Capital H



Rummaging through his dresser, Benjamin "Skip" Mackintosh grabbed his pair of lucky jeans. Now he was ready to finish getting dressed.

Today was the crucial game for the State University Hawks in their try for the National College Football championships. Skip had worn these same pants when he had attended each of the State Hawks games this year. It was imperative not to break the procedure he had followed before the other victorious games.

Skip loved going to the Hawk games. All the guys in his fraternity at State U. were as rabid about the team as he was. One of the best parts of the Saturday game was how all the guys piled together in a van to head out to the stadium. Skip loved feeling crushed in the back of the minitruck between the beefy guys in his frat as they bounced along the road. They popped some beers and the heat from the young, masculine bodies pressed against his, touched him deep inside his stomach.

Skip stopped in the center of his room and caught his image in the full-length mirror hanging inside his closet door. He saw how his face had become all flushed from thinking of what it was going to be like in the back of that van, pressed between maybe broad-shouldered Matt, or perhaps Joe, just to name two of the studly brothers in the frat. Not that Skip wasn't their equal in young masculinity. He was quite the specimen of twenty-year old manflesh. You could tell from what was reflecting through the dust clinging to the polished surface of his closet mirror.

Skip had green-gray-hazel eyes that kept everyone guessing about what was going on in their changing colors. Skip's eyes looked at how his firm pecs bulged due to his strenuous workouts. And Skip's eyes saw the taut abdominals beneath. And Skip's eyes were fascinated at how the coil of his navel made a tiny semicircle that pointed downward to his white jockey shorts. The normally healthy-sized bulge in those briefs had inflated into an obvious hard-on.

Skip looked away from the mirror. He began to draw his lucky jeans onto his legs and stuff his swollen dick into the indigo denim. It annoyed him how thinking of his van ride with his frat buddies always seemed to get a rise out of him.

Zipping up his jeans, it was about time for Skip to don his equally lucky socks. When he picked up the thick cotton white athletic socks he noticed a ragged nail on his right foot's big toe. He decided to trim it then and there. He couldn't risk tearing his lucky socks!

He grabbed a nail clipper and rested his right foot on his desk, just beneath the bright reading lamp. Trimming the nail, Skip studied his foot. How big it seemed. It was size twelve and, although Skip was six foot three and about two hundred pounds, he worried that it seemed freakish. He put the right one down on the floor beside its match and judged them. he saw the defined tendons that began halfway along the arch and threaded into the toes. He saw the fat big toe and the second toe which on both his feet protruded as the longest. The rest of the toes sloped off at a neat angle. The skin of his feet was so pale that Skip could trace the violet veins. On the joints of his toes he could count the strands of dark hair that grew there.

Well, he thought, I hope they're just not too big. He wiggled his toes and the pile of the carpet brushed against the moving feet. Feeling the fibers graze the skin of his soles made Skip shudder. Gooseflesh rose over his entire body. Even the dark nipples that dotted his chest shrank into tight buttons.

"God," Skip muttered, "that tickled".

A Voice rang out from beneath the stairs outside Skip's bedroom. "Yo, Skip! C'mon buddy let's go!"

His face breaking into a tough grin, Skip bounded barefoot out of his room and downstairs, the lucky socks forgotten on the bed.

Skip slid into the central room of the frat house's first floor. His naked feet skidded on the cool, slick floor. He nearly bumped into Matt. No problem, there. Matt was in no danger. His broad shoulders and thick chest were indestructible from human collisions.

Skip steadied himself, looked at his friend Matt and burst out laughing. Matt's hair was dyed in purple and orange stripes. "Go Hawks --- Yeah!" Skip bellowed seeing the State U. colors glowing from Matt's hair.

In another corner of the room, Skip saw three of his other frat brothers also ready to cheer for the State team. But their devotion had inspired them to even more excessive behavior. All four had no shirts on and their torsos were each painted with a letter from the name of the beloved football team : A - W - K- S.

Matt's rough hands began yanking at Skip's tee shirt. "C'mon dude, you're next! Get that shirt off!"

Skip needed no coaxing. He had been looking forward to this wild stunt all week and wanted a chance to show how much he loved the State Hawks.

"I'm right with you guys! I've always wanted to be a letterman!"

But Matt groaned and ran his hand through his purple striped hair when he saw Skip's naked chest. "Skip, you ape! We're gonna have to clean you up just like Stanton."

It was true. Skip's chest was a mat of silky dark hairs. It couldn't possibly be painted as it was. And looking back at the already-painted brothers he saw Fred Stanton--Mr. W.

"Fred, " Skip shouted, "I thought you looked different! Where's your chest rug?"

"Gave it up for the team, Skip ! It was an honor!"

"Here we go, Skip. Leave it all to barber Tom." Tom Benton approached Skip. In his left hand was an aerosol can of shaving cream, in his right a safety razor.

Tom Benton was not like the rest of the coltish frat boys. He was small in stature, more valued for the mischievous gleam in his eyes. It seemed as if he was always thinking wicked thoughts. Right now that gleam was directed into Skip's eyes. Skip frowned a little. He hated it when Tom looked at him like that. It made him feel that Tom thought he knew a secret about Skip that Skip didn't even know himself. Skip spoke.

"You guys better get Tom a chair or he'll only shave half of me!" The other guys howled at another of Skip's casual digs at Tom smallness. And even Tom smiled a little, but the light in his eyes grew colder.

Tom sprayed a mound of the thick white soap into his hand. He began coating Skip's torso.

Skip was startled at the soft gentleness in Tom's touch. He felt that strange tightness in his belly. And Tom continued slowly spreading the foam as if he knew his light touch upset his tall frat brother.

Tom sets to work with the safety razor. He runs its metal blade in careful strokes against Skip's lathered flesh. The frail tendrils of Skip's chest hair fall to the sharp blade.

Skip watches with mere curiosity at first. But as the blade makes its first sweep through his chest mat, he stiffens. The strokes send shivers up his back. As the hair comes away on the razor, his exposed skin becomes unbearably sensitive.

Little beads of sweat have popped through Skip's scalp by the time Tom has done with the razor. Tom wipes his hand with a clean cloth and then rubs down Skip's chest to clear the last flecks of white soap. Skip moans from the rough pressure and when the towel has gone he sees his newly bare skin is rosy and his nipples are hard.

Matt questions his friend."What's with all the yelping?"

"I can't help it," Skip said, "it feels... so weird ....".

"You think that felt weird ?" Tom said as he brought out the can of paint and the brush, "Wait until you feel this !" It sounded like a threat.

Suddenly Skip wanted to run out of the room and forget all about the game. He felt that something terrible was about to happen. He saw the small can of orange paint and the soft round artist-type paintbrush. Tom was holding it like a weapon.

Skip took a deep breath and controlled his panic. What was he thinking of? Four of his friends had done the same thing and they were right there with him safe and sound. What was the big deal ? He swallowed. "Go for it !" he called out to Tom. With an evil smirk on his face, Tom dipped the brush into the paint and brought it up to Skip's chest.

The dripping brush touched Skip's stomach just above his right hip. Before it had gotten three inches along its vertical path to Skip's collarbone, the young frat man had shrieked and jerked away, leaving a splotch of orange in the center of his chest.

"AAAH ! Quit it!" Skip cried.

"What is it with you?", Matt asked his buddy. "Can we just do this ?"

Skip felt trapped. The soft, wet brush had sent powerful tickling sensations all over his stomach. It felt like cool rough tongues licking all over his belly. He couldn't stand it. But how could he let down his buddies. They would mark him as a total wimp.

"Sorry, guys," Skip apologized, "That paint is awful cold. It won't happen again." Skip grit his teeth and held his breath. Please get it over with.

"We're gonna have to start from the beginning. There's paint all over you.", Tom said. He looked right into Skip's eyes--a challenge.

Tom picked up a scrub brush and set to cleaning off the gob of color on Skip's tender skin.

"Oh Ho Ho HO---NO! Stop it --- oh it TICKLES--please don't!" Skip was beside himself as the bristles worked over his flesh. Skip pushed Tom away before half the orange splotch was gone. "Guys, I'm sorry." Skip panted, "But I can't do it. It tickles too much."

Matt looked at his friend in disgust. He called out to the other frat boys in the room. "It looks like one of our brothers is really a ticklish little sister in disguise." Matt turned to get behind Skip. He clamped a steel grip on Skip's shoulder. "Sorry buddy, we made a plan to honor our Hawks and you're part of it. Like it or not you're gonna be painted."

Skip tried to run : a waste of effort. Within minutes the half dozen college students had overpowered him. With their muscular arms wrapped around his struggling limbs, he was going to stay where they put him. Tom applied his scrub brush with vigor until every bit of the paint was off Skip's ticklish skin.

"Matt! Matt!" Skip pleaded as the tickling sensations of the brush coursed over him. "Make him stop! HaaHaaHaaOHOH! He's wrecking me!"

Matt frowned at his buddy. "God, Skip, who would have thought you'd be such a little wimp?"

"Oh, you don't know ! It tickles so much!" Skip was near tears. And his struggles forced the brothers to grab him even more tightly and into a new position. His arms were pulled taut above his head and his exposed armpits were dripping perspiration half from exertion and half from fear.

That fear increased each time he saw the look in Tom's face: sadistic revenge. Skip didn't know what he had done to earn the wrath of this frat brother but he could see that Tom was determined to make him suffer. And in the most excruciating way possible : ruthless tickling of his ribs, belly and armpits!

Tom approached Skip, stirring the brush in the paint with relish. Skip felt like a man in front of a firing squad as the paintbrush approached his tender belly. It came closer ...closer

The slickness grazed Skip's skin as Tom lightly stroked his belly with the paintbrush. Waves of powerful tickling racked Skip's strong young body as the brush glided over his stomach, onto his ribs and over his nipples as it headed for his collarbone.

" Oh! Oh! OH!! haahahahheee Don't! PLEASE!! It's tickling! HaHaHaHaHa I can't stand it ! Please make him STOP!!

Despite the frat boys' best efforts, they couldn't hold the writhing Skip. His bucking and twisting defeated Tom's effort to paint the orange H on Skip's heaving frame. Once again they scrubbed the paint off the hysterical Skip--the scrub brush tickling even worse this time. Tom picked up his brush again and looked Skip right in his tear-filled eyes. "Too bad, Skip, we're gonna have to do this again. And we'll keep on doing it. No matter how many times it takes! "

Skip started cackling even before the paintbrush touched his ticklish skin. He watched in terror as it inched toward him once again when he heard one of the brothers exclaim, "Holy shit! Look at his crotch!"

All eyes turned to the zipper of Skip's blue jeans. There was a huge ridge pushing out the fly of his tight pants. Skip's agitation at the treatment he was getting at the hands of his good buddies had not stopped with the tickling. Their rough handling of him had set his boner going.

Skip was mortified to exhibit his excitement like this. He tried to protest. "Guys, guys, it don't mean nothing! It don't mean nothing!" But being noticed this way only made it worse. Skip's hardon erected to its fullest length. Its plump head peeked over the waist band of his white jockeys and slipped above the top of his jeans, its slit drooling.

Matt spoke to Skip in an icy voice loud enough for all in the room to hear. "Looks like I called it wrong when I called you a ticklish little girl. I should have said a ticklish little faggot."

The frat boys dropped Skip to the floor. One of the biggest young men sat on his legs to make sure there was no way Skip could wiggle out of what was coming to him.

In Tom's hands the devilish scrub brush soon had Skip's belly--now raw and red--clean again. Skip was laughing frantically as the coarse bristle tickled everywhere it touched him. The more he laughed the more his hardon was being rubbed and shaken. The friction was building.

Tom tossed aside the soapy scrubber and again returned to the orange-coated paintbrush. Skip pleaded when he saw.

"No, no, Tom please don't! I can't stand it! I don't want to be tickled anymore! Haven't you guys done enough?! I'm begging you!"

Tom was stone. "Skip, what if we approach it from another angle? What if we start painting ... right ... here!"

Tom hovered the brush right over Skip's naked navel. "TOM! No! Don't do it! Not there! My belly button is too ticklish!"

Tom ignored the desperate cries. He teased his victim. "Look out! It's coming for you! Skip, it's almost there ! WOOOOO! Scary!" And the brush touched.

Skip exploded in desperate laughter. He had never felt anything like the way the soft brush twirled inside his navel. The orange paint spilled over the rim of the slight indentation. The brush went in tiny circles tracing the remnant umbilicus delicately. Then with wide sloppy strokes Tom tickled Skip's belly from hip to hip. Skip was so convulsed with laughter the others almost could not hold him.

With brutal efficiency, Tom spread the paint over Skip's sensitive skin. He slowly but surely inscribed the orange H onto the ticklish fratboy. And everywhere the brush touched it forced new laughter from the agonized Skip.


Reluctantly, Tom realized his work was done. Much as the "artist" hated to admit it, the orange H decorated Skip's chest completely. Tom returned the fiendish brush to the paint can. With the torture stopped, Skip could breathe again. And in the sudden quiet, Skip realized how he had irrevocably humiliated himself before the whole fraternity. And in no time, he thought, the whole story will be all over the campus. Now, there was a different kind of tears in his eyes.

"Should we let him up?" Matt asked.

"Not yet." Tom ordered, somehow suddenly in charge. "The paint will run. Let it dry a minute. Y'know guys, he's such a squirmy slime. I wonder how he would like to get his feet tickled?"

"NO!!" bellowed Skip.

Matt shoved his face right next to Skip's. "You telling us what to do, queer boy? Like not! C'mon guys, let's do his feet!!"

This was the worst tickling of all. To have about a dozen hands pawing, playing, teasing and toying with his ticklish feet was more than he could bear. They stroked his soles and scratched at his arches. They drew little circles with their fingertips. The cruel students were facing Skip's wriggling feet so all he could see were their backs. He couldn't even tell who was doing what to him with their torturing hands. Someone even began plucking the tiny hairs from his toes to add a little pain to the wild tickling sensations. Skip was so out of control that his eyes rolled back into his head as if in a fit.

But he could still hear the mocking remarks of his torturers.

---Look at him jump! Like a fish on the deck of a boat!

---I've never seen anybody so ticklish!

---Kitchy kitchy koo! Kitchy kitchy koo!

---Let's get some feathers!

---This little piggy went to market, this little piggy...!

---Now I know what they mean by tickled to death!

But it wasn't death that was next for Skip. While his callous tormentors tickled him relentlessly, a volcanic orgasm washed over his abused body. His scream caught their attention. They turned and watched as the purpled erection that hugged his orange belly blasted clots of jism into the air. ( For Skip there was one mercy--he was so violently over-stimulated that the drops of semen landed way beyond him onto the floor. If they had splattered his body paint, the fiendish fratboys would have started on him all over again! ) With that powerful release of tension, Skip slid into a merciful darkness.


That afternoon the State Hawks won the National Football Championship. And later when people talked about the game, they also talked about the prankish fraternity members who decorated themselves with the name of their beloved team. They all remember, you can ask anybody who was there. Just don't ask Benjamin"Skip"Mackintosh. He has memories of that day which are extremely vivid. But they do not concern a football game.


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