My Mother Always Knew What I Kept Silent

I heard the keys struggling with the lock and had just enough time to kick my slippers under the couch and pull up my pajama pants. My mother took three or four tries to get the latch right; when the door finally gave way, I was already sitting there pretending to watch TV, my heart slamming against my ribs.

She came in with that slow, heavy sway only someone who’d come back from dinner with too much wine has. And she came in spectacularly.

She was wearing a burgundy top, tight, almost lingerie-like, that looked more like a corset than something to go out in. The black satin pants clung to her legs and outlined a silhouette I should not have been looking at the way I was looking at it. Her heeled boots rose to mid-calf, and beneath them you could catch flashes of the black nylon stockings every time she took a step.

I couldn’t look away when she braced herself on the doorframe to take off her shoes. One boot, then the other, and when she was left in her stockings on the parquet, I let the air out slowly so my voice wouldn’t shake.

I’d been like this for months. Months noticing how she’d take off her shoes when she got home from work and leave them tossed by the door, how she’d cross her legs at the table, how she’d massage one foot with the other hand while watching TV, not knowing I was watching her. Months pretending nothing was happening, that I was a normal son in a normal house, while inside me something burned that had no permitted name. Months jerking off in secret smelling her shoes, months cumming in her dirty stockings and then washing them afterward with trembling hands so she wouldn’t notice anything.

—Caught you —were her first words.

I felt a chill at the nape of my neck.

—I don’t know what you were going to catch me doing —I answered, and my voice came out half an octave higher than I wanted.

—I don’t know, you tell me. What’s a guy like you doing on a Friday night, locked up at home with his mother and her… slippers?

The word hit me like a bucket of cold water. How did she know about the slippers? A thousand questions were trampling over one another in my head. Did she know what I did in secret with her shoes, with her feet, with her photos? Or was it just an offhand comment, a harmless coincidence? I had no way of knowing which version of the night was beginning.

—My slippers? —I repeated, as if that were the important part.

—Oh, honey. I meant nonsense. It’s the wine talking through me.

She said it with a half-smile that was anything but innocent as she let herself sink onto the sofa. And then she did something she had never done before: she stretched her legs out and put her feet up on the top of the backrest, stockings still on, her toes flexing slowly, as if she were inviting me into something neither of us had ever named.

***

I moved closer. Not on the side of her feet, but at the other end, and sat down level with her head. It was a way to keep control, to pretend I was still the son and not the man who’d been holding himself back for months.

—The wine makes you say nonsense, Liliana —I told her, using her name for the first time in my life, while I stroked her hair and brushed her cheek with my thumb.

She reacted by turning her face and resting it in my lap. She was inches from me. I felt the heat of her breathing through the pajama fabric, slow, steady, and I knew she felt it too. My body answered before my head did, and there was no way to hide it: my cock swelled up hard against my pants all at once, the full length of it outlined, thick and hard, right where her mouth was resting.

She didn’t pull away. On the contrary, she shifted her face a little, just enough for her lips to sit exactly at the level of the bulge. I felt the hot air from her mouth pressing against the fabric, wetting it, and a short kiss, barely a brush, that went through me from top to bottom.

—Should I make popcorn? —I blurted out, stupid, desperate to break the tension.

—Don’t worry about me —she said, and slid her hand along my thigh, climbing, unhurried, until her fingers closed over my cock through the pants, squeezing it slowly while she let out a rough groan that made me close my eyes.

She opened her legs. One hung over the armrest, over my knees; the other went up onto the sofa back, and her foot came toward my face until it almost touched my mouth. The stocking smelled of the leather just taken off, of the whole day trapped in the boot, and that detail, instead of putting me off, was what finally undid me.

—Oops, baby, I almost put my foot in your mouth —she murmured, pretending to be careless when there was no accident in it at all.

I turned my face. Her foot was left millimeters from my lips. And I said the line that left no way back.

—Don’t worry, Mom. If it’s yours, I’ll eat it whole, no matter where it’s been.

***

Her reaction wasn’t what I expected. Far from pulling away, she set her right foot directly on my dick, over the fabric, and a second later added the other, both feet surrounding my cock, pressing with the unbearable softness of nylon. She began to massage me slowly, one foot rising while the other fell, trapping me completely between her soles, and I bit my lip so I wouldn’t shout. I yanked down my pajama pants and underwear and put my naked cock against her stockings. She let out a low, dirty laugh and kept squeezing me, now skin against nylon, with pre-cum staining her fingers.

—Look at you, son. Soaking your mother’s stockings. How long had you been wanting to do this, huh?

—Months, Mom. Months.

—It shows. You’re rock hard. You’ve got a beautiful cock, son. Very big for your age.

I didn’t waste half a second taking her foot and bringing it to my mouth. I ran my tongue over the instep, the heel, the curve of the arch, sucking the nylon until it was soaked through with saliva, slowly biting the padded ball of her big toe while with my other hand I kept jerking myself off against her other foot. I found the elastic of the stocking with my teeth and pulled it down in one yank, leaving her foot bare, white, fragrant, with her toes opening and closing for me. I shoved my thumb all the way into my mouth and sucked it like it was a cock, taking it deep to the throat, and she let out a long, surprised moan.

—Oh, Bruno, you son of a bitch, the way you suck… Suck them all, one by one.

I obeyed. I licked every toe, ran my tongue between them, bit the sole just enough to leave red marks. She breathed raggedly, hoarse, and without taking her eyes off me, she brought her other hand to her satin pants and unbuttoned them. She pulled them down just enough to slide her fingers under her underwear. I watched her start touching herself, watched two fingers sink slowly into her cunt and come out shining, watched her bring them to her lips and suck them before lowering them again.

—Look what you’ve done to me, son. Look how I am.

I settled myself between her legs. I ripped her pants down until they were hanging off one ankle and spread her thighs wide open. Her cunt was shining all over, swollen, with the lips parted and a thread of slick running down to her ass. I licked her from bottom to top, one long, flat lick that tore a cry out of her. I drove my tongue between her lips, shoved it inside, pulled it out, wrapped it around her clit and began sucking it slowly, closing my lips over it as if I were nursing it.

—Oh, son… oh, oh, don’t stop, eat my cunt, eat it all…

I sank two fingers into her while still sucking her clit. She closed her thighs around my head, squeezed me, tugged my hair, and in less than a minute she came against my mouth with a long spasm, soaking my chin. I didn’t let her go. I kept licking her while she trembled, while she told me to stop and at the same time drove her heels into my back so I wouldn’t stop.

Every time my tongue later slid down the arch of her foot, a new sound escaped her, deeper, more honest than any word we’d said that night. Her fingers searched for my mouth, curled against my lips, and I took them one by one, without disgust, without shame, certain there was no going back. The smell of sweat-soaked nylon, of a freshly spent cunt, instead of bothering me, only confirmed that this was real, that it wasn’t a dark fantasy in my room but her, all of her, giving in.

She threw her head back, eyes half-closed, and for an instant I thought we were going to cross the line all the way that very night. But she stopped. She pulled one foot back, then the other, sat up and faced me with her legs crossed, looking at me with a seriousness I hadn’t seen all evening.

—Bruno. —She lowered her gaze, as if ashamed—. I’m your mother, son.

The name, spoken like that, hurt and turned me on in equal measure. I took a breath.

—Mom… Liliana. —I knelt in front of her to be at her height, my cock still hard and shining, pointed at her face—. I want to be your man. And I want you to be my woman. I can’t imagine you in another man’s arms. I can’t stand the thought of someone coming into this house to fuck you, to kiss your feet, to hear you moan the way you moaned a minute ago in my mouth.

She slowly lifted her head. She didn’t interrupt me. She was looking at my cock and biting her lip.

—Understand this, Liliana: for months now I haven’t looked at you like my mother. I look at you like the woman I want to take care of, protect, fuck every night. Yes, I jerked off thinking about your feet. I came in your dirty stockings. With your photos. With your shoes hidden under my bed. I’m confessing all of it, without shame. And if you agreed, I’d fuck you every day, however you wanted, however you asked. Those feet are my obsession, Mom. You are my obsession.

—Son… Bruno…

Her face was an impossible mix of flattery, fear, and something else, something that gleamed in her eyes and that she still didn’t dare put into words. She started the sentence three times and three times got stuck halfway. In the end she said nothing: she leaned in, took my cock in her hand and took it into her mouth halfway, looking up at me while her tongue circled the head.

—Me too —she said when she pulled it out, a string of saliva hanging from her lip—. I’ve known for a long time too. I found the slippers. I saw the stains, son. I saw how you look at me when you think I’m not looking. And instead of getting scared… —She swallowed—. Instead of getting scared, I came tonight with the boots I know you like and without panties under my pants.

She lowered her head again and this time she swallowed me whole, all the way in, until I felt her throat closing around the tip. She sucked me slowly, with both hands, spitting on it, playing with my balls, sucking my cock like she’d been rehearsing this in her head for years. When she took it out of her mouth, she rubbed it against her lips, against her cheeks, against the feet she herself had lifted to trap me between her soles again, smiling with my cock pressed against her face.

—Fuck my mouth, son. Fuck it.

I grabbed her hair and started moving her head myself. I shoved it down her throat again and again, feeling her choke, seeing her tears spring up, seeing saliva running in strings down to the tits that had spilled out of the top. She held my gaze, soaked, red, and didn’t pull away. Every time I let her go for a second to breathe, she sank back down on her own.

The silence afterward was the longest of my life. A car passed outside, the headlights swept across the ceiling and gone. She was still kneeling, my cock still in her hand, her mouth open and shining, waiting for one of us to decide for both of us.

I thought about everything that was going to change from that moment on. That there’d be no way to look at her at breakfast the same way again, or to kiss her goodbye in the morning on the cheek without that kiss meaning something else. I thought about the secret we’d both be carrying, about what nobody could ever know, and I discovered that clandestinity, instead of scaring me, tied me to her even more. The forbidden wasn’t an obstacle. It was part of what made her irresistible.

I laid her down on the sofa and spread her legs. I ripped off the other stocking in one tug and pressed my cock to the entrance of her cunt. She was so wet it sank in on its own, all the way, with one single thrust. She arched her back, dug her nails into the leather sofa, and let out a cry she swallowed halfway by biting her arm.

—Oh, my son, oh, it’s so big, so big…

I started fucking her slowly, with long, deep thrusts, feeling her cunt clamp down around me every time I pulled out and drove back in. She lifted her feet to my shoulders, still wearing one stocking, and I turned my face to lick her instep while I kept fucking her. The combination drove me insane: the taste of her foot in my mouth, her hot, tight cunt around my cock, my mother’s eyes looking up at me from below with her mouth open.

—Harder, Bruno, harder… fuck me like you jerked off thinking about me, son… like that, like that…

I sped up. I grabbed her hips and started hammering into her deep, against the sofa, until the springs began to squeal. I changed her position without pulling out: I flipped her over and put her on all fours against the backrest. I saw her ass, white, round, slick with her juices between her cheeks. I spat on it and sank back into her in one brutal thrust. She screamed, clinging to the backrest, her tits hanging down, and started throwing her ass back against my cock in the same rhythm I was pounding her.

—Yes, Mom, that’s it, that’s how you fuck a son…

—Shut up and put it in me, asshole, put it all in…

I shoved my thumb into her mouth from behind and ran it over her ass, pressing just a little. She didn’t move away. She opened wider, pushed her ass back even more against me, and I felt her come a second time, clenching around my cock in spasms that left me on the edge of exploding. I held on a few seconds longer, pulled out just in time and knelt over her. She turned around in one sharp movement, sat back on her heels, pressed her feet together and offered me her spread toes, her mouth downturned and waiting.

—Come on my feet, son. Come all over what you’ve had stored up.

I grabbed my cock with both hands and jerked it three, four times against the soles of her feet. The orgasm shot up from my balls like a whip crack. I covered her insteps, her toes, the arch, the nylon of the stocking she’d left on one ankle, and still had enough left to spray a long stream into her open mouth. She laughed, swallowed, wiped her chin with her hand and brought her semen-soaked fingers to her lips to suck them one by one while looking at me.

—What a pig I’ve got for a son —she whispered, and bent down to lick her own feet, cleaning my cum off with her tongue.

I took one of her feet in both hands when she finished. This time not as a hidden fetish, but slowly, looking her in the eyes. I pulled down the rest of the stocking centimeter by centimeter until her bare foot rested in my palm, and I kissed her instep without hurry, like someone kissing for the first time someone they’d waited too long for.

—Then don’t make me wait any longer —I said against her skin.

She closed her eyes. And when she opened them again, there wasn’t a trace left in them of the mother she’d said she was a minute before. There was the woman. There was desire. There was everything we’d both kept silent for far too long, finally with nothing left to hide behind.

—I’m not making you wait —she whispered, and took me by the nape to pull me closer—. But tonight you’re in charge. Next time, I am. And next time I want you in my bed, with your cock inside me all night, not pulling it out even to sleep.

And by the way she said it, I knew there was going to be a next time. And many more after that.