What My Aunt Marisol Taught Me That August Morning

That August morning, in the southern village where my family had been spending the summer since I could remember, I put on my sneakers at eleven and crossed the four streets that separated my parents’ house from my uncle’s and aunt’s. I did it every day since we’d arrived. My cousin Lucía and I usually went for aperitifs in the square, sometimes with her friends, almost always just the two of us. I’m twenty-two. She’s twenty. We got along like siblings.

I rang the bell twice and, when nobody answered, I pushed the door open. It was unlocked, as always.

“Lucía?” I called from the entryway.

The person who appeared wasn’t my cousin.

“Your cousin went to the beach, sweetheart,” said my aunt Marisol, peeking out from the kitchen and drying her hands on a dish towel. “She got up at dawn with her friends. Aitana, Carla, and the other one, the new girl. She didn’t tell me anything until this morning, you know how she is.”

“Ah, damn. Well, I’ll come by later. Enjoy.”

“No, no, come on in. Have a drink with me, your uncle’s gone off all day too, fishing at the reservoir with his friends. I’m lonely as can be.”

I didn’t know how to say no. The truth is I’d never known how to say no to my aunt Marisol. She’s forty-six, with short blond hair, skin always tanned by the summer, and a body she’s taken better care of than any woman her age needs to. That morning she wore a short white skirt and a green tank top, with a checked apron over it that hid absolutely nothing it was meant to hide: big, heavy tits, free under the fabric every time she walked, and nipples so outlined you could see them from ten meters away.

I sat down on the living-room sofa. She poured me an orange Fanta in a tall glass, with two ice cubes, without even having to ask what I wanted. She’d been serving me the same thing for years whenever I stopped by her house.

“Put the TV on if you want. Or your cousin’s console, it’s right there.”

“I’m fine like this.”

She sat down next to me, not across from me. She dropped the kitchen towel over the armrest and let out a long sigh, as if she’d been waiting all morning to sit for five minutes.

“How’s the city?” she asked. “Are you still with that girl from last year?”

“Haven’t been for months, Aunt.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

“Girls my age are complicated.”

She laughed. A pretty little laugh, the kind that starts in the throat and not the mouth.

“Women are always complicated, sweetheart. It’s just that young ones still don’t know what they want. They get mad over stupid things. They check your phone. They cry. A grown woman knows how to ask for what she wants and knows how to give what the other person needs. She knows how to open her legs when she has to open them and how to shut her mouth when she has to shut it. That’s all.”

A grown woman knows how to ask for what she wants, I repeated to myself. All summer I’d been running from my aunt’s house whenever she leaned in a little, or kissed me too close to the corner of my mouth, or asked me something while putting her hand on my thigh. Every time I came back from there I’d lock myself in my room, bolt the door, and jerk off thinking about her, about her tits, her ass packed tight into those summer dresses, about how her cunt would look if she sat astride me. I’d come in less than a minute, soaking the tissue. It was pathetic. It was inevitable.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

“Lie.”

She shifted a little closer. Her white skirt rode up a couple of inches when she crossed her legs, and I caught a strip of thigh that was no longer summer skin: it was cared-for skin, soft, with that glow women get when they know what sun and cream can do together.

“Aunt…”

“Yes, sweetheart.”

“Nothing.”

She leaned forward to set the glass on the low table, and when she did, the neckline of her tank top opened just enough for me to see that she wasn’t wearing a bra. I saw both tits in full, hanging heavy, with dark, large nipples pointing downward. I’m not sure whether it was on purpose. Looking back now, I think it was. That morning I would have sworn it was an accident.

“I’ve seen your swimsuit stretched tight, you know,” she said, lowering her voice without looking at me. “When you come by in the afternoons to pick up your cousin. It shows your whole cock. Nobody could miss it.”

My face burned.

“Aunt, please.”

“I’m just saying. Nothing to be embarrassed about. You’re twenty-two. At that age anything gets your cock hard as a rock. Even the air.”

“It’s not the air.”

I said it without thinking, and the second I finished the sentence I knew I’d stepped off a cliff. She lifted her head. Looked at me. Didn’t smile.

“Then what is it?”

“Aunt.”

“What is it?”

I swallowed. The sofa felt as heavy as a car on top of me.

“It’s you.”

She stayed silent for a while. I didn’t dare breathe. I thought she was going to get up, throw me out, call my mother, call my uncle. I thought summer was ending in that second and I’d never be able to look any member of my family in the face again.

Instead, she put her hand on my thigh. Right where the swimsuit ended. Right where my erection was already impossible to hide. She slid her fingers over the fabric and squeezed the whole bulge, measuring it, weighing it, like someone checking whether fruit is ripe.

“I knew it,” she said very quietly. “I’ve known since last summer. You’ve got a big one, sweetheart. Very big.”

“Aunt…”

“Hush a moment.”

Her hand moved a couple of centimeters upward. Just that. But those two centimeters decided what was going to happen next. Then she kept going, slipped under the swimsuit, and grabbed my cock directly, with her palm hot and dry, and started jerking me off very slowly, up and down, never taking her eyes off mine.

“How many years has it been since a woman older than you touched you?” she asked.

“No woman’s ever touched me.”

She looked at me again. This time she did smile.

“Well, look at your luck this morning. You’re going to learn what a real blowjob is, sweetheart. And what a real pussy is.”

***

I knelt in front of the sofa before she even asked me to. I didn’t know exactly what I was doing. I only knew I was letting myself be carried along, and that if I stopped to think about what I was doing, I wouldn’t be able to go on. I hiked her skirt up to her hips. She had on plain white panties, no lace, nothing. Those white panties seemed more obscene to me than any set I’d ever seen in my life. In the middle of the fabric there was a dark, oval, wet stain spreading to the seam. My aunt was dripping before I’d even touched her.

“Slowly,” she whispered. “We’re in no rush.”

I pulled her panties aside; I didn’t take them off. Her cunt opened in front of my face like a split fruit. The outer lips were dark, full, heavy; the smaller ones peeking out pink and glossy with slick; the clit already swollen, pushing out from the hood, begging to be touched. She’d shaved her mound, leaving only a thin strip of blond hair at the top, cared for like the rest of her.

“Open it with your fingers,” she told me. “Look at it well first. I want you to remember this pussy for the rest of your life.”

I opened her lips with two fingers. The smell hit my face. I started on the inner side of her right thigh, kissing, barely biting, moving up toward the groin, breathing over her cunt without quite touching it. She threw her head back against the cushion and let out a long, controlled sigh, as if she’d been saving it for months. I smelled her, and she smelled of sunscreen, soap, hot woman, of a mature woman’s pussy that hadn’t been properly fucked in weeks.

“Stop playing and eat me out, sweetheart,” she whispered. “Please.”

When my tongue got where it was supposed to go, she spread her legs another few inches and held the back of my neck with one hand. She didn’t push. She just rested it there. As if to say: here, like this, don’t move.

I licked her carefully. First with the tip of my tongue, bottom to top, tracing the whole slit, sucking up the thick flow that kept coming out. Then with my tongue flat, the full width of it, dragging it over her open lips, soaking my face. When I reached the clit I circled it slowly, without touching it directly, going around and around until she pushed her hips toward me looking for it. Only then did I suck it, all of it, taking it into my mouth as if it were a miniature cock.

“Oh, you son of a bitch,” she moaned. “There, there, don’t go away from there.”

No rush. In those twenty minutes I learned more about how to eat a woman out than in the four years I’d been fucking girls at university. My aunt didn’t fake it. My aunt corrected me with her hand, with her breathing, with a no, like that, not there, go back, slower, suck it, now finger me. Every gesture of hers was a lesson. Every sigh was a note written in a notebook I was going to carry with me for the rest of my life.

I slid a finger inside her. She was so wet it went all the way in without resistance. I put in a second. Her pussy tightened around them and she dug her nails into the back of my neck. I started moving them upward, looking for the rough spot inside her, while I kept sucking her clit, mouth open, tongue vibrating over it.

“Like that, asshole, like that, don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop…”

When she came, she really came. With a long shudder that ran up her legs, through her belly, and ended in her shoulders. She crushed my face against her cunt with both hands and rubbed herself there, moving with the last convulsion, soaking my chin and cheeks. She held my head against her like that for almost a minute, without speaking, unable to speak, trembling in smaller and smaller waves.

“Jesus, sweetheart,” she said afterward, with a hoarse voice. “Jesus. With that tongue you’re going to kill somebody.”

***

She hauled me up by my T-shirt and made me sit where she’d been sitting. She knelt between my legs on the rug, her skirt still hiked up and her panties slid down one ankle. She pulled her green top off over her head in one yank, and there, at last, I saw her all at once: tits hanging heavy, two dusky melons with wide, dark nipples, swaying every time she moved, marked by the bikini line. She pulled my swimsuit down to my ankles without taking her eyes off me. My cock sprang out, hard, swollen, the tip already shining with a thread of precome. She licked her lips when she saw it.

“Oh, sweetheart, what a cock you’ve got,” she said, grabbing it with one hand and stroking it slowly. “You know I’ve been thinking about this all week?”

“No.”

“Well, I have. Every night, closing my eyes next to your uncle and thinking about putting this cock in my mouth.”

She started at the base. Flat tongue, slow, all the way up. Again. And again. She licked my balls one by one, taking them into her mouth carefully, sucking them until I arched on the sofa. She went back up the shaft, leaving a bright trail of saliva, and licked the tip with her tongue very slowly, collecting the fluid that came out and tasting it with her eyes closed, as if it were a glass of wine.

“You taste so good, sweetheart. So good.”

Only then did she take me into her mouth, and she did it with a calm that left me breathless. She swallowed me whole, very slowly, until I felt the tip bump her throat and she didn’t pull back. She stayed there, nose pressed to my pubes, breathing through her nose, with my cock buried all the way in. Then she started moving up and down, both hands resting on my thighs, not using them, sucking me only with her mouth, coating me completely in spit, letting it run down over my balls to my asshole.

It wasn’t a blowjob like the ones I’d had before. It was something else. It was a woman who’d spent twenty-five years doing them for one man and who knew exactly what she was doing. My right hand went to the back of her neck and I set the pace, tugging her short hair, fucking her mouth slowly. She closed her eyes and let me use her, chin dripping, tits swaying every time I pushed her head.

“Aunt, I’m going to…”

“Hold it.”

She squeezed the base with her hand. Stopped everything. Looked up at me from below, without taking me out of her mouth, eyes half-closed, waiting. Then she started again, this time faster, sucking just the tip with tight lips, stroking the base with her hand, circling the head of my glans with her tongue.

“Aunt, please.”

“Hold it, sweetheart. Hold it a little longer. I want to see you blow.”

I held it. I don’t know how, but I held it. She made me stop three or four more times, pulling me out of her mouth at the last second and squeezing me at the base with two fingers, laughing softly every time she saw me squirm. Then she held my balls with one hand and swallowed me whole again, moving her head fast, sucking and swallowing saliva at the same time so her throat tightened around me.

When she finally let me go, she did it with her mouth open and her tongue out, not moving, watching me the whole time, stroking me with her hand a handspan from my face. I came all over her like I’d gone two months without touching anyone. The first jet hit her upper lip and streaked across her cheek to her eye. The second landed inside her mouth. The third and fourth hit her tits, and she smeared them over her nipples with her free hand, never stopping stroking me to get every last drop out of me. She didn’t pull her face away. She didn’t swallow until I was completely done. She wiped what was left on her cheek with two fingers and put them in her mouth, sucking them in front of me.

“My nephew tastes so good,” she said afterward, wiping the corner of her mouth with her thumb. “And what a load, my God, what a load. Good thing your aunt taught you how to hold out.”

***

Lucía didn’t get back until nine that night. My uncle arrived at eleven with a bag of trout and a beer-soaked smile. The four of us had dinner on the terrace, talked about the weather, talked about fishing, talked about what time the bus left the next day for the festival in the neighboring village. My aunt served me salad without looking at me once. My aunt said good night with a kiss on the cheek, exactly the same way she’d always done. My aunt closed the door behind me with the same half-smile as always.

But the next day, at eleven in the morning, I rang the bell again. And the next. And the next. That August Lucía went away for the weekend to the countryside with her friends, and I spent the longest, slowest, happiest forty-eight hours of my life with my aunt, in her room, in the kitchen, in the shower, without a watch, fucking her from the front and from behind, coming inside her and over her, learning to eat her ass, to fuck her without using my hands, to make her come with just my tongue three times in a row. What I learned in there I’m not telling here. That’s another story and, besides, it isn’t mine alone to tell.

Three summers have passed since then. I’ve gone back to the village every one of them. Lucía got married two years ago. My uncle still goes fishing at the reservoir every August morning. Women my age still seem complicated to me, yes, but above all they still seem hurried, anxious, in a rush to finish whatever they start. Since that August morning, I’m no longer in a hurry for anything. I learned, between a white skirt and a checked apron, that desire done right doesn’t run. It waits. It takes its time. And when it arrives, it arrives whole. And it swallows the last drop.