What Happened with My Mother in the Club Infirmary

My mother and I had been living alone since my father had gone to Buenos Aires on one of his business trips. He had been gone for two months, and from the video calls every fifteen days, it seemed like he would be gone for at least two more. I didn’t really care. Neither did my mother, though neither of us said it out loud.

My name is Iván, I’m twenty-one years old and I’ve been playing tennis since I was nine. I’m dark-haired, tall, defined without going overboard. My friends at the club call me “the coat rack” because of an old locker-room joke I’d rather not explain. I’ll just say that on the team I’m the guy with the big cock and balls, and that reputation is both a blessing and a curse.

My mother’s name is Carmen. Forty-six years old, short cropped hair dyed mahogany, brown eyes, and a tan she keeps all year because she works at the urbanization pool. She’s just over five foot three, and every inch of her shows. I mean it: the neighbors greet her with tight lips and my best friend avoids coming over when she’s around the house. She always wears long red nails and so many gold bracelets on her wrist that when she talks it sounds like she’s being accompanied by a tambourine.

I had lived my whole life with my mother’s eyes on me. Nothing weird ever happened. Just mother-son jokes. “Those jeans are too tight on you, son, you’re going to end up sterile.” “Eat your snack, you’re losing muscle.” Stuff like that. I laughed, she laughed, and then we each went off to our room to jerk off thinking about anyone but each other. Or so I thought.

The summer changed everything, and it was all because of the club’s mixed doubles tournament.

***

Every August the club organizes a father-daughter, mother-son, boyfriend-girlfriend doubles event. I used to play with my girlfriend, Lucía, until I caught her kissing a guy from the swim team two weeks before the tournament. I dumped her that same night and was left without a partner.

“I’ll play with you,” my mother said from the kitchen, without looking up from the newspaper. “Don’t miss the draw because of some girl.”

“Mom, you play like a veteran. This is serious.”

“Son, I was a veteran when you were still pissing in diapers. Sign me up.”

I signed her up.

On the Saturday of the tournament I took my bag down to the car. My mother made me wait twenty minutes. When she came out, she was wearing a one-piece white tennis dress, skin-tight, with the skirt well above the knee and thin straps on her shoulders. The white contrasted with her brown arms and the heavy gold choker around her neck. I didn’t know what to say. I opened the car door for her and focused on the steering wheel.

“How do I look?” she asked when I started the car.

“Like always.”

“Liar.”

We got to the court. The draw had paired us with a team from the rival club, two short-haired brutes with forearms the size of my thighs. I warmed up with them while waiting for my mother, who took another ten minutes to come out of the locker room. When she appeared, even the umpire went quiet for two seconds.

In the third game it was her turn to serve. She came up to the net, patted her dress, and realized she had no pockets.

“Iván, son, hold the ball for my second serve, will you?”

“Sure.”

I put it in the left pocket of my shorts. She got set, tossed the first serve, and dumped it into the net. Instead of asking me for the ball from her side, she came running over to me and, without warning, stuck her right hand into my right pocket.

Only there was no ball in that pocket.

Her hand closed over my cock through the fabric, right where it shouldn’t have. It took her a long two seconds to react. I felt her fingers squeeze by accident, feel the whole bulge, recognize the shape, the length, the thickness. I still remember the cold of her rings against my pants, and how I swelled down there before she pulled her hand away.

“Oh, sorry,” she said through her teeth, pulling her hand out and now reaching for the left pocket. “I got the ball wrong.”

She smiled at me in a way a mother shouldn’t. Then she went back to the baseline moving her hips more than necessary. And that was the first crack.

***

I lost focus. How could I not. Every time my mother bent down to pick up a ball, I looked away and missed the next shot. In the fourth game, she was at the net when one of the opponents hit a smash and I threw myself in front of her to protect her. The ball didn’t hit anywhere honorable. It nailed me dead center between the legs.

I doubled over. I went down. I could barely breathe.

“Iván! Iván, son, look at me! Where did it hit you?”

I pointed. I didn’t have the air for anything else.

“Oh no, not there. Oh, poor thing.” She turned on the rival with a look that nearly gutted him. “And you, moron, learn how to control the racket before you get on court. Come on, son, to the medical room.”

Leaning on her shoulder, we walked over to the infirmary module. When we got there, the sign on the door made it clear: the doctor was on vacation until Monday. The room was empty: a treatment table, a folding screen, a shelf with jars, a large mirror by the wall.

My mother locked the door.

“I started nursing before I married your father,” she said. “If you let me, I’ll take a look.”

“Mom, what are you talking about.”

“Son, I changed your diapers a thousand times. I’m not going to be shocked by seeing my boy.”

She said it with a small, mischievous smile. I didn’t answer. I sat on the edge of the treatment table with my legs half open. She knelt between my knees, calm as anything, and placed her hands on my thighs. Her red nails gleamed against the white of my shorts.

“I’m going to unzip you. Okay?”

I nodded.

She struggled a little with the zipper. When she pressed her palm to push the shorts down, a little “oh” escaped her that didn’t sound nurse-like at all. I lifted my hips. I was left in my briefs, and beneath the white cotton the hard, long bulge was already showing, pushing the fabric up. Her eyes were locked on it and she didn’t hide a thing.

“My God, son.” That was all she said.

She tugged my briefs down to my ankles. My cock sprang up into my face, thick, rigid, throbbing against my belly. I ran out of air for a second time that afternoon, but for different reasons. My mother bit her lower lip and stayed like that for a while, looking at it, her mouth slightly open and her breathing changed.

“I’m going to have to hold your balls so I can see properly,” she said, and wrapped them with her free hand. “This weighs more than my racket.”

Her hand was small. The nails long. The rings cold. Her fingers squeezed my testicles with a touch that wasn’t entirely medical, weighing them, rolling them, while her other hand roamed along the inside of my thigh. She was doing everything with clinical seriousness, but when she spread my leg to inspect me better, her thumb rose very slowly, almost by accident, and brushed the base of my cock. I brushed against her three times without moving away. The fourth time she was no longer pretending.

“Everything’s fine, son,” she whispered, her voice rough. “Everything is very fine.”

When she realized it was only a harmless blow, she leaned down. Lowered her head. And kissed the sore skin, right underneath, on the warm sac. Then she moved her lips a little higher and planted another kiss on the shaft, longer, wet, leaving a red lipstick mark stuck to the vein.

“Just like when you were little,” she whispered, while she stuck out her tongue and licked me very slowly from the base to the tip.

I gripped the edge of the table. She opened her lips, took the tip into her mouth, rolled it with her tongue, pulled it out, and looked up at me with wide eyes.

“Sorry, son. Sorry.”

But she took it back in. Half my cock this time. Then all of it. Her throat made a tiny noise every time she reached the back, and her gold bracelets tinkled against my hip. She sucked slowly, cheeks hollowed, looking at me without blinking. She pulled it out and spat on it for me. She licked my balls one by one, took them into her mouth, tasted them. She went back to the tip and ran her tongue around the swollen glans as if she were cleaning a spoon of honey.

“Mom, if you keep going I’m going to cum.”

She pulled it out of her mouth with a wet sound and looked at me, her chin shining with spit.

“Don’t you dare cum yet,” she said. “Not yet.”

She got up to fetch the cream. She bent over in front of the lower shelf, and the white skirt rode up to her waist. She was wearing a tiny white thong between her brown cheeks. I never thought a piece of cotton could look at me that much.

***

I got down from the treatment table. I still had my pants around my ankles. I was still hard, harder now, shining with my mother’s saliva. I walked over with a mix of shame and boldness I didn’t recognize in myself. I put my hands on the shelf, over hers, and my body pressed against her back. The tip fit between her butt cheeks like it had spent years looking for that gap.

She didn’t move away. She just said, without turning around:

“You’re there.”

“I’m here.”

“Iván.”

“Mom.”

Silence. Then, slowly, she lifted her ass a little more against me, rubbing her hot cheeks over my wet cock. I pulled her dress up to her waist. I moved the thong aside with two fingers. What I saw left my mouth dry: she was completely shaved, her whole pussy on display, swollen, the lips glossy and parted with wetness, and the small pink asshole in the center trembling with every breath.

I knelt without thinking. I spread her cheeks with both hands, buried my face, and ran my tongue from the clit to the little hole, one long flat lick that drew a sharp gasp out of her.

“Iván, son, what are you doing.”

“Shut up, Mom.”

I ate her pussy like my life depended on it. I pushed my whole tongue in until I felt the walls tighten around it. I sucked her swollen clit, held it between my lips, nibbled it. She gripped the shelf with both hands, knuckles white, and rocked her ass against my face. She lowered one hand and grabbed my head by the hair, pushing me deeper. Her thighs were dripping spit and slick down the inside.

“Oh, son, oh my son, not like that, not like that, I’m going to come, you’re going to make me come.”

I lifted my tongue a centimeter and put it in her ass, pressing with the tip until it gave way. She let out a long moan she tried not to release. I wet her whole with saliva, with my thumb inside and my tongue around it, while with the other hand I rubbed her clit in circles.

When I stood up, my mouth was soaked. I wiped it with the back of my hand and spoke into her ear, pressing my cock against her slit.

“Not there.”

“Iván, son.”

“Not there. Up here. The other one.”

She swallowed. She didn’t say no. She rested her forehead on the shelf. I found the entrance with the tip, nice and wet, pressed it to the pink ring, and pushed. Slowly.

“Oh, easy, easy,” she panted. “That’s where I’m a virgin. Don’t cheat.”

I pushed a little more, just one centimeter, and the sphincter gave up around the glans all at once. She let out a short groan, held her breath, bit her lip, and looked at the mirror. Our eyes met in the glass. Her pupils were big, very big. Her gold choker trembled with every breath, and her bracelets knocked against the shelf in a metallic sound that blended with her panting.

“Wait, son, wait. You’re tearing me apart. You’re tearing me apart whole.”

“You’re so tight, Mom.”

“Because you’re my son, fuck. Because you’re my son and you’re shoving it up my ass.”

Hearing that from her mouth made me push another centimeter. And another. And another. She opened her mouth wider and wider until I was all the way inside, my balls resting against her wet pussy. When I made it in fully, she went still for a moment, barely breathing, feeling me throb inside her. Then she peeled her back off the shelf and started moving against me. Slow at first. Faster after that. Her red nails dug into the wood.

I yanked the straps of her dress down and her breasts spilled into my hands. Heavy, hot, too much for me. The brown nipples were hard as stones. I squeezed them, twisted them, pulled them back while I fucked her. She shoved two fingers into my mouth and I sucked them with the same tongue I had used on her ass.

“Easy, easy,” she repeated. “But don’t stop. Don’t stop, son. Put it all in me. Break me.”

She grabbed her pussy with her free hand and started rubbing her clit while I speared her from behind. With each thrust her tits bounced and her bracelets clinked. The room smelled like sex, my mother’s sweet perfume, the leather of the table. With every push my cock slipped out and back in shining, and her ass yielded, relaxed, taking me all the way.

***

I saw everything in the mirror: me behind her, her in front, her face undone, mouth open, eyes bright, tits hanging and bouncing to the rhythm of my hips. Anyone who walked into that infirmary would have seen a son with his pants around his ankles fucking his mother in the ass against a shelf of medical supplies. I couldn’t think about that. I could only look at her and drive my cock into her to the hilt, over and over, until her forehead knocked against the wood.

“Look at me,” I told her in the mirror.

She lifted her head. She found herself in the glass. She smiled a little, with shame, with pride, with everything a mother shouldn’t feel while her son stuffs his dick up her ass.

“You learned this all by yourself, didn’t you?” she whispered.

“I learned by watching you, Mom. I learned by jerking off thinking about your ass.”

“Filthy boy. Filthy little bastard. Keep going. Keep going like that. Break your mother’s ass.”

She closed her eyes. That was enough. I grabbed her short hair, yanked her back, and slammed my cock in to the balls. She let out a hoarse cry. I felt her whole ass clench around me, squeezing, milking me. I held on for two more thrusts, three, and then I couldn’t anymore. I clenched my teeth, gripped her tits with both hands, and came inside her, shot after shot, hot seed flooding up inside her ass. I felt every beat of my cock emptying into her belly while I bit her shoulder so I wouldn’t shout.

She came a second later, one hand on her pussy and her mouth open against the wood, in a dry sob that hurt my chest. Her knees buckled. I held her around the waist so she wouldn’t fall, my cock still inside, still throbbing, still leaking.

It took us a minute to come apart. Maybe two. Maybe forever. When I pulled out, a thread of semen slid down the inside of her thigh to the back of her knee. I looked at her back. It was marked by the edge of the shelf. I lowered her dress carefully, straightened her straps, kissed her shoulder, wiped the cum away with my thumb and brought it to my mouth.

“Mom.”

“Don’t talk yet,” she said, her forehead still resting on the wood.

She turned slowly. Her mascara had run into one black streak. The white dress was stained in front with saliva and inside with her own juices. She looked at me, glassy-eyed, and brushed the hair off my forehead with her fingers. Her red nails scratched my scalp.

“This doesn’t happen again,” she said, without conviction.

“Okay.”

“I mean it, Iván.”

“Okay, Mom.”

“I’m your mother.”

“I know.”

She kissed me on the forehead. A long kiss. She closed her eyes as she did it. And then, before letting go, she took my hand and pressed it a little longer against her waist, as if she wanted to make sure she existed. She lowered her eyes and looked at my cock, still half-hard, shining, and sighed.

***

We lost the match by forfeit. We drove home without talking, both of us with sweaty hair stuck to our foreheads. We ate frozen pizza and watched some stupid TV series late into the night. When I went to bed, she peered into the hallway in her robe and looked at me without saying anything for a long time. Then she closed her door.

That was three weeks ago. My father is still in Buenos Aires. My mother still works at the pool and still turns red when she sees me coming out of the water with my swimsuit outlining my cock. Every time we cross paths in the kitchen at night, we both know that at some point one of us is going to give in again. The no-repeat rule broke on the second night, when I found her on the sofa with her hand under her nightgown and she didn’t even try to pull it out; she opened the nightgown, spread her legs, and asked me to eat her pussy until she fell asleep. The third time she was the one who came to my room, climbed on top of me without a word, and rode my cock until three in the morning with her hand over her mouth. The fourth I’m not counting.

She forbade me from telling anyone. She forbade me from thinking about it outside the house. She forbade me from falling in love with her. That last one was the only rule I’ve already broken.