My uncle summoned me to his office on a day off

That morning was my day off, so I got up without hurry, like any Sunday when no one expects anything from you. I stayed in bed for a good while, listening to the distant noise of the avenue, before dragging myself to the apartment kitchen.

I was still wearing the red lace thong and an old T-shirt that barely covered half my ass. The floor was cold under my bare feet, the sun coming in through the window, and I had no plan beyond coffee.

I poured myself a steaming cup and, just as I took the first sip, my phone vibrated on the counter. I answered without looking at the screen.

It was Marcos. My uncle.

—Good morning, beautiful —his deep voice filled the earpiece—. Listen, I want you in the office in twenty minutes. There are some things pending and I need you here.

I froze with the cup halfway to my lips. The coffee went cold while I processed what I’d just heard. It wasn’t the first time my uncle had used that voice with me, but it was the first time he’d dared to summon me alone.

Marcos wanted to see me on my day off?

—Uncle... but today is my day off, I...

—No, no, no. No buts. I’m on my way. —And he hung up.

I stood there staring at my phone as if it had bitten me. I knew that voice. I knew it well. My uncle Marcos did not have office matters on a Sunday at nine in the morning. What he had was hunger, and for some reason he’d decided today’s menu was me.

I pulled my hair up, put on some jeans and a loose sweater, and left the red thong exactly where it was. The fabric hugged me in a delicious way, reminding me with every step that beneath my Sunday clothes I was wearing something made to be torn off. And, by the way, my uncle had been on my to-do list for months.

I had seen him watching me at every birthday, at every Sunday dinner at Grandma’s house. I had seen his eyes follow the line of my legs when he thought I was distracted, seen him grip his whiskey glass when I laughed too close to his ear. A man like that doesn’t call on his day off about office matters. He calls because he can’t take it anymore.

And I, who had been waiting for exactly that call for months, wasn’t going to let the chance slip by.

***

When I got to the corporate office and before I crossed the glass door, there he was. Leaning against his sports car, wearing sunglasses and that half-smile I knew from family meals, the one he wore when he thought no one could see him looking at me too long.

Marcos is a man from the old school. Big hands, a commanding voice, broad shoulders, and a look that strips you naked before you even say hello. The kind of man who doesn’t ask: he orders, and gets his way because he’s used to the world saying yes.

—Come on, let’s get some breakfast and then we’ll look at the pending stuff —he said, opening the passenger door for me.

I got in slowly, letting the movement ride the jeans just enough, letting the edge of red lace peek out for a second over my hip. It was no accident. Nothing I do in front of a man is accidental.

I saw his eyes go to that centimeter of fabric. I saw his jaw tighten. I smiled to myself and looked out the window as if I hadn’t noticed a thing.

He started the car. We didn’t go for breakfast. We didn’t go to the office. He took the avenue in the opposite direction and, without another word, headed straight for a cheap motel on the outskirts.

The ride was silent. He drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the gearshift, a hair’s breadth from my knee. He didn’t move it. He didn’t need to. The entire conversation had already been spoken in the way he pressed the gas, in how his forearm stood out each time he shifted gears.

I watched the scenery rush past the window and felt the lace getting damp against me. Anticipation is the best part of all this. The moment before the moment, when neither of us has said the forbidden word but both know exactly where we’re headed.

Pending matters, of course.

***

As soon as the room door shut behind us, the air changed. It turned heavy, thick, charged with that tension only those of us who live to provoke it recognize. Marcos sat on the edge of the bed and started unbuckling his belt without taking his eyes off me.

—Take off that man’s rag —he said in a low voice—. I want to see what you put on for me.

I didn’t rush. Quite the opposite. I took off my sweater centimeter by centimeter, let the jeans fall with almost cruel slowness, and stood in front of him under the light coming through the half-open curtain. The wide hips, the firm thighs, and that red thong barely holding in the desire I had been carrying since the phone rang.

I heard him let out a breath through his nose. That was all the reward I needed.

I walked up to him and knelt between his legs. I felt the roughness of his thigh against my chin as I pulled down his underwear, and then I took him whole into my mouth, without warnings, without ceremony.

He was hard, hot, too big to swallow all at once. I filled myself with him until my breath caught and I gasped with every suck, setting a slow rhythm that made him squirm.

Marcos grabbed my tied-up hair and yanked hard, driving me deeper with each thrust, deciding the pace himself.

—Damn, what a mouth you have —he growled, his fingers buried in my nape—. You’re going to drain me before we even start.

The thrusts turned brutal, relentless, as if he wanted to go through me. I let him, looking up at him through tear-filled eyes with a smile I couldn’t hide. I loved feeling him lose control, that man who owned everything, coming apart because of my mouth.

And then I felt him tense. That stiffness in his thighs, that trembling that betrays a man about to explode.

I pulled away.

He tried to throw me onto the bed and take me right then, but I put a hand on his chest and stopped him cold. I turned around, arched my back, and showed him my ass wrapped in that red lace already soaked with my own desire.

—Not yet... stallion —I whispered with the dirtiest voice I keep in reserve—. First you have to baptize your niece.

I heard him hold back a groan.

—I want you to fill this lace with your come —I went on, moving my hips slowly—. I want you to mark me before you claim me whole. I want to wear your signature under my clothes when I go home.

Marcos let out a hoarse laugh, almost animal. He loved my brazenness, my complete lack of shame.

—You’re the worst thing this family ever produced —he said, and he said it like a compliment.

He took his cock in one hand and, with the other, spread my ass cheeks to pull the red thread taut against my skin. But before finishing, he grabbed my cell phone from the nightstand.

—This is going on your profile —he said, framing the shot—. Let your followers see what you are.

The flash. The click. And then, the roar.

—Enjoy your baptism —he growled.

I felt the hot, thick spurts slamming against the red fabric. One, two, three releases that soaked the lace and glued it to my skin. The smell flooded the room, dense and masculine, while white streaks slid down the insides of my thighs.

—Look at you —he said, still short of breath, watching with dark pride as his mark covered my lingerie—. Now you really look like what you are.

He sank back onto the bed. He looked at me for a long while, with a mix of desire and contempt that raised gooseflesh over my entire body.

—My father was right about you —he murmured—. You’re a lot worse than anyone imagines. Go on, get dressed. And not a word of this to your grandmother.

I brought two fingers to my thigh, gathered what he’d left there, and slowly took it to my lips without breaking eye contact.

—Don’t worry, Uncle —I purred—. This stays between us. It’ll be our little secret.

I saw him swallow. I saw how, for an instant, the man with the commanding voice didn’t know what to say.

***

And just like that, the table was set.

I left that hotel with my red thong soaked through and a smile that never left my face on the ride back. Marcos thought he had used me. The truth is that now I had him in the palm of my hand: a photo, a secret, and the hunger lit up to keep collecting men from the same family.

Because that’s what I do. I go gathering pieces, one by one, in silence, while at the get-togethers everyone smiles and no one suspects how many of them have already been through my hands.

At the next Sunday dinner I’ll sit at the table in my most modest sweater, pass the serving dish to Grandma, and ask Marcos about work as if nothing happened. He’ll hold my gaze a second too long. I’ll smile at him with all the innocence in the world. And we’ll both know that, under the tablecloth, there’s a red, soaked secret binding us forever.

That’s the part I like best: the after. Carrying sin under Sunday clothes, in front of the whole family, and having no one notice. Knowing I have a whole man waiting on my silence. Knowing he’ll call again, because the ones who taste this always call again.

And to you, who read me and follow me, I confess this just as I confess everything else. I’m still here, collecting, counting my sins, posting the photos you ask me for so much. This thong, by the way, was courtesy of you, so you know: the more you spoil me, the more lingerie you’ll see, and more flesh, and more desire.

There’s still a lot to tell. A lot.

See you over there, and stay here reading me. Kisses where you like them most.