What My Stepbrother Did When We Were Alone

The first week of April always brought that strange calm to the house. My parents—in reality, my mother and Adrián's father—took advantage of Easter week to slip away together somewhere with a pretty name and a room with a jacuzzi. They’d been doing it ever since they got married, three years earlier. It was a habit I’d learned to ignore, just like I ignored the sound of the heater or the creak of the third step. Something that simply happened.

That Thursday evening, when I got home from work, I found the house silent. That was normal. What wasn’t normal was Adrián in the living room, sitting on the sofa with a book open on his knees, looking up at me the moment my keys hit the lock.

“You’re back,” he said, closing the book slowly.

“What are you doing awake? It’s almost ten.”

“Waiting for you.”

I set my bag on the hall chair and looked at him. Adrián had that irritating quality of saying completely ambiguous things with total ease. Three years living under the same roof and I still couldn’t quite figure him out. He was four years older than me, worked in engineering from home, and had that only-child tendency to fill the space in any room without seeming to try. It had rarely bothered me. That night, I was instantly on guard, even though I couldn’t have explained why.

“Why?” I asked.

He stood from the sofa with a slowness I didn’t like. He crossed the living room until he was less than a meter from me, and then I saw what he’d been hiding behind his back. A rope. Thin, braided cotton, the color of dry sand.

My stomach tightened.

“Adrián,” I said, my voice coming out weaker than I intended.

“Relax,” he replied, with a smile that was anything but reassuring.

***

I should have said no. I should have grabbed my bag and called my mother. But the truth—the one I find hardest to admit even now, weeks later—is that I didn’t do any of those things. I stood still while Adrián came closer, and when he took my left wrist between his fingers with calculated firmness, I only arched a brow.

“What is this supposed to be?” I asked.

“A game,” he said. “If at any point you want me to stop, I mean it, all you have to do is say so.”

I looked him in the eyes. There was something there I hadn’t seen before, or maybe I’d refused to see. Focus. Determination. And beneath all of that, something warm that made me swallow and press my thighs together despite myself.

“This isn’t a normal game between step-siblings,” I said.

“No,” he admitted. “It isn’t. I’ve spent three years thinking about how to spread your legs, so no, it’s not a normal game.”

The words shot through me like a current. I felt my cunt flood at once, soaking my underwear before he’d even finished the sentence. The rope was soft when he wrapped it around my wrists. A firm knot, not brutal. Made with practice, which made me wonder something I decided not to ask him yet. He guided me down the hallway toward the stairs with a hand on my back, unhurried, as if we had all night. Which we did.

Adrián’s room smelled like him: wood, printed paper, and something warmer I couldn’t quite name. He made me sit on the edge of the bed and for a moment he just watched me, standing in front of me with his arms crossed and a very obvious bulge straining the fabric of his pants.

“You haven’t looked at me in months,” he said.

“I look at you every day,” I protested.

“You look at me. That’s not the same thing. Tonight you’re going to really look at me. You’re going to look at me while I fuck you.”

He was right, and we both knew it.

***

What happened in the minutes that followed was slow and deliberate, which is the worst kind of torture. Adrián tied the rope from my wrists to the headboard with a knot that would give if I pulled in the right direction—I tested it immediately, almost without meaning to—but that wasn’t going to loosen without his help. Then he moved to the desk and leaned against it, crossing his ankles, studying me from a distance.

“Are you scared?” he asked.

“No.”

“Should you be?”

I considered the question more than I wanted to admit.

“I don’t know yet,” I finally answered.

That made him smile. And that smile was the first time he seemed genuinely dangerous to me.

He came closer again. He started with the buttons of my shirt, one by one, taking all the time he wanted. His fingers didn’t shake. Mine, with my hands tied above my head, did. Not from fear, or at least not only from fear. There was something else I still didn’t know how to classify: a kind of electric tension that ran through my arms and went straight down to my cunt, already throbbing so hard I was sure he could tell.

When the shirt was open, he let his eyes travel over what was underneath without any rush. That silent scrutiny sent heat to my cheeks before anywhere else.

“You’re exactly like I imagined,” he said. “And I’m sure you’re already wet. Right?”

I didn’t answer. It wasn’t necessary. He slid one hand along the seam of my skirt, up the inner face of my thigh, and pressed two fingers right over the fabric of my panties. I was soaked through. Adrián let out a low, satisfied laugh.

“Drenched,” he said, almost to himself. “Drenched little step-sister.”

The word went through me from head to toe. I closed my eyes.

“How long have you been imagining it?” I asked, my voice rough.

“Since our parents got married.”

Three years, then. Three years of family meals, watching TV together, crossing paths in the bathroom in the mornings. Three years in which neither of us had said anything, and in which I’d built a version of him that clearly wasn’t complete.

His hands at my waist brought me back to the present. He undid my bra with more skill than I expected, and when the garment fell away, he leaned in toward my neck. His mouth was warm and moved slowly, tracing a lazy line from below my ear to my collarbone. A shiver ran down my back. He lowered his lips to my tits and sucked one nipple fully into his mouth, tugging it with his teeth until I let out a moan I no longer bothered to swallow. He moved to the other, licking it slowly in circles, then bit that one too, harder this time.

“Fuck,” I gasped.

“That’s it,” he murmured against my skin. “I want to hear you say worse things tonight.”

I closed my eyes. This is wrong, I thought. And then I thought something else.

***

Adrián was meticulous. Not in the cold sense of the word, but in the sense of someone who has thought about something a great deal and wants to do it right from the start. Every caress had intent. Every pause was deliberate. When his lips returned to my tits, sucking and biting alternately, I had already stopped thinking about anything except the next movement of his mouth.

He yanked my skirt off and the panties went with it, dragged away by his fingers with cruel calm. I was left naked, tied to the headboard, with my legs open by instinct because there was no way to close them without seeming more ridiculous than I already felt. He was still dressed. That imbalance made me wetter still.

“Look at you,” he said. “All open for your stepbrother.”

“Shut up,” I whispered, with absolutely no conviction.

He knelt between my thighs and used his thumbs to spread my pussy lips apart, looking at me as if studying a map. Then he lowered his face and licked from bottom to top in one long, slow pass that ended on my clit. I arched my back against the bed as if I’d been struck by an electric shock.

His hands learned quickly. They learned what made my fingers tense against the rope and what drew out that involuntary sound I was ashamed to hear myself make. And when he learned something, he repeated it patiently, never losing the thread. He sucked my clit, let it go, pushed his tongue inside me, pulled it out, went back to my clit. He slid two fingers in and curled them upward, searching for that exact spot, and when he found it I knew because my cunt clenched around his fingers as if it had a will of its own.

“Stop,” I said at one point, when the heat between my thighs became impossible to ignore.

Adrián stopped at once, lifting his head. His chin was shining.

“Do you want me to stop completely?”

“No,” I admitted through clenched teeth. “I want you to keep going. But more.”

“More how?”

“Harder. Deeper. I don’t know. Keep going.”

The curve of his mouth was the closest thing to victory I’ve ever seen on someone.

“Not yet,” he said.

And he kept going exactly as before.

His hands explored every part of me with deliberation. When he slid his fingers between my thighs again, I was already so tight that the slightest touch made me arch against the bed. Adrián found the exact rhythm instinctively, alternating between direct pressure and brief relief, bringing me to the edge and pulling away just before I could cross it. He sucked, let go, finger-fucked me, stopped. I tugged on the rope until my wrists burned, and he watched me fight myself with unbearable calm.

Once. Twice. Three times.

By the fourth I was begging, which I hated and couldn’t stop.

“Adrián, please,” I said, and his name sounded like a question and surrender at the same time. “Let me come. Let me come, fuck.”

“What do you want?”

“You know.”

“Tell me.”

I’m not going to say it, I thought. And then I said it.

“Fuck me. Put your cock in me and fuck me now.”

***

When he finally untied the knot at my wrists, he did it to reposition me, with my hands free on his shoulders. It took me a moment to readjust to having my arms loose. They hurt a little, though the knot had never been too tight. That detail—the precision of how much to tighten—told me something about him I wouldn’t be able to articulate exactly.

He stripped quickly, without ceremony. When he shoved his pants down, his cock sprang hard against his stomach, thick and already shining at the tip. My mouth watered. I reached for it and wrapped my fingers around it, squeezing, and he let out a slow breath. I leaned forward and took it into my mouth as far as I could, sucking the tip first and then sliding down. Adrián grabbed my hair, not to force me, only to hold me, while I licked his entire cock from base to tip and took him back down to the hilt. He tasted like salt and hot skin.

“Fuck, little sister,” he gasped. “You suck cock like a slut.”

I smiled around a mouthful of him. I kept sucking until he gently pulled me off, tugging me back by the hair.

“Lie down,” he said. “Now.”

I obeyed. He opened my legs with his knees and placed the tip of his cock against my pussy, rubbing it up and down over my lips without pushing in yet. I thrust my hips toward him, looking for it. Adrián chuckled softly.

“Ask again.”

“Put it in me. Please. Adrián, put it in me now.”

His weight on top of mine was different from how I’d imagined it. Warmer, more real. When he entered me, he did it slowly, without rush, giving me time for everything. I felt every inch going in, my cunt stretching to accommodate him, until he was sunk all the way to the base. I moaned in a way I didn’t recognize. The room was almost dark, just the hallway light slipping in under the door. Enough to see his face.

“You’re so tight,” he murmured.

“Move,” I begged. “Move, fuck.”

He started fucking me with long, controlled thrusts, pulling almost all the way out before burying himself again. Each stroke drew a gasp from me. I dug my nails into his back and he sped up, changing the angle, bracing one hand on the headboard to sink in deeper. The bed started hitting the wall in a rhythm we didn’t bother to hide.

“Turn over,” he said suddenly, pulling out of me.

I did it without arguing. I got on all fours and he positioned himself behind me, gripping my hips. He shoved himself back in with one thrust and I cried out against the pillow. He fucked me hard, his right hand on my hip and the left gripping my ass, spreading me apart as he drove into me again and again. He ran one finger wet with saliva over my other hole, pressing without actually slipping it in, and my cunt clenched around his cock in a contraction that made him grunt.

“Ah, you like that,” he gasped. “You like being touched there.”

I didn’t answer. There was no need. He was driving into me so hard I could only moan into the sheets, mouth open, saliva running down my chin. We found a rhythm quickly, as if our bodies had been anticipating this without either of us knowing. His hands guided without forcing. My forehead against the pillow. The sound of our breathing filling the room that smelled of wood and paper and sweat and sex and something new I would never be able to ignore again.

“Lie back down, on your back,” he said. “I want to see your face when you come.”

I rolled over. Adrián plunged in again, this time with one hand at my throat, squeezing just enough. The other went to my clit, rubbing it in circles in time with his thrusts. I felt the wave rise all at once, without warning.

I came with a sound I hope I didn’t make, but clearly did, because Adrián buried his face in my hair and said something in a very low voice that I didn’t fully understand. My cunt pulsed around his cock in waves and he kept thrusting until he went rigid, drawing back at the last second. He pulled out and came over my stomach and tits in hot spurts that splashed all the way up to my collarbone. I watched him do it, panting, with hair stuck to my forehead and my legs still trembling.

I didn’t ask him to repeat what he’d said. When he was done, we stayed still for a while, listening to the house. Adrián ran a finger through the semen dripping between my tits, gathered it, and put it on my lips. I opened my mouth and sucked it off without looking away.

After that, he rolled onto his side. I looked at my wrists—no marks, the knot had been exactly as firm as it needed to be—and then I looked at him, eyes closed and breathing still a little uneven.

“Our parents come back tomorrow,” I said.

“I know.”

“This is complicated.”

“I know,” he repeated. “Do you want to talk about it now?”

I considered the question longer than I expected.

“No,” I said at last.

Adrián nodded. He said nothing else. I kept staring at the ceiling for a while, listening to the silence of the house, thinking about everything I’d have to think about later, when I had enough distance to do it with any clarity.

That distance took longer than I expected to arrive.

***

“Adrián,” I said, when the room was completely dark.

“What?”

“The rope. Where did you get it?”

A long silence.

“From the drawer of my desk.”

“And you had it there because...?”

“Yes,” he said. “Because of this.”

I didn’t know whether that seemed terrifying to me or exactly the opposite. Maybe both at once. Maybe that was precisely the problem: that it didn’t seem wrong to me at all, and that absence of guilt was what should really worry me.

I’ll think about it tomorrow, I told myself. Tomorrow, when they’re here and everything goes back to normal, I’ll think about it.

I closed my eyes.

When my parents came back the next day, the table was set and the coffee was made. My mother asked me if I’d slept well over the long weekend.

I told her yes.

Adrián, from the other end of the kitchen, looked at me for a second over the rim of his cup. He said nothing. No need.