My nephew confessed his fetish to me that night

My nephew and I had always been close allies. More than aunt and nephew, we were soul siblings. We shared a love of music, movies, even the same sense of humor. But I never imagined I would also share with him what happened that winter week.

We were coming back together from my mother’s seventieth birthday, out in the country. It rained all afternoon and, of course, we both came down with the same flu. I was thirty-eight, he was twenty-two. He lived alone in a small apartment on the other side of the city, but with his fever running high, I wasn’t going to let him drive two hours back home.

—Stay at my place until we get over it —I told him, handing him some ginger tea—. I don’t want you going around infecting anyone on the way.

My husband traveled a lot for work. That week he was in another country, so the apartment was just for the two of us.

The first night we slept in separate rooms. The second, both of us coughing, we ended up in my bed. Innocent. I swear. It was more practical to keep the thermometer and the medicine on one bedside table.

The first three days passed normally. We watched series, ate soup, complained about the snot, took ridiculously long naps. But then there came a point when there was nothing left to talk about. And when two people who care about each other run out of topics, they end up talking about the personal. The intimate.

He started it. He told me about his latest girlfriend, how she’d dumped him, the things he hadn’t done with her and had been left wanting. He told me she had never wanted to suck his cock all the way, that she always stopped before the end, that he’d been left wanting to cum in someone’s mouth. I laughed, gave him older-aunt advice, but inside something tightened low in my belly hearing him talk like that, so direct, so unfiltered. I asked him things I would never have asked him in any other context: how many women he’d been with, how he liked to fuck, whether he liked it from behind. He asked me things I would never have answered to another family member: whether my husband made me come, how many times a week we did it, whether I liked it hard or soft.

One of those afternoons, while he was in the shower, I realized something: I no longer wore a bra to bed. Nor the T-shirt I usually used as pajamas. I slept in a thin top, with nothing underneath. When he came into the room and got into bed, I’d settle against his chest in the dark, trying not to let him notice my nipples outlined through the fabric. Or so I thought.

—You know everything shows through, right? —he said one night, laughing in the dark.

—Shut up.

—It’s true. Your tits show through the top. Your nipples show.

—I told you to shut up.

But I was laughing too. And that was the problem.

He started groping me a little, almost by accident. A hand that stayed longer than necessary on my waist. An arm that came over my chest when he shifted, his open hand brushing a nipple through the fabric. I’d move his hand away without saying anything, but a while later it would be there again. Truth was, after three nights I stopped moving it away. And he noticed. He’d leave his palm resting on my tit, squeezing it just a little, and I could feel my nipple hardening against his hand without being able to stop it.

But the weirdest thing started to be the feet.

—It stinks in here —he’d say when he came into the room—. Like feet.

He’d yank up the blanket and grab one socked foot, bring it to his nose like a dog tracking a smell. I’d laugh out loud, hit him with a pillow, call him disgusting. But after a while I was the one putting my foot in his face when he did it again. We’d turned it into a game.

Then he took it to the next level. He’d yank my sock off and bite my toes. I’d kick him, scream, hide under the sheet. But I kept laughing too. It was like a shiver running all the way down my leg and settling in a place I preferred not to name, between my thighs, a wet pulse that was starting to bother me.

Until one night he crossed a line.

He lifted both legs, ripped both socks off me, sniffed, bit. And then he kissed them. Slowly. With his mouth open. He ran his tongue over the top of my foot and up to my ankle.

I shot up as if I’d been burned.

—No! Not that! —I shouted, sitting up in bed so fast I almost got dizzy—. You’re a filthy degenerate!

He froze. The lamp lit up half his face and I saw something drop in his expression. He didn’t answer me. He got up, went to the bathroom, and didn’t come back for half an hour. When he returned, he got on the other side of the bed, as far from me as possible. He didn’t speak to me all night.

The next day was worse. He wouldn’t meet my eyes. He made coffee facing the wall. He offered to go to a hotel, said he was better now, that he didn’t want to be a bother anymore.

I sat on the sofa in the living room with my head in my hands. I’d been too harsh. The boy was twenty-two, had confessed without words to a fetish he’d probably never been able to tell anyone about, and I’d answered him with a shitty insult.

That night, before getting into bed, he apologized.

—Auntie, I’m sorry. I went too far. I swear I didn’t mean to disrespect you. Tomorrow I’ll go back to my place.

He turned over and lay down with his back to me.

I turned off the light, lay there a while breathing in the dark, and then ran my hand over his shoulder.

—Turn around —I told him.

—Auntie…

—Turn around. I said turn around.

He turned around. I looked at him for a long while. The face of a scared boy, damp eyelashes. I brushed his hair back.

—Tell me —I said—. Tell me what happens to you with that.

And he told me. He said it had been that way since he was a teenager. That in primary school he used to obsess over the teachers’ feet. That with his last girlfriend he’d tried to talk about it and she’d laughed. That with me he felt comfortable because I’d always been the only one who never judged him for anything. That he couldn’t help it. That he hated himself every night he did it again. That he jerked off thinking about my feet, that he came with my socks pressed tight against his face.

—You don’t have to hate yourself for something you like —I told him—. What was wrong was the way I shouted at you. That was wrong.

—No, Auntie, you were right…

—Shut up. I owe you an apology too. I shouldn’t have said what I said to you.

We stayed silent for a while. He took my hand and pressed it to his chest. I let him.

Something was moving in me, and it wasn’t the fever.

—You know what? —I said—. The thing is, I’m pretty sensitive to that kind of stuff too. Sometimes more than I should be.

—To what stuff?

—To being touched. And you come at me with this feet thing, and I… —I laughed nervously—. I don’t know. It catches me off guard. I get soaked.

I said it without thinking and went ice-cold. His eyes widened in the dark.

—It won’t happen again, I promise. Not unless you tell me to.

I kissed his forehead and turned off the light.

***

In the dark, we did what we did every night: we took off the top half of our pajamas. I stayed bare-breasted under the sheet, as I had the previous three nights. He, for the first time, kept his T-shirt on. I noticed when I hugged him from behind and felt the fabric.

I tugged his shirt up.

—Take it off —I said.

—Auntie, no…

—Take it off.

He took it off. I felt his warm back against my breasts, my nipples already hard, pressed against his skin. He was thin, his ribs showing a little. I hugged him tight and he let himself fall back against me. I felt his cock stiffen the moment my tits touched his back, a bulge that started growing against the pajama pants, pushing the fabric upward.

I’m not sure exactly what happened to me. Something had been unlocked by that conversation. As if letting him confess his fetish had also given me permission to confess mine. The hormones, the days cooped up indoors, the fever that was finally easing but still left my skin hot, and I couldn’t tell whether it was illness or something else. I could feel my cunt swollen, wet, throbbing against the seam of my panties.

I brought my hands down to my feet and pulled off my socks. One, then the other. I clenched them in my fist. I brushed my face against the back of his neck and whispered in his ear:

—Can I confess something? I’m a bit of a fetishist too. It doesn’t surprise me that you like this.

I ran the sock over his face. I nearly pressed it against his nose. I heard him inhale sharply, breathing in the smell with his mouth half open, and felt his whole body tense. He tried to turn around and I held his shoulder down against the pillow.

—Stay still.

I pressed my breasts against his back, my hard nipples dragging over his skin. I felt his breath catch. He dropped one hand and gripped my thigh hard, digging his fingers in.

—This happens only once —I told him slowly, against his ear—. And you’re never going to tell anyone. Do you hear me?

—Yes.

—Yes what?

—Yes, Auntie.

I slipped my hand inside his pajama pants. I asked permission, I don’t know why; we were already too far gone to ask anything. He nodded yes, gasping. I pulled his underwear halfway down his thigh and there it was: the hard cock, thick, bigger than I’d imagined, throbbing in my palm. I grabbed it at the base and squeezed. It was hot, so hot it burned my hand. The tip was already leaking a drop of pre-cum that ran over the head.

Before touching him directly, I wrapped his dick with the sock I still had in my other hand. Like an improvised condom, an excuse not to be touching him fully, not to leave any trace of me on his skin. The rough fabric of the sock encased his cock and he let out a muffled moan, as if he’d never felt anything like it.

—Oh, Auntie, fuck…

—Shut up. Don’t talk.

I started moving, slowly at first, sliding my fist up and down his whole cock, squeezing from base to tip. Then a little faster. I felt him swell even more inside the sock, the veins standing out against the fabric. He kept searching for my mouth, turning his head, trying to reach me. I only ran my tongue over my closed lips, not opening my mouth, not letting him kiss me. I let him and took it away at the same time.

—Let me kiss you, Auntie, please…

—No. Not that either.

He dropped his hand to my thigh again, tried to slide it up inside, go straight for my cunt. I grabbed his wrist and placed it on my hip, away from my pants.

—No —I told him—. Not that.

—Auntie, please, let me touch you, you’re soaking, I can smell it from here…

—No.

He didn’t insist. He stayed still again, letting me do it, his cock throbbing inside the sock in my hand. What he did do was turn all the way around, face to face with me, and go straight for my breasts. He took one nipple into his mouth and sucked hard, tugging it with his lips, nibbling with his teeth. I arched my back without meaning to, and a gasp burst from deep in my throat that I couldn’t hold back. He moved to the other nipple and worked it the same way, his tongue circling, sucking, licking, while one hand squeezed my other tit.

I kept jerking him through the sock, faster and faster, feeling his whole body tighten, feeling him squeeze my thigh harder with the hand he had free, feeling the sock growing wetter and wetter in my hand with the pre-cum dripping out of him. I changed the rhythm, squeezed the tip hard, and went back down. He rocked his hips against my fist, fucking the sock, thrusting, wanting more friction.

—Auntie, that’s it, I’m about to…

—Shut up. Hold on a little longer.

I slowed down on purpose, made him wait. He gave a frustrated whimper into my nipple. He bit down harder and I yanked his hair back.

—Ah, no, not like that. You hold it in until I say so.

—I can’t, Auntie, I can’t, it’s coming out…

I squeezed a little harder, gave him three, four long, firm strokes in a row, and felt him convulse in my hand. One, two, three, four times. The sock filled all at once, soaked with hot semen that slipped between my fingers and ran down my wrist. He bit my nipple without meaning to and I pulled his hair, stifling a moan against his hair too. I felt him still throbbing inside the sock, another smaller spurt coming, then another, until he emptied out in shudders.

After that he collapsed against me, panting, his face buried in my neck, breathing hard, mouth open against my skin.

We stayed like that for a while, saying nothing. I stroked his hair with my free hand. The other was still holding the soaked sock, heavy, hot, which I later tossed slowly under the bed like someone hiding evidence.

I was still throbbing between the legs, not having come, pressing my thighs tightly together to try to calm the pulse. I didn’t touch myself. I didn’t let him touch me. I stayed there, biting my lip, holding out, feeling my panties get soaked through without being able to do anything about it. That was the line I’d set, even if my body begged me to cross it.

—Are you okay? —I asked him.

—Yes.

—Just once —I repeated—. Remember?

—Just once.

But we both knew we still had four nights together. Four nights of a fever that was no longer a fever, of fake coughing, of socks left on the floor at dawn. Four nights in which I was going to have to say “just once” many more times, knowing it no longer meant anything.

My nephew fell asleep first, his cock still half-soft against my hip. I stayed staring at the ceiling in the dark, listening to him breathe against my neck, with my hand still smelling like him, thinking that tomorrow was going to be another night, and another, and another. That tomorrow the line was going to be a little farther ahead. That sometime in those four nights I was going to end up letting him pull down my panties, burying his face between my legs, licking my cunt until I tugged his hair. And that afterwards, I’d probably end up opening my legs and sitting down on that cock that already knew the shape of my hand. And that this time I wouldn’t be able to say I hadn’t realized it.