That Summer Night With My Older Brother

The family house out in the country was always like that in summer: hot during the day, hot at night, with that particular smell of old wood and the lavender my mother put in the closets. I was twenty-one that July. My parents had gone to bed before eleven, and I’d spent more than an hour staring at the ceiling of my room with my eyes wide open.

It wasn’t the heat that was keeping me awake.

It was Marcos.

We’re four years apart. He’s twenty-five, I’m twenty-one, and throughout childhood he was the classic older brother: the one who got me out of trouble, who took me on the bike, who lent me his headphones when we traveled. I’ve known him since I was born. I know his quirks, his fears, the way he scratches his eyebrow when something doesn’t add up. I thought I knew everything about him.

That summer I found out I didn’t.

There had been something different for months, maybe since the year before: a new awareness that bothered me because I didn’t quite know where it came from or where it was going. When we got together on weekends at my parents’ house, there were moments when his eyes would stay on me a second too long. Moments when the conversation turned weird, loaded with something neither of us named. I ignored it. He did too. And so we’d made it to summer, to this house, to this week with my parents going to sleep early and leaving the two of us alone on the porch with beers and far too much silence.

That afternoon, by the pool, he’d looked at me in a way that made it impossible to ignore. Nothing obvious, just a fraction of a second in which his eyes dropped to my breasts straining under the wet bikini, slid down to the triangle of fabric stuck to my cunt, and came back up too fast, and something in my crotch tightened like a wet rope. We didn’t say anything. We kept swimming. At night we ate with my parents, watched some TV, and when I said I was going to bed he said “good night” in a voice that sounded different, rough, restrained.

I’d spent an hour telling myself I was imagining things. And with my hand between my legs, my fingers sliding over a clit that wouldn’t leave me alone, I was realizing I wasn’t.

***

I got up without turning on the light.

The wooden floor creaked under my feet and I stood still for a moment, my heart beating harder than made sense for someone just going to the bathroom. Outside, the crickets were still singing. The house slept. I walked to my bedroom door, opened it, and stood in the doorway of the hall looking into the darkness at the far end.

Marcos’s room was eight meters away.

This is stupid, I told myself. I said it softly, almost in a whisper, as if someone could hear me. Then I went on anyway, with my panties already soaked and stuck to my cunt.

His door was ajar, with a centimeter of darkness that seemed invitation and warning at the same time. I stopped in front of it. From inside came the sound of his breathing, steady, deep. The smell of that cologne he’d always used. I pressed my palm flat against the wood.

And pushed.

***

Some light came in through the window, enough to see him. He was asleep on his side with the sheet tangled up at his waist, one arm stretched out over the empty side of the mattress as if he’d made space without knowing it. His back rose and fell slowly. Under the sheet the bulge of his cock showed against his thigh, a thick outline that made me swallow.

I approached without making a sound.

Every step was a decision. I sat on the edge of the bed so carefully I barely pressed into the mattress, and stayed there, motionless, looking at him. His shoulders were broader than when we were teenagers. That was what I thought, of all the things I could have thought.

I put my hand on his arm.

Just that at first, a light touch, like feeling the pulse of what was about to happen. His skin was warm. He didn’t pull away. He didn’t move either, but something changed in his breathing, an almost imperceptible adjustment that told me he wasn’t fully asleep.

My hand moved slowly to his shoulder, unhurried, as if time had decided to stretch out. Marcos exhaled. A small, controlled sound that could have been anything and yet wasn’t anything. He turned.

He looked at me.

There was no surprise on his face. Maybe a little, in the first two seconds, and then something calmer, deeper, that I recognized because it was the same thing I’d been feeling between my legs for weeks without knowing how to name it.

—Val —he said. Just that.

—I know this is crazy —I said.

—I know.

—Do you want me to go?

It took him less than a second to answer.

—No.

He sat up on one elbow and looked at me from that distance that was no longer enough. His hair was mussed and his eyes were still half-lidded from sleep, and I felt like my heart was going to burst out of my chest. He reached out and took my hand, brought it under the sheet, and laid it on his hard cock, thick and throbbing against the fabric of his boxer briefs. He held it there, without squeezing, as if giving me the chance to change my mind.

I didn’t. I closed my fingers around him and felt him pounding in my palm.

I was the one who leaned in first. Our lips met slowly, without urgency at the start, with that delicacy kisses have when you know you’re crossing a line with no way back. But it didn’t last. A few seconds later his tongue pushed between my teeth and I sucked on it as if I’d spent months waiting for that, and he held my jaw with one hand, so firm it almost hurt, and bit my lower lip when he pulled away.

—You’re wet —he said, more statement than question, while his free hand slid down my stomach and inside my panties.

His fingers found my soaked cunt and I let out a moan I had to smother against his shoulder. He parted my lips with two fingers and slid the middle one in slowly, all the way, while his thumb pressed on my swollen clit.

—Brother —I whispered without thinking, and he gave a low groan that made me clench around his finger.

—Say it again.

—Brother.

He slid in a second finger.

He was my brother. I never forgot that for a second. And it didn’t matter either.

***

What came next was slower than I’d expected. Marcos wasn’t in a hurry, or if he was, he controlled it with the discipline of someone who’d been thinking about this for too long. He pulled my sleep shirt over my head and stared at my breasts with his mouth slightly open, as if confirming something he’d imagined a thousand times. Then he lowered his face and sucked one nipple, slowly, wrapping it with his tongue and then tugging with his teeth until he had me arching my back against the bed. He moved to the other one and repeated it, harder this time, while his hand kept working my cunt with two fingers sliding in and out, soaked.

—Marcos, fuck —I whispered, grabbing his hair.

—Shut up, or you’ll wake them up.

He covered my mouth with his free hand and kept going lower. He licked between my breasts, my stomach, the bone of my hip. He ripped my panties off my legs and threw them on the floor, and I opened my legs for him without thinking, because by that point shame didn’t exist in that room anymore.

He looked at my cunt, open and shining, and drew in a deep breath.

—For a year I’ve been thinking about this —he said.

And lowered his head.

His tongue ran over me from bottom to top, from the perineum to the clit, in one long, slow movement that made me bury my fingers in the sheet. Then he came back to the clit and settled there, sucking it, circling it with the tip of his tongue, taking it between his lips and letting go, while two fingers slid back into me, curled upward, searching for that exact spot almost no guy finds on the first try. He found it right away.

I had to bite the back of my hand not to scream.

He ate me out for minutes that felt endless, changing the rhythm every time I was about to go over, holding me at the edge with a calculated cruelty I didn’t know he had. When he finally let me come it was with his tongue buried in my clit and his fingers hammering my G-spot at the same time, and I arched hard against his face, clamping his head between my thighs, my legs shaking uncontrollably.

When I came down he climbed back up my body, his face shining with me, and kissed me on the mouth. I tasted myself on his tongue.

—Now you —he said.

I pulled down his boxers and his cock sprang hard against my hand, thick, the tip already wet. It was bigger than I’d imagined in any of the times I’d hated myself for imagining it. I wrapped my fist around it and he hissed through his teeth.

I slid down and took it in my mouth without preamble. I sucked him deep, until the tip hit the back of my throat and I had to breathe through my nose, and he grabbed my hair with both hands and let out a “fuck, Val” that almost made me come again just from hearing it. I worked his cock with my mouth and hand at the same time, going up and down, licking the head, teasing the frenulum with the tip of my tongue, taking him down my throat every few seconds because I liked hearing him moan when I did it.

—Stop —he said after a while, tugging my hair upward—. Stop or I’ll come.

I pulled him out of my mouth with a wet sound and smiled up from below.

—Come here.

***

I lay back and he got over me, propped on his forearms, looking at me with an attention that wasn’t new but was different. I felt the tip of his cock slide between the lips of my cunt, searching, getting soaked, and I bit my lip.

—If at any point— he started.

—No —I cut him off—. I’m not going to regret this. Put it in me.

And he put it in me.

He entered in one go, slow but all the way, to the hilt, and I opened my mouth in a silent moan because he filled me in a way I’d never felt before. He stayed still inside for a second, looking at me, letting me feel all of him.

—You’re so tight —he whispered against my ear.

—Move.

He started fucking me slowly, with long, deep thrusts, pulling almost all the way out and driving back in until his balls slapped against my ass. Every time he went in, I felt him in my belly. I clung to his shoulders and dug my nails into his back, and he grabbed one leg below the knee and lifted it against my chest, opening me wider, getting deeper.

—That’s how you like it —he said, not asking.

—Like that, brother, like that.

The word set him on fire. He sped up suddenly, taking me harder, with his hand over my mouth to muffle my moans. The mattress creaked under us and I prayed my parents were really asleep because there was no way to be quiet with what he was doing to me.

He pulled out suddenly and flipped me onto my stomach. He lifted my ass with both hands, gave me a sharp slap that made me clench my teeth, and slammed back into me from behind. From that angle he went even deeper, and I had to bury my face in the pillow to keep from screaming while he drove into me without mercy, gripping my hips, digging his fingers into my flesh.

—Slut, you’re my slut —he growled, and gave me another slap.

—Yes, I’m your slut, keep going, don’t stop.

He leaned over my back without stopping fucking me, grabbed my hair and yanked my head back, and licked my neck while he kept pounding me from behind with a rhythm that was already animal. His other hand slid underneath and found my clit again, rubbing it in circles to the beat of his thrusts.

I came in less than a minute. I came with my face smashed into the pillow and my cunt throbbing around his cock, and he had to hold me by the waist because my knees weren’t responding anymore.

He didn’t stop.

He flipped me over again, on my back, and got on top. He put both my legs over his shoulders and drove into me again to the hilt, folded in half, and I looked up at him from below with my face wrecked by pleasure while he fucked me with his jaw clenched and sweat running from his forehead down onto my breasts.

—Inside, I want you to come inside —I said, and I didn’t even understand where that came from.

—Are you sure?

—Yes. Come on, brother, come inside your sister.

That finished him. He gave four or five more thrusts, each one more brutal than the last, and then buried himself to the hilt and stayed there, trembling, while I felt him unload in hot spurts inside me. There were many. He kept coming for what felt like long seconds, eyes shut and teeth clenched, and I squeezed my cunt around him, milking him for the last drop.

He collapsed on top of me, panting against my neck. I wrapped my arms around his soaked back and held him, feeling his cock still throbbing inside me, and felt the semen start to leak out when he finally pulled it out slowly.

We stayed like that, breathing.

***

The ceiling fan spun in silence. The curtain moved with the breeze that occasionally remembered to come through. Marcos rolled onto his side next to me and draped an arm over me, and I lay there staring at the ceiling in that particular state that comes after, when the body is still buzzing and the mind starts to come back little by little. My thighs were sticky and my cunt was open, pulsing slowly.

—Hey —he said after a while.

—What?

—Are you okay?

—Yeah. —I paused—. You?

—Yeah.

We didn’t talk anymore. No need to, or not then. I closed my eyes and breathed slowly, feeling the weight of his arm over my body and the heat of that summer night that suddenly felt different, lighter, as if something that had been tense for months had finally decided to let go.

I fell asleep without meaning to.

***

I woke up when dawn was just beginning to break, with that gray six a.m. light filtering through the curtain. Marcos was asleep. I looked at him for a moment, with that familiar expression of his and that new one from that night, and I felt both things together without either canceling the other out. Under the sheet, between my legs, I could still feel his come slowly leaking out.

I put my clothes on in silence, and before leaving I stopped in the doorway to look at him one more time. He didn’t move. I went out into the hall and closed the door carefully.

The wood creaked the same way on the way back.

In my room, the mattress was cold compared to the heat I’d left behind. I lay on my back and stared at the ceiling without trying to sort anything out, without looking for meaning yet. I just let myself stay there, body calm and head full of images I wasn’t going to forget easily.

At eight-thirty, my mother knocked on the door and said breakfast was ready.

I showered, feeling the hot water wash away what was left of him between my legs, got dressed, and went downstairs. Marcos was already sitting at the table with a cup of coffee. He looked up when I came in. He didn’t exactly smile, but there was something on his face, a small gesture only I could read because I’d known him all my life.

I poured myself coffee and sat down beside him.

My mother talked about the weather expected that afternoon, whether they were going into town, whether the pool needed more chlorine. I answered when I had to and ate without much appetite and felt Marcos’s arm beside mine over the table, that minimal contact neither of us had sought and neither of us moved away from.

I don’t know what we were after that night.

I don’t know whether what happened had a name or needed one. What I do know is that when my mother got up to fetch more bread and we were left alone for a second, Marcos looked at me and said in a low voice:

—Are you not going to be able to sleep tonight either?

And I, who should have told him no, who should have told him that last night had been a mistake, that we’re siblings and there are things that don’t go back, said:

—Depends on whether you leave the door ajar.

He looked back down at his coffee and said nothing else.

But when my mother came back with the bread, I saw that he was smiling.