What Happened with My Stepfather the Night Mom Went Out

My mother had been divorced for less than two years and remarried a few months later to a man whose life I barely knew. The first time he walked through the door, I felt a throb low between my legs that I couldn’t hide. His name was Iván.

He was tall, broad-shouldered without going overboard, with a trimmed goatee and hands that made any glass look small. He walked as if he knew exactly what he was doing with everything: the car, the house, women. I looked away that first night, shook his hand without holding it, and went to my room to breathe deeply.

For months we played at getting along as if nothing were happening. He almost never spoke to me, and I almost never answered him. He crossed the kitchen without looking at me, always left his keys in the same dish, and left early for work. The indifference was driving me crazy, because it was an indifference that knew how to look. When I thought he didn’t notice, his eyes would drop for a second to my cleavage or linger on my thigh when I sat with my legs crossed.

Everything changed the night I heard my mother come in with company.

I was in the dark in my room, the door ajar because I like sleeping with the outside air coming in. She arrived laughing with that fake laugh she puts on when she’s been drinking. Behind her I heard two other voices: a man and a woman. I thought they’d go to the living room for another drink, but they passed right by and the three of them went into the back bedroom, the one Mom uses when Iván travels.

That night Iván was away.

I stayed still, listening. I didn’t want to believe what I was hearing. My mother, married for less than a year, moaned like a stranger with two people at once. He called her by name, she answered something I didn’t understand, and the other woman’s voice mixed into everything. I closed the door with the tip of my foot and sat on the bed with my heart racing.

***

I spent days processing it. I wasn’t outraged, I didn’t pity her, and I didn’t feel like telling Iván. The only thing I felt, with increasing clarity, was some kind of permission. If she could do whatever the hell she wanted, why was he supposed to be tied to anything? Why should I keep holding back what I’d spent months imagining every night with my hand between my legs?

I started showing up in the living room when he came home from work. Always with some excuse: that I was thirsty, that I was looking for the charger, that I’d gone downstairs for an apple. And always, always, without a bra. Loose, thin T-shirts that went sheer under the lamp light, skirts that barely covered my ass, little shorts that showed everything. Iván would lift his eyes from his phone, look me over in silence, and go back to his phone. But his jaw would tighten.

One afternoon I sat on the sofa in front of him with my knees bent. I was wearing an old T-shirt with nothing underneath. I could feel my nipples pressing against the fabric and I saw his gaze fall for a moment. He said nothing. He stood up, went to the kitchen, came back with a glass of water, and stayed standing in the doorway while I pretended to watch TV.

“Are you going to stay like that long?” he finally asked.

“Like what?” I answered, without turning my head.

He didn’t reply. He went up to his room and I heard the shower turn on two minutes later. I smiled to myself.

***

The opportunity came on a Friday. My mother got ready early and left, as always when he wasn’t there or was coming home late, without giving many explanations. I knew where she was going. Iván was coming from a company dinner and had texted me saying not to worry about dinner, that he’d eat out. He’d texted me, not her. I noticed that too.

I went down to the living room at eleven. I was wearing a short skirt, so short I had to measure every movement, and underneath, a white cotton thong that stuck to my cunt because I was so wet just thinking about what I was going to do. Nothing on top. My breasts on display for anyone to see, nipples so hard they hurt when they brushed against the cushion fabric as I sat down.

I turned off the main lamp and left only the standing one on. I wanted the first image, when he opened the door, to be me in the half-dark, open for him.

I heard the engine in the driveway. The gate, the click of the car locking. Two steps on the gravel. Another car, a door, a woman’s voice laughing. I sat up a little, without standing. He’d brought someone.

I didn’t care. The opposite. I pulled my skirt a little farther down over my hips, spread my knees, moved the thong aside with two fingers and started touching myself. I wasn’t pretending. I was dripping wet for real.

The key turned. The door opened. Iván came in first and, behind him, a tall blonde in a short black dress and heels that clicked against the parquet floor. They both stopped dead when they saw me.

I didn’t stop touching myself. I looked him in the eyes.

“Fuck,” the blonde murmured.

Iván said nothing. He crossed the living room in four steps, grabbed my arm and hauled me up off the sofa in one jerk. My skirt stayed up on my hips, my thong twisted sideways. He pulled me down the hall, toward the laundry room, without letting go. The blonde stayed behind for a second, said something like “I’d better go,” grabbed her bag, and I heard the front door close again.

***

The laundry room was narrow and smelled of fabric softener. He turned on the light and slammed the door shut.

“Can you explain what the fuck you’re doing?” He was squeezing my arm and that, instead of scaring me, made me even wetter.

“Are you going to fuck her?” I said, holding his gaze. My eyes dropped on their own to his pants. The bulge was already there, outlined against the fabric. I smiled. “Better fuck me. I can be your little whore.”

I moved close enough to touch him, lifted my face and dragged my tongue over his lips without kissing him. He let go of my arm and grabbed my jaw with one hand, hard, forcing me to look at him.

“Is that what you want?”

I let out a moan for answer. It was the only thing I could say.

He turned me around with one sharp movement. My stomach hit the cold edge of the washer, my breasts flattened against the metal and my ass lifted. He crouched behind me, pulled my thong down my thighs until it was around my ankles, and spread my cheeks with both hands.

“This is what you want, isn’t it, little whore?”

I felt his tongue before he finished the sentence. Hot, slow, running me from top to bottom. A dry slap on my right ass cheek, then another on the left. I closed my eyes and gripped the washer’s edge with both hands. I couldn’t stop moaning and I didn’t care who might hear.

He picked me up and sat me on top of the washer. The metal was freezing against my thigh and the contrast raised goosebumps all over my skin. He pried my legs open with his palms and crouched down again, but this time in front. He started eating me with a bastard’s calm, licking me slowly while I tried not to move and couldn’t.

“Wait,” I said. “Wait, I’m about to—”

He didn’t wait. He shoved three fingers inside me all at once while still using his tongue and I came over his mouth. I felt myself soaking everything and felt him, far from pulling away, stay there, swallowing, until there was nothing left.

***

He pulled my hair and lowered me to the floor. I knelt in front of him without him having to ask. He unclasped his belt, yanked down his pants and boxers with his free hand, and there it was in front of me. Thick, veined, hard. I looked at it for a second the way you look at something you’ve wanted for a long time and shoved it all the way into my mouth.

“Like that,” he said, pushing the back of my head. “Take it all, little whore. Like that.”

My eyes watered. I pulled it out to breathe, spat on it, and took it back in to the hilt. His free hand slapped across my face, heating my cheek and making me wetter again. I smiled around his cock and he pushed my head down again.

Before he came, he made me stand. He set me with my back against the washer again, bent me at the waist, and spit between my cheeks. I felt the hot stream and then a finger sliding in slowly, opening me. I arched so much I almost fell. He put in another and, without warning, drove into me from the front in one hard thrust.

The scream came out of me before I could think.

He started pounding me fast, with his thumb still inside me from behind. The washer banged against the wall with every thrust. His balls slapped against my cunt. One hand grabbed my hair and threw my head back. The other smacked my ass with a slap that sounded like a gunshot.

“Harder, daddy,” I begged.

Something broke inside him when he heard me say that. He fucked me like he wanted to split me in two. He leaned over my back, bit my neck, grabbed one breast with his whole hand and squeezed it until I moaned.

“Put your fingers in my ass,” I asked him.

He did. And when he saw I didn’t complain, he pulled his cock out, spit on it, spread my cheeks with both hands and drove it into me from behind with one brutal thrust. It hurt. It hurt for two seconds. Then it was just him going in and out, hitting me fast, with his fingers searching for my clit in front while he fucked me from behind.

I was fucking my stepfather in the laundry room. That thought, instead of stopping me, pushed me right to the edge. I touched myself as he kept going and came a second time with his cock inside me, biting the back of my hand so I wouldn’t scream loud enough to be heard from the street.

***

“You coming in my little ass, daddy?” I asked him, gasping, when I felt him change rhythm.

I heard him let out a short moan, like an animal. And a second later I felt the heat spilling inside me. He dug his hands into my hips, thrust three more times, slowly, and went still. When he pulled out, I felt it dripping down between my thighs.

I stood up on jelly legs and turned around. I kissed his mouth. He kissed me back calmly, as if what had happened a minute earlier hadn’t happened. He grabbed my ass with one hand, slipped the other between my cheeks, up front, and sank two fingers into my cunt again. I came a third time over his hand without stopping the kiss.

He pulled his fingers out, licked them slowly while looking me in the eyes, and then brought them to my mouth. I sucked them. They tasted like him and me mixed together.

He lowered me to the floor, slapped my thigh, and pulled his pants back up.

“You’ve been a very good little whore,” he said. “But for leaving me without the blonde, I’m going to have to punish you another day.”

“Anytime you want,” I answered.

He left first, leaving the light on. I stayed there for a moment, leaning against the washer, looking at my shiny thighs and the crumpled thong on the floor. I laughed to myself.

***

That was the first of many. After that came more nights when Mom went out to do her thing and we stayed behind doing ours. And then came, weeks later, the night the blonde called at the door again and I opened in a robe and told her to come in, that this time she wasn’t leaving. But that’s another story.