The Stormy Night I Gave In to My Son

Damián turned nineteen on a Tuesday at the end of August, and that very afternoon he made the decision that would twist his whole life around. The closest architecture school to his town was almost four hours away by bus, in a capital city he barely knew. His father, Ricardo, listened to him talk about the move with his eyes fixed on the TV match and shot out a curt, almost muttered line: “Figure it out yourself.” Carolina, on the other hand, his mother, listened to him all the way through.

Carolina was forty-one and had a body life had not punished too much. Her brown hair fell in lazy waves to her shoulders, her eyes were black with a nervous gleam, and she still kept those broad, womanly curves that had once paraded through provincial catalogues before she got married. After her divorce from Ricardo, she moved to the capital and started over beside Andrés, a salesman who spent more time in hotels than in his own bed. Heavy breasts, a defined waist, broad hips, and a round ass that still made people turn and look at her in the street. When Damián told her he needed somewhere to live during his degree, she agreed without blinking.

“Of course you can come, my love,” she told him on the phone, in that warm, slightly hoarse voice that had always given him security. “The house is huge. Andrés is always traveling, so we’ll be alone most of the time.”

On the first Monday in September, Damián arrived with two suitcases, a backpack on his shoulders, and his heart leaping up in his throat. Carolina welcomed him at the door with a broad smile that, however, never quite reached her eyes. She hugged him as she always had, tightly, smelling like a mother, but that hug lasted a second longer than it should have. Her breasts flattened against his chest, and the perfume —vanilla with a hint of almond— clung to his shirt and his skin.

The house was spacious, modern, with light-colored furniture and a silence you noticed as soon as the door closed. In the hallway hung photos from Carolina and Andrés’s wedding. It took Damián only a few days to catch the “small differences” his mother never quite managed to put into words. Andrés’s side of the bed was always smooth as a hospital sheet. On Carolina’s nightstand, by contrast, there was a half-finished glass of wine, a hand cream, and a book of erotic poems she quickly shoved into the drawer whenever she heard him coming near.

The first days were almost normal. Damián got up early to catch the subway to school, came back in the afternoon, and found Carolina in the kitchen with the radio turned low and dinner already started. Soon he got used to helping her. He washed, she dried. They talked late on the sofa about his degree, the buildings he wanted to design one day, the quiet frustration you could sense in her with every silence.

“Andrés doesn’t even live here,” she confessed one night, the wine glass swaying in her hand and her legs tucked under her body. She was wearing a dark gray silk nightgown that clung to her thighs and outlined her nipples through the fabric. “Sometimes I feel like I live alone even when he shows up. He’s gone again.”

Damián listened. He didn’t judge her. He just looked at her with those deep eyes that suddenly no longer seemed childlike. And he said simple things, things nobody had said to her in years:

“Mom, you’re beautiful. Truly. Not just on the outside. Anyone would be grateful to have you in front of them. You deserve someone who looks at you the way you deserve.”

Carolina blushed all the way down to her neckline. She bit her lower lip, looked away, but the flush spread down her neck and her nipples hardened beneath the silk. Guilt hit her that very night, already in bed, when, remembering the way he looked at her, she felt a traitorous heat between her legs.

Damián… God, what’s happening to me? That night she touched herself for the first time thinking of him. She slid two fingers into her already soaked cunt, pretended they were her son’s, and came with her face buried in the pillow. She felt dirty. She felt like a bad mother. She came anyway, harder than she had in months.

***

The weeks passed and the routine grew more intimate than was wise. Damián started accompanying her everywhere. To the supermarket, to the cinema downtown, to the park at sunset. He opened the car door for her, carried the bags, brushed her waist “by accident” when they crossed paths in the narrow hallway. Carolina noticed the air turn charged as soon as they were alone together. Her cunt would dampen just from seeing him appear in the doorway.

One October afternoon, coming home from class, Damián found her crying in the kitchen. Andrés had just called to say he wouldn’t make it back until Friday. Again. Carolina was barefoot, wearing one of his old T-shirts that hung to mid-thigh, no bra, and her nipples showed like two buttons against the cotton.

“Come here,” he said softly, and hugged her.

That hug was not maternal. Damián pulled her against his chest, and for the first time she felt the hardness of his young body, the thick bulge of his half-erect cock pressing against her belly. Her breasts flattened against him. Her nipples went hard enough to hurt. Guilt struck her like a whip, but she didn’t pull away. On the contrary, she pressed closer.

“Damián… this isn’t right,” she whispered against his neck, breathing in a smell that was clean and dark at the same time.

“I’m not doing anything, Mom,” he answered, his voice rough. “I’m just here. With you.”

His hands slid slowly down the curve of her waist, then a little lower, brushing the small of her back, feeling the soft skin under the T-shirt. Damián’s thumb traced slow circles, inching ever closer to the edge of her panties. Carolina trembled. Her cunt throbbed and dampened the fabric.

That night they ate dinner in silence. The sexual tension was so thick it could almost be cut with the bread knife. Carolina went up to her room and changed. She put on a short cotton dress, no bra and no panties. She knew perfectly well he would notice. She wanted him to notice. And she hated herself for wanting it.

From then on the touches became deliberate. A hand that lingered too long on a shoulder. A look held three seconds too long. One night, while they were watching a movie on the sofa, she rested her head on his chest. Damián stroked her hair. His hand slid slowly down her back, brushed the hem of her dress, slipped underneath until it touched bare skin, kept going down, and caressed the high curve of her ass. Carolina held her breath when her son’s fingers slipped between her cheeks, barely grazing her asshole and the edge of a soaked cunt.

“Mom…” Damián whispered, his voice broken with desire. “You drive me crazy.” She lifted her face. Their lips were inches apart.

“No, my love,” she said, but it came out like a moan. “Please. I’m your mother. This is a sin.”

She stood up and locked herself in her room. She turned the key. She masturbated imagining his mouth devouring her cunt, his thick cock opening her, and then she cried with her face buried in the pillow, her body shaking with guilt and pleasure.

***

Andrés traveled more and more. November brought the first rains and the first nights when mother and son were left alone in the house for whole days.

One stormy dawn, Carolina couldn’t sleep. She went barefoot downstairs to the kitchen for a glass of water and found Damián there, shirtless, wearing only pajama pants hanging far too low on his hips. Sweat gleamed over the abs he’d built in the university gym. His cock showed thick and long beneath the fabric, half-erect.

“Mom, I can’t anymore,” he said, with no preamble, his voice deep and hungry.

He came toward her like a predator. He cornered her against the refrigerator. Their bodies touched completely. Damián was rock hard. His cock, thick and hot, pressed against her belly, throbbing. Carolina felt her cunt wet instantly, almost running down the inside of her thigh. A moan escaped her without permission.

“I want you so badly, Mom,” he whispered against her mouth, brushing her lips. “I love you.” And he kissed her.

It was a slow kiss at first, almost reverent. Soft lips, broken breaths, tongues brushing shyly. Then it turned wild. Damián shoved his tongue deep into her mouth, fucking her mouth with it, biting her lower lip until she moaned. Carolina dug her nails into his back, kissed him back with the same desperation, sucked his tongue as if she wanted to swallow it.

Her son lifted her in his arms as if she weighed nothing and sat her on the counter. His hands slid up her thighs, forced them apart, settled between them. Her dress rode up to her waist and exposed a naked cunt, swollen and glossy with the juices already dripping down to the curve of her ass.

“Mom, look at how wet you are,” he growled, staring at her sex with dark, lust-drunk eyes.

He pulled her dress over her head with trembling hands. Her breasts spilled out, heavy, mature, the nipples dark and hard as stones. He looked at them the way one looks at forbidden treasure. He lowered his head and took them into his mouth, one and then the other. He sucked with voracious hunger, drew hard, nibbled the nipples, tugged them with his teeth while his tongue licked them in quick circles. With the other hand he kneaded her free breast, pinched the nipple, stretched it. Carolina arched her back, tangled her fingers in his dark hair, and pushed her son’s head against her tits.

“Damián… my love… oh, God. Harder!” she moaned, her voice torn apart by pleasure and guilt.

He went lower. He spread her legs as wide as they would go, exposing her cunt and asshole completely. He knelt before her like in a sinful prayer. He opened his mouth and buried his face between her thighs. His tongue was slow, probing, obscene. He licked her from her asshole to her clit in long, flat strokes, tasting every drop of the thick juices. Then he focused on her asshole, licked it in circles, slipped the tip of his tongue inside while two thick fingers fucked her cunt, curling upward, rubbing that swollen inner spot that made her scream.

“You taste incredible,” he growled against her sex. “I’m going to eat you until you come.”

Carolina came for the first time like that, with her own son’s mouth eating her like an animal. Her clit throbbed against his tongue while his fingers fucked her fast and deep. Jets of juice splashed Damián’s chin and chest. He drank it all, sucking loudly, without stopping.

“Put it in me already, Damián,” Carolina begged, broken now by remorse and a desire burning her alive. “Fuck me! Fill my cunt!”

He lifted her off the counter, turned her with one firm movement, and bent her over the kitchen table. He spread her asscheeks with his big hands and stared at her open cunt, dripping, her asshole gleaming with spit. He pulled down his pants. His cock sprang free, thick as a wrist, long, veined, the head purple and slick with precum streaming down it. Nineteen years of pure hard youth.

He rubbed it against her cunt, smeared it with her juices, tapped her clit with the swollen head.

“Fuck me already,” Carolina sobbed, pushing her ass back. “Put it all in.”

He entered slowly at first, centimeter by centimeter, opening her like she had never been opened before. Carolina felt every vein, every pulse, how her cunt stretched around that young, thick cock until he was buried to the hilt, his heavy balls bumping her clit. They both let out a long, animal moan.

“You’re burning up, Mom,” Damián growled, biting her shoulder hard enough to leave the mark of his teeth.

He started fucking her. First slow, deep, coming almost all the way out and driving back in to the hilt, savoring every thrust. The wet, obscene sound of cock entering and leaving filled the kitchen, mixed with her moans and the roar of the storm outside. Carolina gripped the edge of the table, her heavy tits flattened against the cold wood, her ass thrust up to take him better, pushing her hips back to take him deeper.

“Harder… harder…” she begged, her voice broken with pleasure. “Harder, my love.”

“You like that?” Damián asked, and sped up like an animal. His hips slammed into her ass with brutal force, making her cheeks bounce and turn red. He grabbed her hair with one hand and yanked, arching her back, fucking her like a savage. With the other hand he pinched one nipple, twisted it, then moved down and rubbed her swollen clit in quick circles while his cock drove in and out mercilessly.

His mother came a second time, screaming his name, her cunt clenching around his cock like a hot, wet fist, milking him, spilling juices over his balls. Damián couldn’t hold on any longer. He thrust to the hilt, his balls pressed against her clit, and came inside her with a guttural roar. Hot, thick, powerful spurts filled her until she overflowed. It ran down her thighs, white and thick, mixed with her own juices.

They stayed like that, joined together, panting, sweating, trembling. Damián hugged her from behind, kissed the nape of her neck, her back, her shoulders, nibbled her ear with a new tenderness. Carolina cried in silence, but they were tears of relief, of absolute pleasure, of total surrender. The guilt was still there, throbbing in her chest, but desire was a thousand times bigger.

“I love you, Mom,” he whispered, still inside her, his cock still pulsing with the last spurts.

“And I love you, my love,” she replied, turning to kiss him with deep, almost romantic tenderness while her cunt kept contracting around him. “Damián, this is wrong. What did we do?”

That night they slept together in Carolina’s bed. Naked. Entwined. Her son’s cock, half-hard, resting against her ass. His semen still leaking from her cunt.

When Andrés called the next day to say he would be back on Friday, Carolina looked at Damián with a new smile, dangerous, full of desire and love.

“We have three more days, my love,” she said, sliding her hand under the sheets to stroke his cock, hard again, masturbating it calmly. “Do you want to fuck me again?”

The guilt was still there. But desire was bigger. And Carolina no longer wanted to keep fighting it. She wanted more. She wanted everything. She wanted her son fucking her like a whore every time Andrés walked out the door.

And that was how, for real, their forbidden, intense, filthy story began.