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Latin Boys: Dominican Shooter - Paniwaterss x Male Reader

Plot: After a sweaty summer basketball practice in the Bronx, you follow the cocky, “straight” Dominican shooter Paniwaterss back to his apartment, where his subtle flirts quickly turn into raw, possessive sex as he claims your ass with thick, relentless Dominican dick while growling filthy Spanglish praise in your ear.

Warnings: smut

Word Count: 1.85k

Dominican Shooter

The summer heat in the Bronx hit different after a full-court run. It was late July, the kind of sticky afternoon where the asphalt on the court off 183rd smelled like hot tar and fried empanadas from the corner cart. The sun was still high, baking everything in that golden-orange glow, and your tank top clung to your chest like a second skin, soaked with sweat. The pickup game had been brutal—ten guys going hard, trash talk flying in Spanish and English—but you held your own. Especially against him.

Paniwaterss. Everybody called him Pani, the Dominican shooter. Six-three of pure Caribbean muscle, caramel skin gleaming under the lights, those tight basketball shorts riding low on his hips, showing the deep V that disappeared into his waistband. His durag was still on, curls peeking out, and that gold chain with the tiny Dominican flag pendant bounced against his collarbone every time he drained a three. He wasn’t just good—he moved like the court owed him money, cocky but smooth, the kind of guy who made the whole block watch.

You were grabbing your water bottle off the bench when he jogged over, shirt slung over one shoulder, abs flexing with every step. That heavy Dominican accent rolled out low and lazy, thick like honey and rum.

“Coño, papi… you killed that shit today, eh? That crossover on me? Mmm, you got me watchin’ real close, you know what I’m sayin’?” He grinned, teeth bright against his skin, and wiped his chest with the shirt. His eyes—dark, hooded, always half-lidded like he was thinking dirty thoughts—dragged down your body for a second too long. “You lookin’ good out there, bro. All that sweat… damn. Legs strong like that? A nigga could get used to the view.”

You laughed it off, but your stomach flipped. Pani was “straight.” Everybody knew it. He talked about the girls from the Heights, the one he took to the club last weekend, how she rode him till the sun came up. But lately the flirts had been stacking up. Little comments after practice. A hand on your lower back when he guarded you. The way he called you “papi” like it tasted good in his mouth.

“Whatever, man,” you said, trying to play it cool even though your dick twitched in your shorts. “You were the one showing off with those step-backs.”

He stepped closer. The heat coming off his body mixed with the summer air—clean sweat, that cheap Axe body spray he always wore, and something warmer underneath. His voice dropped, Spanglish slipping in easy.

“Ay, no lie, though. You got me thinkin’, eh? All that runnin’ up and down… you built nice, bro. Real nice. I ain’t even gon’ front.” He licked his bottom lip, slow. “My crib right around the corner on Grand. AC workin’. Cold Presidente in the fridge. Come cool off before you melt out here like a damn helado. Just us, no cap.”

You should’ve said no. Should’ve gone home. But the way he said it—voice low, accent curling around every word like smoke—made your pulse thump in your throat. You nodded.

“Bet.”

His apartment was a third-floor walk-up, the stairs creaking under your sneakers. The second you stepped inside, the AC hit like a blessing, but the heat between you two stayed thick. He kicked the door shut, tossed his keys on the counter, and peeled his shorts down just enough to adjust himself—casual, like it was nothing, but you caught the heavy bulge straining the fabric of his black compression shorts.

“Coño, it’s hot as hell even with the AC,” he muttered, grabbing two cold beers from the fridge. He handed you one, fingers brushing yours longer than necessary. “Sit, papi. Relax. You earned it today.”

You sat on the old leather couch. Pani didn’t sit across from you. He dropped right next to you, thigh pressed against yours, still shirtless, still glistening. The TV stayed off. The only sound was the low hum of the AC and the traffic outside on the avenue.

He took a long swig, throat working, Adam’s apple bobbing. Then he turned, eyes locking on yours.

“You know… I keep tellin’ everybody I’m straight, right?” He chuckled, but it was dark, husky. “Girls, parties, all that. But damn, bro… when I’m guardin’ you out there? When you bend over to tie your laces and I see that ass in them shorts?” He leaned in, breath warm against your ear. “A nigga start thinkin’ shit he ain’t supposed to. Like… how you would feel. Under me. Takin’ it.”

Your beer almost slipped. His hand landed on your thigh—big, calloused from years of ball, thumb rubbing slow circles.

“I ain’t gay, you feel me?” he whispered, accent thicker now, voice dripping sex. “But for you? Shit… I might make an exception. Just once. Just to see if that pretty mouth and that fat ass feel as good as I been dreamin’.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. His free hand cupped the back of your neck and pulled you in. The kiss was hungry—tongue sliding in like he owned you, tasting like beer and summer and pure Dominican heat. He groaned into your mouth, low and filthy.

“Jum… sabe rico, papi,” he murmured against your lips. “Taste so fuckin’ good.”

You were hard before he even touched you. Pani noticed. His palm slid up your thigh and squeezed your cock through your shorts, stroking once, twice, slow and teasing.

“Look at you… already leakin’ for me, eh? Straight nigga got you this bricked up?” He laughed soft, cocky. “Take ‘em off. Let me see what I been missin’.”

You shoved your shorts down. Your cock sprang free, hard and throbbing. Pani’s eyes darkened. He licked his lips.

“Coño… mira eso. Nice and thick. But mine bigger, you know that already.” He stood up, pushed his own compression shorts down, and yeah—his dick was a monster. Long, veiny, dark caramel with a fat head already shiny with precum. Dominican pride in every inch. He stroked himself once, slow, showing off.

“C’mere, baby boy. On your knees for your shooter.”

You dropped. The carpet was rough on your knees but you didn’t care. Pani’s hand tangled in your hair, guiding you forward.

“Suck it, papi. Show me how bad you want this Dominican dick.”

You took him in—hot, heavy, stretching your lips. He tasted clean and salty, precum coating your tongue. Pani’s head fell back, durag still on, gold chain swinging.

“Ay, mierda… just like that. Good boy. Deeper—coño, yeah. You been practicin’ on them toys thinkin’ about me, huh? I know you have.”

He started slow, hips rocking gentle, but the dirty talk never stopped—thick accent, Spanglish pouring out like he couldn’t help it.

“Fuck… your mouth so warm, bro. Wet like pussy but tighter. Swallow me—sí, así. Good fuckin’ boy. You look so pretty with my dick down your throat. My straight ass never had head this good… shit, you makin’ me weak.”

Saliva dripped down your chin. He wiped it with his thumb and fed it back into your mouth around his cock. Then he pulled out, strings of spit connecting you, and slapped the heavy length against your cheek.

“Enough. I want that ass. Turn around—hands on the couch.”

You obeyed, ass up, chest pressed to the cushions. Pani dropped to his knees behind you, big hands spreading you open.

“Jum… look at this pretty hole. Pink and tight. Been waitin’ for Dominican dick, eh?” His breath ghosted over you right before his tongue—hot, wet, relentless. He ate you like he was starving, moaning into your ass, accent muffled but filthy.

“Mmm, sabe rico… so fuckin’ sweet. You clenchin’ on my tongue already? Greedy little bottom. Relax for me, papi. Let me open you up.”

Two thick fingers joined his tongue, scissoring, curling, finding your prostate and rubbing until your legs shook. He spat on your hole, worked it in, third finger stretching you wide.

“You ready? Tell me you want this Dominican shooter to breed you.”

“I want it,” you gasped. “Fuck me, Pani—please.”

He stood, lined up, and pushed. The head popped in—burning stretch, so full you saw stars. He didn’t stop. Inch after thick inch slid home until his hips met your ass and his balls rested against yours.

“Coño… tight as fuck. Virgin-tight for me, huh? That’s my good boy.” He stayed still for a second, letting you adjust, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. Then he pulled back slow and slammed in—deep, hard, perfect.

The rhythm built fast. Skin slapping skin, the couch creaking, his gold chain jingling with every thrust. Pani fucked like he played ball—focused, powerful, relentless. Every stroke nailed your prostate, sending sparks up your spine.

“Take this dick, papi—take every fuckin’ inch. You feel that? That’s Dominican power right there. Stretchin’ you open so good. Your hole grippin’ me like it don’t wanna let go. Shit… you creamin’ on my cock already? Nasty boy.”

He leaned over you, chest to your back, one hand wrapping around your throat—not choking, just holding, possessive. His lips brushed your ear.

“You mine tonight, you hear me? Straight or not— this ass is mine. Say it.”

“It’s yours—fuck—Pani, it’s yours!”

He growled, hips snapping faster. The slap of skin was obscene, wet and loud. Sweat dripped from his chest onto your back. He reached under you, stroking your cock in time with his thrusts—rough, perfect.

“Gonna nut in you, bro. Fill this pretty hole till it’s leakin’ Dominican cum. You want that? Want me to breed you like my little secret bottom?”

“Yes—please—cum inside me—”

He fucked you harder, deeper, grunting in that sexy accent.

“Ay, coño… aquí voy, papi. Take it—take all this nut—mierdaaa—”

His cock pulsed, hot ropes flooding you so deep you felt it in your stomach. He kept thrusting through it, milking every drop, until you were shaking and spilling over his fist, ass clenching around him so tight he cursed in Spanish.

He didn’t pull out right away. Just stayed buried, breathing hard, kissing the back of your neck soft now.

“Damn… that was better than any pussy, no cap.” A lazy laugh. “Don’t tell nobody, eh? But… we doin’ this again. My shooter need his favorite receiver after every practice.”

He finally slid out, cum trickling down your thigh. Pani wiped it with two fingers and pushed it back inside you, possessive.

“Keep it in there, baby boy. That’s mine now.”

You collapsed on the couch, spent, glowing. Pani grabbed the remote, turned on the TV like nothing happened, and pulled you against his chest—still naked, still sweaty, gold chain cool against your skin.

“Next practice… wear them gray shorts again,” he murmured, accent sleepy and satisfied. “The ones that make your ass look fat. I got more where that came from.”

Outside, the Bronx summer kept burning. Sirens wailed in the distance. But in Pani’s apartment, the AC hummed, cold beers waited, and the Dominican shooter had just claimed his new favorite secret.