Page 54 of Full Split
The other hand holds a basket full of dildos in various sizes, shapes, and detail.
Oh, boy.
Without skipping a beat, Niles takes me by the hand and drags me over to a counter, where he lays out the many, many choices across the surface. Just lays them out like we’re browsing produce.
Silicone in every color. Smooth and realistic. Ribbed. Curved. Some small and unintimidating. Others that make me question my life choices.
“I figured you might not want to jump straight into big boy territory,” he says, eyes flicking down to my rapidly failing self-control. “Thought we’d start small and work our way up.”
“Is that necessary?”
“Unless you have a history of power-bottoming that you failed to disclose.” He narrows his eyes at me momentarily. “Then yes. Because I want to stretch you so fucking wide…”
My face flushes hot, and I have a choking fit.
Just when I thought life couldn’t get any better, a woman who looks and sounds exactly like Mac’s mom fromAlways Sunnyapproaches and asks if we could use any assistance.
Niles lights up like it’s Christmas.
And then the man that I’ve fallen in love with, against my better judgement, starts chatting casually about the realism versus functionality of the various options laid out before them. Like they’re discussing throw pillows. Like they aren’t having a casual conversation about the whimsy of what’s ultimately going to be shoved inside my asshole.
Niles glances back at me, bright-eyed and earnest, and I feel my soul leave my body.
I think I’m actually, fully, irrevocably in love.
Because I don’t have it in me to tell him I’d rather French kiss the lit end of a pack of smokes than let this stranger help me pick out what cock he’s going to fuck me with later.
Is that a douche kit in his basket?
We finally make it home, arms loaded with bags, only to walk in to what might be the last circle of hell.
I’m standing in the entryway of my home, holding four massive bags that are all labeled, in bright, unmistakable lettering:Straps & Shenanigans Superstore. I wish I was kidding.
And Weston, my son who is supposed to be forty-five minutes away at his girlfriend’s apartment, is on the couch. Said girlfriend is there too. They’re curled up together, watching some rom-com on the living room TV.
Just kill me now.
“Hey, Dad,” Weston says, nose stuffed, voice congested. His eyes are red-rimmed. “We’re home early.”
“I noticed.”
Aimee offers a small wave. “Sorry, hope it’s okay we’re here. My roommate found a pregnant cat, so we couldn’t stay there, obviously.”
It takes me several moments to process what she just said until I remember my son is allergic to cats. I’m still too busy freakingout that someone’s going to ask what I’m holding or notice the bags that I try to surreptitiously set in the corner of the foyer.
In my periphery, I see movement and realize Niles is still here, but he thankfully had the forethought to hide. To my eternal gratitude, he quietly grabs the bags and sneaks down the hall like a cartoon burglar.
Clearing my throat, I step into the living room as calmly as I can.
“Mr. Lincoln, do you know where the Benadryl is? I couldn’t find it in the medicine cabinet.”
“Just Wyatt is fine, Aimee,” I tell her for the hundredth time. “And yeah, I’ve got it.
I fetch the medicine and a glass of water like it’s my only mission on earth. I hand the tablets to Weston and wait until he swallows them.
Glancing towards the hall, worried that Niles will be caught lurking, I raise my voice a little. “Be ready for a long night,” I tell Aimee, but my words are actually for Niles. “Benadryl tends to have the opposite effect on Weston.”
Aimee blinks. “What do you mean?”
