The New Year’s Eve My Sister-in-Law Stopped Pretending

Sometimes the things one dismisses as impossible come back years later and knock on the door without warning. Today I’m forty-seven years old and have been married for twenty-two years to the best woman I could ever have landed. That’s not just a phrase: Lucía is patient when I am not, orderly when I go off the rails, and she puts up with my mood swings with a calm that still surprises me today. I love her, and it’s worth making that clear from the start so you understand that what I’m about to tell you isn’t a whim or a lapse. It’s something I’d kept hidden for too long, waiting for a crack.

Lucía is the eldest of three sisters. The middle one is called Mariana, and she’s the reason I’m writing this. The youngest, Camila, has nothing to do with the story beyond being there that night for a couple of hours before leaving with her husband to greet relatives. The three of them look alike, especially in the eyes, but Mariana was always different: taller, quieter, with that sideways way of looking at you that made you feel she was thinking something she wasn’t going to say.

We got married young. First we rented a tiny apartment near the center, then a house with a yard when the dogs came along, and finally a bigger one in a quiet neighborhood, ten blocks from where my mother-in-law lived. I got along with almost the whole family. The exception was her, my mother-in-law, a woman who sat at the head of the table as if she were a colonel and never forgave me for taking her eldest daughter away. She died seven years ago, and although it sounds ugly, I felt something close to relief.

Back to Mariana. A long time ago, when we were still newlyweds, she fought with her then-boyfriend, an unbearable guy named Bruno who treated waiters, cashiers, and anyone behind a counter like garbage. Mariana put up with him longer than she should have, and one day she finally said enough. She came to our place with two suitcases and a swollen face. We told her to stay as long as she needed.

“It’s just for a few weeks, really,” she kept saying at the door.

She stayed almost six months.

During those months a lot happened and, above all, the one thing that was supposed not to happen didn’t happen. Mariana had the habit of staying up late reading on the living-room sofa, wearing a long T-shirt that barely covered her legs. I’d run into her when I went downstairs for water. We’d talk in low voices so as not to wake Lucía. Sometimes things slipped out: that I had chosen the wrong sister, that she had always regretted not making the first move, that with her boyfriend she had never felt like that. I acted dumb, told her exhaustion was messing with her head, and went back upstairs quickly. I was in love with Lucía. I still am. But it would be a lie to say I didn’t keep thinking about it, and more than one night I ended up jerking off in the bathroom with the image of my sister-in-law sprawled on the sofa, her T-shirt riding up to her waist.

Mariana got back together with the famous Bruno and left. Many years passed. She married someone else, not him, but a patient, rather colorless man named Damián. She had two children. She lost weight. She changed jobs. I went on with my life. My mother-in-law died. The sisters-in-law started treating me with the kind of naturalness they’d previously reserved for guilt. And it seemed like it was closed forever.

Until last December thirty-first.

***

We’d hosted New Year’s at our house. Lucía spent two days cooking: vitel toné, a roast suckling pig, salads she kept tasting over and over. I took care of the long table in the patio, the lights, the wine, the sound system. My sisters-in-law arrived with their husbands after nine. Camila and Sergio stayed only until a little after midnight because they had to stop by his parents’ house. Damián, Mariana’s husband, arrived with a bottle of fernet under his arm and the fixed idea of finishing it.

We ate, toasted, danced. Lucía made a fool of herself trying reggaeton with me and we laughed like we had in the early years. Mariana kept close but not too close. I caught her looking at me twice when she thought I wasn’t noticing, and twice more when I was the one looking at her. She wore a short black dress with an open back. She was thinner than when she’d lived at our house. The big tits I remembered weren’t there anymore, nor the enormous ass she’d had before, but there was something new, something sharper, that I couldn’t stop noticing. At one point, when she bent down to pick up a napkin, the dress clung to her ass and the perfect crack showed through, with no visible panties, and I had to turn away so my hard-on wouldn’t be obvious against my pants.

After one o’clock, Camila and Sergio said goodbye. By two-thirty, Damián couldn’t string two words together. He was slumped in one of the living-room sofas, mouth open and a glass of fernet tilted in his hand. Mariana took it from him without him noticing. My wife sat down next to me, rested her head on my shoulder, and quietly told me she couldn’t take any more.

“Go to sleep,” I told her. “I’ll close up here.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure. Mariana will help me.”

I walked her to the bedroom, helped her take off her shoes, and kissed her on the forehead. When I came back down, Damián was still stuck to the sofa and Mariana was in the kitchen rinsing the glasses. She hadn’t turned on the main light; only the extractor light over the stove was on.

“I’ll do them,” I said.

“Leave it. If I sit down, I’ll fall asleep.”

I poured myself half a finger of wine and leaned against the counter. She kept washing glasses. We talked about nothing for a while: the roast pig, the fernet, how funny Damián was when he fell asleep with his mouth open. At some point she went quiet, drying her hands on the dish towel, and looked at me without smiling.

“Do you remember when I lived here?” she said. It wasn’t a question.

“I remember.”

“Some things don’t get erased, do they?”

“It’s been a long time, Mariana.”

“It has. But some things don’t expire. It’s good to know something is still intact.”

“What is intact?” I asked, and I knew at that very moment it was a dangerous question.

She didn’t answer. She put down the towel, took two steps toward me, cupped my face with both hands, and kissed me on the mouth. It wasn’t a brush of lips: it was a deliberate kiss, mouth parted, tongue in from the very first second, with twenty years of hunger behind it. And I responded. I didn’t stop to think. I kissed her back with the same certainty with which she’d kissed me, grabbed her ass over the dress, and pulled her against me so she could feel how hard my cock had gotten against my stomach.

“Feel that, don’t you?” I said against her mouth. “Feel how hard it is for you?”

“I feel it,” she murmured, and lowered her hand to grab me over my pants. “I’ve wanted to hold it in my hand for twenty years. Not here,” she added right away, almost scared of her own voice.

“Where?”

I took her hand and led her to the guest bathroom, at the end of the hallway, far from the room where Lucía was sleeping and the living room where Damián was still snoring. I locked the door. The room was small, with a jasmine smell from the diffuser my wife changed every fifteen days.

“I’ve had this tucked away for twenty years,” Mariana murmured while she started unbuckling my belt with hurried fingers. “Twenty years thinking about my brother-in-law’s cock. Twenty years handling showers with your face in my head. Did you know?”

“I didn’t know,” I said, though deep down I did know. “Me too, Mariana. Me too.”

She finished opening my pants and yanked my boxer briefs down in one pull. My cock sprang out, hard, pointing straight at her face. She stared at it for a second in silence, as if she needed to make sure it was real, and then let out a rough little laugh.

“My God. It’s even prettier than I imagined.”

She knelt without theatrics. She took it with her left hand at the base, held it steady, and ran her tongue underneath, slowly, from my balls to the tip. It made my legs tremble. Then she opened her mouth and took it all the way in at once, until I felt the tip slapping the back of her throat. She pulled it out with a string of saliva and took it in again. She sucked me with her eyes closed, hand tight around the base, unhurried, setting the pace herself. Every so often she pulled back to lick my balls, one and then the other, taking them into her mouth carefully.

“Look at me,” I said.

She raised her eyes without taking my cock out of her mouth. The image was one to keep: my sister-in-law, my wife’s sister, kneeling in my house bathroom on January first at three in the morning, with my dick down her throat and those dark eyes locked on me. She took it out slowly, leaving a thread of saliva from her lip to the tip, and smiled.

“I’d been imagining this for years,” she whispered. “It’s exactly as I built it in my head. If you stop me now, I swear I’ll die.”

“I’m not stopping you.”

She took it back in. This time deeper, barely gagging, holding back tears so she wouldn’t cough. She grabbed my balls with one hand and with the other started fingering herself under the dress. I heard her moan with her mouth full. The heat of watching her work a finger into herself while she sucked me made me realize that if this kept going, I’d come in three minutes.

“Stand up,” I said. “Stand up, I want to fuck you.”

I grabbed her by the arms and lifted her. I turned her around against the sink and yanked her dress up over her hips. She wasn’t wearing panties. She’d taken them off at some point, maybe during dinner, maybe just when she came into the bathroom. I kissed her neck, bit her shoulder, ran my hand around the front and found her soaked, her cunt dripping all the way to the inside of her thigh. I shoved two fingers in at once and she bit her lip to keep from crying out.

“Look at how wet you are,” I told her in her ear, moving my fingers inside her. “Look at that cunt dripping, you little whore. You’ve been like this all night, haven’t you?”

“All night,” she panted. “Since I got here. Since I saw you with the wine in your hand. I couldn’t take it anymore.”

I pulled down the neckline of her dress to get her tits out. They were smaller, firm, different from before but more sensitive: it took just one pinch to a nipple for her knees to go weak and for her to let herself sink back a little against my chest. I bit her neck while I kept fingering her, three fingers now, going in and out with a wet sound.

“Turn around again,” I said.

I sat her on the sink counter, spread her legs, and knelt. Her cunt was shaved, exposed, glossy, the swollen clit peeking out between the lips. I ran my tongue over it without warning, from bottom to top, with the whole flat of my tongue, and she covered her mouth with both hands so she wouldn’t scream. I licked her slowly at first, circling the clit, sucking each lip one at a time, pushing my tongue as deep inside her as I could. Then more insistently, biting the inner part of her thighs just enough when I wanted her to wait, leaving hickeys that would still be there the next day.

“Eat me,” she whispered. “Eat all of me. Lick my clit, come on, like that, don’t stop, don’t stop.”

I slid in two fingers and curled my fingertips looking for that inside spot while I pressed her clit with my tongue. I grabbed one tit with my free hand and pinched the nipple. It lasted thirty seconds. Two spasms escaped her in a row, her head fell back against the mirror, and I felt the hot spurt of a long orgasm in my mouth. I kept licking her until she twisted and pushed my head away with her hand.

“Enough, enough,” she gasped. “I can’t take any more. Fuck me. Fuck me now.”

I lowered her to the floor, turned her around, and braced her hands against the glass. I positioned myself behind her. I brushed the tip along her entrance, top to bottom, wetting myself thoroughly with what was dripping out of her. I dragged the tip over her clit a couple of times to make her desperate. She shoved her ass back toward me, looking for me.

“Put it in me,” she begged. “Put it in already, you fucking asshole, don’t make me beg for it.”

I went in with one thrust, balls deep. She was so wet there was no resistance. Her cunt closed around my cock as if she’d been waiting twenty years, and maybe she had. I clenched my teeth so I wouldn’t make a sound. She covered her mouth again with the back of her hand and started pushing back against me, shaking her ass, circling her hips.

“Harder,” she whispered. “Break me. Break my cunt however you want. I don’t care about anything.”

I fucked her with everything I had. I grabbed her hips with both hands and started spearing her from behind with dry, hard thrusts, all the way in, listening to the sound of my balls slapping her clit, the splash of her soaked cunt, her ragged breathing against the mirror. At some point she started trembling all over again, clenched around me like a fist, and left the tiles wet beneath both of us. I didn’t stop. I took her hair like a ponytail with my left hand and pulled her head back just enough, not to hurt her, but so she’d look at me through the mirror. We looked at each other like that for several thrusts. Her face was flushed, mouth open, a string of spit hanging from her chin, and she was looking at me with the face of a bitch in heat that I’d remember for the rest of my life.

“Isn’t it true Damián doesn’t fuck you like this?” I said, pushing hard.

“No,” she gasped. “No. Nobody’s fucked me like this in years. Years. Keep going, keep going, don’t stop.”

I pulled out for a second. I ran the tip around the other side, over her asshole, in circles, pressing only lightly. I didn’t ask. She didn’t say anything either, but she reached a hand back as if she wanted to stop me and, at the same time, opened her legs wider. I spat at the entrance, then spat on my cunt-soaked cock, and pushed in slowly. The head met resistance. Mariana arched her back and let out a low, contained groan, biting her knuckle. I waited a second, let her get used to it, and went in halfway. Another second. The other half.

“Gently,” she asked with a tight voice. “Gently, it’s been a long time since anyone’s done that there.”

“Gently,” I repeated. “Easy. Easy, my love, breathe.”

I started slowly, almost not moving, letting her feel my cock inside without punishing her. The tightness was unlike anything I remembered: her ass clamping down on me in a way a cunt never does, hot, closed. After the first few movements she stopped complaining and started breathing hard through her nose, pressing her forehead against the fogged-up mirror. She pushed back against me herself, looking for me, setting the pace she wanted.

“More,” she murmured. “That’s it. More.”

I sped up. I brought my hand around to the front and stroked her cunt while I fucked her from behind. My middle finger circled her clit and my palm covered the entrance; I could feel my own cock moving inside her ass through the wall of her cunt. She started trembling sooner than I expected. She clenched even tighter, her head gave out against the mirror, and a low, long moan escaped her, lasting through the whole orgasm. Her legs went weak and I had to hold her by the hips so she wouldn’t fall to the floor.

“I’m about to finish,” I told her in her ear, never stopping. “I’m about to come, Mariana.”

“Not inside,” she panted, still trembling. “Pull out. Pull out, I want to suck it.”

I pulled out. She turned around, dropped to her knees on the wet tiles, and took my cock with both hands. She stroked it right up against her mouth, looking up at me from below with that bitch face that had driven me crazy earlier, sticking out her tongue to lick the tip every two or three strokes.

“Come in here,” she said. “In my mouth. I want to swallow everything. Come on, don’t hold back, look at me.”

I couldn’t hold back. My climax tore out of my balls. The first spurt hit her tongue and she closed her eyes for a second but didn’t close her mouth. The second landed on her lips and chin. She got the last ones out of me with her hand, squeezing my cock from base to tip like she was milking out the last drop, letting what was left fall into her open mouth. Then she swallowed, swallowed hard, and made a noise in her throat that made my knees shake. With her finger she gathered what had spilled onto her chin and took it back into her mouth, sucking it until the knuckle. She smiled at me, still kneeling, lips shining and a white thread running from the corner of her mouth, as if she’d just closed a deal she’d been putting off for far too long.

“Again,” she said, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “But in a bed. And with time. I want you inside me for a couple of hours, not a couple of minutes.”

“Whenever you want.”

She stood up, adjusted her dress, wet her face, rinsed her mouth with tap water, combed her hair with her fingers in front of the mirror. She left the bathroom first. I gave her three minutes. When I came out, Damián was still sleeping with his mouth open in exactly the same position. Mariana was sitting beside him, one hand resting on his leg, like a worried wife. She looked at me and smiled just a little.

“You’re missing something,” she said softly when I passed by the sofa.

“What?”

She lifted the top of her dress, showed me one tit for a second, with the nipple still hard and a violet hickey on the side, then covered herself again.

“Next time,” I said.

***

That was on New Year’s. Five months ago. Since then we’ve seen each other several more times, almost always in downtown hotels, twice at her house when Damián was away on business, once in an apartment a friend lends me. She does everything I ask and I do everything she asks. Lucía doesn’t suspect a thing, and that’s the only thing I care about protecting. The rest — the place, the guilt, what might happen tomorrow — we’ll see.

But that first time, the one in the bathroom, the one at three in the morning on January first, that one I won’t forget. If you want, later on I can tell you about some of the ones that came after. For now, this one is enough for me.