The Dawn When My Brother-in-Law Climbed Down to the Mattress

Some things aren’t planned. The most intense ones never are.

What Rodrigo and I had been building had been months in the making, in that space where anything is possible and nothing is named. It started with a conversation on the terrace of his apartment, one Sunday when Fernanda was on the phone inside and we stayed silent, much too close, until he stretched out his hand and brushed mine without any excuse. I didn’t pull away. He didn’t either. After that came the midnight messages, the pretexts to be alone for five minutes, an October afternoon when we ended up locked in the bathroom of a bar for exactly as long as it took him to slip his hand under my skirt and check with two fingers how wet I was, while I squeezed his cock over his pants and whispered in his ear that this wasn’t going to stop on its own.

Fernanda didn’t know anything. Or at least that was what I told myself.

The weekend of the family gathering was the usual dinner at my parents’ house: the whole family together, too much food, beer that never ran out, music turned up way too loud. There’s a kind of joy that only family drinking creates, and that night it filled the whole house. Rodrigo arrived with Fernanda a little after seven. I saw her come in with her usual expression, that mix of boredom and judgment my sister reserves for gatherings she can’t avoid. He, on the other hand, came in and looked for me before looking for anyone else.

We found two moments alone that night. One in the kitchen while the others danced in the living room: he pressed himself against my back while I served ice, pushed my hair off my neck, and licked the skin just below my ear. I felt his hard cock against my ass over our clothes. I reached one arm back to grab it for a second, squeezed the bulge in his hand, and pulled away before anyone came in. Another in the garden, when I went out to get ice and he appeared behind me with the excuse of helping. Three minutes in the dark, his hand under my dress, sliding up my thigh until he found me without panties. He put two fingers all the way in, without asking, and pulled them out shining so he could suck them in front of me. No more was needed. It was enough to feed what would come next.

Then my mother made the decision that changed everything.

—Rodrigo, Fernanda, you’re staying in Camila’s room. Camila —she looked at me—, you sleep on the air mattress.

I nodded with the best smile I could fake. No one read anything in it.

***

The room smelled like the candle perfume I keep on the shelf, the one that gives the space a thick, sweet smell. Fernanda came in and went straight to the bathroom. Rodrigo came in after her with the air mattress under his arm and looked at me.

—By the window? —I asked, as if I didn’t already know the answer.

—Wherever you say —he replied.

I followed him. We unfolded the mattress more slowly than necessary. When I bent down to connect the air pump, I knew he hadn’t moved away and that he had a direct view of what the nightgown I’d put on didn’t fully hide. It was a cream silk, thin as paper. I knew perfectly well that from where he stood he could see my cunt and my ass in full, and I took my time in that position.

—Camila —he said, so low it was almost only air.

I didn’t answer. I straightened slowly, turned my back to him, and pretended to check the mattress pressure.

Fernanda came out of the bathroom, settled on her side of the bed, and switched off her lamp. Rodrigo lay down at the other end. I stretched out on the mattress on the floor, eyes open in the dark, listening to my sister’s breathing lengthen and deepen until it became that long, deep rhythm nobody awake would know how to fake.

I waited. The phone clock read two sixteen when I reached out my arm.

***

My fingers found the edge of the bed mattress, and then his hand. He squeezed it immediately. He wasn’t asleep, he never had been: there’s a particular tension in the breathing of someone waiting that is impossible to mistake for sleep.

He sat up in bed without making a sound, with that kind of slowness only learned when silence is a requirement. Fernanda was at the far end, her back to him, not moving. Rodrigo made it to the edge and lowered himself to the floor, kneeling on the air mattress beside me.

The only light was a thin strip leaking through the blinds from the street. It cut his face in half. He put his hand on my cheek, turned me toward him, and we kissed. It was the kind of kiss that builds up over weeks: restrained at first, then more urgent, with his hands in my hair and his mouth pressed against mine with a hunger that had no patience. He pushed his tongue all the way in and I sucked on it as if it were something else.

He lifted my nightgown over my hips and checked with his open palm that I wasn’t wearing anything underneath. He found my cunt soaked, a very low groan slipping from between his clenched teeth, and he ran his fingers between my lips from top to bottom, smearing his hand with what was coming out of me.

—You’re dripping —he whispered against my ear—. You’ve been like this for hours, haven’t you?

I nodded, biting my lip so I wouldn’t make a sound. He started rubbing my clit in slow circles with his middle finger, while with the other hand he held the back of my neck. I’d already been ready for this for hours, and the contact made everything tighten. Above us, on the bed, Fernanda didn’t move.

Rodrigo found and repeated. Whatever made me hold my breath, he did it twice more. When he slid two fingers in to the knuckles and curled them upward, hunting for that place inside, I had to grab his wrist with both hands so I wouldn’t lift off the mattress. He moved them slowly, pulling them out shining to the tip and sinking them back in, and with his thumb he kept working my clit. I could feel myself soaking his hand and running down my thigh to the mattress.

—Stop —I whispered—. I’m going to come and I won’t be able to stay quiet.

He stopped with his fingers still inside me. The bed creaked above. One, two, three seconds of absolute silence. Fernanda let out a sigh in her sleep and returned to her rhythm.

We waited a full minute without moving, him with his hand buried between my legs and me breathing through my nose.

Then I pulled him toward me and yanked down his pajama pants. He was hard against his stomach, veined, the head already wet. I grabbed his cock in my hand and squeezed the base. He shuddered all over.

I knelt on the mattress, leaning over him. I took him with my hand first, then with my mouth. I started at the tip, sucking him slowly, playing with my tongue around the glans. Then I took him in all the way, down my throat, and came back up swallowing my own saliva. I ran my tongue flat from the base to the top, sucked his balls one by one, and went back to his cock. I could feel him trying to control his breathing and not quite managing it. He muffled his sounds between clenched teeth. I put a hand on his stomach to tell him not to move.

—Like that —he murmured, his voice broken—. Slowly. Take it all in.

I took it all in. I felt the tip hitting the back of my throat, my eyes filled with water, and I stayed like that until he squeezed my shoulder to ask for air.

I changed position. I turned myself over him so that my knees were on either side of his head and my mouth stayed where it was. He understood without needing words. His hands circled my hips, pulled me down until I was sitting on his face, and I felt his tongue opening me with a single long lick, from clit to back.

It was the biggest effort of the night: keeping on sucking him while he was tearing me apart inside. He licked me as if he had accumulated hunger, sucked my clit between his lips, pushed his tongue into me, and came back up. The concentration was almost impossible. Every time I went down deep, he answered by pushing his tongue deeper. Every time he sucked my clit hard, I had to bite the pillow not to lose control completely.

The pleasure built and built until I had to pull his cock out of my mouth for a second to breathe. I kept working him with my hand, sliding the foreskin up and down slowly.

—Don’t stop —I told him against his skin, barely a voice—. Please. Suck me more.

He didn’t stop. He pushed his tongue back inside me and returned to my clit, and he slid two fingers into me at the same time. When I came, it was in total silence, with my face buried in his stomach and my fists clenched in the fabric. I pressed my head into his thighs and rode his face while I came, feeling him swallow everything that poured out of me. I finished completely, and he didn’t take his mouth away until the last spasm had passed.

Above us, in the bed, Fernanda was still sleeping.

***

I pulled him back toward me when I got my breath back. I lay face down, resting my forearms on the mattress, my face turned to the side and my ass lifted. Rodrigo positioned himself behind me. I felt him pass the head of his cock between the lips of my cunt, up and down, smearing it. He opened me with two fingers and entered slowly, with a slowness that demanded all my concentration so I wouldn’t react. He pushed all the way in with one continuous thrust, and I felt him press fully against my ass when there was no more cock left for him to put in.

—You’re so tight —he whispered against my nape—. You’re going to make me come right away.

—Shut up and fuck me —I answered without voice—. Slowly. Without making noise.

We found a rhythm that made no noise. Slow, precise. He came out almost all the way and went back in to the bottom, never speeding up. I clenched my cunt on purpose each time he hit the bottom, and he dug his fingers into my hips so I wouldn’t move. Controlled as much as something like that can be controlled. I listened to the wet sound of his cock going in and out, covered by Fernanda’s slow breathing a meter away from us, and it gave me even more pleasure to know she was there.

At some point I took his hand and brought it to my mouth. I sucked his thumb, left it thoroughly wet, and guided it back there. I whispered what I wanted. He hesitated for an instant; then he did what I asked, carefully, resting the pad of his thumb on my asshole and pressing very slowly until the finger slid in to the knuckle. It was a new and different sensation, to have him filling me in front with his cock and behind with his finger, and it forced me to bury my face in the mattress and focus on breathing without making noise. He started moving them in coordination: when the cock went in, the finger came out; when the cock came out, the finger went in. He opened me inside in a way that made me grit my teeth against the fabric so I wouldn’t scream.

—Are you okay? —he asked against my hair, with a whisper that was barely voice.

I nodded without speaking and pushed my ass back against his hip so he’d keep going. He held my hair with his other hand, not pulling, just gripping it in a fist, and sped up a little.

It didn’t last much longer, because neither of us could keep holding on to the control the situation required. He whispered in my ear that he was about to come, where. I told him inside. He drove in to the hilt, went still, and I felt him spill completely inside me, with his hand covering my mouth just in case. There were several long spasms, and with each one he pulled me tighter against him. When he finished, he rested his forehead against my back and stayed still for a few seconds, still inside, catching his breath in silence. I felt his cock throbbing inside me until it began to soften.

He came out slowly and I felt his semen running down my thigh. He slid two fingers between my legs, collected what was leaking out, and passed it over the lips of my mouth. I sucked them without thinking.

Up on the bed, Fernanda hadn’t moved all night.

***

Rodrigo went back to bed with the same caution with which he had climbed down. I stayed on the mattress, staring at the ceiling, my heart still racing, my cunt pulsing, and feeling his cum still dripping inside me. The room’s silence settled around me again. The phone read three forty-eight.

I didn’t sleep, or slept very little toward dawn. It didn’t matter.

At eight in the morning, my mother called us for breakfast. I put a robe over my nightgown and went down to the kitchen. Fernanda was already seated with her coffee with milk, checking her phone with that concentration she puts on when she wants to ignore the world. Rodrigo came in two minutes later, freshly combed, with that ability of his to look rested that had always seemed to me like a talent of its own.

The three of us sat around the small table. We talked about what the weather would be like that afternoon. About whether the nephews would want to stay for lunch. About a show Fernanda had watched the night before without finishing.

At some point, my sister asked me if I had slept well on the air mattress.

—Perfectly —I told her.

Rodrigo didn’t look up from his cup. But under the table, his foot brushed mine once, slowly, and withdrew.

It was enough.