The air in the frat house hung thick with the stale scent of spilled beer and cheap cologne, the echoes of a party long past. It was 3 a.m. on a Tuesday, and a handful of us were still up, scattered across the worn couches, talking trash and eyeing the last of the beer cans. The conversation, as it always did, turned to the girls from the sorority next door, who’d been at our party earlier. We were all fantasizing, but none of us were as lost in our own lust as I was. My name is Mark, a freshman, and I had a secret. A panty fetish. The idea of getting my hands on some of their intimate little secrets was more than I could handle. I just had to keep my cool.
Tom, a senior and our fearless leader, grinned and said the words I’d been dreaming of. “Let’s go on a panty raid.”
The room erupted. The other guys were ready for a laugh, a thrill, but for me, it was a pilgrimage. I swallowed my excitement, the throbbing in my pants almost betraying me. We grabbed dark clothes and made a plan. Tom had spent more time inside that sorority house than any of us, and he knew the layout like the back of his hand. As we crept toward the house, I was a coiled spring of pure anticipation.
My mind raced. Would I find a skimpy thong, a delicate g-string, or maybe a full, silky bikini? I loved the idea of a bikini—so innocent, yet so sensual. I imagined going back to my room, pulling them down, and using them to stroke myself into a frenzy. The thought of the silky nylon caressing my aching shaft and balls made my cock throb. It had been five days since I’d last cum, a lifetime for a guy like me. The thought of a week’s worth of pent-up desire exploding all over a pair of hot panties was nearly unbearable.
Tom found the spare key under the welcome mat, a tradition, he said, and we slipped inside the quiet house. We tiptoed through the kitchen, our footsteps muffled by the hum of the fridge, and made our way upstairs. The house was huge, a labyrinth of ten or so bedrooms. We split up, seasoned upperclassmen each heading to their known hunting grounds.
I was the only freshman. I felt a nervous thrill as I opened a bedroom door and crept inside. It was my first time in a girl’s dorm room, and the air was thick with a sweet, floral scent. I fumbled in the dark, my hands finally finding a dresser. My heart hammered against my ribs as I opened the top drawer. Jackpot. It was full, a treasure trove of panties. I couldn’t see the colors in the dark, but the feel of the silky fabric promised exactly what I wanted. I grabbed a fistful and stuffed them into my pocket, the bulge a delicious secret.
I was backing out of the room when a light snapped on in the hallway. A girl’s startled scream ripped through the silence, followed by a chorus of shouts and doors flying open. I saw my buddies running down the stairs, ski masks covering their faces, but I was blocked. Girls poured into the hallway, a gauntlet of enraged women surrounding me. My heart sank. I was alone, screwed.
They descended on me, a whirlwind of furious accusations. “Pervert!” one screamed, her eyes blazing. “What were you doing here?!” another yelled. I was paralyzed, mute, a cornered animal. My silence only fueled their anger. A girl with fiery red hair noticed the bulging pocket on my jeans. She shoved her hand inside and yanked out the panties, holding them up like a trophy. “He was stealing our underwear!” she shrieked.
A collective roar of outrage erupted. They tackled me, hitting and kicking, a storm of fists and feet. I fell to the floor, terrified, yelling into the noise until a girl slapped duct tape over my mouth. Their fury turned to a cold, calculated silence as they decided my fate.
“Since he loves panties so much,” a blonde girl, who seemed to be the leader, said with a cruel smile, “we’ll make him a permanent part of our collection.”
They ripped my clothes off, leaving me naked and exposed. I was so embarrassed I wanted to disappear. The blonde, her name was Kayla, picked up a pair of white silky panties I’d stolen. She pulled them up my legs, the fabric snug against my cock and balls. I was a small guy, and the feeling of her hands on me, the intimate fabric, my mind went to places I never thought it would go. They stood me up, took pictures, laughing as they posed me in different panties. The humiliation was total, but my mind was in a haze. They put me in a full set: a bra, garters, and stockings, and a lacy thong that disappeared between my ass cheeks. They took pictures of my humiliated body, my face and my ass, and my dick was so hard from the pure, intoxicating mix of fear and arousal.
After what felt like an eternity of being their living doll, my body was a canvas of their humiliation and my shame. But then, Kayla said something that changed everything. “I’m getting horny.” The other girls murmured their agreement. They pulled me to the ground, stripping me of the feminine clothes and then handcuffed my hands above my head. Two girls pinned my legs, and the rest surrounded me, stripping down to their panties, their eyes now full of a hungry lust that was a hundred times hotter than their initial rage.
I had never had much experience with women, but I had dreamt of this. Dozens of horny girls, a feast of young, athletic bodies, and me, their captive. The handcuffs, the tape over my mouth, the sheer number of them—it was all too much. My cock, which had been achingly hard, seemed to swell even bigger.
They began to touch me, their hands tracing the lines of my body, from my chest to my abs, my thighs to my feet. They ignored my throbbing cock, teasing every other inch of me. Two girls, Lori and Allie, knelt beside my head, each one taking a finger in their mouths, sucking and licking. I moaned, a muffled sound that was music to their ears. My skin was a roadmap of their touch, their hands stroking my calves, my neck, my arms, everywhere except where I wanted them most.
After what felt like a lifetime of this sensual torture, Kayla finally knelt between my legs. The other girls parted, and I felt her wetness on my cock. She didn’t touch it, but her breath was hot against my shaft. She opened her mouth and took my balls, sucking and licking them with a masterful tongue. Another girl, Lisa, began to stroke my aching cock, a slow, gentle pull that made me groan into the tape. They took turns, teasing me, pushing me to the brink. They put a rubber band around the base of my balls, a clear message: we own your orgasm.
Finally, Kayla climbed onto me, her wet pussy sliding against my hard cock. She was so worked up that the juices dripped down her leg as she adjusted herself. She mounted me, and my hard length pushed inside her, sliding into her tight, wet heat. I was so full of unspent desire that my pre-cum was dripping onto her thighs. She rode me hard, her moans getting louder and louder until she was a screaming mess of an orgasm, her body convulsing on top of mine. She came, and then slid off, the scent of her climax filling the air.
Michelle took her place, then Ashley, then all of them, each one a different rhythm, a different feel. My cock was an iron rod, throbbing and aching, each woman’s wetness a new layer of heat and pleasure. After the last girl dismounted, my cock was huge, swollen, and pulsing. I was about to burst.
A few girls left, and came back with two large duffel bags. They unzipped them and emptied them over me. The bags were full of panties—thongs, bikinis, lace, silk, and satin. They spread the panties over every inch of my body, a human blanket of stolen lingerie. They were everywhere—on my face, my chest, my legs. They began to pull at my cock with the panties, a sensual tug-of-war that made me squirm. I could feel the cum boiling in my balls, a pressure that was almost unbearable. They rubbed the silky fabric over my body, fondling my balls, but no one dared touch my shaft, knowing that one stroke would send me over the edge.
Finally, it was time. They formed a circle around me, their hungry eyes on my throbbing cock. Kayla knelt in front of me, picking up a silky white pair of panties—one of the pairs I had stolen. She began to stroke me with it, a perfect, agonizing friction. My body was on fire, the cum moving up from my balls into my shaft. I was yelling, a muffled, desperate plea. Kayla felt me harden even more and stroked faster, her hands a blur of motion.
A second later, a massive shot of cum shot straight up, a geyser of hot, thick liquid. It flew into the air, a white banner of my surrender. The girls shrieked with delight as I continued to shoot, blast after blast, until my balls were empty and I fell back, my eyes rolling into the back of my head.
The girls, giggling and victorious, took more pictures of me, covered in panties and my own cum. They finally removed the handcuffs and duct tape, letting me get dressed. Kayla looked at me, her eyes filled with a predatory smile. “If you don’t want these pictures posted on campus and the internet,” she said, her voice a soft, silken threat, “you’ll do whatever we say for the rest of the school year.”
My fate was sealed. I was no longer a student. I was their slave.
