Daddy-In-Law! I'm Stuck in the Washing Machine novel · Chapter 1 of 12
Chapter 1: The Washing Machine
My wedding ring fell to the bottom of the washing machine, between the sheets and the soap.
It was an old washing machine, white, top-loading, with a drum as deep as a well.
I leaned in to get it.
I stuck half my body inside, elbows resting on the cold wall of the drum, hips pressed against the edge of the machine.
My hair was tied up, and I was wearing the yellow house dress, short, made of soft fabric.
The ring glinted down below, just a few inches from my fingers.
I stretched a little more.
Then I heard the footsteps in the courtyard.
They were slow, heavy steps, leather sandals on the tile.
And the smell of sawdust reached me before its owner did.
I didn't need to turn around to know who it was.
Hipólito Pesántez, my father-in-law, a widowed cabinetmaker, forty-nine years old, owner of the biggest hands I'd ever seen in my life.
He'd been living in the same house as me for two years, ever since his son left for New York.
Two years in which he'd fixed my sewing machine, the kitchen roof, and the bedroom window, without saying more than ten words in a row.
Two years in which I'd noticed his eyes following me when he thought I wasn't looking.
Two years without anyone touching me.
I stayed frozen, half my body inside the drum, my heart racing.
I could get out on my own.
I knew it in that very moment.
All I had to do was push with my hands and pull my hips out.
I didn't.
"Marlene," his deep voice said from the laundry room door. "What are you doing in there?"
I bit my lip to keep from laughing.
"Daddy-in-law," I said, my voice hollow inside the drum. "I'm stuck."
There was a long silence.
I felt his gaze travel down my legs, my hips, the hem of the dress that had ridden up to mid-thigh.
"You're stuck?"
"Yes."
"Really?"
"Really, really."
Another silence.
Then, the creak of a sandal on the tile.
He came closer.
His shadow covered my back.
"Don't move," he ordered.
I stayed still.
A huge hand, warm, rough from sandpaper and wood, settled on my waist.
I felt it like a hot iron through the fabric.
My breath quickened inside the drum.
That hand slid down over my hip and grabbed the side of my thigh, squeezing.
"You're really in there," he said.
"Yes."
"Let's see if I can get you out."
"Try."
His other hand joined the first.
He had me by the hips with both hands, completely, as if I weighed no more than a basket of laundry.
He pulled back a little.
He slid me just slightly.
Then he stopped.
"Mmm," he murmured. "Stuck for real."
"I told you."
"I'll have to check."
He lifted my dress, slowly, up to my waist.
I was wearing white cotton underwear, already damp.
I heard him take a deep breath, and his fingers tensed against my skin.
"Marlene."
"Tell me."
"Tell me to stop."
"No."
A deep growl rose from his chest.
He pulled my underwear down in one tug, to my thighs.
The cool air brushed between my legs, and I moaned against the metal of the drum.
His hands spread my buttocks apart.
A huge palm came down on my ass with a sharp slap that echoed through the laundry room.
I cried out.
The sting spread across my skin and turned into heat between my thighs.
"That's for lying," he said. "You could've gotten out on your own."
"And you knew it."
"I knew."
Another slap, on the other cheek.
I shuddered.
"For staying," he added.
"Daddy-in-law."
"Don't call me that."
"Why?"
"Because it drives me crazy."
I laughed.
Then the laugh got cut off, because I felt his hot breath between my buttocks.
His mouth touched me.
A wide, wet, slow tongue ran from bottom to top, and my whole body arched against the edge of the washing machine.
"Oh God," I moaned.
He licked me patiently, with a brute dedication, holding my hips with those hands that almost spanned my entire waist.
His short beard scraped against my sensitive skin.
He pushed his tongue in, pulled it out, licked my clit again, in circles.
I gripped the edge of the drum, nails digging in.
The detergent stung my nose, water dripped from the sheets, and I trembled without being able to move, stuck for real or not.
"Don't stop," I begged. "Don't stop, don't stop."
Two thick fingers spread me open.
He pushed them all the way in, then curved them with a precision that made me see stars.
I came with a long cry that bounced off the drum and came out amplified through the whole laundry room.
My knees gave out.
He held me up with one arm around my waist, effortlessly.
I hung there, panting, legs weak, face against the metal.
"Good," he said, his voice hoarse. "Now I'll get you out."
He lifted me with both hands and set me on my feet on the tile.
I turned around.
His pants were bulging, his shirt covered in sawdust, and his eyes were black with hunger.
His beard was glistening.
We stood looking at each other.
"This can't..." he started.
The phone rang.
On top of the dryer, the cell phone vibrated, with a photo on the screen.
Wilmer.
His smiling face, from New York, with a cap and glasses.
My husband.
Hipólito's son.
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