Alone with My Father-in-Law in the Beach House

Vacations at Andrés’s parents’ beach house were always the same: too much sun, too much family, and Ernesto looking at me in a way that made me look away too quickly.

We’d been there four days, and I had lost count of the times his gaze had lingered on me longer than was reasonable. It wasn’t a kind or fatherly look. It was something completely different, and we both knew it even though neither of us had ever said it out loud.

Ernesto was forty-seven years old and had the kind of physical presence some men develop after decades of being the one making the decisions in whatever room they walked into. His salt-and-pepper hair suited him, as did the sun-darkened skin and broad shoulders of a man who still worked with his hands. His wife, Graciela, was charming and utterly oblivious to anything that wasn’t her nephews, the seafood rice she made every afternoon, and the Turkish series she watched after dinner.

I’d been with Andrés for a year. I loved him, truly. But there was something about his father that had unsettled me from the first day I met him, and that unease was not exactly disgust. Every time I ran into him in the hallway or found him eating breakfast in his underwear and T-shirt, I felt my pussy tighten without permission, as if my body had an opinion my mind refused to hear.

I had noticed it at the introduction dinner, thirteen months earlier. Ernesto shook my hand when we were introduced and let go with a calm that did not match how long the handshake lasted. Andrés didn’t notice anything. Graciela didn’t either. But I did notice the corner of his mouth when he finally withdrew his hand, that small, controlled gesture that was meant for no one but me.

Since then, the two of us had been very careful. Polite, distant, proper at all times. The perfect daughter-in-law and the perfect father-in-law, with no apparent reason for anyone to suspect anything at all.

Four days of family vacation were putting that to the test in ways I hadn’t anticipated.

***

That morning we had all gone down to the beach after breakfast. The sun beat hard on the white sand and Andrés had fallen asleep under the orange umbrella with a magazine over his face, as he always did when he’d stayed out too late the night before. His brothers were playing with the kids by the shore. Graciela was reading.

Ernesto was in the water, waist-deep, with his back to everyone. He wasn’t doing anything. He was just staring at the horizon with that posture of a man used to waiting without getting nervous. His swim trunks clung to his hard ass, and I had spent too long watching the water slide down his back and disappear beneath the fabric.

When I realized I’d been watching him without meaning to for several minutes, I shook my head irritably and got to my feet.

“I’m going up for a moment to get my phone,” I said to no one in particular, though the only one who heard me was Andrés, who muttered something unintelligible without opening his eyes.

I walked across the hot sand toward the house. I focused on the burn under my bare feet, on the sound of the waves, on the message I had to answer. On anything that wasn’t the image of Ernesto standing in the water with his wet shoulders shining under the midday sun.

I pushed the door open and stepped into the cool interior.

He was inside.

Standing by the kitchen bar, a towel draped over one shoulder and a glass of water in his hand. He looked at me without moving when I came in. That was all: he looked at me, unhurried, with that calm he had about everything and that drove me crazy precisely because of that, because it wasn’t the calm of someone who feels nothing.

“I thought you were in the water,” I said.

“I came up before you did.”

I nodded. I crossed into the living room, looking for the phone I’d left on the side table before going down. I was very clear that I needed to find it quickly and go back to the beach. I was very clear about everything, in theory.

I heard his steps behind me.

“Sofía.”

I turned around. He was right there, much closer than I expected and much closer than any father-in-law should ever be to his daughter-in-law. The glass of water had disappeared at some point without my noticing.

“What?” I asked. It came out lower than I wanted.

He didn’t answer right away. He studied my face with that expression I had learned not to meet head-on, because when I did something twisted in my stomach in a way I wasn’t quite sure how to classify.

“You’ve been looking at me for four days,” he said at last. It wasn’t a question.

I opened my mouth to deny it. To say something sharp and irrefutable that would put distance between us and end this conversation before it went somewhere with no possible way back.

Nothing came out.

Ernesto took another step. He lifted a hand and brushed my jaw with his knuckles, slowly, as if he had all the time in the world and no doubt about what he was doing. He trailed his fingers down my neck, to my collarbone, and kept going over the wet fabric of my bikini until he grazed a nipple, which hardened instantly, betraying me.

“Stop,” I whispered. It was what I was supposed to say.

“Do you want me to stop?”

It was the right question, and he knew it. And I knew, in that exact moment, that I wasn’t going to be able to answer honestly, because the honest answer was too uncomfortable to say out loud in that living room, with Andrés asleep two hundred meters away under the orange umbrella.

He caught my wrist with a firmness that left no room for ambiguity and led me to the back wall of the living room, unhurried but without asking my opinion either. He planted one flat hand on the plaster beside my head and leaned down until his mouth was only centimeters from my ear.

“From the first time he brought you home,” he said in a low voice, “I knew. And you knew too, from that same night.”

I shivered. I wanted to tell him he was wrong. That this was madness. That his whole family was two hundred meters away.

“Andrés is on the beach,” I said.

“I know,” he replied, not moving a single centimeter.

And then he kissed me.

It wasn’t a tentative kiss or a careful exploration. It was the kiss of someone who has been holding something back for too long and has made the decision, in a concrete and irreversible moment, to stop holding back. He shoved his tongue into my mouth with hunger, found mine with his, sucked my lower lip until it hurt. He crushed me against the wall with the weight of his body, and I felt, without any possible doubt, the hard cock pressed against my stomach through the still-damp swim trunks. I did absolutely nothing to stop it. On the contrary: I opened my legs a little and pressed myself against him, and that tiny involuntary movement was the full confession I had spent thirteen months denying.

When he broke the kiss and looked at me, his eyes had a darkness I had never seen before.

“I’m not going to ask your permission for anything,” he said. “And you’re not going to want me to.”

Something tightened in me in a way that wasn’t exactly fear. It was something adjacent to fear, superficially mimicking it, but deep down completely different. Something that embarrassed me to admit precisely because I recognized it without any effort.

He slid a hand down my side and pushed his fingers under the bikini bottoms without asking. He thrust two fingers straight between my lips and found me dripping.

“Look at you,” he murmured against my ear. “You’re soaked. You’ve been soaked for four days because of me, haven’t you?”

I couldn’t answer. He drove his fingers in to the knuckle and moved them slowly, searching for my exact spot, and when he found it I arched against the wall with a gasp that betrayed everything I had been holding in for so long.

“Answer me,” he said, even lower. “That’s right, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I whispered.

“Louder.”

“Yes,” I repeated, and hated myself for how easily the word escaped me.

He pulled his fingers out and held them in front of my mouth, shining with my wetness.

“Suck them.”

I parted my lips and he shoved both fingers all the way in. I sucked on myself on his hand with my eyes locked on his, tasting the salty thickness mixed with the sea salt he’d brought in on his skin, and he watched me suck them with a calm, approving expression that humiliated me and turned me on in equal measure.

“Good girl.”

He turned me to face the wall with a firm hand on my hip. I stayed facing the white plaster, palms braced on it, and felt his fingers undo the knot of my bikini top in the back and then the bottoms, with a decisiveness that tolerated no argument. The wet fabric fell to my feet and I stood naked for him in the living room of his own house, with his wife and son at the beach. I knew I could move, I could say no, he would stop. I knew that somewhere rational in my head. But I didn’t move and I didn’t say anything, and that was also a perfectly clear answer for both of us.

“Good,” he murmured behind me, with a calm approval that gave me a warmth I was ashamed of in real time.

He put a large hand on the back of my neck, applying pressure that told me exactly how much room I had. Very little. Almost none. The pressure wasn’t violence, it was precision: I knew the difference between the two in my body even if I couldn’t have explained it in words. With his other hand he spread my ass and ran his thumb along my slit from top to bottom, pausing a second over my asshole before lowering it to sink into my cunt.

“I’ve been thinking about this for months,” he said against my neck. “About how you were going to suck my cock. About how you were going to spread your legs for me the second you had an excuse.”

“Ernesto...”

“Shut up. Kneel.”

He turned me again, this time facing him, and pushed me down with a hand on my shoulder. I dropped to my knees on the cool tiles of the living room. He yanked his wet swim trunks down to his thighs in one motion and his cock sprang free, thick, hard, the tip already shining. It was bigger than Andrés’s. Thicker, heavier, with veins standing out along the shaft and the head swollen and purplish from how long he’d been holding back. He grabbed it by the base and put it against my lips.

“Open.”

I opened. He pushed it in halfway and then a little more, and then a little more, until I felt the tip brushing the back of my throat and had to cling to his thighs so I wouldn’t choke. He looked down at me with the same calm as always, as if he were teaching me something important, and began moving his hips slowly, fucking my mouth at a pace he set and I endured.

“That’s it,” he said. “Use your tongue. Suck it properly. Like a good daughter-in-law.”

The word went through me like a hot lash. I ran my tongue under the shaft every time it came out, sucked the tip with my lips tight around it, swallowed it again as far as I could. My eyes filled with spit and tears and I felt a string of it dripping down my chin to my tits, still trapped in the top half of the bikini he couldn’t be bothered to take off. He yanked it loose from behind my neck and it fell too, and I was left on my knees with my tits bare and his cock in my mouth, and in that instant I understood there was no version of this morning in which I could go back to the beach as the same person who had come up to get a phone.

“Look at me while you suck it.”

I lifted my eyes. His jaw was tight and his breathing a little heavier, but otherwise he was still the same calm man with the glass of water. That was what got to me most: that he didn’t even lose his composure while I was coming apart in his living room.

He pulled his cock out of my mouth with a yank of my hair, a wet snap, a string of saliva that joined my lower lip to the tip for a second before breaking.

“Stand up. Face the wall. Open your legs.”

I obeyed without thinking. I braced myself against the plaster again with my palms, arched my back, stuck my ass out for him. I felt obscene and I didn’t care. I heard him take off his swim trunks completely, heard his bare steps coming up behind me. He put one hand on the back of my neck again, another on my hip, and set me where he wanted me, with my chin against the wall and my cunt open and offered.

He buried himself in me in one thrust.

A strangled cry escaped me and bounced off the empty living room walls. He was too big, he went in too much, he filled me entirely in a way I hadn’t felt filled in a long time. He went still inside me for an instant, breathing at the nape of my neck, letting me feel every centimeter.

“This is how I wanted you,” he murmured. “Strung on my cock. Quiet. Taking it.”

And he started fucking me.

What followed had nothing delicate about it. Delicacy wasn’t what either of us was looking for in that living room at midday. It was intense and direct and had that specific quality of things that have been repressed for so long that when they finally happen they’ve accumulated too much pressure to be calm. He slammed into me to the hilt with blunt thrusts that made my forehead smack the wall, and every time he came almost all the way out I clenched my cunt around him trying to keep him in, and every time he drove back in a gasp escaped me that he silenced by covering my mouth with his hand.

“Shhh. Graciela is still reading downstairs. Andrés is still asleep. Do you want them to come up and see why you’re screaming?”

I shook my head without being able to speak. He pressed his hand harder over my mouth and sped up. The sound of our bodies slamming together filled the living room, wet, obscene, impossible to mistake for anything else.

Ernesto decided every movement and I followed him, and there was something in that dynamic that felt completely alien to how I functioned in any other context in my life. I wasn’t thinking. I was only feeling. Feeling his cock splitting me open, his fingers digging into the flesh of my hip, his hot breath on my neck, his other hand sliding up my stomach to seize one breast and pinch my nipple until I howled against his palm.

Every time I tried to take any initiative, he stopped me. He held my wrists against the wall above my head, yanked my posture into place by the waist, made me lean farther forward, stick my ass out more, give him a better angle. He set the pace with a calm that made me more nervous than any urgency could have. I stopped trying anything and surrendered to that control in a way I would never have predicted.

“Still,” he said, and I stayed still with his cock inside me and my legs shaking.

“Like that,” he said, arching my back with his palm at the base of my spine, and I obeyed without thinking.

“Open more,” he said, and I spread my feet another handspan on the tiles and gave him access all the way in.

There was something unexpectedly freeing about not having to decide anything. About letting someone else carry every movement, every consequence. I understood it in that moment in a concrete, physical way I hadn’t been able to grasp any other way.

He yanked his cock out of me and turned me again, roughly. He lifted one leg, hooked it over his hip, and buried himself in me from the front, pinning me against the wall with his whole body. Now I could see his face while he fucked me. I could see his dark eyes locked on mine, his jaw clenched, sweat beginning to shine at his temple. He reached a hand between us and found my clit with his thumb, drawing exact circles in the same rhythm as his thrusts, and I felt everything building in my belly in a way I wasn’t going to be able to hold much longer.

“Look toward the window,” he ordered at one point. “So you know exactly where your boyfriend is while you come for me.”

I didn’t want to look. I looked anyway. Through the glass you could see the calm blue of the sea and the strip of yellow sand and, somewhere out there, the orange umbrella under which Andrés was still sleeping, oblivious to everything. My heart kicked hard. It was a mixture of things I didn’t want to name separately because naming them meant understanding too clearly what I was doing.

“Say it,” he panted against my mouth, without stopping. “Say where you are. Say who you’re with.”

“With you,” I whispered.

“With your father-in-law. Say it.”

“With my father-in-law.”

“Good girl. Now come on your father-in-law’s cock while your boyfriend sleeps on the beach. Go on.”

I came. I came with a force that blinded me for a second, clinging to his shoulders, my teeth buried in my own lip so I wouldn’t scream. I felt my cunt clench around him in waves, tightening, milking him, and he kept thrusting through the whole orgasm without giving me a second’s respite, stretching it out to an almost painful point.

“You can’t,” I whispered, not even sure what exactly I was declaring impossible.

“I already am,” he replied, with a calm that unsettled me more than any urgency could have.

He pulled out, made me drop to my knees again with a yank on my hair, and shoved his cock into my mouth. A couple more thrusts in my throat and he blew. I felt the first hot spurt hit the back of my palate, and then another, and another, and he held my head with both hands so I couldn’t move it, forcing me to swallow every last bit. The cum filled my mouth, thick, salty, and I choked a little when the last burst landed on my tongue.

“Swallow it. All of it.”

I swallowed. A couple of times, with effort. When he finally pulled his now-soft cock out of my mouth, he brushed his thumb along the corner of my lip, collecting a drop that had escaped, and put it back in for me to lick too. I did it without breaking eye contact with him.

When we reached the limit of what either of us could sustain, it had been with an intensity that left my lungs empty of air. I felt the control the two of us had built so carefully over all those months collapse, and the collapse was exactly as intense as I had imagined it would be in the moments when I allowed myself to imagine it.

Afterward there was a silence that lasted several seconds.

Neither of us spoke.

I put my bikini back together with hands that took a while to work normally again. His cum was still dripping inside my thighs, and I wiped whatever I could from my chin with the back of my hand. He moved to the other side of the room, picked up the towel from the floor where it had fallen at some point without either of us noticing, and stood with his back to me for a moment, pulling up his swim trunks with an obscenely ordinary calm.

“You need to go back down,” he said at last. His voice was completely normal, as if nothing had happened.

“I know.”

“Andrés is going to ask about you if you take much longer.”

“I know,” I repeated.

I found the phone where I’d left it, on the living room side table, exactly where it should have been from the start and where I could have reached it, taken it, and gone back down in under two minutes if things had gone the way I’d planned when I walked through that door.

I walked toward the exit.

“Sofía.”

I stopped but didn’t turn around.

“Tonight, when Andrés falls asleep, you come down to the kitchen. Understood?”

“Graciela...”

“She sleeps with earplugs and pills. I’ve known that for twenty years. You come down to the kitchen.”

I swallowed. I could still taste him in my mouth.

“All right.”

“This isn’t over.”

I didn’t answer. I opened the door and stepped out into the sunlight, which flooded everything with that bright indifference summer midday has toward whatever happens beneath it.

I walked back to the beach. The sand burned under my feet. With each step I could feel his cum still leaking inside my thighs and the sting between my legs from being fucked too hard and too fast. In the distance, Andrés was still asleep under the orange umbrella with the magazine over his face. His brothers were still in the water with the children. Graciela looked up from her book when I approached and smiled at me.

“Did you find your phone?”

“Yes,” I answered, and sat beside Andrés with a naturalness that surprised even me.

Nothing had changed on the beach. The sea was still the same calm blue sea. The umbrella cast the same shadow. The heat was the same eleven-in-the-morning heat it had been when I went down.

Ernesto came down ten minutes later. He crossed the sand without hurrying, greeted Graciela with a brief hand on the shoulder, and went straight into the water without looking in any particular direction.

I set the phone face-down on the towel and closed my eyes. Under the sun no one saw anything. I was still Andrés’s girlfriend, on a family vacation, sunbathing on a beach. That was all anyone looking at me from the outside could have said about me.

But I knew, with an uncomfortable and perfectly clear certainty, that Ernesto was right.

This wasn’t going to end there.