My Wife’s Sister Walked In Without Knocking

That Saturday in July went wrong before it even began. Marisol got a call from the hospital at eleven in the morning —an emergency, someone in her department had fallen ill overnight— and the plans we’d made with her sister Camila vanished in five minutes. We’d agreed to take her to the new shopping mall on the outskirts, grab something to eat, show her around the city. Camila had only been with us three days. She had eleven left.

—My fortnight’s ruined —she complained from the sofa, with a fake pout.

—I’ll be back by eight. I promise —Marisol said, already with her bag over her shoulder.

—Don’t worry, we’ll survive —I answered from the kitchen.

The word “survive” sounded clumsy the moment I let it out.

It was raining with that stubbornness summer storms have when they seem to have got the month wrong. I’d woken with a pounding headache that was pinning one eye shut. I took two aspirins with a lukewarm coffee and told Camila I was going to lie down for a bit.

—I’ll watch a movie —she replied—. I won’t bother you.

I closed the door to our bedroom and fell asleep at once.

When I opened my eyes, the clock on the bedside table said six twenty-five. I’d been out for more than two hours in one of those naps that leave your mouth dry and your body half-numb. The rain was still hammering the window. I went out barefoot, still dazed, thinking of making myself another coffee to come back to the world.

The living room was empty. The TV was off. In the player, the tape Camila had been watching was still running. I pulled it out curiously —I had the habit of labeling them myself— and read my own handwriting: “Private. Marisol and me. October.”

It was one of the tapes my wife and I had recorded the year before, on a weekend in the mountains, after too much wine. We’d kept it in a locked drawer in the living room unit. Camila had found the key, or rummaged around, or both.

Shit.

I stood there for a second with the tape in my hand, not knowing what to do. I put it back in the drawer —we’d deal with that another time— and stepped into the hallway with the idea of making that coffee.

And then I heard them.

They were coming from the guest room, where Camila slept. They were gasps, two voices, a rhythmic creak of the bed frame. I froze three meters from the door, my pulse hammering in my temple. Camila hadn’t gone out by herself all morning, so there was only one explanation: she’d called someone.

I should have turned around and gone back into the living room with the radio on. Instead, I took two more steps.

The door was ajar, not more than a hand’s breadth. Through the gap I could see the wardrobe mirror, and in the mirror I could see the bed. Camila was sitting on top of a guy I’d never seen before —dark-haired, thin, young— her hands braced on his chest, her back arched, her dyed-blond hair falling forward as she moved. Her tits were bare, smaller than Marisol’s but firm, with the nipples hard and pink. The afternoon light came in murky through the half-lowered blind, and under that sickly light I could see the boy’s cock sliding in and out of her pussy, slick with juices, while she rose and fell with her knees spread wide on either side of his hips. Every time she dropped down, her ass slapped against the other boy’s thighs with a wet smack that cut through the sound of the bed frame.

—Like that, fucking hell, like that —I heard her murmur through clenched teeth—. Stick it all the way in.

I’d been married to her sister for three years. In three years I’d never looked at her like that. Camila was the nice sister-in-law, the one who showed up at Christmas and laughed at my bad jokes, the one who still hadn’t decided what degree to study. She was twenty-one. She had a round face, almost childish. Now her head was thrown back and her mouth was half open and she sounded like a woman who knew exactly what she was doing. She grabbed one breast with her free hand, pinched the nipple, and the boy answered by driving up with his hips to push himself deeper into her.

She turned her head toward the door. For a tenth of a second, she looked exactly at the slit through which I was watching. I pulled back so fast I nearly tripped over the hallway console.

I didn’t know whether she’d seen me.

I ducked into the room we used as an office at the far end of the apartment, closed the door, and turned on the TV at a ridiculous volume so I wouldn’t hear anything else. Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. I was still hard in an almost painful way, my cock tenting my trousers, that erection that comes uninvited and won’t go away no matter how much you stare at the ceiling.

I lowered my pants without thinking too much about it. I pulled out my cock, already wet at the tip, and took it in my dry hand.

***

I started slowly. I closed my eyes. I wanted to think about Marisol —I really did— about that weekend in the mountains, about the way she laughed when I stripped her clumsily after the wine, about how she spread her legs over the checked blanket. But the image wouldn’t hold. It shifted. Beneath it came Camila turning toward the door, the line of her nipple in profile, the curve of her back outlined in the mirror, my sister-in-law’s cunt swallowing a cock that wasn’t mine.

I clenched my teeth and jerked myself faster. Not this, fuck. I changed position. I changed rhythm. It made no difference. Saliva was rising in my mouth on its own. I imagined what it must feel like to be underneath, with those hips dropping onto mine, those nipples brushing my chest, that girl’s mouth saying filthy things.

I didn’t hear the door open.

—You didn’t tell me you were awake.

Her voice reached me over the TV. She was leaning in the doorway, wearing a long T-shirt that barely covered her thighs, barefoot, hair still tousled. She smelled like what she smelled like: freshly fucked sex, semen and another man’s sweat. She didn’t bother hiding the fact that she knew what I’d been doing in the other room.

I let go. I covered myself as best I could. Blood rushed to my face and to other places at the same time.

—Camila…

—What’s wrong? —she said, coming in and closing the door behind her—. Is it because you saw me, or because I saw you?

She sat on the arm of the sofa. She looked at me without smiling, with a calm that didn’t suit her twenty-one years. She bit her lip once and that was all I needed to understand that she wasn’t leaving. She looked down at my crotch, where my cock was still hard and peeking over my hand.

—Don’t cover it —she said—. It’s too late for that.

—We can’t do this —I said.

—I know.

—Your sister’s home in an hour and a half.

—I know.

And then she leaned in and kissed me.

It was a slow kiss, without the clumsiness I’d expected from a girl her age. She took my face in both hands. She tasted like mint gum and someone else. I should have pushed her away firmly and said, “Get dressed and go back to your room,” in the voice of an adult man. I didn’t push her away. I pulled her onto my lap, straddling my thighs, and felt that underneath the T-shirt she was wearing absolutely nothing. Her pussy came to rest directly against my bare cock, and it was hot and still wet from the other man. Camila moved her hips once, very slowly, rubbing herself over me without letting me in, and I felt her wetness soak my glans.

—How long? —I asked against her mouth.

—A long time —she said—. Too long. Since last summer. Since I saw you come out of the shower with the towel and everything was showing.

I pulled her T-shirt over her head. The desk lamp’s light cut across her chest diagonally. I kissed her neck, her collarbone, the hollow between her breasts. I took one whole breast into my mouth and sucked the nipple until it stood hard between my teeth. Her nipples went rigid under my tongue as if they’d been waiting for hours, and by then I realized they probably had. Camila breathed through her mouth, little exhalations she didn’t bother to silence, and pulled my hair so I wouldn’t let go of her breast.

—Bite it —she whispered—. Harder.

I closed my teeth carefully around the nipple and she let out a short, contained moan. She rubbed harder against my cock. The tip kept sliding between the lips of her pussy without quite going in, and each brush drew a drop of pre-cum from me that mixed with hers.

—Lower —she asked.

I laid her down on the carpet, because even the sofa seemed like an accomplice and I didn’t want to use it. The carpet was new, chosen by Marisol. I hated myself for a second and then it passed. I opened her legs with my knee. She had a narrow strip of hairless pussy, shiny, already swollen before —before even this— with the inner lips showing between the outer ones, red, soaked. There were still traces of the other boy’s semen running down the inside of one thigh. When I lowered my face there she lifted her hips with an urgency that almost scared me.

—Slowly —I told her.

—No —she answered—. Not slowly. Eat me out completely. Like you’re fucking me with your tongue.

I obeyed. I dragged my tongue flat from her ass to her clit in one long lick, swallowing whatever was there, mine and not hers either. I pressed my nose against her pubic bone and sucked her inner lips one by one, tugging at them with my teeth. Then I pried her pussy open with two fingers and buried my tongue inside, moving it like I was fucking her with my mouth, feeling her clench around me. I went up to her clit and made quick, relentless circles with the tip while I slid two fingers inside and curled them, hunting for that spot within. Camila writhed on the carpet, grabbed my hair, pressed my face against her until I could barely breathe. She came against my mouth a few minutes later, clutching my hair, biting the back of her hand so the neighbors wouldn’t hear. I felt the contractions around my fingers, the pulse inside. She stayed still for a few seconds, trembling, eyes closed, her cunt still throbbing against my face.

Then she sat up.

—Now me —she said—. Let me suck you.

She pushed me back against the sofa and knelt on the carpet between my legs. She took my cock in her hand, looked at it for a second as if measuring it, and put it in her mouth with a calm that didn’t match the earlier urgency. She swallowed half of it on the first try, stuck her tongue out underneath and licked my balls without taking it out, a trick I’d never seen Marisol do. She did it slowly, looking up, attentive to my face. She moved her mouth up and down the shaft, pressing her lips, and every so often she pulled my cock out completely and licked from the base to the tip, sucking my glans like it was candy. She spat on me and used the saliva to jerk me off while she licked my balls. It’s not the first time she’s done this, I thought, and hated myself again for thinking it. She took me back in to the hilt, until the tip hit her throat and she gagged a little, tears sprang to her eyes and she didn’t pull away. I had to push her off two minutes later, yanking her hair, because I was going to come in her mouth way too soon.

—Come here —I said, panting—. I want to fuck you.

I lifted her up in my arms. She weighed less than she looked. I braced her against the wall, next to the shelf of old books, and put one leg over my hip. I took my cock in my hand and ran the tip along the lips of her cunt, up and down, rubbing it over her clit before committing. She thrust her hips forward impatiently.

—Put it in already, please.

I entered her slowly, watching her. She bit her lip and dug her nails into my shoulder. She was tight, tighter than I expected, even with how wet she was. I pushed in centimeter by centimeter, feeling her cunt open to take me, feeling it clutch my cock like a glove, until I was all the way in and my balls were hitting her ass. Then we both went still for a second, forehead to forehead, breathing each other in.

—Don’t stop —she said—. Fuck me hard. Like I’m nobody’s sister.

I didn’t stop.

I drove her into the wall with each thrust, pulling almost all the way out and slamming back in. The books rattled beside us. I grabbed one breast with my free hand and squeezed it while I hammered into her, burying my cock to the hilt every time. Camila dug her heels into my back, bit my neck carefully enough not to leave a mark, whispered things in my ear she shouldn’t have been saying to me.

—Harder, fuck, harder, like that… like that’s how I like it.

I whispered something back that I don’t remember and she answered with a long groan. Her legs started trembling. I pulled her away from the wall before she could fall, carried her to the half-open sofa bed in the office, laid her face down with her ass lifted, and spread her cheeks with both hands. Her pussy was gleaming all over, swollen, open. I spat on it and shoved back in from behind with one single thrust. Camila let out a muffled cry into the cushion.

—Yes, like that, yes, keep going.

I slipped one arm under her stomach to hold her and sped up. With my other hand I grabbed her hair near the nape and tugged a little, not much. Her neck smelled of shampoo and sweat. The sound of my hips slamming against her ass filled the room, a wet, rhythmic slapping that mixed with the TV I’d left on. I slid my free hand between her legs and found her clit with my middle finger while I fucked her. She shuddered all over and started clenching her cunt around my cock in waves.

—I’m gonna come again, I’m gonna come again… —she gasped, and buried her face in the cushion to scream.

I felt her come a second time, squeezing me, gushing around me, and that was what finished me off.

—Not inside —she panted at some point—. Please, not inside.

I pulled out in time. I jerked myself twice with my hand slick with her juices and came on her lower back, in the hollow of her kidneys, gripping her hip with one hand and her shoulder with the other. It came out a lot, in thick spurts that ran from her waist to the base of her ass. It took me an age to stop shaking. I stayed on top of her, weightless, my forehead resting between her shoulder blades, my cock still dripping over her skin.

—I should have thrown you into the hall —I said.

—Yeah —she answered, her voice buried in the cushion—. You should have.

***

At a quarter to eight Marisol called from the car to say she was ten minutes away. Camila had already showered. I had changed the sofa bed sheet, wiped the carpet clean and thrown the paper away in the outside bathroom bin, not ours. They were small gestures, the kind you do without thinking and then remember years later with shame.

—She can never know —I told her in the kitchen while I poured her a glass of water she hadn’t asked for.

—Never —she repeated.

Marisol arrived tired. We had pizza delivered. Camila laughed at my bad jokes like any other day. She told her sister the movie she’d watched was crap and that she’d been bored. I laughed at the right moments.

That night I couldn’t sleep. Marisol breathed beside me with that rhythm I knew by heart, and I stared at the ceiling thinking about a strip of light crossing a breast I shouldn’t have looked at, about a cunt I shouldn’t have tasted.

It never happened again. Camila finished her stay, kissed me twice on the cheek at the car door the day she left, and we looked at each other exactly half a second too long. After that, for months, I avoided her. I made excuses not to be alone with her at Christmas, at birthdays, at Sunday lunches. She did the same. Marisol didn’t notice anything, or that’s what I want to believe.

Last week Camila came over with her boyfriend and news. She’s twelve weeks pregnant. The boyfriend was smiling the way young men smile when they think they’ve won something.

When I ran into her in the hallway on my way to the kitchen, she grabbed my arm for a second. She told me the dates didn’t add up with the boyfriend. That she’d been turning it over for a month. That she wasn’t going to do anything with that information, that the child would be his because that was what she’d decided, but that she needed me to know.

—So you can carry your part —she said.

She squeezed my arm and went back to the living room, where my wife was asking her if she wanted more juice. I stood in the hallway for a full minute, staring at the wall, thinking about a July afternoon when I should never have pushed a door.