The Man My Son Wouldn’t Stop Talking About

Raquel was chopping onions in the kitchen, but her mind was somewhere else. For weeks, her son Adrián hadn’t stopped talking about Darío: how handsome he was, how self-assured, the way he filled a room just by walking through the door. Every comment stuck itself somewhere she preferred not to name, a damp place between her legs that no one had touched in years.

At my age I shouldn’t be thinking these things.

She was fifty and had a past full of Sundays at church and nuns who repeated that desire was something to regret. “The body confesses, daughter,” they used to tell her. But her body had never learned the catechism. At night, alone in bed, she let her hand slide slowly down to her wet cunt, parted her lips with two fingers, and rubbed her swollen clit while imagining a man she didn’t even know, imagining a hard cock pushing deep inside her to the hilt. She shoved in her fingers, two, three, and pumped hard, biting the pillow until she came in her own hand, soaked through. Afterward she would lie there staring at the ceiling, guilt squeezing her chest and her fingers still sticky, until sleep finally took her.

That afternoon she decided she was done imagining.

***

Adrián worked until eight. Raquel knew that, and that was why she chose that hour. She put on a red dress she’d had hanging for years, one of those that flatter without shouting, sprayed perfume behind her ears and between her breasts, and decided not to wear panties. She looked in the mirror longer than she ever allowed herself to. The woman looking back had wrinkles, yes, but she also had breasts still firm beneath the red fabric and a mouth that remembered how to smile with intent.

Darío came by the house almost every day. When the doorbell rang, her heart lurched like a teenager’s and she felt her cunt go wet all at once.

“Hi, Darío. Adrián still hasn’t gotten here, but come in, I’ll make you a coffee,” she said, leaning on the doorframe.

He looked at her a second too long. He wasn’t stupid: he noticed the dress, the perfume, the way she held the door like someone holding out an invitation.

“A coffee never hurts anyone,” he replied, and went in.

In the living room, Raquel didn’t beat around the bush. Her patience had worn out long ago.

“My son never stops talking about you,” she said, pouring for him without being asked. “How confident you are. The way you look at people. I’m fifty years old and curious, Darío. Bad combination.”

He set the cup on the table without touching it.

“Are you sure you know what you’re saying?”

“I haven’t been sure of anything for a long time,” she answered, and sat beside him, close enough that the word “no” stopped making sense.

She was the one who closed the last inch. She kissed him with an urgency that surprised even her, as if she’d been holding her breath for thirty years. She shoved her tongue deep into his mouth and he responded slowly at first, measuring her, and then stopped measuring anything. He held her neck with one big hot hand, and with the other he grabbed a breast over the dress, squeezing it without asking permission. Raquel felt the floor tilt and her nipple harden instantly against the man’s palm.

“Easy,” he murmured against her mouth. “No rush.”

But there was. She’d been in a rush for half her life.

She took his hand and guided it straight between her legs, yanking her dress up at the same time. When Darío discovered she wasn’t wearing panties and that her cunt was soaked, he gave a rough laugh against her neck.

“Well, well, the lady came prepared.”

“Shut up and touch me,” she panted.

***

He lowered the dress straps with a slowness that was almost cruel. When the fabric gave way and her breasts were bare, Raquel closed her eyes, waiting for the old reflex of shame. It didn’t come. Something else did: Darío’s mouth sucking one nipple hungrily, barely biting it, while his free hand pinched the other. She arched her back and a long moan escaped her, one of those she’d been saving for decades.

“Look at me,” he asked, with his mouth still full of breast.

She opened her eyes. And looked at him while he ran his hand down her belly, spread her legs on the sofa and sank two thick fingers in to the knuckle. Raquel jolted and came a little right there, unable to stop herself, her cunt walls squeezing his fingers.

“Oh my God,” she whispered, blushing.

“You’re dripping,” he said, and took his fingers to his mouth to suck them in front of her. “How long’s it been, huh?”

“Too long. Shut up. Don’t talk to me.”

He laughed, knelt between her open legs, and shoved her dress up to her waist. Without preamble he drove his tongue into her cunt, from bottom to top, one long flat lick that tore a shout out of Raquel, a shout she had to smother with her fist. Darío showed no mercy: he parted her lips with his thumbs, found her clit and sucked it, licked it in circles, ran his whole tongue up and down while sliding two fingers inside her and moving them with an obscene rhythm. He found that spot, that spongy hollow deep inside the nuns had never spoken of, and pressed it from within while keeping on sucking her clit. Raquel grabbed his hair with both hands and shoved his face against her cunt, guiltless, nothing at all.

“Like that, like that, don’t stop, don’t stop…”

She came with Darío’s mouth buried between her legs, trembling all over, her thighs clamping his head. She came screaming into a pillow she grabbed at the last second and was still riding the spasms when he stood up, pulled down his pants, and showed her his cock, hard, thick, heavy, red at the tip.

“You want this?” he asked, taking it in hand and tapping it gently against her wet cunt.

“Put it in me,” she said, not recognizing her own voice. “Put it in me now.”

And he did. In one thrust, all the way to the hilt. Raquel opened her mouth in a silent O, feeling that cock open her up from the inside after so many years, filling every corner of her. Darío stayed still for a second, savoring it, and then started fucking her slowly, pulling almost all the way out and sinking back in to the hilt, his pelvis striking her clit on every thrust.

“Harder,” she begged. “Don’t hold back with me, I’m fifty but I’m not going to break.”

He let out a hoarse laugh and grabbed her hips with both hands. And then he started really fucking her. He drove into her hard, rhythmically, the flesh slapping Raquel between the legs in a wet splash that sounded like sin all through the house. Her breasts bounced with the rhythm of the thrusts and every so often he’d bend down to bite a nipple, suck it, leave red marks on the white skin of her neck.

Then he turned her over. He put her on her knees on the sofa, face against the backrest and ass raised, and shoved it into her from behind again. From that angle he went even deeper and Raquel felt his cock touch some new place every time. He gave her one slap on the ass, just one, sharp, and she came again, biting the fabric of the backrest so she wouldn’t wake the whole neighborhood.

They did it on the sofa, with the afternoon light coming in from the side and the coffee going cold on the table. Darío knew how to wait, knew how to read her, knew when to slow down and when not to. Raquel clung to his shoulders when he laid her on her back again and threw one leg over his shoulder to drive himself even deeper inside her. And for a moment she was no longer a mother, no longer a widow, no longer the girl from the nuns’ school. She was, simply, a woman with her legs open being fucked well.

“Don’t stop,” she begged him, and he didn’t.

Pleasure went through her in long waves. When she felt he was about to come, she asked without thinking:

“Not inside. On my tits. I want to see it.”

Darío pulled out in time, knelt over her and jerked himself a couple of times with his hand, grunting, until he came in thick hot ropes over her breasts, her neck, her chin. Raquel ran two fingers over the marked skin, scooped up a drop of semen, and, looking him in the eye, took it into her mouth. Fifty years old and still discovering things.

She laughed afterward, biting her lip, laughing at her own modesty. Fifty years old and still afraid they might hear her.

***

What Raquel didn’t know was that Adrián had forgotten his phone.

He came back in the middle of the afternoon, opened the door with his key, and heard something he couldn’t name until he looked into the living room. His mother, with her breasts out and the cum still shining on her skin. Darío, cock out and hands on his hips. The sight froze him in the doorway, his keys still dangling from his finger.

Because Darío wasn’t just some random neighbor. Darío was his. They’d been seeing each other in secret for three months, three months in which Adrián had sucked that same cock in the bathroom of a bar and let him fuck him in his own bed, and had made the mistake of talking about him at home, of bragging about his man like a lovestruck boy, never imagining his enthusiasm was lighting something up across the table.

“Mom.” His voice came out broken.

Raquel sat up with a start, covering herself with the dress, white as paper beneath the semen stains she hurried to wipe away with the fabric.

“Adrián, son, wait, let me…”

“With him?” Adrián wasn’t shouting; it was worse, everything in him was shaking. “Of all the men in the world, with him?”

Darío, on the other hand, had the audacity not to flinch.

“Easy, both of you,” he said, putting himself away and buckling his belt with a calm that made you want to wipe the look off his face.

“Shut up,” Adrián spat, and for once Raquel agreed with her son.

The boy left without slamming the door, which would have been easier to bear. He closed it carefully, like someone leaving a wake. Raquel was left clutching the dress against her chest, and guilt, right on time at last, sat back down beside her.

***

The one who fixed everything, without meaning to, was Sergio.

Sergio owned the hardware store on the corner and had a history with Raquel that went back long before Darío. Loose encounters, no promises, the kind she kept hidden too. When he heard through neighborhood gossip what had happened, he knocked on her door the next day.

“I’m here to stick my nose where it’s not wanted,” he warned, leaning on the frame with his hands in his pockets. “That Darío guy. Be careful.”

“What are you talking about?” Raquel crossed her arms, still hurt.

“That he fucks half the neighborhood. I saw him on Saturday at the bar on the avenue, all over a woman who wasn’t you and wasn’t your son.” Sergio looked at her with a mix of pity and honesty. “I’m not telling you to hurt you. I’m telling you because you’re worth more than being another tick on a guy like that’s list.”

Raquel felt the comment like a stone in her stomach. Not out of jealousy: out of dignity.

“I always treated you well,” Sergio added, quieter. “You know that.”

She did know it. And for the first time in months she thought that maybe desire didn’t always have to come wrapped in danger.

***

That night, Raquel did something unlike her: she went looking for the truth. She put a coat over her nightgown and walked to the bar on the avenue. She didn’t take long to find him. Darío was at the counter, laughing with a young woman, his hand resting on her waist with the ease of someone who’s done it a hundred times.

She didn’t break. On the contrary: she felt something settle inside her.

The next day she confronted him at her front door, not letting him in.

“I saw you at the bar last night.”

“Raquel, that was nothing, you’re…”

“I’m nothing of yours,” she cut him off, with a calm that surprised her. “You broke my son’s heart and you fucked me on a Sunday afternoon. It’s over. Don’t come back.”

Darío opened his mouth to argue, but she was already closing the door. Inside, without guilt this time, she felt lighter than she had in years.

***

What happened with Sergio came on its own, without strategy, which is how good things arrive. One afternoon he came back with the excuse of a screwdriver she’d never asked him for, and stayed. He kissed her in the kitchen, against the counter that still smelled of onion, and Raquel laughed for the first time in weeks while he lifted her in his arms as if she weighed no more than she should.

He set her on the counter and spread her legs right there. He lifted the hem of her skirt, yanked off her panties in one pull — with both hands, no questions asked — and bent down to eat her cunt between the knives and the fruit bowl. Sergio’s tongue was different from Darío’s: more patient, more greedy, as if he truly liked being there and had no rush at all. He sucked on her lips one by one, slid his tongue inside and drew it out slowly, found her clit with the tip and pampered it in circles until Raquel started trembling and tugging on his gray hair.

“Come here, come here,” she panted, pulling on his shirt.

She climbed down from the counter, unbuttoned his pants and took out his cock, smaller than Darío’s but thick and very hard. She knelt on the kitchen tiles and took it all into her mouth, sucking it hungrily, looking up at him from below. Sergio cupped her head with both hands and let her do it, groaning softly, not pushing, letting her set the pace. She sucked him slowly, licking the tip, licking him from base to top, spitting on him so he’d slide better. She grabbed his balls with one hand and massaged them, never stopping sucking.

“Get up, I don’t want to come yet,” he murmured.

He hauled her up, turned her against the counter and fucked her from behind, her panties still tangled around one ankle. Raquel bent forward with her elbows on the wood, arched her back and offered him her ass, and he took her with long deep thrusts, gripping her hips with both hands. With one hand he circled her body from the front and found her clit, rubbing it in the same rhythm as he drove into her from behind.

It was different. Sergio wasn’t trying to prove anything; he was trying to make her feel good, and that, Raquel discovered, was infinitely more exciting than any show of force. He knew her. Knew where and how. He bit her shoulder, whispered in her ear, “You like it like this, don’t you? That’s how you always liked it,” and she gave herself over without hiding a single sound, without biting her hand, laughing and moaning at once in a new mix that finally felt made to measure.

She came braced against the kitchen counter, with Sergio’s cock inside her and his fingers on her clit, shouting his name without caring about anything. He came right away, inside, groaning into her neck, and the two of them stayed there, leaning against it, trembling, their legs weak, laughing like a pair of teenagers who’d just pulled off a prank.

They went to bed afterward and fucked again, this time slowly, her on top, moving at her own pace, letting herself be looked at in full under the unlit lamp. She came twice more that afternoon, once in silence, the second time screaming.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked afterward, the two of them still, the ceiling as witness.

“That I spent half my life feeling guilty about something that was this simple,” she replied.

***

With Adrián it took longer, of course. Forgiveness never comes as fast as desire.

It took her a week to sit down at her mother’s table again. They ate in silence for a long while, until he set down his fork.

“I can’t believe you slept with Darío,” he said, not looking up.

“Neither can I,” Raquel admitted. “And I’m sorry, son. Not for me, for you. I didn’t know how to see you.”

Adrián let out a long breath.

“At least we both had the good taste to stop seeing him,” he muttered, and against his will a half-smile slipped out.

“The same bad taste and the same good sense,” she replied.

They both laughed, exhausted, and in that laughter there was room for all the forgiveness neither knew how to ask for in words. Outside, evening was falling, just like that day when everything had gone out of order. But this time Raquel didn’t feel guilty. She felt, strange as it sounded after fifty years, that she was only just beginning to learn how to live in her own body.