My Bullies - Chapter Twelve

Ethan remained collapsed forward on the carpet, forehead pressed to the rough fibers, ass still raised high, hole gaping and fluttering from the final brutal fingering. His cock hung heavy and angry between his legs, untouched for what felt like hours, leaking a steady thin string of pre-cum that dangled toward the floor before snapping and joining the small wet spot beneath him. Every breath came as a shaky whimper; his entire body trembled with denied need and lingering overstimulation.

Caleb stood up slowly, stretching like he’d just finished a casual workout. He glanced down at Ethan’s prone form and smirked.

“Stay right there,” he said. “On all fours. Don’t move. You’re our furniture now.”

The others laughed—low, lazy, satisfied.

Mason shifted first, swinging his legs off the bed. He planted both white Nike-socked feet squarely on Ethan’s upper back, right between the shoulder blades. The cotton was warm, slightly damp from earlier sweat, the weight pressing Ethan’s chest down until his elbows buckled and he had to brace harder to stay level.

“Nice,” Mason said, wiggling his toes against Ethan’s spine. “Perfect backrest.”

Tyler moved next, scooting to the edge of the bed and resting one socked foot on the side of Ethan’s face—heel on his cheek, toes curling lazily over his ear and into his hair. The arch of the sock pressed against Ethan’s temple, the faint scent of fabric softener and foot-sweat filling his nose with every inhale.

“Headrest,” Tyler announced with a grin. “Don’t drop it, fag.”

Diego stayed seated against the wall but extended both legs, crossing his ankles and resting the soles of his Nike socks directly on Ethan’s ass cheeks—one foot on each globe, toes flexing to spread them slightly, exposing the still-gaping hole to the room air. The pressure made Ethan clench involuntarily, a fresh dribble of pre-cum escaping his cock.

Caleb, barefoot, stepped forward last. He planted one bare foot flat on the small of Ethan’s back—warm skin, slightly calloused heel digging in just enough to remind Ethan who was in charge—then lifted the other and rested it lightly on the back of Ethan’s head, toes splaying over his scalp like a crown.

“Full set,” Caleb said casually. “Team footrest. Don’t fucking move.”

They settled in like that for what felt like an eternity—twenty, maybe thirty minutes—chatting idly about nothing important: weekend plans, the upcoming game, some girl Tyler was texting, how Mason bombed a chem test. Their voices floated above Ethan like he wasn’t even there, just an object. Occasionally one of them would shift, grinding a socked sole harder into his skin or tapping the leaking head of his cock with their toes—light, teasing flicks that made him jolt and whimper but never enough to push him over.

Every few minutes, Caleb would order: “Lick.”

Ethan obeyed without hesitation now. When Mason lifted his foot slightly, Ethan turned his head and dragged his tongue along the bottom of the white Nike sock—tasting salt, faint detergent, the texture of cotton threads. He did the same for Tyler’s toes curling over his face, sucking gently on the fabric-covered big toe when ordered. Diego’s soles got long, slow laps from heel to ball, Ethan’s tongue working between the toes through the sock like he was worshipping.

Caleb’s bare foot was different—skin-on-skin, warm and smooth. Ethan kissed the arch, licked the sole from heel to toes, tasting the faint salt of Caleb’s skin directly. His crush’s bare foot in his mouth made the humiliation sharper, hotter; his cock throbbed painfully, dripping faster.

After each foot, Ethan had to murmur around the taste in his mouth: “Thank you for letting me clean your foot, sir.”

The boys barely acknowledged it—just a snort or a “good boy” if they felt generous—before returning to their conversation.

Ethan’s arms burned from holding position. His knees ached. His hole twitched emptily, clenching on nothing, still loose and sensitive from earlier. His cock never softened, never got relief—just leaked and throbbed under the occasional mocking toe-tap or grind of a socked heel against his balls.

They used him like furniture until they got bored.

Finally, Caleb lifted his foot from Ethan’s head.

“Alright,” he said, stretching again. “Furniture’s done its job.”

The others pulled their feet away one by one, leaving Ethan trembling, face flushed, mouth tasting of sock and skin, body screaming for release that still wasn’t coming.

He stayed on all fours, waiting, because no one had told him he could move.