What I Saw Through the Window Before My Wedding

Once again, Marisol had ruined her makeup. She was a sea of tears, and her friends were trying to comfort her as best they could, with handkerchiefs, with jokes, with that persistent tenderness that only ended up suffocating her. That morning she had already cried several times, and at moments she could barely breathe. She was nervous, very nervous, and having three women fussing over her veil did not help at all.

All she wanted was to see Damián. To take refuge for a second against his chest, feel his scent, kiss him slowly. One last time as boyfriend and girlfriend, before the priest turned them into husband and wife in front of half the village.

—I’m going to the bathroom for a minute —she lied, and no one followed her.

She slipped out of the cabin in silence, gathering up the skirt of her dress so it wouldn’t drag on the ground. Damián’s cabin was in the opposite wing of the country estate, on the other side of the gardens where the guests were already settling in. If anyone saw her in her wedding dress before the ceremony, they would give her the usual lecture about bad luck, so she decided to go around through the wooded area behind.

It was madness, she knew it. The mud, the branches, the white satin. But the need to see him outweighed any superstition.

She moved along the tree trunks, measuring each step. Everyone was in the garden, busy with the flowers and the champagne, so it was unlikely anyone would catch her crossing between the trees like a fugitive. She imagined Damián inside, surrounded by his friends, the ones who were surely trying to get him to drink something strong for his nerves. He would refuse, of course. To Marisol, her man was the ideal man, the kind of macho the others should aspire to. She considered herself the envy of all her friends, and not without reason.

She reached the cabin with her heart pounding in her throat. She tried the front door gently: locked. She smiled to herself. She would surprise him through the back window, give him a fright and then a kiss, and run back before anyone noticed she was gone.

She rounded the wooden structure and peered through the glass of the back window, which looked into the living room.

In the end, the only one surprised was her.

***

Damián was reclined on the long dining table, his feet resting on the back of a chair and his wedding shirt open across his chest. On top of him, mounted and moving, was a woman. A blonde with a full, balanced body, her heels dug into the edge of the table, holding on to the back of another chair to drive every thrust.

He held her just above the knees, but it was she who set the pace. A brutal, shameless pace that made those two huge tits bounce in time with a pearl necklace swaying like a pendulum. The blonde was taking him all the way to the hilt, her cunt opening wide with every drop, swallowing Damián’s entire cock in one seated plunge. You could see the thick sheen of juices running down her thighs, soaking his pants, soaking the polished wood of the table. Every time she rose, the cock appeared in full, thick, shining, marked by the stretched lips of the woman’s sex, and then disappeared again in a sudden wet smack that could be heard over the moans.

—That’s it, my love, that’s it, give it all to me, asshole, give it all to me —she panted, biting her lip, clenching her ass each time he buried himself to the hilt.

Damián answered with an animal grunt, sliding his hands up to grab her tits, squeezing them, twisting her hard nipples between his fingers until he made her howl. He pinched them, pulled them, took them to his mouth as soon as she leaned down and sucked them hungrily, biting the nipple until it turned red.

Marisol felt a dizzy spell that nearly dropped her onto the wet grass. Her head flared hot, her vision blurred, and a bitter taste rose in her throat. Tears found their own way down her cheeks as she sank down, curled up, beneath the windowsill.

Those cabins had incredible soundproofing. And even so, the moans, the gasps, the friction of skin against wood, the obscene slapping sound of cunt plunging again and again onto the groom’s cock, all of it reached her ears with impossible force, as if the entire forest had decided to amplify her humiliation. A deafening buzz filled her temples.

This isn’t true. It can’t be him. Not today.

But it was him. She recognized every gesture, the way he clenched his jaw, the way he balled his fists when pleasure overwhelmed him.

She wanted to run and she couldn’t. She stayed stuck to the ground, hugging her knees as her dress stained with dirt, listening to the obscene concert coming from the cabin. It was cheating. Cheating on the very day of her wedding, two hours before the altar. That was betrayal enough to split a life in two.

And then, gathering a courage she didn’t know she had, she looked again. She needed to confirm something. Something she had caught out of the corner of her eye and her mind flatly refused to accept.

***

The woman wore a smile of pleasure that wouldn’t fit on her face, the smile of someone who had complete control of the situation. She looked seasoned, confident, a woman who knew exactly how to give and how to receive. In the first shock of the scene, blinded by the impact, Marisol hadn’t recognized her. Now, with the clarity of horror, she saw her clearly.

The blonde riding her fiancé, the bitch moaning on the table with her pearls bouncing, was Rosaura. Her mother-in-law. Damián’s mother.

Her stomach twisted. This was no longer simple infidelity. It was the most horrifying sin she could imagine taking place a few inches from her, behind a sheet of glass. If anyone else witnessed it, mother and son’s lives would be destroyed forever by scandal. The surname, the family business, the impeccable reputation of the Valdéses: all reduced to ashes.

And yet, in the middle of the pain, something perverse rose inside Marisol. A cold, almost amused cynicism. She had to admit it: those two were having a hell of a time.

She had always envied Rosaura. Her impossible body at that age, her charisma, her good taste in clothes, that marriage everyone believed was stable and perfect. She had envied her in silence since the day she entered that family. But never, not once, had she envied her as much as in that instant, seeing her go up and down on the body of the only man Marisol loved. The man who, she now discovered, they both loved.

Rosaura paused for a second, pulled her son’s wet cock out of her cunt and slid backward, kneeling on the floor between Damián’s open legs. She grabbed it with both hands, took it to her mouth, and began to suck it with a technique that broke Marisol’s heart: without disgust, without hurry, licking from the base to the tip, pulling it out shining, spitting on it, swallowing it again down to the throat. She took it all in, lips tight around the shaft, her nose buried in her son’s pubic hair, and held there for a few seconds before withdrawing with threads of saliva hanging between the tip and her mouth.

—Your little wife doesn’t suck you like this, does she, honey? —Marisol heard her murmur with a clarity that chilled the back of her neck—. Tell me she doesn’t. Tell me no one has ever sucked you like your mother.

—No one, Mom, no one —he panted, his head thrown back over the table—. Keep going, don’t stop, eat it all.

Rosaura obeyed as if it were a prayer. She licked his balls one by one, took them into her mouth, rolled them with her tongue, while with her hand she kept working his cock firmly, twisting it slightly with each stroke. She got up again, ran her tongue all along the shaft from bottom to top in one long caress, and without taking her eyes off him climbed back on top. This time facing away, giving Damián a full view of her ass opening over his cock.

She lowered herself slowly, impaling herself centimeter by centimeter, and Marisol heard clearly the guttural moan of her fiancé as he was swallowed once more. Rosaura started bouncing, bracing her hands on his knees, moving her hips in circles, clenching and releasing, milking him with her cunt like an expert. The rounded ass slapped against her son’s hips with a fleshy, dry, obscene sound that repeated without pause.

—Put it all the way in —she panted—. Break me, son, tear your mother’s cunt up on the day you get married.

Damián dug his fingers into her waist and started thrusting up into her, lifting her ass off the table, spanking her sex with his cock in hard strokes that made her bark with pleasure. Marisol saw her mother-in-law bring a hand to her clit and rub it in quick circles, never stopping riding him, mouth open and eyes rolled white. Her huge breasts danced out of control, the pearls rattled against her flesh, and from her cunt stretched to the limit thick streams of juice poured out, mixing with his sweat on the wood.

Despite everything, Marisol stayed. Waited. She waited until Damián, with a savage roar she recognized from so many nights together, finished. She saw him grip his mother by the hips and bury himself to the hilt, staying there, trembling, while he emptied the load that should have been for her into the condom. Rosaura let herself fall back against her son’s chest, moaning softly, still moving her ass in little jolts to squeeze out the last drop. She saw him prop himself up on his elbows. She saw mother and son find each other’s mouths and share a long, passionate, genuine kiss, a kiss that had nothing casual about it and everything of old habit. They licked each other’s mouths, bit each other’s lips, she sucked his tongue the way she had sucked his cock, without shame, with the naturalness of someone who had been doing it for years.

Rosaura pulled away slowly, catching her breath. She got off him with her legs still shaky, and Damián’s cock slipped out of her widened cunt with a wet smack, still hard, still shining. With expert fingers she removed the condom, held it up to the light to check the weight of the load, smiled with satisfaction, tied it neatly, and tucked it into her elegant handbag as though filing away evidence. Before dressing, she bent down once more and gave her son’s cock one last kiss, sucking the tip with a little farewell sound. Then she combed her hair in the reflection of the glass, unaware that on the other side, a foot away, her daughter-in-law was watching her with ruined makeup.

There was nothing left to see. The pair would tidy themselves up for the day’s grand event, and she had to return before her absence became obvious.

***

On the way back through the forest, Marisol walked like an automaton, dodging branches without seeing them. Jealousy ate away at her from within, acidic, but alongside it something else grew that she hadn’t expected: a cold, almost serene clarity.

She wondered if Damián would ever love her as much as he loved his mother. If there would be room in him for another woman beside Rosaura. And then, with a maturity that surprised even herself, she reached a conclusion.

From today on, I sleep in his bed. Every night. She has a secret; I’ll have a ring.

From now on she would have every night in the world to become the first woman in her husband’s mind. She would work at it. She would win him centimeter by centimeter. If her mother-in-law had played with an advantage for years, she would play with patience. She would learn to suck him better than anyone. She would learn to spread her legs in ways Rosaura had never invented. She would ride his cock with more hunger, let herself be fucked in more positions, beg dirtier, swallow every drop of his load until he forgot the taste of any other cunt.

She wiped her tears with the back of her hand, took a deep breath, and composed herself before going back into her cabin. Her friends welcomed her with a cry of relief.

—Where did you go off to? We have to touch everything up again!

—I’m sorry —she said, and for the first time all morning her voice sounded steady—. I needed a moment alone. I’m fine now.

And she was, in a twisted way no one around her would have understood.

***

A couple of hours later, the two of them said yes before the altar, amid the guests’ sincere joy. Marisol smiled with the bouquet in her hands, looking Damián in the eyes, measuring him, studying him, knowing what she knew.

At the head table, Rosaura took the microphone for a toast. With a boldness only Marisol could read in its full dimension, she dared to recall the day of her own wedding and speak about how happy she had always been in love. The guests applauded, moved. The bride gripped her glass until her knuckles turned white, and toasted with a perfect smile.

Later, during the banquet, she saw her mother-in-law lean over Damián’s ear and ask him, with a caress on the shoulder, to come with her outside for a moment. He stood up without hesitation, with that calm obedience that now took on a new, nauseating meaning. Marisol knew, with absolute certainty, that they would slip away to the first empty room so Rosaura could kneel in front of him again, pull his cock out of his suit pants and suck it until he came again in his mother-in-law’s mouth. Or worse: she would bend him over some wall and take him from behind, with the evening gown hoisted up to her waist, while the musicians tuned up.

She swallowed her rage. Buried it very deep, where no one could smell it, and turned it into strategy. She took a sip of champagne, greeted a distant aunt, let a cousin pull her out onto the dance floor.

I lost the first round. I accept it.

But the wedding night was hers. And the next one, and the one after that, and all the ones to come under the same roof. Rosaura had experience and the past; Marisol had the future and the marital bed. She was ready to fight, to spread her legs every night, to swallow every load, to turn her cunt into the only destination for that cock, and something told her that this war, forbidden and silent, had only just begun.