What I Do With My Stepbrother Every Morning Before Class

I’ve never told anyone this. Not my therapist, not the friend I’ve shared a flat with since I left home, and certainly not my mother. I’m writing it now because some things weigh less when they stop living only in your head, and because I know no one here is going to put my name and my face in the same sentence.

I was twenty-four the last summer we spent under the same roof. Iván had just turned nineteen.

It’s not what people imagine when they say “brothers.” Our story starts late and badly: my mother met his father when I was already at university, they moved into that far-too-large house on the outskirts, and overnight I found myself with a gangly kid on the other side of the hall. We didn’t grow up together. We didn’t share childhood or toys or fights in the car. We shared an address and a borrowed surname, nothing more.

That’s what I kept repeating to myself every time things started to feel dangerous: nothing more.

***

The house had five bedrooms spread along a narrow hallway, and the floorboards creaked as if they had a life of their own. In the mornings, when the light still hadn’t fully broken, I’d leave my room barefoot and memorize which boards to step on and which to avoid. More than walk, I floated. The plan would be ruined by a single creak at the wrong moment.

Iván’s room was the last door. I’d go in, throw the bolt with two fingers so the spring wouldn’t make a sound, and stand there for a second in the dimness, breathing in that smell of sleep and nineteen-year-old boy. The blind, half-raised, let in the first pale light of late spring. He always slept on his side, facing the wall, curled up.

The first time was an accident. The ones after that weren’t.

***

I remember that morning in full, frame by frame. I took off my panties still by the door, folded them and slipped them under his pillow so I wouldn’t leave them lying around, and moved up against his back without even saying good morning. There was no time for preliminaries. I had a tutorial first thing and barely half an hour before the house started stirring.

I ran my hand over his hip, intending to slip it inside the waistband of his pajama bottoms. There was no need. I found him directly, his cock hard and completely exposed above the elastic of his pants, hot, with a thick bead already peeking at the tip and sliding over the head.

“You’re wanking again,” I whispered against the nape of his neck, half joking, half reproaching, while I closed my fist around him and stroked from top to bottom, feeling him throb in my hand.

“And what’s it to you how many times I jack off?” he protested, thick-voiced, already pushing his hip into my fist without turning all the way around.

Truth was, it did matter to me. Not out of prudish morality, but because of something murkier that took me years to know how to name. I looked at him with a strange mix of things: sometimes like a kid whose socks I had to pick up, sometimes in a way that was nothing like maternal.

“Come on, cut to the chase, I’m late,” I urged him, not letting go of his cock.

He’d been stroking himself and was still moving slowly under my fingers, with that laziness of someone who’s still half asleep. I gently moved his hand away and lowered mine to grip his balls, squeezing just enough to draw a rough groan from him against the pillow. They were tight, heavy. I didn’t want him coming in his own hand before the time; that had already happened once and I’d spent the morning arguing in low voices.

“Can you tell me what you want at this hour?” he muttered, letting me do it, pushing his ass against my lower belly.

“You know what I want,” I said, pressing my lips to the shell of his ear. “I want you to fuck me fast and well. I’m going straight to the shower from here.”

***

I lowered my mouth to his shoulder and bit the back of his neck without leaving a mark, while I kept giving him a slow handjob with my fingers barely closed, just the pad of my thumb on his frenulum. He shivered. I ran my tongue behind his ear and felt his whole belly contract.

“Keep still or you’ll come too soon,” I warned softly. “And today you’re not coming in my hand; today you’re coming inside.”

I took out the condom packet I’d been hiding in my fist since I left my room. I tore the edge with my teeth, slowly, and passed the rubber over his shoulder.

“Here, put it on. My days are numbered and I don’t need the trouble.”

“Didn’t you have the IUD?” he said, finally turning to look at me with one eye open.

“I do. But just in case. I don’t trust anyone.”

He lay on his back and wrestled with the condom the way he wrestled with everything at that age: more hurry than skill. He had it on inside out and kept pushing, flattening the tip against the head.

“It won’t go on. Are you sure it’s my size?” he huffed, offended, his cock standing rigid against his stomach, so hard it bounced with every breath.

I had to bite back a laugh so I wouldn’t make a sound. I took the condom from his hands, straightened it, and leaned over him. Before putting it on, I ran my tongue from base to tip, flat, then sucked the head with my lips pressed tight for two long seconds. A “fuck” slipped out of him that nearly made me cover his mouth. I pulled it off my tongue with a low pop and rolled the rubber on myself, unspooling it slowly down the full length, feeling his belly tense under my wrist.

“You’re hopeless,” I murmured. “You’re old enough to know how to put one of these on by yourself.”

“For the one lay I have once in a blue moon, I don’t get enough practice,” he complained, raising his voice without realizing it.

“Shh,” I covered his mouth with my palm. “They’ll hear us all over the house.”

He went still. We both went still for a second, listening. The silence of the sleeping house was thick, broken only by the distant hum of the kitchen fridge. My mother and his father were sleeping three doors away. That closeness—the concrete risk of a floorboard creak, a door, footsteps—put my body in a state I’ve never felt the same way with anyone else. It wasn’t just desire. It was fear and desire mixed together until you couldn’t tell one from the other. My cunt clenched at the thought alone, already soaked without having been touched.

***

Once the rubber was in place, I turned over in the bed and gave him my back. That was our position. The only one in which, the next day, this seemed bearable to look at: no faces looking straight on, no kisses, nothing that felt like anything more than two bodies taking care of an urgent matter.

“How do you want it?” he asked, pressing himself against me, resting the condom-sheathed cock between my ass cheeks, rubbing it up and down, looking for my slit. “Like this, from behind?”

“Like that. And all the way in, to the hilt, no half measures,” I answered, lifting my top leg and bending it against the mattress to open myself fully. “I need to come quickly.”

I felt him slide the tip up and down between the lips of my cunt, soaking himself before lining up. He ran two fingers across the front and found my clit, swollen, slick, and played with it for a couple of seconds, making clumsy circles that forced me to clench my teeth.

“You’re dripping,” he murmured, in that thick, amazed voice he always got.

“Put it in already,” I hissed. “And don’t be afraid.”

He found the angle with one hand and I felt myself opened by him in a matter of seconds, speared to the hilt all at once, with that wet ease that betrayed me. I’d been awake and turned on long before leaving my room, running through this same thing in my head—his cock entering me, his breath on my nape—so there was no resistance at all. My cunt swallowed him whole and closed around him.

“Fuck,” I let out against the pillow, louder than I should have, feeling him fill me to a place only he touched at that hour.

“You’re burning up inside,” he murmured, surprised, his mouth against my shoulder. “What happened to you tonight?”

“Better not ask,” I said. “Just fuck me properly and keep quiet.”

***

And he did. He learned fast, that had to be said for him. He started slowly, testing, pulling almost all the way out and then sinking back down to the base with a slowness that made me bite my lip not to cry out. Soon he found the slow, deep rhythm I had taught him by force of mornings like that one. He held my hip with one hand, and with the other he slid up to my chest under my nightdress and pinched my nipple between two fingers, tugging until my back arched against him.

“Like that, suck on my tit with your fingers,” I asked softly, trapping his hand against me. “Harder.”

He squeezed, twisted, and I felt each pull go straight to my cunt, which contracted around his cock, making him hiss through his teeth.

He buried his face in my hair and breathed in raggedly near my ear, a thread of saliva wetting my nape every time he drove in deep.

I bit the back of my hand not to make a sound. My eyes were fixed on the strip of gray light coming through the blind, on the dust motes drifting slowly, and I let the pleasure climb up my legs like a current I couldn’t and didn’t want to stop. The bed didn’t creak if we moved slowly. We’d learned that by trial and error, like two accomplices smoothing out a petty crime. Our bodies slammed together with a wet, sticky sound that leaked between the sheets and made me even hornier to hear it.

“Not so hard,” I asked when he sped up too much and I heard his hips knock against my ass. “The headboard…”

He went back to the earlier rhythm, holding himself back, and that restraint made it even better. Every thrust reached the deepest point and stayed there for a second, his cock buried to the balls and his pubic hair scraping my ass, and I could feel the heat concentrating under my belly, tight, on the verge.

“Fuck me there, right there, don’t move from there,” I panted without a voice, all breath. “Yeah, that angle, that…”

I slid my free hand between my legs and helped myself, rubbing my clit in quick circles while he kept fucking me with that slow, ferocious cadence. I could feel my own fingers soaked with slick and with the condom lubricant overflowing outside. With the other hand I grabbed his thigh from behind and dug in my nails so he wouldn’t even think of changing the rhythm.

“I’m coming,” I warned him, my mouth mashed against the pillow. “Quiet, quiet, quiet…”

I didn’t need much more. I came in silence, face buried in the pillow that smelled like him, clenching my teeth so the moan wouldn’t get beyond those four walls. My whole body tightened like a cord and then let go all at once, in waves, while my cunt clenched around his cock in long spasms, milking him from the inside. He stayed buried to the hilt, still, waiting for me to finish, feeling how I squeezed him with each lash of the orgasm.

“Fuck, how you squeeze,” he whispered against my ear, voice broken. “Like you’re going to rip it off.”

“Yeah,” I managed once I could breathe. “Now you, but fast. Come inside. Now.”

***

He straightened just a handspan behind me, grabbed my hips with both hands, and started to fuck for real, short and deep, taking advantage of the fact that I was still soft and throbbing inside. I could hear his breathing getting more and more ragged, his balls bumping slowly against my already hypersensitive clit, and I let out a muffled moan with each push because my cunt was still trembling in echoes of the first.

“Like that, give it all to me,” I muttered over my shoulder. “Empty yourself in there, every last drop.”

A few more thrusts were enough. I felt him tense all over, bury himself to the hilt and stay there, hold his breath and let it out in a long shudder against my nape, gripping my hip with a force that left the mark of his fingers on me the next day. Even through the latex, I could feel his cock throbbing inside me in spaced-out jerks, unloading, and swelling a second before each spurt. I counted four. He came a lot, as always. He didn’t say anything. He never said anything at that moment; I think he was as embarrassed as I was.

We stayed like that for a few seconds, locked together, still with him inside, feeling him gradually go soft while neither of us moved, catching our breath in the dimness. It was the only instant in the whole scene when there was something like tenderness, and precisely for that reason it was the one that scared me most. I pulled away before it could turn into something else, feeling his cock slip out of me with a soft wet sound and the loaded condom hang there, swollen at the tip.

“Throw the condom in the downstairs bathroom, not in your bin,” I reminded him while I got my panties back from under the pillow and pulled them up my still-trembling legs. “Your father checks that.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he muttered, half asleep again, gripping the rubber at the base to take it off, turning back toward the wall as if nothing had happened.

I slid the bolt back with the same care I’d used to close it and stepped into the hallway, with slick dripping inside my thigh and his smell stuck to my skin. The house was still asleep. I stepped on the good boards one by one, counted the doors, and got into the shower with time to spare to make it to my tutorial with my hair still damp and the face of someone who hadn’t broken a plate.

***

That went on for a summer and part of the autumn. Then I really moved out, found my own place, found a life that didn’t fit in that narrow hallway, and the two of us went on as if nothing had happened. Today we see each other at the occasional family meal, greet each other with two proper kisses in front of our parents, and talk about the weather and work. No one would ever suspect.

Sometimes, when we end up in the kitchen pouring coffee, I catch him looking at me a second too long. And I hold his gaze one second longer, just one, before looking away. That’s all that’s left of those mornings: that mute instant, that pact of silence we’ve never broken.

I don’t regret it. I know I should, but that would be lying, and if I’ve written all this it’s precisely to stop lying to myself. Some desires don’t understand surnames or what’s right, and that summer I decided to stop fighting mine. I don’t recommend it. I’m only confessing it.