The Week My Husband Left Me with His Uncle

I’m from a small town on the north coast, and I married Rodrigo when I was eighteen. By the time Mauricio arrived, we’d been living for a year in a cramped one-room house, with our five-month-old daughter sleeping between us. Mauricio was Rodrigo’s younger uncle, the one who lived in Piura, and he showed up on a Saturday afternoon with a backpack over his shoulder and a smile I didn’t remember from the wedding.

He was a man in his forties, tall, broad-shouldered, with the forearms of someone who works with his hands. He had that calm way of looking some older men polish with the years, a look that doesn’t insist but doesn’t look away either. Rodrigo greeted him with a long hug and told him to stay as many days as he wanted. We laid a mattress down on the living room floor, separated from the bedroom by a flimsy curtain that let everything through.

That same night Rodrigo told me he’d taken a job five hours away by bus. He was leaving the next day, would be back in a week, and he’d asked Mauricio to stay with me and the baby in case anything happened. I felt something twist inside me, but I didn’t say anything. I nodded, served him dinner, and went to bed with my head full of things I didn’t want to think about.

Rodrigo left before dawn. The house fell silent, except for Mauricio’s steady breathing behind the curtain and the baby’s tiny sighs. I spent the morning cooking, avoiding his eyes when he sat at the table, avoiding noticing how the coastal heat stuck his T-shirt to his chest. In the afternoon he helped me hang the laundry in the yard and asked about my family, the baby, Rodrigo. I answered in short phrases. He didn’t press.

At midnight, when the baby had been asleep for a while and the whole house seemed to be breathing slowly, I got up to go to the bathroom. The bathroom door opened onto the hallway that passed through the living room. And as I walked by, without meaning to, I saw.

***

The bathroom and the shower were together, separated only by a half-ruined partition wall. Mauricio was sitting on the edge of the shower stall, with his pants around his ankles and his hand moving slowly up and down over the biggest cock I’d ever seen in my life. The yellow light from the bulb fell on his shoulder and left the rest in shadow, but what I could see was more than enough.

It was huge. Thicker, longer, darker than anything I’d ever had near me. He was holding it with his right hand and still there was length left below his fist. The head glistened, swollen, purple, and a thick drop hung from the tip and fell to the floor between his feet. Rodrigo was thin, quick, almost timid in bed; this was something else. This was a grown man’s cock, a cock that knew what it wanted and moved in its owner’s hand with the calm of someone who’s done it a thousand times.

I stood there for an instant that was far too long. Mauricio lifted his head, saw me, and didn’t stop stroking. On the contrary: he slid his hand to the base, squeezed it, and showed it to me in full, without saying a word. He held my gaze like someone saying, “You’re here now, so decide.” I kept walking to the bathroom, did what I had to do, and washed my hands with my pulse beating in my neck, in my fingers, in the cunt that had suddenly gone wet without asking my permission.

I went back to the room and stared at the ceiling. You’re not going to do anything, I told myself. You only saw it. Nothing happened. Nothing has to happen. But the body doesn’t listen to words at two in the morning. My body had already decided to go down again, and now it was only looking for an excuse. My nipples had gone hard under my nightdress, and between my legs there was a throbbing insistence that wouldn’t let me sit still.

The excuse was a towel. I came out of the room in my robe, barefoot, with the towel folded under my arm and the idea of taking a quick shower. I knew he would see me pass. I walked slowly. When I got to the living-room mattress, the towel slipped from my arms —it wasn’t an accident—, I bent to pick it up without bending my knees and felt his gaze run over me from the nape of my neck to my heels, stopping where my robe opened between my thighs. When I straightened up, his eyes were exactly where I suspected they would be, and the sheet over his lap was raised in a way that left no doubt.

I went into the bathroom and left the door slightly open. I didn’t close it. I loosened my robe, turned on the shower, and stood under the water with my eyes closed, waiting. I ran my hands over my breasts, over my belly, and felt that I was already wet inside before the water had even finished wetting me outside.

He didn’t take long. I heard him come in, felt the air shift, and when I turned around he was there, naked, with his fully hard cock pointing at my navel, with the same calm as before. He asked if it bothered me that he shower with me, said something about the heat, said something neither of us believed. I told him it didn’t bother me. I told him to come in. And the water was running over both of us when he put a hand on my hip and kissed me.

***

It was a long kiss, unhurried, his tongue taking its time learning my mouth. I had my hand wrapped around him, and what I’d thought was true: I could barely get my fingers around him. I measured him from top to bottom with my palm, feeling every vein, and I still had cock left on both sides. I squeezed him slowly and felt the air escape from his nose. I worked him under the water, up and down, my fist slick with soap and foam, and he let his forehead drop against mine and growled something that wasn’t a word.

—Careful —he told me—, because if you keep this up I’m going to have to put it in you right here.

—Put it in me —I answered, and I didn’t recognize my own voice.

But he didn’t put it in me yet. He knelt first on the shower floor, opened my legs by resting one of my feet on the edge, and brought his mouth to my cunt with a calm that buckled my knees. He licked my clit slowly, with a broad, flat tongue, then with the sharp tip circling me until a moan slipped out that I had to swallow by biting my fist so I wouldn’t wake the baby. He pushed two thick fingers inside me and curled them, all the while sucking me, and made me come like that, standing under the shower, my legs shaking and one hand gripping his wet hair.

When I came over his mouth, he laughed softly, stood up, licked the taste from my lips, and soaped me as if nothing had happened. He soaped my back, my breasts, between my legs with two fingers that knew exactly where they were going. He pinched my nipples until they were hard as stones, ran his foam-covered hand over my ass, and slipped the tip of one finger into the place no one had ever put anything, only the tip, barely, just to see the face I made. He rinsed me with the handheld shower and wrapped me in the towel as if I were something fragile. Then he lifted me. Literally. He picked me up in his arms as if I weighed nothing and carried me to the living room, to the mattress on the floor where he’d been masturbating an hour earlier.

He laid me on my back, opened my legs calmly, and knelt between them. He took his cock by the base, dragged it along the lips of my cunt from top to bottom, coating himself in what I had there, and started to push. It didn’t go in all at once. He worked his way in millimeter by millimeter, stretching me open. I could feel my flesh opening inside, the head pushing and yielding and pushing again. I bit my lip. My eyes filled with tears without my meaning to.

—Breathe —he told me, and waited.

I breathed. He went in a little more. He waited again. I breathed again. And like that, in three or four slow pushes, he finished putting it in me until I felt his balls resting against my ass and the coarse pubic hair scraping mine. Once he was all the way in, he looked down at me and asked if I was okay. I nodded. I was better than okay. I was full, fuller than I’d ever been, with another man’s cock buried to the hilt inside me, and that thought alone made me squeeze around him without wanting to.

He moved slowly at first, coming almost all the way out and then sinking back in completely, letting me feel every inch on the way. Then, with a rhythm that left no room for discussion, he started fucking me hard. His thighs slammed against mine with a wet slap, the makeshift bed slid over the floor, and I had to bite his shoulder to keep from screaming. I dug my nails into his shoulders, bit his neck, wrapped my legs around his waist, and let him do whatever he wanted.

—You’ve got me so tight —he told me in my ear, breathing hard—, what the fuck are you giving me, niece.

Hearing that word in his mouth, at that moment, with him buried to the hilt in me, made me grit my teeth and come again, shaking under him without being able to hide it. He covered my mouth with his hand and kept driving into me, without changing the rhythm, pulling spasm after spasm from me. He asked if I was protected and I told him yes, that I had an IUD. Then he sped up, sank deeper, and after a few thrusts let out a long groan and emptied himself inside me. I felt the pulses of his cock against the walls of my cunt, spurt after spurt, hot. When he pulled out, I felt semen running down my thighs and staining the mattress.

He turned me over, put me on my knees, and shoved my head against the pillow. With my ass in the air and my cunt still dripping him, he opened me with his thumbs and stared at me there. I felt his tongue, hot and long, running up my slit, licking his own cum off me, soaking my ass in saliva. Then I felt the tip pressing where Rodrigo sometimes dared to. I told him no. Not there. Not with that.

He stopped without arguing. He kissed one cheek, then the other, opened me with his hands and gave me one long, deep lick from the clit to the asshole, marking a trail of saliva on me, and whispered that I had a beautiful ass, that he wouldn’t be able to forget it, that one day he was going to taste it.

That night we fucked until we ran out of positions. He put it in me again from the side, with one of my legs lifted over his shoulder, while he sucked my nipple without stopping his thrusts. Then he sat me astride his face and made me ride his mouth until I came again, gripping the back of the sofa. Then he fucked me standing up again, bent over the table, biting the back of my neck. Then I fell asleep beside him, naked, his arm across my waist and his cock still warm, still half-soft, resting against the small of my back. Every so often he would press closer, suck the nape of my neck, kiss my shoulder, run his tongue down my spine. And every so often the tip would press again against that forbidden place and ask without words.

***

At four in the morning I woke with his hand between my legs. He had two fingers inside me, moving them slowly, and with his thumb he circled my clit. I pushed his hand away and told him again no, not there. He asked me, in a hoarse voice I hadn’t heard before, to suck him off. That it had been years since anyone had given him a proper blowjob. I agreed. I knelt between his open legs, held his cock with both hands —one on top of the other and the head still stuck out— and took it into my mouth as far as I could, which wasn’t much.

I started by licking the head like it was an ice cream, circling the crown with my tongue, sucking the salty drop that oozed from the slit. I licked down along the vein underneath, and when I got to the balls I took them into my mouth one by one, carefully, while holding his cock with both hands and pulling his foreskin up and down. I went back up, spit on the head to lube it, and took it as far down my throat as I could. My eyes filled with tears and I gagged. I pulled off, breathed, and tried again. He put a hand on the back of my neck, not pushing, just resting it there, and whispered that yes, like that, that’s it, what a mouth, that mine was small and warm.

I licked it, sucked it, held it with both hands, did every trick I knew and some I made up on the spot. I worked him with my fist while sucking only the tip, alternating rhythms, squeezing below the crown with my lips. Saliva ran down my fist to his balls, and still he didn’t come. My jaw started complaining before his did.

I told him to sleep. I told him I was done, I couldn’t do any more. And then he asked me again. Please, he said. Please. Just the tip. Slowly. He wouldn’t move.

I gave in, but on one condition. Me on top, me in control, me deciding how far. He lay on his back, his hands on my hips, and suddenly I felt ridiculously small on top of him, with that huge cock pointing at my ass. I spit on it myself, spit on him, rubbed him with my hand until it was well-lubricated. I settled myself, aimed the head at my asshole, and sat down onto it with a care that seemed ridiculous to me seconds later.

I went down a centimeter, another, another. The head resisted, yielded, went in halfway, slipped out. It burned. It hurt. It made me breathe through my mouth with my jaw tense, my hands braced on his chest. I pushed harder and felt it suddenly open me, felt the crown pass the ring and slide all the way in. I let out a moan that he silenced by pinching one nipple between his fingers. I stayed still, with only the head inside, breathing, while he stroked my hips and didn’t move.

Little by little I went lower. Each stretch was a battle and a surrender at the same time. It made me feel things I had never felt before, a mix of limit and abandonment only understood by someone who’s crossed one. I went down halfway, and there I stayed a long while, moving only a little up and down, letting my ass get used to his thickness. I went lower. And lower. Until I felt his balls resting against me and knew I had all of him inside me, in a place where I’d never had anything that big before.

When he was all the way in I stayed still on top of him, trying to get used to it, mouth open and eyes closed. He sucked my breasts, told me things in my ear I’m not going to repeat, held me with both hands spread over my ass and squeezed, pulling my cheeks apart to put it in even deeper. And when the movement started, he started it, not me. He lifted his hips with a force I couldn’t control, taking my ass from below, and all I could do was let him, my hands braced on his chest so I wouldn’t fall. The smack of his thighs against mine echoed through the whole house. The obscene splashing of old cunt cum mixing with ass spit filled the living room.

He slipped a hand between my legs and started rubbing my clit while at the same time he fucked me from behind. Everything went hazy. I came in a way I’d never known before, a long, strange orgasm that came out of places that weren’t the usual ones, with my ass squeezing his cock in spasms and him growling beneath me because he could feel it. He finished inside. I felt the pulse as he came, shot after shot deep in the back, and then the whole weight of his body lowering over his. We stayed like that, pressed together, with him still inside, breathing, until the sweat cooled on us. When he finally came out, he did it slowly, and I felt a strange emptiness and a hot thread running from my slit down to my thighs. He kissed my temple and said something I don’t want to remember, because if I remember it I’ll look for him again.

***

Rodrigo came back the next day at noon, earlier than expected. The job hadn’t materialized, he said. Mauricio, who had planned to stay three more days, suddenly decided he had to go back to Piura that same afternoon. He said goodbye with a stiff hug. He gave me two quick kisses, one on each cheek, without looking at me.

That night Rodrigo made love to me as always. At some point he turned me over, pushed me down, opened me, and went in through the place Mauricio had entered hours before. It burned. I clenched my teeth and endured it. Rodrigo whispered that I had a beautiful ass, that he liked it more every day, that he didn’t know what I’d done to myself that week to be so loose. I told him it was the sleep, that I’d slept a lot, that I was relaxed.

I never saw Mauricio again. After a while the family stopped mentioning him, and Rodrigo and I went on with our cramped life in that one-room house. We had another daughter. We bought a bigger bed. We changed the curtain in the living room for a wall. And I never, not even once, told anyone what happened those two days.

There were other betrayals after that, but that one was the first. The one that taught me that the body decides before the mind, that conscience can live dirty and sleep just the same, and that there are things a woman keeps in the drawer of private memories for the days when tight life presses too hard.

No one can take away what I enjoyed.