A Bully Caged

Hey, y'all! here's the next installment in "A Bully Caged." Please let me know what you think, and I'll have a question at the end of the story that I would love to hear your input on.

As always, all characters are above the age of 18.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It's Thursday night. Tomorrow is the last day of school for me and Wes. However, that is exactly the last thing on my mind right now. I tousle my hair, look at it, flatten it, and tousle it again. I fix my shirt because of a tiny wrinkle on my shoulder. My teeth are white, but maybe I should brush them again to be certain.

God damn it, I'm a wreck.

Being nervous is about the worst thing on the whole planet. Instead of having to sit and deal with whatever the universe

actually

throws your way, you get to experience the great pleasure of facing each and every potential pitfall and fuck-up

could

come up. Of course, once you're pulled in that direction, you tumble down the infinite hill of anxiety, cracking your head on every rock and tree on the way down.

Usually I don't feel like this, but today is a variation from routine to the umpteenth degree.

Ms. Simmons clears her throat from the other side of my door, making me jump while I'm busy fixing my hair again.

"You'll have to leave in a few minutes, dear!" She says. I'm glad she's watching the time, but I'm already aware. I've been staring at the clock and counting down the seconds all day.

"Thank you!" I say. I can hear the tension in my throat.

The air feels stuffy, like the room's been heated and pressurized.

I'm ready for my first actual date with Wes.

I walk to the kitchen in an automatic, thoughtless way, pushing my heart from my throat, but as soon as I see him sitting at the table drinking tea, I feel it flip. He turns and nervously smiles at me. I smile back.

This was not my doing, for the record.

My car had finally kicked it this morning after a late breakfast, and Ms. Simmons told me that the only way she's helping me replace it is if I take Wes out on a proper date. Dinner and a walk by the water, she said. Nothing too fancy. Tonight. Less than a days notice.

It doesn't matter if we're going to be ordering off the dollar menu though—this is worlds apart from any other interaction we've had.

"Ready?" I ask.

"It's just dinner and stuff," he says, avoiding my gaze. "Nothing to be ready for."

But he's clean shaven, and he smells like patchouli and raspberry. It's a perfume or cologne, and I haven't smelled it before. He put on something new for me. On top of that, his hair was fluffy from being freshly washed, and it looked lighter. He was wearing a white button-down short sleeve shirt and skinny jeans. They're new as well. They fit like women's skinny jeans, clinging to his legs and hips.

"Did you bleach your hair?" I asked.

"Sun-in," Wes said, blushing.

I grab Ms. Simmons' keys from the counter. She's letting us take her car for the night, thankfully.

"Let's go," I say.

Wes nods and gets up. He reaches past me to grab his wallet from the counter, his arm brushing mine.

We're close to one another, and how much taller I am than him strikes me again. Only weeks ago, I dreaded seeing him. Now he looks so small and harmless. His eyes meet mine again, and as he looks up at me, he smiles. It's a genuine, if nervous, smile.

-----------------------

We're sitting across from each other at a vegan restaurant downtown, just having finished dinner. I've never been here, but the plates were large and the servings were small, which generally means that a restaurant is either nice or overpriced. In this case, the restaurant was nice.

"Traffic was good," I say. I can't seem to do anything but spout small talk when I'm nervous.

"Yeah, and the food was too," Wes says, agreeing. We both look around, trying to avoid one another's gaze.

The restaurant is painted a warm white with exposed, natural beams overhead. Crawling plants and vines are placed on various shelves around the dining room, each piece of flora cascading past glowing LEDs. The effect is a subtle green glow that falls over the room. Some bouncy jazz hums in the background. I've never been here, but I like it.

"I've been past this place so many times—" I start.

"But I never thought I would like it," Wes finishes.

"It's different than I expected," I say.

"Good different, though," Wes says.

"Good different," I agree.

The song changes. I recognize this one. It's a cover of Volare. We talk some more, although I feel like the words flow out of me so easily I can't remember what I say as soon as I say it. I pay the bill, and we leave the restaurant.

It's not a long walk to the car, but it's a night to take our time. The dusk air is cool compared to the sweltering heat of the day, but it's mild enough that I'm able to roll up my shirt sleeves. It's a quiet warmth. Leaves rustle.

"It's a nice night out," says Wes.

"It is," I say, and I mean it.

"No clouds, but a gentle breeze," he continues.

"I fucking hate talking about the weather," I say, shaking my head.

"Why?" Wes says. He looks at me as he does, and I can feel those blue eyes on me.

"When people talk about the weather, it's just because they don't have anything better to talk about. I don't want to be that person."

"Sometimes," Wes says.

"Sometimes?" I ask.

"Yeah, sometimes," he says. "But sometimes it's because it doesn't matter what you talk about, it's just about who you're talking with."

My cheeks burn. "Yeah," I say. "I guess that's true. When did you get all social?"

"Ms. Simmons always talks about that kind of stuff."

"And you buy into it?" I ask.

"Not all the time," he says. "but right now, I do."

I close my eyes for a moment and appreciate how the wind folds around me like a blanket. It's warm and thick, but it's soft like satin. "It really is nice weather," I say. "Not too humid at all."

"It's a little cold," Wes says.

I put my arm around his shoulders, rubbing his bicep to warm him. He's wearing a short sleeve button down, and my fingers dance under the fabric as I caress his soft skin.

We don't talk about the weather for a bit, and instead we walk in silence. We walk right past our parking, and we silently agree to extend our walk. I don't take my arm from around him.

When we get to the water—there's a walkway by the river. We stop and look at the lights reflect off the water.

Wes opens his mouth to speak, but I move my hand to his waist, and I pull him closer. He melts into my arms, and we kiss. His lips are soft, and as they part, his tongue meets mine. He's like the summer air, warm and gentle.

Our kiss is brief, and his cheeks are rosy.

"Thanks," I say.

"I didn't do anything," he says. "You were the one who kissed me."

"You looked good, so I kissed you."

"Asshole," he mutters.

For a moment, I wonder if he's serious. But he's shifting from leg to leg, and his eyes keep tracing across my chest. He wants more.

"You can't just be a brat after all that sweet talk, earlier," I say, laughing a bit.

"What do you mean? I was just talking about the weather," he says, but his lips turn slightly. He has the same mischievous smile he's had for years—he knows he's playing hard to get. We begin to walk, and I let my hand take his.

"Then we'll just go to the car, and the night will be over," I say. I can play his game.

"i mean we don't have to leave," he says. "We just got downtown."

"Fine," I say. "Then we will go to the car, but our night

will not

be over.

His eyes widen as he realizes what I mean, and he picks up the pace. He wants this as much as I do.

"You don't have to hold my hand," he says. "I can keep up."

"That's not why I'm holding your hand," I say.

He avoids my gaze, but his grip tightens. Our pace is quicker than before.

We hurry past the same buildings and landmarks we just lazily walked past. Wes and I have a destination now: each other.

When we get to the car, I lead Wes forward a bit so I can push him against the door, and we kiss again. He returns my efforts and bites my lip. He firmly plants his soft hands on my cock, and he is now gripping it and massaging it through my slacks without me even guiding him. Holy shit. I'm in a frenzy, and I drag my hands from his hips to his face, feeling every inch in between. His hips buck, but his hands do not wander. Cars pass behind me.

"Stop kissing me," he half-moans. "It's—it's too much."

We are not in a private location, but tucked away between two buildings, nobody will see us without us knowing they're there. That being said, this parking lot is well lit, and I can even hear distant voices as people talk up and down the street. I don't care. I grab his shirt and rip it open. He yelps. Buttons bounce on asphalt. His chest is heaving, making his black-colored nipple and bellybutton piercings shimmer under the street lamps like drops of oil. His cheeks are red, just like I imagine mine are. I imagine mine are. Just above his waistband, I see his underwear. They're pink and lacy. God, combined with the skinny jeans, Wes' whole wardrobe screams that he wants nothing but cock.

"Shut up, straight boy," I say. In spite of his complaints, I lean in and kiss him again. He sucks on my tongue. The slut doesn't want to admit it, but he loves this even more than I do. Pulling back, I push his shoulder down, and he drops to his knees, pressing his face against my crotch immediately. I'm rock hard, and he caresses my clothed dick with his face, worshiping it through the thin fabric.

His big blue eyes meet mine, and with his face still buried in my lap, he looks like a puppy dog.

"You have to ask," I tell him.

He nods. "C—can I please," he whispers, "please taste you, sir?"

I'm breathless, but I nod.

He slowly undoes my belt, then my pants button. Already, my cock is straining. He grabs my zipper, and he pulls it down gently, savoring the moment.

When he at last reaches my boxers, he hardly has to pull them down before my cock is out and bouncing. The cold air feels good against my aching balls. Wes doesn't know, but I've been saving my cum for him the past few days. As my dick falls, it lands to rest on his cheek. His breath is hot, and I hear it catch in his throat as he sighs.

He wastes no time in wrapping his fingers around my shaft and pumping up and down as he deftly takes both of my balls in his mouth at once, swirling his tongue around them rhythmically. His palm rubs on my head and I hear him hum, almost whine, causing a small vibration to reverberate through me. I feel a tingle in my cock already. The motions have become natural to him.

"Good boy," I say, running my fingers through his thick hair. "You're my fag, aren't you?"

Wes hums again in response, and I grip a fistful of his hair in my hand. He squeaks, but does not stop sucking.

"You love this cock, don't you? I ask.

Wes nods and begins to pump faster. I swell at his touch.

I pull him away by his hair, but he continues to rub my dick. His drool and spit make the wind feel extra cold on my balls.

"Open," I say.

Wes opens his mouth wide and sticks out his tongue. I let saliva gather in my mouth before letting it fall from my lips. It lands right on his tongue. He continues to stroke me as he pulls my spit into his mouth.

"Now swallow, slut."

He does, keeping eye contact with me. His eyes almost look teary. "Yes, sir," he whispers. Even though we are doing this in public, right now it's just me and Wes.

I tighten my grip on his hair.

"Tell me what you love about dick," I say.

Wes blinks and purses his lips for a moment.

I pull his hair again. "Tell me, faggot," I say.

"F—fuck," he says. "I love the way that it—I love the way it smells."

"And?" I ask.

"And I love t—tasting it," he groans. My grip is tight enough that his hands have stopped in place and are now trembling. He's solely focused on my fingers intertwined with his hair and the pain I'm causing him.

"What do you love about the smell and taste?"

"I don't know. I—"

"Yes you do, faggot," I interrupt. "What do you love about the smell and taste of cock?"

"I—I love the salty taste of sweat," he says.

"What else?"

"I love the musky, manly smell on you," he groans. I keep my grip on his hair tight, but he starts stroking me again.

"Do you love the taste of cum?" I ask.

"God, yes," he groans. " I love how it's bitter and sweet at the same time. How it feels on my tongue, and the way it lingers in my throat when I swallow."

"Do you want to taste more?"

"Yes—yes, please, sir."

"Good boy," I say, relaxing my grip and guiding him to my cock head.

He is immediately greeted with a large amount of precum, and his eyes flutter as he sucks it down and begins to take my rod between his lips. His face turns bright red with shame as he worships my dick, but he doesn't stop for a second.

Fuck, he feels good. Cum is already rising and churning inside of me.

Now it's my turn to stifle a moan.

Wes swallows before pressing forward, taking my cock deep inside his throat.

I loosen my hold and play with his hair as he impales himself on my dick. He pulls back before swallowing me whole again. He repeats this over and over, taking every inch.

"That's a good boy," I say. "You're my faggot, okay? You're mine."

Wes looks up at me again, his mouth full and eyes wide as he bobs up and down. His cheeks are still scarlet. He tries to manage a nod.

I feel a surge of cum press against the dam before it breaks, and I pull Wes down until my cock is resting in his esophagus. The first jet of cum is a small one, but the world crashes down on me with the next rope. I bite my cheek, trying not to cry out. This orgasm is intense, and it feels like each stream of semen is being pulled out of me. After what seems like forever, it stops. I breathe shakily, and I look at Wes.

Tears and spit run down his cheeks, and his shirt hangs loosely off his shoulders as his shoulders rise and fall with each labored breath. A small stain of precum is visible through his khakis, and there's a hunger in his eyes. His blond hair is awry, sticking out in a sexy, unkempt way.

I slide out of his throat, and drool falls from his chin, landing on his chest. I crouch down, my face only inches from his.

"Now," I say, " we go to the second part of our date."

I kiss Wes, and this time, he does not complain.

-----------------------

Wes is naked, and his hands move from his cock to his nipples, trying to cover his chastity cage and piercings. His blond hair shines in the low light, and now that his shirt is off, his black chain collar is visible with the small padlock on the end. He fixed himself up in the car, but he's more self conscious than ever now that he's naked. He moves back and forth from one leg to another, sticking out each hip in turn. Even Wes' demeanor, how he carries himself when he thinks nobody is watching, now exudes gayness.

A large Greek man passes with a towel around his waist, looking Wes up and down with a bearded smile. He winks, and Wes folds both of his hands to hide his small, caged dick. The Greek man makes no move to cover his own member, and it swells, thick and hairy. It's uncircumcised and bulbous at the tip.

"Hello, cutie," he says to Wes as he opens his locker and throws in a towel.

Wes is quiet until I nudge him. "Say hello," I say.

"Hello," squeaks Wes.

The Greek man smiles and walks to the showers, but not before running his hand down to his dick and adjusting it. His locker key, like ours, is on an elastic band, and he places it around his forearm.

I turn and finish getting undressed, feeling the dried spit on my balls and shaft from earlier in the night. I'm not going to show Wes of course, but I feel as exposed and nervous as he is. My cock is semi-erect, and my heart beats fast. I quickly lock both of our lockers and place the elastic bands around my arm.

I had spent days researching this place, but being here was a whole different beast.

We are at a gay sauna about an hour from home,

The Steam Palace

. House music vibrates through the place, and although we are only in the locker room, it is already markedly different than the ones we both are used to from school.

For one, it is bathed just in low light, and there is only a glass partition that separates the locker area from the showers. Wes and I can see a handful of naked men lathering their bodies. Their hands glide across their shoulders and stomachs, soapy bubbles blossoming on their skin. A brown-skinned man with a silver septum piercing is making a show of washing his ass, spreading his cheeks to let the water run between them and down his legs. His cock, which is small and cut, swings as he sways his hips. He has a bush trimmed into a landing strip. Another man, older and gray-haired, is scrubbing his own smooth chest. His dick is shaved, and even flaccid, I can see that he has a massive, veiny member. The third man is the Greek, bearded and decidedly ungroomed. He is swaying to the music and lets the water run down to his dick as it bobs back and forth hypnotically. He's stroking it gently, letting it grow to its full size. I look at Wes, and his eyes are darting from cock to cock, sometimes glancing at mine. Holy shit, the poor twink is pent up.

"We're... just here to look," Wes says. "Right?"

"That's mostly right," I say. "and to be looked at."

Wes swallows.

Wes and I have been in a whirlwind since check-in. Going over our IDs and taking the cash had been the least of the front desk worker's worries. He had been distracted checking out Wes. I can't blame him. Wes looked amazing. His toned figure and sharp features made looked beautiful even with clothes on, but knowing that he would soon be nude and exposed was an exciting prospect to both the doorman and me. I made Wes buy a bottle of lube as well, and he kept blushing. He could tell he was being mentally stripped and eye-fucked by both me and the front desk worker, but he enthusiastically signed the entrance form. As soon as he had learned where we were going, his eyes had widened, and any of his usual snark had disappeared.

Only a month ago, he was renowned as a soccer star fuckboy, and now he's a caged faggot stuck oggling at dicks without being able to even touch his own. The last vestiges of his straightness are evaporating before my eyes.

I place a hand in his ass, and I drag my fingers in a lazy pattern around his cheek. He shivers.

"You must be cold," I say. "Let's warm up." I move my hand to hold his, pulling it away from his cage. Even in this light, his balls look flush and swollen. With my other hand, I grab the bottle of lubricant Wes purchased, and I give it to him. I move toward the showers.

Wes is silent, but he follows, and as we walk around the glass, the steam hits us directly, gathering in dewdrops on our naked bodies. It's hard to see the others through all the fog. Wes squeezes my hand, and I squeeze his back. He pulls for a moment, and I slow.

"I—I don't know if I'm ready for this," he whispers.

I turn to him, and he looks small. "Wes," I say in a low, gentle voice. "I don't want you to do anything you don't want to do. If you don't want this—any of this, we can leave. Do you want to leave?"

He pauses, biting his lip. Finally, he shakes his head. "Just—just make sure I'm okay as we go along, alright?"

I reach forward and touch his hip. He's lithe, and his muscular hip feels good under my hand. I pull him closer to me, and I kiss his forehead. His hand rests on my chest, and he leans into me. "Remember your safeword?" I ask.

Wes nods, and he begins gently kissing my collarbone.

"Good," I say. "Let me know any time. I'll be sure to check up on you, but let me know any time, okay?"