My mother walked into my room and we were never the same again

My name is Marcos. I’m 22 years old, and since I was sixteen I’ve never lacked for relationships. I’m not saying that arrogantly: I have an athletic build, I take care of myself, and physically I have no reason to complain. I mention it because it matters for what I’m about to tell.

What I’m about to tell is not easy to organize. Not because of what happened, but because of how I came to understand it. There are things a person knows for years without quite allowing themselves to think them through, and then one day someone says them out loud and there’s no turning back.

My mother is 39 years old. She married my father when she was 22, when he was already 44. Twenty-two years difference. He was bald then, with a bit of a belly and a life ordered according to his own rules. She was young, beautiful, and without many real options. She never told me that in so many words, but one grows up and learns to read between the lines. The marriage was an escape, not a choice.

My father is 61 now. My mother, on the other hand, still looks ten years younger than she is. She wears her dark brown hair at medium length, has high, pronounced cheekbones, and a slim figure that she considers irrelevant but that I noticed left no one indifferent. I noticed it when some friend came over and took too long to say goodbye to her at the door, eyes glued to the neckline of her blouse. I noticed it in the eyes of men at the supermarket, following her from head to toe with their mouths slightly open.

I noticed something else too. A tension my mother carried around like it was part of her clothes. A start every time the phone rang. A certain stiffness when I appeared in the hallway shirtless after training, with her gaze dropping a second too long toward my stomach before forcing itself back up. The way she looked toward the window when I brought a girl home, as if she needed to occupy her eyes with something harmless while the moans slipped through the door. I had never thought about it clearly until someone said it to me.

A friend of mine, Natalia, has the kind of intelligence that makes you uncomfortable. One day, after I had accidentally told her too much, she said it straight to my face:

—Your mother’s gone years without anyone really fucking her. You can tell in everything.

—Don’t talk to me about my mother like that.

—I’m not talking badly about your mother. I’m telling you what I see. That woman hasn’t come in years, Marcos. You can tell by the way she walks, by how she squeezes her legs together when she sits. And you see it too, otherwise you wouldn’t have told me.

I had no answer because she was right. I had told her because I had already thought it. But thinking it in silence and hearing it said out loud are two completely different things.

—And what do I do with that? —I asked.

—Nothing you don’t want to do —Natalia replied, and changed the subject.

But I couldn’t change the subject so easily. That night I spent it with a hard cock thinking about my mother. I stroked myself slowly, without allowing myself to say her name out loud, until I came across my stomach with an intensity I hadn’t felt in months. And I hated myself a little. And I stayed awake for hours.

***

My room has a sliding door that never quite closes on the left side. On the right there’s no problem, but if you slide it all the way that way, a three- or four-centimeter gap opens toward the hallway. And from the hallway, if someone is sitting on the sofa in the living room where the landline phone is, they can see the bed directly.

I had been aware of that gap for years. I had forced myself to move to the opposite end of the room or lock the door when I wanted privacy. But that October afternoon, several days after the conversation with Natalia, I decided not to lock it. Just to see. Just to know whether what I believed was real or something I had made up.

I lay down on the bed, naked, with my cock half-hard resting on my thigh, and waited. I knew my mother was home.

When the phone rang, I didn’t move. I took my hand to my sex and started stroking myself very slowly, letting myself grow, with my mouth open and my breathing slightly uneven, perfectly aware of what I was doing.

I heard her footsteps in the hallway. The click of the receiver. A brief voice:

—No, you’ve got the wrong number.

And then silence. The springs of the sofa always creak when someone gets up, and that time they didn’t creak. My mother hadn’t moved.

A minute passed. Maybe two. The apartment was completely still. I kept stroking myself, my cock already fully hard against my stomach, pinching the base with my thumb and index finger, moving my hand up and down with calculated slowness, as if I knew exactly how long she needed to watch me properly.

I lifted my head just slightly and, through the gap, I saw her. She was sitting with her hands folded in her lap, staring at my room with a fixed gaze that was anything but casual. Her lips were parted and one of her knees was moving just a little, a tiny tremor. When our eyes met for an instant, she lowered her gaze and I finally heard the familiar creak of the sofa.

I said nothing. I did nothing. I stayed lying there with my pulse in my throat, my cock throbbing against my palm, and a question I didn’t know how to ask. I finished coming minutes later, in silence, hot semen spilling over my stomach, biting my lip so I wouldn’t moan.

***

Two days later, at almost the same time, it happened again. There was something almost ritualistic about it: the phone, the footsteps, the click of the receiver.

This time I didn’t lift my head. I stayed as I was, breathing slowly, eyes half-open, looking at the ceiling. But this time I was openly stroking myself. No pretense. With my cock erect and my hand moving up and down in a rhythmic motion that filled the silence of the hallway with a wet rubbing, barely audible but unmistakable.

Several minutes passed. I kept the rhythm, not letting myself come, squeezing and releasing, knowing she was listening to every sound.

When I finally looked toward the gap, she was looking at me. And she was smiling. It wasn’t an uncomfortable or guilty smile. It was the smile of someone who has just made a decision they’d been putting off for a long time. One hand rested on her lap, still, but the other was braced on the sofa arm, tense, her knuckles white.

I got out of bed, naked, my hard cock pointing forward, without covering myself or pretending. I went out into the hallway. I held out my hand.

She took it without saying anything. Her eyes dropped for a second toward my dick, then rose back to my face. She licked her lips without realizing it.

***

In my room there are two single beds. Mine, by the window, and the other opposite it. I led her to that one. She sat on the edge with her hands in her lap and looked at me with an attention I didn’t know how to hold. I was still standing in front of her, my hard cock at the level of her face.

—Nothing has to happen that you don’t want —I told her.

My mother didn’t answer. She just kept looking. And lowering her eyes again toward my sex, unable to help it.

She took off her sweater slowly. Under it she was wearing only a bra. Her shoulders were narrow and white, and when she unfastened it and let it fall to the floor, I was left speechless. Her tits were perfect: firm, round, with pink nipples already hard, pointing slightly upward. Her body had nothing to envy any girl my age: firm breasts, a waist that made no effort to be slim because it already was, skin without marks or traces of the years.

She stood up, unbuttoned her jeans and slid them down her hips until they fell to the floor. Underneath she wore simple white panties, with a dark wet patch marking her crotch. She took those off too, without ceremony, and stood completely naked in front of me. Her cunt was almost completely shaved, with a thin strip of brown hair above the pubis, and the inner lips swollen, peeking out between the outer ones, glossy, wet.

I had never felt such a still tension. Like the moment before it starts to rain.

She didn’t touch herself. She just looked. And I didn’t move either, letting her look for as long as she needed. Her gaze went from my face to my cock, stayed there, moved up and down the shaft, stopped on the swollen, shiny glans, on the drop that had already formed at the tip.

Then she stood up and knelt slowly beside my bed, with a deliberation that left my mind blank. She looked me in the eyes one last time and then lowered her gaze.

What she did next was not what I expected. There was nothing clumsy or urgent about it. She ran her tongue slowly, from bottom to top, following the thick vein that runs along the underside of the cock, and then kissed the tip with a softness that stole my breath. She gathered the drop of pre-cum with her tongue and swallowed it without taking her eyes off me.

She took it into her mouth carefully, holding it by the base with one hand, and began to move with a slow and completely deliberate cadence. I felt her tongue circling the glans, pressing it against the palate, while her lips closed over the shaft and descended centimeter by centimeter. She made no sound. She only breathed through her nose. I closed my eyes and opened them again because I didn’t want to stop seeing what I was seeing: my mother sucking my cock with her eyes closed, her cheeks hollowed by the suction, a strand of saliva hanging from the corner of her mouth.

With her free hand she was touching herself. I saw it: her fingers moving between her spread legs, the middle and ring fingers sunk to the knuckle inside her cunt, going in and out with a rhythm that kept increasing. Her thumb brushed her clit every time her hand went up. Her breathing hitched once, then grew deeper. A muffled moan escaped her with my cock filling her mouth, and that moan vibrated all the way down the shaft to my stomach.

She sped up. Her head went up and down with more urgency, her free hand working between her thighs with a tense wrist, her fingers shiny with wetness. I could hear it, the wet slapping of her fingers, mixed with the wet sound of her mouth on my dick. She kept at it for several minutes, mouth full and eyes closed, completely lost in something I couldn’t see but could hear.

Suddenly she went rigid. Her whole body tensed, her fingers buried inside her all the way, and a long, deep groan came out of her chest, muffled by my cock. She came like that, kneeling, mouth full, while I held her by the hair just a little, not daring to squeeze.

When she stopped, she wiped her lips with the back of her hand, stood up without saying anything, and left the room with her legs still trembling. I was left with my cock hard, shiny with her saliva, without having come, staring at the ceiling for a good while before finishing myself off with my hand, closing my eyes and seeing her again kneeling in front of me.

***

Two weeks passed.

One afternoon I brought home the girl I had been dating for months. We were good, or so I thought. But that afternoon she told me what we had was going nowhere, that she was moving away for work, and she left without drama and without tears. My mother heard it from the hallway, unintentionally.

I lay down on the bed with my jeans on and my head empty. She came in after a while.

—Take them off —she said.

Her voice was different. Lower. More direct, without the weight of apology she always carried around.

—I’m not okay right now —I answered.

—I know. That’s why.

She left the room. I think she expected me to follow her. I didn’t.

I lay there for almost an hour, staring fixedly at the ceiling, not thinking of anything in particular and thinking of everything at once. And then desire came back, without warning, without context, with all the force of something that had been waiting for its moment. I called her.

She came in and found me as before. But there was something different in her. An urgency she hadn’t had before, something looser, less restrained. She took off her clothes with less ceremony, yanking her sweater over her head and tugging her pants down roughly. She stood naked, her nipples already hard, and knelt, but before starting she looked me in the eyes with an intensity I couldn’t sustain.

—Asshole —she said. Without anger. With something else I couldn’t name at that moment.

She kissed me on the mouth. I wasn’t expecting it. It was long and deep, with tongue, without asking permission. She bit my lower lip and pulled on it before letting go. Then she went back down.

This time she was neither slow nor delicate. She was something entirely different. She took my cock into her mouth all the way to the back, violently, until the tip slammed against her throat and tore a guttural sound from her. She went up and down hard, her hand squeezing the base, twisting it in the same motion, never stopping, eyes closed and her breathing turned into moans unlike anything I had ever heard before. Saliva dripped down her chin and onto her tits.

She pulled off suddenly and spat on it, dirtying her breasts, and took it back into her mouth with the same force. She looked at me while she did it, eyes shining, shameless, as if she wanted me to see exactly what she was doing to me.

She kept going down. She licked the inside of my thighs. Ran her mouth over my stomach. She sucked my testicles one by one, taking them whole into her mouth, and ran her tongue over the taut skin between my balls and my ass. She nibbled at my chest and kissed me again on the mouth, tangling her fingers in my hair with a firmness that surprised me, leaving the taste of myself between my lips.

—Lift your legs —she said. Her voice seemed to have lost any control.

I did it without thinking.

What followed was an impact I hadn’t anticipated. Her tongue plunged between my ass cheeks, searching for my hole, pushing and circling around it with an insistence that left me breathless. Her mouth on a place where I had never let anyone get without warning. I didn’t know whether it was pleasure or surprise or both at the same time. I tried to say something but no coherent words came out, only a broken moan.

She didn’t stop. She gave herself to it with a concentration that was anything but improvised, her tongue barely penetrating me, coming out, circling around, while with her hand she kept jerking me off in a fast, tight motion. With her other hand she was touching her cunt, and I could hear her, sloshing with how wet she was. I closed my eyes and stopped resisting what was happening.

She came back up. She took my cock down to the hilt in one shot and held it there, her throat squeezing my glans while she kept touching herself. Then she started going up and down again, faster and faster, with a brutal rhythm, not letting me stop, not letting me breathe.

Everything came at once: the tension built up over weeks, the afternoon, her, the years of something neither of us had been able to name. I grabbed her head with both hands and came inside her mouth with an intensity that left me voiceless for several seconds. I felt each shot burst out under pressure, one after another, filling her mouth, and she swallowed, swallowed with her eyes closed and a continuous moan coming from her throat, squeezing my cock with her lips so she wouldn’t lose a single drop.

She came too, fingers buried in her cunt, her whole body trembling, not taking my cock out of her mouth until she felt it soften.

She stood up, with a thread of semen hanging from the corner of her lips that she wiped away with her thumb and licked off, went to the bathroom, and when she came back she was my mother again.

She cleaned everything before my father got home.

***

Months have passed. We live in the same house. I keep seeing other girls. My father is still my father, with his sixty-one years and his orderly life.

What happens between my mother and me now is calmer. Sometimes, when there’s a moment of silence in the house and both of us feel it in the air, we go into my room and close the door. We lie down, each in our own bed, naked, and look at each other while we touch ourselves. She with her legs spread and her fingers sunk into her cunt, me with my hard cock in my hand, moving it up and down at the same rhythm as she does. Without talking. Without touching each other. We come almost at the same time, looking into each other’s eyes, with our moans barely contained. It’s an agreement no one ever voiced but that we both keep.

We’ve never gone beyond that. I’ve never fucked her, even though the two beds are a meter apart and we both know it would only take standing up.

I don’t know if we ever will. I also don’t know if I want to know.