Forbidden Family (DevotedSub's Taboo Collection Vol. 1)

DevotedSub's Taboo Collection

Forbidden Family

Vol. 1

Nine forbidden stories

Blood of My Blood

Content note: adult incest erotica. All characters are adults.

The rain had not stopped for three days.

Mamacita stood on the porch of the old house on Calle Rosada and watched the water sheet off the rusted gutters, her suitcase pressed to her calf, her hair plastered to her neck. Twenty-six years old, and she felt sixteen again — not in any way that mattered, but in the way of coming back to a place that remembered you smaller than you were. The house had been empty for two years, ever since their mother passed. The lawyers had finally stopped fighting over it. And now here she was, home to a city she had sworn she would never live in again, to a house she had never quite stopped dreaming about.

The car came up the flooded street at half past six, headlights smearing yellow across the water. A black truck, mud on the tires, the kind of vehicle that looked like it belonged to a man who fixed his own problems.

Papicito got out.

She knew him at once. Twenty-nine years old, and he carried it in his shoulders — the same broad shoulders their father had, the same way of standing like the ground had agreed to hold him. He had been seventeen when she left for college at eighteen, a boy with skinned knuckles and a crooked grin. Now there was a scar through his left eyebrow and a tattoo curling up the side of his neck, black ink disappearing under his collar. He moved like a man who never hurried because nothing had ever made him.

"Mamacita," he said.

The word landed in her chest like a struck bell.

"Papi," she breathed, and then — because it slipped out before she could stop it, because it was what she had called him when they were kids and he bandaged her scraped knees — "I missed you."

He climbed the porch steps slowly, rain running off his jacket, and stood close enough that she could smell him: rain, diesel, something dark and warm underneath, like candle smoke and cedar. He looked at her for a long moment, his dark eyes moving over her face without apology, the way a man looks at something he intends to keep.

"You got taller," he said.

"I got older."

"So did I." His gaze dropped to her mouth and stayed there one heartbeat too long. "Come on. Let's get you inside before you catch cold."

He took her suitcase like it weighed nothing.

The house smelled the way it always had — lemon oil and old wood, their mother's ghost in the baseboards. Papicito moved through it turning on lights, and mamacita followed, her bare feet on the familiar cold tile of the kitchen, her fingers trailing along the counter where she had once sat swinging her legs while he made her hot chocolate the way she liked it, extra cinnamon, the spoon left in the mug.

"I fixed the roof over your old room," he said. "The rest of the house leaks like a sieve, but your room stays dry."

"You've been living here?"

"Since the funeral." He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, and the lamplight carved him into something out of a painting — all shadow and muscle and intent. "Somebody had to keep the pipes from bursting. Somebody had to keep the squatters out."

"Thank you," she said softly.

"Don't thank me yet." He pushed off the frame and came toward her, and she felt it then — the shift in the air, the weight of him, the thing she had been pretending not to notice since the porch. "You hungry?"

She was. Starving, actually, in a way that had nothing to do with food and everything to do with the hollow years — the eight years apart, the cities and men and jobs that had never once felt like this kitchen at dusk with the rain coming down and her brother watching her like she was the only real thing in the room.

"Yes," she said. "I'm hungry."

He cooked. That surprised her — the boy she remembered had burned toast. This man moved around the kitchen with an easy, practiced command, slicing onions, searing meat, and she sat at the counter and watched his hands, and watched them, and watched them, until he caught her staring and smiled, slow and knowing, and said, "Eyes on me, hermanita."

The old word for little sister. It should have felt innocent. It didn't.

They ate at the kitchen table, shoulder to shoulder because the chairs on the other side were stacked with boxes. The food was dark and rich — beef braised in red wine, bread torn from the loaf, thick and warm. Outside the rain kept falling. Inside, the light was low and gold, and his thigh pressed against hers under the table, and neither of them moved away.

"Tell me about your life," he said. "The last eight years. All of it."

So she told him. The degree she never used. The jobs — the gallery, the bar, the office with the fluorescent lights that made her feel like she was dying one hour at a time. The men. She told him about the men, because he asked, and because lying to him had never once worked, not even when they were children.

"They weren't him," she said at the end, quietly, looking at her wine. "None of them were ever him. Whoever him was."

Papicito was very still beside her. Then his hand came down on the table — not touching her, but close, his fingers long and scarred across the wood — and he said, "You always knew exactly what you were looking for, mamacita. You just didn't know his name."

Her breath caught. "And what is his name?"

He turned his head. Their faces were inches apart. His eyes were black in the low light, and there was nothing brotherly in them, nothing safe, nothing soft.

"Finish your wine," he said, and stood, and cleared both their plates like the conversation was over.

But it wasn't over. It was just beginning.

---

The Hours Between

Dinner dishes took too long and not long enough.

She stood at the sink with her sleeves pushed up, hot water to the elbows, and he dried beside her — too close, his shoulder against hers every time he reached for a plate. The kitchen was small. It had always been small. But it had never felt like this: charged, the air thick, her skin prickling with awareness of every inch of him.

"Here," she said, handing him the last glass, and their fingers tangled wet around it, and neither of them let go.

She looked up. He was already looking down at her — that look, the one from the porch, the one from the table, unguarded now, dark and open and hungry. His gaze dropped to her mouth. Hers dropped to his. The glass sat forgotten between their hands, water dripping onto the tile.

"Mamacita," he said, low, a warning and a prayer in one word.

She leaned in — a fraction, a breath — and he went utterly still, his jaw tightening, a muscle jumping in his cheek. For one suspended heartbeat she thought he would close the distance. She wanted it so badly her knees went weak.

Then he stepped back. Set the glass down with exaggerated care. "Go to bed," he said, his voice rough as gravel. "Before I do something we'll both have to live with."

It wasn't a rejection. It was the opposite — it was a man holding a door shut with his whole body while the thing on the other side clawed at it. She saw it in his hands: fisted at his sides, knuckles white.

"Papi —"

"Go." Softer now. Almost broken. "Please."

She went. Up the stairs, her legs unsteady, her whole body humming like a struck wire. In her old room she changed into sleep shorts and a thin tank top, and lay in the dark listening to the house — the rain, the pipes, his footsteps below, slow, restless. She heard him go out onto the porch. Heard the scrape of a chair. The long exhale of a man trying to breathe through wanting.

She pressed her thighs together under the blanket and hated herself a little for it, and wanted him a lot.

Later — she didn't know how much later — she got up for water, barefoot on the cold stairs, and the hallway was dark except for the line of gold under his door. His door was open a crack. She stopped. She shouldn't have stopped.

Through the crack she saw him: sitting on the edge of his bed in the dark, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. Just sitting there. Like a man at war with himself.

She stood in the hallway with her heart hammering so loud she was sure he could hear it, and she wanted to go to him — wanted it with a physical ache, like hunger, like thirst — and she turned around and went back to her room and drank her water standing at the window, watching the rain, her nipples hard under the thin cotton, her body wet and aching and his, though he hadn't touched her yet.

Not yet.

The word sat in her like a promise.

---

She woke that first night to thunder and lay in her old bed listening to the house groan and settle, and she thought about the way he had looked at her across the table. She thought about it until her skin was hot and her thighs were pressed together and her hand had slipped under the waistband of her sleep shorts before she even realized she had decided to do it.

She bit her lip to keep quiet and touched herself the way she always did — quick, efficient, ashamed — and it wasn't enough, it was never enough, and she thought of his hands, those scarred hands, and the sound that came out of her was small and broken and not enough.

A knock at her door nearly stopped her heart.

"Mamacita." His voice through the wood, low and rough. "I heard you."

She froze, her hand still between her legs, her whole body flushing scarlet. "I — I'm fine, it's just the storm —"

"Bullshit." The door opened.

He stood in the doorway in nothing but a pair of dark sweatpants, barefoot, his chest bare, the lamplight from the hall gilding the planes of him — the tattoo on his neck, the ink across his ribs, the hard ridges of his stomach. He was looking at her hand, at exactly where it was, and his expression was not surprise. It was hunger, barely leashed.

"Take your hand out of your shorts," he said quietly.

She did. Her face was burning. "Papi, I —"

"Do you know how long I've listened to you through these walls?" He came into the room and closed the door behind him, and the click of the latch was the loudest sound in the world. "When we were kids. You used to cry in here after Mama yelled. I'd sit on the other side of this door and listen until you fell asleep."

"This is different," she whispered.

"Yeah." He crossed to the bed in three strides and stood over her, and she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. "This is different. Because now I'm not going to sit on the other side of the door."

Her whole body was trembling. She could feel the wetness between her thighs, the ache, the terrible wonderful wrongness of wanting her brother the way she wanted him — had wanted him, she realized, since the porch, since the kitchen, since maybe forever, since the day he taught her to ride a bike and his hands were steady on her waist and she never wanted them to let go.

"Tell me no," he said, his voice gone dark and low. "Say the word, mamacita, and I walk out. I swear on Mama's grave, I walk out and we never speak of it."

She looked up at him — at the man, twenty-nine years old, all power and shadow and restraint — and she said, "Don't you dare."

Something broke open in his face. Something that had been locked for years.

He was on the bed in the next breath, caging her with his arms, his mouth crashing down on hers, and it was nothing like the kisses she had known. It was possession. His tongue swept into her mouth and claimed it, his teeth caught her lower lip, and she moaned into him, her hands fisting in his hair, her body arching up against his like it had been waiting its whole life for exactly this weight.

"Mine," he growled against her mouth. "Say it."

"Yours," she gasped. "Papi, I'm yours —"

He tore her sleep shorts down her legs and threw them across the room, and then he was looking at her — really looking, her bare thighs, the dark curls between them, the wet shine of her — and he made a sound low in his throat like a man starving.

"Spread your legs for me, mamacita. Show your domdaddy what you've been hiding."

She obeyed. God help her, she obeyed instantly, her knees falling open, and the rush of power in it — of being told, of being taken — went through her like lightning. He settled between her thighs and she felt his breath, hot, and then his mouth was on her and she cried out, loud, her back bowing off the mattress.

But he didn't stay on her clit. His tongue dragged lower — through her drenched folds, over her dripping entrance — and then lower still, to the tight, puckered ring of her asshole, and he licked it. Slow. Deliberate. She shrieked, her hips bucking, her hands flying to his hair.

"Papi — oh god — there —"

"Every hole, devoted," he growled against her, his breath hot on her most secret place. "You hear me? Your domdaddy claims every fucking hole." He hawked up a thick glob of spit and let it drool onto her asshole, working it in with his thumb — circling, pressing — while his tongue plunged back into her sopping cunt. "Relax. Let me in."

She sobbed as his thumb breached her — the burn exquisite, obscene — stretching her tight ring while his mouth devoured her cunt. "That's it," he snarled. "Take my thumb in your filthy little ass. Feel how tight you are? Nobody's ever been in here, have they? Nobody but your domdaddy. I'm going to stretch this open too. Every inch of you is mine to use."

He spread her wider with both hands, spat on her swollen clit, and rubbed it in with his thumb — and she bucked, crying out at the filth of it, at how much she loved it. "Look at this mess," he growled against her flesh, his fingers sinking into her dripping cunt, working her open, stretching her. "You're fucking soaked, devoted. Dripping all over my sheets. This greedy little pussy has been waiting for me its whole life, hasn't it?"

"Yes," she sobbed, shameless, her hips grinding against his face. "Yes, papi, it's yours, it's all yours —"

He ate her like he owned her. There was no other word for it. His tongue was broad and relentless, licking up through her folds, circling her clit, sucking it into his mouth while his fingers — those scarred fingers — slid inside her, two of them, curling, finding the spot that made her see stars. She was sobbing his name, her hips bucking, her hands clutching at the sheets, and he held her hips down with one massive hand and didn't let up, didn't give her a second of mercy.

"Papicito — papi — please —"

"Please what?" He lifted his head, his mouth glistening, his eyes burning into hers. "Use your words, devoted. Tell your domdaddy what you need."

"I need — I need to come, please, let me come —"

"Then come." He bent back to her, his fingers driving deep, his tongue flicking hard and fast over her clit. "Come for me, mamacita."

She shattered. The orgasm ripped through her like the thunder outside, her whole body convulsing, her thighs clamping around his head, and he held her through it, working her, dragging it out until she was shaking and begging him to stop, to never stop.

When it finally ebbed, he rose over her, his sweatpants pushed down, and she saw him — thick and hard and heavy, the head flushed dark — and her mouth went dry.

"On your knees," he said. "Hands on the headboard. Now."

She scrambled to obey, her body still trembling, and he positioned himself behind her, one hand gripping her hip, the other tangling in her hair. She felt him press against her entrance — the blunt, enormous head of him — and she whimpered.

"Relax, devoted." His voice was iron wrapped in velvet. "I'm going to take you slow. But I am going to take you. Every inch. Understand?"

"Yes," she breathed. "Yes, papi."

He pushed in. Slowly — so slowly she thought she would die of it — stretching her, filling her, and she was tight, so tight, and he was so big, and the burn of it was exquisite. He worked himself deeper with each stroke, his hand in her hair holding her steady, until he was buried to the hilt and she was keening, impaled, full in a way she had never been full.

"God," he groaned, his forehead dropping to her shoulder. "You feel like you were made for me. Eight years, mamacita. Eight years of wanting and I finally —" He pulled back and drove in hard, and she screamed. "Say my name."

"Papicito!" she cried as he pounded into her, the bed slamming against the wall, his hips snapping against her ass. "Papicito, yes, yes —"

"Who owns this?" He gripped her hair tighter, pulling her head back, his other hand sliding around to rub her clit in hard, fast circles. "Who owns this pussy, devoted?"

"You do!" She was sobbing with it, the pleasure building unbearable and huge. "You do, domdaddy, it's yours, I'm yours —"

"Come on my cock," he commanded. "Now."

She came so hard she saw white. Her inner walls clamped down on him in violent, pulsing waves, and he roared — actually roared — and slammed deep one final time, and she felt him throb inside her, felt the hot rush of him filling her, claiming her from the inside, and he held her there, buried deep, his arms wrapped around her, both of them shaking.

Then he pulled out — slick, throbbing, dripping — and flipped her onto her back in one rough motion, shoved her thighs wide, and stroked himself over her. "Look at me," he ordered, and she did, dazed, wrecked, his spend still leaking out of her. He came across her tits in thick white ropes — striping her nipples, her throat, her chin — and she gasped at the heat of it, at the sheer filth of being painted by him.

"Rub it in," he growled, taking her hand and pressing it to her own chest. "Smear your domdaddy's come all over those pretty tits. That's it. Now lick your fingers clean."

She obeyed, sucking his spend off her fingers, moaning, and he pushed two fingers into her mouth and fucked them in and out of it while his other hand slapped her tit — hard — and she screamed around his fingers, her cunt clenching on nothing.

"My filthy girl," he groaned, watching her. "Covered in me inside and out. This is what you're for, devoted. This is what that greedy little body is for."

After, he didn't pull away. He turned her in his arms and held her against his chest, his heartbeat thundering under her ear, his hand stroking her hair.

"Sleep," he murmured. "I've got you. I've always got you."

And for the first time in eight years, mamacita slept without dreaming of empty rooms.

---

Dawn

She woke the next morning to his hand fisting in her hair.

No warning, no gentleness — he dragged her by the hair to the edge of the bed, flipped her onto her stomach, and shoved her face into the pillow. She was still half-asleep, still slick and swollen from the night before, and then he was inside her — one savage thrust, buried to the balls, her whole body jolting with it.

"Did I say you could sleep?" he growled, setting a brutal pace, the bed slamming the wall. "This pussy belongs to me, devoted. It doesn't rest unless I say so."

"Papi —" she gasped, clutching the sheets, her cunt still sore and already clenching around him, dripping. "Oh god, papi, it's too much —"

"It's exactly enough." He yanked her head back by the hair, arching her spine, driving deeper. "Look at you. Sore, used, and still fucking dripping for me. You're a filthy little slut for your domdaddy's cock and you love it. Say it."

"I'm your filthy slut," she sobbed, the words tearing out of her, her orgasm already building, obscene and fast. "I'm your slut, papi, please —"

He spanked her — hard, the crack echoing off the walls — and she screamed, her cunt convulsing around him. "Please what?"

"Please let me come, domdaddy, please, I'm begging you —"

"Come." He pinched her clit viciously between his fingers. "Fucking come on it."

She shattered, screaming into the pillow, her pussy milking him in hard, pulsing waves — and he didn't slow, he fucked her straight through it, roaring, and emptied himself inside her in thick, scalding jets, his come overflowing her, dripping down her thighs onto the sheets.

Before she could catch her breath he hauled her off the bed, spun her around, and shoved her to her knees on the cold floor. His cock was still hard, glistening with both of them, dripping his own spend.

"Open your filthy mouth," he ordered, and before she could answer he hawked up a thick wad of spit and let it fall from his mouth into hers — a long, glistening string. "Swallow it. That's your domdaddy's spit, devoted. You take everything I give you."

She opened. He fed her his cock — deep, her throat bulging, her eyes streaming — and face-fucked her with slow, deep strokes, her drool running down her chin, her nose pressed to his belly. "That's it," he groaned, fisting her hair. "Choke on it. You take whatever I give you, whenever I give it. That's what a devoted sub does."

He pulled out, stroked himself twice, and came across her face — thick ropes striping her cheeks, her lips, her chin, dripping off her jaw. "Don't you dare wipe it off," he snarled. "Lick your lips. Taste it. Taste what your domdaddy gives you."

She licked, whimpering, her tongue catching his spend, and he smeared it into her skin with his thumb, then pushed his thumb into her mouth. "Suck it clean. Good girl. My perfect, filthy, devoted girl."

He left her there — on her knees, face painted with his come, his spend still leaking out of her sore cunt onto the floor — and said, "Clean yourself up. Breakfast in twenty," like he hadn't just wrecked her. And she did, shaking, glowing, his in every cell.

---

The days fell into a rhythm that felt like a secret religion.

Mornings, he made coffee the way she liked it — black with too much sugar — and they sat on the porch and watched the rain finally break and the sun come out over the flooded street, and he told her about the house, the repairs, the life he had built in the city she fled. He worked with his hands — carpentry, mostly, and odd engine jobs — and his hands were always a little rough, a little scarred, and she found herself watching them constantly, remembering what they had done to her in the dark.

Afternoons, they worked on the house together. She unpacked boxes. He fixed the back fence. They found their mother's old record player and danced in the living room to boleros, his hand sure at the small of her back, her cheek against his chest, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world until he would dip her low and his mouth would brush her throat and she would feel the whole room tilt.

Nights belonged to him.

He was insatiable, and she was insatiable for him, and the house — their mother's house, their childhood house — became a temple of it. He took her on the kitchen counter with her legs wrapped around his waist, her back against the cabinet where the good plates lived. He took her bent over the dining table, one hand pressed between her shoulder blades, the other working her clit while he drove into her from behind. He took her in the shower, the hot water pounding down, her front pressed to the cold tile while he fucked her slow and deep and whispered filthy, devoted things in her ear.

"That's it, devoted. Take it. Take all of me."

"You were made for this. Made for me."

"Nobody else touches you. Nobody else ever touches you again. Say it."

"Only you, papi. Only ever you."

He never let her come without permission. That was the rule, laid down on the third night when she came too soon, gasping and unthinking, and he stopped — pulled out of her, left her shaking and empty on the bed — and said, calm as stone, "You come when I say, mamacita. That's the price of being mine."

She learned. God, she learned fast. She learned to hold the edge, to ride the wave without breaking, to beg — "please, domdaddy, please let me come, I'm yours, I'm your devoted, please" — and the moment he granted it, the orgasms were cataclysmic, ten times what they had been before, because he had built them, shaped them, owned them.

One night, in the second week, he did something that changed everything.

They were in his room — she had stopped sleeping in her old room days ago; her suitcase sat unpacked in the corner of his closet — and the candles were lit, because he had started lighting candles, black ones, tall ones, and the room smelled of wax and sex and rain. He had her on her back, her wrists pinned above her head in one of his hands, and he was inside her, moving slow, so slow, watching her face.

"Mamacita," he said, and his voice was different — stripped bare, no armor in it. "Look at me."

She looked.

"I've loved you since you were six years old and you fell off your bike and didn't cry," he said, each word deliberate, his hips rolling deep. "I loved you when you left. I loved you every day you were gone. And I love you now — like this. All of it. The wanting. The having. All of it."

Tears spilled down her temples. "Papi —"

"Don't," he said roughly. "Don't make it small. This is the biggest thing in my life. You are the biggest thing in my life." He drove deeper, and she gasped, and he held her gaze, unflinching. "Say it back. Not because I told you to. Because it's true."

"I love you," she whispered, and it tore out of her like something that had been buried alive. "I've always loved you. You're — you're everything, papicito. You're my home."

He kissed her then, deep and aching, and moved in her like the tide, and when he let her come — "come for me, my devoted, come for your domdaddy" — she wept through the whole of it, clinging to him, and he held her, and held her, and didn't let go.

---

One night near the end of the second week, he came home late from an engine job, grease under his nails and exhaustion in his shoulders, and found her waiting in the kitchen in nothing but one of his shirts. She had been thinking about it all day — the thing she had never done, not with him, not with anyone, the thing she wanted to give him the way he had given her everything.

He stopped in the doorway, his eyes traveling down her bare legs, and something dark and pleased crossed his face. "Mamacita," he said slowly. "What are you up to?"

She came to him — shy, suddenly, her heart hammering — and went to her knees right there on the kitchen tile. She looked up at him through her lashes. "Let me," she whispered. "Please, papi. Let me take care of you the way you take care of me."

His breath caught. For a moment the exhaustion fell away and there was only hunger, raw and open. "You never —" he said roughly.

"I want to learn," she said. "Teach me, domdaddy."

He groaned — actually groaned — and his hand came down to cup her jaw, his thumb brushing her lower lip. "Open," he commanded softly.

She opened her mouth, and he guided himself to her lips — already hard, thick, the head flushed dark and leaking — and she took him in, tentative, her tongue exploring the smooth crown, tasting salt and heat and him. He hissed through his teeth.

"That's it, devoted. Tongue flat — yeah, like that." His hand fisted gently in her hair, not forcing, just guiding. "Now take more. Slow."

She sank down, taking him deeper, and gagged — her eyes watering — and he eased her back at once. "Breathe through your nose," he murmured. "Relax your throat. You're doing perfect. My good girl."

The praise went through her like fire. She tried again, bobbing slowly, finding a rhythm, her hands braced on his thighs — and then his free hand slid under the hem of the shirt, between her bare legs, and two thick fingers pushed straight into her sopping cunt. She moaned around his cock, the vibration making him groan.

"Goddamn," he hissed. "You're dripping down my hand, devoted. Sucking my cock with your mouth and soaking my fingers with that greedy little pussy." He finger-fucked her in time with her bobs, curling his fingers, rubbing that deep spot, and she whimpered around him, drooling, her hips grinding helplessly against his hand. "That's it. Work me and take it. My filthy little sister, on her knees in my kitchen, gagging on my cock and creaming all over my hand."

She sank down, taking him deeper, and gagged — her eyes watering — and he eased her back at once. "Breathe through your nose," he murmured. "Relax your throat. You're doing perfect. My good girl."

The praise went through her like fire. She tried again, bobbing slowly, finding a rhythm, her hands braced on his thighs, and he let her — let her learn him, let her worship him — his breathing going ragged, his fingers tightening in her hair.

"Look at me," he said, and she looked up, her mouth full of him, her eyes wet, and the look on his face — wrecked, reverent, hers — made her moan around him. "God, mamacita. You look so beautiful like this. On your knees for your domdaddy."

He took over then — gently, inexorably — holding her head steady and thrusting into her mouth in slow, deep strokes, going deeper each time, and she took it, she took all of him, her throat opening, tears tracking down her cheeks, and it was the most submissive she had ever felt, the most his, and she had never wanted anything more.

"I'm going to come," he warned, his voice strained. "Swallow for me, devoted. Every drop."

She did. He spilled down her throat with a guttural groan, pulsing, and she swallowed everything, and when he finally eased out of her mouth she licked her lips clean and looked up at him, wrecked and glowing.

He wasn't done. He hauled her to her feet, yanked the shirt off her, and pushed her back against the kitchen counter — her tits bare, bouncing, his spend still drying on her lips. "Squeeze those pretty tits together," he ordered, already hard again, his cock glistening. "Tighter. Yeah, like that."

He slid his cock between her breasts and fucked them — slow at first, then harder, her soft flesh gripping him, the head of him popping up to brush her chin with every thrust. "Open," he commanded, and she opened, and he fed her the head on every stroke — tit-fucking her and mouth-fucking her at once — his hands gripping her tits like handles.

"I'm gonna —" he groaned, and pulled out, stroked twice, and came again — thick ropes across her tits, her throat, striping up her chin. "Rub it in, devoted. Smear it. I want my come drying on your skin all night."

She did, whimpering, her fingers slick with him, and he kissed her — deep, filthy, tasting himself on her tongue — and held her face in both hands. "My devoted," he whispered, his forehead against hers. "My perfect, beautiful devoted. Nobody has ever —" His voice broke. "Nobody, mamacita. Only you."

He pulled her to her feet and kissed her — deep, filthy, tasting himself on her tongue — and held her face in both hands. "My devoted," he whispered, his forehead against hers. "My perfect, beautiful devoted. Nobody has ever —" His voice broke. "Nobody, mamacita. Only you."

She slept that night with her head on his chest and his hand in her hair, and dreamed of nothing at all.

---

The Back Porch

It was the third week, late afternoon, the sky gone bruised-purple with coming rain. Mamacita was on the back porch hanging laundry — his shirts, her things, the domestic intimacy of it making her ache — when she heard his truck pull up. He came around the side of the house still in his work boots, his shirt stuck to his back with sweat, a smear of grease on his jaw, and stopped dead when he saw her.

She was wearing one of his old t-shirts and nothing else. It hung to mid-thigh. She hadn't planned it. She had absolutely planned it.

"Mamacita." His voice came out low and dangerous. He crossed the porch in four strides, backed her against the railing, and caged her there with his arms. "You trying to get fucked?"

"Yes," she breathed, looking up at him. "Please, papi. Fuck me. Right here."

He made a sound like something tearing. His mouth crashed onto hers — teeth and tongue, brutal, claiming — and his hands went under the shirt, up her bare thighs, cupping her ass hard enough to bruise, grinding her against the thick ridge in his jeans. She moaned into his mouth, arching, her fingers clawing at his shirt.

"You're soaked," he growled, one hand sliding between her legs, two fingers pushing straight into her sopping cunt without ceremony. She cried out, bucking. "Goddamn. Listen to that. Listen to how wet you are for me."

The sound was obscene — slick, squelching, her juices coating his fingers as he pumped them in and out, his thumb finding her clit and grinding. "Papi — papi, please —"

"Please what?" He twisted his fingers inside her, and she sobbed. "Say it filthy, devoted. Tell your domdaddy exactly what this needy little pussy wants."

"I want your cock," she gasped, shameless, wrecked. "I want you to stretch me open and fuck me hard, papi, please, I need it —"

"Turn around." He spun her himself, bent her over the railing, the rough wood pressing into her hips. Her ass was bare in the open air, the shirt rucked up around her waist. He yanked his belt open, jeans shoved down, and she heard him spit — then felt his cock, slicked with his own spit, dragging up through her dripping folds.

"You're mine," he said, and slammed into her in one brutal stroke — and she felt his spit, warm and slick, where he'd lubed himself, her juices mixing with it, the slide of it obscene. "Feel that? Feel how fucking wet you are for me? You're dripping down my balls, devoted. You're a mess. My mess."

She screamed. It tore out of her — no finesse, no holding back, just raw shock and pleasure as he split her open, buried to the hilt in her soaked, clutching heat. He didn't wait. He set a punishing rhythm, hips snapping, the slap of his balls against her clit with every thrust, the railing creaking under her weight.

"That's it," he snarled, fisting her hair, yanking her head back. "Take it. Take your domdaddy's cock like the filthy little slut you are for me."

"Yes — yes, papi, I'm your slut, I'm yours —" She was drooling, actually drooling, her cheek pressed to the wood, her cunt gushing around him, the wet sounds of him fucking her echoing off the porch. "Harder, please, harder —"

He gave it to her. Harder. Deeper. His hand cracked down on her ass — once, twice — and she howled, clenching around him, her whole body shaking.

He wrapped one big hand around her throat from behind — not choking, just holding, claiming — and squeezed lightly with every thrust, and she moaned, helpless, her cunt clenching around him at the sheer ownership of it. "Whose throat is this?" he snarled in her ear, his hips never slowing. "Yours," she gasped. "Whose pussy? Whose ass? Whose whole filthy body?" "Yours, domdaddy — all yours — please, papi, please —" "Then take it like it's mine," he growled, tightening his grip just enough to make her whimper, "because it fucking is." "You come when I say," he growled, his thumb finding her clit and rubbing it in vicious little circles. "Not before. You hold it, devoted. You hold it until I tell you."

"I'm trying — papi, I can't — I'm gonna —"

"Hold it." His voice was iron. "Be my good girl and hold it."

She held it — barely, trembling, tears streaming down her face, her cunt spasming around his cock, on the razor edge of shattering. He fucked her through it, relentless, his own breathing ragged, and then he reached around, pinched her clit hard, and commanded: "Now. Come all over my cock. Now."

She detonated. The orgasm ripped through her like lightning, her pussy convulsing in violent waves, squirting, gushing down her thighs, soaking his cock, and she screamed his name into the empty yard, incoherent, gone. He roared behind her, slamming deep, and she felt him erupt inside her — thick, hot pulses, flooding her, claiming her — his hand clamped on her hip hard enough to leave marks.

They stayed like that, shaking, his cock still buried in her, his chest heaving against her back. Rain started to fall — fat, cold drops on her bare skin. He pulled out slowly, and she felt his come drip down her thighs, and he turned her around, pushed her to her knees right there on the wet porch boards, and fed her his cock — still slick with both of them — pushing it deep into her mouth.

"Clean me," he ordered. "Lick your devoted little pussy off my cock. Every drop."

She obeyed, desperate, her tongue swirling around the head, sucking him clean, tasting herself and him and the salt of it, moaning around him — and he groaned, fisted her hair, and held her down, his cock swelling on her tongue. "Swallow," he commanded, and came in her mouth — hot, thick jets, flooding her — and she gagged, choked, swallowed, tears streaming, his spend leaking from the corners of her lips. "Every drop, devoted. Good girl. My good, filthy girl."

She obeyed, desperate, her tongue swirling around the head, sucking him clean, tasting herself and him and the salt of it, moaning around him. He held her head, gentle now, his thumb stroking her cheek.

"My beautiful filthy devoted," he murmured. "Look at you. On your knees in the rain with my come running down your legs." He pulled her up, kissed her — deep, tasting everything — and carried her inside, both of them soaked, laughing breathless into each other's mouths.

In the shower he washed her himself, slow and tender, his hands worshipful where they had been ruthless minutes before. "Mine," he whispered against her wet hair, soaping her shoulders. "Every inch. Every drop. Mine."

"Yours," she whispered back, leaning into him, boneless. "Always yours, papicito."

---

The Garage

It was late in the second week, the heat still hanging in the air at dusk, and she found him in the garage with the truck's hood up, shirt off, sweat cutting lines through the grease on his back. She leaned in the doorway in nothing but his t-shirt and watched him work, and when he glanced over and saw her — bare legs, no panties, the shirt riding high — his jaw tightened.

"Turn around," he said quietly, setting down his wrench. "Bend over. Show me."

She obeyed, trembling, bending over a crate, the shirt riding up to bare her ass to him. He came up behind her and ran one grease-blackened hand up the inside of her thigh, and she whimpered.

"You're dripping," he said, two fingers sliding straight into her sopping cunt without ceremony. "You're standing in my garage with your ass out, dripping on my floor. What kind of filthy little sister does that, mamacita?"

"The kind that needs her domdaddy's cock," she breathed.

He dragged her to the workbench, bent her over it face-down, and kicked her legs apart. "Hands flat. Don't move." He unbuckled his belt with one hand, and then he was inside her — no warmup, no mercy, splitting her open in one stroke — and she screamed, her palms slapping the scarred wood.

"That's it," he snarled, pounding her, his grease-stained hands gripping her hips hard enough to leave black prints on her skin. "Take it. This is what happens when you tease me in my shop. You get fucked like a whore on my workbench."

"Yes — yes, papi, fuck me like your whore —" She was drooling on the bench, her tits crushed against the wood, her cunt gushing around him with every brutal thrust, the wet slap of flesh echoing off the garage walls.

He yanked her upright by the hair, one hand clamping around her throat from behind, and kept fucking her — deep, punishing strokes, his mouth at her ear. "Feel that? Feel how deep I am? I'm going to fill this filthy cunt until it's running down your legs. You're going to wear my come like the little slut you are."

"Please," she sobbed, her hand scrabbling at his wrist on her throat. "Please, domdaddy, please let me come —"

"Not yet." He spun her, sat her ass on the edge of the bench, threw her legs over his shoulders, and drove back into her at a new angle — deeper, hitting the very end of her — and she howled, her nails raking his grease-slick arms. "Look at me. Watch me fuck you."

She watched — his face twisted with it, his cock disappearing into her soaked, swollen cunt, her juices smeared across his stomach — and the sight tipped her over the edge. "Papi, I'm going to — please —"

"Come," he commanded, grinding deep, his thumb finding her clit and rubbing it viciously. "Soak my cock."

She detonated, screaming, her whole body seizing, squirting, gushing down over his balls onto the bench — and he roared and slammed home, flooding her in thick, hot pulses, his come overflowing her, running down her ass cheeks onto the wood.

He pulled out and she was a mess — his spend leaking out of her, smeared across her thighs — and he wasn't done. He dragged her off the bench, pushed her to her knees on the oil-stained concrete, and shoved his cock — still hard, still dripping — into her mouth.

"Suck," he ordered, fisting her hair. "Suck your domdaddy clean. Taste your own filthy pussy on me."

She sucked, desperate, her tongue swirling, her throat working, moaning around him — and he face-fucked her in slow, deep strokes until his balls drew up and he spilled down her throat in thick, salty jets, holding her head down, making her take every drop. She swallowed, gagging, tears streaming — and he pulled out and smeared the last of it across her lips with his thumb.

"My beautiful filthy devoted," he growled, hauling her up, kissing her — deep, tasting everything, grease and sex and come. "Look at you. Covered in my shop, covered in me."

He bent her back over the bench — face-down, ass up, still dripping — and drove into her cunt again in one savage stroke, his cock still hard, still slick with her mouth. "Not done," he snarled, pounding her, his balls slapping wet against her clit. "I'm not done with this greedy pussy until I've filled every hole in it tonight." He yanked her head back by the hair, spat on her shoulder, and fucked her harder — the bench rocking, tools rattling — until she was screaming, sobbing, coming again in violent, squirting waves. Then he pulled out, flipped her onto her stomach flat on the bench, and came across her back — thick white stripes over the grease-smudged skin — and smeared it in with his palm like lotion, rubbing his spend into her shoulders, her ass cheeks, the backs of her thighs.

"Wear it," he growled, slapping her ass — the crack echoing. "Wear your domdaddy's come like the marked little whore you are."

He carried her inside over his shoulder, both of them laughing breathless into each other's mouths, her ass in the air, his black handprint on her thigh — and he fucked her twice more before midnight, once against the laundry room wall with her legs wrapped around his waist, once with her riding him on the couch while he slapped her tits and pulled her hair, until she was raw and wrecked and glowing, and his come was in her, on her, everywhere.

---

The Bathtub

It was the last night of the third week. She came downstairs to find the bathroom glowing — every candle in the house lit around the old clawfoot tub, steam curling off the water, the air thick with heat and the dark scent of his soap. Papicito leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, watching her take it in.

"Strip," he said. "Get in."

She obeyed, her skin prickling, and sank into the scalding water with a gasp. He knelt beside the tub, rolled up his sleeves, and began to wash her — slow, thorough, his rough hands soaping her shoulders, her breasts, circling her nipples until they peaked, sliding down her belly. "Spread your legs," he ordered quietly. She did, and he washed her cunt with his bare hand — fingers slipping through her folds, cleaning her, teasing her — and she whimpered, her hips lifting.

"Papi —"

"Shh." He turned her in the water, her back to his chest, his arms around her — and his soapy hand slid lower, past her cunt, to the tight ring of her asshole. She froze.

"Relax, devoted," he murmured in her ear, his finger circling, pressing, the soap slick and warm. "I've been in your mouth. I've been in your cunt a hundred times. Tonight I'm taking the last hole. Your domdaddy is going to own every inch of you."

"I'm scared," she whispered — and she was, a little, her heart hammering.

"Good." His finger breached her — slow, inexorable — and she cried out, the burn sharp and obscene. "Be scared. And trust me. Have I ever hurt you? Have I ever given you anything you couldn't take?"

"No," she sobbed, her head falling back against his shoulder. "No, papi —"

"Then trust me." He worked a second soapy finger into her ass, stretching her, scissoring them gently, and the burn bloomed into something dark and hot and wrong and wonderful. "Look at you. My filthy little sister, getting her tight ass stretched open in the bathtub. Who's doing this to you?"

"You are," she gasped. "My domdaddy — oh god, papi —"

He lifted her out of the tub, carried her dripping to the bedroom, and laid her face-down on the bed, her ass in the air. He knelt behind her, spread her cheeks wide, and spat — a thick, wet glob right onto her stretched asshole — and worked it in with his thumb. Then his mouth was on her — his tongue licking her asshole, rimming her, deep and filthy, while two fingers pumped her cunt.

"Oh god — papi — your mouth — there —"

"Your ass tastes like mine," he growled against her, licking deeper. "Because it is mine. Every hole. Say it."

"Every hole is yours," she sobbed, her face buried in the pillow, drooling. "My ass is yours, domdaddy —"

He rose over her, his cock thick and flushed, and pressed the head against her asshole — slick with his spit and her juices — and pushed. Slow. So slow. The head breached her and she screamed — the stretch enormous, burning, impossibly full — and he held still, buried just the crown, his hand fisted in her hair.

"Breathe, devoted. Breathe and take it. Your domdaddy's cock is going in your tight little ass and you're going to take every inch."

"Papi — it's too big — I can't —"

"You can. You will." He pushed deeper — another inch, another — and she sobbed, shaking, her asshole stretched impossibly wide around him. "Look at you taking it. My filthy girl. Your ass is swallowing my cock."

He bottomed out — buried to the balls in her ass — and she was screaming, keening, her whole body trembling. He held her there, letting her adjust, his thumb finding her clit and rubbing it in slow circles. "That's it," he groaned. "Feel that? Feel how deep I am in your ass? Nobody's ever been here. Nobody ever will be. This hole is mine. MINE."

"Yours," she sobbed. "My ass is yours, papi —"

Then he started to move — slow, deep strokes, pulling almost all the way out and driving back in — and the burn turned to fire turned to pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. He reached under and fingered her cunt while he fucked her ass, his fingers soaked, and she was drooling on the pillow, incoherent.

"Harder," she gasped, shocking herself. "Papi — harder — fuck my ass harder —"

He growled — actually growled — and gave it to her: brutal, pounding strokes, his hips snapping, her ass rippling with every thrust, the wet slap of flesh filling the room. He yanked her head back by the hair and spat into her open mouth. "Swallow it," he snarled. "That's your domdaddy's spit. You take it in every hole."

She swallowed, sobbing, and he pinched her clit viciously. "Come," he commanded. "Come with my cock in your ass."

She detonated — the orgasm ripping through her from a place she'd never felt, her asshole clamping down on him in violent waves, her cunt gushing all over his fingers — and he roared and slammed deep, spending himself inside her ass in thick, scalding jets, holding her impaled, both of them shaking.

He pulled out slowly and she felt his come leak out of her stretched hole, dripping down. He pushed her onto her back, spread her legs wide, and drove into her cunt — still hard — fucking her deep and fast, his thumb grinding her clit, until she came again, screaming — and then he pulled out and came across her belly, her tits, her face — ropes of it, everywhere — and smeared it into her skin with both hands.

"Look at you," he breathed, wrecked, triumphant. "Every hole filled. Every inch covered. You're mine, devoted. All of you. Forever."

"Forever," she whispered, ruined and glowing, his come drying on her skin, his spend leaking out of her in two places. "I'm yours, papicito. Every hole. Always."

---

Blood of My Blood

The ritual was her idea, and it terrified her to ask.

It was the fourth week. They were in his bed, candles lit, her head on his chest, his fingers drawing idle circles on her bare shoulder. The collar still lay in his drawer — not yet given, not yet earned, hanging between them like a held breath.

"Papi," she said quietly. "I want us to swear it. Not just say it. Swear it. The way people used to. With blood."

He went very still. Then he sat up, looked down at her, and something ancient moved behind his eyes. "You sure?"

"Yes." She held his gaze, unwavering. "Blood of my blood. Make it real."

He got up naked and came back with a sewing needle from her mother's old kit and a candle. He sat facing her on the bed, the flame between them, and took her left hand in his.

"This is a vow," he said, his voice low and absolute. "Not a game. You bleed for me tonight, mamacita, and there is no going back. You are mine — body, blood, soul — until one of us is in the ground. And I am yours. Your domdaddy. Your keeper. Your ruin and your shelter. Say you understand."

"I understand," she whispered, her whole body trembling — not with fear, but with the enormity of it.

He pricked her fingertip — quick, practiced — and a bead of blood welled up, dark red in the candlelight. Then his own. He pressed their fingers together, blood to blood, and held them over the flame.

"Repeat after me," he commanded. "I give you my blood."

"I give you my blood," she said, her voice shaking.

"I give you my body. My pleasure is yours to command."

"I give you my body. My pleasure is yours to command."

"No one touches me but you. No one owns me but you."

"No one touches me but you," she breathed, tears on her cheeks. "No one owns me but you."

"Blood of my blood," he said, and pressed his bleeding finger to her ...