From the Gym I Knew I Wanted Him

I’m forty-eight years old and I take very good care of myself. I always have: gym five days a week, a balanced diet, proper sleep. My neighbor Consuelo tells me I look fifteen years younger, and although she says it to be kind, there’s some truth in it. I’ve been a widow for nine years. My husband died in a traffic accident on a wet November road, and since then I learned to live alone on my own resources and with my son.

Rodrigo is twenty-four. Tall, broad-shouldered, with that body he built over years of steady training. We’re alike in discipline, I suppose. We’ve shared the same gym since he turned eighteen, which gives us the perfect excuse to see each other almost every day without it seeming forced. I have my routines and he has his, but sometimes we meet in the calisthenics area and do part of the workout together.

What happened on a Tuesday in March wasn’t planned. I swear that.

We were on the mats in the abs area. It was late, almost nine at night, and there were only a few people left in the place: a guy with headphones on the machines in the back, and Marta, my trainer, putting equipment away near reception. Rodrigo was holding my ankles while I did sets of crunches. Nothing unusual, we’d done it a hundred times.

When I finished my set, we changed positions. I knelt in front of his feet, placed my hands on his ankles and waited. He started to go up. First slowly, then in rhythm. I looked away, as always, counting silently. But on one of the rises, my gaze fell without meaning to onto the area of his sweatpants.

And I saw it.

It was impossible not to see it. The thin fabric of the tracksuit didn’t hide a thing. It wasn’t a hint or a question: it was a cock hard from base to tip, outlined against the cloth, the tense bulge pointing toward his navel, the head perfectly defined and a small dark stain where the glans was pushing against the cotton. Long. Thick. And dripping, fuck. It was dripping because of me.

My blood ran cold and at the same time something hot rushed down between my legs so suddenly I had to hold back a gasp.

Don’t look at it anymore.

But it was too late to erase the image. The worst part wasn’t seeing it. The worst part was the fraction of a second it took me to look away, that extra instant in which the thought flashed through my mind, with brutal clarity, of what it would be like in my mouth. In my cunt. What it would be like for my son to fuck it into me all the way. I registered that cock the way women register the men they want to fuck, and there was no way to undo that.

Marta was still nearby. She couldn’t know whether I had looked in our direction. I acted on instinct, which is how one acts when doing things one may later regret. I leaned forward with the excuse of adjusting the knot on my sneaker and whispered to Rodrigo without looking him in the face:

—Turn around. Now.

He did it without asking. He turned toward the mat and I stood up as if nothing had happened, picked up my water bottle and walked to the changing rooms with a steady stride. Inside, I sat on the wooden bench and stayed there for five minutes without moving, my heart pounding harder than it should and my panties soaked, stuck to my cunt.

***

At home we didn’t talk about it that night. We had dinner as usual, he checked his phone, I tried to read. We said goodnight in the hallway with a kiss on the cheek, as we did every night, and I locked myself in my room.

I didn’t sleep well. I woke up twice without knowing why, with a kind of heat that wasn’t a fever. The second time I lay on my back in the dark, staring at the ceiling, one hand under my nightgown without realizing when I’d put it there. I was wet. Very wet. I slowly ran two fingers through my slit and felt how they slid, and I forced myself to name what I was feeling with exact words, because euphemisms are a form of cowardice:

Desire. What you feel for your son is desire. You want to fuck him. You want him to shove it into you.

I thought it through, let it settle, and waited for shame to come and erase everything.

It didn’t come. At least not in the way I expected. What came was a silent orgasm, bitten back into the pillow, with two fingers buried in my cunt and the image of Rodrigo’s cock dripping beneath the tracksuit fabric. I came thinking of my son. And when I finished I didn’t cry. I stayed still, my fingers still inside me, listening to my own breathing.

The following days I kept my distance at the gym. I looked for different hours, made vague excuses about changes to my routine. Rodrigo didn’t ask, but something in the way he looked at me when we crossed paths at home told me he was thinking about it too. There was something different in his posture when I entered a room. A slightly more focused attention. A way of saying nothing that said too much. A couple of times I caught him looking at my ass when I walked by in my robe, not even bothering to hide it.

I told myself it was my imagination. That I was a woman who had been alone too long and that the body invents stories when no one has touched it for years. That what I had seen at the gym was a biological accident with no meaning at all.

I repeated it to myself enough times to believe it halfway. The other nights I masturbated thinking of him without repeating it to myself.

***

Three days later, it was Sunday afternoon. Rodrigo was, I thought, in his room with his headphones on, as was his habit. I moved around the house in my underwear, something I’d always done when I believed I was alone. When I crossed the hallway connecting my bedroom to the bathroom, his door was ajar and he was standing by the desk looking at his phone.

He was only wearing sweatpants. And there it was again. The damn outline against the fabric, this time half-erect, hanging thick and heavy to one side.

When he looked up and saw me, neither of us made the natural gesture of looking away. My nipples tightened sharply against my lace bra. We looked at each other for two or three seconds that felt much longer, and I saw the bulge between his legs swell suddenly while he looked at me, the fabric tightening in real time. Then I kept walking to the bathroom, went in, closed the door and leaned against the sink.

I looked at myself in the mirror. My breasts were lifted by my breathing, my panties dark between my legs, my nipples clearly outlined. A mature woman with her cunt wet from her son.

Go out and stop this before it starts.

But when I opened the door, he was in the hallway.

I don’t know who moved first. Probably me, because I’m the adult and the one who should have put distance between us. Instead, I stayed still with my back against the frame while he took the two steps separating us. His cock was already fully hard against the fabric of his pants, pointing up, so close to my stomach that I felt it before he touched me.

—Mom —he said. Just that.

—No —I answered, though my voice didn’t sound like a refusal. It sounded like a woman who had already surrendered and was only waiting to be pushed all the way.

He put a hand on my waist. Just one hand, over the fabric of the strap of my undershirt, and that tiny contact was enough for all the reasoning I’d built over three nights to collapse silently. He slid his hand down my side, grabbed my ass over my panties and pulled me against him. I felt his hard cock press into my stomach, hard as stone, hot even through the fabric.

—Fuck, Mom —he whispered against my hair—. You’re soaked. I can smell you from here.

I let him into my room.

***

I sat on the edge of the bed. He stayed standing in front of me for a moment, looking at me with a serious expression that was not that of a twenty-four-year-old in a moment of impulse. It was the expression of someone who has been waiting a long time for the other person to make the first move and has finally decided to make it himself. His cock pushed against the tracksuit at the level of my face.

—Are you sure? —he asked me.

I wasn’t. I didn’t want to answer that question because the honest answer was complicated, and complicated answers ruin moments. So I did the most honest thing I could do: I reached out and touched the bulge through the fabric. I felt the whole thing, from base to tip, and felt it throb under my fingers.

He understood.

He slowly pulled down his pants and his cock sprang up at once, hard, thick, with the vein marked underneath and the glans swollen and glossy with fluid. Long. Longer than my husband’s. Thicker, and above all thicker. I looked at it without hiding it, because by then hiding was pointless, and my mouth watered in a way I hadn’t felt in years. Nine years without a cock in front of me and the first one I saw was my own son’s, hard because of me, dripping because of me.

—Touch it —he said quietly. It wasn’t an order. It was a statement.

I took hold of it. I closed my hand around it and couldn’t quite fit my fingers all the way around. It was hot, hard as steel wrapped in skin. I started moving it slowly, up and down, and a thick drop gathered at the tip and ran over my knuckles. I brought it to my mouth without thinking, to taste it. Salty. Thick. It tasted like a young man. It tasted like my son.

—Fuck —he muttered.

He knelt in front of me.

He started with my knees. He had big hands and moved them slowly, as if he had all the time in the world, sliding them up my thighs while looking at me to see when I closed my eyes. I closed them pretty quickly. He pushed my shirt up to my armpits, unfastened my bra with one hand and bared my breasts. Forty-eight years old and still firm from the gym, with nipples dark and hard as stones.

—Holy shit, Mom. What tits you’ve got —he said, and he took one nipple into his mouth whole.

A gasp escaped me that I couldn’t control. He sucked hard, alternating from one to the other, biting just a little with his teeth, tugging with his lips. He laid me back on the bed with gentle pressure on my shoulders. He didn’t take off my panties right away: first he ran his hand over the fabric, over my cunt, and his palm was soaked at once.

—Look at you —he murmured—. You’re dripping for me.

—Shut up —I told him, but I lifted my hips so he could take them off.

He pulled them down slowly, along my legs, and when I was completely naked he paused, looking at my open cunt, glossy, with the hair trimmed and the lips swollen. I felt more exposed than ever in my life. And more turned on than ever in my life.

He lowered his head without warning and drove his tongue between my lips in a long lick, from bottom to top, ending on the clit with a twist. I screamed. I really screamed, mouth open against the air, and had to bite the back of my hand to keep the volume down. Nine years. Nine years without a tongue touching me there, and now it was my son’s tongue eating my cunt as if he’d wanted to do it for years.

He sucked, licked, slid his tongue inside, came back to the clit. No hurry. As if he liked it. He lifted one leg onto his shoulder to open me wider and slid two fingers into me at once, curling them upward, while he kept sucking my clit with his lips. I arched all over.

—Rodrigo —I panted, not knowing what I was asking for—. Rodrigo, fuck.

I came before I expected to. It was abrupt and clean: a spasm that rose through me and shook my legs and made me clamp my thighs around his head and arch my whole back and bite the back of my hand until it hurt so I wouldn’t scream. I gushed over his fingers and over his mouth and he didn’t stop, just kept licking me more slowly while I trembled. When I opened my eyes, he was looking at me from between my legs, his chin glossy with my orgasm and an expression somewhere between satisfied and patient that stirred something in me between gratitude and mild irritation.

—We’re not finished yet —he said.

—I know —I answered.

***

I sat up and gently pushed him back so he would sit on the edge of the bed, where I had been before. There was something almost ceremonial in that exchange of positions, as if we were following a protocol neither of us had stated out loud but both of us knew. He sat with his cock pointing at the ceiling, hard, shining at the tip, throbbing on its own.

I knelt between his legs.

It was something I had done before, with my husband, occasionally and with little conviction. This was different. I don’t know whether it was the years that had passed, or the weight this particular moment carried, or simply because Rodrigo was more present and more attentive than Ernesto ever was. I started slowly, with my tongue, tracing from the base to the tip without haste. I licked his balls too, one at a time, taking them whole into my mouth, and he let out a low groan that sounded as if something had been torn out of him.

I climbed back up the shaft and ran my tongue along the frenulum, slowly, looking him in the eye. He put one hand on my head, not to direct me but to steady himself. I opened my mouth and took him in halfway in one go. It was hot. Heavy against my tongue. It tasted like clean skin and sweat and that bitter, salty thing that seeped from the tip and that I swallowed hungrily.

—Fuck, Mom —he gasped—. Fuck. The way you suck it.

I started moving. Up and down, closing my lips, helping with my hand at the base, never taking my eyes off his. I took him deeper. Deeper each time, until the tip hit the back of my throat and I gagged once, but I went back down. My eyes filled with tears and a thread of saliva ran down my chin and I didn’t care about anything anymore. I was sucking my son’s cock and I loved it.

It took much longer than I expected. I squeezed his balls with one hand while sucking in a steadier rhythm, my head rising and falling, hearing him groan louder and louder, feeling his cock get even harder and thicker inside my mouth. His balls tightened against his body.

—Mom, I’m going to come —he muttered—. I’m going to come in your mouth.

I didn’t pull away. On the contrary, I took as much of him as I could and closed my lips and waited. When he came, he did it with a contained sound, with the restraint of someone who has learned not to lose control, and the first spurt hit the back of my warm, thick palate, and then another came, and another, and it filled my whole mouth with my son’s thick semen. I pulled back for a second to breathe and another spurt landed on my chin and breasts, white, dense. I took him back in to suck what was left and swallowed all of it, my mouth completely full, and looked him in the eyes while I swallowed so he could see it.

At that moment turning my face away would have felt like a betrayal of everything we had crossed.

Then I stayed for a few seconds on the floor, kneeling, my hands resting on his thighs and my head slightly bowed, his cock still half-hard touching my cheek and a thread of semen sliding down my chest. He ran his fingers through my hair with a tenderness I hadn’t expected, and that simple gesture unsettled me more than everything before it.

***

We stayed still for a while. Me on the floor, him on the bed. The hallway light seeped in under the door and drew a yellow line across the carpet. Outside, the distant sound of the street could be heard, completely indifferent to what had just happened in that room.

I wiped my chin with the back of my hand, cleaned my chest with my T-shirt and stood up. I picked up my panties from the floor. My cunt was still throbbing and a thick wetness was sliding down the inside of my thigh.

—Are you okay? —he asked.

—Yes —I said. And it was true, in the sense in which “okay” can be true after something that has no clear name or clean category.

We didn’t say anything else that night. He went back to his room. I stayed sitting on the edge of the bed for a long while, clothes in my hands, thinking about the time that separates the instant something happens from the instant one decides what to do with it.

There was no answer that night. Maybe there wouldn’t be one after either.

But while I got under the sheets and listened to the apartment’s silence, what I felt was not guilt or regret. It was something more like an open question, suspended in the air of the room, waiting for someone to decide to answer it. I slipped two fingers into my cunt again and fell asleep like that, with the taste of my son still in my mouth.

The next day we had breakfast together as always. Coffee with milk, toast, the neighborhood beginning to wake up. Neither of us mentioned anything. But when Rodrigo got up to take his plate to the sink, he brushed my shoulder with his hand as he passed, very slowly, and let his fingers slide down to the curve of my breast over my robe, squeezed once, and kept walking as if nothing had happened.

And I didn’t pull away.