We Went Far Away So We Could Stay Together

My name is Lucía. I’m 38 years old. My bedmate, my life companion, and my silent partner is Andrés, who just turned 36. To our parents, who still keep up their usual routine in Zaragoza, and to our other siblings —Roberto, Marta, and Nora— Andrés and I are those two who decided to leave far away after a crisis of mine that was never quite what we told people it was. But Andrés is not just my brother. He is my obsession, my safe place, and the father of my children.

We live in Haro, a town in La Rioja nestled among vineyards and the lower course of the Ebro. We bought this house seven years ago. It’s far enough from Zaragoza that no one shows up unannounced, but close enough to get there if there’s a real emergency. Here, among the smell of wet earth after the rain and the silence that settles over the town when the harvest ends, we have built something that resembles an ordinary life.

It all began long before we came here, in our parents’ apartment in the center of Zaragoza. I was 23 and he was 21. There had always been something between us I didn’t know how to name. I called it sibling affection because it was the only thing I could call it. Until I started noticing something strange with my underwear.

My panties, the ones I left in the laundry basket, would appear arranged differently from how I’d left them. Sometimes the fabric in the crotch would be stiff, as if it had dried in the open after being wet. Other times they smelled different: like me, but mixed with something more intense, more masculine, more urgent. I suspected, but I refused to follow the thread. It was easier to play dumb.

The confirmation came on an autumn Tuesday. The professor for my last class had canceled, and I got home earlier than expected. Andrés’s bedroom door was slightly ajar. I heard before I saw: a heavy, rhythmic breathing, the restrained creak of the bed frame, the wet slap of a hand moving over hard flesh.

I moved closer to the threshold.

I saw him from behind, sitting on the edge of his bed, hunched over himself. His jeans were at his ankles and his briefs were tangled around his knees. He was masturbating with a concentration that looked almost painful: his fist moving up and down a thick cock, red at the tip, shining with saliva and pre-cum. And in his free hand, pressed against his nose, were my panties. A beige lace pair I’d worn the day before and left in the basket that same morning.

He was burying them against his face in desperation. Inhaling. Searching for my scent in the fabric, licking the crotch with his tongue stretched out, and then smelling them again while his fist tightened harder around his cock.

—Lucía… —he muttered under his breath, as if the word might break—. Why do you have to smell like that… fuck… what the hell do you have down there, sister… let me lick it, fuck, let me…

Instead of stepping back, I froze. I felt my nipples harden against the sweater until they showed through. A hot rush slid down my stomach and into my thighs, and I immediately noticed my panties were getting soaked. Seeing my younger brother profaning my intimacy that way, smelling me, licking me through the lace, pounding his cock while whispering my name and filthy things about my cunt, aroused me more than anything I had ever lived before. It was dirty. It was wrong. That was exactly why it was irresistible.

I pushed the door open. The click of the latch sounded like a gunshot in the silence of the house.

Andrés spun around sharply. Pale as plaster, eyes wild. He tried to hide the panties behind his back, but his erection was still there, thick, throbbing, with a heavy drop hanging from the glans. When he saw that I wasn’t running—that I was unbuttoning my sweater without looking away from him, letting it fall to the floor, standing in front of him in my bra—the terror on his face gave way to something completely different.

—Lucía, I didn’t… this isn’t what it looks like, I swear —he stammered, trembling, and yet his cock gave an obvious twitch when he saw my breasts pressed tight in my bra.

I didn’t let him finish. I walked toward him slowly, never taking my eyes off him, until I was standing between his spread knees.

—Don’t hide them —I told him—. Give them to me.

He opened his hand slowly. The fabric was wrinkled, warm from his heat, and with a shiny smear on the part he had been licking.

—I’m sick —he whispered, and his voice broke—. I’m a fucking sick bastard, Lucía. I’ve been jerking off with your panties for months, smelling you, sucking the fabric like a dog. Don’t tell Dad, please. I’m leaving home this week. I’ll disappear and you’ll never see me like this again, I promise.

—Shut up —I said.

I knelt in front of him with a calm that surprised even me. I put my hands on his thighs and felt the muscles trembling beneath my palms. His cock was a handspan from my face, so close I could smell that dense, masculine scent rising from his groin.

—You think I’m angry? —I asked him—. You think I hadn’t noticed the way you look at me, the way your cock shows when I bend down to pick something up in front of you?

I brought my face closer to his erection. The smell was a mix of him and me, fused into the lace fabric, and something about that scent made me lose the little common sense I had left. I stuck out my tongue and slowly licked the thick vein running along his cock from base to glans. Andrés let out a rough gasp, as if I’d punched him in the stomach.

—Since when? —I asked, looking up at him while I stroked his balls with my fingertips.

—Always —he said, closing his eyes, unable to hold my gaze—. I spend all day thinking about you. Your smell. How that dark skirt you wear on Fridays fits you. How your cunt has to look open when you take it off. I want to fuck you, Lucía, I want to shove it all the way in and cum inside you, and I know I’m going to hell for it. But I can’t help it. It’s driving me crazy.

I smiled. A smile born somewhere very deep. And without taking my eyes off him, I took his glans into my mouth.

I did it slowly, sucking only the tip at first, tasting the salty liquid that welled up, sliding my tongue into the little hollow of the slit until I ripped a sharp moan from him. Then I opened my mouth wider and swallowed him whole, until I felt the hair of his pubic mound against my lips and the tip hitting the back of my throat. Tears sprang to my eyes and I didn’t pull away. I started moving my head up and down, one hand around the base of his cock and the other playing with his testicles, and he buried his fingers in my hair with an animal growl.

—Fuck, sister… fuck, you suck so well, Lucía, fuck…

I sucked him with hunger. I pulled him from my mouth to lick him from his balls to the tip, to spit on him and take him back down until I was choking. I could feel my own saliva running down my chin, dripping onto my breasts. His thighs tensed, his hips pushed upward, and when I felt he was close I yanked him out of my mouth and squeezed the base hard to cut off his orgasm.

—Not there —I said, my voice hoarse—. You’re going to cum inside me, little brother.

I stood up. I took off my pants and my soaked panties. I threw them in his face. Andrés caught them in midair and pressed them to his nose, inhaling like a junkie, never taking his eyes off my naked cunt, shaved, shining with my own juice.

—Look at it —I told him—. Look at it properly. You’ve been smelling it for months. Now it’s right in front of you.

—My God… —he murmured—. It’s prettier than I imagined, Lucía, fuck…

I straddled him and pushed his chest until he fell backward onto the mattress. The friction of my wet sex against his skin was like putting my hand into an electric socket and not wanting to let go. I rubbed my open cunt against my brother’s stomach, leaving a shining trail of my fluids over the hair on his belly.

—Lucía, we can’t… —he tried to say, but his hands were already gripping my hips with a force that undid every word.

—Kiss me, little brother.

It was a clash of teeth and tongues, salty with his tears and his own semen, which had been left on my lips. I took his penis in my hand —it was the first time I had touched any part of him and yet it didn’t feel strange, but inevitable— and placed it at my entrance. I rubbed the glans between my labia, soaking it well, and then I dropped onto him in one hard motion.

The sound we both made was something between a scream and a moan, muffled by each other’s mouths.

He filled me completely. His cock opened me from the inside centimeter by centimeter until it hit the very bottom, against my cervix, with a fullness so wrong and so absolutely perfect that it made me arch my back until my spine cracked. I could feel every vein in my brother’s cock throbbing inside me, every pulse matching my own.

—Fuck, Lucía —he gasped beneath me, gripping me harder—. You’re burning inside, sister, you’re squeezing me tight… you’re mine. Jesus Christ, you’re mine.

—Yes —I said, and started moving.

I rode my brother with all the rage and all the wetness accumulated over months. I rose until only the glans stayed inside and dropped back down in one sharp plunge, impaling myself to the root, with an increasingly obscene splashing as my cunt opened all the way. Andrés tore off my bra with both hands, caught my nipples in his mouth, and sucked them hungrily, biting them, pulling with his teeth, while I rode him without restraint.

—Suck my tits, little brother —I gasped—. Suck them hard, like that… like that, fuck…

We turned over. He ended up on top, pried my legs open and pushed them against my chest until he folded me in half, and started fucking me at a savage pace, with long, deep thrusts that made his balls slap against my ass with a fleshy sound. I dug my nails into his back, bit his shoulder, moaned in his ear all the filthy things I had gone years without being able to say to him.

—Fuck me harder, Andrés, harder, hurt me… shove it all in, I want to feel it tomorrow… like this, like this, brother, fuck, keep going…

—Do you like your brother’s cock, Lucía? —he growled in my ear, never stopping his thrusts—. Say it. Tell me you like it.

—I love my brother’s cock, fuck, I love it… don’t stop, never stop…

He turned me over again. He put me on all fours at the edge of the bed, opened my ass cheeks with both hands, and drove into me from behind in one single thrust. He buried his face between my cheeks, licked my tight little asshole as he shoved into me, and I screamed into the pillow, biting it so we wouldn’t wake the neighbors. His second hand found my clit and started rubbing it in quick, precise circles, and I exploded around his cock with a shudder that shook me all over. I felt my cunt clamping in spasms around him, soaking his thighs.

—I’m cumming, fuck, I’m cumming, brother, I’m cumming on your cock…

—Me too, Lucía —he gasped, grabbing my hips with both hands—. Where do you want me to cum? Where, fuck?

—Inside —I said, almost voiceless—. Inside, little brother, cum inside me, fill me up.

Andrés let out a rough roar and buried himself to the hilt. I felt the first hot spurts shot into my womb, one after another, while he trembled over me, clinging to my waist as if his life depended on it. It was long, thick, endless. When he finally pulled out, a thick white thread ran down my thighs, and he bent down without thinking and licked my cunt from bottom to top, swallowing his own cum mixed with mine.

We both collapsed onto our sides on the mattress, sweaty, breathless, with our legs still tangled. Andrés found my hand and brought it to his mouth. He kissed my knuckles, one by one, without saying a word.

***

We didn’t speak any more that afternoon. We devoured each other for hours, taking advantage of the empty house, putting off guilt until later. He fucked me three more times before our parents came back: once in the shower, with me pressed against the cold tiles while the water fell over us; once on his desk, sweeping aside his university books with one impatient motion to lay me on my back and eat my cunt until I came twice on his tongue; and the last time on the floor of his room, with him sitting against the wall and me on his lap, rocking slowly on his cock while we kissed as if we were trying to climb inside each other.

The guilt came, of course it came. But it came disguised as routine, blended into everyday life in a way that was almost manageable. During the following months we stayed in our parents’ apartment: family dinners, Sunday afternoons, the same old map. At night, Andrés would slip into my room, or I into his, and we’d fuck in silence, with a hand over our mouth to muffle the moans, an ear tuned to the hallway in case a door creaked. What had started as an accident became the only part of the day we looked forward to with real urgency.

What we hadn’t accounted for was that it was going to last forever.

A year after that autumn Tuesday, when it was already impossible to pretend it was a phase, we made the decision. We looked for work outside Zaragoza. At home we said that I needed a change of scenery after a made-up breakup, and that Andrés was coming with me to help me while I found stability. Our parents understood without asking too many questions. We had always been the two closest of the five siblings.

We arrived in Haro with two suitcases each and not much else. Andrés found work in a metal carpentry workshop two months later. I started giving private lessons while looking for something steady. We rented a small apartment, bought a double bed without anyone asking us anything, and slowly built something that from the outside looked like a normal life.

Three years later we bought the house where we live now.

***

The twins arrived when I was 34. Mateo and Celia.

We knew the risks. We had read enough to understand that when two people with the same genetic load have children, the chances of something turning out different increase. We discussed it for entire nights, with the honesty that only exists when no one else is around. And even so we decided we wanted a piece of each other in the world. It was selfish. We knew it, and we did it anyway.

We noticed it before they were two.

Mateo didn’t point at airplanes when they passed. He didn’t look you in the eye when you spoke directly to him. He spent hours lining up toy cars in perfect, obsessive rows, and if one moved even a centimeter, the whole world collapsed for him. He has an intelligence that sometimes leaves us speechless: a photographic memory, a scary ease with numbers that frightens his own teachers. But he needs everything to happen in an exact way, always the same way. If the route to school changes, or if his favorite cup isn’t where it should be, the day can fall apart in minutes.

Celia is different. At 7 years old she still doesn’t speak. She makes sounds: soft little humming noises when she’s happy and rocks on the sofa, sharp, tearing screams when she feels pain or frustration and can’t tell anyone what’s wrong. She lives in her own world, with her own logic, a world I only reach halfway and on the very best days.

To our family in Zaragoza, the children are my sons and daughter from a relationship that went wrong. Andrés is the good brother who sacrificed himself. No one asks too many questions because the story fits: I was always the most complicated of the five, he was always the most protective.

If they knew the truth, I’d rather not imagine what would happen.

***

Andrés works twelve hours a day at the workshop. He comes home with rough hands and the smell of metal soaked into his clothes, his hair, the skin of his neck. Everything we earn goes into therapies: Celia’s speech therapist, Mateo’s psychologist, the sensory materials they need, the transport to the special education school in Logroño where I take them every morning.

I don’t work outside the home. My work is them. It is exhausting in a way for which there are no exact words.

There are days when Celia has a meltdown because something hurts and she can’t tell me what. She bangs her head against the floor and I hold her from behind, wrapping my arms around her so she won’t hurt herself, crying without her seeing me because if she sees me cry she gets even more frightened. There are days when Mateo gets stuck in a loop over something as small as his favorite cup being in the dishwasher and he needs forty minutes to come out of that state. There are days when both of them have their worst moments at the same time, and then the house is a place on the edge of the abyss for hours.

But there are other things too.

Celia has a way of taking my hand that no one else in the world has ever had: she wraps it with both of hers and brings it to her cheek without saying a word. That’s all. Mateo, sometimes, without warning and out of nowhere, recites whole pages from books we’ve read to him from memory, with perfect intonation. They are forms of love that exist at a frequency I only half understand and would not trade for anything easier to explain.

They are ours. They are perfect in their own way, even if that way hurts.

***

At night, when the house is finally silent, Andrés sits on the edge of the bed. He takes my feet in his hands. He starts massaging them with that concentration he has when he does something carefully: toe by toe, joint by joint, the whole sole. Every so often he lifts my feet and kisses the instep, with a tenderness that doesn’t fit the strength I know he has.

Other nights, when exhaustion doesn’t completely crush us, the massage climbs higher. His hands leave my feet and trace my calves, my thighs, opening my legs with that same patient calm. He licks my cunt until I come in his mouth with barely a sound, the pillow clenched in my teeth in case Celia decides to wake up. Then he enters me slowly, very slowly, never taking his eyes off mine, and fucks me in silence the way people do when they’ve been fucking for fifteen years: knowing exactly where to touch, how hard to push, when to stop for a second so it lasts longer. When he cums inside me he does it squeezing my hand, his forehead pressed to mine, and I feel him emptying into me like a very old promise that has never broken.

—Forgive me, Lucía —he tells me then, his voice very low, not lifting his eyes—. For the suffering. For the children. You deserved a different life. A normal life, not this. It’s my fault for wanting you so much when I shouldn’t have.

I run my fingers through his hair. I feel the weight of what he carries.

—You don’t have to ask my forgiveness —I tell him—. Never.

He doesn’t always believe me when I say it. But I believe what I say to him.

Because what we have is not only guilt. It is also this: his hands on my feet at eleven at night, the smell of metal and home mixed together on his neck when he hugs me, Celia’s humming from the next room when she sleeps well, his semen still warm between my thighs when I fall asleep beside him. It is the biggest mistake we have ever made and the only life I would be capable of recognizing as mine.

And I know, without needing to say it, that we would make it again. We both know it.