I Cheated with My Mother-in-Law’s Electrician

If you’re going to read this, do it slowly. This isn’t one of those stories I tell my friends when we lower our voices after the second drink. It’s the other one. The one that comes back to me every time my boyfriend brings me a new ring or a bracelet I didn’t ask for.

My name is Camila. Twenty-seven years old, a model since I was nineteen, two degrees half-finished, and a body a lot of people think is surgically enhanced. It isn’t. What is enhanced is Lautaro’s pride, my boyfriend’s, who at thirty-two still thinks the world is one long tip.

The first time he took me to his mother’s house, I knew something inside me was going to break. Don’t ask me how. You can feel it the second you get out of the car. We got out of the red Mazda she’d given him for his birthday and walked into a mansion with a pool, a spiral staircase, and a huge dog named Atlas. Beatriz, my mother-in-law, came out to greet us with a smile that was worth less than the necklace she was wearing.

“So this is the little model,” she said, sizing me up.

“Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

“Call me Beatriz, darling. Little models call their mothers-in-law by their first names.”

Charming.

Lautaro didn’t hear any of it. He was busy patting Atlas like the dog was one more trophy in the house. He was a huge mastiff, with a face full of wrinkles and sad eyes that didn’t fit his size. He sniffed my hand, circled my legs twice, and stayed glued to me for the rest of the afternoon, as if he had taken on a new job.

***

I met the electrician that same week, on my second visit.

He arrived midmorning in an old pickup, the engine on the verge of dying at the gate. He got out wearing coveralls unzipped to the navel and a gray T-shirt clinging to a round belly. Thick mustache, dirty hands, fifty-something. He smelled of sun and motor oil from the other side of the garden. Beatriz greeted him like he was the plumber for a public building.

“Finally, Ramiro. I’ve been waiting two weeks for you.”

“Sorry, ma’am, it’s just that the…”

“I don’t care. Fix the garden wiring and get out fast. I’ve got guests.”

Lautaro, from the lounger, let out his usual snicker.

“Hey, Mustache! Did you bring your coins?”

He cracked up at his own joke. His friends weren’t there yet, so nobody laughed with him. Ramiro acted like he hadn’t heard. He picked up his toolbox and disappeared around the side of the garden. But for a tenth of a second he looked at me. Just long enough for me to know that he knew I had seen him laugh at the joke.

That night, in my bed, alone, I couldn’t fall asleep. I still wasn’t thinking about him. I was thinking about the cruel little boy face Lautaro made when he called him Mustache. How easy it would be to knock him down a peg. How comfortable my boyfriend was, at thirty-two, feeling superior to a man carrying a toolbox in the middle of February heat.

***

The third visit was by the pool.

Beatriz had gone out to tea with friends. Sofía, Lautaro’s sister, just turned twenty-one, had spent the whole afternoon shut in her room with her headphones on. Lautaro was in the water with two school buddies, playing with a plastic ball and yelling like they were fifteen. I was sunbathing in a white bikini they already knew, flipping through a magazine I wasn’t reading.

Ramiro appeared from the side at exactly three o’clock. He was there to check the water heater. He passed near the lounger and lowered his gaze just enough not to seem rude, but not enough not to see what he wanted to see.

“Good afternoon, miss.”

“Good afternoon.”

“Excuse me, I’m heading to the machine room.”

I gave him permission with a gesture and turned my head. I felt his eyes sliding down my back to the top of the bikini and I knew—I knew—he’d looked just long enough before I turned again. It didn’t bother me. It thrilled me. Lautaro hadn’t looked at me like that in three months.

“Hey, Mustache, stop staring at my princess!” he shouted from the water, and his laughter broke up into hiccups. “Guys, look at this old man, he can’t even handle his own mustache!”

The friends laughed. Atlas, stretched at my feet, lifted his head but didn’t move. Ramiro kept walking without saying a word and went into the machine room. And I, without thinking, got up from the lounger, went to the edge of the pool, grabbed the float with my left hand, and splashed my boyfriend straight in the face.

“Don’t be such an idiot, Lautaro.”

He laughed as if it were a game. But something had flashed through my head that I couldn’t stop: the idea that the old guy in overalls didn’t deserve it. And the darker idea that I did deserve to make Lautaro pay somehow, in a way he’d never imagine.

***

What happened next was fast. I think about it now and I still don’t know whether it was me or if it was her, that other Camila who woke up that afternoon inside me.

Lautaro and his friends left for the downtown gym at five. Sofía was still shut away, none the wiser. Beatriz was still at tea and wouldn’t be back until eight. The house fell silent except for the hum of the machine room, turning on and off by itself, like an old heart.

I went up to Lautaro’s room to change. I put on a short red dress with a plunging neckline. No bra. No panties. No stockings. Low heels. I let my hair down and looked at myself in the full-length mirror. I looked the way I always looked and the way I had never looked before. I spread my legs in front of the mirror, slid my hand under the dress, and discovered I was already wet, soaked, my pussy swollen before anyone had even touched it.

I came down slowly. Atlas lifted his head from the hallway rug, sniffed me as if asking permission, and followed me into the living room. I sank into the white sofa and crossed my legs. I waited.

Ramiro came out of the machine room at ten to six. I heard him cross the garden and knock on the side door, the one that led to the kitchen. He was going to say goodbye, as he always did, before asking for his day’s pay.

“Hello?” he said from the kitchen.

“In the living room, Ramiro.”

He came in drying his hands on a rag. When he saw me on the sofa, he stopped in the doorway. The rag hung limp between his fingers.

“The lady went out,” I said. “Your kids too.”

“I came to say goodbye.”

“Close the door.”

I didn’t say it in a commanding voice. I said it like a question. He lifted his eyes from the floor and for the first time looked at me straight on, without pretending. He closed it.

“What Lautaro said today,” I began.

“It’s nothing, miss. I’m used to it.”

“You shouldn’t have to be used to it.”

I stood up from the sofa. Atlas, off to the side, followed me with his eyes and didn’t move. I walked to Ramiro without hurrying and stopped a hair’s breadth from him. He smelled of sweat and motor oil and something older, something like a tired man. It didn’t disgust me. It made me feel something I couldn’t name yet.

“How many times did my boyfriend apologize to you?”

“None.”

“I’m going to apologize for him.”

I took his left hand, the one holding the rag, and brought it to my waist. He didn’t squeeze. He didn’t pull away either.

“Miss…”

“Camila.”

“Camila, this isn’t…”

“Yes. It is.”

I took his other hand and ran it up my back to the zipper of the dress. I made him pull it down for me, guiding him, finger by finger. The dress loosened at the shoulders and slid to my waist. I stood there with my tits bare in front of him, looking at him. Ramiro swallowed as if he had no permission to do that. I grabbed his right hand, opened it like you open a child’s hand, and pressed it onto my left breast. I dug his fingers in there, forcing him to squeeze.

“Touch me,” I said. “With both hands. Like you own me.”

Ramiro looked me in the eyes and something inside him broke. His two hands, calloused, rough, rose up and grabbed my tits whole, one in each palm, squeezing them with an old hunger that made my mouth fall open. He pinched my nipples with fingers stained with grease until they turned hard as stones, and I arched against him and slid one hand over the bulge in his overalls. He was rock hard. I pressed myself there, against his cock over the fabric, and a groan slipped out of his throat.

“Lautaro gets back at eight,” I said. “We’ve got an hour and a half.”

“Camila, I’m an old man, I can’t…”

“Exactly.”

I yanked the zipper of his coveralls down. The fabric fell heavy, with the metallic clatter of tools hitting the floor. I grabbed his cock over his briefs and discovered it was thick, short, throbbing against my hand. I took it out. Held it in my palm. It was a fifty-year-old man’s cock, swollen with veins, the head purple and glossy, and my mouth started watering in a way Lautaro hadn’t made happen in months.

“Sit down,” I ordered, pushing him in the chest.

Ramiro let himself fall onto the white sofa with the coveralls tangled around his ankles. I knelt between his legs, on the rug, and took his cock with both hands. I licked it from base to tip, slowly, looking at him. I ran my tongue around the head, gathered saliva in my mouth and spat it over the crown, and then took it all the way in. All of it. Until it hit the back of my throat and my eyes filled with water.

“Holy fuck,” he muttered, grabbing my hair with both hands. “Holy fuck, baby…”

I sucked him with gusto. I could hear his breathing, ragged like a broken bellows, and every time I squeezed his balls with one hand another curse slipped out of him. He shoved his fingers into my mouth along with his cock, smeared my face with saliva. He pulled his cock out and rubbed it over my cheeks, my lips, my chin, while I looked up at him from below. Then he shoved it back in and drove it to the hilt, carelessly now, and I let him. I let him use my mouth however he wanted. I let him fuck my throat with both fists in my hair. I slobbered all over myself. My mascara ran. Saliva dripped down my chin to my tits and I didn’t give a damn about anything.

When he pulled his cock out of my mouth, his breathing was short.

“Stand up,” he said. “Turn around.”

I obeyed. I got up with my knees trembling and turned around, bracing myself on the back of the sofa. He pulled the dress all the way down until it was a red ring around my feet. He grabbed my ass with both hands, spread me open, and I felt his face there, his tongue, his mustache scraping me. He licked my pussy from behind, long and thorough, and then drove his tongue inside and I gripped the back of the sofa with white knuckles.

“Oh God,” I told him. “Oh God, like that.”

He licked me everywhere. My pussy, my clit, even my ass he licked with a meticulousness that made me think he’d been looking for me for years. He pushed in two thick, calloused fingers, deep, and curved them inside me. I came right there against the sofa for the first time, biting my lip so I wouldn’t scream. I felt my pussy clamping down on his fingers and he, behind me, whispered:

“Not yet, rich girl. There’s more.”

He laid me back on the white sofa. He put my legs over his shoulders. His belly dropped heavy against mine when he settled over me, and it didn’t bother me the way I’d imagined it would. On the contrary: it weighed like a man, and weighed like truth, and it was everything Lautaro’s body had never been. He grabbed his cock, ran it over the lips of my cunt, rubbed it against my clit, and only then pushed it in, little by little, until he buried it all the way inside me.

I screamed. I couldn’t not scream. It was thick, thick, thick, and it filled me in a way Lautaro never had.

“Tell me I’m a spoiled little girl,” I asked him, not knowing why.

“You’re a spoiled little girl,” he panted, pushing slowly, to the hilt.

“Again.”

“You’re a rich, spoiled, horny little girl. And your boyfriend is an idiot.” He shoved harder, buried himself deeper. “A stupid brat who doesn’t know what he’s got.”

“More,” I said. “Harder.”

He started fucking me for real. Both hands on my hips, pulling me against him, driving his cock in to the balls every time. The white sofa creaked. I dug my nails into his shoulders, into his hairy arms, and left red marks all over him. He sucked my tits, bit my nipples, licked my neck while he fucked me in and out at a pace that kept building.

“Face down,” he told me. “Give me your ass.”

I turned over on the sofa, got up on my knees and elbows, and lifted my ass. Ramiro grabbed it with both hands, spread me open, and shoved back into my pussy, like that, on all fours. He drove into me with a force that shook my breasts against the leather of the sofa. He slapped my ass, then again, and I arched more and begged for another.

“Hit me,” I said. “Hit me harder.”

He slapped me with his open hand until my ass burned hot. He shoved his thumb into my asshole while he kept fucking my pussy, and I let him. I let him do everything. I let him use me the way Lautaro never had, with an old man’s hunger, with the desperation of years saved up. He yanked my hair until my back arched, whispered in my ear that I was a slut, a hot slut, and that, from a fifty-something electrician with black grease on his hands, finished me off completely.

“I’m going to come,” I warned him. “I’m going to come.”

“Come on me,” he panted. “Come, baby, come.”

I came hearing him say that. Before he did. I came biting the back of the white sofa so I wouldn’t wake Sofía upstairs, my pussy spilling down my thighs, clamping down on his cock as if I didn’t want to let it go. And he, behind me, grabbed my waist with both hands and drove into me to the hilt three, four more times, until he got rock hard inside me and asked permission with a broken voice:

“Inside? Can I come inside?”

“Inside,” I said. “Finish inside.”

I felt the hot burst flooding me. I felt every pulse of his cock unloading inside me, thick, long spurts, one after another. Ramiro collapsed over my back, panting against my nape, his hands trembling on my hips. He stayed inside me a long while, saying nothing else, his face buried in my neck, breathing as if he’d only just surfaced.

When he pulled out, I felt the semen dripping down my thighs onto the white sofa. I slid two fingers between my legs, gathered up his come, and brought them to my mouth in front of him. Ramiro watched me do it with the face of a man who had stepped into another world.

Atlas, off to the side of the room, hadn’t barked once.

***

Ramiro got dressed in silence. He adjusted his coveralls, picked up the rag from the floor, and looked at me from the doorway one last time.

“Tomorrow I’ll come finish the wiring in the back, miss.”

“Camila.”

“Camila.”

He left. The door shut by itself. I stayed on the white sofa, naked, with the red dress crumpled on the floor and a stain of semen underneath me that I’d have to cover with a cushion, staring at the ceiling. I thought about Lautaro coming back from the gym at eight, Beatriz coming back from tea, the dinner we’d all have together, and how I was going to smile.

I didn’t think about regretting it. I thought about tomorrow.

When I adjusted the zipper of my dress and went down to the patio for air, with my pussy still throbbing and my panties in my hand, Atlas followed me as always. I sat on the stone bench and stroked his head. He lifted his sad eyes to me and lowered them again. If dogs understand anything, that day he understood I’d switched sides.

When they all came back, I smiled in every photo. I ate in silence, with Ramiro’s semen drying between my legs under the red dress. I laughed at Lautaro’s jokes and kissed Beatriz on the cheek in return. And when my boyfriend took me in his bed that night and climbed on top of me like he always did, with that skinny little spoiled-brat dick, I closed my eyes and went back to the white sofa and Ramiro’s dirty hands and the thick cock that had blown my cunt apart and the voice that had told me my boyfriend was an idiot. I came thinking about that, while Lautaro moved over me convinced it was him.

It wasn’t the first time I cheated on Lautaro. It was the first time I learned how to smile while thinking of another man. That, honestly, is the worst kind of infidelity. The others come on their own.