I Was Always the Shadow of My Mother’s Body

Marisa, my mother, is forty-nine years old, with thick curls that fall to her shoulders, the perfect frame for her round face and exaggeratedly feminine features. She has a fine nose, just like mine, and thick lips that she paints an almost defiant red. Her eyes are large and brown, so expressive that when she really looks at you, you feel as if you have nowhere to hide.

Her body never goes unnoticed. Big, heavy tits that show beneath any low neckline, even beneath a winter sweatshirt. She has a defined waist, with those little folds that remind you she’s a flesh-and-blood woman, with her history, her scars, her entire life weighing on her, not some plastic figure fresh out of an operating room.

Wide hips, full thighs that move when she walks and make men on the sidewalk turn their heads. In short: a huge woman in every sense, radiating sensuality and natural beauty at an age when many women give up.

When my younger sister, Lucía, was born, Mom started dressing more suggestively. In my innocence back then, I didn’t understand why, but over the years I came to realize it: every woman deserves to feel beautiful and desired, and she, after spending years covering herself up out of insecurity and devoting herself to the house, had finally decided to inhabit her own body. No one had ever told her that it was worth showing.

Throughout my adolescence, the same idea ate away at me: my mother was more attractive than I was. And not by a little. By a lot. I consider myself a pretty girl; I have a face people have always complimented, but my body is rather slim, without curves that draw attention. Next to her, I looked like a rough draft of a woman who still hadn’t been finished.

Many times I walked down the street with Mom and someone would shout something obscene at her, ignoring me completely. To be honest, I think catcalling is horrible. But back then, having her be the target and never me made me feel invisible, inadequate, as if I were missing something essential.

At that time I suffered something I don’t know whether to call harassment. They were cruel jokes, lewd comments from my classmates about my mother’s body. Today, with some distance, I know they were a handful of idiots. But then I wanted to die, and I wanted to kill them—and, while I was at it, my mother too, in either order.

“With tits like those, your mom breastfeeds half the neighborhood,” one of them told me one morning, laughing his head off.

“They switched you at the clinic, skinny, because you didn’t inherit a thing from that body,” another one finished.

Things like that—not every day, but often enough that I still remember them. Mom wore the lowest-cut outfits to every gathering, so she was always the subject of conversation the next day. The worst came when someone created a fake account and sent me an edited photo of her, a humiliating image they had obviously put together solely to hurt me. I was devastated. I couldn’t believe someone could be so eager to hurt me. If you wanted to fantasize about my mother, do it in silence—what did you gain by sending it to me? It was deeply humiliating, but at least it was something private, and I managed to handle it.

What could I do? Keep my head down and carry on.

Luckily, within less than a year, the comments disappeared completely. I suppose they matured, although the insistent looks continued. I was content that they no longer said disgusting things to me. I think my boyfriend helped too. One of the ones who harassed me most apologized shortly after we started going out seriously. Whether it was because he had matured or because my boyfriend had spoken to him, I never knew, but I enjoyed every second of that awkward apology. Of course, I accepted it.

However, that wasn’t going to be the end of it.

One afternoon, while my boyfriend was at our house, Mom came out of her room carelessly dressed, in house clothes that revealed more than she would have wanted. We both saw her. My boyfriend froze for a second—which seemed like an eternity to me—and immediately turned his head toward me. I don’t know whether he noticed the fury in my eyes, but the poor guy turned as red as a tomato. Mom apologized, saying she hadn’t known he was there, went back to her room, changed, and reappeared as if nothing had happened.

We spent the rest of the afternoon embracing, kissing, and making plans for the future. That stage was beautiful: we spent hours glued together, laughing and dreaming about the house we would have someday. I loved him with an intensity that hurt in my chest.

The next day, alone at home with Mom, I did one of the things I regret most in my life. We had a brutal fight, fueled by all that accumulated discomfort.

“Mom, you embarrassed me again,” I said, on the verge of tears.

“What happened, Flor?”

“Yesterday you appeared half-naked in front of my boyfriend.”

“I already apologized. I didn’t know you were there. It’s not such a big deal; you’re both grown-ups.”

“It’s always the same. All last year they gave me hell because of the way you show yourself. Do you know the things they said to me because of you?”

“Excuse me, is my daughter going to tell me how to dress? Are you ashamed of the way I look?”

“Everyone thinks you’re looking for something, and they made sure to let me know it.”

“Lower your voice a little; I’m speaking to you nicely,” she replied, still calm. “If some boys with no boundaries behaved inappropriately toward me, the problem was theirs, not mine. I don’t have to cover myself up because of a group of immature boys who don’t know how to behave. And, in case you need me to make it clear, I’m an adult woman and I dress however I damn well please.”

“I hate you. I wish I didn’t have a mother who looks like something else,” I spat, then ran off crying and slammed the door.

Today I’m ashamed of every word I said that afternoon. We kept our distance for a couple of days, speaking only when necessary, until I had to ask her for help with something silly. In her tenderness, I realized that she had already forgiven me, without needing me to apologize.

That night we were alone. My father was away on a business trip, and my sister had gone to sleep at a friend’s house.

My boyfriend had stayed for dinner with us, but then went back to his own place to sleep. I would have loved for him to stay, although they still didn’t let us sleep together except on rare occasions.

It took me ages to fall asleep. I went over the fight with Mom, how unfair I had been to her, how well my boyfriend had always treated her without ever behaving inappropriately, the kisses I had left unfinished, the caresses I hadn’t given him. I thought about him, his body, his cock, and what I still didn’t dare give him.

I remembered an afternoon when he had come back from training, sweaty, and for some reason I still don’t fully understand, that made me even hornier. I had gone with him, and we walked back to his house, which was empty, so I went inside. We kissed as soon as we crossed the door. I was burning, my pussy soaked beneath my jeans.

He stopped me and said he needed a shower. Without thinking, I buried my face in his neck and chest, breathing him in completely. I bit his neck, licked his collarbone, and sucked the salty sweat from his skin while he let me, his breathing already ragged. I dragged him to the bedroom and pushed him onto the bed. I tore off his shirt, unbuttoned his jeans, and yanked down his boxers. His cock was already hard, pointing at my face, the tip shining with the drop of precum that had appeared. I knelt between his legs, took it in both hands, and stared at it for a second, as if deciding where to begin.

I ran my tongue from the base to the tip, slowly, following the thick vein running along the underside. Then I shoved it into my mouth all at once, as far as I could, and he let out a moan that filled the whole room. I began sucking him hungrily, moving my head up and down, squeezing my lips around his shaft, letting saliva stream down his cock to his balls. I grabbed and massaged them while I kept sucking him, and he buried his fingers in my hair.

“That’s it, Flor, just like that, don’t stop,” he panted.

I drew circles with my tongue around the tip, sucked him as if he were a candy, and then took him all the way into my mouth again, until the tip touched the back of my throat and I gagged. I stayed there, holding on, my eyes full of tears and drool running from my chin, while he held the back of my head and set the rhythm. I licked his balls, one and then the other, took each into my mouth, and went back up his shaft, licking him all over. I was doing all this to make up for what I still didn’t dare do, so he could feel with my mouth what I wasn’t giving him down below.

“I’m going to come, Flor,” he moaned.

“Come in my mouth.”

I stuck out my tongue and pressed it against the tip while he masturbated quickly, aiming at me precisely. The first jet hit my tongue, hot and thick; then another landed on my palate, and another dribbled down my chin. I closed my mouth and swallowed it all, slowly, looking him in the eyes while he kept squeezing his cock to get out every last drop. I ran my tongue over the tip, cleaning him, sucking up what remained. I had always been willing to give myself to him like that, to swallow every drop, to get down on the floor for him.

Lying in my bed and reliving the memory, I slipped my hand inside my pajama pants. My pussy was wet, slippery, throbbing. I caressed my lips first, then began rubbing my clitoris with two fingers in slow circles, closing my eyes. I imagined my boyfriend’s cock in my mouth again, the taste of his come on my tongue. I slipped in one finger, then two, and curled them, searching for the spot that made me lose my mind. With my other hand I squeezed one breast and pinched the hard nipple. A quiet moan escaped me. I kept rubbing my clitoris faster and faster, feeling everything inside me contract, until I came with one hand clamped over my mouth and my hips lifting themselves from the bed. I stayed that way for a few minutes, panting, my fingers still inside me, feeling the last spasms. More relaxed, I fell asleep around one in the morning.

***

Around three, I was woken by voices coming from downstairs.

I was terrified someone was breaking in to rob us, so I grabbed my cell phone in case I had to call the police and went out barefoot, wearing only socks so I wouldn’t make any noise. I carefully opened my bedroom door. The voices were coming from the living room. From the staircase, which turned at a right angle, I could spy on the ground floor while leaning against the banister, without being seen.

And there he was. My boyfriend, standing in front of the sofa, his pants around his ankles and his cock hard and exposed.

I was about to go downstairs and hug him when I noticed that my mother was sitting on the couch, his cock buried to the root in her mouth.

With a pain that pierced my chest, I decided to control my emotions, swallow my tears, and wait to see what happened. My boyfriend couldn’t be doing this to me—and worse still, my own mother. They were shitting all over me and the whole family. I raised my phone and started recording, so I could show my father when he returned from his trip.

Mom held his cock with one hand and massaged his balls with the other while moving her head up and down at an obscene rhythm. The sounds of her throat, the wet slurping, and her muffled moans could be heard whenever she took him all the way in.

“You suck it so well,” he groaned. “You’re the best.”

“Really? Do I do it better than your little girlfriend?” she asked, pulling it from her mouth for a moment, a strand of saliva hanging from her lip to the tip.

“Much better. But I’m never going to tell her.”

“She’s still very young. And I bet she’s a prude on top of that.”

Mom put him back in her mouth, this time more slowly, her lips tight around his shaft. I watched her swallow him whole, effortlessly, until her nose touched his pubic bone. She stayed there, his cock buried in her throat, holding still while he threw his head back and released a hoarse moan. He held the back of her head with both hands and began moving her face back and forth, fucking her mouth at his own pace. She let him, completely surrendered, drool streaming down her chin and falling between her breasts.

“Flor has never done this for me,” he murmured. “You’re something else.”

“Wait,” she said, pulling away for a second and panting. “You’re going to make me come too soon, and I don’t want to.”

“Do you see what she’s really like? How much she still has to learn to be a woman like you.”

Mom pulled off her shirt and bra in one movement, and her enormous tits fell heavily, their dark nipples hard and erect. She grabbed his cock, spat on it to lubricate it, then wrapped her breasts around his shaft, squeezing them together with her hands. She began rubbing him between them, moving up and down, and whenever the tip appeared between her cleavage, she sucked it, gently bit it, and coated it with saliva again. He watched her breasts move against his cock with his mouth open, unable to hide how much he enjoyed it.

“I’ve never felt so much pleasure in my life,” he panted. “You’re a goddess, Marisa.”

“You haven’t tried anything yet, spoiled boy.”

I had never seen my boyfriend with such an ecstatic expression. I could no longer hold back my tears, but at least I cried silently. I wanted to die right there, to ruin their lives forever.

“I want to fuck you hard, Marisa,” he said, his voice breaking with desire. “Really hard, like I never could before.”

“Whatever you want.”

Mom stood up, yanked off her skirt and panties, and got down on all fours on the sofa, her ass raised and her legs spread. I saw her swollen pussy, glistening with wetness, and her tight asshole just above it. My boyfriend, who had always been careful with me, positioned himself behind her, took hold of his cock, and ran the tip over her pussy lips, wetting himself, before beginning to penetrate her slowly.

“Is this all right?” he asked, pushing into her little by little.

“Harder.”

“Like this?”

“More, harder, so they can hear it.”

He grabbed her hips with both hands and began pounding her in earnest. The sharp slap of their pelvises colliding could be heard, along with the wet sounds of her soaked pussy and the moans that escaped my mother with every thrust. I saw her breasts swaying beneath her, keeping time. I watched him fuck her with a fury he had never shown me. He slapped one buttock, then the other, leaving the red imprint of his hand on the white skin of her ass. There was no way I could give him that. It made sense that he would seek out a woman capable of keeping up with him and leave me aside. But why did it have to be her? With so many women in the world, why had he chosen my mother?

“I wish your daughter had taken after you,” he said without stopping, his voice broken. “We wouldn’t be doing this if she knew how to enjoy herself like that.”

“Oh, the way you fuck me,” she moaned, her face against the back of the sofa. “You’re so good, boy. Break my pussy.”

He grabbed her hair, wound it around his fist, and pulled it backward, arching her body. He kept driving his cock all the way into her with brutal thrusts, and she didn’t stop screaming. Then he let her go, turned her over, laid her on her back on the sofa, and lifted her legs onto his shoulders. He plunged into her again, her body folded nearly in half, and kept fucking her while sucking her breasts, taking her nipples completely into his mouth and biting them.

Mom sat up, panting, searched for something in a jar on the side table—Vaseline, I understood later—coated her fingers, and thoroughly smeared his cock with it. Then she slipped her fingers into her own ass, slicking herself. She prepared for something I had never dared give him. She lay on her back again, grabbed the backs of her knees, spread her legs as wide as she could, and looked at him, leaving her ass exposed.

“Give me everything, spoiled boy. In my ass.”

“Are you going to fulfill my fantasy?”

“What, my daughter the prude has never let you?”

“She never wanted to.”

“Well, let me teach you. Slowly at first.”

From the staircase I watched my boyfriend press the tip of his cock against her asshole and push. I saw the tight ring slowly open, yielding, until the head slipped in all at once and she let out a deep groan, caught between pain and pleasure. He kept pushing without stopping until he had buried himself completely, balls-deep. He stayed still for a second, his face twisted, and then began to move. Slowly at first, pulling almost all the way out and sinking back in, then faster and faster. An expression I had never seen before appeared on his face. It was obvious: she gave him a pleasure beyond my reach.

“I love it, I love it,” Mom repeated, rubbing her clitoris with one hand. “Don’t stop. Fuck my ass.”

“Do you like the way I fuck your asshole?”

“I love it. Harder. Tear it open.”

I hated her with all my strength. She was a traitor, rolling around with my boyfriend while I was choking on the staircase, letting him fuck her from behind like a bitch, enjoying herself in a way I had never known how to give him. He pounded her with a hardness he had never shown me, and she kept screaming with pleasure, her fingers flying over her clitoris. I watched her come like that, his cock in her ass and her hand on her pussy, arching her whole body and trembling, squeezing him with a hoarse cry that pierced my ears.

“I can’t hold it anymore. I’m coming,” he warned.

“Inside. Give me everything inside.”

I watched him tense, drive himself all the way in, and remain there, trembling, while he emptied his come into her ass. He let out a long, animal moan. Then he slowly pulled away, and I saw her asshole open and swollen, semen running from it across her perineum to her pussy. He collapsed onto her, agitated, his cock still dripping.

“You have to come see me more often,” Mom purred, stroking his hair, still lying there with her legs open and his come leaking out of her. “Someone like my daughter will never satisfy you like a real woman.”

“Whenever you want. This will be our secret.”

Defeated, I crawled back to my room, climbed into bed, pulled the covers over my head, and cried helplessly. I wanted to disappear in every way possible.

***

I grabbed my phone, found the video, and pressed play. I wanted to show it to my father, so he could see that while he was working himself to the bone on the road for his family, his wife was sleeping with his daughter’s boyfriend.

The image was clear, but a doorbell was ringing over the audio.

I could see my mother with my boyfriend, but the doorbell rang louder.

The scene continued, and the ringing became deafening.

The doorbell kept ringing until I opened my eyes.

It had all been a nightmare. The afternoon with my boyfriend, my eternal insecurity in the face of Mom’s sensuality, and my guilt over the fight had blended together in that awful dream. It wasn’t the only one of my adolescence; I had three or four in which my boyfriend betrayed me with her.

But that one was, without a doubt, the worst of all. Because I woke up soaked, and I never knew whether it was from tears, sweat, or something I’d rather not name.