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, with brown skin, wide thighs, and a generous amount of tattoos climbing her arms to her shoulders. She wore her black hair short, almost shaved at the sides, and had a way of looking at people that made it hard to ignore her. She was bisexual, something she didn’t hide from anyone, and had been married to Marco for twelve years under an unspoken agreement: each of them did whatever they wanted, as long as they came home.

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

Their son Tomás was the complete opposite.

Eighteen years old, thin, pale, with a shyness his parents had never quite 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 used to say that reality, if filmed well, was more interesting than any fiction.

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

***

It all started on a Tuesday afternoon. Tomás gathered them in the living room with the serious expression he wore whenever something was genuinely worrying him.

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

—Sure —Marco replied, distracted by his phone—. But try to keep it brief, I’m supposed 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 messaging me for weeks.

Tomás took a breath.

—I have to turn in a documentary about my family for production class. It’s the final project for the semester. If I fail 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. Breakfast, walking in 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 your usual. I’m asking you, please, to pretend to be normal in front of the camera. That’s all.

Sandra and Marco looked at each other. One second, no more.

—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 having breakfast, walking through the neighborhood park, picking a movie on the sofa. Sandra and Marco kept their promise. They smiled at the right moments, behaved with a domestic propriety that was a little uncomfortable for both of them, and waited for the cameras to switch off so they could go back to being themselves.

On Saturday afternoon, Tomás showed them the result on the living room TV. Twelve minutes of perfectly ordinary family life. Having 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 was over, eyes shining—. I still need to tweak a couple of cuts and I’m sending it to Professor Díaz tonight.

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

—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 speaking in low voices.

—That documentary is a sleeping pill —Marco said.

—I know.

—The professor’s going to sink it.

—Probably. —Sandra went quiet for a moment—. There’s something we could do. Add a few final words. A dedication from the parents. To close 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 terrycloth robe tied at the waist, her hair still damp from the shower.

—How’s the editing going?

—Almost done —he said without taking his eyes off the monitor—. What do you need?

—Your father and I would like to record a small 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 in the bedroom.

***

His parents’ bedroom had the camera on a tripod pointed at the bed. Marco was sitting on the edge, wearing the same clothes as before. Tomás positioned the camera, adjusted the angle, and sat between the two of them.

—Okay —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 well-behaved little documentary our son made does not represent us at all. Not as a couple, and not 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 прямо 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 back against the palate, taking over the whole cavity before he could even think about resisting. When Sandra parted her lips, a thread of saliva connected both mouths for an instant, and Tomás stared at her wide-eyed, unable to process what had just happened.

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

—Showing you how things work in this house —she said, and kissed him again, this time biting his lower lip hard enough to draw 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 twenty centimeters on him and far more muscle. When he tried to pry 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 kept filming everything with irritating calm.

—It may be a little difficult at first —he commented toward the camera—. That’s completely normal in early experiences.

Sandra slid the robe off her shoulders. Underneath, there was nothing. Two big brown breasts, with dark erect nipples like thimbles, fell into Tomás’s face. Her stomach was firm, tattooed down to the pubic mound, and between her legs was a completely shaved pussy except for a thin strip of black hair that rose 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 had 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 on board, even if the mouth says no.

—Mom, please —Tomás panted.

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

What happened next was, for Tomás, a confused mixture of shame and sensations he didn’t want to be having. His mother was relentless. She worked his cock with precise technique, alternating the rhythm, closing her fist around the glans and twisting her wrist on the way down, never taking her eyes off his. Every time he felt close, she noticed and eased up, leaving him trembling, his cock throbbing in the open air and his hips rising on their own in search of more contact. He resisted. She advanced anyway.

—Madam professor —Sandra said at certain moments, staring straight into the camera while still jerking her son off—, in our family we believe in practical education. Manuals are all very well, but some things can only be learned like this.

Then she bent down and took all of Tomás’s cock into her mouth in one go. Tomás gave a muffled cry and dug his fingers into the sheet. His mother was sucking him to the root, her nose pressing against his belly, making a wet, obscene sound every time she bobbed her head. Her tongue circled the crown of his glans on each pass; her lips squeezed tight at the base every time she hit bottom. 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 him to look down 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 gently, gauging how far she could push him without making him come yet.

—Like this —she said, pulling off for a second and speaking with her mouth full of saliva—. Don’t tense up. Let yourself go.

—Dad —Tomás said—. Dad, please.

—My hands are busy —Marco replied from behind the lens—. Sorry 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, never stopping filming. Tomás caught sight of it out of the corner of his eye and his stomach tightened; his cock got harder at the same time, without permission.

***

Tomás discovered, somewhere during that night, that resisting was harder than it seemed when someone knew exactly how to press every button. His mother didn’t treat him with softness or cruelty: she treated him like someone who needed to be taught, and that, somehow, was the most disconcerting part of all.

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

—Come here. 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 at the hipbone, spread and offered, with the pussy below shining wet, swollen like an open flower, and the other hole, tighter, darker, throbbing every time she breathed. She put a hand on the back of his neck and pulled.

—With your tongue —she ordered—. Start from below and don’t stop until I tell you.

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

—Right there —she said—. Don’t hesitate.

He sucked, licked, moved his tongue in circles the way he supposed it was supposed to be done, and his mother began to moan with an almost calm authority, giving him specific instructions when he strayed.

—Higher. Slower. Now faster. Put it in me, the tongue, put it inside. Like that, son, like that.

—Your mom likes it when people don’t beat around the bush —Marco added from behind the camera—. Take notes, because you only learn this once.

Sandra took one of his hands and brought it to the other hole, forcing him to slick 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 moan against his mother’s cunt; she laughed with her mouth closed.

—You learn fast when you want to.

When Sandra finally positioned him on top of her, face up, legs open and cock pointing at her cunt, Tomás made one last objection.

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

His parents went still for a second.

Marco lowered the camera by barely a centimeter.

—Really?

—Yes.

Sandra smiled. It wasn’t a cruel smile, but something Tomás couldn’t quite decipher, something like pride.

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

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

—Fuck —he muttered before he could stop himself.

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

What came after was a lesson with no manual, no euphemisms, and no pause. His mother set the pace, rising and falling on his cock with a swing he couldn’t have matched even if he’d wanted to. Each descent ended in a wet, obscene slap and a small throat moan she didn’t bother to hide. She leaned forward and shoved her tits into 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 vocation later than he would have liked. He came closer, climbed onto the bed from one side with his cock out, and kept filming from above while jerking himself off thirty centimeters from Tomás’s face. At one point he rested the glans against his son’s cheek, not pressing, just leaving it there, and Tomás didn’t know whether that excited him or horrified him; what he did know, and couldn’t deny, was that the cock in his mother’s cunt got harder when he noticed.

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

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

Somewhere in a moment he couldn’t pinpoint, Tomás stopped resisting completely. He grabbed his mother by the hips, drove into her with one thrust, and started fucking her with an awkwardness that quickly improved by imitating the rhythm she herself had set for him before. Sandra’s ass slammed against his belly in a wet, rhythmic sound. Her inner muscles squeezed him each time he pulled out and thrust back in.

—You’re so good, son! —Sandra exclaimed between moans—. And I’ve tried everything.

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

Tomás felt his climax rising from his balls like a discharge he wasn’t going to 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 cunt, turned quickly, and took it into her mouth just in time to swallow the first spurt. Semen filled her throat, leaked from the corners of her mouth, and dropped in thick beads onto her breasts. She sucked him through the last contraction, never letting go, never taking her eyes off the camera Marco was holding in her face.

—Swallow it, baby, 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 on the bed staring at the ceiling. His legs were shaking. His eyelids felt heavy. He could feel his cock still wet, throbbing weakly against his thigh. He didn’t remember falling asleep. He only remembered waking up.

***

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

—Good morning —Marco said, pointing to 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.

—Everything?

—Your original version, plus the dedication —Marco said—. It came out very well cut, honestly. The transitions between the domestic part and the final part give it an interesting contrast.

—I’m going to fail. I’m going to fail and they’ll kick me out of the program.

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

Tomás poured himself coffee and went 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 filed out. 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 an explanation ready, 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 problems 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 of my students and nobody does: to 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.

—Really?

—Really. 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 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 what was going to happen from the beginning.

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

Tomás stood in the middle of the living room, looking at them. He had so many things to say to them he didn’t know where to begin. In the end, he said none of them.

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

—Forget the cookies —Sandra replied, standing up—. This afternoon we’re organizing something. Friends over 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 weird —Marco said, standing too—. It’s a gathering. 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 hadn’t managed to sleep badly.

—I suppose I could go —he said at last.

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

—That’s my boy.