What My Brother Taught Me That Forbidden Summer

Ever since I was little, I knew what I liked. I always played with the girls, and the boys scared me: they were loud, rough, the opposite of me in every way. As the years went by, those same brutish boys became the only thing that could keep me up at night. But before any of them, there was Néstor.

Néstor is my brother. My father was widowed young and, when he married the woman who later became my mother, Néstor was already two years old. I was born the following year. We grew up glued together, almost like mismatched twins, and he took care of me for as long as I can remember. His maternal grandparents were Scottish, so when he started his engineering degree he went to study in Edinburgh with them. But summers were sacred: he came home, and the house made sense again.

As a child they sent me to the same school where he studied, and there he protected me from the ones who picked on me. I didn’t know how to live without him close by. When he wasn’t there, I counted the days on the kitchen calendar like a prisoner crossing off a sentence.

In class I had a friend, Marcos. Big, handsome, smart, inseparable from me. By eighteen, the two of us already knew exactly what we were, because we talked about it in secret, during recess, comparing ourselves to the others and feeling weird and proud of it at the same time.

One afternoon, at my house, Marcos asked me if I wanted to be his boyfriend. I got all excited like an idiot. I said yes, and we kissed in my room, with the door ajar and my heart pounding. It was my first real kiss, the kind you feel in your stomach.

Over time we got careless. Sometimes our hands would brush without us caring who was around, we’d look for each other in the middle of someone else’s conversation. We were too happy to be careful.

***

It was Néstor who caught us. That summer he had come back earlier than expected, and one afternoon he went up to the attic and found us kissing against the wall, Marcos’s hands under my T-shirt and mine squeezing his cock over his pants, hard and outlined beneath the fabric.

I had never seen him like that. He went red, then white, and he yelled things at us that still hurt when I remember them. He called us every name he could think of, the worst ones. Marcos left almost running, zipping himself up halfway down the stairs. Néstor stood there trembling in the doorway, looked at me one last time, and stormed out, slamming the door. I’d swear he was crying.

At dinner he didn’t speak to me. My mother tried to figure out what was going on, asked two or three times if we had fought, but he answered in monosyllables, staring fixedly at his plate. I barely ate. There was a knot in my throat that nothing could undo.

That night I went to his room, like so many times before. I’d done it since I was little, when I was scared or had nightmares or simply needed someone to hold me until I fell asleep. I pushed the door open without asking and got into his bed.

I searched for his hand in the dark. And then he started crying again, softly, so no one else in the house would hear. I was about to turn nineteen and he was twenty-one, a fully grown man, and seeing him come apart like that, because of me, completely undid me.

—I didn’t like seeing you with him —he murmured at last, his voice broken—. I can’t stand seeing you with anyone.

I sat up in the dimness, not fully understanding.

—Why? —I asked.

—Because I love you. Because I’ve always loved you, and not in the way I should. You’re mine, do you understand? Mine.

He said it with shame and anger at the same time, like someone confessing a crime. And the craziest thing of all is that, instead of frightening me, I felt something inside me click into place. I wanted him that way too. I’d wanted him that way forever, without daring to put a name to it.

***

That summer was the most intense of my life. Néstor and I learned how to hide from the rest of the world inside our own house, how to invent excuses, how to steal minutes. A caress in the hallway, a look across the table, a foot searching for mine beneath the tablecloth while our parents talked about the heat.

One August night, when the stars were falling and the sky was filling with streaks of light, I gave him my virginity. We had gone up to the terrace under the pretense of watching the show, and ended up in his room with the window open and the sound of crickets slipping in between the sheets.

Néstor had prepared himself. I could feel it in the way he touched me, slow, patient, as if he had read a thousand times how to hurt me less. He kissed my nape, my back, going lower with his mouth while he whispered in my ear so I wouldn’t be afraid. He yanked off my shorts and briefs in one pull and left me naked face down on his bed, ass up and legs spread for him.

—Look at that ass, fuck —he whispered, and squeezed it with both hands, parting my cheeks to see my hole for the first time—. I’ve spent years imagining this.

He bent down and I felt his hot tongue between my cheeks, licking my whole ass, salivating my asshole with a martyr’s patience. I was trembling, moaning into the pillow, I had no idea something like that could feel this way. He licked me down there for a long while, until my hole was wet and throbbing, and then he started pushing the tip of his tongue inside me, forcing it in, opening me little by little.

—Tell me if it hurts —he whispered when he came back up to my ear, spitting on his fingers—. We stop whenever you want.

—I don’t want to stop —I told him, and it was true.

He prepared me with his fingers and saliva, unhurried, first just one going in and out, then two, searching inside me until he brushed something that made me arch my back and bite my hand so I wouldn’t scream. He pushed in three fingers, moving them in scissors, and by the time he pulled them out my hole was open and throbbing for him, begging for it.

He spit on his cock —I felt it thick against my thigh as he settled on top of me— and he started resting it against my asshole, pushing the head in very slowly. When he finally sank into me, I clenched my teeth against the burn, felt his glans tearing me open from within, felt the shaft filling me centimeter by centimeter until I could feel his balls pressed against my ass. Soon the pain turned into something else. I felt him inside me, felt him trembling, heard him holding his breath so he wouldn’t moan too loud. He filled me slowly, gripping my hips as if he were afraid I’d regret it and disappear.

—Fuck, brother, you’re so tight —he panted against my neck—. You’re choking my cock.

He started fucking me with long thrusts, pulling almost all the way out and then driving back in to the hilt, slamming against my prostate with every shove. I pushed my ass back at him, chasing him, biting the pillow so the old folks wouldn’t hear us. Saliva ran from my mouth, my eyes filled with tears, and my cock stood out against the sheets, leaking pre-cum with every удар.

He turned me over, spread my legs, and threw them over his shoulders to drive into me while looking me in the face. I could see his clenched jaw, the vein in his forehead, sweat running down his chest. He grabbed my cock with one hand and started jerking me off to the rhythm of his thrusts, never taking his eyes off me.

—Cum with me —he begged, his voice breaking—, cum for me, I want to see it.

It only took a few more pulls. I came in jets across my own stomach, cum splashing up to my chest, and my ass clenched like a fist around his cock. Néstor groaned through clenched teeth, dug his nails into my thighs, and emptied himself inside me in three, four long shudders that I felt like hot pulses deep inside. He stayed there, buried to the root, breathing against my mouth while his seed leaked out of my hole and dribbled down my perineum.

I didn’t regret it. I clung to the pillow and let him make me his again that same night, while the stars kept falling outside.

After that, there wasn’t a single day I didn’t look for him. I became his silent lover, his secret, the shadow slipping into his bed when the house was asleep. I learned how to suck him on my knees beside the bed, how to swallow his load without spilling a drop, how to get fucked against the bathroom wall with his hand over my mouth while my parents had breakfast downstairs. Until September came and he left for Edinburgh again, and distance came between us.

***

I didn’t see him again until Christmas, and by then something had changed. We still sought each other out as soon as we were alone, with the same hunger as before, but we also talked late into the night about how impossible what we had was. Him in another country, me here. A story with no future, no matter how you looked at it.

In spring, Marcos came back around. He wrote to me, waited for me after class, made me laugh like before. Little by little I started feeling drawn again to my old friend, that calm, bright attraction, so different from the storm my brother stirred up in me.

When Néstor started dating a classmate from college, I cried. He swore it was pure cover, that he needed to keep up appearances in front of his grandparents, that with me everything was still the same. I wanted to believe him. A part of me always wanted to believe him.

***

By the following summer I was really with Marcos. We had started sleeping together, and although it wasn’t the fire I felt with my brother, it left me satisfied, loved, at peace. Things were simple between us: him active, me passive, and neither of us asking for more than the other could give. Marcos fucked me tenderly, lying on top of me, kissing me as he moved; he filled my ass with cum and then held me until we fell asleep pressed together.

But Néstor came back. He arrived with the girlfriend he’d introduced to his grandparents, and I promised myself this time I wouldn’t give in. Marcos had gone on vacation with his family and I was left alone at home, at the mercy of my brother and myself.

We held out a few days. The two of us tried to cross paths as little as possible, measuring the distance, avoiding empty hallways. It was useless. We were drawn to each other like a magnet to a needle, and in less than a week I was once again getting up in the middle of the night to slip into his bed.

He had improved. Where there had once been clumsy tenderness, now there was a man who knew exactly what he was doing. The first night I went into his room barefoot and he was already waiting for me naked, his cock hard against his stomach, thicker than I remembered.

—Come here, asshole —he said softly—. On your knees.

I knelt between his legs and took his cock into my mouth without thinking. I sucked him off completely, until I was choking, until tears filled my eyes and he grabbed the back of my neck to fuck my throat at his own pace. I sucked his balls one by one, licked his shaft from bottom to top, swallowed him again until the veins stood out. He tasted like sweat, like a man’s skin, like my brother.

—Up —he ordered, pulling it out of my mouth with a filthy tug at my cheek—. Ride me.

I climbed on top astride him, spat on his cock and sank onto it slowly, sitting down centimeter by centimeter until my whole ass was resting against his thighs. I started riding him, holding onto his chest, feeling him in my guts every time I came down. He pinched my nipples, slapped my ass so the sound echoed in the silence of the house, shoved two fingers into my mouth so I’d suck them alongside his cock.

He would turn me over, pin my wrists to the mattress, put me on all fours and fuck me from behind like an animal, his hands on my hips and his balls slapping my perineum with every thrust. He made me bite the pillow so I wouldn’t wake anyone, pulled my hair, fucked me with the rage of all the months he’d gone without being able to touch me.

—Tell me it’s mine —he panted in my ear, never slipping out of me—. Tell me this ass is mine, not his.

—Yours —I moaned, my face crushed against the mattress—, all yours, brother, fuck me harder.

And he fucked me harder, and spread my legs wide, and came inside without asking, filling me to the brim night after night. Afterward he’d run his hand over my soaked ass, take his own semen-smeared fingers to his mouth, and make me suck them too. The mad passions came back, and I gave myself to them with a guilt that evaporated the moment I felt him inside me.

By day I regretted it. Even more when the phone rang and it was Marcos telling me about his trip, his voice clean, not suspecting a thing. I swore to myself I wouldn’t fail him again. And every night, without exception, I forgot that promise the moment Néstor’s door opened and his cock split me open inside again.

***

It’s been some years since that summer. Néstor ended up getting married; he has two children and a life that from the outside looks perfect. Marcos is still my boyfriend, and sometimes we talk about getting married, though we never quite decide. I love him, I truly do; he’s a big, good man who makes me happy every day.

And yet, every so often, I invent a trip. A course, a conference, any excuse that sounds believable. I take a flight to Edinburgh and let my brother meet me at his front door with that look of his that never changed. I close my eyes, and for a few hours we’re nineteen and twenty-one again, and the August sky fills with falling stars all over again, just for us.