The Secret of My Mother and My Aunt in the Garage

My mother’s call came shortly after lunch. She wanted me to drive her to my aunt Consuelo’s house, which sat apart from the village, near the old industrial estate. She wouldn’t tell me anything over the phone, only that she had arranged to meet her and needed me to take her there. It was a Saturday in July and the heat slapped against the asphalt like a hot iron.

During the drive, my mother Rosario barely spoke. She had a gym bag in her lap I’d never seen before, and she stared out the window, biting the inside of her cheek, as she always did when something was turning over in her head. I asked if she was all right. She said yes. I didn’t press.

We got to my aunt’s house at four. The garage was locked from the inside and the living room blinds were down despite the sun. My mother got out with the bag slung over her shoulder and, before shutting the car door, leaned in through the window.

“Aren’t you coming in?”

“No, I’m going for a walk,” I told her. “I’ll come back for you in a couple of hours.”

“Okay. Call me before you come.”

She thought it was odd, but she didn’t insist. I went to the bar at the roundabout and ordered a beer without rushing. The bartender put the match on and I just stood there staring at the glass sweating on the counter without drinking it. Something in my mother’s expression when she got out of the car had left me unsettled. Something about that bag that weighed more than a towel and a change of clothes should have weighed.

At five-thirty I decided to go back.

I rang the bell twice. No one answered. The outer door, the white-painted wooden one, was ajar. I pushed it with my elbow and went in. The house smelled of sweat and liniment, a locker-room smell that made no sense on a family afternoon. I called out again. No answer. I went down the hall, passed the empty living room, crossed the kitchen, and at the end of the corridor found the garage door half open.

What I saw when I pushed it open rooted me to the floor.

The car had been moved out. In its place they had improvised a ring with blue mats taped to the floor and ropes tied to four pillars with carabiners. Two folding stools in the corners. A bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. And in each corner, seated on her stool, a woman.

In the right corner, my aunt Consuelo. Blonde, sixty-two years old, five foot three, legs apart and back against the pillar. She wore white trousers with a black stripe down the side, wide and old-fashioned, like the ones you saw in eighties magazines. Barefoot. Topless, with big breasts hanging heavy over her ribs, broad dark nipples hardened by the air. Her hands were wrapped in white bandages with thin padding over the knuckles. Her lip was swollen and a red mark was climbing up her sternum, between her breasts.

In the left corner, my mother Rosario. Brunette, sixty years old, the same height as her sister. Black trousers with a white stripe, also barefoot, also topless, also with her hands bandaged. Her breasts were smaller than her sister’s, firmer, with pink nipples pointing upward, and sweat ran down her cleavage and soaked the waistband of her trousers. She was breathing through her mouth. Her whole body was shining.

The thought that had stayed with me since adolescence, the image I had searched for in hundreds of videos in secret, the fantasy I had never shared with anyone, was right there in front of me. And it was being played out by my mother and my aunt.

I felt my cock go hard like a blow. My shorts left nothing to the imagination; my whole cock was outlined against the fabric, pulling at the elastic. I stood there on the threshold, not knowing whether to go in or run.

“Are you going to stand there or are you going to bring your aunt and me some water?” my mother said without lifting her head to speak to me. Her eyes were closed.

I didn’t answer. I went into the garage.

“Start with her,” Rosario said without looking at me. “It’s her house.”

I went over to my aunt’s corner. There was an open cooler with bottles of cold water, a sweat-soaked towel, and a metal spit bucket. I took a bottle.

“Give it here, nephew,” Consuelo said, opening her mouth without opening her eyes.

I poured water into her mouth. She swallowed a sip and spat the rest into the bucket. I wiped her forehead, her neck, her shoulders, and then, without fully thinking about it, her breasts. The soaked cloth slid over her nipples and made them even harder. Consuelo didn’t pull away. On the contrary, she arched her back a little so the towel could keep moving. Her skin was hot and taut, and a bruise was already forming under her jaw that would be huge by the next day. I smeared a little Vaseline on my hand and spread it over her temples and cheekbones, being careful not to press where the skin was already red.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” she told me, opening her eyes for only a second to look at me.

Her gaze dropped down my chest and stopped at the bulge my cock made in my shorts. It wasn’t subtle. It was a direct, long look, with a half-smile hanging off the corner of her swollen lip. It wasn’t the look of the aunt who made me snacks when I was a kid. It was the look of someone who knew exactly what I was thinking and had no intention of saying a word. Yet.

I went over to my mother’s corner.

Rosario had her legs apart, her arms hanging from the side ropes, her head resting against the pillar and her eyes half closed. Her nose was bleeding a little. The towel at her feet was soaked through. Her hair was tied up in a messy bun, with strands stuck to her forehead by sweat. Her breasts rose and fell with her breathing, and her nipples were so hard they looked carved.

“Are you okay, Mom?”

“Better than ever,” she whispered.

I gave her water. It took me a minute to ease her jaw open so she could drink properly. I cleaned the blood from her nose with a piece of gauze. I ran the cold bottle over her face, her neck, her shoulders, and then, without asking and without restraint, down to circle one breast with the icy glass. My mother gave a low gasp, very short, and closed her mouth again. Her nipple hardened even more against the glass. I went over the other one and did the same. She didn’t push my hand away. I crouched and lifted her legs from beneath the knees to rest them on my thighs, the way I’d seen corner men do in videos. I started with her quadriceps, down to the knee and back up. The muscle was trembling.

Rosario threw her head back and let out a long sigh.

She’s my mother. She’s my mother. She’s my mother.

I grabbed another bottle. I loosened the elastic waistband of her black shorts and poured the cold water inside, straight between her legs. My mother jolted as if she’d been shocked. A short moan escaped her that she tried to cover with a cough. She didn’t move away. The water ran down her cunt and soaked the inside of her shorts, and when I let go of the elastic the fabric clung to her mound, tracing the exact shape. I watched the wet patch spreading between her thighs and didn’t know if it was only water.

I spread Vaseline over her forehead, her cheekbones, her chin. I redid her bun and changed the elastics. I placed the mouthguard between her teeth. My aunt, in the other corner, watched me without saying anything, her bandaged hand resting on her thigh, so close to her own trousers it looked as if she’d been touching herself and stopped the moment I turned my head.

A small bell rang, the kind they have at hotel counters. Someone had tied it to a string and left the cord within my aunt’s reach. It was Consuelo who rang it.

The two of them stood up at the same time.

They walked to the center of the ring with their guards high and their knees bent. The first thing my aunt did was land three straight punches in a row to my mother’s face. Tap, tap, tap. Rosario didn’t flinch. She answered with two shots to the chest that made Consuelo cover up with her elbows, but before she lowered her arms I saw my aunt’s breasts absorb the impact and bounce, and the skin around her left nipple reddened at once. That was when my aunt threw a hook that caught my mother on the cheek and sent her into the ropes.

Rosario stayed there, gripping the top rope with one arm, while Consuelo unloaded five seconds of body shots. I could hear the dull sound of fists against wet skin. My mother’s breasts trembled with every blow, shaking up and down and side to side, and on one of those punches my aunt’s glove rose too high and brushed over her left nipple. My mother moaned. It wasn’t a cry of pain, or not entirely. Sweat ran down her back in a steady thread until it slipped into the crease of her ass. Her legs were shaking but they didn’t give out.

When Consuelo stepped back to take a breath, my mother caught her in a clinch and leaned into her. The two bodies pressed together, breasts flattened against breasts, breaths mingling, hard nipples stabbing into one another. I saw my aunt shift her hip against my mother’s in the struggle, a slow friction that lasted longer than a defensive clinch should have lasted. Consuelo tried to push her back to create distance and, at the exact moment the space opened, Rosario let fly a right hand that landed square on her sister’s jaw. My aunt’s mouthguard flew out and bounced off the mat.

Consuelo didn’t retreat. She clenched her teeth, wiped her mouth with the back of her bandaged hand, and came forward throwing vicious shots. The exchange lasted almost a full minute. Every punch landed clean. Both women’s legs were trembling. Sweat hit the floor with a sound. The rage between them was something I had never seen between two people, let alone two sisters.

When the bell rang a second time, they were in the middle of the ring, holding on to each other, whispering things in each other’s ears that I couldn’t hear. They ended the round in a draw. Neither had gone down.

I was still in my corner, unable to move, my cock leaking inside my shorts. I had never imagined that the fetish I’d carried in silence since I was sixteen would materialize with my mother as the star. And I had never imagined that my mother could throw a punch. Consuelo had been in a gym for years; she’d sent videos to the family WhatsApp group of her classes, her sparring, her medals. But Rosario had never raised her hand for anything. And there she was, giving back every shot with the same speed and precision as her sister.

***

We didn’t speak on the way home. Neither of us did. My mother was in the passenger seat with the gym bag between her feet, her hair tied up, a loose T-shirt over her sports bra, and sweatpants. She had a small cut above her eyebrow and a reddened cheekbone.

When we got to the apartment, she left the keys in the bowl by the entrance and said without looking at me:

“I’m going to shower.”

She closed the bathroom door. I went to the living room and sat on the sofa. When I touched my pants, my boxer briefs were soaked. I had come silently, without even realizing it, sometime between the second body shot and the bell. I pulled them down a little to separate the fabric stuck to my glans and looked down for a second at my cock, still half hard, with a thick thread of semen running down to my groin. I covered myself with a cushion and stared at the television, switched off.

I listened to the shower for almost half an hour. Then the hair dryer. Then nothing.

When she opened the bathroom door, my mother appeared in the living room doorway with her hair still damp, a gray tank top clinging to her body where the fabric had gotten wet, and blue cotton panties covering her hips. Barefoot. No bra. Her nipples stood out hard through the fabric.

I had never looked at my mother with desire. For my whole life she had been an absolute boundary in my head, a line I never crossed even in my darkest thoughts. But after the ring, after seeing her strike and be struck, after having her in my hands with her trousers down and water running inside them, that boundary had fallen.

She sat down beside me on the sofa. She didn’t say anything for a couple of minutes. Neither did I.

“What did you think of what you saw today?” she asked at last, and slid her right hand inside my pants.

She found me hard again. She closed her fingers around my cock, squeezed the base, and started pulling the foreskin back with a slowness that made me close my eyes. My mother’s hand was around my cock and there was no turning back.

“You have no idea how many times I’ve come thinking about you in a ring,” I told her. “Fighting. Like today. Topless with sweat running down your stomach. Hundreds, Mom. Hundreds of wanks thinking about you without knowing it was you.”

“I knew,” Rosario murmured, and squeezed me harder. “I always knew. A mother can smell these things.”

My hand slipped inside her blue panties. I found her wet before I even touched her, soaked, with the pubic hair trimmed short and the lips open and hot. I ran two fingers through her slit from bottom to top and found the clit hard, swollen. My mother let out a long moan and opened her legs wider on the sofa.

“Put them in,” she gasped. “Put them in now.”

I drove the two fingers in to the knuckles. She was so wet my hand was dripping at once. I started fucking her with my fingers, in and out, while my thumb worked her clit in circles. Rosario threw her head back against the backrest and kept squeezing my cock, moving her hand up and down, spitting into her palm to make it slide better. I could smell the clean sweat mixed with soap and the smell of a soaked cunt, and it was the most obscene, most addictive smell I had ever breathed in my life.

“The night is long,” Rosario said, her voice broken. “And there are a lot of things you don’t know about me. Things I’ve been keeping to myself for years. Things your aunt and I used to fight about in that ring.”

She yanked my cock out of my pants. It was red, swollen, the tip shining. She bent over my lap and took it into her mouth without any preamble. I felt her hot tongue run from my balls to the glans and then her lips sealing around me. My mother sucked me with hunger, her bandaged hand from that afternoon still marked on her knuckles, spitting saliva over the head and swallowing again. I grabbed her damp hair with both hands and helped set the rhythm. I could see the back of her neck, her back, the curve of her ass peeking out from the blue panties as she let her own son fuck her cock with his mouth.

“Mom, fuck, Mom,” I whispered. “Like that, Mom, suck me like that.”

Rosario lifted her head. Her lips were shining and a thread of spit connected them to my glans. She looked me straight in the face for the first time since we’d left the garage.

“Do you want me to tell you everything?” she said. “Or would you rather I sit on your cock while I tell you?”

I couldn’t answer. I pulled her panties aside and she climbed astride me on the sofa. She took my cock in her hand, ran it along her cunt from top to bottom a couple of times, soaking it, and then sat down on it in one motion, all the way in. The moan she let out could have been heard by the neighbors, for sure. I clenched my teeth so I wouldn’t come right there and then. My mother’s cunt gripped me like a hot fist, pulsing around my cock, wrapping me whole.

She started moving. Back and forth, then up and down, setting the pace herself, bracing her hands on my shoulders. Her tank top rode up and her breasts came free, bouncing in front of my face. I grabbed one with my mouth, sucked it, bit it, and she buried her fingers in my hair as she kept riding me without stopping. The sofa creaked. Her cunt was splashing every time she came down, a wet, dirty sound that was driving me insane.

“Your aunt and I fought over your father,” Rosario panted without slowing. “That’s why the punches. She fucked him behind my back for twenty years. Twenty, son. And today I gave back each one.”

I grabbed her ass with both hands and helped her move faster up and down. My mother leaned her torso back, braced herself on my thighs, and gave me the full view: the soaked mound, my cock coming in and out shiny with her juices, her breasts pointing at the ceiling, her mouth open.

“And now,” she went on, out of breath, “now I’m also going to fuck the only thing she never had. My son. And I’m going to tell her tomorrow.”

That made me jump. I grabbed her by the waist, drove her down all the way, and came inside her in a blast that shook my whole body. I felt each spurt hit the back of her cunt and heard her moan loudly, very loudly, while she clenched and trembled and came at the same time on top of me. Her back arched, her thighs tightened around my hips, and she stayed like that, impaled, breathing against my neck, with my cock still inside her and the semen beginning to run out between her lips.

She collapsed onto me. Sweat-soaked, soft, trembling. I ran my hands over her back, her ass, her damp hair. I didn’t say anything.

“The night is long,” she repeated in my ear, and bit my earlobe. “And this was only the first time.”

Since that night, my relationship with my mother changed forever. The girl with the glasses I’m seeing, the one who stars in other stories of mine, is part of it now too. But that’s for another confession. I’ll close this one here, with my mother’s hand still squeezing me and mine inside her, and the absolute certainty that nothing would ever be the same again.