Lucía’s Agreement with Her Son and Her Husband

In Salamanca, in a three-story house with a back garden, lived a family that seemed like any other. Lucía was thirty-six, with coppery hair almost always tied back in a low ponytail, light eyes, and a body that still turned heads when she went out to buy bread. Her husband, Andrés, two years older, was dark-haired, broad-shouldered, and kept himself in shape as if he still played rugby on Sundays. And then there was Iván, their son: twenty-four, slim, dark blond, with that mouth that always seemed on the verge of saying something it never quite said.

Lucía’s problem was not her marriage. It was the pace. Andrés wanted her every day, sometimes twice a day, and had been that way for fourteen years. She had tried everything: lingerie, toys, trips, games. The problem was not in bed, but in the clock. Lucía was tired. Simply tired of having a hard cock pressed against her ass every morning, every night, every stolen afternoon.

One Thursday afternoon, while she was chopping onion on the counter, Andrés came up behind her in the kitchen and wrapped his arms around her waist. He pressed his crotch against her ass, already hard, and bit her neck. Lucía closed her eyes for a moment, set down the knife, and turned slowly to look at him.

—Andrés —she said, in that calm voice she used when she had already decided something—. We need to talk.

—Again? —He smiled and went for her neck.

—This time seriously. Come on, sit down.

Andrés sat down reluctantly in front of the island. Lucía poured two glasses of wine, handed him one, and stayed standing on the other side, her hands resting on the cold marble.

—I love you. You know that. But I need a month. Maybe two. Not for us. For me. I need to sleep, read, write, not end the day exhausted with your cock inside me once again.

Andrés frowned. He was about to protest. Lucía raised a hand.

—Let me finish. I know what you’re going to say. And that’s why I’ve thought of something.

She knew perfectly well what she was going to propose, and she also knew he wasn’t expecting it.

—Iván —she said, without looking away—. Let Iván fuck you.

Andrés went still, as if he hadn’t quite understood. Then he let out a short, uneasy laugh, almost defensive.

—Are you joking?

—No. Iván is gay. He’s twenty-four. He’s an adult, he’s been living his life for a long time, and he fucks whoever he wants. If he agrees, I don’t see why not.

—Lucía, he’s our son.

—Exactly —she replied—. You trust him. I trust him. There will be no secrets, no other woman, no strange call at three in the morning. It’ll be something between the three of us, and it stays between the three of us. And you empty your balls where I know, not where I don’t know.

Andrés took a long drink of wine. He looked out the window toward the garden, where a blackbird was pecking at something in the grass. Then he looked back at her.

—I’m not doing anything he doesn’t want.

—Of course not.

—And if he says no, the conversation is over.

—Fine.

***

That night, after dinner, Lucía called Iván into the living room. Andrés was on the sofa, hands on his knees and his back too straight. Iván sat in the armchair opposite with a glass of water in his hand, looking at his parents with the faintest smile, as if he already suspected he was about to hear something strange.

—Son —Lucía began—. You’re going to think we’ve lost our minds. Hear us out to the end.

And she told him. No detours, no metaphors, no apologies. That she needed a break. That Andrés couldn’t go two days without fucking. That she would rather it be him, her son, taking care of his father’s cock than some stranger. Iván set the glass down on the side table at some point during the explanation. He didn’t interrupt once. When she finished, there was a long silence. Andrés’ jaw was tight. Iván looked first at his father and then at his mother.

—And you’re okay with this? —he asked her.

—It was my idea.

—And you? —he looked at Andrés.

—If you don’t want to, there’s nothing to talk about.

Iván leaned back. It took him a full minute to answer. Lucía counted the seconds by the ticking of the wall clock, feeling her pulse slowly climb her neck.

—I’ll think about it. I’ll tell you tomorrow.

***

Iván’s answer came the next day, during breakfast, spoken so softly that Lucía almost didn’t hear it.

—Okay.

Just that. Okay.

Andrés lifted his eyes from the newspaper. He searched his son’s face for something that might resemble doubt. He didn’t find it.

—Are you sure?

—If we do it, we do it without theatrics. Tonight, in my room. Mom doesn’t come in and we don’t talk about this at breakfast.

Lucía smiled into her cup. Her son had turned out more practical than she was.

***

Andrés spent the day going back and forth through the house. He changed the sheet on the marital bed, even though they weren’t going to use it that night. He showered twice. He soaped his cock and balls with a care he hadn’t shown in years. At eleven he turned off the TV in the living room and sat on the sofa looking at his hands for half an hour. Lucía walked past with a book under her arm, kissed his forehead, and went up to the master bedroom without saying anything.

At eleven thirty, Andrés knocked on Iván’s door with his knuckles.

—Come in.

His son’s room had always seemed small to him. That night it seemed huge. Iván was standing by the bed, barefoot, in gray sweatpants and a white T-shirt. His cock showed beneath the fabric, a thick bulge hanging toward his left thigh, and Andrés looked at it for two seconds before looking away. There was a lamp on at the desk and nothing else. The music, very low, was some instrumental piece Andrés didn’t recognize.

—Close the door.

Andrés closed it. He stood still, two steps from the bed, his arms hanging at his sides.

—Come here —Iván said.

Andrés took one step. Then another.

Iván put a hand on the back of his neck with a calm Andrés hadn’t expected. It wasn’t a son’s gesture. It was the gesture of someone used to getting into another man’s bed and doing whatever he wanted with him. And he kissed him. He shoved his tongue straight in, without preamble, searching his mouth. Andrés stayed still for the first second, then opened his lips wider and kissed him back with a mix of hunger and confusion he had been keeping to himself for years. Iván’s other hand found his crotch over the pants and squeezed his cock, measuring it through the bulge, checking how much there was and how hard it was.

—You’re getting hard, Dad —murmured Iván against his lips, not letting go of his cock—. Relax. We’re in no rush.

He undressed him slowly. He took off his shirt button by button. He ran his hand over his chest, over his stomach, over the waistband of his pants. He unbuckled his belt with two fingers, opened the fly, and slipped his hand into his briefs. Andrés jerked when his son’s cold fingers closed directly over the hot flesh of his cock. Iván gripped him at the base and pulled him out of his briefs with clinical firmness, as if drawing out a tool he was going to use.

—Good —he said, looking at it without a trace of shame—. Now I know why Mom is tired.

Andrés was trying to look at him and not look at him at the same time. Iván wasn’t laughing, wasn’t judging. He was working. He gave him two long strokes, squeezing hard at the tip, already drawing out a thick bead of pre-cum that Iván spread with his thumb all over the head.

—Sit on the bed.

Andrés sat. Iván knelt between his legs, finished taking off his pants and briefs in one tug, and spread his knees apart with both hands. His father’s cock was at his face level, hard, thick, veins standing out along the shaft, with the balls hanging heavy beneath. Iván took it by the base with one hand, leaned in, and licked his balls first, one and then the other, taking them into his mouth one by one, sucking them patiently. Andrés let out a broken gasp and put his hands on his shoulders.

—Fuck…

—Stay still.

Iván ran his tongue up the underside of the shaft, slowly, following the thick vein from base to head. He gave the tip a wet kiss. Then he opened his mouth and swallowed it whole, all the way to the back, until his nose touched the hair at his father’s lower stomach. Andrés threw his head back and growled. Iván’s tongue was hotter and more confident than he had imagined. There was no shyness in those lips. His son knew exactly how to suck a man, and that, more than anything else, undid him.

Iván started sucking him for real. He went up and down with a steady rhythm, lips tight around the shaft, letting out a wet sound each time he pulled back to the tip and plunged down again. Every so often he let it come out completely, gave him two or three quick handjobs with a saliva-soaked hand, and then took it back down his throat, choking himself a little on purpose, leaving strings of spit to drip over his balls.

—Look at me —Iván asked, without letting him go completely, lips stretched around the head.

Andrés lowered his gaze. His son’s green eyes looked up at him from below, shining, unblinking, with his father’s cock pressed against his cheek. Andrés felt something slip in his chest, not in his body, but higher up. He let go of the hand clenched on the edge of the sheet and laid it carefully on Iván’s hair. And without realizing it, he started pushing his head, setting the rhythm, taking the hair at the nape and fucking his mouth slowly.

—Slowly —he said then, almost like a plea, when he felt he was going to come too soon—. Slowly or I’ll cum.

Iván smiled around him. He let him go with a wet pop, wiped his chin with the back of his hand, and climbed up to kiss him on the mouth. Andrés tasted himself on his son’s tongue and didn’t mind. Iván pushed him by the shoulders and turned him over onto the bed with a ease that struck Andrés as absurd. His son was stronger than he looked.

—Stay like that. Face up. Don’t move.

Andrés obeyed. Iván took off his T-shirt and pants, stayed in his boxers for a second, and then took those off too, without drama. His body was slim, defined, not an ounce to spare. And between his legs hung a long cock, not very thick, already half-hard, with the foreskin half pulled back. Andrés looked at him and thought, fleetingly, that he resembled Lucía at that age. He dismissed the thought immediately.

Iván climbed astride him. He kissed his chin, his neck, his collarbone. He bit his earlobe. He licked his nipples, one and then the other, biting them until his father moaned. He rubbed against him, cock against cock, sliding both cocks together between their bellies, gripping them with one hand and stroking them at the same time. Andrés felt his son’s weight on top of him and struggled to breathe, but not because of the weight. He struggled to breathe because of everything else.

—Are you okay?

—I’m fine.

—Do you want to keep going?

—I want to keep going.

—Do you want to fuck me?

Andrés swallowed.

—Yes.

—Say it.

—I want to fuck you.

Iván opened the bedside drawer with one hand. He took out a condom, opened it with his teeth, and rolled it onto his father’s cock with two expert fingers, sliding it down to the base in one smooth motion. Then he took out a small bottle, poured a good amount of lubricant into his hand, and coated his cock well, squeezing it from top to bottom, drawing another moan from him. He put more on his fingers and reached behind himself. Andrés watched him slide two fingers into his ass, looking him in the eye as he did it, opening himself for him without looking away for a single second.

—I’m not going to do anything you don’t want. If at any point you’d rather stop, we stop. All right?

—All right.

Iván leaned back. He gripped his father’s cock by the base, placed it against the hole, and lowered his hips slowly. Andrés felt the tip forcing its way in, felt the ring of his son’s ass give and swallow him, clenching around him with a strength that pulled a long gasp out of him. Iván sank down on him centimeter by centimeter, biting his lip, his forehead slick with sweat, until he sat all the way down, until his ass touched his father’s balls.

—Fuck —Iván whispered, eyes closed—. You’re thick, Dad.

—Iván…

—Shut up.

Iván started moving, slowly at first, going up and down in small jolts, getting used to it. Andrés gripped his thighs with both hands and let him move. He had nothing to teach here. That night, in that room, he was not the father. He was a cock mounted by his son.

The rhythm picked up. Iván planted his palms on Andrés’s chest and rocked with almost athletic concentration, rising until he left his father’s cock almost completely out and then dropping back down in one sharp motion, with a fleshy slap of ass against groin that filled the room. His own cock bounced against his stomach with every bounce, hard, leaking pre-cum over his father’s navel. Andrés moaned in fragments, biting his lip, trying not to make too much noise. The house was big, but walls are never as thick as one thinks.

—Don’t cover your mouth —Iván said, without stopping, squeezing his ass around his father’s cock on purpose—. Mom knows. That’s why we’re here. Let her hear if she wants to.

Andrés let out a sound that was half laugh, half gasp, and stopped biting himself. The sensation was climbing his spine like a current that had been short-circuited for years. He lifted his hips to meet his son’s and for the first time that night dared to set his own pace, thrusting up from below, driving his cock in to the hilt each time Iván came down.

—That’s it —Iván said, eyes closed, mouth open—. Like that, Dad, fuck me like that.

They stayed like that for a stretch neither of them measured. They changed positions once. Iván got down, got on all fours at the edge of the bed, and showed his father his open ass, the hole already red and glossy with lube, pulsing. Andrés got behind him, took hold of his cock, and shoved it back in with one clean thrust, all the way to the hilt, drawing a rough moan from Iván into the pillow. Holding him by the hips, discovering that his hands knew exactly where to squeeze, he started fucking him in earnest, with long, hard thrusts, his balls slapping involuntarily against his son’s ass each time he sank all the way in.

—Harder —Iván asked in a low voice, gripping the sheet, in clipped phrases—. More. Break me, Dad, give it to me hard.

And Andrés did without thinking. He grabbed his neck with one hand and shoved his face into the mattress. With the other he wrapped his arm around his waist and lifted him a little, arching him, to get deeper. He smacked his left cheek, the sound echoing through the whole room. Iván moaned with his mouth against the pillow, squeezing his cock from inside as if trying to milk it.

—I’m going to finish —he warned at last, gripping him harder, thrusting faster and faster, his breathing broken.

—Finish inside. Empty yourself inside.

Andrés closed his eyes, drove in three, four, five more times, faster and faster, until he drove all the way in and let himself go with a guttural groan from a place he didn’t know he had. He felt himself come in spurts inside the condom, felt his son’s ass clench around him through the whole release, felt his balls empty again and again, more than they had in months. He stayed inside for a long while, resting against Iván’s back, breathing into the nape of his neck.

Iván stayed still for a long moment, his own cock hanging hard between his legs, still not spent. Then he pushed himself half upright, reached for his stomach, gripped his cock, and started working it with the efficient rhythm of someone who had been holding back for half an hour. Andrés, still inside him, reached back and caught his balls from behind, squeezing just enough. Iván pressed his forehead into the pillow, gasped twice, and finished himself onto the sheet, with a brief shudder and eyes closed, firing four or five thick jets of semen that stained his stomach and hands.

—Fuck —he said, his voice rough.

—Fuck —Andrés repeated quietly.

***

When they parted, Iván got up, went to the bathroom, came back with a damp towel, and cleaned his father with the same calm with which he had undressed him. He removed the knotted condom and threw it in the bin. He wiped the towel over his still-sensitive cock, over his balls, over his thighs. Then he lay down beside him, pulled the covers up to his waist, and stared at the ceiling.

—Are you okay? —Andrés asked, still breathing hard.

—I’m fine.

—I didn’t expect it to be like this.

—How did you expect it to be?

—I don’t know. Weirder, I suppose.

Iván smiled at the ceiling.

—It is weird. But it’s also nice. For me too, Dad. You fuck well. It hadn’t occurred to me to think about it, but you fuck well.

Andrés said nothing. He thought of Lucía, two doors down, reading or trying to read. He thought of the conversation in the kitchen, of the knife set aside and the glass of wine poured with the coldness of someone who has already made up her mind.

—Your mother is smarter than both of us —he said at last.

—Much smarter —Iván replied—. And she loves us. That’s why she suggested it.

Andrés sat up slowly. He looked for his clothes on the floor. Iván watched him dress without moving from the bed, one arm bent under his head, looking at him with a strange mixture of filial affection and lover’s satisfaction, still naked, still with patches of his own semen drying on his stomach.

—Tomorrow? —Iván asked, without emphasis.

Andrés stopped with one sock in his hand. He looked at him. He took time to answer, but not because he doubted. He took time because he wanted to weigh the words carefully.

—Tomorrow —he said—. And the day after, if you want.

Iván nodded and closed his eyes. Andrés left the room, closed the door slowly, and stood for a moment in the hallway, barefoot on the cold parquet, his balls empty for the first time in many years without having touched his wife. At the end of the corridor, beneath the crack of light under the master bedroom door, Lucía’s lamp was still on.

Andrés walked toward it without hurry. That night, for the first time in years, he had nothing to ask her for.