What Happened with My Cousin on the Third Floor

I’m twenty-six years old, and ever since I was a teenager I’ve carried around an obsession I never had the courage to confess out loud. I go crazy for big, natural breasts, the kind that move on their own when a woman takes a deep breath. And my cousin Mariela’s are, without question, the most beautiful I’ve ever seen in my life.

She’s twenty-nine, very fair-skinned, barely five foot three, with a body of soft curves and black hair that falls right to her shoulders. She’s cheerful by nature, talkative, one of those women who look you in the eye when they speak. I never quite held her gaze. My eyes always ended up dropping a little lower, to those enormous tits that bounced with every laugh.

The whole family gets together every December at my uncles’ house to put up the Christmas tree. It’s a tradition my grandmother imposed decades ago and no one dares break. That year I’d planned in advance exactly what I meant to do: offer to help Mariela with the porcelain figurines, the ones that go at the base of the tree. There were lots of them, and arranging them meant bending down again and again.

When I arrived, she was already sitting on the floor beside the box. She was wearing a loose-knit salmon-colored blouse with a wide neckline, and underneath it a dark bra that could barely contain such a pair of tits. The first time she bent over, I knew the afternoon was going to be long.

“Come on, help me,” she said, without looking up. “There are a ton of them and nobody cares.”

I settled down on the floor beside her. Every time she bent to place a little angel or a porcelain reindeer, the neckline opened like a curtain. I had her tits thirty centimeters from my face, lit by the tree’s white lights. They were huge, milky, with an obvious weight that the bra had already stopped pretending to hide. The areola was broad and pink, and the nipple—when I managed to see it in full—had the exact hardness of cold December days.

This can’t be happening.

But it was. And it went on for two hours.

“This one goes farther back,” she’d say, dipping down to the base of the tree.

“Sure,” I’d answer, my voice a little hoarse.

What started as a bra slipping out of place turned, without her doing anything to stop it, into a shameless spectacle. On one bend, one tit slipped completely out and stayed in view for several seconds, hanging heavy, the dark nipple pointing toward the floor. Mariela adjusted her blouse with two fingers, unhurried. She didn’t look at me. She didn’t laugh. She didn’t say a word.

Some of my cousins, sitting on the living room couch, noticed my state. The youngest let out a stifled laugh and turned her face toward the window. I focused on a box of glass ornaments and tried to think of anything ugly: toll booths, dentists, the laundry room ceiling. It didn’t work. My balls hurt, and my dick was smashed against the zipper of my pants, so swollen it throbbed in time with my pulse.

After more than two hours, my aunt asked us to go up to the third floor to fetch the last garlands, the ones stored in the guest room attic.

“You and me?” Mariela said, getting up and brushing dust off her knees. “Nobody wants to climb that many stairs.”

We went up in silence. The third floor was dark and smelled of old wood and the lavender air freshener my aunt had used for years. Mariela switched on a floor lamp and stood in front of the cardboard box, making no move to open it.

“I’ve known you since you were ten,” she said, without turning around.

“Yeah.”

“You’ve always been crazy about my tits. Right or wrong?”

I felt my face burn. I wanted to come up with a dignified answer and couldn’t think of a single one.

“Mariela, I…”

“No, look at me.” She turned slowly. “You’ve never looked me in the face your whole life. Today you’ve spent two hours with your eyes glued to me. And the hard-on you’ve got is visible from the kitchen.”

I didn’t know what to say. She smiled to one side, amused, almost maternal.

“We’re not kids anymore,” she went on. “There’s trust in this family. And I’m getting married in a month.”

“What…?”

“I’m proposing something.” She leaned against the dresser and crossed her arms underneath her bust, pushing her tits upward as if she wanted to offer them to me without touching them. “You show me that cock you’ve got hidden down there. And I’ll let you look at them, touch them, suck them, whatever you want. Everything except putting your dick in my cunt. I’m a virgin and I’m arriving at the altar a virgin, so don’t even think about it.”

***

I nodded without thinking. I would have nodded to anything.

Mariela took hold of the hem of her blouse and pulled it off in one clean motion, no theatrics. She stood in front of me with the dark bra and the marks the underwire had left on her skin. She looked at me for a second, sizing me up, then unclipped it at the back.

When the bra dropped to the floor, my brain shut off.

I’d imagined them for years, but reality was bigger, whiter, and more perfect than any teenage fantasy could have built. They were heavy. You could see the weight in the lower curve, in the way the soft veins ran down toward the nipple. The areola was enormous, almost the size of a small mandarin, and the nipple—now fully visible, a meter from my face—was rock hard, dark with contained arousal, so stiff it seemed to be pointing at me.

“Come here,” she said.

I took two steps closer. My hands were frozen at my sides.

“Now you. Get everything off.”

I undid my belt with clumsy fingers, pulled my pants and underwear down in one jerk. My cock sprang free with ridiculous, almost humiliating urgency, hard, red, the head already shiny and wet with precum running down to my balls. I hadn’t fucked anyone in two months and I’d spent two hours staring at her tits without stopping. Mariela looked down and bit her lip.

“Poor thing,” she said, very softly. “Look at that. You’re about to burst.”

“Yeah.”

“Come on, come over here.”

She grabbed my wrist and pulled me toward her. She sat on the edge of the guest bed, spread my legs apart with one knee, and put me right between her thighs, with my cock at face level. She looked up at me with a crooked smile and took hold of my shaft with her right hand. Her fingers barely closed around it. She squeezed once, from top to bottom, and a thick drop oozed from the tip; she caught it on her tongue without changing her expression.

“Damn, cousin. You’re salty.”

She opened her mouth and took it all in. Not little by little: she swallowed it until I felt it bump against the back of her throat. She closed her lips over the shaft, sucked hard on the way out, and pulled it free with a wet sound, leaving a string of spit hanging between the tip and her lower lip. My knees trembled.

“Hold still,” she ordered. “I’m just getting started.”

She took it back in and this time worked it calmly, moving her head up and down in a slow rhythm, pressing her tongue against the underside of the shaft. She sucked me off while looking me in the eyes, her brows just slightly knit in concentration, while her free hand stroked my balls, weighing them, measuring them. Every so often she pulled it out completely and licked my balls one by one, mouth open, coating me in saliva.

“Touch them,” she asked me, with the head of my cock resting against her cheek. “They’ve been waiting for twenty years.”

I put both hands on her. The full weight filled my palms, a warm, soft density my hands together couldn’t begin to encompass. I pinched her nipples with my thumbs and she closed her eyes and let out a short, sharp moan, the first of the afternoon.

“Harder, cousin. Don’t be afraid.”

I did as she said. I pinched them, twisted them slowly, stretched them until she arched her back and laughed under her breath. The nipples got even harder between my fingers, dark, swollen, as if they were about to burst.

“Put it in my mouth again,” I said, my voice broken.

“No, now I want something else.” She stood up, gave me a gentle push in the chest, and made me sit on the bed. “Sit and watch.”

She knelt between my legs, gathered both tits in her palms, and wrapped them around my cock. The skin was warm, softer than I’d imagined, and the flesh so abundant that my dick disappeared completely between them. Only the tip was visible above, red, dripping. She spat on it twice, smeared the groove between her tits, and started moving them.

First up and down, squeezing hard, with her nipples brushing my thighs on every downward stroke. Then with a side-to-side rocking that stole my breath. Every now and then she bent her head and sucked the tip whenever it peeked out between her tits, never stopping the motion, giving me a tit job and a blowjob at the same time.

“Tell me how it feels,” she murmured.

“I’m dying, Mariela. I’m going to come.”

“Not yet. Hang on a little longer, cousin. I want to enjoy you.”

She squeezed my balls with her left hand, right at the base, and the feeling that I was about to finish cut off all at once. She knew what she was doing. She stayed like that for a few seconds, holding me, with my cock buried between her tits and her mouth open over the tip, breathing warm. Then she eased the pressure and started again, slower, torturing me.

“Have you ever been sucked with tits at the same time?” she asked between licks.

“No.”

“Well, now you have. And you’ll never forget it.”

She picked up the pace. Her tits rose and fell along the sides of my dick, flattening it, wrapping it, and her mouth waited at the top on every thrust. Saliva ran down her chest, collected in the valley between her tits, made an obscene sound every time she closed the groove. I had my hands tangled in her black hair, not squeezing, just letting her do it.

“Don’t take too long,” she murmured when she felt me trembling. “Come in my tits, cousin. I want to see your face when you come.”

I didn’t take long. I felt the heat rising from the base of my body, from the balls she was still weighing with her free hand. I wanted to warn her, to say something, but she squeezed harder with her tits and quickened the rocking, as if she needed to milk me to the end.

When I came, I came like never before. Two months of waiting, twenty years of fantasy, two hours of visual torture. It shot out in long, hot streams, one after another, with a force that surprised even me. The first spurt hit her on the chin and ran up onto her cheek. The second landed right between her tits and dripped down the groove. The third and fourth stained her nipples, her neck, her jaw, and a lock of hair that had fallen onto her shoulder. It was still coming when I was left swaying, bracing myself against the dresser, my legs like jelly.

Mariela looked at herself without alarm, almost with clinical curiosity. She ran two fingers through the groove between her tits, lifted them full of semen, and brought them to her mouth. She sucked them slowly, never taking her eyes off me.

“Wow. You were really worked up, weren’t you, cousin?”

I couldn’t speak. I shook my head, then nodded, then shook it again. She laughed, lowered her head, and used her mouth to clean off the little that was left on the tip. She sucked slowly, pressing her lips around the swollen glans, getting every last drop out of me. She did it with a calm I still don’t understand to this day. No disgust, no guilt, no hurry. Then she gave me a tiny kiss on the tip and tucked my cock back into my underwear with the same tenderness with which she’d just arranged the porcelain angels.

“Full favor,” she said, lifting her gaze and wiping her chin with the back of her hand. “Right?”

***

We went back downstairs to the living room with the garlands in our hands, as if nothing had happened. She’d washed her face and chest in the guest bathroom and put her blouse on backward for a second, until she noticed and fixed it with a quick gesture in the hallway mirror. I never really got myself together again. My aunt asked if I was dizzy and I told her yes, that the stairs had gotten the better of me.

The tree was finished by nine at night. We ate sweet bread, toasted with cider, and my grandmother told—for the tenth time—the story of the year the kitchen caught fire. Mariela served me coffee and brushed my hand with two fingers when she gave it to me. Nothing more.

A month later she got married. White dress, veil, bouquet, the three hundred obligatory photos. When it was my turn to greet her in the line at the entrance to the reception hall, she smiled at me just like always, cheerful, talkative, looking me in the eye without a single tremor.

“Thanks for coming, cousin.”

“Thanks for inviting me.”

And that was it. We never spoke again about that afternoon on the third floor. She has two children now, a quiet life, a good husband who has no idea about any of it. I got married too, I’m a father, I live far from my uncles’ neighborhood. When December comes and I put up the tree with my kids, there’s a moment when I stand there staring at the lights without moving.

My wife asks me what’s wrong.

“Nothing,” I say. “I was remembering my cousin Mariela. The last tree we put up together, before she got married.”

And I’m not lying. The only thing I don’t say is what happened that afternoon in the attic. How she sucked my dick between those giant tits, how she swallowed my load without blinking, how she left me empty and happy for the rest of my life.

There are dreams that come true only once in a lifetime. And with just one fulfilled, I swear you can live happily for the rest of it. Right?