I Cheated on My Boyfriend with His Married Uncle

I met Damián three months before that gathering, in a bar I went to with my friends. He was my age, handsome, well-spoken, and made me laugh. The problem showed up quickly: by the second date he was already asking who I’d spoken to at the office, and by the fourth he was checking my phone while pretending to be distracted. I let it go because I was physically attracted to him and because he invited me everywhere. But every week I put up with him less and less.

When he told me that his godmother was celebrating her birthday and that the whole family was getting together at an estate outside town, I agreed to go because I couldn’t find a reasonable excuse to refuse. In the car, on the way to the house, he explained the protocol: I was to say we were friends, nothing more. We’d been seeing each other for almost four months, but according to him his mother was «very intense» and he preferred to avoid questions. It annoyed me. A lot. Not because of the lie itself, but because of how easily he said it, as if I were something that could be put away in a drawer whenever it was convenient. I didn’t answer him. I took the opportunity to start saying goodbye to him in my head.

—You’re coming in with me, I’ll introduce you to everyone, and then you can move around on your own —he said, lowering the window.

—Okay —I answered.

The estate was enormous, with tall trees and long tables set up beneath a pergola. We arrived after the party had already begun. Damián kept his word: he introduced me as Camila, a friend, and left me in the kitchen with his aunts while he went off to greet the men at the other end of the garden.

I liked the aunts. One of them sat me on a bench and immediately offered me wine without asking me anything. Another started telling me family gossip without a filter, as if she’d known me all her life. By the second glass I was laughing freely, listening to stories about weddings, feuding cousins, and a badly divided inheritance. Then they set up some card games to «bring the men into the group,» and suddenly I found myself at the center of a crowd where everyone talked to me, everyone served me drinks, and everyone looked for excuses to touch my lower back or put an arm around my waist. It wasn’t aggressive; it was that kind of flirtation people indulge in after they’ve had enough to loosen up but not enough to go too far. I let myself be carried away. It was much more fun than standing next to possessive Damián.

On one of those trips to the kitchen for ice, someone approached me from behind. He smelled of an expensive woody cologne, different from everyone else’s. When I turned, I found myself facing a tall man with a very short beard, gray at the temples, and dark eyes that looked me over without bothering to hide it.

—My nephew has good taste in friends —he said with a half smile.

—I’m Camila —I replied, holding his gaze longer than necessary.

—Ernesto. His maternal uncle. —He leaned in as if he were going to kiss my cheek, but left something in my closed hand instead. A folded slip of paper—. Keep it. Don’t open it here.

And he left, as if nothing had happened, to greet another group.

I opened it in the bathroom. It was a phone number and a single word: «later». I tucked it inside my bra, touched up my lipstick, and went back into the garden as if nothing had happened.

***

That night, when Damián dropped me off at my house, I said goodbye quickly, with a dry kiss. I didn’t answer the good-night message that arrived twenty minutes later. I went upstairs to my room, took off my shoes, and grabbed the slip of paper.

I wrote him two lines with my name, nothing more. The reply came a while later: «I’ll write when I can. Don’t message me, you wait».

I waited two days. On the third, in the middle of the afternoon, I received a brief message from another number, with his name. We talked for an hour. He told me he was married, that there could be no surprises, that all he wanted was an affair without demands, and that if I accepted those rules, we would get along well. I asked him what I got out of it. He answered in three words: «Whatever you want».

I thought about the list of things I’d wanted for months but couldn’t afford on my internship salary. I sent him a link to a lingerie shop downtown. A little while later he sent me a transfer, an amount that covered the set and quite a bit more. «Buy whatever makes you feel good. I want you to wear something new the day you come over».

I spent the rest of the week with my mind somewhere else. Damián didn’t notice anything because Damián didn’t notice anything. I answered his messages with monosyllables, accepted his invitations, and left early. Inside, I was doing the math: how many days were left, what I was going to wear over the lingerie, how I was going to leave the house without arousing suspicion.

The plan I came up with was simple. I asked Damián to pick me up one Saturday afternoon. My parents saw him and waved from the window, pleased that «my boyfriend» was looking after me. We went to the park where he met up with his friends. I lasted half an hour, then started picking a fight with him over something minor, some stupid thing I don’t even remember. I pretended to be hurt, told him I needed to be alone, and walked to a large avenue. At the corner I opened my chat with Ernesto and let him know. Ten minutes later I had a paid taxi waiting for me.

***

His house was in a neighborhood I didn’t know, with tree-lined streets and tall gates. He opened the door barefoot, wearing a linen shirt open at the neck and holding a glass of something. The house smelled of freshly cooked food, wood, and his cologne.

—My wife won’t be back until tonight —he said, locking the door behind me—. We have hours.

—What if she gets home early?

—She won’t. And if she does, you left through the back door and were never here.

I laughed, but something tightened in my chest. That idea—the possibility of his wife showing up, of being in his kitchen, in his living room, drinking water from his glasses—ran down my back like a shiver and went straight to my pussy. I realized I was soaked before he even touched me, my panties already stuck to my lips, warm wetness running down the inside of my thigh.

He took me by the waist with one hand and kissed me on the mouth. No hurry, no preamble. His other hand moved up my back to my neck and held me there, as if telling me that kiss would last as long as he decided. He slid his tongue in slowly, twisted it around mine, bit my lower lip, and pulled it slightly before letting it go. When he pulled away, he studied my face for a few seconds, as if evaluating something, then ran his hands down my body until he found the edge of my blouse. He took it off me slowly, never breaking eye contact.

Underneath, I was wearing the red set. He went quiet for a moment. He ran two fingers over the cup of my bra, following the edge of the lace, then squeezed one of my nipples through the fabric until it hardened and I told him so with a moan.

—Turn around —he said.

I turned. I felt his hand spread across my back, traveling down to my buttocks, parting them over the fabric and sliding back up. He unclasped my bra with two fingers. He crouched behind me and yanked my skirt down to my ankles. I was left in a red thong, bent slightly forward against the back of the sofa. I felt his mouth on my lower back, then a bite on my buttock that made me jump, then two fingers pulling the thong’s strip aside and running over me from my clitoris to my ass, soaking themselves in a single stroke.

—You’re flooded —he said, almost laughing, and put both fingers in his mouth to suck them in front of me before sliding them back in, this time inside.

He opened me with those two fingers and began pumping me while I stood there, without pulling my thong all the way off, while his other hand tugged my hair to make me arch my back. I felt them thick and curved, searching for a spot inside me that made me moan through clenched teeth. When I looked at him over my shoulder again, his shirt was already off and his pants were unbuttoned, his cock outlined against his boxers.

He led me to the living-room sofa. He made me kneel on the rug between his legs while he lowered his pants and boxers to his knees. His cock sprang free, hard, thick at the base, the tip reddened and a heavy drop appearing at the opening. It wasn’t the biggest I’d ever seen, but it was standing in a way that left no doubt, throbbing against his stomach. I gripped the base with one hand and ran my tongue all the way from his balls to his glans, slowly, looking at him. Then I took it into my mouth eagerly, as deep as I could, until I felt it hit the back of my throat and my eyes filled with tears.

He grabbed my hair with one hand, not forcing me at first, setting the pace. I sucked him whole, moving up and down, making noise on purpose, spitting on him so he would slide more easily, and using my hand to jerk him off while I licked his balls. When I sucked the tip properly, my lips tight around the glans, he clenched his fist in my hair and began setting a harder pace, pushing my head against his pelvis. I looked up at him and saw that his eyes were closed and his jaw was clenched. I liked knowing that I—a young woman his nephew had introduced as a friend—was doing that to him, sucking him with my mouth open on the same sofa where at night he sat watching television with his wife.

—Stand up —he said hoarsely—. Take off that thong.

I lowered it slowly, with him sitting there and looking up at me. He made me spread my legs right there, standing in front of him, and asked me to touch myself. I ran two fingers over my pussy and brought them to my mouth. He kept staring at me without blinking, his cock in his hand, the tip gleaming. Then he pulled my arm forward.

When I couldn’t take it anymore, he grabbed me by the arms and lifted me onto him. I sat down slowly, feeling the tip open me and then the whole cock slide into me inch by inch, thick, forcing me to open my pussy around it. I let out a long moan when I finished lowering myself and felt him deep inside, resting against his hips. I began moving on my own, braced against his shoulders, looking him in the face. I bounced on him, rising almost enough to pull him out and then dropping down completely, feeling him pounding inside me. He pulled my bra down with his teeth and caught one nipple in his mouth; he sucked it hard and bit it while his free hand spread my ass cheeks and slipped the tip of a finger into my asshole, wet with my own juices.

—Keep going like that —he whispered against my breast—. Don’t stop.

I braced myself against the back of the sofa behind him and began riding him faster, rubbing my clitoris against his pelvic bone each time I came down. I felt the orgasm rise from inside, squeezing around his cock, suffocating me. I came like that, riding him on the sofa in his house, biting my lip so I wouldn’t scream too loudly, even though there was no one who could hear us, my pussy contracting in spasms around him, soaking him all the way to his balls and thighs.

—Take me to your bed —I whispered in his ear once I caught my breath.

—Not a chance.

—Please.

He laughed against my neck. Then he picked me up, still inside me, and slowly pulled me away. He carried me down the hall to a bedroom where the bed was made, with a white bedspread and two perfectly arranged pillows. One was his. The other obviously wasn’t. He tossed me onto the side that wasn’t his.

Something lit up inside me. I asked him to give it to me harder, to fuck me the way he didn’t dare fuck his wife, to fill my pussy right there, in his bed, where she slept. I talked dirty to him, loudly, knowing my voice would remain impregnated in those walls even if he cleaned every trace. I told him I was a slut, that I was Damián’s uncle’s slut, that he should fuck me like a slut. I got on all fours over her pillow, buried my face in the pillowcase, and lifted my ass. I told him not to stop.

He grabbed my hips and drove into me in one thrust, all the way to the balls. He began pounding me with a different intensity, as if the bed had turned him on too, slapping my ass between thrusts. His pelvis smacked against my buttocks, a wet sloshing filling the entire room. He pulled my hair until my back arched, and with his other hand he ran a saliva-wet thumb over my asshole, pressing there, threatening to push inside, until he slid it in all the way and held both of us there: his cock in my pussy, his thumb in my ass, fucking me with both rhythms at once. I felt myself come again, this time for a long time, soaking the entire white bedspread and leaving a dark stain beneath me. I didn’t care at all. I told him to clean it himself, to have her wash it, that I didn’t care.

We changed positions. He put me on my back on the woman’s side, opened my legs all the way back toward my ears, and bent down to eat my pussy first. He licked me all over, sucking my clitoris with his lips, sliding his tongue inside me, making noise, pressing his face against me until his beard was shining. He bit the inside of my thigh, blew over me, slipped two fingers inside, and curled them against the front wall while sucking my clitoris at the same time. I came in his mouth screaming, squeezing his head between my thighs, feeling him swallow and keep licking me until I trembled.

Only then did he climb on top of me and slide back inside, looking me in the eyes, slowly at first, then as if he wanted to break something. I held his gaze the entire time, my legs climbing around his waist, squeezing him with my ankles against his ass to get him deeper inside. He grabbed my tits with both hands, pinched my nipples, and gave me little slaps on the cheek that made me tighten my pussy around him in response. He whispered that I was a bitch, that he loved the way my pussy squeezed him, that no one had ever gripped him like that. When I felt him grow even harder and saw him clench his jaw just as before, I told him to come outside. He pulled out abruptly, straddled my chest, and jerked himself off over me with his hand—two, three short strokes—then left it all over me: the first spurt hit my neck and chin, the second landed thickly between my breasts, and the next ones stained my abdomen, nipples, and thighs. A drop hung from my lower lip. I took some with my hand and spread it over my neck without looking away from him, then brought two coated fingers to my mouth and sucked them slowly, swallowing. He said nothing. He only breathed heavily, braced against my knees, his cock still hard and dripping over my belly.

***

Afterward he asked me where the bathroom was. I asked him which towel belonged to his wife. He laughed, half serious and half surprised, and pointed it out to me. I dried myself with it, rubbing it between my legs to leave my scent all over it. I got into the shower, came out, combed my hair with the comb sitting on the shelf, and put my clothes back on over the lingerie, which was still damp. Before leaving the bathroom, I grabbed one of the red lipsticks she kept there and wrote on the mirror in large letters: «He fucks so good». I wiped it off with my sleeve. Then I wrote it again, smaller, in one corner of the frame, where it would take longer to notice.

When I came out, he was on the bed, naked, one arm across his eyes and his cock still half-hard against his thigh. I sat on the edge to tie my sneakers. Without opening his eyes, he handed me an envelope. Inside was cash: enough for the taxi home and quite a bit more. More than I’d imagined for a first afternoon.

—Should we do this again? —he asked.

—Whenever you want.

He ordered the taxi from his phone. He walked me to the door and kissed me on the forehead, almost paternal, which made me laugh more than it made me feel tender. When I got into the car and we pulled away, I realized I was hungry, that dried come was dripping between my breasts beneath my blouse, and that I was smiling to myself.

Damián called me that night to apologize for the fight I’d invented. I told him yes, it was fine, we’d already talked about it, and sent him a kiss by text. That week I left him. I made up some strange excuse and didn’t care whether it hurt him or not.

I saw Ernesto many more times. Always in the same bed. Always with the same adrenaline of thinking that she might someday open the door early. It never happened. But on every one of those afternoons, I remembered the lipstick on the mirror and wondered whether she had seen it and decided to keep quiet.