"WHAT THE FUC-"
Griss's hand clamped over the cleaner's mouth with enough force to slam him back against the doorframe, the impact rattling the gold fixtures on the walls.
"Please," Griss hissed, his voice barely above a whisper, his heart hammering so hard he could feel it in his throat. "Please don't make any noise. Please don't scream. I'm begging you. I'll do anything. Just don't snitch."
The cleaner's eyes blazed with fury above Griss's hand. He was a lanky femboy with mousy brown hair and a name tag that read "Leo." His uniform was still rumpled from his earlier makeout session in the hallway, and his expression was a mixture of shock, anger, and disbelief. He wrenched his face free of Griss's grip and shoved him backward.
"Hell nah," Leo snapped, his voice dripping with outrage. "You broke into the Hawthorne mansion. You're hiding in the bathroom. You're sniffing someone's underwear. I'm absolutely snitching. I'm snitching so hard. Camilo is going to hear about this. Mr. Hawthorne is going to hear about this. The police are going to hear about this. You're going to jail, you creepy little—"
Griss dropped to his knees. It wasn't a graceful descent. It was a desperate, graceless collapse born of pure survival instinct. His hands shot out and grabbed the waistband of Leo's uniform pants, yanking them down in one rough motion. The fabric bunched around Leo's ankles, revealing a pair of tight black briefs that did nothing to hide the small, soft bulge underneath.
"I can make you feel good," Griss said, his voice cracking with desperation. He looked up at Leo with wide, pleading eyes, his dyed black hair falling into his face. "If you don't snitch, I can make you feel really good. I promise. You won't regret it. Just give me a chance. Please."
Leo froze. His mouth, which had been open to deliver another scathing refusal, hung there wordlessly. His eyes flicked down to Griss on his knees, then to his own exposed thighs, then back to Griss's face. The anger in his expression wavered, replaced by something more conflicted.
"I don't—" Leo started, but his voice had lost its edge. "This is—you can't just—"
Griss saw the hesitation and pounced on it. He opened his mouth wide, letting his wet tongue loll out, and grinned up at Leo with an expression that was equal parts desperation and sudden, unexpected confidence. "I swear you won't regret it. Just let me show you. Fifteen minutes. If you don't like it, you can scream all you want. But I promise you're going to like it."
Leo stared at him for a long, agonizing moment. His jaw worked silently, his fingers twitching at his sides. Finally, he let out a long, defeated sigh. "Fine. Fine! But if you're bad at this, I'm telling Camilo everything. And I mean everything. The underwear sniffing. The breaking in. All of it."
Griss didn't waste another second. He lunged forward and buried his face between Leo's thighs.
Fifteen minutes later, the bathroom door creaked open and Griss slipped out, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. His lips were swollen and shiny, his black hair even more disheveled than before. He adjusted his jeans, which he had pulled back up at some point during the encounter, and glanced back into the bathroom one last time.
Leo was sprawled across the marble floor, completely unconscious. His uniform pants were still bunched around his ankles. His briefs had been pulled down just enough to expose his tiny, spent cocklet, which was glistening with a mixture of spit and cum. His chest rose and fell in slow, deep breaths, and a tiny trickle of drool leaked from the corner of his mouth. He had been sucked completely dry, his body giving out somewhere around the twelve-minute mark.
Griss allowed himself a small, satisfied smirk before pulling the bathroom door shut and creeping back into the hallway. The mansion was quieter now, the distant sound of rain still drumming against the windows. He moved on silent feet, his combat boots barely making a sound on the polished hardwood. He passed several closed doors, each one more ornate than the last, until he reached a room near the end of the corridor.
This room was different. Even from outside, Griss could smell it. The scent of cum was so strong it was almost tangible, seeping through the cracks in the door like invisible smoke. It was the smell of hours of sex, of bodies tangled together, of multiple loads left to dry on expensive sheets. Griss's mouth watered involuntarily. It was intoxicating. It was overwhelming. It was the most erotic thing he had ever smelled, and he had just spent fifteen minutes with his face buried in a stranger's crotch.
He pressed his eye to the peephole, which was conveniently positioned at exactly the right height, and peered inside.
The room was massive. A giant bed dominated the center of the space, its sheets rumpled and stained. And on that bed were two femboys. They were identical in a way that made Griss's brain stutter. Both had long, curly ginger hair. Both had pale skin covered in a dusting of freckles. Both had bodies that were slim on top and impossibly exaggerated below, their massive asses jutting out like shelves even as they sat facing each other on the mattress. They were completely naked, their tiny cocklets soft between their legs, their bodies still glistening with sweat from whatever they had been doing before Griss arrived.
"You said you were going to clean up this time!" the one on the left was saying, his voice sharp with irritation. "You promised, Elliot. You looked me in the eyes and said 'Grayson, I will absolutely clean up the room after we're done.' And what did I come back to? Cum on the curtains. Cum on the carpet. Cum on my pillow, which is supposed to be my pillow, not your personal cum rag!"
The one on the right, Elliot, rolled his eyes with dramatic exaggeration. "Oh my god, you're still on about the curtains? That was one time. And I did clean them. Sort of. I wiped them with a towel. It's not my fault the towel was also covered in cum."
"It was covered in cum because you used it to clean up the last mess! Which you also didn't clean properly! This is a cycle, Elliot. A vicious, never-ending cycle of you promising to be less of a disgusting slut and then immediately going back to being a disgusting slut the moment I leave the room."
"I'm not a disgusting slut. I'm a liberated sexual being who happens to produce an above-average amount of bodily fluids during moments of intense passion. There's a difference."
"There's literally no difference. You're describing the exact same thing with fancier words."
Their arguing escalated quickly, voices overlapping, ginger curls bouncing as they gestured wildly at each other. Then, without warning, Elliot lunged forward and shoved Grayson backward onto the mattress. Grayson yelped, then snarled, and suddenly they were wrestling, their naked bodies tangling together, their massive asses jiggling with every movement. The wrestling lasted maybe ten seconds before it turned into something else entirely. Grayson's hands fisted in Elliot's hair. Elliot's mouth crashed against Grayson's. The argument dissolved into aggressive, desperate making out, their tongues sliding together, their hips grinding, their tiny cocklets hardening between their pressed bodies.
Griss watched through the peephole, his own cocklet throbbing in his jeans. He had no idea who these people were.
Twins, obviously.
But Theo had never mentioned brothers. All those months of watching, of memorizing, of cataloging every detail of his darling's life, and he had somehow missed the existence of two identical, ginger-haired sex demons living in the same house. The oversight was staggering.
"Who the hell are these people?" he muttered under his breath, still watching as Elliot bit down on Grayson's lower lip and Grayson moaned loudly.
Before he could contemplate further, he heard it. Camilo's voice, sharp and unmistakable, drifting up the staircase at the end of the hall. "¡Ay, Dios mío! If I find one more person slacking off today, I swear to God I will personally shove this mop so far up your—"
Griss didn't wait to hear the rest. He grabbed the door handle, twisted it, and slipped inside the room, closing the door behind him as quietly as he could.
The sound of the latch clicking shut cut through the room like a gunshot. Elliot and Grayson froze mid-kiss, their lips still pressed together, their hands still tangled in each other's hair. Slowly, in perfect synchronization, they turned their heads toward the intruder.
Griss stood with his back pressed against the door, his face pale, his eyes wide with terror. "I can explain," he started, but the words died in his throat. He had no explanation. There was no explanation. He was a stalker who had broken into their house and hidden in their bathroom and was now standing in their bedroom while they were naked.
The twins exchanged a look. It was a long, silent, communicating look that only identical siblings could achieve. Then they turned back to Griss, and their expressions shifted. The surprise melted away. The curiosity remained. And underneath it, something darker, hungrier, began to surface.
Grayson's lips curled into a slow, predatory smile. His eyes raked over Griss's lanky frame, his black clothes, his piercings, his terrified expression. "Sweet," he said, his voice dropping into a low, satisfied purr. "A plus one."