Daddy-In-Law! I'm Stuck in the Washing Machine novel · Chapter 2 of 12

Chapter 2: The Workshop

I answered the video call with my dress still wrinkled.

Wilmer appeared on the screen in his cap, flashing a perfect-toothed smile.

"Hi, my love. How’s my queen?"

"Good."

"You look flushed."

"It’s hot."

"Oh." He scratched his beard. "Listen, the money’s late again. The boss didn’t pay me. But I’ll send you something Friday, I swear."

"You told me that last month."

"Oh, babe, don’t start."

Behind me, in the yard, I heard Hipólito walk slowly away toward the workshop.

I chatted for three more minutes.

Lie after lie.

When I hung up, my heart hurt, but not because of him.

I spent the rest of the day sewing other people’s clothes on the machine in my room, with the door open, unable to bring myself to look out into the yard.

Hipólito didn’t come in for lunch.

I left his plate in the kitchen, covered with a napkin.

That night, I found it empty in the sink.

I went to bed at ten.

At midnight, I was still awake.

At one, I heard the noise.

A distant, rhythmic whir.

Sandpaper against wood.

I got up.

I put on a robe over my nightgown, with nothing underneath, and went barefoot down to the yard.

The light in the workshop was on.

It was a large room with brick walls, low beams, and shelves full of tools.

It smelled of cedar, glue, and varnish.

In the middle, beneath a yellow light, stood a huge dark-oak workbench, covered in wood shavings.

Hipólito stood beside the bench, his back to me, holding a hand sander.

He was wearing only pants and a sleeveless shirt, damp with sweat.

His arms gleamed.

He turned at the sound of me.

He switched off the machine.

Silence fell all at once.

"Marlene," he said.

"I couldn’t sleep."

"Neither could I."

I closed the workshop door with my foot.

"I want what comes next," I said.

His eyes darkened.

"I’m your father-in-law."

"I know."

"I’m your husband’s father."

"And my husband is a liar who hasn’t touched me in two years."

"He’s my son."

"Then tell me to leave, and I will."

He said nothing.

He set the sander on the bench, wiped his hands on his pants, and took three steps toward me.

He cupped my face in one hand.

It felt huge, warm, and rough.

"I don’t want you to leave," he said.

He kissed me.

At first it was a slow, closed-mouth kiss, awkward from holding back for so long.

Then his lips parted.

His tongue sought mine, and his beard scraped my chin.

I grabbed his shirt with both hands and moaned into his mouth.

He lifted me into the air as if I weighed nothing.

He sat me on the bench, on top of the shavings, with my legs spread.

He untied my robe and let it fall.

My nightgown rode up to my waist.

His hands roamed over my thighs, my hips, my waist.

"You’re so beautiful," he said softly. "You’ve been torturing me for two years."

"You’ve been doing the same to me."

I pulled his shirt over his head.

His chest was broad, covered in dark, graying hair and dotted with little scars from tools.

I dragged my nails over his stomach, and he shuddered.

He unbuttoned his pants.

When he pushed them down, I lost my breath.

He was huge.

Thick, long, veined, with a dark, glistening head.

"My God," I whispered.

"Look what you do to me."

"I love it."

For the first time, he smiled—a crooked smile.

He spread my knees and settled between them.

The head of his cock brushed against me, hot.

I leaned back on my elbows, my hair loose over the shavings.

"Look at me," he said.

I looked at him.

He entered me.

Slowly, inch by inch, stretching me so completely that a cry escaped me.

"Breathe."

"I can’t."

"Yes, you can."

I kept breathing, my legs trembling, my hands gripping his forearms.

When he was finally all the way inside me, we went still.

I could feel his pulse beating inside me.

"You’re mine," he murmured.

"I’m yours."

"Say it again."

"I’m yours, Hipólito."

He began to move.

Long, deep thrusts that lifted me off the bench with every stroke.

The wood creaked.

The tools hanging on the wall clinked.

A shower of shavings fell to the floor with every impact.

I clung to his neck, my legs wrapped around his waist.

"Harder," I begged.

He grabbed my ass with both hands, lifted me, and fucked me like that, holding me up in the air against his chest, standing in the middle of the workshop.

His strength made me tremble.

Every thrust reached deep into my belly, my chest, my throat.

I came with a cry that was swallowed by his shoulder, and sank my teeth into him.

He growled.

He didn’t stop.

He pressed me against the brick wall, his hands on either side of my head, and pounded into me without mercy.

"Again," he growled. "Come again."

"I can’t."

"Yes, you can."

I came again, crying with pleasure, my nails scratching his back.

He moaned my name, buried deep inside me, and came with a muffled roar, hot spurts filling me completely.

We stayed pressed against the wall, panting, our sweat mingling.

He lowered me to the floor carefully and held me by the waist until my knees stopped trembling.

He kissed my forehead.

"This isn’t a mistake," he said, and it wasn’t a question.

"No."

"Go to bed. We’ll talk tomorrow."

I floated up to my room.

I fell asleep at dawn, his scent still on my skin.

The doorbell woke me.

The mail carrier handed me a thick envelope bearing the bank’s letterhead.

It was addressed to Hipólito Pesántez.

I opened it without thinking.

The first line read, "Notice of seizure."

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