Twenty years old. Still 5'8", still lean and athletic under that porcelain-smooth skin, still locked in the tiniest chastity pouch the engineering brothers had ever designed. The front of him was nothing but a soft, sealed mound — his pathetic boy-parts permanently tucked and compressed until even the idea of a real cock felt like a distant joke. His nipples stayed pierced and chained. His tongue ring clicked every time he spoke. And his boy-cunt… Jesus. After two full years of professional wrecking it stayed permanently puffy, half-open, and hungry. He could walk across campus with nothing inside and still leave a shiny trail on the back of his tiny shorts.
He no longer pretended he wanted to be a man. He was a boy. Their boy. A sassy, sexy, locked little fucktoy who smiled with his eyes while his hole dripped.
And the underclassmen noticed.
Dawn – The Morning Runs
It started with the freshmen.
Every morning at 5:30 Jem went for a run in nothing but tiny compression shorts that showed the perfect outline of his locked pouch and the deep cleft of his trained ass. The new pledges quickly learned the route. They would wait along the path, already hard, and fall in behind him.
“Morning, doormat,” one of them would call.
Jem would slow down, look back over his shoulder with that wicked little smirk, and answer in the sweetest, filthiest voice:
“You gonna just stare at it or are you gonna use it before class, baby?”
They used it.
Bent over a low wall behind the rec center. Hands on a tree. Kneeling in the wet grass with his face in the dirt while two freshmen took turns slamming into his loose, greedy cunt. He kept the chastity pouch locked. He liked the way they stared at the smooth metal and got meaner because of it. Sometimes he even challenged them.
“Hit it harder. Smash the cage. See if you can make the little clit cry.”
They did. Rough open-palm strikes and knee bumps straight into the locked pouch while they fucked him. The impact made him gasp and leak from his hole, but the pain only made him harder in the only way left to him — prostate-hard, dripping, desperate. By the time the sun was fully up he would be limping back to the house with cum running down both thighs and a fresh set of bruises blooming across the metal.
He still made breakfast for the seniors with that same cum drying on his skin.
Daytime – Campus Property
Between classes Jem became public property for any underclassman who knew the code.
A quiet “doormat” whispered in the library stacks was enough. He would drop to his knees between the shelves, tongue ring clicking as he swallowed cock after cock while students walked past three aisles over. In the engineering building bathrooms he bent over the sinks and let the younger IT majors fist him open during their lunch break, watching his own reflection as two hands disappeared inside him at once. In the gym locker room he would strip, spread, and dare the new wrestlers to see how many fingers they could force into his boy-cunt before he came hands-free.
He was sassy about it now.
“That’s all you’ve got? My seniors stretch me wider than that before breakfast. Try harder, freshman.”
They always tried harder. And Jem always thanked them with a wet, open-mouthed kiss when they finished.
Night – The Leashed Crawls
After midnight the real games began.
The underclassmen would text him a location. Jem would show up already collared, already plugged, already leaking. They would clip a leash to the heavy ring and make him crawl across the quad on all fours, naked except for the chastity pouch and the chains on his nipples. Streetlights caught the wet shine between his cheeks. Late-night students watched. Some joined in.
One Friday they kept him crawling for two full hours. Every time he slowed they kicked the pouch — hard, deliberate strikes that made his locked boy-parts throb and his eyes water. He laughed through it.
“Harder. Come on. I challenged you, remember? Ruin the little clit. It’s already useless anyway.”
By the time they dragged him into a dark corner of the parking garage he was shaking, hole gaping, pouch dented and warm from the repeated impacts. Six of them used him in a circle. Two in his cunt at once. One down his throat. Hands yanking the nipple chains. Feet still occasionally kicking the cage just to hear him moan.
He came three times that night — ruined, prostate-only, messy orgasms that left him sobbing and smiling at the same time.
The New Normal
By the middle of junior year Jamie Harlow had a reputation that stretched far beyond the frat house.
He was the sassy locked boy who ran at dawn with cum already in him. The doormat who dared freshmen to smash his chastity pouch. The campus slut who crawled on a leash at midnight and begged for more.
He still lived in the house. Still cooked. Still took the seniors’ cocks every night like the well-trained pleasure boy he was. But the underclassmen had claimed him too. He belonged to all of them now — every year, every major, every hard young cock that wanted a soft, locked, permanently ruined boy-cunt to use.
And Jem?
He loved it.
He strutted through campus in the shortest shorts he owned, chains tinkling, pouch on full display, hole already wet, and dared the entire underclass to treat him exactly like what he was:
Their daily fucktoy. Their doormat. Their perfect, sassy, broken little boy.
Junior year was only getting started.
