The Forbidden Drawers of My Best Friend’s Mother

Some women don’t need to do anything to throw you off balance, and Marisol was exactly that kind of woman. Every time I saw her, her nipples showed through the fabric, or the strap of her thong could be made out when she adjusted it as she walked, not caring that half the world was watching. She was provocative from every angle, and she knew it. She enjoyed it.

She was forty-five, but she carried her age as though time owed her a favor. She loved taking pictures of herself in her underwear, barely covering herself under the shower, posing like a magazine model, then posting them on her social media for the whole world to see. I was one of those who watched them. Every night, in my room with the lights off, I would open her profile, my cock in my hand and my breath held, imagining everything that was never going to happen.

Because for obvious reasons, it was impossible. I was nineteen, my body covered in tattoos and my head full of ideas, but to her I was still her son’s friend. A kid. The boy who went to her house to play console games with Bruno and waste the afternoons talking about nothing.

It had started a couple of summers earlier, when I still didn’t even dare look her straight in the face. One day I caught her hanging laundry on the terrace, wearing a thin dress with the sun outlining her figure in silhouette: you could see everything, her loose tits swinging with every arm she raised, the dark shadow of her pussy behind the wet fabric. I stood frozen in the hallway longer than I should have, my cock swelling against the seam of my trousers, and when she turned her head and caught me looking, she didn’t seem uncomfortable. She smiled. That smile was the beginning of everything, and from then on every visit to that house was a small torture.

And yet hope never quite died.

***

That afternoon I went to Bruno’s house as I had so many other times. The usual routine: going up to his room, turning on the console, talking about girls neither of us was ever going to touch. But that afternoon Marisol came downstairs to greet me before I reached the stairs.

—How are you doing, handsome? You haven’t let yourself be seen in days —she said, and hugged me.

It was one of her hugs, the kind that lasted a second longer than necessary. I felt her tits pressing against my arm, her hard nipples showing through the thin fabric, digging into me like two hot little stones. My mouth went dry and my cock suddenly shoved against my fly. When she turned around to go back to the kitchen, I saw that she was wearing short pajamas, the tight shorts splitting her ass into two round halves that moved as she walked, the thong strap showing again beneath the fabric. My vision blurred. I went upstairs, trying not to let the bulge between my legs show.

—Your mother’s going to kill someone one day, dressed like that —I blurted out to Bruno, half joking.

—Don’t start —he replied without taking his eyes off the screen.

But I had started a long time ago. I’d been starting for years.

***

After a while, I got an overpowering urge to go to the bathroom. The kind you can’t hold in. And the problem—or rather, the stroke of luck—was that the only bathroom on the floor was inside Marisol’s bedroom.

—I’m going to the bathroom for a minute —I said, and Bruno barely nodded, absorbed in the game.

I crossed the hallway with my heart pounding against my chest. I pushed open the door to her room, and she wasn’t there. The unmade bed, the rumpled sheets still bearing the imprint of her body, the air heavy with her perfume mixed with something more intimate, warmer, as if she had just gotten up. A robe tossed over a chair. I closed the door behind me with care bordering on ridiculous and switched on the light.

I didn’t go straight to the bathroom. My eyes fell first on the dresser, on those drawers I had so often imagined opening. And I opened them.

The first was full of thongs. Dozens of them, in every color, folded or piled up without any order. My cock went hard as a rock instantly, just from seeing them, touching them, rummaging through them like a thief with my breath coming in short gasps. I felt the tip begin to moisten inside my trousers, a thick drop soaking the fabric from within.

The second drawer was even worse. Lingerie of every kind, lace, sheer fabrics, sets I had only ever seen in her pictures. I couldn’t take it anymore. I yanked down my trousers and underwear in one motion, right there, standing in the middle of her room, my ear alert for any noise in the hallway. My cock sprang out hard, curving upward, its tip shining with the pre-cum already dripping from me in threads.

It was harder than ever, throbbing with every heartbeat. I picked up one of the thongs, a white lace one, turned it around to the part that had rubbed against her pussy, and ran my swollen glans over the fabric again and again. I felt every seam, every raised bit of lace slowly scratching the sensitive head of my cock, and I had to bite my lip to keep from moaning. The mere thought drove me crazy: that she might put it on afterward without knowing, carrying the trace of my cum stuck to her wet lips.

I set it down and went on to another, a black one, tiny, barely more than a string. I opened it with both hands, stretched it out, imagined Marisol’s pussy peeking out around the edges, and wound it around my cock like a silk fist. I began pumping slowly, squeezing it with the fabric, feeling the lace scrape along the entire shaft, feeling the moisture leaking from me soak into the garment. I switched to a third, a red one, and ran it over my balls, underneath them, over the place where she sat, imagining how it would fit her, where her skin would rest against it. The cool fabric against the hottest part of my body made me tremble, and every brush was an impossible promise. I ran my thumb over the seams, over the half-peeled labels, over those tiny details that made it more real than any photograph.

I opened a third drawer and found the bras, daring ones, with patterns that seemed designed to drive anyone wild. I closed my eyes and imagined her tits, the same ones that had pressed against my arm that afternoon, falling over my face, her hard nipples slipping between my lips for me to suck. I took one with large cups in both hands, held it for a moment as I gauged the size, imagining the weight that would fill those cups, and unable to stop myself, pushed my cock inside one of them, wrapped it in the padded fabric, and rubbed myself there, against the lining that had so often held her breasts. At the back of the drawer there was something else, a small box I didn’t dare open. I caught sight of something pink and silicone, something elongated, and my cock lashed with pleasure at the mere thought of where Marisol put that at night. Not with the clock running against me.

This is insane. If she comes in now, it’s all over.

But I didn’t stop. The thought of danger turned me on even more.

***

I knew I couldn’t stay much longer. Bruno might start wondering, and Marisol could come back at any moment. I closed the drawers, trying to leave everything as it had been, my cock still stiff and slapping against my navel, and finally went into the bathroom. I switched on the light and, in front of me, a laundry basket caught my attention.

On top of everything was the black lace pajama set she had been wearing the last time I saw her. I recognized it immediately. I started to urinate, and my stream cut off just from looking at it, my cock hardening again, bending against the rim of the toilet. Hard again, out of control again. I put my hand into the basket, and when I lifted the little shorts, a pair of lace panties that had become tangled in them fell free.

I picked them up, and my cock throbbed like never before. I turned them inside out, opened them with my fingers, and searched for the part that had been pressed against her pussy. There it was: the mark, a darker strip in the center, almost dry around the outside and still warm in one spot, a little damp, with those transparent threads left behind when a woman takes off her panties after wearing them all day. Without thinking, without even deciding to, my tongue slipped from my mouth and I tasted the edge. It didn’t taste bad. It smelled soft, clean, with a faint acidic, feminine trace beneath it that pushed me over the edge in a second. I ran my tongue over it again, this time eagerly, sucking the fabric, swallowing what remained of her, imagining it was her pussy I was eating directly.

I couldn’t hold back. I spat into my hand, spread it all over my cock, and placed that part of the fabric, the most stained part, right over my glans. I began rubbing, fast, pressing my fist against the lace, feeling the rough seams pull moans from me that I had to choke back by biting my lip until it bled. With my other hand I grabbed my balls and squeezed them, rolling them between my fingers as I kept pumping. I was right on the verge. Everything in me tightened, my ass clenched, heat climbed up my spine, and I let out a low growl when I started to come. I let the first jet fall against the fabric, soaking it in the same place where her pussy had been; the second shot escaped me and flew as far as the mirror, a thick white strand sliding down the glass. I pressed the last spurts out with the panties held over me, so everything would stay inside, so she would carry my semen stuck to the fabric when she put them in the washing machine. I returned them to the basket facedown, concealing the stain, wiped the mirror with paper, wiped my still-dripping cock, pulled up my trousers, and opened the door.

And there she was.

***

Marisol was coming down the hallway, just as I stepped out. For an instant my heart stopped, convinced that everything showed on my face, that an invisible sign was giving me away, that I smelled equally of semen and her pussy.

—I was just going to change, since I have to go to work —she said naturally, and gave me a goodbye hug.

Another one of hers. I felt her body, her perfume, her warmth, her tits pressing against me again, and I had to grit my teeth so she wouldn’t notice that my cock, drained and all, was trying to rise again. For a second it seemed to me that she was looking at me differently, that her eyes dipped briefly toward the bulge in my trousers, that they lingered on mine as if they wanted to ask me something. That the corner of her mouth curved just slightly, like someone who already knew the answer. Maybe it was all in my head, desire turning every gesture into a signal. But that doubt stayed with me for days.

She went into her room and closed the door. And I remained in the hallway thinking, with a mixture of guilt and arousal, about the exact moment when she put on one of those thongs. When her pussy brushed, without her knowing, against the lace soaked with my cum. When she tucked those panties between her lips as she bent over and suddenly felt something sticky, something warm, something that wasn’t hers.

I almost got hard again right there. But I took a deep breath, went back to Bruno’s room, and told him it had gotten late and I had to leave.

—Already? You just got here —he protested.

—We’ll talk tomorrow —I replied, and went down the stairs two at a time.

***

I got home with my body still vibrating, my half-hard cock bouncing inside my trousers with every step. I locked myself in my room, pulled everything down to my ankles, and threw myself onto the bed on my back. I opened her profile on my phone and let the pictures pass one after another. The one in the shower, water running over her tits and one hand barely covering a nipple. The one in the red set, the thong wedged between the lips of her pussy, outlining the cleft through the fabric. The one she had taken in front of the mirror, looking at the camera as if she knew exactly what she was provoking, her ass raised, her back arched, offering it.

I filled my hand with spit and began stroking myself slowly, letting the skin slide, stretching out every second. At first I went down with two fingers, squeezing only the glans, pulling the foreskin back until the head was bare and purple. Then I closed my whole fist and began pumping hard, thinking about her warm panties, the barely perceptible acidic taste on my tongue, her tits against my arm, the thong strap she adjusted as she walked even though she knew I was watching.

I imagined her pussy opening over mine, lowering slowly until my entire cock sank inside her, feeling the way she squeezed me, the way she sucked me inward. I imagined her tits falling over my mouth, her nipples scraping my teeth as I grabbed her ass with both hands and lifted and lowered her. I imagined fucking her from behind, kneeling, one hand on her waist and the other pulling her hair, while she arched her back and begged me for more, harder, deeper. I imagined her on her knees, looking up at me from below, my cock buried deep in her throat, drool running down over her breasts, her eyes watering and that familiar smile of hers, knowing perfectly well what she was doing to me.

I imagined her mocking laugh telling me that she knew perfectly well what I had done in her room. That she had smelled my cum in her panties when she put them on. That her tongue had gone to the fabric of its own accord to taste me, just as I had done before. That she had always known. That she liked it. I imagined that she was the one who had deliberately left the door ajar, the one who had placed that basket exactly where I would see it, the one who had been playing with me since that first summer without my realizing it, waiting for the day I had the balls to cross the hallway and bury my cock in her to the hilt.

I couldn’t hold out much longer. I felt the pull in my balls, the hot rise along my shaft, and came in thick spurts over my own hand, my stomach, my skin, running downward, my eyes closed and the image of her engraved inside me. There were three, four heavy bursts that left me trembling, my cock still beating in my fist, spitting the last thick remnants between my fingers. I stayed like that for a while, in silence, my semen cooling on my stomach, before cleaning myself and letting the phone fall onto the bed.

I knew I would go back to Bruno’s house. I knew I would see her again, that she would hug me for a second too long, that she would adjust her thong in front of me as if nothing had happened. And I knew that, as long as that door remained at the end of the hallway, I would never stop inventing excuses to cross it.