The Forbidden Game with My Sister’s Husband

I always found it hard to mix. At family gatherings I looked for the chair closest to the exit; at parties I stayed glued to the wall until I could leave without anyone noticing. I was the kind of person who could go unnoticed even though my body said otherwise: dark-skinned, pronounced hips, a bust that from the age of eighteen drew more looks than I ever asked for. I was twenty-two when I realized my shyness was completely selective.

My sister Sonia always had something against me. I don’t know whether it was jealousy or simply that we never found a common frequency. She had ended up marrying Rodrigo: calm, attentive, the kind of man who remembers birthdays and laughs at bad jokes out of courtesy. He treated me well. Too well, really, and I knew exactly when it started to be different.

It was a photo from a hot Saturday, me in the patio of my apartment in a short dress that did the bare minimum to serve its purpose. I uploaded it to my status without thinking too much about it. Rodrigo replied with a comment that lingered a second too long on the edge of what was appropriate. I could have let it go.

I didn’t let it go.

What followed were weeks of messages that started as normal conversation and ended as something else. He told me he thought of me when he jerked off in the shower, that he imagined burying his dick all the way inside me while gripping himself with a hand full of foam. I answered with photos where the clothes did exactly what was strictly necessary: a finger pulling aside the edge of my panties so the hair showed, a nipple peeking above a top, my mouth open as if I had something to suck. Never more than that. But words pile up, and the weight of what isn’t said starts to bend things.

***

The Saturday afternoon smelled of coffee and the rain from a few hours earlier. Sonia had invited me to lunch with that energy she puts into everything: determined, without asking whether the other person feels like it. After dessert she suggested Monopoly and before anyone could say anything she was already setting the board out on the dining table. The four of us ended up seated there: Sonia, Rodrigo, their seven-year-old daughter, and me, with the colored tokens and that absurd seriousness board games always have.

Rodrigo was sitting to my right.

I hadn’t planned it. It was a coincidence of chairs that suddenly carried the weight of the world. His knee was just inches from mine and I was perfectly aware of every one of those inches. My heart was pounding harder than normal. My cunt was already throbbing beneath my dress, wet from having him so close. Sonia was talking; her daughter was moving her token with her tongue pressed between her teeth; I was rolling the dice without looking at the board.

He wasn’t looking at the board much either.

At one point our eyes met and he looked away fast, as if I’d caught him doing something he wasn’t supposed to. I didn’t look away.

That was when I let my sandal fall.

A small movement, calculated to seem accidental. The sandal slipped off my foot with a soft thud against the wood. I bent halfway down, as if to pick it up, and instead slowly stretched my foot forward. I found it: the fabric of his trousers, the firmness of his thigh. I stayed still for a moment, gauging it. He didn’t move. He said nothing. He kept looking at his cards, his knuckles white around the wad of colorful bills.

Sonia was laughing at something her daughter had said.

I moved my foot carefully, upward, with a pressure that left no room for doubt. I ran the bare sole over the bulge and felt his cock hardening under his pants, swelling and pushing at the fabric, looking for space. Rodrigo held his breath in such a visible way that I was surprised no one else noticed. His eyes—that dark green I had imagined too many times since we started messaging—locked on mine for a second and then dropped to the board. His jaw was clenched.

—Your turn, love —Sonia said without looking up.

He rolled the dice. The numbers were completely irrelevant.

I kept going. My foot traveled slowly along the inside of his thigh until it found what I was looking for: a warm, firm pressure growing beneath the fabric. I pressed his balls with the arch of my foot, kneaded them slowly, and then moved up to his cock and rubbed it from top to bottom with the top of my foot, measuring its length. Rodrigo shifted his leg a millimeter, not to pull away but to adjust, to make it easier. Under the fabric it pulsed, so hard I could feel the blood pumping against the sole of my foot.

That tiny movement told me everything I needed to know.

—Mom, I’m hungry —the girl announced.

The game ended there. Sonia stood up, Rodrigo got to his feet before anyone asked him to and disappeared toward the bathroom with steps too fast to be casual. I gathered the tokens with slightly trembling hands and panties soaked through, stuck to my cunt, and thought of the messages he’d sent me weeks earlier, the things he’d said he wanted to do to me, and the fact that neither of us was Sonia.

***

That night I slept in the guest room. A soft mattress, a window letting in street noise, and the absolute certainty that I wasn’t going to be able to sleep. I lay there staring at the ceiling with my heart racing and my mind always returning to the same point: the exact moment when Rodrigo had adjusted his leg so he wouldn’t pull away.

The image kept coming back with clarity. His white knuckles. His green eyes dropping to the board. The hard cock vibrating beneath my foot. I slid my hand under the sheets almost without realizing it, slipped two fingers between my cunt lips and found them dripping. I started rubbing my clit in slow circles, imagining it was Rodrigo’s tongue there, imagining it was him opening my legs and licking me from top to bottom until he buried his face between my thighs. I shoved my fingers in to the knuckles and fucked myself slowly, pressing my palm against my clit, biting my lip so I wouldn’t moan. Five minutes later I was still just as awake, the heat even more settled than before and a decision arriving on its own: my fingers weren’t enough.

At one in the morning I convinced myself I was being stupid and closed my eyes. At one-thirty I opened them again. At two I sat up in bed.

Nine meters. Just nine meters up the hall.

I went to the room at the end of the hall.

The door was ajar. I pushed it slowly. Sonia breathed with that heavy regularity of someone who falls asleep as soon as her head hits the pillow. Rodrigo was lying on his back, eyes open, staring at the ceiling with the same expression I’d had for two hours.

I whispered his name.

—Camila? —he said very quietly, propping himself up on his elbows.

—I can’t sleep. Come with me to the bathroom?

He took two seconds. He got up without making a sound, barefoot, in a T-shirt and pajama pants that already had a marked bulge, and we stepped out into the hallway, closing the door carefully. Neither of us said anything as we walked. We reached the bathroom at the back. I went in. He stopped in the doorway.

—Come in —I told him.

He did. He locked the door. The light was white and direct, the kind that leaves no shadows and no excuses. We looked at each other for a second that felt longer than it was.

There was no preamble. I stepped close and kissed him, and he answered without hesitation, both hands on my face and then on my neck and then lower, taking me by the waist, pulling me in as if he needed to convince himself I was real. I shoved my tongue deep into his mouth and he sucked on it, biting my lower lip, moaning softly against my mouth. My back was against the sink and he was pressed to me, and I could clearly feel that the two of us had spent the night thinking the same thing: his cock hard as a rock pushing against my belly through the fabric of my pajamas.

I slid my hand down his chest to the elastic of his pants. I slipped my fingers underneath. When I grabbed his cock directly, with no fabric in between, a gasp escaped him that he had to stifle by biting my shoulder. It was thick, hot, the skin taut and a drop of pre-cum already beading at the tip. I squeezed it at the base and jerked it slowly, up and down with my whole hand, feeling it pound against my palm.

—Fuck, Camila —he whispered against my neck—. I’ve been thinking about this for weeks. Weeks.

I knelt on the cold tile without stopping jerking him off. I pulled his pants down to his thighs and his cock sprang free, pointing at my face, red at the glans, the thick vein marked along the top. I gripped it by the base and ran my tongue from his balls to the tip, slowly, tasting the salt. Then I took it in my mouth. As much as I could. I felt his whole body tense, how he clung to the sink edge with one hand so he wouldn’t lose his balance and with the other he held my hair without quite pulling.

I sucked his cock hungrily. With my mouth open, with my tongue wrapped around it, choking a little every time I took him to the back of my throat. I pulled it out dripping with saliva and licked his balls one by one while I kept stroking him with my hand. He looked down at me with his mouth parted and his eyes half-lidded, and in the side mirror I saw the image of my own mouth doing that to my brother-in-law, and I was so wet it was running down the inside of my thigh.

—Stop —he gasped after a moment—. Stop, stop, if you keep going I’m not going to make it.

He lifted me up by my arms. His hands found the hem of my nightgown and yanked it up in one pull, without asking. I was naked from the waist down against the sink, and when his fingers touched the heat between my legs and realized how much I’d been thinking about this tonight, he made a low sound in his throat, almost inaudible, that affected me more than anything he could have said.

—You’re soaked —he said, burying two fingers in my cunt at once.

A moan escaped me and he covered my mouth with his other hand. He started fingering me slowly, pulling his fingers out slick and sliding them back in, while with his thumb he rubbed my clit in circles. He sucked my nipples through the nightgown, then he pulled it up all the way and bit them bare, one and then the other, alternating, until they were swollen and hard.

—Rodrigo —I whispered, not knowing exactly what I was asking him for.

—I know —he answered.

He turned me around. I placed my palms on the edge of the sink and saw my own reflection in the mirror: disheveled hair, mouth parted, the expression of someone who has stopped calculating the consequences. His fingers prepared me with a patience I hadn’t expected: he spread my cunt lips with two fingers and bent down behind me, and suddenly I felt his hot tongue sliding from bottom to top, licking me all over, going inside me. My knees nearly buckled. He ate my pussy from behind with his face buried between my ass cheeks, sucking me, slurping me, while I bit a towel so I wouldn’t scream. When he stood back up his mouth was shining and he had a smile I had never seen on him before.

I heard the rustle of his pajama fabric falling all the way down. I felt the hot glans rubbing between my cunt lips, searching for the entrance, soaking up my juices before pushing in.

The first time I felt it—the pressure looking for the opening, advancing slowly, forcing its way in carefully, the thick cock parting me centimeter by centimeter—I had to bite my knuckle to keep from making a sound. It wasn’t fear. It was the impact of something I’d been imagining for weeks and that turned out to be more than I’d calculated: more heat, more weight, more presence than any version of that fantasy. He shoved it all the way in with a slow, restrained thrust, and he filled me in a way that made my vision blur.

He started with slow, deep strokes, the kind that leave no room to think about anything else. He went all the way in, pulled back to the tip, and pushed into the depths again, until I could feel his balls hitting my clit.

—Stay still —he told me in my ear when I moved my hips—. We’ll get caught.

I tried. It was hard. His pace was the kind that forces you to focus on every detail: the exact pressure, the angle, the moment when the air cuts off in your throat and you have to decide fast whether to stay quiet or not. My fingers were clamped on the sink. He watched me in the mirror with half-lidded eyes while he held my hips and drove his cock into me again and again, setting a dull rhythm, the wet sound of my dripping cunt muffled by the hum of the bathroom fan.

He slid one hand around to the front and found my clit. He started rubbing it while he kept fucking me, and everything sped up. He leaned over my back, pushed my hair away from my neck, and bit me just below the ear.

—I always thought about this —he said almost soundlessly—. Long before the messages. Since the first time I saw you at your sister’s place. I used to think about burying my cock in you like this, about opening your legs over the table, about seeing your face while you came on my dick.

—Shut up —I panted—. Shut up and fuck me harder.

He did. He increased the pace, driving in with more weight, every thrust pulling a gasp from me that he swallowed by covering my mouth with his palm. I sucked his cock while he kept fucking me, my tongue wrapped around his fingers, biting them softly. In the mirror I could see my tits bouncing with the rhythm of his hips, my mouth opening and closing without a sound, my face flushed and my hair stuck to my forehead.

I didn’t answer him because I couldn’t. The rhythm had become more intense, more urgent, and everything I’d been holding in for hours was looking for a way out. My clit was throbbing under his finger and I felt my cunt begin to tighten around his cock on its own, contracting in waves, sucking him inward. When I came, it was in absolute silence, my forehead pressed to the mirror, my teeth clamped on his hand and my whole body shaking, with long spasms that milked his dick from the inside.

—Fuck —he groaned against my nape—. Fuck, I’m going to come.

—Not inside —I whispered—. Not inside, pull it out.

He pulled out at the last second. He turned me around again, gripped his cock with his hand and jerked the last strokes toward my stomach. I felt him finish in front of me seconds later, his hands closing around my hips with a force I knew would leave marks until Monday, hot thick ropes landing on my abdomen and thighs, one after another, until the last drop was left trembling on the tip. He wiped it on my lips and I opened my mouth and sucked it clean.

***

We separated without saying anything. I cleaned myself with paper from the roll, he pulled his pants back up, we straightened our clothes in silence, in that same mirror that had seen everything. When we finally looked at each other, neither of us knew exactly what expression to wear.

—Go back to your room —he said at last, in a low voice.

I went back.

I lay on the guest mattress listening to the sleeping house, with my cunt still throbbing and something that wasn’t exactly guilt but was close enough in shape. I didn’t sleep much that night.

I found out later, through his own messages, what happened when he got back into bed. Sonia had half-woken and wanted something from him. Rodrigo told her he was tired. She insisted, put her hand in his pants, got him hard again by jerking him off. He closed his eyes, let his mind go somewhere completely different—to me, to my cunt dripping in the bathroom sink, to my mouth sucking the tip—and that was how my sister, suspecting nothing, believed that what she was getting was for her.

When he told me, days later, I didn’t know what to say. I kept quiet.

The Monopoly set stayed in its box, on the shelf in my sister’s living room. But what we had started under that table had no intention of staying put.