My Bullies - Chapter Thirty-Eight

The living room felt smaller with Caleb bound on the floor, wrists and ankles lashed together behind his back, naked and furious, cock traitorously hard against his stomach. Nine sets of eyes were on Ethan—naked, trembling, pre-cum dripping steadily from his denied cock onto the carpet.

Mason stepped forward first, arms crossed, smirk sharp.

“You heard the deal, sissy. Sacrifice yourself. Beg us to use you instead. Save your precious leader.”

Ethan’s knees hit the carpet before he even realized he’d dropped. He crawled to the center of the circle, voice cracking on the first word.

“Please… use me instead. My mouth… my hole… anything. Just don’t hurt him. Please.”

The room went quiet except for Caleb’s low, angry growl.

Tyler laughed. “Louder. And look at each of us when you beg.”

Ethan raised his head, tears already tracking down his cheeks.

He crawled to Mason first.

“Please use my mouth, sir. Fuck my throat. Use my hole. Anything. Just leave Caleb alone.”

Mason grabbed Ethan’s hair, pulled him forward, and shoved his cock past Ethan’s lips in one rough thrust. Ethan gagged, eyes watering, but took it—deep, sloppy, throat opening the way Caleb had trained him. Mason fucked his face for a full minute, grunting, then pulled out and slapped his cheek lightly.

“Next.”

Ethan crawled to Tyler.

“Please fuck my ass, sir. Use me. I’ll take it all. Don’t touch Caleb.”

Tyler didn’t speak—just flipped Ethan onto his stomach on the coffee table, spread his cheeks, and pushed in dry except for the pre-cum and spit. Ethan cried out, back arching, but pushed back to meet him. Tyler fucked him hard and fast, hands bruising Ethan’s hips, before pulling out and stepping back.

One by one.

The lacrosse captain took his mouth next—long, slow thrusts that made Ethan choke and drool, tears streaming, while the captain whispered “good little throat slut” over and over.

The wrestler bent Ethan over the arm of the couch and fucked his hole standing up—deep, punishing strokes that made Ethan sob and clench, legs shaking. “Tight for a group toy,” the wrestler grunted, spanking Ethan’s smooth ass red.

The quiet swim-team kid was surprisingly rough—fucking Ethan’s throat until he was gasping for air, then switching to his ass, making him ride reverse-cowgirl so everyone could see his smooth cock bounce untouched.

The two football players double-teamed him—one in his mouth, one in his ass—passing him back and forth like a ragdoll, hands everywhere, pinching nipples, slapping balls, fingering his hole alongside the cock already inside.

The last new guy—the second football player—made Ethan ride him on the floor while facing Caleb, forcing eye contact the whole time. “Look at your leader while I fuck you,” he growled, thrusting up hard. Ethan’s moans were broken, desperate, tears falling freely.

Caleb watched every second—bound, furious, cock leaking against his will, muscles straining uselessly against the ropes. His eyes never left Ethan’s face.

Diego sat in the corner the entire time—silent, unmoving, dark eyes tracking every thrust, every sob, every slap. He didn’t speak. Didn’t touch. Didn’t intervene.

When the last guy pulled out of Ethan’s ass, Ethan collapsed forward onto the carpet—body shaking, hole gaping and leaking, cock purple and untouched, face streaked with tears and spit.

The eight guys (excluding Diego) stepped back, cocks still hard, breathing heavy.

Mason looked at Caleb.

“Time to pay up.”

They surrounded Caleb on the floor. One after the other, they stroked themselves—fast, rough—until they came.

First load hit Caleb’s chest—thick ropes across his pecs.

Second on his abs.

Third on his face, splattering across his cheek and lips.

Fourth on his bound thighs.

Fifth and sixth on his cock and balls, coating him in sticky white.

Seventh on his back when they rolled him slightly.

Eighth—the wrestler—aimed for Caleb’s open, cursing mouth, forcing him to swallow or choke.

Caleb’s body was covered—chest, stomach, face, cock—glistening with the cum of eight guys.

The eight dressed quickly—jeans zipped, shirts pulled on—laughing, slapping hands, already replaying phone videos.

They left without a word to Ethan or Caleb.

The front door slammed.

The house went quiet except for the muted TV still playing post-game analysis.

Ethan lay on the floor—a wreck—hole gaping and leaking cum, cock still hard and denied, body trembling with sobs.

Caleb remained bound in the center of the room, covered in the group’s release, chest heaving, eyes fixed on Ethan.

Diego sat in the corner—silent, unmoving, watching.

No one spoke.