My Mother Couldn’t Stand Me Sleeping With My Father

What I’m going to tell happened just after I turned nineteen, when my parents decided to separate after nearly two decades of marriage. For me it was a blow, although neither of them experienced it as a drama. They were too civilized for that.

They were both architects and worked at different firms. We lived comfortably, in a spacious apartment where I had always had my own room. My mother was forty-two then; my father, forty-three. I was an only child, and that had made us a very physical family, with long hugs and kisses for any reason at all.

One Saturday, after lunch, they sat me down in the living room and told me straight out: they were divorcing. Incompatibility of character, they said, as if reciting an official record. They had everything arranged. My mother would keep the apartment, my father would get compensation, and I would live with her during the week and spend weekends at his place.

My father left that same afternoon for a hotel until he found somewhere to live. We hugged, kissed each other a lot, and I was devastated. My mother squeezed me against her and promised me everything would be all right.

A month later, my father already had a small apartment six bus stops from home. On Friday my mother packed my bag as if I were leaving for another continent, and off I went, to begin my new routine.

The apartment was tiny: living room, kitchen, bathroom, and a single bedroom. My father gave me the choice between the sofa or sharing the double bed. It was too much to think about for two nights a week, so I chose the bed. It seemed the logical thing.

***

On Sunday I went back to my mother, who welcomed me as if I’d been gone for a century. She wanted me to tell her everything in detail. She was happy, smiling… until I mentioned that there was only one bedroom and that I slept with my father.

Her face went dead in an instant, as if someone had thrown a bucket of cold water over her. I asked her what was wrong and, pretending badly, she told me nothing. But she didn’t fool me: what had really upset her was that shared bed.

I was left bewildered. I couldn’t understand why something so natural, given the circumstances, bothered her. During that week, my mother found a thousand ways to bring the subject up again. It was obvious that it obsessed her.

The following weekend, while having dinner with my father, I told him how strangely she had been acting. He gave a tired smile and said he’d expected it. I pressed him, told him I wasn’t a child anymore, that I was nineteen and had the right to understand what was going on.

He grew serious. He explained to me, in the measured voice of someone who has rehearsed that sentence for years, that he was homosexual. That he wasn’t attracted to women, and that had been the real reason for the divorce.

—We put up with all those years for your sake —he told me—. We wanted to wait until you were of age so you could decide for yourself who to live with.

I hugged him. I told him I was fine with either option, that I loved him just as always. He burst into tears and we shared a long kiss, like we’d done all our lives. Then he added something that stayed with me: that he understood my mother, because she had every right not to want to share her life with someone who had never desired her as a woman.

That night we slept in each other’s arms, his arm under my neck, and I lay there thinking.

***

Back at home, when I told my mother I already knew about my father, she fell silent and thoughtful. I asked her the only thing I still didn’t understand: how I had been conceived if he was gay.

She told me nervously, choosing her words carefully. When they met, at university, he wasn’t yet fully aware of what he was. At that age hormones rule everything, they had sex, and she got pregnant. They married because that’s what was done back then. Later he kept putting off sex with one excuse after another until one day he had no choice but to be honest.

She looked at me with moist eyes, waiting for my reaction. I told her it didn’t matter, that I was an adult now and understood things. I hugged her and we kissed each other senselessly, her crying like a baby.

That week I put two and two together. After thinking it over a lot, I reached a conclusion: my mother had some kind of sick jealousy toward me. She couldn’t stand the idea of my father dragging me into his world. For her, “sleeping together” in that bed meant something more than it really did.

And here comes what is hard for me to confess. I, at nineteen, hormones on edge and too many nights in front of the computer with my cock in my hand, had never seen my mother as an object of desire. She was my mother. But all of a sudden, I started looking at her differently. Imagining what her tits would be like under her clothes, how her cunt would smell, what face she would make when she came.

My mother was tiny, barely five foot one, slim, with short blond hair and brown eyes. She had never stood out for anything, nor did she make much of an effort with her appearance. And yet, those days, each of her hugs began to seem like an invitation, and every time she bent over in front of me my cock went hard before I could stop it.

I was clear that if anything was going to happen, I would have to make the first move. She would never cross that line. But I knew her weak spot: my father’s bed. That was where I’d start to probe.

***

On Sunday, after dinner, I went for it.

—Mom, I know you don’t like me sleeping with Dad.

—Honestly, no, I don’t like it at all —she admitted at once.

—I know. But it’s the logical thing given the circumstances. Would you like me to sleep with you when I’m here too? That way you’d both be on the same footing.

Her face was a picture. To give her time, I added that I was suggesting it so she wouldn’t think I loved my father more than her. That struck a chord. She looked at me with resignation and, with her voice trembling a little, agreed.

—Nothing ventured, nothing gained —she said, letting out a nervous laugh—. After all, the bed is huge for just me.

—Great. Then from tonight we sleep together.

I said it that way on purpose. I saw her blush, as if in that instant she became aware of what she had just agreed to.

—But promise me you won’t tell your father, or anyone.

—I promise.

***

That first night she got into bed wearing an enormous white T-shirt and with the sheet pulled up to her waist, pressed into one corner. I laughed, told her she was going to roast with the central heating on, and she admitted she was a little embarrassed. I gave her a goodnight kiss and turned off the light. As soon as it was dark, I heard her pull the sheet off herself and come closer to give me another kiss. I rolled onto my side so she wouldn’t notice the bulge showing in my briefs.

On Monday I woke up alone; she was already pottering around the kitchen. I hugged her from behind and asked how she’d slept with her new bedmate. She turned around without leaving my arms, her face lit up, and gave me a quick kiss. I held it a couple of seconds longer than normal. She closed her eyes, and I felt her breathing break when my cock, still hard from morning wood, brushed her belly over her pajamas.

On Tuesday she didn’t even bother covering herself, and she was more toward the center of the bed. The goodnight kiss landed, almost without meaning to, on the lips. Neither of us moved. That night we slept brushing against each other, my hand resting “by chance” on her hip, and I spent hours rock-hard without being able to fall asleep.

On Wednesday, while watching television, she asked me if I minded her sleeping without a top, that she was used to it and it was hot. I answered that I didn’t understand why she’d put one on in the first place, since I’d seen her like that all my life. When I went into the bedroom, she was lying there wearing only white panties.

I stopped to really look at her for the first time. Small breasts but firm, with pink nipples pointing upward. A petite, well-proportioned body for her age, a flat stomach, narrow hips, and a triangle of blond hair that could just be made out beneath the thin fabric of her panties. She wasn’t a beauty, but that night she seemed like one, and my cock went rock-hard under my pajama pants.

—Mom, you’re gorgeous —I told her—. You’re a gorgeous woman.

—So it seems you don’t think like your father —she murmured.

—I like women. And to me, you’re the most attractive of them all.

Her face lit up with a grin from ear to ear. She opened her arms for me to give her a goodnight kiss.

***

I leaned in, she wrapped her arms around me and pulled me closer. I slid one leg between hers and ended up practically on top of her, propping myself on my elbows so as not to crush her. Her nipples brushed my bare chest, hard as pebbles. I’d never felt anything like it, and my cock, trapped between our bellies, throbbed hard against her lower stomach.

She was looking at me; she hadn’t closed her eyes. She was underneath me, waiting. Just the kiss? The answer depended only on me, and this was an opportunity I wasn’t going to waste.

I lowered my head slowly. She was waiting with parted lips. I kissed her, opened my mouth, and devoured her completely. She reacted by tightening her hands on the back of my neck, making it clear she didn’t want me to stop. Our tongues searched for each other, tangled, sucked at one another with a hunger that had been building for years. I had no experience, but it was going perfectly. I felt her hips begin to move beneath mine, seeking me, rubbing her hot cunt against the bulge in my briefs.

I kissed her neck, licked her collarbone, went down to her breasts, caught one nipple in my mouth and sucked it like a bastard, tugging at it with my lips and nibbling it softly. That drove her crazy.

—My love… my love —she kept repeating between gasps, her hand buried in my hair, pressing me harder against her breast.

I moved to the other nipple, tortured it the same way, while my free hand kneaded the other breast. She began to arch beneath me, gasping harder and harder, and I could feel my cock slipping out over the edge of my briefs, wetting the pajama fabric with precum. I licked my way down the line of her sternum, licked her navel, nipped the hip bone. When I reached the edge of her white panties I paused for a moment and looked down at her. She nodded without saying a word, her eyes glassy.

I hooked my fingers in her panties and slowly pulled them down her legs. Underneath was a small, juicy cunt, with trimmed blond hair and lips already shining with wetness. She smelled like a hot woman. I spread her thighs with both hands, buried my face between her legs, and ran my tongue through her slit from bottom to top until I found her swollen clit. When I sucked it, she let out a cry that she swallowed halfway by biting her fist.

—Oh, my son… oh, my God, don’t stop…

I didn’t stop. I ate her cunt with a desperation I didn’t know I had, alternating long licks with little sucking tugs on her clit, sliding my whole tongue in as far as it could go. I slipped in one finger, then two, and felt her cunt squeeze them, soaked through. I worked my fingers in and up while I kept sucking her clit, and she trembled, writhed, dug her heels into my back.

—I’m coming… I’m coming, my love… I’m coming…

She came in my mouth with a long shudder, pressing my head against her cunt, muffling her cries into the pillow. I kept licking her until she went limp, her legs open and her breathing ragged.

I climbed back up her body kissing every inch. When I reached her mouth I devoured it with kisses again, and she licked her own taste off my lips without the slightest hesitation. I thought that maybe for her one thing was letting herself be eaten out and another very different thing was taking the final step with her son, taking her son’s cock inside her. I didn’t want to pull too hard on the rope. But then, as if she had read my mind, she lowered her hands, grabbed the waistband of my briefs, and pulled them down. My cock sprang free, hard, pointing at her belly.

—What a beautiful cock you have, son —she whispered, and I couldn’t believe it.

She took it in her right hand, wrapped her fingers around it, squeezed it, moved it up and down a couple of times. I had to bite my lip to keep from coming right there. She half sat up, pushed me onto my back against the mattress, and lowered her head. I watched her take my cock into her mouth with a naturalness I hadn’t expected, suck me all the way down with her eyes closed, then pull back slowly to run her tongue over my balls.

—Mom… Mom, stop, I’m going to come —I begged her.

She let my cock slip out of her mouth with a pop, licked her lips, and smiled with a naughtiness I’d never seen on her face.

—Not yet, darling. Not yet.

She lay back and spread her legs for me. There we were, both naked, both certain.

I went back to her mouth. I leaned to her ear and asked her, voice rough, if she wanted me to put it in. Her whole body shuddered.

—Yes, my love, yes, put it in, fuck me —she answered, and hearing my mother say that word made me tremble—. Don’t worry, I’ve been taking precautions for weeks. I knew this would happen.

That confession left me breathless. She had decided long before I had. She had spent weeks planning for her son to fuck her without a condom.

I lowered my hand to her cunt and found it drenched, leaking down the insides of her thighs. My fingers slid in without effort. I positioned myself between her legs, which she bent and opened for me, and I took my cock in my hand to guide it. I rested the head at the entrance to her cunt, rubbed it up and down a couple of times, coating it with her juices, and pushed. I entered slowly, very slowly, feeling her cunt open to receive me centimeter by centimeter, squeezing me like a hot glove. She let out a contained moan, of pleasure and something deeper I wouldn’t have known how to name.

—Oh, you’re putting it in so good, my son… you have me so full…

I had to stay still for a moment, my cock buried to the balls inside my mother, so I wouldn’t finish immediately. The heat, the softness, the very idea of where I was: it was too much. I could feel her cunt embracing me and pulsing to its own rhythm. When I got my control back, I started moving.

First I came almost all the way out and went back in to the hilt, slowly, to savor every thrust. She looked me in the eyes, mouth open, and with each push a gasp escaped her. Then I picked up the pace, pulling out and driving in faster and faster, until the wet sound of our bodies slamming together filled the room and she dug her nails into my back. Her tits bounced with each stroke, and I bent down to suck them without stopping fucking her.

—Like that, my love, like that, harder, fuck me harder…

I grabbed her by the backs of the knees, lifted her legs up onto my shoulders, and drove into her with all my cock at that new angle. She let out a strangled cry and started repeating my name like a litany. I was fucking my mother folded in half, with her cunt spread wide open, and I could see my cock coming in and out shining with her juices.

—Wait, wait —she gasped—. Put me on all fours, I want you to fuck me from behind.

I pulled out of her. She turned onto all fours, arched her back, and offered me her ass. I had never seen anything as obscene as my mother in that position, with her soaked cunt dripping and her pink hole in view, asking me to spear her again. I grabbed her by the hips, aimed with the head, and shoved in with one single thrust all the way. She growled into the pillow.

I started fucking her from behind, first fast, almost savage, driving my hips into her ass until her buttocks shook with each удар. I grabbed her hair with one hand, tugging a little, and with the other I found her clit to rub it while I thrust into her. She pushed her ass back to take me better, and every time I went all the way in she let out an “ah” that stayed engraved in me.

—I’m going to come again, son, I’m going to come…

—Come, Mom, come on my cock.

She came with a long tremor, squeezing my cock with spasms that almost ripped an orgasm out of me too. I held on as best I could. When she recovered, I laid her on her back again; I wanted to see her face. I spread her legs, put them around my waist, and drove into her again to the balls. Then I slowed down, looking for something more intimate, slower. I wanted to see her face. It was pure happiness, gratitude, tenderness.

—I’m going to come inside you —I whispered in her ear.

—Yes, my love, inside, come inside me, I want to feel you…

Her words drowned in a shudder. I slid my hands under her shoulders, held her tight, and started pumping her with short, deep thrusts, never pulling out completely. I felt her clench at the same time I let go, one hot spurt after another of semen emptying me into her cunt, while she clung to me. There were four, five bursts I shot to the very bottom, and each one I accompanied with a groan that came from my guts.

—Yes… yes… —she babbled—. My God, so hot… so full you leave me…

I stayed on top of her with my cock inside, feeling it slowly soften while her cunt kept squeezing in little spasms, milking me for the last drop. Those were a few minutes worth an entire lifetime. Nineteen years later, for one instant, I had returned to the exact place I had come from. And this time I had made her happy.

***

I collapsed beside her, exhausted. I heard her get up to go to the bathroom and come back, already wearing clean panties. I caught the message: for tonight, enough. She rested her head on my chest, and caressed my limp, sticky cock with a new tenderness.

—Thank you, my son. For being who you are, for your understanding, for your tenderness. I’ve always loved you, but from now on even more.

—Thank you, Mom —I answered, kissing her all over—. I’ll always be by your side.

***

The next morning I took it all in and I was freaking out. I couldn’t believe it. In the kitchen, our good morning kiss lasted several minutes, and ended with my hand inside her robe, kneading a bare breast.

—How do you feel? —I asked her.

—Happy. And you?

—Me too. But we need to talk, right?

—Tonight, over dinner.

And that’s how it was. We agreed that what had happened had arisen spontaneously and had been wonderful for both of us. My mother, a lawyer by instinct in every conversation, made the rules clear: I was of age, the sex had been wanted and consensual, and neither of us had anything to reproach the other for. There was only one non-negotiable condition: absolute discretion.

The conversation loosened up between jokes. I asked her how she had managed so many years without sex, and she told me she’d simply gotten used to it, that she had never considered it essential.

—Well, last night nobody would’ve said that —I shot back, and we both burst out laughing.

—Maybe it’s because I didn’t have the right partner —she replied, winking at me.

I confessed that she had been my first woman. Her face lit up as if I’d given her the best gift in the world. We spoke without taboos about what would come next, what we liked, and what we were saving for later. She confessed that for years she had fantasized about being fucked in the ass and had never dared ask. I promised her we would try whenever she wanted. Every answer she gave surprised me more than the last.

—Who would have told me —she said, hugging me— that I was going to learn to enjoy sex at forty-two, and with you on top of that.

We only had that night and the next before I had to go back to my father’s. We weren’t planning to waste a single minute. We got up from the table and, without saying anything, went together to the bedroom.