What I Heard from the Nephew Who Came to Live in My Apartment
It had been a long time since I’d sat down to tell anything. Life had filled up with schedules, training sessions, and silence, and to sort all that out you need calm. But what happened last term deserves that I take the time to put it in its place, detail by detail, because few times does one have the luck to enjoy as much as I enjoyed, and to empty his balls so many nights in a row because of a kid on the other side of a partition wall.
It all started when my sister and her husband called me one summer afternoon. Their son, my nephew Bruno, had just turned nineteen and wanted to study for a degree that, in the whole country, was only offered in a couple of cities up north. They live in the south, in Cartagena, and the boy had nowhere to stay. The conversation lasted five minutes: of course, he should come stay with me.
My name is Marcos, I’m thirty-seven, and I work as a coach. I got my permanent post some time ago at a municipal sports center and, besides that, I coach two teams of young guys, one in swimming and one in athletics. I’m nearly six foot three, I weigh little for my height, and by now I’ve got more gray in my beard than on my head. I’ve lived alone since I came to this small, quiet northern city six years ago.
The apartment is mine with a right-to-buy arrangement from day one. It’s central and comfortable: kitchen, living room, a large bathroom, and three bedrooms. Mine, which is the biggest, and two smaller ones, one empty and the other one that I was using for storage and ironing. I’m almost always alone at home, so my habit is to walk around naked, with no clothes on, cock out, relaxed, jerking off on the sofa or in the shower whenever I get hard, with no schedule and no concern for anything. I suppose that’s what happens to anyone who lives alone.
But I don’t want to bore you with my stuff. Let’s get to the point, which is Bruno.
When summer ended, I took the car and drove down to Cartagena to pick him up. We loaded his things into the trunk, said goodbye to the family, and set off back, just the two of us, toward what was going to be our life together during the school year. We talked for hours on the road. We’d always been a very close family, and with him everything flowed effortlessly.
I have to describe Bruno to you. Dark-skinned, with curly brown hair that was always tousled, about six foot, toned from all the running. He has a very expressive face and brown eyes that say more than he realizes. He dresses in tracksuits every day, skinny jeans and sweaters, nothing formal. And he has an ass that’s enough to drive you insane: two perfect curves, nicely separated, into which the seam of his pants sinks, and that sway with every step in a way that isn’t fair to anyone walking behind him. An ass that makes you swallow hard, tight, round, with the hollow between the cheeks showing against the fabric every time he takes a stride.
Along the way we agreed on the obvious: at home we’d be comfortable, in boxers and T-shirts, no protocols. He was an orderly, responsible, very affectionate kid, so the idea seemed completely natural to me. Too natural, I would think later, when I was already drooling and my cock was swelling every time I saw him cross the hallway with the fabric clinging to his package.
We got there at dusk. We hauled everything upstairs and I settled him into the room next to mine. In fact, the headboards of our beds were separated only by the wall, wall to wall. His room was spacious, with a study desk and everything he might need. I left him unpacking while I got comfortable and prepared something for dinner.
***
We had dinner in peace, and then I had the first sign that that school year was going to be a test of my patience. Bruno showed up in the kitchen wearing nothing but a very tight black boxer brief. The fabric clung to his package like a second skin, and the bulge it outlined was enormous: you could make out a thick cock, hanging heavy to one side, and underneath it the weight of a pair of big balls that filled out the inner seam. He sat down across from me with his legs open, and while we talked he absentmindedly stroked himself over the fabric, palm right over the bulge, squeezing his cock and balls with the naturalness of someone who does it every day in front of the mirror, with no apparent malice, or so I wanted to believe.
I nodded at everything he said, but I barely listened. My own blue boxer briefs were starting to feel too small: my cock was getting hard under the table, pushing against the fabric, and I could feel a thick drop already wetting the tip. I thanked God I was wearing a loose T-shirt that covered my package. Every time he lowered his hand and adjusted his balls with two fingers, I felt a jolt from my groin to the tip of my glans. We finished dinner as best I could, I cleared up quickly, and we went to bed. The next day we had to get up early to visit the university, take care of paperwork, and let him get familiar with the city before I went back to work.
—Good night, uncle —he said from the doorway of his room.
—Good night, Bruno. Get some rest.
I closed my eyes in the dark and tried to think of anything else. I couldn’t. I ended up giving myself a quick, silent wank under the sheets, with the image of my nephew’s black bulge burned behind my eyelids, and I came into my hand, covering my mouth so a moan wouldn’t escape.
***
The next morning was another ambush. Bruno came into the kitchen while I was making breakfast, kissed me on the cheek like he’d done since he was a kid, and then I saw it: the boxer briefs were at their limit, the tip of his cock forcing the waistband elastic, outlined beneath the fabric by the swollen glans, and a damp stain, fresh semen seeping through, betraying that the night had given him more action than sleep. You could see perfectly the soft, thick bulge, and the foreskin pulled back, letting the head be guessed at. I served him coffee pretending to be calm when I wasn’t, my throat dry and my cock already standing up inside my tracksuit pants.
When he got into the shower, I couldn’t help peeking. It was only a moment, but I saw him completely, from behind, stretching under the water: the broad back, the narrow waist, and that well-shaped ass, two hard, separated globes, with the groove in the middle marked deep. I saw the water running down his crack, saw him soaping between his cheeks with two fingers without the slightest hesitation, and how, when he turned slightly, his cock was hanging heavy between his thighs, thick even at rest, with a good pair of low-hanging balls swinging under the stream. A gasp slipped out of me. I backed away to get dressed, heart racing and cock dripping inside my underwear, and when I stepped into the hallway I ran into him, coming back naked to his room without a trace of modesty, still half asleep, his cock bobbing between his legs and his balls slapping his thighs with each step. I had to brace myself against the wall for a second. That boy was going to drive me mad, and I knew it.
We spent the day out: the university, the paperwork, a long walk through the center so he could get his bearings. We had lunch on a terrace, laughed a lot, and for a while I managed to treat him as what he was, my nephew, and nothing more. At night we repeated the routine: dinner, conversation, and bed.
But I wasn’t sleepy. I had a strange, almost physical need to hear something, to know what that kid was doing on the other side of the wall. I lay on my back, with my cock already half hard on my stomach, listening for the slightest noise, ear pressed to the wall like a teenager.
It didn’t take long to start.
***
First there were soft knocks, spaced out. Then a steady rhythm, without pause: the headboard of his bed hitting the wall, right on the other side of mine. You could also hear, muffled but crystal clear, the wet slapping sound of a hand tugging a well-lubed cock, the unmistakable noise of the head going in and out of a clenched fist. The sound went through me. I stayed motionless, holding my breath, with my cock making a tent under the sheet, until I couldn’t take it anymore and pulled it out, spat into my palm, and started jerking myself slowly, following his rhythm as if the two of us were doing the same thing separated by a few inches of brick. I slid my hand down to the base, squeezed my balls, went back up to the glans, and smeared myself with what was already leaking from the tip.
The thumping didn’t let up. Faster and faster, firmer and firmer. On the other side I started to make out muffled, guttural groans, and the occasional “fuck” clenched between his teeth. I imagined what was happening a handspan from me and my head was about to explode. I needed more than sound. I needed to see his cock, see his face, see him come. I got up, cock out, hard as stone and dripping, nothing on top, and went out into the dark hallway, careful not to let the floor creak.
His door was slightly ajar. A slit of light slipped through the half-raised blind, and that pale brightness gave him to me in full. He was face down, completely naked, with the pillow clenched between his legs, ramming into it with furious thrusts. He was fucking the pillow like his life depended on it: driving his hips in and out with violence, ass lifted and jutting up, and with every thrust you could see his fat balls swing back, banging against the fabric. His ass tightened and loosened with every movement: the two globes pressed together, revealing the dark, tight hollow of his asshole between the parted cheeks, and closed again on the next drive. His whole body worked with a commitment that allowed no rest, shining with sweat, back arched, shoulders pressed into the mattress. He looked like a sculpture brought to life, lost in his own pleasure, fucking the pillow as if there were a cunt or a mouth waiting underneath.
I stood frozen in the doorway, cock in hand and heart in my throat, stroking myself slowly so I wouldn’t miss a thing. I was drooling, literally. I don’t know how long I stood there. A long time. Long enough to burn every detail into my mind: the bounce of his balls between his thighs, the taut skin of his ass as he drove downward, every broken breath, every time he buried his face in the mattress to smother a groan, every tight “ah, fuck” that the pillow swallowed.
The rhythm became insane, as if the bed were about to break. I saw him slip a hand under his body, grab his cock against the pillow and rub it while he kept thrusting, and then a rough growl, half suppressed, announced the end. His ass clenched violently, two, three, four times, and I could make out the hot stream going into the pillow, the load coming out in gushes from that cock I hadn’t managed to see properly but could imagine thick, pulsing, spitting out dense semen. Bruno collapsed on top of the pillow and stayed still, panting, his back rising and falling slowly, ass shining with sweat and empty balls hanging between his open thighs.
I slipped back to the ironing room just in time, my cock still in my hand and about to explode. I heard him get up, go to the bathroom, turn on the tap. Through the crack I saw him cross the hallway, still dazed, with his cock now soft but still thick, swaying, and a drop of semen hanging from the head. He went back to his bed a few minutes later, flopped down, and fell asleep instantly, with that ease only those who are nineteen and have just emptied their balls possess.
I went back to my room with my pulse racing. I lay down, closed my eyes, and with the image of him still throbbing behind my eyelids — that jutting ass hammering the pillow, the balls bouncing, the asshole peeking between the cheeks — it took just two strokes for me to finish too. I came in spurts over my belly, biting my lip so I wouldn’t make a sound, with four, five hot ropes that climbed up to my chest. I ran a finger through the cum, smelled it, tasted it, and stayed still breathing hard, sticky with my own semen, my cock still pulsing.
***
Afterward I stayed a long while staring at the ceiling, my breathing slowly returning to normal and the cum drying on my skin. I knew perfectly well where the line was. I knew that this was mined ground, that I had to control myself, that he was my nephew and that I was the responsible adult his mother had trusted. I repeated it to myself several times, like a promise.
But I also knew, with an uncomfortable clarity, that I was going to go back out into the hallway. That the wall separating our beds had become the thinnest thing in the world. That every night, from then on, I was going to lie down waiting for the first knock against the wall like someone waiting for a signal, with my cock already in my hand and my loaded balls waiting their turn.
The school year had only just begun. We had many months ahead of us of living together, of dinners in boxers, showers and early mornings, of walls that were too thin and cocks that were going to ask for more than either of us dared say out loud yet. And I, who had spent six years sleeping alone in that apartment, jerking off with nothing but my hand for company, knew that very same night that nothing was going to be quiet anymore.
What came after deserves its own account. And I promise you that what I heard and what I saw in that first stretch was only the beginning.
