Forty-Eight Hours Under Her Orders

Irene placed the last plate in the drying rack and dried her hands on the kitchen towel. She glanced at the microwave clock: eleven twenty. The kids had left at nine with their grandmother, who was taking them to the house in the village until Sunday afternoon. Forty-eight hours. She did the math slowly, almost greedily, like someone slipping a banknote into a pocket and checking it was still there.

She found Andrés in the living room, sunk into the sofa with his phone in one hand and the television on something he wasn’t even watching. He looked up when she appeared in the doorway.

—What are you doing?

—Nothing. Looking at stupid stuff.

Irene leaned against the doorframe and watched him for a moment. He was wearing faded sweatpants and a T-shirt with a coffee stain on the chest. He hadn’t shaved, and he also hadn’t showered since the day before. None of that bothered her. On the contrary.

—Come here.

Andrés set the phone on the little table and stood up. He didn’t ask what for. He crossed the living room and stopped a step from her, arms hanging at his sides, waiting. Irene ran her gaze over him without trying to hide it: the gray streaking ahead at his temples, the belly that had started to show after forty, the house slippers with the crushed heel.

—Take your clothes off.

He obeyed without haste, because he knew haste irritated her. First the T-shirt, then the pants, then the underwear. He stood there in the middle of the living room, hands at his sides, not trying to cover himself. Irene didn’t move. She let the silence stretch until he had to draw a deep breath to bear it.

—Let’s see if you’ve shaved properly.

She came closer and ran her hand over his jaw, his neck, down to his chest. She touched him like someone examining an item before deciding whether to buy it. Her fingers lingered at his navel, kept moving downward, circled his cock without quite taking hold of it, and closed for an instant around his balls. Andrés held his breath when she squeezed.

—You left hair here.

—Sorry. I forgot.

—You forget everything. You’re useless.

The word dropped without emphasis, like a fact about the weather or the time. Irene let go and turned away.

—To the bedroom. And get a towel from the closet.

Andrés walked after her, naked, his erection growing with every step. He knew he wasn’t supposed to touch it. He knew it by heart, just as he knew where the towels were and which drawer she kept her underwear in. He went into the room, opened the closet, and chose the oldest towel, the blue-striped one they no longer used for guests. Irene had sat on the edge of the bed with her phone in hand, typing a reply to someone. He folded the towel, spread it on the floor at her feet, and knelt on it.

Irene finished typing and set the phone face down on the nightstand. She looked at him for a long time: kneeling, hands on his thighs, head slightly bowed. They had been doing that for years. Not every day, not even every week. Just enough for the two of them to know the motions without needing to explain them. It had started almost like a game, one ordinary night, and it had gradually settled into something else, into a domestic truth no outsider would have understood.

—Do you like being like that?

—Yes.

—Why?

—Because you let me.

Irene gave a short laugh, almost a snort.

—It’s not that I let you. It’s that you’re good for nothing else.

Andrés swallowed. His erection throbbed against the air.

—Take my pants off.

He leaned in and undid the loose knot of the lounge pants. He lowered them carefully, pulling each leg down so she barely had to lift her hips. Her panties were white cotton, the kind that came in a three-pack from the supermarket. The waistband had gone a little slack.

—The panties too.

Andrés slid them downward. Irene raised her hips to help him. Then he saw it: the dark hair, the closed lips, a smell he recognized without thinking. She hadn’t washed since morning, and his pulse sped up precisely because of that, because of the lack of ceremony, because of the naturalness with which she showed herself without having prepared for anyone.

—Start.

Andrés leaned forward. He placed his hands on her knees and opened his mouth. The first contact was the hair, rough against his tongue, and then the skin, warm and salty. Irene leaned back on her elbows and spread her legs a little wider.

He worked without haste, as he had been taught by sheer repetition. He licked the outer lips, made his way in with his tongue, searched for the entrance. The taste was intense, with a bitter undertone he knew from other times. She didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. She only breathed, slowly, setting a rhythm he had to follow.

—Lower.

Andrés lowered his tongue, traced the perineum, came back up. He felt the wetness growing beneath his mouth. Irene moved for the first time, adjusting her hips, seeking the exact angle. When he reached the clit, she pressed his head between her thighs.

—There. But softer.

He obeyed at once. Small circles, just a brush, exactly the right pressure. Irene closed her eyes. Her breathing grew deeper and slower. Andrés’s hands trembled against her knees, and not from effort.

—Put a finger in.

He penetrated her with his middle finger without stopping licking. He felt the inner walls, the heat, the way she closed around him. Irene began moving her hips in small circles, marking the beat.

—Another.

Two fingers now. The pace quickened. She gasped once, then again, without raising her voice. Andrés’s jaw ached, but he didn’t stop. He knew perfectly well what happened if he stopped too soon; he knew the price of that mistake.

—Don’t stop.

The orgasm hit her without warning. Irene arched her back, clenched her thighs hard, and let out a low moan, almost a contained growl. Andrés felt the contractions around his fingers and kept going, softening the movement, carrying her through to the end without breaking contact.

When she was done, she stayed still for a moment, eyes closed, chest rising and falling. Andrés remained where he was, fingers still inside, mouth pressed to her, waiting for the order.

—Enough.

He pulled away slowly. His face was shining. Irene sat up on the bed and looked down at him.

—Are you hard?

—Yes.

—Then it’ll have to wait.

She stood up and went to the bathroom. Andrés heard her urinating with the door open, the stream hitting the water, the flush of the toilet. When she came back, she stopped in front of him, who was still kneeling on the towel.

—I’m thirsty —she said—. Go to the kitchen and bring me water.

Andrés got up with effort. His knees creaked. He crossed the hallway naked, turned on the tap, filled a glass, and let the water run until it came out cold, because he knew she wanted it cold. When he returned, Irene was standing by the window, peering at the street through the gap in the blind.

—Give it here.

She drank half and handed it back.

—Finish it yourself.

He drank the rest. She was watching him with her arms crossed.

—Still hard?

—Yes.

—Poor thing. Any real man would’ve gone soft by now.

Andrés lowered his gaze. The erection didn’t ease. If anything, it was firmer than before, fed by humiliation, by every word she carefully chose to place exactly where it hurt most and gave the most pleasure at the same time.

—Lie down on the towel.

He obeyed. He lay on his back, cock pointing at the ceiling, legs slightly apart. Irene came closer and stood beside him, looking at him the way you look at something you’ve decided to use.

—Do you know what I’m going to do?

—No.

—I’m going to piss on you.

Andrés closed his eyes for a second. His stomach tightened, half revulsion, half anticipation, the two things so mixed together he could no longer separate them.

—Look at me.

He opened his eyes. Irene had come closer, with one leg on each side of his body. The hair between her legs was still wet with his saliva.

—Do you like it?

—Yes.

—Say it.

—I like it when you piss on me.

—You’re filthy.

She said it almost tenderly, and that tenderness was what undid him most. Irene bent her knees a little. Andrés saw her lips part before he felt anything. The first stream was a thin, hot thread crossing his chest. Then the flow thickened, soaking his belly, the hair, the erect cock. The smell filled the bedroom, strong and sweet, dense.

She moved forward. The stream climbed up his neck to his chin, to his mouth. Andrés opened it without being told and swallowed what he could. The rest ran down his cheeks, his ears, into his hair.

—Don’t move.

He stayed motionless, soaked, mouth half open and her taste filling him completely. Irene stepped away, looked at her legs, where a couple of drops had splashed, and clicked her tongue.

—I’m going to shower. You stay there.

She left the room. Andrés heard the shower water turn on on the other side of the hall. He stayed on the floor, on the soaked towel, his body trembling between arousal and the cold that was starting to seep into him. His cock was still hard, red, throbbing at its own pace that he couldn’t control.

***

When Irene came back twenty minutes later, with wet hair and a robe buttoned all the way to the neck, he was still in the same position. The liquid had cooled and was starting to dry tautly on his skin.

—Go shower yourself. And then make lunch.

Andrés sat up with difficulty. His legs had gone numb and tingled as he moved.

—Can I…?

—What?

—Can I come?

Irene looked at him. The erection was still there, stubborn, oblivious to everything else.

—Do it yourself. I’m not helping you.

He took his hand to his cock. Three strokes, four. The orgasm came fast, intense, almost painful from how built up it was. Semen spilled onto his belly and mixed with the drying residue. He panted a couple of times and went still, finally empty, breathing in broken gasps.

Irene watched everything from above, without a single gesture.

—Come on, get in the shower already. I’m hungry.

She turned around and left the bedroom. Andrés stayed a moment longer on the towel, looking at a crack in the ceiling he had been promising for years to fix. His body ached. His head, however, floated in a strange, clean calm, as if someone had lifted a weight he hadn’t even realized he’d been carrying all week, in the office, in meetings, in the decisions he made while others watched him waiting for answers.

He thought about the hours ahead. Lunch, the nap, the whole afternoon, the night, the entire Sunday until the kids came back. Forty-eight hours, he told himself, and the number no longer felt like a countdown, but like a gift. He got up slowly and walked to the bathroom, light, ready to obey whatever she decided to ask of him next.