My Nephew Discovered What I Do When Nobody Sees Me

We’d spent the whole afternoon in the kitchen, Adrián and I, making snacks for the movie night we’d planned weeks earlier. My brothers had gone off with my parents to the coast, and he’d stayed in the city for university. I’d offered to look after him, though “look after” was an absurd word for a twenty-one-year-old boy with a sharp jaw and broad shoulders like someone who’d spent years hauling boxes in his father’s warehouse.

The kitchen smelled of chopped cilantro and toasted chili. I was cutting tomatoes on the board while he grated cheese behind me, so close that I could feel the heat of his chest on my back every time he leaned down to set something on the counter. It wasn’t accidental. Neither of us pretended it was. On one of those brushes I felt something hard against my ass — his cock pressing through his sweatpants — and he didn’t move away. Neither did I. I pushed my hip back barely a millimeter, just enough for him to understand I’d noticed, and kept cutting tomatoes as if nothing had happened.

—Want to taste? —I asked, lifting the spoon with the sauce I’d just mixed.

He didn’t take the spoon. He dipped his index finger into the bowl, lifted it out coated in red sauce, and brought it to my lips. I looked him in the eyes and opened my mouth slowly. I took his finger to the knuckles, wrapped my tongue around it, and sucked it out little by little, like it was a small cock, letting my lips close tight around every inch. He swallowed. I smiled as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

We did that with every sauce we made. The chipotle one, the avocado one, the mango with habanero. Every time I needed his opinion, he dipped his finger and offered it to me. Every time he needed mine, I licked my fingers while holding his gaze, not blinking, sucking them one by one with my mouth open so he could see my tongue. By the fourth or fifth round, he wasn’t tasting sauce anymore: he was looking at my mouth while imagining it somewhere else.

At some point he gave me a short kiss on the neck while I stirred the pot. Then another behind the ear, with his tongue. Then his hands on my waist, squeezing, sliding down to the bone of my hips, pulling me against him. His cock was already rock hard against my ass. His mouth bit the hollow between my neck and shoulder, and I closed my eyes and let out a low moan I didn’t even try to hide.

—Are we going to watch the movie or not? —I said, pulling away with a smile that gave me away.

—Whatever you say, auntie.

That word. Auntie. It should’ve stopped me. Instead, it sent a shiver down my spine all the way to my cunt, which was already getting wet inside my panties.

***

By nine o’clock we were on the sofa. He at one end, me stretched out with my feet in his lap. Both of us in pajamas. I was wearing gray cotton shorts and an old T-shirt that hung loose on me, no bra, my nipples showing through the fabric. He wore sweatpants and nothing else. The room was dark except for the bluish glow of the screen.

The movie was a Korean thriller he’d chosen. Subtitled, with plot twists every five minutes. The kind of movie that demands your full attention or you lose the thread completely.

I have a problem with that. When I really need to concentrate, I need to keep my hands busy. It’s a habit I developed living alone for years, with no one watching me, no one judging me. A nervous tic, almost. Something automatic.

At first it was normal. I’d take a chip from the plate between the cushions, dip it in sauce, eat it. Focus. Take another. Focus. Sometimes the chip would break and the sauce would drip down my fingers. Then I’d bring my fingers to my mouth and clean them slowly, sucking them like I always did, without thinking. He watched me out of the corner of his eye every time I did it, but said nothing. I could feel the bulge growing inside his sweatpants — a thick line pointing at his navel — and I said nothing either.

Onscreen, the detective had just discovered that the woman he was investigating was the killer. I was absorbed, my heart racing from the tension of the plot. I reached for the plate. Empty. Without thinking, my hand dropped.

It’s hard to explain. When I have nothing to snack on and I need to concentrate, my hand looks for another place to stay busy. It goes down inside my panties and my fingers move on their own. Without sexual intent, without heat, without fantasy. It’s pure mechanical repetition. I run my fingers over my outer lips from top to bottom, stretch them gently, play with them between my fingers, bring them together, pull them apart. My fingers slip between my inner lips, brush them, come out, go back in. A rhythmic motion that anchors me in the present and lets me keep paying attention to whatever I’m watching.

When the wetness appears — because it always does, that’s just biology — I take my finger from the entrance of my cunt upward to my clit, with a little more pressure, and that’s enough. I stop, go back to focusing. If the movie gets more intense, I repeat the cycle. Chip, fingers, mouth, focus. Hand down, movement, pressure on the clit, focus. A loop I’m not even aware of until someone points it out.

No one had ever pointed it out. Because no one had ever seen me do it. Until that night.

—What the fuck are you doing?

Adrián’s voice yanked me out of the movie like a bucket of cold water. I looked at him. He was staring at me with his eyes wide, his mouth slightly open, his hands still on my ankles as if they’d frozen there.

I looked down. My right hand was stuffed inside my shorts, two fingers buried up to the second knuckle straight into my cunt, my thumb pressed against my clit. I’d been like that for minutes. Maybe more. I had no idea how long. The fabric of my shorts was soaked through above the spot, a dark stain drawn right over my pubic bone.

Shame hit me like a wave. I yanked my hand out — fingers gleaming, soaked, with a thread of wetness hanging between them — sat up in a rush and covered my face. I laughed. I couldn’t help it. I laughed with that uncontrollable laugh that comes when the shame is so huge the body doesn’t know how to process it. I laughed until my stomach hurt, until tears sprang to my eyes, until I almost pissed myself.

—Sorry, sorry, sorry —I repeated between fits of laughter—. I swear I didn’t realize. It’s a horrible habit. I’ve had it for years. It’s not what it looks like.

—How is it not what it looks like? You had two fingers shoved all the way in. You were masturbating in front of me.

—I know, I know. It’s just that when I concentrate too much and run out of food, I… it’s a tic. It’s automatic. I don’t do it on purpose, I swear.

He looked at me, half disbelieving, half fascinated. His cock was straining huge under his sweatpants and he didn’t even try to hide it. I was still red to my ears, gathering up the chips we’d touched, wiping the table, doing anything not to look him in the face — or at his crotch.

—Leave that —he said.

—No, let me change the things. The ones I touched. My fingers had… well, you know. My fluids. Sorry. Gross. Sorry.

—That’s why the sauce tasted different later on.

I stared at him in horror. He was smiling. The bastard was smiling and licking his lips.

—It’s not funny —I said.

—It’s the funniest thing in the world. I ate you without knowing it. I’ve been tasting your cunt for an hour and a half.

I sank back into the sofa and covered my face with a cushion. He was quiet for a moment. I breathed against the fabric, trying to calm down, feeling the shame mixing with something else, something warm pulsing between my legs that this time had nothing automatic about it. My cunt was throbbing. My panties were so soaked that if I moved I’d leave a stain on the sofa.

—Now it’s my turn to taste —he said in a voice I’d never heard from him before. Deeper. Slower.

I pulled the cushion away from my face. He was looking at me in a way that dried my mouth out. Before I could react, he took my right hand — the same hand, the same fingers that seconds earlier had been inside me — and brought them to his mouth.

It wasn’t like the sauces in the kitchen. It wasn’t playful or flirty. It was slow. Deliberate. Hungry. His tongue ran along my index finger from the base, wrapped around the tip, and he sucked it while keeping his eyes locked on mine. Then the middle finger, taking it all the way to the throat. Then the ring finger, licking the skin between each finger, searching for the very last trace of my taste. I could feel his hot saliva between my fingers, the pressure of his lips closing, his tongue circling the tips, and I realized I had stopped breathing. Between my legs the throbbing had become an urgent pounding, as if my cunt had its own heart demanding attention.

When he let go of my hand, my fingers gleamed wet under the screen light. He didn’t say anything. I didn’t say anything. The movie kept playing but neither of us was watching it. His cock had grown so much you could see the head, round, pressing against the waistband of his sweatpants.

Don’t do what you’re thinking.

I did it.

I slid my hand down to my shorts, this time under the elastic of my panties, without hiding it. This time I was aware of every movement. My fingers, wet with his saliva, found my outer lips, parted them, slid through the thick wetness already there, which had been there longer than I wanted to admit. I shoved my middle finger into my cunt up to the knuckle, twisted it, pulled it out coated in a slick shine. I went up to my clit and rubbed slow circles until I felt it swollen under my fingertip. I made the full trip, slow, from my hole to my clit, with more pressure than necessary. I pulled my hand out. Two fingers were dripping.

I offered them to him.

—Now you know —I said in a voice I didn’t recognize as my own—. And don’t ask me for more.

He took my fingers and put them in his mouth. This time he closed his eyes. A deep sound came from his throat, something between a sigh and a stifled groan that made me clamp my thighs together until I felt the blood cut off. He sucked them desperately, drawing them in, licking them up and down, pulling them out only to look at them shining before putting them back in again. He sucked my palm, the base of my thumb, the inside of my wrist, searching for every drop. When he let go, he ran his tongue over his lower lip and looked at me with glazed eyes.

—More —he said—. Christ, auntie, let me lick you straight. Once. Just once. I swear I won’t go any further than that.

—No.

—Let me put my tongue in you. I know how to eat pussy, I promise.

—No, Adrián.

—I’ll do it slow. I’ll lick your clit until you come in my mouth.

—Stop —I said, and my voice trembled because the image —his head between my thighs, his tongue buried in me where my own fingers had been a minute earlier— squeezed my cunt so hard I almost came right there.

I stood up from the sofa. My legs were shaking so badly I had to brace myself on the armrest. I gathered the plate of chips, the glasses, the bowl of sauce. All of it with mechanical movements, as if I were on autopilot. He stayed seated, watching me, his cock still outlined upward under his sweatpants, not pushing but not giving up either.

—It’s not that I don’t want to —I said from the kitchen, with my back to him, washing the dishes as if that would solve anything—. It’s that I shouldn’t want to.

—That’s not the same as not wanting to.

—I know.

***

The rest of the night was a silent fight against ourselves. We sat down to finish the movie with a cushion between us. I kept my hands crossed over my chest like a nun. He kept his on his legs, knuckles white with tension, trying to hide the erection that wouldn’t go down. Every time our eyes met, both of us looked away with the speed of someone touching something hot. I could feel my panties stuck to my cunt, cold and soaked, and every time I shifted a little the friction of the fabric sent a lash of sensation through my clit that made me clench my teeth.

When the credits ended, I stood up.

—I’m going to bed —I said without looking at him.

—Auntie.

I stopped in the hallway. I didn’t turn around.

—Let me return the favor. That’s all. Nothing else.

I’d already made him come a couple of times before. Not that night. Weeks earlier, in stolen moments neither of us ever mentioned afterward. The first time was in the kitchen, the night of my mother’s birthday. The rest of the family was dining in the garden and we stayed behind washing dishes. He came up behind me, squeezed my tits over my blouse, my nipples hardening against his palms, and I, not really sure why, reached back and grabbed his cock through his jeans. It was hard as stone. I popped the button open, lowered the fly, slipped my hand inside his boxers and pulled it out. It was thick, much thicker than I’d imagined those few times I’d let myself imagine it, the head swollen and the tip already wet with pre-cum. I started jerking him off slowly, sliding my palm over the glans, spitting into my other hand to wet it, squeezing the base with my thumb and index finger like a ring. He bit my neck, slid his hand under my skirt and pressed my cunt through my panties, and came in less than three minutes. He filled my whole hand with semen, thick and hot, dripping down my wrist, and I licked my fingers one by one while my father called from the garden asking if everything was okay.

The second time was under the table at my sister’s birthday dinner. We were sitting side by side and, with the long tablecloth covering us to the knees, I slipped my hand inside his pants while we talked about work with my brother-in-law. It took the whole dessert course to make him come. He had to hold back his groan by drinking water, pretending to choke, looking at me with red eyes while I felt his cock pounding between my fingers and his hot cum soaking my whole palm. Afterward I slipped off to the bathroom with my hand clenched in a fist in my pocket, sucked my fingers one by one in front of the mirror — they tasted of salt, of sweat, of him — rubbed the rest over my soaked clit and came right there, in five seconds, leaning against the restaurant sink, biting the back of my hand so I wouldn’t scream.

Things that started as a game and stopped being one without either of us noticing.

He felt he owed me something. I knew he owed me something. His mouth between my legs was what we’d both been imagining for months, the image that appeared every time I closed my eyes in the shower, every time my fingers dropped there automatically during a movie. His tongue running over my outer lips, parting them, licking me from bottom to top from the entrance of my cunt to my clit, sucking it, sliding two fingers into me while he sucked, making me arch against his face until I came in his mouth.

—All in good time —I told him.

I walked to my room, shut the door, and leaned against it. I yanked down my shorts and panties and kicked them aside. I opened my legs with my back against the door and lowered my hand. This time it wasn’t a tic. This time I knew exactly what I was doing, exactly who I was thinking about, and exactly why the wetness between my legs had nothing to do with concentration.

My cunt was dripping. I ran two fingers from my hole to my clit and took them to my mouth, sucking them, pretending it was his mouth sucking them for me. I lowered my hand again, shoved the same two fingers inside me up to the knuckles — they went in without resistance, I was already so open they took them in with a single push — and started pumping them in and out fast, fucking my hand, staring at the door as if he might walk through it. With my other hand I pinched my swollen clit between my index finger and thumb and rubbed it in quick circles. I imagined his head between my thighs, his tongue where my fingers were, his nose pressing my clit flat, his mouth sucking my whole cunt at once. I imagined shoving his face into me, gripping his hair, fucking his mouth until I came on his tongue. I imagined his cock — the one I already knew, the one I’d felt throbbing between my fingers in that restaurant — going in at the same time as his tongue, sinking all the way in, filling me, splitting me open.

I bit my lip not to scream and came in less than two minutes, my thighs shaking, my fingers buried all the way in, feeling my cunt clamp down around them in spasms, one contraction after another, soaking my hand to the wrist and leaving me with a sticky stream running down the inside of my thigh.

On the other side of the door, I heard his steps moving away down the hallway. Slow. Heavy. Controlled.

All in good time.