What I Did to My Stepfather While He Was Sleeping

Before Damián came home, my life was as simple as could be. I lived with my mother and my little brother, and I was a pretty ordinary guy, except for one detail I never fully understood: unlike my friends, no woman ever stirred anything in me. It didn’t worry me too much. I just went through the days without much interest in anyone, as if that part of me were waiting for something.

That something arrived the day my mother introduced him. Damián was the kind of man she had always wanted: hardworking, calm, one of those men who hold a house together without making a sound. But for me, his arrival meant something else. It meant discovering, all at once and without warning, that I liked men. And not just any men: I liked them with that raw masculinity he carried around without even trying.

Damián was tall, dark-skinned, with a solid body that didn’t come from any gym but from years of hauling bricks and, later, working on engines with his hands. He had a thick beard, an old tattoo on his forearm, and that air of a mature man that showed even in the way he rested his elbow on the table. At home, with the heat the way it was, he almost always walked around shirtless, or crossed from the bathroom to the bedroom wrapped in a towel, with no shame at all.

I went speechless every time. I was hypnotized by his broad chest, the dark hair under his arms, the bulge that showed so boldly under his pants. He treated me like family, messed up my hair, sat down to eat with me as if nothing. I, on the other hand, couldn’t take my eyes off him. I had just turned nineteen and, next to him, I felt small, thin, almost transparent.

Seeing him so sure of himself awoke a craving in me I didn’t know how to put out, even though I was dead certain that to him I was nothing more than his wife’s son.

***

What started as simple curiosity got out of hand fast. At first I only watched him out of the corner of my eye when he crossed the living room. Soon I became an expert at keeping an eye on him without his noticing. I learned his schedule, the dull thud of his boots when he got back from the workshop, the exact minutes it took him to yank off his shirt to cool down.

I couldn’t keep my head on straight anymore when he was near. He’d talk to me about anything, about a bill or a delayed job, and all I could register was the way the muscles in his arm moved or the trail of hair climbing up his neck. I went crazy imagining what it would be like to have him close in another way, to touch that skin, to feel the scrape of his beard against mine.

Curiosity turned into need. Many nights I stayed up on purpose just to think about him. I’d lock myself in my room and touch myself while thinking of him, convinced that, from that bulge he showed in his work pants, he had to have a cock to match the rest of his body.

Sometimes I spied on him through the crack in the door when he came out of the shower. Seeing him there with the towel at his waist, his chest still damp and his underarms dark, made me lose all my shame. I’d masturbate holding my breath, imagining it was his rough hand grabbing me instead. It stopped mattering that he was my mother’s husband, the man who paid for everything in that house. The urge to have him close weighed more than any respect.

***

One afternoon we were alone. My mother and my brother had gone out shopping and the silence in the house felt different, heavier. Damián had come back wrecked from the workshop and had thrown himself on the sofa to watch a game. It was sticky, suffocating heat, the kind that makes you want to wear nothing at all. As always, he was shirtless, with loose pants and his body abandoned to the languor.

I stayed leaning against the kitchen doorway, watching him. After a while the television became a background murmur and his breathing turned slow and deep. He had fallen completely asleep. I approached carefully, feeling like my heart was about to jump out of my mouth.

In his sleep, Damián made a purely instinctive movement: he slipped a hand under the waistband to adjust himself, and when he pulled it away the weight of his arm dragged his pants and boxers down a little lower than they should have gone. I lost my breath. Over the edge of the fabric there was a patch of black, rough hair contrasting with his dark skin and disappearing downward, hiding the roots of what I had imagined so many times.

It was too much. I felt an immediate jerk, my cock hard in a second, pressed tight against my pants. I couldn’t stand the pressure and ran almost all the way to my room, closing the door slowly so I wouldn’t wake him. I touched myself with a desperation I had never felt before, eyes closed, trying to hold on to the image of that dark hair and that skin.

But when I finished, no relief came. On the contrary: the need to know what it was really like became torture. I started using a dating app, looking for guys who resembled him, dark and mature men with that same energy. I hooked up with one or two just to try to satisfy the craving, and it only made things worse. Every time I was with a stranger, all I could think was that it wasn’t him. The desire, instead of fading, sank in deeper.

***

I promised myself that next time I wouldn’t just keep staring. The opportunity came several months later, one night at a family party. Damián drank too much, something that was extremely rare for him, and ended up knocked out early. He was so drunk he could barely stand, so some relatives brought him home almost dragging him and dumped him on his bed. My mother and my brother stayed at the party, promising to come back later, and in an instant the house was empty: just him and me.

I heard the front door shut and the silence swallowed everything. I walked down the hall to his room with my heart hammering in my ears. I saw him there, completely out of it, breathing heavily. This time there was no one to interrupt us, and he wasn’t in any condition to react. It was the moment I had been looking for all along.

I went in with trembling hands. I moved to the foot of the bed and started taking off his shoes with extreme care, trying not to move him. My cock ached against the fabric, and every brush of my fingers on his ankles sent a shock through me. But suddenly a cold fear took over. I thought of my mother, of what would happen if he opened his eyes all at once. I backed out in a panic and almost ran back to my room.

I sat on the bed trying to steady my breathing, hating myself for being a coward.

I can’t do this, I kept telling myself, even though my body wanted exactly the opposite.

***

Then I heard noises in the next room. Fabric dragging, the creak of the bed. I thought he had woken up and froze, but curiosity won out. I walked on tiptoe and peered through the crack in the half-open door.

Damián wasn’t fully awake, but the heat of the booze had made him react halfway. I saw him standing up, swaying, fighting with his pants until he let them fall to the floor. Then he ripped off his T-shirt and tossed it aside. He stood there for a moment before collapsing back onto the bed, now wearing only dark briefs that, on that solid body, were tight and showed with brutal clarity everything I had imagined for months.

I stayed glued to the crack, not blinking, until I went back in. This time without fear. I planted myself beside the bed and just stared at him. And then I saw something that left me speechless: even though he was deeply asleep, his body seemed to react on its own. Maybe the heat, maybe a dream he’d never tell anyone about, but the bulge under the fabric started to move, slow and steady.

Without my touching him, he began to harden. The cotton stretched more and more, drawing a long, thick outline, exactly as I had pictured it so many nights. Watching it grow like that, all on its own, until the tip pushed out at the side of the waistband, drove me insane.

The contrast was too much: the serious face of a rough man, the black beard, the heavy drunk breathing, and below, a body that seemed to have a life of its own, calling me. The hair on his stomach rose and fell with every breath, and the smell of his skin, a mix of workshop and alcohol, finished clouding my head.

***

I knelt slowly between his open legs, feeling the heat pouring off his body, and moved close until I was only a few centimeters from that bulge that no longer fit in his clothes. These were no longer strangers’ photos or fantasies in the dark. It was him, the man I admired every day, right there.

I slid my fingers into the waistband with absurd gentleness, terrified he might wake up, but Damián didn’t even stir. The alcohol had him sunk deep. I pulled the fabric down little by little, and the first thing that hit me was the heat coming off his groin. As the garment gave way, that dark-skinned cock I had lost sleep over appeared, a deep coffee color that contrasted with the black, thick hair surrounding it.

It was hard, pointing toward his navel, throbbing on its own. It smelled strong, of male sweat and soap, that rough scent of a man who works among engines. Seeing it bare at last, in front of my eyes, was almost unreal. I reached out and wrapped my hand around it. I went cold at the thickness: my fingers could barely close around it. It was a hot length, webbed with veins pulsing under my palm.

I brought my face to the glans, dark and shiny in the dim light. I saw a clear drop bead out, proof that his body, even as he was out of it, was reacting to my closeness. I stuck out my tongue and gave it a slow lick, and that salty taste confirmed I wasn’t dreaming. I stayed still for a second, looking at his face. Damián let out a heavy snore, but didn’t move a single inch.

Seeing there was no danger, I lost the last trace of fear. I settled in better, feeling the brush of the hair against my chin, and started sucking him with real hunger. I savored every inch of that skin, enjoying the firmness in my mouth, my mind fixed on one thing only: that at last I had the man of the house exactly where I had always wanted him.

***

Suddenly he let out a deep moan and moved sharply. I jumped in fright, my heart in my throat, as his body rolled halfway onto its side. But he was so gone that it was only a reflex. I grabbed his shoulders and, using my strength, turned him back onto his back. I needed him like that, exposed, completely given over.

I took him back into my mouth. I wasn’t careful anymore. The taste and smell had me out of my mind. I started sucking hard, feeling him get even harder against my tongue. Damián let out rough, low growls from deep in his throat, so deep they seemed to make the bed vibrate. Hearing him made me even hotter, I picked up the pace and used my hands to stroke him while I devoured him without mercy.

His body tensed all at once. I saw his fists clench in the sheets and heard a longer groan, almost a muffled roar. Without opening his eyes, he reached the end: I felt his cock give a couple of violent jolts inside my mouth and release, hot and thick, filling me with the final taste of all that masculinity. Then he relaxed suddenly, let out a heavy sigh, and sank back into the silence of his drunken sleep, leaving me there, kneeling and finally sated, with the biggest secret of my life burning in my mouth.

***

I stayed there for a few seconds savoring the moment, watching his body go still again, as if nothing had happened. My legs were shaking. I wiped myself with the back of my hand, pulled his briefs back up carefully so he wouldn’t suspect anything when he woke up with a hangover, and covered him with the sheet up to his chest, leaving him exactly as the relatives had left him. I looked at him one last time: the bearded face, relaxed, as imposing as ever, with the slightest idea of what his stepson had just done to him.

Just as I was leaving on tiptoe, I heard keys in the lock. It was them. I hurried to the bathroom, splashed water on my face, and looked at myself in the mirror. My eyes were shining differently. I went into my room and threw myself onto the bed a second before I heard my mother’s voice asking if everything was all right.

—Yeah, Mom. Damián hasn’t woken up since they brought him home —I answered, keeping my voice as normal as I could.

I lay there staring at the ceiling in the dark, listening to my family’s sounds as they slipped back into routine. I knew that from then on nothing would be the same. Every time I saw him fixing an engine, sweaty and shirtless, or every time he gave me a pat on the shoulder and called me “son,” I would remember the taste of his secret. I was no longer the boy who watched from the shadows. Now I was the keeper of his most vulnerable moment.

***

I never told anyone. It stayed inside me like a hot weight, something that belongs only to me. Sometimes, in the mornings, when we have breakfast and I see him there with his coffee in hand and that serious-man attitude, I wonder how much he really knew.

There were days when I thought I noticed a different look, a longer silence when our eyes met, a smile that hadn’t been there before. I never knew whether that night, between the alcohol and sleep, Damián actually felt something and chose to believe it had been a very vivid dream. But the fact is he never said a word. Not a complaint, not an awkward question, not a change in the way he treated me.

Everything stayed the same. Him, the kind man who took care of my mother and the house. Me, the boy who helped him out now and then with some tool. But since that night, every time I see him come out of the bathroom in a towel or take off his shirt because of the heat, there isn’t only desire on my side. There’s also a quiet satisfaction. He is still the pillar of the family, and I am the only one who knows what happened in that bed. And as long as he keeps the secret without knowing it, I will too.