My Sister and the Pastor’s Daughter in the Bathroom

Mateo discovered it by chance, and for years he convinced himself that fate had been cruel to him that afternoon. It could be nothing else. Neither chance, nor the universe, nor certainly God, could have such a twisted sense of humor as to make him witness what he saw on the second floor of the pastor’s house.

The reception had been his mother’s idea. Pastor Reinaldo was celebrating twenty-five years leading the congregation and, according to her, it would have been an unforgivable sign of disrespect not to attend. Mateo had put on the shirt he hated least, had smiled at every lady who asked if he had a girlfriend yet, and at the first opportunity had slipped upstairs with the excuse of looking for the bathroom.

The house was enormous. Dark wooden hallways, paintings of mountain landscapes, lamps with old fabric fringe. He climbed without hurry, glad to get away from the noise on the first floor. On the landing there was a religious altarpiece that he found horrible, but he stood looking at it for a while because boredom was winning out over taste.

That was when he heard the noise.

It wasn’t really a noise. It was breathing. A low, contained gasp coming from the end of the hallway. Mateo identified it before he wanted to identify it, and even so he walked toward it.

The bathroom door was ajar. Barely a finger’s width between the frame and the wood. Just enough for him to see, without effort, what was happening inside.

Lucía.

His sister Lucía was against the tiled wall, with her cheek pressed to the cold tile and her eyelids squeezed shut as if she were trying to concentrate on not making any noise. She had her lower lip trapped between her teeth. One of her hands was searching the wall, not finding anywhere to hold on. The other was buried inside the pants of the woman behind her, moving with a slow, obscene rhythm that Mateo didn’t need to imagine: Lucía was fingering that woman’s cunt with two fingers sunk to the knuckle, moving them in tight circles that drew a broken gasp from the other woman against her neck.

Mateo went rigid. Not exactly paralyzed: rigid, like someone hit by a current and not knowing how long it will last. He felt his cock harden against the seam of his pants before he’d even finished processing the image.

He knew the other woman by sight. It was Bárbara, the pastor’s eldest daughter. Taller than Lucía, with black, very straight hair, the sort of girl he had greeted once at the supermarket and always considered a little distant. Now that same distant girl had her nose buried in his sister’s neck, her lips parted, and her hand shoved inside Lucía’s pants with a motion that allowed no possible misinterpretation. Bárbara’s fingers sank in and came out wet: he could see how her wrist was marked beneath the fabric, how her palm stuck to Lucía’s pubis every time she pushed in.

The first thing Mateo thought was that he had to leave.

The second was that he didn’t move.

Something flared inside him without asking permission. A heat that ran down his chest and settled between his legs, sudden and indecent. His belly started tingling. He tried to think of anything else —the horrible painting on the landing, his aunt’s voice talking about that year’s harvest, the pastor’s sermon at the last Christmas service— and none of it lasted more than three seconds.

Bárbara was biting along Lucía’s neck, right where the shoulder begins. She kissed her skin with her mouth wide open, as if she wanted to leave a mark. Lucía turned her head a little to find her lips. They kissed like that, in an impossible position, with Lucía’s cheek still against the wall and Bárbara’s hand sunk between her thighs. They licked each other’s mouths with their tongues out, shamelessly, and Mateo caught the wet smack of tongues finding each other again and again.

—Shut up —Bárbara whispered in Lucía’s ear, biting her earlobe—. Shut up or they’ll hear us, slut.

And Lucía, the Lucía from the choir, the one who did Wednesday readings, nodded with her mouth open and bit the fingers Bárbara pressed over her mouth to muffle her moans.

***

Mateo didn’t remember starting to breathe harder, but he was breathing harder. He also didn’t remember putting his hand on his pants, but there it was, over the taut fabric, pressing without thinking. He grabbed himself over his boxer briefs and squeezed his whole cock, from base to tip, and almost moaned himself.

Lucía let out a sound. It wasn’t a moan —she couldn’t allow herself a moan— it was a puff of air, a half-swallowed whimper, a small thing that slipped out through her nose when Bárbara moved her fingers inside. Mateo closed his eyes at the sound. When he opened them again, the scene had advanced.

Lucía’s shirt was pulled up under her armpits. Her bra, white with lace trim, was still on, but Bárbara had already lifted it with both hands. His sister’s breasts, two medium breasts, white, with nipples so hard they looked painful, were exposed under the bathroom’s yellow light. Her nipples looked pink, swollen, pointing upward as if they were asking for a mouth.

Mateo called himself a motherfucker under his breath. Not for looking —he had already accepted that— but for getting even more turned on at the sight. Because it was his sister. Because he had known her since before he was born, because she had lent him her bicycle when he was nine, because he had held her hand the afternoon their dog died.

And yet he kept looking. And he kept rubbing his cock over his pants, slower and slower, harder and harder, trying not to come yet and trying to come right now.

Bárbara leaned forward and kissed one nipple. She did it slowly, almost respectfully, as if it were the first time she allowed herself to do it. Then she opened her mouth and took it in completely, sucking it with hollowed cheeks, and Lucía let out a rough moan she covered with her hand a second later. Bárbara ran her tongue around the areola, bit it with her front teeth, and Lucía pushed her breast into that mouth and let the air escape from her throat, a rough sound, almost angry. Both her hands were now gripping Bárbara’s hair, pulling and not pulling, wanting and not wanting. Bárbara moved to the other breast without letting go of the first, squeezing it with her free hand, pinching the wet nipple while she sucked the other.

The space between them was zero. Bárbara’s hip pressed into Lucía’s, and the free hand around her waist was like a soft rope. It was the most uncomfortable position in the world and they held it without apparent effort.

Mateo pressed his forehead against the doorframe. For a moment —just a moment— he thought anyone could come up the stairs and see him there, peering in, with his hand where it was. That thought, instead of scaring him off, made him hotter. That frightened him, and the fright pleased him. He shoved his hand inside his pants without thinking any further, grabbed his cock against his skin, and ran it up and down twice, three times, feeling the tip moisten against his palm.

Bárbara changed the rhythm. She pulled her hand out of Lucía’s pants —her fingers were gleaming, impossible not to see from where Mateo stood, gleaming with the wetness from his sister’s cunt— and put them in her mouth without breaking eye contact. She sucked both fingers clean, to the knuckle, with narrowed eyes and a half-smile. Lucía looked at her like someone looking at a sentence and at the same time a promise.

—You’re soaked —Bárbara told her in a hoarse voice, pressing her mouth to her ear—. You’re dripping, Lucía. It’s going to show in your pants.

—Shut up and keep going —Lucía answered in a thin thread, and it was his sister’s voice but it wasn’t his sister’s voice. It was lower, dirtier, a voice Mateo had never heard from her and would never forget in his fucking life.

Bárbara pulled her zipper down with two fingers. Opened the button. Shoved her hand in again, this time inside the underwear, and looked for her mouth at the same time. You could see the shape of the hand moving under the fabric, the measured rhythm that kept speeding up, the wrist turning to sink the fingers deeper. Lucía opened her legs a couple of centimeters, just enough for Bárbara’s hand to move better, and muttered something through clenched teeth that Mateo didn’t catch and probably would be better off never hearing.

Bárbara pulled her pants and panties down together, to mid-thigh, and there Mateo had to clench his teeth not to make a sound. He saw his sister’s cunt —saw it, there was no way not to see it— the neatly trimmed hair, the swollen, shining lips, the wetness running down to the inner thigh. Bárbara crouched without transition, set one knee on the floor, and put her mouth there, against the cunt, tongue out.

Lucía’s legs buckled. She grabbed the wall with both hands, nails scraping the tile, and arched her back, pushing her hips forward to get her cunt into Bárbara’s mouth. Bárbara ran her tongue all over it, from bottom to top, and then focused on the clit, sucking it with rhythm, moving her head in small circles, moaning herself against the flesh. The scene was obscene in a way Mateo had not seen even in the worst pages he secretly loaded at night. His sister, with her skirt-pants around her ankles, shirt up, bra raised, nipples out, and another woman on her knees eating her cunt in the pastor’s bathroom.

Mateo was jerking his cock with his hand inside his pants, in silence, biting his lip until it bled. He saw Bárbara shove two fingers in again, this time from below, curling them inward, and Lucía squeeze her eyes shut and cover her mouth with both hands because there was no human way to hold back the moan that was coming. Bárbara was licking and fingering her at the same time, with savage rhythm, and Lucía moved her hips against that mouth as if her life depended on rubbing herself.

—I’m going to come —Lucía said in a thread of a voice, between her hands—. Bárbara, I’m going to come, don’t stop, don’t stop for anything.

Bárbara didn’t stop. She buried her fingers to the hilt, curled them, sucked the clit with her whole mouth and flat tongue, and Lucía clamped her thighs around that face and came, biting her fist so she wouldn’t scream. Her legs shook, her belly contracted in small spasms, and Mateo, on the other side of the door, came in his hand almost at the same time. He came inside his boxer briefs without being able to stop it, in three or four hot spurts that soaked the fabric, biting his shoulder against the doorframe to keep quiet. His knees weakened. His whole body trembled. He closed his eyes and saw spots.

When he opened them, Bárbara was already standing. She was running her tongue over Lucía’s lip, letting her taste her own flavor. They kissed long and dirty, teeth knocking together, as if nothing had been finished.

***

—Mateo?

The voice came from downstairs and hit him like a bucket of ice water. It was his mother.

—Mateo, son!

His body reacted before his head did. He pulled his hand out of his pants, sticky, and wiped it as best he could against the lining of his pocket. He adjusted his cock, still half-hard and now soaked with his own cum, against the waistband of his boxer briefs, the elastic band acting as a brake. His ears were hot. Swallowing was difficult. He felt the warm wetness sticking to his thigh and prayed it wouldn’t show through his dark pants.

Inside the bathroom, neither of them had heard anything yet. Bárbara had put her hand back between Lucía’s legs, now slowly, almost tenderly, prolonging the aftershocks of the orgasm. Lucía had her eyes closed, her head thrown back, and was moving her hips against the hand touching her in tiny exhausted tugs.

Mateo forced himself away from the door. He walked two steps back without making a sound. Three. Four. He turned around. He ran his hands over his face as if he could erase what he had seen. He couldn’t erase it. He didn’t want to erase it either, and that was something else he would think about later.

He went down half the stairs. He leaned on the banister for a moment and breathed through his nose, counting to four on the inhale and to six on the exhale, as a trainer had taught him at fourteen. Then he kept going down with his face composed, a small smile, his hands in his pockets to hide what was happening below.

His mother was on the landing, both hands on her hips.

—Where had you gone?

—I was looking at a painting —he said, with a naturalness that in another time would have seemed impossible—. There’s one at the end of the hall. A landscape, I think of a town in the south. I was studying it for a while.

—A painting? —His mother looked at him with a mix of surprise and pride—. Well, I didn’t know you liked landscapes.

—Sometimes they intrigue me.

She draped an arm over his shoulders —or rather tried to, because he was taller by half a head— and led him back into the living room, where the pastor was still telling an old anecdote and nobody had noticed anything.

***

What Mateo couldn’t stop thinking about, while someone handed him a glass of non-alcoholic wine and served him a piece of orange cake, was that he had been the buffer between his mother and the scene on the second floor.

If he hadn’t gone downstairs, his mother would have gone up. She would have gone up to look for him. She would have found the door ajar. She would have seen her golden daughter, her perfect Lucía who sang in the choir and read the Wednesday reading, against a wall, her shirt over her bra and another girl on her knees eating her cunt. She would have had a heart attack, literally. Mateo knew his mother well enough to know this wasn’t a loving exaggeration: she would have had a heart attack.

And, without knowing it, he had gotten in the way. He had distracted her. He had taken her to the sofa in the living room to talk about the invented painting and the invented town in the south while, upstairs, his sister finished what she had started.

He thought it twice and almost laughed inwardly. He was being complicit. Complicit with his sister, without his sister yet knowing it. Someday he would tell her —maybe, one night when two glasses of wine loosened his tongue— and Lucía was going to look at him with a face he would remember forever.

When Lucía came down to the living room, twenty minutes later, she did it on Bárbara’s arm, both of them perfectly composed. Their hair was in place, their shirts in place, their smiles measured. Only Mateo noticed that Lucía’s lips still glistened differently, that her cheek was marked by tile, that she walked with a slight stiffness in her legs. Lucía searched for Mateo with her eyes without wanting to search for him. She found him. He did not hold her gaze longer than necessary. He only gave her a small nod, almost imperceptible, a sign to stay calm.

Lucía blinked twice. She understood. Maybe she didn’t understand everything he had seen, but she understood that he had seen something and that he wasn’t going to say anything. Bárbara, beside her, had no idea about the silent conversation. She was answering something about the cake recipe to the pastor’s wife, with the same mouth that had been sucking her sister’s cunt ten minutes earlier.

Mateo swallowed the non-alcoholic wine in one gulp and settled onto the sofa. His pulse was still beating in inconvenient places, and he felt the dry dampness sticking to his thigh every time he shifted position, but he was already beginning to breathe normally. He thought this was going to be, for a very long time, the longest afternoon he had ever lived through in a house where they prayed before dessert.

And he also thought, without wanting to think it all the way through, that as soon as he got to his room that night he was going to lock the door, lower his pants, grab his cock again, and remember everything step by step, with his eyes closed: Bárbara’s hand inside the pants, the nipples out, the mouth sucking the cunt, the shining fingers, the swallowed moan, his sister’s face coming against a wall.