What Happened in Cartagena with My Biological Father

I’m twenty-five years old, five months pregnant, and happier than I ever thought possible. I know a lot of people judge me when they learn my story, but a long time ago I learned how to hold anyone’s gaze. What I’m about to tell you began six years ago, and I still can’t quite believe it really happened to me.

I grew up alone with my mother. My biological father left home when I was five, and I don’t have a single memory of him: not a voice, not a scent, not a photograph. For me, my father was always Andrés, the man my mother met years later. Andrés took me to school, tended my scraped knees, and taught me how to drive. When someone asked about my dad, I spoke of him without hesitation.

The other man, the biological one, was barely a surname on my birth certificate. A story nobody wanted to tell me in full. Until one March afternoon I heard him arguing at my front door.

I was nineteen then. Skinny, brown-skinned, with shoulder-length curly hair and round hips I was just beginning to learn how to use. I went downstairs barefoot, drawn by the voices. At the door, Andrés was fighting with a man I’d never seen before. He must have been about fifty. Blue shirt. Salt-and-pepper hair that looked far too good on him.

“Who is he?” I asked.

My mother stepped between us, let out a long sigh, and brought him in. The four of us sat down in the living room. She squeezed my hand and said what I had already begun to suspect:

“This is Esteban. Your father.”

I felt a chill run down my spine. It wasn’t nostalgia. It wasn’t tenderness. It was an emptiness I didn’t know how to name. To me, my father was still Andrés. That man was a well-dressed stranger who had come to disturb my family’s peace.

Esteban spoke softly, like someone apologizing for breathing. He said he wanted to make up for lost time, that he regretted it, that he had rebuilt his life and that his current partner was pregnant and he dreamed of introducing me to his new family. He wanted to invite me on a trip. To Cartagena. A work convention. A couple of weeks at the beach so we could get to know each other.

I was about to say no. I had my refusal ready on my tongue. But then he said Cartagena, he said beach, he said five-star hotel, and at nineteen that sounded to me like a life I had never had.

“I’ll go,” I said, without looking at Andrés.

***

Over the next few weeks, Esteban behaved like a textbook father. He texted me every day, asked about university, sent me some money so I could buy summer clothes. One night he called me very upset: his partner had lost the pregnancy and they had ended up fighting, and she had left the house. I asked if the trip was still on, expecting a no. He said yes, that now more than ever he needed it. That the two of us would go. Father and daughter.

That last word did something strange to my stomach. I couldn’t translate it.

The day came. I packed a suitcase full of light dresses and sarongs. Esteban picked me up in a very clean gray truck. I said goodbye to my mother with a quick hug, kissed Andrés, and got into the car. All the way to the airport we talked like two old friends meeting again. Not like father and daughter. That wasn’t anywhere in sight.

It was my first flight. Esteban gave me the window seat, explained the seatbelt lights, lent me his shoulder when we took off and I got scared. We landed in Cartagena at sunset, in a sticky heat that worked its way under your clothes. We took a taxi to the hotel and, when I got out, I felt for the first time in a long while a clean emotion. Happiness without guilt.

We spent the first day at the beach. We took photos hugging, with sand up to our knees. I posted them on my socials and a friend sent me a teasing message: “careful with that sugar daddy.” I laughed, but something inside me kept thinking about that phrase far longer than it should have.

***

That night he asked me to get dressed up for dinner. I put on a black dress I had never worn and low heels. When he came out of the bathroom, freshly shaved, with his white shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows, I saw him for the first time as something else. Not as a man. Not as a father. As a man. And I was frightened by how beautiful that fear was.

We had dinner in a restaurant overlooking the waterfront. We talked about everything except the obvious. Then we went to a bar in the old quarter and drank beer, too much of it. On the dance floor, two girls a little older than me started flirting with him. Esteban played along. I felt something I had no right to feel: rage. A heavy, girlfriend’s rage, not a daughter’s.

“I want to leave,” I told him, grabbing his arm.

“Why are you getting mad?” he asked, with half a smile. “You know I’m alone.”

I didn’t answer. We paid and left. We walked barefoot through the sand with our shoes in our hands. The moon was huge and the sea had that electric murmur the Caribbean has. We sat near the shore. He hugged me. He smelled like clean cologne and warm sweat. I pressed closer to him. This isn’t right, I thought. And then right away: but he’s not my father. He never was.

When he stood up to shake the sand off his pants, I went up on my toes and stole a kiss from him. Barely two seconds. He pushed me back gently, startled.

“What are you doing? I’m your father.”

“I don’t feel like you are,” I told him. “I don’t even know you.”

He fell silent. Then he hugged me and promised he wouldn’t tell my mother anything. He apologized. And in the end, in a low voice, he said:

“But I liked your little kiss.”

That sentence unraveled me. I hugged him again. This time he leaned in first, and he didn’t kiss me like a daughter anymore: he pushed his tongue deep into my mouth, bit my lip, and squeezed my ass with both hands over the dress. I felt his hard cock pressed against my belly and there, in the sand, a low moan escaped me that I couldn’t hold back.

***

We went up to the hotel kissing like two drunks in an elevator. His hand slipped under my dress, yanked my panties off, and ran two fingers through my soaked cunt. I grabbed his wrist so he wouldn’t pull them out and he laughed against my neck. On the third floor two men got in. They saw us, smiled, and one of them only had to slap Esteban on the shoulder and say, “Lucky bastard, brother.” I looked down at the floor, red to my neck, his fingers still between my legs under the fabric.

In the room we tore our clothes off in a rush. The buttons on his shirt flew across the floor. I pulled my dress down in one motion and ended up completely naked, my tits standing up and my cunt shining wet. He took off his pants and I found myself staring at his cock like someone staring at a sentence of death: thick, dark, with a clear drop beading at the tip. I knelt in front of him as if I’d been practicing my whole life. I took his dick with both hands, licked from his balls to the glans, and shoved it all the way into my mouth. My eyes filled with tears and I didn’t care. I sucked his cock slowly at first, squeezing his balls with one hand, then hungrily, letting him jam it down my throat. He grabbed my hair, set the rhythm, whispering “that’s it, my love, like that, suck it all,” and I obeyed with my mouth open and a string of saliva hanging from my chin.

He pulled me up by the hair, threw me on the bed on my back, and spread my legs with a slap of his hand. He got between my thighs and started eating my cunt like he was thirsty. He sucked my clit with his lips, pushed his tongue between my folds, drove it into me and came back up. I grabbed his gray hair and pressed his face against me. He made me come the first time, writhing on the sheets with my legs trembling around his head. He gave me no respite: he slid two fingers into my cunt and kept licking me until I came again, screaming his name, soaking his chin.

Only then did he climb on top of me. He grabbed his cock, ran it over the lips of my cunt to smear it, and shoved it in with a single thrust. I opened my mouth soundlessly, arched, pierced through. He started fucking me slowly, measuring me, looking me in the eyes. “Look what we’re doing,” he said through clenched teeth, “look what you’re making me do.” I bit his shoulder so I wouldn’t scream. He sped up. The bed started hitting the wall. His balls slapped my ass with every thrust and I sank my nails into his back.

He grabbed my hips, turned me over like a doll, and put me on all fours. He entered me again in one stroke, all the way in, and marked my ass with slaps that echoed through the room. Each smack made me clench harder around his cock. “There, daughter, there, this is what you wanted,” he said, and I was dying of shame and pleasure at the same time, answering “yes, daddy, more, break me.” I felt myself close and he yanked his cock out suddenly, dripping. He turned me around, dragged me by the hair to the edge of the bed, and shoved his cock into my mouth. He came in spurts, long and rough, filling my tongue and throat. A little spilled from the corner of his mouth. I swallowed as much as I could and looked him in the eyes with what was left shining on my lips. We collapsed, spent, on top of each other.

At dawn I saw him crying silently, seated on the edge of the bed. He went into the bathroom without greeting me. When he came out he told me it had all been a drunken mistake and that we were going to act like it hadn’t happened. I straddled him, fixed his hair, and kissed him slowly. I grabbed his sleeping cock over the towel and woke it up with my hand, slow little squeezes, until I felt it growing against my palm. I opened the towel, lifted myself a little, and impaled myself on it from top to bottom, still dripping from the night before. A long gasp slipped from him. Ten minutes later I was riding him again, hands braced on his chest, feeling his cock hit bottom with every downward motion. He sucked my tits, squeezed my ass, slid a finger into my ass, and there I came, clenching around him. The second time he didn’t bother pulling out. He filled my cunt with hot cum and I stayed still on top of him, feeling it drip between us.

***

The following days were a fake honeymoon. We ate holding hands, napped wrapped around each other, I sat on his lap on the terraces and felt his hard cock against my thigh. We fucked in the morning, in the afternoon, and before bed. He took me in the shower, against the window, face down with my face pressed into the pillow. One afternoon he ended up fucking me in the ass, slowly, with lubricant, while he whispered obscenities in my ear; he made me cry and come at the same time. Esteban had to attend his conferences almost every night. I stayed in the room with the TV and room service. One afternoon he dressed with a care he hadn’t bothered to use on me, and sprayed perfume twice. Something inside me twisted.

I waited two hours. Then I put on the shortest black miniskirt I had, high heels, and went down with nothing underneath. In the hallway I ran into two men drinking beer against the wall. They looked at me the way a man looks at a woman who knows she’s being looked at. I kept going.

I found Esteban in the second-floor lounge. He was sitting at a small table, too close to a woman of about forty-five. He had a hand on her neck. And he was kissing her, unhurriedly, like someone repeating an old gesture.

I got out of there before he saw me. I went up the stairs with tears in my eyes and pride in my throat. On the fifth floor, the two men from the hallway were still leaning against the wall. The taller one, the one with the open shirt, asked me what was wrong.

“My partner is an asshole,” I answered.

The other gave a soft laugh.

“That can be fixed, princess. Come on in, we’ll buy you a drink.”

I went in. I knew perfectly well what I was doing.

***

Their names were Raúl and Diego, or that’s what they told me, and it didn’t matter. They had a room with a balcony facing the sea. They poured me a beer and, before I finished it, one of them was already kissing me while the other lowered the straps of my dress and let it fall to my waist. They sucked my tits at the same time, one on each nipple, biting only lightly. Raúl hiked my dress up to my waist and discovered I wasn’t wearing anything underneath. He laughed.

“Look at the princess, came prepared.”

He slid two fingers into my cunt and pulled them out shiny. Diego licked them from Raúl’s hand. I let them do what they wanted. More than let them, I pushed them on. I wanted that night to be mine and not Esteban’s.

They ripped my dress off over my head and carried me to the bed. I knelt in the middle of the mattress and looked at them as if I had known them all my life. They dropped their pants. Two hard cocks at face level. I took one in each hand and started sucking them in turn. Raúl’s was thicker, Diego’s longer. They filled my mouth one after the other, shoved them down my throat, and made me swallow the saliva dripping from my chin. When I sucked one, the other squeezed my tits or pulled my hair. “This little whore knows what she’s doing,” Diego said, and I answered with a mouthful that yes, I was a whore, they should treat me like one.

They put me on all fours at the edge of the bed. I felt one strong hand on the back of my neck pressing my face into the mattress and another on my waist lifting my ass. Raúl entered me first, without warning, brutal, all the way to the balls. He fucked me like he needed to break something in me. Diego stood in front of me and shoved his cock into my mouth. The two of them thrust at the same time, one from the front and one from behind, and I was a hole between them. They switched places. Diego in back, Raúl in front. They fucked me like that for a long while, talking to each other as if I weren’t there, saying “what a tight little cunt” and “look how she sucks.” I came twice without either of them worrying about me, just from the back-and-forth of the thrusts.

It wasn’t tender. I didn’t want it to be. In the end they laid me on my back and stood one on each side, jerking themselves off over my face. They finished on me, on my chest and face, thick ropes that fell into my open mouth, over my eyelids, down my neck. I smeared the semen that was slipping off my tits onto my fingers and licked them as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Then they let me use their shower, washed me themselves with their hands, and kissed me at the door as if we were parting in a novel.

I went back to my room smelling like a perfume that wasn’t mine. Esteban arrived four hours later. He wanted to make love to me and I let him, but I was barely there. My head was in the room with the strangers. I fell asleep face down on the pillow, feeling powerful and broken at the same time.

***

There were two nights left before we went home. Esteban told me he had a conference that would last until dawn. I knew perfectly well what would last until dawn. I put on the shortest miniskirt I had, a bra-less top, high heels. I went out looking for Raúl and Diego. They weren’t in their room. But when I leaned out the bathroom window I heard music downstairs. I went down.

There were six men in a room with the door open. An improvised party, plastic cups, a small speaker. Raúl recognized me as soon as he saw me, kissed me in front of everyone, and the others laughed without malice. One asked whether they hadn’t said the party came with company. I smiled. They handed me a drink. Then another. I sat on different laps. I felt hands sliding up my thighs, fingers sneaking under my miniskirt, one already slipping a hand inside my cunt while another sucked my neck. They danced me, I danced myself. At some point I climbed onto the low table and started dancing with my eyes closed. They yanked my top off and I kept dancing topless, with six pairs of eyes devouring me. One came over and sucked a tit from below. Another shoved his tongue into my mouth. I was so wet my miniskirt stuck to my thighs.

Raúl carried me to the master bedroom and said out loud so everyone could hear: “one at a time, assholes, don’t break her.” They threw me on the bed and ripped off my skirt. I was left with my legs spread in the center, my cunt throbbing. The first one shoved himself into me in one thrust and fucked me fast, breathing in my ear, and came inside in five minutes. He barely got up before the second was pushing him aside to take his place. That one put me face down and drove himself into me, grabbing my hair. The third arrived with his cock in his hand and shoved it into my mouth while the other kept pounding me from behind. I felt the first load dripping down my thigh, the second filled my throat, the third they emptied into my belly.

They took turns one after another. After three, I stopped counting. I begged them to finish inside me, all of them. I begged them screaming, gasping, with my cunt open and my lips swollen. “Inside, assholes, all of you inside, I want you to fill me up.” I wanted to punish Esteban with a pregnancy whose origin he’d never know. One lifted me by the ass and sat me astride him. Another stood behind me and slid two fingers into my ass to open me before he put his cock in. I screamed against the chest of the man underneath me. They fucked both holes at the same time, the two of them going in and out in an alternating rhythm, and a third stood in front so I could suck his dick. I ended up sitting on one, another behind me, my head resting on the chest of a third, with all three cocks inside me spilling hot cum at the same time. The ones who had already finished came again, on my face, in my hair, on my back. I stayed open on my back, legs apart, my cunt dripping semen onto the sheets. The sun came up and I was still there, exhausted and deliciously empty, with sticky thighs and hair hardened with cum.

I went back to my room at three in the afternoon. Esteban was lying down, smelling like women’s perfume. He asked me where I had been. I told him I had gone down to eat. He believed me because it suited him to believe me.

***

On the way home we had a long conversation. He told me that during the trip he had finished inside me several times. That it was likely he had gotten me pregnant. I told him I didn’t care. That I loved him. That I wanted to stay with him. I didn’t tell him about the room full of men. I kept that to myself, like a hot stone under my tongue.

I moved in with him the following month. We invented a story for my mother and Andrés about a boyfriend from university who had gotten me pregnant. Andrés looked at me for a long time when I told him. I think he knew something. But he didn’t ask. He hugged me and told me he would love me just the same, whatever happened. That was the only time in all this time that I truly cried.

I lost that baby at three months. I don’t know if it was because of the alcohol on the trip, because of something I ate, because my body was telling me it wasn’t ready. We both cried. And yet that loss only brought us closer. Esteban left the convention mistress. I forgave him by loving him harder. I started calling him by his name. Never, ever, dad.

Now I’m twenty-five, living with him as his wife, even though legally we’re still something else, and I’m pregnant again. This time I know it’s his. I know because I haven’t slept with anyone else in a long time, and because my body tells me so even if that doesn’t make any logical sense. It’s a girl.

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, I watch him sleep and remember that kiss in the sand in Cartagena. The fear I felt. How that fear turned into a small, firm yes. I know a lot of people would say this is wrong, that what we did is forbidden, that our daughter should not exist, that my own mother couldn’t look me in the eye if she knew the truth. But I look at him and, honestly, I regret nothing.

Love, when it arrives late and through the wrong door, is still love.