Frat Boy Butt-Painting Party 03: Circlejerk (Patreon)

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Chapter 3: Circlejerk

I was standing barefoot on the upstairs landing in gym shorts and a t-shirt with my phone still in my hand when the bathroom door banged open and Travis came out holding Greg's conditioner over his head.

"Let's do it," he said, and went for the stairs.

Greg came out of his room a second later in basketball shorts and no shirt, moving fast. "That's a forty-eight dollar bottle, dude."

"My dick only takes the best."

Greg just sighed, following us down the stairs.

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“Circlejerk” had been a frequent joke among us for as long as I’d lived in that house, the word got thrown around all the time. But things changed after my public boner and letting everyone jerk me off. I knew what I was doing when I threw it in the chat. This time something was brewing, and every one of us silently knew that we would be escalating, taking the joke farther than it had ever gone. The testosterone was in the air.

The basement still had the tarp balled up in the doorway from the party and it smelled like the cleaner Sean had been using all day. The black lights were off now and it had the warm-lit tinge of a normal frat house basement. Somebody dragged the standing lamp into the corner and turned it to face the wall so the whole room dimmed to a dull orange. The couch was against the back wall, the coffee table shoved off to the side, the busted armchair slumping next to it, and a clear stretch of floor in front of the couch where a fresh tarp got kicked flat with somebody's heel.

Guys came down in mostly in whatever they'd slept in, boxers, shorts, whatever, and most of them still had some color on them from the party.

Travis had a green smudge across his chest, Greg's fingernails were rimmed in pink, and there was blue dried into the creases of more than one set of knuckles. Little freshman Cole walked in wearing a long t-shirt and nothing under it, walking around with his junk out, even more brazen than normal, and when the shirt rode up you could see the colored handprints on his ass, and no one said anything about it. Brad came down in jeans with his backpack still on one shoulder. Dylan came last with a towel over his shoulder and took the far end of the couch without saying anything. The conditioner hit the coffee table with a plastic knock.

"Forty-eight dollars," Greg said. "Each of you owes me three fifty."

Sean came down with a folded white bedsheet under his arm.

He didn't look at a single person. He shook the sheet out over the whole couch, tucked it under the cushions along the seams, and ran both palms across it to flatten it, pushing the wrinkles toward the arms.

"I'm not doing this twice," he said, still facing the fabric. "I scrubbed that cushion for an hour today, and it still smells like balls."

Then he sat down on the end of the sheet, and stayed there.

Everybody settled. A few others joined me on the couch, Travis cross-legged on the tarp with his back against the armchair, Cole on the floor by the couch arm, Brad standing by the stairs with the backpack still on his shoulder. I took the middle cushion because it was the one that was open, which put me thigh to thigh with Dylan on one side and Sean on the other, with my left foot being partially sat on by Cole's bare ass, and I didn't move it. 

Somebody started a video on a laptop propped on the coffee table facing the group, and everyone started shifting, our hands hanging around our dick area, sort of waiting for someone else to instigate it. The audio was terrible, tinny and blown out through the little speakers, but nobody got up to fix it. I quickly realized that the porn was playing to an essentially empty audience. Everybody was looking around at everybody else instead, and then Dylan pulled down his underwear and started whacking his big meat, getting it hard.

The others followed suit, and waistbands quickly came down to thighs. A couple guys kicked their shorts and underwear off entirely and threw them at the armchair, and Travis's hit Greg in the head, and Greg left them there for a minute.

The mechanics of eight dudes getting a circlejerk started in one room were interesting. Greg's conditioner traveled the circle hand to hand, each guy squeezing a glob into his palm and passing it on, watching the next guy squirt it into his own hand and rub it into his shaft. I was hard before my shorts even got to my knees. So was everybody, all of it right there in front of me in the warm lighting.

The laptop was garbage, and guys mostly just looked at each other, while nobody remarked on it. Cole was on the floor with his knees up and his head back against the couch arm. Travis leaned back on his hands with his hips pushed out, showing off, because Travis had a bigger dick than average and never missed a chance to show it off. Dylan, with the actual biggest dick, had his legs open wide enough on the couch that his thigh pressed warmly into mine, and I didn't move my leg. I admitted to myself internally that I liked it. 

Sean, on the other side of me, had pulled the hem of his own t-shirt out over his lap and was working himself under it, hidden.

"Volume," somebody said.

"That's as loud as it goes," Greg said.

I glanced over and Dylan wasn't watching the laptop. He was watching me.

Travis got up on his knees on the tarp, announcing, "Two hands, watch. Two hands."

He stacked both fists on himself and pumped them together, making the rest of us chuckle. Somebody threw a paper towel roll at him.

Greg answered from the armchair. He stood all the way up, put both hands behind his head, and started thrusting into open air, his dick flying up and clapping against his lean stomach, staring down the room with his elbows out.

"NO HANDS," he said loudly over the tinny laptop.

Then Dylan responded. He kept his one hand working on his thick dick, and made a show of putting his other hand flat on my thigh, high up, and slid it slowly up the inside toward my crotch without ever taking his eyes off Travis. He played it like it was part of the joke, like he was making a point, an escalation, an implied dare. My heart raced as I forced my face to show only mild amusement. 

The group laughed along, reading it as a bit.

I had a dude's hand on my inner thigh and my own hand still on my dick, and my back braced hard into the couch cushion, and Sean, next to me, got very quiet.

Travis did something with a paper towel that made Brad laugh so hard he had to put a hand on the wall. Greg squatted and did some kind of hip circle that made his balls clap loudly against his leg, hands free, and that made the entire room laugh, everyone still jerking themselves at the same time. And every round, Dylan answered by doing something else to me. His hand went higher. Then his palm dragged over my balls and stayed. Then he closed his hand around me and took over the job completely, and my own hands ended up flat on the sheet at my sides, just bracing.

The room kept laughing. But the laughs came a beat later with every escalation.

Dylan slid off the couch onto the tarp and knelt sideways in front of me with one forearm braced across my knee. He looked down into the crease where my hip met my thigh and thumbed at it.

"He's still blue," he said, loudly, holding my leg up a little so the corner of the room could see. "Look. The hose missed it. He showered and everything."

There was a stripe of dried paint down in the crease, thin and cracked.

He leaned forward slowly, his breath hitting my balls, and right in front of everyone, he licked it. One long flat pass up the crease, slowly, all the way to my hip bone.

The room went off, hollering. It was a callback to the night before, and the manic energy of the party was back.

He did it again, lower, while everyone watched. He did it a third time somewhere there was no paint at all, and I reached for the front edge of the couch and gripped it.

The laughing thinned out.

I reached over and took hold of his heavy dick between his legs, and I stroked him with the conditioner still slick on my palm, watching my own hand do it, and neither of us looked at anybody else.

"Alright," Greg said from somewhere like he was trying to make the mood light again. "Alright, alright."

It didn't get a laugh.

Dylan's mouth moved from my hip down to my balls and sucked them in together, nursing them while he stroked my rod slowly up and down, and my fingers stayed wrapped around his dick, unable to touch on the other side.

It got so quiet that I could finally hear the laptop.

Cole groaned next to me, his butt tensing against my leg, reminding me that he was right there. He finished onto the floor, squirting a healthy load right next to Dylan, getting a drop or two on his foot, loudly cursing, looking mortified for some reason by the volume of jizz that had exploded out of him. Greg started clapping slowly, and the room applauded him and he grabbed his shirt off the tarp and bounced his bare ass up the stairs two at a time.

The guys had never stopped stroking themselves, and Travis barely drew the attention of the group as he squirted into a paper towel off the roll on the coffee table. He stayed for another minute, sitting there wiping himself off, before he left too.

And Dylan kept licking me while he jerked me off. Everyone had accepted it, just aiming to finish themselves off now.

Greg finished. Greg left.

The room quieted down with each one out the door.

Sean finished onto his stomach without making any sound at all, and Brad left mid-stroke, wordlessly taking his cumshot upstairs. 

The room kept shrinking, and smelling increasingly like cum as I watched my frat brother nurse my balls, lick my taint, and edge me with his hand, taking big whiffs of me every few seconds. He really was into whatever it was we were doing, and it was rocking my world what he was willing to do with another guy's crotch. 

And every time one of the guys stood up, it become more and more of a me and Dylan show.

When the last guy left, it was me on the couch with Dylan, and Greg's conditioner on the coffee table and the laptop still playing a bad video for nobody.

Dylan reached over and picked the bottle up and turned it so the label faced me.

"It's so fancy," he said.

"Yeah."

I got up off the tarp and put myself face down on the couch, on Sean's fresh sheet, chest and stomach on the cushions, forearms folded under my head, knees up on the seat and my feet pointed toward the couch arm so my ass angled up.

Dylan followed me, kneeling on the cushion behind me, his chest against the back of my thighs.

He finally did what my body had been begging for in the back of my mind, and worked the conditioner around my ass with one hand, and put his other hand on my cheek, holding me open, and he took his time about it. He circled first, just the pad of one finger, until my hips started tilting on their own to chase his finger. He pushed, and one finger went in, and that ring of muscle in my ass gripped down on him, and I felt it hold for a few seconds, and then let go on its own.

Then he put in a second one, and the stretch of it made me put my forehead down into my forearm as I breathed through my mouth against the sheet.

He curled them and found that spot inside of me that suddenly made everything run smoother. He found it faster than I had found it on myself, and he stayed right on it, reading my response, keeping a small pressure on it, pushing it over and over, and my toes curled against the cushion and my dick started leaking onto the couch sheet.

He stopped. His hand went still inside me and he rested there, waiting, the weight of the other palm firm on my lower back.

I pushed back onto his hand.

His other hand came up my spine, thumb dragging along the groove of it, and stopped between my shoulder blades.

He rose up and got one knee next to me, his muscular leg radiating heat onto me. And then he brought up the other leg, straddling the backs of my thighs, and the frame of that couch took his weight, indenting low, the frame of it creaking.

I went flat, bringing my legs together between his, my forearms under my forehead, my head turned sideways against the fresh sheet, and his chest came down over my back with one hand planted on the cushion beside my shoulder and the other one guiding himself.

I felt his heavy dick resting on my ass, and then I felt pressure.

It stopped right there, and my opening didn't give in, and I had a second to think about the shower and how two fingers had already felt like a lot. I made myself breathe out all the way, everything in my lungs, into the sheet.

And my body stopped resisting, taking him in.

It was the same surrender I had felt in the shower, the exact same ring of muscle, slowly letting go, except at a scale I had nothing to compare it to. He went slowly, but the stretch still made my eyes water. And he didn't stop again until his hips were against my ass.

He didn't narrate any of it as he began his slow in-an-out, all the way through his length, every stroke, an unhurried drag out and back in with his forehead near my ear.

Every time he pushed in he ran right over the pressure spot I'd found on myself, that inflate button, except now it was a full-length pass over it instead of a fingertip, and it built up a tension somewhere below my stomach and did not let up between strokes. My hands worked into the cushion, kneading it, and pulled the whole corner of it out from under the cushion, bunched up in both fists.

My dick was trapped between my stomach and the cushion, and I could feel myself getting more and more excited, the movement translating from the back to the front. I bit down on my own forearm and made a high-pitched sound, boyish and strange, and I couldn't stop it, and he didn't slow down or speed up.

"I'm gonna cum," he grunted behind my head, the first words he had said since we had wound up alone.

I felt the whole length of him pulse in my ass, and he finished in me with his forehead pressed down between my shoulder blades, breathing heavily onto my back.

I felt my own orgasm rise within me, more rapid than I expected, and I squirted into the couch cushion under my own stomach, hard, my legs kicking straight out from under his, my hole locking down around him and not letting go.

His weight slowly sank down onto my back, keeping me in place, and I could feel his breathing on the wet skin of my neck.

Then a floorboard creaked on the stairs.

The stairs were behind the couch and off to the side, so I had to turn my head the other way on the sheet to see, and neither of us hurried, because there was no reason to hide at this point. Dylan didn't  even shift off of me.

There was Cole, standing partway down, in the same t-shirt, arms at his sides, in the shadow where the lamp didn't reach well. Nobody moved for a second. Dylan stayed heavy on my back, still inside me, his chin resting on my shoulder now, both of us looking at Cole looking at us.

"How long have you been there?" I said.

"A while," Cole said.

He came down the last few stairs and stopped at the edge of the tarp, and the long t-shirt did nothing for the bottom half of him, because he was hard again, sticking straight out under the hem, and he made no attempt to hide it.

Dylan pulled out of me slowly, and I felt his cum follow, warm down the back of my thigh and onto Sean's fresh sheet.

"Bro," he said. "You took all of that?"

"He did," Dylan said, and patted my hip.

Cole nodded slowly.

"Can I be in it next time?"

"In what?" Dylan said.

"Whatever this is."

"Sure," I said.

He turned and took the stairs two at a time, the handprints on his ass flashing under the shirt hem with every step.

We balled up the sheet, shut the laptop mid-video, and killed the lamp, and he walked me up to the second floor with his hand warm on my upper back.

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Sean washed his sheet, folded it, and left it on my bed with a sticky note that said yours now. I put it on my own mattress.

We threw more paint parties after that one. Brad bought the edible paint again on purpose, and no one questioned it, and every party got gayer faster than the last, and somehow it kept boosting our reputation on campus instead of tanking it. It turns out it's pretty common for straight guys to enjoy some occasional nude male bonding.

Sean eventually bought a clear plastic couch cover and posted a photo of it in the chat with no caption. Guys complained that it stuck to their bare skin. Sean muted the thread.

Greg moved his conditioner up to his room, and it kept ending up in the basement anyway, so he taped a price list to the bathroom mirror. Dylan bought his own bottle eventually, the same fancy kind. He kept it in my shower.

"Circlejerk" hit the group chat about once a month after that, and the little raised-hand emojis stacked up under it every time, Cole's always first, and always twice.

Then one night, late, my phone lit up on my chest.

Dylan: Wanna help me clean the basement?

Me: The basement is clean

Dylan: I know

I rolled out of bed the same way I had the first time.