My Bullies - Chapter Twenty

Ethan barely made it through the drive home. Every shift in the seat rubbed the rough denim against his aching cock, the lack of underwear making it worse—constant friction, constant reminder of what he'd left behind in Caleb's pocket. His throat was raw, lips swollen, the taste of cum lingering like a brand. By the time he parked in the driveway—parents thankfully out for the night—his jeans had a dark wet spot at the front, pre-cum soaking through.

He stumbled inside, locked the door, and stripped in his room without turning on the light. Naked, he collapsed onto the bed, cock still rock-hard, curving up against his stomach, leaking steadily onto his abs. He grabbed his phone, hands shaking, and typed the required message: Home. Still hard.

The response came almost immediately—a solo Snapchat from Caleb.

Ethan opened it.

A short video: Caleb lounging back on his bed, shirtless, sweatpants shoved down just enough to expose his thick cock. His hand wrapped around the shaft, stroking slow and deliberate—not rushing, not cumming. The head glistened with pre-cum, veins standing out, every pull making it twitch. Caleb's low voice over the footage: "Thinking about your throat, princess. How you took every inch." Caption below: Edge to this but don’t cum.

The snap disappeared after ten seconds, but Ethan had saved it to replay. He hit loop, propping the phone against his pillow, and wrapped his hand around his own cock. The first stroke was agony—pure, electric relief after hours of denial. He edged desperately, slow at first, then faster, hips bucking up into his fist. Pre-cum smeared everywhere, making it slick and messy. His breaths came in short, needy gasps, eyes glued to the video—Caleb's hand moving, that voice echoing in his head.

He stopped just before the edge, hand trembling, cock twitching in protest. He snapped a proof pic—close-up of his leaking head, red and swollen—and sent it to Caleb.

Caleb's reply: Good boy. Views on the burner are at 1.2k now. 300 likes. Strangers loving your begging voice.

Attached: a screenshot of the post, comments like "this fag's moans are hot af" and "need the full vid—bet he's a total slut."

Ethan's stomach twisted with shame and heat. He hit play on the video again, edged a second time—faster now, body arching off the bed, moans slipping out. Another pic sent: his cock in hand, pre-cum stringing between fingers.

Caleb: DMs coming in. "Post him sucking dick next." "How do I get a turn with that throat?" Keep edging.

The task escalated with the next message: Write "Caleb’s Property" on your inner thigh. Marker. Send pic. Now.

Ethan scrambled off the bed, grabbed a Sharpie from his desk. He sat on the edge, spread his legs, and scrawled the words in big, black letters along his right inner thigh—skin flushing under the ink. His cock bobbed the whole time, leaking onto the floor. He snapped the pic—thigh in frame, words clear, cock hard in the background—and sent it.

Caleb's response was quick: Perfect. Adding the group now.

Ethan's heart dropped. A new Snapchat group popped up: him, Caleb, Mason, Tyler, Diego. The name: Team Toy.

Caleb's first message in the group: Show them what you just did for me, princess. The writing. And edge on video. 30 seconds. No cumming.

The others jumped in immediately—Mason: Fuck yeah, show us the mark. Tyler: Bet he's still leaking lol. Diego: Video now.

Ethan's face burned. He spread his legs wider, angled the phone to capture the writing on his thigh and his throbbing cock. He started recording—hand stroking slow, voice shaky as he whispered "Edging for you, sirs." His cock leaked profusely, the words "Caleb’s Property" stark against his skin. He stopped at 30 seconds, sent the video to the group.

Replies flooded: Mason: Holy shit, owned lol. Tyler: Look at that leak—pathetic. Diego: Good boy. Caleb: Sleep like that. No touching. We'll talk tomorrow.

Ethan collapsed back onto the bed, phone clutched in his hand, body buzzing with denial. The marker ink felt permanent, like a tattoo. He stared at the ceiling, cock still hard, group chat silent now.

Exhaustion finally pulled him under. He fell asleep like that—naked, marked, denied, phone on his chest.