The Summer That Changed Everything Between My Parents and Me

The house we rented was at the end of a dirt road, almost pressed up against the dunes. My mother had found it online and convinced my father and me in a single afternoon, showing us the photos of the porch and the open kitchen where — she said — we were going to eat every day without clocks and without hurry.

It was our first vacation the three of us alone in years. I had come back from university two weeks earlier and my parents had put the trip off until I was available. I noticed it in the way my mother handled the details, in the care with which my father loaded the car, as if those ten days had a value none of us dared name.

We arrived on a Saturday at midday. My father uncorked a bottle of white wine before even taking the suitcases upstairs, and my mother and I laughed at his impatience. We ate on the porch, with the sun slanting in and the salt in the air sticking to our skin. We talked about nonsense, but between one sentence and the next there were long silences no one dared break, silences in which my mother looked at the sea, my father looked at her, and I looked at both of them.

That first night I slept badly. I heard footsteps in the hallway, a door closing, voices lowering. At two I went downstairs barefoot to the kitchen for a glass of water, and at the foot of the stairs I heard them. They were not fucking. They were arguing in low voices, with that intensity married couples have when they know each other too well.

—If you don’t want to, then you don’t want to —my father said.

—It’s not that I don’t want to —my mother replied—. It’s that I don’t know if it’s right. She’s our daughter.

I stayed on the last step, holding the glass, feeling the floor open under my feet.

She’s our daughter.

I went back up without drinking. It took me hours to fall asleep, and when I finally did it was with my hand between my thighs, touching my cunt until I came, biting the pillow so they wouldn’t hear me.

***

In the morning, my father went out alone to buy bread. My mother was on the porch, a coffee in her hands, looking at the sea as if waiting for the sea to answer her something. I sat beside her without saying anything. The breeze moved her hair and clung her T-shirt to her body, outlining her hard nipples beneath the fabric.

—How long? —I asked.

She didn’t pretend not to understand. She lowered her gaze to the coffee and took a deep breath.

—I don’t know —she said—. Since you came back from university, I suppose. Before that I thought it without thinking, if that makes any sense.

—And Dad?

—Dad’s known from the start. I told him. We both thought it was nonsense, that it would go away with time. But last night, when I saw you laughing on the porch, I told him it wasn’t going away. I told him I wanted to fuck you, daughter. I said it with those exact words.

I nodded slowly. I felt no shame, no disgust, no fear. I felt something like relief, like when you discover that the discomfort you’ve been dragging around for months finally has a name. All summer I’d been turning over why I looked at them the way I did. Why, when my father took off his shirt after coming back from a run, I’d get distracted staring at the bulge in his shorts. Why, when my mother came out of the shower wrapped in a towel, I’d lower my eyes without wanting to and then lock myself in to masturbate thinking about her tits.

—You don’t have to say anything —she added, almost in a whisper—. We’ll act as if nothing happened and that’s that.

I took her hand. Her fingers were cold from holding the cup.

—I don’t want to act as if nothing happened —I said—. Last night, after hearing you, I touched myself thinking about you both. I came thinking about Dad on top of you and about you looking at me while you sucked his cock.

She looked at me. I don’t know what she saw in my face, but something in her expression changed, something loosened. Her eyes grew wet and so did her panties, I noticed later: when she shifted in the chair, a small moan slipped out of her. My father appeared with a bag of bread just then, and he looked at the two of us from the porch step, and understood without anyone having to explain anything to him.

We had breakfast the three of us in silence. It wasn’t an awkward silence. It was a silence that was deciding something. Under the table, my mother’s hand found my knee and slowly climbed to the edge of my shorts. My father’s, on the other side, did the same.

***

We spent the day at the beach, as if nothing were happening. We swam. My mother fell asleep on the towel and my father put cream on her back with a concentration that seemed new to me, going down to the top of her ass beneath the bikini. I read two pages of the same book for three hours, with my legs clamped together because my cunt wouldn’t leave me alone. At seven we went back to the house. My father put on music while he cooked. My mother and I set the table brushing against each other’s arms, shoulders, hips, without speaking.

We ate slowly. We drank. My father poured us the second glass with one hand that seemed steady to me and another that seemed to tremble. When we finished dessert, my mother stood up, came over to my chair, took my face in her hands, and kissed me.

It was a short kiss. A kiss that was asking.

I answered with a longer one, sliding my tongue all the way in, biting her lower lip until she let out a soft cry.

My father was watching us from the other side of the table, the glass halfway between the plate and his mouth and a visible erection shaping the front of his pants. When my mother pulled away, I was the one who stood up and walked over to him. I took the glass from his hand and set it on the table. He looked up at me and I kissed him on the mouth for the first time in my life, with tongue, feeling his breathing speed up against mine. While I kissed him I put my hand over the bulge and squeezed it. He was hard as a stone.

—Are you sure? —he murmured when we parted.

—I’m sure. I want you to fuck me, Dad.

My mother came up behind him and ran her hands over his shoulders, and then over mine, and slid them beneath my dress, covering my tits over my bra. We stayed like that for a moment, the three of us standing around the table, breathing slowly, before she led us to the master bedroom.

***

The bed was wide and smelled of fresh sheets. My mother turned on the small lamp and left the big one off. She undressed me slowly, unhurriedly, while my father took off his shirt at the foot of the bed and then his pants, and then his briefs, and his cock sprang up thick and red against his belly. The fabric of my dress slid off my shoulders and I fell into my mother’s scent — jasmine, wine, something else — as if I had been waiting for it for years. She kissed my neck. She kissed the hollow of my collarbone. She unfastened my bra with two fingers and kissed my breasts one after the other, with a slowness that made me tremble, sucking my nipples until they turned hard and purple. She bit them. I moaned and grabbed her head to make her keep going.

When she laid me on the bed, my father came up on the other side. His hand moved along my thigh from knee to hip and kept going inward until it found my soaked cunt. He put one finger in and then another, very slowly, while he watched my face so he wouldn’t miss anything. He kissed me, his beard stinging my face, and I laughed into the kiss, and he laughed too, and my mother, who had been licking my navel and moving lower, lifted her head and looked at us, smiling, her mouth already shining.

—This is strange —I said.

—It is strange —my father said, pulling his fingers out and taking them to his mouth to suck them.

—It’s perfect —my mother said, and kept going lower.

When she opened my legs with her hands and kissed my cunt for the first time, I couldn’t help arching against her mouth. She started with her tongue flat and long, licking me from bottom to top, from ass to clit, and back again, unhurried, as if she were eating something she had wanted to taste for years. When she reached my clit she stayed there, sucking it with her lips, circling it with the tip of her tongue, burying it and pulling it out. She slid two fingers into me and curved them inward, and found the spot, and didn’t let it go. My father held me by the shoulders, kissed my forehead, and whispered in my ear not to hold back, to come in Mom’s mouth. I didn’t hold back. I moaned his name, hers, both at once, and came trembling all over against my mother’s tongue, pushing her face against my cunt with both hands, and she kept sucking me while I came, drawing out a second spasm that buckled my knees.

Then it was my turn. I asked her to lie down and let me do it, and she let me. I spread her legs and saw her cunt up close for the first time, darker than mine, shiny, with the swollen clit peeking out between her lips. I ran my tongue all over it and she let out a long moan, clutching her tits with both hands. That night I learned that the things I had imagined so many times were simpler and more intense than I had imagined. I sucked her clit the way she had sucked mine, copying her, and put two fingers in her, and felt how she tightened around them inside. My father watched us from the side, one hand around his cock, masturbating slowly, waiting for us to call him. My mother cried out when she came, one hand in my hair pushing me against her and the other covering her mouth. When we called him, he came over without saying a word, his cock dripping.

We fucked for a long time, the three of us. Not with the choreography of the movies, but clumsily, with laughter, with pauses to look at each other and make sure we were still ourselves. My father got behind my mother on all fours and drove his cock in at once, and she moaned, gripping the sheets, and I slid under her to suck her tits while he thrust into her, feeling the impact of his hips make my mother’s whole body bounce over my face. I asked him to give it to me after that, and he pulled out of her, and she herself grabbed his cock, wet with her own juices, and guided it to my mouth. I sucked it all, tasting my mother on my father’s skin, while she kissed my mouth around the shaft and licked my lips every time I pulled off to breathe.

Then he was inside me, slowly at first, very slowly, letting me get used to the thickness, and then harder, while she held my head against her shoulder and told me in my ear to look at her, not to close my eyes, to feel how Dad was fucking me. I didn’t close them. I saw how she looked at me while he was pounding into me, and my mother’s gaze was more intimate than anything I had ever felt with any body. She rode my face sitting on top of me, and I fucked my mother with my tongue while my father fucked me underneath, and the three of us moved to the same rhythm, and she came first, soaking my mouth, and I came afterward with my father’s cock inside me, clenching him so hard around it that I wrung his cum out of him. I felt him emptying hot deep inside me, trembling, with his fingers sunk into my mother’s hips so he wouldn’t fall.

When the three of us were done — not at the same time, but in a long, messy sequence — we lay stretched out side by side, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sea in the distance. I had my father’s semen running down my thigh and my mother’s taste in my mouth. She took one of my hands. My father took the other. Nobody spoke for a long while.

***

The following days were strange and bright. We did the things we had planned to do — the beach, the walks, the harbor restaurant where my father wanted us to try the shrimp — and we did them as if we were other people, as if we had discovered a new language and it was hard to stop speaking it. The three of us cooked, the three of us slept, the three of us showered, and in the shower my mother would make me kneel and have me suck my father’s cock under the water while she soaped my tits and slid her fingers into my ass. There were afternoons when we fucked for hours, changing positions and holes until we lost track of who was inside whom, and nights when we only caressed each other before falling asleep, with my father’s cock halfway inside my mother’s cunt and my hand on her clit. There were long conversations about what we were going to do when we got back, about how you tell something that can’t be told, about what could and what could not ever be said to anyone.

—This can’t be known —my mother said the last night, when the three of us were on the porch with the last bottle, me naked between the two of them with my legs spread over their thighs—. Not by us. By people.

—Nobody’s going to know —my father said, with two fingers inside my cunt, moving them slowly.

—And you two —she added, looking at both of us, her hand on my breast—. This is for the three of us. If one of us leaves, it’s over.

—If one of us leaves, it’s over —I repeated, and my father nodded without saying anything, and made me come right there on the porch by biting his shoulder so I wouldn’t scream.

We toasted to that.

***

We came back to the village on a Sunday afternoon. We parked in front of the house, unloaded the suitcases, opened the windows to let out the trapped heat. We were all three in the hall, looking at one another as if we had just returned from a faraway country no one would ever believe us about, when my mother let go of her suitcase, came up to me, kissed me on the mouth slipping her tongue all the way in, and then led me by the hand to their bedroom.

My father followed us, unbuckling his belt as he walked.

That night the three of us slept in their bed, after he came in my mouth and she came over my face. And the night after that. And the one after. We’ve been like this for two years now, and every summer we go back to the beach house, the same ten days, the same dirt road, the same open kitchen, the same wide bed where I learned to fuck with my parents. Sometimes, when I pour the first glass of wine on the porch, I look up and see my mother looking at the sea, and my father looking at her, and I understand that what began that summer was the only thing in my life that was ever going to make real sense.