The Night I Left the Door Open for My Son

My name is Lorena, I’m forty-three years old, and I’ve been divorced for fourteen years without any man ever awakening in me the desire to start over. I raised Mateo practically alone from the time he was five, with long shifts at an insurance agency and short nights in front of the television. Until one March dawn, when I went downstairs barefoot for a glass of water and ran into him coming out of the bathroom.

The towel hung badly on him, barely knotted at the hip. His shoulders were damp, his hair plastered to his forehead, and he had a body I didn’t remember ever noticing. He wasn’t the skinny kid whose shoelaces I used to tie. He was a nineteen-year-old man with a firm back and calm breathing. Under the wet cloth, the bulge of his cock was outlined, heavy, hanging to one side. I looked at him two seconds longer than was decent and went into my room with my cunt wet and my heart pounding against my ribs.

No, not this.

That’s what I told myself all night, turning over in the sheets, listening to him breathe on the other side of the hall. It didn’t work. I slid two fingers between my legs until I came alone, biting the pillow, imagining my son’s cock coming out from under that towel. The next day I went down to breakfast in an old T-shirt without a bra and a pair of shorts I hadn’t worn in years. I bent over to take the milk from the bottom shelf. I didn’t look back. I didn’t need to. I felt his silence.

It started like that, with stupid details. The T-shirt with no bra. Shorter shorts. Bending my back to pick something up off the floor when he passed through the living room, knowing my cunt showed through the fabric. Biting one finger while I talked to him. Tiny things that didn’t fully give me away, that let me pretend it wasn’t on purpose.

Four months passed like that, and nothing. Mateo treated me as always. He kissed me on the cheek when he left, another when he came back, helped me set the table, argued politics with me at night. I went to bed each night angrier at myself, more certain of what I wanted and more frightened of wanting it.

When Carmen, a coworker, suggested I spend the weekend at her husband Andrés’s beach house, I said yes before I even thought about it. I asked Mateo to come with us. He agreed without realizing anything.

***

I bought a bikini on Wednesday. It wasn’t a bikini, it was a string. Something I would never have dared wear in front of anyone. I hid it at the bottom of my bag and tried not to think about what I was planning.

We arrived at noon on Saturday. Carmen and Andrés were already opening beers on the porch. Greetings, hugs, the sound of the sea in the distance. Mateo changed in the back room. I changed in mine. When I came out with a loose wrap skirt over the string, Carmen raised her eyebrows. Andrés froze for a second with the can in midair.

—Want help with the umbrella, Mom? —Mateo said from the porch.

—Later. Let’s go to the sand first.

The four of us went down to the beach. I spread out the towel, let the wrap fall, and untied the back string as if nothing were happening. Carmen stifled a protest. Andrés coughed. Mateo stared at a fixed point on the horizon as if he’d been forbidden to look down.

—Mateo, honey, can you put on the sunscreen? My back is completely white.

I said it like a mother. Anyone could hear it. But the two hands that rested on my shoulder blades a minute later were not just anyone’s. They were his, warm from the sun, awkward, lingering. They slid down my spine, paused at my waist, went back up. I closed my eyes.

—My legs too.

I heard him swallow. He ran his palm slowly over them, and for an instant, when he reached the inner edge of my thigh, I felt his fingers tremble two centimeters from my cunt. The thong had wedged itself between my lips and was soaking wet, and it wasn’t from the sea.

—And the front. I don’t want to burn.

I turned around, tits out, no wrap, no more excuses. I held his gaze. He looked down at the bottle. He poured out about three seconds’ worth of sunscreen and applied it with the precision of a surgeon avoiding an open wound. But my nipples turned to stone under his fingers, and when he spread the cream over my left breast, he brushed one of them with his thumb. It was a tiny touch. We both acted as if nothing had happened. I looked at his shorts again and the bulge could no longer be hidden: his cock was hard, pressed against his thigh, outlined against the wet fabric. My mouth watered.

Carmen got up and went to the shore without saying anything. Andrés stayed too long, until she whistled for him from the water.

***

—Mom, can you put your top on?

We were alone inside the sea, submerged to the neck. Carmen and Andrés had walked off along the shoreline.

—Why? I’m an adult woman, I have a nice body. Does it bother you?

—It’s not that —he said. But he clenched his jaw as if he were about to bite something.

—Are you jealous that Andrés looks at me?

He didn’t answer. I pressed myself against his back. I put my arms over his shoulders and wrapped my legs around his waist, all under the water, all invisible to the others. I pressed my bare tits against his wet skin, my nipples stabbing between his shoulder blades. He went completely rigid, in every sense.

—I’m cold —I lied.

I turned him around so we were face to face. I hooked my legs around his hips. I rubbed myself against him, letting his hard cock, barely covered by the shorts, sit right between the lips of my cunt, with the wet fabric between us. I ground on him slowly, up and down, feeling each beat of him against my clit. I breathed over his mouth. I ran my tongue over his lower lip, for a second, just one.

—What’s wrong, my love?

—The cold, Mom —he said, voice breaking—. It’s the cold.

—Oh, the cold —I whispered, and bit his earlobe—. My cunt’s burning, son.

I let him go. I walked toward the shore with my knees trembling and my thong so wet inside that it felt stuck to me. I didn’t look back. I knew he was staring at my ass. I knew he wasn’t looking at me like a son anymore.

***

Back home that same night, I did the first real test. I left the bathroom door completely open, turned on the tap, and got under the hot water. I moved the sponge over myself slowly, with an open hand, as if I were enjoying it alone. I soaped my tits, pinched my nipples, took my hand down to my cunt and opened my lips with two fingers, at just the right angle to be seen from the hallway. I heard him in the hall. He didn’t come in. He didn’t leave. Through a crack I saw him with his back to me, against the living room wall, his hand inside his pants, moving fast. I slid one finger in, then two, my breathing pressed against the tile. When I heard him stifle a moan on the other side of the wall, I came in silence, biting my lip until it bled a little.

That night I slept naked. I left the door ajar. I waited. He didn’t come.

In the morning I put on a wrap dress, low heels, and nothing underneath. I drove him to college as every Monday. I drove with my legs a little more open than usual. The fabric kept riding up on its own and I didn’t pull it down. At a red light I rested my hand on his thigh, like an affectionate motherly gesture. I let it slide upward. I left it for a moment over the bulge, with almost no pressure, as if by mistake. I felt his cock twitch under the jeans, and I squeezed a second longer than necessary before pulling my hand away.

—We’re here —I said when we stopped in front of the university.

He got out without looking at me. His voice trembled when he said goodbye. I saw him adjust the bulge discreetly before crossing the street.

***

On the way home that afternoon, I stopped at a newsstand. I bought a movie. I chose it on purpose. “Taboo,” the cover said. Mother and son. I paid in cash and put it in my bag.

When Mateo came back, I had already cooked pasta and opened a bottle of wine. I had put on a long white T-shirt, with nothing underneath. I had showered, perfumed myself, put on a little makeup. We ate alone, with the lights low, talking about anything. I sucked the sauce from my finger and offered it for him to taste. He licked it without looking up, his whole tongue wrapping around my finger, and I thought about how he was going to wrap around something else that same night.

After dinner I left the dishes in the sink and went to my room. I put the movie on the TV. Turned up the volume. Left the door open. Took off my T-shirt. Lay on my back with my legs wide open, one hand between my thighs opening my cunt, the other on a tit pinching my nipple. I rubbed my middle finger over my clit in circles and let out a long, deliberate gasp. I waited.

Twenty minutes. Twenty-two. Twenty-five.

I heard him standing in the hallway. Then the shadow entered the room. I closed my eyes as if I were concentrating on what I was doing. I felt him close, almost over the bed, not daring to. I slid two fingers into my cunt, all the way in, and pulled them out shining. I let out a low moan and brought my fingers to my mouth, sucking them in front of him.

—Mateo —I whispered, without opening my eyes—. Don’t be embarrassed. Sit down. It’s normal.

He sat on the edge of the mattress. He had his boxer briefs on, his body tense as a cord, and his cock outlined hard through the fabric, with a dark stain already at the tip. The screen kept making noise behind us. I took his hand and guided it to my pubis. He pulled it away by instinct.

—Please. Help me. I need it.

I put it back. I opened his fingers with mine, ran them slowly over the lips of my cunt, wetting them with what was leaking from me, and sunk his middle finger inside. I guided it in and out with my own over his, until he understood the rhythm. He started moving by himself, first shyly, then with curiosity, then with hunger. He slid in two, then three, curved them to search inside, and I arched against his hand like a bitch in heat. He brought his thumb up to my clit and began rubbing me while keeping his fingers inside, and I thought I was going to come right then with my son’s hand inside me. I closed my eyes for the first time for real.

I slipped my hand inside his boxers and grabbed his cock. It was rock hard, hot, throbbing, thicker than I had imagined. I pulled the skin back and felt the sticky tip. I stroked him up and down, squeezed him at the base, ran my thumb over the head, smearing his own fluid over it, and he let out a nearly childish whimper, throwing his head back.

—Is this okay, my love? —I asked.

—Yes —he said. And from his voice I knew there was no going back.

***

I undressed him. I took off his boxers and put them in my mouth before he could say anything. I had gone fourteen years without tasting a man. I had forgotten the heat, the weight, the taste of clean skin. I ran my tongue from his balls to the tip, slowly, then sucked each testicle separately, eyes closed, while holding his cock upright against his belly. Then I took the whole thing into my mouth, until it hit the back of my throat, and he let out a moan that made the bed shake. I drew the spit in strings from his lips to the glans and took him back in, moving my head up and down, squeezing the base with my hand, twisting my wrist over the tip the way I remembered it was done. He grabbed my hair with one hand, hard, and with the other searched for a tit and pinched my nipple between his fingers. I sucked his cock until I felt it swell even more, until he started pushing my head down without realizing it.

—Mom, I’m going to come —he gasped.

When I felt him close, I let him go. I didn’t want it to end yet. I ran my tongue along the inside of his thigh, blew on the wet tip, and he jolted his hips.

—Not yet, my love. Not yet.

I laid him on his back. I climbed on top of him, straddling him, and rubbed my cunt against his cock, soaking it completely, grinding my clit against his glans. Then I took it in my hand and lined it up with my entrance. I sank down on him little by little, looking at his face, watching his eyes open by millimeters as I swallowed every centimeter. He filled me completely. My son was inside me, and I had never felt more complete in my life.

I started moving. Slowly at first, braced on my hands over his chest, lifting and lowering my hips, feeling him come in and out, dragging the walls of my cunt with his hard skin. Then I leaned forward and pressed my tits to his mouth. He sucked one nipple, then the other, biting them just a little, and I started riding him harder, my ass slapping against his thighs, the wet sound of my soaked cunt swallowing him whole.

—Fuck me, son —I whispered in his ear—. Fuck your mother. Take it all in.

Something lit up inside him. He grabbed my waist, dug his fingers into my ass cheeks, and started thrusting from below, slamming me against him, driving it all the way in with every stroke. I moaned without restraint, not remembering anything, my mouth pressed to his neck, biting it. He turned me over. Put me on my back, spread my legs until they rested against his shoulder, and shoved himself into me again in one stroke. He fucked me hard, hands squeezing my tits, looking into my eyes, and I held his gaze while I opened myself completely for him.

—I’m yours —I told him, panting—. I’m yours now. Everything that’s mine is yours, my love.

Everything went blurry. The orgasm came from deep inside me, long, in waves, clenching his cock with my spasming cunt, and he held on for two more thrusts and came inside me with a broken gasp, emptying himself in hot spurts I could feel rising all the way to my belly. He collapsed on top of me. I stroked his wet back while the semen dripped between my thighs. Fourteen years of waiting, and I came with my son inside me.

***

Three years have passed since then. Mateo is twenty-two now. He has a girlfriend I introduce him to when it’s necessary to introduce her. A pretty, sweet girl who stays over on Sundays for lunch and doesn’t know anything. Mateo smiles at her, holds her hand, puts up with her plans. And at night he comes to my room, opens my legs, and fucks me the way a woman is fucked, not a mother.

He fulfills with her what a well-bred son his age is supposed to fulfill. With me he fulfills something else. The girlfriend may have whatever she has, but the one who swallows Mateo’s cum every night is me. And that, after fourteen years of loneliness, fills me with a fullness I’m not going to explain to anyone.