What My Son Was Selling About Me to His Friends

My name is Renata, and I’m forty-three years old. I’m white, curvy, with a chest that has always attracted more attention than I ever wanted to admit. I’ve been married to Damián for twenty-two years, a businessman who gave me a comfortable life, and together we raised Bruno, who is nineteen now. What I’m about to tell happened three years ago, when I still hadn’t turned forty and was going through that stage when a woman looks in the mirror and no longer recognizes herself.

I still looked good, I knew that. But knowing it didn’t matter when no one said it to me. Damián was buried in the acquisition of another company: paperwork, lawyers, meetings that dragged on until dawn. He came home exhausted, collapsed into bed, and didn’t even look at me. I felt invisible. I wanted to feel desired, wanted someone to look at me the way you look at a woman and not at a piece of furniture in the house. I hadn’t been fucked in months, and my cunt was starting to feel it, wet every morning with no one taking care of it.

It was just an ordinary morning. Bruno in class, Damián at the office, me alone with the silence. I started cleaning so I wouldn’t think about it and went into my son’s room to put it in order.

The trash basket was full of tissue paper, and the air unmistakably smelled like semen. Well, he’s that age, I thought, and almost laughed. But then curiosity got the better of me. I wanted to know what my son was jerking off to. His laptop was open on the desk.

I know it was wrong. I did it anyway.

I opened the browser history. There were pages I expected for his age, but the video titles left me breathless: mother and son, over and over again. I stared at the screen with my heart pounding in my throat. My son comes thinking about me? No, impossible. I’m old, he’d never look at me like that.

***

I should have closed the laptop right there. Instead I kept snooping, opening folders, until I found one that said “Sale.” Inside were three subfolders, each with a name that chilled me:

Photos — ten.

Videos — twenty.

Underwear — forty.

I opened the photos and nearly fell to the floor. They were mine. My tits peeking out of a low neckline, my ass stuffed into completely unprovocative pants, stolen angles from the couch, the kitchen, the doorway. My own son was selling photos of me.

First came the shock. Then came a thought that made me ashamed the moment I formed it: if he’s selling them, it’s because someone pays to see me. His friends are jerking off to my body, his friends think their mother is worth the money.

I don’t know when indignation turned into something else. I only know that I started feeling heat in my chest, a tingling between my legs that hadn’t visited me in years. At last, after months of feeling like a ghost, someone wanted me. Several someones, actually. And they were young, with hard cocks thinking about me.

I looked at the photos with different eyes and realized something else: I dressed like a faded old lady, in clothes that did nothing for me. If Bruno was going to photograph me, at least it should be good material. The idea crossed my mind before I could stop it, and I understood that, without saying a word, I had decided to let him keep going.

I checked the videos: me walking, me bending over, my tits swinging while I cleaned. And the underwear was bras and panties I had thought were lost. They weren’t lost. He had taken them, probably after smelling them and coming on them.

I shut everything down and went back to my room trembling, my cunt drenched. I yanked my panties off and threw myself on the bed with my legs spread. I shoved two fingers inside in one go and screamed into the pillow when I felt how wet I was. I fucked myself with my hand, imagining Bruno’s friends looking at me, paying to see me, jerking off to my face. With my other hand I pinched my nipples, hard as stones, twisting them until it hurt. I added a third finger, drove them in to the knuckles, feeling how my cunt squeezed them, sloshing from how wet I was. With my thumb I crushed my clit in fast circles, merciless. When I came it was a long, brutal spasm that soaked the sheet. I bit the pillow so I wouldn’t scream, and when I opened my eyes I shoved my fingers back in, this time more slowly, savoring every centimeter, coming a second time, feeling like the most desired woman in the world for the first time in years.

***

It was early. Bruno wouldn’t be back for hours. I got ready and went to the mall determined to start over.

I bought thongs, lace sets, crop tops, sheer blouses, spandex leggings, tiny shorts, skirts that ended where the scandal began, tight dresses, and a pajama that was hardly a pajama at all. I hauled the bags home with a smile that barely fit on my face. I came back, set lunch out, and got in the shower.

I didn’t want to go overboard right away. I chose something only slightly bolder than usual, just enough for the change to be noticeable without raising suspicion. I was cooking when Bruno walked in and stopped dead in the doorway, looking at me.

—Hi, baby. What’s wrong, why are you just standing there?

—Wow, Mom. You look really pretty.

—Really? I was bored and went shopping. Do you like it?

—Yeah. You look way better than in your other clothes. Those didn’t suit you.

—I thought the same. I made a small change so I’d feel prettier. Thanks for noticing, sweetheart.

—No problem, Mom.

I turned back to keep cooking. Bruno sat down across from me at the island that served as the dining table and took out his phone. I could feel him aiming it at me. I pretended not to notice, moving just a little more than necessary, letting the neckline do its work. When he got up to leave, I saw the bulge straining his pants, the shape of his cock pressing against the fabric. I turned him on. And I love it.

***

That same afternoon I remembered I hadn’t finished cleaning. I changed into something even shorter and went out with the cloth in my hand. Bruno, hearing me, appeared on the couch with his phone, pretending to be uninterested as always.

Before, that gesture meant nothing to me. Now I knew exactly what he was doing, and it lit me up inside. So I put on a show. I stretched, bent over from the front and from behind, shook my chest for any excuse, got down on all fours to clean the lower part of the furniture, my ass high and my skirt riding up until it showed my thong. All so my son could capture every angle. By the time I finished I was sweaty and hot, my panties soaked, and he had red cheeks and an erection he couldn’t quite hide.

I showered again, put on something comfortable, and made coffee. Bruno likes it with milk. We sat down to talk and he asked me to help him open envelopes of cards, that collector hobby he’d had since he was a kid. Sometimes we did it together, so I didn’t think anything of it.

We went to his room. I sat at his desk, caught a sideways glimpse of the laptop, and thought about his “business.” Quite the businessman, just like his father. The thought, far from bothering me, filled me with pride. I lowered my neckline a bit and started opening envelopes while he stood beside me, holding his phone.

—Mom, can I ask you something? Why don’t you take photos of yourself?

—I don’t know, I used to do it a lot. But the older I get, the less I feel like it.

—You’re not old. You’re very pretty. In fact, you’re the prettiest mom in my class.

—Don’t lie —I laughed, though inside I melted.

—I’m serious. You should take photos.

—I would, but my phone is old. I barely use it, so I never changed it.

—I’ll lend you mine. Then I’ll send them to you.

—Really, baby?

—Of course, Mom.

—How sweet. Okay, let me fix myself up a little.

I touched up my makeup, let my hair down, and came back. He gave me his phone and I took several photos, making sure the neckline looked good, leaning forward so my tits spilled out of the blouse. I gave him good material and handed it back, asking him to keep the ones he liked best. I was handing him, with my own hands, what he was secretly selling.

That night Damián came home exhausted, not even noticing how I was dressed. I wanted him to tell me I was sexy, to rip my clothes off and fuck me against the wall. He said nothing. We ate dinner, he fell asleep like a rock, and I understood that I was going to look for that recognition somewhere else. That night I went into the bathroom and gave myself another handjob, biting down on a towel, thinking about my son’s hard cock on the other side of the house.

***

The days passed and my clothes became more and more revealing. I stopped wearing a bra, lived in cropped, low-cut tops with my nipples showing through the fabric, in tiny shorts that rode up between my cheeks and skirts that barely covered my thong. Bruno never stopped photographing me: selfies beside me while we opened envelopes, shots while I cooked, photos I sometimes sent him myself as if it were an innocent game between mother and son.

One morning, with him in class, I opened the laptop again. The photo folder had grown a lot. In some I looked vulgar, with my skirt hiked up and my panties showing; in all of them, wildly desirable. He had made a spreadsheet to keep track of the sales, organized and meticulous, like a real business. He was selling five times more than at the beginning. The underwear almost no longer appeared, because I had stopped wearing it and he would have noticed if any went missing.

Seeing those numbers lifted my self-esteem to the sky. I felt beautiful, powerful, alive. But I wanted more. I wanted to feel even more desired, and a crazy idea crossed my mind that I tried to erase without succeeding.

I shut the laptop, went to my room, stripped naked in front of the mirror, and started taking photos of myself. First of my tits, holding them in my hands, squeezing them until the nipples got hard and dark. Then of my cunt, parting my lips with two fingers so it showed nicely, pink and wet. From behind, with my ass raised and one hand spreading a cheek. From the front, with two fingers sunk into my cunt and my eyes closed in the middle of a moan. I took one squatting, legs spread, showing everything. Another with my fingers shining with my own wetness, sucking them clean. When I had the ones I wanted, I saved them in a separate folder in my gallery. I had to sit on the bed and masturbate for a while to bring the heat down, coming hard while imagining my son looking at them. Then I put on a transparent lace set and took a few more, biting my lip for the camera like some ordinary slut.

***

A while later I made lunch and left the phone on the island, right where Bruno sits when he gets back. As soon as he arrived, he greeted me and settled in to talk with me.

—My love, I took some photos. Go into my gallery and mark the ones you like.

—Yes, Mom.

He took the phone, opened the gallery, and his eyes went wide. I kept cooking, pretending not to notice anything, feeling the heat rise up my neck and my cunt soaking my thong. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him adjust his cock under the table, unable to contain it.

—I marked them already, Mom. I’m going to change —he said, and got up almost abruptly, his erection shamelessly outlined under his pants.

When he left, I checked the phone. He had deleted our chat after sending the images over, so I wouldn’t notice. My plan had worked perfectly. From his room I heard muffled moans and the creak of the bed: he was furiously jerking off with photos of his mother. I had to bite my knuckles not to run into his room and offer him my cunt right there.

I let a week pass. With Bruno in class, I opened his spreadsheet again. There were two new boxes. One said “exclusive photos,” and those were definitely selling, and at a high price. Without a doubt he was his father’s son, a business predator. The other box took my breath away: “entry to the house for a look.”

My son wanted to bring clients in. He wanted someone to pay to come see his mother putting on a live display, cock in hand.

I should have been scandalized. Instead I felt the same tingle as always, multiplied. Would someone pay to see me for real? To see me spread my cunt live? I shut the laptop and locked myself in my room. I tore off my clothes, threw myself naked on the bed, and took out the vibrator I’d hidden for years in the back of the drawer. I turned it on, ran it over my nipples until they hurt, slid it down my belly, and shoved it into my cunt in one thrust. I cried out, biting my arm. I fucked myself with fury, pulling it out and pushing it back in, imagining a line of young men waiting their turn to see me, to pay my son to watch his mother spread her legs. I came three times in a row, dripping, soaking the mattress, wishing that moment would arrive as soon as possible.

I didn’t have to wait long.

That very afternoon, while I was making lunch, Bruno came home from class. But he didn’t come alone. He was with one of his friends, a boy his age who looked me up and down the second he stepped through the door, stopping shamelessly on my tits and my ass. A jolt ran through me and I felt my cunt tighten on its own beneath my skirt. That boy had paid to come see me.

But that’s another story.