Stepdad Found My Butt Plug
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Stepdad Found My Butt Plug
Jace Thorne
Copyright © 2026 by Jace Thorne
All characters in sexual situations are age 18 and over.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Stepdad Found My Butt Plug
The house is too quiet.
Mom left at four for her sister’s. Said don’t wait up. Greg was in the garage when I got out of the shower, radio on, some game. I thought I had the place.
I didn’t.
My old room still smells like laundry detergent and the cheap body spray I used in high school. Twin bed. Desk I never used. Nightstand with the same lamp. I sat on the edge of the mattress after the shower with a towel around my waist and the plug already slick in my hand. Didn’t even lock the door. Just worked it in slow, biting my lip, thinking about nothing and everything. College made it worse. Dorm walls are thin. Here I can be loud if I want. I didn’t get loud. I just got sloppy.
When I finished I pulled it out, wiped it on the towel, and set it on the nightstand next to the lube like an idiot. Like I lived alone. Like Greg wouldn’t walk past my door on the way to the kitchen.
I pulled on boxers and an old T-shirt and went downstairs for water. The fridge hums. Ice hits the glass. I’m standing there drinking when I hear the stairs creak.
Not Greg’s usual heavy tread. Slower.
I take the steps two at a time and freeze in the hallway.
He’s in my doorway.
Greg. Mid-forties, bigger than the doorframe, dark hair on his arms, the gray starting at his temples. He’s still in the jeans he wears to the garage, faded at the thighs, and a black tee that’s seen better years. In his right hand: the plug. Black silicone, flared base, the one I bought online and hid in a sock for eight months. In his left: the bottle of lube, cap already loose.
He looks at me.
Then at the toy.
Then back at me.
My stomach drops so hard I feel it in my knees. Heat slams up my neck. I can’t swallow.
“I—”
That’s all I get out.
He doesn’t raise his voice. He never does. He just stands there filling the doorway like he belongs in it, which he does, because this is his house now and has been since I was fifteen.
“This yours?”
The words are quiet. Almost careful.
I should say no. I should laugh it off. I should grab it and slam the door and die in the closet. Instead I stand there in boxers that suddenly feel like nothing, dick already doing the worst possible thing against the cotton.
“Cole.”
Just my name. Not sharp. Waiting.
“Yeah.” It comes out cracked. “It’s— ...