A Bully Caged

This story is bisexual, domination-filled, and only populated by of-age characters.

***********************

Wes and I are in my room. I would like to say that as soon as we got back to the house and had dinner, I ripped his clothes off, but that would be a lie. We had eaten, talked about our days with Ms. Simmons, and did domestic things like packing lunches. Even now, he's freshly showered and on my bed, but I'm sitting in my computer chair, facing him.

I'm helping him study for a fucking final.

"Synecdoche," He says. Even though he's laying back on the bed, his arms are crossed, his brow is knit, and I can almost smell the smoke as his brain works overtime. All sexual tension and charge has disappeared, and I've become his tutor.

"Synecdoche," I repeat.

"Synecdoche," he says

"Synecdoche is..." I say, hoping that all he needs is a push.

His eyes light up, and he snaps his fingers. "It's when you use a different word to avoid repetition in a sentence."

I sigh. "That's anaphora. Synecdoche is like just saying 'nice wheels' when you mean a cool car."

He nods, his smile disappearing. "Again." He's stubborn, to say the least.

I groan and put the flashcard I'm holding on my desk. "It's been an hour and a half of this, Wes."

He sits up. "Yeah. I actually focus when I study."

"Then we'll go for more tomorrow," I say, "but I gotta relax before bed."

He nods again and lets his eyes trace the edge of the ceiling before he sits up. As he moves, his new collar clinks. It's not much, only the slightest twinkle of metal on metal, but both of us hear it. He is making a concerted effort not to look at me. His blond hair is still drying from the shower, and it glows in the lamplight. I can see the outline of his pierced nipples in his shirt and his cage through his thin sweatpants.

No matter how far we go, every time that Wes is reminded of what we've done--what we've *become*, it's like he has to pull away.

"Look at me," I say.

He turns his head, and I see his lips are pursed. He's conflicted.

I don't want to care, but he looks torn up. This is the first time I'm so starkly aware that the non-sexual part of our relationship has changed. Since Ms. Simmons gifted Wes to me, he's been more timid, but beyond that, he actually hears me. It seems backwards, but now that we're on such unequal grounds, we can finally talk like we're just two people. He's that dumb, bullheaded dick sometimes, but he's transformed into someone more considerate.

I clear my throat. "You're a hard worker. Really hard. That means you've always had a lot of control over different parts of your life, right?"

He nods but doesn't speak.

"Now that someone else is in charge of some parts of you, I think you might just be realizing that you like not having control sometimes, and that's okay."

He's quiet.

I let him sit with himself for a moment before standing up. "Let's get ready for bed," I say.

He nods and starts for the door.

"Sit back down," I say.

Wes stops and realizes what's going on. In the midst of his post-orgasmic stupor earlier in the day, he must have forgotten that he was staying in my room tonight, nude. He slowly sits back down.

"Start with your shirt," I say.

He pulls off his shirt quickly and fumbles for his belt. Eager boy. I think he's hoping for another release, although he'll be disappointed if that's the case.

"Pants next," I say, and he slips off his jeans. Underneath, he's wearing silky panties, their smoothness broken up by sharp shadows cast from his cage pressed against fabric.

"Good slut," I say, trying to keep my cool. I had decided to have him wear thongs only starting today. I thought it would be a good constant reminder, but now it's a distraction to me more than him.

"Thank you," he mumbles.

"Louder," I say.

"Thank you, sir," he says, slightly more confident.

"Now take off the panties too," I tell him.

He stands to do so, and I pull down the front of my loose sweatpants as he does, letting my member free from its prison. His small, trapped cock jiggles cutely.

Without being told, Wes gets on his knees and leans forward with an open mouth, ready to lick my shining dickhead.

I coolly move it out of his reach with a simple hip movement.

His brow furrows slightly.

"Only I'm touching this thing tonight," I say. "Grab that pillow." I point to the one he's going to be sleeping on. It's pinstriped cornflower blue.

He's confused, but he takes the pillow in his hand.

"Put it between your legs," I say.

He lifts his hips, and wedges the pillow between his thighs, a leg on each side like a bicycle. The buttplug he wears constantly has to be pushed deeper in this position.

"Grind," I say.

He starts moving his hips rhythmically and stiffly, but his muscles relax as the cotton glides across his cage and balls, and soon he falls in love with the cushion below him.

He stifles moans.

"Tell me you're straight," I say, and I spit on my hand to lube up my cock. It hardens in my grip.

"I'm... I'm straight," he gasps, staring at my dick.

"Say it to convince yourself," I say, "not me."

"I'm straight," he says again. "I'm--I'm straight." He bucks faster, and I stroke faster. I'm so hard that it only takes me a few minutes until I can feel my dick start to pulsate.

"Now beg for my cum, straight boy," I say.

"Please give me your load, sir," he whines, leaning back to give me a better target as he continues to fuck the pillow below him with his nub. "Please give me your cum."

He sticks his tongue out, and that's what sends me over the ledge. My balls tighten, and a thick, creamy cumshot fires across his chest and face, some landing squarely on his waiting tongue. He continues to grind as stream after stream of semen paints his chest.

We're both breathing heavily. "Go shower," I say.

"But I didn't get to--"

"I don't care," I say. "Shower."

He slinks out of the room, and showers. When he comes back, he's shimmering with water.

"Good," I say. "You did good."

He nods without looking at me. He's blushing. "Thank you."

I head off to the bathroom. I'm only gone for maybe fifteen minutes. I take a quick shower, brush my teeth, and floss before going back to my room.

The light is still on. Wes is face down on the bed, one knee hiked up. The curve of his spine, ending at his bubbly, muscular ass, gives the appearance of an even smaller waist than usual. He's taken his buttplug out for the night, but his lubed asshole is still visibly loosened. It's the first time I'm seeing it directly. It's pink and swollen, probably tired of being plugged for hours on end, but it's cute. It looks like the exact kind of hole Wes would have on his short frame. Tomorrow, I'm planning to own it--feel and taste it.

His cage rests between his legs, a bead of precum hanging from it's tip.

I approach him and rest a hand on his ass. It's firm, but jiggly. He doesn't react.

His chest is rising and falling slowly, and I can hear the occasional catch--tiny intermittent snores. He's asleep.

I move my hand up, rubbing his back. He shifts, but doesn't wake up. Why am I rubbing his back? It's not a purely sexual touch, but it carries the same level of intimacy. Still naked from my shower, I grab a blanket from the closet, and I throw it over him.

I lie down next to him, still nude, and shuffle my body under the blanket. I had meant to have him sleep without clothes in my bed as a show of ownership, but it's cold.

My bed isn't large, and it's not long until our calves touch. My legs, hairy, are brushing against his smooth, waxed skin. It feels electric. Eventually, as he flops and turns, his arm lands, resting on my chest. I'm still warming up from my shower, and his skin is warm and soft. He feels good.

Fuck it.

I slide my arm under his pillow, and, in one smooth motion, I pull him close, tight against my chest and side. His breathing changes for a moment before returning to the slow rhythm of night. My cock grows, and for once, I control myself. The amount of sleep I've been getting has been awful. I need to save my energy for tomorrow, and wasting it now would be a shame. Damn, he makes it hard though. His skin is smooth and warm, contrasting with the hard cage that's now lodged against my thigh. Goosebumps appear on my skin as a shiver runs down my body.

Some time passes. Minutes? An hour? I'm still awake. My eyes adjust to the dark, and everything has become barely visible. Every mass is made of sapphire blue shadows and dull light. Wes moves in my arms. He slips out of sleep to adjust.

Then I hear his tired and raspy voice, and I feel him move, as if to turn his head to me.

"David?" He asks. He's so quiet and breathy, I almost mistake his voice for a snore.

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry," he says.

I pause. "For what?" I ask.

"I used to be kind of mean to you," he mutters.

That's an understatement, but I don't say so. I just sigh, and his head rises and falls with my chest. "It's stupid to think about being in traffic once you're out of it."

He's quiet, and I almost think he's sleeping before he speaks again. "What?"

"I mean," I say, "thinking about what got you here isn't nearly as important as what happens from now on. Just try not to do dumb shit again."

Another pause. His shadow moves, but he doesn't pull away. "Corny," he says.

Bastard.

I think back to Ms. Simmons said. She has a friend that wants to help with him, I think? I can't even pretend to know what that means.

***********************

The next day, school passes me by, and even though I'm doing my work, my whole being is on autopilot. I nod when needed, answer when expected, and write when required. I float more than I walk. Every other action, Wes appears in my mind. It's annoying. I hardly even see him from a distance--he's been pulled out of classes to help with graduation--so there's no reason for me to be thinking of him.

Besides, after yesterday and what will happen today, I don't want to overload him. I just wish I could stop thinking about the guy. I still dislike him, right?

It's not until I'm getting ready to leave that I see him. He's in the hall near my last class, holding the straps on his backpack tight. His friend, Chris, is trying to talk, but Wes isn't listening. He swings his head left to right as he scans the halls.

I walk nearby, nodding at him. He swallows.

"Hey--how's it going?" He asks, interrupting Chris.

"Pretty good," I say, slowing but not stopping. I'm not sure what he was looking for, but it must have been important.

"Me too," he says. He starts to walk the same direction as me and draws closer

Oh fuck.

He was waiting for *me*?

Chris has stopped talking now, and is left with his mouth hanging open.

"Want to walk home together?" He asks.

"I don't--sure," I stumble.

We walk in the same direction, but I don't know what to say. A lot of my life has been spent alone, and casual conversation is annoying. Talking about the weather is only valuable if both parties agree that silence is worthless.

"Sunny day," I say, mentally kicking my hypocritical self.

"Yeah. Hot, too," he says.

I wait a second to see if he's going to say anything more, but he stays quiet.

"So are you ready," I ask, "for today?"

Wes doesn't make eye contact, but I can hear the tense excitement in his voice. "Yeah," he says. "Sure. It should be alright."

He's hiding the nervous giddiness poorly.

I decide to drop it for now. Later, I'll push.

We walk up to my car together, which, although serviceable, makes sounds like a demon having a heart attack when it starts up.

I'm about to open my door when I feel a sharp pain in my arm, and I see a rock fall. I turn to see a car surrounded by Chris and a few of Wes' other rocks-for-brains friends.

"Going on a date?" Chris sneers.

I want to say something, but my voice catches. I stay quiet due to sheer force of habit. Doing nothing, saying nothing, is comfortable.

"Wes," another of the meatheads, Joey, shouts while he squints. "Is that you? what are you doing? Come on, we're going to play a game of pickup."

"I told you he was hanging with David's gay ass," Chris says.

"I'm going--I have to study with him," Wes says. He does not look or gesture to me as he says this. His face is pallid and loose, as if all energy and blood has been pulled away.

The meatheads look confused. Wes, who is usually president meathead, is going to study with meathead public enemy number one: me. This is political outrage.

"I asked him to help me, and he said only if I do his homework," I say.

I can almost hear the gears grinding as the boys think. Finally, Joey nods before speaking. His voice is slow and awkward, exploring uncharted verbal territory. "Okay..." he says. "you better do that homework... fag. See you later, Wes."

Wes waves.

We ride home in silence.

When we return, I can see Ms. Simmons on the porch waiting alone. She's drinking tea and smiling. "Wes!" She shouts as we pull up, "use the side door to run upstairs and clean yourself up!"

Wes stays silent, but turns pink as he quickly shuffles out of the car and to the door, looking side to side to make sure nobody in the neighborhood is around to hear.

I walk up to the porch, and Ms. Simmons throws her arms around my shoulders. She's soft, and she smells like dandelions. I hug her back. She pulls away, smiles, and waves me into the front door.

Ms. Simmons has another two still-steaming cups of tea on the table, and a woman is blowing on one of them to cool it. She stands as I approach.

"This is Sasha," Ms. Simmons says.

I reach out and shake Sasha's hand. She might be a bit older than me and Wes, but she's short, probably just above five feet tall with wide hips. She smiles at me, and her white teeth are contrasted against her tawny beige skin and umber brown eyes. She's beautiful. Her hair is curly and bouncy, framing her face in browns and blacks.

"I'm David," I say.

"Pleasured," Sasha says with a coy smile. "So, not to get ahead of myself, but I hear you've been getting along with Wes?"

I look at Ms. Simmons and she nods.

"Yes, I have," I say. "He's been great."

"But you haven't fucked him yet?" She asks.

The bluntness throws me off for a moment. "Well--I--"

"Today's the day," Ms. Simmons says.

"Yeah," I say. "I was planning on it once we got home. He's been working up to... my level... so he can be more comfortable."

Sasha's eyebrows raise and her eyes dart to my crotch. I'm being sized up, literally and figuratively.

I clear my throat. "Ms. Simmons," I say, "Sasha is the friend you mentioned, I assume."

Ms. Simmons just smiles and nods.

"I know Wes well," Sasha says. "He usually with me over the weekends."

My curiosity is piqued. I didn't know that Wes had a job.

"It's a cushy country club," Sasha continues, "and Wes is just a caddy. Mainly he drives golf carts all day."

"And you two are friends?" I ask.

"God, no," Sasha says. "Although he has had a huge crush on me the past couple months. He would do anything for me, that little romantic." She picks up her tea and takes a sip.

I feel a twinge of jealousy. "Tell me what 'anything' includes," I say.

Sasha takes a few steps closer. Her T-shirt is thin, and I can see the shape of her breasts--the fabric clings as if it's trying to be as close to her as possible. She drinks her tea again, and the smell of chamomile is strong. She smiles before speaking. "Wes," she says, "is the little twink who I make guard the utility closet while I fuck my boyfriends on the other side of the door."

***********************

Wes is wearing a blindfold, a ballgag, and earplugs when Ms. Simmons leads him into the room. His slim body is hairless. His cage bounces with every step.

This is a new room.

It's new to me, at least. I've visited Ms. Simmons all my life, and I've lived in this house for almost half a year, but I have never seen this room.

To my credit, it's only accessible through a false wall in Ms. Simmons' walk-in closet, and I'm not a creep who goes around testing people's closet walls.

The room is an surprisingly tasteful for a sex room. It's a warm maroon, and there's walnut shelves covering the entirety of the wall to the left of the door, and everything from fucking machines and dildos to ropes and wax candles is on display with orange backlights. A large table covered in rings and cuffs is in the center of the room, and a large standing metal structure is to the right. The floor is laminate--easy cleanup--and Wes' footsteps against it are the only sound in the room.

Wes is breathing heavily, his chest already rising and falling heavily with excitement, and as he stops, I notice a shudder in every exhale. He's excited.

Blindfolds are a funny thing. Even with us standing directly in front of Wes, he still has no clue what waits for him--the great unknown is stretched out for everyone but him to see. The blindfold forces him to try to use his other senses, but with the earplugs, he's firmly trapped in oblivion. He has no clue Sasha is here.

Ms. Simmons enters behind him, wearing a black silk robe. She gave both me and Sasha one as well, and the fabric brushes against my cock as it stirs from staring at Wes. I don't know where she's gotten so many robes, but she had a whole box full of them.

"Turn and expose," Ms. Simmons says.

Wes swallows and nods, turns so his ass is facing me, and bends over, spreading his asscheeks apart.

His ass, tight and bouncy as he moves, is now on full display. His hole is pink. He just cleaned himself, and even his fingers look manicured as they expose the most private parts of his body. His cage sways gently as he breathes.

"Want to do the inspection, David?" Ms. Simmons asks. She says it loudly enough for Wes to hear past his earplugs.

Wes clears his throat. "You're not going to do it, Ms. Simmons?"

Ms. Simmons walks next to Wes before swiftly smacking his ass. He yelps and stumbles before righting himself.

"You're David's toy, silly," she says with her usual, kind voice. "I just get to help out. Think of yourself as a fleshlight."

He whimpers. "Yes, ma'am," he says.

I nod, and I take a step to Wes, resting a hand on his lower back.

I feel his goosebumps. He's warm.

I squat down and trace my finger along the outside of his asscheek, feeling his warm skin against my hand. It's hot, and the outline of Ms. Simmons' hand burns in red.

He sighs shakily, and I hear an unconscious hum from deep in his chest as I touch him.

Then, I grab his balls and hold them firmly. I do it to show him that I am in control, but his hum just becomes louder.

Fucking masochist. I bet he went against what Ms. Simmons said just for the spank.

Surprising him has been easy so far, but if I never switch gears, he'll think high-octane is my only speed. I decide to change techniques, even if only for a moment. I hold on to his cage, kneel down, and I pause before gently kissing his swollen, needy balls. It's the first time my lips have touched him in such a sensitive spot. He tenses, startled, before he pushes his hips back, silently asking for more.

I oblige, kissing my way up his asscheek, mixing in a soft bite every few times my lips touch him.

Eventually I reach his asshole. It looks even better close up. I lean forward and push my tongue into him, holding his cage for leverage.

He gasps.

Ms. Simmons purrs. "Now I haven't done *that* to him.

Wes is short of breath. "Oh my God," he murmurs. "I'm not--oh my *God*. You're making me..."

This is the first time I've tasted Wes, and I immediately feel blood rush to my cock as he squirms against my exploring tongue.

He's tight, but I can feel him loosening already.

I sink my tongue as deep as I can before I pull back and nod to Ms. Simmons. "He's ready."