My Bullies - Part Seven

Ethan followed Caleb down the dimly lit hallway, the house quiet except for the low thump of bass coming from somewhere deeper inside. His heart hammered against his ribs so hard he was sure Caleb could hear it. Every step felt heavier, like walking through water, but his cock—still traitorously hard from the car ride—strained against the front of his jeans, the denim doing nothing to hide the outline.

Caleb pushed open the door to his bedroom without knocking.

The other three were already there.

Mason sprawled across the foot of the king bed, shirt off, one arm behind his head like he owned the place. Tyler sat in the desk chair, legs kicked up on the edge of the mattress, smirking. Diego leaned against the wall near the window, phone in hand again, thumb hovering over the screen like he was waiting for the perfect moment to hit record.

The room smelled faintly of weed, body spray, and anticipation.

They all looked up at once.

“Well, fuck me,” Mason drawled, eyes dropping immediately to the obvious bulge in Ethan’s jeans. “Look who showed up ready to play. Already chubbed up just from the drive over?”

Laughter rolled through the room—low, mean, familiar.

Tyler tilted his head, grinning wider. “Bet he was hard the whole way here thinking about that clip. Little slut couldn’t even wait to get here.”

Ethan’s face burned. He froze in the doorway, arms hanging useless at his sides, cock twitching visibly under their stares.

Caleb stepped behind him, kicking the door shut with his heel. One big hand landed on Ethan’s shoulder, squeezing just hard enough to steer him forward into the center of the room.

“Strip,” Caleb said simply. No preamble. No negotiation.

Ethan’s hands shook as he reached for the hem of his hoodie. He pulled it over his head slowly, the fabric catching on his damp hair. Underneath he wore nothing but a plain white T-shirt that clung to his chest from nervous sweat. He peeled that off next, letting both drop to the carpet.

Jeans came after. He fumbled the button, the zipper loud in the sudden quiet. When he shoved them down, his cock sprang free—already fully hard now, curving up toward his stomach, the head flushed dark and slick with pre-cum.

More laughter. Sharp. Delighted.

“Jesus Christ,” Mason said, palming himself lazily through his sweats. “Look at that thing leaking already. You really are a walking hard-on, huh?”

Diego lifted his phone. The red light blinked on.

“Shoes and socks too,” Tyler added. “Everything.”

Ethan kicked off his sneakers, peeled off his socks, stepped out of the pooled jeans. Naked again. Just like the locker room, but worse—this time in a bedroom, on carpet instead of tile, with four pairs of eyes drinking him in like he was entertainment.

Caleb dropped onto the bed beside Mason, stretching out like a king on his throne.

“Dance for us.”

Ethan blinked. “W-what?”

“You heard me.” Caleb’s voice was calm, almost bored. “Dance. Naked. Make it good. We’ve got all night.”

Tyler snorted. “Yeah, princess. Shake that ass. Give us a show.”

Ethan stood there, arms wrapped around himself instinctively, cock bobbing with every shaky breath.

Mason leaned forward. “You want that video staying between us? Then move.”

The threat landed like a slap.

Ethan swallowed. Unwrapped his arms. Started to sway—awkward at first, hips shifting side to side, no rhythm, just nervous motion. His hands hovered uncertainly, not sure where to go.

“Hands behind your head,” Caleb ordered.

Ethan obeyed, lacing his fingers at the nape of his neck. The position thrust his chest out, arched his back slightly, made his cock jut forward even more prominently.

“Better,” Tyler said. “Now turn around. Slowly. Let us see that hole you spread so nicely last time.”

Ethan pivoted, feet shuffling on the carpet. When his back was to them he bent his knees a little, ass pushing out, feeling the cool air kiss his skin.

Whistles. Low catcalls.

“Twerk it,” Mason laughed. “Come on, don’t be shy now.”

Ethan’s face flamed, but he tried—small, jerky movements at first, then bigger, rolling his hips in clumsy circles. His cock slapped against his stomach with every bounce, pre-cum flinging in tiny arcs. The sounds they made—laughing, groaning approvingly, muttering filthy encouragement—only made him harder.

Diego circled to the side, filming from a low angle that caught every humiliating detail: the flush spreading down Ethan’s chest, the way his balls drew up tight, the glistening trail leaking steadily from his slit.

“Face us again,” Caleb said. “Jerk it while you dance. Slow. Edge yourself. No cumming.”

Ethan turned back, one hand dropping to wrap around his cock. He stroked in time with the sway of his hips—long, deliberate pulls that made his thighs tremble. His other hand stayed behind his head, elbow out, chest heaving.

They lounged there watching—lazy, fully clothed, cocks visibly thickening in their pants—while Ethan performed for them like a toy wound up and set loose.

Every time his strokes sped up, Caleb’s voice cut through: “Slower.”

Every time his knees buckled, Tyler snapped, “Straighten up, slut.”

And every time Ethan whimpered, Mason just laughed harder.

The room filled with the wet sounds of Ethan’s hand, his ragged breathing, and their casual cruelty.