Mankini Manhandled

[thelonegoonman]

The humid, salty air of the beach hung thick and heavy, a syrupy weight that clung to every surface, every sun-kissed inch of skin. It was the kind of heat that made a man forget his inhibitions, made his blood run hot and thick, but for Skylar, it was a torment. He stood on the raised wooden deck of the beach house, a beer bottle clutched in a hand that trembled ever so slightly, his other hand fidgeting with the ridiculous, neon-green strip of fabric that was the sole barrier between him and a hundred pairs of eyes.
The mankini. A cruel, hilarious, and ultimately humiliating trophy of his fraternity brothers' latest prank. It was meant to be a joke, a rite of passage, they had said. "Just for a few minutes, Skylar," they had laughed, "A little show for the crowd." But a few minutes had bled into an eternity of self-conscious agony. The thin, elastic bands dug into his shoulders, but it was the single, floss-like string that disappeared between his plump, rounded ass cheeks that caused him the most exquisite discomfort. It was a constant, abrasive whisper against his skin, a reminder of his utter vulnerability. He could feel the fabric, stretched taut and thin, rubbing against the tight, sweaty pucker of his anus, a sensation both foreign and entirely too stimulating. His cheeks, soft and shapely from years of dedicated gym work and a genetic predisposition for a generous rear, jiggled with every minute shift of his weight. It was a sight his brothers seemed to be enjoying immensely.
"Look at those jigglers, boys!" yelled Chad, the loudest and most obnoxious among them, a beer can raised in a toast. "He's got a whole damn bakery back there!"
A chorus of drunken laughter followed, punctuated by catcalls and whistles. Skylar's face burned crimson, a deep flush that crept from his neck up to his hairline. He risked a quick glance at the assembled crowd on the beach, a sea of blankets, coolers, and sunbathers. A few people were pointing, their phones raised to capture the moment. He could almost hear their snickering, a hundred small daggers aimed directly at his pride. The mortification was so potent it was almost a physical weight, pressing down on him, making him want to shrink into the wood grain of the deck. He was a jock, a star lacrosse player, a man built for speed and power, yet here he was, a spectacle of soft, feminine curves. The very thing he prided himself on—his athleticism and masculinity—was being mocked by this grotesque parody of swimwear.
One of his brothers, a man named Rick, stepped forward, a sly grin on his face. He held a bottle of champagne, a celebratory offering. "Come on, Skylar, you've been a good sport. Have a drink with us."
Rick's eyes, however, weren't on Skylar's face. They were fixed on the lush, rounded swell of his ass, on the way the fabric disappeared into the crevice between them. As Rick offered the bottle, another brother, a large, beefy man with a wide, cruel grin, sidled up behind Skylar. He gave a soft, almost appreciative chuckle.
"Hey, let's see how much that little piece of string can stretch," he slurred, his voice thick with beer.
Skylar's blood ran cold. He tried to pull away, to turn and face him, but the man's grip on the tiny strip of green fabric was firm. With a sharp, sudden motion, he yanked the material upwards, pulling it taut and high, a neon-green line bisecting the two hemispheres of Skylar's ass.
A gasp, followed by a roar of laughter, erupted from the crowd. The pressure against his puckered anus was unbearable, a sharp, intimate sting that made a low, strangled sound escape Skylar's lips. He felt the fabric stretch, felt it threaten to snap, and then felt it give, pulled so high that the cheeks of his ass were almost entirely exposed, the tight little hole a shocking and vulnerable sight for everyone to see.
"Look at that thing pop!" yelled Chad, practically collapsing in a fit of giggles. "It's like a goddamn corkscrew!"
Skylar's hands flew to his ass, attempting to pull the fabric back down, but it was useless. The humiliation was total and complete. He was on full display, his firm, rounded backside, so often hidden beneath athletic shorts, now the center of attention. The heat in his face intensified, and he could feel a different kind of heat, a confusing, shameful warmth, spreading low in his stomach. The coarse, drunken jeers of his brothers were a steady assault on his dignity, and yet, a part of him, a small, hidden, and deeply despised part, was responding. The tight, abrasive rub of the mankini, the sudden, sharp stretch of the fabric against his most intimate place, the public display of his vulnerability—it was all an overwhelming cocktail of shame and forbidden arousal.
"Let's see what else he's got to show us!" another brother yelled, a wicked glint in his eye.
This time, the hands were on the front of his mankini. Skylar let out a soundless plea, his eyes wide with a mix of terror and a strange, thrilling anticipation. He watched, as if in a trance, as the hands grabbed the fabric that covered his crotch, and with another violent, mocking tug, ripped it away.
The strip of green fabric tore with a loud, satisfying rip and snapped against his thighs, leaving him standing there, utterly exposed. He was a statue of pure, naked shame, his body now a subject of intense, clinical scrutiny. He felt the cool, sea-tinged air on his bare cock and balls, a shocking and intimate sensation. His cock, soft and retracted in his humiliation, now seemed to be stirring to life, a traitorous twitch he could not control.
"Well, look at that," Chad drawled, stepping closer, his voice low with a feigned scholarly interest. "It's a little fella, isn't it? Like a scared little turtle hiding in his shell."
A wave of mortification so intense it was dizzying washed over Skylar. He wanted to scream, to run, to bury himself in the sand and never emerge. But he was frozen, trapped by the collective gaze of his tormentors. Another brother, a tall, lean man with a scar over his eyebrow, walked up to him. He reached out a finger, and with a soft, surprising gentleness, traced the line of Skylar's cock, his finger moving from the smooth, hairless shaft down to the wrinkled skin of his balls.
"But look at the balls on him," the brother murmured, his voice a low, teasing rumble. "Heavy and full. He must have been saving up for a long time."
The touch was a shock, a violation so profound it broke through his haze of shame. Skylar flinched, but the man didn't move his hand away. Instead, he enclosed it around Skylar's cock, a firm, possessive grip that made Skylar's knees buckle. He looked up, his eyes meeting the brother's, and saw not cruelty, but a strange, possessive lust.
"You're not going to get out of this one so easily, Skylar," the brother said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Not with a body like that."
The brother began to stroke him, a slow, methodical motion that belied the public setting. Skylar's breath hitched in his throat, a sound of both protest and pleasure. His cock, so recently shrunken in shame, was now growing hard and thick in his brother's hand, a shameless, visible monument to his betrayal. The shame was a fire in his belly, but it was being drowned out by a wave of pure, animalistic lust. The drunken shouts of his brothers, the leering faces, the feel of the cool air on his slick skin, the firm, knowing hand on his cock—it was all coalescing into a single, overwhelming experience.
"He's a shy one, isn't he, boys?" Chad said, his voice triumphant. "Let's give him a little more incentive."
Two more brothers grabbed him by the arms, their grips firm and unyielding. They turned him around, presenting his plump, rounded ass to the crowd once more. The brother who was stroking him didn't stop, his hand following Skylar's cock as he was turned, keeping his hard on fully exposed. He was a living display of male humiliation, a human sacrifice to the gods of frat boy cruelty.
The same man who had ripped off his mankini now stood behind him. Skylar felt a firm slap on one of his ass cheeks, a sound that echoed across the beach. "Just a little show for the people," he said, his voice mimicking Chad's, a note of cruel mockery in his tone. The brother behind him slapped his other cheek. Skylar let out a gasp, feeling his ass cheeks jiggle from the impact. A third brother came up to him, a cruel glint in his eye. He reached for Skylar's butt hole, his finger tracing its shape, drawing a soft, wet line that made Skylar squirm with a mix of shame and pleasure. His cock, now fully erect, pulsed and twitched in the brother's hand.
"Look at him," another brother jeered, "he's a natural."
Skylar felt his shame begin to recede, replaced by a deep, throbbing heat. The public humiliation, the rough hands on his body, the lewd comments—it was all a heady mix that was pushing him to the edge. He was a toy, a plaything, a piece of meat to be admired and abused. He felt the brother's finger press deeper into his puckered hole, a soft, intimate pressure that made his cock twitch again in the other man's hand.
"What's the matter, Skylar?" the brother whispered into his ear, his voice a low, seductive rumble. "You like what we're doing to you, don't you? You're a dirty little slut, aren't you?"
The words, a blend of insult and seduction, were the final piece of the puzzle. The shame he had felt was gone, replaced by a wave of pure, unadulterated lust. He was a slut, a freak, a walking joke. And he loved it. He loved the feel of their hands on his body, the sound of their lewd words in his ears, the public display of his deepest, darkest desires. The man behind him gave his ass another firm slap, and this time, Skylar's hips gave a small, involuntary twitch, a silent plea for more. His cock, fully erect and glistening in the sun, was a testament to his debasement, a proud, shameless flag of his new, filthy identity. His hands, no longer trying to cover his shame, were now hanging uselessly at his sides, as he forgot his pride, his past, and his desire to fit in, and gave himself over to the degrading, erotic reality his brothers had created for him.

 

[thelonegoonman]

The sun, a fiery god of its own, beat down upon the beach, its light a harsh, unforgiving spotlight on Skylar's predicament. The sand, a gritty canvas of a thousand forgotten footprints, burned against his bare soles. It had started as a joke, a simple prank. His 'frat brothers,' a pack of roaring wolves barely a week into their pledge, had pilfered his swim trunks, leaving him only with the neon-green abomination of a mankini. A prize they’d won at some seaside booth, a garment as thin as a thread and as bright as a fool’s hope. "Just for a little show, Skylar!" one of them, a broad-shouldered beast named Chad, had cackled, holding the stolen trunks just out of reach.
Skylar, in his naivete, had put it on. The fabric, a humiliatingly flimsy ribbon of lime green, was a cruel joke against his pale skin. It stretched tight across his chest, a V-shape that plunged down his torso, barely concealing the front. But it was the back that truly mocked him. A single, thin strap disappeared between his plump, generous ass cheeks, a mere suggestion of coverage against the world. Every step he took, every shift of his hips, was an exercise in self-conscious jiggling. His shame, a hot, prickly blanket, seemed to radiate from his tight, sweaty puckhole, which the floss-like fabric constantly rubbed and teased. He could feel it, the incessant friction against his sensitive skin, a perverse reminder of his exposure.
"Oh, look at that, boys! Skylar's got some junk in the trunk!" another voice, belonging to a gangly pledge named Dylan, hollered, and the pack of young men howled with laughter. Skylar’s cheeks, already flushed from the sun, burned hotter. He tried to ignore them, focusing on the rhythmic crash of the waves, the distant cries of gulls. Anything but the lewd stares and the constant feeling of that thin strap digging into his ass. He could feel the soft, shapely mounds of his backside uncontrollably clapping and wobbling with every move. It was a defiant display of his own body's voluptuous effeminate curves, a natural, undeniable part of him that he usually kept hidden.
"Come on, Skylar, give us a twirl!" Chad roared, and the others chanted his name.
“This is just a game,” Skylar thought, his mind a panicked scramble. “Just a game, and then it’ll be over. They’ll give me my trunks back. They have to.”
He held his head low, but the shame, the embarrassment, was a potent perfume that only fueled their cruelty. He walked, as if on display, a specimen of humiliation. The mankini felt less like clothing and more like a leash, tugging and pulling him along for their amusement. He tried to walk with a casual swagger, but it was impossible. The fabric, already strained, felt as though it might snap at any moment. The thought sent a jolt of panic—and something else, something shameful and hot—through him. He was a performance, a spectacle, and he was beginning to feel the heat of their gaze not just as a burden, but as a kind of perverse, thrilling energy.
Then, the true cruelty began. One of the pledges, a boy with a cruel glint in his eye, snuck up behind him. With a quick, vicious yank, he grabbed the back strap of the mankini and pulled. Skylar gasped, a sharp, choked sound as the thin fabric was ripped from between his cheeks. The sudden, freeing snap of the cloth was a shock, followed by a rush of cool air against his now-exposed ass. His buttocks, white and untouched by the sun, were a jarring contrast to his tanned thighs. The boys erupted into a fresh wave of laughter, a symphony of jeers and catcalls.
“Look at that ass! Like two plump peaches begging to be eaten!” Chad yelled, and another pledge whistled.
Skylar stood there, frozen. The mankini, now a loose, useless thing hanging from his front, was no longer a joke, but a brand of his new, mortifying reality. The world, for him, had shrunk to this small patch of beach, to the jeering faces of his brothers, and the humiliating exposure of his naked ass to the world. He felt an unbearable heat creep up his neck, a combination of fury and mortification. The humiliation was so complete, so all-encompassing, that it began to warp, to twist into something else. The sharp, burning shame began to give way to a strange, tingling thrill. The air, which had been cool against his skin, now felt like a sensual caress.
He felt another hand, this one belonging to Chad, slap one of his plump cheeks. "A little padding for my pledge!" he declared, and the resounding smack was a loud, vulgar punctuation to the scene. The shock of the touch, the stinging of his skin, sent a jolt through Skylar's entire body. He instinctively squeezed his cheeks together, the muscles clenching in a tight, involuntary spasm. The action, however, only seemed to emphasize their roundness, their firmness.
"Damn, that thing's got a mind of its own," Dylan said, a low, appreciative whistle in his voice. “I wonder what else he’s got hiding back there. That hole looks so tight…”
Skylar's breathing grew shallow. He could feel the eyes on him, not just on his ass, but now on the front of his body, where the useless fabric of the mankini barely covered his burgeoning erection. The cold, wet hand of a new sensation, lust, was beginning to rub away the rawness of his shame. His cock, which had been shriveling in his shame, now began to stir. It was a traitorous act, an awful betrayal of his own mind, but his body had a different agenda. The humiliation, the degrading words, the rough touch, it was all working a strange magic, a powerful aphrodisiac that was starting to drown out his sense of propriety.
His head, still bowed, lifted slightly. He saw a few of the boys were now pulling down their own shorts, showing off their bodies. Not in a vulgar way, but in a taunting, dominant display of their own masculinity. Skylar, still in his ridiculous outfit, felt the contrast keenly. He was the object, the entertainment, the one to be poked and prodded. The thin strip of green fabric hung loosely, a limp joke against the hard, rising truth of his erection. He could feel the blood rushing there, a heavy, throbbing pulse that seemed to beat in time with the ocean's roar.
"What's that, little pledge?" Chad's voice was a low growl, a predator circling its prey. He reached out and, with a swift, merciless motion, yanked the mankini from the front. The fabric, unable to handle the sudden tension, tore with a sharp rip. The last vestige of his dignity was gone, and Skylar stood before them completely naked, his cock a proud, pulsing monument to his shame. A murmur went through the group.
"Fucking hell, look at that," someone whispered, a new note of awe and desire creeping into the mockery.
Skylar's hands went to his crotch, a futile attempt to hide what was now fully on display. But the sight of his trembling hands, the way his body was reacting, only seemed to egg them on. The laughter had died down, replaced by a charged, predatory silence. The game had changed. It was no longer about a prank; it was about power, about dominance, about the sheer, intoxicating thrill of breaking a man and seeing what he became.
"You like it, don't you, little fucker?" Chad’s voice was close, his breath hot against Skylar's ear. "You like being watched. You like being our little plaything."
Skylar’s mind screamed in protest, but his body was a liar. The shame was there, a dull ache in his stomach, but it was being eclipsed by a wave of raw, animalistic need. The degrading words were no longer just insults; they were dirty promises. The feel of the sun on his naked skin, the gritty sand between his toes, the wind whipping at his bare ass—it was all a sensory overload, a whirlwind of shame and arousal that left him breathless. He couldn't move. He could only stand there, a vision of naked vulnerability, stroking his cock, his own hand a stranger to him, in front of the silent, watching crowd. They had taken his clothes, his dignity, and now they were taking his control. And in the dark, twisted corner of his mind, a voice, not his own, but a part of him now, whispered, "Please, don't stop." He was theirs, a big booty cheeked white jock, a mankini-wearing freak, and they had just begun to play.

 

[thelonegoonman]

Sound on!

 

[thelonegoonman]

Men with Meaty Mounds Modeling Mankinis: Manhandled and Masculine Mockery