Swimming in My Goddaughter's Stockings novel · Chapter 3 of 12

Chapter 3: Dinner

Fidencio’s house in Chapalita smelled of guajillo chiles and freshly made tortillas.

He greeted me at the door with a bear hug and a bottle of tequila tucked under his arm.

"Come on in, brother. You’re right on time."

"Sorry, I got held up at the club."

"You always say that. Sit down."

The dining room was just as it had been thirty years ago: a walnut table, a lace tablecloth, paintings of the Virgin Mary and his late wife.

Zaira came out of the kitchen carrying a steaming pot.

She was wearing a navy pencil skirt and a white blouse buttoned up to the collar, her hair pulled back in a low ponytail, her face bare and innocent-looking.

The soft sheen of stockings showed beneath her skirt.

"Good evening, Godfather," she said with perfect politeness.

"Good evening, Zaira."

She leaned over to serve me pozole.

Her neckline gaped just a little, and I caught a glimpse of the edge of a white lace bra and the curve of a breast.

I looked away.

Fidencio didn’t notice a thing.

He talked nonstop about the tortilla shop, the new location in Zapopan, the price of flour.

Zaira sat across from me, to her father’s left.

We ate and drank, and the tequila kept making the rounds.

Halfway through dinner, I felt something against my ankle.

Something soft and slippery, slowly climbing up my pant leg.

It was a foot.

A stocking-clad foot that traced my calf, my knee, my thigh while Zaira cut a tortilla with her hands, perfectly serious, her eyes on her plate.

"So that young Villaseñor," Fidencio was saying, "talked to me at the club yesterday. Very polite. I told him to come over for dinner next week."

The foot reached my crotch.

It pressed against me.

I gritted my teeth.

"Which young man?" I asked, my voice choked.

"Rodrigo. The president’s son. A decent man, with a family name and businesses. He’s interested in Zaira."

"Dad," she murmured.

"It’s the truth, sweetheart. You’re twenty-three now. I won’t live forever."

"Dad, we’re having dinner."

"You’re right."

The foot moved slowly, rubbing against me, the soft stocking brushing the fabric of my pants.

I felt myself getting hard again.

Zaira looked up at me and gave me the faintest smile.

"Are you feeling okay, Godfather?"

"Just fine."

"You’re sweating."

"It’s hot."

"Yes, very hot," she said, and pressed her toes against me.

I almost groaned.

Fidencio refilled our glasses.

"A toast. To family. And to the friends who never let us down."

I raised my glass with a trembling hand.

At ten, Fidencio yawned, loosened his collar, and sank into the living room armchair in front of the TV.

"Just for a little while," he murmured. "You two can rest your eyes in the meantime."

By ten fifteen, he was snoring.

Zaira calmly cleared the plates.

I got up to help her carry them to the kitchen.

As soon as we crossed the doorway, she set the stack in the sink, grabbed me by the shirt, and kissed me.

It was a fierce, hungry kiss that tasted of tequila and chiles.

I lifted her up and sat her on the kitchen counter, among the dirty dishes.

"Your dad’s ten feet away," I whispered against her mouth.

"He’s snoring."

"Zaira..."

"Shut up and take off my skirt."

I pushed her pencil skirt up to her waist.

This time, her stockings were black lace, with a seam up the back and a garter belt hidden beneath them.

She wasn’t wearing panties.

"You little devil," I growled.

"And you’re my godfather."

I unbuttoned my pants with one hand while opening her thighs with the other.

Her pussy was ready, glistening, swollen with need.

I rubbed the tip of my cock over her, up and down, until she tipped her head back and bit her lip.

"Please," she begged in a whisper. "Now."

I pushed in.

I entered her slowly, inch by inch, feeling her squeeze me, feeling her open to take me.

She was tight, hot, more than I’d imagined.

Zaira muffled a cry against my shoulder.

When I was all the way inside her, I went still, my forehead pressed against hers.

"My God," I whispered.

"Don’t stop."

I began to move.

Slowly at first, with long, deep thrusts that made the dishes rattle on the counter.

She clung to my neck with both hands, her nylon-clad legs wrapped around my waist.

"More," she urged. "Harder."

"They’ll hear us."

"I don’t care."

I picked up the pace.

The counter creaked, and I covered her mouth with one hand to stifle her moans.

She bit my palm.

With my other hand, I grabbed her ass, squeezing the firm flesh through the lace, and pulled her against me with every thrust.

The sound of our bodies slapping together, wet and rhythmic, filled the kitchen.

In the living room, Fidencio snorted and shifted in his chair.

We froze.

Inside her, I felt her clench around me.

"Keep going," she murmured, barely audible. "Keep going, keep going."

I kept going.

I lifted one of her legs over my shoulder to get deeper inside her, and kissed her ankle, the rough nylon against my lips.

Zaira came with a silent shudder, biting her hand, her nails digging into my back.

Her walls clenched around me, and I couldn’t hold back anymore.

I came inside her with a muffled groan, buried deep, my heart racing.

We held each other, panting silently.

In the living room, Fidencio was still snoring.

Zaira stroked the nape of my neck.

"This wasn’t part of the plan," she murmured.

"There was a plan?"

"There’s always been a plan."

She got down from the counter, straightened her skirt, and wiped herself with a cloth napkin, so calmly it scared me.

"Marcos," she said.

"Tell me."

"I have to tell you something."

"What?"

"Rodrigo proposed to me a week ago."

I felt a punch to the gut.

"And what did you say?"

"I said I’d think about it. My dad already told him yes."

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