The Line My Father Refused to Cross

Lucía’s finger was still there, a hot point of pressure against the wet fabric of his trousers. Esteban did not move, but his whole body betrayed him. A tremor climbed up his thigh and, beneath her fingertip, she felt him throbbing, a dull, living pulse that she felt right down to the roots of her hair. Her father’s breathing was a rough sound in the stillness of the garden.

Then, with an effort that seemed to cost him his life, he took a step back. The contact broke. The air that slipped between them came in cold, heavy with the tension he had just cut cleanly in two.

—Lucía, no —his voice was not a shout, but a broken whisper, full of an agony she had not expected. It was not a father’s anger; it was the lament of a man peering over the edge of a cliff—. We can’t do this.

She looked at him at first without understanding, and then, understanding too much. She saw the conflict in his eyes, the war between the raw desire she had felt under her fingers and the man who had raised her, the one who had taught her to ride a bike and tie her shoelaces. She saw the fear. And for the first time she felt a stab of something that was not pure lust. It was power. The power of being the exact center of his torment.

—What can’t we do, Daddy? —she asked softly, almost compassionately. She stepped toward him and closed the space he had opened—. Be together? Touch each other? —she stopped right in front of him and raised her hands without quite touching him, a couple of centimeters from his chest, as if she could feel the warmth of his skin without brushing it—. You’re shaking.

—Of course I’m shaking —he hissed, looking away toward the hedge, anywhere but those dark eyes accusing him—. You’re... you’re soaking wet. I’m soaked. This is wrong. I’m your father.

The words fell between them like a slab of lead. But instead of frightening her, they lit her up. It was the final barrier, the limit no one crossed. And she was about to smash it to pieces.

—And I’m your daughter —she replied, her voice a challenge—. And I know what you feel, because I feel it too. —She lowered one hand and, with torturous slowness, dragged it over her belly, over the sticky T-shirt—. I feel how I’m burning inside here. I feel how soaked I am for you.

He swallowed, and the sound of his dry throat was obscenely loud in the silence.

—Don’t say that.

—Why not, if it’s the truth? —She moved closer, until her breasts nearly brushed his torso. She could feel the heat coming off his wet skin—. Or is it that you don’t feel it? Don’t you feel how hard you get for me? —This time she said it without beating around the bush, direct and raw, like a blow.

He squeezed his eyes shut. A spasm ran through his jaw.

—Lucía, please...

—Please what, Daddy? Want me to touch it? Pull it out and take it in my mouth until you come down my throat? —Each word was a drop of acid eating away what little resistance he had left.

—Enough! —The word burst out like a guttural, desperate roar that scattered the birds from the nearby trees. He opened his eyes and looked at her, and for a moment she saw a flash of pure panic in them—. This has to stop. Right now. Go to your room.

Lucía did not move, her heart hammering in her chest. This was not the rejection she had expected: it was an order born of fear. Fear of giving in.

—No —she said, with a calm she did not feel—. I’m not leaving. —She did the only thing she could think of: she wrapped her arms around herself, as if she were cold, though inside she was burning—. I’m cold, Daddy. The water has frozen me. —It was a lie, a dirty trick, but it was the only card she had.

He watched her, confused.

—Go inside and change your clothes.

—I don’t want to go alone. —She held out a hand to him, a feigned plea—. Come with me.

The struggle on his face was epic, a visible battle between the head that said no and the body that was dragging him along. In the end, with a sigh that sounded like surrender, he nodded.

—All right. Let’s go.

They walked toward the house in a thick, heavy silence. He went first; she followed, watching the tense back outlined beneath the soaked T-shirt. Water dripped from both of them, leaving a trail of tiny puddles on the porch wood.

Inside, the air conditioning was a welcome shock against her burning skin. Esteban stopped in the living room, not knowing what to do with his hands.

—Go up to your room, Lucía. I... I’ll stay here.

She shook her head.

—I don’t want to be alone. —She approached slowly—. Help me. —She turned around, giving him her back, and pushed the wet hair away from her nape—. Unfasten it.

He stood motionless. He could see his own reflection in the dark glass of the television: a tall, rigid figure, and in front of him she stood, small and defiant, waiting.

—Lucía...

—Please, Daddy. My fingers are frozen and I can’t do it myself.

With an obvious tremor, he raised his hands. His fingertips, clumsy and wavering, found the knot of the swimsuit tie beneath the T-shirt. The brush of his skin against hers, even if only on her back, went through him like a shock. He fought with the knot, his fingers slipping on the damp fabric and on her skin. Every second was an eternity of torture and something dangerously close to pleasure.

When he finally undid it, she did not move. She stayed there, feeling the heat of his hand a millimeter from her back.

—Now the swimsuit —she whispered—. Take it off.

He stepped back as if burned.

—No. I’m not doing that. This has already gone too far.

—Then stay —she said, and turned to face him. She pulled down one strap of the wet T-shirt and bared one breast, the nipple hard and stiff from the cold and from wanting him—. Look at me, Daddy. Look at me and dare to say you don’t want this.

He looked at her, and in his eyes there was a desire so deep, so painful, that Lucía’s breath caught. But there was something else too. There were tears.

—Of course I want it —he said, his voice hoarse with sheer contempt for himself—. I want it more than anything in my life. And that is exactly why I can’t have it. Because if I do, I destroy you. And I destroy myself.

He turned and left the living room, took the stairs two at a time, and left her alone in the middle of the room, half naked and trembling, her heart racing and her sex pulsing with frustration and with a desire that now, at last, was shared. The line had not merely been erased: it had been reduced to dust.

***

The silence in the living room was a living creature. Lucía stood motionless, feeling the air conditioning dry the water and sweat on her skin and leave behind a cold, sticky film. Her breasts were bare, still stiff, painfully sensitive. Desire had become a physical tension, an unbearable knot low in her belly. Her father’s rejection had not put out the fire; it had covered it, turning it into a boiler on the verge of bursting.

Then she heard it: the screech of tires over the gravel of the driveway.

Panic, cold and sharp, pierced her like a needle. Her mother. She sprang forward, grabbed the wet T-shirt from the floor, and pulled it over her head in one violent motion. The cold cotton clung to her body like a shroud. She headed for the stairs with the intention of locking herself in her room and disappearing.

But she stopped halfway up. From above, she saw her father. He was standing on the landing, out of the line of sight from the entrance, his back against the wall. He was not looking at her; he was looking down, toward the door. And on his face there was no panic anymore. There was a frightening kind of calm. A predator’s calm.

The click of the key in the lock sounded. The door opened.

—Honey, I’m home! Traffic was hell. —Her mother’s cheerful, tired voice cut through the dense air of the house.

Lucía watched her father straighten. He ran a hand through his hair and drew a deep breath. When he spoke, his voice sounded normal, calm.

—Hi, love. Everything okay?

He went downstairs. Lucía stayed still, a statue in the dim hallway, invisible from the living room, and watched them. Her mother kissed him on the cheek.

—Wow, it’s hot in here. Why didn’t you turn on the fan?

—I didn’t notice —her father said, and Lucía felt a cold stab as she saw how easily he lied—. I was in the garden. —His gaze flicked for a fleeting instant toward the stairs, toward where she was. He didn’t see her, but he knew she was there. And in that look Lucía understood everything. This was not over. This was about to begin.

—I’m going to take a shower —her mother said, setting her bag on a chair—. I’m dead tired.

—Don’t worry about that —he said, and his voice changed. It grew deeper, lower, possessive. He came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her. Lucía watched him place his hands on her waist and pull her against his body—. I’ll wash you myself.

Her mother laughed, a soft, slightly surprised sound.

—Oh, really? And what’s behind this sudden attack of romance?

He did not answer with words. He lowered his head and whispered something in her ear, something Lucía could not hear. She saw her mother tense for a second and then go limp, letting her head fall back to rest on his shoulder. A curious smile appeared on her lips.

Lucía felt a mix of nausea and morbid fascination. She knew, with absolute certainty, that it was not her mother he was looking at. He was looking through her. He was using her mother as a vessel for all the desire his daughter had awakened in him.

She moved stealthily, climbed the last few steps, and slipped down the hallway to the door of her room. She did not close it all the way: she left it ajar, a crack through which she could see and hear. Her room was at the back, directly opposite her parents’.

***

She heard the two of them crossing the wooden floor of the bedroom. The soft rustle of clothes falling away. A low moan, not of pain, of surprise.

—Fuck, Esteban... what’s gotten into you today? You’re... you’re crazy.

Her father’s voice was a deep growl, almost animal.

—Shut up and let me do it my way.

Lucía moved closer to the crack in her door, her heart about to leap out of her chest. She heard a wet, violent kiss. Then the sound of a body being shoved against the mattress.

—Esteban! The bed!

—I don’t give a shit about the bed —he growled—. I’m going to fuck you right here.

Lucía’s knees weakened. She braced herself against the doorframe, hand over her mouth so she wouldn’t make a sound. She heard fabric tear: he had ripped her mother’s underwear off.

—Son of a bitch! —her mother cried, but the cry dissolved into a long, guttural moan.

What came next was obscene. A brutal kiss, bites, the wet smack of an open hand hitting bare flesh. And then the sound Lucía had been waiting for without even knowing it, the one that both chilled and burned her from the inside: her father spitting out a filthy command.

—Spread your legs. I want to see all of you.

A choked moan from her mother.

—God... yes...

Lucía could not see them, but she did not need to. Her mind painted the scene with brutal clarity. She saw her father with bloodshot eyes, his face twisted in a snarl of savage lust. She saw those hands, the same ones that had hesitated to touch her, now digging into her mother’s hips and leaving purple marks behind.

She heard the sound of two fingers plunging into an already wet cunt, a sticky, obscene noise that filled the house’s silence.

—You’re soaking —he panted—. You like this, huh? You like being treated like this?

—Yes... fuck, yes...

Then the door to the master bedroom was thrown wide open, sending a strip of light all the way to the bathroom. He had left it open. On purpose.

Lucía held her breath. From her hiding place she had a partial but perfect view: she could see the mirror of the built-in wardrobe. And in the mirror she saw their reflections.

She saw her mother kneeling on the bed, her ass in the air, her hair a mess and red marks on her back. And behind her, like a dark, vengeful god, stood her father. He was completely naked, and Lucía saw his sex for the first time for real, not the shadow she had guessed under the wet fabric in the garden. It was real, hard, thick, veins standing out and the head swollen. More imposing than she had imagined, and a shiver of terror and desire ran through her from top to bottom.

He bent down, and Lucía saw his head disappear between her mother’s buttocks. She heard the eager sound of his tongue, wet and slick, which made her wet again against her will. Her mother’s moans climbed an octave and turned into screams.

—Yes! There! Don’t stop! You’re so good at this, you bastard!

He pleased her for a long minute, an eternal minute of sounds and reflections that tortured Lucía behind her door. Then he straightened up, grabbed his cock with one hand, and guided himself to her mother’s entrance.

—Now you’re going to get exactly what you deserve —he hissed.

And he drove into her in one thrust.

Her mother’s scream was half pain, half pleasure. He showed no mercy. He fucked her with all the violence and all the desire he really felt for another, unloading into his wife’s body every single thing he had forbidden himself to do to the daughter who had provoked him. And Lucía, biting her hand in the dim light, knew that that truce was only that: a truce. Sooner or later, that fury would come looking for her again.