My Husband Gave My Lingerie to His Nephew

The whole house smelled of roast meat and red wine the night Nicolás arrived. He was Esteban’s distant nephew, a boy of just twenty who had just moved to the city to start college, and he would be staying with them until he found a room near the university. Marisol greeted him with a polite smile, served him a generous plate, and sat opposite him, in her usual side of the table.

All through dinner the boy hardly spoke. But his eyes never left her.

It wasn’t an innocent look. It was a look that traveled down the neckline of her dress and lingered too long on her lips whenever she laughed. Marisol noticed at once. She felt her cheeks grow hot, a discomfiting mix of modesty and something harder to name, that tingle a forty-two-year-old woman thought she had left behind. Down below, too, she felt a warm throb between her legs, and it annoyed her that some brat could do that to her with nothing but a look.

When dessert was over, she stood up, collected a couple of plates, and excused herself.

“I’m up early tomorrow,” she said. “You both get some rest.”

Esteban and Nicolás were left alone in the living room, with a bottle of whiskey half finished between them.

“So, the big city,” Esteban said, pouring his nephew another drink. “And how is it? Lots of girls at the university?”

“I don’t know, Uncle. I haven’t really started yet,” Nicolás said, emptying the glass in one gulp. “But girls my age are boring. They don’t know what they want. They don’t even know how to suck a cock without making a disgusted face.”

“And what do you want, then?”

The boy hesitated, gave a low laugh, with that clumsiness alcohol brings when you’re young.

“I like mature women. The ones who already know. The ones who spread their legs without asking permission. Women like… ” He stopped, looked toward the hallway where she had gone. “Like Marisol.”

Esteban stopped with the glass halfway to his mouth. The comment was direct, almost a provocation, the kind of line that would make any husband get out of his chair. But the whiskey had loosened his pride and turned it inside out: instead of anger, he felt an absurd stab of vanity.

“She is an attractive woman, yes,” he said, with half a smile.

“Attractive? No, Uncle. She’s something else. She’s got an ass you’d want to bite. —Nicolás leaned back on the sofa.—You must have photos. From vacation, at the beach. Show me one.”

And Esteban, in an act of betrayal he would later be unable to explain, took out his phone.

He scrolled through the pictures slowly. There were photos of Marisol on the sand, golden under the sun, her tits pressed against the wet fabric of the bikini, and others more recent that he himself had taken in the bedroom: in lingerie, reclined, legs slightly apart, looking at the camera with the kind of confidence you only have with a husband.

Nicolás looked at them with his mouth half open, not hiding a thing. He ran his tongue over his lips.

“Fuck, Uncle. She’s a goddess. Look at that pussy outlined under the fabric. Is that lingerie really hers? The black one?”

“It’s a set she has,” said Esteban, and felt, dangerously, the power of owning what the other man desired.

The boy swallowed. The bulge in his pants was tight and obvious against the fabric, and he made no attempt to hide it.

“I know this is super weird,” he muttered, “but would you give it to me? The black set. Something of hers. Just so… you know. So I can imagine her while I jerk off. So I can smell it.”

The request was so obscene, so far beyond any limit, that Esteban almost found it funny. He got up, swaying a little, and walked to the bedroom.

It’s nothing, he told himself. A drunk joke. Tomorrow we won’t even remember it.

He came back with the black lace set Marisol had worn the night before and still hadn’t washed. He handed it over like someone passing a trophy. The thong still had the wet mark of his wife’s cunt in the crotch, a faint stain from a full day pressed against her skin.

What happened after that, Esteban watched without moving, too drunk and too fascinated to stop it. The boy brought the fabric to his face, buried his nose right in that stain, and breathed deeply the intimate perfume left on it, eyes closed, like someone getting high. Without the slightest shame he unbuttoned his pants, pulled his underwear down to his thighs, and took out a long, thick cock, already wet at the tip. He wrapped it in Marisol’s thong and started masturbating right there, on the sofa, with one hand clenched over the wet lace, dragging the aunt’s scent all over his cock. Esteban stayed there, seated, witnessing it like some other man’s ritual, unable to look away, feeling his own cock swell in his pants against his will. The boy jerked himself hard, gasping, murmuring Marisol’s name through his teeth: “fuck, you smell so good, fuck, I want you so bad.” Until he went rigid, threw his head back, and with a hoarse groan unloaded a thick rope of cum over the black lace, drenching it completely, leaving the thong soaked with semen. Then he let the stained garment fall to the rug with a soft splat and adjusted his pants without any hurry.

“Thanks for the hospitality, Uncle,” the boy said, and laughed.

Esteban didn’t laugh. All at once, whiskey wasn’t funny anymore.

***

Marisol didn’t sleep. On the other side of the wall she had heard the voices, the laughter, then the thick silence of the house, and beneath that silence, muted but unmistakable, the wet rhythm of a hand jerking a cock and a stifled panting that wasn’t her husband’s. She didn’t know exactly what had happened, but she knew her husband, and she knew that kind of silence.

The next morning she came down to the kitchen while he was making coffee with a hangover splitting his head open. She crossed her arms in the doorway.

“What happened last night, Esteban? After I went to bed.”

“Nothing, baby. We talked. A little whiskey.” His cup trembled.

“Don’t tell me ‘nothing.’ I know you talked about me. I saw how he looked at me during dinner. What did you tell him about your wife?”

Esteban put the cup down. Lowered his head. His façade fell apart in pieces.

“He said he liked mature women,” he admitted. “Like you. And he asked to see a photo. I was drunk, Marisol. I showed him a couple.”

“And what else?” Her voice didn’t rise a single note. That was what made it frightening.

“He asked me… ” He swallowed. “He asked me for one of your sets. The black lingerie. And I gave it to him.”

She looked at him a long time without saying a word. There was no rage in her eyes, and that was what was strange. There was something colder and more determined: calculation. She turned around and walked to the laundry room, where the hamper waited in a corner.

Esteban followed her like a dog that knows it did something wrong.

Marisol put her hand into the hamper and pulled out the lace thong. It was stiff, cardboard-hard, with dried whitish crusts in the crotch and a sour odor of fermented semen that left no room for doubt. She held it at eye level between two fingers, examining it like evidence in a trial. Then, without taking her eyes off her husband, she brought it to her face and breathed in deeply, very deeply, sniffing the trace of the boy with a perverse calm.

“Well,” she said, in a low, loaded voice. “Looks like the boy ended up very happy. He even left me dripping inside. Quite the man.”

“Marisol…”

“Shut up.” She put the garment back in the hamper slowly, as if deciding something. “Do you like this, Esteban? Do you like having handed me over on a platter to a twenty-year-old without asking me? Do you like thinking that a boy your nephew’s age came over thinking about my cunt?”

“Forgive me. It was stupid, I didn’t…”

“You were an idiot.” She stepped close enough that Esteban could feel her breath on his mouth. “An idiot. And now you’re going to see what a woman does when her own husband gives her away. You’re going to watch them pry my legs open, you’re going to watch him fuck me, you’re going to hear me scream. You’re going to see all of it, Esteban. That’s going to be your side of the deal.”

***

That noon Esteban had to go to the office to put out a work fire, or so he said. The truth was that Marisol sent him. She gave him a precise instruction, in a low voice, by the door, and he, pale, nodded without arguing. He would be back at five. He would come in without making a sound. And he would stay in the hallway, watching, without touching anything. Not his cock, either. Hands still.

Nicolás stayed alone in the house, waiting in the living room, not quite knowing what to do with his hands. Marisol left him waiting for a whole hour. She did it on purpose. She wanted the boy to simmer low and slow, wanted every minute to weigh on him, wanted him to start doubting whether he had dreamed it all.

When she finally appeared in the room, the boy went breathless.

She was wearing a black dress, shiny, so tight it seemed drawn onto her skin. Nothing underneath to hide the shape of her breasts, her nipples pressing hard against the fabric. Fishnet stockings up to mid-thigh, thin heels, her hair loose over one shoulder. She walked slowly, measuring each step, like someone who knows exactly the effect she causes.

“Hello, nephew,” she said, and the word sounded like something else in her mouth. “Did you sleep well?”

“Y-yes, aunt. Fine…”

“Liar.” She sat on the arm of the sofa, crossing her legs and letting the dress ride up to her hip. “I know you didn’t sleep a wink. I know what you talked about with my husband. I know you asked for my clothes. I know what you did with them. I know you came all over my thong, you filthy boy. I found it stiff this morning. I almost had to scrape the semen off it with my nails.”

The boy turned white. He opened his mouth and nothing came out.

Marisol stood, went over to him, and sat astride his lap. She slipped her arms around his neck, unhurried, and immediately felt the hard cock against her crotch, separated only by two layers of cloth.

“And do you know the strangest thing of all, Nicolás?” she whispered almost in his ear, moving her hips slowly to rub against that bulge. “It didn’t make me angry. It turned me on. It got me wet knowing a young boy looks at me like that. I liked knowing my husband is capable of offering me up and standing there watching like a cuckold. So let’s give him something to look at. Let’s put on a good show.”

And she kissed him. A deep kiss, slow, wet, tongue to tongue, biting his lower lip at the end. She slipped her hand between his legs over the fabric and squeezed his whole cock at once, measuring it with her palm.

“Jesus, what a good cock you have, nephew. And to think your uncle offered it up without charging you anything.”

When she pulled away, the boy was trembling. Marisol got off his lap, knelt between his legs, and, without taking her eyes off his, unfastened his pants. She yanked them down along with his underwear, and the boy’s cock sprang up hard and long, pointing at her face. She wrapped it in her hand, hefted it, and smiled with filthy satisfaction.

“Let’s see if you know how to do something better in here than cry over your aunt’s dirty laundry.”

She took the whole thing into her mouth in one go, until the tip hit the back of her throat. Nicolás let out an animal gasp and grabbed the sofa. Marisol moved her head up and down with a slow rhythm, closing her lips tight around the shaft, leaving thick ropes of saliva hanging every time she pulled it all the way out. She licked his balls, one by one, took them into her mouth carefully, then slid the tip of her tongue back up the vein underneath until she was devouring the whole head again. Every so often she pulled back, looked him in the eyes soaked in saliva, and dragged the tip along her lips, smearing her mouth.

“That’s how you suck a cock, learn,” she said. “The brats at your university know nothing.”

And she took him back in her mouth.

She sucked him until the boy started trembling, and then she stopped cold. She stood up, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and took him by the hand.

“No, no. Not yet. I’m going to make you give it to me somewhere else.”

She led him to the kitchen, the same place where the night before she had washed the dishes like any ordinary wife.

“This is where I spend half my life,” she said, letting go of his hand and leaning against the counter. “Today it’s going to be useful for something else.”

She lifted her dress without hurry, confirming what the boy was already guessing: she wasn’t wearing anything underneath. Her cunt was shaved, glossy, with the lips already swollen and a dampness running down the inside of her thigh. She leaned over the counter, offering herself, her ass raised and her legs just barely apart, and looked at him over her shoulder.

“Come on,” she said. “Show me you’re capable of more than asking your uncle to lend you clothes. Put it all the way in. No gentleness. I’m not a little girl.”

Right then, in the reflection of the window over the sink, she saw a shadow appear in the hallway. Esteban had come back. He was there, still, as she had ordered, watching.

Marisol smiled, without taking her eyes off that reflection.

Nicolás took her by the waist, lined the tip up with her soaked entrance, and with one hard thrust sank into her to the balls. Marisol let out a long, rough cry and grabbed the cold edge of the steel sink with both hands. The boy’s cock slid in all the way, without resistance, into a cunt that had been asking for it for hours. Nicolás gripped her hips with all ten fingers dug in and started fucking her with the urgency of twenty years old, no technique, all force and hunger, pulling almost all the way out to slam back in. The splashing of her wet cunt mixed with the slap of skin and the dishes in the drainer, trembling with every blow.

“Like that, like that, don’t stop,” she panted, pushing her ass back to take him all the way. “Break me, nephew. So I can feel it tomorrow.”

“Fuck, aunt. What a tight pussy you’ve got.”

“It’s yours, all yours, shove it in all the way. Let your uncle hear how it sounds.”

And without stopping his thrusts, with his eyes always on the shadow in the hallway, he raised his voice.

“Do you hear that, Esteban? Do you hear how your nephew’s fucking me? Do you hear how wet I am? You gave him this. You paid for this.”

Nicolás slapped her ass, then again, leaving her cheek red. He grabbed her hair, pulled her head back, and kept fucking her harder, bending her over the counter. Marisol’s tits had spilled out of the neckline and bounced against the cold formica with every thrust. Her eyes were half closed, her mouth open, and she begged for more between moans.

“Take it out,” she said suddenly. “Take it out and get down there against the counter.”

The boy obeyed, breathing hard. Marisol turned around, dropped to the floor, and got down on her knees on the tiles. She grabbed her own cock, wet with her juices, and took it back into her mouth, sucking it hungrily, swallowing her own taste. Then she pulled it out, looked into his eyes, and squeezed his balls.

“Now come. All of it outside. I want my husband to see the load his aunt is squeezing out of your cock.”

She worked his cock with her hand fast, never letting it leave her mouth, alternating between licking the tip and giving him a tight handjob, until the boy went rigid and began to unload with a muffled shout. The first burst of semen hit Marisol in the cheek, thick and hot; the second went straight onto her tongue, which she kept out to receive it; the rest fell onto her chin, her breasts, dripping between her tits and staining the edge of the black dress. Marisol didn’t close her mouth, didn’t swallow yet. She slowly turned her head toward the hallway and showed Esteban her tongue slick with cum, her nephew’s semen hanging from her lips in a thick strand.

“Harder, deeper next time,” she told the boy, still staring at the shadow. “Let him hear it well. Let him see what he gave away.”

And only then did she close her mouth, swallow, and wipe the rest from her face with two fingers, sucking them one by one.

Esteban didn’t come in. He didn’t say a word. He stayed in the doorway, throat dry, heart pounding, a shameful erection tightening his pants, understanding too late that offering up his wife had a price, and that the price was exactly this: to watch, in silence, as another man gave her what he, through pride and whiskey, had put on a platter.

When it was all over, Marisol rose calmly from the floor, pulled her dress down, fixed her hair in front of the window reflection, and only then turned her head toward the hallway.

“Good afternoon, my love,” she said. “You arrived just in time.”