The Storm That Broke Everything Between My Sister and Me

Babysitting at twenty-seven wasn’t the plan I had for that week, but ever since I’d been left without a job at the dealership, pushing back against my parents was a luxury I couldn’t afford. They traveled north often for family business reasons—they sold supplies for clinics and medical equipment parts—and that Thursday at the end of August they climbed into the pickup with the idea of coming back on Sunday.

“No women, no partying, no weed,” my old man warned me, pointing a finger from the window.

“Relax. I’ll look after Cami and that’s it.”

Camila was the jewel of the house. She was nineteen, in her last year of high school, and preparing for an entrance exam that had the whole family on edge. When she studied, we all walked on tiptoe. And when she studied with her best friend, I tried to stay close for reasons that had nothing to do with brotherly affection.

The friend was named Lara. Twenty-two years old, straight black hair that fell to mid-back, and huge gray eyes that made it look like she was staring at you even when she wasn’t. Long legs, a narrow waist, small firm tits I could make out beneath the tight T-shirts she always wore. A panther who walked into the house in black jeans, sat down for two hours to study with my sister, and made me turn off the console under the pretext of serving them tea.

That night the plan was perfect. Lara was coming over to study, the two of them would lock themselves in Camila’s room as usual, and when Cami fell asleep—because Cami fell asleep early—Lara would come downstairs to say goodbye and I’d have her alone in front of the fireplace. A beer, a bad movie, logs crackling, that long look promising something. I had rehearsed it in my head all afternoon. I’d imagined her kneeling between my legs, sucking my cock in front of the fire while the rest of the house slept. I’d imagined her with those black jeans pulled down to her ankles, her ass sticking up, and me fucking her from behind against the sofa while she bit her hand to keep from screaming.

But Friday dawned rainy.

***

By afternoon, the storm was a beast. The poplars in the back yard swayed like someone was shaking them by hand, rain slapped the windows sideways, and the weather service issued an orange alert for the whole area. My old man called five times to make sure the shutters were down and to remind me not to open the door to anyone. At a quarter to nine, while I was losing some ridiculous game in the living room, my sister’s voice came from upstairs.

“Mateo! Lara says she’s not coming. She says she doesn’t dare drive in this.”

“Figured as much.”

I switched off the controller and sat for a while staring at the fire. Outside, the wind howled like it wanted to get inside. I thought about opening a beer, finding a movie, and resigning myself to a long, boring night. And that was exactly what I did for a while. Until my sister came down.

She came down barefoot, in a printed nightdress that was too big on her and glasses slightly crooked. Camila wasn’t Lara. Camila was five-foot-one, had curly hair tied in a ponytail, and the small nearsighted eyes she’d inherited from Mom. I almost always saw her as a noisy lump in pajamas demanding the remote. But that night, with the firelight hitting her from the side and a strand falling over her face, I looked at her for the first time the way you look at a woman.

“Thank God you’re here,” she said, and put a hand to her chest.

“What happened?”

“The acacia branch is scratching against my bedroom window. It sounds like somebody wants in. I can’t stand staying upstairs.”

“Then sleep in Dad’s room.”

“Can I stay here a while? The heater’s on and…”

“Stay.”

She settled at the far end of the sofa, tucked her legs under the nightdress, and looked at me with that silent pleading face she’d had since she was six.

“Movie?”

“Movie.”

***

I picked anything. A robbery story in Marseille, lots of noise and little plot. The rain partially drowned out the dialogue. Camila asked for beer and I said no, asked again and I said no, asked a third time and in the end I tossed her a can over the brown quilt we’d wrapped ourselves in.

“Take it. Just one.”

“I’m nineteen.”

“And I’m twenty-seven. I’m the legal authority in this house for one night. Just one.”

She laughed. She curled up at the end of the sofa with the can in both hands and her eyes fixed on the screen. The heater crackled. The wind hit the house. I tried to focus on the movie and for a while I managed it.

Until I felt her foot.

At first it was almost imperceptible. A small, cold foot that climbed from the far end of the sofa and settled on my thigh, just above the knee. I looked at her twice. Her face was fixed on the screen, her mouth slightly open, her glasses slipping a little down her nose. I thought it was an involuntary movement. I thought my head was making things up because the rain and the fireplace were creating too much intimacy.

I went back to the movie.

Ten minutes later, the foot had moved up a couple of centimeters. Twenty minutes later it was at my hip. Half an hour in, her big toe was resting right on the edge of my joggers, in a place where a big toe didn’t rest by accident. I was already hard, pushing the fabric of my pants upward, and she knew it, because her big toe started pressing lightly, like someone checking whether a doorbell worked.

On the screen, the lead was getting a blowjob in a car parked in front of the harbor. The camera did what cameras do in these cases: focused on the guy’s face, the back of her neck, left the rest to the imagination. I was hard. I was hard in a way I hadn’t been in a long time, my cock throbbing under my joggers with a dull ache that climbed up into my guts, and my sister knew it, because her foot was pressed against it, against the bulge growing every time she moved her toes.

Just before the scene climaxed, the living room went dark.

“No, come on,” I protested.

“The power went out.”

The wind threw a blast against the window. The only light left was from the fireplace, which painted the living room orange and cast trembling shadows on the walls. The TV black. The silence strange. And Camila’s foot still resting where it had been.

“It went out during the best part,” she said, very softly.

And she moved her foot.

She moved it over my crotch, slowly, once, twice, three times. Without urgency. Like someone making sure of something. She traced the full length of my cock over the fabric, outlined it with the arch of her foot, pressed lightly against my balls, and went back up. I stopped breathing. One part of me—the adult part, the older-brother part, the part that knew perfectly well this couldn’t happen—wanted to get up, say something stupid, go to the kitchen, close the door on her, anything. The other part stayed still and let it happen.

“What are you doing?” I murmured.

“Nothing.”

***

Long seconds passed. The rain came back hard outside. Logs cracked in the fireplace. I didn’t know where to put my hands. Camila’s foot kept massaging my cock over the joggers with measured slowness, and every so often she stopped right on the tip, as if she were testing whether she could get a sound out of me. She got one. A short, involuntary gasp that made her curve her mouth in a crooked smile.

“What do you know about this stuff?” I asked, because nothing else came to mind.

She laughed softly.

“Not much. I’ve done it twice.”

“To who?”

“A classmate. And some guy at a party last summer.”

“Did you suck him off?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And fuck?”

“The one at the party. In the bathroom. It was quick and it hurt.”

She said it like she was telling me what she’d had for breakfast. No guilt, no shame. Like a minor confession that really wasn’t minor at all. I kept staring at the fireplace, at the red reflections licking the walls, and I felt an electric current run down my spine straight to the tip of my cock, which was already starting to wet the inside of the joggers.

“You can be the third,” she said then. “If you want.”

“Camila.”

“Mateo.”

“We’re siblings.”

“I know.”

She said it without looking away from the fire. As if she’d been waiting for that moment much longer than for the movie. I opened my mouth to say something else reasonable and nothing came out. My mouth was dry. I had a weight in my chest that was half fear and half something else I didn’t want to name.

She moved. She slid under the quilt like a fish swimming, settled between my legs, and before I could process the image she yanked my joggers and boxers halfway down my thighs in one pull. My cock sprang out hard, pressed against my stomach, the tip shining with fluid. Camila stared at it for a long second, her eyes wide behind the fogged lenses, and licked her lips.

“It’s big,” she said.

“Come here.”

I felt the cold air of the living room. I felt her warm breath against the tip. I felt her gripping me at the base with a hand that trembled a little, holding me up and sticking out her tongue to taste me, first just barely, a timid lick that made me clench my teeth. Then another, longer one, going from my balls up to the head, leaving a trail of saliva that gleamed in the firelight.

“Like that,” I whispered. “Just like that.”

She went back to licking, more and more eagerly, and suddenly she took half my cock into her mouth at once. She gagged, coughed, laughed softly with her mouth still full, and tried again more carefully. I had both hands at my sides on the sofa, not knowing what to do with them. I didn’t want to touch her. Touching her was crossing another threshold, and I’d already crossed too many. But her curls brushed my thighs every time she moved, and in the end I laid a hand on the back of her neck, slowly, without pressure, just to steady her.

“Slower,” I said.

“Tell me how,” she answered, pulling back for a second. A strand of spit hung from the corner of her mouth to the tip of my cock.

“With your tongue. No teeth. Lick the tip first. Then go down.”

She nodded. She took the head into her mouth and started sucking it like it was a candy, cheeks hollowed and eyes closed. Her tongue circled the crown with a clumsy motion that drove me insane. Then she went down, swallowed what she could, gagged again, came back up, and started over. With each pass she got better. With each pass her mouth filled with more saliva and the slurping mixed with the crackling of the logs.

“Grab my balls with your other hand,” I said, in a thread of a voice.

She obeyed. She held them between her fingers, squeezed lightly, and kept sucking with more hunger. I pushed my hips toward her mouth without meaning to, the tip lodged against the back of her throat, and I tore a guttural moan out of her that almost made me finish right there. I grabbed her hair with both hands, pushed it out of her face, looked at her. Her glasses were smeared, her mouth stretched around my cock, a strand of saliva hanging down to her nightdress. She was gorgeous. Not “pretty for my sister,” truly gorgeous. It was the most obscene and most beautiful scene I had ever seen in my life.

“Look at me while you suck it.”

She lifted her eyes. Gray, small, fogged over. Without taking my cock out of her mouth. And that gesture—that face of the little girl who had sat with me at the dining table for nineteen years, now kneeling and sucking me like a whore—made me shake all over.

For a long while the living room was filled only with the crackling of the logs, the rain outside, the wet sounds of her mouth going up and down, and the muffled moans she made when she lifted her head to breathe.

When I felt I was close, I pulled her face away with my hand.

“Stop. Stop.”

“Did you finish?”

“No. I don’t want to finish like this. Not yet.”

She looked at me with shining eyes and her mouth slightly open, glasses fogged, chin wet with saliva and my precum. And I felt terrible guilt and, at the same time, I didn’t care.

“Come here,” I said.

She climbed on top of me astride. I yanked her nightdress up to her waist. Underneath she had on white cotton panties, girlish ones, already darkened by a large wet patch in the center. I hooked a finger in them and pulled them aside. Her pink pussy, almost hairless, with just a fine fuzz, gleamed wet in the firelight. I ran two fingers through the slit, up and down, and she shuddered all over against me.

“You’re soaked.”

“For a while now.”

“How long?”

“Since the movie started.”

I put a finger in her. Then two. Her cunt was hot and tight and sucked my fingers in with little spasms that made her bite her lip. I grabbed her ass with my other hand, pulled her toward me, and with my middle finger I found her clit. It was hard, swollen, throbbing. I circled it with my fingertip and she let out a long moan against my neck.

“Put it in,” she begged. “Put it in now.”

She clung to my neck with both hands. I took my cock by the base, positioned it against the entrance of her cunt, and pushed the tip upward. She was so wet the tip went in without resistance. Camila opened her mouth in a silent O and held still, taking a breath.

“Slowly,” she begged, burying her face in my shoulder.

I lowered her little by little, millimeter by millimeter. I felt her open around my cock, tighten, give way. When she was all the way down, I had my whole dick inside her, her pelvis against mine, and she was trembling like a leaf.

“Does it hurt?”

“No. You fill me up completely.”

***

Remember the condom, I thought too late. But there was no way to move from there. The rain detonated outside again, the windows shuddered, and Camila started moving on top of me with a chaotic rhythm unlike anything I’d had before. At first she went up and down shyly, her hands on my shoulders and her eyes closed. Then I grabbed her hips, pushed her down harder, and she understood. She started bouncing on my cock like a possessed girl, mouth open and hair stuck to her forehead with sweat.

Her nightdress had ridden up to her breasts. I pulled it the rest of the way over her head. Underneath she wasn’t wearing a bra. Her tits were small, white, with pink nipples standing up and pointing toward the ceiling. I bent down and sucked one, then the other, while she moved faster and faster. I nipped her lightly and she let out a short yelp.

“Harder,” she gasped. “Fuck me harder.”

I lifted her off the sofa without pulling out and set her on her back over the cushions. I spread her legs with my knees, got between them, and shoved into her again in one thrust. She arched her back and dug her nails into my shoulder blades. I started fucking her deep, with the full rhythm of my hips, hearing the sofa creak under us and my balls slap against her ass with every stroke.

“Like that, like that, like that,” she kept repeating, eyes closed and mouth open.

“Tell me something.”

“What?”

“Anything. Tell me you like it.”

“I love it,” she said, and looked at me with a face I’d never seen on her before. “I love your cock. I love that you’re my brother and you’re fucking me.”

I almost came right there. I grabbed one of her legs, lifted it over my shoulder, and from that angle I penetrated her even deeper. Her pussy made a wet slapping sound every time the tip hit bottom. Firelight reflections ran over her sweaty skin. Her nails sank into my shoulders. Her mouth against my neck left wetness that cooled instantly. The fireplace kept painting the scene orange, and at some point my head stopped thinking and surrendered to the whole thing, to the whole barbarity.

“I’m gonna come,” she panted. “Mateo, I’m gonna come.”

“Come. Come on my cock.”

I pounded her faster, harder, feeling her cunt clench around my cock like a fist. I found her clit with my thumb and rubbed it in circles while I kept fucking her.

When she finished, she did it with a scream that drowned out the storm. She clamped her thighs against my hips, arched her back, went rigid for an instant, and then collapsed onto me as if someone had cut her strings. Her cunt throbbed in waves around my cock, squeezing me with spasms that almost dragged me along with her. I held on a little longer, kept pounding while she was still coming, until I felt that tingling from my balls and couldn’t take it anymore.

“I’m coming,” I said.

“Outside,” she panted. “Outside, Mateo, outside.”

I pulled out in time. I grabbed myself with my hand and jerked twice against her belly. The first rope of semen spattered from her navel to between her tits. The second landed lower, on her hairless pubis. The third, smaller, ended up against the brown quilt. I stayed on top of her, cock still in my hand, face in her hair, saying nothing. She had her eyes closed, chest rising and falling, mouth still open. She ran a finger over her navel, brought it to her mouth, and sucked it slowly.

Then we stayed still. For a long time. Until the power came back, blinked a couple of times, and stayed on. The TV turned itself on with a looping DVD menu. Camila sat up slowly, wiped herself with the edge of the quilt, adjusted her nightdress, looked at me without smiling.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“I’m okay.”

“Do you regret it?”

She shook her head. She stayed silent for a second, biting her lip.

“Can we do it again tomorrow?”

***

My parents came back three days later than planned. A stream had overflowed and cut the road. By then, Camila and I had done it on the sofa, in Dad’s room—where I licked her cunt for half an hour until she came three times in a row against my mouth—in my room—where I taught her to ride me while looking at herself in the wardrobe mirror, so she could see her own face as she came—and twice in the kitchen, against the counter, with her panties pulled down to her ankles and the sound of running water covering everything while I fucked her from behind and she bit her forearm to keep from screaming.

After that week, it kept going for a while longer, quietly, hidden in birthdays and in afternoons when my parents weren’t home. Until she graduated, moved into an aunt’s apartment, met some guy from work, and got married. She has two kids now. I visit every now and then, on days when it rains hard and I can’t stop thinking about that Friday. Sometimes, when she opens the door, she looks at me a second too long, and we both know what we’re thinking about. Then she asks if I want coffee, the kids come hug my legs, and life goes on.

But the rain, whenever it comes down hard, takes me back to that night. To the fire. To the blackout. To her foot slowly climbing my thigh.

And I still don’t know if I regret it.