My Bullies - Part Six

The weekend arrived like a slow-rolling storm Ethan couldn’t outrun.

Friday had been torture—every hallway glance from Caleb or Mason or Tyler made his stomach lurch, his skin prickle with the memory of tile against his back, their hands pinning him, the wet heat of their piss, the way his own cum had painted his chest while Diego’s phone captured every humiliating second. He’d showered three times that night, scrubbing until his skin was raw, but the shame clung like damp clothes. Worse, the shame kept company with something else: a persistent, low-grade ache between his legs that refused to fade. He’d jerked off twice before bed, replaying fragments against his will—the laughter, the slaps, Caleb’s hand edging him mercilessly—until he came with a choked sob and hated himself more than ever.

Saturday morning his phone buzzed on the nightstand. A Snapchat notification from an account he didn’t recognize at first: @CalebKing_07. The profile pic was just a blacked-out silhouette, but Ethan knew.

He opened it with shaking fingers.

The clip autoplayed silently at first—muted, thank god—then the sound kicked in mid-sentence.

“…please, sir… let me cum. I’m your whore, just… please!”

His own voice, cracked and desperate, filled the bedroom. On screen: Ethan sprawled on the locker-room floor, arms pinned, legs splayed, Caleb’s fist wrapped around his leaking cock. His hips bucked uselessly, face flushed and tear-streaked, begging like he’d never begged for anything in his life. The clip cut right as he came—body jerking, cum arcing across his stomach—frozen on that final, obscene frame before looping back to the pleading.

Under the video, a single line of text:

Come to my place tonight. 7 sharp. Be ready for anything. Don’t make me send this to the group chat. 😈

He stared at the blank screen, heart slamming so hard it hurt. Terror clawed up his throat—visions of the video spreading, of classmates seeing him like that, of never living it down. His parents were out of town until Monday. No one would know if he didn’t show. He could block the account, delete Snapchat, pretend none of it happened.

But even as the fear coiled tight, heat pooled low in his belly.

He glanced down.

His cock was already rock hard, tenting his boxers, the head pushing wetly against the cotton. A dark spot bloomed where pre-cum had soaked through. He hadn’t even touched himself.

Ethan pressed the heel of his hand against the erection, trying to will it away. It only throbbed harder.

He thought about the clip again—his own broken voice, the way Caleb’s hand had owned him, the laughter ringing off the walls. His breath hitched. Another bead of pre-cum welled up, darkening the fabric more.

He was terrified.

He was aching.

He checked the time: 2:47 p.m.

Four hours and thirteen minutes until seven.

He spent the rest of the afternoon in a haze—pacing his room, scrolling mindlessly, trying to distract himself with music, video games, anything. Nothing worked. Every few minutes his mind circled back to that snap, to the words be ready for anything, and his cock would twitch again, insistent, unforgiving.

By 6:30 he was showered (again), dressed in the plainest hoodie and jeans he owned, hair still damp. He stood in front of the mirror, staring at the boy who looked too ordinary to have begged four classmates to let him cum on camera. His reflection didn’t look terrified. It looked flushed. Pupils blown. Lips parted.

He grabbed his keys.

The drive to Caleb’s house took fifteen minutes. Ethan spent every red light gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles whitened, telling himself he could still turn around. He didn’t.

When he pulled into the driveway at 6:58, the porch light was on. Three other cars were already parked—familiar ones.

The front door opened before he could knock.

Caleb leaned in the frame, shirtless, sweatpants slung low, that same slow smile curling his mouth.

“Right on time,” he said. “Get in here, princess.”

Ethan stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him like a lock turning.