My Father-in-Law Found What I Deleted From My Phone

My name is Marina, I’m twenty-nine years old, and I’ve been married to Hugo for four years. His father, Gustavo, has always looked at me in a way that turned my stomach: eyes that lingered too long on my cleavage, “innocent” comments about how well a tight dress suited me, pats on the waist that lasted a second longer than they should have. For years I told myself he was just a vulgar old man, a father-in-law from the old school, the kind who confuses familiarity with shamelessness. I was wrong. It took me a long time to understand how far he was willing to go.

Hugo and I lived in a narrow apartment in the center of town, but on weekends we went up to Gustavo’s country house, in a village lost among the hills. Clean air, silence, a fireplace that smelled of damp wood. It was the only thing that really relaxed me during the week. That Friday, though, everything went wrong. Hugo was called in by the office over an emergency and had to go back to the city that very afternoon.

“I hate leaving you here,” he said, keys already in hand. “But I’ll be back Sunday first thing. Stay, enjoy the countryside.”

“Don’t worry,” I lied with a smile. “I’ll use the time to read.”

When Hugo’s car disappeared down the hill, Gustavo appeared on the porch with his hands in his pockets. He gave me that slow, heavy smile that made my skin crawl.

“Just you and me, daughter-in-law,” he said. “Like the old days.”

I had no idea what old days he meant. I forced a laugh and went into the kitchen under the pretense of making something. It’s only two nights, I thought. I can handle anything for two nights.

That same afternoon, while I was washing the lunch dishes, I heard him come up behind me. His footsteps were heavy on the tiles. He smelled of strong cologne and a stale trace of tobacco. He moved in behind me, too close, his body almost brushing mine, and lowered his voice until it became a whisper.

“Marina, pretty thing… I know what you did.”

The blood in my veins turned to ice. The plate in my hands slipped and slammed into the bottom of the sink with a hard clatter.

“W-what are you talking about?” I stammered, not daring to turn around.

He took his phone from his pocket and held it up in front of my face. The screen showed a screenshot. An entire conversation. Messages from me and Tomás, a coworker. Photos I’d sent him one stupid night after a couple of drinks, when Hugo was away and I felt lonely and foolish. Explicit words, promises that I’d suck him off all the way to his balls in the office bathroom the following Monday, that I’d spread my legs over the sink so he could fuck me without a condom. All deleted the next day, regretted. But there it was, saved, intact.

I didn’t ask how he’d gotten it. Months earlier, Hugo had given him access to the family cloud account “in case we ever lost the phone.” Gustavo always liked to act modern, like he knew more about technology than his own son. I never thought anything of it. How naïve I was.

“Your husband knows nothing about this,” he said, his low, rough voice right against my ear. “And he doesn’t have to know… if you behave yourself with me.”

My heart was beating so hard I thought he might hear it too. I tried to pull away, to slide sideways, but he caught me by the waist with one big, rough hand, the hand of a man who has worked the land his whole life.

“Don’t do anything stupid, Marina. If this comes out, Hugo leaves you. And it’s not just Hugo. You lose the house, you lose your peace, maybe even your job when your boss finds out who you’re writing to. —He paused so each word could sink in—. But if you’re good to me, this stays between us. No one else will ever see it.”

My legs were shaking. I wanted to scream, elbow him, run to the car that was no longer there. But the image of Hugo reading those messages, his face, everything that would come crashing down, kept me frozen to the kitchen floor.

“What do you want?” I asked in a thin voice.

Gustavo smiled. I felt it more in his breath than in his face, because he was still behind me.

“I want that cute mouth you use to lie to my son,” he said, finally turning me to face him. “I want you to suck me off. Here. Now. On your knees. And no whining. Then I want to fuck that good-girl pussy of yours until you ask for more.”

***

He pushed me by the shoulders, slowly but with no room for argument, until I was on my knees on the cold tiles. The chill shot up my legs and stole my breath. Above me, his body blocked the light coming in through the window. The smell of cologne hit me full force, mixed with the day’s sweat from the countryside.

He unbuckled his belt with a calm that frightened me more than any shout would have. He lowered the zipper. He slipped his hand inside his underwear and slowly pulled out his cock, almost proudly, letting me see it in full before bringing it closer. It was thick, heavy, longer than I’d ever imagined a man his age might be, with a prominent vein running underneath and the purple, shiny head already peeking out of the foreskin. Beneath it hung dark, big balls, covered in grayish hair. All of it dangled a hand’s breadth from my face.

“Open,” he ordered.

I closed my eyes. I felt hot tears sliding down my cheeks, and I opened my mouth. He grabbed it with one hand and rubbed himself first along my lips, smearing them with the sticky fluid already leaking from the tip. He dragged the head across my tongue, my chin, held it against my cheek so I could smell it before bringing it back to my mouth.

“Stick it out. Show me your tongue. Like that, don’t move.”

He rested the weight of his cock on my tongue, hot, throbbing. I tasted it without wanting to: salty, thick, with the bitter flavor of an older man that made me gag with pure shame. He pushed in slowly at first, only a little, until my lips closed around the foreskin. With his other hand he grabbed a fistful of hair at my nape and started setting the pace as he pleased, shoving in a little deeper with each thrust.

“Suck it properly, fuck. Use your tongue. Like you suck the other guy off on your phone.”

I obeyed. I ran my tongue underneath, went up to the tip, took him in again as far as I could stand. The skin felt rough against my palate, the vein throbbing against my tongue. He let out a deep, almost animal groan and shoved harder. I felt him hit the back of my throat and choked, eyes streaming, saliva spilling from the corners of my mouth and dripping thickly onto my shirt. A long thread of it fell from my chin to my chest.

“That’s it, fuck,” he growled. “Who would’ve thought it. My daughter-in-law, the little goody-two-shoes, turns out she knows how to suck cock. Swallow your spit, don’t let it run out, hold it in.”

With his free hand he gripped my jaw, squeezed my cheeks to force them against his cock, to feel how tightly I took him in. He started fucking my mouth with slow but firm thrusts, each one deeper than the last. I coughed, arched my back, saliva poured from me in streams. My mascara ran, streaking black down my face. He breathed through his nose, hoarse, hips rocking into my face unhurriedly, as if he had all the time in the world.

“Look at me,” he demanded.

I raised my eyes. His face was flushed, his forehead beaded with sweat, and he wore an expression I will never forget: the look of a man who knows he has won.

“My son never fucked your mouth like this, did he?” he said between gasps, pulling out for a moment just to smear himself all over my face, coating my cheeks with my own saliva. “He’s soft. He doesn’t grab your hair, doesn’t shove it down your throat. I do. I’m going to use all of you. Stick out your tongue, lick my balls.”

He made me bow my head and brought his balls to my mouth. I licked them, one and then the other, hot, the hair scraping my lips. He put one entirely into my mouth and made me hold it there while he jerked his cock against my forehead. He pulled my mouth back up to his shaft, forced me open again, and drove it all the way to my throat.

He quickened the pace. I felt him harden even more inside my mouth, throbbing, thicker, hotter. I instinctively tried to pull back, but his hand on my nape stopped me.

“Stay still. And swallow every drop. Not a single one outside.”

He finished with a long, guttural groan that seemed to come from deep in his chest. The first spurt hit my palate, thick, hot, and the second went straight down my throat. He didn’t let me go until the very last second, until he made sure nothing escaped. He made me swallow each pulse, feeling his cock contract and empty into my mouth. When he finally pulled out, one last white strand still fell onto my tongue. He held my chin.

“Show me. Open.”

I showed him my mouth full. He smiled.

“Now swallow.”

I swallowed. I gasped for air, coughing, the bitter taste still coating my throat. But he wasn’t done.

“Stand up. On the table.”

My legs were shaking. I couldn’t even protest. He lifted me by the arm, turned me against the wooden table, and pushed me down by the back until I was bent over it, my breasts crushed against the cold surface. He yanked my skirt up to my waist and pulled my panties down in one motion to my knees.

“Look at that ass, fuck. And my son has this at home and doesn’t even use it.”

I felt his hands spread my ass cheeks, unhurried, as if inspecting something that belonged to him. A thick finger ran along my slit from top to bottom, stopped at my cunt, probed my lips, checked whether I was wet. And I was, even though I wanted to die of shame for it.

“You filthy slut. Look how you’re dripping. After saying you didn’t want it.”

He shoved two fingers into me at once, all the way to the knuckles. I screamed against the wood. He pulled them out, shining, ran them over my lips so I could taste my own juices, and pushed them back in, this time circling them, opening me up.

Then I heard the wet rub of his head against my pussy. He dragged it along my slit, up and down, testing, smearing himself. He set the tip at my entrance and thrust in in one stroke, all the way to the hilt, with no mercy. A rough moan escaped me, and I didn’t even recognize it as my own. It was thick, it filled me completely, it reached a place Hugo never reached.

“That’s it, cunt,” he growled, gripping my hips with both hands. “This cunt is mine too now. Say it.”

He started fucking me hard, with dry, brutal thrusts that made my pelvis slam against the edge of the table. Every hit tore a broken gasp from me. My breasts slipped out of my bra against the wood. He leaned over my back, slid one hand underneath, and pinched a nipple between two rough fingers.

“Say it. Say it’s mine.”

“It’s yours,” I whispered through clenched teeth, eyes full of tears.

“Louder.”

“It’s yours, fuck!”

He laughed, hoarse, and sped up. He drove into me all the way and came back almost completely out, only to bury himself again in a single violent thrust. The whole kitchen smelled of sex, of old sweat, of the wet splashing of his cock going in and out of me. I clenched my jaw, but my body betrayed me: I felt the first shudder rise from my legs, my throat close, and I came over my father-in-law’s cock with a long moan I couldn’t keep in.

“There it is,” he gasped, satisfied. “There’s the obedient daughter-in-law. You came, slut. Like a bitch.”

He didn’t stop. He grabbed my hair, yanked my head back so my spine arched, and kept pounding into me, harder and harder, until I felt him go tense. He pulled out at the very last second, flipped me onto my back on the table, climbed on top with one knee, and came in thick spurts over my breasts, my neck, my open mouth. Heavy, hot jets that ran down my nipples and dripped toward my navel.

“Good girl,” he said, panting, while he shook the last drops onto my lips. “Clean that pretty face before Hugo gets back.”

He stayed over me a while longer, breathing hard, his cock dripping onto my belly. He ran two fingers over my face, collected a drop of semen, and put it into my mouth. I licked it without thinking. He smiled.

I lay there for a moment, unable to move, my ass burning and my cunt throbbing. Then he nodded toward the counter. His phone was propped against the fruit bowl, the camera aimed at us, the red recording light still on.

“Just in case you change your mind,” he added calmly, pocketing it. “Now I have something even better than a few photos. I have my daughter-in-law begging me for it.”

***

I got up shaking, my legs weak and his cum still dripping down the insides of my thighs. I tore off a piece of paper towel and wiped my face and breasts as best I could, facing the blurry reflection in the window glass. Behind me, Gustavo poured himself a finger of whisky and sat at the table — the same table where he had just fucked me — with the ease of a man who has just read the paper.

“Come on, daughter-in-law,” he said, stirring the ice. “Make some dinner. Hugo gets here Sunday, but I don’t want him to see you wearing that funeral face tomorrow. Put on a show. You’re good at pretending, aren’t you?”

I didn’t answer him. I took vegetables out of the fridge and started chopping just to keep my hands busy, to stop myself from thinking. The knife trembled against the cutting board. He watched me from the table, silent, taking slow sips, savoring something that went far beyond the whisky.

That night we ate in near silence. He commented on the weather, the neighbor’s harvest, how expensive electricity had become. I nodded in monosyllables and stared at my plate. Every time I looked up, I found his eyes waiting for me. Before I went up to bed, he grabbed my arm in the hallway, pressed me against the wall, and slipped his hand under my pajama pants without saying a word, just to check that I was still wet. He smiled when he felt it. He didn’t need to say anything else: he knew he’d be back for me in the middle of the night, and he was.

On Sunday, when Hugo’s car finally appeared up the hill, I went out to meet him wearing my best smile. He kissed me on the cheek, told me he’d missed me, said next time he wouldn’t leave me alone. I hugged him tight, swallowed, and felt — like a ghost, persistent — the taste of his father still at the back of my throat and the sting between my legs from having let myself be fucked three more times in barely two nights.

Gustavo appeared on the porch, drying his hands on a towel. He looked at his son, patted his back affectionately, and then, over Hugo’s shoulder, gave me a slow wink.

“Next time you come,” he said, smiling at both of us, “you know this is your house, Marina. You always have work here.”

Hugo laughed, oblivious to everything, and agreed with his father. I nodded in silence.

And I knew, with a cold certainty that sank down my spine, that this had only been the beginning.