My Bullies - Chapter Thirty-Five

The game hit halftime with the score tied. The TV cut to commercials, and the living room filled with the low buzz of satisfied groans and beer cans clinking. Ethan stayed kneeling between Caleb’s spread thighs, naked, cock throbbing angrily against his stomach, pre-cum pooling on the carpet beneath him. The nine guys lounged around like kings, eyes flicking to him every few minutes, smirking.

Caleb leaned down, fingers threading through Ethan’s hair, petting him absently.

“Half-time entertainment,” he announced to the room.

The boys perked up instantly.

Mason grinned first. “Betting pool?”

Caleb nodded. “How many edges can the sissy take before he begs to cum? Two-minute turns. Winner gets first use after the game.”

The room erupted in low laughs and eager agreement. They quickly threw in bets—numbers ranging from 8 to 25—scribbled on a napkin with a Sharpie.

Caleb stood, pulling Ethan up by the collar of invisible ownership.

“On the table.”

They cleared the coffee table in seconds—snacks shoved aside, remotes tossed. Ethan was lifted and laid on his back, wrists and ankles tied to the four legs with soft ropes from Caleb’s gym bag. Spread-eagled, smooth shaved body on full display, cock standing rigid and leaking, hole still puffy from earlier use.

The nine guys formed a loose circle around the table.

Caleb went first—two minutes of slow, torturous strokes, thumb circling the head, fingers dipping into Ethan’s hole to rub his prostate. Ethan arched, moaning brokenly, right on the edge in under a minute. Caleb stopped cold.

“Eight,” Mason called, writing it down.

Tyler next—brutal twists on Ethan’s nipples while stroking fast. Ethan sobbed, hips bucking. Stopped at the brink.

“Twelve.”

Diego was silent but savage—three fingers deep, curling hard, other hand slapping Ethan’s smooth balls lightly every few strokes. Ethan cried out, tears streaming. Denied again.

“Fifteen.”

The five new guys were worse.

The lacrosse captain pinched and twisted Ethan’s nipples until they were red and swollen while jerking him roughly. Ethan begged “please” three times before the two minutes ended.

“Eighteen.”

One football player spanked Ethan’s smooth ass bright red with sharp, stinging slaps while fingering him open, thumb pressing his prostate. Ethan sobbed openly, body shaking.

“Twenty-one.”

The wrestler edged him with a rough grip, occasionally squeezing his balls hard enough to make Ethan yelp. Denied.

“Twenty-four.”

The quiet swim-team kid was the cruelest—he edged Ethan slowly, almost tenderly, while whispering “you’re gonna break soon, sissy” and fingering him deep. Ethan’s moans turned to desperate whimpers. Stopped at the last second.

“Twenty-seven.”

The final new guy—another football player—used both hands: one stroking fast, the other spanking Ethan’s inner thighs and balls. Ethan screamed “please, please, I can’t—” but Caleb cut him off with a sharp “No.”

“Thirty-two.”

The group erupted in cheers and groans as bets were settled. The wrestler won with twenty-four.

Ethan lay there, tied to the table, body trembling, cock purple and leaking, hole clenching around nothing, tears streaming down his temples. He’d been edged over thirty times. He was sobbing quietly, broken, desperate.

Caleb leaned over him, brushing damp hair from his forehead.

“Good boy,” he murmured. “You didn’t beg once.”

He untied Ethan slowly, helping him sit up. Ethan’s legs wouldn’t hold him; Caleb let him slump to the floor between his thighs again.

The game resumed on the TV.

Ethan stayed there—naked, denied, owned—while the boys watched the second half, occasionally reaching down to pet him or tease his cock with a foot.

The wrestler smirked from the couch.

“First use after the game is gonna be fun.”

Ethan whimpered softly, head resting against Caleb’s thigh.