Breakfast in Bed

Peter woke slowly, the kind of deep, **** sleep that comes after total exhaustion. Sunlight was already pouring through unfamiliar cream-colored curtains (definitely not the cheap blackout ones from his old room). His body felt heavy, pinned by a warm weight curled against his left side. The sheets smelled faintly of jasmine and laundry detergent, and the mattress… the mattress was huge and soft in a way his childhood twin bed had never been.

He blinked, confused, and turned his head.

The younger girlfriend (his dad, or what used to be his dad) was snuggled tight against him, one smooth leg thrown over his thigh, her dark hair fanned across his chest. She was still naked except for the gold bangles on her wrist, which glinted in the morning light. Her breathing was slow and content, lips slightly parted, one arm draped possessively across his stomach as if she’d claimed him in her sleep.

Peter’s heart lurched.

This wasn’t his room.

The nightstands were dark wood. There was a big mirrored dresser against the far wall. A wedding photo in a silver frame sat on the dresser (except now, in the picture, it showed his parents as these two stunning Latina women in wedding dresses, arms around each other, smiling like they’d always been this way).

Master bedroom. He was in his parents’ bed.

His stomach flipped.

Then he saw it: the remote, sitting innocently on the bedside table right next to him, within arm’s reach. The little red power light blinked slowly, like it was waiting.

Before he could process any of it, the door opened quietly.

The mature girlfriend (once his mom) stepped in wearing nothing but a silk robe the colour of fresh cream, tied loosely so it gaped at the front, showing the deep curve of her cleavage and the red thong from yesterday. Her long black waves were pulled into a messy bun, a few strands framing her face. She carried a wooden breakfast tray with a plate of fluffy scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and buttered toast, plus a glass of orange juice and a single red rose in a tiny vase.

“Buenos días, Papi,” she murmured, voice low and warm, her accent wrapping around the words like velvet. She padded barefoot across the carpet, hips swaying, and set the tray carefully on the nightstand right over the remote (covering it completely). “You slept so good. I didn’t want to wake you, but mi amor needs to eat, sí?”

She leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his forehead, then to his lips (slow, familiar, like she’d been doing this for years). The younger girlfriend stirred at the movement, mumbling something sleepy in Spanish and nuzzling closer to Peter’s side without waking fully.

The mature one smiled, running her fingers gently through Peter’s hair. “Eat, bebé. Then maybe we take a shower together, hmm? All three of us.”

She straightened, letting the robe slip a little lower on one shoulder, and gave him a look that said the day had only just begun.

The remote was right there, hidden beneath the breakfast tray, waiting.

Peter stared at the rose, the eggs, the two women who used to be his parents, and felt the world tilt all over again.

Peter sat propped against the headboard, still half-dazed, the tray balanced on his lap. The smell of buttery scrambled eggs and crisp bacon filled the room, making his stomach growl despite everything.

The mature girlfriend (Mami, as she kept calling herself) slid onto the bed beside him, the silk robe parting as she moved so that one full, heavy breast nearly spilled free. She picked up the fork with crimson-tipped fingers, scooped up a fluffy mound of eggs, and blew on it gently.

“Open, Papi,” she cooed, her voice low and maternal in the most sinful way possible.

Peter’s mouth opened before his brain caught up. She slipped the fork between his lips, watching him chew with a satisfied little smile, her dark eyes gleaming. The eggs were perfect: soft, creamy, a little peppery. She fed him another bite, then a piece of bacon she held between her fingers, letting him take it from her hand. When a tiny bit of grease stayed on his lower lip, she leaned in and licked it off slowly, deliberately, her tongue warm and teasing.

From his other side, the younger girlfriend (once his dad, now this lithe, mischievous beauty) had finally woken up fully. She stretched like a cat, gold bangles singing, then crawled over Peter’s legs and settled herself straddling one of his thighs, completely naked and shameless.

“Ay, you started without me?” she pouted playfully, reaching for the tray. “That’s not fair, Mami.”

Mami laughed, a rich, throaty sound, and handed her the fork. “Then help me, bebé. Our man needs energy for later.”

The younger one grinned wickedly, speared a piece of bacon, and held it just out of Peter’s reach. “Say ‘por favor, mi amor’ first.”

Peter swallowed, face burning. “…Por favor, mi amor.”

She rewarded him instantly, placing the bacon on his tongue, then chasing it with a quick, deep kiss that tasted like smoke and salt. When she pulled back, she kept the fork and took over feeding him eggs while Mami held the glass of orange juice to his lips, tilting it carefully so he could drink, her thumb brushing his cheek when a drop escaped.

They turned it into a slow, intimate game, taking turns. One fed him while the other stroked his hair, his chest, his thigh (never pushing too far yet, just keeping him in a constant low simmer of arousal). Every few bites they kissed him, sometimes soft and sweet, sometimes filthy and open-mouthed, passing the taste of breakfast between them all.

“Good boy,” Mami murmured after he’d cleaned half the plate, wiping his mouth with a napkin before pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of his lips. “Look at you, letting us take care of you.”

The younger one set the fork down, crawled up his body, and straddled his lap facing him, the tray pushed safely aside. She threaded her fingers through his hair and kissed him slow and deep while Mami spooned another bite of eggs and held it to his lips from the side, waiting patiently until the younger one let him breathe again so he could eat.

Back and forth they went, feeding him, kissing him, whispering soft Spanish praise (“Así, mi rey… come bien… todo para ti…”) until the plate was scraped clean, the juice glass empty, and Peter was flushed, hard, and utterly overwhelmed.

Only then did Mami set the tray on the dresser and slide back into bed on his left while the younger one stayed draped across his chest. They nestled against him on both sides, warm skin and jasmine and soft curves pinning him gently in place.