Taming Tyler

Chapter Twenty-Five

Tyler

I t’s the day before Thanksgiving, and I’ve been summoned by the King of Bel Air himself. In all the time that I’ve been doing my community service, I haven’t seen or spoken to my mom. There’s nothing strange about that, really. We’re not close, not anymore. It still hurts, though, and although I’m two seconds from fainting with nervousness about stepping into their mansion again, I’m also looking forward to getting this over with. To get through what I’m sure will be another stilted dinner affair followed by a thorough interrogation by Dale the Dipshit. Because unlike all the other times when I’ve been weighed and found lacking by his majesty and ignored by my mom, I have absolutely zero fucks to give this time. Because at home—yes, Mitch and Cal’s house feels like home now—I’ve got my two Daddies waiting for me.

Since Cal dropped me off on the way to Walmart a few minutes ago, I’ve been staring at the doorbell like it’s going to bite me. He laughed at me with an evil glimmer in his eyes the entire drive here because I was squirming in my seat like my butthole was on fire. And it is. On fire. I’m already regretting wearing tight jeans because I know I’ll be spinning in my seat all night and I can already hear the loathing edge to Dale’s voice when he tells me to ‘Stop fidgeting, Tyler. ’ I know I’ll be tempted to just tell him I can’t stop fidgeting because my butthole is aching from being fucked sooo good by both my Daddies last night.

Fuck, they wrecked my hole last night. We’d gotten tested when we started fucking around, and yesterday, we got the results back from the clinic. All clear and all aboard the fuck boat! Cal went first. We’d barely made it inside the front door before he had me bent over the couch, ass up and pants down. He jammed his cock so far inside me that I swear my one crooked front tooth is now straight. My head was spinning with euphoria, my dick squeezed in between my stomach and the couch, so I couldn’t get my hands on it. To make it even worse, Mitch was massaging my balls with his tongue. It was pure torture. Once Cal had his fill, filling me up with his yummy Daddy cum, Mitch rimmed me for what felt like hours, sucking Cal’s cum out of me, while I imitated a sperm whale, singing his praises. Best Wednesday night I’ve ever had.

So, it’s pretty anticlimactic to be spending this afternoon and evening in the company of Dale the Downer while my mom is popping downers like Skittles. At least I’m spending Thanksgiving with my Daddies. And boy, do I have a surprise for them. You won’t believe what you can find on eBay when you search for Thanksgiving + sex toys .

Everything happens in a blur from the moment I ring the doorbell to when I sit down at the exquisitely decorated dining table across from my impeccably dressed and made-up mother, while Dale, of course, sits in a throne-like chair at the end of the table. It’s like I’m moving, nodding, talking on autopilot. I’m nothing like the bratty, carefree boy that I am when I’m with my Daddies and Bree. I’m like a deflated balloon, a discarded chew toy. I’m… nothing . I feel it so deeply in my very core, and all my good intentions of not letting it get to me go right out the window. That feeling of being nothing, of amounting to nothing, returns. I hate it. I hate this version of myself.

“I’m surprised, to say the least, we haven’t been contacted by the Parole Office that you’ve been flunking your community service,” Dale spits as he snorts down another oyster. Yuck. “Since you’ve made a habit of flunking everything in life so far.” I want to tell him you can’t exactly flunk community service and that I kind of have an advantage since I’m fucking both my parole officer and his husband. I want to scream at him how he can choke on that pathetic oyster of his because my throat is still deliciously raw from the blow jobs I dished out over breakfast this morning. I want to drown him in that thousand-dollar champagne of his and tell him he can go fuck himself because there ain’t no fucking champagne on this planet that tastes better than my Daddies’ juices.

But I don’t. Because I can’t. Because she sits right there, like a precious China doll, nibbling at a piece of lettuce. My mother. Mitch’s ex-wife. Mitch, whom I love. And no matter how disappointed I am with my mother, I would never intentionally hurt her. So I just shrink further into my chair while Dale drones on and on. About the looks he still gets at the golf club for being associated with a loser like me. About the pricey spa resort he had to send my mother to because she was devastated by my latest stunt. About how he’s fighting tooth and nail to restore his previously impeccable reputation in the LA real estate business.

When dessert finally comes around, I’m close to crying. Not because the tarte tatin is so miniature that you need a magnifying glass to see it. No, because when you’ve been doted on for weeks, treated like a human being, told you matter, and how people miss you when you’re not around, it’s hard to withstand Dale’s verbal abuse. It was much easier when I still believed that I was a worthless piece of shit. That I was Tyler the Destroyer and was only barely tolerated because of my mother. But I don’t believe it anymore. And I guess that’s why Dale’s words and my mother’s deafening silence hurt more than they ever have before.

When Dale stands to pour himself a whiskey from the cabinet and my mother lights one of her posh French cigarettes, I excuse myself and go to one of their gazillion bathrooms upstairs. I lie down on the cool marble floor, the surface hard against my cheek, not at all anything like the soft hairy chests of my Daddies. It smells sterile, of nothing but cleanliness, and I wish I had my face buried deeply in a sweaty Daddy pit instead. I miss them so much, it’s like my insides are screaming at me to just go. Go, go, go. But I can’t. I’m frozen.

It’s not until my phone pings with a text, then another, that I regain my composure. Sitting up slowly, I pull my phone from my jeans and open my texts. The first one is from Mitch, and just seeing his name in writing makes my heart ache.

Mitchy:

Hey baby boy. How you holding up? Remember that you are loved and that Dale’s a slimeball.

I can’t help snorting. Slimeball . Jeez, my Daddy is so old-school sometimes. The other text is from Cal, sent right after, so I bet they’re either lounging on the deck next to each other or on the couch, Bree at their feet. Fuck. Tears sting my eyes as I read Cal’s text.

Cal-Bear:

Everything Mitch said. How’s your ass, baby? I bought you some miracle oil.

That’s when I start ugly crying, still sitting on Dale’s ridiculous marble floor, with tears and snot spilling down my face. They are just so fucking amazing. With trembling fingers, I send my reply to both of them.

Me:

I’m okay.

Within seconds, my phone rings, and Mitch’s name flashes across the screen. I hesitate because I know I’ll sound like a frog when I answer, but at the same time, I want to be a good boy and answer my Daddy when he calls. He’ll just worry if I don’t. And probably alert the National Guard. So I press the screen and put the phone to my ear.

“Baby?” Mitch’s deep voice wraps around me, an edge of worry seeping through. “Baby, what’s wrong?” He coos like the good Daddy he is. The best.

“Nothing,” I force out, and yes, Kermit the Frog it is. “I’m good.” A deep sigh meets me at the other end.

“Tell me the truth,” Mitch beckons, no trace of annoyance or anger in his voice, just endless care and patience. “What’s wrong, baby? You can tell me.”

“It’s nothing,” I croak. “I just… I just miss you guys, is all.” It’s kind of the truth. I miss them like crazy.

“We miss you too, baby,” Cal’s voice sounds in the background and my stomach does a weird-ass somersault with happiness and longing.

“What did he say to you?” Mitch rasps.

“Nothing,” I mumble. “Just the usual stuff, you know,” I sniff.

“Ty, are you crying?” Mitch’s voice gets a strange edge to it that I haven’t heard before. A little like swoony Patrick Swayze when he made movie-hunk history with his ‘Nobody puts Baby in the corner,’ thing.

“No,” I sniff a little louder.

“Stay where you are, baby,” Mitch rushes out, the sound of feet padding across the hardwood floor, followed by the rustle of fabric. “I’m coming to get you. Stay where you are,” he pants.

“Mitch, there’s really no—”

“I’m coming, baby.”

Dale looks all blotchy like he’s ready to explode, that nervous nerve tick-tick-ticking away under his left eye as he seethes at Mitch, “What the hell are you doing here, Cain?”

“Good evening to you, too, Dale. I’m here for Ty.” Uhhh, I love Daddy Mitch when he’s all I’m the boss. Now fuck off, you bug on my car window. My dick thinks so, too, as it tries to wiggle inside my tight jeans. I can’t help snorting, because it’s just so fucking hilarious the way Dale’s face turns from blotchy to pale to purple in a matter of seconds. He looks like a cartoon character, smoke about to come out of his ears.

“What do you mean, you’re here for Tyler ?” he grits his teeth, looking at Mitch with unfiltered disdain like he’s a dogshit under his velvet house slippers.

“What I said,” Mitch puffs out his chest as he grabs me around my waist in one swift movement, pulling me against his side. I squeal, and it’s like Mitch is the dashing Sheriff Longwood coming to save me, the blushing babe in distress, from the evil villain of Tinytwig. I clasp my mouth behind both my hands, muffling a squeaky Daddy , while I swoon internally over this public claiming. Because that’s what it is. Mitch just staked his claim and Dale looks two watts from blowing a fuse.

“Tyler is having dinner with his mother and me, so please leave,” Dale retorts, his reptile eyes boring into Mitch’s beefy arm wrapped around me. I squirm for good measure. Yes, my Daddy’s is bigger than yours, dipshit. As if on cue, my mother appears in the doorway to the hall, a confused frown between her dark eyebrows.

“Mitch?” she whispers. “Is that…?” She looks at me, truly looks at me, for the first time in a really long while, then shakes her head. “What are you doing here, Mitch?”

“Evening, Catarina,” Mitch says, his voice softening. “Sorry to interrupt your dinner, but I’ve come for Ty.” He swallows, then looks down at me, a world of love in his light blue eyes. “I’m gonna take him home now.” Home.

“But… but Tyler…” My mom looks at me bewildered, taking a step forward, then another, before Dale clasps his claws around her upper arm. She stops but whispers, “How?”

“He found me,” Mitch smiles. Then his expression changes as he turns toward Dale. “He told me all the bullshit you’ve been feeding him over the years.”

“How dare you!” Dale shrieks at Mitch, and I’m surprised he isn’t spewing flames out of his nostrils. No matter how hard I’ve tried over the years, I’ve never once managed to make Dale lose it completely, and now Mitch’s mere presence is turning him into a screaming, blubbering mess. Mitch blatantly ignores him, looking at my mom instead, tucking me even tighter against him.

“When you’re ready to leave this sad excuse of a man and be a part of Ty’s life again, Cat, then you know where to find me.” My mother looks dazed; the only thing appearing to hold her up is Dale’s grip on her arm. Then Mitch dips his head, tipping my chin at him between his thumb and index finger, looking right into my very soul, “C’mon baby. We’re done here,” he murmurs softly.

“We’re not done!” Dale yells, taking a step forward. “I don’t know what deranged little game you’ve got going on with Tyler, but you can’t just waltz in—”

“I said we’re done!” Mitch booms, placing his palm in the middle of Dale’s astonished face, keeping him away from me. Ignoring my tormenter, Mitch lowers his voice, his gaze softening as he looks at me, “C’mon baby, let’s go.”

And we do. We just walk right out of there, Mitch’s massive hand wrapped around mine, leaving Dale and my mom staring after us. And it feels like I’m floating on pink clouds while a choir of angels is singing.‘ You see this guy? This guy’s in love with you.’ And I’m fucking untouchable because my Daddies love me. I’m like one of those mobster kids. You can’t touch me. If you touch me, you die. And then the angels are singing, ‘ U Can’t Touch This.’

I snort once we get in the car.

“What’s so funny?” Mitch raises an eyebrow at me.

“Nothing,” I wheeze.

“What?”

“You were so fucking hot and awesome in there, Daddy,” I blurt as I scramble into Mitch’s lap and shower him with sloppy kisses. “So fucking hot! Can we go home and fuck now, please?” I pant like a dog in heat.

“Easy now,” Mitch laughs, squirming under my kisses. “We gotta make a stop first.”

“Nooo,” I groan. “I thought Cal already got everything for tomorrow.”

“Don’t be a brat,” Mitch says in that deep voice of his, and I positively shiver.

“You like it when I’m a brat,” I pout.

“I do, but now’s not the time, Tyler.” Ugh, I hate it when he Tyler’s me. “Now buckle up, baby.” That’s better. Baby beats Tyler any day of the week.

“Where’re we going?” I sigh as I fasten my seatbelt.

“Your place,” Mitch says, starting the engine. And my stomach drops. It just drops right out of my sore butthole.

“My place?” I quip. “Why are we going to my place?” I thought we were going home, I almost add, but then I realize, like the delusional idiot that I am, that my place is my home, whereas Mitch and Cal’s house is their home. Not mine. And suddenly it’s like I can’t see properly. Or hear anything. I see Mitch’s lips moving as he pulls out on the street, but there’s just this loud ringing sound in my ears. It’s like I can’t breathe, my heart pounding like crazy in my chest, my future dissolving in front of me. And then the car stops and Mitch is shaking me, his mouth moving, his eyes worried.

“Ty? Ty? Baby, what’s wrong? Come back to me, Ty. Come back.” It’s like he’s speaking through a thick cloud of cotton. And then it’s like I’m the one wrapped in cotton, two strong arms around me, Mitch’s familiar scent engulfing me. “Come back to me, Ty,” Mitch pleads against my ear as he presses scruffy kisses everywhere he can reach.

Pushing away from him, I blink my eyes, looking up at him. He looks devastated. Poor Daddy. He looks how I feel on the inside.

“Where did you go?” he pants. “What happened?”

“I don’t… I don’t wanna go back to my place,” I force out, my voice nothing but a pathetic whisper. Mitch looks at me, puzzled at first, until something seems to dawn on him.

“Shit, baby, I’m sorry,” he says, clasping my cheeks in his big, warm hands. “I didn’t think. I’m sorry.” And it’s like I have cotton for brains now because I don’t understand a thing. “We’re just gonna grab your stuff and then we go home. Okay? Okay, baby?”

“My stuff?” I blurt, dumbfounded.

“Yeah. Your stuff,” Mitch smiles shyly, a wet sheen to his eyes. “We, uhm… we talked about it. Cal and me. While you were gone. And we both agree.”

“On what?” I ask as hope builds inside my chest. “What did you agree on, Daddy?”

“That… I mean, only if you want to. No pressure at all,” he blabbers, his cheeks painted in pink. “That maybe you could come live with us. Cal and me. And Bree, too. In our home. It could be your home, too. We could be a real…”

“Family?” I finish his rant, the angels now back to singing, this time Labrinth’s Forever.

“Yeah,” my Daddy breathes. “A real family.”

“I wanna!” I yell, my seatbelt off, then scrambling back into his lap. “I sooo wanna,” I cry and laugh against his neck. “I want nothing more than that,” I snort. Yep, that’s me. Super charming when my Daddy is blowing my fucking panties off with the ultimate romantic gesture.

“Yeah?” Mitch laughs too, squeezing the living daylights out of me. “You wanna? You wanna be ours?” he growls.

“I was always yours, Mitchy,” I smile against his musky skin. “Yours and Cal’s,” I pant. “Now can we pretty fucking please go get my stuff so that we can go home and fuck?!”

“Sure,” Mitch shrugs, slapping my ass. “Let’s go, baby.” He maneuvers me back in my seat, strapping me back in and pressing a gentle kiss to my forehead. Then he starts the car and we drive through the quiet night, Mitch’s hand resting heavily, protectively, possessively on my thigh, right above my tattoo. And it’s true. My heart is too big for just one of them. Maybe that’s why it was so restless all along, my heart. Not anymore, though. Not anymore.