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Mauro was no longer there when Miki woke up. Upon leaving his nephew’s room the night before, he had confirmed from his wife’s snoring that she was sleeping soundly, unaware of the unexpected scene that had taken place in the room opposite. Mauro spent the night in the living room, tossing and turning, wondering how that could have happened.

Miki’s head hurt and his stomach was unsettled. Trembling and somewhat disoriented, he forced himself to eat breakfast because afterward he took a Paracetamol.

When he arrived, his uncle was chatting with customers and didn’t even turn his head. He headed for the kitchen and grabbed cloths, bleach, a bucket, and a mop.

“Uh… I thought that, since…” he stammered, clearing his throat, “today being Saturday there’s less hustle, I’ll do the bathrooms thoroughly and the storeroom,” he said from a distance, not looking his uncle in the face.

“Okay, uh… yes, yes. That’s fine.” Mauro also found it hard to speak. He breathed when his nephew gave obvious signs of wanting to avoid him. But for how long?

Miki didn’t appear until two. He cleaned the bathrooms meticulously: the bases of the toilets, the bowls inside and out, lids and cisterns, front and back, in the space left up to the wall. He scrubbed with scouring pad and cloth until his arms hurt. Then the sinks, and he soaped and rinsed all the wall tiles.

On two occasions, his breathing became difficult: contained nerves, the smell of bleach and other products, the confused memory of what had happened hours earlier in his bedroom, the strange and agitated dreams that filled his head when, finally and from exhaustion, sleep had overcome him.

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Mauro wasn’t one to masturbate excessively. So, hours earlier, after eagerly unloading a thick and abundant amount of cum into his nephew’s mouth, the product of several days of accumulation, he took a while to pull it out of the young man’s mouth. Both had remained silent. And so it stayed until Mauro moved the chair that was jamming the bedroom door and left, closing it behind him.

Miki remained on his knees. Some semen and saliva escaped from the corners of his mouth and landed on his chest. He spat into his hand, trying to savor the taste of his mother’s brother’s semen, which still coated his tongue, palate, and gums. And he began to feel his own member, to which he had paid no attention until then.

His head instantly took him to another neighborhood, to his neighborhood, where he had lived (or barely lived) until recently with his mother. To another neighborhood, another bar, another bathroom, another cock: that of some guy named Goyo.

“Go up and get two sandwiches for dinner,” he remembers his embarrassed mother saying, rummaging for some loose change in her purse. “Well, with this I think there’s… and hint to him that if he h...