and climbed up on the table. David bound him securely, whispering “Welcome back, buddy” in Terrell's ear before gagging him and leaving him there for eventual punishment. Another clock sat in front of him.

Dennis and Jorge were chatting up a freshman who tentatively wandered into the backyard, but was not one of the official invitees. Jorge invited him warmly anyway, explaining, “If Brian at the gate back there didn't scare you off, You're probably at least intrigued about us, am I right?” The handsome, swarthy young man grinned and introduced himself. His name was Vincent Capresi. He had wrestled in high school, but had to quit the team in his senior year to deal with some family issues. He was hoping to get back into wrestling in college, and heard that Omega was where all the wrestlers went to.

“Yeah, you're right there,” Dennis said. “That ass you might have smacked back at the gate is one of them. Wrestlers were actually the first jocks of the frat, long before baseball and football took hold. They also tend to get their asses beat more than any other jock. Can't help but wonder if there's a relationship there.”

“Um, I haven't actually made it on the team yet,” Vincent said. “Not having a senior record. I read on the Omega Web site that you have to officially compete in sports to join the frat.”

“I wouldn't worry about that,” Jorge said. “Coach Cortez is an Omega alum and will pretty much accept any guy who will accept his 'training techniques.'” He raised his eyebrows meaningfully at the last two words. “If you're willing to put up with a lot of 'Time to take yer licks, boy,' as part of training, you should be good.”

“Cool.,” Vincent said, smiling, and looking around.

“Jorge and I are the official greeters for newcomers at the Rump Roast,” Dennis said. “I'm also the Rush Chairman. Feel free to walk around, get to know a few guys.” Dennis pointed out a few other wrestlers among the jocks in the crowd. “Also, poor, poor Brian – the 'doorbell' – can fill you in on a few things between swats.”

“Thanks guys, this place is great! All these athletes all in one place. It's awesome!” Vincent wandered off to mingle.

“Something seemed a little off about him,” Jorge said after Vincent was gone.

“What do you mean?” Dennis asked.

“The ones who we invite don't really talk about the paddlings because they're already into it and have a little bit of an idea of what's going on here. The guys who wander in tend to be at least a bit surprised about the amount of ass paddling that goes on here and ask a few questions.”

“Did he even say anything about the paddlings?” Dennis asked.

“No, he didn't.”

“So what do you think is going on?”

“Oh, it could be nothing. He could be shy about it. A lot of guys don't like to talk about it. But he could be a voyeur just enjoying the show without any intention of joining.”

“Is that a problem?”

“Not really, no. But it's a waste of effort if he's not for real.” He checked out Vincent's ass in his neatly-fitted khakis. “Plus, it's a disappointment. That's a pretty good butt he's packing back there.”

“Agreed,” Dennis said.

Meanwhile, the pledge prospect Keith had been hoping for arrived. A short, lithe young man with spiky brown hair with frosted tips had arrived. His ears and right eyebrow were pierced and he had a soul patch and a couple of tattoos. He dressed in the new style of skaters who had moved on beyond the sagger style – argyle vests and cargo pants that looked vaguely like unkempt school uniforms.

The boy's name was Kyle “Bouncer” Burlingame. He was a competitive skateboarder and Keith lobbied hard on his behalf as a potential pledge, sheepishly admitting that he had a “thing” for skaters.

“Yes, we can see it growing,” Jorge joked at the time, pointing at Keith's crotch.

Kyle, in particular, had been on Keith's radar for a little while, and once he explained to the brothers why, they unanimously agreed that he'd be a good choice for the frat. His nickname, Bouncer, was related to a fun little hobby he did on the side with his skateboarding. He invited his fans to send in particularly hard skating stunt ideas. He'd pick one and video his attempts to complete the stunt. He had three chances to complete the stunt.

At stake was Bouncer's ass. If he failed the stunt, one of his buddies would take him across the knee right there at the skate park, pull down his pants and boxers and spank his firm little bottom to the length of a tune of one of Bouncer's favorite ska songs. He got his nickname due to the way his ass bounced up and down across the buddy's lap as his cheeks got smacked good and red. The punishment was filmed and then posted online, making him an Internet fave for teen spanking fans.

Keith had been extremely nervous about what was going to happen when people saw how he looked now. Nobody was particularly put out by Brian's tail, but horns and giant bat wings were a bit more. It turned out, though, the guys thought the new look suited him quite well and he got plenty of compliments. A couple of other guys had also developed strange secondary mutations as well. Greg, one of Dennis's gymnast spank hounds, came back with red skin, which would no doubt challenge Dennis to find a way to punish his ass so that it showed. On that vein, the inner circle of brothers decided to allow each brother the freedom to decide whether or not to tell others about their powers. For some, like Brian, Keith and Greg, there wasn't an option to conceal it anyway.

Keith wandered over to Bouncer as nonchalantly as a guy with an eight-foot wing span could.

“Hey there, glad you could make it, Bouncer,” he said, having to now remember to drop the “sir” after spending all summer learning to add it. “I'm Keith.”

“Wow! You weren't kidding when you said you'd be easy to spot in the crowd,” Bouncer said, shaking Keith's hand. Keith had personally invited him to the party through e-mail once he got the brothers' approval.

Kyle looked past him to see Henry and Terrell trussed up on the tables. He grinned. “Holy shit, this place is great!” Kyle marveled. “I smacked that guy at the doorway nice and hard. Hope that was okay. He complimented my ass when I walked by so I figured I wasn't too hard.”

Keith laughed. “Heh, don't worry about Brian. There's no such thing as too hard for him. Wow, you really hadn't heard of us?”

“Nope, well not when you e-mailed me,” Kyle said. “My crew and jocks didn't run in the same circles, ya know.”

“Yeah, I get it.” Keith played ice hockey, but was also an inline skater and straddled the line between the two cliques. Kyle didn't have an Omega alumnus coach to recognize his potential and tell him about the frat. “'S okay though, glad you came anyway. I was worried you'd think we're a bunch of freaks.”

“I do think you're a bunch of freaks,” Kyle said. “Why do you think I came? This looks like fun.”

“We're just getting started,” Keith said. “Wait until we get to the actual Rump Roast.” He tossed one of the Rump Roast shirts to Kyle as a gift. He looked it over and laughed at the suffering pig.

“This art style looks familiar. Who drew this?”

“I did,” Keith admitted, blushing just a bit.

“You... Keith. You're that Keith!” Kyle said. “I got one of your T-shirt designs a couple of months ago!”

“Yup, that's me,” Keith said, blushing more deeply.

“I've seen some of your other sketches online, too,” he added, his voice dropping a flirty octave. “If I'm not mistaken, one of those skater boys getting punished is based on me.”

Keith stammered and his face turned a shade of red normally only seen on his ass when he fucked up and went to Dennis for punishment.

“It's okay dude. I saw those and started thinking that the spanking bets were getting a bit stale. Maybe it's time to spice them up a bit? So you think you guys here can make me bounce a bit more than usual?”

Keith explained to Kyle a bit more about the frat and introduced him to Dennis as David's final mark arrived. Eddie Chang was on the school's tennis team. He grew up in a structured household with lots of rules. He was punished with the switch on his backside whenever he broke a rule. He craved punishment though, and the combination resulted in a rather unusual type of spank hound. David would set up rules for Eddie that he was required to follow, with a prescribed number of swats for each rule if Eddie broke it. Eddie had to accept any rule David created. The rules were required to be achievable and couldn't contradict other rules. The definition of “achievable” though was pretty loose. It only had to be technically possible – it didn't have to be realistic. One of the rules David created was that Eddie was not permitted to allow a tennis opponent to score against him. While technically possible, Eddie was bound to break this rule in each match. Each time a tennis player scored against him he earned five paddle swats. At the end of each day, all of Eddie's violations were tallied and the paddling was given. He received a set amount of swats that were not open to negotiation. In fact, complaining about punishment was against the rules (adding ten more swats), as was crying (another ten swats).

So over the course of the year, David would use his imagination and burden Eddie with more and more rules, often completely arbitrary, in an effort to force him to take more swats. Eddie submitted, having voluntarily given up the right to say no, and David looked forward to adding sessions with the trolls as punishment for breaking certain rules.

Eddie wandered in dressed casually in a T-shirt and khaki shorts. David strode up to him, looking stern.

“Boy, you just got here and you already broke a rule,” David said.

“What? How?”

“You're supposed to wear your tennis whites to the Rump Roast. New rule.”

“I didn't know about this new rule.”

David shrugged. “There's nothing that says I have to call you and tell you about them in advance. You should have called me to ask if there were any new rules for arrival. Once you step on the college campus, all rules apply.”

Eddie started to protest, but then stopped. It was all technically true. David banked on Eddie not checking in to trick him into having to take swats, but it was general practice for David to try to trick Eddie into breaking the rules anyway. And complaining would earn him more swats.

“Very well. You got me. What's my punishment?” David gestured over to the final picnic table.

“Join your buddies,” he said. “That pretty boy tennis butt is going to do some good for once. And by the way, I've worked up another hundred rules for you to go over.”

Eddie sighed in resignation and started over to the picnic table.

“You're slouching!” David called after him. “That's ten swats!” Eddie stripped down to his jock and his tennis shoes and consigned himself to his public punishment. David bound him to the table, ass up, wrists and ankles restrained, ready for a good, hard smacking. The crowd applauded his handiwork.

“Well, well, well,” Troy said, stepping forward to address the crowd. “It looks like the preparations for the Rump Roast have completed. Our little piggies are ready to be cooked. Aren't they just adorable? Let's give a round of applause for our 'volunteers'.” The crowd cheered again. There were plenty of hoots and catcalls at the sexy sight of Henry's, Terrell's, and Eddie's exposed helpless muscle-bottoms. Henry still had not given up at the possibility of escape and struggled in his bondage.

“For visitors and newcomers to Omega Upsilon Chi, we start every year with the Rump Roast. This is so that we can get to know you better, so you can get to know us better, and to announce who the frat will be raising money for this year.”

“Our fundraisers, are – well, they're different, that's for sure.” The crowd laughed. “Our marketing majors have told us for years that the best way to raise money, obviously, is to give folks something that they want. And we like to think that we know what the folks who come by our frat want.”

“Beaten asses!” one of the brothers shouted. The other guys cheered.

“Yup!” Troy agreed after the cheers died down. “For those of you considering joining our fraternity, these kinds of fundraisers take place all year, and you can guess who will be starring in the next one.” One of the guys patted Ryan on his big bottom meaningfully. He grinned and blushed a little at the attention.

Troy went on to explain they had started a research nonprofit, organized by alumnus Dr. Pete McClintock (who was at the BBQ as well scoping out the new guys), to develop a cure for the trolls. Troy didn't get into detail so as not to expose the Blister Boyz to newcomers, but mentioned they had discovered that some trolls hadn't voluntarily become the musclebound monsters due to Superadine abuse. Some were forced against their will, and Paragon City lacked funding to research a solution.

“So, for our first fundraiser, we've got Jorge, Jason and Dennis here with collection baskets. The more money we get donated tonight, the longer the roasting time for our helpless little piggies here. And you get one of our free Rump Roast T-shirts. Our international president, Andrew Porter, was unable to join us tonight, but he did start us off with a donation of $50,000 for the fund.” The crowd cheered and then laughed, noticing that the three jocks on the tables had started squirming and struggling at the news and grunting into their gags. “Heh, for the sake of our poor little piggies, we won't add that money to the roasting time,” Troy said.

For the next hour, the guys circulated, collecting donations while the rump roast victims sweated it out on the table, wondering how much punishment they were going to receive. Afterward, Dennis tallied while the brothers and guests enjoyed their food at the picnic tables, the rump roast victims serving as amusing centerpieces. After everybody was done, they gathered around the tables. David, Troy and Jason took position behind Henry, Terrell and Eddie, their official frat paddles at hand and ready to get to work. The rump roast victims were really worried now. Henry even looked over his shoulder at David, looking not unlike the pig on the T-shirt, without the red ass. Yet.

“Wow, you boys saved up quite a bit of money over the summer, didn't you?” Dennis said, waving a stack of cash and checks. “Of course, we have a few extremely successful alumni and coaches here to help fill the coffers a bit. Our first fundraiser has netted $2,345! Not bad!” The crowd cheered and applauded. Dennis pulled out his calculators and punched in some numbers. “Based on our punishment formula, that works out to... 17 minutes and 42 seconds!” The crowd hooted and hollered and the victims whimpered into their gags. The clocks were set up to display 17:42.

“ARE YOU READY TO ROAST!” Troy shouted. The crowd cheered. The three victims shook their heads “no!” He raised his paddle up behind Terrell. David and Jason raised their paddles up as well. David even mimicked a baseball slugger stance to torment Henry. Dennis blew a whistle and pressed a button to start the clocks. All three paddles came down at the same time: KA-RACK! The sound echoed across the yard and the boys' cries of pain were drowned out by the cheers. The leaders pulled their paddles back a couple of seconds so the guests could see the red rectangle develop on Henry and Eddie's butts (it would take a while before anything would be visible on Terrell's smooth dark bottom), and then went to work. The boys kept up a fairly good speed. Even though they knew these guys could take a lot, they didn't want to scare the guests too much, so they planned out the punishment pace so that the guys would be nicely blistered, but no deep bruising.

The guys were all spank hounds, so despite their protests, it was a while before one of them actually broke. It was Terrell, at round the 12-minute mark, tears spilling down his cheeks and his big round glutes beginning to quiver helplessly. Despite being the smallest of the three, Eddie was the one who held out the longest. Henry broke at around 15 minutes, sobbing loudly into his gag and struggling fruitlessly in his bondage. About a minute left in the punishment, Eddie started crying finally as well. David, of course, took note for Eddie to face further swats later. The rules were the rules. Finally, after what felt like hours of relentless pain, the buzzer rang and the punishers all stopped with one final, loud CRACK across each ass. The crowd cheered and whistled for the victims, whose asses now looked just like the pig on the T-shirt.

“Let's hear it for our piggies!” Troy shouted. “Weren't they great?” David, Troy and Jason, as per tradition, then each leaned over the table and gave their Rump Roast victims a gentle kiss on the left cheeks of their quivering asses.

“And a reminder to our full brothers,” Troy warned. “Remember that their reward is that once we let them out, they get to pick one of you to punish how they see fit. These guys won't be the only ones sleeping on their stomachs tonight.” The men cheered, a little less strongly knowing that they may end up over the knee of Henry, Terrell or Eddie.

“For the rest of you, if you're still interested in pledging our frat seeing what you've seen tonight, then God help you all,” Troy joked. “Failing that, Dennis and Jorge will be leading a tour through our frat complex for anybody who wants to stay. Be warned, once you step foot inside the frat, you're considered a 'potential pledge', and some brothers might be interested in checking out how committed you actually are to our... attitude.” He waggled his eyebrows at the gathered crowd. “Consensually, of course,” he coughed afterward.

After that, the party broke up for the most part. The three Rump Roast victims were untied. Vincent watched quietly as the three guys were given big hugs from the men who paddled them. They were crying, but also grinning ear to ear as they rubbed their blistered butts and gathered their clothes.

These guys were nuts, he thought to himself. Vincent dreaded getting the belt when he fucked up. But Mr. Marcone made it clear to Vincent – if he helped set up operations here at the frat and do as he the Family wished, he would be going places. And then someday he'd be the one with the belt.

 
Next: The Grand Tour

 
Go to the contents page for this series.