The Massage I Shouldn’t Have Given My Sister

Mateo tried to follow the game like any brother who had come to the school gym to pick his sister up, but his eyes kept drifting to the same place. Camila ran, jumped, bent to receive the ball, and the club’s official uniform outlined every curve with almost insolent clarity. Her firm, heavy thighs, her wide hips, the round ass that bounced with every sprint. And above all, the generous breasts that bobbed against the yellow fabric every time she raised her arms to block.

It was a sweet torture. There had not been a single match in the last few months in which he had not ended up resting the bag on his lap. He remembered perfectly the afternoon he saw her for the first time in that new uniform: the shorts riding into her ass as she walked, her breasts swaying with each step. That was where it had all begun.

First it was admiration for how beautiful his little sister had become. Then curiosity about that body that was no longer a teenager’s. And in the end, while watching her run on the court, desire arrived: silent at first, insistent after. It wasn’t wild lust; it was something that grew slowly, something that shamed him and turned him on in equal measure. He knew it was wrong. He knew they lived under the same roof. And even so, he couldn’t stop looking at her.

They had always had a normal, almost affectionate relationship. He was four years older and spoiled her devotedly: he defended her from opportunistic suitors when she turned fifteen, and once, at a party that ended badly, he arrived just in time to get a guy off of her who had cornered her against a wall. That night Camila cried in his arms until she fell asleep and didn’t let go of him until dawn.

That was why it troubled him so much. He didn’t want to desire her. But when he got home after every practice, he would go into the shower and masturbate thinking of her, trying to empty himself of the tension built up inside. At night he tossed and turned in bed, fighting the images that kept forcing their way into his head.

***

One afternoon he got a message in the middle of class.

Cami: Little brother, can you come pick me up?

Cami: I hurt my thigh in training.

He shot out the door. He found her sitting on a bench at the sports center, her thigh bandaged up to the knee and her face tight with pain. The coach explained that it was nothing serious: a strain, rest, and an ointment that had to be applied twice a day.

He helped her to the car. When they got home, Camila could barely put weight on her foot, so he carried her in his arms to her room. She blushed to her ears as she felt herself pressed against his chest, soft and warm, still smelling of game sweat. She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and murmured a “thank you” that sounded shyer than usual.

—Do you need help getting changed? —Mateo asked from the doorway, trying to sound like any ordinary brother.

—No… but I do need you to put the ointment on me.

He turned around while she took off the team shorts and put on looser ones. When he heard her wrestling with the bottle, he went closer. He gave her a soft kiss on the forehead, like when they were children, and asked her to lie down. Camila spread her legs a little. Mateo sat on the edge of the bed with hands that were already trembling.

The ointment smelled of eucalyptus and menthol. He began to spread it slowly over the thick, hot thigh, moving up and down with firm strokes. The cinnamon-colored skin of his sister burned beneath his fingers. She sighed with her eyes closed, caught somewhere between relief and pain.

Little by little, the massage became slower. Broader. More deliberate. Mateo’s fingers climbed a couple of centimeters too far, brushing the lower part of her ass cheek. Then, almost without meaning to, they touched the fabric of the shorts right where there was no more thigh.

Camila did not pull away. On the contrary, she opened her legs a little more. Her breathing became deep, measured. I’m his sister, I shouldn’t feel like this, she thought, biting her lip. It’s Camila, for God’s sake, he thought, without daring to take his hand away.

Patricia’s voice from the kitchen saved him. Their mother had just arrived and was calling them to dinner. Camila covered herself quickly with the blanket and he stood up, hiding an erection that nearly split his pants.

***

That night, after dinner, the three of them sat on the sofa to watch a series. Mateo ended up in the middle. Camila settled almost on top of him, trapping his arm between her breasts. She wasn’t wearing a bra. He could feel her nipples slowly hardening against his skin with every breath. Patricia, oblivious to everything, commented on the plot with a glass of wine in her hand.

Mateo tried to focus on the screen, but the heat of his sister’s body and the constant rubbing had him on edge. When at last they all went upstairs to sleep, he stayed in the living room a while longer, waiting for the blood to leave where it shouldn’t be.

Close to three in the morning, unable to sleep, he went down to the kitchen for a glass of water. As he passed in front of Camila’s door, he stopped dead. Muffled moans could be heard.

He pressed his ear to the wood. Then, very slowly, he pushed the door open. The room was dim, lit only by the sliver of light coming in from the bathroom. Camila was lying there with her legs spread wide, moving her hand quickly beneath her panties. With the other she was rubbing her nipples over a T-shirt so thin it was almost transparent. She was breathing hard, mouth slightly open, rocking her hips in time with her fingers.

Mateo held his breath. His heart was about to leap out through his throat. It was a hypnotic sight: the heavy breasts rising and falling with every exhalation, the dark nipples outlined beneath the fabric, and that soft, broken moan that slipped out every time she drove her fingers deeper.

He couldn’t stop himself. He leaned his back against the doorframe, unbuttoned his pajama pants, and began to masturbate in silence, matching her rhythm. Camila pushed her panties aside and started touching herself with both hands: one seeking her clit, the other sliding two fingers deep inside. Her movements were clumsy and desperate at once.

When she arched her back, trembling from head to toe and bringing her free hand to her mouth to stifle a longer moan, Mateo came too, his body pressed against the wall, biting his lip so he wouldn’t make a sound. He stayed there a few seconds longer, watching her relax on the bed with her legs still trembling. Then he closed the door without her noticing and went into his room with weak legs and guilt roaring in his chest.

***

The next day, Patricia had to leave early. A distant cousin was having a birthday and had convinced the whole family to come together. Camila, with her leg still hurting, stayed home. Mateo decided to stay too, under the pretense of looking after her.

Midmorning, she called him from her room.

—Can you put the ointment on me again?

She was lying there in a loose T-shirt and short cotton shorts. Under them, tight panties that showed through with almost obscene clarity: the lips of her vulva outlined through the thin fabric, forming a small channel that disappeared downward. Mateo swallowed when he saw it. He felt like he was about to make the worst mistake of his life.

This can’t go on. She’s my sister, the girl I protected since she was a child.

He started the massage with trembling hands. He applied the ointment to the injured thigh and moved up the cinnamon skin to the middle. Camila sighed with relief. Then her breathing grew heavier. She was sweating a little; small drops glistened on her belly. She shivered every time his hands climbed a centimeter more than necessary.

Mateo’s fingers slid little by little beneath the hem of the shorts, touching the burning skin on the inside of her thigh. The panties were there, in plain sight, outlining every fold.

Then Camila, with a movement so slight yet perfectly deliberate, lifted her pelvis and spread her legs wider. Mateo’s fingertips landed directly on the fabric, right in the center. He felt the wet heat through the cotton and knew there was no turning back.

He began to play with his fingers: first pressing over the marked lips, then tracing the central channel with the tip of his index finger, and finally rubbing slow circles over the clit that was swelling beneath the fabric. Camila let out a low moan and arched her back slightly.

—Cami… —he murmured, voice breaking.

—Don’t stop.

He slid his hand all the way under the shorts and panties. He found her soaked, slippery, open. She panted his name with a mix of guilt and desire that burned him all the way through. He parted her lips with two fingers, stroked her clit with his thumb in firm circles, and then slid two fingers deep inside. The hot, tight walls immediately engulfed him. Camila moaned louder, eyes half-closed and head thrown to one side.

He leaned between her legs and lowered his head. He gave her a long, slow lick, savoring what he had been dreaming of for months. He sucked her clit with his mouth open, slid his tongue inside her while his fingers kept moving, and felt how her thick thighs squeezed his head. Camila writhed, clutching her breasts with both hands, pinching her nipples through her T-shirt.

—Mateo, please… don’t stop… —she begged, her voice full of everything they had gone months without saying.

He straightened up, yanked off his pants and shirt in clumsy haste, and positioned himself over her. They kissed for the first time on the mouth. It was a desperate kiss, with years of pent-up desire behind it. Their tongues tangled urgently. Mateo rubbed his hot cock against his sister’s soaked vulva, sliding it between the slippery lips, pressing the head against the clit again and again until she started panting against his mouth.

When he finally entered her, he did it slowly, centimeter by centimeter. Camila let out a long, guttural moan that bounced off the bedroom walls. He could feel how every millimeter she tightened around him as he sank in. When their hips met completely, they stayed still for a moment, breathing hard, staring into each other’s eyes with guilt and with an intensity neither dared break.

He started moving: first with deep, controlled thrusts, pulling almost all the way out only to drive back in hard. Every time he went in to the hilt, Camila moaned louder. Her generous breasts bounced heavily with each impact. He grabbed them with both hands, kneaded them, played with the dark nipples with his thumbs.

He picked up the pace. The wet sound of penetration filled the room, mixed with her increasingly loud moans.

—Don’t stop… deeper…

Without leaving her, Mateo gripped her by the waist and rolled them over. He ended up underneath and Camila on top. She sat all the way down on his cock and took him to the hilt with a muffled, prolonged moan. Her ass spread over his thighs. She started moving: first slowly up and down, then faster, circling her hips in wide arcs.

Her breasts bounced in front of Mateo’s face with every motion. He caught them with his hands, squeezed them, pressed them together and licked them hungrily, sucking the nipples while she rode him harder and harder. Camila threw her head back, her hair sticking to her sweaty skin.

—I’m gonna cum… don’t stop…

Her ass cheeks slapped against his thighs in a wet, fast rhythm. Mateo gripped her hips and began to thrust from below, with deep blows that made her scream through clenched teeth.

Camila’s orgasm came long and violent. She arched her back, shook all over, and let out a broken moan that shattered into short gasps. Her inner walls contracted in rhythmic spasms around her brother’s cock, squeezing and releasing him with a force he had never felt before.

Mateo couldn’t hold on any longer. He lifted her just in time, pulled away, and came hard over her soft, slightly rounded belly, in thick, hot spurts that splashed all the way up to the lower part of her breasts. Camila collapsed onto him, still trembling, and kissed him on the mouth with a tenderness that did not fit what they had just done and yet, at the same time, was everything.

They stayed wrapped in each other’s arms, sweaty, breathing hard. They looked into each other’s eyes with guilt, with gratitude, and with a desire that, instead of having gone out, seemed to have grown larger. Neither of them regretted it completely. The next kiss was soft, almost loving, as if they were sealing something that had been growing in silence for years.

Patricia would be back at night. They had the whole afternoon ahead to keep discovering each other, this time without the excuse of the ointment, without a game in between, with nothing between them.