My Stepmother Gave Me the Lesson I’ll Never Forget

When my father died, Mariana decided to stay. She had been married to him for six years when the car skidded off the road one January morning, and I was fourteen, carrying a backpack full of rage and no other adult to hold me together. She was thirty-three. She could have left with half the inheritance and started over in any city in the country. She didn’t. She stayed in the house. She stayed with me.

For four years she signed my school notes, took me to the hospital when I broke my wrist playing football, and stayed up waiting for me when I came home late from parties. By the time I turned eighteen I was calling her mom without even thinking. I had no memories of my biological mother; she died when I was a baby, and Mariana filled that place without question.

Mariana was tall, dark-skinned and glossy, with wide hips and firm thighs that turned heads in the street. I had learned early not to look. She was my mother. I had decided that at fifteen, and since then I had kept to it with almost military discipline. What I had not learned—and what I discovered that October afternoon—was how to keep my mouth shut in front of her.

That Saturday I had come back from the gym with two guys from the neighborhood, Tomás and Diego. In the hall, before closing the door, we made comments about a girl who lived two blocks down. Cheap stuff, the kind of thing teenagers say with their heads full of air. We reduced her to an object in five sentences and laughed as if it were a sport. I didn’t think Mariana was listening from the kitchen.

When the guys left, she was sitting in the living room armchair with the newspaper closed on her lap. She didn’t look at me when I walked past.

—Sebastián —she said, in that low tone she used when something really mattered to her—. Come here.

I sat down in front of her. The clock on the sideboard read five-thirty.

—Talking like that again?

—It was just a joke, Mom.

—Jokes teach too. —She crossed her legs. Her feet were bare, her nails painted a dark red that looked like wine—. Your father talked the same way when I met him. As if women were pieces in a catalog. It took me exactly one year to break that habit.

—Mom, don’t tell me…

—I’m going to tell you in a different way. —She stood up. She was wearing a knee-length straight skirt and a cream silk blouse—. Come upstairs with me.

I followed her up the stairs. I thought she was going to scold me in her bedroom, out of earshot of the maid cleaning downstairs. But when I came in behind her, I heard the key turn in the lock. She locked it from the inside.

—Mariana, what…?

—Take off your sweatshirt —she said, without turning around.

—What?

—The sweatshirt, Sebastián. The T-shirt too. You’re being punished.

—Mom, this isn’t…

Then she turned. She began unbuttoning her blouse, one by one, with a calm that made me lose my breath. Underneath she wore a black lace bra I had never seen. I had imagined it, of course. So many times that I hated myself at dawn. But seeing it, in my own house, with the afternoon light slanting in through the window, was something else. Her breasts spilled over the edge of the lace, two big, dark mounds, with the swell marked by a shadow that was almost violet.

—Mom, please.

—Don’t call me Mom this afternoon —she said. The blouse fell to the floor—. This afternoon I’m going to be something else to you.

She took two steps forward. I backed up until I hit the locked door. Mariana was almost my height in heels, and even barefoot she had that way of moving that always put you at a disadvantage.

—Women are not objects —she told me, and laid an open hand on my chest—. You want to really learn what a woman is? You’re going to learn it here, this afternoon, with me. And I guarantee you won’t forget it.

—This is wrong —I whispered.

—Yes. It’s very wrong. —She smiled for the first time in the whole conversation—. That’s the point.

***

She took my sweatshirt off herself. Then the T-shirt. I didn’t help her and I didn’t stop her. I was paralyzed, my back against the door and my heart hammering my ribs like a frightened animal. Mariana looked at me as if she were seeing me for the first time, as if the four years of mother and son had never existed. She slid a hand over the waistband of my track pants and felt the hard bulge straining against the fabric. She smiled.

—You’re already hard and I haven’t even touched you —she murmured—. Look at you. Four years of playing saint in front of me and now I’ve got you with your cock swollen like a dog.

—Mariana…

—Look at me —she said.

I looked at her. No tricks, no looking away. For the first time in four years I looked at her all the way: the long neck, the bra’s neckline, the waist, the hips filling out the straight skirt. I swallowed.

—Do I turn you on?

—I can’t answer that.

—Yes, you can. And you’re going to answer it. Do I turn you on?

—Yes.

—Since when?

—Always.

She nodded slowly, as if she had been waiting for that answer for years.

—Well, today we’re going to do something with that always —she said—. And tomorrow, when you go out with your friends and they get the urge to talk shit about a woman at my door, you’re going to remember this afternoon and keep your mouth shut.

She kissed me. It wasn’t a mother’s kiss. It was a kiss that lasted too long, with tongue, with teeth, with a slow bite on my lower lip that tore a sound out of me I didn’t know I had been holding back. Her tongue searched for mine and sucked on it as if it were something else, as if she were already teaching me what she was going to do to me later down below. When she pulled away, she had my face in her hands and a thread of saliva still linked her mouth to mine.

—If you tell me to stop now, I’ll stop and we’ll go downstairs. And this never comes up again. Do you want me to stop?

—No.

—Say it again.

—I don’t want you to stop.

—Good boy.

She shoved me toward the bed. She laid me back on the spread and stood at the foot of the mattress, looking down at me like a hunter looking at prey already caught in the trap. She unbuttoned her skirt. Let it fall. She was wearing thigh-high stockings and black panties to match the bra, so small they barely covered her cunt and let the wet stain of the fabric against her lips be guessed at. I wasn’t breathing.

—You know what exhausts me most about men like you? —she asked, kneeling onto the bed and crawling toward me on all fours—. That they talk about bodies without ever having been inside one for real. They talk about tits, asses, mouths, without knowing what it’s like to have a woman breathing in your face while she comes all over your cock.

She straddled my waist. She held my wrists against the pillow and ground herself slowly, letting me feel through the fabric how soaked her panties were. She was hot, very hot, and the smell of wet pussy hit me so directly that a moan slipped out of me.

—This afternoon you’re going to know. And next time you open your mouth, you’ll think first.

—Yes.

—Yes, what?

—Yes, Mom.

—No. Not this afternoon. What do you call me this afternoon?

—Mariana.

—That’s right. —She lowered her face and kissed me again. In this kiss, she was the one who bit—. Mariana.

She let go of my wrists. She reached behind her and unclasped the bra with a dry click. Her breasts fell heavy, two dark globes with broad nipples already rock-hard, pointing at my face. She leaned down and shoved one into my mouth.

—Suck my tits, Sebastián. Suck them like I’m one of those girls you laugh about with your friends.

I sucked her nipple. I took it all into my mouth, rolled it with my tongue, nibbled it carefully and she yanked my hair to press me closer into her flesh. She rubbed her breasts over my face, one and then the other, forcing me to lick the dark shadow at their base too, the warm sweat running between her tits. I sucked and moaned like a desperate man and she laughed softly, never taking her eyes off me.

—Good boy. Look how your mouth changes when you learn.

She worked her way down my chest, kissing me slowly, drawing a map with her tongue that I would remember for the rest of my life. She ran her teeth over my nipples, bit my stomach, licked the line of hair descending from my navel. When she reached the waistband of the track pants, she pulled them down without effort. I lifted my hips to help her and hated myself for how quickly I did it. My cock sprang free, hard, throbbing, the head already wet.

—Look at this —she said, almost amused, wrapping her hand around it and squeezing from the base—. Look how little it took. Look how this cock trembles all by itself.

She spat on it. A thread of hot saliva slid over my glans and she spread it with her thumb, looking me in the eye. Then she lowered her face. She licked me from base to tip, slowly, with a flat tongue, and sucked the head like it was candy. She pulled away, looked at me, smiled, and went back down again. This time she took me all the way in. I felt her slide me to the back of her throat, felt her choke for a second and not give up, felt her lips clamp around the base and hold me there, unable to move.

Mariana knew exactly what she was doing, and that was almost the worst part: every movement was a decision, an order, a master class. She sucked me with one hand at the base and her mouth rising and falling in sync, circling her tongue around the glans every time she came up, letting out an obscene wet sound every time she pulled back off. She took me to the edge twice and pulled away both times, her open palm squeezing the base with two fingers like a clamp, smiling every time I let out a frustrated sound.

—You’re not finishing first this afternoon —she said, her lips shiny with saliva and a drop of my fluid hanging from her chin—. This afternoon you don’t decide anything. This afternoon you come when I say and where I say.

—Mariana, please…

—Please, what? Say it.

—Please let me come.

—No.

She licked her lips and sucked me again, two, three deep thrusts, her throat tightening around my tip, and pulled back just before. My hands were gripping the sheets and my whole body was trembling.

She climbed over me again. She took off her panties without taking her eyes off mine and ran them over my face before throwing them to the floor. They were soaked. They smelled like hot pussy and it fogged my brain. She straddled me, grabbed my cock with her hand, rubbed it over the lips of her cunt to coat it well, and sank down slowly, millimeter by millimeter, until her weight pressed my hips into the mattress and I felt her swallow me whole, tight, slick from how wet she was.

—Oh, fuck —she moaned, throwing her head back—. Look how well you fit, son. Look how your cock fills me.

—Mariana…

—Look at me —she repeated.

I looked at her. She started moving slowly, her open hands on my chest, her eyes locked on mine. She wouldn’t let me look away. Every time I tried to close them, she grabbed my chin with her free hand and forced me to hold her gaze. Her hips rose and fell in a tight, round rhythm, and her cunt squeezed and swallowed my cock with a sticky sound that filled the room. She would rise until only the tip stayed inside and then drop all the way down again, tearing a rough moan out of herself each time.

—Do you know what this is, Sebastián?

—No.

—It’s a woman. A whole woman. Not a gym joke. Do you understand?

—Yes, Mariana.

—Say it again.

—You’re a whole woman.

—Good boy.

She leaned down and bit my neck without stopping her ride. She sank her teeth into my shoulder and muffled a scream against my skin. She had me so tightly that I felt every tremor inside, every contraction of her pussy around my cock. She grabbed my hands and brought them to her tits.

—Touch them. Squeeze them. Like a man, not a kid.

I squeezed her tits with both hands, kneaded them, pinched her nipples and she let out a long moan that cracked in the air. She bent forward, pressed her mouth to mine, and came on my cock biting my lip. I felt her cunt clench in waves, her thighs trembling, a hot stream escaping her that soaked my base and ran over my balls.

—One —she gasped against my mouth—. That one was mine. The next ones too.

***

She rode me for what felt like hours and was, as I later learned from looking at the clock, barely forty minutes. At some point she turned me over and took position with her back to me, leaning on the headboard with her hands, and let me see her. Really see her. The curve of her back, the tight nape of her neck, her shoulders trembling, her round dark ass bouncing against my hips every time she dropped onto my cock. She took one of my hands and brought it to her throat.

—Squeeze me —she ordered, her voice rough—. No fear. Squeeze.

I squeezed her throat, carefully at first and then harder when she let out a strangled yes. I had her at my mercy and yet she still directed everything: she thrust her ass back into me, forced me to drive up into her from below, asked for more, asked for harder, asked with no care. I took my other hand to her clit and rubbed it at the same time, just as she had rubbed me, and felt a second orgasm shoot through her that left her trembling on top of me.

At another point she made me kneel behind her and told me, her face buried in the pillow and her voice breaking, that she didn’t want me to handle her gently, that there was no gentleness for me this afternoon. I grabbed her hips with both hands, squeezed until my fingers left marks, and shoved into her all the way in one hard stroke. She screamed into the pillow.

—Like that. Like that, son. Fuck me like I’m one of those girls you laughed about. Tear my pussy apart.

I gave it to her the way she asked. I fucked her without restraint, hearing the slap of my hips against her ass, the broken moan that escaped her every time I hit bottom. I tugged her hair, made her arch. I slid my hand underneath and rubbed her hanging tits, nipples hard as stones. She came again, squeezing me so hard she nearly dragged me with her, and pulled me away in time, gasping, her face drenched.

—Not yet —she warned me—. I haven’t given you permission yet.

She forced me to lie on my back and climbed on top again. She rode me slowly, torturing me, searching for my eyes, biting her lip. Then faster. Then faster still, until I felt my blood boiling at the tip and knew I couldn’t hold out any longer.

When she told me to finish, she told me where and how. She didn’t let me choose. She got off me, knelt between my legs, grabbed my cock with both hands and jerked me fast, brutally, aiming me toward her face and tits.

—Come on me —she ordered—. Come in my mouth, on my tits, wherever it goes. Let you see where all your nerve ends up.

I came. I came like something was being ripped out of me from the inside, with a long moan, in thick ropes that landed on her tongue, her lips, her chin, the swell of her breasts. She didn’t close her eyes once. She took it all while looking at me, and when I stopped trembling, she ran two fingers over her chin, brought them to her mouth, and sucked them slowly.

—Good boy —she whispered.

She only let me speak when she asked me something, and I only answered with her name, once, twice, until I lost count.

Then she held me in silence. Her head was resting on my chest and her breathing was ragged. She brushed the sweaty hair off my forehead with a tenderness that didn’t resemble anything that had just happened.

—Are you okay? —she asked.

—Yes.

—Really?

—Yes, Mom.

She smiled against my chest.

—Now you can call me that again.

—Mariana…

—Yes?

—Is this going to happen again?

She lifted her face. Looked me in the eyes. The afternoon light had gone orange and was lighting only half her face.

—That depends on how you talk about women starting tomorrow —she said—. If I hear you make a comment like today’s again, you’ll have another punishment. And, I warn you, punishments in this house escalate.

—And if I don’t?

—If you don’t, this was the only time. And someday you’ll marry a good girl, make love to her with respect, and nobody will ever know your stepmother taught you the lesson.

I stayed quiet. She was looking at me with a smile that wasn’t innocent. It never had been, really, and I only understood it now.

—But —she added slowly, running a finger over my chest, down to my stomach, barely brushing my still-soft cock—, if by any chance you ever talk shit about some girl again… even by accident…

She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t need to.

***

That night, at dinner, Mariana served me my plate like any other night. She asked me about my friends, about Sunday’s match, about the subject I was doing worst in at university. The maid served us coffee and left. Mariana stayed opposite me, stirring her sugar slowly, looking at me over the rim of her cup.

—You have class tomorrow at nine, right?

—Yes, Mom.

—Then go to bed early.

I went up to my room. I lay on the bed. I stared at the ceiling for an hour. The next morning, when I stepped out of the building and ran into Tomás and Diego on the corner, they started making comments about the girl from the second floor. I looked at them a second too long. And, for the first time in my life, I told them to shut up.

They didn’t ask why. I didn’t explain it either.

That night, when I went down for dinner, Mariana was waiting in the kitchen with the table set. She looked at me differently. A way that said good boy without saying anything. And I knew, without needing to ask, that that afternoon would not be the last.