The Plumber

It’s the dripping that finally pushes her over the edge.

I hear it from the other room. Sharp heels on tile. Then, louder: “If I have to listen to that fucking sink one more time —”

She doesn’t finish the sentence. She doesn’t have to. Her tone’s enough to make my stomach tighten, just like it always does when she’s home during the day.

She’s working from the kitchen this week — Sinclair Industries has her buried in casework. Something about an environmental claim in the Midlands, some place called Thunder Falls. She hasn’t explained it. She never does.

“It’s been like that for weeks,” she calls, venom laced with exasperation. “A real ferret would’ve fixed it by now.”

I don’t say anything. Just nod, even though she can’t see me. I’m in the bedroom, hunched over my laptop. Article due Friday. Still blank. I’m supposed to be reviewing an exposé on a broken up terrorist op, but I can’t focus with the sound of that godsdamn tap echoing in my skull.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

My eye twitches as the sink in our loo declares itself. 

She’s not wrong. I could’ve fixed it. Probably. With a video tutorial. A couple wrenches. But by now it’s more than just the tap — it’s the point she’s making. Again. About who earns what. Who wears the trousers. Who “keeps this flat running.”

Not that I don’t make money. I do. When I’m publishing, when the editors aren’t ghosting. There are weeks when I bring in more than she does — not that it counts. Not when I don’t go into an office. Not when I’m not billable.

I sigh, shut the laptop, and grab my phone.

Might as well just call someone.

The app’s simple. HomeTech. Everything from electricians to security systems to massage therapy with a wink.

I scroll.

Wolf. Doberman. Otter. Some of them look like they’re moonlighting from OnlyPaws.

Most are overpriced, overbooked, or too clean-looking. 

Then I see him. A black panther. Profile says his name is Omar. Leaner than most, but broad through the chest and hips. Fur dark and neat. A faded tattoo visible on his left forearm. His arms look strong without flexing. His boiler suit is rolled at the sleeves and unzipped just enough to show his chest is defined. 

No grin. Just a flat expression in his profile pic — like he’s halfway through a job and doesn’t have time for bullshit.

5 stars.

“Fast, discreet, professional.”

“Came quick.”

“No nonsense. Fixed everything. Smelled amazing.”

That last review gives me pause. I don’t know why. I read it again. My paw hovers. Then taps. Booked.

I don’t tell her.

She leaves around noon, after snapping her briefcase shut like a guillotine and reminding me that she’ll be expecting it fixed before she gets home. Her tail swishes with irritation as she leaves. No kiss. Not even a look.

The door clicks shut.

I exhale.

Thirty minutes later, there’s a knock.

I open the door.

And he’s standing there. Taller than I expected. Broader. Boiler suit a little looser around the waist, chest rising slow with every breath. His scent hits me instantly — deep, male, grounded with something sharp beneath. Clove. Sweat. Copper pipe and heat.

My nose flares. My tail twitches. My fucking hole clenches. I try to play it cool. “Er—hi. Sink’s this way.” He just nods and steps inside.

And I swear, my sheath twitches the moment he passes me. He doesn’t speak much at first. Just enters the loo, crouches under the sink, tail flicking once as he assesses the mess.

I try to keep my distance, but my eyes won’t cooperate. The way his shoulders bunch under the fabric. The sound of his breathing — low and even. That fucking scent. It’s thicker now that he’s inside. Warm and unbothered. Male. Something feral under the surface.

I shift against the counter, crossing my legs. His bum flexing as he leans into the cupboard, and I find myself imagining what he would look like after hours. 

My cock twitches again. Not full. Just enough to feel it. Enough to make me panic. I’ve never been turned on by a male in my life. Not once. Not even at university. My breath shortens. I tear my eyes away. Try to pretend I’m reading something on my phone.

He snorts from under the sink. “All you househusbands are the same.”

My ears flick. “What?”

He pulls back. One paw twists the pipe with a quick flick of the wrench. Thunk. The drip stops instantly. He stands. Turns. Towering. Then he smiles. “Leakin’ more than your sink.”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

He gestures at my crotch. “You want to fuck in the kitchen, the bedroom, or the sitting room?”

I stare.

“F-Fuck?”

“Yeah,” he says, deadpan. “You called me for service. I gave it. Now you’re the one dripping.”

I stammer. “I—I’m married—”

He tilts his head.

“I can smell your heat from here, bruv.” He steps forward. “You’re half hard and sweating. You’ve been clenching since I stepped through the door. Come now, don’t be shy. I’ve got other jobs today.”

My back hits the wall. “I’m straight.”

He chuckles.

“First time, eh? No kidding. Alright.” He shrugs. “I’ll give you a discount.”

And just like that, he unzips his boiler suit. 

Right there. In my loo.

The fabric drops, and —

Gods.

His cock flops free, thick and half-hard, barbed tip flushed red and already glistening with pre. It’s the fattest thing I’ve ever seen. Veins like wires. Heavy, swinging between his legs like it belongs there.

My jaw drops.

He doesn’t wait for a response.

“You take too long to decide.” He steps past me. “Kitchen.”

I follow without thinking. My legs move on instinct. My sheath’s tight, balls aching.

“You look like the type who needs to be told how you like it,” he mutters, grabbing my wrist and tugging me to the counter.

I nod without meaning to.

He peels down my trousers. Then my pants. My tail flicks up without being asked. My arse is bare in the cool air of my own kitchen. Exposed. Quivering. From somewhere — gods only know — he produces a bottle. Slick Paw™. “Let’s warm you up first, no?”

I brace against the counter, whole body shaking. And then I feel his paw on my lower back.  I hear the cap click open and him squeeze. Feel the first cool drop hit dead centre on my hole. I shudder. Another drizzle follows — thicker this time — running down between my cheeks. I suck in a breath.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs. “Don’t worry, bruv. I’ve done this before. First time’s all about relaxin’. Let the lube do the work.”

I nod, silent, face flushed, heart hammering against my ribs. My paws are clenched white-knuckle against the counter. Then I feel it. The pad of his finger — warm, slick, steady.

“Deep breath.”

I try. And he pushes. My hole burns. It grips tight on instinct — no give, no slide, just that raw, clenched resistance of a lad who’s never had anything go the wrong way up his one way street. 

“Shhh,” he soothes. “Just the tip. Breathe.”

I whimper. My body fights it, hips twitching forward. But his other paw’s there now, planted firm on my lower back, holding me steady.

Another slow push. The lube helps, but gods, I’m tight — too tight. I pant, trembling, tail arched high and ears pinned. Then — with a stretch and a pop — he’s in. Just one finger. But I feel it. Every fucking ridge of his pad. Every twitch of his knuckle. My arse flutters around it, clamping down and trying to force him out. But he waits. Doesn’t move. Just lets me adjust.

“Good boy,” he says. Quiet. Almost reverent. “You’re doin’ fine.”

I make a noise — not quite a sob, not quite a moan. Something in between. My cock’s hard and leaking against my belly, completely untouched.

“Ever touched your button before?” he murmurs.

I shake my head, wide-eyed. I feel him smile behind me. Then — slowly, carefully — he crooks his finger forward.

And gods.

It’s like a lightning bolt straight through my spine. My knees go weak. My hole clenches hard, cock twitching like it might unload untouched.

“Fuck—!”

“There it is,” he says, smug.

He keeps it shallow. Just that one finger, working slow. Patient. Letting me adjust. Letting me want it. By the time he slides a second one in, I’m trembling, gasping, my voice wrecked.

“Please—”

He leans closer, breath hot on my ear. “Please what, househusband?”

“…Please f-fuck me.”

He kisses my shoulder. One soft, chaste kiss. Then he steps back and I know it’s time. 

“Bend over,” he says.

I’m already bent, but I lower more. Arch. Offer. It feels so wrong, so obscene, but I do it anyway — because my body’s not listening to me anymore.

Another click of the lube bottle.

More slick drips down my crack. My hole clenches. Still twitching. Still raw from those fingers. I feel them again, just briefly — two slick digits easing me open, smearing lube, spreading me for what’s next.

Then nothing.

Then heat.

His cock presses against me — broad and hot, the barbed head rubbing against my ring like it owns the fucking place.

“Relax,” he growls.

I try. But it doesn’t matter. Because he starts pushing anyway. And fuck does it stretch. The first few centimetres are agony. A slow, burning stretch that makes me grit my teeth and clutch the edge of the counter like I’m bracing for impact.

I nearly choke. “Too big—!”

“Uh-uh,” he grunts. “You can take it.”

Another few centimetres. My hole screams. I sob. My paws reach out blindly, scrabbling for something — anything — and find the kitchen faucet. I wrap my fingers around it in a death grip, knuckles white, claws clicking against the metal as he sinks deeper.

Schlk.

He doesn’t stop. Just presses, working it in bit by bit, like he’s snaking a line through a clogged drain — slow, steady, and unstoppable.

“Gods—” I whimper.

“You’re doin’ so good,” he says, voice rough, steady, full of fuckin’ praise. “You feel that stretch? That’s real, bruv. That’s your hole sayin’ yes.”

My legs shake. My knees are buckling.

Then—he bottoms out.

I feel his hips press flush against my arse. His fur tickling mine. The thick weight of his cock inside me, barbs flared just enough to let me know. My insides are clenching and fluttering, not sure if I’m cumming or crying or breaking in two.

“You’re full now,” he mutters. “Look at you. Fuckin’ full of cock like a good little househusband.”

I let out a noise — broken, ruined. And then he pulls back. Just a few centimetres.

Then slams in.

THWAP.

My arse bounces. My grip on the faucet tightens. I yelp.

Again.

THWAP.

My sheath drools against the cabinet door. I can’t breathe.

Again.

THWAP.

I swear I feel the faucet give a little in my grip.

And he keeps going. Slow at first. Deep. Brutal. Milking every stroke like he’s savouring the tight squeeze of my cherry hole. Then faster. Rougher. My hole starts giving — just a little. The lube is doing its job. My guts are rearranging to make space.

I’m panting. Crying. Moaning. The faucet creaks. He leans over me, one paw on my hip, the other on the small of my back, pinning me in place.

“You needed this,” he snarls. “All that pent-up bullshit? This is what you fuckin’ needed.”

I can’t speak. My arse is bouncing. Slapping. Getting pounded. And somewhere in the middle of it — I stop fighting. I start pushing back. My tail’s high. My legs are spread. My fucking hole is spasming, milking that barbed cock like it was made for it.

The counter’s shaking. My cock is drooling untouched against the cupboard — thin at first, then thicker, splattering pale ropes across the cabinet doors. It just keeps coming. I can’t stop it. I’m not even hard anymore and my body doesn’t give a shit.

I grip the faucet like it’s the only thing keeping me on the planet. The metal’s cold. Solid. I need it. My claws scrape against it, ringing sharp in my ears as my legs give another useless tremble.

“Oh gods … oh gods—”

I’m not in control. I’m not doing anything. I’m just… there, bent over my own kitchen counter, getting my insides bullied until something inside me breaks open. He hits that spot again. Not harder. Just right. And suddenly my world goes white.

My hole clamps down hard, fluttering and squeezing in panicked, greedy pulses. My belly tightens like I’ve been punched. My spine locks. My vision swims. I cry out — loud, ugly, helpless. It’s not like the orgasms I know. There’s no build-up I recognise. No warning. It just takes me.

My cock twitches furiously, and I start spunking everywhere — streaking the cupboards, dripping down onto the floor. I’m drooling now, forehead pressed to the counter, gasping like I’m drowning. My arse is alive. Hot. Electric. Every nerve screaming as it convulses around him, sucking, begging, pulling him deeper. And as my small ferret balls empty themselves on the cabinetry, I’m sobbing. Actually sobbing.

“Fuck—please—please—”

I don’t even know what I’m begging for anymore. The faucet creaks under my grip. The cabinets rattle. The whole kitchen feels too small for what’s happening to me — like I’m being fucked open into someone else entirely.

And then I feel it. The swell. The flare. He growls in my ear: “You’re gonna take my fuckin’ load, bruv.”

I scream. His hips slap against my arse, rough and relentless. My hole is stretched wide now — puffy, slick, and open. No more resistance. Just raw, wet need.

Each thrust punches a moan out of me. My cock’s soft now, drained and drooling, but he doesn’t care. It’s not about that. Not for him. It’s about ownership. It’s about breeding.

“You ready?” he pants, voice right behind my ear. “Ready to take a real fuckin’ load?”

I sob. “Y-yeah—”

“Say it.”

“Please—please breed me—fill me up—”

He snarls. “You gonna take my cubs, little househusband?”

“Y-yes—gods yes—please—fuck—put a fuckin’ litter in me—”

His claws dig into my hips, and he slams home one last time. Balls slap. I gasp. And then I feel it. Hot. Thick. A flood of cum that hits deep. So deep. I swear I can feel it splash inside me. The pressure. The heat. My belly cramps as my hole twitches, sucking at it, trying to take it all. I’m full in seconds, and he doesn’t stop — he keeps grinding, slow and steady, depositing every last drop into my gut like I’m nothing but a leaking cumdump.

I moan. Whimper. My legs tremble. My tongue lolls out of my mouth as a little puddle of drool pools on the counter now, completely fucked out. And still he pumps. Shallow now. Possessive. Like he’s working it in.

“That’s it,” he mutters. “Take it all. Don’t waste a fuckin’ drop. That’s mine now. You’re mine now.”

I whine.

He stays inside me a while. Just holding. Breathing. Letting me twitch and shake around his still-hard cock.

Then — with a satisfied grunt — he pulls out. I yelp as the cum gushes. Thick, hot, messy. My ruined hole flexes, trying to close, but there’s too much. It spills down my thighs. Drips onto the floor. Soaks my tail.

He watches it for a second. Then chuckles.

“Better wash up before your wife comes home and finds my sons leaking out of your slutty little arse.” I moan. My whole body tenses — and I cum again. Just a weak, empty spurt. Nothing left. Just the humiliation. Just the shame.

He heads back to the loo to grab his discarded clothes.  He grabs his tools. He heads towards the door. Doesn’t even look at me. “You got a rating link in your inbox,” he says, already heading for the door. “Be sure to leave a review.”

The door opens. He leaves.  

And I’m left bent over the kitchen counter. Hole gaping. Belly aching. Still dripping with panther cum. My own load streaks the cabinets in thick ribbons — like a fresh coat of primer, if primer smelled like shame. I take a deep breath. Let go of the faucet. My paws are trembling.

I glance at the clock and exhale. I’ve got a lot of cleaning to do before that bitch — I mean, my wife — returns.

She gets home around seven.

Tail swishing. Heels clacking. Face already tight with whatever courtroom bullshit she brought back with her. I brace, but she barely looks at me as she kicks off her shoes, drops her briefcase, and heads straight for the loo.

I hear the sink.

The pipes.

The silence.

She re-emerges a moment later, arms crossed and smug. “Well. You finally grew a pair. About time.”

I don’t answer. Just nod, eyes on my laptop, ignoring the subtle ache blooming low in my spine. My hole’s still tender. Still warm. Every shift in the chair reminds me what happened there. What he did to me.

I press my thighs together and breathe slow.

She moves to the kitchen, muttering about takeout being for amateurs. Starts pulling ingredients from the fridge. I hear the burner’s clicking start. The clatter of a pan.

And then — squeak—PSSHHHTT!

A shriek.

“FUCK!”

I turn.

She’s standing by the sink, shirt soaked, ears flat, dripping. “The fuck is wrong with this faucet?!” she barks. “It squirted me!”

I blink. My eyes flick to the curved chrome pipe. Bent slightly to the side. Just a bit. Just enough.

Oh. Right. I must’ve… during —

“Did you break this?!”

I open my mouth. Close it. Shrug.

She’s already on a tirade. “I’ve got a full docket tomorrow. Depositions at nine. I don’t have time for this godsdamn bullshit …”

Her voice fades as I pick up my phone.

Open the HomeTech app. Scroll straight to Omar. 

Book again? Yes.

Service: plumbing

Notes: Urgent. Faucet’s leaking. Wife will be out by eight. Come early.

I hit confirm.

And smile — as my wife keeps hurling verbal grenades from across the room, none of them landing. Not really. Not anymore.