What My Son and I Did During Lockdown

I’m going to write down what happened in the last few years of my life, before the cancer finished doing its work. I’m not expecting forgiveness, and I’m not looking for scandal. I just want this to be left somewhere where someone will read it with an open mind and understand why I made the decisions I made.

My name is Beatriz. I’m forty-four, and I’m a palliative care nurse at a hospital in central Zaragoza. I’ve spent half my life accompanying others through their last months, so when my turn came I knew very well what was in front of me.

My husband died a year before the world shut down because of the pandemic. A long illness, no surprises, that left me empty and with a young son I adored. Mateo was nineteen when we buried his father. He was a shy boy, home-loving, far too serious for his age. The two of us closed ranks like two soldiers in the same trench, and from that loss there grew a complicity many marriages would envy.

Then March came, and with March came lockdown. From one day to the next we went from living twenty-four hours a day in the same flat, two adult people in seventy square meters, talking about everything and nothing. We talked about his father, we talked about me, about my former boyfriends, about his first fantasy about a girl from university. We opened up to each other like never before.

I should describe myself, because it matters for what comes next. I’m tall, I have generous breasts, wide hips, and a face that, I’ve been told all my life, is attractive. His father and I never hid anything from Mateo: in this house people kissed, groped, and laughed in every corner. He grew up seeing us. That didn’t traumatize him; it educated him.

My sex life, which with his father had been intense, was cut off cold by widowhood. I felt it in my skin, in my mood, in the way I slept. And Mateo, who was an observant boy, noticed too. I knew perfectly well that he masturbated almost daily in his room, but curiously I never found porn on his computer. What I did find, by accident, were folders full of photos of me. Photos he had taken himself around the house, asking me for silly poses, suggesting clothes, laughing as if it were a game.

The day he turned twenty, we celebrated alone with a supermarket cake and a bottle of cava. That night, already a little tipsy, we had the conversation that changed everything.

“Mom,” he said, looking at his glass, “haven’t you thought about starting to see someone? I know you need sex. I really wouldn’t judge you.”

“Son, of course I need it,” I answered, without really thinking. “But right now I don’t feel like it. I can’t picture meeting anyone.”

“Tell me how I could help you.”

I let out a nervous laugh.

“And how is some kid supposed to help his mother with that?”

“We’re alone. We could play cards with fewer clothes on, strip off garments. I could do a sexy photo shoot for you. I don’t know, maybe I could cheer you up.”

“And in the process, maybe something else would get stirred up for you too, right?”

He laughed, but he didn’t look away. And neither did I. I dropped my eyes for a second to the bulge already showing under his pajama pants, and looked back up without pretending otherwise. He noticed. We both noticed.

That conversation stayed with me all night. I got into bed and, for the first time in months, touched myself thinking of something specific. Thinking of him. Of his hard cock under his pajama pants, of how it would have been when he saw my legs crossed on the sofa, of what it would feel like to have that young mouth between my thighs. I slid two fingers inside myself and came in less than a minute, biting the pillow so he wouldn’t hear me through the wall. I fell asleep uncomfortable with myself, and when I woke up the first thing I thought was that I wanted to do it again.

Two days later I had a double shift at the hospital and, after that, an appointment with the specialist for some back pain I’d been carrying for weeks. They told me in a short, clean consultation, the way professionals do when there’s no room to soften anything. Cancer. Stage two. With the treatments available, a reasonable life expectancy of five years.

I left the hospital walking slowly. I didn’t cry. I couldn’t. All I could think about was Mateo. His father had gone a year earlier, and now his mother was leaving soon too. It wasn’t fair, fuck, it wasn’t fair to him.

***

I used the two days off they gave me to decide how I was going to live whatever time I had left. I wasn’t going to tell him right away. I wasn’t going to wreck the lockdown for him too. What I did decide was something else: that while I still had a body, I was going to use it.

When I got home I found him on the sofa, with that worried puppy look on his face.

“Hi, Mom. How were these two days?”

“Good, son. Let me shower and we’ll continue the birthday conversation, okay?”

I saw his face light up. I knew perfectly well what was going through his head, and mine was occupied with one image only: him, naked. I was hotter than I had been in years.

I came out of the bathroom with a bathrobe half closed, no bra, and a small thong. I sat down in front of him on the sofa, legs crossed so the robe opened just enough. Mateo was speechless. I saw his cock swell under his shorts, saw him swallow, unable to look away from the tits peeking out of the robe’s neckline.

“You look beautiful, Mom,” he murmured.

“Right then, son. What you were telling me the other day. I’m interested.”

He was wearing shorts, and through the fabric everything was visible. I was dying to see it. I was dying, literally, to break through that barrier. I knew it was wrong, I knew you don’t do that, I knew that if his father were alive I wouldn’t be doing it. But his father wasn’t there, I was dying, and my son was looking at me as if I were the only thing in the world. For once in my life I was going to do whatever I wanted, without guilt.

“Mom, I was thinking about making you feel good,” he said slowly.

“Look, Mateo, let’s play whatever you want. But right now what I need is for you to get naked, for me to get naked, and for you to go down on me. I’m really horny, son. And then I want to eat you out.”

His eyes opened wide. He didn’t say anything. He pulled his T-shirt off over his head and wrestled with the drawstring on his shorts without getting it right, until he yanked them down along with his underwear. His cock sprang up, thicker than I’d imagined, the tip already wet with pre-cum. I stared at it without pretending not to. It was a young cock, hard, with the veins showing, the skin taut down to the pink head. And it was waiting for me.

I opened my robe all the way. I pulled off the thong with two fingers and let it fall to the floor. I spread my legs on the sofa with a calm I didn’t even recognize in myself, showing him my wet cunt, swollen, shiny under the living-room light. I saw him drop his gaze, fix it between my thighs, take a deep breath. His cock twitched in the air.

“Come here, son. Come on.”

I drew him toward me and gave him a long kiss on the mouth. I opened him with my tongue, licked the inside of his mouth, while running both hands down his back and grabbing his firm young ass. I covered his lips, his neck, his chin in saliva. I took one hand down to his cock and wrapped my whole hand around it. It was hard, throbbing, hot to the touch. I squeezed gently, pulled the skin back to expose the head, slid it up, then down again. He let out little moans into my hair, his breathing ragged.

“Look at me, Mateo. Look at me while I jerk you off.”

He lifted his face and looked me in the eyes, mouth open, while I gave him a slow handjob seated on the sofa. Pre-cum dripped from the tip, and I spread it with my thumb over the whole head. I saw his thighs trembling. He was about to come just from that.

“Hold back, son, hold back. Don’t come yet. Lie me down and go down on me.”

I lay back on the sofa, legs open, one knee against the backrest. He knelt on the rug between my thighs and stared at my cunt for a moment as if he didn’t know where to begin. I took his head in both hands and guided him down.

“Lick. Lick slowly, from bottom to top. Find my clit with your tongue.”

And he did. Clumsy at first, searching, but with a hunger that made me arch my back at the first touch. He ran his whole tongue along my slit, up and down, testing. He found the clit and stayed there, sucking me with his lips, giving me little gentle tugs with his mouth.

“That’s it, son, that’s it... put it in, put it in now.”

He pushed his tongue all the way inside me, as far as it would go, while he pinched my nipples with his hands. He was eating my cunt like he’d been waiting years for it. I ran one hand down and spread my lips for him so he could lick me better from inside. He licked my lips, my clit, drank the juice running down his chin.

“Wait,” I said, breathless. “Get on top. The other way around. I want some too.”

I positioned him over me in sixty-nine. His cock was right at my mouth, hard, pointing at me. I grabbed it with one hand and took it all in one go, without warning. I felt him fold over me from pure pleasure, a muffled moan against my cunt. His smell was different from his father’s, younger, cleaner, more animal. I started sucking him slowly, sliding my mouth up and down his whole cock, licking the head, pulling it out all the way to run my tongue underneath, over his balls, and then taking it back to the very back of my throat.

Up top, he kept eating me without stopping. Now with more technique, sucking my clit with steady pressure while he slipped two fingers into me and moved them around inside. Every thrust of his fingers made me bite his cock with my lips. I was on the verge of coming.

“Mom, Mom... that feels so good,” he kept repeating between licks, holding my hair without pulling, as if he was afraid of hurting me.

“Suck harder, son. I’m coming. I’m coming on your face.”

I came in his mouth a few seconds later, with a violence that surprised me. I squeezed my thighs around his head and let out a scream that burst out from deep inside me. I felt my cunt pulsing against his tongue, the orgasm rising up through my belly, through my tits, to my neck. He didn’t stop licking, swallowed all my juice, kept himself stuck to me. And with his cock in my mouth, he came almost at the same time. I felt the first shot hit the roof of my mouth, hot, thick, and then two more that slipped down my throat. I swallowed everything without thinking, squeezing his ass with both hands so not a last drop would escape.

We pulled apart, panting. We came together again above, kissing each other while sharing the taste—my cunt in his mouth, his semen in mine—embraced like two lovers and not like mother and son. His cock was still hard against my belly. It hadn’t even gone down a centimeter.

I guided him inside me without warning. I slid my hand underneath, positioned him at my cunt, and pushed his hips. The tip sank in on its own.

“Fuck me, son. There’s nothing I want more. All the way. Don’t stop.”

And he didn’t stop. He pushed in at once, all the way in, and we both moaned at the same time. He drove his whole cock into me and stayed still for a second, feeling how my cunt closed around him. Then he started pumping me with twenty-year-old urgency, his head buried in my neck, not quite knowing what to do with his hands. I grabbed one and put it on a tit, so he could squeeze it. I took the other to my ass, so he could open me up while he fucked me.

“Harder, Mateo. Break me. I’m your mother and you’re fucking me, son, say it.”

“Mom... Mom, I’m fucking you, I’m fucking you,” he panted, each thrust deeper. “What a cunt you have, Mom, what a cunt...”

He flipped me over on the sofa, put me on all fours, and fucked me from behind again. Now he went deeper, slamming against my depth with each thrust. He gripped my hips with both hands and drove into me faster and faster, my tits hanging and swinging to the rhythm. I felt his balls striking against my clit. I closed my eyes and let myself be fucked.

“Come inside me, son. Come inside me, don’t pull out. Fill me up.”

I came four or five times in a row; I lost count. One after another, like waves, without giving me time to recover. When he finished inside me, with a long grunt and his hands dug into my hips, I felt the hot spurts pushing deep inside. He collapsed onto my back, panting, and we were both crying a little, and neither of us really knew why.

That night we didn’t eat dinner. We slept together for the first time. We fucked twice more before sunrise: once in bed, slowly, on our sides, looking into each other’s eyes; once in the dawn shower, with water falling, him behind me, biting my shoulder while he came. At seven in the morning my cunt was raw and I had a smile so big it barely fit on my face.

***

The following weeks were the happiest I can remember. We became addicted to each other. We walked around the apartment half naked, played absurd games—cards, Parcheesi, whatever—with clothes as stakes and caresses as punishment. We invented any excuse to end up tangled on the sofa, on the kitchen counter, against the bathroom door.

He especially liked seeing me from behind, and I liked letting myself be seen like that. I’d get down on all fours on the living-room rug, ass up, and make him watch while I touched myself. Then he’d come up behind me, open me with his fingers, run his tongue over my cunt and over my asshole until I was begging him to put it in. Sometimes he fucked me in the cunt, sometimes he asked to come in my mouth, sometimes he asked me to kneel and came on my face and tits. I asked him for everything. Everything.

We learned to suck each other better, to wait for the other’s orgasm, to play with fingers, with mouths, with ass. One day he caught me in the shower and slid into me from behind while I was turned away, water running over us, without saying a word. Another day I woke up in the middle of the night with his head between my legs, eating me while I slept. We lost our shame. We lost every kind of shame.

One Sunday, when I came home from a long shift, I found him with a surprise prepared on the table. Candles, a ridiculous dinner, and bad wine. I took advantage of that moment to tell him what I had kept from him for months.

“Son, I’m happier now than I’ve ever been in my life.”

“Me too, Mom.”

“I need to tell you something.”

So I told him. Slowly, with just the right words, the way I had so many times told families at the hospital. He listened without moving. Then he broke. He cried against my chest like a small child, repeating that it wasn’t fair, that I couldn’t leave too.

“Mateo, look at me. I don’t want us to talk about this again. Life is too beautiful to waste waiting for the bad thing. Okay?”

That night we let ourselves be carried to places we hadn’t been before. We started in the bathtub, with foam up to our necks, him sitting behind me and me leaning against his chest. He ran his hands over my tits, pinched my nipples under the water, went down to my stomach and kept going. He touched my clit with two fingers, in slow circles, while he bit my neck. I took his hand and reached back to grab his cock, already hard against my lower back. We touched each other like that for half an hour, without rushing, whispering things in each other’s ear. I told him I wanted to suck him. I knelt beside the tub, with my wet tits hanging, and I ate him slowly, pulling him out to lick his balls, taking him down my throat, looking him in the face while I did it. I sucked him until he was on the verge of coming, and at that moment I took him out of my mouth and looked at him.

“Treat me however you want. Like your little whore. Like your bitch. Tell me yourself.”

We dried off as best we could and went to bed. I, who had always been the steady woman of the house, discovered that I loved putting myself in his hands. I lay on my back and asked him for something I had never asked anyone for before: to slap my cunt. At first he didn’t dare. I took his hand and made him do it. Soft slap. Another. Another, harder. I opened my legs wider, asked for more, harder. Each slap shot up my spine, hardened my nipples. I was getting so wet it was soaking his hand.

“Now put it in and call me every name you can think of, son. Everything.”

He shoved his cock inside me and started fucking me while insulting me. Clumsy, blushing, but doing it. That I was a slut, that I was the best slut he’d ever had, that I was his slut. That his mother was a bitch who let her son fuck her. I came like a madwoman. I asked him for things that made me blush to hear come out of my own mouth, and he, awkward but devoted, did them all. I asked him to put a finger in my ass while he fucked my cunt. I asked him to take it out, wipe it in my mouth, and put it back in. I asked him to come on my tits and then make me lick it off my own fingers. I asked for everything. Everything I hadn’t asked anyone for in twenty years. And the whole night we spent like that, fucking in every corner of the flat, never talking about cancer, never talking about anything except eating each other alive.

Three months later I was granted sick leave, just as the pandemic was beginning to ease. We spent our days naked. He filmed me, not to show anyone, but so we could watch it again together, curled up in bed, laughing at ourselves like two twenty-somethings.

And then came the surprise I hadn’t seen coming.

“Mateo, I think I’m pregnant.”

He leapt off the sofa like he’d won the lottery. He didn’t know what to say. He just kept hugging me and kissing my belly, still flat, as if he could feel something there. I didn’t know how much time I had left, I didn’t know if I’d live to see it, and I didn’t even know if it was a good idea. But the idea of leaving Mateo something, something of ours, something alive, seemed like the last gift I could give him.

My only sister, Carmen, two years younger than me, found out about the pregnancy almost the day my water broke. I had kept her out of the flat on purpose.

“Beatriz, really? You weren’t going to tell me anything, you little slut?” she said between laughter and reproach.

“I didn’t want to make a circus out of it. It happened, I accepted it, and you’ll understand it later.”

I told her about the cancer. I didn’t tell her the other thing. As the good sister she is, she didn’t ask me who the father was. She stayed with me through the birth, helped Mateo, and cried silently in the hospital corridor. My daughter was born healthy. We named her Lucía.

***

I came home with a baby in my arms, pains growing stronger and a smile nobody in the neighborhood could quite make sense of. We never stopped touching each other. When Lucía slept, Mateo and I were still us.

One of the last nights, when I could barely stand without medication, I asked him for something specific.

“Tonight let me tie you up.”

I tied him to the bedhead with two scarves, wrist to wrist, and covered his eyes with a third. I whispered for him to stay still, not to speak, not to move until I told him to. I ran one finger from his forehead to his chin, down his neck, across his chest, drawing his outline. His skin prickled, and his cock was already swelling against his stomach.

I started at the nape of his neck. I ran my tongue along his hairline, behind his ears, over his entire neck, so slowly that I could feel his pulse racing under my tongue. I went down his shoulders, his collarbones, to his chest. I bit his nipples very slowly, first one, then the other, until his whole body tightened and his back arched against the restraints.

“Stay still, son. Not a word.”

I kissed his navel, ran my tongue around it, bit his hip, those twenty-year-old bones showing beneath the skin. I licked the insides of his thighs without touching his cock, which was already rock hard, pointing at the ceiling, the tip shining. Every time I got near it he would gasp in expectation of contact, and I would jump over it to the other leg. I climbed up the other side, over the knee, the thigh, the groin. I licked the fold between his leg and his balls, and finally ran my tongue all the way under his balls, covering them in saliva, sucking them one by one. He twisted on the bed, pulling at the scarves, but I ignored him.

I moved back up his belly, his ribs, his armpits. I ran my tongue all the way through one armpit and felt him shudder. I licked the inside of his arm, all the way to the elbow. I bit one nipple, this time hard, and saw his cock jump against his stomach, a thread of pre-cum hanging from it all the way to his navel.

When I went back down, I couldn’t hold out any longer. I took his cock with two fingers, held it upright, and ran only the tip of my tongue over the glans. One lick. Another. A kiss on the tip. I circled the head with my lips, not going any lower, sucking only there, and with my other hand I started stroking his ass with a finger wet from my saliva, not going inside, just circling around it.

“Mom, Mom, I’m gonna...” he moaned, unable to move his hands, his head shaking from side to side beneath the blindfold.

I kept licking only the tip. I pushed the finger a little against his hole, sliding in the first knuckle.

“Hold on, son. Hold on a little.”

“I can’t, Mom, I can’t...”

He came without me taking him fully into my mouth, in spurts that splattered his belly, his chest, one reaching his chin. I had never seen him come like that. His face was red, his neck arched, his whole body trembling against the restraints. I kept my finger moving slowly inside his ass while the last spurts came out, milking him to the very last drop. Then I bent down and licked his whole belly, collecting everything with my tongue, swallowing it. I cleaned his chest with kisses. I, with a belly full of scars and medication, felt, for a moment, more alive than ever.

“Now I’m going to fuck you,” I told him.

I sat on top of him, still tied up, still blindfolded. His cock had gone halfway soft, but when he felt my wet cunt rubbing against the tip, it hardened again in seconds. I took his cock, positioned it at my entrance, and let myself sink down slowly, centimeter by centimeter, feeling it fill me to the bottom. I stayed still for a moment, seated on top of him, tasting him inside me.

I moved slowly, without rushing, forward and back, letting his cock brush just where I wanted it. I licked his armpits again, breathed in the boyish smell of him, sweaty all over. I whispered nonsense in his ear, things I’d thought about all week and hadn’t dared say. That I loved him. That if I were born again, I’d be born again just to fuck him. That he was the best lover I’d ever had. That his cock was mine. That his semen was mine.

It took me more than an hour to come, chaining together small orgasms that I held back as best I could, never letting the big one arrive. When it started to rise, I stopped, stayed still, breathed. He begged me to move, to fuck him, said he was going crazy. I told him to hold on. When the big one finally hit, I let go completely, started bouncing on him faster and faster, bracing my hands on his chest, looking at his mouth open beneath the blindfold. I came shouting his name, my tits bouncing, my cunt squeezing his cock until I milked it dry. I felt him come too, felt him fill me a second time that night, felt the hot semen running down my thighs.

I collapsed on top of him and we held each other as if we wanted to fuse together. Then I untied him, took off the blindfold, and kissed his red eyes. And I let him tie me up, and he repeated the ritual with me, step by step, with a patience no man in my life had ever had. He licked every inch of me. He put his tongue in my ass for the first time, holding there, eating me until I begged. He made me come three times just with his mouth before he put his cock in me. By the time he finally did, I had no strength left to speak. I could only bite his shoulder and cry against his neck while he came inside me, very slowly, both of us knowing without saying it that we wouldn’t have many more nights like that.

***

The day Lucía turned one, I invited Carmen and her family over to the house. I knew it was a small farewell, even if no one wanted to say it out loud. I took advantage of a moment alone with my sister to ask her to stay close to Mateo and the girl when I was no longer there. She didn’t ask me anything. She just squeezed my hand and told me Lucía would be like another daughter to her.

A few weeks later they admitted me to the hospital, and from my bed I finished writing this. I asked a friend from work, Diego, to make sure it reached someone who knew how to tell it without moralizing. I trust it will be read by whoever needs to read it.

My son is fine. He works in an industrial warehouse on the outskirts, morning shift, and spends his afternoons with Lucía. My sister comes to the house in the morning and stays until he gets back. I’m not going to judge whatever happens between them. That’s not my place. I only wish they are happy, the three of them, however they want.

Lucía is proof that that lockdown existed and that what happened between us happened. I’m not afraid of it being known. I’m afraid of it being forgotten.