Hello all--this is my first submission. It's the first chapter in a longer story where I explore wholesome themes of healing shame and repression, over a backdrop of hot incestuous sex that gets hornier as the story progresses. This chapter focuses on the main character and his relationship with the matriarch of the family. It's a slow burn, so be warned. All characters are 18 years or older. Feedback is welcomed.
---
The train carriage vibrated, a low, rhythmic hum that seeped into Mateo's bones. It was a sound he'd known for nearly a decade, the soundtrack to his departures, his escapes from here. Now, heading back towards the town he'd left behind, the familiar pulse felt different--less like freedom, more like a tightening knot low in his belly. His analytical mind coolly catalogued the symptom as anxiety. He felt himself shrink as he got closer to the destination.
The town. He didn't even need to picture the streets; the idea of it was heavy enough, thick with the remembered scent of sun-baked streets and unspoken expectations. It wasn't the place itself, not the buildings or the squares. It was the house--the one with the blindingly white walls, the one where his childhood had unfolded under a measuring gaze that always found him wanting. The house where warmth was always rationed like a precious wartime resource.
Abuela Elena was turning 65. A milestone demanding celebration, demanding his presence. Mateo, the son who worked with computers in the city, the one who'd supposedly 'made it,' was required. Required to show up and smile, offering proof that his parents were the kind of people to have raised such a good son. He snapped the laptop shut, catching his reflection in the dark screen as it closed. 27, lean face, dark hair, with sharp features but pulled tight around the mouth. He was accused of having resting concentration face. Which was surprisingly accurate, given how much of his energy went to analyzing the environment. Vigilance had always been a survival skill.
The thought arose of his mother, Isabel, with the accompanying knot of anxiety. Her fierce piety--a shield against a youth she refused to talk about--had dictated the terms of affection in that house. Approval was currency, earned through obedience, through achievements that polished the family name. God, or his father, oversaw her efforts with mild disapproval. Sofía and Lucía, his younger sisters though vibrant women now--they'd navigated it differently. They bathed in a casual parental warmth he'd only observed from the periphery. He remembered the distinct ache, a physical clenching in his gut, watching his mother's hand gently smooth Lucía's hair, or his father holding Sofía's hand on a walk--a tenderness that he never seemed to be able to earn.
His father, Javier, was the embodiment of absence where Mateo was concerned. Physically present, yes. A provider, a maintainer, a dispenser of opinions on safe topics like sports and politics. But emotional terrain was treacherous ground, the land of 'softness' he'd actively warned Isabel against fostering in their son. "He needs to be strong," Mateo had overheard him say once, the words etching themselves into memory after a childhood fall had resulted in tears. "The world isn't kind to soft boys." His father's presence filled the house with a low hum of unspoken expectation--duty, responsibility, the quiet mandate to feel less, or at least, to show nothing.
The train slowed, brakes hissing, jarring him from the internal litany. The town. The air that met him as the doors slid open felt instantly different from the city's thin, metallic tang--thicker, warmer here, carrying the scent of dry earth and something pungently floral. He swung his backpack over one shoulder, gripped the handle of his suitcase, and stepped onto the platform. Empty, except for an old woman dozing on a bench far down. No welcome party. He hadn't asked for one, hadn't expected it. It felt easier this way, delaying the performance.
He took the long way to the house, delaying the inevitable through streets etched into his memory. Shop signs blurred, familiar names triggering faint echoes of the past. He saw faces in windows, older now, mirroring the changes in himself. He cataloged the differences with a detached focus--a sleek new cafe where the old bakery stood, solar panels gleaming on a familiar roofline.
Then, the street. And the house. Blindingly white, immaculate. Geraniums spilled from window boxes in bursts of controlled, vibrant colour--a testament to his mother's vigilant care. He paused at the gate, the scent of sun-warmed stone and those damn flowers filling his lungs. He took a deliberate breath, consciously smoothing his features, preparing the mask: pleasant, capable, untroubled. Let's get this over with, he thought.
He pressed the bell. Footsteps, quick, light. The door opened, and Lucía stood there, her dark eyes--so like his own, yet brighter--widening in what felt like genuine pleasure. "Mateo! You're here!" She surged forward, wrapping him in a brief, engulfing hug that smelled of vanilla and something artificial, like hairspray. It pressed the air from his lungs for a second.
"Hola, Luci," he managed, the warmth in his voice feeling thin, manufactured. He patted her back, his hand stiff against the soft fabric of her top.
"Mamá! Papá! Mateo's arrived!" Her voice echoed back into the house as she pulled him over the threshold.
Cool dimness enveloped him after the bright glare outside. The familiar scent hit him instantly--lemon polish, sharp and clean, overlaid with the rich, savoury aroma of meat stewing low and slow. His mother appeared in the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands on a crisp apron. Isabel. Petite, her dark hair streaked with silver now, pulled back severely from her face, emphasizing the sharp cheekbones. Her eyes, quick and assessing, swept over him, a familiar inventory. A quick smile, perfunctory.
"Mateo," she said. The tone wasn't unkind, exactly, but it lacked the easy warmth of Lucía's greeting. "You're thin. Doesn't the city feed you?" A statement camouflaged as a question, concern laced with subtle critique.
"Hola, Mamá." He leaned in, performing the ritual kiss on her cheek. Her skin felt cool beneath his lips. "I'm eating fine. Just busy."
"Work is important," she conceded, her gaze already flicking past him, scanning the hallway for imperfections only she could see. "But you need more meat on your bones. Your Abuela is very excited to see you." Another gentle tightening of the leash of duty.
His father emerged from the living room, remote held like a shield. Javier was broader than Mateo remembered, grey dusting his temples, his face weathered but impassive. It had only been a few years, but it was enough to see him age. He offered a hand. The grip was firm, bone-dry, a pressure that felt more like a test than a welcome. "Mateo. Good trip?"
