Papi
When your son’s girlfriend starts calling you Papi, staying responsible gets complicated.
⚠️ Content Warning
This story contains mature themes, explicit adult content, power dynamics, and emotionally intense situations. Reader discretion is strongly advised.
I’ve told my son to stop bringing his Spanish queen of a girlfriend over to my house. But when most of what your twenty‑two‑year‑old son owns comes by way of your credit card, unannounced visits become part of the scenery. This time, he and Carmen are over because it’s laundry day and, apparently, they refuse to use the communal machines at their apartment. And, of course, to raid my fridge.
My son, Byron, keeps at my liquor like it’s his birthright, but Carmen—she’s at least respectful enough to cook. Tonight the dish is some Spanish thing with meat, beans, and rice—rich, seasoned, simmering. She makes enough for all three of us. I’m no longer married to the boy’s mom, so a home‑cooked meal feels like a luxury these days. She plates everything and brings mine to my favorite chair in the living room, leaning in close enough that her warmth hits me before her voice does.
“Here you go, Papi.”
Jesus, the way she says Papi.
The way she smells—jasmine, summer, and something sinful.
The way her hand always finds my leg, upper thigh, for the briefest damn second.
The food is amazing. So are the looks Carmen and I steal from each other when Byron isn’t paying attention. Maybe it’s because of her that I even tolerate these monthly raiding missions. Hell, Byron disappeared for a moment and left me alone with her, and the way she looked at me… the way that sundress she was wearing climbed her thighs without her even trying.
I had to get up and see what the boy was doing before I did something stupid. My pulse was still tapping in my throat from the way she’d looked at me. I found the son of a bitch—and I mean that literally—in my closet, trying on one of my shirts.
He turned around, ready to make a request, and I shut it down on reflex.
“No. Take it off. You can’t start stealing my clothes, and what the fuck are you doing in my closet?” My tone came out sharper than usual, more clipped; even he blinked at it.
“Dad, this shirt is fire, you gotta let me hold it.” He said it casually, like his whole life wasn’t already a line on my budget. Like the shirt already belonged to him.
“What you need to hold down is a job. Put my shirt back.” I crossed my arms, trying to ground myself, but Carmen’s voice—her Papi—kept echoing.
“But Dad—”
“Boy, I will bury you out back if you are not out of my shit in ten seconds.” I meant it half as a joke, half as a warning. Something in me was already running too hot.
“Alright, alright… but this would look so good on me.” He turned back to the mirror like he couldn’t hear the edge in my voice.
“I know it would, because it looks amazing on me.” The words came out dry, automatic, a shield.
“Hey, Dad, do you think I can borrow some money? I want to take Carmen someplace nice.” He said her name with that boyish confidence, completely unaware of the way mine tightened inside my chest.
I stared at him, so much going through my mind—her laugh, her hand on my thigh, the way she bent over my stove. “Technically, if I give you money, I’m taking Carmen someplace nice.”
“Well, she doesn’t want you, old man, she wants me.” He grinned, not a clue in the world. He said it like fact, like gravity, like nothing between us had just shifted.
A smirk almost betrayed me—too fast—but Byron didn’t catch it. He should’ve. “You sure about that? Look, son… maybe it’s not a good idea to keep bringing Carmen over here.” I felt the truth of that heavier than I meant it.
“I thought you liked her?” he asked, suddenly unsure.
“Oh, I do,” I said way too fast, then slowed down before I gave myself away. “I like her, Byron. But maybe bringing her here and scavenging off your old man isn’t a good look. A woman likes to know you can hold it down, not that everything good comes from someone else.” My voice softened at the end—too honest.
Byron actually thought about it. “Yeah… you might be right. You think I’m leaving that impression?”
I exhaled. “You have to come over to feed her, son,” I said. And for the first time, his smile faltered just a little.
For a second, it looked like he was catching on—right up until he spotted my Rolex in its cradle.
“Dad, you have to let me borrow this.”
Nope. The only thing this boy was about to catch was a beating. “Byron. Get the fuck out of my bedroom.”
I escorted him out. Carmen was at the sink doing dishes, sleeves pushed up, humming softly—something Spanish, something warm—while the scent of her cooking still clung to the air. Byron checked his watch and realized he was about to be late.
“Shit, Dad—can I borrow your car? I’m gonna be late for work.”
“You can borrow an Uber,” I said, already tapping the app.
Carmen turned immediately. “Bry, I’m going to stay and finish cleaning. I’ll find another way home.”
“You sure?” Byron asked.
“You sure?” I echoed, my concern nowhere near paternal.
Carmen looked at me, eyes saying shut up, you want this, and also you are in trouble as soon as he leaves.
“Yes, Papi. I’m sure.”
Byron gathered his things. “I’ll see you later.” He kissed her, but her eyes stayed locked on mine the entire time. Something electric moved between us, undeniable.
I should’ve said something. Should’ve done the right thing. But as the Uber pulled up—my one clean out, the final moment to be responsible—I said nothing. My son left, and the silence he left behind felt loaded.
Carmen watched the taillights fade. Then she looked back at me through the pass‑through between the kitchen and the living room, eyes fixed on me like she’d just made up her mind.
I swear those lights weren’t even gone before she drifted back to the sink, ran water over one last plate, then quit pretending to clean. Her fingers found the thin straps of her sundress. She slid them off one shoulder, then the other—slow, teasing—giving me a full, unhurried show in that open space between the kitchen and the living room. There’s no bra strap, no panty line, just smooth skin and the heavy drag of fabric as it skims over her hips and drops to the floor. The dress puddles at her feet, and she steps out of the kitchen as naked as the day she was born.
“So, Papi… what’s a chica gotta do to get a sugar daddy around here?”
She says it like a joke, but there’s nothing funny about the way she moves.
I watch her close the distance like a jaguar on the prowl, bare now, water still beading and trailing down her forearm from the sink. She takes her time, hips rolling slow like she’s been walking to this moment all night.
She stops in front of me like a dare—back straight, body a map of warm gold curves and soft shadows. Then she turns a slow, beautiful 360 that offers everything a man could want and a father isn’t supposed to touch.
Her hips sway, slow and hypnotic. Her thighs shift with each tiny adjustment, muscles flexing just enough to tease. Her breasts rise and fall, unhidden and unashamed, like modesty’s never been part of her vocabulary. The overhead light strokes her skin, glowing bronze, like someone brushed her with honey and sunlight.
Her hair is another problem—dark waves falling over one shoulder, sliding down her back, brushing the top of one rounded hip. That beauty mark by her mouth practically dares me to look. Her ass is a thing of art, crafted and carried just right, fine enough to be priceless.
After the twirl, she steps into me. The air changes. Jasmine, skin‑warmth, and the faint scent of cooked rice and spice cling to her. One hand settles on her hip, chin tilted like she’s in charge now.
“Gato got your tongue, Papi?” she asks, low and amused.
And all I can do is stare at this woman my son keeps bringing into my house—bare, unbothered, and looking at me like she’s already decided exactly how this night is going to go.
“Carmen, love… you don’t want to poke this beast. I’ve been a caged animal since the divorce.” Both my hands rise, tracing the outline of her body, fingertips just ghosting over skin. “What I would do to you would be… biblical.”
“Make me your Madonna, Papi.”
Her voice drops soft and steady, no hesitation. Her fingers curl lightly against my chest, nails just grazing skin like she’s testing how far she can push. There’s a spark in her eyes—half worship, half pure trouble—and the corners of her mouth lift like she already knows the answer.
“What about Byron? He’s your boyfriend.”
Her jaw tightens for a heartbeat at his name, but it’s gone as fast as it comes, smoothed over by a slow, defiant smile. She shifts closer, the warmth of her body pressing full against mine like she’s choosing sides and it sure as hell isn’t his.
“He’ll still be my novio.”
There’s a playful lilt on the word, but her gaze doesn’t waver. She says it like it’s logistics, not a moral question, like she’s already done the math and decided she can have what she wants.
“He’s my son.”
That finally makes her blink. Not in guilt—more like she’s cataloging the weight of it, feeling how wrong this is supposed to be and deciding she doesn’t care. Her thumbs start slow circles over my chest, soothing and provoking at the same time.
She leans into me, rising on her toes, placing her hands flat against my chest like she’s claiming territory. “He’ll still be your hijo.” Her fingers slide down, find the hem of my shirt, and with slow, deliberate care she works it up over all that tension and muscle, stripping it off like she’s unwrapping something she’s been waiting on for a long time.
Her voice is softer now, almost gentle, but her eyes are shining—wide, dark, and a little wild. There’s a flicker of nerves there, buried under the want, but she doesn’t back off. If anything, she presses in closer, like my hesitation is just one more line she wants to cross.
“Carmen… I’ll ruin you.”
Her breath catches, a tiny hitch I feel more than hear, and her fingers fist lightly in my skin as if to steady herself.
“Promise?”
The word comes out on a shaky exhale, but her chin lifts as she says it, eyes searching my face like she’s daring me not to follow through. Whatever fear she has is swallowed by the hunger flashing through her expression—she’s not just accepting the risk, she’s asking for it.
That single word unhinged me. It wasn’t a question; it was a dare, a key sliding into the lock of a cage I’d been rattling for a year.
I didn’t speak. My body answered for me. My hands shot out, clamping onto her bare hips, and I yanked her into me. A sound—half-gasp, half-laugh—tore from her throat as I lifted her off the floor like she was nothing. Her legs wrapped around my waist of their own accord, her arms locking behind my neck as I carried her across the living room.
Her skin was slick and hot against mine, her chest crushed to me. I could feel the frantic drum of her heart against my own. I backed her against the wall next to the hallway, the impact jarring a picture frame loose. It crashed to the floor. Neither of us looked.
One hand stayed splayed on her ass, holding her weight, fingers digging into that perfect, soft flesh. The other went to the button of my jeans. My fingers fumbled, thick and clumsy with need. The pants was a prison. I got them open, shoved them down just enough, my cock springing free, hard and aching and already with a drop of precum because... it was Carmen.
I wasn’t gentle. I didn’t try to be. I positioned the head of my dick at her entrance, and her whole body went taut. I could see the flash of sudden, sharp awareness in her dark eyes—the reality of my size, my intent.
“Look at me, Carmen,” I growled, my voice a raw scrape in my throat. “You wanted this... remember?”
Her eyes, wide and dark, snapped back to mine.
I thrust up into her. One brutal, unforgiving stroke that found the ends of her in a single, searing instant. Her back peeled off the wall, her mouth falling open in a silent cry. She was so fucking tight, a hot, velvet channel squeezing around me. I held there, buried till I thought I might break something, my jaw so tight it ached. I watched her face as her body tried to accommodate mine, as the shock melted into a dizzy, overwhelming pleasure.
“Dios… Papi…” she finally choked out, her voice trembling.
I didn’t let her adjust. I pulled out almost all the way, savoring the way her inner muscles fluttered, trying to keep me inside, then drove back into her tight embrace. Her nails dug into the skin of my shoulders, scoring lines of fire down my back. I set a punishing rhythm, fucking her against the wall with deep, heavy strokes that shook the plaster. Each slam of my hips drove a desperate cry from her lips. Her head lolled back, her dark hair a messy cascade against the white wall.
“No te atrevas a parar, Papi!” she cried, which I took to mean don’t you dare stop.
I kept my eyes on her face, watching every flicker of sensation. The way her plump lips parted. The flutter of her eyelashes. The faint sheen of sweat making her golden skin glow. She was the most obscenely beautiful thing I’d ever seen, and she was mine, right here, right now, taking every inch of me.
My arms burned with the strain of holding her, but the fire in my gut burned hotter. I walked us away from the wall, her legs still clamped around me, my dick still buried deep inside her cunt. I carried her down the hall to my bedroom, my steps a ragged stumble. We fell onto the bed in a tangle of limbs, the old frame groaning in protest.
I rolled on top of her, propping myself on my elbows to look down at her. Her chest was heaving, her breasts rising and falling, her nipples hard, dark peaks. I lowered my head and took one into my mouth, sucking hard, laving it with my tongue until she was writhing beneath me, her hips lifting, trying to find friction. I gave it to her, sliding back into her with a deep, crushing dive that made her scream out.
“Papi… oh—”
I hooked my hands under her knees, pushing her legs back, spreading her wide open for me, until her ankles were resting on my shoulders. The angle was devastating, so deep I could feel the very core of her. I drove into her, again and again, my rhythm becoming rougher, more frantic. This is what ruin means, I thought, the words a vicious mantra in my head with every thrust. You won’t be good for anyone else.
Her pleas became a continuous stream of Spanish and broken English, begging and cursing my name. I could feel her body beginning to tighten, that incredible coil of pleasure winding up inside her. I slid a hand up her body, my fingers finding the delicate column of her throat. I squeeze, not really. Just applied pressure. Just held her there. Her eyes flew open, meeting mine. A flicker of fear, then something darker, more intense. A surrender so absolute I felt her insides gush.
That was all it took. Her orgasm erupted through her, a shivering, seismic event. Her pussy clenched around my dick over and over, in a relentless waves, milking me, pulling me deeper. I fucked into that tide, my own control fraying at the edges.
When the last of her shudders retreated to another build, I rolled her over in one smooth motion. She went willingly, her body ragdoll in my hands. I pulled her up onto her knees, her perfect, round ass presented to me. I ran a hand over one cheek, then brought my palm down on it in a sharp, stinging slap. The sound cracked through the room. She jolted forward with a gasp, then pushed her ass back toward me, begging for more.
“Ay dios mío! Dame más, Papi!”
I gave it to her. I slapped her other cheek, leaving a red handprint on that golden skin. Then I positioned myself and thrust back into her soaking drenched depths from behind. I gripped her hips, my fingers leaving bruises, and set a brutal pace. The slap of our fucking, her ragged sobs of pleasure, my own guttural groans—it was the only music in the room.
My hand reached out and found the back of her head, and I leaned into it. Forcing her face down and ass up at an angle that just felt criminal. My hips pounded into her. Carmen’s whole world was transformed into what her body could continue to take as she was rocked forward by each spine-breaking thrust.
Joder, Papi! F..Fuck!” Carmen screamed between moans that crossed two language barriers.
Her body tensed beneath me, her pussy seizing in an erotic dance that threatened to pull me over the edge with her. I could feel her walls quivering, her breathing hitching as her second orgasm tore through her. Carmen’s back arched, her head thrown back, a strangled gasp escaping her lips as she came apart.
The force of it was so intense, her hips bucked wildly, and before I could stop it, my dick slipped out of her squirting cunt. She gasped, her eyes flying open as I was forced out, leaving her empty. Her pussy glistened, swollen and dripping, her thighs trembling as aftershocks rippled through her. I waited, watching as her arousal pooled beneath her, soaking the sheets, her body still shuddering from the intensity of her release.
When her breathing slowed, when her hips stopped twitching, I leaned over her, my voice low and rough. “We’re not done yet.”
Before she could respond, I lined myself up and slammed back into her with a force that wrenched a scream from her throat. Her walls collapsed around me, still sensitive from her climax, and I cried out at the tight, wet heat of her.
“T-tan profundo…” she whimpered, her hands clawing at the sheets as I started driving into her again, each thrust deeper, harder than the last. Her body was sexually wrecked, every movement slick and messy, the sound of our skin slapping together echoing through the room on its final cord
I leaned down, my lips brushing her ear. “You’re going to take every fucking inch of me until I say you’re done.”
Her response was a broken thing, her body yielding to mine as I claimed her completely. She stopped trying to be an active participant; her mind was willing, but her body had pretty much checked out. She looked back at me, in awe, with sensitivity overload.
“Papi—please…”
I wasn’t sure what she was asking for; if I had to guess, I would say for me to finish.
I was close. So fucking close. I pulled out of her cunt abruptly, my dick slick and gleaming. I turned her onto her back again. Her eyes were glazed, her lips swollen.
“Ay, papi,” she breathed.
“Open your mouth, Carmen.”
She obeyed without hesitation, her tongue darting out. I claimed my cock, stroking myself hard and fast, my eyes locked on hers. With a groan that was torn from the deepest part of me, I came. Thick, hot streaks of my release shot across her tongue, onto her lips, her chin. She kept her mouth open, her eyes on mine, accepting every last drop. When I was spent, she closed her mouth, swallowing.
I collapsed beside her, the world tilting on its axis. The air was thick with the smell of sex and sweat and her jasmine perfume. We lay there in the wreckage of my bed, in the wreckage of everything, our breathing the only sound.
Her hand found mine on the sheets. Her fingers laced through my own.
She didn’t say a word.
She didn’t have to.
“So,” I said at last, staring up at the ceiling, “about this sugar-daddy thing.”
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I should’ve stopped this the moment she said Papi—but some sins refuse to be denied. #Dblkrose #BSPDarkWeb #DarkErotica #Fiction #ForbiddenRomance #MatureContent #DarkHeat #BlackSpyderPublishing