Daddy-In-Law! I'm Stuck in the Washing Machine novel · Chapter 3 of 12
Chapter 3: The Letter
Hipólito read the notice standing in the middle of the workshop, his reading glasses perched on his nose.
He read it twice.
I waited beside him, my arms crossed over my chest.
Sunlight streamed through the high window, drawing a rectangle across the wood shavings on the floor.
“Sixty thousand dollars,” he said at last.
“What?”
“The mortgage on this house. Sixty thousand dollars, in my name, fourteen months ago, from a lender.” He looked up. “Cleofás Auquilla.”
“You didn’t sign that.”
“No.”
“Then what?”
He handed me the page with a trembling finger.
At the bottom of the document was a large signature, its strokes shaky.
“Hipólito Pesántez.”
It looked similar.
It wasn’t his.
“I don’t write the P like that,” he murmured, his voice hollow. “I’ve never written it like that.”
I stared at him.
Then I remembered something.
The week before he left for New York, Wilmer had shown up with a stack of papers.
“They’re for the visa, Dad. Sign here, and here. It’s just a formality.”
And Hipólito had signed three blank sheets without reading them.
I said it out loud.
Hipólito closed his eyes.
A tremor ran through his broad shoulders.
“My son.”
He turned around, grabbed a wooden chair, and smashed it against the wall.
It broke into three pieces.
Another piece flew toward the window and barely missed it.
He stood there with trembling hands, breathing hard.
I wasn’t scared.
I stepped behind him and put my hand on his back.
He was burning hot, drenched in sweat.
“Hipólito.”
“Two years,” he said. “Two years without sending you a cent, and I thought he was having a hard time.”
“He lied to me, too.”
“He left you alone.”
“And he took your house from you.”
He turned around.
His eyes were red.
I’d never seen a man that big cry.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“For what?”
“For this. For last night. You’re his wife.”
“I’m the wife of a man who forged your signature.”
“Even so.”
“Even so, nothing.” I cupped his face in both hands. “I chose this. Last night and yesterday. Don’t apologize for what I wanted.”
He looked at me.
Something in his expression broke.
He grabbed me around the waist and lifted me against his chest.
He kissed me with brutal force, with the desperation of someone who’d lost everything but this.
I kissed him back and bit his lip.
“Kitchen,” he growled against my mouth.
“Here.”
“Kitchen. There’s a more comfortable counter.”
He carried me to the house, across the backyard, past the chickens and the laundry hanging out to dry.
He kicked the door open.
He set me down on the tiled counter, between the pot and the fruit bowl.
He ripped my dress open, and the buttons flew.
I wasn’t wearing anything underneath.
He sucked on my breasts, mouth open and hungry, squeezing my ass with both hands.
I tugged at his shirt.
He helped me pull it off.
I lowered his pants, and his cock sprang free, hard and thick, pressing against my stomach.
“I’m going to fuck you,” he said, breathless.
“Fuck me.”
“Right here. Hard. Angry.”
“Angry.”
He buried himself in me with one thrust.
I screamed.
The glasses on the dish rack clinked, and a spoon hit the floor.
He grabbed my hair with one hand, tipped my head back, and kissed my neck as he pounded into me with all his strength.
The counter creaked.
I clung to his shoulders, my heels digging into his ass.
“More,” I moaned.
“This is for him.”
“Harder.”
“This is for the house.”
“Hipólito.”
“This is for you.”
I came in an explosion that doubled me over.
I convulsed in his arms, scratching his back.
He held me, turned me around, and bent me over the counter.
He lifted one of my legs and entered me again from behind, one hand gripping my hip, the other at the nape of my neck.
The counter was cold against my breasts, his body hot behind me.
He pounded into me without stopping, panting my name.
I came again, my cheek pressed against the tiles.
He followed, buried deep inside me, with a growl that rattled the glass.
He rested against my back, his forehead between my shoulder blades.
Several minutes passed.
When he caught his breath, he wrapped his arms around me from behind.
“I’ll fix this,” he murmured.
“We’ll fix it.”
“He’s my son.”
“I know.”
He kissed my shoulder.
Then the gate buzzer rang.
Twice, loud and clear.
I jerked upright, pulling my torn dress closed.
Hipólito pulled up his pants and peered out the window.
A white pickup truck was parked in front of the house, with a fat man in a guayabera leaning against the driver’s door.
He had gold rings on every finger.
He was smiling.
“It’s Cleofás Auquilla,” Hipólito said.
“The letter says he wasn’t coming until tomorrow.”
“He came early.”
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