My Bullies - Chapter Eleven

Ethan’s back arched off the carpet, hips rocking desperately onto Caleb’s thick fingers as they curled and thrust inside him, hitting that spot over and over with merciless precision. His hole was loose now, slick and greedy, clenching around every withdrawal like it didn’t want to let go. Pre-cum dribbled steadily from his untouched cock, pooling in the hollow of his navel, his whole body flushed and trembling on the edge—but Caleb knew exactly when to slow down, when to pull almost all the way out, leaving him whining and empty.

Caleb finally withdrew completely, fingers glistening. He wiped them casually on Ethan’s inner thigh, leaving shiny streaks.

“On your knees,” he said, voice flat and commanding. “Crawl.”

Ethan’s limbs felt heavy, liquid, but he obeyed. He rolled onto his stomach, then pushed up onto hands and knees. The carpet scraped his palms and shins as he crawled forward, ass still high, hole twitching visibly with every movement. The boys watched in silence for once, the only sound his ragged breathing and the faint wet squelch between his legs.

He stopped in front of Mason first.

Mason sat on the edge of the bed, legs spread wide, white Nike crew socks stretched over his feet and ankles, the fabric slightly damp from earlier sweat. He flexed his toes lazily inside them, extending one socked foot toward Ethan’s face.

Ethan leaned down. Pressed a trembling kiss to the soft, warm cotton over the ball of Mason’s foot. The faint scent of clean laundry and faint musk hit him as his lips lingered.

“Please finger my worthless hole, sir,” Ethan whispered, voice cracking. “I don’t deserve it.”

Mason barked a laugh. “Damn right you don’t.”

He reached down, shoved three fingers into Ethan without warning—rough, no extra lube, just the remnants of what was already there. Ethan yelped, body jolting forward, but he stayed in place, forehead pressed to the socked foot as Mason pumped hard and fast for a minute, twisting, stretching, making obscene wet noises echo in the room.

When Mason pulled out, Ethan’s hole gaped for a second before clenching shut.

“Thank you, Mason,” Ethan gasped, “for stretching my fag ass.”

Mason smirked, wiped his fingers on the top of Ethan’s head. “Next.”

Ethan crawled to Tyler.

Tyler lounged back against the headboard, legs stretched out, white Nike socks the same crisp style as Mason’s, toes wiggling playfully as Ethan approached. Ethan kissed the arch of Tyler’s socked foot, the cotton slightly thicker there, warm from his body heat.

“Please finger my worthless hole, sir,” Ethan repeated, quieter this time, shame thickening his voice. “I don’t deserve it.”

Tyler took his time—four fingers this time, spreading Ethan wide, scissoring brutally while he laughed. “Look how sloppy you’re getting. Bet you could take a fist soon, huh?”

Ethan sobbed once, hips bucking back involuntarily. Tyler slapped his ass hard enough to leave a red handprint, then withdrew.

“Thank you, Tyler,” Ethan choked out, “for stretching my fag ass.”

Diego was quieter. Ethan crawled to him last among the three. Diego sat cross-legged on the floor against the wall, white Nike socks pulled high, one foot extended casually. Ethan pressed his lips to the ball of Diego’s socked foot, the fabric smooth and slightly stretched over the arch.

Diego didn’t speak. He simply slid in four fingers, slow and deep, curling them against Ethan’s prostate until his thighs shook and fresh tears spilled down his cheeks. No extra slaps, no extra words—just relentless, precise pressure that had Ethan keening, body rocking forward and back like he was fucking himself on the digits.

When Diego finally pulled free, Ethan’s voice was wrecked. “Thank you, Diego… for stretching my fag ass.”

Then he crawled back to Caleb.

Caleb was still on the floor, legs spread, barefoot—his soles clean and tanned against the carpet, toes flexing slowly as Ethan approached. No socks, no barrier. Just warm, bare skin.

Ethan leaned in, kissed the top of Caleb’s foot—right over the arch—lingering there, lips brushing the smooth skin, tasting the faint salt of it. His crush’s bare foot under his mouth felt more intimate, more humiliating than anything so far.

“Please finger my worthless hole, sir,” he whispered, voice raw. “I don’t deserve it.”

Caleb didn’t answer right away. He reached down, gripped Ethan’s hair, yanked his head back so their eyes met.

“Beg louder,” he said. “Tell them why you need it so bad.”

Ethan’s throat worked. Tears streaked his face. “Please… finger my worthless hole, sir. I need it so bad. I’m just a desperate fag who loves being used by you. Please stretch me open again. I don’t deserve your fingers but I’m begging for them.”

The room filled with low, satisfied laughter.

Caleb shoved in—five fingers this time, the stretch burning at first, then blooming into white-hot pleasure. He fucked Ethan hard, fast, palm slapping against his ass with every thrust. Ethan screamed—high, broken, shameless—body convulsing, cock leaking in thick ropes onto the carpet, but Caleb kept the rhythm brutal and denying, never letting him tip over.

When he finally pulled out, Ethan collapsed forward, ass in the air, hole gaping and fluttering, untouched cock throbbing angrily against his stomach.

Caleb leaned down, barefoot toes brushing Ethan’s cheek as he spoke, voice soft and cruel against his ear.

“Not yet, princess. You don’t get to cum until we say you’ve earned it.”

Ethan whimpered into the carpet, body shaking, still rock-hard and denied, the humiliation burning hotter than any touch.