My Son-in-Law’s Mother Had Other Plans for Me

The invitation arrived three weeks before, handwritten on a golden card my daughter had ordered from a stationery shop downtown. Wedding anniversary, it said. Five years since she married Esteban, and I still felt a strange pinch every time I thought about the time that had slipped through my fingers.

Mariana, my daughter, had organized the party at Esteban’s parents’ house, a huge three-story place in a neighborhood I almost never went to. Until that night I had only seen my in-laws twice, both times under brief circumstances: the day of the wedding and a rushed lunch for the grandson’s birthday. I didn’t really know them.

That night I wanted to look beautiful. I chose a long burgundy chiffon dress, one of those that moves with any breeze and clings to your legs when you walk fast. Underneath, a fine black lace thong and a pair of garter stockings I’d bought on a trip to Buenos Aires two years earlier and hadn’t worn yet. I looked in the mirror before leaving and thought that forty-four wasn’t exactly nothing.

“Aren’t you a bit too dressed up for a family party?” my sister asked when I stopped by to pick her up.

“I’m going the way I want to go,” I answered.

The in-laws’ house was even more impressive than I remembered. A front garden with dwarf palms, a marble entrance, and a double hallway that opened onto a living room with a very high ceiling. There were about forty people when we arrived. Mariana introduced me to everyone at a speed that barely let me register any faces.

My father-in-law, Aurelio, greeted me with a stiff handshake and a forced smile. He disliked me from the first minute and I didn’t bother hiding that I didn’t care. But his wife, Carmela, took my arm with genuine warmth that disarmed me.

“At last we really meet,” she said. “I want you to sit beside me at the table.”

She was forty-nine, Mariana told me later. She didn’t look it. She was a full-bodied woman, with a neck that was still firm and green eyes that seemed to settle on things the rest of us didn’t see. She wore a dark blue dress with a modest neckline and her hair gathered into a low bun.

During dinner she talked to me about neutral things: the garden, the grandchildren, a trip to Italy she was planning with her sisters. But every so often, when I crossed my legs or leaned over to reach the salt, I felt her gaze drop to my neckline and rise again with a calm no man would have dared show so openly. At one point, while someone was telling a joke, her hand rested on my knee under the tablecloth and squeezed slowly, measuring me. She left it there for three seconds, four, until a hot tingling rose from my belly. Then she took it away as if nothing had happened.

At first I wanted to convince myself I was imagining it. Then I stopped trying. The truth is the attention flattered me more than I was willing to admit, and the dampness I was starting to feel between my legs was far more eloquent than any doubt.

“Do you know the whole house?” she asked when dessert was being served.

“Only the ground floor.”

“Then you have to let me show you around. It’s huge, and I hate that nobody goes up to the third floor. Esteban moved out of there five years ago and since then all of it has been empty.”

Mariana, who was talking with Aurelio on the other side, didn’t even hear us. I kissed my daughter on the cheek and followed Carmela upstairs.

***

The first floor held the servants’ rooms and a study where Aurelio kept his hunting guns. The second had the main bedrooms and a sewing room that smelled of lavender. In each room Carmela switched on the light, explained something to me, and switched it off again. She walked one step ahead of me, and I couldn’t stop looking at her waist, the line of her hips beneath the dress, the way the bun showed off a long pale nape.

“That dress looks really nice on you,” she said without turning around as we climbed to the third floor. “You chose it on purpose, didn’t you?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do.”

The third floor was different. Quieter, darker, with a long hallway where our heels sounded as if we were walking over hollow wood. Carmela opened the back room and invited me in with a gesture.

“This was Carolina’s room, my oldest daughter’s. She got married and moved out four years ago. We haven’t changed a thing.”

It was a large room, with a double bed made up with a white quilt, an old vanity, and a window looking out onto the back patio. I took a few steps toward the center. Behind me, I heard the click of the lock.

I turned slowly.

Carmela was leaning against the door, arms crossed, wearing that same smile she’d had at the table, but longer now, more settled. As if she’d been holding it back all night.

“I want to talk to you,” she said.

“About what?”

“About you. About what I know about you.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I know you better than you think. Mariana talks a lot with Esteban. Esteban talks a lot with me. You have a life, Lucía. A life you’re not ashamed of. Men, women, weekends in hotels your daughter prefers not to ask about.”

I felt the heat rise in my chest. Not from shame, but from something more like rage. But rage, in my case, is never far from desire.

“And what do you intend to do with that information?”

She took two steps toward me. I didn’t move.

“I intend to fuck you tonight. Here. Alone, with me, in a room where nobody is coming in. I intend to spread your legs on that bed and not let you go until you forget your name.”

“Your husband is downstairs.”

“Aurelio falls asleep with cognac. He’s been falling asleep with cognac for twenty years. Nobody’s going to interrupt us.”

She came close enough to be only a breath away. The perfume was dense, sweet, with a tobacco note underneath that made me clamp my thighs together without meaning to. She took my waist in both hands, slowly, like someone checking whether the material could hold.

“And if I put my hands under this dress,” she whispered in my ear, “I’m going to find your cunt soaking through that thong that’s already useless.”

I was already soaked.

“What if I don’t want to?” I asked, though my voice trembled.

“Then you tell me no and we go downstairs for coffee. But you’re not going to say no. Your tits have been hard since we climbed the stairs.”

***

I didn’t tell her no.

Her mouth came to mine with a slowness that seemed calculated to make me beg. When she finally kissed me, she did it with an authority no man had ever imposed on me. It wasn’t a kiss of courtship. It was a possessive kiss, the kiss of someone who had already decided for both of us. She pushed her tongue deep into my mouth, bit my lower lip, and stretched it before letting it go. A thread of saliva hung between us and she licked it away with her thumb.

I leaned back against the vanity. One of her hands slid up the back of my neck, caught my hair at the bun, and tugged until my head had to tip back. The other moved down my side, found the fabric of the dress, and began lifting it with two fingers, millimeter by millimeter, until I felt the air on my thighs above the stockings.

“Exactly what I imagined,” she murmured when she brushed the lace.

With my neck bared, she licked from my collarbone to my ear, and all the while she yanked the neckline of my dress downward. My breasts sprang free, heavy, my nipples already hard, dark. She stared at them for a long second, like someone appraising something she’d been waiting for.

“You’ve got great tits,” she said, and it wasn’t praise: it was confirmation.

She crouched down and took one nipple entirely into her mouth. She sucked deeply, tugging with her lips, then with her teeth, without care. I let out a moan and didn’t know whether it came from pain or pleasure. She moved to the other and repeated it, slower, nibbling around the areola, leaving my skin red and shining with saliva. She pinched the nipple she’d just let go between her index finger and thumb and twisted it just a little, watching my face.

“You take it well,” she said. “I like women who take it well.”

Her finger traced the edge of my thong over the raised dress, followed it to the center, and stopped there. The fabric was already betraying me: a warm stain she felt immediately.

“Look how wet you are,” she said softly, almost tenderly. “And I haven’t even started. You’re going to be dripping on that white quilt before I’m done, I promise you.”

She slid her fingers under the lace without taking the thong off, and opened my cunt with two fingers, one on each side, as if parting the petals of a flower to look inside. She stroked me slowly, up and down, dragging the wetness, and when she reached my clit she stayed there, circling it with the pad of her thumb, gauging the pressure, easing up and down according to the way I breathed.

“Has a woman ever fucked you, Lucía?”

“No,” I admitted, surprised that the word came out.

“Then pay attention. A man touches you where he wants. I touch you where you need. And I’m not going to hurry.”

She gently pushed me back until I was sitting on the edge of the vanity. She nudged aside a perfume bottle with her elbow and spread my knees with one firm movement, as if she’d done it a thousand times. She knelt between my legs, lifted the dress all the way up, and looked at my cunt, swollen above the wet lace.

“You’ve been using this for years, waiting for someone to tear it off you, haven’t you?” she asked.

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

She hooked the thong with two fingers, tugged it aside without taking it off completely, and lowered her mouth onto me. The first lick was long, flat, from bottom to top, gathering everything I was giving off. She closed her eyes and swallowed, then looked up at me from below with a satisfaction that made my pelvis tremble.

“You taste delicious,” she said. “You’re going to last me all night.”

She buried her face between my thighs again. Her tongue was patient, methodical, unlike any man’s. She wasn’t hunting for a spot and pushing. She was finding the rhythm of my breathing and matching it. She sucked my whole clit with closed lips, then let it go and circled the tip of her tongue over it, faster and faster, until I started arching, and then she stopped. When she sped up, it was because I sped up. When she paused, it was exactly when I couldn’t stand the thought of her stopping.

She slid one finger inside me slowly. Then two. She curved them inside until she found a spot that made my mouth open soundlessly. There she stayed, pressing from within, while her tongue above refused to leave the clit alone. The bottles trembled beside me. A perfume bottle fell and neither of us picked it up.

“Come,” she ordered, pulling her mouth away for a second. “Come in my face, I want to feel it.”

I gripped the edge of the vanity with both hands. At some point I stopped hearing the music downstairs. At some point I stopped hearing my own voice. I reached my first orgasm with my eyes closed and my thighs closing around her face. She didn’t even flinch. She stayed inside me, fingers moving slowly, while I shook, and licked up everything I gave her without wasting a drop. She waited for the aftershocks to pass, kissed the inside of my thigh, and started all over again.

“We have all night,” she said.

***

We didn’t have all night, but we did have almost two hours. Carmela took me to the bed, turned me over onto the white quilt, and tore my thong off with her teeth, unhurried, biting through the lace until it gave way. She left me face down, stockings still on and the dress hiked up to my waist, and spread my ass cheeks with both hands.

“What a beautiful ass you’ve got,” she said, and licked from my cunt to my asshole, long, filthy, without the slightest restraint.

I shuddered all over. No one had ever done that to me. She chuckled softly against my skin and did it again, slower, stopping at every millimeter. Then she came back to my cunt from behind, slipped her tongue into me and drove it in as far as she could, holding my hips so I wouldn’t get away. I bit the quilt so I wouldn’t scream. I could feel saliva running down between my thighs, soaking the stockings.

She climbed onto the bed, straddled my back, and bent down to my ear.

“Now you’re going to get up and undress me,” she said. “I want to see that delicate mouth of yours working.”

I turned around. I pulled down the zipper of her blue dress and helped slide it off her shoulders. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Her breasts were large, with dark, broad areolas, and her nipples hardened the moment I brushed them with my thumb. I pushed her against the pillows and threw myself on them as if starving. I sucked one nipple until it shone and pinched the other with my free hand, while she buried her fingers in my hair and held my head against her chest.

“Lower,” she asked.

I licked her belly, her navel, the crease of her thigh. I yanked off her panties. She had the cunt of a mature woman, neatly trimmed pubic hair, darker lips, wetness already running. I approached her timidly the first time, and with the first lick I forgot my fear. She tasted thick, salty, adult. I shoved my tongue inside her the way she had done to me. I found her clit and sucked hard, and when she arched her back and clamped my head between her thighs I understood I was doing it right.

“Like that, like that,” she panted. “Don’t stop, you learn fast, bitch, don’t stop.”

She came with my face pressed against her cunt, not letting me breathe for those long seconds. When she let me go, she smiled with half-closed eyes and said:

“Get up here.”

She made me climb up until my legs were open over hers, cunt against cunt, and started moving. It was the most obscene thing I had ever done in my life. The clits rubbed, slipped against each other, and we both moaned in sync, staring at each other. She grabbed my hips and set the rhythm, harder, faster, until we both came almost at the same time, the white quilt already ruined with fluid and saliva.

And she still wasn’t done. She told me not to keep anything in, and I obeyed her. For the first time in a long while I obeyed someone. She made me get on all fours and shoved three fingers into me to the knuckle, fucking me from behind with a man’s strength, while her other hand slapped my ass. She made me come two more times, once with her fingers inside me and once with her mouth glued to my clit, until I begged her to stop with a broken voice.

“Not yet,” she answered, and turned me over again.

***

When we finally went back down to the living room, the party was ending. Aurelio was asleep in an armchair, exactly as Carmela had said. Mariana looked at me with some curiosity — my hair was only slightly mussed and my lips darker than usual — but she didn’t ask any questions.

“Your in-law is charming,” I told her, and hugged her.

“I’m glad you get along, Mom. I thought you might feel out of place.”

Carmela appeared behind us with two empty glasses and absolute calm. She extended her hand to say goodbye, formally, as if nothing had just happened.

“I hope you come back soon. There are many rooms I didn’t get to show you.”

I felt the wink under the line like a low blow.

In the taxi home, my sister fell asleep right away. I rested my head against the window and let the avenue lights wash over me. My thong was torn in my bag. My cunt was still throbbing, sensitive, and the stockings clung to the insides of my thighs. My body still remembered the weight of Carmela’s hands, the way she had held my neck, the silence of the third floor, the taste of mature woman that had stayed in my mouth and that I didn’t plan to wash away until I got to my bed.

I took out my phone and sent a message to the number she had written on a napkin and slipped into my pocket before we went downstairs.

“Thursday,” I wrote. “My place. Just us.”

It took her two minutes to answer.

“I’ll be there. And bring the stockings.”