Chase was getting facefucked by one of the hottest studs in Sigma Pi Tau, but all he could think of was how Sable wasn’t Caspian.

The towering Chinese stud had a physique reminiscent of a Surrogate—thick, fluffy muscle all over, smooth body flexing with every brutal thrust, every smack of crotch to nose. He looked like he’d have an adorable smile, just like Caspian, but his look was stern, domineering, and… not invested. Though Chase’s throat was the tightest it had ever been, though Sable was shooting precum into his stomach like mad, there wasn’t that erotic excitement on his face that Chase loved so much.

“Is this what you wanted, spitsucker?” Sable^[2] said, as he slammed inside, stayed there, and ground his crotch into Chase’s face, cock churning Chase’s throat until he gagged so hard his whole damn body convulsed. “You sucked in that game. It’s like you wanted this.” A pause, and then— “Bet you regret it now.”

It was a half-assed attempt to talk to Chase like he was an enemy, a fallen frat boy. That’s what Chase had asked for. Back in the day, Sable had been pretty damn good at doing it. He was facefucking Chase like a monster. In fact, as part of Chase’s forfeit for losing Sable’s party game so hard, he’d given Chase a supplement that made his punishment even more intense.

“Drink up, frat bottom,” Sable had growled, as he grabbed Chase by the head and forced the milky contents of the shot glass into his mouth. “You lost the game; you earned a facefuck. This one’s gonna mess you up.”

The milk went down hard—a burn from the alcohol in the shot and a drag on his spirit. It left behind phantom pressure, like there was a cock in Chase’s throat already, and he almost gagged in response. Sable had enhanced his gag reflex. And this facefuck was going to be devastating.

Chase^[3] was utterly physically dominated, his head gripped tight in Sable’s hands, a numbness in his face from the repeated smacks, tears dripping from his eyes as he gagged and covered Sable’s crotch and the floor in his spit and Sable’s pre. But Sable was barely talking. It was… just a facefuck.

Once, Sable had known how to dominate Chase. He was eager to fight whenever Chase wanted. But something had changed for Sable.

“I don’t want to fight just to fuck you, Chase. You should be slutting out like a good frat bottom.”

“C’mon, Sable, you used to love it! What are you, afraid to lose? You know that’s not how I work.”

“Shut up. Frat bottoms should roll over and take it. I shouldn’t have to make you submit. It’s your job. Haven’t we earned it?”

“You sound like Hawk. Just fight me already!”

“No. Lose my game on purpose tonight and maybe I’ll fuck you like you’re a rival bruiser.”

Unfortunately, losing on purpose just wasn’t as fun as getting wrestled into submission. And this taste of Sable was barely worth it.

Chase liked the feeling of a footlong of frat boy cock stretching his throat. He liked gagging, liked how his body convulsed, liked the power of it, liked how studly it made him feel to endure. But he wasn’t horny. Sable didn’t talk enough. Not as much as…

Fuck.

He endured the brutal but wordless facefuck for another two or three minutes, his face and chest becoming a sopping white mess, and at last, Sable roared and slammed balls deep, shooting a geyser of cum directly into Chase’s stomach. Hot, creamy jizz flooded him pint by pint, filling his stomach to the brim and joining the mess of throat slop that he choked up with every convulsive gag. It waterfalled from his lips as it forced his stomach to swell, the pressure in his core building until he felt it against his abs. It was pure bliss when his abdomen stretched out around at least a gallon of Sable’s seed, pushing his gut out a couple of inches before the flow died down.

When Sable pulled out, Chase coughed up hot, smooth, soothing cum while the frat boy slapped his soft dick across Chase’s face. “Good job, spitsucker,” he said, and then waved Chase away.

Chase knelt there for a few moments, trying to process the overwhelming experience. Aftercare was not expected; this was a forfeit, after all, and he’d asked to be treated like an enemy. His throat felt gaped, like Sable’s dick was still inside, worse than the effect of the gag reflex enhancer. He had to admit that a man leaving him in that state of discomfort turned him on, even if it left him feeling raw, uncertain of what he should feel.

But when he hauled himself to his feet and turned around, Hunter was a few inches away, with his small smile and his sheer black crop top and a glass of warm cum.^[4] “Need something to wet your throat, Pup?” Hunter asked, just loud enough to carry the distance through the cacophony of the party. He laid a hand casually on Chase’s side, and that touch felt more real than anything he’d just gone through.

“I’m alright, thanks, Hunter,” Chase said, more demurely than usual, keeping close so he didn’t have to talk so loud. His voice was wet but a little hoarse. “Sable’s jizz will do the trick.”

Hunter’s hand moved from Chase’s side to his rounded cumgut. He swished the glass and said, “It’s got cinnamon. You can make room for more.”

“Nah,” Chase replied, wistfully. “I want the evidence for a little longer. Makes me feel used.”

“You could still use some aftercare,” Hunter said, before taking a swig of the glass himself. His free hand took Chase by the wrist and began pulling him, manoeuvring through the crowds in the great hall where most of the indoor games were set up. “Pillow room. I’m kissing you better.”

“I’m fine!” Chase said, laughing and following eagerly as his best friend pulled him along. “It was just a facefuck.”

“I know when you’re not fine, Chase,” Hunter said, in a deadpan drone. “You know you’re usually giddy after a bang like that, right?”

“Well—yeah, but—” Chase sighed, sagging. “Alright.”

The frat house was big, but SPIT somehow made it seem bigger with how many games and people they managed to cram inside. It took time and effort to make their way to the doors that opened to the frat library, which had been temporarily repurposed. Bookshelves still lined the walls, but all the frat’s coziest furniture had been relocated to this room and the floor was entirely covered in pillows.

Hunter unclipped a black marker from the many hanging tassels of his crop top and handed it to Chase. “Something mean, won’t you?”

“I know just the thing,” Chase said. He walked behind his friend and found an empty spot to write, narrating, “Break… the… condom… please.” As he moved the tip across Hunter’s skin, he felt a subtle, erotic pulling sensation in his fingers, hand, and forearm. His spirit strained through the pen until it touched Hunter’s own—and a link snapped into place between them.

Hunter swatted Chase’s wrist playfully, and the laugh they shared buoyed Chase’s spirits. He raised his hands in surrender, the link between them barely pulling on his fingers, but still subtly resisting. “Fuck you,” Hunter said.

“Fuck you too, Kitten. Now kiss me better.”

Hunter shoved Chase in the chest and he fell into the pillows with a laugh, gesturing with a hand for Hunter to join him. Hunter dropped to his knees, straddled Chase’s legs, and bent down to give a kiss just above the crotch with his thick, flush, red lips. The link between their spirits tensed where their flesh met, there was a pulse, and a phantom black mark appeared on Chase’s skin in the shape of Hunter’s lips, throbbing with warm, cozy bliss.

As Hunter kissed his way up Chase’s middle, he left a trail of pleasure and ‘lipstick’ behind. Hunter nipped at the marks he’d left, too, making the newly sensitive skin sing. Slowly, Chase relaxed into the pillows, breathing deep as Hunter’s lips trailed across his neck, then shoulder, then down his arm. Everywhere the marks appeared, the link pulled on his spirit until his skin felt taut and then relaxed in a flare of warm, pulsing bliss. There was little Chase loved more than a full-body worship session from his best friend. No one else made him feel that safe and secure.

No one except…

“I didn’t like it, Hunter,” Chase said, at last, staring up at the ceiling. Hunter knew not to stop kissing him. “I mean, I did, a facefuck is a facefuck. But it’s not the same anymore.” He sighed and reached down to rub Hunter’s black hair. “This place keeps pulling me back and forth. One moment I feel like I have everything I’ve been missing, the next I feel like I don’t belong at all. They’ve changed.”

“We’re not meant for this place,” Hunter said, after Chase trailed off, and the words struck home. “We’ve outgrown it, Chase. They want sluts again, and we’re… not quite sluts anymore. But,” Hunter continued, hesitantly, looking up at Chase with searching eyes, “I don’t know what we are.” He went back to kissing Chase, now on the collarbone. The lower marks were slowly fading into nothing, taking the pleasure with them.

There was another period of silence, punctuated by the moans and subtle slaps of flesh on flesh, during which Chase tried to distract himself with the marks all over Hunter’s skin. The crude dicks and degrading names made Hunter look like a ruined slut. Hunter wanted to ‘let loose’ coming here, relax and slut out in a way that was usually frowned upon where they lived.

But that wasn’t why Chase came here, was it? He’d been hiding it from himself, but over the last few hours, the fact had become inescapable.

The last few hours? How about the last few weeks? Months? He wanted Caspian. Badly. Caspian was right here, and Hunter didn’t want to even try to talk to the man they’d both loved more than anything. He couldn’t hold it back anymore.

“I think Caspian’s the only one who still wants the Beast Tamers.”

Hunter abruptly stopped suckling on his neck and leaned up to loom over him. The glare he gave bit Chase hard enough even without the hurt in Hunter’s eyes. “Does he, Chase? Is that so? He wanted to parade us around the world as his frat bottoms. Is that what you want? To be his slutty entourage? To be treated like—“ he gestured at Chase’s throat— “this everywhere?”

Chase cringed at Hunter’s words. “I don’t know! No, I don’t wanna be his frat bottom, but—can’t we work it out? Don’t you see how he looks at us? He’s pining, Hunter.” Chase kept talking even when Hunter opened his mouth, a pleading tone in response to Hunter’s pleading face. “We could work it out, we could—negotiate, I don’t know! I’ve been trying, Hunter, for you, to find a substitute. But, gods know, no one is like him.”

“If that’s how you feel,” Hunter said, weakly, “why don’t you—why don’t you just go find him?” He trembled, and then sprang up to his feet gracefully.

“Hunter, please,” Chase begged, as his best friend turned around. “Don’t make me choose—I can’t do that!” Hunter was walking away. “C’mon, Kitten! Don’t go!”

Hunter didn’t turn back. The link between them snapped, and it left Chase feeling raw, somehow… unreal.

Chase sat up and looked around, trying to distract himself from the fading pleasure in his neck. A couple shot him concerned, sympathetic glances, ready to offer comfort, but he shook his head, and they returned to their tryst.

For a while, Chase sat in the pillows, alone.

Chase and Hunter had been glued at the hip since they were juvies. They did almost everything together, and they’d never had problems with each other once, so it was very difficult for Hunter to forget about him, even for a moment. Even when he was balls deep in a party game. Every little thing…

Hunter was in a ring with a dozen other players, arms linked to entrap an opposing team trying to escape their grasp. The opposition crouched or crawled to get through their legs, which they used to block or shove their opponents into the middle of the circle.

Three men had made it out already, and they were helping their teammates in any way that was legal. Two reached into the circle to try and pull their friends out, applying extra force to help spread the captors’ legs. The third had worked his way into one captor’s ass and was now pounding away, distracting him and making it easier to get out of that sector. If Hunter was lucky, that would soon be him.

Instinctively, he looked to either side of him for Chase, ready to bet which one of them was more likely to get fucked. But Chase wasn’t there, and he felt a sudden weakness at the same time as his chest tightened in frustration. It was Chase’s fault that they were separated like this. He needed to focus on the game.

Suddenly there was a mouth on his dick. The captive’s long sunny curls hung over his face as he crawled on all fours, shoved into Hunter’s crotch by his team members, and Hunter found the inspiration to take full advantage of his dominant position. “You’re supposed to get under my dick, not suck it, slut, what are you doing?” he taunted, as he ground his balls and shaft into the captive’s face, humping it until he shot precum into those golden locks.

The captive caught him off guard when he suddenly dipped down and shoved his body through Hunter’s legs. “Fuck!” Hunter cursed, looking at his teammates with chagrin. He needed Chase to crack one of his jokes—

No. He couldn’t think about Chase. He didn’t need Chase. The one person he trusted to always support him had failed him. Hunter had to be his own man for once. “I should have known,” he said. “I’ve pulled that trick before.”

“It’s different when you’re on top,” said a red-haired teammate, reassuringly. At that moment, acting like he’d been shoved, a captive slammed his shoulder into the redhead’s arm, which separated from his neighbour’s at once. The captive ducked down, taking advantage of the opening to get through.

It would have been a clever ploy if it wasn’t so glaringly obvious. Three people yelled “Cheater!” at the same time, one of them a SPIT brother who was facilitating the game, and the offending player was grabbed and hauled bodily over to another Spittle… who was balls deep in the previous cheater’s ass, casually pounding away. With a new player to punish, the Spittle released the previous offender, forced the latest cheater to his knees, and shoved himself down the cheater’s throat.

It was almost hypocritical for frat brothers to punish cheaters, so it was rare that they made a big deal of it. But the double standard was obvious. Everyone knew frat boys cheated; it was sort of built into the fun. People came to a frat party to get fucked with by frat boys. Besides, the brothers tended to be tasteful about it. The real game was figuring out how to cheat as a partygoer without getting caught. The consequences for cheating could be… severe, and a facefuck was the least of it.

The captives took advantage of the momentary chaos to get a few more of theirs out, and it wasn’t long before they were all free and it was the captors’ turn in the middle. There was a quick distribution of rewards for the best assists and for the first captive out, as well as punishments for the last one out—but Hunter got special treatment for being “fooled too easily”.

“You should have stayed in your lane, Hunter,” said the leader, who Hunter recognised as DC, a lean, twunky Latino senior with bolts of lightning tattooed on his chest. The name was a reference to direct current, and Hunter remembered the whole frat showing up for his name-choosing ceremony and tattooing him after. Now DC was acting cocky as fuck.

“Punish me, then,” Hunter purred, a predatory look on his face to try and fuck with the younger frat brother.

“I’ll gladly put a Tamer in his place. On your knees,” DC^[5] said, as he put his hands on Hunter’s shoulders to force him down. “You should have held your ground.” The frat boy started grinding his dick into Hunter’s face, and to his shame, Hunter started licking DC’s cock as precum spilled over the length and smeared into his skin. The message was clear.

“See?” DC taunted. “Not everyone is a frat bottom. If it was you in that circle, this would have worked like a charm. You needed swagger, Hunter. Confidence. But you were an easy mark.”

It wasn’t like that, Hunter could have protested, but look at him now, slutting out. Maybe if Chase were here he’d have encouraged Hunter to talk back—no. Hunter had to do it himself. He glared up at DC. “DC, baby, weren’t you an easy mark for my ass when I was in SPIT? You were one of my most sycophantic seats, I think I recall.”

DC scowled back, but then he laughed good-naturedly. “I guess you’re right, huh? I’ll be getting that ass back tonight, don’t you worry. But right now it’s time for your punishment.”

The frat boy—and Seeder, Hunter recalled, with a little bit of nervousness—stepped back and raised his hands. “We’re gonna teach Hunter a quick lesson about cock worship, all of us! Everyone gets a turn cockslapping this former frat bottom on both cheeks. Feel free to fuck his mouth for a couple seconds while you’re at it, but don’t have too much fun. We got a game to keep playing.”

Every single player got to do it to Hunter, and every slap, every grin made him feel like a slut. They were jacking off watching him, making liberal use of his mouth, and… instead of talking back, instead of making them earn it, he started sucking on every cock that slid through his lips, encouraging them to keep thrusting until the SPIT bros got annoyed and forcibly pulled them out.

He told himself it was fine, it was only because he’d lost the game. Nobody back home would see him like this. And it felt good.

His cheeks and jaw were sore by the time the punishment was finished, but he smiled with the rest of them. No one came all over him—men had more stamina than that—but the slipperiness probably would have helped when he got back into the game.

To make up for it, Hunter was determined to get out early and help his team. He’d show fire by proving himself. Maybe he’d even fuck one of the players in the ring—topping wasn’t his preferred position, but he had a dick, and a hole was a hole. He pushed his way to the edge of his fellow captives, the ring around them rotating as he emerged, and strangely enough, both the captors in front of him were frat brothers, body paint and all. Ultimately, it didn’t matter; they were just obstacles. He bent down, aiming his head forward, and butted between their sides, struggling to push them apart enough to get out.

Suddenly, their arms separated. The resistance disappeared and Hunter stumbled through his captors, confused. He hadn’t been trying to separate their arms, that would be—

“Cheater!”

Hunter spun around in surprise, seeing shocked, confused looks on some of the other players’ faces. The loudest voices were the four frat boy facilitators, while everyone else said it uncertainly or not at all. He stared at the two frat boys whose arms had separated—their predatory grins told him in no uncertain terms that they had done this on purpose.

The players looked back and forth between Hunter and the frat boys, as if looking for guidance. Hunter tried to bring himself to protest, but the situation was slipping away from him in real time. He felt a wave of helplessness, not unlike the way he’d felt with Rex. He was just playing the game. He wasn’t supposed to be treated like a slut unless he’d earned it.

“What are you looking at?” asked DC, as he grabbed Hunter under the armpits and started hauling him backward. “Nothing to see here but a dirty cheater, right?”

Nothing to see here but a slut. That was all they saw, wasn’t it?

He clawed back the part of him from back him, the part of him that could still assert himself. “I didn’t cheat!” he finally blurted out, watching in the corner of his eye as the frat boy delivering punishments pulled out of the previous cheater’s mouth. Hunter was seconds away from taking that same dick.

“Yeah you did,” said the DC, as he shoved Hunter to his knees, rear facing the punisher. “You agreed to the rules already. You know what happens to cheaters. So are you going to get on all fours and obey?”

Hunter knew nobody was going to say what had really happened. Maybe if he were louder or bolder about it, he could demand they look at footage, or insist that he hadn’t cheated, get everyone else to admit it so that the frat boys would have no choice but to back off. But the way they treated him stole the wind out of him. They made him want to obey. They made him feel like a slut

As he folded onto all fours, he was struck with the painful reminder that if Chase were here, Hunter would be able to stand up for himself. Then the punisher’s fat cockhead teased his hole open and shoved those thoughts right out of Hunter’s brain.

Getting used like a toy wasn’t that bad a punishment, Hunter reflected, as his punisher bottomed out in a single, gut-wrenching stroke. Frat boys knew exactly how to hit a guy’s p-spots, at least when they were trying. Those instincts remained. But right now, Hunter was just a convenient hole—worse than his role as a frat bottom, pampered and praised and prostate-pummelled.

But this also wasn’t that important a game. Not everybody who cheated on a little game like this deserved the full punishment for cheaters. No, as usual in a frat party, there was an element of chance. Each new cheater replaced the last, each hoping that the punisher wouldn’t cum when it was their turn. The unlucky cheater in that position would be marked for true punishment.

Hunter was being fucked pretty hard, but it didn’t seem like his top was anywhere near orgasm yet. If this was how they were going to play it, well, he could get a little revenge on the partygoers by priming it for the next guy. Right now, all he needed to do was throw it back, flexing his hole to milk his punisher’s dick.

His top made a noise of surprise, but for the next minute and a half, he said nothing about what Hunter was doing to him, until: “Damn, are you trying to make this easier or something?”

“Just having some fun before my turn is over,” Hunter purred.

“If it ever ends,” said the frat boy, casually, sending a chill down Hunter’s spine.

Suddenly he was acutely aware of every throb of the dick in his stomach, and he found himself looking back at the game again and again. When would someone cheat?

“Aw, c’mon, you didn’t have to stop milking me, you’ll get replaced eventually! I was just joking, Hunter.”

“I’ll throw it back again when I see my replacement,” Hunter droned. “Get you extra eager to cum.”

But a replacement was not forthcoming. The time stretched on as Hunter endured the casual slamfuck, until the sound of ‘cheater!’ at last erupted from the circle… except not from the frat boys. Hunter made the mistake of throwing it back for a few more seconds while no one dragged the accused back to replace him, and then alarm set in when he realised the game was carrying on like nothing had happened.

“Shouldn’t I be replaced?” he asked, looking back at the frat boy holding him captive. “Someone cheated, right?”

“If they didn’t bring him here, he must not have done anything wrong,” the frat boy said, unable to hide the mischief in his look. “Guess you have to wait longer, huh? Your chances are dropping and dropping, Hunter. Maybe you shouldn’t have cheated.”

“I didn’t cheat!” Hunter cried, again. But that didn’t matter, did it? They would use any excuse they could find. The rules… didn’t matter. Only one thing mattered: he was a frat bottom. It struck him that there was no difference between the way they treated frat bottoms and the way they treated sluts. They believed they could do anything they wanted to him—anything at all. They believed he wanted it.

The worst part was that he kind of did. He was a hungry fucking bottom. Always had been.

But a part of him that had grown over the last several months didn’t want to just lay down and accept that. Hunter waited tensely for the next cheater to appear, his guts getting cored out the whole time. He didn’t have to wait long. Perhaps someone felt like testing the facilitators’ new indifference, because the cry of ‘Cheater!’ rang out quickly after the last and was once again ignored.

The punisher went faster, breathing heavily over Hunter as he pushed himself toward orgasm. Everyone understood what was happening. The frat boys were purposely sabotaging the integrity of their game in order to keep Hunter under their thumb. Gods, had they ever respected him? The longer this went on, the more order would fall apart. And he was trying, really trying to bring himself to get off this dick. But the motivation wasn’t coming fast enough. He was so used to Chase’s help.

Hunter finally sucked up his pride, activating his phone with a brush to his wrist and sendi mug Chase a text. The link between phone and mind made it easy, and he sent his alarm and urgency along with the message: “They rigged the game. I need help, pup, please.”

But it was already too late. And it shamed him to know that that was his fault, for not being strong enough to tell them no.

Another cry of ‘cheater’. The punisher put his hands on Hunter’s waist so he could thrust even harder, and Hunter’s heart began to race. They were throwing away every pretence. The punisher wasn’t supposed to chase his own pleasure, but here he was, moments away from blasting inside Hunter and earning him the most serious punishment a partygoer could get.

“Why don’t you just throw it back for me now? We both know what’s about to happen, Hunter. Might as well enjoy it.”

Might as well enjoy it.

One last time, Hunter wished Chase were here, and then he lost himself. He moaned out loud as he flexed his hole, throwing his hips back against the frat boy’s frantic thrusts, shutting his eyes in shame as he accepted the role they’d forced on him. Just for a little bit, he would be their frat bottom.

When he felt the geyser of cum shoot into his cored-out hole, all the tension and nerves flooded away. It was out of his hands now. He was going to be punished. Why not make the best of it?

He was full and sated with seed when he looked up to see two dozen pairs of eyes staring at him with every possible expression. “Is it time for my punishment, then?” he asked, wryly, before looking at the youngest faces in the little crowd, freshmen who might never have been to a frat party before this one. “Don’t worry, frosh. It doesn’t usually go down this way. But I’m a wanted man.” He smiled seductively, grinding his hips back into the softening dick of his punisher. “A very, very wanted man.”

“And a cheater,” declared DC. “Cheaters get punished, and one of our favourite ways to punish in SPIT is womb tattoos.”

Murmurs from the freshmen. The others looked on intently, even if they probably knew what they were about to see. The two frat boys who had made Hunter ‘cheat’ knelt in front of him on either side, opening up ornate wooden cases full of brushes and pots of henna. His punisher pulled out, gripped Hunter’s sides firmly, and pulled him up onto his knees to expose his bare midsection.

The hands remained on his chest, a tight grip. Did they think he was going to escape? Hunter had come here wanting a womb tattoo. He’d left the front tassels of his crop top extra short to expose enough space. But it wasn’t about what he wanted, not anymore. He didn’t even get to choose his tattoo. He sagged under the sudden weight of helplessness.

But then—why would they be holding him down, why would they rig the game like this, if they didn’t think he had some fire in him? He held onto that fire. He would need it to survive whatever damage they did to his spirit with this tattoo, to remain a Beast Tamer.

“Don’t worry, it’s not permanent,” said DC, “but we use henna to make sure the reminder will last. Don’t cross a frat brother, boys.” Brushes dipped in pots and the two kneeling brothers began to quickly, expertly apply the design. The bristles were soft against Hunter’s bare skin, the pigment cold and crisp, and the pressure… it found its way deeper than skin, to his other body, leaving shallow phantom furrows, lines painted into his spirit.

The lines throbbed with warm, subtle bliss, and gradually, they began to deepen. The henna, mixed with sexual fluids like cum or spit, was a strong spiritual conduit, and it guided the energy of his other body to flow through the furrows, carving them deeper into his core. If this was a real tattoo, his spirit would be permanently changed. But the knots this left could take weeks to untangle.

Every stroke tied him tighter, building a tension in his gut, and tingling sparks flew from his increasingly knotted core, like the tension was trying to release but couldn’t. He moaned raggedly, but the punisher’s firm grip kept him from shaking and ruining the piece. He just had to endure until the tattoo was finished.

The intricate, symmetrical design was empty in the centre. Around it, some of the strokes tapered to a point, and some of those curled around handcuffs whose other ends dangled in the empty centre, waiting for… something. Other strokes cut off abruptly at the edge of the tattoo, finishing in wide, hard edges. Hunter was starting to think he’d seen this one before.

“This little doozy is known as the Callsign. But we in SPIT like to call it the Pet Name.”

Hunter felt a cold thrill. He recognised that class of tattoos and he’d seen its effects, but he’d never tried it for himself. It would take what little fire he had and quench it.

“There’ll be a name in the middle. The tattoo’s sole purpose is to make Hunter live for his Pet Name.”

He’d come back to SPIT so he could slut out without judgement. He’d quickly discovered he didn’t want that. And now, because of this tattoo, he was going to want it whether he liked it or not. The hard edges of the tattoo pulled his spirit taut, straining everything inside him, but he was sure that when those handcuffs clicked shut around his new name, all that tension would release. It felt like the verge of orgasm.

“If he identifies with his Pet Name, uses it like his own, he’ll feel real good. But if someone calls him the name, and he doesn’t stop and listen, the tattoo will cuff him down until he hears what they have to say.”

Hunter reflected with grim amusement that he already had a pet name, one that worked just like that. Chase and Caspian had given it to him. Just thinking about the way Chase said ‘Panther’ made him feel an instinctive swell of bravery.

Suddenly Hunter realised that Chase might save him after all.

“And the name will be…” DC waved the two frat boys away and knelt down in front of Hunter with the brush. He grinned knowingly at Hunter as he drew the letters, one stroke at a time. At the last stroke, the tension reached a fever pitch, just waiting for Hunter to hear the name for the first time. But Hunter clung onto ‘Panther’, repeating it in his head as DC pulled away to reveal his handiwork and said: “Lickspit.”

The handcuffs clicked around the word carved into Hunter’s flesh. All the knots in Hunter’s spirit loosened at once as the coiled up energy in his core blasted through Hunter’s new spiritual conduits, a churning, roiling release that set his whole body to shaking. The energy exited the womb tattoo at the wide end of each stroke, spraying through his body like so many little sparks until he tingled from head to toe in cracking bliss.

They all drew away from him, leaving Hunter to shake. He planted his fists into the ground so he didn’t fall, giving a long, broken moan. He was a panther. He had to be. But gods, he needed to lick some goddamn spit.

“Hi, Lickspit,” said DC, a wicked grin on his face. A knot tightened in Hunter’s core, but somehow he knew that when he looked up at the man using his pet name—not his pet name, just a Callsign—the knot would release. And it did.

“Hunter here has always been a good lickspit. Not only does he fucking love getting spat on—“ all at once, DC and the other three frat boys spat, three warm loogies landing on his face and the fourth on the back of his neck— “but he takes everything his frat brothers spit on him and laps it up. Isn’t that right? Can you show us why you’re such a good lickspit?”

There were new sensitivities in his spirit, a pulsing warmth where the spit touched his skin. The way it clung to him felt so right. He had to know what it was like, just for a moment. He brought up his palm—and then he couldn’t help himself, smearing the spit all over his face, and the way his spirit swelled against his hand felt like his cock swelling in arousal. He dragged the spit over his tongue and moaned again; it had the taste of cum and a similar consistency, but it was more satisfying than his favourite comfort food.

“He’s taking to his Pet Name so well already, isn’t he?” DC said, to all the wide-eyed watchers. “Better than ‘tiger’ or whatever it is you use, right?” he asked, and then he casually smacked Hunter on the cheek.

“Panther,” Hunter said, quietly. The words energised him, and he abruptly stood up and repeated the words in a growl: “My ‘pet name’ is Panther, DC.” He grabbed DC by the dick, squeezing it firmly, tugging DC closer. “You remember what that means, don’t you?”

Uncertainty flashed in DC’s face, but he immediately recovered and steadied himself. “It doesn’t matter anymore, Lickspit. You have a new name. All of SPIT’s gonna use it. Every frat boy in SPIT will know that you live to lap up every treat we give you.”

“And if I do,” Hunter said, stroking DC’s cock, applying just the right amount of pressure. Hundreds of SPIT gangbangs had honed that skill to perfection. DC couldn’t help his moan. “If I do, then you’ll learn just how hungry I am. Of course,” he purred, as his fingers teased DC’s frenulum, “you remember that well.”

DC tore himself from Hunter’s grasp, his dick jutting out from his crotch, pulsing madly and shooting precum all over the floor in front of him. Everybody saw it. “You don’t feel like accepting your name yet, Lickspit? Fine. You’re expelled from the game, Lickspit. Walk around, see what happens, Lickspit. You’ll learn that’s all you are.”

Every time DC used that word, Hunter had to fight his feeling of satisfaction, the feeling that it was right. Every time was a little harder than the last. The knot in his core tightened and tightened. He wouldn’t be able to resist forever. But he’d damn well try.

“Whatever you say, DC,” Hunter said, with a sycophantic smile, and then he turned and began to walk away. He was a panther, he told himself. A predator. All on his own, now, no need for Caspian, no need for… Chase.

“We own you, Lickspit!” yelled one of the frat boys who’d drawn his tattoo. The handcuffs suddenly pulled tight, and Hunter’s body locked up. Hunter had no one to call him ‘panther’, no one to pull him back from the brink. But he could try. Without Chase, he had to try.

He cast his head back, enough for the tattoo to relax and let him keep walking. But before he left, he gave the frat boy a cruel, promising smile and said, “I know.”

They didn’t call him again.