Don't forget to donate to Nifty, to keep the lights on and the fun coming your way! You can use this link https://donate.nifty.org/ (This story contains elements of urination and raunch)
Driving through Beverly Hills, its iconic palm trees decorated our view. The playground of the rich and famous, also of the infamous and the money hoarding, surrounded us. There was a feeling in the air that anything could happen. There were angels and devils on every street corner. As we rode along I was instructed to get naked. And to hang the Armani suit neatly on the hanger Kole produced from somewhere. Following orders, I was quickly nude and kneeling at their golden god feet.
A text came through telling them of an appointment at the Dior Homme store on Rodeo Drive to `pick out a few things' courtesy of the record company. This meant we'd be stopping so the guys could be showered with gifts. Just a small token of appreciation for being themselves.
"Dior can suck my dick," Phinn said. "I'm fucking hungry. Those snacks on the plane were shit. Let's get food first." Kole and Timm decided Dior could suck their dicks as well, so we made a pit stop at a Mexican restaurant called Guisados for takeout tacos. The guys shared a joint as we waited for the food to be handed over to the driver and delivered to us in back.
Soon there was a knock and a hot bag was given to Kole. I tried to stay out of sight, but there was always a chance the driver might peak in and see me. Sitting there naked, what would my story be? Luckily this didn't happen. The driver gone, Kole passed out tacos to Timm and Phinn, checking to see whose was whose. With a laugh he pulled out several hot sauce containers.
"I hope we got enough," Timm said sarcastically. They each doused their tacos liberally with hot sauce.
After a few quiet moments of eating, Kole said, "Nothing! Oh shit." From the takeout bag he pulled another taco. The foil wrapper was removed and a corn tortilla with black refried beans was revealed. "Looks good," Kole said with a devious sparkle in his eye.
"Holy frijoles," Phinn quipped, remembering a previous prank. This thought made him laugh which caused a wad of chorizo to fly from his mouth. "I was gonna give you a bite Nothing. So there it is," he said with another chuckle. I grabbed it from the floor and devoured the partially chewed morsel. Exceptional flavor.
Then Kole dumped the black bean taco onto the floor of the limo between us. It stayed closed with the adhesive power of refried beans. As I leaned down to eat, Kole slipped off his Louboutin sandal and squashed the taco like a bug. Beans, cheese, and chipotle sauce squirted out from the side and splattered onto the ball of his foot and toes. He lifted his foot and it hovered centimeters from my face.
"Clean me up, Nothing," he said through a mouth full of taco. "Looks like I stepped in shit." The lively tang of his foot odor called out to me over the other smells. I took his heel in my hand and began licking him clean.
The food was fine, but his foot tasted better. I sucked off splattered cheese from his arch and then licked a dribble of sauce from between his first two toes. Moving over to the pinky toe, I took it in my mouth and ran my tongue all the way around. Swallowing the glob of beans that had been there, I reluctantly let his foot fall from my hands.
"That's a good Nothing," Kole said. Then he wiped his foot on my face a few times to dry it from my cleaning job.
"Nothing, you wanna taste my taco?" Timm asked.
Phinn laughed and nearly choked.
"I actually meant my real taco," Timm explained and looked at me. He held out his taco wrapper as I nodded. I crawled over and saw it was only empty foil. My eyes looked up to Timm's and he opened his mouth, releasing a deep rattling belch in my face. "Shrimp tacos," he said. "You like?"
Nostrils wide, I breathed in his spicy air. It did smell tasty.
"Shrimp, onions, bell peppers, and chipotle sour cream," Timm listed. "And way too much hot sauce I think." He blew the smell of his belch in my face and waved us both away.
Returning to my position on the floor, I finished eating my own taco that Kole had smashed with his gorgeous foot. Being so low, my eyes kept drifting to those powerful feet of his. Well trimmed toe nails, breathtaking arches. My dick throbbed with lust. All too quickly we were at the Dior Homme store and I was redressing so I could pass as normal in the outside world.
It was after six in the evening, so the high-end men's clothier was closed to the regular folks of the world. Those with power and sway, and the endless cash reservoirs of a record label, were not considered regular. The Party Boyz were welcomed by a well dressed staff obviously eager to see them. No selfies or autographs were allowed though, as stipulated by the group's management when making the appointment.
Timm, Phinn, and Kole were each handed several pre-prepared bags of gifts in their personal size. Then they were set free in the store to see if anything else struck their fancy. The staff was so hyper focused on the guys I thought I could rob the store blind and they'd never notice. After an offhand comment from Timm that I was a record label drone, I was never acknowledged again.
Walking like an invisible man, I followed Phinn to a dressing room deep in the store. In his arms were a pair of swim shorts and an orange hoodie.
"Stay there Nothing, I need your opinion," he said, opening a dressing room door and stepping in. He changed into the hoodie and stepped out again. "Well?"
"You look incredible," I said. The shirt was the color of a traffic cone or Halloween pumpkin. He studied himself in the mirror. "You look so sexy that people would line up for miles just to smell you."
"You're right," he agreed. "I do." Leaving the dressing room door cracked, he took off the hoodie. His taught body, lean and pale, was the envy of so many. Rightfully so, I thought as he dropped his pants and stepped out of them. Phinn had forgone underwear that day, so I was able to admire the elegant line of his body from head to toe uninterrupted. Well, not to toe. He kept on a pair of cashmere socks.
He bent down and pulled on the swim shorts. This revealed a flash of his asshole, so artfully lined with wisps of dark hair. I reflected on my love for his anus. Everything it produced was gold as far as I was concerned. Turning this way and that, he judged the clothing.
"I don't know about these cartoony ones," he said. Stopping well above the knee, the swim shorts had an ocean design with illustrations of smiling fish and happy sharks. "Should I just go to Wal-mart and buy some fucking Spongebob trunks? Is this the same thing?"
"What's that label say?" I asked, pointing to a small square on the leg.
"Dior and Kenny Scharf," Phinn reported. "Who the fuck is that?"
"He was an artist in the eighties, a contemporary of Basquiat and Keith Haring." I answered this and he looked at them in the mirror again with renewed interest.
"So they're kind of cool," he said upon reappraisal. "Retro."
"They look amazing on you," I said in a low voice since an employee had walked by only a moment before. "They show off your legs which are so hot."
"They aren't too skinny?" Phinn asked, a rare look of vulnerability in his eyes.
"Oh no way," I corrected. "Lean with that dark hair. God, your thighs are just incredible. Not that anybody could take their eyes from your chest, your flat stomach, your biceps. You're remarkably beautiful, every inch."
He peeked out, ensuring no one was close enough to hear our conversation.
"Thank you," he said then. "Sometimes I just need to hear someone be honest about how I look. Makes me less insecure to hear the truth come out like that. I hear it all the time, Phinn's so hot and I don't accept it, but coming from you Nothing, I believe it."
"You're welcome."
Then a funny expression came over his face. His dark lovely eyebrows arched downward and his pillowy lips pressed into a flat line. The sound of a wet gusty fart cut through the air. It seemed to rattle the dressing room, but I don't think anyone else heard but us.
"By the way, did you know these swim shorts are twelve hundred dollars? Twelve fifty in fact." He was taking them off and putting his paparazzi friendly outfit back on. I figured they were worth more now that he'd laid a wet fart in them. Between his legs I saw his balls sway seductively back and forth.
"Man," he said as the shorts fell to his feet, "did I shit just now?" He pointed down to the pricy shorts that now had a small brown skid mark inside them. "Do I have a log hanging out?" Phinn asked and swiveled his butt my way.
My eyes flew to his porcelain cheeks which turned out to be flawless and clean. He reached back and pulled his butt apart so I could get a look at his hole. No sign of shit, only a tight pink pucker I loved to get my tongue deep up inside. Get it really clean, no matter how filthy. Making my tongue toilet paper for Phinn, Timm, and Kole has been one of the great honors of my life.
"Looks brand new," I told him. Letting his cheeks go, there was a sweet bounce to his ass that made my already hard member throb. Phinn put his tiger top and Valentino trousers back on and we joined the others.
Timm had piled up a significant and still growing mound of clothing. Kole, already finished shopping, stood vaping near the entrance. I doubt that was allowed by store policy, but when you're one of the Party Boyz you can do damn near anything. Phinn added a handful of other pieces and then gave his final choices to an excited employee so they could be charged to the record label. Twenty minutes later we were all back in the limo en route to the Beverly Hills Hotel.
The ride was gassy and informative. Over the phone Kole learned that their shared bungalow had one master suite which opened up to a private patio. There were two other rooms that adjoined but were not master suites. This called for a contest.
We were booked in Bungalow One, what the hotel calls their Marilyn Monroe bungalow. It was decorated in shades of gold and muted pinks. A large black and white photo of the tragic film star hung not far from the fire place in the living room. The guys stood around as their luggage and new gifts from Dior were brought inside for them.
"Where would you like these?" This was a bellhop named Lyle. He was in his early twenties, slim, and blessed with amazing hair. It was worn long but swept back with gel into a finely maintained retro pompadour. In his gloved hands were a pair of Louis Vuitton suitcases that belonged to Timm.
"We don't know yet," Kole said, "just drop them there."
Lyle did as directed and received a wad of folded bills as gratuity from Kole. After a few more trips to the car and back, Lyle had deposited the rest of their things and wished us all a fantastic stay at the historic Beverly Hills Hotel.
"I didn't think he'd ever fucking leave!" Timm shouted as he closed the door behind Lyle. "I seriously feel like I'm about to shit my pants. And these are fucking expensive pants."
"Let's not talk about things we have or haven't shit in already today," Phinn said with a wink in my direction. "Nothing, get ready to be the judge."
"Jesus Christ, I have been farting my ass off since we had those tacos. It was the hot sauce that did it," Kole said as he pulled his pants down and bent over the tan sofa in the living room. "Come on fuckers," he challenged his bandmates, "I'm about to blow and then the master suite is mine."
"No way," Timm said exuberantly, "My butthole has been talking for the last half hour." Then he turned and positioned himself in the same way as Kole. Pants down, naked ass in my face. Phinn rushed to join them and mimicked their stances. Before me were three perfect asses. Kole's tan fuzzy peach. Timm's pale shaved globes. Phinn's softer spheres with their dark wisps of hair. All of them sculpted by the gods.
Each one pulled their ass cheeks apart, allowing for easier viewing access to their holes. Pink and puckered, each unique as a snowflake and twice as glorious. My eyes darted from one sphincter to the next. First one to fart got the master suite. The room was quiet as each of the guys focused their minds on releasing gas.
Phinn grunted but it was a false alarm. Widening and then shrinking again, Timm's asshole was clearly busy but no sounds emerged. The entrance to the dark tunnel of Kole's bowels opened, the surrounding rosy lips began to tremble. I was sure Kole's hole was about to announce itself.
Then an earsplitting fart with a deep vibrato burst its way out of Timm's quivering butthole. It sang its song for ten seconds or so and then stopped. Another verse was not far behind however, as the stinking baritone played on.
Phinn joined in with his own bass line. His taco-created sounds were deep and rhythmic, as though he were playing the didgeridoo.
Kole's ass began playing along at last, his mouth releasing a string of expletives brought on by his third place showing. The farts Kole released were so wet and forceful I wasn't shocked when a couple small pieces of shit flew out. They landed on the carpet by my knees.
"Snack time," Kole blurted as he ran to the bathroom. I knelt and ate the small globs of shit from the carpet. Amidst the symphony of sulfuric smells, I dined on the waste of one of People Magazine's sexiest men alive.
Swallowing, I breathed in heavily wanting to fill my lungs with their ass gas. Heavenly and dank, my time reveling in their butt cloud was short lived. The contest over, they took their things to their separate rooms. My Armani suit was hung and placed in a hall closet. My normal way of living, naked and on the floor, was to resume here in the bungalow.
(To be continued)