What I Saw When I Went Up to My Daughter-in-Law’s Bathroom

When they told me I was going to be a grandfather, I knew my life would change, but I never imagined in what direction. My son Mateo and his wife Lucía had tried to have a baby for almost four years, and when they finally succeeded, the whole house breathed a sigh of relief. I was the first to be happy, though for reasons I would only fully understand later.

Mateo lives in a chalet about sixty kilometers from my city, in a quiet development surrounded by pine trees. Every other weekend I got into the car after eight in the morning, took the highway, and showed up at his door before noon with some gift for little Tomás. I wanted to be present, to help however I could, to be the grandfather my father had never been to me.

My wife had died two years earlier, from a cancer no doctor had managed to detect in time. Since then, empty houses terrified me. My son’s house was the opposite: it smelled of warm milk, baby cologne, freshly ironed clothes, life. I went there to recharge every fifteen days like other men go to Mass.

Lucía had always been a beautiful woman, there was no doubt about that. She was about twenty years older than my son — something that at the time caused awkward comments in the family — but she had a body that stopped traffic. Huge tits, wide hips, a round ass that filled out her jeans to the very last millimeter, and a fleshy mouth, with thick lips, that smiled with a certain slyness when she thought no one was watching. I’d fantasized about her sometimes, I confess: lying in my widower’s bed, my dick in my hand, imagining what it would be like to shove my cock all the way between those lips while she looked up at me with bright eyes. But always from a distance, like someone admiring a painting in a gallery and then going home to jerk off in silence.

***

The change came on an ordinary Saturday in March. I arrived at the house a little after eleven in the morning. Mateo was in his office, on a video call with a client. He gave me a wave from the half-open doorway and whispered that it would take him another hour.

—Lucía’s upstairs, bathing the baby —he said, and went back to his screen.

I went up the stairs two at a time. The house was silent, with that warm light that comes through the skylights in the middle of the morning. The main bathroom is at the end of the hall, and the door was ajar. I knocked out of habit, but she’d already heard me.

—Come in, come in, don’t be shy —she said from inside.

I pushed the door open, and then I saw it.

Lucía was in the bathtub, holding Tomás against her chest. A layer of white foam covered part of her body, but barely. Her tits were rising just above the edge of the tub, enormous, swollen with milk, with dark nipples, thick as thumbs, so hard they pointed toward the ceiling as if they were searching for me. A blue vein showed across her left breast. Her belly, still soft from the recent birth, peeked out beneath the clear water. And lower down, between the thighs she didn’t bother closing, a thick triangle of dark hair she hadn’t trimmed since before the pregnancy. You could see everything: the opening of the cunt, the lips peeking through the wet hair, the shadow of the slit where my daughter-in-law’s sex began.

I came out of myself for a second.

—Sorry, I didn’t know… —I stammered, turning back toward the door.

—Don’t be silly. Help me with him, he’s slipping. Pass me the sponge from the shelf.

She spoke as if nothing. As if it were the most natural thing in the world for her father-in-law to see her naked with her grandson in her arms. Maybe she was too exhausted from the postpartum period to worry about something like that. Maybe she didn’t care at all. Maybe she cared too much and was pretending to be indifferent.

I handed her the sponge with a trembling hand. I sat down on the low stool beside the bathtub and tried to look at the baby. Only the baby. But the medicine cabinet mirror threw back a fragment of Lucía’s back, a strip of wet skin below her left shoulder blade, and my eyes kept going there every time she turned to soap Tomás. Every time she moved, her tits swung heavy against the edge of the tub, and a drop of milk — breast milk, fuck — welled from her right nipple and ran all the way down the curve until it disappeared into the foam. I felt my cock hardening inside my pants, thick, painful, and I crossed my legs to hide it.

—Here, hold him for a second, I need to stretch my leg —she said.

I took the child with my forearms pressed against the edge of the tub. She used that moment to kneel down in the water. When she did, her tits came level with my eyes, barely twenty centimeters from my face. I saw another drop rolling down her right nipple, slow, fat, and at the end it fell into the foam. My mouth watered. I thought, unable to stop myself, about closing my lips around that dark nipple and sucking it until it was completely empty. I swallowed without it showing, and beneath my clothes my cock throbbed against the zipper.

Tomás screamed happily, oblivious to everything.

—Thanks for coming up —she said when she took him back from me—. Mateo never appears at this hour, he’s too lazy. You’re the first person to help me with this since he was born.

The first. The word echoed in me for a long while, all the way to the car. I got in with my dick still hard, started the engine, and ten kilometers later I turned off onto a forest road, parked among the pines, and took it out. I gave myself a fast, furious handjob, gripping it with my whole hand, eyes closed, seeing her kneeling in the bathtub, with her tits dripping milk thirty centimeters from my face. I came into a handkerchief with a hoarse grunt, more semen than I’d spilled in two years, and I stayed there a good while with my head against the steering wheel, thinking I was a pig, a fucking old pig, and that I didn’t give a single shit.

***

That scene, which should have been an accident, repeated itself over the following months with the regularity of a ritual. Every time I arrived, Mateo shut himself in his office. Every time he shut himself in, Lucía called up from above in her sing-song voice.

—Are you coming up to help me with the bath, dad?

She called me dad. It wasn’t my name, she didn’t use it with any other father-in-law in her family, but it came out naturally from the first month and I liked it more than I was willing to admit. Every time she said it, something tightened inside me and my cock hardened a little.

I went up without protest, and every visit was a new variation on the same picture. Sometimes I found her already in the tub, with her legs spread wide under the water and her hairy cunt peeking out from the foam like a promise. Sometimes I caught her at the exact moment she was taking off her robe, with her bare back and white ass showing before she got into the water. Sometimes her nightgown slipped down just as she bent to pick up the baby’s stuffed toy and an entire tit stayed out for two or three endless seconds, with the thick nipple pointing straight at my face. She never fixed it too quickly.

We weren’t lovers. We didn’t even touch on purpose. But we both knew perfectly well what was happening, and neither of us took a step back.

On the way home, Sunday nights, I went over every detail of what I’d seen as if it were an exam. I got into bed with the light off, pulled down my briefs, and grabbed my hard cock while I reconstructed the scene centimeter by centimeter. The way she had turned. The angle at which the water had wet her neck. The exact phrase she’d said to me when I said goodbye at the door. I imagined shoving my dick into that mouth of thick lips, fucking her from behind against the sink with her tits bouncing against the mirror, biting her swollen nipples until she moaned my name. I came in my hand, clenching my teeth so I wouldn’t shout, and I stayed staring at the ceiling with my load dripping between my fingers. I looked for clues, signs, confirmations. I needed to know whether I was inventing everything or whether she was playing with me on purpose.

***

One afternoon in May, with Tomás already playing with his rubber ducks, Lucía made a comment that kept me awake for two full nights.

—I’m thinking about getting fully waxed —she said, opening her legs a little wider in the water and looking at her cunt with her head tilted—. Since the birth I don’t even recognize myself down there. Do you think it shows a lot?

She looked at me. At me. Not at the mirror, not at the ceiling, not at the child splashing between us. At me. She was asking her father-in-law for his opinion on how she should wear her cunt.

—You don’t have to change anything for anyone —I answered, and my voice came out rough, borrowed.

—It’s not for anyone. It’s for me. I want to feel like myself again. —She slipped her hand under the water, between her legs, a brief but deliberate movement, and added softly—: I want to feel fuckable again.

The word went through me like a live wire. Fuckable. She had said it to her father-in-law, with her grandson splashing between them, and she didn’t take her eyes off mine for even a second.

I nodded without saying anything else and handed her the dry towel for Tomás. That night I left with one fixed image in my head: her, slowly rising from the water, letting the foam slide down her legs, with her cunt already shaved, pink, swollen, shining. I didn’t see it, but I imagined it so many times during the drive back that I ended up believing I had. I stopped again on the same forest road, took it out again, and this time it took less than a minute to come all over the steering wheel. I was turning into an animal.

***

Three weeks later I went up to the bathroom and found her standing on the bathmat, wrapping herself in a white towel that barely covered her waist. She looked up when she heard me come in. She smiled. The towel slid down another couple of centimeters without her doing anything to hold it up.

And then I saw it: the pubis completely smooth, the skin still a little red from the recent wax, the outer lips swollen and fleshy, a little parted, letting the wet pinkness inside show through. My daughter-in-law’s cunt, all of it, naked, exposed a hand’s breadth from me, peeking out like an invitation she’d been giving me for months and I had pretended not to hear.

—Better, right? —she asked.

I didn’t know what to answer. Tomás was asleep in the crib in the corner. Mateo was recording a voice note for a client downstairs, his voice rising muffled through the stairwell. The hall clock read twenty past one in the afternoon.

—You’re beautiful —I said, and I heard my own voice as if another man were saying it, a younger one, a more reckless one.

She came closer until she was a hand’s breadth from me. She smelled like almond soap, clean skin, something I couldn’t name and that made me thirsty. She kissed me on the cheek, slowly, pressing her lips there a second too long, right on the edge where the mustache starts. And then, without taking her eyes off me, she grabbed my wrist and brought my hand flat against her naked cunt.

—Touch me —she whispered, her voice trembling a little—. Just for a while. I need to know if anybody still gets hard over me like this.

My fingers sank between those swollen lips as if they had always belonged there. She was wet, so wet that the moisture ran down two fingers the moment I pressed them in. I found her clit, thick and hard like a button under the pad of my thumb, and she let out a little gasp against my neck, resting her forehead on my shoulder. I slipped my middle finger into her, very slowly, and felt her cunt clench around it, tight, burning, hot as if she had a fever between her legs. I pushed in a second finger. She pressed her mouth to my ear.

—Mateo hasn’t touched me in months. Not a finger. Not a kiss down there. Nothing.

I pumped both fingers deep into her, calmly, and she opened a little wider, pressing her ass against the bathroom cabinet, with the towel already sliding down to the floor. I saw her tits fully, still heavy, with those dark nipples that had been lodged in my head for months. I lowered my mouth without thinking and sucked one whole, hungry, lips tight around the areola, and two seconds later I tasted the warm, sweet flavor of breast milk on my tongue. She buried her fingers in my hair and squeezed hard.

—Fuck, dad —she panted softly—. Fuck, fuck, don’t stop.

I kept pumping my fingers in her cunt while sucking her two tits alternately, with my thumb drawing quick circles over her swollen clit, swallowing the milk that came out in thin spurts every time she squeezed. She moved against my hand and dug her nails into my neck. My cock hurt inside my pants like it was about to break the zipper. With my free hand I opened my fly, took it out, and she grabbed it immediately without stopping her movement against my fingers: she wrapped her fist around it, squeezed at the base, and started pounding it at just the right rhythm, up and down, pressing my glans with her thumb every time she reached the top, as if she knew exactly what I’d been imagining for months.

—You come first —she begged, with her lips against my ear—. I want to see you come for me before that bastard gets down here.

I didn’t take long. With two fingers sunk into her shaved cunt up to the knuckles, my mouth on a nipple dripping milk and her fist working my cock with that professional-whore technique, I came within seconds, with a spasm that ripped a dull grunt out of me, which she smothered by tugging my neck and pressing my mouth to hers. I shot my whole load into her hand and over her naked belly, thick, heavy spurts that had been building up for two years. She kept squeezing, milking me to the last drop, and smiled when she saw me shaking.

—My turn now —she murmured—. Quick.

I shoved my fingers deeper, found her clit with my thumb, pressed and drew fast, hard circles, the same ones she herself had been teaching me with the way she moved against my hand. She closed her eyes, bit her lip until it turned white, and seconds later she came too, in absolute silence, clenching my fingers with long, hot spasms of her cunt, with her mouth crushed against my shoulder so she wouldn’t wake the baby. I felt everything: how she tightened inside around my knuckles, how a fresh wave of wetness spilled over my open palm, how her knees buckled for an instant and I had to hold her by the waist so she wouldn’t slide.

She pulled away slowly. She picked up the towel from the floor, wiped her belly with one end, wiped my still-wet cock with the other, and pulled my zipper up with the calm of someone who’s spent half a lifetime doing that.

—Thanks for always coming up —she murmured near my ear—. You’re the only one who understands how I feel now.

She left the bathroom and left me standing there, with my exhausted cock still throbbing inside my pants, my heart hammering against my ribs and my head spinning. I went downstairs to the kitchen under the pretense of getting a coffee. Mateo clapped me on the back as he passed and asked if I wanted to stay for lunch.

—Yes —I said, and my voice was still trembling a little—. I’m staying.

***

It’s been almost a year since all that began. Tomás walks and says my first grandfather words. Lucía has gone back to Pilates and no longer needs afternoon naps. Mateo is still working shut up in his office on Saturday mornings, oblivious to the silent game taking shape two floors above his head.

Since that afternoon in the bathroom we’ve repeated the same thing a few times, always with Mateo recording audio downstairs or caught in video calls. Hands inside clothes. Mouths greedily on swollen nipples. Handjobs standing against the sink, with the latch thrown. Twice I knelt and ate her waxed cunt until she came on my tongue, covering her mouth with both hands, with her legs squeezing my head. One afternoon she gave me a quick blowjob against the closed door, with my son talking on the phone downstairs and her looking up at me from below with my whole cock buried deep in her throat. She swallowed every drop, smiling, and then cleaned my glans with her tongue like it was an ice cream.

But we’ve never fucked. I’ve never mounted her, never shoved my whole cock inside her cunt, never come inside her. That step — the step — is still there, hanging between us like a ripe fruit, closer every time, more inevitable every time.

And yet I know perfectly well what will happen each time I open the bathroom door and find her looking at me with that half-smile, knowing she’s desired, knowing I’m defeated. I know what will happen the day she decides to take the step I don’t dare take. I know what will happen the day I decide to take it.

In the meantime, I keep going up every other Saturday. I keep bringing gifts for Tomás. I keep sitting on the low stool beside the bathtub, with my hands respectfully on my knees and my gaze roaming over that wet skin that gets covered with less and less foam each time, as if the foam were evaporating on purpose for me.

And I pray —I, who have never believed in anything— that my son keeps having plenty of clients to attend to on Saturday mornings.