The Morning My Older Brother Came Home

The house smelled the same as always: polished wood and Mom’s cologne, the scent seeping even into the sofa cushions. Valentina had been sitting on the couch for two hours, not reading a single page of the book she held in her hands. Outside, the spring sun warmed the windows. Her parents had left early and wouldn’t be back until noon. And at any moment, after three years without setting foot through that door, Marcos was going to walk in.

Valentina had just turned eighteen and knew perfectly well that what she felt had no good name. She had understood it little by little during his absence: first as ordinary homesickness, then as something she could no longer bear to look straight at. Marcos had gone to work in London when she was fifteen. Now he was someone else: the same voice, the same way of laughing, but a different body and a presence that no longer fit the memory she had kept of him.

The car in the drive. Footsteps on the gravel. The door.

Valentina stood up before she even thought about it. He appeared in the doorway with a backpack slung over one shoulder, tanned, with that crooked smile that dented his right cheek. His shoulders were broader than she remembered, his neck stronger, his jaw covered in a short beard that hadn’t existed three years ago.

—Val —he said, opening his arms.

She threw herself at him. Marcos caught her easily and crushed her to his chest with a force that stole her breath. He smelled different: of a cologne she didn’t recognize, of travel-worn clothes, of something warm and indefinably masculine that stayed in her lungs long after he let her go.

—Just look at you —he murmured into her hair, still not letting go—. The last time I saw you you had braces and the braids Mom used to do for you on Sundays. And now…

He broke off. He pulled back just enough to look her up and down, and Valentina noticed how his eyes lingered a second too long on the curve of her waist before returning to her face. She also noticed, still pressed against him, the hard bulge outlined in his pants against her stomach. There was no time to pretend she hadn’t felt it: Marcos shifted his hips a centimeter away with a dry cough, and she bit the inside of her cheek so she wouldn’t smile.

—Now you’re a real woman —he finished, giving her nose a gentle pinch.

Don’t let your knees shake, Valentina. It’s Marcos. Your older brother. The same one who taught you to ride a bike in the yard and let you win at Ludo so you wouldn’t cry.

But the body doesn’t understand rational arguments. And her cunt was already wetting her panties from that one hug alone.

They spent the afternoon in the kitchen, talking nonstop, catching up on three years of unfinished conversations. Sometime toward evening, while Valentina whisked milk for hot chocolate, the idea came to her.

—Tomorrow morning we could make brunch. Just the two of us, like when we were little. Mom and Dad leave at nine.

Marcos looked at her from the other side of the island, coffee mug in hand, with that expression of his that was always half serious, half amused.

—Cook together? —he repeated, his voice a shade lower—. I like cooking. You have to be patient: start with low heat so everything warms through, then turn it up little by little, stirring carefully so the mixture comes together properly…

—Marcos, I’m talking about pancakes —she said, laughing.

—Of course. Pancakes —he repeated, with that smile and the dimple in his cheek—. I’ll be in the kitchen tomorrow at nine.

***

Marcos took a long time to fall asleep. His childhood bedroom was still the same: the old furniture, the sheets smelling of his mother’s fabric softener. He lay staring at the ceiling with his arms crossed behind his head, trying not to think about the way Valentina had hugged him in the living room, about how her slight body had fitted against his with a naturalness that belonged to neither of them.

Stop. She’s your sister. Eighteen years old. The little girl with braids and braces. Don’t go there.

He went there anyway. He closed his eyes and there she was again: the mischievous smile, her hands resting on his arms when they pulled apart from the hug, her fingers brushing the fabric of his T-shirt without any urgency, as if she simply didn’t want to let go yet. He imagined his sister’s tits under the loose shirt, the way her hard nipples had pressed against his chest when she hugged him, and his cock went hard again, tightening the fabric of his boxers.

He slid his hand inside without thinking. He took hold of himself and started to masturbate slowly, jaw clenched, hating himself with every stroke and unable to stop. He came in less than two minutes, biting his lip so he wouldn’t moan, with the image of Valentina kneeling between his legs burned into his head. He wiped himself clean with a tissue, rolled over in bed, and gritted his teeth.

Guilt and desire make terrible roommates. And that night, lying in the dark with his breathing growing heavier and heavier, Marcos had both.

***

When Valentina came into the kitchen at quarter past nine, Marcos was already there. Leaning against the central island with a mug of black coffee, gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips and a fitted white T-shirt that left very little to the imagination. His hair was rumpled from sleep. He looked at her without hiding it when she appeared in the doorway.

Valentina was wearing what she always wore at home: an old oversized T-shirt and a black lace thong. The same clothes she wore when her parents were around. But under Marcos’s gaze she felt completely exposed. His eyes dropped shamelessly to the edge of her shirt, to where her bare legs met, and she felt one nipple tighten against the fabric from that alone.

—Good morning —he said, his voice still rough with sleep—. Did you sleep well?

—So-so —she admitted, making her way to the fridge.

They put on music and got started. Marcos took the eggs while Valentina made the pancake batter: flour, eggs, milk, a pinch of salt. They worked side by side, bumping into each other now and then in the narrow island space, handing ingredients over without needing to ask. There was something familiar and at the same time completely different about that closeness. Three years of absence compressed into forty centimeters of kitchen.

Valentina began to sway her hips to the beat without noticing, as she always did when she cooked. An automatic gesture, being at home. Marcos watched her from the other end of the island without bothering to hide it.

—You’ve always danced while you cook —he said.

—Helps me concentrate —she answered, not stopping.

Marcos set the pan on the stove and came up behind her to take the salt from the shelf just above her shoulder. He didn’t need to stand that close to get it. They both knew it perfectly well. She felt his big body pressed to her back, his hard cock outlined against the hollow of her ass through the thin sweatpants, and she froze for a second too long before pretending to keep whisking.

—Taste it —he said, dipping a finger into the batter and bringing it to her lips.

Valentina looked him in the eyes and tasted it. Her lips closed over the tip of her brother’s finger for a second that stretched longer than necessary. She sucked slowly, her tongue wrapping around his knuckle, and when she let go she made a small wet sound that went straight between Marcos’s legs.

—Needs vanilla —he said, his voice a little rough.

—Top shelf —she replied.

She stretched to reach it. With her arm raised and her body extended, her elbow brushed the edge of the bowl and a stream of cold, creamy batter splashed straight onto her chest, soaking her shirt through.

—Shit —Valentina said, looking at the mess.

Marcos held back a smile.

—That’s what you get for not asking me to get it for you.

She looked down at her shirt stuck to her chest and made a decision without thinking too much about it. She pulled it off over her head and left it over the back of the nearest chair. There had always been that kind of trust in the house. He was her brother. She stayed there in a black lace thong, tits bare, dark pink nipples pointed toward him, shining with batter on the left breast. She took a cloth from the drawer and started wiping her shoulder.

Marcos didn’t say anything for several seconds. When she looked up, he was looking at her in a way that had nothing to do with sibling trust. The hard bulge under his sweatpants was obvious, nothing to hide it. He came toward her slowly, took the cloth from her hand, and set it on the counter.

—Let me —he murmured—. I’ll help you.

He leaned in and put his mouth on her shoulder. His lips gathered the batter away slowly, and his tongue moved down to her collarbone, to the top of her breast, unhurried, tasting every inch of skin. Valentina closed her eyes and braced a hand on the edge of the island so she wouldn’t lose her balance. A shiver ran up and down her spine.

His tongue reached her left nipple and closed around it. Marcos sucked it, bit it softly, rolled it between his teeth until Valentina let out a moan that sounded far too loud in the empty kitchen. He moved to the other breast and did the same, slower, his free hand climbing her side to cup her whole breast, kneading it while his tongue worked the nipple.

—Marcos… —she whispered.

He lifted his head and looked straight at her. They both knew exactly what was happening. They both knew it shouldn’t be happening. Valentina held his gaze for a second and then dipped two fingers into the bowl, scooped up a clump of batter, and slowly smeared it over the top of her breast without looking away from his eyes. She ran her batter-smeared fingers down over her stomach and slid them inside her thong as well, leaving a streak of batter that reached all the way to her cunt.

—If you like cleaning so much… —she said, in a voice she didn’t recognize as her own.

Marcos closed the distance between them. His big hands settled on her waist and he lifted her bodily onto the kitchen island, setting her on the cold marble. He spread her legs with his palms on her knees and stepped between them. He lowered his mouth without taking his eyes off hers until the very last moment, and when his lips touched Valentina’s skin and he began to clean the batter away with his tongue, she let out the breath she’d been holding since he walked through the door the day before.

He worked his mouth over her breast, her sternum, each rib, biting her flat stomach until she trembled. He hooked his fingers into the elastic of her lace thong and pulled it down her thighs slowly, sliding it all the way off her ankles and letting it fall to the floor. He opened her legs wider, knelt on the tiles, and put his mouth directly on her cunt.

—Ah, fuck… —Valentina moaned, bracing her hands behind her on the marble so she wouldn’t collapse.

Marcos’s tongue ran over her wet lips from top to bottom, slipped between them, rose to her clit and stayed there, circling slowly, pressing first with the tip and then with the whole flat tongue. He slid a finger inside her. Then two. He curled them to find her exact spot while he kept sucking her clit without pause. Valentina threw her head back and moaned his name, with her legs spread over the island where they’d eaten Sunday breakfast as children, with her older brother’s mouth sucking her cunt as if he’d spent three years thinking about doing it.

—Don’t stop —she panted—, don’t stop, Marcos, keep going…

He didn’t stop. He ate her cunt until she felt the orgasm rise through her legs, tighten her belly, and break in his mouth with a muffled cry that escaped her no matter how hard she clenched her teeth. She came on his tongue, her thighs closing around his head, trembling all over.

His hands ran over her back, her ribs, then returned to her waist and gripped firmly when he lowered her to the floor again. Marcos’s mouth moved up her neck and back down, leaving the taste of her own cunt on his lips when he kissed her for the first time on the mouth. She kissed him back hungrily, sucking his tongue, tasting herself. She pressed against him without thinking, seeking the heat pouring off his body, his hard cock outlined against her naked stomach.

Then she started to go down. Her hands over her brother’s broad chest, over the defined abdomen that tightened under her touch, until she reached the waistband of his pants. He didn’t stop her. Valentina knelt on the cold kitchen floor and looked up at him, eyes lifted to his.

—Val —he said, his voice completely hoarse.

It was her name. Not a warning.

She yanked down his pants and boxers and Marcos’s cock sprang free in front of her face, hard, thick, with the vein standing out beneath and the head already wet. It was bigger than she had imagined for months. She wrapped her right hand around it —her fingers didn’t quite meet— and looked at it for a second before sticking out her tongue and licking the tip slowly, tasting the first salty drop beading at the slit.

She took him into her mouth slowly, first just the tip, savoring his heat and weight, feeling how he responded to her touch. She sucked softly, lips closing just below the head, her tongue circling around it. Then she went lower, and lower, until he reached the back of her throat and she had to breathe through her nose to keep from choking. Marcos’s fingers tangled in her hair without pushing, letting her set whatever rhythm she wanted.

Valentina took her time. She pulled his cock all the way out of her mouth to spit on it, a thread of thick saliva that left everything gleaming, and took him back in again, using her hand at the same rhythm as her mouth. She licked his balls, sucked them one by one while keeping up the slow blow job, and then went back up. She traced every detail of him with her tongue, learning what made him tighten his fingers in her hair and what provoked that low, contained sound that she felt vibrating in her chest. There was something she didn’t know how to name about kneeling in the same kitchen where, as children, they had made Sunday pancakes, with her older brother’s cock going in and out of her mouth, watching him lose control inch by inch.

—God, Val… —he murmured, head thrown back and eyes shut—. Like that, don’t stop, suck that cock, fuck…

She didn’t stop. Depth, pause, slow rise. She repeated it with a steady rhythm, now letting him push her head, taking him to the hilt with each thrust, eyes full of tears and saliva running down her chin and between her tits. Her tongue pressing in exactly the right moments, until she felt every muscle in Marcos’s body tighten, his breathing become ragged, his hands close a little harder in her hair.

—Val, I’m going to come… —he started to say.

She didn’t pull away. She kept going, faster, lips tight, sucking the tip whole every time she came up. Marcos let out a long, muffled groan, his abdominal muscles contracting, and came in her mouth with two, three, four hot spurts of thick semen that filled her tongue and slid down her throat. Valentina swallowed it all, slowly, never changing the rhythm until he stopped trembling. In the end she drew his cock out of her mouth with a kiss on the tip, and when she smiled up at him there was still a white thread stuck at the corner of her mouth.

The silence that followed was the kind that weighs heavy. Only the soft music in the background and the sizzling pan nobody had turned off.

Valentina stood up. Marcos was looking at her with an expression that mixed pleasure with something they still didn’t have words for between them. She rose onto her toes and wiped the corner of her mouth with her thumb, the same gesture he’d had for her minutes before, and brought the finger to her mouth to suck it. Marcos let out a slow breath, as if he’d just been hit low again.

—The eggs are going to burn —he said.

Marcos gave a low, almost incredulous laugh and turned just in time to save breakfast.

They ate together at the island, saying nothing important, with that strange calm that comes after something that changes everything without letting you go back. She was still in her thong and he had his pants half pulled up. The pancakes turned out perfect. At a quarter to twelve they heard their parents’ car in the drive. They looked at each other.

—Dessert —Marcos said quietly, as the car doors closed outside—, we’ll leave for another time.

—Or for tonight —Valentina replied, and went to greet her parents as if absolutely nothing had happened in the kitchen.