What I Taught My Son’s Friend

Monday nights are mine.

No negotiation. After working all week, dealing with traffic, emails, calls that never end, Monday afternoon belongs to me: face mask, creams, a long bath with salts, the TV on in the background with the volume off. My son Tomás knows that. We’ve talked about it more than once.

So when his message came in at four saying he was coming over with two friends, the first thing I did was let out a long sigh.

“Mom, we promise not to bother you. Just to play for a while.”

I answered yes. That I was leaving something in the oven. That he should let me know if they needed anything. End of conversation.

At five I heard the door. The laughter. The smack of the game controller against the sofa cushion. Tomás and his friends have an energy I no longer remember having, or maybe I do remember it but it seems like it came from another planet.

I stayed in my room. Cucumber on my eyes, avocado in my hair, peace.

But after twenty minutes I started to feel that sensation creeping in. That inner voice that says go downstairs for a moment, just to make sure everything’s all right. It’s not distrust. It’s something else. A kind of domestic instinct I can never quite switch off.

I went down. Three young men in front of the screen, none of them looked at me. Or they did look, but pretended not to.

“Everything’s fine down here,” I said, more to myself than to them. “If you need anything, I’m upstairs.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Tomás answered without turning around.

I went back up. Lay down again. Put on the rest of the mask. Turned on the salt lamp that relaxes me so much. And there I was, enjoying the silence of the afternoon, when I heard someone knock on my door.

I opened my eyes halfway.

“Come in.”

The door opened slowly. It wasn’t Tomás.

It was a boy I didn’t recognize at first: tall, slender, wearing a band T-shirt I didn’t know and an expression caught somewhere between embarrassed and frozen.

“Sorry,” he said, his voice a little strained. “I was looking for the bathroom.”

“No problem,” I answered, not moving. “It’s two doors down.”

But he didn’t move. He stayed in the doorway, one hand still on the knob, looking without looking away. It wasn’t rudeness. It was something else. I noticed it in the way his eyes traveled over the room, in the way they kept coming back to me, as if something in the room was holding him there and he himself didn’t quite know what. I was wearing my robe half-open, and without meaning to his eyes locked onto the opening at the neckline, the beginnings of my breasts peeking through the silk. I saw them go down and up again. I saw him swallow.

“Hey,” I said, sitting up a little. “Are you my son’s friend?”

“I’m Rodrigo’s brother,” he explained. “Tomás invited the two of us. I’m the older one.”

“Ah, I see. And what’s your name?”

“Mateo.”

“I’m Sandra,” I said, smiling. “You don’t have to call me ma’am.”

“Okay, ma’am Sandra.”

I laughed. He did too. But his gaze wasn’t laughing. His gaze moved slowly and without much pretense, like someone reading something written on my skin and not wanting it to be noticed. And I, without intending to, felt my nipple harden against the fabric when his eyes passed over my breasts. An old shiver, the kind you don’t forget.

He turned and left.

I closed my eyes again. But the air in the room had changed. That brief visitor had left something hanging there. Something I recognized without wanting to name it yet. Between my legs I also noticed that wet heat that had not visited me in months. I pressed my thighs together and took a deep breath.

***

An hour later, the door again.

“Can I?”

It was him. Mateo. Again.

“Come in,” I said, this time more alert.

He entered. His hands were in his trouser pockets and he didn’t quite know where to look. His jaw was slightly clenched, like someone who has been rehearsing what he’s going to say and suddenly doubts everything.

“The bathroom’s free,” I told him.

“Yes, I know. It’s just that I wanted to talk to you.”

I sat up on the bed and looked him straight in the eye.

“About what?”

He swallowed. Once. His right foot kept moving on the floor, without him seeming to notice.

“Your son told us you live alone. That you don’t have a partner.”

“That’s right.”

“Then… I’d like to take you out.”

I wasn’t expecting that. Or maybe I was, but not in that way.

“Where would you take me?” I asked, with complete calm.

“To the hotel,” he said. No detours. No fake embarrassment.

Inside, I almost laughed. But I held it in. I wanted to see how far this boy with the direct gaze and nervous hands would go.

“That’s moving very fast,” I told him.

“That’s what boyfriends do,” he replied, with that strange mix of confidence and innocence only people who still don’t really know what they’re saying have.

“Do you want me to be your girlfriend, Mateo?”

“No,” he corrected, more slowly. “I want you to teach me.”

That sentence sounded different. More honest than everything before it.

“Teach you what?”

He stayed silent for a moment, eyes fixed on the floor, hands still buried in his pockets. Then he said in a low voice:

“I want someone with experience to teach me how to fuck. How to do it right. I don’t want to do it badly the first time with a girl.”

I looked at him. His face was young but serious. He wasn’t playing at anything. He had that mixture of shame and desire that can’t be easily faked, that shows in the tension of the jaw and the way you breathe. And in the bulge outlined at the side of his jeans, which he was trying to hide by angling his hips and hiding nothing at all.

“Come here,” I said, pointing to the edge of the bed. “Sit here.”

He sat down. His knees were trembling slightly.

“How old are you?”

“Nineteen.”

“I’m thirty-eight.”

“I know,” he said, without blinking.

“And that doesn’t bother you?”

“No. Quite the opposite.”

I asked him why. He looked down at the floor again, quiet, and then answered in a voice that barely rose from the floor:

“Because a woman like you knows things girls my age don’t know. She knows how to suck a man’s dick, how to get on top of him, how to make him come properly. And I want to learn from someone who really knows.”

I kept looking at him for a moment. His hands clenched on his thighs. The visible effort of keeping himself composed in front of me. And the bulge, more obvious now, with no possible way to hide it.

“You don’t need boyfriends for that,” I said, letting my hand brush his cheek lightly. “It can be between friends.”

His eyes opened in a way I found irresistible.

“Really?”

“Of course. If you want, I’ll teach you.”

“Tonight?” he asked, almost voiceless.

“They’re all downstairs right now,” I said. “Tonight, if you want. At nine. Text me when you’re outside.”

He nodded so fast I almost didn’t see it.

I dictated my number to him. He left the room as if his feet weren’t touching the floor.

I stayed sitting on the bed for a moment, listening to his footsteps going down the stairs. And without thinking twice I slid my hand under my robe, between my thighs, to check what I already knew: I was soaked. My fingers slipped right into my cunt, wet to the knuckles. It had been years since talking had turned me on like that.

What have I done, I thought. And right away: what am I going to do.

***

At half past eight I went into the bathroom. I looked at myself in the mirror with that cold objectivity you learn with the years: is everything in place? Yes. Thirty-eight years old, brown skin, a body I’ve taken care of not out of vanity but because I like feeling good inside it. Hair loose, still damp. Lips without makeup but with their own color. Dark nipples standing proud, still hard from thinking about what was coming. My pussy shaved, already shiny with its own wetness.

I put on the dark silk robe. The one I keep for nights that deserve something different. Nothing underneath. No panties or bra. Silk right against the skin, sliding over my ass every time I moved.

I sat in the armchair by the window and waited, the phone face up on the little table.

At exactly nine, the message came in.

“I’m outside.”

I answered: “Come up slowly. Straight here.”

I heard his footsteps on the stairs. Slow. Measured. My bedroom door was ajar. He pushed it open carefully.

He came in.

And in that moment I understood that boy had been holding something in all afternoon. He was standing by the door, motionless, looking at me with that particular mix of nerves and hunger that went through me from end to end. His hands were no longer in his pockets. They hung at his sides, open, as if he didn’t know what to do with them. And in his jeans, once again, the bulge was pronounced, this time without even trying to hide it.

I rose slowly from the armchair and stood in front of him.

“Breathe,” I told him.

He let the air out. He hadn’t realized he was holding it in.

I started moving slowly. No music, but with rhythm. Hips first, then shoulders. It wasn’t a stage dance or anything rehearsed. It was something else: it was the movement of someone who knows what she has and doesn’t need to prove it, only show it.

His eyes couldn’t keep up with me all the way. They jumped from one point to another, as if there was too much to see and he didn’t know where to begin.

I untied the knot of my robe. Let it fall to the floor.

Absolute silence.

Mateo didn’t say a word. His mouth was slightly open and his arms hung at his sides, like someone who has been hit softly but has had everything inside him shaken loose. His eyes traveled over my breasts, stopped on my hard nipples, moved down my belly, and locked onto my shaved pussy, already shining with wetness.

“Come here,” I said. “And take your clothes off. All of them.”

He moved like an automaton. The T-shirt came off in one yank. The belt gave him trouble with clumsy fingers. When he pulled down his pants and briefs together, his cock bounced hard against his navel, bigger than I’d imagined, thick and already purple at the tip from being held in so long. A thin thread of pre-cum hung from the head.

“Look at you,” I said, coming closer. “You’re about to burst without anyone even touching you.”

“I’ve been like this for hours,” he confessed, his voice rough. “Since I saw you in the room.”

I laid my open hand on his chest. I felt his heart pounding against his ribs. I slid my palm down slowly, over his stomach, until I closed my fingers around his cock. It was hot, rock-hard. I squeezed gently. He let out a short moan and his legs almost gave out.

“Stay still,” I whispered.

I started stroking his cock slowly, my hand closed around it, moving up and down the whole length. With my thumb I spread the drop at the tip over the entire head, slippery. He was moaning softly, biting his lip, eyes closed. I leaned into his ear.

“First lesson,” I told him, “is how to hold back. When a woman touches you like this, don’t come in three seconds. Breathe through your nose. Count.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“You can because I say you can.”

I knelt down slowly in front of him. Mateo opened his eyes and looked down. He was watching me, kneeling there, with his hard cock a hand’s breadth from my mouth, and he looked like he might lose his mind.

“Sandra…” he started.

“Shut up. Watch.”

I ran my tongue from the base to the tip, slowly, flattening the vein underneath. He made a sound that wasn’t a word. Then I wrapped my lips around the head, sucking only the tip, my tongue circling beneath the helmet. It tasted of salt, young skin, all the hours he’d been hard. I slowly went down, swallowing his cock almost all the way until the tip touched the back of my throat. He moaned out loud, and I had to move his hand away so he wouldn’t push my head down.

“No hands,” I told him, taking him out for a moment. “No rushing. I set the pace.”

“Sorry, sorry.”

I took him back into my mouth. I started sucking him hard, moving my head up and down, my tongue working the frenulum every time I came up, my hand circling what wouldn’t fit in my mouth. Saliva ran down my chin and soaked his balls. I grabbed his balls with my other hand, squeezing them gently, rolling them between my fingers. Mateo was shaking all over. I felt his cock throbbing inside my mouth, that pulse that announces what’s coming.

“Sandra, I’m going to come,” he panted.

I pulled him out of my mouth at the last second. I clamped down hard at the base, cutting off the orgasm before it could start. He let out a growl of pure frustration.

“Not yet,” I told him. “That’s what you have to learn. Holding out until the woman is about to come too.”

He sank down onto the edge of the bed, breathing through his mouth, his saliva-slick cock throbbing against his belly.

“I didn’t think you could stop it like that.”

“You can. With practice.”

I climbed onto the bed, leaning back against the headboard, and opened my legs for him. My pussy was open, soaked, shining under the lamp light. The inner lips swollen. I ran two fingers through my slit, bottom to top, and brought them to my mouth.

“Come here,” I said. “Second lesson. Mouth here.”

Mateo crawled between my legs like a man going for a meal he’d been waiting for for days. I grabbed the back of his neck and pushed his face to my pussy.

“Slowly. With the tip of your tongue. Find the clit, up top. That little button. That one.”

He looked inexperienced but hungry, and at that age that’s worth more than every technique in the world. His hot tongue moved up and down my slit, went inside, came out, and slapped my clit too hard at first. I corrected him by pulling his hair, setting the pace myself.

“Softer. Circles. Like this. Now suck, suck the whole clit, take it into your mouth.”

He obeyed. And when he did it right, when he sucked me the way I was asking him to, the first spasm shot up my legs and I let out a long moan I hadn’t planned to make. I crushed his head between my thighs. He kept going without lifting his mouth, now with two fingers inside me, moving them upward, finding that spot he probably didn’t even know existed and had found by accident.

“There, there, don’t stop,” I panted. “Like that, suck hard, put your fingers in.”

I came in his mouth before I could hold it back. It was a long, rolling orgasm that made me lift my ass off the bed and close my thighs over his ears. I soaked his face. He kept licking, slower now, until I had to pull his head away because I couldn’t take any more.

When he lifted his face, his mouth and chin were shining with me. His cock was again about to burst against the mattress.

“Now,” I said, my voice rough. “Come here.”

I put a hand on his chest and pushed him back onto the bed. He lay down without resistance, eyes fixed on me the whole time, cock pointing at the ceiling.

I climbed onto him slowly. I took his cock in my hand, lined it up with my entrance, and slid it in little by little. I felt myself opening around him all the way, felt the head hitting inside me, felt every inch of that hard cock going into me. Both of us moaned at once when it was all the way in.

“The first thing you need to know,” I told him, leaning toward his ear with his cock inside me, “is this: you don’t have to do anything. Just stay still and feel it. Still. I’m going to fuck you.”

“Okay,” he said, his voice split in two.

I started moving calmly. No rush. Rising and lowering over him, feeling him to the hilt each time I sank down. I wanted him to feel everything, not to get to the end too fast and miss the journey. His hands reached for my hips almost instinctively. I took them gently and placed them at his sides.

“Not yet,” I told him. “When I say so, you grab my ass and drive into me hard. Now stay still.”

He let them go. He clenched the sheets instead.

The rhythm rose on its own, without my deciding it fully. It was what his body wanted, what mine wanted. I braced my hands on his chest and started riding him faster, rising until the cock almost slipped out and dropping down all the way in one blow. My breasts bounced in front of his face and he watched them with his mouth open. I grabbed one of his hands and put it on a breast.

“Squeeze,” I ordered. “The nipples, pull them. Hard.”

He obeyed. I felt his fingers clumsy at first, then firmer, pinching my nipples until he dragged another moan out of me. His legs tightened under me. His breathing became shorter, louder, more honest than anything he could have said out loud.

“Sandra,” he said, almost voiceless.

It was the first time he’d said just my name, without ma’am.

“I’m here,” I answered. “Does my pussy feel good?”

“Fuck, yes.”

“Say it. Tell me what you feel.”

“That you’re squeezing my whole cock, that you’re soaked, that I’ve never felt anything like this in my life.”

“Hold on. Not yet.”

I increased the pace. He arched slightly upward. His fingers reached for the sheets again, gripping the fabric as if he needed to hold on to something solid. His neck was thrown back and his lips parted, completely lost in what he was feeling and not trying to hide it.

I got off him, his cock sliding out all at once, and got onto my hands and knees on the bed, ass up.

“Come. Get behind me. Put it in like this.”

He moved fast. I felt his knees sink into the mattress behind me. He grabbed my hips with both hands, and this time I didn’t stop him. He found the entrance with the tip and drove into me in one thrust, all the way in, until I felt his balls hitting my clit.

“Like that,” I moaned. “Fuck me like that. Fast. Hard.”

He started moving, at first out of sync, then finding the rhythm. His hands squeezed my hips, pulling me against him with every thrust. His thighs slapped against my ass, loud, obscene, the sound of wet flesh filling the whole room. I grabbed his hand and brought it to my ass, pressing his fingers between my cheeks.

“The thumb. Here. Wet. Push it in.”

“There?”

“Yes, there. Gently. Just the thumb. Now.”

I felt his thumb enter my asshole while his cock kept pounding me from the front. Being full on both ends, feeling that boy panting behind me, discovering with each thrust what he liked, carried me quickly to a second orgasm. I screamed into the pillow, biting it, while my cunt clenched around his cock like a fist.

“Sandra, I can’t hold it anymore,” he groaned. “I’m going to come.”

“I can’t hold it either,” he said too, eyes closed.

“You don’t have to hold it anymore,” I told him, panting, face buried in the pillow. “Let it go. Now. Let it all go inside.”

His body started to tense in a different, deeper way. The kind of tension no one can control once they feel it. His hands found my hips again, nails digging in, pulling me against him, and this time I didn’t move them away. I left them there on me, squeezing without knowing they were squeezing.

A long sound. Deep. His body arched forward, a muffled roar against my back, fingers dug into my flesh.

And then his heat spilling inside me, spurting by spurting, pulse by pulse, while his cock kept throbbing inside and I felt him filling me with hot cum, leaving it at the deepest point. His body trembled and then slowly surrendered, like a wave reaching the shore and flattening itself out on the sand.

He collapsed over my back for a second, resting his forehead between my shoulder blades, breathing against my skin. When he came out, I felt the warm trail running down the inside of my thigh.

I turned slowly and made him lie down beside me. I kissed his forehead. I got out of bed. Picked up my robe from the floor and put it on.

Mateo was still in bed, staring at the ceiling with that expression of someone who has just understood something he still doesn’t know how to name. His cock, still shiny and half-softening, rested against his thigh.

“Good?” I asked.

“Good,” he said. Then, after a short pause: “Very good.”

I sat on the edge of the bed.

“For a first time, not bad at all.”

He looked at me.

“Just not bad at all?”

“Don’t exaggerate,” I said, smiling. “You still come too fast. And you don’t know how to use your tongue properly. You’ve got a lot to learn.”

He sat up on the bed. Ran a hand through his messed-up hair and looked at me with that new expression of someone who’s crossed a line and has no intention of going back.

“And when’s the next lesson?” he asked.

“That depends on how studious you are.”

“I’ll be very studious,” he said. And the way he said it, with that calm conviction he hadn’t had before, made me laugh for real.

I looked at him for a moment. That nineteen-year-old boy sitting on my bed, still warm from everything that had happened, with my cum still dripping down his cock, asking when he could come back with that mix of humility and determination I hadn’t expected to find in him.

It touched me. And something else too, something that wasn’t only tenderness.

“Get dressed,” I told him. “Leave the same way you came in: slowly and quietly. And next time, bring a better-trained mouth.”

“I’m going to practice,” he said, very serious, and almost made me laugh again.

He got dressed quickly. Before leaving, he stopped at the door and turned around.

“Thank you, Sandra,” he whispered.

That was all. No ma’am. Nothing else.

“You’re welcome, Mateo. And you know: this stays between us.”

He left. I heard his footsteps go down the stairs with the same calm with which they had come up.

I closed the door. Leaned against the wood with my eyes closed, listening to the silence of the house and the distant laughter of the boys in the living room, oblivious to everything. Between my thighs, I could still feel the warm trail of him slowly running out of me. I slipped my hand under my robe and ran my fingers through my soaked pussy. Brought them to my mouth.

I smiled.

It had been a long time since a Monday night ended like that.