The base of my spine had just started that familiar electric tightening when I heard it.
The front door. Downstairs. The unmistakable clatter of Dad's keys hitting the ceramic bowl in the hallway, followed by Mom's laugh—that bright, carrying sound that meant they'd had wine with dinner.
"Fuck." The word punched out of me before I could stop it.
Josh was still bent over the workbench, my lund buried to the hilt in his chut, his collar glinting under the fluorescent lights, tail plug discarded on the floor beside us. His whole body went rigid.
"They're not supposed to be back until eleven," he whispered. "It's only nine-thirty."
"Rahul? Josh?" Mom's voice floated up through the floorboards. "We came home early—your father ate something that didn't agree with him. You boys up there?"
I pulled out. Josh made a sound—half gasp, half whimper—and his hole clenched around nothing, already missing the fullness. A thick string of pre-cum and lube connected my tip to his entrance before it snapped and dripped onto the floorboards.
"Get dressed." I was already yanking up my track pants, my hard-on fighting me every inch of the way. "Now."
"But—"
"Now, Josh."
He scrambled. The collar came off first—fumbled it, dropped it, scooped it back up and shoved it into the open envelope. His jeans were inside out when he grabbed them. His t-shirt was backward. The tail plug rolled under the workbench and neither of us had time to retrieve it.
"Boys?" Dad's voice this time, gruff and strained. "Everything okay up there? We picked up dessert. Tiramisu from that place on Fifth."
"Coming!" I yelled. My voice cracked like a teenager's. "We were just—organizing the workshop."
The lie hung in the air like smoke. I scanned the room. The lingerie was still draped everywhere—black lace slung over the rafters like spiderwebs, the sheer bodysuit still spread-eagle on the tool chest, stockings dangling from chair backs. The open drawer with three silicone lunds staring at the ceiling. The lube bottle, cap still off. The second unopened package—the pet play hood—sitting in the middle of the floor like an accusation.
"Fuck," I said again. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
"I'll hide the lingerie." Josh was already moving, snatching fabric off the rafters with trembling hands. "You take the toys. The hood—where's the hood—"
"Under the bench. Behind you."
He dove for it. His backward t-shirt rode up, exposing the small of his back, and I saw a single drop of pre-cum still glistening in the hollow of his spine. My lund throbbed against my thigh.
Not the time.
I swept the drawer contents into the tool chest—plugs, vibrators, the wand, everything—and slammed it shut. The lube bottle went into my pocket. The hood went behind a stack of paint cans. The tail plug was still missing, but there was no time, no time, no fucking time—
Footsteps on the stairs.
"Rahul?" Mom's voice again. Closer now. "You two have been up here for hours. What on earth are you organizing?"
The workshop door swung open.
She stood in the doorway, still in her evening jacket, a paper bag from the Italian place in one hand. Her eyes swept the room—the workbench where Josh had been bent over sixty seconds ago, the chair where I'd sat three nights earlier plotting this whole thing, the floor where my stepbrother's spit was probably still pooling.
Josh stood frozen next to the rafter, both hands behind his back. His face was flushed. His hair was sweaty. His jeans were inside out.
"The workshop," I said. "We're reorganizing. Dad wanted everything sorted before the renovation crew comes back on Monday."
Mom blinked. "You're—organizing. On a Friday night."
"Josh found a bunch of old tools in the basement. We've been cataloging them."
Silence. The kind of silence that fills rooms and makes clocks sound like gunshots.
Then Josh sneezed.
Not a real sneeze—the fake kind you do when you're trying to fill dead air. He made this strangled little "achoo" that echoed off the walls and died in the space between us. Mom stared at him.
"Are you wearing your shirt backward, sweetheart?"
"I—yes." Josh looked down at himself like he was just now noticing. "I spilled paint thinner on the front earlier. Had to—turn it around."
"You spilled paint thinner." Mom's voice was flat. "But you're reorganizing tools."
"Multi-tasking," I said.
She looked at me. Then at Josh. Then at the workbench, where a single black stocking still hung from a nail I'd missed. I watched her watch it. Watched her decide not to ask.
"Tiramisu is in the kitchen." She handed me the paper bag. "Come down soon. Your father wants to watch a movie. Something with explosions."
She turned. Walked back down the stairs. Her footsteps faded into the living room, where Dad was already complaining about the restaurant's seafood linguine.
I closed the door. Bolted it.
"Holy madharchod." Josh collapsed against the workbench, his backward t-shirt riding up again, his inside-out jeans sagging off his hips. "I thought we were dead. I thought she saw everything. The collar. The—the way I looked. The lube on the floor—"
"Is there lube on the floor?"
"There's lube everywhere." He gestured vaguely at the general disaster zone. "I think I'm sitting in some right now."
I crossed to him in three strides. Grabbed his jaw—the same grip from before, thumb-and-forefinger digging into the hinges. He went limp instantly, that randi switch in his brain flipping back on like it had never been off.
"We're not done," I said.
His eyes—those huge, liquid eyes—went dark with need. "Rahul... they're home. We can't—"
"We can't make noise. We can't take our time. But I'm not leaving this room without finishing what I started." I released his jaw. Pointed at the floor. "Knees. Now."
He dropped like a stone. His knees hit the floorboards with a dull thump, right in the wet spot where his spit and my pre-cum had dripped down during our interrupted fuck.
"Lick it up."
"What?"
"Every drop of pre-cum on this floor. Yours. Mine. I don't care. You're going to clean it with your tongue like the desperate little randi you are."
His tongue touched the floor before I finished speaking. Flat. Broad. Sweeping across the wood in slow, reverent strokes. The wet gleam of his own spit mixed with the cloudy smear of my pre-cum, and he lapped at it like it was the last meal he'd ever get.
"That's it." I crouched beside him. Ran my hand through his sweaty hair. "Good pet. Cleaning up your mess. Being useful."
"Yours," he mumbled against the floorboards. "Every drop is yours. I want it all. Every drop of chud you've got stored up in those heavy fucking balls—"
"Shh." I tightened my grip on his hair. "They're right downstairs. You scream, we're caught. You want that?"
"No." The word was muffled. "No, I don't want them to know."
"Then you're going to be quiet. No gasping. No begging. No filthy confessions, no matter how much you want to. Can you do that?"
He nodded. His tongue kept moving—slow circles now, cleaning a spot I hadn't even known was wet. The collar was still in its envelope. The tail plug was still under the workbench. But something about seeing him on his knees, licking cum off the floor while our parents ate tiramisu two floors below, hit harder than any prop could.
"The pet hood is in the second package," I said. "Behind the paint cans. Get it."
He crawled. Literally crawled—on all fours, inside-out jeans dragging, backward t-shirt riding up to expose the pale curve of his spine. When he reached the package, he brought it back in his mouth like a fucking retriever, head bowed, eyes down.
"Good randi." I pulled the hood free. Black neoprene. Removable ears—the floppy puppy kind I'd picked. A zippered mouth opening. Two mesh-covered eye holes. "Put it on."
The hood slid over his head with a soft shush of neoprene. His face disappeared behind black fabric. Only his eyes were visible through the mesh—huge and wet and absolutely liquid with submission. The floppy ears hung down on either side of his head like a sad puppy waiting for treats.
"You're not human anymore," I said. "You're just a pet. My pet. My breeding bitch in her little hood. And pets don't get fucked in beds, do they? Pets get fucked on the floor."
He shook his head. The ears flopped.
"Pets don't make noise either. Not a whimper. Not a whine. If you make a single sound while I'm breeding you, I'll stop. Understand?"
A frantic nod. His hole—visible just above the sagging waistband of his backward jeans—was already clenching around nothing, desperate for me to fill it again.
I pulled his jeans down to his knees. Pushed his t-shirt up to his shoulders. The position left him exposed—his chut already slick with lube and pre-cum, his hole still stretched from when I'd pulled out, a little gape still visible, a little promise of what was coming.
"Remember," I breathed against the back of his hooded head. "Silence."
Then I shoved my lund home in one thrust.
