“Rules of the game: You keep the egg yolk in your mouth. You don’t swallow it, you don’t spit it out. No matter what happens. No matter what we do to you. And you keep your hands around your ankles at all times. And when it’s over, when we take the egg yolk out of your mouth, it better be in one piece. If it’s not—if that yolk’s been split—all six Gods are gonna fuck you up the ass.”

Larry begins to pace around the room, fondling the cattle prod in his hands. “Lot of those pledges thought we had to be kidding. So we showed ’em right off we meant business. Started out by giving each guy a lube job, greasing up his asshole till it was slick as a wet pussy inside, ready to be dicked. A lot of the pledges got turned on—yeah, old Stevie boy’s peanut stayed hard as a rock the whole time I was pumping his hole with my middle finger. Then we’d throw a bunch of rubbers on the table—wouldn’t want to get the bitch pregnant, would we? Then pull out our dicks. Pump ’em up, get ’em stiff and ready to fuck. Some of the pledges started crying right then and there. But they all kept their mouths shut tight—kept that yolk in there—and held on to their ankles for dear life.

“Then each God would take a turn whipping the guy’s ass. Laying it on with the paddle, seeing who could zing his butt the hardest. There’s nothing like the sound of a wooden paddle connecting with a guy’s naked ass—that loud, sweaty crack, like gunfire. Like a big tree split wide open by a bolt of lightning. Listen to him gurgle and scream with his mouth clamped shut. Watch him tumble over on the floor, keeping his hands around his ankles. Make him scramble back on his feet and raise his ass up for more. Watch him break out in a cold sweat, turn red as a fireplug from head to toe, till his whole body’s as red as his blistered ass. Watch him jump and shake till he can hardly stand, all the time clutching his ankles and praying that yolk doesn’t bust open in his mouth.”

Larry is pacing the room like a jungle cat, his broad thighs and ass flexing inside his skintight jeans, his back and chest glistening with a thin sheen of perspiration. Ted grabs the seat of his chair to keep from shaking. “Then we’d bring out the cattle prod. Yank the guy’s head up by a fistful of hair, make sure he got a good look at it.” Larry laughs. “The look on their faces—the way they’d screw up their eyebrows, pout their lips. Ready to whine and beg—only they couldn’t. Not with a mouthful of yolk.

“We set the charge on the cattle prod real low—administration gets pretty riled if you carry these things too far. But it doesn’t take much to give a guy a heavy zap, especially when he’s already softened up and scared out of his wits, with six hard dicks lined up and ready to screw his ass.

“Run the tip of the prod up the back of his legs. Listen to it crackle. Make him dance. Slide it between his cheeks, nuzzle it up against the back of his balls, listen to him sob. Walk around front and tap it against the head of his dick. Just a tap. That’s usually enough to knock him flat on his back, grabbing his ankles and twitching like a frog. Follow him down with the prod and make him crawl on his back across the floor. And of course all the Gods get a turn. All of us laughing and pulling on our dicks, keeping it stiff, ready to start screwing the minute that yolk pops out of his mouth.”

Larry tilts the cattle prod up like a lance, runs his fingertip down the length. Looks Ted straight in the eye. “Funny thing, though. Not a one of those first nine guys broke. When it was over, when we shoved the cup under their lips and the egg yolk came drooling out, it was as perfect and round as if it had never come out of the shell. Except for Stevie boy.”

Larry walks back to the dresser, replaces the prod. Ted looks at the photos, this time at the picture of Steve in his mortarboard and robe, cheery-eyed and smiling, the happy graduate headed for Omega. “’Course, I cheated with Stevie boy, just a little. He was the last one to come through. We’d already had our fun with the others. They’d all passed the test. The Gods were getting antsy. Pretty worked up. Needed a hole to sink our dicks into. So when it came my turn with the prod, I turned up the juice. Just a little. Had a couple of the guys grab Stevie boy’s butt and pull his cheeks wide open. Laid the tip of the prod smack on his greasy asshole. Slipped it inside an inch or two and hit the buzzer.” Larry takes a deep breath, smiling at the memory. “They must’ve heard that sucker scream all the way to Old Main. Next thing you know he’s sprawled face-down on the floor, spread-eagled and clutching the carpet, twisting around like a snake on hot asphalt. Sobbing like a baby. With egg all over his face.”

“And then—then what—” Ted’s breath is so short he can hardly speak.

“What do you think? Six horny guys with greasy hard-ons poking out of their flies. Stevie boy lying naked on the floor, reaching back to grab his butt, showing off his greasy asshole. A couple of the Gods grabbed him and yanked him up on his feet, twisted his arms behind his back. My buddy Gary—good dude, Gary grabbed him by the hair and clamped Stevie’s head between his legs. And I had my dick up that sucker’s asshole so quick he must have thought I was zapping him with the prod again.”

Larry plops himself down in the chair, spreads his legs wide open, reaches down to casually squeeze the fleshy tube running down his pants leg. “Most of us plowed his ass more than once. Walk around front when we were finished and make him lick the slime off our rubbers while the next man climbed into the saddle. Yeah, I was the first to screw Stevie boy that night. And the first to use his mouth. Made him suck his own cherry juice off my dick. Screwed him a couple more times—seemed like my dick just wouldn’t go soft that night. Saved my last load for his cocksucking mouth. That’s when that picture was taken, about half a minute after I shot my wad down his throat. Gary walked in with his camera just as I was starting to pull out and caught Stevie boy in the act.” Larry laughs. “Damn, I thought Stevie boy was about to piss himself, the way he cried and carried on and begged us to give him that picture. Never saw a cocksucker so camera-shy.”

“So—” Ted struggles to speak through the lump in his throat. “So what happened to him?”

“Word got around pretty fast. Next morning, down at breakfast, all the other pledges were celebrating making it into Omega. Those guys treated Stevie boy like dirt. Like he was some kind of leper. Nobody’d sit next to him. Everybody laughing behind his back. Huevos rancheros for breakfast—guys were smearing egg yolk on their faces and nudging each other, all of ’em having a good laugh at the cocksucker.”

Larry leans back in his chair, cocks his head. Traces his fingertip over the bulge running down his pants leg, from the base to the crown. Across the table, Ted is in a state of constant agitation, his eyes wide open, his tongue flicking against his lips.

“Of course, that’s just the beginning of the story. Just the start of the shit we put little Stevie boy through. You heard enough, Teddy boy, or you wanna hear more? Maybe if you ask me real nice…”

Ted knows the formula. He recites it without hesitation. “Yes, sir. Please. I want to hear the rest.”

Larry nods and smirks. “Yeah, I figured you would…” He leans forward across the table, bringing his face close to Ted’s.

“After that night—after we found out what a good cocksucker he was and busted his cherry—the Gods put out word that Stevie boy was fair game for all the upperclassmen. Figured it was about time we had a steady cocksucker on the premises. But only the Gods were allowed to use his ass.”

“He let you—”

“Wasn’t exactly like we had to ask his permission. We had that picture to keep him in line. That picture of Stevie boy with my dick down his throat.”

Larry leans back. “Me and Gary and the rest of the Gods made some special rules for Stevie boy. Like a curfew on Saturday nights. Had to be in by ten o’clock. In his room. Naked. Down on his knees. That way all the guys who didn’t score on a date had a guaranteed place to drop a load. Some Saturday nights, around two in the morning, I’d see ’em lined up ten-deep in the hall outside his room, all waiting their turn to plow some fratboy dick down Stevie’s throat. Yeah, Saturday night was suck night. Feeding time for the fraternity fuckhole.”