I Spied on My Mother with a Much Younger Man

To understand what happened that night, I first have to talk about Marisol, one of my mother’s childhood friends. They grew up together in the same neighborhood, went everywhere hand in hand, and were inseparable—until Marisol left school very young because she got pregnant by a bricklayer who lived around the corner from her house. Her parents, scandalized, sent her to live with that man, and my mother lost touch with her for years.

They ran into each other by chance at a market much later. By then, Marisol had already separated from the father of her son and rebuilt her life with a man quite a bit older than she was. My mother told me about it with a mixture of tenderness and nostalgia, like someone revisiting a life parallel to her own.

The thing is, her story was a lot like ours. My mother had me young, with my father, a man twenty years older than her who had won her over when she was barely in her twenties. Even so, my mother still had the same body as always: a narrow waist, wide hips, big firm tits that filled out any dress, and a smile that made men turn their heads in the street. I noticed it, even if back then I pretended I didn’t.

That summer we escaped for a few days to the coast. My maternal grandparents, my mother, and me, who at the time was around twenty-two and still living at home. A simple hotel facing the sea, rented beach umbrellas, and long afternoons with nothing to do but let time go by.

The first morning on the beach was when it all started, although I still didn’t know it.

A guy of about twenty-seven walked past along the shoreline. Tall, lean, with that confidence of someone who knows he’s being watched. Several women turned their heads, and among them my mother, who looked away right away with a half smile. I didn’t pay much attention. But a few minutes later a woman walked in front of us, my mother let out a cry, and the two of them melted into an embrace of laughter and tears.

“It can’t be, Marisol!” my mother was saying. “After so many years!”

My grandmother took a moment to recognize her, but in the end she hugged her too and told her she still had the same little-girl face. Marisol sat down with us, and while they caught up on a whole life in ten minutes, that boy from the shoreline appeared again.

“This is Damián, my son,” Marisol said proudly.

Fate has a strange sense of humor. Damián greeted us with exaggerated enthusiasm, and I immediately realized his eyes never left my mother, who was wearing a two-piece swimsuit that left little to the imagination. He had taken off his shirt. He had a defined stomach and tattooed arms, and he walked as if the whole beach belonged to him. Under the wet Lycra of his trunks, a bulge showed clearly, and none of the women nearby failed to notice it, my mother included.

The two friends stayed talking for a long while while Damián went into the water. And that’s when I noticed something that made me uneasy, though I couldn’t quite explain why: my mother couldn’t stop looking for him. Every time he came out of the sea, dripping water and running a hand through his hair, she watched him a second too long. She wasn’t the only one; all the women on the beach followed him with their eyes. But my mother did it differently, more quietly, more intently, with the tip of her tongue barely showing at the corner of her lips.

As if chance had decided to force them together, it turned out that Marisol and her family were staying in the same hotel as we were. They arranged to have dinner together that night so we could meet her husband.

“That way we can catch up properly,” Marisol said. “We’ve got forty years of gossip pending.”

My mother laughed with a ease I hadn’t seen in a long time.

***

The restaurant was just a few steps from the hotel. My mother came down in a short summer dress that clung to her figure and emphasized her cleavage until it almost showed her nipples whenever she leaned over. The rest of us were dressed like anyone else, except Damián, who arrived in shorts and an open shirt that showed his chest. You didn’t need to be very observant to notice he had dressed up with someone in mind.

Dinner was pleasant. We talked, laughed, toasted. Marisol’s husband told old stories and my grandmother was in stitches. But under the table, in the air, there was another conversation nobody named: the one carried in the glances my mother and Damián exchanged every time they thought no one was watching. A smile from him, a reply from her that was too quick, a brush of glasses that lasted a second too long. At one point I saw Damián’s hand disappear under the table and my mother give a tiny jolt, bite her lip, and keep talking as if nothing had happened, while a flush climbed up her neck.

I noticed everything and said nothing. It’s my imagination, I kept telling myself. My mother was a serious woman, and that boy was old enough to be something very different from what my head was starting to suspect.

Marisol’s family was staying one floor below ours. When we said goodbye in the elevator, Damián kissed my mother twice, lingering a second longer than normal, almost brushing the corner of her mouth. She lowered her eyes. I looked away.

***

On our floor, each of us had our own room, though my mother and I shared the bathroom connecting them. I fell asleep at once, exhausted from the sun and the wine. But after midnight I was awakened by a muffled noise, footsteps, a door closing carefully.

I got up thinking something was wrong. As I stepped into the hallway I crossed paths with a shadow: Damián, barefoot, in his underwear, going into the shared bathroom. His boxer shorts outlined a long, thick cock that was already half hard, straining the fabric toward the side of his thigh, and even so my still-innocent mind looked for an absurd explanation. Maybe the bathroom on his floor is occupied, I thought. Maybe he got the wrong door.

I went closer only to tell him that bathroom was ours. And then, through the crack of the slightly open door, I saw everything.

My mother was with him, under the shower water, completely naked. Her big tits bounced lightly every time she moved, with her nipples hard and purplish from the heat of the water, and between her spread thighs you could see a shaved cunt gleaming under the bathroom’s yellow light. They were kissing with an intensity that didn’t seem improvised, but long expected; she bit his lower lip and he pushed his tongue deep into her mouth while squeezing one ass cheek with each hand. Their hands roamed over bodies that already knew each other, the shower fell over them, and steam fogged the glass. It was the first time I’d seen my mother like that, with nothing on, and I froze in place, unable to move, my heart pounding in my chest.

I knew I had to leave. Part of me was screaming to step away from that door and go back to bed and forget what I was seeing. But I didn’t move. I stayed there, holding my breath, spying on something that wasn’t mine to see.

Damián moved his mouth to her neck and from there to her tits. He sucked one nipple, then the other, tugging with his teeth until my mother sank her nails into the back of his neck and let out a hoarse gasp. Then he kissed and bit his way down her belly, kneeling slowly between her legs while water ran down his back. He spread her thighs with both hands and buried his face in her cunt without any preamble. I saw his tongue licking her clit, long and deliberate, going up and down over her parted lips, and my mother throw her head back and grip the towel rack with one hand while the other pushed his head against her sex.

“Like that, like that, don’t stop…” I heard her whisper through clenched teeth, and that voice, my mother’s voice asking to be eaten out, shook me inside in a way I could barely recognize.

I realized, with a mix of guilt and arousal, that my cock was rock hard. It was throbbing inside my boxers, tight against the fabric, and without thinking I pulled it out and started stroking it slowly, watching that guy feast on my mother’s cunt.

I wanted to hate myself for feeling it. I couldn’t.

Damián slid two fingers into her and kept sucking her, and my mother started rocking her hips against his mouth, faster and faster, biting her lip so she wouldn’t scream. I saw her face reflected in the fogged-up mirror: eyes half closed, mouth open, that expression of a female on the verge of coming that I had never imagined on her. She came with his head trapped between her thighs, shaking, covering her mouth with the back of her hand so the long moan rising from deep inside her wouldn’t escape.

After that, it was her who knelt down. She pulled down the boxers he was still wearing and Damián’s cock sprang free, hard, thick, the glans swollen and shiny, and my mother stared at it for a second before grabbing it with both hands and taking it into her mouth in one go. She sucked it to the root, eyes closed, with that total surrender of women who know what they’re doing, pulling it out slowly and taking it back in again. She licked it all over, from the balls to the tip, toyed with her tongue around the glans, and took it back into her mouth until he put a hand on the back of her neck and began to set the rhythm, pushing her face against his groin over and over. She let him, saliva and water running down her chin to her tits.

I was still behind the door, my hand wrapped around my cock, jerking off to the rhythm of what I was seeing without daring to make the slightest sound. Shame and desire blended until they became one thing. It was my mother. It was the most forbidden thing I could imagine. And I couldn’t look away.

Damián lifted her with astonishing ease, holding her by the ass, and she wrapped her legs around his waist. I saw how, without stopping holding her up, he drove into her with one deep thrust; my mother let out a muffled cry and dug her nails into his shoulders. He started fucking her like that, hanging from him, driving himself all the way in with each shove. The collision of their bodies under the water filled the bathroom with a wet, rhythmic sound, slap, slap, slap, mixed with both of their ragged breathing.

“So good… more… harder…” my mother begged him in his ear, and he bit her neck and pushed deeper into her each time.

He pressed her against the tiles and kept ramming into her against the wall, each thrust more brutal than the last. My mother had lost any composure she had left; her mouth was open, her eyes half closed, her tits bouncing with every slam. They found each other’s mouths halfway, between gasps, and he whispered things in her ear that made her moan even louder, things I only managed to understand as “that’s how you like it, slut.”

Then he set her down, turned her facing the tiles, placed her hands against the wall, and spread her legs with a gentle little kick. He fucked her from behind, holding her by the hips, and began driving into her with that slow, deep rhythm men take on when they know the woman in front of them isn’t going to say no. He grabbed her tits from underneath, twisted her nipples, bit the back of her neck. My mother rested her cheek against the tiles, eyes closed, murmuring obscenities I had never heard come from her lips.

“Give it all to me, come inside, give it to me…”

I was close to the edge. I squeezed my cock harder, biting my forearm so I wouldn’t moan, and came in spurts against the doorframe, trembling all over, while I watched that guy speed up his thrusts and his balls slap against my mother’s cunt. Damián let out a low grunt, grabbed her hips with both hands, and buried himself to the hilt with two, three hard thrusts before going still, teeth clenched, coming inside her with his face pressed to the back of her neck. My mother let out another long moan and brought one hand down to rub her clit while feeling herself being filled, and came again, shaking against the wall, with him still inside her.

When they finally stopped, I heard them laugh softly while soaping each other up, conspiratorial, like two teenagers who had just gotten away with something. She ran her soapy hands over his chest and slid them down to stroke his still-hard cock, and he soaped her tits with shameless slowness. My mother said something in his ear and he burst out laughing, having to cover his mouth with his hand.

I ran back to my room and stayed pressed to the door, listening. Damián came out first, his clothes over his shoulder, finishing dressing in the hallway. My mother peeked out, barely covered with a towel, her tits half out and her wet hair stuck to her shoulders, to see him off, and the kiss they shared was long, slow, tongue and all, the kind you don’t give by accident. I saw him slip a hand under the towel and squeeze one of her ass cheeks one last time.

“Tomorrow,” I heard him whisper before leaving.

“Tomorrow,” she repeated.

***

The next day I said absolutely nothing. Not a word, not a look that could give me away. The four of us had breakfast as if the world were still intact, and when Marisol and Damián showed up in the afternoon to spend a while with us, I pretended to be normal even though I was far from it.

That afternoon my grandparents went out with other acquaintances. My mother said she was “tired” and preferred to stay at the hotel. I made up an excuse and went out too, because I couldn’t stand the thought of staying nearby and not knowing.

We went back home at the end of the weekend. My mother and Marisol said goodbye, promising to meet again, hugging each other, their eyes shining. I never knew whether that promise was fulfilled, whether they saw each other again, whether Damián and my mother found another night like that one.

What I do know is that I never looked at my mother the same way again. And that every time I remember the sound of water falling in that shower, and her moans asking Damián to fuck her harder, I still feel the same mix of guilt and arousal that pinned me to the other side of the door with my cock in my hand.