My Mother Couldn’t Stand Me Sleeping with My Father

What I’m about to tell happened right after I turned nineteen, when my parents decided to separate after nearly two decades of marriage. For me it was a shock, though neither of them treated it like a drama. They were too civilized for that.

They were both architects and worked in different firms. We lived comfortably, in a large 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, full of long hugs and kisses for any reason at all.

One Saturday, after lunch, they sat me down in the living room and told me bluntly: they were getting divorced. Incompatibility of character, they said, as if reading from a record. Everything had already been agreed. 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 gutted. My mother pulled 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 start 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 overthinking things too much 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 cheerful, smiling… until I mentioned there was only one bedroom and that I slept with my father.

Her face fell at once, as if someone had thrown a bucket of ice water over her. I asked what was wrong and, making a terrible show of it, she told me nothing. But she didn’t fool me: what she really hated was that shared bed.

I was left baffled. I didn’t understand why something so natural, given the circumstances, bothered her so much. That week, my mother found a thousand ways to bring the subject back up. It was obvious she was obsessed with it.

The following weekend, while having dinner with my father, I told him how strange she had become. He managed a tired smile and said he’d expected it. I pressed him, told him I was no longer a child, that I was nineteen and had the right to understand what was going on.

He turned serious. In the measured voice of someone who has spent years rehearsing a sentence, he explained 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 these 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 any option was fine with me, that I loved him just as always. He burst into tears and we shared a long kiss, the way we always had. Then he added something that stuck in my mind: that he understood my mother, because she had every right not to want to share her life with someone who had never wanted her as a woman.

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

***

Back home, when I told my mother I knew about my father, she went quiet and thoughtful. I asked her the one thing I still didn’t understand: how I had been born if he was gay.

She told me nervously, choosing her words. When they met, at university, he still wasn’t fully aware of who he was. At that age hormones are in charge; they had their relationship, and she got pregnant. They married because that was 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 tell the truth.

She looked at me with wet eyes, waiting for my reaction. I told her nothing was wrong, that I was an adult now and understood things. I hugged her and we devoured each other with kisses, she crying her eyes out.

That week I connected the dots. After turning it over and over, I reached a conclusion: my mother had a 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 other than what it really meant.

And here comes the part that costs me to confess. I, at nineteen, hormones on the surface 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 suddenly I started looking at her differently. Imagining what her tits would be like under her clothes, what her pussy would smell like, what face she’d 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 dress up much. And yet, those days, every hug from her started to feel like an invitation, and every time she bent over in front of me my cock got hard without me being able to stop it.

I knew that if I wanted something to happen, I’d have to take the first step. She would never cross that line. But I knew her weak point: my father’s bed. That was where I’d start testing the waters.

***

On Sunday, after dinner, I went for it.

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

—The truth is I don’t, 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? Then 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 hit home. She looked at me resignedly and, her voice trembling a little, agreed.

—There’s no harm in trying —she said, letting out a nervous laugh—. After all, the bed is huge for me alone.

—Great. Then starting 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 accepted.

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

—I promise.

***

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

On Monday I woke up alone; she was already rattling around in 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 bright, and gave me a quick kiss. I held it a couple of seconds longer than usual. She closed her eyes, and I felt her breathing break when my cock, still hard from the morning, brushed her stomach over the pajama top.

On Tuesday she didn’t even bother covering up anymore, and she was more toward the center of the bed. The goodnight kiss landed, almost by accident, on the lips. Neither of us moved. That night we slept touching, with my hand resting “by chance” on her hip, and I spent hours hard as a rock and unable to sleep.

On Wednesday, while watching television, she asked if I minded her sleeping without a top, that she was used to it and felt hot. I told her I didn’t understand why she’d put one on at all, since I’d seen her like that all my life. When I went into the bedroom, she was lying there in nothing but white panties.

I stopped to really look at her for the first time. Small but firm breasts, with pink nipples pointing at the ceiling. A petite, well-proportioned body for her age, flat stomach, narrow hips, and a triangle of blond hair visible beneath the thin fabric of her panties. She wasn’t a beauty, but that night she seemed like one to me, and my cock turned to stone beneath my pajama pants.

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

—Looks like you don’t think like your father —she murmured.

—I like women. And you are, for me, the most attractive of them all.

Her face lit up with a grin from ear to ear. She opened her arms so I could give her the goodnight kiss.

***

I leaned in, she closed her arms around me and pulled me close. I slid one leg between hers and ended up practically on top of her, propped on my elbows so I wouldn’t crush her. Her nipples brushed my bare chest, hard as pebbles. I had never felt anything like it, and my cock, trapped between our bellies, throbbed hard against her lower stomach.

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

I lowered my mouth slowly. She was waiting with parted lips. I kissed her, opened my mouth, and ate her whole. She reacted by pressing my nape with her hands, making it clear she didn’t want me to stop. Our tongues searched for each other, tangled, sucked one another with a hunger accumulated over years. I had no experience, but it was turning out perfect. I felt her hips starting to move beneath mine, seeking me out, rubbing her hot pussy against the bulge in my underwear.

I kissed her neck, licked her collarbone, moved down to her breasts, took one nipple in my mouth and sucked it like a man possessed, tugging at it with my lips and nibbling it gently. That drove her insane.

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

I moved to the other nipple, tormented it the same way, while with my free hand I kneaded the other breast. She began to arch beneath me, panting harder and harder, and I could feel my cock slipping over the edge of my underwear, soaking the pajama fabric with precum. I went down her sternum with my tongue, licked her navel, bit the hip bone. When I reached the edge of her white panties I paused for a moment and looked at her from below. She nodded without saying a word, her eyes glassy.

I hooked my fingers in her panties and slowly pulled them down her legs. Underneath appeared a small, juicy pussy, with trimmed blond hair and lips already shiny 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 along her slit from bottom to top until I found her swollen clit. When I sucked it, she let out a cry she half-swallowed by biting her fist.

—Oh, my son… oh God, don’t stop…

I didn’t stop. I ate her pussy with a desperation I didn’t know I had, alternating long licks with little sucks on her clit, thrusting my whole tongue into her as far as it would go. I slid in one finger, then two, and felt her pussy squeezing them, soaked through. I moved my fingers in and upward while I kept sucking her clit, and she trembled, writhed, and 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 pussy, smothering her cries against the pillow. I kept licking her until she went limp, her legs open and her breathing ragged.

I climbed up her body kissing every inch. When I reached her mouth I ate it with kisses again, and she licked her own taste off my lips without the slightest hesitation. I thought maybe to her one thing was letting her pussy be eaten, and something very different was taking the final step with her son, taking her son’s cock inside her. I didn’t want to strain the rope. But then, as if she had read my mind, she lowered her hands, grabbed the waistband of my underwear and tugged them down. My cock sprang out hard, pointing at her stomach.

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

She took it in her right hand, wrapped it, squeezed it, moved it up and down a couple of times. I had to bite my lip not to come 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, sucking it all the way down with her eyes closed, withdrawing it slowly so she could run her tongue over my balls.

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

She let my cock out of her mouth with a pop, licked her lips and smiled with a wickedness I had never seen in her.

—Not yet, darling. Not yet.

She lay back and opened her legs for me. There we were, both naked, both willing.

I went back to her mouth. I leaned into her ear and asked, with a rough voice, if she wanted me to fuck her. Her whole body shuddered.

—Yes, my love, yes, put it in me, 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 was going to happen.

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

I lowered my hand to her pussy and found it soaking wet, running down the insides of her thighs. My fingers slid in effortlessly. I positioned myself between her legs, which she bent and opened for me, and I took hold of my cock to guide it. I rested the head at the entrance to her pussy, 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 stifled moan, one of pleasure and of something deeper I wouldn’t have known how to name.

—Oh, you’re putting it in so well, my son… you’re filling me up so much…

I had to stop for a moment, cock buried to the balls inside my mother, so I wouldn’t finish at once. The heat, the softness, the very idea of where I was: it was too much. I could feel her pussy hugging me, beating to its own rhythm. When I got control of myself again, I started moving.

First I came almost all the way out and pushed back in to the hilt, slowly, so I could savor each thrust. She looked me in the eyes, mouth open, and with every push a gasp slipped out of her. Then I picked up the pace, sliding out and in faster and faster, until the wet sound of our bodies crashing together filled the room and she dug her nails into my back. Her tits bounced with every thrust, and I bent down to suck them while I kept fucking her.

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

I grabbed her behind the knees, lifted her legs until they were over my shoulders, and drove into her with my whole cock at that new angle. She let out a muffled cry and began repeating my name like a litany. I was fucking my mother bent in half, her cunt spread wide open, and I could see my cock coming in and out, gleaming with her juices.

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

I pulled out of her. She turned over onto her hands and knees, arched her back and offered me her ass. I had never seen anything more obscene than my mother in that position, her soaked pussy dripping and her pink little hole visible, asking me to spear her again. I grabbed her hips, aimed the head and thrust in with one stroke all the way to the hilt. She growled into the pillow.

I started fucking her from behind, first fast, almost savage, driving her with my hips against her ass until her buttocks trembled with every blow. I grabbed her hair with one hand, pulling a little, and with the other I searched for her clit to massage it while I fucked her. She pushed her ass back to take me better, and every time I went in deep she let out an “ah” that lodged itself 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 dragged 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 buried myself in her again to the balls. Then I began to slow, looking for something slower, more intimate. 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 shiver. I slid my hands under her shoulders, held her tight, and began to pump into her with short, deep thrusts, never pulling all the way out. I felt her clench at the same time I let myself go, one burst after another of hot semen emptying me inside her cunt, while she clung to me. I gave her four, five spurts deep inside, and with each one I let out a groan from my gut.

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

I stayed on top of her with my cock still inside, feeling it soften little by little while her pussy kept clenching around it in small spasms, milking the last drop out of me. Those were minutes that were worth a whole lifetime. Nineteen years later, for a moment, I had returned to the exact place from which I came. And this time I had made her happy.

***

I let myself fall beside her, exhausted. I heard her get up to go to the bathroom and come back, now wearing clean panties. I got the message: for that night, enough. She laid her head on my chest and stroked my soft, 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, devouring her with kisses—. I’ll always be by your side.

***

The next morning I became aware of everything and I was stunned. I couldn’t believe it. In the kitchen, the good-morning kiss lasted several minutes, and ended with my hand inside her robe, kneading a naked breast.

—How are you? —I asked her.

—Happy. And you?

—Me too. But we need to talk, right?

—Tonight, over dinner.

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

The conversation relaxed as we joked around. I asked her how she had managed so many years without sex, and she told me she had simply gotten used to it, that she had never considered it essential.

—Well, no one would have said that last night —I shot back, and we both burst out laughing.

—Maybe I just 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 had given her the best gift in the world. We spoke without taboos about what would come next, what we liked, and what we would leave 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’d try whenever she wanted. Each of her answers surprised me more than the last.

—Who would have told me —she said, hugging me— that I’d 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. We weren’t going to waste a single minute. We got up from the table and, without saying a word, went together to the bedroom.