My Son Called Me from the Shower and I Went in Without Thinking

My name is Adriana, I’m forty-seven years old, and since I was widowed nearly a decade ago, I’ve lived in a small apartment with my son Mateo, who has just turned twenty-two. I work as a doctor in a private occupational medicine clinic. My days pass between medical files, hearing tests, electrocardiograms, and the parade of employees that companies send me for their annual checkups. It’s a quiet, almost routine job, and I like that.

That Friday started like any other. I was pouring myself coffee when I heard him from the bedroom.

—Mom! Can you come here for a second?

—I’m coming, sweetheart —I answered, setting down the cup.

Mateo was still in bed, curled onto his side, the sheet pulled up to his chest and his lips pressed tight together. His forehead was shining with sweat.

—What’s wrong?

—It hurts a lot down here —he said, lowering his gaze—. And I think it’s swollen.

I sat on the edge of the mattress and pulled back the sheet without giving it a second thought. I’m a doctor and I’m his mother; this wasn’t anything new. But when I saw what I saw, I raised my eyebrows. His testicles were swollen, reddened, with a taut texture I didn’t like at all. Mateo had always had a big body, all out of proportion as a teenager and only half fitting him as an adult, but this wasn’t normal. And even so, even with his balls swollen and aching, the cock hanging above them stopped me for an extra second: thick, heavy, with the glans peeking out from under the retracted foreskin.

—Since when?

—Four or five days.

—How could you not tell me আগে?

—I didn’t want to worry you.

I sighed. He’d been using that line since he was twelve, to hide anything that embarrassed him from me.

—Eat breakfast, get dressed, and come with me to the clinic. I’ll ask Lucía to make room for you. She knows a lot more about urology than I do, and she’s very comfortable with me.

—Okay.

***

Lucía is more than just a colleague. She’s fifty-five, has been divorced twice, and has a hoarse laugh that can be heard all the way down the hall. I’ve known her since college and we’ve forgiven each other everything that could be forgiven. When I came in with Mateo, she looked up from the screen.

—Well, look who’s here. And who’s this big guy?

—My son, Lucía. His testicles hurt and they’re like two balloons. Ever since he woke up I’ve been thinking of all the things it could be, and I don’t like a single one.

—There, there. Let me have him. You go to your booth and get back to your checkups. When I’m done I’ll send him back with a note in his hand.

—Thanks, Lucía. Really.

—Pain in the ass. Go on.

I spent the next two hours watching the clock between one patient and the next. I was auscultating a truck driver while thinking about my son, taking the blood pressure of a factory worker while imagining diagnoses. When Mateo appeared at the door of my booth with a shy smile, I breathed out.

—Well?

—Lucía says you should go see her when you can.

—Are you feeling better?

—A little. She gave me something for the pain.

I asked him to stay studying in the office next door and went to urology. Lucía was waiting for me with freshly made coffee and the face of someone about to drop a small bomb.

—Adri, sit down.

—Don’t scare me.

—There’s nothing to be scared of. Your son has hyperspermia.

—And what’s that?

—Excessive semen production. His testicles are producing far more than he can handle and, if it isn’t emptied regularly, it builds up and hurts. Imagine an overfilled balloon: any little rub and it’s irritating. It’s not dangerous. Nothing’s going to explode. But the tank has to be emptied, and there’s no other way.

—Pills?

—Only for the pain. The underlying issue is cured with frequent ejaculations for three or four weeks. Once the body understands it doesn’t need to store so much cum, production goes down and returns to normal range. It’s something that shows up at that age and goes away on its own if it’s treated properly.

—So, jerk off for three or four weeks?

—Every time he feels discomfort, yes. The problem is that when it hurts, pleasure isn’t even a thought. And if he doesn’t cum, it’s useless. If you see he can’t do it on his own, bring him to me and I’ll jerk him off in the office. It wouldn’t be the first cock I’ve emptied by prescription. I have no problem with it, I’m serious.

—Lucía, for God’s sake.

—It’s medicine, woman. The same as a drainage tube.

—Yeah, yeah.

I laughed, nervously. Lucía kept looking at me.

—You can also stroke him off yourself, if you think you can manage it. There’s no special technique. You grab the cock with a well-lubed hand, start gently, and when he’s close you squeeze and speed up until he comes. Just avoid sudden movements with the balls.

—Me?

—You’re his mother and you’re a doctor. Who better? But if you’re uncomfortable, bring him to me and that’s that.

***

On the way back to the car, neither of us said a word. Mateo looked out the window and I rehearsed in my head the conversation we needed to have before getting home. When we got up in the elevator, I brushed his arm.

—We need to talk.

—Okay.

I poured him a glass of water, gave him a pill, and put it in his mouth myself, the way I used to when he was little. Then I sat across from him on the sofa, set my bag aside, and took a deep breath.

—Lucía says your body is making too much semen and that the only way to bring the pain down is to empty the balls. Completely. Every time you notice discomfort. Three weeks, four at most. After that, your body learns and regulates itself.

—So, wanking.

—So, wanking and cumming right to the last drop.

Mateo lowered his head, his ears red. I went on.

—If you can do it by yourself, perfect. If you can’t because of the pain, you call me and I’ll jerk you off. And if you feel awkward with me, we’ll get Lucía to see you and she’ll empty you in the office. You decide each time. Clear?

—Clear.

—It’s no big drama, son. It’s like pulling out a splinter or healing a wound. What matters is that it goes away.

—Okay, Mom.

I brushed the hair off his forehead and kissed him. He squeezed my hand and went up to his room.

***

An hour later I was in the shower. The water was scalding, the way I like it, and the bathroom mirror was covered in steam. I hadn’t washed my hair in a week and needed half a bottle of shampoo to rinse the day’s fatigue out of me. I had my eyes closed, soaping the back of my neck, when I heard knuckles on the bathroom door.

—Mom.

—Yes?

—I tried. I can’t. It hurts too much.

The water kept falling. So did my pulse.

—Come in.

There was a silence. I heard him open the door slowly, hesitate, and then close it behind him.

—You’re in the shower.

—Take your clothes off and get in. The hot water will relax you. It’s what suits you best right now.

—Mom…

—Mateo, come here.

I heard him undress on the other side of the screen. When he came in, I didn’t look up at his face. I looked at his shoulders, his chest, his hands hanging at his sides. Then, yes, I looked down. His testicles were still taut, reddened, pressed against the base of a cock I remembered from bath times when he was a child and that was no longer a child’s in any way. It was long and thick, the veins standing out up the shaft, the thick, glossy glans peeking out from the retracted foreskin, and even hanging in repose it made clear why Lucía had held my gaze a second longer than necessary before speaking. My mouth watered without asking anyone’s permission.

—Come under the water.

I positioned him under the stream and ran my hand over his back, nothing more. I rubbed his shoulders with the shampoo left on my palms. I talked nonsense while I did it: about the rain, about the Monday appointment with the woman at the bank, about the neighbor on the fourth floor. I needed him to relax. I needed him to stop breathing like an animal about to bolt.

I slid my hands down his sides under the excuse of the soap, lathered his belly, brushed the start of his pubic hair with my fingertips, and felt how his cock, between his legs, was filling on its own. I passed my open palm over it, barely touching, and he let out a soft sound from his mouth. When I felt him soften a little more under the stream, I ran my hand down his side and closed it around him.

—Easy. I’ll help you.

I started slowly, hardly moving it at all, as Lucía had said. I closed my fist gently around the shaft and slid up once to the glans, very slowly, feeling the steam from the water and the pulse of blood under my palm. It was hard by the second pass, really hard, so hard that the foreskin retracted on its own and left the whole head exposed to me, swollen, purple, the slit already weeping a thick drop that the water swept away at once. I squeezed a little below the glans and slid back down to the base, careful not to brush his swollen balls. I felt him stiffen in my hand and his breathing quicken against my hair. I didn’t look back or let him look at me. The easiest thing for both of us was for this to be a gesture between water and steam, without looking each other in the face.

—Does it hurt?

—Not like that.

—Is this okay?

—Yes… Mom, like that…

—Shut up and breathe.

I worked him patiently, adjusting the rhythm to his breathing. I slid my fist up with my wrist turned, squeezed just as I passed the crown, and came back down to brush his groin. Every time I went up, the glans bumped against my open palm and he let out a short grunt through his nose. I grabbed his hip with my other hand to hold him steady, because his knees were starting to go weak. His cock got so thick I could barely close my fist around it, and with every stroke it tensed all the way to the base, hard as a rod, throbbing in my hand to the rhythm of a heart that wasn’t mine.

When I felt he was on the edge, I changed plans. I knelt without thinking too much about it. The water ran down my neck, already lukewarm, and the tiles dug into my kneecaps. I didn’t speak. If I opened my mouth and reasoned through what I was about to do, I wouldn’t do it. And by then it had to be done.

I lifted his cock with one hand, held it against my lips for a second, and stuck out my tongue to lick him from base to tip, slowly, flatly, pressing well against the shaft. I licked the veins on one side and the other, gathered the thick drop hanging from the head into my mouth, and swallowed it without thinking. It tasted of soap and salt. I took him into my mouth. Not all the way, because I couldn’t fit him; he was too thick to reach the base without choking. As far as I could go. I held him at the root with one hand and with the other I squeezed his thigh, and I started moving forward and back with my tongue flattened against the inner face of the glans, sucking hard each time I pulled away and easing off each time I went in, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. My lips slid over the taut skin and I could feel the big vein underneath throbbing against my tongue.

I heard him let out a sound I had never heard him make, and it dropped straight from my head to my stomach. I sped up. I closed my fist at the base and worked him in time with my mouth, up and down at once, sucking with hollowed cheeks, letting the glans sink deeper and deeper into me until it hit the back of my throat and made me cough for a second before plunging in again. I spat once to lubricate it better and went back in. I felt his balls swelling even more against the palm holding the base, tight, pressed against his body.

—Mom…

—Shut up.

Don’t say anything. Don’t say my name. Don’t say “Mom” while I have it in my mouth, because then I’ll let go and I don’t want to let go yet.

I felt him tense, heard him hold his breath. His cock swelled suddenly between my lips and I felt the first spasms climbing up the shaft. I pulled my mouth off just in time, sealed it with my fist, and sped up with my wrist two, three, four times, squeezing hard below the glans, until he arched back against the tiles and came. He came a lot. The first jet shot out and hit my chin; the second, thicker, spilled into my open mouth and filled my tongue with a hot, salty taste that I swallowed without thinking; the third landed on his chest, white, thick, sliding between his pecs; the fourth and fifth streamed down my hand and between my breasts, the ones I had surgery on four years ago and that that afternoon, under the water, with my son’s cum hanging from my nipples, felt more like mine than ever. More than I had ever seen any man unload in my life, and I’ve seen plenty of cocks come in my time.

I kept stroking the tip slowly, coaxing out the last drops, and he pressed my hand against his cock and held it there, trembling, until nothing else came out. When he was done he let himself sag a little against the wall and laughed softly, without opening his eyes. I stood up with sore knees, wiped my chin with the back of my hand, cleaned my breasts with the sponge, and started rinsing myself too, in silence, as if nothing had happened of what had just happened. I still had the taste of his cum stuck to my palate.

—Better? —I asked.

—Much better.

—Don’t think it’s cured. It’ll hurt again.

—I know.

—When it comes back, let me know.

—Okay.

We got out of the shower without touching each other again. I gave him a towel, took mine, and we dried off, each looking in a different direction. He got dressed in the hallway, I put on my robe and went down to the kitchen to make dinner. When I sat at the table and looked at him over my plate, the two of us held each other’s gaze for a second longer than usual.

—Mom.

—Yes?

—Next week you have the trip, right?

—Two days. And I’m already thinking about how we’re going to do it.

—Don’t worry. We’ll think of something.

I smiled at him without answering. We would think of something, yes. And what we come up with I’ll tell another day, because tonight, when I go to bed, I’ll still have the taste of hot water and my son’s cock on my tongue, and that seems like enough for one story.