What I Spied at My Sister’s Private Party
Growing up as the only man in a house full of women gave me two things: a strange sensitivity to female silences and a huge catalog of barely concealed fantasies. The three of us lived alone: my mother, my sister Daniela —two years older than me— and yours truly. Since adolescence, Daniela had been dragging home a pack of friends who seemed to grow in number and boldness every semester.
By the time I turned eighteen, I could no longer look at them as the girls they had once been. They were fully grown women, with laughs that were too loud and looks that lingered too long. I locked myself in my room every time they came over and played oblivious, but I listened to them. I listened to everything.
The hallway in that house had perfect acoustics for gossip. Pressed against the wall, pretending to study with headphones hanging around my neck, I could hear their confessions in pornographic detail.
—No, seriously, I swear he came in my mouth and I’d warned him not to —one would say between stifled laughs—. I felt his cock throbbing against my tongue and then all at once a thick gush all the way to my throat. I almost killed him.
—And you swallowed it? —another would ask.
—What was I supposed to do? It was sliding out the corner of my mouth, it tasted like chlorine and salt. I cleaned his dick with my tongue so he’d learn.
The chorus of laughter that followed was always the same. They talked about first times, about serious boyfriends they cheated on with high school exes, taking their cunt all the way in bar bathrooms, about toys they hid in drawers under the bed —vibrators, dilators, a black dildo one of them called “the referee.” I, locked away, imagined them with a level of detail that kept me up for hours, my cock hard against my navel and my hand moving slowly beneath the sheets.
I started training. Not out of vanity, but calculation. I wanted one of them to look up when I walked through the kitchen shirtless, pretending to look for a glass of water. I bought shirts a size too small. I came back from the gym with pumped arms and tight shoulders, then greeted them with a kiss on the cheek that lasted a second too long.
It worked halfway. One would smile. Another would say, “You’ve gotten huge,” in a tone that could mean anything. But none of them ever went further. Daniela was an invisible boundary none of them were willing to cross.
Until that conversation.
It was Thursday. I had just gotten back from the gym and, as always, I stopped in the hallway to listen. They were planning the graduation party. My sister and her friends were about to finish university; I had only just started my second semester. That year meant the end of something for them, and they wanted to close it out with a bang.
—Let it be women only —Daniela said—. No boyfriends, no boyfriend friends, no men.
—And then what do we do? Movies and popcorn? —someone mocked.
—We hire a couple of strippers —another one said, and the room exploded with shrieks.
—But good ones —Marcela insisted, a tall blonde who was the most shameless of the bunch—. They should be ripped. And well endowed. Don’t bring me some skinny little finger-cock guy, I want dicks that break panties.
—Marce, for God’s sake.
—What? If we’re paying, it has to be worth it. I want a cock that gets stuck in my throat, not a sausage snack.
I froze in the hallway with the towel hanging around my neck and my heart about to leap out of my throat. They started arguing about places, dates, prices. It was going to be in two weeks, on a Saturday night, at whichever house they could get free of parents, brothers, and other people’s eyes.
And there, while listening to Marcela describe the exact type of man she intended to hire, the entire idea formed in my head, complete and perfect.
***
I spent the next two weeks planning.
The first thing was inventing a trip. At dinner one Tuesday, I told Daniela I was going to the mountains that weekend with two classmates. Camping, a fire, whatever. My sister didn’t even bother hiding her relief.
—Perfect —she replied—. I’m going to tell Mom to stay with Aunt Roxana. I have… things to do here.
—Things? —I asked, pretending not to care.
—My own things. Don’t pry.
The second thing was buying the cameras. Two mini wireless cameras that connected to my laptop by wifi. I ordered them online with money I’d been saving for months for a console. They arrived in a box insultingly discreet.
The third step I planned down to the last detail. The night before the party, while Daniela was in the shower, I installed a camera inside the living room bookshelf, hidden between two encyclopedias no one would ever open. I placed the other one in the kitchen, inside the range hood vent, with the lens aimed at the hallway. I tested the signal from my room. Clean image, decent audio. Everything ready.
The fourth step was the cruellest, and the one I still struggle to talk about without laughing: Saturday breakfast.
I made Daniela a banana-and-oat smoothie “so you’ll have energy for the night,” I told her with a smile she interpreted as brotherly affection. I had put three spoonfuls of pharmacy laxative in it, flavorless, undetectable. By eleven in the morning I was already leaving the house with a backpack, saying goodbye to both of them.
—Take care, sis. Have fun.
—Shut up and go.
I walked to the corner, waited half an hour in a café, and came back through the back door with the service key. By then, my sister was already locked in the bathroom, quietly cursing that devil smoothie. I went up to my room without anyone seeing me, locked the door, turned on the laptop, and got comfortable.
The show was going to start in four hours.
***
At seven, they started arriving.
My sister, pale and sweaty, opened the door as best she could and apologized a hundred times. They told her not to worry, to rest, to lie down. Daniela went into her room and closed the door. From my room I heard her complaining of stomach pain for a full hour. For a moment I felt guilty. Only a moment.
On the screen I watched them moving through the living room, drinks in hand. Bottles of wine, mezcal, a cooler full of beer. The music went up. Marcela wore a short black dress that clung to her like it had been painted on, no bra, her nipples standing hard against the fabric. Romina, her best friend, a dark-haired girl with short hair and a wide mouth, handed out tequilas like they were water. Estefanía, the quietest one in the group, was already barefoot and dancing on the sofa with her skirt hiked up to mid-thigh.
There were seven in total. I knew them all. I had greeted them a thousand times in the kitchen with a chaste kiss on the cheek while they asked me about university. Seeing them there, in my living room, with that attitude, was like discovering my neighbors were Russian spies.
The doorbell rang at nine-thirty.
The strippers came in dressed as firefighters, with yellow helmets and tactical pants that didn’t fool anyone even from a meter away. They were huge. One dark-skinned, shaved head, tattoos on his arms. The other paler, dyed blond, with a professional smile. They did the fake bit of checking for a “fire” and started the show.
They started like these things always start: dancing. Rubbing themselves against chairs, sitting on one girl’s lap and then another’s, letting their chests be touched. The girls screamed as if they were fifteen. I, seated in front of my laptop with the headphones on so I wouldn’t miss a sound, already had a dry mouth, my pants open, and my hand wrapped around my cock.
The dark one, who called himself Diego, yanked off his pants and was left in a red thong that barely contained what was inside. You could make out his cock coiled to one side, thick as a doll. Romina let out a scream that must have been heard on the street. Estefanía covered her face with both hands, but through her fingers she peeked shamelessly.
—And if we see what’s underneath? —Marcela asked, with a smile that was no longer a laughing one.
Diego looked at her, ran a finger down her chin, and took off the thong.
His cock dropped suddenly, already half-hard, long and thick, with a glossy tip. Somewhere in the room a “motherfucker” could be heard. Marcela licked her lower lip without even realizing it.
***
From there on, the show stopped being a show.
What I saw through that camera over the next two hours I still remember scene by scene. I’d describe it as an orgy if the word didn’t sound like something planned, and that wasn’t planned. That was an avalanche.
Marcela knelt first. She didn’t wait her turn, didn’t ask permission, didn’t pretend. She knelt in front of Diego with the naturalness of someone doing something she’d done a hundred times, grabbed his cock with both hands, studied it for a second the way one studies a fruit that’s too big, and took the whole thing into her mouth. She swallowed it halfway in one stroke. Tears filled her eyes, but she didn’t pull away. She sucked it slowly, coming back up to the tip, leaving a trail of saliva, and then going back down. She licked his balls with a flat tongue, one and then the other, while her hand gave him a slow stroke that drew the first groan of the night out of Diego.
—Fuck, this bitch sucks dick so well —Romina said out loud, completely unfiltered, and laughed.
The others crowded around watching, some covering their mouths, others laughing, one filming with her phone —something she probably regretted after the party. Marcela pulled out the slobbery cock, held it against her cheek, and looked at the others.
—Come on, bitches, I’m not eating it alone.
Romina came up behind the stripper, grabbed his testicles with one hand, and started kissing his back, moving down his spine to halfway down his ass. With the other hand she spread one cheek and ran her tongue along the crease with no shame at all. Diego arched his back and let out a short laugh that was also a growl. The dyed blond one, seeing he was about to be left out, moved in on Estefanía, who had already stopped covering her face, and whispered something in her ear while sliding his hand under her skirt. Estefanía nodded without thinking. She spread her legs right there, on the couch, and the blond shoved two fingers into her in one pull. Estefanía closed her eyes and dug her nails into his shoulder.
I, in my room, already had my pants at my ankles and my breathing broken, my cock in my fist, pre-cum dripping onto my thigh.
Marcela straightened up, turned around, and, bracing herself on the back of the sofa, lifted her dress. She wasn’t wearing underwear. Her shaved cunt was swollen, shining wet under the yellow light of the lamp. Diego positioned himself behind her without saying a word, spit into his hand, ran the saliva over his cock, and with one hand on her hip, entered in one motion. He drove it all the way in, until his balls struck her clit. Marcela let out a sound that was half moan, half laugh, and lowered her forehead against the back of the sofa.
—Oh God, oh God, like that, like that, motherfucker, break me —she panted with her mouth open against the fabric.
The others clapped like they were at a game.
—Fuck her, fuck her! —someone shouted off-camera.
Diego gripped her by the waist and started fucking her with long, loud thrusts. You could see his cock coming out gleaming and sliding back in, coated in Marcela’s juices. The sofa creaked. Marcela clutched the backrest with white knuckles and arched her hips back to take every hit. At one point Diego grabbed her hair, wrapped it around his fist, and yanked her back. Marcela opened her mouth in an O and laughed out loud, eyes wet, face red, a string of spit at the corner of her mouth.
—Call me a slut —she begged, panting, moving her ass against him.
—Slut —Diego repeated, and gave her a sharp slap on the ass that rang through the whole room.
—Again.
—Slut. Bitch. Take this cock.
Estefanía, meanwhile, was sitting on the blond’s lap on the armchair. She’d hiked her skirt up to her waist and lowered the straps of her top, her tits bouncing free every time she dropped onto the stripper’s cock. She moved slowly at first, eyes closed and lips pressed tight, as if trying not to make noise and failing, biting her wrist to smother her moans. The blond grabbed her hips and started lifting and lowering her faster, impaling her all the way. Estefanía finally threw her head back and moaned out loud, shamelessly, her mouth hanging open.
Romina, who had let go of Diego when he started on Marcela, moved toward the sofa, sat on the armrest, and leaned in to kiss Estefanía while she rode the blond. Estefanía returned the kiss with a hunger I hadn’t expected. They made out tongue to tongue, biting each other’s lips. Romina grabbed one of her tits, squeezed it hard, and pinched the nipple between two fingers. Estefanía moaned into her friend’s mouth and quickened her rhythm on the blond’s cock. In a matter of seconds, Romina slipped out of her underwear and climbed onto the sofa too, kneeling on the backrest with her cunt at Estefanía’s face level.
—Eat me out, bitch —Romina ordered, grabbing her hair—. Since we’re at it.
Estefanía obeyed without saying a word. She stuck out her tongue and buried her face between Romina’s legs, sucking her clit while the blond kept fucking her from underneath. Romina threw her head back, grabbed her tits with both hands, and started grinding against Estefanía’s mouth, rubbing herself. The camera caught everything with almost obscene clarity.
This isn’t happening.
***
The swapping went on all night.
The girls took turns. They passed the men around like bottles of mezcal. Some watched with a hand between their legs; others joined in. At one point I saw Marcela lying on her back on the rug with Diego on top of her, fucking her missionary, her legs spread wide, her ankles over the stripper’s shoulders. Diego pulled almost all the way out and drove back in hard, knocking the air out of her each time. Marcela dug her nails into his back, leaving red tracks, and begged for more, deeper, with a broken voice.
—Come inside me, come inside me —she asked him at one point—. I want to feel it.
Diego clenched his teeth, lowered his head against Marcela’s shoulder, and gave three violent thrusts until he went rigid and unloaded inside her with a long growl. Marcela opened her mouth without a sound, her body trembling, and came at the same time, her legs clamped around the man’s waist, shaking. When Diego pulled out, the semen streamed back out of her cunt to her ass, white and thick. Romina came over with a filthy laugh, bent her head, and licked Marcela’s cum straight from her cunt, running her tongue from her asshole to her clit in one long stroke. Marcela shrieked and pressed Romina’s head against her slit.
One of the quieter girls in the group, a redhead I had always considered the decent one, climbed on top of Diego when he was already lying on the rug recovering, and started moving on him with a quiet fury, eyes fixed on the ceiling, muttering to herself things the camera couldn’t catch. At first Diego was soft, but she leaned down, spit on his cock, and sucked it into her mouth whole until it got hard again. Then she buried it in herself calmly, sitting down slowly, letting herself sink centimeter by centimeter, and started riding him, teeth clenched. When she came, she came silently, eyes closed and hands braced on the tattooed stripper’s chest, trembling from head to toe as if struck by an electric chill.
At some point Marcela and Romina shared Diego, one sitting on his face, the other on the rest. Marcela had her cunt dripping over the stripper’s mouth and held his hair while he ate everything: cunt, clit, ass. Romina straddled his cock and started riding him with her tits out, sweating, hair plastered to her forehead. The two of them looked at each other with a complicity only two lifelong friends who’ve confessed everything to each other can understand, and at one point they leaned forward and kissed over Diego’s face, tongues out, all while still moving.
The blond got a turn with two at once too. Estefanía and another girl I couldn’t recognize from that angle had him stretched out on the couch. Estefanía sucked his cock slowly, wrapping it with her lips, while the other licked his balls and bit the inside of his thighs. At one point Estefanía pulled it out of her mouth, held it against her face, and offered it to the other one. They passed the blond’s cock mouth to mouth like it was a cigarette, sucking it turn after turn, looking at each other and laughing. The blond ended up coming on Estefanía’s face, in two thick spurts that hit one cheek and then inside her mouth. Estefanía licked her lips without taking her eyes off him and squeezed his cock to get the last drop out.
I came three times. The first, almost at the beginning, when I saw Marcela kneel and swallow Diego’s cock whole. I shot a hot load across my stomach and didn’t even wipe it off, just kept watching with my hand sticky. The second, when Estefanía moaned for the first time, mouth open, riding the blond, her tits bouncing freely and Romina sticking her tongue in her mouth. The third, deep into the early hours of the morning, when I could barely keep my eyes open but kept watching like an addict who doesn’t want to leave the party. That last orgasm was dry, painful, barely a spasm, with my cock irritated and red from having worked it so much.
The last ones to leave were Marcela and Romina, around four in the morning. The strippers dressed with their cocks still gleaming with other people’s fluids, received an absurd tip, and left without looking back. The girls helped themselves gather what they could, still half-naked, with their stockings slipped down and their panties lost in some corner of the sofa, left dishes in the sink, an empty bottle on the table, two broken glasses on the rug, and a dark stain of dried cum on the backrest of the armchair. And they left.
I turned off the cameras. I went downstairs quietly. Daniela was still locked in her room, this time asleep. The living room smelled of perfume, sweat, semen, and alcohol. I cleaned what I could, took the cameras out of the bookshelf and the vent, and tucked them into the bottom of my backpack as if they were weapons.
I went back to my room before dawn and backed up the files in three different places.
***
Years have passed since that night.
I still see my sister’s friends now and then, at weddings, baptisms, reunions. I greet them with a kiss on the cheek, ask about their husbands, their children. They smile at me with the same angelic smile as always, suspecting nothing.
Marcela married a lawyer and has two little girls. I look at her and remember a stranger’s semen dripping out of her cunt while her best friend licked it off. Romina lives in another country. Estefanía is a primary school teacher; I ran into her last year at a birthday party and she told me about her students with the same mouth with which she swallowed two cocks on the very same night. Daniela, my sister, still knows nothing about the party —I never told her that her friends ended up the way they did, and they don’t tell her either, I suppose out of shame.
The files are still stored away. I haven’t watched them again more than five times in all these years, and I’ve never shared them with anyone. It’s not for blackmail. It’s not for morbid curiosity. It’s because of the strange, secret certainty —mine alone— that that night I saw those women the way no man will ever see them again: legs spread in my own living room, mouths full of cock and cunts full of cum, panting like heat-crazed bitches. And that, however small it may sound, still gets me hot to this day like it did on the first.