The Kitchen

The house was in absolute silence. My husband, as every Thursday, was covering the night shift at the assembly plant. Upstairs, on the second floor, my daughters were sleeping—Mariana turned eighteen in March, Juliana had just turned nineteen—sunk into that deep youth sleep that nothing disturbs.

I came down the stairs barefoot, the white cotton nightgown brushing against my thighs. It was a simple style, sleeveless, with a round neckline that showed the start of my breasts. I’d been wearing the same type of sleepwear for years; my husband never complained, and I found a kind of ritual comfort in that habit.

In the kitchen, the dim light from the small lamp on the table cast a yellowish circle. There he was.

Luis.

My father-in-law had only been living with us for five years, ever since they sold their house back in the village to help us out with the girls and the bills. At sixty-two, he still had a robust build—broad back, large hands with knuckles marked from years of construction work before he retired. He wore a worn gray sleeveless undershirt and pajama pants half-untied.

“Still awake, Father-in-law,” I said, more as a statement than a question.

He looked at me. That lazy look of his, traveling over my body like someone examining ground before stepping on it. His brown eyes, almost black in the dim light, stopped at my bare legs, moving slowly up to where the nightgown clung to my hips.

“Come here,” he said.

One word. Dry. It wasn’t an invitation; it was an instruction.

Something in my belly tightened. It wasn’t the first time he’d spoken to me like that—in recent months, since he’d started “finding” me in the kitchen at odd hours—but every time, that tone undid me. Camila, thirty-nine years old, mother of two grown daughters, a married woman, turned into an obedient prey before a man who was supposed to be just family.

I stepped closer. My bare feet on the cold linoleum.

When I was within reach, Luis set his coffee cup down on the table with a soft clink. His right hand—large, rough, calloused on the palm—grabbed my hip. He didn’t give me time to react. He turned me with ease, as if I weighed nothing, until I felt the edge of the wooden table against my ass.

With the same hand, he lifted the nightgown. He did it without ceremony, pulling the fabric up to my waist, leaving my sex exposed to the dim light.

That was when regret flashed through my mind—a fraction of a second—remembering I wasn’t wearing any panties. I never wore them to sleep; I hated the feeling of elastic on my hips while trying to fall asleep. But now, with my father-in-law in front of me, with my lips exposed, I felt a brief, intense shame.

It dissolved when his fingers settled on me.

He wasn’t gentle. He wasn’t clumsy. He was… expert. With two fingers—the index and middle, long and thick—he parted my lips naturally, like someone opening a book they’ve read a thousand times. The pad of his thumb brushed my clit, still dry, still asleep.

“Always nothing underneath,” he murmured. It wasn’t a question.

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

Luis leaned forward. I felt his warm breath on my pubis, on my inside. And then his tongue.

Flat. Hot. Wet.

A first pass from my perineum, sliding up along my slit, parting my folds with relentless softness. He licked again. Second. Third. The fourth time, he stopped at my entrance, circling it, dipping in slightly. The fifth was a full sweep, from behind up to my mound, gathering the taste of my skin along the way.

By the time he reached my clit, it was no longer dry. I felt the moisture growing, invading me, preparing me.

He wrapped the button with his lips. Pressed softly. And started to suck.

The sound—that wet, obscene sound of suction—made me grip the edge of the table tightly. My knuckles went white. My legs trembled.

Luis sucked without rushing. First gently, almost tender, then harder, with that rhythmic insistence that seemed to calculate exactly what pressure drives a woman crazy. Sometimes he’d release my clit to tap it with the tip of his tongue—quick, electric—and go back to suction, deeper, making my hips move on their own, seeking more friction.

I bit my lower lip until I nearly drew blood. I had to stay quiet. Upstairs were my daughters. Next door, in the back room, slept my mother-in-law, Elena, a kind woman who had received me like a daughter when I married her son. I loved her. I respected her like my own mother.

And there I was, legs spread, nightgown hiked up, my father-in-law’s head between my thighs, sucking my clit as if it were his right.

One of his hands—the left one—held my right thigh, keeping me open. The other slid underneath, curving upward, and pushed two fingers inside me.

Abruptly.

Without warning.

He curled them inward, searching for that spot, while his mouth kept working on my clit. The contrast—the constant, intense suction combined with the deep rub of his fingers—pushed me to the edge in seconds.

I came against his mouth.

The orgasm took me by surprise with its intensity. My nails dug into the wooden table. My legs tensed, trembled, gave out. A moan escaped my throat—stifled, suppressed, but audible—as my sex contracted in spasms around his fingers.

Luis didn’t stop.

He slowed down, yes, turning the suction into a soft caress, but he stayed there, between my legs, until I felt the ring of my vagina still pulsing, tightening and releasing his fingers in waves.

When he finally lifted his head, his mouth was shiny. His lips, always thin, now looked swollen, wet. He looked at me with a calm, almost satisfied expression, like someone finishing a long-anticipated meal.

“That’s how I like to end the day,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

I still couldn’t speak. I nodded, breathless, my legs turned to jelly, the nightgown bunched at my waist. My breasts—large, with dark, erect nipples now—had come into view at some point during the struggle, exposed to the kitchen air.

Luis wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He stepped closer and kissed me on the lips—a brief, almost casual contact—while with his other hand he tucked my breasts back inside the nightgown and pulled the fabric down.

He went back to his coffee.

He picked up the cup. Took a sip. As if nothing had happened.