Lost and Found: Erotic Pets Read online

  (Exotic Pets takes place six months after the end of Lost and Found 1: Pet Rescue and a few months after A Short Leash. The events of Rude Mechanicals immediately precede Exotic Pets.)

  Dad is trashing mom’s possessions.

  I get home from vacation to voice mail from my cousin Jack. To my relief, he stashed her belongings, and offers to bring them out to the cabin. Jack is so transparent. He likes me well enough -- he let me sleep on his couch when dad threw me out after mom’s funeral -- but he’ll usually take dad’s side for the sake of family peace.

  It may be sentimental, but mom had some nice things, and they might help the cabin. Jack rattles up in his old beater, and I peer into the trunk deciding what to take. I’ve given him a beer, so he’s happy to lean against the bumper and shoot the breeze for a bit.

  Her sewing machine is the largest item. I’ll say that for dad -- when she needed something for the house he got her the best he could afford -- sometimes more than he could afford. He believed in having the right tools for the job. The carpentry tools he bought me for vocational school are the ones I still use for freelance construction jobs. I guess I’m more like my dad than I thought. I want a boy to look after my every domestic need, and I’ll get him the best I can in return. I’d want him to be happier than mom, though.

  I pull out her handmade quilt, her wedding dress -- how could dad trash that? -- a stack of photo albums -- dad kept the ones of just them from before I was born, but my life is in these trashed ones -- and her family recipe book. Dad can’t have noticed it among the photo albums. I’m sure he’d be trying to get the next Mrs. Fell to learn her recipes. I have a crappy feeling that a stepmother-to-be is why he’s getting rid of this stuff. It’s been over a year since mom died; he’s never been the type to waste time. Or do without his comforts.

  Jack shuffles. Then coughs.

  “Uh, John, I was gonna sell that sewing machine.”

  Although I expected it, I glare and bargain him down to gas money, a bottle of scotch, and a small box of cigars. He’s delighted, but it’s the everyday stuff I buy, not from the stash the guys send as house gifts. I see Jack off, his junker car jolting over the dirt track, then fold the dress and quilt away in mom’s steamer trunk along with the photo albums. I put the cookbook by my laptop and plan on having twink transcribe the recipes. I’ll give Ben a copy when he’s done and hope twink can learn a few new dishes. I’m not sure what to do with the sewing machine -- but living in a cabin is sure to give me a need for repairs sooner or later. For now, I stash it in my study.

  Ben and twink are out back. Twink spent the last week looking after my vegetable garden while I was on vacation, and he cleaned the cabin for the group’s retreat. He’s done an adequate job, so he has today off from all but basic chores. He’s lying in the sun, listening to his iPod, and Ben is napping next to him.

  I tell Ben about the recipe book -- twink’s cooking is a source of pain for all concerned -- and twink’s eyes go all big.

  “Oh, Dr. Fell, sir! You’re smooshy after all!”

  Ben slaps twink’s ass hard, and I overhear him hiss, “Stop it, Charlie, he’s got nothing of Rob’s, let him have his mom.”

  I ignore them both, but I’m glad my new tattoo memorializing Rob is covered by my T-shirt. Twink gushing over it would be too much right now. I simply announce I’m riding into town to do my final community service session.

  Jack said I’ve gone up a bit in dad’s opinion now I have an assault conviction. Dad’s a macho ass, but secretly I am proud that I beat the crap out of Jamie’s owner. At the time, I was ready to take my punishment for doing it. Six months later, being in debt to the guys over the fine and doing this fucking tutoring are wearing me down. Still, being a rough carpenter at a construction site has earned me enough to pay the guys off, and they won’t be able to “subtly” manipulate me anymore. Dicks.

  I could have handled the community service better, but some of those shelter kids have just gutted me. Some are runaways, and some are there with their beat up moms, but they all need refuge. Mostly, I just help them with their homework, but there are a few who need to learn to read. I’m still pissed with myself that I took this seriously enough to sign up for a literacy tutoring certificate. Since then, I’ve been funneled into teaching illiterate teens. It’s killed me.

  I’m not soft-hearted or naïve. I know these kids -- I went to high school with boys like them, and when I met Rob he was a step away from being a street kid. His car wash job and a friend’s sofa were all that kept him hanging in. He wasn’t exactly richer for meeting me, but he gained love and security.

  As usual, it’s a memory of Rob that is torturing me. I’d tried to tutor him through his GED and he tried so hard. He was just distraught when he flunked it. I was hurt, too, because my boy thought I’d beat him for failing. That was our first year together. I was so proud of being about to graduate with my BA that I was sure I could educate Rob. And we did like spending our evenings together going through workbooks. But now I’m wondering, what kind of torment was that for Rob? Desperate to please me, but convinced he was never going to be able to do so. I’d loved him regardless. He’d learned enough to read the Sunday paper, and to follow his recipes, and he could repair just about anything. I’m ashamed, but in my heart I thought Rob's flaws enhanced him. I loved my boy for being non-academic.

  It cuts even deeper now. In hindsight, I know that Rob was almost certainly dyslexic. I’m berating myself for not catching it, but I really didn't have the knowledge myself at that age. What a cocksure ass I was, thinking I could perfect my boy when he was already perfectly himself.

  When I get back from tutoring -- with a thank you card from the shelter to my embarrassment -- Ben, as usual, puts me back on my heels.

  “Cut yourself some slack, John. We all have our Henry Higgins stage. How do you think I got snared by Charlie? I thought I could rescue him and make him into my own perfect boy.”

  We silently watch twink as he drops a pan of burned muffins, yet doesn’t miss a beat in bopping along to some crap on his iPod. He picks them up off the floor and grabs a plate.

  “Charlie,” bellows Ben to be heard over twink’s techno. “Put them in the trash! Don’t scrape and serve anything. Even if it didn’t get dropped!”

  There’s just a giggle from the kitchen. I try not to think about tomorrow’s breakfast.

  Ben and I head for the porch to watch out for Mike and Chris’s arrival. I’d stayed with them earlier in the week and we’d traveled together for a bit until they took a side trip yesterday. Mike wanted to go to a tattoo fair with his boy, but I was getting antsy about what twink would be doing to my garden, so we finished the trip separately.

  Mike’s coming to the retreat to work. He’s going to teach some bondage seminars and also do body mods on some boys who’ve earned commitment marks from their owners. Twink has been begging for a tongue piercing, but Ben doesn’t care for them. He has the crazy idea that one day he’ll take twink as his partner to corporate events and wants twink’s marks to be hidden.

  Ben consulted me about whether or not to brand twink. I hesitated, but said he should. Twink’s an annoying little bastard, but he and Ben love each other, and twink is flourishing with his new discipline and his tax preparer job. Gregorio gave a good enough report on his temp job and twink’s been taking bookkeeping classes at community college. He’s an asset to Ben these days. And he’s made Ben into more than just a corporate lawyer. When Ben chose law school over English grad studies, I worried about him. Now, he’s becoming a real owner. An unworthy flash of envy assails me. Ben and twink have each other, and however hard I try I can’t seem to stay back on the damn horse.

  Mike’s Dodge Ram p
ulls in right on time. The two boys unload the truck while Ben and I shoot the breeze with Mike. He makes some appreciative remarks about the cabin -- not all of them limited to how advantageous the privacy is for his body mod plans.

  Twink is actually being quiet and respectful -- Mike’s pretty bearish especially compared to Ben’s friends, and Chris exudes a calmness that most of the group’s boys lack. Twink follows Chris’ instructions about the unloading and then shows Chris around the cabin. I have an inkling that letting twink chat to Rob’s best friend might not be a good idea, but he’s not doing anything wrong, and I can hardly forbid them to talk. Yet.

  Chris takes one look at twink’s dinner prep, and simply takes over. Neither Ben nor I have been able to teach twink how to cook without direct supervision. With Chris running the kitchen, we kick back on the porch with beers, and the evening goes well. The guys are quiet in bed, but I still hear them screwing. It’s weird hearing muffled sobs from either side of me. I miss Rob’s little whimpers more than ever.

  ***

  The next day, I borrow Mike’s truck to go to the lumber yard. I’m temporarily in funds from the construction jobs I did all spring, and I plan on getting everything I need for the summer. I’m picking out some two by fours when I hear a deep rumble: “John, you fucker, where’ve you been? We wanted a carpenter on that office build last week.”

  “Brad! Shit. I took a road trip on my hog. I can be back after July 4.”

  Brad’s a huge man. He’s a site manager who I’ve worked with a few times. I’m a decent framing carpenter and spring was busy with freelance gigs. Right now, he’s glaring at me in mock displeasure.

  “Don’t bother -- I’ll be done by then.”

  There’s not much else to say, so I check a final two by four to see if it’s warped, and add it to my stack of lumber.

  “What’s the project?”

  “Personal for a change. Some cabin work.”

  Brad’s loitering. Usually once he’s got what he needs, he moves on to the next task, and he’s already established we won’t be able to work together this summer. So why’s he offering to help me load the wood?

  Fuck, I’m slow. He’s giving my arms and ass looks as we work. I’m being cruised by a closet case. As soon as he sees me looking back, he admires Mike’s truck.

  Not out is one thing, but I’m sure he’s mentioned a fiancée before. That’s right -- Brad’s working his ass off on overtime to pay for her wedding plans.

  “So how’s Stacy?”

  He looks as if I just stabbed him. “She’s fine. Gone to a wedding expo with her mom. They’re hiring a wedding planner.”

  His eyes are panicked. I give him a punch on the arm, and ask: “Condolences or congratulations?” It’s not kind, but he’s annoying me.

  He grimaces. “I swear, John, there are days when I think I might not come back from the out of state jobs.”

  I shrug. “Then don’t.”

  “You’re a cold one, John. Don’t you even care why? ”

  “It’s enough that it’s making you miserable. Go before you’re married. Why settle for something you don’t want? But be fair to Stacy.”

  Brad shrugs in turn. “Should have known you’d not understand how it is with commitments.”

  It’s no secret at the job site that I’m gay. I let the fag jokes roll right off me and do my job well. After I out arm wrestled the roofer who called me a sissy, things settled down well enough. I curl my lip at him.

  “My partner died. So don’t you fucking disrespect a lifelong promise to anyone.”

  “Fuck, John. How do you do it? I’ll lose my family if I...”

  He can’t even say the words, but I can. “Come out, buddy. Risk being disowned.” I almost keep the bitterness out of my voice.

  Brad freezes. “High price.”

  “Worth it,” I say. “No one expects shit from me that I can’t give.”

  “Dude, tell me it’s really worth it.”

  I flash my tattoo. “He was worth any price,” I say.

  I unlock the cab and climb in. “Send me a postcard if you do hit the road, just don’t send me any damn wedding invitations.” I start the engine, and he steps back as I pull out without looking to see if he’s clear.

  I’m still feeling pissy when I get home, because despite my anger with Brad, I felt sympathy for him. I’ve never regretted picking Rob and this life over my family, but it was a high price. I don’t want to sour the mood for my guests so I yell at the boys to unload the truck, and change into my running clothes. A jog down to the creek and back works off just enough of my temper.

  Chris is making lunch and twink is diligently watering my tomatoes when I get back. Ben’s gone into town on a liquor store run for the retreat, and Mike is scoping out the best spot to set up for his activities.

  I take a quick shower, and join Mike. I tell him my St. Andrew’s idea, and we start scribbling on the back of an envelope. Mike has some good ideas about making it workable for subs of different heights, as well some comments on the perennial problem of how to position a sub’s feet if you want him facing the cross and his ankles tied to the beams.

  We futz with it all through Chris’s lunch service until he takes the envelope away from his owner, turns it over, and sketches out exactly what we’ve both been trying to explain. He rolls his eyes affectionately at his owner. “Artists and specs...”

  “Know-it all designers,” grumbles Mike back at him, but when we go outside Mike and I use Chris’s sketch. Twink is still working in the vegetable garden and I pass by him on my way to the woodshed.

  “Go get lunch, boy.”

  “Yes sir -- oh!”

  “What?”

  Twink is staring at me and blushing.

  “Nothing, sir. Sorry, sir.”

  I give a quick look at my t-shirt -- I’d remembered not to wear a wife-beater -- and frown. My tattoo is covered.

  Twink falls on his knees and puts his face on my construction boots.

  “Do you need to be punished for something, boy?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Then get up. No messing around if Ben hasn’t lent you to me.”

  He kisses my boots, and mutters.

  “What?”

  “Dr. Fell, you look so fucking hot, sir. Your forearms are all... and your tool belt... and boots... oh God. And you didn’t shave. Please. Ask Ben if you can borrow me. Please.”

  “You’re a total slut, Charlie. Get up, and have lunch. I’ll tell Ben we need to test drive the retreat equipment on you.”

  He squeals with delight, and kisses my boots once more before obeying me. I wonder if he’ll be as happy strapped to the cross with Mike’s new whip flying at his ass. Crazy little fool. I catch myself looking at my arms wondering what twink sees. They are hardened up from construction work, and I’ve picked up a tan. I grab the sawhorses from the shed, and head back to Mike.

  We’re a good team. The carpentry part goes quickly. Mike is showing me the best positions for the restraints, and we’re ready to borrow twink as a guinea pig by the time Ben arrives. He cheerfully offers his boy up before we even ask.

  Chris unloads the liquor while twink gallops over joyfully. He wriggles his ass cheekily as Mike straps twink’s wrists.

  Ben shakes his head as twink giggles when Mike removes twink’s jeans, and ties his ankles. “Good God boy, have you no sense of self-preservation?”

  Twink looks over his shoulder at his owner and smiles. His face falls when he sees Mike pass a whip to Ben. Twink wriggles madly as Mike attaches the waist restraint.

  “So Charlie. Dr. Fell tells me you want me to loan you to him. And you want to worship his boots and tool belt.”

  Twink doesn’t deny it, but protests that it wasn’t like he was cheating on Ben or anything. He yelps when Ben lands an experimental flick on his ass.

  “Just finding my range, boy.”

  I’ve never seen Ben discipline twink before. I know he does -- I’ve seen the after effects
-- but he’s usually private with it. Mike and I step aside and watch as Ben gets the feel for the whip. It’s nicely balanced and has a good snap. I don’t think twink appreciates it at all. Ben’s got an expert action and is only using the very tip on twink’s left butt cheek.

  Twink wails as his cheek develops a dozen small welts. Ben coils the whip, and nods approvingly.

  “Keep it, man,” says Mike. “Consider it the test pilot’s fee.”

  Twink gives a miserable moan. We leave him there as we inspect the cross to see how it’s working with a specimen attached.

  “You think it’s a design flaw or benefit that he’s squashed like that?” asks Ben pointing to twink’s cock. It’s straining to point outwards, but there’s no room between twink and the wood.

  “Flaw!” says twink.