I Snuck In Through the Window of Her Parents’ House

Cecilia. Just saying her name inside my head made the air in the car seem thicker. I’d been driving along the highway for more than four hours and I still had two to go. The road was empty, the headlights of the Mégane carved a wedge of yellow light through the darkness, and I repeated every bend, every closed gas station, every sleeping town as if they were beads on a rosary.

Our story was one of those things you don’t talk about out loud. She lived in another city, married to a guy called Andrés who treated her like an expensive piece of furniture: with an owner’s pride and no affection whatsoever. They had two little girls, a mortgage, a routine, and a wedding photo on the living-room sideboard. I had none of that. I had a bachelor’s flat, a job I cared little about, and Cecilia’s voice in audio messages I listened to before sleeping, almost always whispering filthy things that left my cock hard against the sheet for hours.

We’d met two summers earlier, at a photography course in a coastal town. Three days of workshops and one night on the hotel terrace, with the distant sound of the sea and a bottle of red wine neither of us wanted to finish. That same dawn I fucked her against the bathroom wall of the room, her skirt hiked up to her waist and my hand over her mouth because she didn’t know how to scream quietly. Since then, it had all been messages, furtive calls, and two brief meetings in hotels halfway between our lives.

But that week she was spending a few days at her parents’ house, in a town up north. Her in-laws had taken the girls out to the country. Andrés had taken the opportunity to come with her and work from there. And she, in one of those whispered audios at three in the morning, had accidentally told me a detail: the window of the room they always slept in stayed slightly open because her mother hated air conditioning.

—Don’t you dare do something crazy —she’d texted me afterward, laughing, certain it would be impossible.

At half past two in the morning I parked three streets away from the garden. The engine died with a soft click. I closed the door as if any noise might give me away. The air smelled of wet earth and fig trees. It was one of those towns where the streetlamps go out at midnight and the only light was the moon, a full moon that looked painted on the sky with chalk.

Her parents’ house was the last one on a narrow street, with a low stone wall and a half-open iron gate. I pushed the gate with one finger and went in. The front garden smelled of rosemary. On the first floor, two windows. One with the shutter down to the floor. The other with the lattice raised a handspan, just as she had described it.

My hands were trembling. Not from fear, not entirely. It was that strange mix of adrenaline and shame that appears when you’re about to do something you know you shouldn’t. If they caught me, I’d end up at the police station. Or worse: I’d become the humiliating anecdote her family would tell for the next twenty years. I thought about turning back. I thought about it for half a second.

Beside the wall there was a stack of old firewood piled against the side, perfect for footholds. I climbed carefully, trying not to break any branches. The sill was a meter from my face. I grabbed it, pushed with my arms, and slipped inside with nothing more than the sound of my own breathing.

The room smelled like her. That citrus perfume she wore behind her ears and in the hollow of her throat. It took me a few seconds to get used to the darkness.

***

Cecilia was sleeping on her side, her back to her husband. The sheet reached her waist. She wore a thin cotton white T-shirt and, underneath, I guessed, not much else. Andrés was snoring on his back, one arm crossed over his chest as if he were keeping watch over himself in his sleep.

I approached barefoot. Every step was a negotiation with the floorboards. I knelt beside the bed, pressed my lips to Cecilia’s temple, and stroked her neck with the tip of my finger, right where I knew she was ticklish.

She stirred. Frowned. Opened her eyes slowly, like someone coming up from deep water. When she focused on my face, her mouth fell open. She didn’t scream. Almost. She brought both hands to her mouth and bit her knuckles, her eyes huge, round, shining in the dim light.

I put a finger to her lips. Nothing else was needed. I held out my hand. She sat up without taking her eyes off mine, got out of bed with catlike care, and we slipped down the hallway.

We went down the stairs holding on to each other. On the last step she allowed herself a whisper.

—You’re insane —she said in my ear, squeezing my arm with her fingers—. You’re completely insane. And I’m worse, for following you.

I turned her against the banister and kissed her. She smelled of sleep, toothpaste, and that citrus fragrance I knew better than any map. I pushed my tongue deep into her mouth and she sucked on it as if she’d been hungry for months. I squeezed one breast over the T-shirt and felt the hard nipple against my palm. I slid my hand down the curve of her ass, grabbed it all, and pressed her against me so she could feel how hard I’d been waiting for her beneath my trousers.

—Fuck —she murmured against my mouth, rubbing, without meaning to, against the bulge—. You’re already rock hard.

—I’ve been driving for six hours with a hard-on thinking about you —I answered in her ear—. What did you expect?

When we pulled apart, her eyes were still closed.

—I’m in a T-shirt. I don’t even have shoes.

—The night is perfect —I replied, gently tugging her hand toward the back garden door.

***

The garden opened onto an old orchard. Fig trees, a lemon tree, a wisteria vine covering half the roof of a wooden arbor. And beneath the arbor, a swing bench with a wicker back and faded cushions. We got there barefoot on the cold grass.

Cecilia sank onto the bench and pulled me toward her. Her T-shirt was almost transparent in the moonlight. Her nipples were standing stiff from the cold, her chest rising and falling with fast breaths. I brushed a lock of hair off her forehead and looked at her in silence. Some looks replace whole paragraphs.

—You’ve made me cry with rage many times —she told me, smiling faintly—. Do you know that?

—I know.

—And still I’m here. Again. With my cunt soaking wet like an idiot.

—Show it to me —I asked softly.

She bit her lip, looked at me for a full second, and parted her knees without saying anything. The T-shirt rode up on its own over her thighs. Underneath, she was wearing a plain white cotton sleep brief, with a dark, obvious stain between her legs. I slid a finger under the edge of the fabric and pushed it aside. Her cunt was shining in the half-light, swollen, lips parted, with a thick thread already dangling down toward the cushion.

—Look at how wet you are —I said, running the pad of my finger along the whole slit without putting anything in—. You’re dripping, Cecilia.

—Shut up and put your tongue in me —she shot back, gritting her teeth.

I kissed her slowly on the mouth before obeying. I kissed her as if the rest of the world didn’t exist, neither Andrés snoring upstairs, nor her parents sleeping downstairs, nor the girls seventy kilometers away, nor my empty life waiting for me when I got back. When Cecilia gave herself to a kiss, she put her hands behind my neck and dug her nails in a little. It was her way of saying she was ready for more.

I knelt on the cold grass between her legs and yanked her panties off in one pull, leaving them hanging from one ankle. I hooked her knees over my shoulders. The smell of her cunt hit me full in the face, that smell of a hot woman I’d been remembering by heart for months. I ran my tongue all the way from bottom to top, very slowly, sucking up every last trace of slick, and felt her whole belly tightening against my face.

—Fuck, fuck, fuck —she whispered, grabbing my hair with both hands—. Lower your voice too, asshole, or you’re going to make me scream.

I sucked her clit between my lips, pulling it gently, then with more pressure, while two fingers went in and out of her with a wet sound that could be heard over the cricket. Cecilia had one foot in the air and the other planted in the ground, and she arched her hips against my mouth without being able to help it. I slid my tongue inside, as deep as I could, and went back up to her clit, circling quickly.

—Stop, stop, stop —she gasped suddenly, yanking my hair upward—. If you keep going like this I’m going to come already, and I don’t want to come yet in your mouth. Come here. Lift me up.

I sat her between my legs, with her back to me, her spine against my chest. I moved her hair aside and kissed the nape of her neck, that place where the thinnest skin begins. My hands went up under her T-shirt and closed around her tits. They were icy. Mine were burning.

I traced her breasts with calculated slowness, drawing circles around the nipples before pinching them between my fingers, teasing them until a short moan escaped her that she had to bite back. Cecilia threw her head back against my shoulder and searched for my mouth twisted over hers. One of my hands slid down her belly and found her bare cunt again, hotter than before, more open.

She took my wrist and guided it. She made me finger her with her own fingers over mine, setting the rhythm. She was soaked, so much that my fingers slid in to the knuckles on their own, and the thought that she had been thinking of me while she fell asleep beside her husband hit me like an electric shock.

—Tell me the truth —I whispered in her ear while I fingered her with three fingers very slowly—. How many times have you masturbated this week thinking about me, with him sleeping next to you?

—Every night —she answered, her voice breaking—. Every night. I touched myself quietly, with my hand over my mouth, imagining your cock buried to the hilt. And I came in three minutes, asshole.

—Don’t make any noise —I whispered into her ear, biting her lobe.

—You try it —she answered, holding back a laugh, before having to cover her mouth with her other hand because my fingers found the exact spot where she stopped being a rational woman.

I worked slowly at first, little circles on her clit, feeling how each movement tightened her body a little more against mine. Then I slid in three fingers, slow, deep, curling them upward to press that rough spot that drove her insane, while my thumb kept just the right pressure. The bench rocked at an almost imperceptible rhythm, driven by our own bodies. Her left hand found my free one and laced our fingers together so hard it made my bones ache. With the other hand she pinched her own nipple, twisting it harder than I would have dared.

—Put them all the way in —she gasped—. Faster. Faster, fuck.

I sped up my hand, four fingers now, in and out with an obscene splashing sound that stuck in my head. I felt her cunt beginning to contract around my fingers, squeezing me like a hot fist. When she came, she didn’t moan. She went rigid, her legs clamped against my hand, her back arched, her neck taut. Only a rough sound escaped her, choked down deep in her throat, and some tears that weren’t sadness ran down her cheeks. I felt a warm gush soaking my wrist, sliding down my forearm to my elbow. I held her like that for a full minute while she found her breath again, while the last waves kept moving through her belly.

—You made me come like a bitch —she whispered at last, turning her face to lick my neck—. Now it’s my turn.

***

Then she turned around. She knelt in front of me, on the wet grass, with her T-shirt wrinkled and the moon behind her. She unbuttoned my trousers with fingers that no longer trembled like before, pulled my underwear down to my knees, and my cock sprang free, hard, swollen, the head already shiny. She let out a little laugh and grabbed it with her whole hand, squeezing at the base.

—Look at how hard you are —she whispered—. All this highway for me.

She spat on the tip without ceremony and spread the saliva with her thumb before lowering her mouth. She took me slowly. Without rush. Like someone who’d been waiting weeks for that exact moment and had no intention of wasting it. Her tongue traced full routes, from base to tip, pausing at the frenulum, sucking first one ball and then the other with tight lips, before taking me as deep as she could. She swallowed me whole, until I felt the head against the back of her throat, and stayed there for several seconds with her eyes closed, swallowing around me.

I held her face with both hands, not to set the rhythm, but to look at her. I wanted to remember it. I knew, whether I wanted to or not, that I’d remember that image on many winter nights: Cecilia kneeling on the grass, my cock going in and out of her mouth, a string of spit hanging from her chin, her eyes shining with tears from the effort.

—Fuck my mouth —she asked hoarsely, pulling me out for a second—. The way you like it. Like at the hotel.

I grabbed her head with both hands and pushed. She opened her lips wider and let me do it. I fucked her throat with a slow but firm rhythm, listening to the choked moan that escaped her with every thrust. Saliva streamed from her chin down to her tits beneath the T-shirt. When I felt she was about to choke, I let her breathe, and she lunged back onto my cock as if she’d been starving for too long.

When I was on the edge, I stopped her by tugging her hair upward. I wasn’t going to come yet. I lifted her off the ground, yanked her panties off her ankle, and sat her astride me. The white T-shirt bunched up at rib height, leaving her tits bare, white under the moon, with red, swollen nipples from all the twisting. We looked at each other for one more second. Then she guided me with her own hand, placed the tip at the entrance to her cunt, and lowered herself slowly, centimeter by centimeter, until she was fully seated on my lap and let out the breath she’d been holding.

—Fuck, how I feel it —she panted against my mouth—. I forget every time how big you are.

We moved in silence at first. The arbor creaked faintly under our weight. The wisteria dropped the occasional dry flower onto our hair. Cecilia started riding up and down on me, her hands braced on my shoulders, her mouth open against my ear so she wouldn’t scream. I gripped her ass with both hands, spreading her, setting the rhythm, feeling how each downward drop took me to the root, how her cunt squeezed me and released me as if it had a life of its own.

—Harder —I asked in her ear—. Harder, Ceci. Ride me.

She sped up. She began bouncing on my cock with real desperation, her tits jumping level with my face, her hair falling over her eyes. I caught one nipple with my mouth and bit it, and she had to bite my shoulder to keep from howling. The bench was rocking violently now, the chains creaking softly, the wood protesting under every thrust.

—I’m going to come again —she gasped—. Again. Again, fuck.

I lifted her off me without withdrawing, turned her, and laid her on her back on the bench cushions. I folded her legs over my chest, brought them together, put her ankles by my ear, and sank into her to the hilt. In that position she felt tighter, hotter, and my cock went so deep that with every thrust she let out a short moan she could barely swallow.

I started fucking her for real. Driving into her with my whole body, holding her legs against my torso, listening to the wet splashing of her soaked cunt and the slap of my balls against the edge of her ass. Cecilia covered her mouth with both hands, eyes shut tight, and still guttural little moans escaped her, sharp, drowned between her fingers.

—Look at me —I ordered softly—. When you come, look at me.

She opened her eyes. Large, wet, terrified of pleasure. Between us there was a whole conversation that needed no words: I know, me too, this is what we have, there’s nothing else, I know, I know. I let go of one leg, dropped my thumb to her clit, and started rubbing it in fast circles while I kept pounding her without slowing down.

I felt her shudder again, longer this time, deeper, and I knew she was dragging me with her. Her whole body tightened, her back arched against the wicker, and her cunt clamped around my cock in waves so strong that I nearly emptied myself right there. I bit her shoulder through the T-shirt so I wouldn’t make a sound. She clawed my back beneath my shirt, five burning lines from top to bottom.

—Not inside —she whispered in the last second, barely strong enough—. Outside, come outside, in my mouth, give it to me in my mouth.

I pulled out all at once, dripping from her, and she dropped from the bench onto the grass, got down on her knees, and opened her mouth with her tongue out. I aimed at her face while I jerked myself twice, and I came with a shudder that rose from my feet. I saw the first jet cross her cheek and upper lip. The second landed inside her open mouth, on her tongue. The third and fourth painted her chin and the neckline of the T-shirt. She closed her mouth, swallowed slowly, her eyes locked on mine, and then licked the tip of me clean to the last drop, sucking with tight lips as if she hated to let anything go to waste.

—Mmmm —she murmured, tasting it, running a finger over her cheek to gather what was left outside and licking that too—. I hadn’t tasted you in months.

A shooting star crossed the sky behind us without either of us seeing it.

We stayed like that for a long while, wrapped around each other on the bench, sweaty and trembling, listening to the distant sound of a lone cricket. I kissed her temple. She kissed the palm of my open hand, the same hand that had made her come. Neither of us spoke.

***

—Don’t walk me to the door —she said when the sky began to lighten in the east—. I don’t want any goodbye.

—When will I see you again?

—I don’t know. Soon. I’ll call you tomorrow.

She looked at me with tears in her eyes and a smile that didn’t fit them. Then she turned around, adjusted her stained T-shirt, picked up the torn panties from the ground, and walked barefoot across the grass toward the house, my semen still drying on her chin and her cunt dripping inside her thighs. She didn’t look back even once, and I was grateful for it. I could have endured many things that night, but not a goodbye with words.

I went back the same way. The gate, the empty street, the cold car. I sat in the seat, started the engine, and let my forehead fall onto the steering wheel. Something was running down my cheek. It wasn’t sweat.

A tear. A tear of sadness, of joy, of passion, of rage. A tear from Cecilia, who had come with me tucked into my pocket.