#gaybottom

Plot: You’re at Jordan Torres’ Bronx family Thanksgiving, stuffed with pernil and coquito, when he drags you upstairs to his old bedroom and fucks you senseless on his childhood twin bed—hand over your mouth, hips still snapping deep while his cousin knocks asking for help with the flan. You come biting the pillow, praying nobody hears the headboard, and somehow make it back downstairs like nothing happened except now his hand’s on your thigh under the table and you’re already ready for round two.

Warnings: 18+ mdni, smut

Word Count: 2k

Stuffed

You step out of the Uber onto the cracked sidewalk of Jordan Torres’ block in the Bronx, the November wind whipping through your coat like it’s got a personal grudge. It’s Thanksgiving, and the neighborhood’s buzzing with holiday energy—strings of lights dangling from fire escapes, the distant thump of salsa music from someone’s window, and the unmistakable aroma of roasting meats mixing with the crisp fall air. Your heart’s pounding harder than it should be. You’ve been seeing Jordan for about six months now, ever since you mustered the courage to DM him after binge-watching his Instagram stories. Those workout vids, the shirtless flexes, that killer smile—he’s the ultimate thirst trap, with over a million followers eating up his fitness influencer vibe. But to you, he’s just Jordan, the guy who texts you “good morning, pa” with a winky face and makes you feel like the center of his world.

He’s waiting on the stoop of his family’s brownstone, looking effortlessly hot in a black Nike hoodie that clings to his broad shoulders and gray joggers that outline every curve of his muscular legs. His dark hair is faded on the sides, and he’s got that chain around his neck glinting in the afternoon sun. As you approach, he pockets his phone and hits you with that signature Bronx grin—cocky, playful, all teeth and dimples. “Yo, Y/N, what’s poppin’? You made it, deadass.” His voice is pure New York, thick with that urban drawl, rolling his R’s just enough to make your knees weak. He daps you up, pulling you into a hug that’s a little too tight, his cologne—something woody and masculine—flooding your senses. His hand lingers on your lower back, thumb brushing subtly, sending a spark straight to your groin.

“Traffic was a bitch, but yeah, I’m here,” you reply, trying to play it cool even as your body reacts to his touch. He pulls back, eyes scanning you from head to toe like he’s appraising a new sneaker drop. “Lookin’ good, pa. Come on, fam’s inside goin’ crazy with the food.”

The house is warm and chaotic, the kind of family gathering that screams “Bronx holiday.” Jordan’s mom, a short woman with a no-nonsense vibe, greets you at the door with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Bienvenido, mijo! Jordan’s told us all about you.” Her accent’s thick, Puerto Rican roots shining through. The living room’s packed—cousins sprawled on the couch watching the pre-game show, aunts chattering in Spanglish over glasses of coquito, little kids darting between legs with toys. The air’s thick with the smells of turkey, pernil roasting with garlic and oregano, arroz con habichuelas, and yuca fritas. Jordan’s dad, a burly guy with a Yankees cap, claps you on the shoulder. “Sit, eat! We don’t stand on ceremony here.”

Jordan guides you to the dining table, his hand on your elbow possessively. You sit next to him, thighs brushing under the tablecloth. As plates get passed around, he leans in close, breath hot against your ear. “Try the pernil, Y/N. It’s mom’s secret recipe—gonna make you wanna stay forever.” His voice drops lower, that Bronx swagger turning flirty. “Or maybe that’s just me.” You feel his foot nudge yours, a subtle tease that has you shifting in your seat.

Dinner’s a riot of laughter and stories. Jordan’s sister, Maria, grills him about his latest Instagram collab. “Bro, you really out here posin’ with energy drinks like you’re savin’ the world?” The table erupts in laughs, and Jordan shrugs it off with that easy confidence. “Nah, sis, it’s all about the bag. Gotta hustle, you feel me? But yo, Y/N here’s the real deal—keeps me grounded.” He winks at you, and under the table, his hand finds your knee, squeezing firmly. Heat pools in your stomach as his fingers trace lazy circles, inching higher. You shoot him a warning look, but he just smirks, popping a piece of turkey into his mouth like nothing’s happening.

His uncle chimes in, regaling everyone with tales of Jordan’s high school days—how he was the star athlete, always in the gym, dreaming of going pro before the influencer life took off. “This kid was benchin’ two plates at 16, yo! Now he’s got girls and guys slidin’ in his DMs left and right.” Jordan laughs it off, but his grip on your thigh tightens, a silent promise. You can barely focus on the food, every brush of his skin against yours building tension. By the time dessert rolls around—flan and pumpkin pie— you’re aching, your cock half-hard under your jeans from his constant teasing.

As people start clearing plates, Jordan catches your eye. “Yo, Y/N, come help me grab somethin’ from upstairs real quick.” His tone’s casual for the family, but his eyes are dark, hungry. You nod, following him up the narrow staircase, the wood creaking under your feet. The family noise fades to a distant hum—laughter, TV blaring the football game, clinking dishes.

He leads you to his old bedroom at the end of the hall, shutting the door with a soft click and flipping the lock. The room’s a blast from his past: faded posters of Jay-Z and Biggie on the walls, a twin bed with rumpled blue sheets, dumbbells stacked in the corner, and a shelf of old trophies from his wrestling days. It smells like him—musk and cologne mixed with the faint scent of home. Jordan turns to you, backing you against the door, his body pressing close. “Finally, pa. Been dyin’ to get you alone all day.” His voice is rough, that Bronx vernacular kicking in full force—words clipped, accent heavy. He cups your face, thumb tracing your jaw, and crashes his lips against yours.

The kiss is fire—tongues battling, his stubble scraping your skin. He tastes like coquito and spice, and you melt into it, hands fisting his hoodie. “Jordan,” you gasp when he pulls back, but he shushes you with a finger to your lips. “Quiet, Y/N. Don’t want the fam hearin’ us.” His hands roam, sliding under your shirt to trace your abs, pinching a nipple hard enough to make you hiss. “But damn, you got me hard as fuck just sittin’ next to you down there.”

He yanks your shirt off, tossing it aside, then strips his own hoodie, revealing that sculpted torso you’ve seen a thousand times on his feed—ripped pecs, eight-pack abs glistening with a light sheen of sweat, tattoos curling over his shoulders like vines. You’re mesmerized, tracing the ink with your fingers, but Jordan’s not in the mood for slow. He spins you around, pushing you face-first against the door, grinding his bulge against your ass. “Feel that? That’s what you do to me, pa.” His breath is hot on your neck, hands undoing your belt with expert speed.

Your pants pool at your ankles, and he kicks them away, palming your ass through your boxers. “Arch for me, Y/N. Show me that pretty hole.” You obey, bending slightly, heart racing as he drops to his knees behind you. “Good boy,” he murmurs, pulling your boxers down. Cool air hits your skin, but it’s quickly replaced by his hot mouth—tongue licking a stripe from your balls to your entrance, teasing the rim.

“Oh fuck,” you moan, slapping a hand over your mouth. Jordan chuckles, the vibration sending shivers up your spine. “Taste so good, deadass. Been thinkin’ ‘bout eatin’ this ass since you texted me you were on the way.” He dives in deeper, tongue pushing inside, wet and insistent, while his hand reaches around to stroke your cock slowly. You buck against him, pre-cum leaking onto his fingers. He stands after a minute, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes locked on yours in the mirror across the room. “Turn around, ma. On your knees.”

You drop without hesitation, face level with the massive tent in his joggers. He pulls them down, his cock springing free—thick, veined, uncut, at least eight inches and girthy as hell. You’ve sucked him before, but every time it’s intimidating. “Open up,” he orders, tapping the head against your lips. You do, taking him in, tongue swirling around the tip. Jordan groans, hand threading through your hair. “Yeah, just like that. Suck it good, Y/N. Make it wet for when I fuck you.”

He thrusts shallowly, fucking your mouth with that Bronx dominance— not too rough, but enough to make your eyes water. Saliva drips down your chin as you bob, hollowing your cheeks. “Look at you, takin’ it like a champ. My little bottom boy.” After a few minutes, he pulls out with a pop, stroking himself. “Bed. Now.”

You scramble onto the twin bed, lying on your back. Jordan grabs lube and a condom from his nightstand drawer—always prepared, even here. He rolls the condom on, slicks himself generously, then climbs between your legs, pushing them wide. “Legs up, ma. Wanna see your face when I slide in.”

He teases your hole with the tip, circling, pushing just the head in. You gasp, clutching the sheets. “Relax,” he coos, but his voice is edged with hunger. Inch by inch, he sinks in, stretching you deliciously. The burn gives way to fullness, and when he’s bottomed out, balls against your ass, he stills. “Fuck, you’re tight. Grip like a glove.” Then he starts moving—slow at first, long strokes that drag against your walls, hitting your prostate with precision.

“Jordan, shit—harder,” you beg, nails digging into his back. He grins, picking up pace, hips snapping with force. The bed creaks rhythmically, headboard thumping softly against the wall. “You want harder? Bet. Take this dick, Y/N.” Sweat slicks your bodies, his muscles flexing under your hands as he pounds into you. He reaches down, stroking your cock in sync, twisting at the head.

You’re a mess—moans spilling out despite your efforts to stay quiet, body arching to meet his thrusts. Jordan’s grunts mix with dirty talk: “Love fuckin’ this ass. So perfect for me. You mine, ma? Say it.”

“Yours,” you whimper. “All yours.”

That’s when it happens—knock knock knock. The door rattles slightly.

“Jordan? You in there? Tía needs help with the desserts downstairs!” It’s his cousin, voice muffled but clear.

You freeze, eyes wide, clenching around Jordan’s cock. Panic surges— what if they come in? But Jordan doesn’t stop. He slows to a grind, deep rolls of his hips that make you bite your lip to stifle a moan. His hand clamps over your mouth gently, eyes locked on yours with a wicked spark. “Yeah, cuz! Gimme five, yo—I’m on the phone with my manager real quick!” he calls back, voice remarkably steady, even as he circles his hips, cock stirring inside you.

“Alright, but hurry up, man. The flan’s gettin’ cold.” Footsteps retreat down the stairs.

Jordan uncovers your mouth, thrusting hard again like nothing happened. “See? We good. Now where were we?” He flips you onto your stomach, pulling your hips up, entering you from behind in one smooth push. “Gonna make you cum while they’re waitin’.”

The new angle hits deeper, his cock dragging over your spot relentlessly. He smacks your ass lightly, the sting heightening everything. “Quiet, pa, or they’ll hear how good I’m wreckin’ you.” You bury your face in the pillow, muffling cries as he rails you, hand fisting your hair to pull your head back just enough to whisper, “Cum for me, Y/N. Squeeze that dick.”

The risk, the almost-caught thrill—it pushes you over. Your orgasm crashes, body spasming, cum shooting onto the sheets. Jordan follows, groaning low as he pulses inside you, hips jerking.

He pulls out, disposing of the condom discreetly, then helps you clean up with tissues from the nightstand. You’re both breathless, giggling like idiots. “That was insane,” you say, pulling on your clothes.

Jordan smirks, kissing you deep. “Worth every second. Now let’s go eat that flan before they send a search party.”

Goodmorning 🌞

Wanna see more and some more spicy🌶 pics?