Manny sprinted down the sideline, cleats tearing up the damp grass, the roar of the small Friday-night crowd blending with the pounding in his ears. The ball was at his feet, the clock ticking into stoppage time, and Westview High was down 2–1. He feinted left, exploded right, and drilled the shot low and hard past the keeper’s outstretched hands.
The net rippled.
The whistle blew.
Teammates mobbed him, screaming, jumping, slapping his back and ass like he’d just won the World Cup instead of a district semifinal. Manny laughed, breathless, sweat-soaked jersey clinging to his lean torso. His dark wavy hair was plastered to his forehead, big hazel eyes shining under the floodlights. He looked up instinctively toward the bleachers.
There he was.
Santiago stood at the railing in his usual spot—black work boots, faded navy work jeans that hugged thighs like tree trunks, and a gray company polo stretched obscenely tight across his massive chest and shoulders. LANDSCAPES BY SANTIAGO was embroidered in gold thread over his left pec. Even from fifty yards away Manny could see the thick black hair dusting his forearms, the silver starting to thread through his short beard, the way the stadium lights caught the sweat on his brown skin and made him look carved from warm obsidian.
Santiago’s mouth curved into that slow, proud grin that always made Manny’s stomach flip.
The team finally let Manny breathe. He jogged toward the fence, cleats clacking on asphalt. Santiago met him halfway, vaulting the low barrier like it was nothing even though he was pushing forty and built like a goddamn bull.
Santiago’s voice was deep, gravelly, still thick with the accent he’d never quite lost after twenty years in the States. “You fucking killed it out there.”
Before Manny could answer, Santiago’s huge arms wrapped around him and lifted.
Manny’s feet left the ground. His dad crushed him against that wide, hard chest, one massive hand splayed between his shoulder blades, the other sliding lower—way lower—until it cupped the full, round curve of Manny’s ass through the thin soccer shorts. Five thick fingers dug in, squeezing the meat of one cheek, then the other, possessive and unhurried.
Manny’s breath hitched. A soft, involuntary moan slipped out right against Santiago’s ear.
He felt it—the instant twitch of something enormous shifting behind the heavy denim of his father’s jeans. The thick ridge pressed briefly against Manny’s lower belly, hot even through layers of fabric, then throbbed again when Santiago squeezed harder.
“Papi…” Manny whispered, voice cracking, barely audible over the noise of the dispersing crowd.
Santiago held him a second longer than necessary, nose buried in Manny’s damp hair, inhaling like he was trying to memorize the smell of victory and teenage sweat. Then he set Manny down slowly, hands lingering on his hips before finally letting go.
“Good game, campeón,” he rumbled, voice rougher than usual. His dark eyes flicked down Manny’s body once—lingering on the obvious tent in the thin shorts—before he turned toward the parking lot. “Let’s get home. You smell like a winner.”
Manny stood there a moment, heart hammering, cock aching against the damp mesh lining, trying to will the flush out of his cheeks.
He failed.
—
Three days later the house was quiet except for the steady hiss of the shower down the hall.
Manny stood outside the bathroom door in nothing but a white towel knotted low on his hips. His skin was still warm from the afternoon sun; he’d spent the whole day helping Santiago at a big commercial job—hauling sod, digging trenches, watching the way his father’s biceps flexed every time he swung the pickaxe, the way sweat ran in rivulets down the deep channel of his spine and disappeared into the waistband of his cargos.
Now Manny just wanted to rinse off and crash.
He knocked again. “Mateo, come on, man. You’ve been in there forever.”
From inside came his older brother’s deep laugh. “Patience, princesa. Some of us actually get dirty at work.”
“Fuck you,” Manny muttered, but there was no heat in it. Mateo was twenty-one, built almost exactly like their dad—six-three, thick everywhere, hairy chest, heavy arms, that same cocky grin. He’d been working for Landscapes by Santiago since he was sixteen and already ran whole crews. Everyone said Mateo was the one who took after Santiago most.
Manny, on the other hand… Mom’s genes had won out in a lot of places. Smooth chest, narrow waist, long legs, and an ass so round and perky it drew stares even when he wasn’t trying. He hated how much he loved the attention.
He knocked harder. “Seriously, I’m not waiting all night.”
The towel chose that exact second to lose its knot.
It slid down his hips in slow motion, catching for one teasing heartbeat on the dramatic flare of his cheeks before dropping to pool around his ankles. Cool air kissed his bare skin. Manny froze, hands flying to cover himself—except he didn’t quite make it in time.
Heavy footsteps in the hallway.
Santiago rounded the corner carrying a stack of clean towels from the laundry room. He stopped dead.
Manny’s breath caught.
His father’s gaze dropped immediately to the smooth, plump globes now fully exposed—two perfect, pale-brown mounds that jiggled slightly when Manny shifted in embarrassment. Santiago’s throat worked. A low, animal grunt rolled out of his chest.
Before Manny could bend to grab the towel, Santiago stepped forward.
Big body heat enveloped him from behind. Then came the unmistakable press of denim-covered cock—thick, half-hard, and growing fast—nesting right in the cleft of Manny’s ass like it belonged there. Santiago’s left hand landed on the doorframe beside Manny’s head, caging him in, while his right fist pounded on the wood.
“Mateo,” Santiago barked, voice dangerously low. “Get your ass out here. Now.”
Manny couldn’t breathe. The ridge of his dad’s dick was so fat it spread his cheeks even through the jeans, the blunt head nudging right against his hole with every word Santiago growled. Heat poured through Manny’s body; his own cock jerked upward, smearing pre-cum against his stomach.
The lock clicked.
Mateo yanked the door open, steam billowing out around his naked torso. Water still glistened on his hairy pecs, ran in trails down the dark happy trail that disappeared into the white towel knotted low around his hips. His cock was a heavy, obvious outline beneath the cotton—already thickening from whatever he’d been thinking about in the shower.
For one long, electric heartbeat the three of them stood there.
Manny sandwiched between the two biggest, most beautiful Latino men he’d ever known. Santiago’s erection throbbed insistently against his ass; Mateo’s dark eyes flicked from Manny’s flushed face to the way their father’s hips were pinned tight against him. No one moved. No one spoke.
The air felt thick enough to taste.
Then Mateo smirked—slow, filthy—and leaned one thick forearm against the doorframe, mirroring Santiago’s stance.
“Damn, little bro,” he drawled, voice still rough from the hot water. “You really can’t wait, huh?”
Santiago’s fingers flexed on the wood. His hips gave the tiniest involuntary roll, grinding that fat length deeper into Manny’s crack.
Manny whimpered—soft, needy, humiliating.
Santiago cleared his throat, stepped back abruptly, and the spell snapped.
“Shower’s free,” he muttered, voice like gravel. He bent, scooped up Manny’s fallen towel, and pressed it into his shaking hands without looking at his face. “Get cleaned up.”
Mateo just chuckled low in his throat and sauntered past them both, towel slung low enough to show the top of his crack and the dimples above it. “Night, princesa.”
Manny stood there clutching the towel to his chest, heart slamming so hard he thought it might crack a rib, cock still painfully hard and leaking against his belly.
Santiago lingered a second longer—eyes dark, jaw tight—then turned and walked away without another word.
But Manny saw it.
The way his father’s hand dropped to adjust the obscene bulge in his jeans before he disappeared around the corner.
Manny stumbled into the bathroom on rubbery legs, the door clicking shut behind him like a punctuation mark on whatever the fuck had just happened. Steam still hung thick in the air from Mateo's shower, fogging the mirror and making everything feel hazy, dreamlike. He dropped the towel and cranked the water as hot as it would go, stepping under the spray with a hiss.
The heat pounded his skin, sluicing away the day's grime, but it did nothing to cool the fire raging in his veins. Manny leaned against the cool tile, one hand bracing on the wall, the other drifting down his smooth chest, over the faint ridges of his abs—earned from endless soccer drills—and lower still. His cock was rock-hard, bobbing against his stomach, the tip already slick with pre-cum.
He closed his eyes and pictured Santiago.
That hot, rugged face—strong jaw shadowed with stubble, thick black moustache framing full lips that Manny had stared at a thousand times, imagining them stretched around his own dick or pressed against his hole. Those broad shoulders, wide enough to block out the sun, leading to huge biceps that flexed like coiled steel every time his dad hefted a shovel or a bag of mulch. Manny's fingers wrapped around his shaft, stroking slow and firm, as he imagined running his hands over Santiago's firm, hard pecs—two slabs of muscle covered in a thick mat of dark fur, nipples peeking through like hidden treasures. Down to the ripped six-pack, carved from years of backbreaking work, and that deep, tantalizing V of his hips, arrowing straight to the bulge Manny had felt grinding against him just minutes ago.
It had to be huge. Had to be. Thick and veiny, the kind of cock that would split him open and make him beg for more.
Manny's free hand slipped between his legs, fingers teasing the smooth, tight ring of his hole. He was hairless there too—thanks, Mom's genes—pink and puckered, clenching at the first brush. He moaned softly, pushing one finger inside, the water making everything slick and easy. "Papi..." he whispered to the empty shower, imagining Santiago's rough voice in his ear, those big hands spreading his cheeks wide.
He added a second finger, scissoring them, fucking himself slow while his other hand pumped his dick faster. Visions flooded him: Santiago pinning him down, that moustache tickling his neck as he growled filthy promises, those furry pecs rubbing against Manny's smooth back, the deep V guiding Manny's tongue lower and lower until he was choking on that monster cock.
His breaths came in pants, hole fluttering around his fingers, cock throbbing in his fist. He was close—so fucking close—when a deep voice boomed from downstairs.
"Manny! Mateo! Dinner's ready!"
Manny froze, orgasm crashing to a halt. He yanked his fingers out with a gasp, cock twitching in protest. "Coming!" he called back, voice cracking. Shit.
He rinsed off quick, toweled dry, and threw on sweats and a tee before heading down.
—
Dinner was the usual chaos. The three of them sat around the scarred oak table in the kitchen, plates piled high, the scent of lime and spice filling the air.
Mateo shoveled food like he hadn't eaten in days, smirking across at Manny. "Pass the salsa, princesa."
Manny rolled his eyes, but his cheeks heated. He hated that nickname—always had. It made him feel small, soft, not like the jock he busted his ass to be. But when Santiago chuckled low and joined in—"Yeah, pass it over, princesa"—something twisted hot in Manny's gut. His dad's dark eyes sparkled with amusement, that moustache twitching, and Manny squirmed in his seat, hole still sensitive from the shower.
They didn't hate each other, him and Mateo. Far from it. They were just... different. Mateo was the golden son—big, hairy, effortlessly macho, already banging his way through half the girls in town. Manny was the pretty one, the soccer star with the bubble butt and big eyes that made coaches and teammates alike do double-takes. They teased, sure, but there was love under it. Always had been.
Mateo finished first, burping loudly and pushing back his chair. "Gotta bounce. Maria's waiting—hot date, you know?"
Santiago grunted approval. "Don't be stupid. Wrap it up."
Mateo laughed, standing. Manny got up too, stacking plates for the sink. As he turned, Mateo's big hand came down—smack—right on the fullest part of Manny's ass. The sound echoed in the kitchen. But instead of pulling away, Mateo let his palm linger, fingers digging in for a squeeze that sent a jolt straight to Manny's dick.
"Later, princesa," Mateo murmured, voice low and teasing, before heading out the door.
Manny froze, face burning. He glanced at Santiago, who was watching from his seat, fork paused mid-air. Their eyes met—Santiago's gaze flicking to Manny's ass, then back up—and Manny blushed harder, hurrying to the sink.
He washed up quick, the routine grounding him, but his mind raced. By the time he dried the last plate, Mateo was long gone, and Santiago had migrated to the living room recliner, cracking open a cold beer from the mini-fridge. The TV flickered with some baseball game, volume low.
Manny wiped his hands on a dish towel, about to head upstairs. "Night, Papi."
Santiago's voice stopped him. "Ven aquí, mijo. Come sit with your old man."
Manny hesitated, heart kicking up. He padded over, perching on the edge of the couch nearby. But Santiago grunted, setting his beer down and reaching out one massive arm. "Nah. Here."
Before Manny could protest, his dad hauled him sideways—effortless, like he weighed nothing—right onto his lap. Manny landed with a yelp, straddling Santiago's thick thighs, their faces inches apart. The recliner creaked under their combined weight.
"Papi, what—"
"You like it when we call you princesa?" Santiago's voice was rough, beer-scented breath warm on Manny's face. His big hands settled on Manny's hips, thumbs rubbing circles through the sweats.
Manny blushed crimson, squirming. "I... I don't know."
Santiago's moustache quirked. "I think you do." One hand slid up Manny's back, under his shirt, calluses scraping smooth skin. "I know you're gay, mijo. Seen the way you look at those boys on your team. Seen the way you look at me."
Manny's breath hitched, eyes wide. "Papi..."
"And I love my princesa no matter what." Santiago's voice dropped lower, eyes darkening. Under Manny's ass, that huge cock twitched—once, twice—swelling thick and insistent against him.
Manny moaned, confused heat flooding him. This was wrong, wasn't it? But god, it felt right. His own dick hardened in his sweats, grinding down instinctively.
Something snapped in Santiago's eyes. He surged up, one hand cupping Manny's jaw, and crashed their mouths together.
It was hot. Filthy. Messy from the start.
Santiago's moustache scratched Manny's upper lip as he licked inside, tongue thick and demanding, fucking Manny's mouth like he owned it. Manny whimpered, opening wide, sucking on that invading tongue with desperate hunger. Saliva slicked their lips, dribbling down Manny's chin as Santiago growled and tilted his head, deepening the kiss until Manny was dizzy, moaning into his dad's mouth.
Their teeth clacked once, twice—Santiago nipping Manny's bottom lip hard enough to sting, then soothing it with a slow, wet drag of his tongue. Manny's hands fisted in Santiago's shirt, feeling the furry pecs beneath, the hard nipples peaking under his palms. Santiago's free hand roamed—squeezing Manny's thigh, then higher, palming his ass through the fabric and kneading like dough.
"Mi princesa," Santiago murmured against Manny's lips, voice wrecked. "So fucking pretty. Been wanting this."
Manny gasped as Santiago smacked his ass—sharp, echoing—then soothed the sting with a rub. "Papi... please..."
"Get on your knees, mijo." Santiago's eyes were black with lust, hands guiding Manny down to the floor between his spread thighs. "Wanna see that pretty mouth on me."
Manny nodded, breathless, kneeling on the worn carpet. His hands shook as he reached for Santiago's belt, but his dad beat him to it—unbuckling with one hand, popping the button, yanking down the zipper. No underwear. Just cock.
Jesus fucking Christ.
It sprang free like a weapon—twelve inches of thick, veiny Latino meat, uncut, the foreskin pulled back to reveal a fat, purple head already drooling pre-cum in thick strings. The shaft was dark, ridged with veins like ropes, curving slightly up toward a base nested in coarse black hair. Balls hung heavy below, big and furry, swinging as Santiago shifted.
A pearl of pre-cum beaded at the slit and dripped, landing warm on Manny's cheek. Another followed, smearing across his lips as Santiago fisted the base and tapped the head against Manny's face—once on his nose, once on his chin, painting him slick and shiny.
"Look at you," Santiago rumbled, voice like thunder. "My boy's all grown up. Touch it, princesa. Feel what you do to your papi."
Manny's hands came up, wrapping around the shaft—god, his fingers barely met. It was hot, pulsing, skin velvet-soft over steel. He stroked slow, from root to tip, watching more pre-cum well up and spill over his knuckles. Santiago groaned, head falling back against the recliner, hips twitching up.
"That's it... good boy. Explore it. Lick those balls first—get 'em nice and wet."
Manny leaned in, nose brushing the musky hair at the base. The scent hit him—sweat, man, a hint of soap from the day—making his mouth water. He nuzzled Santiago's sac, feeling the heavy orbs shift against his lips, then dragged his tongue flat over one ball, lapping slow and broad.
"Fuck, yeah," Santiago hissed, one hand threading into Manny's wavy hair, not pushing, just holding. "Suck on 'em, mijo. Show Papi how much you want it."
Manny obeyed, opening wide to pull one fat ball into his mouth, sucking gently while his hand pumped the shaft above. The skin was loose, salty, fur tickling his tongue as he rolled it around. He switched to the other, moaning around it, his own cock leaking in his sweats. Santiago's pre-cum kept dripping—splattering Manny's hair now, his forehead—marking him like territory.
"Such a good little cocksucker," Santiago praised, voice rough. "Look up at me, princesa. Let me see those big eyes while you worship my nuts."
Manny lifted his gaze, locking eyes with his dad. Santiago's face was flushed, moustache damp with sweat, lips parted as he panted. The connection burned—Manny's cheeks hollowing as he sucked harder, tongue flicking the seam between the balls.
"Now the cock," Santiago ordered, tugging Manny's hair lightly. "Start with your tongue. Trace every vein."
Manny released the ball with a wet pop, shifting up. He flattened his tongue against the base of the shaft, right where it met the sac, and licked a slow, deliberate stripe all the way to the tip. Santiago shuddered, cursing in Spanish. Manny did it again, this time following a thick vein that pulsed under his touch, swirling around the head to lap up the steady stream of pre-cum.
It was salty-sweet, thick on his tongue. Manny moaned, savoring it, then wrapped his lips around the crown—sucking just the head, tongue dipping into the slit to coax out more.
Santiago bucked, hand tightening in Manny's hair. "Deeper, mijo. Take it like you mean it."
Manny had done this before—a few times, anyway. Hushed blowjobs in the locker room after practice, or under the bleachers with that hot forward from the rival team. He knew how to relax his throat, how to breathe through his nose. But this... this was different. This was his dad. Huge. Demanding.
He sank down, lips stretching wide around the girth, taking inch after inch. Four... five... his jaw ached already, saliva pooling and dripping down the shaft. Santiago watched, eyes hooded, free hand stroking Manny's cheek.
"That's my boy. Halfway there—fuck, your mouth's so hot. Keep going, princesa. Choke on Papi's big dick."
Manny pushed further, gagging softly as the head hit the back of his throat. Tears pricked his eyes, but he didn't stop—swallowing around it, muscles fluttering. Santiago groaned loud, hips rolling up to feed him more.
"Look at you gagging... so pretty when you struggle. Breathe, mijo. You can take it."
Manny pulled back with a gasp, strings of spit connecting his lips to the cock, then dove again—deeper this time, nose brushing pubes. He bobbed slow at first, building rhythm, one hand fondling those wet balls while the other stroked what his mouth couldn't reach.
Santiago's praises flowed like honey—dirty, endless. "Sí, just like that. Suck it harder—use your tongue on the underside. Fuck, you're a natural, aren't you? My little slutty princesa, slurping on Daddy's fat cock like it's candy."
The words sent shivers down Manny's spine. He hummed around the length, vibrations making Santiago curse. Faster now—head bobbing, cheeks hollowing on the upstroke, tongue swirling on the down. Saliva everywhere: dripping off his chin, soaking Santiago's balls, puddling on the carpet. The sounds were obscene—wet slurps, gags, Santiago's grunts.
Eye contact never broke. Manny stared up through wet lashes, begging with his gaze. Santiago stared back, possessive fire in his eyes, moustache twitching with every moan.
"Deeper," Santiago commanded, hand guiding now—pushing Manny down until his throat bulged, nose buried in that musky hair. "Hold it there—fuck, yes, choke on it. Good boy... my good fucking boy."
Manny's throat convulsed, tears streaming, but the praise kept him going. He deepthroated again and again, pulling off only to gasp air, then right back—messy, enthusiastic, spit bubbling at the corners of his mouth.
Santiago's breaths grew ragged, thighs tensing under Manny's hands. "Gonna cum soon, princesa. You want it? Want Papi's load down your throat?"
Manny nodded frantically, sucking harder, hand twisting on the base.
"Fuck—here it comes. Swallow every drop, mijo!"
Santiago roared, hips snapping up as he erupted. Thick ropes of cum flooded Manny's mouth—hot, bitter, endless. Manny swallowed greedily, but it overflowed, leaking from his lips, down his chin. The taste, the force—it pushed Manny over the edge. His own cock jerked untouched in his sweats, spilling hot and sticky against the fabric, soaking through as he moaned around his dad's pulsing dick.
Santiago slumped back, spent, hand petting Manny's hair as he milked the last drops. "Good... so good."
Manny pulled off with a gasp, cum and spit smeared across his face. Santiago hauled him up for one more kiss—slow this time, tasting himself on Manny's tongue.
"Go to your room, princesa," Santiago murmured, voice soft but firm. "Before your mom gets home from her shift. We'll talk tomorrow."
Manny nodded, legs shaky as he stood. He floated upstairs, the taste of his dad lingering on his lips, wondering what the hell came next.
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