My Bullies - Chapter Thirty-Nine

The living room was silent except for the low hum of the TV still showing post-game replays no one was watching.

Diego stood from the corner chair—slow, deliberate, the only one who hadn’t touched Ethan or Caleb all night. He walked to the center without a word, knelt beside Caleb’s bound form, and began untying the ropes with careful, steady hands.

Caleb’s fury hadn’t faded. His muscles were still corded, jaw clenched so tight it ached, eyes burning as the ropes fell away. But he didn’t lash out. He didn’t swing. He knew—deep down, in the part of him that wasn’t blinded by rage—that Diego had done the right thing.

If Diego had stepped in earlier, they would have turned on him too. Nine against one. The same ropes. The same humiliation. Diego’s silence had kept him free to act now.

Caleb sat up slowly, rubbing his wrists, chest still streaked with dried cum, cock soft now from exhaustion and anger. He looked at Diego for a long moment.

Diego didn’t speak. He never did unless he had to.

Together they turned to Ethan.

He was barely conscious—curled on the carpet in a fetal position, body trembling, hole gaping and leaking, cock still achingly hard and purple, pre-cum pooling beneath him. His eyes were half-lidded, glassy, breath shallow. A wreck.

Caleb scooped him up first—strong arms under Ethan’s knees and back, cradling him against his chest like something fragile. Ethan’s head lolled against Caleb’s shoulder, a soft whimper escaping.

Diego followed, silent shadow.

They carried Ethan into the large family bathroom at the end of the hall. Caleb set him gently on the edge of the tub while Diego turned on the faucet, testing the water until it was warm, not hot. Steam rose slowly.

Caleb stripped off what was left of his ruined clothes. Diego peeled off his hoodie, jeans, boxers—until all three were naked.

They lowered Ethan into the water together.

The tub was deep, wide enough for all of them. Caleb slid in behind Ethan, pulling him back against his chest so Ethan’s head rested on his shoulder. Diego knelt at the front, knees on the tile, hands gentle as he cupped water and poured it over Ethan’s hair, rinsing away sweat and spit and cum.

Caleb took the soap, lathered his hands, and began washing Ethan’s body—slow, tender circles over his shoulders, chest, stomach. He cleaned the dried cum from his skin, thumbs brushing over his nipples carefully, then lower—cupping Ethan’s smooth balls, washing the leaking cock with soft strokes that made Ethan whimper but didn’t push him toward release.

Diego reached between Ethan’s legs, fingers slick with soap, and gently cleaned his hole—sliding one finger in, then two, curling tenderly to rinse away the mess inside. Ethan moaned, hips twitching, cock jumping against Caleb’s thigh.

All three were achingly hard—Caleb’s thick length pressed against Ethan’s lower back, Diego’s heavy cock bobbing as he knelt—but neither moved to fix it. Now was not the time.

They washed him for a long time—every inch, every crease, every tender spot. Caleb kissed Ethan’s temple, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. Diego’s dark eyes never left Ethan’s face, silent but steady.

When the water cooled, they lifted him out. Caleb wrapped him in the biggest towel, drying him like he was something precious—patting his smooth skin, between his legs, under his balls, the cleft of his ass. Diego helped, hands careful, almost reverent.

They dressed in underwear—Caleb in fresh black Calvins, Diego in dark gray boxer-briefs, Ethan in the tiniest pair from the bag: soft white mesh briefs that clung to his still-hard cock and left his ass almost completely bare.

They carried Ethan back to Caleb’s bedroom.

The three of them sank into the bed—Ethan in the middle, nestled between the two bigger bodies. Caleb on his back, Ethan curled against his side, head on Caleb’s chest. Diego pressed in from behind, arm draped over Ethan’s waist, hand resting flat on his stomach, possessive but gentle.

Ethan sighed—a soft, exhausted sound—and drifted almost immediately.

Caleb stared at the ceiling for a long time, fingers tracing lazy circles on Ethan’s back.

Diego’s breathing was slow, even, but his eyes stayed open, watching the door.

Today was for healing.

Tomorrow was for revenge.