The Day My Stepson Stopped Asking Permission

It was a leaden late-February afternoon in Valencia. Rain drummed against the chalet’s picture windows and left a gray veil on the glass that blurred the garden. Rubén had left at dawn bound for Seville, for a trade fair that would keep him away for two full days. Marisol, forty-three years old, moved through the house with the ease of someone who finally felt she owned the place.

She was wearing a short dress of light cotton that clung to her curves, with no bra, because at that hour and with the house to herself no one was going to reproach her for it. Her brown hair was loose, her nails painted a dark red that was already starting to chip. It had been less than a year since she had shared a roof with Rubén, and although the marriage was recent, living with Adrián—the twenty-year-old son of her husband—had grown, month by month, harder and harder to put into words.

Adrián was tall, dark, with the beginnings of a beard that gave him a more adult air than he really had, and a gaze that lately lingered on her for far too long. Hugo, his best friend, the same age, blond, thinner, with a smile that gave away his nerves, completed the duo. That afternoon the two of them were sunk into the living-room sofa, controllers in hand, shouting at a giant screen where a virtual football match was underway.

—Pass it, man, Hugo! You’re blind! —Adrián laughed, without taking his eyes off the game.

Marisol came in with a tray: nachos, a bowl of guacamole, and three ice-cold beers beaded with condensation on the glass.

—Here you go, champions —she said lightly, bending to set the tray on the coffee table.

The two of them fell silent for a moment. The dress had ridden up a little on her thighs and exposed the beginnings of her groin, the smooth, shaved skin. Adrián made no effort to hide it.

—Fuck, Marisol… you look so gorgeous today —he murmured, loud enough for Hugo to hear.

Hugo let out an awkward little laugh.

—Dude… she’s your dad’s wife.

Adrián smiled crookedly, never taking his eyes off her.

—Exactly. I know damn well what I’m talking about.

Marisol straightened up. Heat climbed her neck to her ears.

—Behave yourselves, okay? —she said, trying to sound maternal, but her voice came out rougher than she intended.

She turned to go back to the kitchen, and then Adrián reached out and closed a firm hand around her wrist.

—Sit with us for a while. Dad’s not here. Don’t be like that.

—Adrián, I’ve got things to do…

—Just for a while —he insisted, gently pulling her downward—. Right here, in the middle.

Marisol hesitated. There was something in that voice—that no longer asked, only stated—that made her obey. She sat down between the two of them. The sofa was wide, but both of them pressed in at once, as if it had been agreed upon. Adrián rested a hand on her bare knee. Hugo glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and swallowed.

They played another round. Marisol tried to keep her eyes on the screen, but Adrián’s hand was slowly climbing up her thigh, under the dress. It reached her crotch, brushed the smooth skin, traced a slow circle.

—Adrián… stop —she whispered.

—Why? —he answered in her ear, his voice deep—. I’ve been seeing you around the house like this for months, with no bra, in these dresses. You know what you do to me, Marisol. And I know you look at me too when you think I don’t notice.

Hugo shifted in his seat, not knowing where to put his hands.

—Dude… are you serious?

—Shut up and watch —Adrián replied without turning around.

His fingers pushed aside the fabric of her underwear. He found her soaked through. He smiled, pleased with himself.

—You’re drenched. See, Hugo? She likes it.

Marisol closed her eyes, ashamed of her own body.

—Adrián… I’m your father’s wife…

—And my father is in Seville. You’re here. And I want to be with you. We both do.

With one sharp tug he hauled her dress up to her waist. Hugo let out a barely audible “fuck…” when he saw the white panties turned translucent with dampness, and beneath them, bare skin.

Adrián pulled the garment down to her ankles with deliberate calm.

—Take it all off —he ordered.

Shaking, Marisol pulled the dress over her head. Her breasts fell free, her nipples already hard. Hugo bit his lip.

—Mother of God… —was the only thing he managed to say.

Adrián took one breast in his whole hand, squeezed it, pinched the nipple until he drew a moan from her.

—Hugo, take care of the other one.

Hugo went for it without thinking. His mouth was shyer, clumsier, but he sucked with a hunger he couldn’t hide. Meanwhile Adrián slid two fingers into her, slowly at first, then with a rhythm that made her arch against the backrest.

—You’re dripping, stepmom. You like being handled like this, don’t you?

—No… please… —she gasped, though her hips moved on their own to meet him.

—Say it. Say you want it.

Three fingers now, curved, pressing the exact spot that left her breathless. Marisol came with a muffled cry, her legs trembling on the leather sofa.

—Say it —he repeated, pulling his fingers out and bringing them to her mouth, where she licked them without thinking.

—I want… I want to be with you both… —she whispered, defeated by her own desire.

Adrián smiled, triumphant.

—That’s what I like.

***

He positioned her on all fours on the sofa, hips raised toward him. He spread her buttocks with his thumbs, admiring the smooth, shining skin.

—Hugo, get in front. I’ll go first.

Hugo knelt on the cushion, nervous, and Marisol opened her mouth and took him in. Adrián yanked his jeans down in one motion. He drove into her with a single deep thrust and Marisol moaned around Hugo, the sound muffled against his skin.

—Fuck… you’re so tight… —Adrián growled, starting to move hard, setting a pace that left no room for pause.

Every thrust shoved her forward, toward Hugo. Adrián spanked her buttocks, leaving a red echo on the skin.

—This is mine now. Every time Dad goes away on a trip, we’re doing this again. Clear?

—Yes… —she moaned, with no strength left to deny it.

She came again, clenching around him, her whole body shaking with the wave. Adrián held on, jaw clenched, and then stopped.

—Hugo, switch. I want you to have a turn.

Hugo moved behind her, faster though less precise, his hands dug into her hips as if he were afraid of falling. Adrián stood in front, grabbed his head by the hair, and guided the rhythm.

—Easy, no rush —he told his friend, almost mockingly.

Hugo didn’t last long.

—Fuck… I can’t anymore… —he panted.

—Out —Adrián ordered—. On top of her.

Hugo pulled out in time and emptied himself over Marisol’s back and buttocks, letting out a long groan. Adrián then lifted her, set her standing against his chest, with her back to him, and entered her like that, holding her by the waist with one arm while with the other hand he found her clit.

—Tell me this feels better than any boring afternoon with your husband.

—It feels better… it feels better… —Marisol panted, her head falling over his shoulder.

She came again, crying out, shameless now, her body surrendered. Adrián turned her around, made her kneel, and finished with a rough grunt, holding her by the nape. The three of them stayed still, panting, the living room thick with heat and the smell of sex mixed with spilled beer.

***

Marisol ended up seated on the floor, her back against the sofa, her legs still trembling. Hugo sank down beside her, exhausted and a little frightened by what had just happened. Adrián, in contrast, looked entirely in command of the scene. He crouched in front of her and lifted her chin with one finger.

—Dad gets back late tomorrow —he said, with a calm that was more frightening than any shout—. We’re doing this again. And next time we’ll take our time, all right?

Marisol could only nod, her eyes glassy and a small, guilty smile tugging at her lips. I’m never going to be able to refuse again, she thought, and the terrifying thing was that she didn’t want to refuse.

—Now go take a shower —Adrián added, standing up and picking up his controller from the floor—. And when you come out, sit here with us. We’ve got another game waiting.

She got up as best she could, gathered the rumpled dress against her chest, and walked to the bathroom on unsteady legs. Under the stream of hot water she closed her eyes and let the steam wash away her shame. She knew that what had happened wasn’t an accident, nor an isolated slip. It was the beginning of something that would live with her in that house, in silence, every time Rubén packed his bags.

And deep down, though she would never admit it out loud, she knew she would never resist again.