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Frat Boy Butt-Painting Party

Chapter 1: Accidentally Getting My Ass Ate

My frat used to throw "Paint and Sip" parties, where everyone would show up and then paint each other's bodies with special paint. The idea was getting girls to come and take their clothes off, and it worked, to varying degrees. A lot of guys would have sex afterward, but it always turned pretty homo-erotic too.

We were a few months into that school year, and the bathroom doors didn't get closed if you went in there to piss, and somebody's bare ass on the couch was pretty common. So you might say we were close that year, more than other cohorts had been in the past.

And every time we threw a party like this, our own male friends and housemates would be stripped naked at some point and painting each other head to toe in a colorful mess while whatever girls were left watched and laughed. The later the night got, the gayer it got. That was just how we lived. It was bonding.

Either way, the girls tended to rave about these parties, helping our reputation on campus.

But the head of the house, Brad, was in charge of buying the paint one time, and ended up accidentally changing things up a bit.

"This says edible paint," I said, squinting at the big, plastic tub of it before looking at him like he was an idiot. "What is this?"

"It was an accident. I was just trying to buy paint."

"There's a girl licking a guy's abs on the label."

"I... did not notice that."

"And you spent how much?"

"A lot."

I shook my head.

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When we launched the party, the basement smelled different. The paint tubs were open and ready for use, used white sheets were draped over the walls, and the dudes were ready to get into party mode and hoping the girls showed up. There were twelve or thirteen of us down there.

A dress code was enforced at the door, which was something we basically came up with on a whim on that specific night. Dudes had to wear a white polo, white shorts or pants, and under that either a jock strap or nothing. We happened to have a big bin of old jock straps, that, surprisingly, guys put on when they came in. We didn't have enough girls in general to enforce anything on them, so they could come in regardless of what they were wearing.

And within a couple hours, girls did show up. A dozen or so came in white tank tops, drinking our booze, and letting guys paint on them while they enjoyed the attention.

By the time it got crowded, the dress code was already coming apart, or working as intended, depending on how you looked at it. Half the guys had ditched their shorts in the spirit of things. Multiple guys were naked, having decided the jock strap was a needless formality at that point, and they walked around like that with red cups and a blue or green ding dong.

And of course, the inevitable happened. By midnight, the basement was mostly naked dudes, or guys in jock straps or underwear, or a shirt on with nothing below the waist, dicks out, bodies smeared with color and grabbing the guys around them and pulling them in to paint their dicks or their butts too.

I was wearing a white jock strap that I had borrowed off Travis, a smaller wrestler dude in the frat, and it was a size too small on me, so it was sitting wrong on my hips since I put it on, and I stood near the stairs with a red cup thinking about what my ass looked like, which was new for me. Oddly enough, in the jock, I felt more self conscious about my butt than I ever did fully naked.

And I slowly started to hear people talk about the fact that the paint was "edible".

"Edible doesn't mean it tastes like something," Sean said. "Edible means it won't kill you if you accidentally eat some."

"But she's licking it," Greg said, pointing to the girl on the label.

"I still wouldn't trust it."

I watched them as Sean, who was maybe the most uptight guy in the frat regarding safety codes and all that, cracked the cap on the green one and squeezed a stripe onto a freshman named Cole's forearm, and it came out thick and bright and sat up on the skin.

"There," Sean said. "It's just paint."

Greg took Cole's wrist, turned the arm over, and dragged his tongue up the green stripe from the elbow to the middle of the forearm, then stood there smacking his mouth around it.

"It's good," he announced loudly, getting people's attention. "There's sugar in it. It tastes like sweet nothing. Like... like a bad candy."

And that was all it took to add yet another unnecessarily homoerotic element to the night.

The party quickly devolved in theme to be more of a licking party than a painting party. Guys were putting handprints on each other's chests and butts and then leaning in and licking them off with their mouths, loudly, playing it up for whoever might be watching. Somebody laid a full stripe down the abs of the most defined workout-junkie in the frat, Dylan, from his sternum to his waistband and then another guy licked it upward while Dylan stood there with both arms out like a scarecrow, giggling and watching him. The naked guys got painted the most, because there was more of them available.

The last two girls came halfway down the stairs, looked at Dylan, and turned around, heading back upstairs, swiping a bottle of alcohol off the counter on their way up. Nobody but me watched them leave, everyone else focused on the male form. And pretty soon, everyone's lips and mouth were one color or another.

Although I was shaking my head at the fact that we had scared away the last of the talent, I was not one to shy away from fun. I joined the energy of the group and put a blue handprint on little freshman Cole's right butt cheek and licked it off savagely, and the room hollered like I had done something impressive. It was sugary and chemical-tasting and it stayed on my tongue. 

"Grape is the worst one," somebody said.

"Blue is worse."

"Blue isn't a flavor."

"Neither is purple. You're just calling it grape."

The two dudes both shrugged, and then the room's attention turned to somebody gagging, his mouth blue, like mine. 

"Nasty," he said, "I like yellow the best."

His canvas was Dylan, the ripped guy, and he was left with a smear of blue paint dripping down his abs, entering his now bare nether regions, revealing a completely shaved crotch. The paint was coating an impressively thick cock, half hard from brotherly excitement, and the large set of balls sitting under it.

"Who's gonna finish me?" he said, throwing his muscular arms in the air like he was raising a challenge. 

His eyes landed on me. 

"Your mouth is already blue," he said with a smirk, then gestured down to his crotch with his chin. 

Eyes were on me. Somebody lifted the red cup out of my hand before I could set it down, and the circle around Dylan tightened. I knew what I had to do.

This was farther than I, or possibly anyone in the frat, had ever taken these hijinks, and everybody knew it, so the hollering started before my tongue even touched him. I dropped to my knees on the tarp in front of him and stuck out my tongue, and started at the bottom. 

I started with his balls. They were heavy and shaved and hanging right at my face, coated in blue, so I cupped one on my tongue and rolled it, licking the paint off in slow circles until the skin showed pink again. Then the other. I dragged my tongue up the line in the middle of the ball sack, where the paint was about to drip off, and he widened his stance to give me more room. Under the sugary, chemical taste his skin was warm and salty, and the smell of a man's crotch filled my nose, sweat and musk sitting underneath the strange candy flavor. When I sucked one whole into my mouth, gently, Dylan grunted above me and the hollering doubled in volume. 

Guys slapped my ass hard while I worked, open palms smacking against both cheeks, stacking new colors onto my already radiant collection of handprints, and every slap bumped me a half inch deeper into him. I worked up his shaft, dragging the flat of my tongue along the underside, and it throbbed a couple times against me and thickened while I cleaned it, which earned its own round of yelling from the rowdy boys circling above my head. My own dick even shifted from nerves, in Travis's too-small jock that I was wearing.

I chased the last of the blue paint up over his abs, tracing the little hills of muscle one at a time until the blue smear was gone, replaced with my spit, and I stood back up, licking my lips like a maniac. Dylan threw his muscular arms up in victory, and the guys still watching applauded and whistled and banged on the table. My whole face was burning. If it weren't for the dark lights of the basement, every one of them would've seen how red my face got, matching some of the hues on my body.

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At some point later, when the lights were mostly off except for a few black lights around the perimeter of the room, Dylan came at me with the purple bottle and a grin, still fully naked, still shiny in spots where my spit hand't dried. He planted a full handprint on my chest and dragged two fingers down my sternum, and the guys near us stepped back to watch, because I was the guy who had just cleaned him off with my tongue, and everybody could smell a payback coming.

"Turn around," he said.

I did it, waiting to see what he was going to do to my ass, and Trevor held a hand out for the bottle, but Dylan kept it.

There was a couch behind me against the wall, and I put both hands on the back of it and leaned forward onto my arms. Dylan dropped onto his knees on the tarp behind me, and I heard it crinkle under the weight of him. The jock strap framed my butt cheeks, which I had confirmed in a mirror looked good today, so I didn't mind the whole room staring at it, at least for a moment. 

He started by wiping me down. He grabbed a discarded polo shirt off the floor, balled it up, and scrubbed the old handprints off both my cheeks until the canvas was clear, and his hands had enough strength in them that every pass rocked me forward onto my arms. The wet fabric was cold on my skin, and the air was colder after.

Then he squeezed a glob of purple paint onto my lower back like it was a palette, and dipped one finger  into it and dragged it across my cheek in a shape, slow curving lines, and the guys closest to us giggled.

"What is it?" I said over my shoulder.

"He drew a dick," somebody said, and the giggling spread.

He kept drawing. More lines, short strokes fanning out from the center of my ass, and it felt like it was rays, like the sun was blasting out of my ass, and the crowd behind me hollered louder with every stroke. Then the bottle hit the tarp and both his hands were on me, massaging the paint into my cheeks, thumbs working circles into the muscle, and it actually felt good, but my heart started to race as his fingers crept closer and closer to the opening between my cheeks.

Behind us the party people did not seem to care. The speaker kept rattling on the table and two guys wrestled over the last bottle of white paint.

The group of guys watching went wild as he leaned in and started licking it off.

His tongue hit me with no warning, warm and wide, and I didn't even flinch. He started low on one cheek and dragged upward, and I grabbed the back of the couch tighter. I looked over my shoulder and watched the paint come off in stripes, and I could feel exactly where his mouth had been. His tongue was warm and his spit turned cold in the basement air the second he moved to a new spot. He took his time, one big hand clamped on my hip to hold me steady, the sugary paint smell mixing with plain dude sweat on everyone around us. He cleaned one cheek and then the other, in long flat passes. I looked back over my shoulder again and got an eyeful of him crouched there naked, his shoulders bunched up, one thick forearm braced across the back of my thigh, the most jacked guy in the house on his knees behind me, and my stomach fluttered strangely at the sight.

And then he didn't stop where the paint stopped.

His hands came up and spread my cheeks open, his thumbs pressing dents into my glutes, like he was admiring the muscle for a moment before his tongue pressed straight forward onto my hole, flat and wet and warm, and my arms locked out straight against the back of the couch as I tried to relax my body. Nobody had ever done that to me.

He worked at me hard with his tongue, broad passes first, the whole flat of his tongue dragging up over me, then narrowing to a point and pushing in circles, like he had done this before, a lot. The pressure hit right in the middle, and I felt myself open for it. The jock strap had gotten pulled sideways and the elastic cut into the crease of my hip, and every time he pushed forward my forearms slid a little on the couch cushion, because when Dylan pushed, he used a lot of strength, and my body moved. Between passes the air hit me cold, and then his tongue was warm on me again. The weirdest part was a warm, dropping sensation low in my gut.

He pulled his face away, keeping his hands on me.

"Why don't you have any ass hair?" he said, right there, and I felt his breath on me when he said it. "Not even between your butt cheeks."

"I don't know," I said.

"Huh," he said, and pushed his face back in, deeper this time, thumbs pulling me even wider.

He didn't stop, and I suddenly realized that I had gotten fully, embarrassingly hard. I was so erect that it hurt, my dick jammed sideways in the pouch of the jock, and it suddenly popped out over the waistband, exposed. And I felt him grunting into me between passes of his tongue, long after the paint had gone, clearly giving in to some animal instinct, and when I dared to glance back again I saw his own dick standing up hard off his shaved crotch, still more streaked colors on it, running down with his sweat. My knuckles whitened on the couch cushion. His hands stayed spread on me, thumbs holding me open, and I pushed back onto his face. I didn't care what was happening. It felt too good to stop. 

The room caught on to what was happening in my body. First it was a couple of guys glancing over the back of the couch at the two of us and turning right back to their own paint. Then somebody came around the front side of the couch to get a drink, stopped, looked down at the front of my jock, and started laughing.

"He's got a BONER," he yelled, and that pulled the attention of the bulk of the group.

Four or five guys crowded around the front of the couch. All of them laughing, all of them painted and mostly if not fully naked, Cole with a purple handprint across his own chest and a small, black bush of pubes above his dick, Travis, his dirty blonde hair streaked with colors and a heart drawn on his lean abs above a jock strap that he filled out properly, carrying some meat. Somebody was yelling up the stairs for the guys in the kitchen to come see.

"Oh my god, look at it."

"It's out the top."

"Bro."

Sean jogged down the stairs and shoved in between two guys to get a look, still holding the green bottle, and he laughed once that was more of a wheeze, without any sound coming out. The other guys looked and laughed and looked away. Sean kept looking.

Then somebody hooked the waistband of the jock and pulled it down under my balls while people giggled. I closed my eyes as a different hand took hold of my dick, playing with it, the palm slick with paint, and I sucked a breath in between my teeth.

"Woah, it's big," somebody said, surprised.

"Not really," said another.

"Bigger than yours."

Another hand replaced that one. Then two of them were trading off, giggling the entire time, narrating it to each other while they did it.

Then the little freshman Cole squeezed a stripe of pink across my lower back, right above Dylan's thumbs, and licked it off in one slow pass, and I jumped, and the whole circle of them cracked up.

"He jumped," Cole said. "Do it again."

He did it again. Then it caught on. A tongue dragged up my side over my ribs, making me stand up a little straighter, Dylan's tongue still in my ass. I kept my eyes closed as another tongue touched the back of my neck. Somebody knelt next to Dylan and licked a clean stripe up the inside of my thigh, and every spot made me flinch or shiver or push back, and every flinch made them giggle harder while I found myself unable to laugh.

"He likes it. Look at him."

"Do the ribs again. He does a little shiver."

"Lick his nipple!"

"Bro is VIBRATING."

Somehow, even given my response, nobody had noted that any of this was gay. It was just some interesting response from my body to physical touch that the boys found amusing. Mouths remained on my ass, on my ribs, my neck and my thigh, painting spots just to eat them off and watch me twitch, and meanwhile it felt so good my knees wobbled. I let my head hang down, my chin pressing into my chest as I braced for more stimulation from the barrage of tongues bathing my body. 

Dylan never lifted his head. I felt him breathing on me between swipes of his wet tongue on my hole, one arm hooked around my thigh now, his bicep tightening on me, anchoring me to his mouth, and I felt the paint drying and pulling tight across my shoulders, maybe the only part not getting a group tonguing.

Dylan pushed his tongue deep inside me again, and stayed there, and Cole's fist was moving fast on me with his other hand braced on my hip, and there were still mouths working paint off my skin, and everyone was still laughing, and I felt myself cross the edge.

One guy cheered, then others joined in as I sent a squirt of my white shame onto the back cushion of the couch, my whole body tensing, my crotch spasming. The hand held my dick tightly, the guy attached to it laughing in shock as I released the rest of the long pulses. My legs straightened out under me, my ass clenching, Dylan's tongue still fighting to stay in.

"Oh my GOD."

"He's blasting. He's actually blasting off."

"Somebody get a towel."

I caught my breath as the laughing continued, the bulk of the group already moving on to their next naked, male fascination. I turned around to lean back onto the couch as Dylan sat on his heels, purple all around his mouth. He wiped it off across one big forearm, and looked up at me while I was still shaking, his abs streaked purple where his own paint had smeared.

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By the time the light in the little basement windows had turned gray, meaning the sunrise was near, the party had burned down to a dozen paint-crusted dudes and a floor of empty cups. Everybody was a disaster. Paint in our hair, under our balls, in our armpits, handprints stacked on colored handprints, saliva drying in every crevice.

"I'm not sleeping like this," Sean said, looking down at his own chest.

We had a tradition for parties that got this dirty. Penance was a naked group hose-down in the back yard, for those even bothered. Others just woke up with colorful sheets.

"Hose," Dylan said, standing up off the tarp, his big dick swinging, and guys started peeling off whatever they still had on, which for most of them was not much.

I pulled Travis's stretched-out jock the rest of the way off and dropped it on the tarp, and a handful of us walked up the stairs naked, through the kitchen, and out the back door into the cold, early morning air.

Greg, the cleanest among us, took hose duty, spraying the rest of us down in the dark while we huddled, yelping at the cold. The paint mostly rinsed off the skin. It stayed in the seams, blue and pink in the creases of our elbows and under our fingernails. When the spray hit me, Dylan stepped in and wiped my body down with both hands, palms pushing the water and the color off my chest and down my arms, scrubbing at a stubborn handprint on my ribs with his thumb. That was not a normal part of the hose-down. 

I wiped him down too when my body was done, running my hands over his abs and his big shoulders  and muscular ass while purple sheeted off him into the grass. 

"I think there's a little blue left on me," he said, looking down at me.

I grabbed his dick and squeezed it firmly. He chuckled and stepped back to take the hose from Greg, spraying him down while he turned to me.

"Grape's the worst flavor, you know," he said.

"Blue's worse," I said back, holding myself and shivering, waiting with him while the other guys already left to grab towels.

"Blue isn't a flavor."

I chuckled, and we stood there in silence for a moment, watching Greg wipe himself down, fully naked out in the open, his blonde hair flat against his head as the first streak of golden light appeared in the distance.

"Seriously though," Dylan said. "The hair thing."

"I don't know, man."

"Okay," he said, and bent over to turn off the hose.

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Later that night, upstairs in bed, my phone lit up.

Dylan: Hey

Me: What's up?

Dylan: Wanna help me clean the basement?

Me: It's late. I can't party two nights in a row.

Dylan: It'll just be us

Me: No

Dylan: The couch needs to be cleaned. Unless we just add so much cum that the stain blends in.

I chuckled, and thought for a second, sighed into my pillow, and rolled out of my bed.