My Son’s Confession That Changed Everything Between Us

Marisol was one of those women who stopped conversations when she walked into a room. In her forties and then some, she still had a generous bust, a waist that looked drawn in by hand, and wide hips that made every dress seem as if it had been sewn onto her. She knew it, and that was why she dressed prudently around the family. What she never imagined was that that very night her own son would look at her in a way no prudence could have foreseen.

The crash of plates shattering on the floor jolted her out of her half-sleep. She went downstairs with her heart in her throat, certain a burglar had gotten into the house.

—Adrián! —she shouted when she reached the landing.

She froze at the foot of the stairs. The fifty-inch television lit up the living room in that cold pre-dawn hour and, on the screen, a mature woman was scrubbing the floor on all fours with her cleavage spilling out. Her son, with his back to her, was trying to pull up the pajama pants bunched around his ankles.

—No, Mom, wait. It’s not what it looks like —he blurted, turning with a flushed face.

Marisol did not answer. She stared at the frozen image on the screen and, little by little, recognized those features. It was Carla’s mother, her son’s mother-in-law.

Adrián ran to her, took her hands, and clumsily inspected them.

—Are you okay? Did you cut yourself? Let me see.

—I’m fine —she said, hollowly—. Pick that up before someone gets hurt.

He gathered the pieces of china, threw them in the trash, and came back to her. He found her sitting on the edge of the sofa, still staring straight ahead, as if the switched-off screen were still projecting something.

—I’m sorry, Mom. I really am.

—That picture —she cut him off without looking at him—. Did you take it?

Adrián hesitated. He sat beside her, elbows on his knees, gaze fixed on the floor.

—Yes. I did.

—I did not raise you like that —Marisol murmured, and for an instant her voice cracked—. Why would you do that to your wife’s mother?

—Because it was Carla’s idea.

Marisol snapped her head around so fast her neck creaked. She looked him in the eyes for the first time since coming downstairs.

—What?

—Carla suggested it, Mom. I swear.

—Do you think I’m stupid? —She rested her temple in her hand, exhausted—. How is your wife going to ask you to take a picture like that of her own mother?

—I’m serious. It’s because of a condition I have. That’s what I couldn’t explain to you downstairs.

She narrowed her eyes. She knew her son well enough to tell when he was lying, and this time she could not find the tell.

—A condition? Are you sick and you didn’t tell me?

—I didn’t want to worry you. And besides, it’s something intimate. I’m ashamed to talk about it with you.

—You should be more ashamed of what you were doing in the middle of my living room at three in the morning —she shot back, though her tone no longer had any bite, only fatigue—. All right. I’m listening.

Adrián took a deep breath. He explained, with detours and his eyes on anything but her, that a doctor had diagnosed him with inflammation in a gland. That his body produced too much, far more than normal, and that if it wasn’t relieved frequently it could worsen. That he had surgery scheduled, but not for another month.

—Too much of what? —Marisol asked, genuinely lost.

—Mom, don’t make this harder.

—Call things by their name, son. If it has a name, say it.

—Semen —he finally blurted—. I produce almost triple the normal amount. And if I don’t empty it, the gland keeps growing. That’s why I have to… do exercises. Very often.

Marisol slowly shook her head, between disbelief and a new worry.

—And what does my consuegra have to do with all this?

—The illness makes me less sensitive. After so many times, my body stops responding to the usual things. Carla can’t help me all the time, so she thought different stimuli, different women, might trick that lack of sensitivity. And she thought of her mother because… well, because she’s still a very striking woman.

—Dear God —Marisol whispered, pressing a hand to her forehead—. The two of you are out of your minds. And she doesn’t know?

—No one knows. We keep it secret. That’s why I’m asking you to keep it too.

There was a long silence. Marisol looked at her son and saw, beneath the adult man, the boy she had raised alone, the one she had watched over so many nights when he ran a fever. The indignation was still there, but it was beginning to mix with something softer.

—I feel guilty for interrupting you —she said at last—. If it’s for your health, I shouldn’t have made you feel like a monster.

—No, Mom. I was the one who disrespected your home.

—On the contrary. I appreciate your trust. —She picked up the remote and, before she could think twice, turned the television on again—. Finish what you started. I’ll go back up to my room.

—Mom…

—Go on, sweetheart. I’m giving you privacy. —She stood up, stroked his hair the way she had when he was little, and went upstairs without looking back.

***

Marisol lay down on her bed and stared at the ceiling. Am I doing the right thing?, she thought. It’s an illness, after all. If Carla gave him permission, I’m not doing anything wrong. The questions tangled together. What if it really is dangerous for him? What if I hurt him out of prudishness?

She did not manage to answer herself. Gentle knocks sounded at the door.

—Come in.

Adrián poked his head in.

—Can I come in?

—Of course, my love. —She patted the mattress beside her—. Did you finish?

—I couldn’t. I felt bad for disrespecting you.

—Oh, son. —She propped herself up on one elbow—. It’s fine by me. I understand it’s medical. You can do it.

—I’d rather wait until the operation.

—Absolutely not. You said it yourself, it can be dangerous. You’re not going to risk your health over a stupid taboo. —She held his gaze—. Do it. Here, if you want. I feel responsible for cutting you off.

He looked at her as if he couldn’t believe it.

—Are you serious?

—Before I change my mind —she said, with a smile whose origin even she did not know.

Adrián connected his phone to the bedroom television and his mother-in-law’s image appeared again. He lay down beside his mother.

—Your mother-in-law has a good body —Marisol commented, pretending to be casual.

—Right? Though Carla says…

—What does Carla say? Speak, nothing leaves this room.

—She says you’re better. —Adrián swallowed—. That you have a better bust than her mother.

—That’s what your little wife says about me? —Marisol arched a brow, scandalized and, very deep down, flattered—. You two are worse than I thought.

—Truth is, I agree with her.

—Hey —she warned, giving him a light smack on the shoulder—. I’m your mother, don’t forget it.

—I only recognize a good pair of tits when I see them —he said, and a half-smile escaped him.

Marisol snorted, pretending outrage, but the heat rising up her neck had nothing to do with the room temperature.

—I’m not going to be able to believe you. Come on, start, that’s why you came up here.

Adrián pulled down his pants. What emerged made his mother sit up sharply.

—My God, son —she said, unable to look away—. That’s… enormous.

—You think so?

—I’ve never seen one like that. —A nervous laugh slipped out of her—. It’s wrong for your mother to say it, but it’s the truth.

He began to stroke himself, slowly, looking alternately at the screen and his mother’s flushed face. The initial embarrassment dissolved with each movement, replaced by a thick tension that filled the room. Marisol watched him without daring to interrupt, first out of curiosity, then with a kind of fascination that dried out her mouth.

—Mom, could you…? I don’t know. Something in person helps more than a screen. The sensitivity, you know.

Marisol closed her eyes for a second. She thought of Carla, of the woman in the photo, of all the reasonable arguments she had repeated to herself in her room. And then, slowly, she slipped her robe from her shoulders until a red lace bra was revealed, barely containing her breasts.

—Like this? —she asked, in a thin voice.

—Perfect like that —he replied, already breathless—. Carla was right. You’re a thousand times better than her mother.

—Your mother beats your mother-in-law? —Something sparked in her at the words. It had been years since a man had looked at her like that.

—By far.

Adrián kept moving his hand, but it was difficult for him, as he had warned. He asked, almost timidly, for her to move a little. Marisol, already lost in a current she did not fully understand, rocked on the mattress until her breasts quivered beneath the lace.

—Do you like touching them? —he asked suddenly—. My hand alone isn’t enough.

—Would you let me? —The question escaped before she could stop it.

—Come here.

She reached out and wrapped her hand around him. Hot skin, veins marked beneath her fingers, unexpected weight. She began to move it slowly, fascinated almost against her will. The organ throbbed in her palm with every ragged breath from Adrián, and the friction of her hand made her feel it growing still more, hard and taut, as if the skin could not contain it.

—It’s the first time in years I’ve touched someone like this —she admitted in a low voice—. And I’ve never had one so… —she didn’t finish the sentence.

—You’re very good, Mom.

—Use both hands to show me, come on.

He let out a gasp and opened his legs wider on the bed, making room for her. Marisol placed her second hand over the first, clumsy at first, then with more confidence. The heat was intense, almost burning, and her skin turned slick as her son’s body reacted under her fingers. She felt him tremble, saw his thighs tense and his jaw set with pure need.

—Like that —murmured Adrián, voice broken—. Faster… no, wait… like that’s fine.

Marisol matched the motion, up and down, squeezing when he asked her to, easing off when his body needed relief. Every time her fingers rose to the tip, the foreskin drew back just enough to reveal a wet, shining head, and she could feel her pulse race just from seeing how he reacted to her hands. There was something primal, almost brutal, in holding him like this, in feeling that this large, taut man depended on her to finally let go.

—Fuck —he bit out—. You’re driving me insane.

—Shut up and let me do this right.

She lowered her gaze with concentration, rubbing with both hands, tangling her fingers at the base, squeezing and releasing to bring him ever closer. Adrián’s breathing turned uneven; he lifted his hips in tiny spasms, seeking more pressure, more friction, and Marisol began to work him with a more decisive rhythm, now sure of what she was doing. The wet sound of skin filled the room, mixed with the muffled moans that escaped the boy as if he struggled to keep them inside.

—I… I’m going to come —he warned, in a thread of a voice.

—Then don’t stop now. I don’t want you cutting yourself off halfway —she said, and the words came out with a naturalness that surprised her.

Together they worked until the first drops slid over her fingers. Marisol felt the leap in Adrián’s abdomen, the violent tremor of his thigh, the way his head fell back when pleasure suddenly overcame him. She kept squeezing, drawing more out, guiding him until a thick discharge began to stain her hands and spatter her wrist. The warmth took her by surprise; she had not expected so much, or so thick, or for him to cling to the sheet as if he were about to fall out of the world.

—What a quantity —she murmured, almost disbelieving, while she kept milking him slowly to empty him completely—. You’re like an animal.

—You turned me on —he panted—. You and that mouth… and those tits.

—My mouth hasn’t done anything yet —Marisol replied, though her tone was no longer teasing but challenging.

He looked at her then with a strange mix of gratitude and hunger, and she felt the air in the room grow even thicker.

—Mom… could I put it between your breasts?

Marisol went still for a moment. Then, without saying anything, she lay back and invited him with her eyes. Adrián climbed on top of her with an excited clumsiness that made the mattress creak, and she lifted her torso to offer him her cleavage. His member, still wet and throbbing, was trapped between the two soft mounds of her chest, wedged in the warm channel formed by the bra and her skin.

—Tuck it under the bra —she told him—. That way it squeezes better.

—How do you know those tricks? —he asked, sliding beneath the lace.

—Do you think your mother was never young?

He began to move, slowly at first and then with more urgency. Marisol held her breasts with both hands, closing them around him, feeling the wet, hot friction rise and fall against her skin. The head went in and out, brushing her collarbone, disappearing between the soft flesh and reappearing with each thrust. Her breathing immediately went out of order, and a fierce tingling climbed from her chest to her stomach as she felt Adrián sinking into her cleavage with a desperation that no longer had anything childlike about it.

—They feel so good —Adrián panted, rubbing harder, staining the red lace even more.

—They’re yours, my love —she answered, completely lost—. As long as your mother has breasts, you’ll never lack somewhere to unload.

Every time the tip emerged above the lace, she lowered her chin and brushed it with her tongue, just a wet touch, enough to drive him crazy. She did it once, then again, slowly, testing how his body reacted when her tongue passed over the hardened, slick head. Adrián let out a louder, uncontrollable moan and grabbed her shoulders as if he needed something to hold onto so he wouldn’t come too soon.

—Mom… don’t do this to me —he said through clenched teeth—. You’re taking me to the limit.

—That’s what I want —she replied, opening her chest a little more so he could take it better—. I want you to fill me up good. I want to feel you finish on me like you should.

He jerked his hips and pushed again, now faster, deeper between her breasts, his whole body hard as a taut rope. Marisol’s hand followed the base in a firm back-and-forth, helping him keep the rhythm, while with the other she pressed his back, digging her fingers into his sweaty skin. The room was full of their gasps, the sticky sound of the friction, the two of them breathing hard. She felt her nipples stiffen beneath the lace and, against everything she had thought about herself, pleasure also began to light up her sex, slow and hot, like a coal that had waited years for air.

—I can’t hold it anymore, Mom —he repeated, voice in pieces.

—Don’t hold back —she urged, gripping her breast tightly—. Give your mother what she needs.

The sentence seemed to finish breaking him. Adrián went rigid all over, pressed his hands to the mattress, and let out a long, rough moan, almost a growl, while a thick, hot discharge climbed up his chest and neck. Marisol kept moving him between her breasts to milk him to the end, feeling semen run in thick trails over her hands, over her skin, over the curve of her collarbone. The amount was obscene, more than she had imagined, and the heat slid between her breasts, sticking the fabric to her skin until it was soaked and shining.

He remained motionless, trembling, mouth open and eyes closed, breathing as if he had just come back from very far away. Marisol felt the weight of her son’s body on top of her, the tension unraveling in jerks, and for a moment she too remained still, savoring that strange peace that came after the disorder.

—You were storing up a lot, son —she murmured after a moment, looking at her stained hands and her chest dirty with white.

—You turned me on —he answered, breathless—. You and your body.

Marisol laughed softly and stroked his cheek, her fingers still shining. With her thumb she wiped a drop from the corner of his lip, and he followed it with his tongue without realizing it. That gesture, so simple, made her clamp her thighs together with a pleasurable discomfort she did not want to admit.

—Good thing it wasn’t inside. I don’t even want to imagine it.

Adrián looked at her a second too long. The exhaustion and the arousal were still there, mixed together, but there was also a new trust, an indecent intimacy that had changed the way they looked at each other.

—Do you think someday you’d let me?

She held his gaze, and for the first time all night she felt no need to pretend outrage. She looked down at her chest, still wet, at his hand resting on her waist, and then back into his eyes with a slow half-smile, too aware of what had just happened and of what might happen again.

—It depends —she said, her voice low and laden with a dirty promise— on how well you behave until your operation.