The Morning I Walked Into My Son’s Room Without Warning

That Saturday morning I walked into Mateo’s room with a cup of coffee in my hand, as I always do when I know he’s slept in. The blind was half-drawn and the light was slipping in golden bands over the rumpled bed. My son, twenty-two years old, with a girlfriend of a year, was sleeping on his back, completely surrendered to sleep. And as soon as I closed the door behind me, I saw something that took my breath away.

His boxers were pulled down to mid-thigh. And over his face, pressed against his nose and mouth, was one of my panties. The ones I had taken off the night before before stepping into the shower. The same ones I’d left in the bathroom hamper, thinking no one would look at them.

My own son. Smelling my used panties while he sleeps. How outrageous.

I should have turned around. I should have left silently, set the coffee down anywhere, and pretended I hadn’t seen anything. But I didn’t move. I stood rooted in the doorway, my breathing shallow, a slow heat beginning to rise inside me, between my thighs.

And then my eyes dropped.

His cock rested on his right thigh, half-hard, thick, heavy. The skin of the shaft gleamed faintly in the morning light, traced by a pronounced vein swelling toward the head. The glans had that rounded shape, wet with the night’s moisture, almost begging to be touched. His testicles hung relaxed to one side, full, hairy, alive.

No, no, no. Don’t look at your son like that. Get out of here.

But I kept looking. And my nipples hardened under the thin cotton dress, and I felt wetness sliding slowly, absurdly, between my legs. I was forty-six years old, had been married to his father for twenty years, and had never, ever felt such a morning flush in my own house.

I set the cup on the dresser without making a sound. The tiles were cold beneath my bare feet. I approached the bed step by step, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I’m only going to look up close. That’s all. And then I’ll go.

I knelt beside the bed. The wooden floor dug into my knees. I leaned in and inhaled slowly. The scent was thick, masculine, young, mixed with the warm trace of my own body in those panties. Something inside me shifted in a way that frightened me.

I lifted my hand. It was trembling.

I laid two fingers first on the shaft, barely touching it, like someone testing whether a surface burns. It was warm. The skin was soft, silky, but beneath it firm, hard. I spread my whole palm and closed it around him. My fingers didn’t meet. He was thicker than his father. That thought, which I should never have formed, flashed through my head all the same.

I started to move my hand, very slowly. Up, down, feeling every vein, every fold. The skin slid smoothly over the hard core, and I felt his cock respond: becoming straighter, hotter, firmer against my palm.

This is wrong. This is very wrong. And yet I can’t stop.

I leaned in a little more and gave the tip a soft kiss. Just a brush of lips over the glans. It tasted salty, slightly sweet, with that flavor of clean skin just out of sleep. I slipped my tongue out and licked slowly around the rounded edge, feeling it swell beneath my mouth.

Mateo moaned in his sleep. He didn’t wake. He only shifted his hip a little.

I took him into my mouth, just the head, and sucked carefully, moving my tongue in circles. Saliva mixed with the glans’ moisture. I pulled my mouth away with a shining thread still linking us for one second before it snapped. I kept jerking him with my hand, slowly, watching, hypnotized, as he gleamed with my saliva, as he throbbed.

And then I felt his breathing change.

I looked up. Mateo was staring at me from the pillow. The panties were still half slipped over his forehead. His eyes were half open, dark, with no surprise in them, as if he had been waiting for exactly this for months.

—Mom… —he whispered hoarsely.

My mouth went dry. My hand froze on his cock, still holding it.

It’s over. This is where it ends. Let go, stand up, apologize, and disappear.

—Shh, sweetheart —I said very softly, not recognizing my own voice—. Don’t say anything. Let me.

I started moving again. Slowly. Without taking my eyes off his. Mateo didn’t move, didn’t push me away, didn’t protest. He only parted his lips and let out a very slow breath. He pushed the panties away from his face with two fingers and laid them on the pillow, never taking his eyes off me.

—You look so beautiful like this —he murmured.

I almost laughed. I was bare-faced, in an old house dress, my hair clipped up, my glasses halfway down my nose. And my son was saying that to me while I knelt beside his bed giving him a hand job.

—Don’t say that —I answered—. Don’t say that or you’ll undo me.

—You’re already undone —he said, and smiled.

He was right, of course. I squeezed a little harder. Up, down, twisting my hand when I reached the glans. The head was growing redder and redder, more swollen, shining with saliva and moisture. A thick drop appeared at the tip. I caught it with my thumb and brought it to my mouth slowly, never looking away from him.

Mateo gave a low moan.

—Come here —he said, and reached out his hand.

—I can’t —I answered.

—Yes, you can.

His fingers found my ankle. Warm, strong. They traveled up my calf, slowly. Past the knee. Up to the thigh. I kept jerking him. All I could think was that I had to stop, and all I did was continue.

—You have gorgeous thighs, Mom —he said softly—. I’ve always liked them.

—Mateo…

—Always.

His hand slipped under my dress. He squeezed the inside of my thigh, where the skin is softer, and went higher. When he brushed my panties aside, he found what I already knew: I was soaked. He gave a low laugh, almost tender, almost cruel.

—Look how wet you are, Mom.

He pushed the fabric aside and slid two fingers into me. Without permission, without warning, without care. All at once. I closed my eyes and let out a moan that should never have been heard in that house. He moved them slowly, curling them upward, right where everything goes blurry for me. The wet sound mixed with the noise of my hand moving up and down his cock.

—Oh, son —I panted, and hearing myself say that word while he was fucking me with his fingers filled me with such immense, such hot shame that I nearly came right then—. Son, son, this is awful.

—I know —he answered—. Keep going.

***

He lifted his other hand and pulled one breast out of the neckline of my dress. They’re small but firm, with large dark nipples. He squeezed them with that mixture of tenderness and possession I should not have liked so much. He pinched one nipple slowly between two fingers and I leaned in a little more, offering him my body as if it made perfect sense.

—Kiss me —I asked, almost voiceless.

—Are you sure?

—No.

—Good.

He grabbed my hair with his free hand and tugged a little. The clip came loose and my hair spilled down my back. He drew my mouth to his. When our tongues met, it was as if everything I had left of my sanity hit the floor and shattered without a sound. I kissed him like I had never kissed anyone before. Slowly, deeply, my tongue sliding over his, nibbling his lower lip, devouring him whole.

His fingers were still inside me, setting the rhythm. My hand was still on his cock, my wrist already aching, never stopping.

—Mom, I’m going to come —he murmured against my mouth.

—Do it —I answered, surprising myself—. Come on me.

I squeezed harder. I ran my hand up to the glans and pulled it down whole, once, twice, three times. He groaned into my kiss and began to shake. I felt the first hot spurt hit my bare chest, thick, abundant. The second reached my neck. The third slid down the fabric of my dress to my thigh. I kept moving my hand, milking him, until the last drop, while I came in turn on his fingers with a dull shudder, without crying out, not daring to make a sound in my own house.

When we stopped, we were both gasping. The room smelled of sex, of sweat, of something that should never have existed between us.

I pulled away from him. I eased his fingers out of me carefully, almost fearfully. I looked at myself: the dress stained, my chest gleaming, my thighs sticky. My son’s semen running down my skin. Reality came crashing over me like a bucket of cold water.

Dear God. What have I done. What have we done.

—This can’t happen again —I said, and even to my own ears my voice sounded ridiculous—. Mateo, this is very wrong. We’re mother and son. This, no.

I stood up unsteadily. I pulled my dress down as best I could. I picked up the clip from the floor.

—Mom —he said from the bed.

—No.

—Mom, look at me.

I didn’t want to look at him. If I looked, I’d be completely lost. I walked to the door. The cup of coffee was still on the dresser, already cold. I picked it up by instinct, as if I needed to take something from that room that wasn’t guilt.

—Another day we’ll continue —I heard behind me, in that hoarse voice I would now recognize anywhere.

—There won’t be another day —I said without turning around.

—Yes, there will.

I left. I closed the door carefully, as if the noise might give us both away. The hallway was empty. The house was silent. His father was still at work and wouldn’t be back until the afternoon.

I went into the bathroom. I flushed the toilet. I leaned over the sink and looked at myself in the mirror. Red cheeks, disheveled hair, lips swollen from kissing him. A shiny mark on my neck that there was no way to hide. And, above all, a smile slipping free on its own, one I couldn’t erase no matter how tightly I pressed my lips together.

I pulled my dress all the way down. I cleaned myself with a damp towel. My skin was still burning where he had touched me. I stayed like that for a long time, naked, staring at myself, trying to convince myself that I would forget it, that it had been an accident, a morning madness, something that would not happen again.

And at the same time, in some very dark corner of me, I knew Mateo was right.

That there would be another day.

And that on that other day I wouldn’t be bringing coffee.