My Girlfriend’s Stepdaughter Was Spying on Me That Night

After three o’clock I woke up with a dry throat and the feeling that I didn’t know where I was. The room was unfamiliar: a lower ceiling than I remembered, the smell of freshly bought sheets, a blind letting a strip of moonlight fall across the wardrobe mirror. It took me a couple of seconds to orient myself.

Camila was asleep beside me, face down, completely naked. One arm was bent under her cheek and the other hung off the mattress. Her hair had stuck to the nape of her neck with sweat. She still smelled of red wine, of tired perfume, and of what we’d done a couple of hours earlier.

I just stared at her. The pose, the light, the silence of the house. It was the first time I’d slept in her room, and I couldn’t stop thinking about the detail she herself had warned me about at dinner.

My daughter Lucía sleeps in the room next door. She wakes very easily.

That’s what she’d told me. And I’d nodded like a gentleman before pulling her belt off in the kitchen.

I felt myself start to harden again, slowly, almost by reflex. It wasn’t just Camila’s naked body beside me. It was knowing that on the other side of a paper-thin wall there was a girl who had probably heard everything. That thought squeezed my stomach in a way that was uncomfortable and delicious at the same time.

I made a point of making noise as I moved around the room. I coughed. I let my belt drop to the floor with a dull thud. Camila didn’t stir. She snored softly, lips parted. I pulled on my boxer briefs, opened the door just a handspan, and stepped out into the hallway.

***

The house was dim, but not completely dark. From the landing you could see the living room downstairs and the beginning of the kitchen. The stairs sat between the two floors like an open mouth. Upstairs there were only two doors and, opposite them, the bathroom.

Lucía’s bedroom door was ajar. Not wide open, but not closed either. A bedside lamp, lit with a low-watt bulb, cast a yellowish rectangle across the hallway floor.

I stopped. I shouldn’t have looked. Any decent person wouldn’t have looked.

I looked.

Lucía was asleep on her stomach, in a posture almost identical to her mother’s, as if it were an unconscious inheritance. She was wearing pink bikini-cut panties and a short T-shirt that had ridden up almost to her shoulder blades. Her skin was very white, her legs toned by some sport I couldn’t picture—swimming, volleyball?—her calves ending in small bare feet. But what made my mouth go dry was the panties. The pink fabric had wedged itself between her ass cheeks and drew, with shameless clarity, the border between what was visible and what wasn’t.

I let out a sigh I hadn’t meant to make. She shifted, almost imperceptibly, and that was enough to break the spell. I turned on my heels and stumbled into the bathroom, tripping over my own feet.

***

The bathroom smelled of coconut shampoo and something citrusy. It was a girl’s bathroom: half a dozen creams on the shelf, two electric toothbrushes, colored sponges, a hair dryer hanging up. I closed the door without latching it—I didn’t want the click to be heard—lifted the toilet seat, and pissed while staring at the ceiling.

When I was done I washed my hands in cold water. I stood there looking at the laundry basket next to the sink. It was wicker, with the lid crooked.

No, not that.

Two seconds later I’d lifted the lid.

It was almost full. T-shirts inside out, a sports bra, jeans rolled up like a gut. And, toward the bottom, a pile of clothes that were obviously a young girl’s: tops, leggings, two or three small pairs of panties. I picked up a black cotton one with a white ribbon sewn into the waistband. The fabric still held a warmth that was impossible—I knew it was the basket, not her body, but the brain doesn’t care about logic at three in the morning. I brought it to my face and took a deep breath.

The smell hit me like a badly measured cognac. Something sweet, something sour, something utterly human. I closed my eyes. I felt a throb in my groin so clear it almost hurt.

A knock on the door snapped me back into the bathroom with the force of a slap.

—One second— I said thickly. —I’m coming out.

—Who is it? —The voice was soft, young, just a little afraid.

—It’s Daniel. Your mother’s friend. I just came out to the bathroom.

—Oh. —A pause.— Okay.

I shoved the panties back to the bottom of the basket, flushed the toilet, switched off the light, and opened the door trying to make it seem like the most natural exit in the world. My boxer briefs were still bulging with an erection that hadn’t gone away, and no matter how I crossed my hands in front of me, the shadow gave the bulge away.

Lucía was standing in the hallway, barefoot, in her T-shirt and pink panties. Shorter than she’d looked while asleep. Her hair was messy on one side.

—Sorry you see me like this. I didn’t expect you to be awake.

—Don’t worry. —She dropped her eyes to my waist without pretending not to and lifted them back up, amused.— I heard you before. I’d already seen you.

She said it in a tone that wasn’t that of a girl caught doing something wrong. It was complicit. Almost a wink.

She brushed past me to go into the bathroom. As we crossed, her shoulder grazed my bicep, a minimal touch, but deliberate. She closed the door behind her and I heard the click of the latch—she did lock it.

***

I went back to the room without thinking anything coherent. Camila was still asleep, but now she’d turned onto her back, legs apart and one arm crossed over her breasts. She was breathing deeply, almost snoring.

Common sense told me I should get into bed, turn over, and wait for the erection and, with it, the urge to do something stupid, to pass.

I did exactly the opposite.

I knelt at the foot of the bed, spread her legs a little wider with the palm of my hand, and lowered my head until my cheek rested on her inner thigh. She still smelled of the two of us, of that afternoon, of that night. I stuck out my tongue and slowly ran it over her lips without touching the clit.

Camila let out a long sigh in her sleep, without opening her eyes. I knew her well enough to know it would take her a couple of minutes to wake fully, and that gave me time. I opened her lips with my index fingers, left the clit exposed, and began to trace it with the tip of my tongue, first softly, then with more pressure, closing my lips around it in a wet kiss.

This time I kept my ears awake. Pointed at the door.

I didn’t have to wait long. I heard the barely perceptible sound of a doorknob turning slowly. The bedroom door stayed as it was—I had left it ajar—but now, through the sliver between the leaf and the frame, a different shadow filtered in. A breath.

Lucía was watching.

I didn’t turn my head. I didn’t want to scare her. If she realized I knew she was there, she might leave. But I kept working with my tongue a little slower, a little more theatrically, knowing that now this wasn’t just for Camila. It was for the girl behind the door. I wanted her to understand in detail what I was doing to her mother.

Camila began to wake up. She took my hair in her hands and pressed my face against her. She moved her hips with a rhythm that was still clumsy, sleepy. She let out a first rough sound, unrestrained, not knowing she had an audience.

That sound was the trigger. The shadow behind the door stopped moving and went still. Too still. As if holding its breath.

I pressed my tongue against the clit without moving it, letting it vibrate with every pulse of her blood, and raised my arms to hold her thighs. Camila tried to close her legs, overcome by sensitivity, but I didn’t let her. She gave a half-stifled cry when she came. I felt her thighs trembling against my temples, her stomach tightening, and a hot stream cross my chin and run down my neck.

—Fuck— she said out loud, fully awake now, laughing in surprise.— What are you doing, you animal?

—Waking you up— I answered.

***

I asked her to sit up and suck me off. I said it quietly, without drama, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Camila was one of those women you didn’t have to ask twice. She settled between my knees with the laziness of four in the morning, kissed my thigh, kissed my lower belly, and took my testicles into her mouth with the calm of someone who had all the time in the world.

I rested the back of my head on the pillow and slowly turned my face toward the door.

Lucía was still there. This time with the crack opened a little wider, just enough for me to see half her face and one shoulder. Our eyes met and, for an eternal second, neither of us did anything. I expected her to run. She didn’t. She lowered her eyes to my penis in her mother’s mouth, lifted them back to mine, and bit her lower lip.

I saw one of her arms move. I couldn’t see it clearly, but the rhythm of her torso was unmistakable. She was touching herself.

Her mother ran her tongue from the tip of the glans to the corona, took it in all the way, and started sucking with a deep, soft rhythm. I never took my eyes off the crack. Lucía’s hand sped up. I sped up my hips. Without meaning to, without saying a word, the three of us slipped into a shared rhythm: mother, daughter, and stranger coordinated in silence by a half-open door.

When I came, I didn’t warn her. I closed one hand in Camila’s hair to keep her head where it was and looked at Lucía with my dignity shattered. I saw her bite her lip to keep from making a sound. I saw her close her eyes for an instant and open them again just in time not to miss the end.

Camila swallowed, coughed a little, and laughed against my thigh, oblivious to everything else.

When I turned my face back to the door, the crack was empty. Lucía had gone without me hearing her leave.

I stayed like that for a while, listening to the house. A pipe creaking. Camila breathing against my hip. And, at the far end of the hallway, a door closing very, very slowly.