The Secret of the Garden House
Every Holy Week, the family gathered at Grandmother Veronica’s sprawling estate. The house was a sanctuary of memories, set upon twenty hectares of lush countryside. I had carved out my own private wing of the residence, a secluded retreat where I could exist in total freedom, often walking naked or in rags, savoring the solitude that the rest of the bustling family rarely understood.
On Wednesday, after a morning of riding horses and laughing with my kin, I retreated to my sanctuary. My shower was a massive room, five meters square, with a window that looked out over a hidden garden I tended with obsessive care. As the warm water cascaded over me, I closed my eyes, letting the steam envelop my skin.
“Aren’t you ashamed, brother-in-law, bathing naked in full view?” a voice teased. I opened my eyes to see Betty, my brother Juancho’s wife, peering through the window from the corridor. I smiled, leaning back into the spray. “The body is the most natural thing in the world, Betty.” I knew she had navigated a labyrinth of halls to find me. Her gaze dropped, lingering on my arousal, and a spark of hunger ignited in her dark eyes.
We played a dangerous game of words, debating the layout of the garden and the locked doors, but the tension was thick enough to touch. Once I stepped away from the water, I felt her warm hands on my chest and her lips against my back. She had slipped inside, naked and breathless, her tongue tracing the lines of my spine. “I’ve missed you,” she whispered, her voice a low vibration against my skin.
I turned her around and kissed her with a year’s worth of suppressed longing. The passion was immediate and feral. I lifted her and carried her to the heavy wooden kitchen table, a relic of my grandfather. As I pressed her down, she let out a soft protest, a familiar ritual between us. “Not there… please, not the back way this time,” she pleaded, though her body arched toward me, betraying her words.
I ignored her protests, driven by the sight of her curves and the memory of her heat. I guided myself to her tight, welcoming entrance. As I pushed forward slowly and firmly, she gasped, her voice a mixture of faux-outrage and genuine pleasure. “I hate you! You’re a beast!” she cried, but she gripped my wrists, pulling me deeper into her.
The friction was electric. Every thrust was a reclamation of a secret we had shared for years. Her moans turned into rhythmic cries of “Ay, papito!” as I filled her completely. We moved together in a frantic dance, the heavy table shaking under the force of our collision. The intimacy was absolute, a forbidden bond that flourished only in the shadows of the family estate.
After we collapsed onto a nearby sofa, breathless and glowing, she rested her head on my shoulder. “You’re a brute,” she murmured with a small, satisfied smile. We spoke of my brother and the others, laughing softly at the irony of their absence. As I looked at her, I knew the cycle would repeat. Despite her playful protests, she belonged to me in the ways that mattered most, and the garden house would always keep our secret.