Dad had stolen Zac for most of the evening, dragging him along to the hardware store after their attic escapades. They didn't return until late, leaving me to my own devices—which, frankly, was exactly how I liked it. The house was quiet, save for the hum of the TV and the occasional creak of the floorboards settling. I lounged on the couch, flipping through channels with little interest, my mind drifting back to the electric-blue monstrosity next to me.
I retrieved it later that night, turning it over in my hands under the dim glow of my bedside lamp. The silicone was surprisingly smooth despite its age, though the odd turquoise hue made it look more like a rejected sci-fi prop than anything meant for pleasure. For a fleeting, horrifying second, I wondered if Zac had been right—if this had actually been Mom's. My nose wrinkled at the thought, and I shoved the mental image away with a shudder. No, that was a bridge too far.
Instead, I focused on the weight of it in my palm, the way the veins stood out in ridges under my fingertips. A quick Google search later, I was elbow-deep in soapy water at the bathroom sink, scrubbing away decades of attic dust with meticulous care. The water ran cloudy as I rinsed it, watching grime swirl down the drain.
Back in my room, I tossed it onto the nightstand with a dull thud, glaring at the ridiculous turquoise monstrosity mocking me from next to my sleek black one. The contrast was almost comical—like finding a clown shoe next to a stiletto. My fingers twitched toward it and fir a moment i was really tempted. The plug had left me deliciously loose, and the memory of Zac's smirk while holding that thing sent heat pooling low in my belly. But then I glanced at my freshly made bed, the sheets crisp and smelling of lavender detergent.
The thought of prepping all over again made my limbs feel leaden. Maybe some other night, when my need felt sharper than fatigue—but not tonight. I had already spent myself earlier, and Zac was still trapped under Dad's thumb, hauling boxes or whatever else he'd been roped into. Besides, I knew for a fact that he wouldn't tip-toe down the hall later, wouldn't slip into my room with that cocky grin. That wasn't how this worked. Our dynamic wasn't built on stolen moments—it was built on his dominance and my refusal to fold, on him baiting me and me trying to get a rise out of him.
The evening ended as uneventfully as I'd predicted. Zac and Dad returned late. Henry ambled in even later, stupidly grinning about whatever Becky had let him do, and I pretended not to care as I microwaved leftovers for him. Zac shot me one loaded glance—half teasing—before disappearing into his room. I didn't push it. Some nights were just like that.
The following week got interesting fast. Henry cornered me in the hallway, bouncing on his toes like an overeager puppy. "Dylan," he blurted, "can you cook dinner Wednesday? Like, for everyone? I wanna invite Becky." His smile was so wide and guileless, so *Henry*, that I couldn't say no. Not even when the realization hit—this wasn't just dinner. This was *meeting the family*. Becky was getting serious, and that meant Henry's cock, thick and perfect and once *mine*, was officially off-limits.
So there I stood, Wednesday evening, wrist-deep in minced garlic and simmering tomato sauce, stirring pots like some domestic cliché while resentment simmered right alongside. The kitchen smelled like basil and seared meat, the oven humming as roasted potatoes browned. Zac lounged at the table, scrolling on his phone and occasionally stealing slices of carrot—acting for all the world like this was some grand favor he was bestowing on Henry by simply *being here*. Dad, meanwhile, was practically vibrating with excitement, straightening his shirt for the third time in ten minutes. "First girlfriend!" he kept saying, like Henry hadn't hooked up with anyone before Becky. The irony wasn't lost on me—here I was, playing happy family for the guy who used to give it to me real good.
By the time I slipped upstairs to change, my jaw ached from fake-smiling through Dad and Zac's tedious debate about linebacker stats. The shower had done some good—hot water easing the tension out of my shoulders—but now I was scrambling, buttoning fresh black jeans that hugged my ass just right. My reflection smirked back at me: tight navy-blue t-shirt, hair styled just messy enough to look effortless. Fuck Becky and her presumably bland wardrobe—if Henry was going to parade her here, he'd have to watch her realize exactly what she was missing.
Downstairs, the front door creaked open. Henry's laugh—too loud, too eager—bounced up the stairs, followed by higher-pitched giggles. The familiar pang twisted in my gut, but I swallowed it down, adjusting my clothes. All I needed was to see his eyes were still on me if I bent down right.
I caught myself in the mirror—just enough muscle to tease, just enough softness to tempt—the jeans clinging perfectly where they mattered.
I descended the stairs with practiced grace, my smile stretching wide enough to ache as Becky turned toward me. She was prettier than I'd expected—soft curves under a flowy dress, honey-blonde waves tumbling over one shoulder. "You must be Dylan!" she chirped, and I wrapped her in a hug that lingered just a split-second too long, my hands skating down the dip of her waist. The citrusy perfume, the warmth of her skin—fuck, Henry had upgraded. "Dinner smells amazing," she gushed, pulling back with flushed cheeks.
Henry chose that moment to barrel into the conversation like a golden retriever spotting bacon. "Starving!" he announced, slinging an arm around Becky's shoulders with proprietary pride. I bit back a sneer. "Let me plate it," I offered instead, sweetness dripping from every syllable. Zac materialized at my elbow with suspicious speed. "I'll help," he lied smoothly, steering me toward the kitchen island with a guiding hand that burned through my shirt.
As I arranged roasted potatoes in deliberate spirals, Zac leaned against the counter—close enough that his thigh brushed mine. "She's hot," he murmured, watching Becky laugh at whatever dumb joke Henry had made. My fingers clenched around the serving spoon. "Yeah," I managed, focusing too hard on portioning the lamb. Zac's chuckle was low, predatory. "What, jealous he's getting laid and you aren't?" The words slithered between my ribs.
I forced a smirk, passing him the salad bowl with deliberate slowness. "Please. Unlike you, I don't turn into a caveman after three days without sex." His grin widened—he knew that dig was bullshit. My jaw tightened as he leaned in, smelling of cedar and something darker. "Surre," he breathed, just as Henry's oblivious bellow cut through the tension: "Dyl, where's the wine?"
The interruption saved me from responding, but Zac's teasing gaze lingered as I uncorked the bottle with unnecessary force. He grabbed two plates from the stack with those thick, veined forearms flexing—deliberately, I was sure—and smirked over his shoulder. "Don't pout," he murmured, low enough that Becky's chatter drowned it out. "You'll get yours." The plates clattered onto the table as I rolled my eyes, my retort sharp. "Please. My ass could get laid anytime I wanted." His laugh was a rumble, fingers twitching like he wanted to test that claim right there. "Sure," he said, grin widening before sauntering off—leaving the words hanging between us, thick as the garlic butter dripping from the bread.
I gathered the remaining plates slowly, trailing him into the dining room where Henry was already heaping food like he'd never seen a meal before.
Conversation blurred around me. Becky giggled at Henry's terrible joke; Dad refilled wineglasses like he was inducting us into some sacred ritual. The food was good and by dessert, I was counting the minutes until I could escape upstairs. The clatter of forks on emptied plates was my salvation. "Let me help clean up," Becky said, already stacking dishes with effortless grace.
I watched her move—her curves exaggerated by that snug dress, Henry's big hands lingering too long on her waist whenever he passed. The way she laughed at Dad's outdated jokes and batted her lashes at Zac's dry sarcasm—it was infuriatingly charming. Her fingers brushed mine when she handed me a wineglass, warm and soft. "Dylan," she said suddenly, "you are seriously amazing at cooking." Her honeyed smile was sincere, warmth radiating as she leaned forward, cleavage pressing against the table's edge. I stared at the delicate gold necklace nestled there and found myself swallowing a weird lump in my throat.
Henry—oblivious as ever—beamed, reaching across to squeeze my hand. "Yeah, Dyl's the best," he grinned. Becky's gaze softened, watching our interaction like it was sweet, like she didn't realize I wanted to bite him.
Zac snorted from the doorway, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed. "Careful," he drawled, nodding toward Becky's chest. "Dylan's been staring at those tits all night like he wants 'em for himself."
I flicked a dish towel at him, smirking. "Im fucking gay asshole. What about you?" His smirk deepened, catching the implication—that he'd been eyeing her too—but he didn't deny it, just rolled his shoulders in a lazy shrug.
We lingered at the front door in awkward silence—Becky hugging Dad, Henry fumbling with his keys—until Zac clapped a hand on my shoulder, fingers digging in just enough to sting. "Later, squirt," he murmured low as Henry pulled Becky out into the night. Dad yawned, stretching, already halfway to his recliner.
The door clicked shut. The house exhaled. Zac was already halfway up the stairs, his broad back disappearing around the corner with the satisfied air of a man who'd gotten exactly what he wanted—solitude and the last word. I lingered in the hallway, listening to Dad's heavy footsteps as he lumbered toward his recliner. The wine had softened his edges, made his movements languid. I followed, my bare feet silent on the hardwood, watching as he collapsed into the chair with a groan that was half-exhaustion, half-contentment. His legs splayed wide, the fabric of his jeans pulling taut over thick thighs. I smirked. "Jesus, Dad, you don't have to lean into the 'old man' act so hard."
He chuckled, rubbing his stomach absently. His shirt rode up just enough to reveal a strip of tanned skin, the hint of muscle beneath. "Blame your cooking," he said, voice warm with wine and amusement. "You don't get to feed me like that and then mock me for enjoying it." I perched on the arm of the couch nearby, close enough to catch the scent of his cologne—something woodsy and faintly sweet—mixed with the tang of sweat from the attic work earlier. "Next time, I'll leave you out," I teased, flicking a glance at the way his fingers drummed lazily against his abs. He grinned, slow and knowing. "Nah. You're too good a son for that."
We settled into easy small talk about Henry and Becky, Dad's voice dipping into that fond, slightly slurry tone he got when he'd had a few glasses. I watched him closely—the way his stubble caught the lamplight, the way his throat moved when he laughed. "She's sweet," he mused, stretching his arms behind his head. The movement made his biceps bulge, the sleeves of his shirt straining. I couldn't resist. "Yeah, sweet—and tiny. You saw how Henry loomed over her? Bet she's got bruises in places she can't explain." Dad chuckled, shaking his head. "Kid's always been a bull in a china shop."
The wine had loosened him, made his posture slack against the recliner, legs splayed wider now. His belt buckle glinted when he shifted, drawing my eye downward. I smirked, pressing further. "Bet she's never even seen a cock that big before." Dad snorted, rubbing his jaw—a rough, calloused sound that sent heat pooling low in my belly. "Jesus, Dylan," he muttered, but there was amusement in his voice, his cheeks flushed from more than just alcohol.
I leaned in closer, the scent of his aftershave mingling with leather and sweat. "What? You know it's true," I said, watching his pulse jump at his throat.
His gaze flicked to mine, amusement fading into something heavier—a reluctant curiosity. "Kid," he sighed, rubbing his temple, "you're gonna give me gray hairs before fifty." I grinned, tugging at my shirt collar just enough to expose the hollow of my throat. "Already got 'em," I teased, nodding to the silver threaded through his stubble. His chuckle was gruff, but I caught the way his fingers twitched against his thigh, restless. "Yeah, yeah," he muttered, shifting in the recliner—fabric creaking—as if suddenly aware of how much space he took up.
I pressed my advantage. "Seriously though," I said, nodding toward the empty front door where Henry had dragged Becky out. "You ever think about it? Dating again?" His jaw worked, eyes darting to the TV like it might save him. "Not really my scene anymore," he grunted, but I saw the way his throat bobbed when I leaned closer. "Bullshit," I laughed, low and conspiratorial. "Zac gets laid constantly, Henry's got a girl—and you? Mr. ‘Still-Ripped-at-mid 40’? You’re telling me you don’t miss it?"
The recliner creaked as he shifted, his knuckles whitening around the armrests. "Dylan," he warned, voice rough—but I ignored it, letting my knee brush his sprawled thigh. "Come on, Dad." I gestured shamelessly at his chest, his rolled-up sleeves exposing corded forearms. "Look at you. You could bench-press me with one hand and still look good doing it." His brows shot up, but the flush creeping down his neck betrayed him. "Jesus Christ," he muttered, rubbing his face like he could scrub away the compliment.
I dropped my voice to a whisper, letting my fingers trail over the recliner's arm—inches from his wrist. "Bet you'd be so fucking good at it too," I murmured, watching his pulse jump. "Big hands, thick thighs—god, the way you’d manhandle someone." His breath hitched audibly, fingers twitching like he wanted to shove me away or pull me closer. "Dylan," he growled, finally meeting my gaze—his pupils blown wide despite the stern set of his mouth. "We went over this."
"Alright, alright," I sighed dramatically, flopping back with an exaggerated eye-roll and raising my hands in mock surrender. The recliner groaned as Dad shifted again—relief or frustration, I couldn’t tell—but his gaze stayed locked on me, heavy and unreadable. I made a show of stretching, arching my back just enough to let my shirt ride up, flashing a sliver of skin before hopping to my feet with a grin. "Just saying, someone oughta appreciate the Hugo Special before it’s collecting dust in a retirement home."
His snort was half-amused, half-pained as I backed toward the hallway, throwing him a wink over my shoulder. "Exhausted anyway," I lied, dragging a hand through my hair with deliberate laziness.I spun on my heel, sauntering toward the stairs with an extra sway in my step, knowing damn well he was watching.
Upstairs, I hovered outside Zac's door—closed, but not locked—my fingers twitching toward the knob. The scent of his cologne lingered faintly in the hall, mixed with the leather of his gym bag dumped haphazardly outside his room. I could already picture him sprawled on his bed, shirtless, scrolling through his phone with that infuriating smirk. My cock stirred at the thought, but I clenched my jaw and kept walking. Tonight wasn't the night to give him the satisfaction of me crawling to him first. Let him come to *me* for once—let him show how much he'd enjoyed my performance.
My bed dipped under my weight as I flopped onto it, yanking my phone from my pocket before tossing it aside with a huff. The realization hit me like a punch to the gut: I was *aching*, the teasing banter with Dad pooling hot and heavy between my thighs. My gaze flicked to the nightstand—to that absurd turquoise monstrosity propped against the lamp like some kind of obscene trophy. A slow smirk curled my lips as I reached for it, the silicone cool against my palm despite the warmth of my skin.
Tracing the thick veins with my fingertips, I imagined Zac’s reaction if he walked in now—if he saw me like this, flushed and panting, working myself open with *his* discovery. The thought alone had me biting my lip hard enough to taste copper. But no, fuck that. Tonight wasn't about him. I fumbled for the lube with my free hand, slicking the toy with more force than necessary, the slick *schlick* of it obscenely loud in the quiet room.
My back arched as I pressed the tip against my entrance- a light moan escaped before I could stifle it, my free hand clawing at the sheets. God, It really has the perfect size.... enough to stretch me deliciously. Maybe that dusty attic treasure wasn't such a joke after all.
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