The Obsession That Made Me Call My Son's Friend

Five days have passed since New Year’s Eve and I still can’t manage to sleep more than three hours at a stretch. I close my eyes and there he is again: Damián, standing in my kitchen doorway with that crooked smile that made me feel, for the first time in years, that my body didn’t belong to me.

My husband has been in Monterrey for two weeks at a conference. Short calls, curt messages, a tired voice on the other end. I tell him everything’s fine, that my son is going to extra classes, that the house is quiet. I hang up and stare at the phone as if it were the only witness to my betrayal.

I’m thirty-seven years old. My husband is forty-two. I met him when I was twenty-two and he was the most self-assured man I’d ever seen in my life. I never thought I’d end up like this: obsessed with a kid who comes by the house to bother my son, leave fake bruises on his arm and laugh every time he snatches the controller from the console.

Damián is twenty-one. Twenty-one. The age gap seemed like a joke to me when he came to my house for the first time, almost a year ago, with that streetwise attitude my son tried and failed to imitate. Now the gap seems like the only reason my pussy gets wet when the doorbell rings.

I remember the night of the 30th perfectly. My son had gone out with his cousins to a birthday party and would be back the next day. Damián came to get him and found out he wasn’t there. I offered him to come in and wait with a coffee, even though I knew he wouldn’t be waiting. He knew it too. I saw him look around the empty house like a hunter who recognizes a good hiding place.

—Did your husband go out too? —he asked, already seated on the sofa as if it were his.

—Traveling —I replied, and noticed my voice came out lower than necessary.

That night on the 30th he fucked me against the kitchen counter without taking my pants all the way off. He pulled my panties down to my knees, spat on my cunt, shoved two thick fingers all the way in while biting my neck and whispering, “Look at you, ma’am, wet like a bitch for a boy.” He pulled his fingers out, unzipped his pants, and for the first time I felt that young cock, hard as a rock, slide into me in one single thrust. I screamed into my own hand. He drove it into me with the palm of his hand spread across my shoulder blades, bent over the counter, while the dishes from breakfast the day before trembled off to the side. He made me come twice before he emptied himself, and when he was done, he made me clean his cock with my tongue right there, on my knees on the cold tile, looking up at him. He left marks on my hips my husband won’t be able to see because I know how to hide them, and a hollow in my cunt nothing fills.

***

On January 4th I woke up soaked. I’d dreamed about him all night. I dreamed he came back into my house without warning, that he grabbed me by the nape and pressed me against the counter, that he spoke in my ear with that deep voice that seems impossible in someone so young. I woke up with my hand between my legs, my fingers drenched, my clit swollen and throbbing. I had been touching myself in my sleep.

I went downstairs in my robe, with nothing underneath, and made coffee like an automaton. My son was asleep. Outside, it was raining softly. The house smelled of winter and fear. I took the phone from my robe pocket and looked at the contact I’d saved as “Plumber” three weeks earlier, when I was still telling myself it was a joke.

I hit call before thinking twice.

—Who is it? —his voice on the other end, hoarse, still sleepy.

—Carolina —I said. I didn’t add anything else. There was no need.

There was a long silence. I heard him move, heard a sheet. I pictured him shirtless, hair tousled, morning-hard cock, staring at the ceiling in his room.

—I thought you’d take longer to call —he said at last, and the smile was obvious in his voice.

I ran out of breath. The counter was holding me up. I looked down and saw my fingers gripping the edge like I might fall.

—My son’s at home —I murmured—. But he sleeps late. And my husband doesn’t get back until Friday.

—Carolina, why are you calling me?

—You know why.

—Tell me anyway.

I squeezed my eyelids shut. My face was burning and my cunt was leaking down the insides of my thighs. I’d been imagining that question for five days and still didn’t have a decent answer.

—Because I can’t sleep —I said, my voice cracking a little—. Because I touch myself thinking about your cock and it’s not enough. Because I put three fingers in my cunt imagining it’s you and I come and ten minutes later I’m wet again. Because when I see my son I remember how you treat him and it knots up between my legs. Because… because I need you to fuck me again.

I heard him laugh softly.

—Look at you —he said—. The polite lady of the house begging like a little whore. I like you like that. Are you wet now, Carolina?

—Yes.

—Put a finger in. Now.

With a trembling hand, I opened my robe, braced my ass on the edge of the counter, and brought my hand down to my cunt. I was soaked. I slid in my middle finger and let out a low moan I couldn’t swallow.

—Good girl —he said—. Now two. And don’t stop listening to me.

I closed my eyes. I felt how “ma’am” cut something inside me and lit me up at the same time. My husband never spoke to me like that. My husband made love to me with the lights off and asked if I was comfortable.

—I’m going to ask you for something —he went on—. You’re not going to think about it. You’re going to do it.

—Yes.

—Put on something you wore for him. For your husband. Something that’s been sitting in the drawer because you thought it no longer fit you. And leave the door open for me. I’m getting there in forty minutes with my cock hard thinking about that dripping cunt you just described to me. And don’t touch yourself again until I arrive. That cunt is mine until noon.

He hung up.

***

I went up the stairs shaking, my thighs sticky and my panties already completely ruined. My son was still asleep with the door shut. I went into my room and sat on the bed for a long minute, staring at the drawer where I kept the lingerie I hadn’t worn in years. A wine-colored set, lace, bows at the hips. My husband had given it to me for an anniversary and I’d cried from embarrassment when I first wore it. This time I didn’t cry. I put it on slowly, as if it were a uniform. The lace dug into my already hard nipples. My panties were stained the second the fabric touched me.

Over it I put a thin black wool dress, sleeveless, that clung to my body and my husband had asked me to stop wearing because it “caused talk.” I tied my hair up. Painted my lips. I looked in the mirror and for the first time in years the woman looking back wasn’t mom or wife or anything. It was a heat-crazed female about to do something that couldn’t be undone.

I went downstairs. I left the door ajar. I sat in the living room armchair and watched the rain fall behind the glass wall, my legs squeezed shut to hold myself back, feeling myself swell inside every time I breathed.

***

I heard him come in before I saw him. Heavy footsteps on the parquet. The door closing carefully. Damián knows how to move when he needs to.

He appeared in the living room doorway with his jacket wet and that same old smile. His skin still held the cold from outside. He froze, looking me up and down as if measuring me. I saw the hard bulge beneath his pants, already thick, not even bothering to hide it.

—Stand up —he said, no greeting.

I stood.

—Come here.

I walked to him. I felt my heels mark every step against the wood. When I was within arm’s reach, he caught my chin with two fingers, neither gentle nor rough, like someone adjusting something that belonged to him.

—Your son is upstairs —he said, almost amused.

—He’s asleep —I answered—. And he doesn’t wake up until noon.

—Good. Then we’ll fuck you quietly.

He kissed me for the first time. It wasn’t sweet. It was the kiss of someone who eats, not someone who caresses. He shoved his tongue all the way in, sucked my bottom lip, bit me. My legs went weak. He pulled me against him, dragged his hand over my ass over the dress, squeezed it like he was claiming me, and through the wool I felt that young cock pressed to my belly, throbbing.

—You’re soaked, aren’t you? —he murmured against my mouth.

He slid a hand down my thigh, lifted my dress to my waist, shoved two fingers beneath my soaked panties. He moaned too.

—Look at you, ma’am. Dripping in your own living room on a Sunday morning. And this is how you were talking to your husband on the phone last night?

—Take me upstairs —I whispered in his ear, almost begging—. Now. Please.

—Not my room.

—The guest room.

—Yes.

***

The guest room is at the end of the hall, with a window overlooking the patio. He locked the door. He told me not to turn on the light. The little daylight that came in through the window outlined his shoulders and left his face almost in shadow.

—Take off the dress. Slowly. Like I have to look at you for an hour before touching you.

I did. My hands wouldn’t obey me. When the lingerie was exposed, I heard him let out a breath through his nose, and that was all I needed to know that, beneath the smile, his cock was about to split his pants open too.

—On your knees.

I knelt without arguing. He unbuckled his belt slowly, never taking his eyes off me, and when he pulled his pants down his cock sprang out, hard, long, the head shining and a thick vein marked all the way down. My mouth flooded with saliva.

—Suck it. No hands.

I went to him and ran my tongue from base to tip in one slow lick. I licked his balls, took them into my mouth one by one, and went back up until I swallowed him whole. He hit the back of my throat and made me tear up. He pushed slowly, gripping my hair, and started to thrust into my mouth at his own rhythm, not mine. I left my mouth open, tongue out, and he used it. Saliva dripped down my chin, soaking my breasts still trapped in the wine-colored lace.

—That’s it, ma’am. That’s how you suck a cock. Look at me while you suck it.

I lifted my eyes without taking him out of my mouth and he let out a rough moan. He pulled out suddenly, gave the swollen tip two soft slaps against my cheek, and bent down to kiss me with my mouth full of him.

—To the bed. Face down. Ass up.

I obeyed. I crawled to the edge of the bed and got on my knees, chest against the mattress, ass in the air. I heard his heavy breathing behind me. He ripped my soaked panties off in one yank, smelled them without any shame, and threw them to the floor.

—This cunt is ready to be thrown out —he murmured.

He dragged his tongue from my clit all the way to my ass. I screamed into the pillow. He spread me with his thumbs and buried himself to eat me, sucking, biting my lips slowly, shoving his tongue in as far as it would go. I felt his short beard scrape the inner part of my thighs. He slid in two fingers and kept sucking my clit until I started shaking. I came in his mouth with a muffled howl, soaking his chin.

He gave me no respite. He straightened up, grabbed my hips with both hands, and drove his cock into me in one single thrust. He went in all the way, to the balls, and we both moaned at the same time.

—Be quiet —he told me, covering my mouth with one hand—. Your son is sleeping.

He started fucking me hard, with long, deep thrusts, unhurried but merciless. The guest room bed creaked. I bit the pillow. He planted one open hand between my shoulder blades, like that first time in the kitchen, and hammered into me until I saw white. I felt the skin of his belly slam against my ass with every stroke, that wet, obscene sound my soaked cunt made around his cock.

—Say your full name —he panted—. All of it. With the surnames.

—Carolina… —I moaned— Carolina Beltrán de… de…

—Your husband’s surname —he drove in one dry thrust—. Say it.

—…de Ruiz —I cried.

—Good, Mrs. Beltrán de Ruiz. Now come on my cock.

He slid his hand underneath, found my clit with his thumb, and drew quick circles without stopping his thrusts. I came again, screaming into the pillow, legs shaking, my cunt clamping down on him so hard he let out a growl.

He pulled out, turned me onto my back, spread my legs and shoved into me again in one blow. Now he wanted to see my face. He watched me fixedly while he drove into me, braced on his arms, hair falling over his sweaty forehead.

—Has your husband ever heard you cry from pleasure, ma’am?

—No —I answered without thinking.

—I’m going to be the first.

And he was. He grabbed one leg, put it over his shoulder, and started pounding my cunt at the angle that made me lose my mind. My eyes were really tearing up. I clawed at his back, dug my nails into his ass, begged him not to stop. I came a third time with a muffled cry, biting his shoulder so I wouldn’t wake my son, while he emptied himself inside me with a low groan, thrusting to the hilt, leaving his cock buried in me as he finished unloading.

Afterwards he stayed with me on the bed, silent, both of us staring at the guest room ceiling. I could feel the semen leaking down the inside of my thigh. Outside, the rain had stopped. I heard a car pass far away. Damián took my hand without saying anything, fingers intertwined, as if we were something else.

—You have to go —I said.

—I know.

But he didn’t leave right away. He smoked a cigarette at the window, half dressed, his cock still visible, looking at me from there like someone watching a room he knows he’s going to come back to. I told him the next time couldn’t be at my house. He told me the next time I’d go wherever he told me, and that he was going to fuck me in the ass. I didn’t argue.

***

It was ten fifteen when he left. At eleven my son came down to breakfast with no suspicion at all, hair tousled and a Sunday face. I made him toast, squeezing my thighs under the table because I still had Damián’s semen inside me. I asked him about the party the night before. I smiled at him. When he got up to put his cup in the sink, he came over and kissed me on the cheek, as he does every morning.

—You’re different today, Mom —he said.

—Yeah? How?

—I don’t know. Calmer.

I turned away so he wouldn’t see the look on my face. I told him I’d finally slept well. I went up to the guest room, opened the window, changed the stained sheets, put them straight into the washing machine on a long cycle. I sat on the bidet and washed my cunt slowly, still feeling Damián’s cock marked deep inside me. Then I sat on the edge of the empty bed and stayed like that for a while, not thinking, just feeling my cunt swollen and throbbing.

That night my husband called. I asked him about the trip, the conference, the cold. I told him I missed him. And for the first time in five days I felt something like calm when he answered, “Me too, my love,” because I realized it wasn’t that calm I’d been looking for.

Damián texted me in the middle of the night. Just one line: “Wednesday at three. I’ll send you the address. Come without panties.” I didn’t answer until the next morning. I answered yes.

***

Three days have passed since then and I’m already counting the hours. I’m not naïve. I know this doesn’t end well. I know there’s a version of this story where my husband finds out, my son suffers, everything I built in fifteen years breaks in a week. I also know there’s another version where Damián gets tired of me and leaves, and then the problem isn’t losing him but losing what I discovered about myself with him.

But I can’t stop. For the first time in a long time, I’m inhabiting my body again. I touch myself three times a day thinking about his cock. I go back to smelling my clothes, to paying attention to what I eat, to noticing the sun when it comes in through the window. The obsession gave me back the small things. It also gave me back a version of myself I thought was lost: the one who doesn’t settle, the one who’s hungry, the one who wants to be fucked.

On Wednesday I’m going to that address. I’m going to have dinner ready for my son, I’m going to tell him I have a work meeting, I’m going to drive to the other side of the city, without panties like he asked, feeling the car upholstery rub against my cunt at every traffic light. I’m going to ring a bell that isn’t mine. And when he opens the door, I’m not going to think about anything I’ve written here. I’m just going to go in, close the door behind me, kneel in the hallway, pull his cock out of his pants before I even say hello, and stay there for as long as he lets me.

Maybe when this is over —because it will be over— I’ll have the courage to tell the ending too. For now, this is what I have: a confession halfway there, written in the middle of the night in the kitchen of the house where, until two weeks ago, I was still an entire woman.