My Aunt Mariela and the Night She Fell Asleep

This happened many years ago, in that huge house where I grew up with my parents. Back then, my aunt Mariela, my mother’s younger sister, was living with us. She had separated from her husband about half a year earlier and had moved into the back bedroom with her son, a little boy who always went to sleep early. Between paperwork and moving, she spent her days in offices, embassies, and notary offices, trying to gather everything she needed to leave the country and start another life somewhere no one knew who she was or what she was running from.

The rest of the family was barely home either. My father worked long night shifts and sometimes didn’t show up for two or three days. My mother traveled north every two weeks to keep an eye on a plot of land we had out there. I finished my shifts at the workshop in the middle of the afternoon, so during the week we only crossed paths at dinnertime, when everyone came home tired and with no desire to talk.

That particular Friday, every absence lined up. My father was on duty until Monday. My mother had gone out to the country that very morning. Mariela’s boy was spending the weekend with his paternal grandparents. When I got home around seven, I found my aunt barefoot in the kitchen, her hair tied up in a loose bun and a cotton T-shirt much too big for her.

“I thought I was going to be eating alone,” she said, without looking up from the pan. “Feel like having some?”

“Whatever you’re making is fine.”

We ate at the kitchen table, without tablecloths, without ceremony. We talked about things we had never talked about before: the husband she had left, the fear of starting from zero in another language, how little I still understood about life. She was thirty-four, I was twenty-one, and for the first time I felt she was treating me like an adult.

“The house is a mess,” she said when we cleared the plates. “Help me tidy up a bit while your parents aren’t here? If they show up Sunday and see this, your mother will kill me.”

I nodded and rolled up my sleeves. It was true: we’d been piling up clothes, glasses, books left all over the place for days. We spent a good while sweeping, vacuuming, folding laundry we took from the clothesline in the patio. At some point, while I was wiping the coffee table in the living room, I suggested opening something to drink.

“My father has some very strong aguardiente in the bar. If we open it, it won’t be missed.”

Mariela let out a short laugh, the kind that escaped her when something amused her and made her feel guilty at the same time.

“Bring two glasses.”

The first sip I drank standing up, next to the bookcase, while she finished folding a sheet. The second we had sitting on the long sofa in the living room, with the TV on some old movie neither of us was really watching. By the third, she had already kicked off her slippers and tucked her feet under the cushion. The aguardiente burned going down and settled in the stomach like an ember.

“I’m exhausted,” she said, letting her head fall back against the cushion. “But if I stop drinking, I won’t be able to sleep. My head’s full of papers.”

“Pour yourself another then.”

She did. And then another after that.

***

I got up to use the bathroom at some point, I don’t know whether after midnight or later. When I came back to the living room, Mariela was asleep. Her empty glass had slipped to the floor without breaking, and she was breathing slowly, her face sunk into the cushion. Her legs were bent and her T-shirt had ridden up a little over her waist.

I stood in the doorway for a moment, looking at her. The cold of that winter night was coming in through the window, and I thought she’d wake up frozen if I didn’t cover her. I went to the hall closet and brought back a thick wool blanket.

When I moved closer to cover her, I couldn’t help looking at her more than I should have. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Under the thin fabric of the T-shirt, her heavy breasts could be made out, her nipples outlined and hard from the cold, rising and falling with every breath. She had settled on her side, so that her hip was high, outlined, and the curve of her ass pointed straight toward the place where I usually sat.

She was my aunt. I thought it in every word. She was my mother’s sister. And even so, I was already getting hard before I even moved my hand.

I covered her with the blanket. I brushed a lock of hair off her forehead. Without thinking too much, I ran a finger along the outline of her slightly parted lips. She didn’t stir. I sat beside her, breathing fast and my cock pressing hard against the fabric of my pants, and tried to slip my legs under the other end of the blanket so I wouldn’t draw attention.

As I did, my hand brushed the firm curve of her hip. And stayed there.

The alcohol and exhaustion had sunk her into a deep sleep. I told myself that as an excuse, while my fingers kept following the line of the fabric until they found the bare skin of her thigh. It was hot, almost burning. I moved a little higher, sliding my fingertip along the inner side, feeling the flesh tense under my palm. I lifted the edge of her T-shirt just enough to discover she was wearing only a tiny white cotton thong, so narrow it barely covered the slit of her cunt.

My heart was pounding in my ears. Every movement I made seemed as loud as a slammed door, but she kept breathing in the same slow rhythm. I ran my finger over the fabric and noticed it was already wet, with a little damp stain forming right where it was sinking between her lips. I hooked the thong with two fingers and slowly pulled it down her legs, thigh, knee, ankle, and left it tangled around her toes as if she herself had taken it off in her sleep. I wanted an alibi ready in case she opened her eyes.

What came after that I shouldn’t be telling, but I am. I opened her legs just a little, afraid of waking her, and for the first time I found myself looking closely at my aunt’s cunt. She had dark, trimmed hair, swollen lips parting on their own, shining with her own wetness. I brought my nose close without touching and breathed in that thick, sour smell that hit me like a slap. With the tip of my index finger I traced the outline from the outside inward, very slowly, and felt it opening, giving way, slick. I slid one finger in halfway. She swallowed in her sleep and frowned, but didn’t open her eyes. I slid in the second. I felt her tightening around me with a warm force, sucking my fingers inward as if she had a hunger of her own. I started moving them, in and out, turning them, searching for that rough spot up top and pressing against it. At some point, without stopping pumping her, I brought my thumb up to her clit and started rolling it in small circles. She sighed louder, moved her hips a little, and kept sleeping, or so I thought.

With my other hand I opened my pants and took out my cock, already rock hard. I started working it with the same rhythm I was using on her with my fingers, my eyes fixed on how they disappeared and reappeared glistening between my own aunt’s legs. I was so turned on it hurt. A thread of pre-cum dripped from the tip and wet my hand. I could barely breathe.

***

And then she opened her eyes.

It was one second. She lifted her head off the cushion, blinked twice, and stared straight at me, with my fingers still buried to the knuckles inside her and my cock in my other hand.

“What the fuck are you doing to me?” she said in a low voice, not shouting, which felt worse than a shout to me. “How can you even think of that? I’m your aunt, for god’s sake.”

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t even dare pull my hand out, because pulling it out felt like admitting everything. I froze there, mouth dry, feeling the weight of her gaze and the heat of her cunt clamped around my fingers at the same time. I thought of my mother. I thought of my father. I thought about how I was going to explain this.

“You asked me for a massage,” I blurted out, not knowing where it came from. “Before you fell asleep. You said your legs hurt.”

“I didn’t ask you for anything.”

“You took off your own underwear. Look at yourself.”

She looked down at her hand. There was the white thong, knotted up between her fingers, the crotch darkened by wetness. She frowned. For a moment, she hesitated. I took advantage:

“You haven’t stopped for days. You drank a lot. Maybe you took it off without realizing. I was just… giving you the massage you asked for.”

She stayed quiet. Under the blanket, my fingers were still motionless inside her, feeling every pulse of blood in the warm walls of her cunt. I felt her close her eyes for a second and inhale deeply, as if she were doing a calculation that wasn’t entirely arithmetic. Without meaning to, she squeezed the walls around my fingers once, twice.

“Goddamn everything,” she murmured at last. “Goddamn everything, seriously.”

She turned her face away and looked at the ceiling. Then she lowered her gaze and found my cock, still hard, glistening at the tip, pointing at her.

“Keep going.”

“What?”

“Keep going. At this point, it’s already done. It’s been months since anything happened to me, not a finger, not a cock, not even my own. Finish what you started and then we’ll talk.”

***

She settled herself without looking at me. She put one leg up on the back of the sofa and crossed the other over mine, opening herself completely, with a mix of rage and surrender I had never seen in any woman before. Her cunt was laid out wide open in front of me, all pink inside, dripping. I moved inside her again, this time without hiding it, sinking both fingers to the hilt and pulling them almost all the way out, listening to the wet sound it made every time I went in. I stroked her clit with my thumb, slowly at first, matching her breathing. Mariela closed her eyes and bit the back of her hand so she wouldn’t make noise.

“Harder,” she said, speaking to the ceiling. “Don’t treat me like I’m made of glass. Put them all the way in. I’m not a child, fuck.”

I obeyed. I slipped in a third finger and started fucking her with my hand, hard, fast, listening to the slapping sound filling the empty living room. She arched her back, grabbed one breast over her T-shirt, and pinched her nipple until it went hard as stone. At some point I lowered my head and replaced my fingers with my tongue. I licked her first from the outside, bottom to top, tasting that salty, thick mix already dripping down my chin. She jolted, lifted her pelvis, buried both hands in my hair, and pushed me against her without mercy.

“There, there, suck me good, my love, don’t stop, eat my cunt like your life depends on it,” she moaned under her breath, her voice broken. “Eat it all, fuck, eat it.”

I was learning on the fly, with the hot taste covering my mouth, my nose crushed against her hair, while she breathed faster and faster. I found her clit with the tip of my tongue and stayed there, circling, sucking it between my lips like a little candy. I slid two fingers underneath, pointing them upward, and started pressing that hard, spongy spot while my tongue gave her no rest.

The first orgasm came quickly. It was short and violent. It shook her whole body, her thighs tensed around my head and she pressed my face against her cunt so hard I could barely breathe. I felt everything inside her contracting, my fingers clenching in spasms. Before I could pull away, she was coming again, with a short cry she had to swallow halfway through, biting her arm until she left the mark of her teeth.

When she finally let me lift my head, her eyes were glazed and my whole face was a sticky mask.

“It’s been years since this happened to me,” she said, almost angrily. “Years. Get over here, bastard.”

***

I didn’t have time to answer. She sat up, shoved me back against the sofa, and, without much ceremony, pulled my pants and briefs down to my knees. She looked at my cock for a second, swollen, purplish at the tip, and smiled to one side.

“Look at what you had hidden, nephew.”

She grabbed it at the base with her hand and squeezed, pumping her fist slowly up and down while her other hand weighed my balls. Then she spat on it, a thick gob of spit that slid all over the length, and started jerking me off with her whole hand sliding over it. She leaned down and took it into her mouth with the same fury she had opened herself with a few minutes earlier. I felt her tongue circling my glans, the way she sucked with her cheeks hollowed out, the way she took it all the way in until it hit the back of her throat and she choked on purpose. A strand of saliva dripped down her chin and wet her breasts over the T-shirt.

She only pulled my cock out of her mouth to lick my balls, one by one, then moved her flat tongue upward from below to above, looking me in the eyes the entire time. Then she took it back in and blew me with eagerness, pressing her lips tight around the ring just under the crown.

“You’re going to fill me up completely, right?” she murmured between sucks. “Tell me it’s been a long time since you came, tell me.”

I clenched my fists against the cushions, trying to hold on. I didn’t last long. I felt the knot rising from my balls, my legs went rigid, and I warned her with a muffled groan. She didn’t let go; on the contrary, she tightened more. When I came, she kept her lips closed for a moment and milked me with her hand at the same time, swallowing the first spurt. On the second she choked, pulled her mouth away, and let the rest spill over her face, her neck, between her breasts under the T-shirt. My cum hung from her chin in a thick white thread. She ran her fingers over the wet skin, gathered what she could, and brought them to her mouth, sucking them one by one while glancing sideways at me.

“I’d almost forgotten what it tastes like,” she said, with a half smile. “And I sure needed it.”

She asked me to pour her another drink and follow her to the back bedroom. When I went in, she was already stretched out on the bed, completely naked, with the yellow lamp light on the nightstand switched on. Her breasts spilled out to the sides, white, with dark nipples still hard. One hand was between her legs, playing with herself, waiting for me. She motioned for me to lie down beside her.

“The night isn’t over, nephew. What happened out there was just the warning.”

She kissed me in the mouth for the first time, deep, pushing my tongue all the way back. I tasted my own semen on her lips and it took me a second to understand that it was the first time in my life I had tasted myself like that. She worked her way down my chest, my stomach, biting my skin in little jerks, and took my cock in her mouth again until I was hard once more. It didn’t take long. Within five minutes I had her hard as stone again, throbbing against her tongue.

She climbed on top. She straddled me, with her knees on either side of my hips, and grabbed my cock with her hand. She ran it first along the slit of her cunt from top to bottom, soaking it completely with her juices, rubbing the tip against her clit. She looked down at me from above, with her loosened hair falling across her face.

“Do you know how old you were when I changed your diapers?” she said. “And look at you now, nephew. Look at what you’re going to do to me.”

She took me in with one movement. I felt a sharp blow, almost painful, the way she opened herself completely to swallow me to the base, and I heard her let out her breath through clenched teeth. She stayed still for a few seconds, with my whole cock buried inside her, looking down at me. I saw her eyes shining wetly.

“Don’t move,” she said. “I want to remember this. I want to remember what it feels like to have you inside me the first time.”

Then she started moving. Slowly. She rose almost until I was slipping out of her and came back down slowly, letting me feel her inch by inch. Then faster, bouncing on top of me with her breasts bobbing in front of my face, until I grabbed one in each hand and put one nipple in my mouth to suck. In circles. Still again, contracting and releasing the muscles inside, milking me with her walls, as if she were playing an instrument with her cunt. Every time she felt me close to finishing, she lifted just enough, pinched me with two fingers underneath right below the crown, and waited for the urgency to calm down before going on.

After that she got on all fours on the bed, her ass raised toward me, and looked at me over her shoulder.

“Now give it to me like you hate me. Like you know it’s wrong and you don’t care.”

I knelt behind her. I grabbed her hips with both hands and drove into her in one thrust, all the way to the hilt. She screamed into the pillow, biting it. I started fucking her that way, hard, listening to the wet slap and the dull impact of my pelvis against her ass each time I thrust. I smacked her ass and my hand left a red mark. I smacked her again. She moaned louder, pushing her ass back to meet me.

“More, more, like that, break me, break me,” she panted into the pillow. “Put it all in, nephew, all of it, all the way, fuck.”

I grabbed her hair with one hand and pulled back until she arched. With the other I ran a finger in front and rubbed her clit in time with the thrusts. I felt her clenching around me again, her cunt tightening and releasing in spasms, felt her coming while screaming into the pillow for the third or fourth time that night. I let go of her and she collapsed face down, thighs trembling, unable to bear the weight any longer.

I couldn’t count how many times she came that night. I lost count myself. More than I would have thought possible. I ended up emptying myself inside her, face down, holding her by the hips and driving into her to the bone, feeling my cum surge out in hot spurts and fill her cunt until it overflowed. When I pulled out, a white thread slid down the inside of her thigh, and she caught it with one finger and brought it to her mouth without saying a word.

***

At dawn, both of us were empty. She had fallen asleep on top of me, still breathing in broken gasps, with one leg thrown over mine and one breast crushed against my side. I stayed staring at the ceiling, heart racing, trying to make sense of what the hell had happened in my own house.

In the morning we didn’t talk about it. We had breakfast as if nothing had happened, read the newspaper, she asked me about work and I asked her about the papers. But that night, when I got back from the workshop, she was waiting again with the bedroom door ajar, naked under the sheet, with two fingers already inside her cunt from waiting for me so long. And the next day too. And the next.

For the months it took her to get the papers to leave, we lived like that, with a shared secret that filled the house whenever my parents walked out the door. We learned each other’s schedules, the footsteps in the hallway, the sounds of the locks. We became accomplices to something we couldn’t name in front of anyone.

The day I took her to the airport, with her son in the stroller and her suitcases checked in, she pulled me aside for a moment behind a column. She kissed me very quickly, barely touching me, as if even the air were watching.

“Thank you,” she whispered in my ear. “For all those times. For every fuck. I’m taking them with me, wherever I end up.”

That was years ago. Mariela now lives on another continent, married again, with two more children. We hardly write to each other. But sometimes, when I pass by the living room of that house where no one lives anymore, I still remember the creak of the sofa, the cold of the wool blanket, and the first time I heard her say my name with that broken voice while she came in my mouth.