My Mother’s Lover Desired Me in Silence

My mother had a lifelong friend named Beatriz, who was married to a man named Marcelo. What Beatriz never came to suspect was that her husband, so proper at dinner parties and so serious in meetings, had been my mother’s lover for years. Every time we visited their house, Marcelo and she barely spoke to each other. They pretended to a distant, almost cold courtesy so no one would put the pieces together.

Marcelo was around forty-five. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and strong-armed, with a hairy chest and a thick beard that gave him the air of a man who knew exactly what he wanted. That beard, I don’t quite know why, was what undid me most whenever I had him near me. Every time I saw him, I imagined that beard scraping the insides of my thighs, scratching my cunt until it was red and raw.

I was twenty-two, studying at the city university, and still living with my mother in the village. Beatriz and Marcelo lived half an hour away, and I had been friends with their daughters since I was a child. No one would ever have imagined what went through my head every time he showed up at our house.

Because Marcelo came over often. He would stay the night under the excuse of some errand, and my mother and he would spend the entire night fucking. I knew it perfectly well: the walls were thin, and my mother’s moans traveled down the hall to my room. I heard her begging him for more, telling him, “Fuck it all the way in,” “Harder, you bastard,” while he answered with hoarse grunts and the wet sound of flesh striking flesh. What she didn’t know was that Marcelo wasn’t her only lover, or that her daughter, on the other side of that wall, listened with her ear pressed to the wood and her hand between her legs.

Over time, the habit of listening to them became an obsession. I masturbated night after night imagining his cock, trying to estimate its thickness from my mother’s screams. Men my age seemed rushed, clumsy, with no idea what they were doing. They came in three minutes, leaving me with my cunt throbbing and unsatisfied. Marcelo, by contrast, sounded like a man who took his time, who could fuck for an hour without stopping. And I, in the darkness, with two fingers buried in my own wetness, would end up imagining that I was the one taking that cock, that it was my ass he was squeezing with those enormous hands.

***

One afternoon, while my mother and I were folding laundry, I dared to ask her.

—Why do you sleep with Marcelo? —I blurted out, as though it were no big deal.

She laughed without looking up.

—Because I like it. He indulges me, treats me well, he’s a man who knows how to carry himself. Why do you ask?

—No reason. It’s just that when he comes over, you don’t let me sleep.

My mother stopped with her hands on a towel and stared straight at me.

—You listen to us?

—Everything —I admitted, feeling my face burn—. And who wouldn’t? He’s a handsome man. So self-assured that anyone would want to be in your place.

—Not just anyone —she said, amused and alarmed at once—. Marcelo is much older than you. You have to think about those things, Valeria.

I didn’t answer her. But something in her expression told me she had understood everything, and that instead of being scandalized, the idea had stirred a curiosity much like my own.

***

My mother had never been a conventional woman. Instead of forbidding me anything, she began giving me advice. To walk differently, to learn how to hold someone’s gaze, to dress so people could see what I had. She took me shopping and chose tight dresses for me, blouses that emphasized my waist, clothes that made me feel, for the first time, like I owned my own body.

—If you’re going to play with fire —she told me once, adjusting the strap of a dress while I stood before the mirror—, you might as well play properly.

And play I did. The next morning I came down to breakfast in short shorts and a thin blouse, wearing nothing underneath. My nipples showed hard against the fabric. Marcelo was at the table with my mother. When he saw me, he stopped with his cup halfway to his mouth and swallowed. I looked him in the eyes and smiled slowly, as if nothing were happening. I sat down, got up to fetch some water, and lingered by the sink longer than necessary, bending just enough to make my shorts ride up. I felt his gaze travel down my back like a hand, settle on my ass; I imagined his cock hardening beneath the table.

From that day on, everything between us changed. Marcelo became bolder. When my mother wasn’t looking, he brushed my waist as he passed, held my gaze a second longer than he should have. Once he squeezed one of my buttocks in the kitchen, quickly, with an open hand, and kept walking as if nothing had happened. And my mother, far from stopping him, laughed. The few times she said anything, it was practically permission disguised as a reprimand.

—You let him touch you and don’t say a word —she remarked one night, after he had already left.

—You don’t say anything either —I replied—. And you’re certainly aware of the way he looks at me.

She fell silent for a moment, wearing a half-smile that said everything.

—You provoke him —she murmured at last—. And I don’t care. You’re grown. You know what you’re doing. If he wants to fuck you, let him fuck you.

That sentence removed my last restraint.

***

The opportunity came on a rainy Saturday. Marcelo had spent the night at our house, and that morning my mother announced that she had to go see a friend. Before leaving, she came into my room, sat on the edge of the bed, and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.

—I’m going out for a while. You’re staying here with Marcelo —she said, then added, with a calmness that sent a shiver over my skin—: Behave however you want.

She didn’t need to say anything more. We both knew what was going to happen, and we both wanted it.

When I heard the car’s engine fading into the distance, my heart beat in my throat, and I felt my cunt grow suddenly wet. I got into the shower, washed quickly, ran the soap between my legs with trembling fingers, and came out wrapped in nothing but a towel. In the hallway I crossed paths with Marcelo, who was coming back from the kitchen. I stopped in front of him, looked him in the eyes, and without saying a word, let the towel fall to the floor.

For a second he didn’t move. He surveyed me from head to toe with the look of a man who knew what he wanted: he lingered over my tits, the curve of my belly, the shaved triangle between my legs. Then he took a step and grabbed me by the waist with those enormous hands I had imagined on my skin so many times.

—I’ve been waiting for this for months —he said, his voice hoarse, very close to my mouth—. Months wanting to eat that cunt.

—Me too —I replied, taking his hand and placing it between my legs—. Touch me. Put them in me.

His fingers sank into me without resistance. I was already soaked. Marcelo let out a grunt as soon as he felt how wet I was and began moving them slowly, in circles, pressing my clitoris with his thumb while he pushed two fingers into me to the knuckles.

—You’re a slut —he murmured against my neck—. You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?

—Yes —I gasped—. For months. Every night. I listened to my mother and you and touched myself thinking about you.

He kissed me. It wasn’t a gentle kiss; it was the kiss of a man who had been holding himself back for too long. He held my face with one hand while the other kept fucking me with his fingers, his tongue thrust deep into my mouth, his beard scraping my lips and chin. I felt a shiver run all the way down my spine to my ass.

I took him by the hand and led him to my room. I tore his shirt open, yanking at it button by button, and dug my nails into his hairy chest. Then I pulled down his pants and boxer briefs in one tug. His cock sprang out hard and thick, bigger than I had imagined on so many nights. My mouth watered.

—God —I murmured—, look at that cock of yours.

I knelt on the rug without thinking. I took his cock in both hands, weighed it, ran my tongue from the base to the tip, and stopped at the head to suck it slowly, closing my lips around it. Marcelo released a hoarse moan and buried his fingers in my hair.

—That’s it, baby. Take it all in.

I took him down my throat. I felt him strike the roof of my mouth, and my eyes filled with tears, but I didn’t stop. I moved back and forth, sucking him with my mouth open, letting saliva dribble down my chin and fall onto his balls. With one hand I fondled his balls; with the other I squeezed the base. Marcelo thrust slowly into my mouth, guiding me with his hips, looking down at me through half-closed eyes.

—You suck cock so well, you little bitch —he panted—. Better than your mother.

That sentence set me on fire. I sucked him faster, pulling him out to lick his balls one by one, then taking him back in until I was nearly choking. When I felt his thighs trembling, I pulled his cock from my mouth and smiled at him.

—Don’t come yet.

He lifted me by the hair and threw me onto the bed. We fell tangled together. He opened my legs with those broad hands and buried his face between my thighs. The first lick drew a cry from me. He licked my cunt from end to end, lingered over my clitoris, sucking it as though it were candy, pushed his tongue inside me and pulled it out, then went back to sucking. His beard scraped the tender flesh of my groin, and that mixture of roughness and pleasure drove me crazy. I grabbed his head and pressed his face against me.

—There, there, don’t stop, stay right there —I moaned, arching my back—. Suck it all out of me.

He, who had known only the haste of boys my age, showed me what it was like to be with a man who knew how to wait. He licked me until my legs tensed, until I felt myself come across his face in a shudder that shook me down to my feet. I screamed into the pillow, biting it, and he kept sucking while I writhed, taking advantage of every spasm.

At last, I thought as I arched against his mouth. At last I understand my mother.

He climbed on top of me, his hard cock dripping fluid onto my belly. He ran the head over my cunt’s lips, up and down, wetting them, and looked at me.

—Do you want me to put it in?

—Put it in me now —I begged—. All the way. Fuck me.

He pushed in all at once and drove it deep inside me. I screamed. I felt him opening me completely, filling me in a way no boy ever had. He stayed inside for a second, motionless, letting me feel him, and then began to move. Slowly at first, attentive to every gesture I made, reading what I needed in my face. He withdrew almost entirely and sank back in to the hilt, with a sharp impact that made my tits bounce against his chest.

—You’re so tight —he grunted against my ear—. You’re squeezing my cock dry.

Then the pace quickened, and I stopped thinking. I clung to his shoulders and broad back, digging my nails in until I drew blood. He fucked me harder and harder, the bed banging against the wall, the wet slapping of his cock entering and leaving my soaked cunt filling the room. I moaned uncontrollably, not caring about anything, because for the first time I felt my body responding completely.

He turned me over. He put me on all fours, gripped my waist, and drove into me from behind with one thrust. I buried my face in the pillow and offered him my ass. He grabbed my hair with one hand and pulled my head back, then slapped one of my buttocks with the other, making me howl.

—Tell me you like it.

—I love it, I love it, don’t stop —I moaned—. Fuck me hard, split me open.

He fucked me until his balls struck my clitoris. I felt his cock touching places I hadn’t known I had. He ran his thumb over my asshole, pressing lightly, and I felt another orgasm coming, longer and deeper. Everything contracted; my legs trembled, and I collapsed face-first onto the mattress while he kept thrusting into me from behind.

—Are you all right? —he asked at some point, slowing slightly, his cock buried deep inside me.

—Don’t stop —was all I could say—. Don’t stop. Fuck me until you come inside me.

He turned me onto my back again, opened my legs against his chest, and drove into me with his final thrusts, fast and brutal, looking me in the eyes. I squeezed his ass with my heels, pulling him against me. When I felt him trembling, when I heard him release that hoarse grunt I had heard from him so many times in my mother’s room, he gripped my hips tightly and discharged hot spurts inside me. I felt every pulse of his cock emptying itself. I came with him, mouth open and voiceless, clenching all around the cock that kept spilling inside me.

We ended up exhausted, drenched in sweat, tangled in the sheets. Semen ran down his thigh when he pulled out of me. Marcelo collapsed beside me and drew me against his chest. I rested my head on his warm, hairy chest and listened to his labored breathing gradually grow calm.

—Who would have thought —he murmured, stroking my hair— that behind that good-girl face there was such a slut.

I smiled against his skin. I stayed there for a long while listening to his heartbeat, my cunt throbbing and his semen running between my legs, until exhaustion overcame us both and we fell asleep.

***

I woke three hours later. Marcelo was gone. I put on a robe and went downstairs to the dining room, my legs still trembling and my cunt still sore. He was sitting at the table, and across from him, drinking coffee as though nothing had happened, was my mother.

—Hello, sleepyhead —she said, with a smile I knew far too well.

—You took your time —I replied, unable to hide my blush.

—I got caught up talking with my friend —she answered, holding my gaze a moment longer than necessary—. Are you happy?

Marcelo glanced at me, holding back a laugh. My mother did too.

—Happier than ever —I said, and it was true.

She had left on purpose. She had wanted her daughter to experience what she experienced every night, and seeing me enter the kitchen with the face of someone who had just been fucked filled her with a strange, conspiratorial satisfaction that she never fully explained to me.

***

For several months, the two of us shared Marcelo. Every time he came over, we waited for him with the same anticipation. Sometimes he was with my mother, sometimes with me; sometimes we crossed paths in the hallway, she leaving the bedroom with her hair mussed and the smell of sex clinging to her skin, and I going in so he could fuck me, and neither of us said a word. One night, we even took turns with him in the same bed: he came inside my mother, stayed hard for a few minutes, and then mounted me without washing, while she watched us from beside him with one hand between her legs. It became our routine, a secret belonging only to the three people inside it.

With him I learned what no boy my age had ever taught me: that desire is built slowly, that a gaze is worth as much as hands, that a man who knows how to wait is infinitely more dangerous than a man in a hurry, that a good cock can make you forget your own name. Marcelo knew how to awaken something in me that never went back to sleep.

The story ended as these things usually do. Marcelo discovered that neither my mother nor I was as exclusive to him as he had believed, and one day he simply stopped coming. It ended without a scene, almost in silence, just as it had begun.

As far as I know, Beatriz never found out about any of it. And my mother and I still exchange a glance from time to time when someone mentions his name. There’s no need to say anything. We both know exactly what happened that summer, and neither of us regrets it.