How I Started Desiring My Father-in-Law During His Massages

I was in my early thirties and had been separated for a couple of years. My life was fairly ordinary: a steady job, bills to pay, and that constant feeling that I needed to earn a little more so I wouldn’t always be scraping by. That was why I took a basic massage course. I did it intending to offer home visits, but for months I never actually practiced on anyone.

At the time I was dating Damián, a patient, hardworking man who was much more levelheaded than my exes. He lived with his father, Ernesto, an older man who needed almost constant company. After a health problem, Ernesto had become frail, with moments of disorientation, lapses in memory, and an obvious fear of being left alone in the house at night.

Since Damián worked shifts, there were days when a caregiver stayed with him in the afternoon, but once night fell, things became more complicated. More than once, I offered to stay at the house to help. At first I did it out of affection for my partner and compassion for that big man with white hair and trembling hands, who calmed down when someone spoke to him gently.

Over time, I began getting to know Ernesto better. He had that kind of old-fashioned masculinity that doesn’t disappear with age: a deep voice, a broad chest, arms that were still firm despite the years. Even clumsy and confused at times, he still had a presence that filled the room. I never would have admitted then that I noticed those things, but I did.

The night everything changed, I had cramps, I was tired, and I was in a bad mood. It was cold, and all I wanted was to crawl under a blanket. Ernesto, on the other hand, was restless. He insisted on going out for a walk even though it was already late and the air felt icy even inside the house.

—No, Don Ernesto, it’s much too cold outside —I told him, trying to convince him without arguing.

He looked at me with that strange mixture of confusion and stubbornness.

—I want to go out for a while. I don’t like being cooped up.

I took a deep breath, pressed my hand against my aching stomach, and blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

—If you stay calm, I’ll give you a massage so you can relax.

His smile said it all. His face lit up like a child who had just been promised a prize, and he nodded at once. I prepared the guest room, lowered the lights, and brought out the oil I had bought weeks earlier to practice with. I asked him to take off his clothes and cover himself with a towel from the waist down.

When he came out of the bathroom like that, his torso bare and his skin wrinkled but clean, I watched him for a second too long. He was an old man, yes, but not weak as I had wanted to believe. He had heavy shoulders, gray hair on his chest, and thick legs that still retained their strength. I felt an uncomfortable pang between my legs and forced myself to ignore it.

He lay facedown, and I began with his back. First I used the massage gun to loosen his muscles, then I set it aside and switched to my hands. The oil warmed quickly between my palms. I pressed slowly, moving over the nape of his neck, his shoulders, his spine, the small of his back. Ernesto let out a long moan of relief.

—You’re very good at this —he murmured—. I didn’t know you had hands like that.

It wasn’t just the compliment. It was his tone. Deep, yielding, grateful. I felt my nipples stiffen beneath my bra. I kept massaging him, but I was no longer thinking only about relaxing a sick man. I was feeling a man’s body beneath my hands, his heat, his weight, his breathing growing deeper and deeper.

I sat up for a moment, went to the bathroom, and took off my bra. I did it without thinking too much, driven by a sudden arousal that embarrassed and excited me at the same time. I came back with my white shirt clinging to my breasts, my nipples clearly outlined, and resumed the massage as if nothing had happened.

I kneaded his shoulders, moved down to his sides, traced around his ribs, and slid my hands close to the towel without touching it. Every time my fingers neared the fabric at his waist, he exhaled with a barely perceptible tremor. I was already wet. I knew because whenever I moved my legs, I felt that hot dampness in my underwear.

—Turn over now —I said, my voice firmer than I felt inside.

Ernesto obeyed slowly. The towel stayed in place, but once he was on his back, his gaze went straight to my chest. He didn’t hide anything. He stared at the outline of my tits beneath the fabric, the shape of my nipples, the hollow of my cleavage whenever I leaned over. I pretended not to notice, although in reality it was exactly what I wanted.

I started with his legs. Thighs, knees, calves. My oiled hands moved up and down, squeezing the flesh and feeling it tense. When I reached the tops of his thighs, the towel was no longer hiding anything. Beneath it, a distinct bulge was rising, growing harder by the second.

He was breathing through his mouth.

—Are you comfortable? —I asked.

—Yes... too comfortable —he answered, then looked away shyly.

That shyness was what finally set me ablaze. He wasn’t an obscene old man throwing himself at me. He was an aroused man, surprised by his own reaction, trying to hold himself back. I moved closer. One of my knees rested beside his hip, and I began massaging his chest with both hands, slowly spreading the oil around his small, dark nipples.

I felt the strength of his erection straining against the towel.

I stroked his hair, his temples, his jaw. With one hand I held his head while the other traveled over his neck. I leaned over him until my chest almost brushed his face. Ernesto closed his eyes, as though he couldn’t decide whether to give in or stop himself. I didn’t help him resist. I lowered myself a little farther and let one of my nipples, hard beneath the damp fabric warmed by my skin, pass across his lips.

His mouth opened slightly. That was all. A brush of contact. Enough to make me squeeze my thighs.

I brushed against him again, this time more deliberately, shamelessly rubbing myself against his mouth. When I felt his hot breath coming through my shirt, a moan escaped me. Then he raised his hands, trembling slowly, gripped my waist, and pulled the fabric down until one breast was exposed.

I didn’t stop him.

His mouth closed over my nipple with a clumsy hunger that drove me wild. He sucked slowly at first, testing, and I arched my back when I felt the wet tug. Then he squeezed a little harder, and another moan came out of me, louder this time. I held his head between my hands and pressed myself against his face.

—That’s it —I whispered—. Suck me properly.

Ernesto obeyed as though he had been waiting for permission. His tongue circled my nipple, licked it insistently, and then drew it deeper into his mouth. I began to pant. My fingers tangled in his hair while he suckled with an almost youthful need, strong, steady, noisy. The sensation rose from my tits to my pussy in hot waves.

—Bite me a little —I asked.

He opened his eyes, hesitating.

—I don’t want to hurt you.

—Do it.

He bit me gently. I exhaled through my nose, frustrated.

—Harder.

The second time, he really squeezed down. I felt the pain mixed with pleasure and shuddered all over. I pressed his head against my chest, rubbing my breast against his mouth, his lips, his teeth.

—Fuck... yes, yes... don’t stop.

The towel had opened a little by then. I caught sight of his cock, thick and harder than I had imagined, jutting up against his stomach. That finally shattered the last barrier in my mind. I left one breast free and pulled out the other as well, so he could switch between them. He did it with brutal abandon: sucking one, then the other, licking them, biting them, growling softly as if he were getting drunk on me.

I was soaked. I had to squeeze my legs together to keep from rubbing myself against the mattress right then and there. I slid one hand beneath the towel and wrapped it around his cock. He gave a startled jerk and stopped nursing for a second.

—Relax —I told him—. Let me do it.

It was hot, heavy, and completely hard. I began jerking him off slowly, sliding my hand with the oil left on my fingers. I pulled the skin up and down, squeezed the shaft, lingered over the wet head. Ernesto moaned again against my chest, and that sound made me speed up a little.

—It’s been a long time since anyone touched me like this —he murmured shyly.

—Then get used to it.

I pulled his cock completely out from beneath the towel and looked at it without shame. He was an older man, yes, but his dick responded with a hardness that aroused me more than I wanted to admit. I began stroking it rhythmically, while my other hand pinched one of his nipples or caressed his stomach. His mouth was open, his eyes half closed, his face flushed with arousal.

I leaned over and kissed his forehead, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. Then I moved down to his neck. I kept jerking him off while he clumsily squeezed my tits, fascinated. I let him play for a while, feel their weight in his hands, bury his face between them again.

But I wanted more.

I knelt beside the bed and stared at his cock a few inches away. Ernesto watched me with a mixture of surprise and guilt.

—You don’t have to —he said, though his voice trembled with desire.

I answered by stroking him slowly from base to tip. Then I stuck out my tongue and licked his glans. He trembled all over. I licked him again, this time circling him slowly and savoring the salty fluid already beading at the tip. Then I put him in my mouth.

Not all the way at first. Just the tip, sucking calmly and feeling him grow even harder. Ernesto let out a hoarse groan and grabbed my shoulder, not pushing, just holding on. I continued lowering myself little by little until my lips took in more. My hand followed the movement wherever my mouth couldn’t reach.

—Fuck... —escaped him.

I loved that. I sucked him hungrily, moving my head up and down and letting saliva run down the shaft so I could stroke him better. Every time I looked up, I saw him lost in a clumsy, absolute expression of pleasure. Sometimes he caressed my hair. Sometimes he simply clenched his fists in the sheet.

I sucked his balls, gently tugged at them with my mouth, returned to the tip, and licked it with short, quick movements that made him writhe. Then I took him again, deeper this time, keeping a steady rhythm. I could feel his thighs trembling and his abdomen contracting. He was on the edge.

—If you’re going to come, tell me —I said, pulling away slightly.

—I... I don’t know if I can hold out.

I gave him one last lick from base to head, then returned to sit beside him, rubbing my tits against his chest. I wanted to feel him up close when he exploded. I grabbed his cock again and began jerking him off quickly, firmly, without stopping. He stared at my chest, my mouth, my legs, as if he couldn’t believe what was happening.

—Look at me —I ordered.

He did.

—If you behave yourself, this will be your reward whenever I stay to look after you.

His breathing became frantic. I tightened my grip, played my thumb over the tip, and felt him pulse. Ernesto groaned loudly, arched his back, and came. His semen spurted out in hot pulses, spattering my thigh, my hand, and part of the bed. It wasn’t a small or timid ejaculation. It came out with an intensity that drew a moan from me just from seeing it and feeling the heat sticking to my skin.

He lay still for a few seconds, panting. Then his eyes opened wide, embarrassed.

—Forgive me... forgive me, I didn’t...

I placed two fingers against his lips.

—Don’t apologize.

I took some of his semen in my hand and slowly spread it over my thigh while watching him. Ernesto swallowed. Then I moved closer, hugged him, and let him bury his face between my tits once more, but now with the soft calm that comes afterward. I felt him trembling, not from fear but from relief.

—That was delicious —I whispered in his ear—. And if you obey me, I can spoil you again.

That night he fell asleep with his head resting on my chest. I stayed awake longer than I wanted to admit, stroking his hair and feeling a strange, profound arousal. I hadn’t touched myself, but I was so horny that I had to go to the bathroom once he finally fell asleep.

***

I silently pulled down my underwear and sat on the toilet lid. My pussy was soaked and throbbing. I slipped in two fingers and nearly came immediately, I was so sensitive. I closed my eyes and masturbated while thinking about Ernesto’s mouth on my nipples, his hard cock beneath the towel, and the mixture of shame and hunger with which he had looked at me.

I came quickly, in short spasms, biting my hand so I wouldn’t make a sound. When I finished, I remained trembling and knew that this hadn’t been an isolated accident. I had discovered something about myself: it turned me on to care for, dominate, and pleasure a mature man until I watched him lose his head.

The next time, there were no doubts. As soon as Damián left for work, Ernesto asked me whether there would be a massage that night. He said it shyly, but there was hope in his voice too. I smiled and told him yes, that he should take a bath and wait for me in bed.

This time I came prepared. Oil, clean towels, a soft shirt with no bra, and a tremendous desire to do it again. I started just as I had the first night, with his back, shoulders, and neck. But there was no innocence between us anymore. Every touch carried intention. Every pause was a promise.

When he turned onto his back, he didn’t even pretend not to look at my tits. He stared at them with his mouth hanging open. I lifted my shirt myself and offered them to him without a word. Ernesto took one nipple into his mouth and began sucking it with a hunger that made me throw my head back.

—That’s it, suck —I told him—. That’s how I like it.

While he suckled, I lowered my hand to his cock and found that it was already completely stiff. I pulled it out and began jerking him off. He growled softly against my chest, switching from one breast to the other, licking them as though they truly were his reward for the night. I spread my legs on the bed to relieve the pressure of my own desire.

I didn’t want to stop there. I hiked my dress up to my waist, pushed my underwear aside, and brought two fingers to his mouth.

—Suck them.

He did. Once they were thoroughly wet, I brought them to my pussy and began touching myself in front of him. His gaze dropped from my tits to my fingers moving in and out. He moaned like a thirsty man. I kept masturbating while giving him a slow hand job, enjoying his fascinated expression.

—Look what this does to me —I told him—. Look how wet I am for you.

I let him feel it. I took his hand and guided it between my legs. He touched my pussy hesitantly, as though he couldn’t believe he had the right, and when he felt the moisture, he let out an astonished gasp. I gripped his wrist and showed him the rhythm: up, over the clitoris, then down, brushing the opening. He wasn’t an expert, but he obeyed well, and that was enough to turn me on even more.

I put his cock back in my mouth. This time I was more determined. I swallowed him deeply several times, letting him brush my throat, then pulled him out and jerked him off between both breasts pressed together. The sight of his cock sliding between my tits nearly drove him crazy. His face was flushed, his chest rose and fell, his thighs were tense.

He came over me again, faster than the first night. I didn’t pull away, watching him spill and feeling his stomach tremble as he finished. Then I lay down beside him and let him hold me as though I were the only place where he could rest.

From then on, it became our secret routine. The nights weren’t all identical, but they almost always began with a massage and ended with his mouth on my tits or my hand on his cock. Sometimes he only wanted me to lull him while he suckled slowly, until he fell asleep with my nipple in his mouth. Other times he became so aroused that he ended up rubbing himself against my thigh or hip, ejaculating between gasps while I held him and spoke softly to him.

And I enjoyed every second. Not only because of the physical pleasure, which was real and intense, but because of the power of bringing him to that point. Deciding when it began, how it continued, how long it lasted. I had discovered a form of sweet domination that aroused me brutally.

I also liked what it awakened in me afterward with Damián. My partner still didn’t know what was happening, but I came to bed carrying an accumulated horniness that I took out on him without restraint. I sucked his cock more hungrily, asked him to bite my tits, and came while thinking about the nights before. Our sex life improved because I was more uninhibited, more aware of what turned me on.

It wasn’t long before it stopped being a secret. One morning before dawn, Damián came home earlier than expected. I was sitting on Ernesto’s bed, my blouse open, one breast exposed, and my hand moving over his father’s cock. Ernesto was sucking my nipple with his eyes closed, completely surrendered. The door opened, and the three of us froze.

I looked at Damián, expecting an explosion. It never came.

He remained silent for several seconds, taking in the whole scene: my occupied hand, his father’s hard, wet cock, my breast in his mouth, the peaceful expression on both our faces. I slowly withdrew my hand, ready either to defend myself or to leave that house forever.

But Damián merely sighed, tired, and said:

—No wonder he’s been sleeping better lately.

I didn’t know what to say. Ernesto pulled his face away from my breast, embarrassed, but my partner approached the bed and adjusted the blanket with such naturalness that it disarmed me. Then he looked at me. There was no anger on his face. Surprise, yes, and also a kind of relief that was difficult to explain.

—If this calms him down and you’re doing it because you want to, I’m not going to pretend to be scandalized —he said quietly—. Just promise me you aren’t doing it against your will.

I shook my head.

—No. I like it.

He held my gaze for another second and nodded.

—Then we’ll talk later.

Ernesto came again that night anyway. I jerked him off until the end while Damián, standing beside the door, watched us with a strange mixture of disbelief and desire. When his father fell asleep, my partner took me by the hand to our bedroom and made me tell him everything. Not every detail at first, but enough for him to understand that it hadn’t begun out of pity, but out of desire.

Far from pulling away, he kissed me with a new hardness. He slid his hand between my legs and smiled when he felt how wet I was again.

—Now I understand why you’ve been like this lately —he murmured.

I understood it too. I had discovered something I hadn’t known about myself: I liked pleasing mature men, feeling their need in my hands, against my chest, in my mouth. And although it had all begun with a massage to keep him from going out for a nighttime walk, it ended up opening a door I no longer wanted to close.

Since then, some nights I still lull Ernesto before bed. I massage his back, let him suck my tits, jerk him off until he comes and settles down. Then I go to bed with Damián, still smelling of oil and semen, and the mixture arouses us both. My life would never have taken this path if that first night I hadn’t felt heat between my legs when an older man told me I had good hands.

And the truth is simple: I do. And I know exactly how to use them.