The Lover Who Tore Her Lingerie to Shreds Every Morning
For weeks, Carla had been noticing how the fabric of her bra rubbed against her nipples every time she took a deep breath. It was as though her own body had taken her side in a silent conspiracy. That morning she had put on one of the new ones: vivid red, made of semitransparent lace, with underwires that pushed her breasts upward until they formed such a deep cleavage that she could barely bend over without the flesh spilling out.
She looked at herself in the bathroom mirror. Slowly, she pinched one of her nipples until she felt it harden against the lace, then smiled at her reflection with a complicity she shared with no one else. Downstairs, somewhere in the house, the hallway clock showed a quarter to eleven.
Diego would arrive at eleven-thirty. Andrés was already deep into his all-morning meeting, shut away in the office downtown with his phone on silent. She had almost three hours. Three hours were more than enough.
She received him barefoot, wearing a black silk robe closed only by a loose knot that she herself knew would not hold for long. When he entered the living room, smelling of clean sweat and tool metal, Carla let the silk open on its own with every step she took toward him.
—Yesterday I didn’t finish showing you the attic duct —Diego said, with that half smile that already knew perfectly well what it provoked.
—We don’t need to go upstairs —she replied softly, almost purring—. Down here is fine.
She pushed him against the back of the large pale-leather sofa. Diego let himself drop into a seated position, and she climbed astride him without a single preliminary, as if she had been waiting all morning for that moment. Her thighs opened around his hips as the robe finally fell away to either side. The red bra was left exposed, taut, its cups on the verge of bursting under the strain.
Diego raised his hands and slipped them directly beneath the lace, seizing her breasts with his open palms. His fingers sank into the soft flesh; his thumbs found the nipples already hard. Carla let out a long moan when he squeezed them at the same time, pulling outward until she arched her back and thrust her chest against his face.
—Take it off —she whispered, biting her lower lip—. Tear it.
He did not need her to repeat herself. Diego hooked his thumbs into the center of the bra and pulled hard to either side. The back clasp sprang open with a dry snap, the lace ripped along the seams, and Carla’s breasts came free, swaying heavily in front of his face. He caught them one after the other, sucking eagerly, biting just hard enough to make her gasp. Her skin glistened with moisture as she shamelessly rubbed herself against the bulge already straining his jeans.
Carla lowered her hands, undid his belt with impatient fingers, and freed him. She wrapped her palm around him and felt him throb, hard and hot. She leaned forward, letting her breasts flatten against his tattooed torso while she stroked him slowly, up and down, setting a leisurely rhythm that drove them both wild.
—I want you inside me now —she said, almost growling the words.
She rose just enough to push her lace panties to one side. She did not take them off; she liked the feel of the damp fabric rubbing against her as she slowly lowered herself onto him. She dropped down hard until her hips collided with his, and they both moaned at the same time, hers higher-pitched, his muffled against her neck.
She began moving violently, rising and falling, making her breasts bounce in front of Diego’s face. He caught them in his hands, squeezed them, licked them, leaving red marks with his teeth on the snowy skin around her areolas. Every time she came down hard, the wet sound of their bodies colliding filled the living room. The sofa creaked beneath them as if protesting.
Carla quickened her pace, bracing her hands on his shoulders for more leverage. She felt him filling her completely, brushing that inner spot that made her tremble from head to toe. Diego slid one hand between their bodies, found her swollen clitoris, and began rubbing it in quick circles with his thumb while keeping his mouth pressed to one of her nipples.
—I’m going to come —she panted—. Don’t stop… please… don’t stop.
He increased the pressure of his thumb and thrust his hips upward just as she came down. Carla went rigid, threw her head back, and screamed uncontrollably as the orgasm tore through her like an electric shock. Her walls clenched around him so forcefully that Diego lasted only a few seconds longer; he growled against her breast, dug his fingers into her hips, and emptied himself inside her in deep spasms.
They stayed that way for several minutes, panting and sweaty, with the remains of the red bra still hanging in tatters from her arms like trophies from a private battle. Carla leaned down and kissed him slowly, savoring the salt of her own skin on his tongue.
***
Over the following days, they repeated the scene several more times. Every morning she chose a different garment, as though it were a ritual: black leather the first time, white satin the second, purple with sheer panels after that. And they all ended the same way, destroyed on the floor of the living room, the bedroom, once even in the kitchen, against the cold granite countertop.
There was something about destroying the fabric that aroused her more than sex itself. The snap of the clasp as it came undone, the sound of lace tearing, the physical proof that something had broken and there was no way to put it back in place. Perhaps that was why she kept doing it. Perhaps that was why, without fully admitting it, she began stretching out the mornings, asking Diego to come later and later, almost brushing against the time Andrés usually returned.
As if some part of me wanted it to happen.
***
And it happened the afternoon Andrés opened the door early.
The meeting had been canceled midmorning, and he, unsuspecting, had thought of surprising her with lunch already made. He went up the stairs without making a sound, still smiling, and found them in the master bedroom.
Carla was on her knees on the bed, her hands braced against the headboard, her body arched and her breasts swaying to the rhythm of Diego’s thrusts from behind. She wore only a black thong pushed to one side, and the remains of a dark green bustier hung torn around her waist. The sound of skin against skin was so loud that neither of them heard the door.
Andrés stood frozen in the doorway. He saw his wife throw her head back, moan with her mouth open, and plead, “Harder, tear me apart.” He saw Diego grip her hips and penetrate her mercilessly, making the bed shake with every thrust. He saw the crumpled, damp sheet beneath her.
Carla turned her head and saw him.
Their eyes met for one second that seemed to last forever. There was no shame in her gaze, not even surprise. Only a mixture of raw pleasure and something resembling defiance. She continued moving her hips backward, toward Diego, as if she wanted to make it clear to her husband that she belonged to no one but herself now.
Diego did not stop. He could not see Andrés from where he was, or perhaps he did not want to know. He kept thrusting into her with the same intensity while Andrés slowly turned around and closed the bedroom door without saying a single word.
The click of the lock was the only sound heard throughout the house.
***
Minutes later, when the final orgasm left her trembling and her legs weak, Carla let herself fall onto her side on the mattress. The shredded green bustier lay right beside the pillow on Andrés’s side of the bed, like a flag planted in conquered territory.
She did not hear the front door, but she knew he had left. The entire house possessed that peculiar stillness of things that have just ended forever.
Diego dressed in silence, stroked her hair, and left through the service entrance, as always. She remained lying there, staring at the ceiling, still feeling the heat between her legs and the weight of what she had just done.
There was no turning back. And although her body still burned at the mere memory of Diego’s hands on her skin, part of her knew with icy clarity that she had broken something that would never be put back together.
The most disturbing thing of all was admitting, in the silence of that bedroom, that she had done it on purpose.
