DISCLAIMER This story is a work of adult fiction intended for mature audiences (18+). All characters depicted are consenting adults. The narrative explores themes of taboo and tension in a fictional, stylized context. If this type of content is not for you, please feel free to scroll past. Feedback is welcome and appreciated.
I get up and brush my teeth, staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Eighteen, senior year, still trying to look like I’ve got it together. I’m five-ten, slim, the kind of build people call a swimmer’s body even though I haven’t been near a pool in years. My shoulders taper down lean, not broad, and my hair; blonde and stubborn, sticks up no matter how many times I run my hands through it. My mom’s been gone for a couple years now, but the house still feels heavy without her. John, my stepdad, works late most nights, though he’s a decent guy. We’ve grown closer since she passed, in ways I never expected. Sometimes I forget we aren’t actually related.
I’ve always known I’m gay, but I’ve never told anyone. Not John, not my friends, no one. He probably wouldn’t care if he knew, but I can’t bring myself to say it.
I wander into the kitchen, still groggy, my hair sticking up in every direction. The smell of coffee is already drifting through the house, sharp and bitter. That means John’s up. He’s always awake before me, no matter how early I think I’ve managed to get out of bed.
He’s at the counter, pouring himself a mug. His hair is damp from the shower, and he’s wearing one of those old T-shirts that look like they’ve been through a hundred washes. He glances up when I come in, giving me the kind of half-smile that feels easy, natural.
“You’re up early,” he says, sliding a mug across the counter toward me.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I mumble, pulling it closer. “Got a big test this week.”
He nods, leaning back against the counter. For a second, it feels almost normal—just two people sharing a kitchen in the morning. But my eyes linger longer than they should, catching on the way the light falls across his shoulders, the steam curling from his cup.
I wrap both hands around my mug, more to keep them busy than for the heat. When he passed it to me, our fingers brushed. Just for a second. It was nothing. Should’ve been nothing.
John leans back against the counter, and I’m reminded again of how tall he is. At six-two, he makes the kitchen feel smaller. He’s not bulky, not the gym-rat type, but there’s a strength in the way his T-shirt stretches across his shoulders, the kind of build you get from years of working construction. His hair, still damp from the shower, has that sandy-grey look that makes him seem both older and younger at the same time.
John takes another sip of coffee and sets the mug down with a heavy sigh. “Crew’s been running me ragged lately,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Short on guys, too many hours… half of ‘em don’t listen anyway.”
I lean against the counter across from him, cradling my mug. “That bad, huh?”
He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “You have no idea. It’s like babysitting, except the kids are six feet tall and think they know better. I end up doing half the work myself just to keep things moving.”
I watch him while he talks, the way his shoulders shift under the fabric of his shirt, the lines in his face deepening when he frowns. He looks tired, but solid, steady in a way that feels grounding.
“You ever think about taking a break?” I ask, though I know the answer.
John smirks, eyes flicking toward me. “What would I do with myself? Sit around this place all day?”
He says it lightly, but the thought lingers. For a second, I imagine him here more often, both of us sharing mornings like this, moving around the same kitchen without rushing off. The idea makes the room feel warmer than the coffee in my hands.
I leave for school, I am not popular but I am not an outcast either. I meet my friend Sam hes quieter than I am. Nerdy hes got a very normal and almost perfect family. Jock older bother away at college. Loving parents who are home.
The test is over thankfully, I think I may have done ok. John isn’t too concerned with my grades as long as I am not failing. I get home.
I grab my bag and head out the door, the cool air waking me up more than the coffee did. School is the same as always. I’m not popular, but I’m not invisible either. Just somewhere in the middle.
Sam meets me by the lockers. He’s quieter than I am, more reserved, the kind of guy people call “nerdy” but not in a cruel way. His life is the opposite of mine—an older brother off at college, parents who actually eat dinner together every night, a house that feels warm instead of heavy. Sometimes I envy that normalcy.
The test is over before lunch, and I think I did alright. At least not failing. That’s usually good enough for John. He doesn’t ride me too hard about grades as long as I keep my head above water.
By the time I get home, the house is quiet again.
I am usually home before john which is nice as I can do what I feel like. Usually I jerk off when I get home. My phone’s already in my hand. I’m scrolling, not really looking for anything specific—just that dull urge humming under everything. It’s been building all day, same as always.
But then I see it.
The laundry basket’s sitting on the loveseat across from me. John must’ve meant to throw a load in before work and got sidetracked. On top of the pile: his work jeans, that beat-up grey T-shirt I’ve seen a hundred times... and a pair of his underwear.
I don’t know why I stare. Maybe I do.
They’re just sitting there, out in the open like they don’t mean anything.
I feel a shift in my pants—tight, fast.
I glance at the front door. Still locked. No sign of the truck in the driveway. My heart’s beating louder now, and I can’t tell if it’s nerves or something else entirely.
I swallow hard.
I don’t know what’s come over me.
But I get up. And before I even think it through, I reach for the basket.
I hold his boxers up to my face as I stroke my throbbing cock. The smell is intoxicating, I am starting to move my hand faster around my cock. Thinking about Johns cock, I explode all over my shirt. I am usually a shooter but the mess across my shirt is more than usual. I feel like I’ve just run five blocks.
I stare at the underwear still in my hand. For a moment, I think about shoving everything under the cushion and pretending none of this happened. Instead, I strip off the shirt and toss it in the laundry basket with the rest of John’s clothes.
It feels too easy. Too casual. I try to tell myself it could’ve been anyone’s. Any guy’s. That it wasn’t because they were John’s.
But even as I think it, I know it’s a lie.
I get up and brush my teeth, staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Eighteen, senior year, still trying to look like I’ve got it together. I’m five-ten, slim, the kind of build people call a swimmer’s body even though I haven’t been near a pool in years. My shoulders taper down lean, not broad, and my hair; blonde and stubborn, sticks up no matter how many times I run my hands through it. My mom’s been gone for a couple years now, but the house still feels heavy without her. John, my stepdad, works late most nights, though he’s a decent guy. We’ve grown closer since she passed, in ways I never expected. Sometimes I forget we aren’t actually related.
I’ve always known I’m gay, but I’ve never told anyone. Not John, not my friends, no one. He probably wouldn’t care if he knew, but I can’t bring myself to say it.
I wander into the kitchen, still groggy, my hair sticking up in every direction. The smell of coffee is already drifting through the house, sharp and bitter. That means John’s up. He’s always awake before me, no matter how early I think I’ve managed to get out of bed.
He’s at the counter, pouring himself a mug. His hair is damp from the shower, and he’s wearing one of those old T-shirts that look like they’ve been through a hundred washes. He glances up when I come in, giving me the kind of half-smile that feels easy, natural.
“You’re up early,” he says, sliding a mug across the counter toward me.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I mumble, pulling it closer. “Got a big test this week.”
He nods, leaning back against the counter. For a second, it feels almost normal—just two people sharing a kitchen in the morning. But my eyes linger longer than they should, catching on the way the light falls across his shoulders, the steam curling from his cup.
I wrap both hands around my mug, more to keep them busy than for the heat. When he passed it to me, our fingers brushed. Just for a second. It was nothing. Should’ve been nothing.
John leans back against the counter, and I’m reminded again of how tall he is. At six-two, he makes the kitchen feel smaller. He’s not bulky, not the gym-rat type, but there’s a strength in the way his T-shirt stretches across his shoulders, the kind of build you get from years of working construction. His hair, still damp from the shower, has that sandy-grey look that makes him seem both older and younger at the same time.
John takes another sip of coffee and sets the mug down with a heavy sigh. “Crew’s been running me ragged lately,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Short on guys, too many hours… half of ‘em don’t listen anyway.”
I lean against the counter across from him, cradling my mug. “That bad, huh?”
He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “You have no idea. It’s like babysitting, except the kids are six feet tall and think they know better. I end up doing half the work myself just to keep things moving.”
I watch him while he talks, the way his shoulders shift under the fabric of his shirt, the lines in his face deepening when he frowns. He looks tired, but solid, steady in a way that feels grounding.
“You ever think about taking a break?” I ask, though I know the answer.
John smirks, eyes flicking toward me. “What would I do with myself? Sit around this place all day?”
He says it lightly, but the thought lingers. For a second, I imagine him here more often, both of us sharing mornings like this, moving around the same kitchen without rushing off. The idea makes the room feel warmer than the coffee in my hands.
I leave for school, I am not popular but I am not an outcast either. I meet my friend Sam hes quieter than I am. Nerdy hes got a very normal and almost perfect family. Jock older bother away at college. Loving parents who are home.
The test is over thankfully, I think I may have done ok. John isn’t too concerned with my grades as long as I am not failing. I get home.
I grab my bag and head out the door, the cool air waking me up more than the coffee did. School is the same as always. I’m not popular, but I’m not invisible either. Just somewhere in the middle.
Sam meets me by the lockers. He’s quieter than I am, more reserved, the kind of guy people call “nerdy” but not in a cruel way. His life is the opposite of mine—an older brother off at college, parents who actually eat dinner together every night, a house that feels warm instead of heavy. Sometimes I envy that normalcy.
The test is over before lunch, and I think I did alright. At least not failing. That’s usually good enough for John. He doesn’t ride me too hard about grades as long as I keep my head above water.
By the time I get home, the house is quiet again.
I am usually home before john which is nice as I can do what I feel like. Usually I jerk off when I get home. My phone’s already in my hand. I’m scrolling, not really looking for anything specific—just that dull urge humming under everything. It’s been building all day, same as always.
But then I see it.
The laundry basket’s sitting on the loveseat across from me. John must’ve meant to throw a load in before work and got sidetracked. On top of the pile: his work jeans, that beat-up grey T-shirt I’ve seen a hundred times... and a pair of his underwear.
I don’t know why I stare. Maybe I do.
They’re just sitting there, out in the open like they don’t mean anything.
I feel a shift in my pants—tight, fast.
I glance at the front door. Still locked. No sign of the truck in the driveway. My heart’s beating louder now, and I can’t tell if it’s nerves or something else entirely.
I swallow hard.
I don’t know what’s come over me.
But I get up. And before I even think it through, I reach for the basket.
I hold his boxers up to my face as I stroke my throbbing cock. The smell is intoxicating, I am starting to move my hand faster around my cock. Thinking about Johns cock, I explode all over my shirt. I am usually a shooter but the mess across my shirt is more than usual. I feel like I’ve just run five blocks.
I stare at the underwear still in my hand. For a moment, I think about shoving everything under the cushion and pretending none of this happened. Instead, I strip off the shirt and toss it in the laundry basket with the rest of John’s clothes.
It feels too easy. Too casual. I try to tell myself it could’ve been anyone’s. Any guy’s. That it wasn’t because they were John’s.
But even as I think it, I know it’s a lie.
