What I Saw Through the Half-Open Door That Dawn
My name is Bruno, and I’m nineteen years old. I’m brown-haired, rather skinny, and I’ve dragged around for some time now a fixation on sex that borders on the obsessive. I like everything about women, from their hair to the way they tie their shoes. When one catches my eye on the street, I try to memorize every detail, because later, alone in my room, those details work for me: the curve of an ass under jeans, the shadow of a nipple pressing through fabric, the gap between thighs when they sit down. With those flashes I jerk off at night as if my life depended on it.
It’s not that I have much experience. Timidity eats me alive when it comes to making a move, so my sex life has been mostly a matter of imagination and my hand. But imagination, when you feed it well, can be more intense than any real fuck. At least that’s what I used to tell myself before that night.
There are four of us at home. My parents, who are around fifty, my sister Marina, who’s two years older than me, and me. Marina and I have a strange kind of trust, the kind where we tell each other almost everything. I know more about her love life than about my own, because she has had adventures and, when she comes back from one, she lowers her voice and gives me details that turn her on as she tells them. She’s told me how some guy fucked her against the wall in a club bathroom, or how one man came in her mouth the first time she sucked him off. She’s blonde, slim, with an ass she’s clearly proud of: she wears pants that cling to it right up to the crack and skirts that sway as she walks. I’ve noticed, of course. Impossible not to. But I had never crossed that line in my head.
There wasn’t much to say about my parents until that night. My father is the type who gets home from work, talks a while, reads, and falls asleep in front of the TV. My mother is another story: she watches what she eats, goes to the gym three times a week, and despite her age has a presence that doesn’t go unnoticed. Her black hair is always shining, her legs are firm from all the training, and she has big tits that strain her clothes without her even trying. Writing it is hard, but it’s the truth: my mother is hot, very hot, and that night I learned what that could mean.
***
I have trouble sleeping. I’m one of those who lie there turning over exams, pending tasks, stupid little things. In those half-awake hours the house turns into a map of sounds: a car engine in the street, a pipe, the click of the thermostat. And, almost always, my mother’s footsteps in the hallway. She makes a silent round before going to bed, pauses for a second at my door to check whether I’m still awake and then at Marina’s. After that silence returns and, sooner or later, I fall asleep.
That night there was no way. My mother did her usual round, I heard her moving away toward her room, and just when I was expecting silence another sound came. A low, rhythmic hiss I couldn’t identify right away. It was coming from the far end of the hall. It was like the rustle of sheets when someone turns over in bed, but steadier, more deliberate. I froze, holding my breath, trying to make sense of it.
It didn’t take me long. My feverish head connected the dots before my common sense did. They’re fucking. The thought hit me with a mix of discomfort and curiosity I couldn’t quite measure. My cock started swelling inside my pajama pants just from the idea. I slowly pushed the sheet aside and put my feet on the cold floor.
***
I stepped into the hallway with the stealth of someone who knows they shouldn’t be doing what they’re doing. My parents’ room was only a few meters away, and their door, as almost always, was half open. The light from a streetlamp seeped through the slats of the blind and cast silhouettes in the dimness.
I stuck my head in, my heart pounding against my ribs. And there was the scene. My mother astride my father, naked, with her tits hanging heavy and her dark nipples hard as stones. She moved on him with deliberate slowness, sliding forward and back, rocking her hips to grind her cunt against the cock buried inside her. I don’t know whether they had just started or were going slowly so as not to make noise, but the sway of her body cut out against the little light was one of the most disturbing sights I had ever seen. With each sway there was a wet sloshing sound, barely audible, that made it crystal clear how soaked she was.
Little by little the movement changed. She set her knees on either side of the mattress and began to rise and fall, still unhurriedly. On each rise I could make out my father’s cock, thick and erect, shiny with fluids, coming out of my mother’s cunt whole and then disappearing again with a slow thrust. My mother rested her arms on the bed and let out distant sounds, more deep breaths than moans, as if she were taking every possible care not to wake the house. Now and then she sped up, dropping herself hard all the way down, and from her throat there escaped a muffled “ah” she hurried to swallow.
I felt the familiar tingling, the warning that my body had decided on its own. Within seconds I was hard, tense against the fabric of my pajama pants, the tip already dampening the cotton.
My father ran his hands up her back, pinched her nipples — drawing from her a sigh she could barely contain — and slid them back down to her ass. He grabbed one cheek in each hand, spread them apart as if showing off a gift, and stopped there, playing, until he brought a finger to the center and tried to push at her asshole. My mother, without breaking her rhythm, gently moved his hand away, took the fingers to her mouth, sucked them nice and wet, and then did it herself. I saw with absurd clarity how she used saliva and slipped a finger into her ass slowly, making small circles, while my father’s cock kept entering her cunt. Double-filled, my mother finally let out a longer gasp, dropped her head between her shoulders, and started clenching her teeth to keep from screaming. My father stayed silent, contributing only with his chest rising and falling, with his hands now on her hips, helping her go faster.
***
And then my mind went wild. Leaning against the doorframe in the darkness, I started imagining what I would never dare to do. What if I went in right now? What if I joined them? The idea was insane, I knew that, but once it appeared there was no way to drive it off.
In my head I went into the room with my cock already out of my pants, pointing at my mother’s ass. She was startled to feel me behind her, turned her face halfway and said my name in a thread of a voice — “Bruno… Bruno, no, son, what…?” — and I didn’t answer, just pulled her finger out of her ass and replaced it with my dick in one thrust. Her first protest dissolved into a long, filthy moan, that whore’s moan no mother should ever make in front of her son, while I felt myself entering her from behind as my father kept fucking her from the front. The two of us were splitting her in half, my father’s cock and mine rubbing against each other through the paper-thin wall separating them inside her. My father, far from stopping, smiled at the sight of his wife trapped between the two of us, arched, mouth open, drool running down to her chest. “But son, what… what are you doing…” and the sentence would break apart in the middle of each slam, and in the next one she was already pleading: “more, harder, give it to me both of you.” I’d grab her hips and drive into her to the hilt, watching that ass bounce against my pelvis, while she clutched her tits with both hands, squeezed them, pinched her nipples, and begged for more, always more, until she came with both cocks inside her and drenched us both.
It was a dirty, impossible fantasy, born of a mind as twisted as mine that dawn. But I lived it in full behind that door, and my body responded to the fantasy as if it were real. Without thinking I had pulled my pajama waistband down to my thighs and had my cock in my hand, hard as a rock, the tip already pearled with fluid and begging for movement. I started slowly, rolling the foreskin up and down, squeezing just under the glans where I like it most, in a position that wasn’t comfortable but that I had no intention of giving up for anything in the world.
***
That was when, at the other end of the hall, Marina appeared.
I snapped my head toward her. She was staring at me wide-eyed, her arms spread in a mute gesture of “what the hell are you doing?” She had frozen in place, in a T-shirt and panties, her small tits outlined under the thin fabric. I, instead of running, motioned with my chin: come see this. Marina put the pieces together right away — my stance, the cock in my hand, the direction of my gaze, the hiss coming from the room — and understood what was happening inside.
She came over on tiptoe, with a mix of curiosity and embarrassment painted on her face, and carefully peered over my shoulder. She barely saw the scene before pulling her head back, covering her mouth with her hand, and looking at me as if I were completely insane. She put two fingers to her temple and twisted them, her way of telling me I’d lost my mind. I answered with a gesture that could only mean one thing: this is incredible. And I dropped my gaze to my hand so she could see I didn’t intend to stop.
Curiosity won out over hesitation. Marina leaned in again, and this time she stayed. I felt her hot breath on my shoulder, the brush of her small tits against my back when she came too close to see better.
***
Inside, my mother was still riding my father, with her finger sunk to the knuckles in her own ass, completely oblivious to the fact that two shadows were spying on her from the hallway. My father’s cock came in and out, gleaming, and now the sloshing of her soaked cunt swallowing it again and again could be heard clearly. I, as if my sister weren’t a foot away from me, closed my hand around my cock again and went back to work, pumping my fist up and down, squeezing every time my mother’s ass came down hard on my father’s cock.
Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Marina bringing her hand to the elastic of her panties. At first there were clumsy rubs over the fabric, grinding her cunt with the palm of her open hand, then small circles that grew tighter and tighter over the clit. I looked up at her and saw that she was no longer paying attention to me: her eyes were fixed on the bed, biting her lip. Her hand paused for a second, found the waistband, and slipped inside. I saw the bulge of her fingers moving under the cotton, searching for the spot, and when she found it she let out a hot breath through her nose that brushed her collarbone.
At that moment she looked at me. She shook her head slowly twice, as if to say I can’t take it, I’m getting too turned on, and kept going, now with two fingers clearly shoved into herself beneath the fabric, drawing circles that made her breathe through her mouth. I realized she was fingering herself less than a meter from my bare cock, and I was damn close to coming right then and there.
From the room came my mother’s restrained voice.
“I’m almost there,” she whispered. “Put it all the way in. Put it in as deep as you can.”
And she came all the way down, staying still, pushing downward as if she wanted her husband to split her open. Then, in a strange echo of what I had imagined a minute before, she took her hands to her chest and squeezed it, pinched her nipples, tugging them outward.
“Like that, like that, leave it there, still, all the way inside,” she said, her voice trembling. “Let me feel it… ah… fill me…”
I watched her arch her back, press her thighs against my father’s hips, and clench her whole body as she came in silence with my father’s cock buried to the hilt in her pussy. Her ass trembled, her tits trembled, and a low moan escaped her throat that she quickly smothered by biting the back of her hand.
***
I sped up my hand, and I think Marina did too. At some point she stopped watching the scene and leaned back against the hallway wall, looking for a more comfortable position. She yanked her panties down below her buttocks without an ounce of shame and spread her feet a little. In the faint light I could make out the shine of her hand between her thighs, her fingers going in and out of her already soaked cunt, alternating circles over the clit with deeper motions that opened her up from within. Her head was thrown back against the wall and her lips were pressed together. With the other hand she slipped under her T-shirt and squeezed one small tit, pinching the nipple between thumb and forefinger.
Suddenly she brought her free hand to her mouth, almost violently, bit the base of her thumb, and closed her eyes. She was right there. But before she got there she opened them again, and instead of looking at our parents she looked at me, at my cock, at my fist moving over it. Then she shut them again, and a shiver ran through her body from top to bottom; she slid a little against the wall, convulsing in small spasms she could barely muffle with her palm over her mouth. The fingers inside her cunt stayed buried, clenched by the contractions. She came like that, biting her hand and looking at me, and I think it was the most obscene and most beautiful thing I have ever seen.
When she finished she stayed for a moment staring at the floor, catching her breath, her fingers still inside herself. Then she slowly pulled them out, glistening, and — I will never forget this — brought them to her mouth and sucked them one by one while looking at me. Then she lifted her eyes, found me one last time, and gestured toward her room: I’m going. I nodded. She pulled her panties back up, walked away down the hall in short, silent steps, and left me alone with the scene.
***
I was at a thousand. My cock was throbbing in my hand, so swollen the veins stood out on the back of it. I refocused on the room, on my mother, who had leaned back and was still impaled, rocking slowly with her hands on her tits and her head hanging. My father had finally started moving, gripping her hips and spearing her from below, faster now, with short, dry thrusts that shook her whole body. I felt that heat rising from my balls that warns you there’s no turning back. I put my left hand out in front to catch everything, sped up my fist until my thighs trembled, and came with my mouth open and breathless, one hot, thick shot after another against my palm. I finished in silence, my eyes fixed on the crack of the door, on the image of my mother squeezing her tits while my father emptied his cock inside her, an image that by then had become blurred and feverish.
I went back to my room with the same stealth I’d used to leave, mostly to clean the semen off my hands and to let my parents finish in peace. They hadn’t caught me and I had no intention of tempting fate. While I wiped my fingers I heard, far away, a deep “aaah” from my father, that grunt a guy lets out when he finally unloads. He had finished. My mother, I assumed, had too, cumming a second time with her husband’s cock still buried deep inside her.
I got into bed and then yes, I fell asleep almost at once, with my cock still soft and sticky against my thigh, and a stupid grin on my face.
***
The next morning my parents were having breakfast like any other day, going over the schedule, talking about the weather, completely oblivious to the fact that the night before they’d had an audience. Marina and I exchanged glances over our cups and laughed under our breath, accomplices to a secret only the two of us knew. She ran her tongue slowly over her upper lip without taking her eyes off me, and I had to look down at my coffee because I was hard again under the table.
But something kept gnawing at me for the rest of the day, and I still wonder about it. Would Marina have wanted to do something with me that night? Because, if I’m honest, I would have fucked her right there in the hallway, against the wall, with our parents coming in three meters away. And I think, from the way she sucked my fingers, she would have too.