Page 73 of Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang Us, Daddy

“Holy fucking shit.”

“Language,” I scold, but my voice is high-pitched and fragile and doesn’t sound very commanding at all.

“We’re leaking out of you, Daddy,” he says, dragging his finger up my crack. His tongue is warm against my hole, warmer still as it slips inside, twisting and turning like he’s trying to clean me out. I kind of want to move away from him, because I want to keep their loads inside me for the rest of my life.

Falling forward, my lips press against Benji’s, and we tangle together in a kiss. His hands are everywhere. My neck, my back, my ball sack, and my crack, there isn’t a square centimeter his fingertips haven’t touched.

Once they’ve had their fill, my boys pull away and we all just stare at each other, eyes darting back and forth between boyfriends.

“I think,” I admit with a heavy breath, “I just found a new favorite hobby.”

As I collapse into a heap on the mattress, my boys lie at my side, resting their heads on my stomach. They stare up at me with half-lidded eyes, but they refuse to fall asleep. It’s like they’re worried this will all disappear if they allow themselves to slip from this moment.

“Dad loves you, boys,” I assure them. “He loves you, and he always will.”

“If you’re done behaving like goddessdamned deviants,” Tatum shouts through the bedroom wall that separates us, “I’d like to get a little fucking rest.”

“Language!” the Bens shout, and the next thing I know we’re cackling. I look down at them—at the loves of my life—and I know we’ll be alright in the end. Because, this thing we share? It’s special. It belongs to us and no one else.

EPILOGUE: BENJI

The store is packed.

The store is packed and my boyfriend is nowhere to be found.

Typical.

Ever since Dad convinced our arch nemesis to give us both jobs, then strong-arming her into resigning from her post at the illustrious Build-A-Bear Workshop, smack-dab in the heart of Tallulah, Texas, Bennet’s let me down time after time. Take last week, for example. While I was helping a delightful Daddy named Bryce pick out the perfect teddy for his boy, seven other Daddies walked in, and I had to stuff every single bear by myself. Where was Bennet during all of this? In the back office taking pictures of his penis to send to Dad. Now, we’re as busy as we’ve ever been, and I don’t know how I’m supposed to do it all on my own.

It’s not that I don’t love helping an endless swarm of twinks pick their new forever-and-ever Build-A-Bear BFF, because I do. It’s the high point of my day. There’s just so much mess once they leave. Teddy outfits strewn about on the floor. Unstuffed bears shoved into the incorrect cubbyholes. It’s like a tornado’sgone through the store, and it’s going to take me at least an hour to put everything back where it goes.

As I watch a twenty-something twink pick a teddy up by the scruff of his unsewn neck, my blood boils beneath my skin. It’s like he doesn’t even care that these are going to be someone’s stuffy one day. A tiny twink’s precious new pal. Now, the guy has casually tossed him on the rack beside him, labeled The Bear Accessories—yes, the name was my idea, thank you very much—which houses bear gloves, scarves, and hats, because as the old saying goes: a bear can never have enough hats, gloves, and shoes. It’s not even remotely close to where he originally found the bear.

Some people don’t deserve the Build-A-Bear experience, and this jerk is one of them.

I march over, my feet slamming loudly against the wooden floors. When the twink looks up at me, he gives me a warm smile, but he can save it for someone who cares. No one disrespects Build-A-Bear.

I grab the bear off the rack and hold it mere inches from his face. “Is this where you found him? Huh? Is this where Mr. Snuggle McDougle goes?”

He cocks his head to the side. “Snuggle McDougle?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it? Are you hard of hearing? Are you doubly differently-abled?”

“Huh?”

I point at the cubbies where the bears are supposed to go. “I mean, you must be blind, because that clearly isn’t where you found him.” The twink blushes, and he darts his eyes around the room like he’s looking for someone. Maybe it’s his Daddy. I hope it is, because if so, I’m going to tattle. I’m going to drag his Daddy to the side and tell him what a bad boy his boyfriend has been. “Now, I want you to apologize, and I want you to put this back where you found it.”

To my horror, he takes Mr. Snuggle, as well as a small koala stuffie, and starts smashing their non-stuffed neither regions against each other, simulating anal sex. I have half a mind to call the police. Then he tosses the stuffies over his shoulder, making my blood boil.

“Pick those up and put them where they go.”

“Isn’t that your job? What are you, a salesclerk?”

I gape at him. “A salesclerk? I’ll have you know, I’m your trusty Build-A-Bear Pal.” I point at the magnetic name tag clipped to my shirt that says, BENJI – YOUR BUILD-A-BeAR PAL. Did I mean to draw a lowercase E on the festive, personalizable name plate our manager gave us? No, but what’s done is done and I can’t spend any more time beating myself up for it than I already have. After seeing how bad I felt about it, Dad made me promise I wouldn’t let it eat me up inside.

The man sighs. “Whatever. Listen, I was interested in getting a?—”

I growl at him, probably sounding like a feral beast if the frightened look on his face is any indication. “You’re not getting a goddamn thing until you?—”

---