I Slept With My Aunt’s Boyfriend to Get Back at Her

My name is Carolina, and what I’m going to tell you is something I still struggle to believe I actually did. I’m not the kind of girl who goes looking for trouble, but sometimes trouble finds you, and when it does, you discover things about yourself you never would have imagined.

It all started one Sunday when we went to visit my Aunt Graciela. My parents hadn’t seen her since she split up with my dad’s brother, so it was one of those family gatherings full of long hugs and awkward questions. I got along well with my cousins, and we had an entertaining afternoon playing cards and reminiscing about childhood vacations.

My dad said he’d come back for us, but he was delayed. Late that night, my aunt’s new boyfriend showed up. His name was Damián. She introduced him with a certain embarrassment, almost as if apologizing for having rebuilt her life. I didn’t care; what I did notice right away was that he was quite a bit younger than her. He had to be around twenty-eight, maybe thirty. Dark-haired, with defined arms and a smile he used too much.

—Your nieces are very pretty —he said when he greeted us, looking at me for a second longer than necessary.

I smiled politely, and we went on talking about nonsense. At some point I got up to go to the bathroom. The house had two: one downstairs, next to the stairs, and another upstairs, between the bedrooms. The downstairs one was occupied, so I went up. As I came out, I passed the master bedroom and saw Damián shirtless, looking for something in a drawer. He had broad shoulders and a tattoo on his side that ran down to his hip.

I didn’t want to look at him, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away. He looked up, caught me standing there, and just smiled. He said nothing. He didn’t need to.

I went back down with my pulse racing and sat down as if nothing had happened. My aunt, my mom, and my cousin went out to buy bread from the corner. I stayed with my cousin and Damián. Before they came back, my cousin asked him for my number. Damián was beside him and entered it in his phone too, naturally, like someone saving any other person’s contact.

My parents arrived, we went home, and I forgot about it.

***

Until three days later, when I posted a story on my social media and got a message from an unknown number. I ignored it. He insisted. On the fourth message I replied, asking who it was.

—It’s Damián, your aunt’s boyfriend.

I stared at the screen, not knowing what to say. I didn’t believe him until he described exactly what I was wearing that Sunday: the green skirt, the white sandals, my hair tied up in a loose bun.

I thanked him for the compliment and thought that would be the end of it. But then he asked me something that left me frozen: whether what my aunt and my cousin said about me was true. According to him, they talked about me behind my back. They said I was a slut, that I slept with half the world, that I had no shame.

It hurt. None of that was true. I was discreet about my life, and I didn’t understand where they got those stories. I felt angry, and that anger was the crack through which Damián slipped in.

—What a disappointment —he texted me—. I wanted to know more about you.

—What did you want to know? —I replied, still annoyed.

The conversation started innocently, but at some point it turned. It was gradual, like when you turn up the volume on music without realizing it and suddenly you feel it pounding in your chest. He asked me what I liked, what turned me on, whether I’d had experiences I couldn’t tell anyone about. I played along. With every answer of his, I got wetter.

I asked him whether he had a good sex life with my aunt. He confessed that they were almost never alone because my cousins wouldn’t let her go out. There was frustration in his words, and I recognized it because I felt it too.

—That Sunday I saw you, your body stayed in my head —he wrote to me—. I couldn’t stop thinking about you.

That night, lying in my bed, I slid my hand under my underwear and touched myself imagining it was his fingers. I came quickly, almost with guilt, and then I lay there staring at the ceiling, breathing hard, with my phone still warm on the pillow.

***

The messages went on all week. Each day more explicit, each night longer. He told me what he would do to me if he could have me. I described how I touched myself while reading him. It was a dangerous game, and we both knew it.

On Friday he suggested we meet on Saturday. I said I’d think about it, but the truth was I had already decided. It wasn’t just desire; it was also a kind of silent revenge against my aunt and her poisonous tongue. If she was going to call me a slut for no reason, at least I’d give her one.

On Saturday I regretted it three times before noon. I’d given him my address and didn’t know how to cancel without sounding like a coward. He texted me saying he’d arrive later than planned, and I was already looking for excuses not to leave the house when my parents told me they were going to visit some friends.

The house empty. All afternoon.

I messaged him: if he wanted, he could come straight to my house.

He agreed right away.

I went to shower and the heat rose in me with the steam. I shaved carefully, ran my hands all over my body, felt my skin slippery and sensitive. I didn’t touch myself. I wanted to save everything for him.

I chose my clothes slowly, like someone setting a stage. A small pink thong that showed between my lips. A short mini skirt without stockings. A fitted white blouse that left my navel bare. Black heels. I looked at myself in the mirror and felt powerful, desired, ready.

Before going downstairs, I took off my bra. My hard nipples showed through the white fabric. The doorbell rang and my heart pounded in my throat.

***

I opened the door and there was Damián, in a black T-shirt that emphasized his arms and that smile I already knew by heart. I told him to come in. As soon as I closed the door, I felt his hands slipping under my skirt, squeezing my ass with urgency.

—You look incredible —he whispered in my ear—. You smell too good.

I turned, grabbed him by the nape, and kissed him. It was a long, wet kiss, the kind that is no longer a prelude but a declaration of intent. We moved into the living room without separating, bumping into the coffee table, knocking a cushion to the floor.

Once we were sitting on the couch, I noticed he was looking at my breasts. My nipples stood out against the fabric as if asking for attention. He slid his hands under my blouse and squeezed them firmly, massaging, pinching gently while he kissed my neck. I closed my eyes and felt my whole body vibrating.

—You’re so hot —he whispered—. You have no idea how much I wanted you.

He spread my legs decisively and slipped his fingers under my thong. I was soaking wet. He slid two fingers into me while kissing my neck, and I moaned against his ear unable to hold back. Feeling him like that, in my own living room, with the door just closed and danger beating in every corner, made everything more intense.

I couldn’t take it anymore. I stopped him in front of me, unbuttoned his pants, and yanked down his boxer briefs. His cock came out hard, thick, veins standing out. I took it into my mouth without thinking. I ran my tongue along it from base to tip, sucked slowly, then deeper. He grabbed my hair and told me I was doing so well, that I had an amazing mouth.

I went down to his balls, licked them, took them into my mouth carefully while I jerked him off with my hand. Then I swallowed him again. Every moan of his turned me on more. I was touching myself with the other hand; I needed to feel something inside me.

***

Damián gently pulled me away, laid me back on the couch, and spread my legs. He knelt in front of me and started to lick me. His tongue was slow, precise, taking its time with every fold. He sucked my clit with his lips and slipped in a finger, then two, moving them in circles while his mouth never stopped. I arched my back, gripped the back of the couch, pushed my hips toward his face.

—Fuck me already —I begged, my voice broken—. I can’t take it anymore.

He stood up, settled between my legs, and pushed in. I felt him opening me, the thickness stretching me, a brief pain that dissolved into pleasure when he started moving slowly. He left his cock inside me for a moment, still, looking into my eyes, and then he began to thrust in a steady rhythm.

I came fast. Too fast. A short, violent orgasm that made me clamp my legs around his waist. But he didn’t stop. He kept moving, deeper, harder, and I felt like every nerve ending in my body was lit up.

He pulled his cock out of me, stripped off my thong, which was already hanging from one ankle, and put me on all fours at the edge of the couch. Bent over like that, he entered me again. This time I felt him deeper, filling me completely. He held my waist and pulled me toward him with each thrust. He slapped my ass and the sound echoed through the empty living room.

—Come on, give me more, harder —I said, not recognizing my own voice—. Don’t stop.

He squeezed my ass, spread it apart, alternated slaps while he fucked me without mercy. I moaned into the cushion under my face, biting it so I wouldn’t scream. Then he lowered his mouth to my back and I felt his lips tracing my spine while he was still inside me.

***

He turned me face up again. I took the chance to sit up and take his cock into my mouth once more. I wanted to taste us together, to feel my own flavor mixed with his. Then he laid me back down, put my legs over his shoulders, and fucked me like that, deep, at an angle that made me see lights.

He squeezed my breasts with both hands while looking me in the eyes. I held his gaze, biting my lip, telling him not to stop, to give me everything.

The second orgasm shook me to my core. I felt my legs trembling, my stomach contracting, a liquid heat running through me from the inside. Damián sped up, his thrusts became shorter and more desperate, and suddenly he pulled out of me and came all over my stomach and breasts. His hot semen fell in long streams while he moaned, his head thrown back.

We stayed still, panting, looking at the mess. My thong was lying next to the couch. I picked it up and wiped his semen from my body with it, slowly, like a ritual. I handed it to him so he could clean off what was left on him. When he gave it back, I folded it and left it on the coffee table.

—You have to go —I said as I sat up—. My parents could get here at any moment.

I walked him to the door slowly, in silence, my legs still weak. Before leaving, he kissed me again, softly, and slipped his hand back between my thighs. He found me hot, open, throbbing.

I leaned in close to his ear and whispered:

—Tell my aunt I’m no crazy little girl. That I’m a woman who knows what she wants and sleeps with whoever she least expects.

He smiled, gave me one last kiss on the forehead, and left.

I closed the door and leaned against it with my eyes shut. I went back to the living room, picked up the damp thong from the coffee table, and brought it to my face. It still smelled like him, like me, like what we had just done. I ran my tongue over the fabric and tasted the salty flavor of his semen mixed with my arousal.

I put it on like that, soaked, and went up to my room. I lay on the bed staring at the ceiling with a smile too big for my face. I felt no guilt. I felt no regret. I only felt that, for the first time, the version of me other people invented fell short compared with the real thing.