The Lover Who Tore Apart Her Lingerie Every Morning
Carla had spent weeks noticing how the bra’s fabric brushed against her nipples every time she took a deep breath. It was as if her own body had sided with her in a silent conspiracy. That morning she had put on one of the new ones: deep red, semitransparent lace, with underwires that pushed her breasts up until they formed such a deep cleavage she could hardly bend without the flesh spilling over.
She looked at herself in the bathroom mirror. She slowly pinched one of her nipples until she felt it harden against the lace and smiled at her reflection with a complicity she shared with no one else. Downstairs, somewhere in the house, the hallway clock marked a quarter to eleven.
Diego would arrive at eleven-thirty. Andrés was already in the middle of his all-morning meeting, locked away in the office downtown with his phone on silent. She had almost three hours. Three hours were more than enough.
She welcomed him barefoot, her black silk robe barely closed by a loose knot she herself knew would not hold for long. When he came into the living room, smelling of clean sweat and tool metal, Carla let the silk fall open on its own with every step she took toward him.
—I didn’t finish showing you the attic duct yesterday —Diego said, with that half-smile that by now he knew perfectly well what it caused.
—No need to go upstairs —she replied in a low voice, almost a purr—. Down here is fine.
She shoved him against the back of the large pale leather sofa. Diego let himself sink into the seat and she climbed astride him without a single preliminaries, as if she had spent the whole morning waiting for that moment. Her thighs opened around his hips as the robe finished sliding off to the sides. The red bra was revealed, taut, the cups on the verge of bursting under the pressure.
Diego lifted his hands and pushed them straight under the lace, grabbing her breasts with open palms. His fingers sank into the soft flesh; his thumbs found her already hard nipples. Carla let out a long moan when he squeezed them at once, pulling outward until she arched her back and pressed her chest against his face.
—Take it off —she whispered, biting her lower lip—. Tear it.
He didn’t need to be told twice. Diego hooked his thumbs at the center of the bra and pulled hard to the sides. The back clasp snapped with a dry crack, the lace tore at the seams, and Carla’s breasts came free, heavy and swaying in front of his face. He caught them one after the other, sucking eagerly, biting just enough to make her gasp. Her skin gleamed wet as she rubbed shamelessly against the bulge already straining his jeans.
Carla lowered her hands, unfastened his belt with impatient fingers, and freed him. She wrapped her palm around him and felt him pulse, hard and hot. She leaned forward, letting her breasts flatten against his tattooed torso while she stroked him slowly, up and down, setting a slow rhythm that drove them both mad.
—I want you inside me now —she said, almost growling the words.
She rose just enough to push her lace panties aside. She didn’t take them off; she liked the feel of the wet fabric brushing her as she lowered herself slowly onto him. She came down hard until her hips slammed into his, and both of them groaned at the same time, hers sharper, his muffled against her neck.
She started moving violently, up and down, making her breasts bounce in front of Diego’s face. He grabbed them with his hands, squeezed them, licked them, left red marks with his teeth on the whitest skin around the areolas. Every time she came down hard, the wet sound of their bodies colliding filled the living room. The sofa creaked under them as if protesting.
Carla sped up, planting her hands on his shoulders for more leverage. She could feel him filling her completely, grazing that inner spot that made her tremble from head to toe. Diego slid one hand between their bodies, found her swollen clit, 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 with his thumb and drove his hips upward just as she came down. Carla tensed all over, threw her head back, and cried out uncontrollably as the orgasm shot through her like a jolt. Her walls clenched around him so tightly that Diego lasted only a few seconds more; he growled against her chest, dug his fingers into her hips, and emptied himself inside her in deep spasms.
They stayed like that for several minutes, panting, sweaty, with the remains of the red bra torn to shreds still hanging 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.
***
The following days they repeated the scene several more times. Every morning she chose a different garment, as if it were a ritual: black leather the first time, white satin the second, purple with sheer panels after that. And they always ended the same way, shredded on the floor of the living room, the bedroom, once even in the kitchen, against the cold granite countertop.
There was something about the destruction of the fabric that excited her more than sex itself. The snap of the clasp coming undone, the sound of the lace tearing, the physical proof that something had broken and there was no way to put it back. Maybe that was why she kept doing it. Maybe that was why, without fully admitting it, she began stretching the mornings, arranging to see Diego later and later, almost brushing the hour Andrés usually came home.
As if part of me wanted it to happen.
***
And it did happen the afternoon Andrés opened the door early.
The meeting had been canceled late in the morning and he, naïve, had thought of surprising her with lunch already made. He went up the stairs quietly, still smiling, and found them in the master bedroom.
Carla was on her knees on the bed, her hands braced on the headboard, her body arched and her breasts swaying to the rhythm of Diego’s thrusts from behind. She wore only black thong panties pushed aside and the remains of a dark green torn corset hanging from her waist. The sound of skin on skin was so loud that neither of them heard the door.
Andrés froze in the doorway. He watched his wife throw her head back, moan with her mouth open, and beg, “harder, break me.” He watched Diego grab her hips and fuck her without mercy, making the bed shake with every удар. He saw the rumpled, wet sheet beneath her.
Carla turned her head and saw him.
Their eyes met for a second that seemed eternal. There was no shame in her gaze, not even surprise. Only a mixture of raw pleasure and something like defiance. She kept moving her hips back toward Diego, as if she wanted to make it perfectly clear to her husband that she no longer belonged to anyone but herself.
Diego did not stop. He could not see Andrés from where he was, or maybe he simply chose not to know. He kept driving into her with the same intensity while Andrés turned around slowly and closed the bedroom door without saying a single word.
The click of the lock was the only sound heard in the whole house.
***
Minutes later, when the last orgasm left her shaking and weak-legged, Carla let herself fall onto her side on the mattress. The shredded green corset lay right beside Andrés’s pillow, on his side, like a flag planted on conquered ground.
She didn’t hear the front door, but she knew he was gone. The whole house had that particular stillness of things that have just ended forever.
Diego dressed in silence, stroked her hair, and left through the service door, as always. She stayed 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 now. And although her body was still burning just from remembering Diego’s hands on her skin, a 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.
