Chapter 1: The Pantry Raid Gone Wrong
The mirror doesn’t lie. It shows me exactly what I am, what I’ve built, and what I’m hiding. I stand there, breathing a little heavy, wearing nothing but a black thong. It’s simple, no lace today, just a stretch of fabric that vanishes between the cheeks of my ass. My reflection is a college football player—broad shoulders, a hairy chest that trails down over a tight stomach, legs thick from squats. But my eyes keep dropping lower, past the V of my hips, to where my glutes flex, round and huge, pushing against the thin material. A power bottom’s ass. That’s the secret part.
I’m eighteen, I live with my dad and my older brother, and I’m gay. Not out, though. Not even a little. We’re in a liberal town, my dad’s cool, my brother wouldn’t care, my friends would shrug. Knowing that doesn’t make it easier. It makes the closet feel smaller, somehow. Stupid. The other secret is right here, in this drawer. Thongs. Dozens of them. And underneath them, my collection—silicone, glass, varying sizes. Practice. A lot of practice. I’m a virgin to everything but my own hands and these toys.
My palm slides over my right asscheek. The hair is coarse, a dark brown against my pale skin. I squeeze, and a shiver runs straight up my spine. Christ, I turn myself on. The thought is a spike of heat in my gut. I let my fingers trace under the waistband, dipping just slightly into the cleft. My breath hitches in the quiet of my bedroom.
“Blake! Your crew’s here!”
My dad’s voice booms up the stairs, snapping the tension like a twig. My hand flies away from my body as if burned. Reality floods back in—the messy bed piled with hoodies, the faint smell of Dad’s grilled steak still in the air from last night. I can’t go down like this.
I yank on a pair of loose grey sweats and a worn-out white tee, hiding everything. For a second, I stare at the mirror again, now covered up. A dull frustration settles in my chest. I wish I could just walk out there like I was. Just the thong. Let them see. The thought is terrifying and thrilling, a jolt that dies as I head for the door.
The kitchen is a sun-bleached, comfortable mess. The scent of coffee and that lingering steak hangs in the air. And there’s my Dad, Alan, filling the doorway to the living room like a mountain.
“There’s my boy,” he grins, his mustache framing the words.
Before I can say hey, he’s pulling me into a hug. It’s all-consuming. My face presses into the open collar of his polo shirt, right into the thick mat of salt-and-pepper chest hair. He’s taller than me, broader, an older, more solid version of my own build. His pecs are full and firm under my cheek, and for a bizarre, heart-thumping moment, I’m surrounded by the warm, clean scent of him—aftershave and laundry detergent. We’re close. Always have been. Since he and mom split when I was a kid, it’s just been us and Cody.
“Off me, old man,” I mumble into his chest, but I’m laughing as I push back.
“Blakey!” Darius calls from by the fridge, his buzzed head gleaming under the kitchen light. He’s already got the door open, hunting for snacks. His eyes, always full of a secret joke, crinkle at me. “You look tired. Skipping leg day finally catching up?”
“Says the guy who thinks a five-mile jog is a workout,” I shoot back.
Chad is leaning against the counter, the undeniable alpha of our group even in his stillness. He’s blonde, green-eyed, built like a sculpture. He gives me a slow, confident nod. “We raiding this fridge or what, Alan? I’m starved.”
“Have at it, boys,” Dad says, waving a hand. “Chips are in the pantry. Soda’s in the garage fridge.”
Kenji, quiet and observant, offers me a small, warm smile from where he’s perched on a stool. He’s got that kind of handsome, gentle face that makes you feel calm just looking at him. “How was practice?” he asks.
“Brutal,” I say, grabbing a water bottle. “Coach is already in playoff mode.”
The back-and-forth is easy, familiar. Darius cracks jokes, Chad dominates the conversation with his opinions on the new strength-training app, Kenji listens and interjects with something surprisingly insightful. I’m soaking in the normalcy of it when the back door slams.
“Sounds like a barnyard in here.”
Cody. My brother slouches into the kitchen, all punk-rock disdain in his slim black jeans and ripped Misfits tee. His mohawk, dyed jet black this week, stands defiant. He’s got more metal in his face than in the utensils drawer.
“Nice hair,” I say. “Going for the pissed-off rooster look?”
“At least I have a style, meathead.” He glides past me to the coffee machine. “Unlike you and your… fraternity of the aesthetically challenged.” He gestures vaguely at Chad, Darius, and Kenji.
Chad doesn’t even look up from the bag of chips. “Coming from a human pincushion, that means a lot.”
“Boys,” Dad says, his voice a low rumble of warning. It’s not anger, just the habitual peacekeeping tone he’s used for years. “Play nice. Cody, be polite. Blake, don’t take the bait.”
Cody shrugs, pouring his coffee. “Just calling it like I see it. So, what’s the agenda? You four going upstairs to watch game tape and grunt at each other?”
“Something like that,” I say, my patience thinning. This is our routine. His artistic, detached superiority clashing with my jock-world. We love each other, I guess. It just looks a lot like annoyance most days.
“Alright, get out of my kitchen then,” Dad says, shooing us. “I’ve got bills to pay. Oh, Blake, before you disappear—need you to come sign those student loan deferment papers for next semester. Left them on my desk.”
I groan inwardly. Paperwork. “Yeah, fine. Guys, just head up to my room. I’ll be two minutes.”
“Don’t touch the good dildos!” Cody calls after them as they file out. I flip him off without looking back, following Dad down the hall to his small, wood-paneled office.
The papers take five minutes. My mind is already upstairs, wondering what they’re talking about, a low hum of anxiety in my veins. It’s always there, this fear of exposure. I sign where he points with a hurried scrawl.
“All set,” Dad says, clapping me on the shoulder. “Now go. Be a kid.”
Taking the stairs two at a time, I round the corner to my open bedroom door, a relaxed smile already forming on my face. The words “So what did I miss—” die in my throat.
They’re not on the bed. They’re not by the shelf.
They’re at my dresser.
The top drawer, which should be shut, is wide open. Darius is peering inside, his eyebrows almost to his hairline. Kenji is standing back, his hand over his mouth, eyes wide. And Chad.
Chad is in the center, holding something. Between his thumb and forefinger, pinched like it’s a dead insect or a piece of evidence, is a thong. But not the simple black one I was wearing.
This one is electric blue, with a rhinestone word spelled out across the front in glinting, undeniable letters: CUM SLUT.
The world tilts. The sounds of the house—the distant TV, the hum of the fridge—vanish. All I can hear is the blood roaring in my ears. My stomach drops through the floor.
Chad turns slowly, his green eyes finding mine across the room. He doesn’t smirk. He doesn’t laugh. He just holds it up, his expression unreadable.
The drawer is open. My entire secret world, spilled out for them to see. Every colorful strap of fabric, every hidden shape beneath them. Exposed.
I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I just stand there in the doorway, frozen, waiting for my life to shatter.