What I Did to My Aunt in the Motel That Night

My name is Marcos, I’m thirty-three years old, and I’m a psychologist. I also teach in the faculty of behavioral sciences, which in theory makes me someone with a certain degree of control over his own impulses. What I’m about to tell you disproves that assumption rather directly.

My aunt Gloria is fifty-seven years old. She’s a journalist, with a certain name in television documentaries: not a top-tier figure, but someone people recognize in network corridors. She’s been a widow for four years. Her husband, my uncle Ernesto, died of a heart attack, and since then she’s lived alone in the fourth-floor apartment, right above mine. Her only son, my cousin Daniel, moved to Bilbao with his partner two years ago for work.

Since my uncle died and especially since Daniel moved north, Gloria leaned on me a lot. I had also lost my parents shortly before, during the pandemic, and between the two of us we built something like a two-person family. We had dinner together two or three nights a week. She called me to ask me to check her computer, to accompany her to the doctor, for any excuse that would give her company. I went without thinking. I loved her like a second home.

I had never looked at her in any other way.

***

The change came, as almost everything important does, by chance and in a ridiculous way.

Gloria had spent the last few months preparing a documentary about incest. It wasn’t her usual subject, but the assignment came from a pay channel and she tackled it with the seriousness she brought to all her work. She asked me for an interview in my capacity as a psychologist: we spent two afternoons talking about the Oedipus and Electra complexes, about documented clinical cases, about the cultural dimension of the family taboo. She took notes. She was professional. So was I.

The documentary aired and was well received in some media outlets. Someone interviewed her on a program and asked her, almost as a joke, whether she had ever had any kind of experience like that. Gloria said no, but with a smile at the corner of her lips that didn’t quite amount to a full denial. The host let it go. I, watching her from my sofa at home, let it go too.

It was in the faculty bar a few days later. I was having a coffee when two students at the next table were talking about the program.

—The journalist from the incest piece is really hot —one said—. A real milf. She’s got an ass you’d want to bite.

—Didn’t you see how she answered when they asked if she’d ever done it? —the other added—. That smile wasn’t innocent. I’d say she’d like to fuck her son. She probably imagines him burying it all the way in while he whispers in her ear.

I froze with the coffee halfway to my mouth.

It wasn’t my job to psychoanalyze myself, but at that moment something shifted in my head. Not suddenly, but like a gear that’s been misaligned for a long time and finally finds its place. From then on I started thinking about Gloria differently. I began noticing how her skirts fit, the way her breasts showed under her silk blouses, the way she crossed her legs when she came over for dinner. I started masturbating thinking about her. At first with guilt, later not at all.

***

One afternoon I went to her apartment to fix a dripping faucet. She had gone out to run errands and curiosity got the better of me. On the desk at the back of the hall there was a folder with a title written by hand: “Forbidden Desire in the Mother-Child Bond: Fantasy or Reality?”

I opened it.

There were film titles, bookmarked pages from specialized magazines, screenshots from forums. I turned on the computer, which had no password, and in the history I found visits to erotic-content sites related to the subject, all dated after the documentary aired. Not before. After. One of the pages was still open in a minimized tab: a story about a mother fucking her son in the kitchen, with a cover image of a mature woman sucking a cock while looking at the camera. The text was halfway through, with a yellow highlight over the phrase “she opened my cunt with two fingers before taking me all the way to the back of my throat.”

I closed the tab, shut down the computer, went back to the faucet, and fixed it without making a sound. That night I didn’t sleep well. I jerked off twice thinking about the yellow highlight over that sentence, imagining my aunt’s hand marking it with the highlighter while she touched herself over her panties.

***

It took me two weeks to act. My idea wasn’t especially original: invite her to dinner at my place, put on the documentary afterward as an excuse to talk about the topic, and see how far the conversation went.

Gloria accepted without asking too many questions. She arrived straight from work, wearing a dark gray suit jacket and a white blouse that showed off her cleavage nicely. We had dinner, talked about unimportant things, and when we finished clearing the table I suggested watching the documentary again.

—Mine? —she said, with a genuinely surprised expression.

—I find it interesting from a clinical point of view. I’m preparing material for a class on the psychology of desire.

She made the face of someone who doesn’t quite believe the excuse but decides to play along.

We got to the interview scene on the program. When Gloria on screen answered with that elusive smile, the flesh-and-blood Gloria beside me shifted slightly on the sofa.

—You know what I think when I see that? —I said, as calmly as I could manage—. That gesture isn’t a denial. From the standpoint of nonverbal language analysis, a laugh in that context acts like a half-open door. It doesn’t say yes, but it doesn’t close either.

Long silence.

Then she turned her head and looked at me with an expression I couldn’t quite classify: halfway between curiosity and something darker.

—Maybe —she said.

Two words. Nothing more. But they were enough to keep me awake another night. That morning I jerked off staring at the ceiling, biting my lip so I wouldn’t make any noise, imagining what it would be like to spread my aunt’s legs on that same sofa where she had just answered me “maybe,” pull down her panties, and bury my tongue between her thighs until she screamed.

***

Three days later, Gloria suggested I accompany her on a work trip to Bilbao. Her team was waiting there to prepare a program about regional elections. She said it would let me work on my research and, at the same time, keep her company on the trip.

I agreed without thinking too much about it.

We left on a Tuesday afternoon. Gloria was driving, but twenty minutes onto the highway the accumulated fatigue was already showing in her posture, so I offered to take the wheel. She fell asleep almost at once. I drove and couldn’t help glancing at her out of the corner of my eye: her legs crossed under the dark knit dress, a lock of hair falling over her cheek, the slow breathing of someone truly asleep. The dress had ridden up a few centimeters above her knee, and I had to make a conscious effort not to lower my hand and slide it under the hem while she slept.

The first drops came as we crossed the mountains. Within minutes, heavy rain. Within an hour, snow.

Gloria woke when the car began to slow down without my touching the brake.

—What’s happening? —she asked, looking at the windshield.

—Storm —I said—. There was a warning, but I didn’t think it would be this serious.

The asphalt had disappeared under a white blanket. Along the roadside, the first abandoned cars with their hazard lights blinking. We advanced at thirty miles per hour and lost ground with every kilometer. A sign indicated an exit with a motel eight hundred meters away.

—There —Gloria said, pointing.

I didn’t argue.

***

The motel was called Eden. Outside it looked like nothing special: two floors, brick facade, a sign with a red apple lit in neon. Inside was another story. The signs on the walls left little room for doubt: words like “couples’ suite,” “discreet service,” “intimate moments” repeated in different formats against a dark background.

Gloria read them at the same time I did. Neither of us said anything.

At the front desk, a middle-aged woman typed without looking up from the computer.

—There’s only one room left. The Mediterranean Suite. Eighty-five euros a night.

—We’ll take it —Gloria said without consulting me.

The room was completely white: white walls, a large bed with a padded white headboard, a metal rail at the top. On the opposite wall, a huge mirror reflected the whole bed. Another mirror on the ceiling, surrounded by dimmable lights that, when you turned a rosette, shifted from white to blue, from blue to violet. A painting above the headboard showed a woman with a black blindfold and parted lips.

—Where the hell have we ended up? —I muttered.

—In the only place with heating within a hundred kilometers —Gloria replied, and went straight to the bathroom.

She called her assistant from there to warn her about the delay. I stayed seated on the edge of the bed, looking at the reflection in the ceiling mirror, trying to think of something else. I couldn’t. My cock had been hard against the fabric of my pants since the moment we entered the room, and there was no way to make it go down.

Gloria came out wearing the motel’s white bathrobe, her hair damp. The soaked clothes from the parking lot were hanging on the bathroom radiator: the dress, the tights, the underwear. Everything. Under the robe she wore nothing. And I knew it. And she knew I knew it. I saw the black lace panties hanging over the edge of the radiator as she passed in front of the open bathroom door, and I had to clench my teeth so nothing showed on my face.

We ate what room service brought us. Seated at the little table by the entrance with a single lamp on, facing each other, the robe opened a little every time she leaned toward her plate. On a couple of occasions I caught sight of the tops of her breasts, the white skin of the part that never saw the sun, the dark shadow of her nipple showing when she moved to cut the meat. I looked at the food. I ate without appetite and with a hard cock under the table.

At ten-thirty she said she was exhausted and got into bed.

—Good night, Marcos.

—Good night.

I sat in the armchair with my notes on regressive hypnosis that I had brought for the research. I tried to read. I didn’t. I could hear her breathing on the other side of the room and couldn’t stop thinking about everything that had built up over the past few weeks: the folder in her office, the yellow underline over that throat-and-cunt sentence, her two-word answer, and now this, the two of us alone in a motel room with mirrors on the ceiling and her naked under the robe three meters from me.

At eleven-thirty I switched off the armchair lamp and lay down on my side of the bed, careful not to wake her.

I closed my eyes.

And then, on the other side of the headboard wall, the sounds began.

***

At first a murmur. Then clearer, unmistakable.

—Yes… like that… don’t stop.

A woman. The man answered with something I couldn’t quite make out, but the rhythm of the thuds against the wall left no doubt about what he was doing to her. I lay motionless, staring at the ceiling. The mirror above showed the bed, Gloria with her back to me, and the faint streetlight slipping through the slats of the blinds.

The sounds became more explicit, more urgent.

—Harder… there… all the way in… don’t stop, bastard, don’t stop.

The woman in the next room was talking dirty, without filters. She was telling her lover to fuck her harder, to shove it in all the way, to fill her cunt with cum. The headboard thuds against the wall were accompanied by a wet splashing, that unmistakable sound of a cock sliding in and out of a soaked cunt. I tried to ignore it. I couldn’t. My body reacted before I made any conscious decision. My cock went rock-hard under the pajama pants, so hard it hurt. I looked at Gloria, who remained motionless, breathing deeply and evenly like someone truly asleep.

I didn’t really know what was happening to me. I’d spent weeks thinking about her in a way that wouldn’t leave me alone, and now I was lying half a meter from her body, in a room designed for sex, with moans on the other side of the wall. It wasn’t a combination that encouraged calm.

I slowly slid my hand under the sheets. I loosened the drawstring on my pants. My cock sprang free, hard, throbbing against my palm. I was so turned on that just from brushing it I released a drop of pre-cum that stuck between my fingers.

The sounds continued. The woman next door was saying things with a urgency that didn’t seem entirely fake.

—I’m coming, I’m coming, you’re making me so fucking horny, don’t stop, give it all to me.

I listened and looked at Gloria’s outline in the dark: the curve of her hip marked beneath the white robe, her hair spread across the pillow, the bare nape of her neck. I began moving my hand up and down, very slowly, squeezing my cock in a closed fist, up to the tip and down to the base. Every time the woman next door moaned, I squeezed a little harder and imagined it was Gloria’s voice, that it was her telling a man to take her all the way in, that it was her ass hitting the wall with each thrust.

At some point I looked up at the ceiling mirror.

The robe had shifted while she slept. What I saw stole my breath for a full second: part of her breast, the curve of cleavage, the tanned skin I had always seen as my aunt’s and that now, in that mirror, at that hour, with that soundtrack, was something completely different. Her nipple was just peeking over the edge of the fabric, dark, larger than I had imagined, with the wide areola wrinkled by the cold.

I looked away. Looked back. Looked away again. Without stopping jerking off under the sheets, my hand moving faster and faster, my breathing ragged, biting my lip to keep quiet.

I’m not proud of what I did next.

With a tiny, almost imperceptible motion, I tugged at the edge of the robe from her shoulder. Just one centimeter. The reflection in the mirror changed. Now her whole breast was visible. White, heavy, leaning slightly to the side because of her position, with the thick nipple pointing toward the ceiling. The breast of a mature woman, not that of some young magazine cover girl: real, with blue veins showing beneath the skin, and a small birthmark near the nipple I had never seen before and that seemed to me, at that instant, the most obscene thing in the world.

I started masturbating faster, no longer bothering to hide it, staring at that reflection. I imagined what it would be like to bend over her, take that nipple in my mouth, suck it, bite it carefully, hear her sigh as she woke and discovered that her nephew was licking her like an animal. I imagined ripping off the robe, spreading her legs, burying my face between her thighs and eating her cunt until she came in my mouth. I imagined fucking her from behind, grabbing her hips and driving into her while the two of us watched ourselves in the ceiling mirror.

On the other side of the wall, the woman gave a long, muffled cry. The man grunted twice and everything fell silent. I was almost there. I squeezed my cock at the base to hold on one second longer and looked again at Gloria’s nipple in the mirror, the shadow of her neck, the hand resting on her belly beneath the robe.

I kept staring until I reached my own climax in silence, barely moving, my eyes fixed on the mirror for those few seconds in which I thought of absolutely nothing. I felt the first hot jolt rising from my balls and exploding at the tip of my cock; I came in spurts over my stomach, over the pajamas, over my hand, biting the pillow with my face turned aside so not even a moan escaped. Four, five thick gushes that wouldn’t stop coming. It had been years since I’d come that hard.

Then, still. My heart hammering hard against my ribs. Semen cooling on my skin. The smell of cum seeping under the sheets and mixing with Gloria’s perfume on the pillow beside me.

I got up to the bathroom carefully, cleaned up what needed cleaning, and covered her again with the sheet, hiding her bare chest. Gloria hadn’t moved.

I lay back on my back and took a long time to fall asleep. Every time I closed my eyes I saw that dark nipple again on white skin, and my cock got hard all over again.

***

In the morning her voice woke me.

—Marcos. Marcos, wake up.

I opened my eyes with a jolt in my chest. She was standing there, already dressed in the clothes from the day before, looking at me with a serious face. My first thought was only one: She knows.

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

She pointed to the window without saying anything.

I got up. Outside, the snow had risen more than three feet. The car had disappeared under a white mound. On the television screen, a red-text ticker announced that the roads in the northern corridor remained closed until further notice and driving was strongly discouraged.

—We’re going to have to stay another day —Gloria said with resignation.

I kept staring at the snow for a moment without saying anything. I felt my cock stir against the fabric of my pajamas just thinking about another whole night locked in that room with her.

—Yeah —I said at last—. Looks like it.

Gloria went to the bathroom. I sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the wall mirror, which now reflected nothing special: just a motel room, gray morning light, and me with the knowledge of what I had done the night before and another full day ahead of me.