Love-Love
© Broken Boundaries Gay Erotica
After breakfast, the boys made their way toward the tennis courts, laughing and jostling each other like nothing unusual had just happened. I followed a few steps behind, still completely naked except for the cage clamped tight around my dick. The sun was higher now, and I could feel it heating my skin as we moved past the pool and down a winding path that led through thick hedges and manicured tropical gardens.
The court was pristine. Clay surface, bright white lines, everything perfectly maintained. Of course it was. The kind of tennis court you only ever saw on TV or in rich people’s vacation photos. A basket of balls sat near the net beside a rack of glossy racquets. The net was already strung tight. The whole thing looked like it had been set up just for them.
I hesitated for a second at the edge of the gate, expecting someone to toss me a racquet or ask which team I wanted to be on. Connor jogged ahead and snagged the first racquet. Bryson was already testing the bounce of the surface. The others followed without missing a beat.
Then Tyler glanced over his shoulder at me.
“You’re not playing,” he said casually. “You’re ball boy.”
For a moment, I didn’t move. I just stood there, naked in the sun, unsure if I’d heard him right.
“What?”
“Ball boy,” Aiden echoed, like it was obvious. “Come on. We need someone to chase.”
The gate clicked shut behind them, and the game started before I could ask another question. Balls launched across the net. Sneakers squeaked. Laughter echoed as Bryson missed a shot and blamed Grant for “shitty energy.”
No one looked at me again. I was just expected to get to work.
So, I did.
I started retrieving. Quietly. Quickly. I stayed low and out of the way. I darted to collect a ball that rolled into the corner. Another shot whizzed past and landed a few feet from me. I grabbed it and jogged it back to the basket. No one said thank you. No one even acknowledged me.
My cheeks burned. Not just from the sun.
I knew how I looked. Naked. Caged. Scampering around while five athletic guys—my friends—laughed and shouted and played like I wasn’t even worth putting in the rotation. My ass was probably jiggling every time I ran. My balls swinging under the cage. I imagined how ridiculous I must look. How exposed. I felt like a pet, or worse, like a joke.
Then the first ball hit me. Not hard, just a glancing shot off my shoulder when I bent to pick one up. The boys howled like it was the funniest thing they’d seen all morning.
A few minutes later, another caught me in the thigh. Not enough to leave a bruise, but enough to sting.
“Keep your head up, Tentpole,” Grant called from the far side. “Gotta be quick if you wanna be useful.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat and kept moving.
I tried to stay focused. Just get the balls, stay out of the way. Be efficient. Invisible.
But the boys weren’t letting me forget what I was. Tyler lobbed one extra wide just to watch me sprint for it. Bryson gave a fake call of “Out!” every time a ball veered near me, like I was part of the scenery. Even Aiden, usually the more reserved one, let out a short bark of laughter when I tripped chasing a long return.
Each ball I returned earned little more than a chuckle or a passing comment. “Atta boy,” from Connor. “Quicker next time,” from Bryson. No one offered to let me rotate in. No one asked if I was alright when I stumbled slightly on the uneven edge of the court.
Another serve shot out low and fast, clipping my calf as I reached for a stray near the net.
“Oof! Direct hit!” Bryson called.
The others laughed. I forced a smile and tried to shake it off. I could feel the clay sticking to my knees now, little flecks of dust and grit grinding into my skin. My palms were dirty from catching myself earlier. My chest rose and fell faster than it should have for someone who wasn’t even playing.
I paused near the sideline, cradling a couple of balls against my hip. The sun was baking my back, and the metal cage had turned hot and uncomfortable. Every time I bent down, I felt it shift, cold steel dragging lightly against my skin. I had no idea how many people might be watching from the villa windows or through gaps in the hedges. I didn’t even know if I cared anymore.
I turned to chase another rogue shot—just in time for a wayward serve to smack directly into my crotch.
The sound was sharp. Not a thud. More like a crack.
Pain exploded from the base of my spine and radiated up through my gut. I dropped instantly, doubling over, hands cradling the cage as my knees hit the clay. The air rushed out of me with a single, involuntary word.
“Ewwww.”
And that was it.
The boys collapsed in laughter. Tyler fell backward onto the court. Bryson bent over, wheezing. Grant clutched the net post like he might fall over. Even Aiden wiped a tear from the corner of his eye.
“Oh my god,” Tyler howled. “That noise—what was that?”
“Sounded like he got neutered,” Bryson gasped.
“Bro folded like a lawn chair,” Grant added.
I stayed hunched over, cradling myself as best I could. My face burned. My stomach twisted. The pain was already fading, but the humiliation was worse. So much worse.
“Alright,” Connor called after a minute, still chuckling, “I think we’ve had our fun.”
He walked over, offered me a hand.
“Come on, Tentpole. We’re short a player. Get in the game.”
My breath caught. Wait—what?
“You mean…”
“Yeah,” Aiden said quietly, brushing off his shorts. “The ball boy thing was just for laughs.”
Connor grinned. “You were always meant to play.”
I took Connor’s hand and let him pull me up, still bent slightly at the waist. My stomach throbbed where the ball had hit me, and my cheeks were burning. Not from the sun.
“We need six to make it even,” Connor said. “You’re in.”
That was it. Like nothing had happened. Like I hadn’t just spent half the morning crawling around on all fours while they laughed at me.
Bryson tossed me a racquet without looking. “Hope you’ve still got a serve, Tentpole.”
The racquet felt familiar in my hand — we’d all learned to play in school — but everything else felt wrong. My feet were dirty, scraped from the court. Sweat ran down the backs of my knees. The cage tugged between my thighs every time I shifted weight. It didn’t matter how many times I told myself to focus. I could feel how I looked. How exposed I was.
We split into teams: three on three. Me, Aiden, and Bryson on one side. Grant, Tyler, and Connor on the other.
It went downhill fast.
My first shot barely cleared the net. The second bounced out wide. I missed a lob entirely, too busy trying to tug the racquet back with sweaty palms. Bryson didn’t say anything at first, but the way he sighed after every error said more than words.
They rotated. New teams. Me with Tyler and Grant now.
I told myself to lock in. I tried to ignore the cage. Ignore the sound it made when I ran. But the self-consciousness came in waves. I knew what I looked like from behind. I could feel the tremble in my legs every time I sprinted across the court. And every time someone called my name, my body flinched like I was about to be mocked again.
Connor slammed a serve right past me. I barely moved.
“Tommy!” Tyler barked. “What are you doing?”
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
New teams again. This time I had Connor and Bryson. I could barely meet Connor’s eyes.
We played three points before he broke.
“Okay,” he said. “Seriously? What is happening?”
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.
“You used to hold your own. This is embarrassing.”
I felt the sweat dripping down my spine. My grip on the racquet had gone slick. I looked down at my feet, clay stuck to my toes and shins, and nodded once, helplessly.
Bryson rolled his neck and stepped closer. “Maybe what he needs isn’t more practice. Maybe what he needs is a reminder.”
I didn’t know what he meant. But the way he said it sent a chill down my back.
Connor exhaled, shaking his head. “Well, whatever it is, we can’t have you dragging every round. This was supposed to be fun.”
It wasn’t clear who I was disappointing more: myself or them.
And the worst part was, I agreed with them.
We rotated again.
I landed back on a team with Aiden and Tyler, which meant Connor and Bryson were now on the opposite side of the net. They were watching me closely. Judging. I could feel their eyes on me, even when the ball wasn’t in play.
Tyler tossed me the ball to serve.
“Try not to bean one of us this time,” he said.
I forced a laugh I didn’t feel. I bounced the ball twice, adjusted my grip, and threw it up.
My toss was too high. I mistimed the swing. The racquet clipped the ball wrong, sending it spinning sideways into the net.
Tyler groaned and put both hands on his hips.
“Again,” he said flatly.
I tried to shake it off. Tried to pretend I was just out of rhythm. Tried not to notice the cage shifting with every movement. The serve landed this time, but weak. Too easy. Bryson returned it down the line with a smirk and no effort.
I jogged to position, trying to stay focused, but my chest was tight. My heart wasn’t racing from exertion. It was panic. Humiliation. I couldn’t tell what I was reacting to anymore—the sun, the stares, the goddamn clinking of metal between my legs that reminded me I wasn’t one of them. Not really.
They rotated again.
I ended up with Connor and Grant.
Connor didn’t say a word to me the entire round. Just hand signals. Tight nods. His focus was laser sharp, like he’d decided the best way to cope with my failure was to ignore me entirely. Grant tried to be nice about it. He patted my shoulder once after I missed a return and said, “You’ll get it next time.”
But there was no next time. Not really. The shots kept coming. I kept hesitating. Missing. Misjudging.
The worst part was I knew I was better than this. I knew how to play. But every time I lined up a shot, the cage pulled just wrong, or my thoughts flashed back to the way Tyler had laughed at me doubled over on the court, or how I must look bending over with my ass to the sun.
And each time, I flinched.
When the game finally ended, the boys gathered near the net. No one said, “good game.”
I hovered nearby, racquet dangling at my side, dust streaking my thighs, chest heaving with shame.
Bryson took a swig from his water bottle, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then looked at me with something that wasn’t quite annoyance. Almost curiosity.
“Alright,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Real talk?”
Everyone turned to him.
“I’ve been dying to spank someone since like December.”
The court went silent.
Bryson gave a little shrug and leaned against the net post, like he hadn’t just said something completely out of left field.
“I’m serious,” he said. “I hooked up with this girl once last semester—Emma or Emily or something—met her at a Halloween party at the Tate house. She was dressed as, like, a slutty librarian or something. Glasses, heels, the whole deal.”
He looked around, checking if anyone remembered the party. No one said anything, but Tyler raised his eyebrows like maybe he knew who he meant. I guess they’d even travelled to each other’s universities without me over the year. I couldn’t have afforded the travel, but it would have been nice if they’d at least offered.
“Anyway, we’re back at her place, fooling around, and she tells me to spank her. Out of nowhere. Just like that. Says it turns her on.”
Bryson grinned, nostrils flaring slightly like he was reliving it.
“So, I give her a few little slaps, like testing the waters, right? And she moans. Like, really moans. So, I keep going. A little harder. She tells me that’s too much. Wants ‘baby spanks’ only. Her words, not mine.”
He rolled his eyes and took another swig of water.
“Next day, she ghosts me. Never hooked up with her again. And after that? I couldn’t find a single girl who was into it. Not one. Most of them got weird even if I just asked about it. Like I’d suggested slapping their grandma or something.”
He gave a dry laugh, shaking his head.
“But the thing is, once I got a taste for it, it stuck. I kept thinking about it. Not the weak-ass baby taps she let me give her, but the feeling of control. Of watching someone squirm. I started looking for porn with spanking in it. Reading forums. I don’t know. It just kind of became a thing.”
Bryson looked back at me again, slower this time. Not just amused—hungry.
“And yeah, I wanted to do it harder. Like, really spank someone. Leave a handprint. See what it’d be like to go past just play-slapping and really make it sting. Not in a crazy way or anything, but... enough to make a point.”
He shrugged one shoulder, casually.
“Only problem? Every girl I’ve been with since has been soft as hell. They want to be fucked hard, maybe talk dirty, but spanking? No chance. One even told me it made her feel ‘unfeminist.’ Whatever the fuck that means.”
Bryson’s eyes flicked down to my ass.
“But now we’ve got a problem we need to fix. And I’ve got a solution.”
He grinned wider than before, the idea clearly growing stronger in his head.
“I think it’s time someone finally let me do it properly.”
Bryson’s eyes didn’t leave me as he straightened up from the net post.
“And honestly? I think it makes sense.”
He turned his head slightly, addressing the others now. “Like, yeah, sure, it’s hot. I’ve wanted to try it for months. But it’s not just about that. He’s been fucking up all morning. Sloppy serves, missed returns, no hustle. It’s like he forgot we brought him here to contribute, not just suck cock and wander around with his ass out.”
The others were listening now. Really listening.
“And let’s not forget,” Bryson went on, “this whole trip? It wasn’t cheap. Our parents shelled out half a mil for this place. We invited him. We let him come.”
He jabbed a finger toward me—not angry, just matter-of-fact.
“He owes us. You owe us. This isn’t some kind of free ride.”
I felt myself shrink under their stares, the truth of it pressing in. He wasn’t wrong. Not really.
Bryson stepped forward, just a few feet from where I stood now.
“So, yeah. Maybe it’s time we give you a little motivation. Call it a performance review.”
He smiled.
“And I think we all know which part of you needs addressing.”
Bryson walked a slow circle around me, sizing me up like a coach inspecting a player who’d just blown an easy drill. His hand rested on his chin in mock thought, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement.
“Let’s take a proper look.”
I stood frozen, racquet dangling at my side, unsure whether to move or hope the clay would swallow me whole.
“Bend forward,” he said.
My stomach turned.
“What?”
“Bend. Hands on your knees.” His tone was calm, expectant. Like this was just part of the process.
I bent slowly, my face burning as I felt my back arch and my ass push out—caged, bare, exposed to the sun and all five of them.
Bryson stepped behind me, gave a soft hum of consideration.
“See, what’s wild,” he said, now pacing slowly behind, “is how girly this ass actually is.”
He didn’t sound like he was joking. More like he was delivering a diagnosis.
“It’s kind of round. Sits high, like those cheerleader girls you see doing deadlifts on TikTok. Smooth, soft-looking, barely any hair. Like, I get it now. This whole thing’s kind of perfect.”
I felt my fingers tightening around the racquet grip. I didn’t dare look up.
“Back in school, I thought he just had a skinny frame,” Bryson went on, now speaking to the group, “but college filled him out weird. Not like a guy who lifts. More like… I don’t know. A girl who stays in shape. Toned, but soft where it counts.”
The laughter that followed wasn’t cruel—it was worse. It was casual. Familiar.
“Honestly?” Bryson said, giving a small slap to the side of my ass, just enough to make me jolt, “this is kind of exactly what I needed.”
I winced but didn’t move.
Connor crossed his arms and nodded toward the fence. “Let’s do it then. Line him up.”
Bryson pointed. “Against the chain link. Hands spread.”
I walked over slowly, legs unsteady, the heat of shame rising in waves through my chest. I pressed my hands against the metal lattice, cool against my palms. It rattled softly under my fingers.
Bryson cracked his knuckles behind me.
“Alright,” he said. “Time for Professor Bryson’s first proper demonstration.”
I squeezed my eyes shut. I could already feel their eyes on me, studying. Judging. Enjoying.
And he hadn’t even touched me yet.
Bryson didn’t let up.
The smacks came faster now, heavier, sharper, like he’d found his rhythm and was enjoying the sound of his palm connecting with skin. The sting deepened into a steady burn that pulsed across both cheeks. I clenched my jaw, biting back sounds I didn’t want to make.
He was panting slightly.
“Oh man,” he muttered between hits, “this is fucking amazing.”
Another slap. Then another. His hand landed low and flat, making my legs jolt with each impact.
“I get it now,” he said breathlessly. “I finally get why this is a thing.”
My thighs trembled, and I shifted slightly on the balls of my feet to absorb the force.
“Nope,” he said, gripping my hip with one hand to hold me still. “You stay right there. We’re not done until I say we’re done.”
He leaned in, palm rubbing across the hot skin like he was inspecting a roast. “Shit, the texture’s perfect. Smooth, tight, just the right amount of give. This is better than anything I imagined.”
Another slap landed harder than all the others. I couldn’t help it—a cry escaped my mouth. Not loud, but real.
Bryson groaned.
“Bro,” he said to no one in particular, “this is better than jerking off.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling the shame settle deeper into my bones. My whole ass was on fire, and this guy was having a religious experience over it.
Then, finally, he pulled back.
“Fuck—ow,” he muttered, shaking out his hand. “Okay, hang on. Jesus.”
I turned my head slightly, still gripping the chain link.
Was he… seriously?
“My hand is killing me,” he said, flexing his fingers and laughing. “God damn.”
Oh, you poor thing, I thought bitterly. Your palm hurts. Must be so hard for you.
I didn’t say it, obviously. I just stood there, burning, humiliated, aching all over.
Bryson rubbed the heel of his hand with a wince, then glanced back at the others.
“Someone else tag in. I need a water break or some shit.”
He looked back at me with satisfaction, admiring his work.
“Dude’s glowing back here,” he said. “Seriously. Warmth, color, bounce—it’s like a fuckin’ drum.”
I swallowed hard, keeping my eyes on the fence.
And it wasn’t over.
Not even close.
Bryson stepped back, still shaking out his hand, and Aiden was the first to move.
He didn’t say anything.
Just walked up behind me, eyes calm, unreadable. His presence made my stomach knot in a different way. With Bryson, at least, it had felt like theater. A show. A kink.
Aiden was quiet. Serious. The kind of guy who didn’t speak unless he meant it.
He placed one cool hand on the small of my back, steadying me.
Then he struck.
No warm-up. Just a quick, focused smack to my left cheek. The pain was sharper now—my skin already raw from Bryson’s attention.
Another slap. Then another. Measured. Even. Like he was following a beat only he could hear.
I gasped softly, trying not to tense up too much.
“Loosen,” Aiden said quietly, almost too soft to hear. “Don’t clench.”
I forced myself to exhale.
His hand moved a little lower. Another slap. Then two more. No commentary. No jokes. Just focused correction.
By the time he stopped, the pain had deepened again into something layered—tender over bruised, like a muscle you’d worked too hard and weren’t letting rest.
He gave one last soft tap. Then stepped back without a word.
Connor was already coming forward.
“Alright, let’s do this up properly,” he said, cracking his neck once, then rolling his shoulders.
I braced myself.
Connor’s first hit was fast and deliberate. He wasn’t holding back.
“Dumbest thing you did all morning,” he said, smacking my ass again, “was let us down out there.”
Another hit. I jumped. The fence rattled beneath my grip.
“Half those returns? You just watched the ball fly by.”
His next slap landed lower, right where Bryson had targeted earlier. I groaned.
“You want to be part of this crew?” he said, voice steady, commanding. “Then pull your fucking weight.”
Smack.
Smack.
“You show up. Or you pay for it.”
His palm landed again, harder than before. I cried out before I could stop myself.
Connor leaned in close, voice low.
“And this?” he said. “This is nothing compared to what happens if you disappoint us again.”
Then he stepped back, letting that threat settle in the air.
My ass throbbed. My eyes stung.
I could feel myself start to shake.
Connor lingered a second longer, shaking out his hand like Bryson had done.
Then he smirked, half to himself.
“Gotta admit,” he said, turning back to the group, “I kind of enjoyed that more than I thought I would.”
He looked down at his palm, flexing his fingers slowly. “There’s just something satisfying about it. The sound. The control. And he really does have the kind of ass that begs for it.”
My cheeks burned. The ones on my face, not just the ones already on fire.
I didn’t dare look over my shoulder.
Connor took a step back and nodded toward the others. “Grant? You’re up.”
Grant hesitated.
He’d been hanging back this whole time, arms folded, expression unreadable. The breeze moved his hair a little as he walked forward, slower than the rest had.
When he got close, he placed a hand lightly on my back.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
I almost laughed. Or cried. I wasn’t sure which.
“I’m fine,” I said, barely above a whisper.
He didn’t press. Just nodded once, more to himself than to me.
His first slap was light. Tentative.
I barely reacted—but it still stung, because my skin was already so raw. I winced and shifted my weight, more from the ache that had been built up than from the force itself.
Another light slap. He wasn’t trying to prove anything. If anything, he was trying not to leave a mark.
“You really did play bad,” he said quietly, like he needed to justify it to himself.
Smack.
“I’ve seen you do way better than that.”
Another. Still light.
“But I guess it’s hard when you’re, you know… like this.”
My body tensed.
Grant hesitated. Then gave one more, slightly firmer slap—just enough to make me gasp.
“Sorry,” he said under his breath.
He stepped away quickly, like he didn’t want to look at what he’d done.
I didn’t have time to catch my breath before Tyler took his place.
“Alright, princess,” Tyler said, clapping his hands like he was about to start a team drill. “Let’s finish strong.”
He was grinning. That infuriating, locker-room grin he always got when he knew someone was about to get dunked on.
His first smack was a whopper. I jolted forward with a grunt, the chain link rattling under my grip.
“Yeah,” he said. “That’s the sound I like.”
Another slap, then another. Quick, athletic, no wasted motion.
“Honestly,” Tyler said mid-swing, “this whole thing’s been educational.”
Smack.
“I thought the cage was funny enough—”
Smack.
“—but watching you take this like a little prep school bitch?”
Smack.
“New favorite memory.”
I whimpered. There was no controlling it anymore. My body hurt, my skin was hot, and my mind was spinning. I was surrounded by my friends, naked, bound, and being used like a fucking toy.
Tyler finished with a loud, final slap that made me cry out—and not just from the sting.
He stepped back, satisfied, and I stood there shaking, breath ragged.
Then the world went still.
No one said anything.
No one moved.
Because I had started to cry.
Not bawling. Not loud.
Just soft, involuntary sobs slipping out in little gasps. The kind that hit when your body gives up trying to pretend you’re fine.
The pain was sharp, yeah—but it wasn’t unbearable. That wasn’t what broke me.
It was the fact that they’d all done it. One by one. Like it was normal.
I’d been spanked by every single one of my friends. Bent over like a misbehaving child, held in place, inspected, corrected. Right out in the open.
My ass was burning, throbbing, fully on display. I could still feel the heat radiating off it in pulses, and worse, I could feel their eyes on me. Watching. Appraising.
That’s what cracked me.
Not the smacks.
Not the sting.
The humiliation.
“Alright,” Connor said finally, his voice quieter now. “That’s probably enough.”
I heard footsteps crunching on the court, then felt a hand gently tap my shoulder.
“Stand up,” Bryson said. “Let’s get a look.”
I peeled my hands away from the chain link, slowly straightening my back, heart pounding as I turned around to face them.
All five of them stood there, watching me.
I couldn’t meet their eyes.
Not yet.
I kept my eyes down.
The court was dead silent. My face burned. My body still throbbed, and the cool breeze against my ass only made everything feel more exposed. I sniffled once, quietly, and rubbed my arm across my face.
Then Grant’s voice cut in—soft, curious, and aimed at no one in particular.
“Uh… is he hard right now?”
My head snapped up.
“What?” Tyler said, clearly caught off guard.
Grant took a cautious step forward, squinting down.
“I think he’s hard,” he said again, more certain this time. “Look at the cage.”
Five heads swiveled.
The moment stretched.
Then Bryson laughed. A single disbelieving burst.
“No fucking way.”
Connor took a few steps forward, eyes narrowing. “You serious?”
“Dead serious,” Grant said, still staring. “He’s completely hard in there. Like, full pressure. I don’t even know how that thing’s not cutting off circulation.”
I looked down and I wanted to vanish into the ground.
It was true.
The metal of the cage was tight against me, pressing every part of my cock forward, so much so that the head looked like it was trying to force its way through the gaps. I hadn’t even noticed it happen. Hadn’t even felt it build.
I felt sick.
Tyler was the first to crack. “Oh my god.”
He turned away, doubled over, laughing.
“You were into it?” Bryson said, grinning wide. “All that crying—and you’re popping wood?”
“No,” I stammered, “I didn’t—I wasn’t—”
Connor tilted his head, lips curled in amusement. “Sure didn’t look like you weren’t.”
“It just—it wasn’t because of that—”
Bryson was crouching now, eyes practically level with my crotch. He wasn’t trying to hide it. He was inspecting me again.
“Dude,” he said to no one in particular. “He’s fully locked up and still leaking. That’s so messed up.”
I tried to turn away, but there was nowhere to go.
Connor rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, I didn’t get my dick sucked this morning, and this whole scene’s got me thinking…”
Bryson stood back up. “Yeah. I could definitely go for round two.”
Tyler turned to the others. “You guys wanna check out the gym or the golf course or something?”
Aiden nodded, already moving. “Let’s go.”
Tyler clapped my shoulder as he passed. “Nice job, princess.”
Grant lingered for a beat longer. His eyes dropped one last time to the cage before he followed the others.
And just like that, I was alone.
With Connor.
And Bryson.
And my cock throbbing behind a wall of metal I couldn’t do a thing about.
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