What Happened With My Father’s Wife That Afternoon

My father married Camila when I was sixteen, and at first I hated her with all my might. Not for any particular reason, but because she was ten years younger than him and because she occupied the place my mother had left empty after the divorce. The first Christmas we spent together, I didn’t speak to her at all. The second, I barely answered her good mornings. By the third, I was already at university, living away from home almost all year, and when I came back I shut myself in my room to study.

But that summer everything changed.

My father had to travel to Santiago for a project that ended up lasting two months. I had just finished my exams and had nowhere to go: my mother had moved to Salta with her new partner, and my friends in Mendoza were all scattered along the coast. Camila offered to let me stay in the big house in Chacras, the one my father had bought her when they got married. I accepted because there was no other option.

I arrived on a Tuesday in the middle of the afternoon. Camila was waiting for me in the back garden, barefoot on the grass, wearing a white linen dress and a glass of wine in her hand. She was thirty-three, with brown hair gathered in a loose bun and shoulders tanned by the sun. Until then I’d never really looked at her properly. That afternoon, with the light falling from the side and the dress clinging to her hips, I looked. I saw her nipples pressing against the linen, without a bra, and her breasts moving slowly with her breathing. My mouth went dry.

—Tomás —she said, lifting her glass in greeting—. You got here sooner than I thought.

—I took the nine o’clock bus.

—Do you want wine?

I nodded because I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I walked over to the table, put my backpack on the floor, and sat down across from her. Camila poured me half a glass and watched me over the rim of hers.

—How’d finals go?

—Good. I passed everything.

—Your father will be proud.

I nodded again. There was a conversation we weren’t having, some strange thing floating in the air between us that I didn’t know how to name. I drank the wine in one swallow.

—Are you hungry? —she asked.

—A little.

—I made cannelloni. If you want, we can have dinner when the sun goes down.

That night we had dinner in the kitchen, just the two of us, with the radio on a jazz station. Camila had changed into another dress, this one black and shorter, and I couldn’t stop looking at her legs whenever she crossed the room to get bread or change the music. Every time she bent down to open the fridge, the dress rode up to the crease of her ass and I had to grip my fork so I wouldn’t cross the line. We talked about stupid things: university, a book I was reading, a recipe she’d learned in a cooking class. At eleven she told me she was going to bed, that she’d left clean towels in the bathroom, that the guest room was ready. She kissed me on the cheek and went upstairs.

I stayed at the table another half hour, finishing the bottle, trying to understand what was happening to me. She’s my father’s wife, I kept repeating to myself. She’s my father’s wife. But the phrase had lost the weight it had when I was sixteen. I imagined her undressing upstairs, pulling the black dress over her head, standing in her panties in front of the mirror, and I got hard under the table. I had to grab myself through my jeans to make it go down before I went upstairs.

***

Three days went by like that. Camila had breakfast in her robe, went out for a run in the morning, came back sweaty and got into the pool. I pretended to read in the living room and spied on her over the top of the book. She knew I was watching her. She knew it the same way a woman knows when a man wants her. She didn’t say anything, but sometimes she stayed a second longer than necessary getting out of the water, wringing out her hair, turning her back to me while she tied the towel around herself. The one-piece swimsuit rode up into her ass when she came out by the pool steps and I could see her wet buttocks, taut, shining in the sun. One afternoon she took off the top of a bikini to sunbathe on her stomach. I made myself cum three times in the bathroom that day, thinking about the breasts I’d barely glimpsed out of the corner of my eye when she turned to grab her watch.

The fourth day it rained. It rained from early morning and kept raining all afternoon, a heavy summer rain that darkened the house before its time. Camila put on an old bossa nova record and switched on the lamps in the living room. She was on the big sofa, legs tucked under her body, reading. I came in with two cups of coffee because I couldn’t think of anything else to do.

—Sit down —she said, without looking up from the book.

I sat at the other end of the sofa. I handed her a cup. She set it on the low table, marked the page with a finger, and looked at me straight on for the first time.

—Tomás —she said—. We need to talk about something.

I felt my stomach tighten.

—Okay.

—You’ve been staring at me for four days. That’s not a reproach. I’m just saying it.

I didn’t know what to answer. I looked down at the cup and saw my hand was trembling.

—You don’t have to say anything —she went on—. But I want you to know I noticed.

—Sorry.

—Don’t apologize. That’s the last thing I want.

I looked up. Camila was watching me with an expression I had never seen on her before: it wasn’t kindness, it wasn’t distance, it was something else. It was curiosity. It was an open question.

—Do you want something to happen? —she asked, almost in a whisper.

—I don’t know.

—Think about it. I’m not going anywhere.

She stood up with the coffee cup in her hand and went upstairs. I heard her open her bedroom door and leave it slightly ajar.

***

I stayed downstairs for a full hour. Exactly one hour, staring at the kitchen clock, trying to convince myself I had to go up to the guest room and sleep and forget everything that had happened. But at eleven twenty I went upstairs barefoot and stopped in front of her door.

—Come in —she said from inside, before I even knocked.

I pushed the door open. Camila was sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing a short cream silk slip, her bare feet on the rug. The bedside lamp was on, leaving the rest of the room in shadow. Under the silk, she had nothing on: her breasts stood out round, with the nipples hard and pointing at me, and the fabric fell just below her pubis.

—Close the door —she said.

I closed it. I stayed against it, not knowing what to do with my hands.

—Come here.

I walked the three steps that separated me from the bed. Camila took my wrists and made me kneel between her legs. Her skin was warm and she smelled of vetiver and something darker I couldn’t identify, a scent of hot woman that hit me in the face and made me tremble.

—Look at me —she said.

I looked at her. Her eyes were very open, bright, without makeup.

—If you want me to stop, tell me any time. Okay?

—Okay.

She kissed me slowly, first just at the corner of my mouth, then on the lower lip, then opening my mouth with the tip of her tongue. I responded clumsily, with too much urgency, and she laughed into my mouth and put a hand on the back of my neck to slow me down.

—Slowly —she murmured—. There’s no rush.

She kissed me again, longer, teaching me the rhythm. Her fingers slid up the back of my neck and tangled in my hair. I put my hands on her knees and moved them very slowly up her thighs, waiting for her to stop me. She didn’t stop me. When I got to her hips I realized she wasn’t wearing anything under the slip. Under my fingertips I felt the soft, neat hair, and the wet heat coming from between her legs.

—Take off your shirt —she said.

I took off my shirt. Camila looked at my torso for a moment, without touching me, as if she were deciding something. Then she leaned down and kissed the center of my chest, right below the collarbone. I felt her tongue trace a path downward to my navel, and my breath caught.

—Stand up —she said.

I stood up. She stayed seated on the edge of the bed and unbuckled my belt without taking her eyes off me. My jeans fell to the floor. I was left in my briefs, my cock straining hard against the fabric, my pulse pounding in my temples.

—Tomás —she said, lifting her gaze—. Is this your first time?

I swallowed.

—No. But almost.

—Good —she smiled—. Good that you told me. Then I’m going to teach you everything. Everything your father doesn’t know how to do.

She pulled my briefs down with both hands, to my ankles, and my cock sprang hard against my belly. Camila looked at it for a few seconds, ran her tongue over her upper lip, and smiled.

—It’s so pretty —she murmured—. And so hard.

She took it in her hand, closing her fingers around the base. She began to stroke it slowly, squeezing me with one hand while the other weighed my balls. I put a hand on her shoulder so I wouldn’t fall. Then she leaned down and ran her tongue along the entire length, from bottom to top, very slowly, never taking her eyes off mine. She sucked the tip with her lips closed, making a wet sound, and I felt the current run up my spine.

—Holy shit —escaped me.

She laughed with her mouth full. She opened wide and swallowed me whole in one movement, until I felt myself hit the back of her throat, and she stayed like that, still, squeezing me with her tongue against her palate. When she pulled back to breathe, her eyes were watery and a thread of saliva hung from her chin.

—Look at how you’re putting it in my mouth, Tomás —she said, running her thumb over her lip—. Look closely.

She grabbed the base with both hands and sucked me again, going up and down in her own rhythm, every so often squeezing my balls with her fingers, every so often pulling me out and using me to smack her tongue and cheeks. I couldn’t breathe properly. I put my hands in her hair, not pulling, just holding on. The room narrowed to the wet sound of her mouth sucking me, to the sticky noise of her spit when she pulled off, to the bossa nova record still playing downstairs, far away.

—Don’t hold back yet —she said, pulling away for a second—. Tell me when you’re close. I want you to come where I tell you to.

—I’m close.

—Already?

—I’m close.

She laughed softly, not mocking me, and went back to work with more care. She sucked me slowly, letting my heat die down, and then she grabbed my hips and made me push into her mouth myself. I felt the heat rising from my legs, my whole body tightening, my head emptying of ideas until there was only her and her hot mouth swallowing me.

—Camila —I said—. Camila, now.

She pulled away just in time, took my cock out of her mouth, opened the slip, and jerked me off fast, aiming at her breasts. I came with a hoarse groan, thick spurts that fell between her breasts, over her nipples, into the hollow of her throat. She never stopped looking at me while I came, mouth open, sticking out her tongue to catch a drop that had slipped down her chin.

—Like that —she murmured—. Like that, all for me.

When I finished, I stood there shaking, knees weak, looking down at her without fully understanding what had just happened. Camila ran two fingers over her breasts, collected them full of semen, and took them to her mouth. She sucked them slowly, without taking her eyes off me.

—Delicious —she said.

I got hard again instantly.

She laughed, took me by the wrist, and pulled me onto the bed. She fell on top of me, kissed my mouth with her tongue still salty, and straddled my stomach. The slip fell open completely. I saw her cunt for the first time, neatly shaved, glistening, with the lips parted and pink flesh peeking out between the short hair. She was already wet. It was running down the insides of her thighs.

—Now me —she said—. Down.

She moved over to the pillows, took me by the nape of the neck and guided me firmly between her legs. I’d never done that before. I stared at her cunt up close, not really knowing where to begin, breathing in the strong smell of hot female that filled my mouth before I even touched her.

—With your tongue, slowly —she said, parting the lips with two fingers—. Here. This is the clitoris. Suck it gently first.

I did what she told me. I ran my tongue over the slit, from bottom to top, and felt her whole body arch in a sudden jolt. I repeated the motion, slower, tasting her. She was sweet and salty at the same time, with a taste that stuck to the back of my palate and wasn’t ever going to leave me for the rest of my life.

—Like that —she whispered—. Now suck it. Close your lips and suck gently.

I sucked her clit the way she asked. She moaned long and low, grabbing my hair, pushing my head against her body. I slid a finger into her, then two, searching inside with my fingertips. I felt her close around my fingers, squeezing me, soaking me to the wrist.

—There, Tomás —she panted—. There, there, don’t stop.

She moved beneath me, rocking her hips against my mouth, tugging my hair, biting her knuckles so she wouldn’t scream. I licked her and fingered her with a clumsy but steady rhythm, attentive to every tremor, every moan, correcting myself whenever she asked. At one point she pressed her legs against my ears and I felt everything inside her contract. She came with a muffled cry, soaking my face, burying my face in her cunt until the shaking passed.

—Come here —she panted, pulling me up—. Come here now.

She dragged me by the shoulders until I was on top of her. My cock was hard again, pressed against her belly. Camila looked me in the eyes, mouth open, out of breath.

—Put it in me —she said—. Slowly. With your hand.

I took it by the base and guided it between her legs. She grabbed my ass and guided me. I felt the tip force its way in, the heat, the wetness wrapping around me little by little, and I had to clench my teeth not to come the second I got inside.

—Holy shit —I murmured.

—Hold still for a moment —she said, squeezing my butt cheeks—. Don’t move yet. Hold it.

I stayed still, buried to the hilt, feeling her pulse beating around my cock. Camila kissed my mouth, very slowly, and then whispered in my ear.

—Now move. Slowly. Like I just taught you with my mouth.

I started moving. It came out clumsy, with too much force, and she stopped my hips with her hands, setting the rhythm for me. Slow in, slower out, going all the way in every time. By the second minute I had the rhythm. By the third I was looking at her breasts bouncing under me and I couldn’t believe it. Camila dug her nails into my back, arched, eyes half closed.

—Like that, daddy, like that —she panted—. Fuck me like that.

The word burned in me. I grabbed her hips and pushed harder, without losing the rhythm she’d set. She clung to my body with a layer of sweat, and the walls of her cunt tightened around me with every thrust.

—Turn over —I asked, emboldened.

She smiled, showing her teeth.

—You learn fast.

She turned over, got on all fours, arched her back, and showed me her ass. I saw everything open from behind: the swollen, wet cunt, and the other little hole clenched tight. I shoved back into her and she gave a long moan, gripping the bedframe.

—Hard —she said—. Now hard.

I fucked her hard. I grabbed her hips with both hands and drove all the way in, watching my cock bury itself completely inside her each time, watching her ass bounce against my belly with a sharp sound. Camila buried her face in the pillow, biting it, stifling a scream. I reached out and grabbed her hair, pulling her head back. An impulse shot through me and I slapped one ass cheek. She cried out with pleasure.

—Again —she panted—. Give me another.

I gave her another, harder, and saw the red mark remain on her skin. I grabbed one breast with my free hand, squeezing it, pinching her nipple. She pinched her clit with her fingers, moving against me, finding herself again.

—I’m going to come —I warned, feeling everything gather below.

—Not inside —she panted—. Not inside, Tomás. Take it out and come on my ass.

I held on a few seconds longer, pushing hard, until she contracted around me again. She came screaming into the pillow, shaking beneath me. As soon as I felt her come, I pulled out and jerked myself off twice against the crease of her ass. I came with a roar, splashing everything, thick and white, over her lower back, over her buttocks, running toward the opening.

I stayed kneeling for a moment, cock in my hand, looking at the mess I’d left her. Camila turned her head on the pillow and smiled at me, breathless.

—Good, daddy —she murmured—. Very good.

She wiped herself with a tissue from the bedside table, never stopping smiling, and gestured for me to lie down beside her. I let myself fall onto the bed. Camila slipped an arm around my shoulders and kissed my temple.

—Breathe —she said.

I breathed.

—Are you okay?

—Yes.

—Sure?

—Yes.

I stayed like that a long time, with my head on her shoulder, listening to her heartbeat. Outside it was still raining. Inside, all you could hear was the record and our heavy breathing.

—Tomás —she said after a while—. You’re not to tell anyone about this. Ever.

—I know.

—And tomorrow, when we wake up, you get to decide whether you want this to happen again or whether we leave it here. There’s no anger in either option. Are we clear?

I nodded against her shoulder.

—We’re clear.

I got up to go back to my room. At the door I turned around. Camila was still sitting on the edge of the bed, with the slip stained and her hair undone, a thread of semen still running down the side of her thigh, and she was looking at me with that same curiosity as before, as if she were measuring something.

—Good night, Tomás —she said.

—Good night.

I closed the door and walked barefoot to the guest room. I threw myself onto the bed half-dressed and stared at the ceiling until daybreak. I didn’t think about my father, I didn’t think about anything. I just listened to the rain on the roof tiles and knew, without the slightest doubt, what I was going to answer the next morning when she asked me.