What I Discovered About My Aunt at That Motel

My name is Diego, and I’m thirty-four years old. I’ve spent months turning over whether to tell this or not, and if I finally decide to, it’s because anonymity weighs less than silence. What I’m going to recount lays bare more than a fantasy: it lays bare a professional failure, because I’m a psychologist and I work, among other things, with patients who carry badly digested family complexes. Oedipus, Electra, murky domestic dynamics. I’m supposed to help them put them in their place. The funny thing —or pathetic, depending on how you look at it— is that you never know whether you can put them in their place inside your own home, too.

My aunt Lucrecia is sixty years old and a journalist. Not a star, but not unknown either. She has always worked in television, mostly in investigative documentaries, and in recent years she has specialized in uncomfortable topics. She was widowed five years ago. She has one son, my cousin Alejandro, married to Marta and moved to Santander for work. My parents died during the pandemic, so my aunt and I, almost without meaning to, became something closer than aunt and nephew. She herself called me “my second son.” We live in the same building, on different floors, in a quiet neighborhood of Valencia.

Lucrecia is five foot seven, has immaculate blonde hair, and a figure many people would struggle to believe belongs to a woman her age. Big tits, still firm, a round ass, long legs that make any man on the street stare. I never looked at her that way. I thought she was pretty, elegant, imposing even. But she was my mother’s sister. End of story.

Until she made that documentary.

The topic, precisely, was incest. As a psychologist available and trusted, she interviewed me in two long sessions. I spoke to her about mother-son dynamics, guilt, taboo, repressed desire, about how the unconscious filters what consciousness refuses to acknowledge. She took notes with the face of a focused professional. Then she interviewed other colleagues, anthropologists, lawyers, people who had lived real experiences. The documentary aired on a subscription platform and made waves. Suddenly, my aunt became “the incest journalist.”

On a talk show, a panelist half-jokingly asked her whether she had ever experienced anything like that herself. Lucrecia said no. But she smiled. And that smile, with all its nonverbal content, haunted me for weeks without my knowing why.

The answer came from two of my students in the faculty cafeteria.

—That journalist is smoking hot —one said—. A textbook milf. I’d wreck that pussy without thinking twice.

—I think that little laugh gave her away —the other replied, winking—. That woman wants to get her son in bed and suck his dick all the way down.

They hadn’t noticed I was at the next table. And they also didn’t notice that, when I left, I stood there staring at the bottom of my coffee for a while as if I could read in it what had just happened to me. Because something had happened. Something in me had switched off.

From that afternoon on, my aunt stopped being only my aunt. Or rather, she also became something else. I started watching her legs when she sat down, her cleavage when she bent over, her hips when she walked away, the way her tits trembled inside her bra when she laughed. I started jerking off thinking about her —her mouth sucking my dick, her tits bouncing on top of me, her mature pussy tightening around my cock— and, worse, justifying it with my own professional language. It’s a transference caused by the shared work. It’s a symbolic fantasy. Well-written lies.

A few days later I went up to her place to fix a leak in the tap. She had gone out to do the shopping. From the living room, you could see the open office door. I went in. I shouldn’t have. On the desk there was a folder with a title underlined in red: “Mother-Son Incest: A Relationship Authorized by Society?”

Inside there was more than professional material. Lists of films. Screenshots of porn pages where mature mothers let their sons fuck them. Erotic stories clipped from magazines, with paragraphs underlined: thick cocks sinking into forty-something pussies, loads inside, sons sucking on their own mothers’ tits. The computer was on and not password-protected. In the browser history, dozens of recent searches —after the documentary had wrapped— on the same subject: “mature fucked by her son,” “mom pov creampie,” “real incest taboo.” My aunt wasn’t researching. My aunt was feeding on it.

I closed the folder with trembling hands.

That night, when I got back to my apartment, I pulled my cock out and masturbated thinking about her. I imagined ripping off her skirt, prying her legs open, shoving my tongue into her cunt until she screamed my name. I came in my hand in less than two minutes, clenching my teeth so I wouldn’t moan. It wasn’t the first time, but it was the first time I stopped pretending it was a coincidence.

***

A few days later, Lucrecia asked me to go with her to Santander. She was preparing a program about the municipal elections and needed her team there. I had a thesis pending on regression hypnosis, and the excuse was too perfect not to accept.

—And besides —she said, with a half-smile— maybe you can use me as a guinea pig.

We left at four in the afternoon. She was exhausted after an overnight meeting and ended up asleep in the passenger seat. I drove, trying not to look at how the dark gauze dress slid against her when she shifted. She was wearing black stockings and, mile after mile, I couldn’t figure out whether they were held up by a garter belt or pantyhose. That stupid question stayed with me all the way from Valencia to the mountains, along with the mental image of those stockings opening for me, of my face buried between those sixty-year-old thighs that could still outlast half the young women I knew.

Then the snow came.

It began as brutal rain that, without warning, turned into a white storm. In half an hour the asphalt disappeared. Cars started pulling over. After thirty kilometers, we were inching along like a procession at fifteen miles an hour. Lucrecia woke up to the sound of hail battering the windshield.

—Nephew, this doesn’t look like it’s getting better.

A sign announced a motel at the next exit. “Venecia Motel,” the sign said. We got off without hesitation.

The building had two floors and a discreet facade. Inside, the decor already made you suspicious. A reception desk lit with pink light, velvet sofas, a hallway with vaguely erotic black-and-white pictures: asses, necklines, half-open mouths. The receptionist greeted us with a practiced smile.

—Do you have a reservation?

—No —Lucrecia replied, her hair dripping—. But we need a room.

—Of course. Do you want it for the night or by the hour?

We looked at each other. We both understood at the same time where we had ended up.

—For the night —she said, curtly.

The only affordable room was the Waltz Suite. The other one, the Tantra Suite, cost three hundred and eighty euros and, according to the catalog we saw later, came with an arsenal I won’t bother to list. We paid the eighty-five and walked down the hallway in silence.

The room was impossible to ignore. Huge bed, white sheets, upholstered headboard with a metal bar —the kind used to tie wrists to, I thought without wanting to— a giant mirror on the side wall reflecting the bed from end to end, another mirror in the ceiling surrounded by lights. Above the headboard, a black-and-white picture: a woman in a mask holding a red apple.

—Where the hell have we landed? —I said, nervously laughing.

—The important thing is not freezing to death —she replied, going into the bathroom.

Her clothes came out of the bathroom hanging over the radiator. Black panties and bra, dripping wet. Then I understood that underneath the robe she wasn’t wearing a damn thing. I went into the bathroom too, partly to change, partly to catch my breath. I looked at myself in the mirror. I was sweating. My cock was swelling inside my pants, impossible to hide.

What the fuck is happening to me?

We ordered dinner to the room. A hamburger for me, a salad for her. We ate facing each other at the little table by the door. Lucrecia sat with her legs crossed and the robe opened slightly over her chest. At one point, when she leaned for her glass, I caught the full curve of one tit, white, generous, with the areola barely peeking out. My mouth went dry. I tried not to look. I didn’t always succeed.

—I’m going to sleep —she said after a while—. I’m dead.

She lay down on the left side of the bed. I stayed up reading material on a hypnosis technique called Mildfunes, useful for opening the gates of the subconscious. An astonishing irony, given the number of gates that were opening that night in that room.

I put the papers away. I turned off the main light and left only the emergency one on. I got into bed carefully. She was breathing slowly, deeply asleep.

***

Then the noises started.

They came from the other side of the headboard. First a gasp. Then several. A woman’s voice, at first restrained, then less so.

—Yes… just like that… all the way in… harder, motherfucker, break me.

The man answered with even filthier things. The next room over was obviously a paid encounter, and he needed to say out loud to himself that he was the better lover than anyone else.

—You like this cock, slut? Huh? Tell me you like it, tell me to shove it in your ass.

—Yes, daddy, put your cock in my ass, do whatever you want to me.

She was faking just enough to keep getting paid, but the pounding of the headboard against the wall was real, rhythmic, brutal. You could hear his hand slapping her ass, the obscene splashing of the cock sliding in and out of a soaked pussy.

I tried to breathe. My body decided on its own. In seconds, my cock got rock hard, completely, throbbing inside my pajama pants the way I didn’t remember it ever having done before.

I looked at Lucrecia. She was asleep on her side, her back to me. The sheet covered her only to the waist. Her robe had shifted and on her back the curve down to the beginning of her ass was visible. In the side mirror, lit by the amber glow from the neighboring room spilling in under the door, I could see something else: the reflection of her chest. The robe had opened while she slept and one of her tits was peeking out, free, unmistakable. Big, round, with the pink nipple standing up, pointing toward the mirror, as if inviting me, and only me, in that motel room.

I know what I should have done. Get up, go to the bathroom, get under a cold shower, pray it would pass. But no. I lowered my hand. I pulled my pajama bottoms down to my knees. I took out my cock, throbbing and swollen, the tip already wet, and grabbed it with my right hand. I started masturbating right there, in silence, with her fifty centimeters away.

I closed my fist around the glans, rotated my wrist slowly, sliding the foreskin up and down over the crown, feeling every vein of my cock tighten. My hand was getting wet with my own pre-cum. I bit down on my lip so I wouldn’t moan.

—Nobody fucks me like you, nobody, daddy —the woman moaned on the other side of the wall—. Come inside me, come in my cunt.

—Here, whore, take all my cock, take it…

My hand sped up. My head was spinning. My eyes kept jumping from the mirror —that bare tit of my aunt shining in the dim light— to the real body breathing deeply beside me. I imagined slipping fully out of bed, kneeling on the mattress, pulling back her robe, licking that tit slowly, taking the nipple between my lips and biting it until she moaned. I imagined sliding my tongue down her belly, prying open her sixty-year-old legs, finding that mature, wet pussy, eating it until she grabbed my hair and shoved my face into it.

Suddenly I dared to do more: I placed my left hand on the sheet, right over her ass, barely touching her, a brush I could justify if she woke up. The flesh gave under my touch, firm, round beneath the robe. I lowered my fingers a little more, slid my thumb until it grazed the crease between her cheeks over the fabric. A silent gasp escaped me. She didn’t wake up. I tried a tiny tap on her shoulder.

—Are you asleep, Lucrecia? —I whispered, my cock clenched in my hand, the coming already gathering in my balls.

Nothing. Regular breathing.

I pulled at the collar of her robe with two fingers. The fabric gave without resistance. In the mirror, her tit was fully exposed, magnificent, round, with the whitest skin and that pointed nipple that seemed to call me. I lowered the robe collar more and the other one appeared, twin, equally firm, equally brazen. The nipple, pink, stood up from the cold or from some dream I preferred not to imagine —or maybe I did, maybe she was dreaming exactly this, maybe she was dreaming of me—. Something broke in me. Or came loose.

I worked myself faster. I stuck out my tongue without being able to stop myself and, very slowly, my body shaking with fear and arousal, I brought my face toward her chest. I didn’t touch her. I only breathed over it. The hot air of my mouth hit that nipple and I watched it stiffen even more. I almost licked it. Almost. I held back at the last millimeter and went back to my side, my cock on the verge of bursting in my fist.

The moans from the wall reached their crescendo. The neighbor’s headboard was hitting so hard that ours vibrated. The man announced his end with that vulgarity of someone who needs to comment on everything:

—I’m cumming, whore, I’m cumming inside, take all my load…

She let out a long, sharp scream, probably fake, probably masterful.

I came a second later. My balls tightened, I felt the jolt from the base of my cock to the tip, and the load shot out in three, four, five thick hot spurts, staining my hand, my stomach, the sheet… and my aunt’s robe. I bit my lips until they bled so I wouldn’t make a sound. The spasms lasted forever. With every throb, another thread of semen came out of me. When I finally opened my eyes, my chest was soaked and my breathing was out of control.

I lay there motionless, heart pounding, cold sweat mixing with the heat that still hadn’t left me. I grabbed toilet paper from the bathroom, cleaned the sheet, cleaned the robe with surgical care —the semen had stuck right at the edge of the breast, almost brushing the bare tit, and I had to resist the urge to get hard again just looking at it—, pulled the sheet back up to cover her. She kept sleeping as if nothing had happened.

Or so I thought.

***

I woke up to her voice.

—Diego, wake up.

I opened my eyes slowly. She was already dressed, in the previous day’s clothes, dry and pressed by the heat of the radiator. Standing by the window. Looking at me with an expression I couldn’t read.

—Come on, get up —she said—. We need to talk.

My stomach clenched.

—What’s going on?

She nodded toward the window. Outside, the snow had covered everything. Five feet, maybe more. Cars buried up to the windows, roads erased, the sky still shut tight.

—They’ve closed the roads. I don’t know when they’ll be able to reopen them.

—Fuck —I said, half relieved, half dizzy—. So then?

—Then —she answered, coming closer, never taking her eyes off me— we’re going to have to stay here at least one more night.

She sat on the edge of the bed, very close to me, and barely brushed my knee with her fingers. Then she lowered her gaze to where, a few hours earlier, I had believed myself invisible —to the bulge the sheet hadn’t quite managed to hide, because my cock had gone hard again just from hearing her voice—. She paused there a second too long. Then she looked back at me.

She didn’t say anything else. She didn’t need to.

I, who make a living interpreting what people leave unsaid, understood perfectly what her silence meant.

(to be continued)