My Holy Sister Stopped Being Holy at the Summer House

My name is Tomás. I live in a three-story house on Avenida Alvear, right in Recoleta, where Buenos Aires’s old families hide the trash under imported carpets and behind oil portraits of great-grandfathers who were generals.

To make the weight of what I’m about to tell clear, it’s worth starting with the ages: I’m twenty-eight, and my sister Catalina turned twenty last month.

We belong to that ultraconservative circle that still exists in this city. Mass on Sundays at the Pilar, schools run by the Legionaries, dinners with compound surnames and a bishop invited for dessert. I was always the exemplary heir: a lawyer in my father’s firm, graduated with honors, the family’s safe bet. Catalina was the saintly girl. Ash-blonde, with almost translucent skin, raised to be a devout wife and a mother of five. Skirts to the knee, blouses buttoned to the neck, hair tied up with a velvet ribbon. But I saw what the others didn’t: the way the fabric tightened over her breasts when she breathed deeply, the way her hard nipples showed through the cotton when she came out of the cold pool water, the way her eyes moistened every time she met my gaze at Sunday lunch.

The transgression wasn’t a lightning strike. It was patient poison.

It started last summer, at the house we have in José Ignacio. My parents had to rush back to Buenos Aires because my grandmother was hospitalized, and they left us alone for a long weekend.

—Take care of your sister, Tomi —my mother asked me from the car window before kissing my cheek.

If only she’d known how I took care of her.

The first night the heat was stifling, the kind that makes the fan useless. I was on the terrace smoking, a glass of whisky in my hand and my eyes fixed on the dark sea. Catalina came out silently. She was wearing a white silk nightgown that the moonlight made almost transparent. You could make out her small, firm breasts, the pink nipples pressing through the fabric, and the dark shadow of her cunt between her thighs. Her hair was stuck to the nape of her neck with sweat.

—I can’t sleep, Tomi —she said in that good-girl voice of hers that had driven me crazy for months.

She sat in the lounger next to mine. We didn’t talk. All you could hear was the ocean crashing below and the crickets in the garden. The tension between us was a current that rose and fell with every breath. I could smell her vanilla cream and, underneath it, the warm scent of her unperfumed skin.

—Have you ever really sinned, Cata? —I asked suddenly, my voice coming out deeper than usual.

She looked at me, startled, but didn’t look away.

—We all sin, Tomi.

—I’m not talking about little lies. I’m talking about sins of the flesh. Impure thoughts.

I saw her blush and breathe faster.

—Sometimes I have dreams —she confessed almost in a whisper.

—Dreams about who?

—They don’t have a face. They’re just hands. Hands that touch me.

—And where do they touch you, Cata? Tell me.

—Everywhere —she whispered—. They open my legs. They put their fingers inside me.

I set the glass down on the iron table and moved closer. The atmosphere was no longer that of two siblings on a terrace. We were something else.

—Hands like these? —I asked, and placed my hand on her bare knee.

She trembled, but she didn’t move. She didn’t pull her leg away.

—Tomás, no… —it was a weak, formulaic plea.

—Shh. There’s no one here, Cata. God doesn’t watch what happens in Uruguay.

I slid my hand upward very slowly, feeling the softness of the inner thigh, the heat of her skin as if she had a fever. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back, exposing a long, pale neck. It was the posture of ecstasy and surrender at the same time. I opened her legs centimeter by centimeter, while the silk nightgown rode up at her waist. When I brushed her cunt with the tip of my fingers, a muffled moan escaped between her teeth. She was soaked. Her pussy was dripping as if she’d been thinking about that moment for hours.

—Look at you, little sister —I told her softly, running my middle finger between the lips of her vulva, from top to bottom, feeling the clit already swollen like a hard pearl—. You’re a slut and you didn’t even realize it.

—Tomi, for God’s sake…

—God isn’t watching. I am.

I drove two fingers into her at once. She was so wet they went in without resistance, and her cunt clamped down on them immediately like a hungry mouth. I started pumping her slowly, curling my fingers upward, looking for that inner spot that would drive her mad. With my thumb I worked her clit in slow circles. She arched against the lounger, thighs trembling, mouth open, gasping for air.

—Don’t make a sound —I ordered, and leaned in to nibble at her neck—. If the caretaker hears you, it’s over.

I quickened my fingers. I shoved them all the way in, feeling the inner walls tighten with every thrust. I bit one nipple through the silk, sucked it hard until it was marked, and she buried her fingers in my hair. I added a third finger. She was so tight I felt resistance, but then she gave, and her cunt opened around my hand as if asking for more. With my palm I slapped against her clit on every thrust.

—Say it, Cata. Tell me what you want.

—Don’t stop —she panted—. Please, Tomi, don’t stop.

She started trembling all over. I covered her mouth with my free hand and felt her scream into my palm while the orgasm split her in two. Her cunt pulsed around my fingers in waves, soaking my wrists, and her legs shook as if she had a fever. I made her come right there, in the lounger, biting her fist so she wouldn’t wake the caretaker.

When the trembling passed, she started crying against my shoulder. I held her slowly, my fingers still wet with her, and whispered in her ear that this was going to be our secret, our own penance.

But once you taste blood, there’s no going back.

***

Back in Buenos Aires, the dynamic changed. We became addicted to the risk. We did it in the big house, with our parents sleeping three doors away. We did it at dawn, against the marble of the kitchen island, while I lifted her nightgown from behind and shoved my cock into her cunt in one thrust, covering her mouth so the moans wouldn’t wake the cook. We did it in my father’s office on Saturday afternoons, while he played golf at the Jockey and my mother was at the hair salon. She knelt under the desk and sucked my cock down to the throat, learning with the devotion of a novice. At first she would choke, her eyes filling with tears, but she kept going. By the end of the month she was sucking me off and swallowing down to my balls, her tongue working my frenulum and one hand massaging my balls, and she made me come in her mouth with the discipline of a model student. She swallowed every drop of semen and then opened her empty mouth to show me, as if asking for a grade.

The strongest episode was four months ago. My father’s sixtieth birthday had filled the garden: two former ministers, three businessmen whose faces had graced magazine covers, two priests, and half a dozen aunts in fur coats despite the heat. Catalina was wearing a sky-blue dress with a round neckline that made her look like a Renaissance virgin lifted from a painting.

I cornered her in the library with the excuse of showing her a book on canon law.

—You’re too innocent for my taste out there —I whispered in her ear, pressing my body against her back, my hard bulge digging into the hollow of her ass—. Makes me want to dirty you up.

—Tomás, everyone’s downstairs —she moaned.

—Exactly.

I closed the door, but I didn’t turn the key. The fact that someone could walk in at any moment was exactly what turned me on. I lifted her onto my father’s mahogany desk, sweeping the legal papers and a framed family photo in Bariloche aside. I raised her dress. She wasn’t wearing panties. She already knew I’d be looking and had prepared herself for me. Her shaved cunt gleamed with wetness under the brass lamp.

That detail, that premeditation from the saintly girl, broke something inside me. It meant the choir girl was dead and in her place I had built a woman insatiable, made to my measure.

—You’re a liar, little sister —I growled in her ear while I unbuckled my belt and pulled my pants down to my knees—. You smile at the aunts and the priest, but you’re wet waiting for me.

—Only for you, Tomi. I’m yours. Do whatever you want to me before someone comes in.

I took her hand and placed it on my cock. It was hard as a rock, throbbing against her fingers.

—Put it in yourself. I want you to feel that you’re the one choosing me.

She bit her lip and guided the head of my dick between the lips of her cunt. When the tip slid in, she threw her head back and swallowed a moan. I grabbed her hips and drove into her in one sharp thrust to the hilt. I fucked her right there, on the signed contracts from the firm, while the string quartet played muffled from the garden.

—Slut —I hissed in her ear, driving into her with the slow, deep rhythm I knew drove her wild—. My slut. Daddy’s birthday virgin slut.

—Yes, yours, yours —she panted softly—. Break me, Tomi, break my ass if you want, but don’t stop.

Her cunt clenched around my cock with a force that surprised me. She was so tight, so hot, I had to clench my teeth to keep from coming instantly. I spread her legs even wider, grabbing the backs of her knees, and shoved my dick into her until my balls slapped against her asshole. She dug her nails into my shoulders, muffling every sound against my neck, biting my collarbone so she wouldn’t scream. I slammed into her hard, feeling her breasts bounce inside the bra, and looked at the oil portrait of my father hanging over the fireplace, feeling absolute power. I was desecrating the holiest thing in his house, right under his nose, dirtying the lineage he bragged about so much at lunch.

Every time we heard footsteps in the hallway, we froze for a second, hearts pounding, my cock buried to the hilt and not moving, feeling her cunt still clenching around it in involuntary spasms. The fear of being discovered tightened our stomachs and sent adrenaline racing through us. She clenched me harder inside, as if her body understood the risk better than her mind did. It was Russian roulette made of flesh and antique furniture.

When the footsteps moved away, I picked up the rhythm again, rougher every time, fucking her with the fury of all the years I’d spent repressing myself while watching her at family dinners. I sucked one nipple through the dress until the fabric was soaked through. I bit her neck, her shoulder, the corner of her lips. She found my mouth and we kissed with tongue, an obscene lover’s kiss, while she kept riding me from below.

—I’m about to come —I warned through clenched teeth.

—Inside, Tomi, inside. I want to wear it under the dress.

I slammed into her three, four more times, all the way in, and started pouring inside her. I felt every pulse of my own load emptying against the neck of her womb, soaking the inner walls. She came at the same time, squeezing her cunt around my cock in waves, stifling a long cry against my shoulder, her trembling legs closing around my waist to pull me even deeper.

When I finished inside her, we stayed embraced for a few seconds, sweaty, catching our breath, my dick still inside her, throbbing with the last twitches. When I pulled out, a thread of semen dripped from her cunt onto the desk’s wood. I cleaned it with my finger, put it in her mouth, and she sucked it with her eyes closed as if it were Sunday communion. She looked at me with glassy eyes, mascara a little smudged, lips swollen. She was wrecked and she had never looked prettier.

—Get yourself together —I ordered, returning to my big-brother voice—. You have to go downstairs to cut the cake. And don’t clean yourself up. I want you to go down with mine dripping down your thighs.

Watching her go down the marble staircase five minutes later, immaculate again, smiling like an angel at the guests, clenching her legs every couple of steps to keep my cum inside while I knew she was carrying mine between her thighs and in her cunt, was the greatest feeling of power in my life.

***

Since that afternoon, the game has kept escalating. It’s no longer enough for us to hide. Now we seek out danger like another drug. She jerks me off under the tablecloth at gala dinners, sliding her hand into my fly with the good-girl smile she wears for the archbishop seated across from us. I send her obscene voice notes on her phone while she’s in class at university, describing in detail how I’m going to open her ass that night, how I’m going to fill her mouth with my load, how I’m going to fuck her against the living-room window with the blinds up, forcing her to clamp her legs shut in the middle of an oral Roman law exam.

I turned her into my addiction and, worse still, my accomplice. She no longer makes any decision without consulting me. She turned down two suitors they introduced her to at the club —both with surnames and inheritances— because, she says, no man makes her feel what I make her feel. None of them will fuck her the way I fuck her, none of them will talk dirty in her ear while splitting her open, none of them will know her from the inside the way I do.

We’re never going to have children together. Catalina is very young and, though devout, she’s pragmatic like everyone in the family. She takes the pills I buy for her myself at the pharmacy on Junín, and I make sure she swallows them every morning in front of me. A pregnancy would be the end of the charade, and the charade is precisely what allows us to keep enjoying ourselves. The slightest suspicion would kick us out of paradise with a boot.

We live on a knife edge. I know this is unsustainable in the long run. At some point she’ll have to marry to keep up appearances, or I’ll have to. But we already talked about it one night, staring at the ceiling in my room, with her still naked and my semen drying between her thighs. We made a pact between us: no matter who we end up sleeping with, we’re going to keep owning each other’s bodies until the end.

I’m going to be the favorite uncle of her children. She’s going to be the affectionate aunt of mine. And at family gatherings we’ll keep finding each other in bathrooms, libraries, and cars parked on Quintana, with her on her knees sucking me off against the steering wheel or me fucking her against the guest bathroom sink, keeping the fire of our private hell alive.

We’re monsters, I know it. But we’re monsters at peace inside our own darkness. And while Buenos Aires sleeps believing in its values and its morality, we keep laughing silently, tangled in linen sheets, with her cunt still dripping my cum, knowing that the purest love is always the one that’s rotting most from the inside.