My Mom Found Out My Secret, and I Found Out Hers

I already told you before that I was going to keep sharing my life here, and since everything I write is true, today it’s time for the story of how my mother found out about my boyfriend —a man nearly thirty years older than me— and how, without looking for it, I ended up discovering what she actually did for a living.

Before starting university, I had planned to study two degrees. My dad paid for one in full, but when I told him about the second, he said I should finish the first one and then we’d see. The problem was that I didn’t want to wait. And that, without thinking through the consequences, I told my boyfriend.

He offered to pay for the other degree. It was about two thousand five hundred dollars, with a discount the university gave for early enrollment. I accepted without thinking too much about it, and that was exactly the detail that would later expose me in front of my mother.

A few days before classes started, I went to visit her. In the middle of an ordinary conversation, I let slip that I had already paid the two thousand five hundred for enrollment. She looked up and pinned me with her eyes.

—What do you mean you paid that amount? Where did you get that money? —she asked me.

It wasn’t that we couldn’t afford it; money had never been lacking at home. What struck her as strange was where I, on my own, had gotten such a sum without asking anyone.

Obviously, the idea was to tell her about my boyfriend, but I was nervous. I didn’t know how she would take the age difference between him and me. I trust my mother, though I had no idea how she would react, or whether it was the right time.

—I got it somehow. Someone helped me —I replied, being mysterious.

—Who? —she pressed.

—Someone —I said with a smile.

—Come on, seriously. Who gave you that money? —now she sounded serious.

—A businessman —I blurted out, and lowered my head.

She laughed in my face. “A businessman? You barely ever leave your room,” she told me. And she was right: people who know me know I’m pretty shy, that almost everything embarrasses me, that my circle of friends is small. I go out, of course, but always with the same people.

So I told her the version I had decided to tell her. That I met someone at a party, that we talked, that he was a good person. I swore to her that nothing had happened, that he hadn’t paid me to sleep with him, that we were just friends and that he had given me the money because I told him I wanted to study and had no way to pay for it.

The truth is I had fucked him the very same night I met him, but I was never going to admit that to her. That night, in the party bathroom, he had cornered me against the sink, hiked my dress up to my waist, and ripped my thong off in one hard yank. He crouched down and drove his tongue into my cunt without preamble, sucking my clit hungrily while I bit my hand so I wouldn’t scream. When he stood up and pulled his pants down, the cock that sprang free was the biggest I’d ever seen in my life —thick, dark, with a swollen tip dripping. He turned me against the mirror, shoved two fingers into me first to make sure I was wet, and then drove his cock into me in one single thrust. He filled me completely. He fucked me, pushing my head against the glass, gripping my hair, whispering in my ear that I was a wet little slut, that the moment he saw me he knew he was going to end up with his cock inside me. He came in me in three minutes, and I walked out of the bathroom with semen running down my thighs and his number saved in my phone.

—Yeah, right, Mariana —she said with sarcasm—. Men don’t just give away money like that.

—Mom, he knows the director of that program. He told me he’d get me in like a scholarship. Really, it wasn’t for anything else.

—Don’t lie to me. Tell me the truth.

***

I need to back up a little here. Before going to her house, I came up with an idea to “prove” my innocence: I went to the gynecologist and asked him to examine me, to confirm I didn’t have any disease and, while he was at it, to put in writing that I was a virgin.

The doctor examined me, asked me the usual questions —since when I’d been sexually active, with how many men— and I answered what I could. When I asked him to write that I was a virgin, he said absolutely not, that it would be lying and that in that clinic everything went into the medical record. Still, the results came back clean: no disease, no pregnancy.

With that paper in my hand, I thought I was going to convince her. Big mistake. My mother read it twice and looked at me the way someone looks at a little girl trying to act smart.

—This says everything is negative, the tests and the analyses. So, you’re not a virgin anymore? —she said.— It makes no sense for a virgin to go to the gynecologist asking for pregnancy and disease tests.

—I am a virgin, Mom.

—You think you can fool me? Tell me, did you have sex with that businessman?

—No, Mom. If it came out like that it’s because... because when I was a teenager I touched myself a couple of times, I put my fingers in, maybe that’s it. But I didn’t sleep with anyone. You never believe anything I say.

I remember getting angry like a little kid. I couldn’t convince her and locked myself in my room. Later she called me to dinner; we went, and I was sulking the whole time.

When we got back, I was about to shut myself away again without speaking to her. She stopped me cold.

—Mariana, come here. Sit down. Either you tell me right now what happened, or I call your father and he’s the one who’s going to punish you. I’m all ears.

That’s when I broke and told her almost everything. That at a Halloween party I met a man in his forties, that we talked, that he seemed like a good guy, that he asked for my number and I gave it to him.

—Are you stupid? You give your number to just anyone? —she scolded me.

—I gave it to him because he was the owner of a company —I said, and even showed it to her on the phone.

I explained that we talked every day, that he topped up my credit, that he invited me to lunch at a restaurant near my aunt’s house and there he showed me the receipt for the two thousand five hundred he had paid. That later he invited me and two friends to dinner, and that out of pure gratitude I gave him a kiss. Nothing more. That was what I admitted.

My mother got even angrier. I got angry too, went to my room, and out of spite started crying. Then I apologized, though without telling her what had really happened. She took my phone away for a few weeks, didn’t let me go out, watched every step I took.

I even had my boyfriend come introduce himself. At first she was stiff, but she saw he was a respectful man. The two of us swore, with absolutely stone-faced expressions, that nothing had ever happened between us. A lie, of course, and I think deep down she knew it, but she acted like she believed it. She asked him straight out if I liked him, and he answered that her daughter was as beautiful as she was, a proper young lady, but that we were just friends.

She gave me my phone back on one condition: she was going to call me on video at any hour, and I had to answer and show her what I was doing. And she did. She called me during class, while doing homework, at night. Almost never on weekends or very late, because at those hours she went “to the club to work.” Yes: my mother is a sex worker. I’ll tell that part better later, because it has its own story.

***

For a week she kept calling me often. It was Thursday, around nine at night. I was at my boyfriend’s place, the two of us in bed, spooning, just finishing fucking. And when I say finishing, I mean it loosely: he had been driving his cock into me from behind for an hour, one hand gripping a tit and the other pinching my clit, while whispering in my ear all the filthy things he knew drove me crazy. My cunt was swollen, soaked, and I had just come for the second time when the phone rang.

The phone rang and I didn’t answer. His cock was still buried to the hilt inside me, throbbing, and he kept moving slowly, enjoying how tight I was after the orgasm. She called four more times.

—Answer it, your mom’s going to get mad —he told me, without pulling out.

I answered. She was already annoyed because I hadn’t picked up the first time.

—Turn on the camera —she ordered.

—Mom, I’m busy.

—Turn on the camera.

I had no choice. I appeared on screen disheveled, mascara smudged, covered with a sheet up to my chest, and it was obvious from a mile away that I was naked. Even worse: while she was talking, he was still inside me, moving only a little, pushing into me slowly from behind so it wouldn’t show on my face. I clenched my teeth so I wouldn’t moan.

—I knew it, you idiot, that you were having sex —she told me, but no longer seriously: she was laughing her ass off—. You can’t fool me. Are you two dating now?

I started laughing, and the laugh made me squeeze my cunt around his cock; I felt him choke back a groan against my shoulder. “It is what it is,” I answered her. She made me show her my boyfriend, who was wrapped around me —and still inside me, his whole cock sunk all the way to the balls— and the poor guy could only manage “Sorry, ma’am,” red as a tomato.

—Mariana, I’ll call you later, you’re busy. I need you to do me a favor —she said.

—No, we’re done already —I answered, shamelessly lying while he drove a deeper thrust into me as punishment.

—Oh, please. Be careful, I still don’t want to be a grandmother —she laughed, and hung up.

I slammed the phone down and turned around to face him. His cock was hard as a rock, shining with my juices, and he had that son of a bitch smile he got when he knew he had me crazy.

—Finish what you started —I told him, grabbing his cock with my hand and massaging it slowly, pinching the tip with my thumb.

—Did it turn you on for your mom to see you with my cock inside you, little slut? —he asked, and pinched one of my nipples.

—Shut up and fuck me.

He got on top of me, spread my legs, and shoved it back in with one hard thrust. I screamed. There was no phone anymore, no mom anymore, nothing. He fucked me hard, gripping my wrists against the mattress, looking into my eyes while he went in and out of me. The sound of our skin slapping filled the room, mixed with the wet noise of his cock sliding into my soaked cunt.

—Tell me you’re my little slut —he demanded without stopping his thrusts.

—I’m your little slut —I answered, my voice broken—. Yours, all yours.

—Who does this cunt belong to?

—Yours, daddy, it’s yours, keep going, don’t stop.

He turned me face down, lifted my hips, and drove it into me from behind. He grabbed my hair, yanked my head back, and buried himself in me to the hilt, so deep I could feel him hitting me inside. With his other hand he slapped my ass, hard, marking my skin. I moaned into the pillow, pushing my ass back against him, begging for more.

—I’m about to come, baby —he warned me, panting.

—Not inside, not inside —I begged—, come in my mouth, I want to swallow it.

He pulled out, turned me around again, and in two strides positioned himself over my chest and put his cock in my mouth. I grabbed his balls with one hand and with the other squeezed his ass to pull him closer. He fucked my mouth the same way he’d just fucked my cunt, shoving it all the way into my throat and pulling it back out, then forcing it in again.

—Swallow it, your mom doesn’t want to be a grandmother anyway —he said between laughs while I sucked him with all the hunger in the world, hollowing out my cheeks, sucking the tip, running my tongue underneath. I felt his balls tighten against my chin, his cock swell against my tongue, and then he exploded in my mouth. Stream after stream of hot semen fell to the back of my throat. Like a good girl, I swallowed every last drop. When he was done, I licked the tip slowly, cleaning off the last white beads, and kissed the head of his cock, still hard and throbbing.

After that I told him I loved him, with a hoarse voice and shiny lips, called her back, and let my mom know I’d already done her famous favor.

***

A few weeks passed, maybe a couple of months. I went to visit her in the city where she lives. One morning we went out for breakfast; there’s a famous place for its empanadas that we always go to. It was around eight. While we were looking for parking, she answered a call and said, “Okay, I’ll be there in a minute.”

—Before breakfast we’re stopping to see a house —she told me.

We changed direction. I don’t know the city well; she does, so I let her drive. On the way we stopped to pick up a friend of hers, a woman in her early thirties who got into the car with several bags. She was talking with my mother, greeted me, and learned that I was her daughter.

We arrived at a house, parked, and she asked me to wait inside the car. “I’ll be right back, Fer,” she told me. I stayed glued to my phone watching videos. Thirty minutes passed and nothing. I was starving, so I called her. She came out, told me we still weren’t leaving and that if I was hungry, I should come in.

It was an ordinary house. A wall out front, a door in the center, and on the side, the garage entrance. As soon as you walked in there was a little path of a couple of meters to the front door, painted white.

Inside, on the right, a living room with couches, a television, and some speakers. On the left, some kind of reception area, like a mini bar, with fridges and drink counters. Next to it was a small room with boxes and pharmacy alcohol. A hallway led to several bedrooms, and at the back, next to the bathroom, a staircase went up to more rooms.

I sat in the living room. There were fries, nachos, and fruit juice. Since I was hungry, my mother told me to eat there, that she’d be back soon. There was another woman inside, the same one who had called her on the phone.

I ate calmly, but curiosity got the better of me. I got up to snoop around. In the reception area there was a cellphone, a notebook, and a computer. I went into the small room and opened the boxes: condoms, piles of condoms, lubricants, alcohol, cotton, rapid disease tests, pills. Just as I was coming out, I nearly got caught by the other woman, who was coming back from a phone call.

—Where’s my mom? —I asked casually.

—She’s in her room. Check it, her name is on the door. Knock and she’ll open.

I looked at the doors. Each one had a name written on it: Alexa, Abril, Bella, and upstairs Catalina, Yoselin, Camila, Andrea. I couldn’t find my mother’s. I went back downstairs and told the woman.

My mother’s name is Carla, if I hadn’t mentioned it before. The woman laughed.

—She’s in room two. It says “Bella.” That’s her.

That’s when I realized: the girls don’t work under their real names, they use stage names. I knocked on room two and went in. My mother was making the bed. There was air conditioning, which is why the door was shut.

The room was actually nice. A round bed, a mirror on the ceiling and another on the wall, a television, one of those chairs you see in motels. The sheets were spotless, a small wardrobe with lingerie, and a suitcase that belonged to her.

—We’re leaving now, Fer. Give me a minute to finish making the bed and we’ll go.

***

I went back outside to wait for her and after a while we finally went for breakfast. Then she told me we had to stop at a public office. She took some papers from the car, handled some paperwork, and picked up an ID card. She put it in the glove compartment and we kept going.

On the way, out of pure curiosity —you know me— I pulled out the yellow folder she had left there. It was tests: sexually transmitted disease screenings, from several clinics, one each month, all negative. The card was proof that she was registered as a sex worker and that she was healthy.

—Mom —I asked—, do you have any disease?

—Thank God, no. There you have the results, all negative —she answered calmly.

We got home and I asked her straight out:

—Mom, are you a whore?

She burst out laughing.

—Saying it like that sounds horrible. It’s prettier to say escort, sex worker. Anyway, you can call me a whore if you want, after all you do too, when you’re with your man, you probably tell him you’re a whore.

—Mom! —I said, dying of laughter.

—We all like hearing it in private. “I’m your little slut,” right? Being grabbed by the hair, being told dirty things while they fuck you to the hilt, being spat in the mouth. Don’t tell me no, I know your face —and she was laughing—. You love being fucked hard, it shows.

She ended up telling me everything. Yes, she was an escort, that thanks to that she’d left her other job because she earned much more, that it paid for the house, she was finishing paying off the car, and she got to do what she liked. That she had been with countless men, of every age, every size, with every preference. That there were guys who showed up wanting to dominate and ended up on their knees sucking her tits like babies; that there were others, apparently shy, who would put her on all fours and shove it in her ass mercilessly. And she gave me the advice she repeated to me the most: always use condoms, because of disease.

Here I’ll confess that in the encounters I’ve had, I almost never used them. I got careless because they were acquaintances, married men, men with children. I let them come inside, in my mouth, on my face, wherever they wanted. I thought they were clean and that if they were, I was too. As of today, writing this, I’m still healthy, with nothing, but I’ve learned to take care of myself.

She explained how she works. A man hires her and pays by the hour, or for whatever he wants. If he wants to take her to a motel, she goes; if not, she sees him at the house. The client says what service he wants —blowjob, pussy, ass, full French, golden shower, whatever—, she gives him a quick test, and always, always, with a condom, whether she knows him or not. She only does it without a condom with clients she really trusts, and even then she doesn’t relax: she makes them bring a recent clinic test with everything negative and, on top of that, she still makes them take a rapid test.

That day she went to work and I stayed at the house. And yes, I snooped around again: in her room she had everything, toys, vibrators thick as arms, anal plugs of every size in steps, silicone dildos that imitated real cocks with visible veins, harnesses, handcuffs, a small whip, a huge almost-empty bottle of lubricant. I picked up one of the vibrators, turned it on, and was amazed at how strongly it buzzed. I pressed it for a second against my hand and felt the tingling rise up my arm. I put it back where it was and laughed to myself imagining my mom using it.

The truth is, instead of being scandalized, I ended up feeling proud of her. And that’s all I can tell you for now. Sorry if this time there were barely any sex scenes; sometimes real life is stranger than any fantasy.