Taking Care of My Friend’s Mother Turned Into Something Else

That Saturday afternoon, like so many others since my separation, my house once again became the headquarters for my lifelong friends. A barbecue, beers, and conversation until the sun began to go down. One by one they all drifted off, until only Marcos was left, several drinks in and wearing that look a person gets when he’s carrying something he doesn’t know how to let go of.

—I’ve got to tell you something —he said, stirring the ice in his glass—. I landed a job abroad. Three times what I make here.

I congratulated him, but his face wasn’t the face of someone happy. He explained that he’d been separated for years, that his son was grown and had his own family, that nothing tied him to this city. Nothing, except one thing.

—My old lady —he sighed—. Because of my shifts, I couldn’t leave her alone anymore, so a year ago I had to put her in a nursing home. I go see her often. But if I leave, I’ll be lucky to come back once a year.

That’s when I understood where the conversation was going.

—I need to ask you for a huge favor —he told me, resting a hand on my shoulder—. Could you go see her every so often? Take her some chocolates, take her out for a walk. I’ll be grateful to you for the rest of my life.

I told him not to worry. I had known his mother when I was a kid, though she probably didn’t remember me. But a friend is a friend, and that’s not up for discussion.

***

A couple of months later we threw him a going-away party at my place. When we hugged at the door, Marcos repeated it to me once more, almost in my ear: take care of my old lady. I told him not to worry.

I kept my word. A few weeks later I went to the nursing home with a box of chocolates under my arm. Doña Olga was the typical grandmother of about seventy-five: short, thin, with long gray hair tied up in a bun, thick glasses, and a soft voice that seemed to apologize for existing. It took her a while to recognize me —she hadn’t seen me in more than ten years—, but when she did, her face lit up.

We talked for almost an hour. At first it was awkward, one of those silences you fill with stock phrases. Then things loosened up and it became a pleasant conversation. I said goodbye, promising I’d come by another day to take her out for a walk.

***

The following Sunday I called her. When I arrived, she was already ready, waiting for me with her purse on her knees. The nurse who looked after her, who knew perfectly well I wasn’t her son, made a joke:

—Olga, your boyfriend’s here to pick you up.

She laughed and took my arm. We walked around downtown, I parked near a square and we strolled a bit. For her age, she moved remarkably well, independent, alert. We bought ice cream, took a photo together, and I sent it to Marcos. He replied instantly, endlessly grateful that I had taken his mother out for some fresh air.

That afternoon I felt a tenderness that’s hard to explain. My own mother had died years before, and seeing her so alone, surrounded by people she barely knew, stirred something in me. I took her back and we agreed to do it again.

***

The third outing was almost a month later. I took her to lunch at a restaurant, another photo for Marcos. We talked about food, about the dishes my mother used to make for me when I was little. I told her I’d lost her, and Olga’s eyes grew wet.

—I’d love to cook those dishes for you —she told me, squeezing my hand—. But not here. At your place, like God intended.

So that was that. The following Sunday I stopped by the supermarket, bought everything she had ordered from me over the phone, and went to pick her up.

***

In the kitchen, Olga moved with a confidence that surprised me. I poured her a glass of red wine and poured myself one too. I helped her chop, stir the pots, while the house filled with a smell that really did remind me of my childhood.

And then, looking at her out of the corner of my eye, I started seeing her differently.

The truth is, the woman wasn’t bad at all. Petite and thin, yes, but beneath the modestly cut blouse you could make out a good pair of tits, and the loose skirt hinted at an ass that still had plenty going for it. I’d gone a long time without getting laid. And I thought, almost without meaning to, that she had probably gone much longer.

The wine made me bold. I started coming up behind her with the excuse of checking the pot, resting my hands lightly on her waist, letting my fly brush against her ass. No rejection. I refilled her glass, made her laugh, held her gaze for a second too long. She held it for a moment before turning back to the kitchen, and in that instant I knew she had understood.

—I’m already getting dizzy from the wine —she said, laughing when I poured her another.

—One more and we’ll eat —I insisted.

She drank it anyway.

***

We ate a delicious home-cooked meal, the kind you can’t get in any restaurant. Afterward we cleared the table together. She wanted to wash the dishes; I told her to leave them. She insisted, took the sponge, and I leaned against her back under the excuse of taking it from her, rubbing against her just a little, both of us laughing as if it were an innocent game. I had her pressed so close that I could perfectly feel how her ass settled against my bulge, and how she stayed there a second too long before pulling away.

We sat on the sofa for a while. She told me again the wine had loosened her up, and I confessed that after eating so much I needed to lie down for a bit.

—I don’t like the idea of leaving you alone —I told her—. Come on, keep me company while I watch TV in the bedroom. I’ve got air conditioning in there; with this heat it’ll be better.

She agreed.

***

I turned on the TV and lay back. She sat down shyly on the edge, her feet still on the floor.

—Take off your shoes, make yourself comfortable —I said—. I’m not going to do anything to you. Unless you want me to.

She laughed at the joke and looked at me in a way that was no longer innocent at all. She took off her shoes and brought her legs up onto the bed, ending up beside me.

I picked up my phone and said we were going to take a picture to send to Marcos. She protested between laughs —“what will my son think if he sees me in your bed?”— and started a struggle: her trying to take the phone from me, me moving it back and forth. In the play-fight she pressed against my chest, against my legs, until I let her win. Laughing like a little girl, she turned away from me with the phone in her hands.

That’s when I pounced. Pretending I wanted to get it back, I pressed my whole body against her back, and my half-hard cock stabbed into her ass over the skirt. She laughed and shielded herself, and I, with the excuse of the struggle, brushed one breast with my hand for a second. She didn’t say anything. I brushed it again. Nothing, just laughter. The third time I grabbed it with my open hand, no pretending and no letting go, squeezing it over the blouse. The laughter cut off abruptly. But she didn’t move my hand away. She only let out a long sigh from deep inside her.

We stopped moving. I began to caress her breast through the blouse, feeling the nipple harden against the fabric and bra, pressing my cock harder and harder against her ass. She wasn’t saying anything, but her breathing gave her away. I found her neck with my lips, licked from bottom to top, and then she let out a stronger moan, shifting just slightly backward, rubbing against my bulge without realizing what she was doing.

***

I took it slow, patiently, so as not to scare her. I pulled her skirt up to her waist, stroked her thin, warm thighs, and reached her crotch over her panties. She was soaked. The fabric clung to her cunt and the smell hit me hard, a smell of female heat that had been stored away for years. I ran my finger over the slit, pressing the fabric against her lips, and she jerked and pressed herself even closer to me.

—Oh my God —she murmured—, it’s been so long…

I turned her over on the bed onto her back and began unbuttoning her blouse, one button at a time, unhurried. I opened her bra in front and freed her tits: soft, warm, drooping with age, with big pink nipples already hard as pebbles. I like bodies as they are, with their history laid over them, and that body had a whole life behind it. I lunged at one breast and took it whole into my mouth, sucking the nipple, biting it slowly, while my other hand kept squeezing the breast on the other side. She arched her back and dug her nails into my nape.

—Suck them for me —she whispered, red with shame and heat—, it’s been years since anyone sucked them like that.

I pulled her panties down her legs, removed them, and threw them on the floor. I spread her thighs and paused for a second looking at her cunt: a grown woman’s cunt, with sparse gray hairs, swollen lips shining from how wet she was. I lowered my head and laid my whole tongue on it from bottom to top, slowly, tasting her. Olga let out a moan that came out raw and she covered her mouth with both hands.

—Take your hands away —I told her—. I want to hear you.

She did. I opened her cunt lips with my fingers and found her clit with the tip of my tongue. It was swollen, throbbing. I sucked it slowly, then licked faster, and she began grinding her hips against my face, grabbing my hair. I slid one finger into her cunt and she was tight, clamped down like a girl, all those years with nothing had left her that way. I added a second finger and started moving them inside her while I kept sucking her clit, and in less than a minute I felt her shaking all over, squeezing my fingers with the walls of her cunt and crying out in a hoarse voice I didn’t know.

—Oh, I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming —she repeated—, Jesus, it’s been years since I…

She came with her face all red, her eyes closed, breathing like she’d run a block. When she opened her eyes, she looked at me with something close to fear.

—What are we doing? —she murmured.

—Don’t you like it?

—Yes, I do like it. But I’m afraid.

—Afraid of what?

—Of my son finding out.

—And how would he find out? This stays between us. It’ll be our secret.

—I can’t believe this is happening —she whispered, more to herself than to me.

—We’re two adults, right?

—Yes. But I’m many years older than you.

—That’s not a problem at all —I told her, finding her mouth and slipping my tongue in so she could taste herself—. Unless you don’t want this.

—I do want it —she admitted, and lowered her gaze to my bulge—. I love your body. Let me see it.

—Then show me.

***

I stood beside the bed and took off my clothes. When I pulled down my underwear and my hard cock sprang out in front of her face, a sigh slipped from her and she licked her lips without realizing it. She sat up, perched on the edge of the bed, and took it in both hands, measuring it, weighing it, looking at it closely like someone rediscovering something she’d thought was lost.

—It’s been so long since I’ve had one like this in my hand —she said, and without adding anything else, took it into her mouth halfway.

The old woman knew how to suck cock. She had it deep in her throat, pulling it out with her tongue curled around the head, licking it from underneath from the balls to the tip, sucking each ball one by one while she worked it with her hand. Saliva escaped at the corner of her mouth and she didn’t care. I watched her from above, my hands in her gray bun, unable to believe that the shy little lady I had walked arm in arm through the square was blowing me like that.

—Take it all —I asked, squeezing the back of her neck a little.

She opened her mouth wider, breathed through her nose, and swallowed it down to her throat, gagging but not pulling away. Her eyes watered, her mascara ran, and when she took it out a strand of spit hung from her lip to the tip of my cock.

—Fuck me —she told me, looking up at me through her lashes with glossy lips—. Fuck me now, I can’t take it anymore.

***

I pushed her back onto the bed, spread her legs, and settled between them. I rubbed the head of my cock all over the slit of her cunt, wetting myself with her juices, pressing it against her clit so she’d squirm. She lifted her hips, desperate for me.

—Put it in, please, don’t make me wait.

I slid the tip in slowly, just a centimeter, and she clenched around me so hard she almost made me finish right then. I pushed a little more and felt her give way gradually, opening around me. She was panting with her mouth open, head thrown back, hands clutching the sheets. When I finally drove it all the way in, my balls slapping her ass, she let out a long, sharp moan, almost a sob.

—Oh, how you fill me —she said—, how you fill me.

I started moving slowly, with long thrusts, pulling almost all the way out and then driving back in to the hilt. She answered each thrust with her hips. I grabbed one breast in each hand, squeezed them, twisted the nipples, and she begged me for more and harder.

—Harder —she panted—, fuck me harder, don’t worry, I can take it.

I obeyed. I started pounding into her, bodies slapping against bodies, the bed creaking, the smell of cunt filling the room. She was screaming shamelessly, no longer covering her mouth, telling me things that made me even hotter:

—Fuck me, fuck me hard, it’s been years since anyone drove it into me like that, give me all the cock, give me all of it.

I grabbed her legs, lifted them until her ankles rested on my shoulders, and in that position I drove into places that probably hadn’t been filled in decades. She let out shrieks that could be heard all over the house, and I didn’t care; it was even better.

I turned her over and put her on all fours. Seeing her wrinkled white ass in the air, and below it the open red cunt waiting for cock, almost made me come. I rammed my cock in with a single thrust and she gave a muffled scream into the pillow. I grabbed her undone bun like reins and started fucking her like a filly, while my other hand slapped her ass, leaving the imprint of my fingers.

—You’re a filthy old slut —I told her in her ear, surprising myself—, look how much you like it.

—Yes —she panted into the pillow—, I’m an old slut, I’m your old slut, keep going, don’t stop, don’t stop.

I slipped my hand underneath and found her clit with my fingers while I kept driving into her from behind. I rubbed it in time with the pounding and in a few seconds I felt her explode again, clamping her cunt around my cock with spasms that nearly dragged me with her.

—I’m coming again —she shouted into the pillow—, oh God, I’m coming again, inside, let me finish with you inside me.

I held on as best I could until she stopped shaking. Then I turned her over again, pushed into her once more while looking at her face, and asked her where she wanted it.

—Not inside —she panted, understanding—. On my tits, finish me on my tits.

I kept thrusting a few more times, faster and faster, until I felt everything rising. I pulled out, climbed over her, and started jerking myself off over her chest. She helped me with her hand, looking at me, mouth open and tongue out waiting. The first spray landed on her neck and chin, the second split her tits in half, and the last I unloaded over her nipples and onto her tongue, while she swallowed what fell into her mouth and licked her lips.

—It’s been years since anyone came on me —she said, with a tired, happy smile, smearing semen over her tits with her fingers—. I’d forgotten how nice it felt.

I kissed her on the forehead and collapsed beside her, out of breath.

—It’s been so long since something like this happened to me —she added later, her voice breaking—. I thought it never would again.

***

I’m a man who likes to take his time, for each encounter to be long, unhurried. And she, far from falling behind, kept pace with a hunger that seemed to have been building for years. After a short break I had it hard again, and she climbed on top of me without being asked, lined my cock up with her cunt, and lowered herself slowly, sinking it in to the hilt with a sigh.

She rode me like that for a long while, her drooping tits bouncing against my face, clinging to the headboard, moving her hips in circles, squeezing my cock with her cunt every time she lifted up. She talked in my ear, told me dirty things, asked for things with a naturalness that only made me hotter. The shyness from the beginning had disappeared completely.

—Look how I ride your cock —she panted—, look how I take it all in, your friend doesn’t know what his mother is doing with you.

She came again on top of me, shaking like a leaf, and I came a second time inside her, because by then she had already begged me for it at the top of her lungs.

We spent a good part of the afternoon like that, lost in that bed, cut off from everything outside. There were laughs, there were silences, there were moments when we both looked at each other without fully understanding how we had ended up there. When we finally lay still, embracing and breathless, she rested her head on my chest, with semen still running down the inner side of her thighs.

—Tomorrow I’m going to wake up sore as hell —she said, and laughed softly—. But happy.

***

We rested for a while. I dozed off for a few minutes, feeling her hand run over my back with a tenderness that had nothing left to do with desire. When I woke up, she was still awake, covered by the sheet, looking at me with a serene smile.

—Thank you —she said, simply.

No explanation was needed.

***

It was already late when we got dressed and I took her back to the nursing home. While I was driving, I rested my hand on her knee and asked if she’d enjoyed it.

—I loved it —she replied, looking out the window with a half smile—. I hadn’t felt like this in years. Like a woman again, and not just an old lady in a home.

I left her at the door. Before getting out, she leaned in and gave me a kiss on the cheek that lasted a second too long.

—Next weekend I’m cooking again —she said—. If you want to invite me, of course. And bring some appetite.

I watched her walk away, small and straight-backed, waving to the nurse. I took out my phone and texted Marcos that his mother was doing wonderfully, happier than ever.

I wasn’t lying. That part, at least, was completely true.