I Spied on Camila’s Parents During a Stormy Night

We had spent Saturday touring wineries through the valley. Camila drove, I rode shotgun, noting the wines we liked in my phone, and her mother, Marisol, sat in the back laughing at everything. At twenty-eight, with a job that kept me chained to an office Monday through Friday, those weekends at her parents’ estate were my only real refuge. Camila and I had been friends since college, and her parents had adopted me as another daughter years ago.

We arrived at the house at dusk, our hair tangled by the wind from the convertible and our cheeks flushed from the last glass of Malbec. Marisol went in ahead of everyone, still laughing about an anecdote I’d told about a sommelier with an Italian accent. She went straight to the kitchen, announcing that she’d make something light for dinner as soon as Ricardo got back from town, where he’d gone to take care of some paperwork for the estate.

Camila and I went upstairs to the guest room, the one they always gave me, with a view of the vineyards. We flopped onto the bed and went over the day, laughing about the guy who had tried to hit on Camila at the third winery. We stayed like that for a long while, until a soft knock on the door made us lift our heads.

It was Ricardo. A big man, weathered by the sun and farm work, with graying hair and a shirt rolled up to his elbows. Although he was pushing sixty, he had a presence that filled the entire doorway. He smiled at me with the same calm I knew so well and told us to come downstairs; dinner was ready.

A cheese board, warm bread, and a bottle of red reserved for the occasion were waiting for us in the dining room. We ate amid laughter and stories while outside a storm began to rise, making the shutters rattle. At some point, with my second glass already empty, I started noticing the way they looked at each other. It wasn’t the calm look of a married couple of thirty years. It was something else. Ricardo brushed her wrist when he passed her the salt. Marisol held his gaze for a second longer than necessary before laughing and turning her face toward me. There was a tension there, thick and heavy, slipping between the plates and making me squeeze my thighs beneath the table.

It wasn’t the first time I’d noticed it, but that night it felt different.

After midnight, we went upstairs to bed. Camila went into her room, and I went into mine. I lay down still wearing my dress, too tired to change, and listened to the storm until my eyes closed.

I woke with a stupid need, my bladder tight from the wine. I got up without turning on the light, barefoot on the cold parquet floor, and made my way toward the bathroom in the hall. On my way back, my hair mussed and my head still foggy, I passed in front of the master bedroom.

And that was where I stopped.

A low, restrained moan slipped beneath the door. It wasn’t the casual noise of a couple sleeping. It was something else, something my body recognized before my mind did. I stood there listening, my heart pounding in my throat. The moan came again, longer this time, followed by a man’s hoarse panting and a sharper, broken female response.

Go back to your room, dumbass, I told myself. Go back now.

But I didn’t move. I turned my head toward the door and realized it was ajar, barely a two-finger-wide crack, with a thread of warm light spilling across the hallway floorboards. I took two tiptoe steps, though by then no one inside would have heard me anyway. I brought my face close to the crack and held my breath.

They were on the bed, lit by the little lamp on the nightstand. Marisol lay on her back, naked, her wrists tied with silk scarves to the bars of the headboard. Her arms stretched above her head, her breasts thrust upward by the position, her nipples hard as stones. Her legs were spread and bent, and Ricardo was buried between them, face down, his face buried in her cunt.

He licked her slowly, with a calmness that made me squeeze my thighs right there in the hallway. He ran his broad tongue from bottom to top, paused at her clit, sucked, and went back down. Every so often he slipped in one finger, then two, slowly rotating his wrist while bringing his mouth up to play with her nipples. He pinched one with his lips and tugged gently, and she arched her back, pulling against the scarves.

“That’s it, don’t stop, just like that,” Marisol begged in a broken voice.

My face was pressed against the doorframe. I felt my underwear grow wet before I realized I’d been standing like that for a while. Without thinking, without allowing myself to think, I slipped my hand beneath my dress and touched myself through the fabric. I was soaked. I pressed my middle fingertip against my clit and had to bite my lip to keep from making a sound.

Ricardo left her breasts and lowered himself again. He spread her legs wider with his hands, gripped her thighs from underneath, and buried himself completely in her cunt. He sucked hard now, hungrily, and she thrust her hips against his face, unable to control herself. The scarves creaked against the bars. Marisol let out a broken scream, lost her breath, and her whole body went rigid all at once.

“I’m going to come, Rica, I’m going…” she moaned.

He didn’t stop. He drove two fingers deep inside her and licked her clit with the tip of his tongue, rapidly, while she began to tremble. She came with a long, sustained moan that shook her legs against his shoulders. I watched her stomach contract in waves, watched her toes curl. I had two fingers tucked beneath my panties, circling my own clit, trying not to pant.

Ricardo lifted his face, glistening and smiling, and bit the inside of her thigh. She laughed in a broken voice, still trembling. Then he rose onto his knees and let me see him in full. He was rock-hard, his thick cock veined and pointing upward against his stomach. He gripped it in his hand and ran it over the lips of her cunt, from top to bottom, without penetrating her, rubbing the head against her clit. She moaned again, louder, and pulled at the scarves.

“Fuck me now,” Marisol ordered in a low, hoarse voice. “Stop playing and put it in me.”

Ricardo looked at her for a second with a half smile, as though the command were just another whim of the night, and drove into her in one thrust, all the way to the hilt. Marisol let out a scream that rose from her stomach. I felt it in my own belly, as if it had been shoved into me. I squeezed my clit harder and lifted my skirt with my other hand to slide two fingers inside myself. I was so wet they slipped in on their own.

He started slowly, with long, deep thrusts that made her thighs slide across the sheets. He pulled his cock almost all the way out and slowly sank it back in while she panted beneath him, tied up and biting her lips. Then he changed the pace. He grabbed her hips and began fucking her fast and hard, pounding her against the mattress. The headboard struck the wall with every thrust, and the scarves pulled taut around Marisol’s wrists.

“Harder, you son of a bitch, harder,” she begged, her mouth twisted with pleasure.

He planted one hand on her stomach, pressing her against the mattress, and kept fucking her like that, mercilessly, until Marisol let out that same high-pitched scream announcing another orgasm. She came again, and this time it was worse: her whole body contorted, her legs closed around his hips, and her back arched so far that only her nape and heels touched the bed. I stopped trying to breathe silently. I bit my forearm to smother a moan and kept rubbing myself, my fingers already slick up to the wrist.

Ricardo stopped inside her, panting, and untied her wrists one by one without pulling out. As soon as she was free, Marisol dug her nails into his back, sinking them in, and dragged her hands downward, leaving four red lines from his shoulder blades to his waist. He growled and began moving inside her again, this time slowly and deeply, pressing himself against her body.

He lifted her into the air, seated her astride him, and let her ride him. Marisol ran her hands over the back of his neck, grabbed his hair, and began rising and lowering herself on his cock, rolling her hips and throwing her head back. Her breasts bounced with every movement, and he took one into his mouth, sucking it eagerly, while his other hand squeezed her ass to set the rhythm. I watched his cock slide in and out, glistening between her legs, and I could no longer feel my knees.

They changed positions again. Ricardo put her facedown with her ass raised and her face against the pillow, then fucked her from behind, gripping her hair with one hand and her hip with the other. He gave her a sharp slap that echoed through the room. Marisol let out a whimper that was half protest, half plea, and asked him for another. He gave her one. And another. Then he fucked her again, faster and faster, until he began moaning too, hoarse, his teeth clenched.

“Inside, inside, give it to me inside,” she begged, her voice muffled by the pillow.

Their moans intertwined. I heard them lose their rhythm, cling to each other, and come together in a long tremor that shook the entire bed. Marisol came biting the pillow. Ricardo emptied himself inside her with a moan that rose from his chest, holding her hips against his until the final contraction.

I came right there in the hallway, my hand between my legs and my forehead pressed to the doorframe. It rose through my legs, reached my stomach, and shook my entire body. I had to brace myself against the wall with my other hand so I wouldn’t fall. It was as if something inside me had exploded, a pleasure I didn’t remember ever feeling, alone or with someone else.

When I returned to the world, I heard them collapse onto the bed, laughing softly and whispering things I couldn’t quite make out. I turned around and hurried back to the guest room on tiptoe. I closed the door carefully, threw myself onto the bed, and crawled beneath the sheets, still trembling.

And I touched myself again. And again, and again, remembering every detail. The way she pulled at the scarves. His face buried in her cunt. His cock sliding in and out, glistening. Her muffled scream against the pillow. I came twice more before my vision blurred and sleep overcame me.

***

I woke up late, with the sun streaming fully through the window. Camila was still asleep in her room. I went slowly down to the kitchen, hoping not to run into anyone, but Marisol was already there in a silk robe, beating eggs in a bowl.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” she said without turning around.

“Morning,” I replied, and felt my voice tremble.

I went over to the counter and began slicing bread, trying not to let anything show. She kept beating the eggs. Ricardo hadn’t come downstairs yet. The shower could be heard upstairs. We stayed like that for a while in silence, with the sound of the whisk against the crockery and the murmur of water overhead.

Then Marisol set the bowl on the counter, wiped her hands with a dish towel, and turned toward me. She looked me in the eyes with a calm that left me no way out.

“Did you like what you saw last night?” she asked, almost in a whisper.

My blood ran cold. The bread knife hung suspended in the air. I felt my face flush and my pulse hammer at my temples. I opened my mouth to say something, anything, but nothing came out.

She didn’t look away. She was waiting for an answer.