The Thirst That Led Me to My Brother's Room

Come here, my little ones. Sit close to your mother, because tonight I’m going to tell you something I’d never told you before. We’re in 1990, I’m forty-seven, Nuria is twenty-five, Rafael twenty, and Maite is twenty too. Look at me carefully, because the woman sitting in front of you started all this long before you can imagine.

I was seventeen. It was the summer of 1965. I was truly beautiful, and I’m not saying that out of vanity but because I remember it precisely: black hair down to my shoulders, a girl’s face still, but with a look men were already noticing from across the square. Big, firm tits, with dark nipples always showing through the thin fabric of my dresses, a narrow waist and a round, tight ass that made the farmhands turn their heads when I crossed the market.

We lived in the village, in a small house where we all slept packed in together. My parents in their room, me in mine, and at the end of the hallway, my brother Andrés’s room.

Andrés was thirty, thirteen years older than me. He was married to Rosario, had two small children, and worked the land from sunrise to sunset. He was a big man: broad shoulders, calloused hands, black hair, and two days’ stubble that never quite grew into a proper beard. He wasn’t a man of many words, but when he spoke people listened.

That night the heat was unbearable. I couldn’t sleep. My nightgown stuck to my body with sweat, and I felt a dampness between my thighs that wasn’t only from the heat: for weeks I’d been waking up with my cunt throbbing, with confused dreams where big hands pried my legs apart. I got up in my nightgown —thin cotton, nothing underneath— and walked barefoot down the hallway to Andrés’s room. He always kept a glass of water on the bedside table.

The door was ajar. I pushed it open with two fingers.

The window faced the orchard and moonlight poured in fully, lighting up the bed. Andrés was asleep on his back on the rumpled sheet, completely naked. The heat hadn’t let him put anything on. And there he was, all of him exposed, unfiltered, in full moonlight.

I stood frozen in the doorway.

I had never seen a man like that up close, with the impunity sleep gives. His cock rested on his thigh, thick even at rest, long, with skin darker than the rest of his body and the head half-bared. His balls hung heavy between his spread legs, covered in black hair. He smelled like a real man. Like clean sweat, hot earth, like something dense and musky that shot straight to my belly as if I’d been jolted with electricity. A smell unlike any other. A smell that, after that night, I spent the rest of my life looking for.

I shouldn’t be looking at this.

But my feet wouldn’t answer me. And my cunt had gotten so wet I could feel a trickle running down the inside of my thigh.

I crept closer, on my knees beside the bed. Andrés was breathing deeply, asleep. My hand was trembling when I reached out. I touched his cock with two fingers, carefully, like someone reaching toward something that might burn. It was heavy. It was hot even like that, even at rest. I took it fully in my hand and couldn’t quite close my fingers around it. I lifted it a little and let it fall against his belly: it made a dull, fleshy sound that clenched something deep inside me.

I brought my face close and inhaled. It smelled strong, of salt and of a man’s skin after a whole day working under the August sun. I sniffed his balls, the root of his cock, the crease of his groin where the smell was thickest. Something in me was untying, something that had been tightening for months without a name or shape.

I stuck out my tongue.

I ran it first over his balls, very slowly, feeling the wrinkled skin stick to my palate. I moved up the line between his balls, licked the thick base of his cock, and kept going until I reached the head. The first touch of the tip was an electric shock. It tasted salty, a little bitter, with a strange aftertaste unlike anything I knew but wanted to taste again immediately. A clear drop was beading at the hole and I caught it with my tongue. I let out a small, involuntary groan. Andrés stirred but kept sleeping.

When I took him into my mouth, I knew I was crossing a line with no way back. Only the tip at first. I circled it with my tongue, slowly, learning the texture and weight. It began to harden inside my mouth, growing slowly, swelling against my palate until it no longer fit entirely and I tried to open my lips wider without managing it. I felt it pulse against my tongue, with his pulse, alive.

Andrés opened his eyes at once.

He stayed still for a full second. Just looking at me, with his cock buried halfway in his little sister’s mouth.

“Rosa... what are you doing?”

I didn’t take it out. I looked up at him from below, my lips tight around him, and kept going. I sucked harder, cheeks hollowed, and ran my tongue under the head.

“Stop... you have to...” he began, but it came out more like a moan than an order.

“Shhh,” I whispered with my mouth full, and the vibration of my voice against his cock made him clench his teeth. “I’ve been thinking about this for weeks. Don’t ask me to stop.”

Andrés closed his eyes. He let the air out slowly through his nose. Then, gently, he put his hand in my hair.

“Deeper,” he said in a hoarse voice. “Relax your throat. You won’t get anywhere like that.”

He taught me that night. He told me how to move my tongue, when to tighten my lips, when to loosen them, how to breathe through my nose to last longer, how to soak him with saliva so he’d slide better. He gripped my hair firmly and set the rhythm he wanted, pushing my head down when he felt like it and letting me come up for air when I gagged. I learned because I wanted to learn, because every little sound I pulled out of him made me feel something that didn’t have a name yet.

“All the way,” he murmured. “I want it brushing your throat. You can do it.”

I tried. The first time I pulled back, coughed, drew away with strings of spit hanging from my chin. I tried again. And again. Until I felt the head reach the back of my throat, until my nose buried in the black hair of his lower belly, and Andrés’s fingers tightened in my hair and he held back a groan between his teeth.

“That’s it, you little bitch, that’s it,” he panted. “Take it all.”

I had slipped my free hand under my nightgown. My cunt was swollen, burning, and my fingers slipped from how soaked I was. I found my clit and started rubbing it in circles, with my mouth still full of his cock, choking every time he drove it down to the back of my throat. I came without anyone touching me. Just with the taste, with the weight, with the muffled sound of him holding back so as not to wake the whole house, with my own fingers pressing my clit. A shudder started in my belly, ran up my spine, and spread to my toes. I moaned with his cock inside me and the vibration tore a curse from him.

“I can’t hold it any longer,” he whispered tensely. “Swallow it all. Don’t spit it out.”

I felt him tense completely inside my mouth, felt his balls press against my chin, and suddenly a hot, thick spurt slammed the back of my throat. And another. And another. I didn’t spit it out. I swallowed as much as I could, my throat contracting hard, and what I couldn’t swallow spilled from the corners of my mouth and ran down my chest inside the nightgown, hot and viscous, sliding between my tits. The taste was dense, salty, with an aftertaste that seemed to me the most addictive thing I’d ever tasted in my seventeen years.

I kept sucking him until the last drop, milking his cock with my lips tight from base to tip, getting every last bit out of him. Andrés shivered and pushed my head away, breathing hard, already too sensitive.

He looked down at me, still catching his breath, with dark eyes and the expression of someone who has just done something they don’t know whether they’ll be able to forget.

“Where did you learn that?” he asked.

“With you,” I answered, running my tongue over my lip to gather what was left. “I just learned it with you.”

Silence. Then:

“Go to your room. And this never happened.”

But we both knew it had happened. And that it would happen again.

***

Two weeks later, a boy from the village came to get me with a message. It was from Andrés: “Come tonight, after eleven. My wife and the children will already be asleep.”

I put on a thin summer dress, with nothing underneath, and crossed the village when there was no one left in the streets. I arrived with my nipples hard just thinking about it and my cunt already wet under the fabric. I knocked on the door with three soft taps.

Andrés opened in his underwear. You could see the tense bulge against the cotton, in the dark hallway, his breathing already quickening.

“Come in fast,” he whispered. “Rosario’s asleep at the back.”

He led me to the living room. An old sofa, the window closed, heat clinging to the walls. I knelt on the cold mosaic floor before he asked me to, because I already knew what he wanted. Andrés pulled down his underwear and there it was, already hard, the head swollen and a clear drop hanging from the tip, smelling like late night and a man shut up in the house all day.

“Quiet,” he said. “If Rosario wakes up, we’re both fucked.”

I took him into my mouth in one go, as far as I could get, almost to the throat. He smelled stronger than that first night, more loaded, more intimate. I started moving, taking him out and pulling him back in, sucking with hollowed cheeks and helping with my hand at the base. I licked his balls one by one, took them whole into my mouth while I worked him slowly with my fist. Andrés held my hair and leaned his head back against the sofa with his eyes closed.

“What a mouth you’ve got, Rosa... you suck me better than anyone,” he whispered.

Then we heard footsteps in the hallway.

Andrés froze. So did I. I had his cock all the way down my throat and didn’t dare even swallow when Rosario’s shadow passed in front of the half-open door, on her way to the bathroom. A second that felt like ten minutes. Andrés dug his fingers into my skull, silently begging me not to move. I could feel his cock throbbing against my tongue, my throat fighting the urge to cough. The bathroom door shut. The footsteps returned. The bedroom door shut again.

Andrés let out his breath in a rush, as if he’d been holding it the whole time.

“My God,” he panted. “Keep going. Keep going now.”

I kept going. With more hunger than before, if that was even possible. The adrenaline had driven my desire to a point where my hands were shaking and my cunt was dripping down the insides of my thighs. I shoved him down my throat on my own, without needing him to push me, gagging on purpose because I’d discovered that he went crazy when he felt my throat tighten around him.

At that moment someone knocked on the street door. Three soft, spaced taps. Andrés covered himself half-heartedly and went to open it.

It was a friend of his from the fields, a man named Víctor. Forty years old, broad-shouldered, with hands as big as shovels and a way of looking at me that had already unsettled me once or twice at the market. He saw me on my knees in the living room, my lips shiny with saliva and a dark smear of drool down the neckline of my dress, and froze.

“Andrés... is that your sister?”

“The little one,” Andrés said. “You staying or going?”

Víctor didn’t answer with words. He unbuckled his belt, pulled down his trousers and underwear to his knees, and came toward me with his cock already half hard, swaying in front of him.

I didn’t object. Why would I object? Something in me had opened that first night and there was no way to close it again.

Víctor’s cock was thicker than Andrés’s, shorter but much wider, with a huge, purple, shiny head that took me a moment to accommodate. He held it in front of my face without saying anything, with that calmness of a man who knows what he wants, and dragged it across my lips, painting them with his own moisture before letting me open my mouth.

“The same thing you do to him,” was all he said.

I opened my mouth as wide as I could and felt my jaw forced to the limit. The head barely fit. Víctor entered slowly, holding my head with both hands, and when he reached the back he stayed there, still, enjoying the resistance. I breathed through my nose as best I could, tears prickling in my eyes from the effort, and ran my tongue underneath him while he pulled me forward and back.

That night I learned that every man has his own rhythm, his own taste, his own way of going very still when he’s about to come. Andrés grunted softly and tightened his grip on my hair, thrusting my face with short, precise strokes. Víctor was quieter, only breathing harder, and his hands were so big that when he held my head he covered me almost to the ears and guided me to his rhythm without leaving me any choice.

I alternated them. First one, then the other. I licked their cocks slowly from base to tip while looking up at them, eyes wet and chin dripping spit. With one hand I worked the man waiting, with my mouth I sucked the other, and at times I took both heads together between my lips, pressing them against my tongue. They looked at each other with that expression men get when they can’t believe their luck. One of them —Víctor— tore open my dress at the neckline and pulled my tits out, then stood staring at them while he pinched my nipples with his rough fingers. The living room smelled of sweat and August heat and something else, that thick mixture of wet cunt, sweaty balls, and saliva that only exists when bodies are pressed together and there’s little light.

I’d put two fingers in my cunt and was moving them myself, pressing against my palm, and I came a second time that night with Víctor’s cock filling my throat and Andrés rubbing himself across my face.

“I can’t take it anymore,” Andrés told Víctor, his voice rough. “I’m going to come.”

Víctor nodded without taking his eyes off me, gripping my head harder.

“Outside, on her face,” Víctor ordered. “Paint her all over.”

Víctor came first. He pulled his cock out just in time and fired the first spurt straight onto my cheek, another onto my forehead, another onto my parted lips. His was more liquid than Andrés’s but in greater quantity, and he filled my mouth until it overflowed from the corners when he shoved it back in for me to milk the last remnants out of him. Before I could swallow it all, Andrés let something out between his teeth and came too, as abundantly as that first night in the hallway, spilling over my bare tits in thick, hot ropes that slid between my breasts and reached my navel.

I stayed there on my knees with my face smeared, semen hanging from my chin, my hair stuck to my forehead and my knees aching from the cold mosaic. I ran a finger over my cheek, gathering a spurt, and put it in my mouth without taking my eyes off them. And I felt more whole than ever, more myself than in all the years before put together.

Andrés pulled up his underwear in silence. Víctor touched my cheek with two fingers, almost tenderly, gathering what was left in the corner of my mouth and slipping it between my lips so I would suck it, before leaving. I wiped myself with the hem of my dress and crossed the village back home with my cunt still throbbing and the taste of two men mixed in my mouth, while the stars remained where they were, as still as if nothing had happened.

***

My children are looking at me. Rafael’s jaw is clenched. Nuria has crossed her arms. Maite hasn’t said a word in ten minutes.

I smile. The same smile I’ve been using for forty years, the one my mother called “the she-wolf’s smile.”

“That was the beginning,” I say. “After that came Andrés’s friends, the cousins who came in summer, the foreman from Don Emilio’s estate. For years I was the village’s best-kept secret. And it all started that August night, when I went into my brother’s room looking for a glass of water and completely forgot I was thirsty.”

Nuria is the first to break the silence:

“Mum... and Andrés? Did he keep being your...?”

“My what?” I cut in, gently.

Nuria doesn’t finish the sentence. Maite bites her lip. Rafael looks at the floor.

“Do you want me to tell you what happened the following summer?” I say. “Because that summer a man came to the village who wasn’t from the village. And Andrés, who had never been jealous of anything, got jealous.”

I take my glass of wine, take a long sip, and leave the three of them with the silence and their imagination.