The Beta Nu Omega house, usually a symphony of bass-heavy rap, boisterous laughter, and the clatter of beer pong, had a different rhythm tonight. A low, insistent hum, almost a purr, emanated from the living room, punctuated by Andre's deep chuckle. Hunter, the fraternity's unlikely outlier, stood awkwardly in the center of the plush rug, his athletic shorts riding low on his hips, a pair of thin, sheer boxers barely containing the impressive swell of his buttocks. His ass, a truly remarkable piece of architecture on his otherwise lean, toned frame, was a source of constant, almost obsessive fascination for the rest of the brothers. Andre, a mountainous man of muscle and charisma, clapped his hands together, his eyes, dark and knowing, fixed on Hunter's backside.
"Am I doing this right?" Hunter asked, his voice a little strained, a faint blush creeping up his neck. He tried a tentative shake, a movement more akin to a nervous twitch than a confident gyration.
"Yeah," Andre rumbled, pulling out his phone. "Lemme record you so you can see." Hunter's eyes widened, a flicker of panic, quickly replaced by a strange, almost hungry anticipation. "So when you're twerking you gotta shake your ass so hard that your hole shows. Then you pull your drawers up before you get caught. Only the homies can see." Andre demonstrated with a sharp, controlled thrust of his own hips, a quick, almost imperceptible flick of his shorts.
"Aw shit man, idk…" Hunter mumbled, his gaze dropping to the floor. The idea of deliberately exposing himself, even for a split second, was daunting, yet the collective gaze of the brothers gathered around him was a heady, intoxicating weight. He felt their eyes, hot and assessing, on his caramel-colored skin, on the taut fabric straining over his fat caramel cheeks. He could practically feel the warmth emanating from their stares.
"Bro, it's chill, we all do it. That's why you see us with our ass hanging out. It means we twerk for the bros." Andre's voice was smooth, persuasive, laced with a deceptive casualness that belied the true intent. He knew what he was doing. He knew what they all wanted.
"Aw shit fr?" Hunter asked, looking up, a flicker of genuine curiosity, mingled with a desperate longing for acceptance, in his wide, innocent eyes.
"Yeah dude, idk if they gonna do it for you since you a white boy and shit like that," Andre continued, his voice dropping conspiratorially, "but if you keep doing it, they might accept you, you feel me?" It was a lie, a beautiful, cruel deception that played perfectly into Hunter's deepest insecurities and desires. The "acceptance" they offered was of a very specific, very carnal nature. They didn't just want him in the fraternity; they wanted him used by it.
"...aight man…" Hunter finally conceded, a breath sighing out of him, a subtle tremor running through his body. He felt a shift, a crack in the wall of his inhibitions. The unspoken invitation in Andre's words, the promise of belonging, was too powerful to resist.
From that night on, the Beta Nu Omega house became Hunter's new, deliciously deviant reality. The "twerking for bros" ritual was just the beginning, a gateway to a world where his body was no longer his own, but a communal playground, constantly adored and exploited.
It was initiation night, a blur of rituals and chants, but for Hunter, one moment stood out with stark clarity. He’d just completed a particularly humiliating task, emerging from a makeshift tunnel smeared with god-knows-what, his thin white t-shirt clinging to his sweat-slicked body. As he stumbled into the main hall, disoriented and reeking, he found himself face to face with Andre, the fraternity's undisputed alpha. Andre's eyes, usually a playful darkness, were now burning with a possessive intensity that made Hunter's stomach clench. He reached out, his large hand gripping Hunter’s ass through the soaked fabric of his shorts, a bold, undeniable squeeze that made Hunter gasp, a shiver running down his spine. Andre leaned in, his voice a low growl that only Hunter could hear, thick with triumph and unspoken promises. "You're ours now, white boy. Every inch of you." It wasn't a question, but a declaration, a possessive claim that echoed in the very marrow of Hunter's bones. And in that moment, as Andre’s fingers kneaded his yielding flesh, pressing into the soft, abundant curve of his buttock, Hunter felt a profound, almost dizzying surrender. He was no longer just a pledge; he was claimed. The shame was there, a hot blush on his cheeks, but beneath it, a strange, intoxicating thrill pulsed, a recognition of his new, undeniably carnal status.
The "brotherly affection" escalated. A hand brushing over his ass as he walked past became a casual, possessive squeeze. A rough pat on the back would somehow always stray lower, fingers digging into the plump flesh of his glutes. "Damn, Hunter, you been hitting the squats or somethin'?" Big Mike, the linebacker of the house, would grunt, his massive hand cupping a full cheek, kneading it like dough. "This thing just keeps getting bigger." Hunter would blush, a deeper flush now, and a strange tremor would run through him. He'd pretend to squirm away, but his movements were less rejection, more a subtle invitation for them to deepen their hold. His "big thick pink sensitive nipples" became another focal point. "Man, you got some nice nips, Hunter," DeShawn, the quietest of the brothers, would observe, his fingers lightly pinching one through Hunter's thin t-shirt. "Look at 'em, all hard and pretty." Hunter's breath would catch, a silent gasp of pleasure mixed with the thrill of being so openly desired, so completely exposed. He loved the shock of their rough hands on his smooth, sensitive skin, the casual intimacy of their touches. He began to subtly arch his back when they grabbed him, presenting his ass more fully, unconsciously inviting their hands to wander, to explore.
The comments, once whispered, grew bolder, more direct. "That white boy got a booty on him, for real," he'd overhear Andre say to another brother, their voices low, but loud enough for him to catch. "Built for sin, that one." And he'd feel a rush, a dizzying surge of pride and perverse satisfaction. "Look at him, walkin' around like he don't know what he got back there," Jamal would comment, watching Hunter cross the room, his eyes devouring the sway of his hips. "He knows. Oh, he definitely knows. He loves it." And Jamal was right. Hunter did love it. He loved the way their eyes followed him, the hunger in their gazes, the unspoken appreciation of his body. He was the center of their attention, their beautiful, forbidden secret. He had become the house ornament, the living flesh that provided endless temptation and pleasure.
The heat of the Beta Nu Omega house was a constant, stifling presence, and Hunter, now fully compliant with the brothers' unspoken dress code, often wore little more than a pair of flimsy shorts, or, on special nights, a single, provocative garment. Tonight, a raucous Friday night mixer, he had been 'encouraged' to wear only a sheer pair of white bikini briefs. The thin, almost transparent fabric, impossibly skimpy, practically vanished against his tanned skin, yet somehow managed to wedge and ride up deep between his heavy, plump ass cheeks, creating an almost painful, yet undeniably alluring, cameltoe effect in his posterior. Every movement, every sway of his hips as he navigated the crowded living room, sent a ripple through the thin material, highlighting the deep division of his "wobblers." The brothers' eyes followed him, a collective hungry gaze that fueled a burning heat in his gut, a mix of apprehension and eager anticipation.
Then, a chorus of hoots and hollers erupted from a knot of brothers near the makeshift bar. Hunter turned, a nervous smile on his face, just as a figure, fueled by cheap beer and unbridled lust, broke free from the group. It was Kevin, one of the younger pledges, usually reserved, but tonight, transformed into a crazed, grinning beast. He darted towards Hunter, his eyes wide and unfocused, fixed solely on Hunter’s spectacular backside. Hunter gasped, a strangled sound, as Kevin reached him, his hand shooting out. He didn’t just grab; he dug his fingers between Hunter's massive, jiggling cheeks, plunging into the tight, warm valley where the bikini briefs had wedged. With a grunt of effort, Kevin yanked. The flimsy fabric offered no resistance, tearing away from Hunter's body with a faint, almost imperceptible whisper of parting threads.
Hunter cried out, a sound that was half shock, half pleasure, as the sheer white bikini briefs vanished, clutched in Kevin's triumphant fist. He was suddenly, utterly, gloriously naked from the waist down, his fat caramel cheeks now completely exposed to the harsh, unforgiving glare of the party lights and the ravenous gazes of dozens of frat brothers. His meaty clappers quivered from the sudden liberation, shimmering with a fine sheen of sweat. A collective roar of approval, a primal chorus of whistles and shouts, erupted from the gawking members. "YEAH, HUNTER!" "GET IT, WHITE BOY!" "LOOK AT THAT ASS!" The shouts washed over him, drowning out the last vestiges of his shame. He stood there, frozen for a moment, his cheeks burning, his nipples rock-hard from the sudden exposure, then, almost unconsciously, his hips began to sway, a subtle, almost involuntary twerk. The attention, the sheer, unadulterated focus on his body, was intoxicating. He felt a surge of power, a delicious, dizzying rush as he realized he was their undisputed center, their object of worship, their plaything.
The humping and sliding ritual wasn't a sudden event, but a slow, insidious creep into the fabric of daily house life. It began subtly, with playful wrestling that always seemed to end with one of the brothers pressed intimately against Hunter's rear, their hips grinding, their cocks, hard and demanding, sliding against his plump, yielding cheeks. "Oops, my bad, bro," they'd grunt, but their eyes would be alight with a perverse satisfaction, their bodies lingering a moment too long. Hunter's moans, initially muffled in surprise, became softer, more drawn out, tinged with a desperate, burgeoning desire. He'd feel the warmth of their erections, the rough denim or soft cotton of their boxers pressing into his skin, the almost unbearable friction of muscle on meat. His hips would instinctively buck, meeting their thrusts, a silent invitation to deepen the pressure.
One sweltering afternoon, Hunter was napping on the couch, clad only in his sheer boxers, the fabric stretched thin over his ample bottom. Andre walked by, then paused. He ran a hand over Hunter's exposed cheek, warm and heavy. Hunter stirred, a sleepy moan escaping his lips. Andre knelt, his face close to Hunter's ear. "Wakey, wakey, sleepyhead," he murmured, his voice a low thrum. Then, without a word, he unzipped his shorts, his hard dick pressing against the thin material of Hunter's boxers, directly against the deep cleavage of his ass. He began to grind, slowly, methodically, his hips pumping, his body moving in a steady, relentless rhythm. Hunter's eyes flew open, his breath catching. He could feel the hard ridge of Andre's cock, the undeniable pressure, the intoxicating friction. He arched his back, pressing himself more fully into the rhythmic thrusts, a low moan vibrating in his throat. Andre's hands wrapped around his hips, holding him firm, as he continued to hump, grunting with effort, until his hips bucked with a final, shuddering thrust.
Another time, after a particularly raucous party, Hunter found himself pinned against the kitchen counter by Jamal and Big Mike. Both were slightly drunk, their eyes glazed with lust. Jamal, grinning wolfishly, pulled down Hunter's loose shorts, exposing his naked ass to the cool kitchen air. Big Mike, without a word, positioned himself behind Hunter, pushing his hips forward, then began to thrust, his hard dick sliding between Hunter's massive cheeks. "Feel that, white boy?" Big Mike grunted, his breath hot on Hunter's neck. "That's how we welcome you to the family." Hunter whimpered, his hands gripping the countertop, his body trembling as the thick, insistent friction built. Jamal, meanwhile, leaned in front, his hands kneading Hunter's big, thick pink sensitive nipples through his shirt, twisting them until they ached with pleasure, forcing out small, choked gasps. The combined sensations were overwhelming, humiliating, and utterly, deliciously arousing.
The pinnacle of Hunter's newfound role came during the annual 'Brotherhood BBQ.' Hunter, at Andre's "suggestion," was wearing only a flimsy, unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt and nothing underneath, his magnificent ass swinging freely beneath the barely-there fabric. Andre had positioned him next to the cooler, making him the de facto "drink boy." But his true purpose was far more carnal. As brothers came to grab drinks, they'd 'accidentally' brush against his exposed rear, their hands lingering, or their hips pressing into him. DeShawn, feigning a casual lean, would press his hard erection against Hunter’s unsuspecting backside, grinding subtly while Hunter bent to retrieve a beer. Hunter, now fully attuned to their intentions, would subtly shift, presenting his buttock more invitingly, a soft moan barely audible beneath the party's din.
Later, as the evening wore on and the beer flowed freely, Andre, with a mischievous glint in his eye, patted the spot beside him on the outdoor bench. "Come sit here, Hunter," he said, beckoning him over. Hunter, utterly compliant, sat down. But Andre had other plans. He pulled Hunter closer, until Hunter was practically in his lap, his naked ass pressed firmly against Andre's crotch. Then, Andre leaned back, pulling Hunter's legs over his own, effectively turning Hunter into a living cushion, his backside now a public seat for any brother who wished to lean against him. Throughout the rest of the evening, various brothers took turns, some standing, some sitting, all of them finding excuses to press their hard-ons against Hunter’s plump, yielding ass cheeks. He was constantly touched, squeezed, rubbed against, his pink nipples aching from the casual pinches and brushes they received. He was the house bitch, their personal, living sex object, and in the haze of beer and pervasive desire, Hunter found he loved every degrading, exhilarating moment of it.
Hunter was no longer just the "white boy" in the black fraternity. He was their white boy, their ass-boy, their house bitch. The initial shame had long since evaporated, replaced by a deep, almost primal satisfaction. He reveled in the constant attention, the hands that were always on him, the lewd comments that now seemed like sweet endearments. He loved the way his large, round ass became a magnet, drawing their eyes, their hands, their throbbing desires. He loved the feeling of their hard cocks pressing against his flesh, the rhythmic grinding that left him breathless and aching for more. He was perpetually aroused, his "big thick pink sensitive nipples" often engorged, his body humming with a constant undercurrent of sexual tension. He lived for their touch, for their grunts of pleasure as they used him. His acceptance was complete, his surrender absolute. He was a piece of living, breathing meat, designed for their gratification, and in their raw, uninhibited desire, Hunter found a perverse freedom, a liberation from his own inhibitions. He had found his place, his purpose, and he embraced it with every fiber of his being.
