What My Father Taught Me That Summer Night

The four of us were in the living room of the country house, under the light of a single floor lamp switched on in the corner. My children had wanted it that way: low light, the wine glasses on the coffee table, the silence of the countryside slipping in through the open window.

Rocío, the eldest, was twenty-six and had her hair tied up, as always when she was about to listen to something important. Andrés, the middle one, twenty-two, was sprawled on the long sofa with a cushion under his neck. Lola, the youngest at twenty-one, was curled up in the armchair in the corner with her glass between both hands.

The three of them were looking at me. Waiting.

“Mom,” Rocío said. “Tell us the first time.”

I took a sip of wine. Set it on the table. And I began to speak.

***

I had just turned eighteen that summer. I was the youngest of three sisters: Consuelo and Virtudes had already left, one to study in the capital and the other to marry a man from the neighboring village. I stayed behind in the big house with my parents, in a village in the south where the heat pressed down from June to October and the nights took ages to cool off.

I was a girl who already knew her body. I had been touching myself since I was fifteen, first awkwardly and then with more confidence, learning what worked and what didn’t. With two fingers in my wet cunt and my other hand squeezing one breast, I made myself come almost every night beneath the sheets, biting the pillow so they wouldn’t hear me. But the body has its own hunger and always asks for more than a woman can give herself alone. Fingers don’t fill you. Fingers don’t thrust. I knew that without knowing how to put it into words.

My father was called Domingo. He was sixty-seven that summer and still a considerable man: broad back, big hands hardened by decades in the fields, white hair at his temples and on his chest, a slow, steady way of moving that filled any room. With him I had never felt fear. As a child I would climb into his lap while he looked up at the night sky from the porch and taught me the names of the stars. That trust never disappeared, only changed shape as I grew.

I was tall for my age, with the straight black hair I’d inherited from my maternal grandmother, curves that had appeared early and always drew looks I pretended not to notice. Big, firm breasts, round ass, narrow waist. That summer I was eighteen and I was done pretending so much.

There had been something between Domingo and me for months. A new tension, a mutual awareness that was never named but was there: in the way his hands lingered a second too long when he helped me down from the tractor, in how he looked away when I came out onto the porch in my bathing suit with my nipples showing through the wet fabric, in how I had started looking for reasons to stay near him when my mother went to the market or to visit the neighbors. One afternoon, crouched in front of the oven, I felt his eyes fixed on my ass and stayed like that longer than necessary, and when I turned around I saw the bulge in his trousers. The big house became small in those moments. The air changed.

I knew what I wanted. I wanted my father’s cock inside me. I just needed to decide whether I was going to act.

***

The night I decided, my mother had gone to the neighboring village to visit her sister, who’d had a swollen knee for a week and needed company. She was staying the night. Domingo and I were alone in the house, something that had happened before, but that night was different. I knew it from breakfast, when he poured his coffee and looked at me a second too long before lowering his eyes to the paper. I knew it when I went to hang out the laundry and felt him watching me from the shadow of the porch without saying a word.

I ate very little at dinner. I went to wash up. I slipped two fingers into my cunt under the stream of warm water just to see how wet I already was, and they came out shining, with sticky threads between the fingertips. I put on the thin cotton nightdress that reached halfway down my thighs, with no panties underneath, and sat for a while on the edge of the bed, listening to the endless August cricket, watching the sliver of light slipping in under the door.

If I don’t go in now, I never will.

I stood up.

The living room was dim, lit only by the mute glow of the television. Domingo was seated in his big armchair, pajama pants on and a thick cotton T-shirt, a half-finished glass of brandy on the side table to his right. When he heard me come in, he lifted his eyes, and in that first second I saw something that was not surprise.

I stood in front of him. I knew that backlit by the lamp in the corner, the nightdress was see-through and my breasts and the dark triangle between my thighs were visible. I did it on purpose.

“Can I stay here with you for a while?” I asked, though that wasn’t exactly what I wanted to ask him.

“Of course,” he said. His voice came out rougher than I’d expected.

I sat on the arm of the chair, the way I used to when I was little, but I wasn’t little anymore and he knew it. The ceiling fan turned slowly, stirring the hot August air. It smelled of brandy, of old tobacco soaked into the walls, of summer. We didn’t speak for a long while. The television cast white light over both of us, though neither of us looked at it.

“Dad,” I said at last, without looking at him. “I’m eighteen now.”

“I know.”

“Then you know I’m not a child anymore.”

The silence that followed was thick. The fan kept turning. The cricket sang outside, relentless.

When I looked at him, he was already looking at me. His eyes were dark and serious, and in them there was something I had learned to recognize that summer: desire that had been held in for a long time, kept in check with effort. And in the pajama pants, no longer concealed, a long, thick bulge pushing the fabric upward.

“I would never do anything you didn’t want,” he said quietly.

“I know,” I answered. “That’s why I’m here.”

I leaned in and kissed him on the mouth. It was clumsy at first, the first kiss with real intent I had ever given anyone. But he put a hand on the back of my neck with a calm that completely undid me, and the kiss found its own rhythm. He slipped his tongue in slowly, searching for mine, and I sucked on it as if I’d been wanting to do that for months, because it was true. His lips were firm and dry. They tasted of brandy and something older, more persistent.

When we broke apart, we were both breathing differently.

“Have you never been with anyone?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “No one’s ever fucked me. I want it to be you.”

He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, his expression was serious, but the resistance was gone.

“Come here,” he said.

***

I straddled his lap, my knees on either side of him, looking straight at him. The nightdress rode up to my waist and I felt my naked cunt resting directly on the pajama fabric, on his hard cock beneath. I started getting wetter at once, and I knew he noticed because a dark stain was spreading on the pale cotton of his pants. I shifted slightly, without fully thinking, rubbing myself against the bulge, and heard him draw in his breath.

His hands slid slowly up my thighs, under the nightdress. They paused at my hips and squeezed: first gently, exploring, then more firmly. They went down to my ass, he took it fully in both hands, spread it, pressed me against him.

“Like this?” he asked.

“More,” I said. “Harder.”

He pulled the nightdress over my head and looked at me for a long moment, his hands still, as if he wanted to take in everything in front of him without hurry. I was naked on top of him, my breasts at his face level, my nipples already hard as stones. He said nothing. He drew me to him and took one nipple into his mouth, sucking it slowly, tugging with his teeth just enough to make me gasp. Then the other. He sucked both until they were shiny and red, and I kept moving my hips on top of his cock, soaking his pants more and more.

His mouth was slow and deliberate. He had patience I didn’t have, and that difference drove me insane in a way I hadn’t anticipated: I wanted everything to speed up and at the same time I wanted it never to end.

I undid his T-shirt. Pushed it aside. His chest was broad, the hair already white, warm under my palms. I lowered my hand and found him fully erect through the pajama fabric. I slid my hand inside the waistband of his pants and took hold of him directly: thick, hot, so hard I could barely close my fingers around all of it. I pulled him out. He was bigger than I’d imagined in the months I’d spent thinking about this scene: long, wide, with the veins standing out and the tip already shining with the bead that had gathered there.

I slid down to the floor between his knees. I had never sucked a cock and I wanted to suck this one. I took him with both hands and licked from base to tip, slowly, feeling the weight, the heat, the smell of man. I took him into my mouth as far as I could, choking a little, pulling back, trying again. He put a hand in my hair, not to push me, but to guide me, and murmured things I couldn’t quite hear but that made me suck him harder. I coated his entire cock with saliva, sucked him, ran him over my face, took him back into my mouth. I felt him throbbing against my tongue.

“Come on,” he said, his voice breaking, tugging me upward. “If you keep going like that I’m going to come in your mouth and I don’t want to yet, not yet.”

I held still for a second, lips shining, his cock pointing toward my face.

“Dad,” I said softly. “I want this to be tonight. I want you to fuck me.”

He looked at me hard for another moment, searching my face for something. What he found must have convinced him, because he nodded slowly.

We moved to the sofa. I lay back, naked, legs open for him, and he knelt beside me and looked at my cunt without hurry, as if he wanted to learn it. He lowered his head and kissed me there first, then licked all the way from bottom to top, and I let out a moan I didn’t recognize as my own. He sucked my clit slowly, with soft lips, while he slid one thick finger deep inside me and curled it. Then two. He opened me, prepared me, devoured me with a calm that had me trembling on the cushion.

“You’re soaked,” he said against my cunt.

“I’ve been like this all day,” I admitted.

He licked me for longer than I thought possible, until my back arched and I came in his mouth, pressing his head against me with both hands, biting my own arm so I wouldn’t scream. He got up with his beard and mouth shining with me, and finished pulling down his pants. His cock hung hard and heavy between his legs.

He positioned himself over me. When I couldn’t wait any longer, I told him.

“Please.”

“Now,” he said.

He took hold of his cock and dragged the tip over the lips of my cunt, up and down, coating himself in me, soaking it. He rested it at my entrance. There was a moment of tension, of resistance. He pushed slowly. It hurt: sharp, intense, more than I’d expected, flesh yielding to let something too large come in. I put my feet on the sofa and forced myself to breathe.

He stopped with only the tip inside.

“Keep going?”

“Yes,” I said through clenched teeth. “Keep going. Slowly, but keep going.”

It was very slow. Centimeter by centimeter, pushing in and easing back a little, gaining ground, letting my virgin cunt open to make room for him. The pain gave way, and what remained in its place was a feeling of fullness unlike anything I had ever felt before. When he reached the end, when I felt his balls resting against my ass and his pubic hair against mine, I went still, processing what it meant: having my father all the way inside me.

“How are you?” he asked. His forehead was against mine and I could feel the enormous effort he was making to stay still.

“Full,” I said. And I wasn’t ashamed to say it. “Move. Fuck me slowly.”

We began to move together. Slowly at first, finding the rhythm. He came almost all the way out and then went back in to the hilt, with long, steady thrusts that made me gasp each time. He grabbed one breast with one hand while he fucked me, took it to his mouth, bit it. I dug my nails into his shoulders, wrapped my legs around his hips so he would never come out completely, so he would stay in there forever.

“Faster,” I asked after a while. “It doesn’t hurt anymore. Put it in faster.”

And he put it in faster. His cock went in and out with a wet, obscene sound, my soaked cunt swallowing him each time. The sofa creaked beneath us. The house was silent except for that: for the sound of my father fucking me for the first time.

I came before he did, clinging to his shoulders, my face against his neck, biting my lip so I wouldn’t scream while my cunt clenched around his cock in spasms. He kept going until the end with long, steady movements, teeth clenched, and when he was about to come he made the motion to pull out.

“Inside,” I whispered in his ear, grabbing his ass with both hands so he wouldn’t leave. “Come inside.”

He drove himself back into me to the hilt and came with a low, contained sound, his cock throbbing inside me, hot spurts filling me. I felt each one. I stayed still, legs open and him on top of me, feeling the semen keep coming in smaller pulses.

We stayed still for a long while. The fan kept turning. The television stayed on, silent. When he finally pulled out, I felt the semen slowly spilling from my open cunt and running down the crease of my ass onto the sofa. I didn’t move to wipe it away. Outside, the cricket kept up its same old song, indifferent to everything.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked at last.

“A little,” I admitted. “But it was what I wanted.”

***

My mother took two weeks to come back. My aunt’s fall had been more serious than it had first seemed, and she needed company. Those two weeks Domingo and I had the whole house to ourselves.

There were other nights. Nights when I learned more things, with that same patience he had and that it took me months to develop on my own. I learned to suck him to the hilt without choking, to swallow his hot come without spilling a drop, to ask him to spit in my face when I felt like it. I learned to ride him with my hands braced on his chest, moving my hips until he came inside me. I learned to be fucked on all fours over the kitchen table, with him pulling my hair and slapping my ass until it turned red. I learned that I liked it when he called me “daughter” while he was fucking me, and that he liked it when I called him “dad” as I was coming. I learned to ask. I learned that there are forms of pleasure that at first get confused with something else, and then you recognize them as your own.

One night, toward the end of the second week, he asked me for something different. He asked in a low voice, carefully, giving me time and space to say no. He wanted to fuck me in the ass. I didn’t say no. He put me face down on the big bed, with a pillow under my hips, and prepared me for a very long time: first with his tongue, licking my ass until it was wet and open, then with a finger coated in kitchen oil, then with two. When at last he rested the tip of his cock against my ass and pushed, I pressed my face into the sheet and held on. He went in slowly, with an initial pain that burned through me. He kept stopping, letting me breathe, going in a little farther. When he was all the way inside, he stayed still on top of me, his chest against my back, breathing on my neck. Then he started moving. It was even slower than the first time, more deliberate, with a pain that turned into something dark and deep that took me a long time to know how to name. He slipped a hand underneath and found my clit, and rubbed it while he fucked my ass, and I came like that, with his cock in my ass and his fingers on my cunt, moaning face down into the pillow. He came inside shortly after, and when he pulled out I felt the semen run down my thighs. When it was over, I stayed silent for a long while, listening to my own breathing return to normal.

“Are you okay?” Domingo asked.

“Yes,” I said, and it was true, though not in a simple way.

When my mother came back, life resumed its usual shape. Things settled back into their habitual places, except they were no longer exactly the same places. There are things that don’t come undone.

Autumn arrived. I went back to the city to study. That summer ended up in that category of memories that aren’t easily told, that are kept in a private place and taken out only at specific moments, when one knows the other person will understand.

***

Rocío had bright eyes. Andrés was staring at his glass without moving, and beneath his trousers there was a bulge he wasn’t trying to hide. Lola had let her knees fall apart and had her feet on the floor, leaning forward, one hand lost between her thighs.

“And your mother knew?” Lola asked.

“Your grandmother was a woman who understood more than she let on,” I said.

“Were there more summers?” Andrés asked.

I smiled. I took the last sip of wine and set the empty glass on the table.

“Many,” I said. “But we’ll save that for another night.”