The Documentary My Parents Should Never Have Filmed

Sandra was forty-two years old and had the body of someone who had decided not to age by decree. Tall, brown-skinned, with broad thighs and a generous amount of tattoos climbing up her arms to her shoulders. She wore her black hair short, almost shaved on the sides, and had a way of looking at people that made it hard to ignore her. She was bisexual, something she did not hide from anyone, and she had been married to Marco for twelve years under an unspoken agreement: each of them could do whatever they wanted, as long as they came home.

Marco, forty-seven years old, was the masculine mirror of his wife: stockier than he was tall, with an untidy beard and the same collection of tattoos that seemed to grow every year. He liked young women, older women, and basically any woman who did not object. The open marriage had seemed like a civilized solution from day one.

Their son Tomás was the opposite of both of them.

Eighteen years old, thin, pale, with a shyness his parents had never fully managed to understand. He was in his second year of Audiovisual Communication studies and spent more hours with his camera than with real people. He wanted to be a documentary filmmaker. He said reality, properly filmed, was more interesting than any fiction.

What he never anticipated was that his parents were going to prove exactly that to him.

***

It all started on a Tuesday afternoon. Tomás gathered them in the living room with the serious expression he wore when something truly worried him.

—I need to ask you for something —he said—. An important favor.

—Sure —Marco replied, distracted by his phone—. But do your best to be brief, I’ve got plans to meet someone in an hour.

—I’ve got plans too —Sandra added from the sofa—. A nurse from the hospital across the street has been texting me for weeks.

Tomás took a breath.

—I have to turn in a documentary about my family for my production class. It’s the final project of the semester. If I don’t pass it, I’ll have to retake the course.

That got both of their attention.

—And what exactly do you need? —Sandra asked, sitting up.

—I need you to let me film you. Everyday stuff. Having breakfast, at the park, watching a movie. The usual.

—The usual? —Marco repeated, raising an eyebrow.

—The usual for any family —Tomás clarified, with unnecessary emphasis—. Not the usual for you two. I’m asking you, please, to act normal in front of the camera. That’s all.

Sandra and Marco looked at each other. Just for a second.

—All right —she said at last—. If that’s what you need, we’ll do it.

Tomás let out a slow breath.

—You’re the best. Seriously.

***

For an entire week, Tomás filmed them eating breakfast, walking through the neighborhood park, choosing a movie on the sofa. Sandra and Marco kept their promise. They smiled at the right moments, behaved with a domestic politeness that felt a little awkward to both of them, and waited for the cameras to go off before going back to being themselves.

On Saturday afternoon, Tomás showed them the result on the living room television. Twelve minutes of perfectly ordinary family life. Eating dinner together. A walk. A final photo in which the three of them wore clothes they rarely used.

—What do you think? —Tomás asked when it ended, eyes shining—. I still need to adjust a couple of cuts and tonight I’ll send it to Professor Díaz.

Marco opened his mouth. Closed it. Sandra gave his knee a discreet tap.

—Very good —she said—. You did very well, son.

***

That night, when Tomás locked himself in his room to edit, his parents stayed in the living room talking in low voices.

—That documentary is a sleeping pill —Marco said.

—I know.

—The professor’s going to sink it.

—Probably. —Sandra was silent for a moment—. There’s something we could do. Add some closing words. A dedication from the parents. To end the documentary with something different.

Marco looked at her.

—Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking?

—I’m thinking we’re artists —she replied with a smile—. And our son deserves for his work to stand out.

***

Half an hour later, Sandra knocked on Tomás’s bedroom door with her knuckles. She was wearing nothing but a terry-cloth robe tied at the waist, her hair wet from the shower.

—How’s the editing going?

—Almost done —he said without looking up from the monitor—. What do you need?

—Your father and I would like to record a little dedication to close the documentary. A few words for your professor, something to personalize it. Will you let us?

Tomás turned his chair and looked at her.

—Really? That sounds like a great idea.

—Come on, we’re waiting for you in the bedroom.

***

His parents’ bedroom had the camera on the tripod pointed at the bed. Marco was sitting on the edge in the same clothes as before. Tomás set up the camera, adjusted the angle, and sat between them.

—Good —he said—. This is a dedication from my parents for Professor Díaz. Whenever you’re ready.

Marco cleared his throat.

—What we wanted to tell your professor —he began— is that that very well-behaved documentary our son filmed does not represent us at all. Neither as a couple nor as parents.

Tomás frowned.

—What?

—That’s right —Sandra confirmed, and before Tomás could react, she grabbed his face with both hands and kissed him straight on the mouth.

It was a long kiss, forceful, leaving no room for doubt. His mother’s tongue slid into Tomás’s mouth with the same natural ease as a knife into butter, pushing his own against the roof of his mouth, dominating the entire cavity before he even thought of resisting. When Sandra parted her lips, a thread of saliva connected their mouths for a second, and Tomás stared at her with wide eyes, unable to process what had just happened.

—What are you doing? —he managed to say.

—Showing you how we do things in this house —she said, and kissed him again, this time biting his lower lip until she drew a gasp from him.

Marco took the camera off the tripod and stood up.

—Don’t worry, Professor —he said toward the lens—. Everything has a pedagogical purpose.

***

Tomás tried to get up. Sandra held him by the shoulders without visible effort. She had him beat in muscle mass and stood twenty centimeters taller. When he tried to shove her arms away, he realized he wasn’t going anywhere.

—Mom —he said tightly—. Stop.

—Relax —she replied, not letting go.

—I’m not going to relax!

Marco was filming everything with infuriating calm.

—It may be a little difficult at first —he commented toward the camera—. Completely normal in first experiences.

Sandra shrugged the robe off her shoulders. Underneath, there was nothing. Two big brown tits, with dark, erect nipples like thimbles, fell in front of Tomás’s face. Her stomach was firm, tattooed down to the pubis, and between her legs was a completely shaved pussy except for a thin strip of black hair that ran in a straight line up to her navel. Then, with Marco’s help, they unbuttoned Tomás’s shirt and yanked down his pants and boxers in one motion, leaving him naked before he even finished understanding exactly what was happening. His cock, despite everything, was already half hard.

—Oh, look at that —Sandra said, taking it in her hand—. The boy’s already in agreement, even if his mouth says no.

—Mom, please —Tomás panted.

—Quiet. —She squeezed his cock in her fist and started stroking up and down slowly, her palm damp with her own saliva—. And don’t look at me like that. I’m going to teach you what no girl in your class will know how to teach you in five years.

What happened next was, for Tomás, a muddled mix of embarrassment and sensations he did not want to be having. His mother was relentless. She worked his cock with precise technique, alternating the rhythm, tightening her fist at the head and twisting her wrist on the way down, never taking her eyes off his. Every time he felt he was close, she noticed and eased off, leaving him trembling, his cock throbbing in the open air and his hips rising on their own, searching for more contact. He resisted. She kept moving forward anyway.

—Ma’am, Professor —Sandra said at certain moments, looking straight into the camera without stopping jerking her son off—, in our family we believe in practical education. Manuals are fine and all, but there are things you can only learn this way.

Then she bent down and took Tomás’s cock all the way into her mouth in one go. Tomás let out a muffled cry and dug his fingers into the sheet. His mother was sucking him to the root, her nose brushing his belly, making a wet, obscene sound each time she bobbed her head. Her tongue circled the crown on every pass; her lips tightened right at the base every time she took him in to the hilt. Marco filmed in close-up how his wife’s mouth swallowed his son’s cock with brutal skill.

—Look, son —Marco said toward the lens, moving the camera so Tomás would stay in focus—. Look at her and don’t close your eyes. Learn how it’s done.

Tomás clenched his jaw and stared at the ceiling. Sandra grabbed his head with one hand and forced his gaze downward, forcing him to look at her. Her lips were stretched around his cock and her eyes were locked on his. With her free hand she squeezed his balls, tugging lightly, calibrating how much she could force him without making him come yet.

—Like this —she said, pulling off him for a second and speaking with her mouth full of saliva—. Don’t get stiff on me. Give in.

—Dad —Tomás said—. Dad, please.

—My hands are busy —Marco replied from behind the lens—. Forgive me if the shot shakes a little, Professor, but it’s hard to keep a steady hand under these conditions.

You could hear his heavy breathing. With his free hand, Marco had opened his pants and was jerking himself off live, without stopping filming. Tomás caught a glimpse of it and his stomach tightened; his cock got even harder at the same time, without permission.

***

Tomás discovered, at some point that night, that resisting was harder than it looked when someone knew exactly how to press every button. His mother did not treat him with gentleness or cruelty: she treated him like someone who needed to be taught, and that, somehow, was the most unsettling thing of all.

Sandra got onto the bed on all fours and motioned with her chin.

—Come. Get behind me.

Tomás obeyed without thinking, and only when he was kneeling behind her did he realize the view he had: his mother’s big ass, tattooed on the hip bone, open and offered, with her pussy below, shining from how wet it was, swollen like an open flower, and the other hole, tighter, darker, throbbing each time she breathed. She placed a hand on the back of his neck and pulled.

—With your tongue —she ordered—. Start at the bottom and don’t stop until I tell you.

At one point, Sandra smashed Tomás’s face against her ass and he, more from exhaustion than conviction, ended up doing what she asked. He licked her pussy from bottom to top, breathing through his nose because he couldn’t get air any other way. The taste undid him: salty, dense, with a sweet undertone he hadn’t expected. When he reached the clit, she locked her legs around his neck and gave him a clear order.

—Right there —she said—. No hesitation.

He sucked, licked, moved his tongue in circles the way he figured he was supposed to, and his mother began to pant with an almost calm authority, giving him specific instructions whenever he drifted off course.

—Higher. Slower. Now faster. Put your tongue in. That’s it, son, just like that.

—Your mother likes it when people don’t beat around the bush —Marco added from behind the camera—. Take note, this is the kind of thing you only learn once.

Sandra took one of his hands and brought it to the other hole, forcing him to coat it with the saliva dripping from his chin. When she had Tomás’s thumb pressed there, she pushed her hips back and slid it in herself. Tomás let out a silly little moan against his mother’s pussy; she laughed with her mouth closed.

—You learn fast when you want to.

When Sandra finally laid back and positioned herself under him, legs open and cock aimed at her pussy, Tomás tried one last objection.

—I’m a virgin —he said, and wasn’t sure why he was saying it out loud.

His parents stopped for a second.

Marco lowered the camera by barely a centimeter.

—Really?

—Yes.

Sandra smiled. It was not a cruel smile, but one Tomás couldn’t quite decode, something like pride.

—Then this is going to be memorable —she said, taking his cock in her fist and guiding it slowly toward where she wanted it.

The head slid between the wet lips of his mother’s pussy and found the entrance without needing any more help. Sandra pushed her hips down and swallowed him in one long motion, without breaking the air, without taking her eyes off her son’s face. Tomás clenched his teeth. He did not scream. But he also could not pretend he felt nothing. His mother’s pussy was hot, slick, and tight all at once, as if two invisible hands were squeezing his cock in concentric rings.

—Fuck —he muttered involuntarily.

—Fuck —she repeated, smiling—. Very well said.

What came next was a lesson without a manual, without euphemisms, and without pause. His mother set the pace, riding his cock up and down with a motion he could never have matched even if he had wanted to. Every downward thrust ended in a wet, obscene smack and a small throat-born moan she didn’t bother to hide. She leaned forward and pressed her tits against his face.

—Suck my nipples —she ordered, and Tomás obeyed without arguing; he latched onto a nipple like someone seeking shelter, and she laughed—. That’s my boy.

His father filmed every angle with the dedication of someone who has found his artistic calling later than he would have liked. He came closer, climbed onto the bed from the side with his cock out, and kept filming from above while jerking himself off thirty centimeters from Tomás’s face. At some point he rested the head of his cock against his son’s cheek, not pressing, just leaving it there, and Tomás did not know whether that excited him or horrified him; what he did know, and could not deny, was that the cock in his mother’s pussy got harder when he noticed.

Sandra changed position without taking him out. She pushed him back, got on top of him upside down, and bent down to suck him again with her mouth full of her own juices. Tomás groaned loudly for the first time all night. Then she told him to get behind her again, and she went back onto all fours.

—Now you —she said—. Put it in yourself. And fuck me like you mean it.

Tomás, at some point he could not pinpoint precisely, stopped resisting completely. He grabbed his mother’s hips, shoved into her, and started fucking her with a clumsiness that quickly improved by imitating the rhythm she had already shown him. Sandra’s ass slapped against his stomach in a wet, rhythmic sound. She clenched her inner muscles each time he pulled out and drove back in.

—You’re so good, son! —Sandra cried between moans—. And believe me, I’ve tried all kinds of things.

—Now you understand why I married her! —Marco commented, never stopping filming. He had come at some point onto the sheets and hadn’t even bothered to wipe it away.

Tomás felt the orgasm rising from his balls like a surge he wouldn’t be able to stop. He tried to warn them, stammered something, and Sandra, who felt the warning before he finished saying it, pulled his cock out of her pussy, turned quickly, and took him into her mouth just in time to swallow the first spurt. Semen filled her throat, escaped from the corners of her lips, and dripped in heavy drops onto her tits. She sucked him through the last contraction, not letting go, never taking her eyes off the camera Marco was shoving in her face.

—Swallow it, mommy, that’s the A —Marco said.

Sandra swallowed, wiped the corner of her mouth with her thumb, licked it clean, and smiled.

When it was all over, Tomás lay in bed staring at the ceiling. His legs were shaking. His eyelids felt heavy. He could feel his cock still wet, faintly throbbing against his thigh. He did not remember falling asleep. He only remembered waking up.

***

The next day, Tomás went to find his parents in the kitchen. They were having breakfast as if nothing had happened.

—Good morning —Marco said, pointing at the coffee maker.

—What happened with the documentary? —Tomás asked directly.

Sandra looked up from her coffee.

—We edited it last night, after you fell asleep. We sent it to your professor.

Tomás closed his eyes.

—All of it?

—Your original cut, plus the dedication —Marco said—. It was edited together really well, honestly. The cuts between the domestic section and the final section give it an interesting contrast.

—I’m going to fail. I’m going to fail and get kicked out of the program.

—Wait and see what the professor says —Sandra replied, without too much drama—. Not everyone is as conventional as you think.

Tomás poured himself some coffee and went back to his room without answering.

***

Two days later, at the end of class, Professor Díaz asked him to stay behind. Tomás waited while the other students left. She closed the door carefully and sat down across from him.

—I wanted to talk to you about the documentary —she said.

—I know. —Tomás had prepared an explanation, three different versions depending on how she reacted—. Look, what happened was that my parents—

—It was the best piece I’ve received in five years teaching this course.

Tomás blinked.

—Sorry?

—Technically it has some lighting issues in the second part, and the audio could be cleaner. —The professor opened the folder on the table—. But narratively it is exactly what I ask my students for and nobody does: capture the reality of a family without filters. The tension between the first part and the second is perfect. The contrast says something about appearances and what happens behind them. It’s genuine. It’s brave.

Tomás took a moment to process that.

—Seriously?

—Seriously. You have the highest grade in the class. —She closed the folder—. And of course, this stays between us. I’m not going to share it with anyone else. There are certain administrative boundaries I’d rather not cross.

Tomás stepped out into the hallway not knowing whether to laugh or sit down on the floor.

***

That afternoon he came home and found his parents on the sofa.

—I passed —he said.

Marco looked up.

—See?

—Highest grade in the class.

Sandra smiled with quiet satisfaction, like someone who had known exactly what would happen from the start.

—I told you there was nothing to worry about —she said.

Tomás stood in the middle of the living room, staring at them. He had so many things he wanted to say that he didn’t know where to begin. In the end, he didn’t say any of them.

—I’ll bake some cookies tonight —he said instead—. As thanks.

—Forget the cookies —Sandra replied, getting to her feet—. We’re doing something this afternoon. A few friends at Germán’s place. If you really want to thank us, come with us.

Tomás looked at her.

—An orgy.

—Don’t say it like it’s something strange —Marco said, standing too—. It’s a get-together. With certain activities.

Tomás thought about the documentary. About the grade. About what had happened in his parents’ bedroom two nights before, and how, despite everything, he still hadn’t slept badly.

—I guess I could go —he said at last.

Sandra put a hand on his shoulder and kissed him on the cheek.

—That’s my boy.