That Snowy Night, My Aunt Stopped Being My Aunt

My name is Marcos, I’m thirty-four years old, and I work as a clinical psychologist at the university. I’m telling this because I need to tell someone, even though I know there are very few people who would understand without judging me. What happened last winter with my aunt Elena changed me forever, and I still don’t know whether what changed was my boundaries or simply the clarity with which I began to see what had already existed for some time.

Elena is sixty years old. She’s a journalist, best known in the world of television documentaries. She isn’t a media star, but she has a name of her own, and in recent years she had earned recognition working on projects dealing with complex social issues. My uncle had died five years earlier, and since then she and I had grown much closer. Her son Rodrigo, a year older than me, had moved to Santander with his wife, so in practice I was the person most present in her everyday life. We live in the same building, she on the fifth floor and me on the third.

My mother, who was her sister, died during the pandemic. That shared bond of loss united us in a way that goes beyond anything words can explain. Elena treated me like a second son, and I treated her as the only real family I had left.

***

The catalyst for everything was a documentary. Elena had spent months working on a project about incestuous relationships: psychological causes, anonymous testimonies, and legal and anthropological perspectives. Since I specialize in clinical psychology and had spent years working with patients going through family-related conflicts, she asked me to help with the technical side. We had two sessions of nearly an hour each in which we talked about the Oedipus and Electra complexes, forbidden attraction as an unconscious phenomenon, and the mechanisms of repression we use so we don’t act on certain desires.

I spoke from a professional standpoint. Elena took notes with the seriousness of someone who knew how to distinguish work from prurience. The documentary aired on a subscription platform and received a good deal of attention. Shortly afterward, Elena was invited onto a debate program where one of the panelists asked her, with a knowing smile, whether she had ever had an experience of that kind in her own life.

—No —Elena replied with a smile that lasted a second too long.

That was all. But that smile, that tiny crack in her professional composure, stayed engraved in my memory like an unanswered question.

***

For weeks I didn’t think about it again. Or so I told myself. The truth was that one afternoon, while I was going upstairs to fix a small problem in her kitchen, Elena wasn’t home and curiosity got the better of me. In her study, on the worktable, there was a folder with a handwritten title: “Maternal Incest: Taboo or Latent Desire?”

I opened the folder. Inside were printouts of academic articles, names of films, screenshots from forums, and several pages from erotic magazines featuring stories about mothers and sons. I turned on her computer, which had no password, and checked the browser history. The search dates were well after the documentary had been delivered. Elena had kept searching. About the subject, about stories, about videos. There were saved tabs with titles that left no room for doubt: “Mom Sucks Her Son’s Cock,” “Mature Woman Fucks Her Nephew,” “Aunt Teaches Her Nephew to Fuck.” The temporary files contained video thumbnails showing mature women on their knees, mouths open, with the cock of a much younger man going down their throats.

I closed everything and went back to the kitchen as if nothing had happened. I fixed the faucet, waited for her to return, had coffee with her, and went home feeling strangely agitated. The moment I crossed the door of my apartment, I was already hard, straining against my trousers. I got into the shower, grabbed it with my soapy hand, and jerked off thinking of Elena on her knees, my cock filling her mouth, looking up at me with those eyes of hers, the eyes of a woman who knew everything. I came after two minutes, with a moan that echoed off the tiles.

I didn’t sleep well that night.

***

I’m not going to try to psychoanalyze what happened to me next, because it would be dishonest to pretend I’m objective in this matter. I only know that something changed in the way I looked at Elena. I began noticing details that had always been there: the way she crossed her legs when she was sitting, the clothes she chose to wear at home, the way she moved around the kitchen when we cooked together. Elena had always taken care of herself, more than most of the women around her. She had a well-proportioned body, long legs, a figure that apologized for nothing about her age. The firm, round ass outlined beneath her skirt, the large, still-high breasts that filled out her blouses, the nipples that could sometimes be made out through the thin fabric when the apartment’s air-conditioning was too strong. Several colleagues from the faculty, when they had seen her at some event, had described her without hesitation as an impressive woman. One of them, drunk at dinner, had gone so far as to tell me he’d fuck my aunt until he broke her.

I had never looked at her that way. Until I started, and then I couldn’t stop.

One night I invited her to dinner at my apartment. I suggested we watch the documentary together as an excuse to discuss the subject with a certain professional distance. Elena agreed. She arrived straight from work, wearing a dark jacket-and-skirt outfit that suited her very well. After dinner, when the documentary reached that interview, I paused the image and told her what I thought: that her smile when she answered “no” wasn’t the smile of someone rejecting an idea, but of someone recognizing something without wanting to admit it.

Elena stared at me for several seconds.

—Maybe —she said at last.

That was all. But with that look, with that voice. I didn’t press her any further. I changed the subject, we talked about other things, and before eleven she went back to her apartment. I was left alone, with a tightness in my chest, my cock hard against my zipper, and a tension in my chest that took me a long time to call what it was. That night I jerked off twice before I managed to fall asleep, thinking about her mouth, about the way her lips moved when she said “maybe.”

***

A few days later, Elena asked me to accompany her to Bilbao. She had to meet with her technical team to prepare a program about the upcoming local elections in the Basque Country, and since I was working on research into regression hypnosis, she said I could make use of the trip.

—I can be your guinea pig if you want —she joked.

I accepted without hesitation.

We left in the middle of the afternoon. Elena was driving, but a few miles outside Madrid she fell asleep in the passenger seat, and I asked her to let me take the wheel. The sky was overcast, and the radio had mentioned a chance of snow in the mountain areas. While she slept with her head resting against the window, I couldn’t help looking at her in profile. She was wearing a dark dress made of thin fabric that slid over her legs with every movement, revealing the dark stockings covering them. On every curve the fabric rode a little higher, showing the bare thigh above the top of the stocking—that strip of firm white flesh where the garter bit into her skin.

I wondered whether they were stockings with garters or pantyhose. My cock hardened as I drove, and I had to surreptitiously adjust it inside my trousers.

—Focus, Marcos —I said quietly to myself.

She didn’t wake up.

***

The rain began twenty minutes later. Once we crossed the mountain range, the rain turned to snow, and the snow grew steadily heavier. Elena woke when the windshield wipers could barely keep up with the quantity of flakes. Several cars had been stranded on the shoulders of the highway. We were moving at thirty kilometers an hour.

—This isn’t going to get any better —Elena said, looking out the window.

—There’s a motel at the next exit —I told her, pointing to a sign.

She nodded without hesitation.

I took the exit. The industrial park where the motel stood was already a featureless expanse of white. We parked as close to the entrance as possible and ran through the snow. We reached the lobby soaked.

The motel was called Suite Velvet. From the outside it looked like an unassuming roadside place. Inside, the signs on the walls left little to the imagination: “An Experience for Two,” “Discover Our Luxury Suites for Couples,” “Room Service Available All Night.” There was something about the warm lighting and strategically placed mirrors that made it clear this wasn’t the kind of place where truck drivers stayed.

The receptionist greeted us with complete naturalness.

—We have two rooms available —she said—. The Classic Suite, at eighty-five euros a night, or the Exotic Suite, at three hundred and ninety.

Elena looked at me.

—The eighty-five-euro one —she said without hesitation—. Do you mind sharing?

—Not at all —I replied.

***

The room confirmed every suspicion. A large bed with white sheets, a padded headboard with a metal bar hanging from it, mirrors on the side wall, and another on the ceiling directly above the bed, surrounded by lights that changed color with a rotary switch beside the door. On the nightstand was a room-service brochure, and beneath it another catalog, this one for “couples’ accessories,” with very explicit photographs of dildos, harnesses, nipple clamps, and flavored lubricants.

I quickly put it in the drawer when Elena disappeared into the bathroom. While she showered, I sat on the edge of the bed, turning the situation over in my mind. That motel wasn’t a place designed for chance. It was a place designed precisely for this: two people, one bed, one night with no escape.

Elena came out of the bathroom wrapped in the motel’s white bathrobe, her hair damp and her skin gleaming. Her clothes were soaked, and she had hung them on the radiator. When I went into the bathroom after her, I saw her black underwear drying beside the dress: a small lace panty and a bra that wasn’t what a woman who dressed only for work would wear. She had nothing on beneath the bathrobe. Beneath the hanging bra was a wet stain different from the others, one that wasn’t water, and I stared at it longer than I should have. I grabbed myself through my trousers and had to clench my teeth to keep from jerking off right there, with Elena’s scent filling my nose.

I went out, trying to appear calmer than I felt.

***

We had something delivered by room service, sitting across from each other at the small table near the entrance. Elena’s bathrobe opened slightly at the cleavage while we talked about unimportant things: the storm, the schedule in Bilbao, Rodrigo’s work in Santander. I tried not to stare too insistently at the valley between her breasts. I didn’t always succeed. Every time she leaned forward to pick something up, the fabric opened another centimeter, and I could see the curve of one breast, white and heavy, with the dark nipple just visible, seeming ready to emerge. I didn’t always succeed.

—I’m going to sleep now —she said shortly afterward, yawning—. I’ve been awake since four this morning.

—Get some rest. I’m going to go over some notes for a while longer.

Elena got into bed, and within a few minutes her breathing became slow and regular. I stayed in the armchair with the material on regression hypnosis, reading without reading, concentrating with more effort than necessary.

***

I don’t know how much time passed. I began to hear the sounds after I had turned off the light and was lying on the other side of the bed, staring at the mirrored ceiling.

They came from the adjoining room, separated from ours by only a thin partition wall. At first they were murmurs, then moans, then voices that were no longer trying to hold back. A woman asking for more. A man answering with swagger.

—Yes, like that —could be heard clearly—. Don’t stop, fuck your whole cock into me, don’t stop.

—Do you like it, you slut? You like me fucking you like this?

—Yes, harder, give me all of it, split my cunt open…

The sound of the man’s hips slamming against the woman’s ass came through perfectly, a wet, rhythmic pounding, the headboard hitting the wall, her moans breaking off with every thrust.

—Suck me again —he ordered at one point—. Suck me all the way down, just like you know how.

Then came the gurgling, the unmistakable sound of a mouth swallowing an entire cock, her choking, his low laughter, telling her she was a whore, that she should eat it properly, that she should lick his balls.

Elena was still lying on her back, completely motionless. Too motionless. I had spent enough time listening to people sleep to know that she wasn’t asleep. Her breathing was too careful, too controlled. She was listening just as I was.

I listened for a while without moving. My body reacted without my permission: my cock had grown hard as a rock inside my pajama bottoms, throbbing against the fabric, the tip already wet with precum. The struggle between shame and desire lasted only a few minutes before desire won. I carefully lowered my pajama bottoms to the middle of my thighs, moving slowly. I took my cock in my right hand, felt it hot and thick in my palm, and began moving it silently, my eyes fixed on the ceiling, listening to the sounds coming from the other side of the wall.

—Come on my face —the woman on the other side begged—. Come in my mouth, I want to swallow it all.

I ran my thumb over the head, spreading the moisture from the tip along the shaft, and began jerking it faster, squeezing when I reached the base, loosening my grip on the upward stroke. My hand made an almost imperceptible sound as it slid, and I covered it with the rhythm of my own breathing.

I didn’t last long like that. My gaze drifted toward Elena, toward the curve of her hip outlined beneath the sheet. I lifted the fabric slightly to see her silhouette. The bathrobe had ridden above her knees while she slept—or while she pretended to sleep—and I could see her bare thighs, her firm skin, the dark shadow of the underwear she was no longer wearing. Through the side mirror, in the faint light coming beneath the door, I could see part of her cleavage. The bathrobe had opened while she slept, and one of her breasts was almost completely exposed in the reflection: the entire breast hanging free, white and heavy, the dark nipple pointing upward, hardened despite the warmth of the room.

The nipple was hard. Very hard. Pointed like that of a woman who had been aroused for some time.

I jerked off faster, watching that nipple, imagining putting it in my mouth, sucking that enormous breast while she guided my head with her hand, eating the whole thing while she told me, “That’s it, son, that’s it.” I looked at the other side, the line of her thigh, and imagined her spreading her legs for me, showing me the cunt of a mature woman between those long legs, wet and waiting, ready to swallow her nephew’s cock.

—I’m coming —the man shouted through the wall—. I’m coming, slut, open your mouth.

Then came her muffled moans, her broken breathing, the sound of him finishing all over her face with a guttural grunt.

The sounds from the room next door reached their peak.

I came.

I did it silently, or almost. I pulled the sheet aside at the last moment so I wouldn’t stain it and released everything inside me in a convulsion that ran from my knees to the nape of my neck. It came out in streams, a lot more than usual, hot over my hand and my stomach. I bit my lip to keep from moaning. I felt my cock throb three or four more times, spitting the last thick drops over my fingers.

I got up slowly, took paper from the bathroom, and cleaned up what had splattered. Very carefully, I also wiped the edge of Elena’s bathrobe, where one of my drops had fallen without my realizing it, very close to the breast that was still showing. I touched her with the paper for barely a second, and even so I felt the heat of her skin beneath it. I covered her again with the sheet, pulling the bathrobe up over her chest with my pulse still trembling. I lay down and closed my eyes, my heart still racing, with a mixture of relief and shame that took a long time to fade.

The other side of the wall fell silent. On Elena’s side, her breathing remained too deliberate for a long while.

***

—Marcos. Marcos, wake up.

Elena’s voice pulled me abruptly out of sleep. I sat up without understanding where I was. She was already dressed, standing beside the bed, with a serious expression that chilled my blood.

She knows.

—What’s wrong? —I asked, my voice still hoarse.

—Look outside.

The window showed a world that was completely white. More than a meter of snow covered the parking lot. The motel radio reported that several roads in the area remained closed until further notice.

—We’re going to have to stay at least one more night —Elena said.

I sank back onto the pillow and slowly let out my breath. I don’t know whether what I felt then was relief or something else. I only know that while Elena called her team to reorganize the schedule, I stared at the mirrored ceiling and thought that the snow wasn’t the only thing that had trapped us there.

And that perhaps, deep down, neither of us was in much of a hurry for the storm to clear.