Frat boys were cheaters, and that was half the fun.

Two teams of partygoers played a riotous game of tug of war while Caspian watched, waiting for the perfect moment to mess with one player in particular. The game took place in the wide, grassy backyard, a few yards away from the pool, on two sturdy raised platforms with a water tank in the middle for the losing team to fall into. Inside the tank was a naiad, waiting to punish one of the losers with a load so spiritually overwhelming it would knock his poor victim out.

Caspian had taken the game over from another frat boy, who was on the other of the two platforms, appraising ‘his’ team. They both walked back and forth, casually groping the players to distract them, preventing either team from getting an early advantage. This was particularly relevant because one team already had one massive advantage:

Chase, Caspian’s old flame.

Caspian hadn’t touched the muscular, heavyset black man at all so far. He’d gotten close, he’d made eye contact, but he was trying to get Chase craving him all over again. After all, he was pretty sure Chase had joined this game for Caspian and no one else. But not messing with the strongest guy on either team had the unfortunate side effect of disadvantaging the opposition. The other frat boy had already had to hug the back member of his team and add his own weight to the war just to keep it even.

That was about to change.

“Why are you helping them?” cried someone on Chase’s team. “We were about to win!”

“No thanks to you!” called the frat brother. “If Caspian were fucking with Chase, I wouldn’t have to do this!”

“Fine, fine!” Caspian groaned, in his lilted Irish accent, prowling toward the back of the line where Chase^[2] was. “I was biding my time, keeping him on his toes.” He slid behind Chase, wrapping his arm around Chase’s neck and squeezing until the bottom stud choked audibly. It was more than he’d usually do to mess with someone, more than was really kosher, but Caspian had ulterior motives.

“The fuck—you think you’re doing?” Chase asked, his voice strangled by Caspian’s arm even as he tried to sound cocky and confident. He was already writhing in Caspian’s grip, throwing his body one way or another to try and wrench out of the hold.

“Playing my own game,” Caspian purred, into Chase’s ear. “And you’re my prize.” If Chase’s team lost, one member of the team would be singled out for a more intense punishment than the rest—other than the one who the naiad captured. No one wanted to be that guy.

Caspian^[3] slid his other arm around Chase’s chubby gut and pulled him into a tight embrace, chest flush with upper back. His dick stood straight and tall, pressed into Chase’s ass and lower back. Chase’s spirit pressed back into the touch, swelling through the green dragonscales painted all over his body, and where it sunk into Caspian’s arm and chest, a blissful, soothing warmth flared to life, encouraging Caspian to relax. But he didn’t let go. Chase liked a fight, and Caspian knew it.

“Think I’m just gonna—lay back and take that?” Chase asked, still choking, still working with his teammates to stay afloat. He swung his body hard to one side, his sheer strength almost breaking Caspian’s grip—but not quite. Caspian started to laugh, and then Chase lifted a leg and shoved it backward against Caspian’s thigh as he swung the other way, putting everything he had into the move.

Caspian stumbled back, freeing Chase, but the damage was done. The whole team had swayed to the side, and with only one foot on the ground for a moment, Chase had lost traction and they’d slid forward again, losing most of their gains.

The team protested loudly and Chase himself turned to glare daggers at his assailant. “I’m not your bitch, dude. You think you can take me down, you got another thing coming.”

Caspian returned the glare with a charming grin. “You’re not my bitch yet.”

Chase’s expression twitched into something almost like a smile. “Careful what you wish for, frat boy. Might make you my bitch instead.” And then he turned away to focus on his team again.

Caspian… had no idea what to make of that, but it seemed like a good sign. It reminded him of the way Chase had acted when he was a frat bruiser, all those years ago—playing up the bravado, even though in the end, all he wanted to do was lose. So be it. Caspian would give him a good fight.

On Caspian’s next pass at Chase, he grabbed at one of Chase’s arms. While Chase tried to keep a death grip on the rope, Caspian pulled and pulled, trying to yank it right off and weaken his hold. With Chase’s superior strength, it seemed impossible, but with every yank he made the bigger man sway again, and all Chase’s crewmembers with him.

“How hard do I have to throw you to get you to stop?” Chase grunted, as he fought Caspian’s fingers clawing at his grip on the ropes.

“I’m never gonna stop, Chase. Not when you’re the prize if I win. If I can’t have you back—“ Caspian heaved, and at last Chase’s hand came off the rope. Again, Chase slipped forward, the whole train of men sliding with a chorus of protests, but Chase thrust his assailant’s arm away, grabbed the rope again, and forced his team backward step by excruciating step. “—I’ll take you while I’m here. Fight all you want, you’re losing this battle.”

Caspian saw it—a little grin, finally flashing across Chase’s face—and he knew he’d worked his magic. Chase was his, at least for the moment. All Caspian had to do was end this fight. Easier said than done.

If pulling on his arms couldn’t do it, if choking him while trying to fully swing the man one way another couldn’t do it, then he’d just have to throw his whole body into it. He stepped back, as far as he could on the raised platform, and charged forward while Chase looked on in alarm. He shoved his smaller body into Chase’s, the momentum of the collision making Chase jolt to the side—but he didn’t lose his footing.

“Fuck!” Chase cursed, still trying to tug his team backwards. It seemed that only when he was fully helping could they make progress, even with the other frat boy messing more aggressively with his team. In a certain sense, they already deserved to lose. “Work with me here, guys!” Chase called, as Caspian loaded up for another shove, but this time, Chase prepared by thrusting himself in Caspian’s direction. They collided, and Caspian bounced back like his shove had done nothing.

“You’re good,” Caspian panted, awe in his voice. “Always were. But you know I’m better.”

Caspian wound up for another charge, willing himself to hit harder. He had the advantage of momentum, Chase had a rope to hold onto, and Caspian wanted Chase all to himself. That had to count for something, and as he charged, the spirits agreed, phantom handprints flaring to life in the bodypaint his brothers had given him, his Bruiser’s Blessing.

When Caspian bowled into Chase, he shoved the hulking stud with his arms, disrupting Chase’s balance. Caspian pressed the attack, wrapping his arms around Chase’s upper body and keeping him off balance. They struggled against each other, Chase to get his feet firmly on the ground, Caspian to topple Chase over completely.

They were a teetering tangle of limbs, and Chase’s team was already slipping without their biggest asset planting his feet. “I’m taking you the fuck down, Chase,” Caspian said, with his trademark cheery intensity. “You can feel it. You’re about to lose. Just hit the ground for me, Pup.”

Chase let out a mix of a bark and a growl and made one last-ditch effort to shove Caspian away. Caspian leaned into it, holding onto Chase but teetering backwards from the shove. He hopped off his feet, swung his legs around Chase’s front, and let gravity finish the job, grinning at Chase’s wide-eyed shock.

Chase fell on top of him, crushing Caspian’s back into the elevated platform hard enough to daze him, and they stared at each other face to face. Caspian was ready to let go and squirm away, but Chase had other plans. “You’re coming with me,” growled the former frat bottom, letting go of the rope with one hand and wrapping his arm around Caspian’s neck with the other. Chase’s legs struggled to wrap around Caspian’s too, and wherever that dragonscale bodypaint pressed into Caspian, it made his skin throb with pleasure.

But falling into the water meant risking a naiad’s wrath. Caspian was not letting Chase win by proxy. He fought the attempt to tangle up his legs and leveraged his elbows against the platform so he could shove Chase’s one free arm away from his neck. The sound of a splash rose behind them, and Chase growled again, but the grin on his face matched Caspian’s.

“Don’t worry, Chase,” Caspian purred. “I’ll make sure to pull you out before he gets you. You’re mine, after all.” And then, as the second splash sounded, Caspian thrust Chase bodily off of him and sent him tumbling into the makeshift pool to join the rest of his team.

Caspian saved Chase from the naiad, as promised, pulling him out before anyone else escaped, but once they did, they rounded on him, complaining about how it wasn’t fair, why did he target Chase so hard, they should get a rematch with no cheating. All the while, Caspian looked at them with a self-satisfied grin, his arm squeezed tight around Chase’s neck as he humped his prize’s ass, warm precum streaming down his cock and between Chase’s fat, fuckable cheeks.

When they were done, he offered that they had been relying on Chase to win, that without him they were easily pulled into the drink, that he was simply taking out their advantage and if they really wanted to play again they should find someone smaller to replace Chase—and, of course, the poor loser who was being fucked to unconsciousness under the water. He acquiesced in one thing—their only forfeit would be to take the weakest shots they had.

“Chase, however,” Caspian growled, half into Chase’s ear, “he’s going to regret losing to me. One of you boys—” he was speaking to the other facilitators— “bring me one of the cock rings, the red one.”

“Wait, not that one,” Chase pleaded, starting to squirm, as Caspian received the engraved metal band. Chase’s cock was pretty goddamn thick, but when Caspian touched the ring up to the head, it shone and stretched out to fit. He slid it down Chase’s raging hard-on until it tightened around the base, and Chase growled a loud “Fuck!”

“Chase here has been without my cock for a long, long time,” Caspian purred, taking in the apprehensive looks of Chase’s teammates. “Haven’t you been, Chase? Tonight, I’m gonna give it to you. I’m gonna give you the best damn fuck you’ve had in months. I know every one of his sweet spots, boys, in and out. I’m gonna make him cum until he has nothing left—oh, wait.” He tapped the cockring with his finger. “He can’t cum.”

Chase groaned, and all his teammates looked on in pity as Caspian leaned back and pressed his cockhead against Chase’s hole. Chase turned to look at him, and Caspian momentarily found himself lost in wonder at Chase’s eyes, his face, his sculpted back, his fuckable rear. Gods, he’d missed this man. As he eased forward, pulling Chase back by the hips and slowly spreading that tight, precum-soaked hole, he murmured into Chase’s ear, “I’ll make you crave me, Pup.”

“I already do,” Chase whispered back, with a weak look on his face. And then he looked away.

Caspian told himself he’d earned the right to fuck Chase, not simply because he beat Chase in a fight, but because that’s what Chase had wanted. Anything to distract himself from that look. He surrendered to it in one way: “Bring me a condom,” he said, pulling his head out from Chase’s hole with a pop, and he watched it slowly close while he took the condom and began to roll it over his dick.

Caspian’s Seeder precum was a dangerous thing. The more of it a man took, the more he’d crave an actual Seeder load—and that could mean getting knocked up, depending on which hole. Caspian couldn’t do that to Chase, especially not with the hunt going on. Oh, he wanted to, he wanted to be part of this hunt, because he knew he’d win in an instant. He could make them both his.

But the way Chase looked at him… Caspian finally got the point. Chase still wanted him, had always wanted him. Maybe Hunter had, too. But for reasons he didn’t fully understand, they couldn’t be with him. If Caspian knew how to ask for those reasons, he would have, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Maybe, if he fucked Chase well enough, Chase would understand that Caspian could give him everything he wanted. Maybe then they’d take him back.

“You deserve this,” Caspian growled, as he shoved his cockhead up against Chase’s hole again and forced his way in. Chase threw his head back and groaned out loud, and Caspian continued, “You lost, not just to anyone, but to me.” In thrust after gut-wrenching thrust, Caspian drove his dick deeper into Chase’s hole, but every stroke was precise, angled so that his cockhead pressed up against one of the squishy bulbs that represented another of Chase’s p-spots.

“They don’t understand what you want.” Gods, Chase’s hole was like a glove, fighting his hole-gaping girth like it was an enemy, then gripping so velvety tight around it when Caspian broke through its resistance. “They can’t break you and your hole like I do.” Caspian’s hips slapped against Chase’s ass, the head of his dick pushing out Chase’s stomach from within, making a small, rounded bump. He moved one of his hands up from Chase’s hips to that neck, pulling Chase back as Chase choked under Caspian’s palm.

“They think you’re just another frat bottom, that a dick-down is all you want.” Caspian hauled his hips back, moaning involuntarily as that desperately tight hole milked his throbbing dick. “They think it’s just foreplay, they think you wanted to lose. They don’t get it,” Caspian growled, as he slammed back inside of Chase, angling to steamroll three, four p-spots along the way and make the frat bottom howl. “They can’t make you feel like you’ve lost.”

Caspian hauled Chase around to face the outside wall of the frat house, and then he mashed Chase’s cheek up against it with one hand. “You’re gonna take this dick as long as I want you to, slut.” His next thrust hit like a hammer blow, two seconds of heavy windup before he pummelled Chase’s hole open and smashed him into the wall again. “You’re gonna beg me to let you cum, but fleshlights don’t cum, do they?”

And yet he wasn’t going to treat Chase as a fleshlight at all. When he wound up for his next thrust, he revelled in the memory of this hole, its shape, where it squeezed him tightest, where every single p-spot was. And his aim was perfect, his only goal to smash those pleasure bulbs so flat they wouldn’t recover for hours.

The world fell away as he turned his full attention to Chase’s hole. The other frat boy got back in charge, he was pretty sure, but it was an afterthought compared to the tunnel he was carving out with every crushfucking thrust. His rhythm was steady and powerful, extended wind-ups leading into brutal instrokes. He made Chase cry out every time his hips struck those full, rippling cheeks, until Chase’s voice was hoarse and Caspian had to spit in his mouth to wet his throat again.

Throughout it all, Chase was raging hard, his cock throbbing and straining upwards. Caspian watched his balls clench over and over, trying to deliver an orgasm that would never come. Chase lasted admirably long before he finally started to beg.

“Ffffuck, I can’t take it!” Chase finally wailed, as another orgasm rose to the surface and met the impassable resistance of his cock ring. “It feels so fucking good—Peen, please, I wanna bust every time you thrust! My balls are fucking desperate, man,” he choked out, as he stared at Caspian with a wide, pleading expression. “Gods, I gotta—I gotta—hnnnnng!”

Chase’s puppy-dog eyes were met with Caspian’s wicked grin. “You know my stamina,” Caspian growled. “You know how long I can go. You think I’m gonna let you go just like that? You’ve been denying me for six months. Can’t you handle a little bit of edging?” All the while, he kept thrusting, punctuating his words with gut-wrenching, prostate-bruising slams.

“It’s not a fucking little bit, Peen! You know all my spots,” he sobbed, as Caspian sunk inside him again and hit all those spots like a pinball machine. “You can make me cum better than anyone, you know that, you know what you’re doing to me—fuck!”

“Fuck yes I do. I’m giving you the time of your life.” He knew he shouldn’t say it, but— “I’m making sure you come back.”

The look of guilt on Chase’s face made Caspian feel guilty, too, and he quickly clarified, “Just come back for my dick once before you leave for home again. At least once,” he said, softly. “I miss you.”

Chase stared at him a moment longer, and then looked away, pressing his forehead against the wall and moaning, “Fuck, I need to cum so bad…”

That wasn’t an answer, but… Caspian knew he wasn’t going to get one. So he just enjoyed Chase’s hole as long as he could, even if it was his last time.

As he watched the obstacle course from the bleachers, Chase cheered louder for Hunter than anyone else—not least because he hadn’t spoken to Hunter in the last forty-five minutes.

Hunter had cried for his help—a rigged game, he’d said over text—but Chase had received it while Caspian was ass-fucking him to desperation, and he hadn’t checked his phone until after, while he was trying to come down from his overwhelming orgasm denial. Caspian had offered aftercare, but Chase had refused. Caspian had gone too far, he’d said, before he’d walked away. But, he couldn’t stop thinking about his old flame even when he had left.

His fixation on Caspian was, more than anything, the reason he didn’t text Hunter back. He felt… guilty that he’d abandoned Hunter for Caspian. But he couldn’t get Caspian or that invitation out of his head. Caspian wanted to make him cum. But Chase had to come to him again.

The reason he was here now was because he was scheduled to race after Hunter. It was as good an excuse as any to get close to his best friend, but not too close. Racers had their own bleacher close to the entry point, and he chatted loudly with his future competitors as they all jacked off to the display.

The obstacle course was a celebration of naked athleticism. Competitors were shown off to the crowd as they squeezed through tight spaces, swung their bodies, and used their strength and physical stamina. Hunter^[4] was on the last obstacle, a realistically painted mannequin mounted on a track. He had to push it to the end of the track while it resisted him with slowly increasing strength, but if he groped it right the resistance would weaken and it would be easier to push.

“Look at Hunter’s technique!” called the announcer, a Latino twunk with corn rows. He stood in a raised, railed box near the finish line next to the facilitator, Rex, a buff, broad-shouldered blond^[5] with kohl around his eyes to see and talk with spirits. “He knows exactly how to caress that thing! That’s what we expect from a good frat bottom, though—just like us bruisers, they’re the best at sex, huh? Look at him squeeze that pec—don’t you want to be in that mannequin’s place too?”

Hunter was making quick progress compared to his other competitors, some of whom hadn’t even made it to this obstacle yet. But as he pushed, he occasionally jerked, moaned, or faltered, for no apparent reason.

Another racer turned to Chase and said, “I can’t believe they let the spirits fuck with us this year. I know they can’t physically push us around, but look at the way Hunter’s twitching. How are we supposed to hold onto the monkey bars? Or the climbing wall?”

“You just gotta push, man,” Chase replied, with a grin. “I’ve handled them enough times living in SPIT, trust me. If you want them to leave, just hold onto that feeling and they’ll retreat.” He paused. “… For a while, at least. As long as you hold on. You just can’t let the lust get to you!” Chase knew that fight well. He’d have been a frat bruiser if he didn’t go frat bottom. He liked to fight, liked to show he could be dominant, even if he preferred to lose and submit in the end. This obstacle course was his way to remind SPIT about that fact, that he was a stud, an athlete par excellence.

Hunter, Chase knew, felt similarly, and he clearly had his head in the game. When one contestant’s body went limp and his mannequin pushed him all the way back to the start, the crowd went wild as Hunter took the sure lead. He doggedly shoved his way forward, muscles flexing and arm moving in a familiar back-and-forth pattern as he jerked the mannequin off with long-practised skill, eyes on the prize.

The crowd didn’t stop roaring until long after Hunter made it to the finish line, and Chase whooped with the rest of them. Hunter had his arms raised by both Rex and the announcer; he gave Rex a knowing look and then knelt down to suck his dick, pausing only while they handed out the prizes and punishments.

Chase and his to-be competitors headed down to get ready for the game. He was already naked except for sneakers, wearing forest green dragonscale body paint instead of clothing, but others had to strip down and leave their clothes with a facilitator.

“Aight, contestants, it’s time for the next round!” called the announcer, as another frat boy shuffled into the raised box—Hawk? “Remember the rules: stay in your lane, don’t mess with other racers, don’t skip obstacles, and show off!”

“And to you spirits,” called the hulking blond, in his Jersey accent, ”one spirit per person at any time, no penetration unless he gives in, no cumming inside.”

Chase was grateful for that last one. It was dangerous to let a spirit cum inside you—the consequences ranged from loss of bodily control to immobility to passing out completely. With the Egyptian-style kohl on his face, the facilitator could talk to the spirits and try and rein them in, especially as a living representative of the frat they were connected to. But then Chase noticed Hawk was also wearing that eyeliner, and he was mouthing quietly to no one in particular. If he was setting up some trick for Chase on the game Chase cared most about…

Before he could worry any further about what Hawk^[6] was doing, it was game on. Shrugging it off and focusing on the course ahead of him, he scanned the first obstacle. Each racer had his own ‘track’: two sets of rods that formed a narrow pathway through which they’d have to sideways-shimmy. To make it fairer for those with thicker, bulkier bodies like Chase, the rods were elastic, and everyone would have to stretch the rods in order to squeeze their bodies through.

The point of the obstacle—like all the obstacles, really—was to show off. Chase charged for his track, turned to the side, and started to squeeze his body through the first two rods, which felt a little cold, though not jarringly so. His forearm slipped through the most easily, his bicep needed some effort, and then it was an exercise in stretching the bars with his hands and body to get his face, his thighs, his huge pecs, and his strong, fluffy gut through.

His arms flexed as he pushed himself through one set of rods after another, the elastic material hugging his body in ways that felt as good as he was sure they looked. Getting his dick through was a delicate process, especially when he was hard as hell, but hanging his third leg low between his thighs helped ease the process.

“Aaaand here they come! The spirits are coming for our contestants. You won’t see them, but you might see some of their effects…”

Without being immersed in the spirit world, the only way to tell the phantom frat boys were there was through faint impressions of laughter, or swagger, or whatever emotion they gave off strongest. The only way, that is, until they started touching. An invisible hand felt up his bicep, not as defined as a real hand, but the pressure of it reached something under his skin—his other body, in which faint, ghosting pleasure flared to life when the spirit squeezed.

When Chase moved, the spirit came with him, but it had no real weight. It just clung to his soulstuff, kneading subtly, tensing up his spirit and then relaxing it. But he knew, even as the second hand landed on his side, that this was only the beginning.

While he tried to wrench open another pair of rods around his first thigh and pec, the ghostly hand squeezed one of his biceps extra tight. The bright flare of bliss came with a feeling of deep strain, and it was all so abrupt and intense that his efforts against one bar suddenly failed. The bar tried to straighten out again, pinning down his bulky muscle, and he cried out in pleasure and strain all at once.

“Looks like Chase is feeling it! He’s an old hat like his friend Hunter, though—look at him hone in!”

Chase was determined to get a lead on his competitors, so he adjusted himself to the waves of tense bliss in his bicep and forced the bar back open with a deep grunt. The spirit’s hands roamed across his body, digging its fingers into him, eliciting sparkling flares in his back, his shoulders, his pecs, and soon his ass. Despite his best efforts to stay focused, the squeezing in his ass distracted him enough for him to get pinned almost right down the middle of his body, his dick forced back between his thighs and his head pushed to the side, to the roars of the crowd.

This was going to be his hardest test yet. It was one thing to prove he was an athlete, but with every spiritual squeeze, he felt the subtle, quiet call to submit to the spirit, to let it have its way with him. It was the same urge he always lost to with his frat brothers. He liked to lose to it. But he knew that was what they expected of him, what they wanted him to do, to prove he was just another frat bottom. He couldn’t let that happen. It just wasn’t going to be easy.

But the other competitors fared no better. Chase was the second one out, a moment after the lead, and the rest were a few rungs behind. He could do this. But first, maybe he could get rid of this spirit for a little bit.

Twisting his body and crouching, Chase wound himself up and then released, spinning a full circle to try and fling the spirit off him. His physical movement didn’t really matter to the spirit, but it was the intent behind it, to break off the connection and reject the spirit’s advances. At that moment, all the feelings vanished.

“Looks like Chase knows how to wrangle some spirits! Just kidding, here it comes again! … I’m sorry?” asked the announcer, more quietly, as the facilitator said something to him, a panicked look on his face.

Chase was only paying the barest attention to the frat boys. He took a couple of triumphant steps forward, ready to jump into the next obstacle, when he was suddenly attacked by two spirits at once.

Four invisible hands groped at his soulstuff, clinging to him, hungrily massaging sexual tension into his body. He could feel the imprint of their bodies, wrapping around him as if they were trying to crush him, practically grinding on him. They were doing everything in their power to make him submit, and to his frustration, their efforts were already wearing him down.

He kept staggering forward, looking up at the facilitator, who was staring at Chase wide-eyed, frantically mouthing words, presumably trying to call the spirits off. Putting his faith in the facilitator, Chase surged forward. He couldn’t waste his chance in this race. He had to prove himself, one last time.

“It—it seems Chase is being attacked by not one, but two spirits at once! The facilitator is considering calling it off—”

Chase shook his head violently, giving a dismissive handwave—he was going to win this, spirits or not. He didn’t care. If this was what Hawk wanted to do to him, there was no stopping it, only fighting. And Chase loved a fight.

“Looks like Chase is ready to rumble! We’ll be watching closely…”

Chase tuned him out again and stepped up the stairs to the monkey bars, which were suspended over large, soft cushioning in case he fell. As he climbed, he shook his body again, and the spiritual pressure decreased significantly—but not completely. Bad sign. Did the spirits want him more or was he losing resolve?

Chase launched himself toward the first monkey bar and gripped it. He could deal with this. He imagined a field of force around his body, pushing the spirits away, and the pressure did not increase, but he could feel it in his periphery, waiting for his focus to slip. He swung to the next bar with one hand, a fairly wide gap, and he nearly lost focus on his force field as he scrambled to get his second hand on the bar. The next bar required some elevation, and the effort to push himself up by the arms and catch his legs on the bars behind him broke his focus completely.

Suddenly there were six hands, and it was only his position lying on top of the bars that prevented him from falling as random bursts of pleasure erupted throughout all his muscles, in his ass, in his dick. He looked around at the crowd from his high vantage point, knowing that he was supposed to be showing off, but he could barely concentrate on making it through the bars. He just wanted to let go, let them have their way with him, light every part of his body up in bliss, be these phantom frat boys’ plaything.

To the crowd, his struggle was invisible, his cock leaking for no reason at all, but they would understand from the way he randomly jerked and moaned. But the announcer was chattering on. They probably knew what was happening to him in excruciating detail.

He had to keep going. As he hauled himself up toward the elevated bar and latched onto it, he imagined the motion like he was launching himself upward and the spirits downward, and he reasserted his mental shield as he swung from bar to bar. A spirit broke through for a moment and groped the arm that was reaching for the next bar—and suddenly he was hanging on to one bar by one hand, his heavy body pulling him down toward the earth.

“Can he make it with three spirits clawing for his attention?”

Gods, he was just a few bars away. He strained to grab back onto the bar, his hands sweaty, his grip tenuous, and his shield once again failing. This time, the situation changed. The grabbing hands were less intent, and there was a new kind of pressure, an all too familiar one. It felt like… dicks. Three of them, one of them pressing up against his hole between his cheeks, the other two in stranger places, one against his left pec and the other on one of his love handles.

They were trying to penetrate his spirit, all three of them. They wanted to burst through the surface of his other body, to force themselves in and make space in soulstuff that had no room for them. The pressure felt like tension on the very edge of the pleasure—it would get more and more intense until they broke through, and then it would be a bliss that was impossible to resist. They would ruin him. It would feel so good.

With intense force of will, he imagined that the dragon scales painted on his skin were spreading, closing over his spirit, refusing to let them in, but the pressure did not abate. He couldn’t lose focus. He just had to keep going. Every time he swung, he imagined trying to fling the spirits off him, and as he landed on the ground at the end of the obstacle he gave it the hardest mental push he could.

They were on him a second later. Growling desperately, he charged for the next obstacle, a climbing wall painted by the frats’ own in a mess of tangled, naked bodies. Climbing grips the colour of various skin tones were attached to asses, pecs, and even dicks of the same shades. Just like with the monkey bars, the bottom of the wall was cushioned in case he fell. At this rate, he was worried he might.

Moving forward was better than stopping and letting the spirits take him. He grabbed hold of the first two grips, squeezing and flexing his biceps, imagining that his whole body pulsed in that moment to drive the spirits away. It barely worked. Before he began to climb, he glanced over at the box where the facilitator watched, open-mouthed and lost, unable to regain control of the situation. Behind him, Hawk, in the same eyeliner, staring at Chase and mouthing words that nobody saw, because no one was paying attention to him.

It was Hawk’s fault. Hawk always complained about how Chase behaved as a frat bottom. He wanted someone who would just submit. And Chase liked to lose, but he wasn’t a goddamn pushover. Losing like this would be humiliating. Letting these spirits penetrate him on Hawk’s behalf was out of the question. So why did he want it so bad?

He began to climb, but he had to split his focus between gripping the handholds and resisting the spirits’ attempts to distract him. But they were intent on one thing and one thing only: banging his spirit and coming inside.

How bad would it be? they whispered, as he made the climb. The top seemed fucking miles away, each handhold another challenge. You know how good it would feel if you let us inside. When they were this close to penetrating him, the barriers between his spirit and theirs started to break down. They could feed him ideas, images of him letting his guard down, opening his scales, allowing them inside.

You’ve fought so hard. It’s okay. It’s time for you to lose, like you always do in the end. And we’ll reward you when we cum inside.

They couldn’t have struck a better chord. The inevitability of it all crashed down on him. He had fought enough, hadn’t he? What was the point of climbing another obstacle when he could just give in now? The part of him that wanted to win just this once screamed his name, but it was too late. It only took the slightest slip, and three phantom dicks burst into his spirit, sinking balls deep in an explosion of pleasure that made all his muscles seize up at once. He let go, fell, and crashed into the cushion.

“He’s getting fucked by three spirits! Can he still get up or is his reign over the obstacle course over? Has Chase finally lost this game?”

Chase thought of struggling, but it was hard to focus while they pounded him relentlessly. Each thrust was tension, overwhelming tension that went off like a firecracker inside him, sparks of bliss fizzing through his soulstuff. His back was on the ground, but that didn’t stop the spirit underneath him from thrusting up into his ass. Space didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. They were inside him. His spirit didn’t have room for them. When they came inside him…

He didn’t have to worry about it. It was already here. He felt their spirits sing with his, and then they were cumming, pouring themselves into him in three different places, their soulstuff swelling inside him and pushing his own spirit out of the way. It felt like pressure on his skin from the inside, a deeply erotic tension as his spirit struggled to escape the confines of his body, trapped by his belief in his own shape. But he was so full of them. There was no room for him in his own body.

Gods, his spirit felt like it was going to explode. It was like his whole body was on the edge of orgasm. There was a white glow around his skin, the evidence of his soulstuff’s intense compression. His spirit was going to blast out of his body. It was only a matter of moments before he lost himself to pure, mind-wiping pleasure.

His spirit detonated, and the explosion of bliss blasted his consciousness away.

Bang!

Hunter watched numbly from the box as his best friend’s spirit erupted into cum, a massive wave of jizz flying in all directions. It splattered the climbing wall, the monkey bars, and even some of the crowd members, the physical manifestation of Chase’s pent-up spiritual energy heralding that his soul had been released from his body.

Chase’s unconscious form would recover in no more than half an hour, but for the time being, he was lost in the spirit world, swimming in a sea of pleasure so intense that—in his state of shock—Hunter almost envied him. But it had cost him the obstacle course, and when he woke up, his spirit would be weak to further manipulation.

It took a moment for Hunter to register that someone was speaking, and longer to figure out whose voice it was.

“How did this happen?” asked DC, the same frat boy who had rigged the game that turned Hunter into— “Oh, hi, Lickspit,” DC said, with a sneer. “Congrats on your win.”

Hunter didn’t look at DC. He was too busy staring at Chase’s unconscious body. That didn’t stop the cuffs in Hunter’s core tightening, their insistent urge that he act like a Lickspit. It had been getting worse as more frat boys used it. He finally turned to meet DC’s eyes.^[7] “Thank you, sir,” he said, sycophantically, and the cuffs released him in a rush of warm, fuzzy bliss.

Little by little, the cuffs were training him.

“Attaboy.” Then DC spun to face Rex. “How could you let this happen? You were supposed to control them, weren’t you? You made the deal with them!”

“I did,” said the poor sophomore, distraught. “But they stopped listening to me! Fuck, did I ruin the fucking game?”

Hunter didn’t believe the blond had done it. He was still reeling, still numb, but something still managed to tickle his brain. There was someone missing, but who? He turned back to the obstacle course, where the competitors seemed lost. The monkey bars and the climbing wall were both unusable with their slathering of cum, so the course had finally been called off.

Chase just lay there, one competitor glancing at him sympathetically and then staring back at the climbing wall. Hunter understood.

“But they only messed with Chase, right?” DC asked. “You saw it. We all saw it. Who would do that? And who told you to let the spirits fuck with the game, anyway? We haven’t done that in years!”

Hunter turned abruptly to stare at DC and Rex, who was looking at Hunter with a realisation dawning in his eyes. Hunter tried to focus on what was happening, even though it was Chase he was really concerned about. “Wait, boys,” Hunter began, his words honeyed and conciliatory. “Before you jump to conclusions—”

“Did Lickspit tell you to bring in the spirits?” DC asked, a wicked glint in his eye. “Don’t tell me. You want revenge against your best friend for something, don’t you? Fucking juicy. You ruined a game for that, Lickspit. SPIT is not happy with you.” DC hocked a loogie and spat on his dick, and Hunter instinctively laser-focused on the cum-like fluid dripping down DC’s length. “Are you going to make it up to us, Lickspit?”

The cuffs felt tighter than ever. They demanded he accept his place, obey every order and take every punishment he’d earned, lick DC’s spit and love it all the while. But he hadn’t earned a punishment. He desperately fought the instinct to give in and admit that the lie was truth.

Something caught the corner of his eye, and he forced himself to turn his head toward the obstacle course one more time. Hawk crouched over Chase, picking up the unconscious body by the arms and starting to drag it off. This couldn’t be happening.

“Look at me, Lickspit,” DC commanded, more urgency in his tone, but suddenly, being a Lickspit didn’t matter as much.

“Panther,” Hunter corrected. “Not that you deserve to use that name.” ‘Lickspit’ hung at the back of his mind, biding its time, but Hunter had a few precious moments of full control. He raised a hand dismissively and pointed at the course, honing his haughtiness to beat back the ever-tightening influence of the cuffs. “What is Hawk doing with my friend, DC?” Hunter asked. “Why does he have that eyeliner on? You’re not covering for Hawk, are you?”

Rex’s eyes widened with understanding. DC held up a hand before the sophomore could speak.

“Lickspit isn’t licking my spit,” DC growled. “You and Chase never really understood what it means to be a frat bottom. You just can’t submit. That changes today. On your knees, Lickspit.”

Hunter tried to resist, for Chase, he really did. But his spirit was locking up his body with the tension, and he didn’t feel so much like a panther anymore. At last, he sunk to his knees. The tension released in a wave of bliss so powerful he whimpered, but he forced his head around anyway to look back at Hawk and Chase.

Chase’s bulk seemed effortless for Hawk, perhaps supported by the same spirits he’d used to knock Chase out. Hunter’s best friend was slipping away from him by the second, and he could do nothing about it, because he was stuck up here, waiting for DC to give him orders.

As DC spat on his cock a second time and told Hunter to worship it, Hunter sent Chase a quick message, even though his friend wouldn’t get it until he awoke. Sorry, Chase. I’ll come find you soon.

And then he became the lickspit DC wanted.