The Afternoon My Niece Asked Me to Teach Her

My name is Andrés, and I’m twenty-eight years old. What I’m about to tell happened five years ago in Zaragoza, when I was still living with my parents and my head was a mix of innocence and arrogance—that dangerous combination boys have at twenty-two.

There’s a moment in everyone’s life when curiosity weighs more than fear. It isn’t an exact instant: it’s a stretch of time. The stretch when you still haven’t touched anyone, you don’t know whether your hands will do what you want, and sex is still something that exists in movies and in hushed conversations with friends. Most people stumble through it. My niece went through it with me.

Lucía was eighteen then. She was a plump girl, with round cheeks and brown hair down to her waist. She had a big chest and tried to hide it under sweatshirts that were way too loose. She was pretty, but not in an obvious way: you had to look at her twice. In school, people had been cruel to her, had given her nicknames, and because of that she found it hard to open up to new people.

Her parents had moved to Zaragoza for my brother-in-law’s job. She had come with the idea of spending only one year here before going back to Pamplona, where her friends were and a boyfriend she’d been stringing along for six months. We lived five minutes apart on foot. Up until then, our relationship had been shallow: three family meals a year, Christmas photos, birthday messages.

My sister called me a month after they settled in. She practically begged me to get Lucía out of the house.

—She’s spent weeks without speaking to anyone —she told me—. In Pamplona it took years to build her a group. Here she doesn’t know anybody. Please, Andrés, take her out.

I tried. I introduced her to my gang, people between eighteen and twenty-four, a mix of classmates and neighborhood kids. I thought she’d fit in better with the younger ones. And she did, in her own way: quiet, attentive, smiling from the corner of the couch, never fully opening up. With me it was different. She talked to me.

We started with banal things—how things were going at the academy she’d signed up for to retake the university entrance exam, what she missed about Pamplona, how expensive fruit was at the market. After a few weeks it had become routine: two coffees a week at the café on the corner, short walks along the Ebro, WhatsApp messages at night about the shows we were watching at the same time in different houses.

One night we all went out to the Old Quarter. It was October, still mild. Lucía was wearing a short skirt for the first time since I’d known her and, though she still had on a sweatshirt, you could tell something had changed. She’d joined the gym near my apartment, had lost some weight, and no longer walked hunched over.

That night, though, I saw she was sad. Shut down, absent. She drank slowly and watched the groups of girls laughing too loudly around her with a grimace I can’t quite describe: neither envy nor contempt, something more like exhaustion.

I asked her what was wrong. She said she’d rather talk about it in daylight, not in the middle of the noise.

***

We met the next morning in Tío Jorge Park. It was Sunday, there was fog, and the poplars were half dressed. We walked down to the river and sat on a bench with two takeout coffees. It took her a while to get started, but once she did, she didn’t stop.

—I can’t get laid, Andrés —she told me—. Nobody’s looked at me in six months.

I gave her the kind of answer you give a niece in that situation: that she was pretty, that she needed to give it time, that new people took a while to thaw out. She shook her head slowly.

—That’s not it. It’s that I have no experience. With Hugo—my boyfriend in Pamplona—I haven’t done anything. Nothing at all. Not even proper kissing. And now he, who has been with other girls, is asking me for something, and I don’t know what to do. I asked him for a year. A year to get here and learn. And I’ve been here for half a year and I haven’t moved a meter.

I stayed silent. She went on:

—I’m scared that when we fuck he won’t like it. That he’ll laugh at my cunt, my tits, that I won’t know how to suck him off. That he’ll leave me. I’ve thought about coming here and letting anyone fuck me, losing my virginity with someone I don’t care about so I don’t go to Hugo still a virgin. But even the waiter at Sicilia doesn’t look at me.

She laughed without humor. She took a sip of coffee and bit her lower lip, a habit of hers I had started noticing too much.

—I’ll help you —I said, without fully thinking it through—. I’ll introduce you to people, take you to different places, we’ll talk about whatever you need. It’s not about looks, Lucía. It’s about loosening up.

She nodded. She gave me a short, formal hug, the kind you give to close an awkward conversation. We walked back slowly and didn’t talk about it again for two weeks.

***

At the beginning of December my parents went to Tenerife with some friends. Ten days away. The whole apartment was mine. Lucía found out through my sister and wrote to me that same afternoon: “Can I spend a few days with you? Things are unbearable at home.” I said yes without thinking.

She came with a backpack on Tuesday. She was going to stay over on Wednesday too. Her mother, delighted that her daughter was going out, had given her the green light.

On Wednesday I’d planned to introduce her to Sergio, a classmate who had told me several times that he found Lucía interesting. The three of us were supposed to grab a drink and then I was going to leave them alone. But Wednesday brought a downpour. One of those rains that leaves water a hand’s breadth above the ground in some streets in El Tubo. Sergio canceled. We stayed home.

We had eaten pasta. We were each sitting with a glass of wine on the sofa, she with her legs folded beneath her body, me with my feet on the coffee table. I put on a movie a friend had recommended: a French drama about a marriage falling apart. I hadn’t read the synopsis. It turned out to have several explicit scenes. I didn’t remember them. Lucía did look at them.

The first one we let pass as if nothing. She shifted a little on the sofa. I cleared my throat and drank. The second was longer: the husband naked from head to toe, his cock hard between his legs, the wife kneeling and sucking him off with her face soaked in saliva, and then him mounting her from behind on all fours while she moaned and clutched the headboard. The camera cut nothing away: you could see the cock going in and out of the actress’s wet cunt, his thighs slamming against her ass, the final load of semen dripping down her back. And after a few seconds Lucía glanced at me sideways and lowered her eyes to my pants.

I realized too late. I didn’t know when it had started. I was hard under my jeans, outlined in a way I couldn’t hide, the tip pushing the fabric upward and a small stain of pre-cum having soaked through my underwear and starting to show. I shifted, tried to cross my legs. She had already seen it.

—Why is it like that? —she asked. She said it softly, without any dirty intent, almost like a little girl asking why it rains.

I thought about lying. About saying I had something in my pocket. But the truth was that I’d been looking at her differently for weeks, and that question disarmed me.

—That’s what happens when a guy gets hard —I said—. All your blood goes to your cock and it swells up. It’s not voluntary.

—Does it hurt?

—No. It hurts if you don’t jerk it. It gets uncomfortable. Your balls pull tight.

—And when does it go down?

—When you stop looking at what turns you on. Or when you jerk off until you come.

Lucía wasn’t looking at my face. She was looking at the bulge. She had three more questions on her lips; I could tell. The movie kept going and nobody was paying attention to it anymore: the actors kept fucking in the foreground and we didn’t care.

—How big is it? —she said at last. Then she went red to the tips of her ears—. Sorry, no… forget it.

I laughed. She tried to laugh too, but her voice was shaking. She turned fully toward me, set her glass on the coffee table, and put her hands together over her knees like a student about to ask for a favor.

—Andrés. Will you show it to me?

She let it out as if dropping a stone she’d been holding for hours. I lost my breath.

—Lucía…

—Just look. I’ve never seen a cock. Not even a proper photo. I’m eighteen years old and I’ve never seen a real cock in my life. And you… you’re not going to hurt me, you’ll just show me and that’s it. Please.

I thought about a thousand things in two seconds. I thought about my sister. I thought about my mother, who had left me the apartment. I thought about Hugo, in Pamplona, waiting for a year. I also thought, because I’d be lying if I said otherwise, about how her tits outlined under her T-shirt, the nipples hard from the cold or from the scene, and how close her thigh was to mine.

After all, better me than a stranger, I told myself, fully aware it was an excuse.

—Just looking —I said again—. And I’ll talk you through it. As far as you want.

—Just looking —she said—. I promise.

I turned off the movie. I switched on the floor lamp so we wouldn’t be in the dark. I lowered my pants to my ankles, slowly, and then my underwear. My cock sprang out all at once, hard, rigid, pointing at the ceiling, with a fat drop of pre-cum at the tip that stretched and fell onto the thigh of my jeans when I sat down. Lucía didn’t move a muscle. When I settled back on the sofa and she had it in view, she breathed as if she’d gone minutes without breathing.

She didn’t say anything for a long time. Neither did I. I looked at her from above: hands in her lap, eyes fixed on my cock, lips parted. She smelled of a strawberry perfume she always wore and that night it struck me as a joke from fate.

—It’s… —she began— big. Is it always that big?

—When I’m hard, yes. It gets like this every time I get turned on.

—And those… the balls… do they get like that too?

—They pull up. When I’m about to come, they stick to my body.

I took her hand, slowly. It was ice-cold. I brought it toward my cock and stopped it a centimeter away.

—If you want.

She nodded. She didn’t speak. She moved her fingers forward on her own and touched me for the first time with the tip of her index finger, on the head, like someone touching a surface they think might burn them. It didn’t burn. She smiled crookedly.

—It’s hot —she said, and a nervous laugh escaped her—. And it’s… wet on top.

—That’s pre-cum. It comes out when you’re really turned on. Helps it slide.

—Can I…?

—Whatever you want.

She passed the pad of her finger over the head and gathered the drop. She held it up, transparent and shining between her fingers, and smelled it. Then, without warning, she brought it to the tip of her tongue. She closed her eyes.

—Tastes salty —she murmured—. Less disgusting than I thought.

I answered with another laugh. She leaned in and gave me a very short kiss on the cheek, like a child saying thank you, and immediately went back to my hand. I closed her fingers around my cock. I taught her to hold, not to squeeze.

—Like this. Wrap your whole hand around it. Not too hard at first.

She slid her hand down. Then up. Too fast, too dry, the foreskin skin dragging badly. I took her wrist and slowed her down.

—Slower. And… —I grabbed the bottle of lotion I had on the side table, aloe, and squeezed a good amount into her palm—. Like this it slides better. This or saliva. Guys like it slippery.

She coated both hands, rubbed her palms together, and wrapped them around my cock again. This time the sound changed: a soft, wet slapping every time she went up and down. I kept trying to look at the ceiling and not think about who she was, but every time she brought her thumb up to the head and then took her hand back down to the base, my body responded a little more. Lucía was biting her lower lip, focused as if she were solving a math problem.

—Do you like it? —she asked, never stopping—. Am I doing it right?

—You’re doing it perfectly. Squeeze a little more up top, where the hood is. There. Like that.

—Like this?

—Like this, fuck. Don’t stop.

Her whole face lit up when she heard me say “fuck.” She sped up her hand. With the other, shyly, she reached for my balls and took them in her palm, weighing them as if she could hardly believe they were real. She lifted them, stroked them, and a laugh slipped out through her nose.

—They weigh more than they look like they do.

—Careful with the balls. Don’t squeeze them.

—Okay. I’ll treat them nicely.

And then, without me planning it, without me telling her, she leaned toward me, took my face with her lotion-slick hand, and kissed me.

It was a clumsy kiss, the kind a girl gives for the first time. Her lips were cold and her tongue shy. I let her take the lead at first and then answered her, slowly, not wanting to scare her. I opened her mouth with my tongue and she copied me. I could feel her big tits flattened against my arm, her hard nipples pressing through her T-shirt, her hand keeping the rhythm below, her breathing quickening. I ran my hand through her hair and brushed it away from her face. Then I slid my hand down her neck, over her cleavage, and squeezed one tit over the fabric. A gasp slipped into my mouth.

—Can I? —I asked, with my lips against hers.

—Yes. Anything you want.

I slid my hand under her T-shirt and yanked her bra up. I took one tit directly in my hand, hot, heavy, with the stiff nipple stabbing into my palm. I squeezed it. I pinched it. She let go of my cock for a second and put both hands behind her neck, throwing her head back.

—Fuck, Andrés, don’t stop.

I lifted her shirt to her neck and pulled her tits out over the bunched-up bra. There they were, white, big, with pink nipples pointing at me. I bent down and sucked one. I ran my tongue around it, nibbled it with my lips, pulled it. She shuddered all over and went back to gripping my cock with her hand full of lotion.

—I didn’t know it felt like this —she panted—. In the nipples. I didn’t know.

—You’ve got a lot left to learn.

I sucked the other nipple. I bit the areola slowly. I ran my free hand over her stomach, under the waistband of the sweatpants she was wearing, and brushed her panties through the fabric. They were soaked. The cloth was damp from side to side.

—You’re wet.

—I know —she whispered, embarrassed—. I’ve been wet since the movie.

—Let me touch you.

I slid my hand inside her panties. I found her cunt swollen, soft, slippery, with warm lips and a hard bud up top that made her jerk when I ran my finger over it. I found her clit with my fingertip and traced slow circles. Lucía stopped moving her hand on my cock, pressed herself against my shoulder, and began to pant in short, short, short bursts, as if she didn’t know how to breathe.

—Like that? Is that good?

—Yes… yes… there, don’t move.

I kept my finger exactly where she liked it. With my other finger I found the entrance, very slowly, not going all the way in, just feeling my way in. She opened her legs without thinking.

—Put it in —she whispered—. One finger. Just one.

I slid in my index finger. Very slowly. She was tight, hot, drenched, and as soon as I entered I felt her close around it. Lucía let out a tiny cry, more surprise than pain, and gripped my wrist with her free hand.

—Am I hurting you?

—No. Keep going. Move it. Please.

I moved my finger inside her. Very slowly at first, setting a slow rhythm, while with my thumb I kept working her clit. I searched inside for a rough little spot higher up, and when I found it she jerked and dug her nails into my arm.

—There. God, there. What is that?

—That’s what makes you come.

—Keep going. Keep going. Keep going.

I kept going. With my index finger inside, hitting that spot, with my thumb above circling her clit at a steady pace. She found my cock again with her hand and started jerking me off once more, no longer keeping rhythm, guided by what was happening to her. Her hips began lifting on their own into my hand. Her whole body was shaking.

—I’m going to… I don’t know what’s happening to me —she panted—. Andrés, everything’s shaking.

—Come. Let it go. It’s okay. It’s what’s supposed to happen.

—I don’t know how…

—You’re already doing it.

I pressed her clit with my fingertip in small quick circles and curled my finger inside her. Lucía opened her mouth in an O, her face froze, and suddenly everything from her belly down started shaking. She came with a rough moan she hadn’t expected herself, clamping down on my finger in convulsions that came and went. Her whole hand was wet when I drew back. She stared at me wide-eyed, mouth open, face red, and burst out laughing from nerves.

—I… I came, didn’t I?

—Yes. Hard, too.

—That’s never happened to me before. Not even alone. Never. Fuck, Andrés.

She stayed silent for a few seconds, breathing, with her tits out and her pants pulled down to her knees. Then she looked down at my cock, still hard and throbbing against my stomach, pre-cum running down the side.

—Your turn —she said, and grabbed it again—. Show me how you like it.

I put my hand over hers and set the rhythm. Firm, tight, going up to cover my head and down to the base with a twist of the wrist at the top.

—Like that. That twist up top. Again. Again.

She learned in fifteen minutes. She let herself go completely. She kissed me again, this time more decisively, with her tongue deep in my mouth, and kept jerking my cock. With her other hand she reached for my balls and massaged them carefully, just as I’d told her. I felt them draw up, press against my body, felt the load begin to boil at the base.

—Keep going —I whispered against her mouth—. Don’t stop. I’m going to come.

—Are you going to finish?

—Yes.

—Right here? On top of me?

—Right here.

—I want to see it. I want to see it come out.

She pulled back a little to watch my cock while she worked me. She sped up without me asking. Her hand went up and down with the lotion and pre-cum mixing into a wet slapping sound, her wrist twisting me at the top of each stroke, her thumb pressing just under the head. I held out as long as I could, but when she licked her lips without realizing and whispered, “Come,” I exploded.

The first jet shot up high, hit my own clavicle, and splashed onto her neck. The second landed on her hand, her wrist, and ran up her forearm to the elbow. The third and fourth spilled down my cock, soaking her fingers, mixing with the lotion, dripping onto both of them on the sofa and onto my T-shirt. Lucía didn’t stop jerking me off. She kept squeezing and twisting until she squeezed the last thick drops from the hood, and only then did she stop, her hand still around my cock and my load dripping between her fingers.

She trembled when she felt it. She gave a tiny exclamation, a mix of fear and pride, and looked at my face as if waiting for a grade.

—Fuck —she said.

—Yeah.

She looked at her hand full of semen. She smelled it again, curious. And, to my surprise, she stuck out her tongue and tasted a drop from the tip of her finger. She made a face.

—Bitter —she said—. But it doesn’t disgust me.

—Hugo’s going to love hearing you say that.

We both laughed at the same time. A nervous, exhausted laugh, from people who have just crossed a line and still haven’t decided what to do on the other side.

Lucía kissed me again. Calmer this time, with the taste of my own semen smeared in her mouth and me not protesting. Then she stood up, washed her hands at the kitchen sink, came back to the sofa with a towel, and cleaned my cock herself, carefully, with a strange tenderness. She sat close to me, with her tits still out and no shame left at all, and rested her head on my shoulder. For the first time in six months, she didn’t talk about Hugo either.

My parents’ trip lasted ten days. In those ten days I taught her a lot more things. I taught her to suck me off without teeth, learning to open her throat until she could take me all the way; I taught her to sit on top and move however she wanted; I taught her to let me fuck her from behind while watching her tits bounce in the wardrobe mirror; I taught her to come with my tongue between her legs and with two fingers inside; I taught her to ask for “harder” and “like that” and “don’t stop” without apologizing. I took her virginity the third night, in my bed, very slowly, with her on top setting the rhythm so she wouldn’t hurt herself, and I came inside a condom while she cried from relief and laughter at the same time. But that one, the first, the rainy night with the French movie and the aloe lotion, was the only one neither of us ever forgot.

Five years later, we still haven’t told anyone what happened. And every so often, at some family meal, when my sister asks Lucía whether she’s finally going to settle down with Hugo, she glances at me sideways and lets out a smile only I understand.