What I Heard Behind My Son’s Door That Night

Last Saturday my son organized a high school alumni reunion. Of everyone who came through the house, the only one who stayed to sleep over was Bruno, his best friend since forever, who now lives far away and only comes by on rare occasions. They got back after midnight, laughing too loudly, bumping into the furniture in the entryway. They were drunk. And everyone knows what alcohol does to young men’s tongues.

I was already in bed, or so they thought. The truth is I’ve had a light sleep for years, and my son’s room shares a wall with the hallway that leads to mine. When they talk in low voices, that voice they think nobody can hear, it reaches me as if they were standing at the foot of my bed.

I got up for a glass of water. I was barefoot, with no lights on, and as I passed in front of the half-open door I stopped. I wasn’t planning to stop. I just did.

—Your mom is still fucking gorgeous, seriously —Bruno was saying. He hadn’t seen me in more than a year—. I’d suck her off till dawn, man, I swear.

—I’m not gonna lie —my son answered, and I recognized in his voice that mix of pride and shame—. Sometimes I don’t even know where to look when she puts on those pants that make her cunt and ass stand out. You can see everything, the slit, the lips, all of it. I get hard just from watching her walk.

I froze in place. The empty glass still in my hand.

—And from above? —Bruno asked, lowering his voice even more.

—From above too, man. Some days she starts washing dishes and I sit in the dining room pretending I’m distracted, just to watch her tits bounce under her blouse. She doesn’t wear a bra at home, Bruno. Her nipples show like stones. One day I’m gonna jerk myself off dry just from looking at her.

So that was what he did when I felt him lurking around the kitchen.

I should have been outraged. I should have shoved the door open, turned on the light, and told that pair of reckless idiots to shut up. Instead, I leaned against the hallway wall in the dark and kept listening. My heart was pounding in my neck, in my wrists, and between my thighs I was already getting wet, my nightgown sticking to my cunt as if I’d pissed myself.

***

—Hey —Bruno went on, and from the tone I knew something worse was coming—, and you never got close? I mean, like, accidentally.

There was a long silence. The crinkle of a can opening.

—Once —my son admitted—. A few weeks ago. A friend of hers came to stay with her daughter, and since there weren’t enough beds, my mom slept in my room and I on a mattress on the floor. In the middle of the night I got into bed. I told myself it was so I wouldn’t get cold. Lie. My dick had been hard since I saw her get into my sheets in her nightgown.

—No fucking way. And?

—I got behind her. Spooning. I thought she was sound asleep from everything we’d eaten and drunk. I slid my arm around her waist, slowly, expecting her to move at any second and tell me off. She didn’t move. And my cock was hard as a rock, man, pressed against her ass over her nightgown. I could feel her warm cheeks against my dick. I almost came right then and there.

I remembered that night. I remembered the warm weight behind me, my son’s hard cock pressed between my butt cheeks, the arm that took forever to cross my waist. I remembered deciding, with my eyes closed, not to say anything. I had pretended to be asleep not because I didn’t notice, but precisely because I noticed everything. Every inch of that young cock throbbing against my ass as if it had a life of its own.

—And did you touch her? —Bruno’s voice was a thread.

—I grabbed a tit over the pajamas. I weighed it in my hand, man. I felt her nipple rock-hard against my palm. Since she didn’t say anything, I squeezed it a little, then I pinched it. And she was breathing like she was asleep, but I swear I felt her ass clench against my dick for a second. I rubbed my dick right there, between her cheeks, like that, not putting it in, not taking anything off her, just grinding over the fabric. I lasted hours. I didn’t dare do more. But that night I didn’t sleep, I swear, and I jerked off in the bathroom until I felt emptied out, like I’d been milked dry.

—You’re fucking crazy —Bruno muttered, and let out a nervous laugh—. If I were you I’d have slipped my hand under the nightgown and fingered her. You would’ve heard her moan in her sleep.

Leaning against the hallway wall, throat dry and pulse racing, I remembered exactly the moment his hand closed around my breast. I remembered how he pinched my nipple and how mine responded, hardening between his fingers like a traitor. I remembered squeezing my thighs together with all my strength because my cunt was throbbing, soaked, and I was afraid he might smell it. And I also remembered that, when his hard cock began to move against my ass, very slowly, in that restrained grinding of a man fucking a woman without actually fucking her, it was me who pushed my ass back a fraction, offering it to him in secret. When he finally gave up and went still, it was me who took hours to fall asleep, with my panties soaked through and the urge to stick my hand in there and finish right then and there, beside him.

***

—The thing is, your mom is so fucking hot, it’s not normal —Bruno insisted—. She’s one of those women who get better with age. A textbook MILF. I’d fuck her all night, man. I’d eat her pussy until she begged me.

—Don’t talk about her like that.

—But it’s true. I picture her like that, spooning like you said, and it blows my mind. Grabbing her by the waist, pressing up against her from behind, sliding my dick between her cheeks like you did, but I’d actually put it in, man. I’d flip her over, open her legs, and bury it to the balls. I’d take her from behind, take her in the mouth, get her on all fours and go at her until she came screaming. Oof, better not keep going —he laughed—. Your house, your luck, man.

And then my son said something that changed the whole night for me.

—The problem is I’m not the only one who looks at her like that. My mom’s been acting weird since last year. Different.

—Different how?

—Lit up. Horny, man. She gets herself ready to go out, leaves perfect, hair done, perfumed, with dresses that show off her tits and ass, and comes back at god knows what hour with the dress all twisted, her hair messed up, and a freshly fucked face she can’t hide. Once she went out in a white one that showed everything through, you could see her thong underneath, and she came back in the middle of the night with semen stains on the skirt, I swear. I saw them when she tossed the clothes in the wash. My mom has a life I don’t know about, Bruno. Guys fuck her, man, not just one, several. And ever since I realized that, I don’t look at her the same way. I get hard every time I think about the things they do to her.

The glass almost slipped from my hand.

Not because it was a lie. It was true. Every word. For more than a year I had been rediscovering a body I thought was retired, letting myself get fucked by men who reminded me I was still alive, coming back at dawn with my cunt burning, my thighs sticky with semen, and the certainty that my son was asleep. What shook me was realizing that he knew. That he had seen the stains, that he had read my face like a woman freshly penetrated, and instead of judging me, his cock got hard imagining it. That all that time, while I thought I was being discreet and invisible, he had been reading me like an open book. And that, instead of being outraged, what he felt was this: desire. Wanting to fuck me too.

***

—And do you know who she’s seeing? —Bruno asked, now completely absorbed in the conversation.

—I suspect one guy. Rodrigo, from the office next door. I’ve seen him drop her off, wait until I’m not at the window, shove his tongue down her throat and squeeze her ass with both hands like it’s his.

—Rodrigo? That bitter asshole?

—The same one. And I think there are more. I don’t know how many. I just know my mom, at her age, is fucking half the world while I’m here jerking off thinking about her.

Bruno fell silent for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice was almost respectful.

—Well, that’s fucking envy, in every possible way. I hope by my forties I’ve got someone who rides me the way I imagine your mom riding those assholes.

—Yeah, man. Better go to sleep before I say something else stupid.

The room lights went out. I heard the rustle of blankets, a couple more jokes growing farther apart, and finally the thick silence of two men defeated by sleep and alcohol.

But I was still standing in the hallway, barefoot, with the empty glass, my nipples hard against the fabric of my nightgown and my cunt soaked halfway down my thigh.

***

I went back to my room without turning on the light. I closed the door carefully and sat on the edge of the bed with my legs open, my nightgown hiked up to my hips and the cool air hitting my wet sex. I stayed there for a while listening to my own breathing, too fast for someone who was supposedly supposed to be outraged. I should have been. A normal mother would have been.

But it had been a long time since I’d stopped being a normal mother, if I ever was one.

I lay back on the cold sheets and let the words come back. I grabbed a tit. I squeezed it. I rubbed my dick between her cheeks. I closed my eyes and relived the night on the mattress on the floor: the weight behind me, the hard cock throbbing against my ass, the slow arm, the hand sliding up my side until it weighed my breast in his palm. I felt the pinch on my nipple again, the way my cunt contracted all at once, the way my ass, traitorous, had pushed back a millimeter to better feel that young cock dying to get inside.

I pulled my nightgown up to my neck, leaving my tits bare. I took one in my left hand, with the same pressure he’d used to weigh it, and pinched my nipple between my fingers, hard, just like he’d done. A moan escaped through my nose. With my right hand I moved down my belly, slowly, tracing the path so many men had traced for me those months, and found my cunt dripping, the lips swollen, the clit peeking out like a pearl, throbbing and begging for fingers.

I shoved two in at once. They sank all the way in, to the knuckles, with a wet sound that seemed obscene in the silence of the house. I closed my eyes and, alongside that caress, imagined Bruno whispering in my ear: you would’ve slipped your hand under the nightgown, you would’ve fingered her, you would’ve heard her moan in her sleep. On the other side I imagined my son, with that young, desperate cock, rubbing it between my cheeks while he squeezed one of my tits. Two men thinking about my cunt at the same time, a few feet from me, their cocks swollen and their hands busy with their own dicks, not knowing I was falling apart thinking about what they thought of me.

I started pumping my fingers fast. I bit my lip to keep from screaming, and with my other hand I squeezed one tit and tugged at the nipple like someone else was sucking on it. I imagined Rodrigo’s cock on Friday, thick, filthy, sliding all the way inside me while he grabbed my hair. I imagined the others, the names nobody knows, their impatient hands on my hips, their dicks of every size splitting me open. I imagined coming home at dawn with my cunt full of semen and my son spying on me from the window, his dick in his hand.

I pulled my soaked fingers out and circled my clit fast, that exact spot I know by heart. My stomach tightened. My thighs clenched around my own wrist. And I thought about how powerful it was to know myself desired on every front at once, inside and outside my own house, my cunt made wet by men from the street and by two boys sleeping on the other side of that wall with hard cocks thinking about me.

I came biting the pillow. Hard, long, with spasms that jerked my hips against the mattress and left my fingers, my palm, the sheet beneath me dripping. I muffled the moan in the fabric just as it slipped out, and still I’d swear the thin wall carried something to the ears of the two drunks in the next room.

When I finished, I stayed motionless for a long while, my hand still between my thighs, my fingers sticky, my heart hammering, and a smile I was glad nobody could see in the dark.

***

The next morning I went downstairs early. On purpose I put on a short, light robe, without a bra, knowing perfectly well what I was doing. I found them both dragging themselves toward the kitchen, hungover, with that vague guilty look of people who half remember what they said the night before but not all of it. I made coffee and eggs like any other morning.

—Good morning, Mom —my son murmured, not daring to look me straight in the eye.

—Good morning, ma’am —Bruno said, even redder than he was.

I served them breakfast and, leaning over the table to set down the plates, I let the robe open just enough for my tits to hang free inside. I felt both pairs of eyes pinning themselves to my cleavage one second too long before looking away. I saw my son cross his legs under the table, hiding what had just gone hard. I saw Bruno choke on his coffee. I straightened up slowly. I smiled at them with perfectly maternal sweetness.

—I hope you slept well —I said.

—Like logs —my son answered too quickly.

—That’s good —I replied, turning my back to go back to the stove, knowing the robe was outlining my bare ass underneath—. I slept like a dream.

And while I stirred the pan, feeling those looks slide over my back again, over my barely covered ass, over my thighs, I decided that that thin wall between the rooms was, by far, the best thing this house had. Some confessions aren’t meant to be answered. Only heard in the dark, kept, and enjoyed alone, with two fingers sunk all the way in and a mouth full of pillow.