Her Brother-in-Law Was Still in Bed at Dawn

The first light of dawn slipped in through the slats of the blind and cast golden bands across the sheets. Lucía stirred slowly, still half asleep, and instinctively reached her hand toward the other side of the mattress. She expected to find her husband’s warm back.

—Mario… —she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep.

The arm she brushed against was thicker, hotter. She opened her eyes in a flash, and her breath caught. Propped up on one elbow, the sheet barely covering his waist, Damián was watching her with a serenity that bordered on insulting. Beneath the fold of fabric, she could make out the bulge of a cock still half-hard, as if his body were only just coming down from the heat of the night.

—What are you doing here? —Lucía sat up with a jolt, dragging the sheet up to her neck—. My God, Damián, what have we done?

He didn’t move. His hair was tousled, and his three-day beard defined his jaw in a way she had already seen far too close during the night.

—Nothing you didn’t want —he answered slowly.

—Don’t say that. —Her voice trembled, caught between rage and panic—. It can’t have happened. It can’t.

Damián watched her in silence. Without reproach and without haste, he let her look around: the master bedroom, the curtains her mother had given them at the wedding, the photo from their trip to Cádiz above the dresser. Their house. Their bed.

—What time is it? —she asked, taking a hand to her temple—. My head is splitting.

—Quarter to eight. —Damián pointed at the bedside table—. I left you water and an ibuprofen in case you woke up feeling rough. Last night you said you weren’t feeling great.

Lucía took the pill with trembling fingers and drank nearly half the glass in one swallow. The room smelled of stale perfume, sweet wine, and skin. Her own skin. And semen too, with that unmistakable note of sex finished at midnight that didn’t go away even with the window open.

—I don’t remember anything —she whispered, without lifting her gaze—. Just… that we had something after dinner. And then I don’t know.

—We played cards —he said, with a half-smile—. You were very cheerful.

The images started coming back all at once, out of order, like a deck scattered across the floor. The silly laughter. The clumsy hands shuffling the cards. The gold ring sliding down her finger and falling into a glass of Baileys because “that way I’m not cheating, Damián, that way I can’t fool you.” And then the mouth, hers and his, and her tongue tracing a body she shouldn’t have known.

She remembered, with a clarity that burned her cheeks, the moment she had knelt on the living room rug, her skirt hiked up to her hips and her panties hanging from one ankle. How she had unbuttoned his jeans and pulled out his cock with both hands, startled by how hard and thick Damián was compared to Mario. She remembered taking the whole thing into her mouth, choking, and how he had gripped the back of her neck to shove her face deeper and fuck her slowly against her palate. The saliva running down her chin. The salty taste of the head every time she let him go to breathe. Her own voice, hoarse and filthy, telling him, “Like that, give it all to me, don’t stop.”

—God… —Lucía brought a hand to her mouth.

More images came, too sharp to be invented. Her legs spread on the sofa, the ache in the hip she’d had operated on last year. Damián kneeling between her thighs, eating her cunt with a calm that had shattered her nerves: his tongue flat against her clit, his fingers parting her labia, then two fingers sliding in and out slowly until he found the spot that had arched her back. She remembered coming in his mouth, screaming his name, her legs shaking and her hands clutching his hair. And then, when he stood up with his beard shining with her juices, she remembered begging him to put it in already.

The stinging sensation, faint, in another place where she had never let anyone in and where he had been three times because she had asked him to herself. She remembered getting on all fours on the bed, Damián spitting on his fingers to lubricate her ass, the first thrust slow, very slow, and the burn that made her moan into the pillow. How he had pushed his cock into her centimeter by centimeter, gripping her hips, until he filled her completely. “Take it, my little pig, take it,” he had whispered. And she had taken it. And in the end, when it hurt too much, the switch of hole: the cock slipping out of her ass with a wet sound and going back into her cunt in one single shove. And inside, with nothing to stop it, until she felt the hot load spilling deep inside her belly.

Tears sprang to her eyes without warning.

Damián sat up, put an arm around her shoulders, and drew her in slowly. She resisted for two seconds. Then she let him.

—Easy —he murmured against her ear—. Breathe.

Lucía closed her eyes and rested her forehead against his collarbone. Her pulse began to steady with a slowness that frightened her more than the rest, because it proved that body felt familiar to her. That it wasn’t the first time she had leaned there. She also noticed something much more specific: his semen still leaking down the inside of her thigh, warm, sticky, as they held each other.

—I only remember bits —she said, without pulling away.

—Don’t force anything. It’ll come back on its own.

They stayed like that for a long while, until the light began to gild the back wall too and the birds in the courtyard grew noisy with their racket. Then she pulled away, found an old T-shirt on the chair, and pulled it over her head.

***

As soon as she put her foot on the floor, a stab in her hip forced her to stifle a groan. She clenched her teeth and took a hand to her side as she made her way to the bathroom. She could feel her cunt swollen, her ass stinging, her nipples irritated from having been sucked and bitten so much during the night.

The mirror showed her no mercy. Lucía saw herself reflected as another woman: mascara smeared, last night’s lipstick still stuck at the corner of her mouth, her hair frizzed into unruly strands, the skin of her neck marked by a bite she would have to cover somehow, and her breasts crossed by purple hickeys and red finger marks. She pressed her lips together. That wasn’t her.

She lifted her T-shirt in front of the mirror and looked herself over from bottom to top. On the inside of her thighs there were dry, shiny traces. She slid two fingers between her legs, afraid, and pulled them out sticky. She brought them to her nose without being able to help herself: they smelled like him. Her stomach tightened and at the same time something between her legs clenched that she didn’t know how to name.

She turned on the shower and stepped under the warm stream. Water slid over her shoulders, over her collarbones, over her small breasts and over the hips so many years of gym had shaped to her liking. She soaped herself furiously, as if she could scrub Damián off her until he disappeared. She parted her cunt with her fingers and let the hot water run inside, feeling what he had left there gush out. She washed her ass slowly, almost reverently, because it burned. When she came out, the marks on her neck were still there.

She dried herself, tied her hair up patiently, put on light makeup, and dressed in a white blouse and pale jeans. A few drops of her usual perfume —jasmine and musk— finished restoring the version of herself she knew how to hold together: the woman who never lost control.

She went downstairs.

The living room was waiting for her in all its chaos: two sticky crystal glasses, a bottle of Baileys half-finished, the cards scattered across the rug, and the sofa wrecked as if an earthquake had slept on top of it. On one cushion, a dark stain that Lucía identified without needing to go closer: her own fluids, mixed with his. She pressed her lips together and started tidying without saying a word.

The smell of freshly brewed coffee brought her back. Damián was watching her from the kitchen doorway, barefoot, in jeans fastened badly and holding a cup in each hand. Through the half-open fly, she could make out his patch of hair and the base of his cock, and she had to look away quickly.

—Good morning —he said, offering her one—. I thought something strong might do you good.

She hesitated a second. Then she crossed the room, accepted the cup, and sat on one of the island stools. Damián settled down opposite her.

The silence between them wasn’t tense, it was dense. As if every word were lining up at the door. Damián had that half-smile she was already beginning to fear, the one that said nothing and implied everything.

Lucía spoke first, without looking at him:

—I can’t find my ring.

—Oh, really? —Damián feigned surprise between sips—. Maybe it decided to take a vacation.

—It’s not funny.

—Depends how you look at it. A wedding ring that disappears right after an afternoon like that seems more like a metaphor.

She set the cup down on the counter with a sharp tap.

—You’re an idiot.

—I know. —He shrugged—. But I’m an idiot with a good memory. I remember perfectly where I saw it last.

—Where?

—In a glass of Baileys. Very symbolic, if you think about it.

Lucía’s expression hardened for half a second. Then, unable to help herself, a smile escaped at the corner of her mouth. She turned her head to hide it.

—You’re impossible.

—And you’re too proud to admit you like the way I think —he replied, edging one finger closer—. And the way I fuck.

—I don’t like you that much.

—You lie terribly, Lucía. Last night you asked me not to stop. Those exact words.

—I’m not lying.

—Then look me in the eye when you say it.

She did, lifting her chin. But Damián’s gaze, too calm, undid her. She felt her pulse in her temples, in her neck, in places she preferred not to name at half past eight in the morning: in the nipples that had gone hard under her blouse, in the cunt that had grown wet again despite the sting.

—Damián… —she started, but didn’t finish the sentence.

He didn’t wait. He leaned in slowly and brushed her lips. Just long enough to taste coffee and the rest of her perfume. She didn’t pull away. She closed her eyes, opened her mouth a little, and accepted the surrender without knowing what she was signing up to.

The kiss, which had begun lightly, deepened. Damián pushed his tongue all the way in and she sucked on it as if she were sucking on something else. Lucía set the cup aside and yanked at his shirt collar to pull him closer. He spread her legs under the counter, slid between her knees, and pressed her cunt over the jeans with the whole palm of his hand. Lucía moaned into his mouth before she could stop herself. She didn’t think about rings or excuses. She thought that the world, for a moment, had returned to the right speed.

—Feel that —he whispered in her ear, rubbing the seam of her crotch with two fingers—. You’re already soaked and I haven’t even touched you inside yet.

—Shut up…

—Do you remember last night, little pig? How you sucked me off on the rug?

—Shut up, fuck —she repeated, mouth open and eyes closed.

He unbuttoned her jeans and pulled the zipper down. He slipped a hand into her panties and found exactly what he expected. He ran his middle finger up and down the lips of her cunt, not pressing. Lucía threw her head back and gripped the edge of the stool.

—Look at you —he murmured—. Dripping again.

He sank one finger in slowly, to the knuckle. She jerked and spread her knees wider. Damián pushed in another. He started moving them inside with a slow rhythm, curving them upward, searching for the spot that had driven her wild on the sofa hours earlier. Lucía bit her lip to keep from crying out. With his other hand he lifted her blouse and caught one nipple between thumb and forefinger, twisting it slowly.

—Damián, please…

—Please what?

—Please…

When they broke apart, she was breathing with her mouth open and her cheeks red.

—You’re an asshole —she whispered, but her smile no longer wanted to hide.

—Yeah. But it seems you like assholes.

They kissed again, this time more urgently. Her hands slipped under his shirt, his went down her back to grip her waist and press her against the stool. Lucía felt the bulge against her thigh and knew that if she didn’t stop then and there, she was going to give in again. She unzipped his fly herself and pulled his hard cock out of his boxer briefs with urgent clumsiness. She wrapped her hand around it and started jerking him slowly, feeling the swollen vein throbbing against her palm. Damián let out his breath sharply. She briefly thought of getting down on her knees again and taking him in her mouth right there in the kitchen. And then she remembered the phone.

She had left it turned off since the afternoon before, on top of the sideboard. She pulled away from Damián with almost physical effort, took her hand out of his panties herself, crossed the living room while pulling up her jeans, plugged in the charger and pressed the button. The screen blinked twice before lighting up.

***

Eight missed calls. All from Mario.

Lucía’s throat went dry. She dialed the number with clumsy fingers and brought the phone to her ear, still tasting Damián between her teeth and smelling cunt on the tips of her fingers.

—Mario, darling —she said, in a sweeter tone than necessary.

—At last! —Her husband’s voice sounded more tired than angry—. I’ve been trying to reach you since last night. Where had you got to?

—I don’t know what happened to the phone —she improvised, turning around so she wouldn’t see Damián—. It must have switched off by itself. I swear I hadn’t noticed.

—Well, never mind. You can charge it now, because I’m on my way.

Lucía went very still.

—What do you mean, on your way?

—I finally managed to bring my return forward. I’ll be home in half an hour.

The air thickened. She looked at the half-tidied living room, the sticky glasses, the sagging sofa, the bottle of Baileys on the rug. The smell of coffee mixed with a perfume that wasn’t hers and with that of a male who had spent the night fucking her.

—Perfect, I’ll be waiting —she replied, with a smile he couldn’t see and that nevertheless had cracks running through it.

She hung up. She stood frozen for two seconds. Then she turned toward Damián, who still had his cock out, gleaming with her juices.

—You’ve got half an hour —she said, almost in a whisper—. Get dressed and go. And put that away, for fuck’s sake.

He raised an eyebrow, unruffled. He tucked his cock away calmly, as if he hadn’t just had it inside his wife.

—That doesn’t leave much room.

—No room for jokes or anything else. Help me, please.

Damián smiled slowly, clearly savoring her panic. But he stood up and came over to her. Before moving, he lifted the sticky glass from the living room and tilted it. At the bottom, trapped among the remains of liquor, the gold ring peered out.

—Maybe you should put this on first.

Lucía looked at him with a mix of irritation and relief. She took the ring, rinsed it under the tap, and slipped it onto her finger with the same speed with which she had taken it off hours earlier. The skin beneath was white and slightly indented, as if it had slept without it longer than it was willing to admit.

***

They hurriedly cleaned up together. Damián washed the breakfast glasses and dried them. She shook out the sofa cushions, turned over the one with the stain, gathered the cards, and tossed the nearly empty bottle into the glass bin. On the floor, beside the armchair, her hand bumped into a wrapper she recognized instantly. She picked it up with two fingers.

And the moment she had it between her fingers, another scene came back to her in a flash: the condom on at the beginning, slipping inside her when he had turned her over to fuck her from behind, and him tearing it off with his teeth and throwing it to the floor with a “I feel you better like this.” She remembered the exact second she had felt his bare cock enter her cunt for the first time in years that wasn’t Mario’s. The heat. The scratch of guilty pleasure. How she had braced herself on her elbows, ass lifted, to wordlessly ask him to keep going. And the end, with him pressed against her back, grabbing her tits from underneath, coming inside with two, three deep thrusts while he growled in her ear, “All yours, little pig, all yours.” The hot jet climbing up deep into her belly. Her coming again, milking his cock with her cunt, without even realizing it.

Lucía felt the blush rise up her neck. She wrapped it in a piece of paper and hid it at the bottom of the trash can, under the coffee grounds.

Damián called her from the hall. He was already shod, with his leather jacket on and his helmet in his hand.

—I’m going.

Lucía set the bin back in place and went over. He wrapped his arms around her, placed his hands at the base of her back and, in a very slow descent, let them close over her hips. Then he slid one down to her ass over the jeans and squeezed it until she rose onto her toes. She curled against his chest.

For an instant she thought about whether she would have time to send him off with her mouth right there in the hallway. She imagined herself kneeling on the doormat, pulling his cock out of his pants again, sucking him off quickly and swallowing whatever he gave her. She didn’t dare. The risk was too obvious, and the image of Mario opening the door right then was enough to stop her.

They pulled apart just enough to look at each other. Damián pressed his forehead to hers and slid two fingers inside the waistband of her jeans from behind, until they brushed the base of her ass.

—Don’t forget —she murmured—. I need this to keep going.

—Easy, my pretty little pig —he answered, very softly—. This cunt is mine too now. And that little ass. And take care of that hip in the meantime, because next time I’m going to wreck it completely.

He kissed her softly, without hurry, and bit her lower lip just before letting go. Then he put on his helmet, opened the door, and took the stairs two at a time.

Lucía remained on the landing, her back against the wall and her legs instinctively closing over the pulse still beating between her thighs. She heard the motorcycle engine start and fade away down the street. She smiled despite herself.

***

Mario arrived twenty minutes later, with his suitcase half-closed and his face tired from the trip. As soon as he heard the door, she went to him with that mixture of affection and flirtation that had worked for years.

—Hi, darling. —She put her arms around his neck—. I’m glad you got back earlier.

—Me too, actually —he said, letting himself be hugged—. The meeting was canceled first thing and I caught the first train.

Lucía helped him with his jacket, gave him a long kiss, and walked with him into the living room, which already looked like the living room always did. Mario sank onto the sofa, sighed, and pulled her toward him. She sat astride him and rested her forehead against his, feeling under her ass her husband’s cock beginning to stir in his trousers.

—I missed you —she said halfway, because it wasn’t entirely a lie.

He laughed, slid his hands under her blouse, and kissed her neck, right above the mark Lucía had covered with concealer less than an hour earlier. Mario didn’t see it. She drew in a deep breath and kissed him back, rolling her hips against his bulge with a brazenness that drew a surprised moan from him.

Things drifted toward the bedroom without either of them fully deciding it. Lucía undressed him slowly, kneeling at the foot of the bed, and took his cock in her mouth with a new technique Mario hadn’t seen in years: deep throat, her tongue working his frenulum, her eyes looking up. He tangled his fingers in her hair, not daring to push, and let out a “fuck, Lucía” that sounded like gratitude and alarm in equal measure.

After that she climbed on top of him and sank down slowly, feeling her husband’s cock entering a cunt that was still red and sensitive from the previous one. She moved up and down with her hands braced on his chest, squeezing her sex around him, fucking him with a rhythm Mario had never set. She asked him to smack her ass, something she had never asked before. Mario, awkward and delighted, obeyed. She came riding him, mouth open and eyes closed, thinking of fingers and a breath that weren’t the ones inside her.

When he fell asleep against her shoulder, exhausted from the trip and from pleasure, with his semen still leaking between her legs mixed with what of Damián was still inside her, Lucía stared at the ceiling for a long while.

In the days that followed, Mario would notice something new in her. He would find her more compliant, more attentive, less prickly. Dirtier in bed, too. He would joke with his friends saying his wife had come back affectionate from her weekend alone. And she would smile without answering.

What Mario didn’t know was that that change wasn’t for him.