The Rent My Mother Paid in My Own Bed

Ever since I left my parents’ house at eighteen, I had been fiercely protective of my privacy. So, more than ten years later, I had never once invited them to my apartment, even though we lived less than two kilometers apart. I kept the contact to the bare minimum: I was their only child. But I was fed up with their endless fights, with the reproaches they used to try to drag me to the family table every Sunday, and a couple of months earlier I had stopped visiting them altogether. I limited myself to the occasional curt message, which I almost never finished reading.

Maybe that distance was why I was so surprised to find her that afternoon sitting by the entrance to my building, with two suitcases and a face full of bad temper. She didn’t need to say a word for me to understand what had happened.

—What happened, Mom? Did the old man throw you out?

—What do you think? I left him. I’m sick of putting up with his bullshit —she stubbed out her cigarette against her shoe sole—. Relax, it’ll only be a couple of days, until I get myself organized.

—Right —I answered, not believing her.

Get herself organized? Pilar hadn’t worked a single day in her life. At fifty-three, she was still preserving a figure that defied her age: short, always perched on impossible heels, with curves that time had broadened without ruining. She had those extra pounds in all the right places, and a way of looking at people, somewhere between contempt and calculation, that hadn’t changed since I was a child.

I wasn’t thrilled about it at all. I had my life very neatly arranged, with female visitors almost daily, and it would not do to mix that with my mother’s presence. But something in the way she crossed her legs when she stood up, in the way her skirt settled against her hips as she got to her feet, made me swallow the refusal that was already on my lips.

—Come on, go in —I said at last, opening the front door for her.

—Thanks, darling. You can take the suitcases.

***

The suitcases weighed a ton, but I carried them. I got my reward: going up the stairs behind her gave me a view of her ass swaying under the miniskirt to the rhythm of her heels. It was probably at that moment that I started thinking about how I was going to make her pay for the stay.

The apartment had two bedrooms, but I only used mine; the other was an office with a desk and shelves. The logical option for her was the sofa in the living room. Pilar had other plans.

—I suppose for a couple of nights you won’t mind giving me the bed, right, Damián?

I was just about to send her to the sofa when she stopped in front of my bedroom door and bent down to scratch her knee. “Damn, that itches,” she murmured, leaning farther than necessary, letting the miniskirt rise until there was nothing left to imagine. It wasn’t an accident. I knew it by the slowness with which she did it, by the half-smile she gave when she straightened up and spotted the bulge showing in my pants.

—What are you standing there for, slack-jawed? —she said, slipping back into her sharp tone—. I need to unpack. Move it.

I took the luggage into my room. She began arranging her things as if the house were hers. She threw the window wide open, pulled back the curtain —“I like fresh air”— and started undressing in front of me without the slightest shame, “to get comfortable.” Seeing her in her underwear, with that lace that barely covered her, left my mouth dry. And she knew it.

—Don’t just stand there drooling, son. Give me a towel; I’m going to shower.

***

The rest of the afternoon was a calculated hell. She came out of the bathroom with the towel knotted at chest height, split open along the thigh, and when she passed in front of the sofa it gaped just enough to show me, for one endless second, something no mother should ever show her son. The little smile with which she kept walking toward the bedroom left no room for doubt: every gesture had been measured, every step rehearsed a thousand times in front of other men.

She ate like a queen without offering me a bite, making comments about some stupid reality-show, and by the time I went to bed I was still waiting, foolishly, for her to curl up with me on the sofa. Instead she stood up, left the plates on the table for the host to clear —that is, me— and announced:

—I’m going to get dressed up; I’ve got plans with a friend. I need to cheer myself up, with the way I’m feeling and all.

Three quarters of an hour later she appeared in a blue Lycra dress that clung to her like a second skin, braless, made up as if she were going to war. She didn’t look like someone heading out to cry over a breakup.

—Don’t wait up —she said as she left, leaving a trail of perfume that followed me for hours.

I fell asleep on the sofa after three. I heard her come in at five, barefoot and unsteady, whispering an “oh, fuck” after bumping into a chair. She smelled of alcohol and smoke. It took me forever to fall asleep again.

***

I planned to give her a piece of my mind the next morning, but she slept until noon, ate breakfast like a truck driver, and went back to bed. In the afternoon she repeated the trick: shower, dinner, impossible dress, and another night out drinking. That wasn’t a couple of days. It was a move-in under false pretenses.

On the third morning, while she was asleep, I packed her bags and left them by the door. When she woke and saw the situation, her attitude changed in an instant. She became sweet, affectionate, sticking close to me in the hallways.

—Oh, what arms you have. You definitely didn’t take after your father —she purred, sliding her fingers over my chest.

The flattery was as fake as it was obvious, but it worked. I carried the suitcases back into the room, and she thanked me exactly the way I wanted her to.

Half an hour later I had her curled up on the sofa, her head under mine, pretending to care about a documentary neither of us gave a damn about. Her hand began to wander under my T-shirt, tracing circles over my stomach, slowly moving lower. When it slipped inside my sweatpants and wrapped around me, she let out a surprised “well, now” and kept commenting on the documentary as if nothing were happening.

I was just about finished when she felt the first tremors and stopped dead. She looked at me with a smile that carried a hint of defiance, pulled down my pants, and leaned over me. She grabbed my cock with insolent confidence, as if she knew by heart the weight, the thickness, and the exact place to squeeze to drive me mad. First she licked the tip slowly, tracing it with her tongue like someone tasting an expensive wine; then she took it into her mouth without hesitation, swallowing me as far as she could, until my hips rose on their own, searching for more depth.

—Look at me —she murmured, mouth full—. Not yet.

Her lips were shining with saliva as she moved her head up and down, sucking hard, alternating her tongue with little pulls that made me clench my fists against the sofa. One hand had found its way between my thigh and my groin, playing with my balls, kneading them slowly, while the other held my dick by the base to control the motion. She pulled away only for an instant to spit on the head and spread it with her fingers, sliding her hand up and down until everything was soaked and hot.

—There —she whispered—. Now.

She took me deeper, until the tip brushed her throat, and let out a low, deliberate groan, as if enjoying my cock gave her an obscene pleasure she no longer intended to hide. The sound went through my whole abdomen. When she finally pulled away, her mouth was open, her breathing wrecked, and her hungry face had me hard again instantly.

My hand, on its own, had already checked how soaked she was. Two caresses were enough to make her moan softly and arch against my fingers. I pushed her panties aside and slid two fingers inside her, feeling how she opened around them in an obscene, hot, wet way, clenching around me with an eagerness that made me chuckle under my breath.

—Fuck, Mom —I told her in her ear, fully aware of what I was doing—. You’re dripping.

—And you’re rock hard, darling —she answered, digging her nails into my forearm—. Don’t waste my time.

I laid her on her back on the sofa, hiked her skirt up to her waist, and parted her legs with my knee. Her cunt was shining, swollen, trembling from my fingers. I knelt between her thighs and started licking her slowly, first on the outside, then higher, parting the lips with my tongue and searching for her clit with precise movements. She twisted the moment I brushed the exact spot and let out a muffled moan that broke in her throat.

—That’s it, don’t stop —she said, grabbing my hair—. Eat me properly.

I sucked her with enthusiasm, not rushing at first, letting the salty-sweet taste fill my mouth. She opened wider, pushed my head with both hands, and began to rock her hips, fucking my mouth as if she wanted to work my tongue to death. When I slipped two fingers into her while still licking, a low, animal cry escaped her, pure need.

—More —she panted—. Get them deeper, you bastard.

She came first like that, her cunt throbbing against my face, squeezing my head between her thighs and soaking my chin. I didn’t pull away until I’d wrung out her last tremor, and then I hauled her up, made her kneel in front of me, and shoved my cock back into her mouth. This time I wasn’t gentle: I guided her with my hand, pushed her to the back of her throat, and let her cough around me for a second, just enough for her to understand that she wasn’t always going to be in control.

—That’s it —I growled—. Suck me like you’re supposed to.

—I will, of course —she said, mouth full—. If you give it to me like that, I’ll swallow it whole.

Saliva ran down the corners of her mouth, her chin, her neck. I pulled out and smeared it across her chest, and she let out a dirty laugh, almost offended by how much she liked it. Then I put her on her back on the sofa, slid her thong aside, and settled between her legs. I entered her slowly, feeling her receive me from the inside, hot and tight, completely wet. She tensed slightly at the head, but immediately opened her hips with obscene confidence.

—Give it to me all —she whispered—. Fuck me like there’s no tomorrow.

I thrust all the way in in one stroke, and she lifted her knees to make it easier for me to go deeper. The sofa creaked under our bodies. I started moving hard, pulling my cock in and out in sharp blows, listening to the wet sound of our flesh, to the splashing of her cunt taking me without shame. Her breasts were out, the nipples hard, and I pinched them between my fingers while I fucked her harder, until I made her arch her back and gasp with her face twisted by pleasure.

—Like that, don’t stop —she panted into the pillow.

I turned her over, put her on all fours, and lifted her skirt over her ass. From behind she looked even better: her ass spread open, her hips taut, the soaked hole begging me for more. I grabbed her waist and drove into her with a few long, deep thrusts, making the base of my cock smack against her opening again and again. She pushed her ass back to meet me, as if she wanted to swallow my whole cock in one go.

—Harder —she ordered, her voice broken—. I want to feel you all the way inside.

I grabbed her by the hair to bring her face closer to mine and spat “whore” into her ear, which made her moan with a smile. I kept driving into her with built-up rage, my balls slapping between her legs with every sway. She came in bursts, short waves, clenching and relaxing her cunt around me like a wet hand, and I could feel I wouldn’t last much longer.

—You’re going to hold out —she told me, noticing it—. I want to see you shoot it inside.

I gritted my teeth and kept going until my legs started trembling. The final set of thrusts was brutal, almost furious, and I spilled inside her with a growl that came straight from my chest. She stayed still for a second, feeling me fill her, and then pressed her ass tighter against me to squeeze out the last drop.

—That’s what I like —she murmured, satisfied, as the cum stayed inside her and leaked a little when I pulled my cock out—. You’ve left me full.

I ended up collapsed on top of her, gulping air, with the smell of her cunt and my cum mixed throughout the room. Later, almost at dawn, she woke me again, riding me, holding onto my thighs and moving slowly until she dragged another orgasm out of me. I didn’t complain.

***

From that day on, we reached an agreement. Each of us would have our own life and our own stories, but if we shared an apartment, then we would share the bed too. No point wasting anything. Lodging and food in exchange for what she knew how to give best. We put it in half-joking terms, like some absurd rent, but we both knew it was serious. In no time at all we even stopped pretending it was an arrangement: we simply lived that way.

We learned to live together better than in all my childhood. Some afternoons I introduced her to a friend her own age, a neighbor bored with her husband and curious to try something different. Other times it was me who included her in my own plans. But there was one final frontier I had been circling for weeks, and it didn’t take much to convince her. She made me work for it, because she liked making me work for it, until she agreed as someone agrees to a whim they’re actually dying to indulge.

The afternoon I crossed that last door there were no candles or champagne, no matter how much lovers of sweet stories might have wanted there to be. I got home from work and she welcomed me wearing a lingerie set that left nothing to the imagination. I kissed her against the back of the armchair, slid my hand under her skirt, and found she was already wet. She pushed her ass out and offered me her cunt with an almost insolent urgency, parting the lips with two fingers to show me how soaked she was. I led her against the backrest, made her brace herself with her hands, and standing behind her, I entered her slowly, feeling each centimeter of my cock sink into that mature, hot, tight flesh.

—That’s it, not slowly —she said, her mouth pressed to the leather of the armchair—. I want you to drive me crazy.

I obeyed. I grabbed her hips and started thrusting hard, making the armchair move and her tits bounce freely beneath the lingerie. She bit her lips, moaned my name, and asked for more, deeper, faster, while I pressed my thumb against her clit and heard her repeat over and over that I was making her feel like a slut. I didn’t stop until she was trembling, her legs weak and her cunt clenching my cock in wet spasms.

Then she turned around, yanked my pants down, and knelt in front of me. She sucked my cock with obscene patience, looking up from time to time to see how I reacted, swallowing it whole until it made her tear up, and in the end she ordered me to fuck her again, this time on the table, both of us laughing like a pair of satisfied bastards. What followed was long, intense, and noisy; some neighbor must have wondered whether to call someone. When I finished, she turned, gave me a smug catlike smile, and licked her lips.

—Happy? —I asked, giving her a affectionate little slap on the cheek.

—Very much, daddy. I think we should repeat this.

—No doubt about it. But first let’s eat something; I’m starving.

***

The weeks went by and Pilar settled into the apartment like someone who has finally found her nest. It wasn’t bad for me to have her always ready, but there was a problem. I had a girlfriend, Cristina, heiress to one of the most old-fashioned families in the city, and it suited me to bring the wedding forward before she discovered the kind of man she was going to marry. The plan required her to move into my apartment, and my mother’s presence —Cristina had no suspicion whatsoever about our true relationship— blocked everything.

It was Pilar who found the way out. For years she had been nursing an unfair grudge against my father, the same man she had cheated on throughout their marriage. She had spoken to a lawyer —one of her “friends”— and he had told her that, by alleging psychological abuse and a handful of invented humiliations, she could keep the apartment they both owned. Not half the money, not alimony: just the roof. That was enough for her.

—Maybe you should testify in my favor —she suggested one night—. Say you saw some example of how he treated me.

Against my principles, which were never that many to begin with, I agreed. We were lucky: my father and his lawyer preferred to settle rather than air the true nature of his wife in court. They handed over the apartment in exchange for a ridiculous, almost symbolic monthly rent. The old man, who was moving away to live elsewhere, chose to lose the home rather than his dignity in front of a judge.

And that was how the brief period ended in which my mother was, quite literally, my tenant.

***

It’s been a couple of years since I got married. Cristina is expecting our first child, and life is treating me well. But no matter how busy I am, I never miss a couple of weekly visits to my mother’s apartment. My wife tolerates them, even encourages them; she’s proud of my family devotion, of what a good son I am.

I don’t know if she’d think the same if she could see Pilar’s face when I say goodbye to her after each of those pleasant visits. But, as they say, out of sight, out of mind.