The Afternoon My Mother Crossed That Line with Me

My name is Mateo, I’m nineteen years old, and I live with my parents in a town called Pinos del Río, half an hour from Seville. I’m an only child and, for a series of circumstances I’m going to try to tell without dressing them up, one October afternoon I stopped seeing my mother the way any other son sees his.

Before getting into the mess, I need to set out the family. My father is fifty and works as a site manager for a civil engineering company. The job forces him to travel for two or three weeks at a stretch, so he’s rarely home. That means we have more money than we need and my mother doesn’t have to go out to work, although she runs the house on her own, and that’s already a full-time job.

My mother is thirty-eight. Long copper-colored hair, green almond-shaped eyes. She’s taken care of herself for as long as I can remember and has a body any of my friends would envy. What really throws men off are her tits: firm, round, no bra needed to hold them up. I couldn’t tell you the cup size, but I’ve seen them under thin blouses and I understand why, at the supermarket, the neighbors keep staring a second too long. Her ass is high and perky, the kind that fills out jeans and makes you turn your head.

Back then I was seeing an eighteen-year-old girl, a coworker from my internship at a computer shop. Marina. The two of us were novices at it all: we’d lock ourselves in my room, end up with almost no clothes on, she’d pull me out with her hand over my boxer briefs and I’d slip a couple of fingers into her cunt, but we never actually got around to fucking. I never came. My balls were loaded, swollen, tight as two stones, and any brush against them sent a stab through me. I walked with my legs a little apart so they wouldn’t rub together, and I slept badly because every position hurt.

One Saturday afternoon we were both in the living room watching a stupid movie. I got up to grab a Coca-Cola from the fridge and let out such a ridiculous groan that my mother set the remote on the table and came running from the kitchen.

—What’s wrong, son?

—Nothing, Mom. Nothing —I answered, eyes full of tears.

—Don’t lie to me. Tell me.

—It’s just… it’s something I should talk to Dad about.

—Your father won’t be back for two weeks. You tell me, or we go to the doctor.

—I’m embarrassed, Mom.

—Then we’re going to the doctor.

That same afternoon we went. In the office I could barely stammer out what was happening to me, with my mother sitting beside me, trying not to smile and failing miserably at hiding it. The doctor listened, nodded, and with the kind of ease only someone who’s spent thirty years hearing private confessions has, he explained:

—At your age, testosterone is produced at a very high rate. If it isn’t released, it builds up and causes discomfort. What you need is pretty simple: empty them.

He said it like that, without drama. Then he asked me to lower my trousers so he could examine me. I did it, staring at the ceiling, red as a beetroot, while my mother turned her face toward the window and then discreetly slipped out of the consulting room.

—They’re pretty full —the doctor confirmed, weighing them in his gloved hand—. Your body is screaming at you to sort it out. You need to get all that cum you’ve got stored there out.

On the way home, in the car, my mother broke the silence without looking at me.

—If you need to talk to me about this, you can. I know you’re embarrassed, but I’m your mother. I can advise you better than anyone.

I didn’t know what to say. I nodded and got out of the car as soon as we arrived.

***

I went up to my room to try to deal with it on my own, just as the doctor had told me. I shut the door, pulled my trousers down to my ankles, and sat on the edge of the bed. My cock was half-hard, thick, with the veins standing out, and my balls were hanging heavy beneath it, purple from how full they were. I remembered scattered fragments of locker-room conversations, gestures my friends had described between laughs, but when it came down to it I didn’t know where to start. I closed my fist around the shaft and tried to pull the skin back, forcing the head, and I felt a dry burn that made me grit my teeth. I kept at it, pushed harder, and a groan escaped me between pain and frustration.

The door opened without warning.

—Are you all right, son?

—No, Mom —I answered, crying like a little kid, still with my cock in my hand and no time to cover myself—. I can’t.

—Can’t do what? Tell Mom.

—I don’t know how. I told the doctor I did, but I lied to him.

My mother shut the door carefully, as if inside the room we were about to talk about something the rest of the world wasn’t supposed to hear. I glanced sideways and saw her eyes drop for a second to my groin before coming back up to my face. She sat on the desk chair and crossed her legs. Her skirt rode up just enough to reveal the inside of her thigh.

—What has your father told you about this?

—Nothing.

—Nothing as in nothing, or nothing as in little?

—Nothing, Mom. He’s never talked to me about it.

She sighed with that mixture of affection and resignation she gets whenever she discovers her husband has once again dumped something important on her.

—Then we start from scratch. Don’t be shy, it’s me and I’m here to help you. If the skin won’t slide back, you need lubrication. Saliva on the fingers, slowly. Once the head is wet, you close your fingers into a ring around the cock and move up and down at a steady rhythm. Squeeze a little, especially when you pass over the crown. If you lose the erection, think of a woman who gets you hard and start again. And don’t forget the balls, with your other hand you stroke them underneath, because that’s where all the load is.

She explained it in a low voice, without affectation, like someone teaching her son how to tie a tie. I nodded, staring at a fixed spot on the floor, my stiff cock poking out between my thighs.

—Do you understand?

—I think so.

—Then do it. I’m going. If you need anything, call me.

She left and closed the door. I tried again. I spat into my palm and grabbed hold. The same burn. The same frustration. And before I thought twice, I yelled:

—Mom, it hurts!

***

She couldn’t have gone very far, because I barely had time to cover myself with the sheet before she was inside again. She sat on the edge of the bed. I looked at her for help and, at that moment, I noticed something change in her face. Her cheeks were flushed and, beneath the thin blouse she always wore around the house, two firm points showed that hadn’t been there before. Her nipples had gone hard and were pushing the fabric out like two little buds.

—Mateo —she said slowly—. What happens in here now, you’re not going to tell anyone. Not your father, not Marina, not your friends. Nobody would understand what a mother is capable of doing for her son. Is that clear?

—Yes, Mom —I answered without really knowing what I was agreeing to.

She pulled back the sheet without any drama and spent a few seconds looking at my cock, which was pointing at the ceiling, thick, with a clear drop already beading at the tip. She took it in one hand, wrapping it completely, and weighed my balls in the other.

—My God, son, how full you are. Hard as olive pits. No wonder you were hurting.

She took two fingers to her mouth, wet them well with saliva, and gently ran them over the head, circling the crown. The skin gave way without burning for the first time in weeks, and I let out a long moan. She smiled and kept talking, as if her voice could make it all feel less strange.

—See? With saliva. Now move up and down, slowly. Squeeze a little when you get to the top, like that, as if you wanted to milk it. Does it burn?

—No, Mom. It feels really good.

—See? It wasn’t that hard. Do you want me to keep going?

I nodded without meeting her eyes. She spat again into her palm and wrapped her whole hand around the shaft. She started to jerk me off with a firm, steady rhythm, stroking up to the head and down to the base without letting go. With her other hand she kneaded my balls carefully, rolling them between her fingers. She picked up speed with a naturalness that left me speechless. She spoke softly, almost to herself, while reminding me that this was a secret, that it must never leave the room.

—Look how shiny the head is, son. All wet. And Jesus, what a thick cock you’ve got. That isn’t a boy’s cock, that’s a man’s cock. Marina doesn’t know how lucky she is.

—Mom, don’t say that…

—It’s the truth. Come on, breathe. I’ll keep going.

The movement got faster, tighter. Her palm twisted over the head on every stroke up, tearing spasms out of me that made my hips lift against her hand. My balls contracted. When she felt I was close, she squeezed a little harder and whispered:

—Let it out. Let out everything you’ve been keeping in. All the cum, sweetheart, don’t leave a single drop inside.

And I came. A long, thick burst shot over my navel and hit her blouse dead on. Then came three or four more, so loaded they curled my back. So much that I ended up thinking something like that couldn’t fit inside a human body. Part of it soaked through her thin blouse, which turned transparent and revealed a round tit with its dark nipple standing hard. Another part landed on my chest and ran down my side. She never let go of the cock; she kept pumping slowly, squeezing out the last drop, and watched a white thread hang from her thumb. She brought it to her mouth without thinking, licked her lips a couple of times slowly, as if checking a flavor she hadn’t expected.

—It’s delicious, son. Very thick. That means you’d been holding it in a long time.

—Mom…

—How do you feel?

—Better. It hardly hurts anymore.

—Maybe later you’ll need to do it again, to finish relieving them —she said, sliding her thumb under the head to catch the last drop—. They’re still full. One fuck won’t empty them.

She got up and went to her room without adding anything, the transparent blouse sticking to her tit. I stayed there staring at the ceiling, my cock still hard, still dripping, not really understanding what had just happened. In five minutes I went from never having touched myself to living through an afternoon I couldn’t tell anyone about.

***

I showered, ate a little, and watched TV without taking in a single thing. At half past eleven, the pain started coming back, milder, but enough to remind me the doctor had been clear: empty them. I went up to the bathroom and tried on my own. This time it didn’t burn, the skin slid up and down fine, but I couldn’t get fully hard. My head kept drifting to other images I still didn’t want to put into words: my mother’s hand squeezing my cock, her tongue collecting my cum from her thumb, her dark nipple pressed against the wet fabric.

I went down to the living room in my boxers. My mother was on the sofa watching a series with the volume very low, wrapped in a short nightdress that left her whole thigh exposed. When she saw me come in, she switched off the TV and gave a glance at the bulge already showing through the fabric.

—Again?

—It won’t come. It doesn’t burn now, but it doesn’t… it doesn’t get fully hard.

—Come here, then.

She made me stand between her knees. She pulled my boxers down to my ankles without asking permission, with the naturalness of someone doing something she’s done a thousand times. She took my cock in one hand, put it in her mouth, and spit on it. Two strokes with her palm sliding up and down were enough for it to respond. In three seconds it was stone-hard, pointing at her face.

—Looks like it only wants Mom’s touch —she said with a half smile, not letting go—. Don’t get used to it, because Mom won’t always be here. Though look how happy it gets when it sees me.

—Help me again. Please.

—All right, but let me take off my nightdress. Otherwise you’ll make a mess of me, and your father gave me this one.

She stood up, pulled the nightdress over her head, and was left only in her panties, tiny black ones that barely covered her cunt. It was the first time I’d seen her like that. Her tits were out, round, high, with the dark nipples already hard and pointing up. I couldn’t get a single word out. She went back to the sofa and leaned against the backrest, arching her back, which made her tits jut out even more and the panties sink between the lips of her cunt, outlining them.

—Don’t you like what you see?

—You’re gorgeous, Mom. They look so soft…

—Want to check?

I didn’t wait for her to finish the question. I put both hands on her. They were exactly as I’d imagined and better: they filled my palms, they were heavy, and the nipples hardened even more against the center of my hand. She closed her eyes, threw her head back, and let out a sound I can’t describe, something between a sigh and surrender. The nipples grew beneath my fingers until they became firm, round, dark, and by some instinct I can’t explain I leaned in and took one into my mouth. I sucked it all, nibbled it carefully, ran my tongue around the areola.

—Oh, son —she murmured, burying her hand in my hair so I wouldn’t let go—. You shouldn’t do that. It’s my weakness. Mom’s nipples are very sensitive.

I switched to the other one and sucked it the same way, hungrily. With my free hand I squeezed the other breast, pinching the nipple between my index finger and thumb. She started moving beneath me, rubbing her ass against the sofa, closing her thighs and opening them again. I slid one hand down her flat stomach to the edge of her panties and she stopped me with two fingers.

—Not there, sweetheart. Not there. That place belongs to your father. Everything else is yours tonight, but not there.

—Sorry, Mom.

—Keep going with the tits. Suck them. Suck them hard.

Ten minutes like that, sucking her tits while she took my cock and jerked me off with her right hand, nonstop, squeezing my head every time she came up. Her thighs tensed, her breathing caught, and suddenly her nails dug into my shoulder and she let out a muffled cry, biting her lip so she wouldn’t wake the whole neighborhood. I felt her entire body trembling under mine, a long spasm, and then she went still, with her breast still in my mouth and her hand still closed around my cock.

—Fuck, son… no, no, this wasn’t supposed to happen to me —she murmured more to herself than to me.

She sat up as if coming out of a trance, cheeks red and her chest rising and falling.

—Thank you, sweetheart. Now let me finish with you. Come on, stand up there in front of me. Let me have a good look at what I’ve got in my hands.

***

What came after that I remember in scattered images, but each one is as sharp as a photograph. My mother kneeling on the rug in front of the sofa. Her hands first, rubbing my cock carefully, one after the other, twisting on the way up as if she were opening a jar. A soft kiss on the tip, lips closed, while she looked up at me with those wide green eyes. A long lick from my balls to the head, following the thick vein on the underside. Another kiss, now with her mouth half open, sucking just the glans and letting it go with a wet little sound.

—Mom… fuck…

—Quiet, son. Let me work.

The up and down, now without the excuse of teaching me anything. And just when I thought she couldn’t surprise me anymore, her mouth closing around it without warning, taking me halfway in. I felt the heat of her throat, her tongue wrapping around me underneath. She started sucking me with a firm rhythm, drawing me out to the head and back down to the base, leaving a string of saliva hanging from her chin. With one hand she held my balls and with the other she squeezed my ass so I wouldn’t pull away.

—Mateo, I hope you enjoy this as much as I am. It’s been years since I last sucked a cock this good.

—Mom, I won’t last much longer.

—You don’t have to last. Just enjoy it. Fuck my mouth if you want. Move yourself.

I took her head with both hands and started moving it slowly, sliding it in and out while she looked up at me, eyes watering from the gagging and a smile appearing every time I pulled my cock out of her mouth. She would pull it out and put it back in, spit on it, rub the head over her cheek, her neck, smear it between her tits and then go back to sucking it. I’d never seen anything so filthy and I’d never seen anything so beautiful.

Then she sat on the sofa, squeezed her tits together with both hands pushing them toward the center, and told me to put mine in the groove between them.

—Put it here, son. Fuck my tits. Let Mom give you a proper Spanish titfuck.

She spat a good stream of saliva over the cleavage so it would slide better, and squeezed her breasts around my cock, making a hot, soft sandwich. I, with no filter left, did what she asked and started thrusting back and forth. My cock disappeared between her tits and came back out the top, red, shiny, with the crown swollen. Every time it surfaced, she leaned in just enough to catch me with her tongue, or she’d directly take two centimeters of it into her mouth, then let go so I could keep pumping between the soft flesh.

—That’s it, sweetheart. Hard. Fuck my tits hard. Show me what you learned this afternoon.

It was a new sensation, unlike anything I’d tried with Marina. The skin of her tits was soft, warm, and my head swelled more every time it came out and found her tongue waiting. She looked at me with eyes that weren’t those of the woman who taught me to tie my shoelaces when I was six. They were the eyes of someone ready for anything for her son, or of someone who’d spent years waiting for an excuse to do it.

—Mom, that’s enough. I’m going to come. I can’t hold it anymore.

—Take it out. Take it out of my tits and come in my mouth. Do it on my face. Anywhere. Mark Mom.

I pulled my cock out of the cleavage and she grabbed it with both hands, took it into her mouth halfway, and worked my balls with her fingers. That was enough. I started coming in waves, burst after burst, into her mouth. She swallowed the first two without letting go, eyes closed and cheeks hollowed out as she sucked. When she couldn’t take any more, she pulled my cock out and kept jerking me toward her face. The rest spread across her cheek, her chin, one long thread hanging from her nose to her lip, another thick drop sticking to her eyelash. When I finally stopped cumming, she opened her mouth to show me the cum still inside and swallowed it slowly, then stuck out her tongue so I could see there was nothing left.

What leaked from the corners of her mouth she gathered with two fingers and smeared over her cheeks as if putting on makeup, then she put her fingers in her mouth and sucked them one by one. If I’d had a camera at that instant, I would have used up the whole roll. That image, though, I keep intact in my head, and I’ll keep it until the day I die: my mother kneeling, half-naked, with her tits still pressed by her own hands, her face soaked in my semen and a satisfied smile, as if she’d just finished a job well done.

—Thanks, Mom. It doesn’t hurt anymore.

—I liked it too. A lot. More than I should have. Now go shower. And remember what I told you: nobody. Not your father. Is that clear?

—Crystal clear.

***

Since that afternoon, nothing like it has happened between us again. I keep my side of the bargain and I keep the secret. But there isn’t a single time I touch myself alone that I don’t end up thinking about her, about her firm tits pressed against my cock, about her face soaked in cum, about her tongue gathering up the last drop, about that phrase she repeated several times: that a mother is capable of anything for her son. Sometimes, with shame, I tell myself that afternoon I fell in love with my mother, and I don’t know whether I’ll ever be able to look at another woman the same way.