Chapter 2: The Bully
You wake to the smell of her—vanilla shampoo, sex, and something uniquely Cerys, a warm musk that’s already imprinted in your brain. Her leg is still thrown over yours, a possessive weight. Sunlight, sharper now, cuts across the rumpled duvet and her bare shoulder.She stirs, nuzzling against your neck with a contented hum. “Morning, superstar.”
Her voice is sleep-rough, intimate. You blink, the events of last night slamming back into you with cinematic clarity.The ache between your legs is a pleasant, heavy reminder. You’re not a virgin anymore. The concept feels foreign, like trying on a suit that’s three sizes too big.“Morning,” you manage, your own voice cracking.
She props herself up on an elbow, her blonde hair a messy halo. She studies your face, her grey eyes sharp and assessing even now.“So,” she says, a slow smile spreading. “How’s the world looking?”
“Different.”
“Good different?”
You think about it. The terror is still there, a low buzz in the back of your skull. But layered over it is a strangeness, a raw, tingling power that hums through your veins.You nod.“Yeah. Good different.”
“Excellent.” She sits up, the duvet pooling around her waist, and stretches with a feline grace that makes your new cock twitch against your thigh. “Now, let’s set some ground rules.This,” she gestures between the two of you, “was phenomenal.A-plus. Life-changing, for me at least.I want it to continue.”
Your heart does a weird stutter. “Okay.”
“But I’m not your girlfriend. We’re not dating.” She says it casually, like she’s discussing class schedules.“I’m a third year. You’re a fresher.That’s a minefield.What we are is friends. Very, very good friends with spectacular benefits.You don’t get jealous.I don’t do drama. We fuck when we both want to.Clear?”
It’s brutally straightforward. Part of you—the old you, the one who got crushes on girls who saw him as a harmless little brother—feels a sting. The rest of you, the part still vibrating from the memory of her coming on your face, thinks it sounds like the best deal you’ve ever been offered. “Clear.”
“Brilliant.” She leans over and kisses you, hard and promising. “Now, I need a shower. You reek of me, and I’ve got a tutorial at ten.”
She swings out of bed, completely unselfconscious in her naked glory, and pads toward your tiny ensuite. You watch her go, the sway of her hips, the perfect curve of her arse, and feel a proprietary thrill that contradicts her ‘no-drama’ rule entirely.
The shower kicks on.You get up, moving gingerly.Everything feels… used.In a good way. You pull on yesterday’s trackies and a cleanish t-shirt, the fabric snug against the persistent, semi-hard evidence of last night. You’re scrambling eggs on the pathetic little hob when she emerges, a towel wrapped around her torso, another turbaned around her hair. She looks fresh, composed, in control again.“Smells good,” she says, padding over to kiss your cheek. She dresses quickly, efficiently: black lingerie, a tight navy dress, those killer stilettos. The transformation from your bedmate to untouchable upperclassman is unnerving.
You eat in comfortable silence, the only sound the scrape of forks on plates.It feels domestic.Weird.
“Right,” she says, standing and slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Walk me out?”
You follow her into the hallway, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. The corridor is quiet, just the distant sound of someone’s drum and bass playlist. You’re almost to the stairwell when a door swings open further down.Freya steps out.
She’s in her uniform of skin-tight grey joggers and a cropped tank top, her impressive bulge unmistakable. Her dyed red hair is piled in a messy bun. She’s heading for the stairs too, her head down, until she looks up and sees you both.She stops dead. Her eyes flick from Cerys—polished, smirking, satisfied—to you, standing there looking rumpled and shell-shocked.Her gaze drops, just for a fraction, to the front of your trackies. Her expression cycles through shock, disbelief, and then a slow-dawning, horrified understanding. Her face goes pale, then flushes a deep, angry crimson.
“Well, well,” she says, her voice a low sneer.“The virgin and the slut. Cute.”
Cerys doesn’t flinch.She just smiles, a cool, condescending thing.“Freya. Lovely to see you too.”
Freya’s eyes are locked on Cerys. An old hunger is there, mixed with fresh, burning jealousy.“Heard you had a busy night, Cerys. Slumming it with the freshers now? Couldn’t find anyone your own size?”
“On the contrary,” Cerys purrs, taking a step closer to you, her hand coming to rest possessively on your arm.“I found exactly what I was looking for. The perfect size.”
Freya’s jaw tightens.You can see the muscle working. She takes a step forward, her own presence domineering the narrow space. “You know what you need, Cerys?Someone who knows how to handle you. Not some boy who just lucked into a big dick.”
“And you think that’s you?” Cerys’s laugh is a light, tinkling bell.“Sweetheart, I’ve seen what you’ve got. It’s… adorable.A perfectly respectable ten inches.But it’s not for me. It’s certainly not for him.” She squeezes your arm.Freya’s composure cracks. She steps right into Cerys’s space, looming over her. “You don’t get to talk to me like that,” she growls, her voice dropping. “You know what I could do to you.You’ve seen me do it to your friends. I could bend you over right here and make you forget his name.”
A strange shift happens in Cerys’s posture. The cool defiance melts, replaced by a sudden, breathless submission.Her grey eyes widen. She looks up at Freya, her lip caught between her teeth. “You… you really think you could?” Her voice is a whisper, laced with feigned fear and genuine excitement.
Freya’s chest swells, her confidence rushing back. “I know I could.” She reaches out, trails a finger down Cerys’s cheek.“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Being put in your place.”
Cerys nods, a quick, eager little motion. “My room’s a mess,” she breathes, gesturing back toward your door. “But his… his is just here.It’s private.”
Freya’s green eyes glitter with triumph. She shoots you a look of pure contempt.“Go on, little boy.Run along. The adults are going to play.”
You stand there, frozen, a knot of panic and something else tightening in your gut.Cerys gives you a quick, almost imperceptible wink.
She turns, leading Freya by the hand back to your open door.Freya follows, a predator on the scent. Cerys pulls her inside, then turns to you.“Come on, Toby. Don’t be shy.”
You follow numbly, closing the door behind you. The room feels impossibly small with the three of you in it, charged with a dangerous, electric tension.
Freya is already crowding Cerys, her hands on Cerys’s hips, backing her toward the bed. “On your knees,” Freya commands.“Wait,” Cerys says, her voice husky. She places a hand on Freya’s chest.“Let’s… make it interesting. Toby, fetch that desk chair.”
You move robotically, pulling the cheap wooden chair into the center of the room. Freya watches, a smirk on her face.“What’s this? An audience?”
“Something like that.” Cerys guides Freya to the chair.“Sit.”
Freya, intrigued, sits. Cerys moves with a dancer’s precision. She pulls a pair of shiny, silk scarves from her bag—where did those come from?—and in a series of swift, practiced motions, ties Freya’s wrists to the wooden arms of the chair. The knots are tight, efficient.Freya chuckles, testing the bonds.“Kinky. I like it.”
“I know you do,” Cerys murmurs. She kneels in front of Freya, her hands sliding up Freya’s thighs. She leans in, her face inches from the prominent bulge in Freya’s joggers.She inhales deeply, a theatrical show of arousal.“Mmm. I can smell it.All that frustration.”
She looks up at Freya, her eyes wide and innocent. “Can I see it?Your famous cock?”
Freya nods, her breath coming faster. “Go on.”
Cerys hooks her fingers into Freya’s waistband and slowly tugs the joggers and her underwear down.Freya’s cock springs free, thick and impressive, already half-hard. It’s a beautiful piece of anatomy, veined and full, curving upward. For a second, Cerys just looks, a connoisseur appraising a work of art. Then her expression changes.The submission vanishes, replaced by cold, clinical assessment.
“Hmm,” she says, a sound of pure disappointment.Freya’s smile falters. “What?”
“It’s just…” Cerys sits back on her heels. “When you hear the stories, you expect something… more.This is ten inches? It looks smaller from this angle.” She reaches out a single finger and traces the length from base to tip, a dismissive flick. “It’s nice.Pretty, even. But it’s not substantial.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Freya yanks against the scarves, her face darkening.
Cerys ignores her.She turns her head, looking at you.“Toby, love. Come here.”
You walk over, your own heart hammering. Cerys reaches for your trackies, pulling them and your boxers down in one smooth motion.Your cock, soft but still massive, tumbles out.
The comparison in the dim light of your room is obscene. Yours is not just longer, but thicker, heavier, a monument of flesh next to Freya’s now-diminished pride.
Freya’s eyes widen. She’s seen the bulge, heard the rumors, but this is direct, unavoidable comparison.Her breath hitches. Her own cock, you notice with a savage, unexpected thrill, twitches against her stomach.
“See?” Cerys says to Freya, her voice a study in faux sympathy.“This is what I mean by substantial. This is what fills a person. Yours…” she glances back at Freya’s dick, “it’s a toy.A novelty. His is a weapon.”
“You bitch,” Freya snarls, straining against the silken bonds. Her face is a mask of humiliated rage, but her hips give a tiny, involuntary thrust.Cerys smiles. She stands, positioning herself between you both.With one hand, she reaches back and wraps her fingers around Freya’s shaft. Freya gasps, her head falling back.With her other hand, Cerys reaches for you. Her cool fingers close around your base, and she begins to stroke, slow and firm.
“Look at him, Freya,” Cerys commands, her voice low and hypnotic. “Look at what you spent months laughing at.Look at what you’ll never have. This beautiful, perfect cock that’s going to wreck me over and over again. While you watch.”
She works both of you, her rhythm on you purposeful and arousing, her touch on Freya almost contemptuous, a quick, rough jerking. You harden completely in her grasp, swelling to your full, daunting size. Freya is fully hard too, her pre-cum beading at the tip, her chest heaving.She’s not looking at Cerys anymore. She’s staring at your cock, her green eyes wide with a hellish mixture of hatred, envy, and undeniable, desperate want.Every insult she ever threw at you hangs in the air, now poison to her alone.
Cerys leans close to Freya’s ear, her hand never stopping on you. “This is your place now.Tied up.Watching.Knowing your best isn’t good enough. Isn’t that right, Toby’s little bitch?”
Freya doesn’t answer. She just stares, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her body trembling with a humiliation so complete it borders on arousal.The game has flipped.The alpha is now, undeniably, on her knees. And it’s your reflection, monstrous and triumphant, you see shining in her furious, hungry eyes.
Freya’s chest heaves, a trapped animal’s rhythm.Cerys’s hand on her is ruthless, a punishing pace that offers no mercy. Her other hand still fondles you, a possessive counterpoint.
“You’re gonna come, aren’t you?” Cerys whispers into Freya’s ear. “You’re gonna spurt your little load all over yourself like a pathetic boy.”
Freya shakes her head, a weak denial, but her body betrays her.Her hips jerk against the restraining silk. A choked, guttural sound escapes her lips.It’s over in seconds. A few weak, translucent ropes shoot from her tip, arcing pathetically onto her own stomach. Cerys catches the last feeble pulse in her cupped palm.She brings her hand to Freya’s face. “Open.”
“Fuck off,” Freya spits, turning her head away.
Cerys’s free hand shoots out, gripping Freya’s jaw with startling force. She forces her mouth open and smears her own palm across Freya’s tongue and lips. Freya gags, protests muffled, her teeth gnashing against Cerys’s skin. “Swallow it,” Cerys orders, cold and calm. “Swallow your own humiliation.”
Freya’s eyes water, blurring her furious gaze.She swallows, a convulsive bob of her throat. A tear tracks through her mascara. Cerys releases her jaw with a look of distaste, wiping her hand on Freya’s tank top.Then she grabs the hem of the shirt and yanks. The cheap fabric tears with a sharp sound, exposing Freya’s large, fake breasts, their unnatural roundness heaving.
“These silly things,” Cerys muses, pinching a hardened nipple between her thumb and forefinger, twisting.Freya hisses, arching against the bonds. Cerys leans down and bites the other nipple, not a playful nip but a sharp, sustained clamp.Freya cries out, a raw mix of pain and something else.“Just for show. Like your cock. All presentation, no real weight.”
“You disgusting cunt,” Freya chokes out, her voice ragged.“And you, you fucking freak. This is a joke.”
Cerys straightens up, her expression serene. Then she drives her fist, hard and precise, into Freya’s balls.
The sound Freya makes is airless, a high, pinched wheeze.All the color drains from her face. She doubles over as much as the ties allow, gasping, drool stringing from her lip. Her body convulses in silent, shuddering agony.“Toby,” Cerys says, her voice unchanged. “Her mouth is wasting oxygen.Use it.”
You step forward, your own cock an angry, throbbing weight. The sight of Freya broken, gasping, her tits exposed and marked, sends a current of pure, dark power through you.You remember every sneer, every laugh in the studio. You grab a fistful of her red hair and pull her head up. Her green eyes are glazed with pain, but they focus on you, swimming with venom and a terrifying, deep-seated need.
You guide yourself to her lips.She tries to turn away. You tighten your grip in her hair, forcing her still, and push the broad head past her resistance. She gags instantly, her body trying to reject the intrusion.You don’t stop. You push deeper, feeling her throat convulse around you, a tight, wet seal. You begin to move, slow at first, then with a building, mechanical rhythm.
“Look at her,” Cerys says, standing beside you, her hand stroking your back.“The big, bad alpha.Choking on the very thing she mocked. She’s wanted this since she saw it in class.Admit it, Freya. You’ve been dreaming of this taste.”
You fuck her mouth in earnest now, a brutal, piston motion.Her insults are gone, replaced by wet, choking sounds and ragged breaths through her nose. Tears stream freely down her cheeks, cutting through the last of her defiance. Her eyes, locked on yours, hold no more fight.Just a dazed, overwhelmed submission. A strange, broken groan vibrates around your shaft.
“That’s it,” Cerys coos, her voice filthy and sweet.“She loves it.She’s finally found something big enough to shut her up. Her ego’s finally met its match, and it’s buried in her throat.”
Her words fuel you. The heat, the tightness, the complete dominion—it coils the tension in your gut into an unbearable spring. You release her hair, instead holding the base of your cock and fucking her face with a final, deep intensity. You see the moment her resistance melts completely, her body going slack, accepting the violation as her due.You pull out just as the climax rips through you. The first jet paints a white stripe across her forehead.The next splatters her cheek. You keep going, covering her face, her neck, her heaving, marked breasts in thick, hot streaks. She flinches, but doesn’t turn away. She just takes it, her breath hitching, her gaze empty and shattered.You step back, spent. The room smells of sex, sweat, and salt. Freya slumps in the chair, a mess of torn clothes, bite marks, and your release.Cerys looks from her to you, a slow, satisfied smile touching her lips.
The silence is thick, broken only by Freya’s ragged breathing and the hum of your old radiator. Cerys walks to her bag, a practical leather tote now seeming like a toolbox of depravity. She rummages inside, the sound of shifting contents oddly loud.
She pulls out a small black silicone device. It looks innocuous, almost medical. She holds it up, turning it in the light. “A little insurance policy,” she says, her tone conversational. She kneels before Freya again, whose glazed eyes focus on the object with dawning horror.
“No,” Freya croaks, her voice shredded from your use. “You are not putting that on me.”
“I think I am.” Cerys’s fingers are deft, unsentimental. She guides Freya’s soft, wet cock into the tubular cage. The silicone is cold. Freya flinches. The click of the small padlock at the base is a definitive, final sound in the quiet room. It sits there, a mocking, restrictive bulge in her lap. “There. Much more aesthetically fitting for you, don’t you think, Toby?”
You can only nod, mesmerised by the sight. Freya’s symbol of power, locked away, rendered inert.
“Now,” Cerys says, standing and brushing her hands together. She begins untying the silken scarves from Freya’s wrists. The blood returns to Freya’s fingers in a painful-looking flood of pink. She rubs her wrists, but makes no move to touch the cage. She just stares at it, her expression hollow.
“The key,” Cerys says, dangling a small silver key from her own keyring before tucking it into her bra, “lives with me. The terms are simple. You want it off?” She nods towards you. “You let him fuck you. Properly. All the way. Whenever he, or I, decide you’ve earned the chance to be free for a little while.”
Freya’s head snaps up. “Are you insane? I’m not letting him—”
“You are,” Cerys interrupts, her voice losing all its playful lilt. “Or you can wander campus like that. See how long your alpha persona lasts when everyone knows you’re locked in a little silicone jail. Your choice.”
Freya’s protest dies in her throat. She looks from Cerys’s unyielding face to the cage, to you. Her shoulders slump in a defeat more total than any bond. A single, shuddering breath escapes her. “Fine,” she whispers, the word tasting like ash.
“Good girl.” Cerys pats her cheek. “On the bed. On your hands and knees. Show him what’s his.”
Freya moves stiffly, the cage making her walk with an awkward, stilted gait. She climbs onto the messed-up sheets, presenting herself. The bitten, marked flesh of her arse is a stark contrast to the controlled defiance she’s always projected. You follow, your body already responding, that hungry weight thickening again between your legs. Cerys takes the vacated chair, spinning it to face the bed. She leans back, crossing her legs, watching like a director at a premiere.
You position yourself behind Freya. She tenses, every muscle in her back rigid. You guide yourself to her entrance, which is already slick—whether from her own shameful arousal or from what Cerys did earlier, you don’t know. You push in slowly. The tight, hot clutch of her is shocking. She lets out a choked gasp, her forehead dropping to the duvet.
You start a gentle, rolling rhythm, almost cautious. The sensation is overwhelming, a different heat than Cerys, tighter with tension. You can feel the resistance in her body, the rigid set of her spine.
“Toby,” Cerys says from her chair, her voice a cool, clear note in the humid room. You glance over. Her hand is under her dress, moving in a slow, lazy circle. “Remember the studio. Remember her laugh. Remember ‘kiddie pool’.”
The memory flashes, bright and acidic. The casual cruelty in her green eyes. The echoing sniggers. The way it made you want to vanish.
“She thought you were nothing,” Cerys continues, her breath hitching slightly as her fingers work. “She built her whole world on being bigger, better. On making you feel small.”
Your rhythm stutters, then changes. The gentle rolls vanish. You pull back and slam forward, a deep, punishing thrust that drives a sharp cry from Freya’s throat. Her knuckles are white where they grip the sheets.
“That’s it,” Cerys encourages, her own movements becoming more urgent. “Show her what nothing feels like. Show her how a real cock breaks a person.”
You let go. The veneer of caution shatters. You grip Freya’s hips, your fingers digging into the soft flesh, and you fuck her with a brutal, piston-like force. The bed slams against the wall in a steady, frantic beat. Each drive is a retaliation for every smirk, every sneered insult. Freya’s cries are no longer of protest but of something shattered and raw. A broken moan tears from her.
“Please,” she whimpers, the word muffled by the bedding.
“What was that?” Cerys calls out, her voice tight with her own climbing pleasure.
“Please! Fuck me! Harder!” The words are a scream, torn from somewhere deep and abandoned. Her resistance isn’t just crumbling; it’s vaporising. Her back arches, pushing back against you, meeting each drive. “Don’t stop! God, just don’t stop!”
Her begging fuels you, merging vengeance with a dark, all-consuming hunger. The world narrows to the slap of skin, her desperate pleas, the sight of Cerys in the chair with her head thrown back, her mouth open in a silent cry as she chases her own peak. You can feel the pressure coiling at the base of your spine, an imminent detonation. Freya’s internal muscles are fluttering around you in frantic, rhythmic pulses. Cerys’s breaths are sharp, staccato gasps.
It happens in a cascading unison. A guttural roar is ripped from your chest as you plunge deep and erupt. At the same moment, Freya shrieks, a sound of utter ruin and absolute release, her body convulsing around you. From the chair, Cerys lets out a sharp, shuddering cry, her body going rigid as her own climax takes her. For a suspended second, the room is a chorus of completion, a messy, shared obliteration.
You collapse forward, spent, onto Freya’s back. She trembles beneath you, making small, broken sounds. Cerys recovers first, breathing heavily. She stands on slightly unsteady legs and walks to the bed. Without ceremony, she unlocks the small padlock and removes the silicone cage from Freya. She tosses it onto the desk with a soft thud.
Freya slumps off of you, rolling onto her side, pulling her knees up. She hides her face for a long moment. When she looks up, her green eyes are cleared of their daze. The emptiness is gone, replaced by a familiar, defiant gloss. She sits up, swinging her legs off the bed, her nakedness now seeming deliberate rather than vulnerable.
She looks at you, then at Cerys. A smirk, brittle but recognisable, reappears on her swollen lips. “That,” she says, her voice husky but regaining its edge, “was a one-time administrative error.” She stands, wincing only slightly. “It doesn’t change anything. You’re still a freak.” She points a finger at you, her nail chipped. “And you will fuck me again.”
She turns and walks, bare-arsed and marked, straight out of your room into the fluorescent hallway. The door swings shut behind her, leaving you and Cerys in the sudden, profound quiet, the only evidence she was ever there being the torn shreds of her tank top on the floor and the dark silicone shape on your desk.