My Son’s Friend Came into My Room in the Middle of the Night

I’m going to tell you about one of the most intense things that has ever happened to me, and I still have trouble believing that I was the one who lived it. I’m forty-one years old, and it happened with my son’s best friend, during almost two years in which I learned that desire doesn’t respect any rules.

It started slowly, the way things start when you know you shouldn’t allow them. Bruno and my son had met on a neighborhood basketball team, and from then on they were inseparable. Bruno came over often, stayed the night, spent entire afternoons sprawled on the couch with the game console. I treated him like another nephew, served him afternoon snacks, washed a shirt he’d forgotten. But at twenty-four, Bruno was no longer the skinny boy from summer camp.

He was of average height, broad-backed, with a body shaped by all that sports. Whenever he walked around the house shirtless, I looked away a second later than I should have. And he noticed. He noticed everything. He had a way of looking at me when he passed by, a look that wasn’t a boy looking at his friend’s mother, and although I didn’t say anything for months, that look clung to my body until nighttime.

First came a request on social media. Then a stray message, a joke, a “How’s the prettiest mom in the neighborhood doing?” that I answered with an emoji and nothing else. But Bruno was disarmingly persistent. He didn’t pressure me; he simply didn’t give up. He wrote to me at all hours, sent me songs, asked me things no boy his age asked a woman mine.

This can’t end well, I thought every time I answered him. And I answered him anyway.

***

The first time something happened was one afternoon in March, with my son at college and the house silent. Bruno showed up with the excuse of returning a charger. There was no charger. I knew it as soon as I opened the door and saw the way he was looking at me, and I suppose he knew I knew because we barely said anything. He kissed me in the hallway, against the wall, and I, who had spent months convincing myself this was madness, let myself be carried away as if I’d been waiting for it all my life.

What surprised me wasn’t that it happened, but the intensity with which it happened. Bruno took me with an urgency that seemed to have been held back for years. He slipped one hand under my skirt right there against the wall, and when he found that I was already wet, he muttered a curse against my mouth. “Fuck, you’re soaked,” he told me, and thrust two fingers into me in one movement, without preliminaries, while his thumb searched for my clitoris. My legs went weak, and I had to grab his neck. He fucked me with his fingers right there, standing in the hallway of my own house, until I came, biting his shoulder through his shirt.

He dragged me to the couch, tore off my clothes, and yanked down his pants. When I saw his cock for the first time, I spent a second staring at it, thick and hard, the tip already glistening, and I didn’t think about it: I knelt and took the whole thing into my mouth. I sucked him hungrily, both hands braced on his thighs, while he grabbed my hair and looked down at me, saying things nobody had said to me in years. “That’s it, Mommy, suck it like that,” he urged, and I took him deeper, until I gagged, leaving strings of saliva hanging from my chin. He kissed my neck, my shoulders, my breasts, as if he wanted to leave a mark on every inch. I’d always had big tits—my ex-husband called them my best argument—and Bruno went crazy for them. He squeezed them with both hands, sucked my nipples until they were swollen and red, and then he put his cock between my breasts and moved, playing with them, while I stuck out my tongue and licked the tip every time it appeared.

He threw me onto my back on the couch, spread my legs, and got between them with his mouth. He ate my cunt without hurrying, with his whole tongue, sucking my clitoris and pushing his tongue inside me as if he had all day. I, who already thought I’d seen it all, discovered that I hadn’t seen anything. I came a second time over his mouth, squeezing his head between my thighs, and while I was still trembling he turned me over, put me on all fours on the couch, and thrust into me. “Aaah, you son of a bitch,” escaped me, because he went all the way in, and he laughed, grabbed me by the waist, and started fucking me hard, making my ass bounce against his pelvis.

He fucked me like that for a long while, pulling my hair and giving me soft slaps on the ass, until he turned me over again and finished on my face with a hoarse moan, splashing my forehead, cheek, and open mouth. Without thinking, I stuck out my tongue, collected what was dripping, and swallowed it while looking at him, and he laughed with that half-disbelieving laugh of someone who can’t believe what he’s just experienced.

From that afternoon on, we became lovers. We saw each other whenever we could, when the house was empty, when he slipped away before practice. I invented errands that ended at his apartment; he invented studying that ended in my bed. The secret was part of the game. Knowing that my son was one phone call away from finding out gave everything an edge I had never felt before, not even when I was young.

I learned to desire him in ways I didn’t recognize in myself. I liked watching him walk naked to the bathroom afterward, the muscle in his back, the way he ran a hand through his hair, his cock still half-hard and swinging as he walked. I liked the way he spoke into my ear, the things he told me, those words that would have irritated me from someone else but aroused me in his mouth. “You’re my whore,” he whispered to me, “my forty-year-old whore,” and instead of being offended, I grew wet all over. I began to understand that the body, even at my age, still had a lot to learn.

***

The night I remember most was a Friday in winter. Bruno and my son stopped by the house at dusk, in a hurry, to change for a party. While my son showered, Bruno cornered me in the kitchen and kissed me with his mouth still cold from the street, his hands moving quickly under my sweater, searching for my tits beneath my bra, pinching my nipples until a moan escaped me. He took my hand and placed it over the bulge in his jeans. He was already hard, standing there in my kitchen, with my son ten yards away under the running water. I squeezed him through the fabric and he bit my lip, until we heard the faucet shut off and he moved away as if nothing had happened. They both left laughing, and I spent the whole night with that unfinished kiss turning over in my mind and my panties soaked.

I went to bed late. Ever since I separated, I’ve slept naked, and that night the cold made me pull the comforter up to my nose. I don’t know what time it was when I heard noise in the kitchen. I thought it was my son coming home from the party, the typical mess made by someone arriving drunk, and I didn’t even move. But then I heard footsteps in the hall, followed by a few soft knocks on my door.

—Is something wrong? —I asked, half asleep.

Nobody answered. I put on my robe, opened the door, and there was Bruno, barefoot, his hair tousled and his eyes bright with alcohol.

—Are you crazy? —I managed to whisper.

He didn’t let me say anything else. He stepped into the room, closed the door with his foot, and kissed me, slowly pushing me toward the bed. He smelled of nighttime, someone else’s cigarette smoke, and something sweet, but his hands knew exactly where to touch me, and I immediately lost any intention of throwing him out. My son is in the room next door, I thought, and instead of stopping me, that thought set me on fire.

He slipped my robe off in one motion and stood looking at me for a second, as if he still couldn’t believe we were there. Then he lowered his mouth to my tits and began to suck them slowly, licking them all over, barely biting my nipples, tugging at them with his teeth, and I had to bite the pillow to keep from making noise. He licked down my stomach, my groin, the insides of my thighs, breathing hard over my cunt without touching it yet, until I dug my hand into the back of his neck and pushed him there. Bruno was drunk and had no restraint. He yanked my legs apart and went down with his tongue, and I gripped the sheets with both hands.

He was good with his mouth. Too good. He sucked my clitoris with his lips, then went lower, slid his tongue inside me, came back up, all while looking at me from down there, his eyes fixed on mine above my tits. He knew my body better than many men I’d been with for years, knew where to insist and when to ease off, and within minutes he had me trembling, one hand covering my own mouth because he wasn’t going to stop. He pushed two fingers inside me and kept sucking, and when I felt myself going over the edge, he pressed my stomach with his free hand and squeezed the orgasm out of me from the outside. I grabbed his head to stop him, pulled him up sharply to my face, and kissed him, tasting myself on his mouth.

—Come here —I begged in his ear—. But slowly, please.

I lowered his boxers with my foot and pulled them off. He was rock-hard, throbbing against my thigh. I took him in my hand, positioned him at my entrance, and looked him in the eyes.

—Slowly —I repeated.

***

Bruno entered slowly, looking me in the eyes, and I dug my nails into his shoulders to hold back my cry. He opened me up little by little, inch by inch, and when he reached the bottom he stayed there, buried inside me, breathing into my mouth. He began gently, almost tenderly, kissing me between thrusts, whispering things that made me close my eyes. “Look how tight you are around me,” he said against my ear, “look how that cunt sucks my cock.” I loved feeling all his weight on top of me, the heat of his chest against mine, the way he lowered his head to seek out my tits without stopping his movements, sucking them while he slowly drove into me, deep and hard.

But Bruno had something wild inside him that eventually came out. Little by little he picked up the pace, faster and firmer, grabbing my legs and spreading them wider, until I began moaning despite myself and the bed started banging against the wall. The sound froze my blood. I covered his mouth and stopped him.

—The floor —I said breathlessly—. We’re going to wake everyone up.

He laughed under his breath, helped me stand, and tossed the comforter and pillows onto the floor. We lay down on that makeshift bed and he entered me again, and there, without the bed making noise, I stopped holding back quite so much. He kissed my neck, held my face, talked against my mouth. “Be quiet, be quiet, be quiet,” he repeated whenever a moan escaped me, covering my mouth with his hand while he kept fucking me. Each kiss heated me more than the last. At one point we moved so much that my head ended up against the closet door; we both held back a laugh, he moved me aside, put a pillow under my neck, and continued as if nothing had happened.

He turned me onto my side, settled behind me, and wrapped his whole body around me as he moved. He squeezed one tit with one hand and held me by the neck with the other, not to hurt me but to keep hold of me, and kissed me behind the ear. In that position I felt so desired that moans escaped me despite everything. He moved his hand from my breast to my mouth, pushed two fingers inside, and I sucked them, biting them so I wouldn’t scream. Then that same hand went down to my clitoris and began rubbing me while he fucked me from behind, and that was it—I couldn’t take any more. I sought out his fingers with my mouth and bit them so I wouldn’t scream, rocking my ass against his hips so he’d fuck me harder.

—I want you on top —he said hoarsely.

***

He lay on his back on the floor, and I sat on top of him. I took his cock in my hand, positioned the tip at my entrance, and lowered myself slowly, feeling myself filling up. When I had him entirely inside me, I let out my breath all at once. From there I could look at his whole body, the muscles in his abdomen tensing every time he thrust upward, his jaw clenched, his eyes fixed on me. He held me by the waist and set the rhythm, and sometimes he pressed me against him as deeply as possible and stayed there, motionless, letting me feel everything—every vein, every beat.

I began moving myself, up and down, bracing my hands on his chest, and he watched my tits bounce against his face. He grabbed them, brought them to his mouth, and sucked my nipples one after the other while I rode him. “Move like that, like a whore,” he told me, and that made me squeeze him tighter inside me. I leaned forward, planted my hands on the floor beside his head, and he began moving from below, fast and deep, never stopping his upward thrusts. My tits were at mouth level, and he took advantage of them, barely biting my nipples and sucking them until they stung.

He lowered his hands to my ass, grabbed it with both hands, and spread me open while continuing to thrust from below. He ran a wet finger over my backside, and I flinched, but I didn’t stop him. I let him, and he pressed it there without pushing it all the way in, teasing me while his cock went in and out in front. The double sensation made me lose my head. I felt that I couldn’t hold back any longer. I quietly asked him not to stop, to keep going like that, that I was going to come, and Bruno—who always obeyed me when it came to this—kept going exactly like that until I came on top of him, trembling, my forehead resting on his shoulder and his hand once again over my mouth so nobody on the other side of the hall would hear anything. My cunt contracted completely around his cock, squeezing him, and he let out a muffled moan against my neck.

I lay collapsed on his chest for a moment, breathless, feeling him throbbing inside me. Then he carefully turned me over, laid me on my back, spread my legs, and thrust into me again, this time for himself. He moved quickly for a few more minutes, watching my tits move with every thrust, until he pulled out, climbed astride me, and took hold of himself. I stuck out my tongue without him having to ask. He finished on my stomach and tits with a restrained moan, thick spurts falling hot onto my skin, and left the last ones in my mouth. I swallowed them, ran my tongue over the tip to clean it for him, and he muttered a low curse, incredulous. We were both covered in sweat despite the cold. We lay on the floor, laughing quietly like two teenagers who had gotten away with something. I looked at the clock on the nightstand: we’d been at it for more than an hour.

—You really are crazy —I told him, running a hand through his damp hair.

—I’d been wanting to since the kitchen —he replied, kissing my temple.

A while later he got up, gathered his clothes, and went to my son’s room to pretend to be asleep. I got into my bed, my body still buzzing, his seed dried on my skin because I hadn’t wanted to wipe it off, listening to the silence of the house.

***

The next morning my son got up after noon, with a terrible hangover. He barely remembered coming home from the party, much less when Bruno had gone to bed. The three of us had breakfast in the kitchen like any Sunday, my son complaining about his headache, Bruno pouring mate as if nothing had happened, and under the table his foot brushed mine for a second, just enough to make a smile escape me that I had to disguise with a sip.

Bruno and I kept seeing each other for almost two more years. I learned things about myself I hadn’t known, allowed myself desires I had forbidden myself all my life, and never, not even once, did I feel guilty while I was with him. Guilt, I discovered, is something you choose, and I chose not to feel it.

What we had ended without drama, the day he moved to another city for work. We said goodbye like two grown adults who knew they’d been lucky. To this day, my son has no idea about any of it. And every now and then, when the house grows quiet, I still remember that winter night and the soft knocks on my door.