My Grandmother and Her Friend Taught Me Who’s in Charge

—Grandma, I’m cumming —I panted, my fists clenched against the mattress.

She didn’t let up. On the contrary, she quickened the movement of her feet, wrapped in black sheer stockings that were already taut from the friction. Her soles moved up and down along my cock with a precision only years of habit can give, pressing exactly where she knew I couldn’t hold out. The soles slid over the swollen glans, the toes closed over the tip and went back down, dragging the nylon all along the length of my dick, and every time her soles came together around my shaft I felt the semen surge up from my balls like a lash.

—Don’t hold back, my boy —she whispered without taking her eyes off mine—. Give it all to your old whore of a grandmother. Cum all over my feet, go on, soak the stockings, that’s what I put them on for.

I couldn’t hold out any longer. I emptied myself over the soles of her feet, staining her toes, leaving the stockings soaked and shining. The first spurt crossed the top of her foot and ran down her ankle; the second tangled between her toes; the rest dropped like lead onto her soles, forming a thick puddle that seeped through the weave of the nylon. I moaned with my mouth open, unable to keep my hips still, thrusting up against her feet while the last drop drained out of me down below. Remedios lowered her gaze to the mess I had left on her nylon-covered skin and smiled with the calm satisfaction of someone who has just won a game she had been playing long before I woke up.

She took off her stockings slowly, as if she had all the time in the world, and brought them to her mouth. She sucked the soaked nylon like someone sucking the sauce off a good dish, savoring the mixture of her own sweat and my cum while she stared straight at me. With her other hand she opened her robe, pulled her nightgown up to her waist and slipped two fingers into her cunt. It didn’t take long. She had been hot all morning, and I was only the last push she needed. I heard her moan softly, with the stockings hanging from her lips, while her fingers slid in and out with a wet sound that filled the room. She came biting down on the nylon, her thighs clenched and her face flushed, and when she was done she wiped her fingers on my stomach and passed them over my mouth so I would taste her too.

***

That was how almost every day began since I had moved back into the family house. I was a cook, working changing shifts, and between services I had gone back to the room I had occupied as a teenager. What no one in the family imagined was what happened behind that door every time my parents went out grocery shopping.

My grandmother was in her sixties and had a body she carried with almost insolent pride. But it wasn’t the body that was hers. It was control. She liked deciding when, how and how much, and I had discovered, almost by accident, that obeying her pleased me more than anything I had ever tried before.

It had all started with a silly detail, months earlier. One afternoon I found her complaining about her feet after a long day and offered to give her a massage. She let me, watching me with one eyebrow raised, and when my fingers had been kneading her soles for a while, she noticed, with absolutely no shame, the bulge showing in my pants.

—Well, well —she said then, without a scandalized tone, almost amused—. So that’s what it was.

I didn’t deny it. I couldn’t. And from that afternoon a silent pact was established between us in which she set the rules and I limited myself to following them. I learned to ask permission. I learned to endure. I learned that the word “no” spoken by her carried a weight no other woman had ever made me feel.

That morning, after waking up, I took a shower and dressed carefully. It was a special day. Doña Amalia was coming for lunch, an old friend of my grandmother’s from way back, almost one more member of the family. The two of them had known each other since they were young and laughed about things the rest of us didn’t understand, with that conspiratorial tone of people who share old secrets.

My parents arrived first, loaded down with bags, talking about nonsense and plans to spend the day at home. Half an hour later the doorbell rang and Doña Amalia came in with that very particular style of hers I had always remembered. She wore a black dress that fell just above the knee, enormous sunglasses she didn’t take off until she crossed the foyer, and summer sandals that left her impeccable pedicure on display, her toenails painted a glossy black.

I couldn’t help lowering my gaze to her feet. And when I looked back up, she was already watching me over the top of her sunglasses, with half a smile. She had noticed. Of course she had noticed.

There had always been something about Doña Amalia that made me nervous, even as a kid. The way she crossed her legs, the slow way she took off her watch and set it on the table, that sweet, heavy perfume that lingered in the foyer long after she had passed through. When I was young I thought it was my imagination. That afternoon I understood it had never been.

While I finished setting the table, the two women sat together on the sofa and talked in low voices, their heads very close. Every so often one of them looked at me, laughed, and went back to their conversation. I pretended not to notice, but I felt the back of my neck heating up and my pulse speeding, as if I knew they were deciding something about me without asking my opinion.

—Your grandson has grown so much, Remedios —she said, drawing out the words—. And he seems so well brought up.

—Don’t believe everything that seems that way —my grandmother replied, and they both laughed.

***

I put my heart into the cooking. I prepared a baked sea bass with potatoes and a garlic-and-parsley mash, a dish that drove the whole family crazy. While I served it, I felt the glances of the two women crossing, speaking without speaking, and a knot of tension tightened in my stomach. Something was cooking between them, and it wasn’t the fish.

We all ate together, with light conversation and wine, and when we were done my parents settled into the living-room sofa, defeated by their nap. I cleared away, left the kitchen spotless and retreated to my room to lie down for a while. The June heat and the wine dragged me into sleep within minutes.

I don’t know how long I slept. What woke me was a wet, familiar pleasure rising from between my legs. I threw back the sheet and there was my grandmother, crouched over me, sucking my cock as if it were the dessert that hadn’t been served at the table. She had pulled it out of my briefs and taken the whole thing into her mouth, down to the throat, moving up and down with her tongue pressed to the vein underneath, sucking with hollowed cheeks, making a saliva sound that raised the hair on my skin. Every time she came up for air she ran her tongue over the glans and looked at me from below, her eyes bright, to make sure I was still awake and aware of who was sucking my dick.

But that wasn’t what left my mouth dry.

In a corner of the room, seated in my old desk chair, was Doña Amalia. She had hiked the skirt of her black dress up to her hips and had one hand between her thighs, moving slowly, unhurriedly, while she watched the scene with parted lips. She had pulled her panties aside and I could see her cunt perfectly, open, her fingers sinking in to the knuckles and coming out soaked, shining. With her other hand she pinched a nipple through the dress. She didn’t look away when she saw me wake up. If anything, she bit her lip and kept going, moving her wrist faster, with a low purr in her throat.

—See, Amalia? —my grandmother said, letting go of me for a moment to speak, her lips shining with saliva and her hand tight at the base of my cock—. I told you. My grandson has a fine cock. Thick, hard, he can keep going. Like they used to make them.

And she took it back into her mouth to the hilt, with even more eagerness than before, squeezing my balls with her other hand.

—Mmm, it looks so good, Reme —the other one answered from her corner, her voice thick—. I’m dying to do what we said. My cunt is getting wet like a fountain.

—Then come here, don’t be shy. This boy has enough cum for both of us and then some.

I didn’t understand what they meant. For a moment I thought Doña Amalia would join my grandmother’s mouth, that they would take turns sucking me, that they would put my cock between their two tongues. But the surprise was another thing. The two of them sat on the edge of the bed, one on each side, took off their sandals and shoes, and started rubbing me with their feet. Four soles, twenty toes, two pairs of black-painted nails, all surrounding me at once.

A footjob with four feet.

At first they coordinated without speaking, as if they had rehearsed it. My grandmother’s soles squeezed my cock from the sides, compressing it, and Doña Amalia’s went up and down over and under it, sliding over the glans, dragging the saliva my grandmother had left on me moments before. Their toes slid under my balls, holding them, pressing them carefully. Doña Amalia spat on one sole and set it back in place, and the wet sound of the spit against my flesh made me shiver.

—Look how the tip’s tightening up, Reme —Amalia murmured, pressing my glans with her big toe—. He’s about ready.

—Hold on, my boy —my grandmother ordered me, digging the nails of her foot into the skin of my balls, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind me who was in charge—. You’re not coming until I say so.

Doña Amalia laughed and squeezed her feet harder against my cock, moving them up and down at a rhythm that gave me no respite. I clenched my teeth, my hands gripping the sheets, watching those four soles tangle around my dick as if they were hands, the toes milking me from four sides.

I couldn’t even speak. I was so overwhelmed by the sensation, by the pressure of the soles sliding along my cock, by the image of those two older women focused on me as if I were a toy they had wanted to share for years, that I couldn’t hold out at all. I came over both their feet, splashing their insteps, ankles, painted toes. The ropes of semen crossed their ankles, slipped between their toes, dripped down their soles until they stained the sheet. I growled like an animal, arched, hips lifted off the mattress, pushing my cock between their soles until not a drop was left inside me.

—Look at how he got himself worked up, what little stamina —Doña Amalia mocked, and the humiliation in her tone lit me up even more—. With two pairs of feet and he’s already dry. This boy is still green, Reme.

—We’ll teach him —my grandmother replied, biting her lip—. The afternoon’s still young.

The two of them moved their feet away from my cock and, without asking permission, leaned toward each other. Doña Amalia lifted my grandmother’s foot, brought it level with her mouth and licked the top from tip to tip, collecting the threads of semen I had left behind. Then she sucked each toe one by one, taking them deep into her mouth, eyes closed. My grandmother returned the favor: she took Amalia’s foot, pressed it against her chest and began to lick, suck, kiss each black-painted toe with a devotion that left me breathless. They passed my cum from one mouth to the other, spat it between low laughs, kissed each other with their tongues out to share my load like a bottle of wine, imprinting on my mind an image I knew I would never be able to forget.

When they finished cleaning each other off, they took care of me. They took turns sucking me and leaving me clean. My grandmother put my soft cock in her mouth first and licked it all over, collecting with her tongue the last drop left on my skin; she sucked my balls one by one, ran her tongue over my groin, over the vein underneath, and when she felt my dick starting to swell again she took it out of her mouth and offered it to Amalia like someone passing a plate. Doña Amalia gripped it by the base, spat on it, and swallowed it until her nose brushed my pubis. She stayed there a while, taking it in, tears appearing at the corners of her eyes, and then came back up slowly, her tongue pressed to it. I writhed beneath their mouths, half dead, and they stretched the torture out simply for the pleasure of watching me suffer.

***

When I finally got some strength back, the three of us went downstairs to get water. We came barefoot, our clothes only half on, laughing softly like kids who had pulled a prank. Precisely because we were barefoot, no one downstairs heard us coming down the stairs.

And that’s why we heard the screams from the living room first.

—A whore! I’m a whore and I love it! I’m only good for swallowing my husband’s cum and whoever he orders me to!

I froze on the last step. Doña Amalia put a hand on my shoulder and my grandmother, far from flinching, smiled like someone recognizing an old melody.

We peeked in carefully. In the living room, on the same sofa where they were supposed to have been napping, my mother was on all fours, her skirt pulled up to her waist and her panties hanging from one ankle, being fucked from behind by my father. He held her by the hips and drove his cock into her to the hilt, pounding with an intensity that made the cushions tremble and pulled muffled moans from her against the backrest. Each thrust shook her tits inside the unbuttoned blouse, and the wet sound of my mother’s cunt swallowing my father’s cock filled the living room as if they were alone in the world.

—Where do you want the cum, slut? —he panted, his hand spread over her ass cheek.

—Wherever you decide —she replied, her voice broken—. In my mouth or on my feet. You’re in charge. Cum on me wherever you want, honey, but don’t stop.

I felt my grandmother’s hand close over mine. I leaned toward her and whispered the only question that made sense at that moment.

—Did you know about this?

Remedios looked at me with those eyes that had spent a whole lifetime deciding for other people.

—My boy —she said, stroking my cheek—, where do you think you learned to obey?

Doña Amalia let out a low laugh behind me and gently pushed us toward the living room doorway.

—Come on —she said—. Don’t just stand there looking. In this family we don’t watch from the doorway.

And for the first time all afternoon, I was the one who let himself be led without fully understanding what came next.