What My Youngest Daughter Did to Me After the Shower

I still tremble when I remember that September morning, so many years ago, in the bathroom of my parents’ old house. I had just turned forty-nine, and I had a body that age had made more generous, softer, more my own.

The sun came in through the little window that looked out onto the courtyard. I showered slowly, unhurried, letting the warm water run down my broad back, over my hips, over my heavy ass that had always given me so much pleasure. I soaped my thick thighs, ran my hand over my belly, slid my fingers through the crack of my ass almost without thinking. By my age I was no longer ashamed to touch myself in front of the bathroom mirror.

“Mom, is there any hot water left for me?”

It was Nuria. My youngest daughter. Just turned nineteen, dark as her father, with those young mare hips she had inherited from me. She was standing in the bathroom doorway without having bothered to knock, leaning against the frame in a loose bathrobe and her eyes fixed on my naked body through the steamy glass of the shower screen.

“There’s all the hot water in the world, love,” I told her. “But I’m just finishing.”

She didn’t move. She kept looking at me with that crooked smile she had been directing at me for weeks, maybe months, when she thought I couldn’t see her. I turned off the tap and opened the screen calmly, knowing perfectly well what I was doing, knowing I could no longer pretend I didn’t see it.

My own daughter. The baby of the house. And she looks at me the way a man would look at me.

“Can you hand me the towel?” I asked.

Nuria took the large towel off the hook and, instead of passing it to me, came toward me. I was standing on the bath mat, dripping, with my hair stuck to my shoulders. She came so close I could feel her breath on my collarbone. She wrapped me in the towel from behind and began to dry me.

“I’ll dry you, Mom. You’re tired.”

I wasn’t tired, and we both knew it. But I let her do it.

She dried my shoulders first. Slowly, carefully, as if polishing something fragile. She moved down my back. The towel stayed behind when she reached my waist, and then it was her hands directly, tracing my lower back, my hips, the bases of my ass cheeks.

“Oh, sweetheart…”

“Hush, Mom. I’m not doing anything.”

Yes, she was. She squeezed my cheeks with both open hands, slowly, weighing each one. She kneaded them like dough. She pulled them apart. She brought them back together. She took advantage of the moisture still on my skin to slide her fingers with ease, and by then I already had my legs pressed together and my nipples so hard they hurt against the towel.

“You’ve got the most beautiful ass I’ve ever seen in my life,” she told me, almost in a whisper. “Did you know that?”

“Nuria…”

“I’ve been wanting to tell you for years.”

I stayed silent. My heart was pounding like a drum.

***

My daughter knelt down behind me.

She did it without asking permission, without warning, without giving me time to pretend this wasn’t happening. I was still standing, with both hands braced on the old marble sink, and suddenly my youngest girl was on her knees on the bath mat, her face level with my hips.

“Lean over, Mom. Brace yourself properly.”

Her voice had changed. She was no longer the child who asked me for money on Saturdays or the teenager who fought me for the last cookie. She was a woman speaking to another woman.

I leaned over. I gave her what she wanted without quite believing I was giving it to her. I rested my elbows on the marble, spread my legs a little, let my back curve forward. My ass opened by itself, heavy, still wet, exposing me like I had never been exposed before in front of anyone, and least of all in front of one of my own daughters.

Nuria drew in a sharp breath. I heard it.

“Jesus…” she murmured. “Jesus, Mom.”

She ran her thumbs through the crack, slowly, parting me. I squeezed my eyelids shut. I thought of a thousand things at once —my husband still asleep in the bedroom, my other children, the kitchen and breakfast and the routine of every Monday— and at the same time I thought of nothing, because then I felt the first time her tongue touched me.

It was a long lick. From bottom to top. Flat. Slow. Running along my whole crack with the calm of someone who had no intention of leaving.

“My daughter…”

“Stay still, Mom.”

I obeyed her. I confess it: I obeyed my own daughter.

Nuria licked me again. And again. And again. Each lick a little more certain, a little more insistent, as if she’d spent years rehearsing this in her head and could finally do it her own way. I felt the flat tongue, broad, hot, wet, going over every inch of sensitive skin back there. The sensation climbed up my spine like a hot shiver that would never end.

This isn’t done. This isn’t done, Carmen. This isn’t done.

But it kept being done. And I didn’t stop her.

***

When she’d been licking my whole crack for a good while, Nuria focused her tongue on one single spot. Right in the center. Right where I was most ashamed to let her stay. She started drawing slow circles around my asshole, pressing with the tip, pulling back, returning. She kissed it, too. Gave it short, wet kisses, the way you kiss the mouth of someone you really like.

“You taste delicious, Mom.”

“Hush.”

“I don’t want to hush.”

She dug her nails into my ass cheeks to spread them wider. I let out a moan I couldn’t control. Nuria gave a low, satisfied laugh, and then she pushed her tongue inside.

I felt the muscle open. Felt it give way. Felt it relax against its will and let her in. It was a new sensation, foreign, intense beyond measure. My daughter was penetrating me with her tongue. Slowly. Deeply. Pulling it out and pushing it in with a rhythm that seemed to know exactly what my body needed.

“Oh, God… oh, God… oh, my girl…”

I clutched the edge of the sink so hard my knuckles went white. My legs started to shake. My pussy, abandoned down there untouched, was soaking itself. I could feel the wetness running down the inside of my right thigh, thick, hot, shining.

Nuria saw it. Of course she saw it. She ran a finger along the inside of my thigh, collected what was dripping from me, and took it to her mouth before going back to licking me from behind.

“You’re soaked, Mom.”

“Sweetheart, please…”

“Want me to stop?”

“No.”

The answer came out before I even thought it. I didn’t even recognize my own voice. It was the voice of a lost woman, not a mother.

“Don’t stop.”

***

Nuria licked me until I came.

The first orgasm hit me almost without warning. She had her tongue deep inside again, moving it in small circles, playing with the muscle, and at the same time she’d slid two fingers forward and buried them in my pussy as if it were nothing, as if she’d spent a lifetime studying me. She found a spot. Pressed it. And everything broke.

I came, moaning softly, biting the back of my hand so it wouldn’t be heard elsewhere in the house. Pleasure rushed down from my asshole to my feet in one long, trembling discharge. My legs gave out for a second and I almost collapsed against the sink.

Nuria didn’t move her face even for an instant. She kept licking while I came. She took everything I gave her. She drank me.

“Again, Mom.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

She put her tongue back in me, this time slower, almost tenderly, and her fingers never left their place. She started rubbing slowly inside, forward, toward that little place my husband had never found in thirty years of marriage and my youngest daughter had just learned to touch in five minutes.

The second orgasm was worse. Or better. I don’t know how to say it. It came slower, deeper, from lower down, as if it were being ripped out of my belly. I let out a long cry, muffled against the shower screen, and felt a warm stream escape from my urethra and run down my leg. I had never drenched like that with anyone. Never.

Nuria went quiet for a second. Then she breathed hard through her nose.

“Mom.”

“What?”

“You came for me.”

I didn’t answer. I didn’t know what to answer.

***

When I straightened up, slowly, my legs were still soft and my heart was in my throat. I turned and leaned against the sink, looking down at my daughter.

Nuria was still kneeling on the mat, her robe half slipped off her shoulders, her lips shining, her hair mussed, and her eyes full of something that was not innocence. Her hand was inside her robe, below the waist, and from the position of her arm I understood what she’d been doing while she devoured me.

“You came too,” I said.

“I’ve been coming for years thinking about this moment, Mom.”

“Years.”

“Years.”

I bent down. Took her chin in my hand. I wiped her lower lip with my thumb, slowly, like when she was little and I’d find milk in her mouth after breakfast. She looked at me without blinking.

“This doesn’t get talked about,” I told her.

“No.”

“No one. Not your brothers, not your father, not your friends, not even yourself when you come down off the heat.”

“No one, Mom. I swear.”

I kissed her on the forehead. Then I kissed her again, shorter, at the corner of her lips. She tipped her face up a little, searching for my mouth, and I didn’t pull away.

We kissed for a couple of seconds. Just enough. Enough to know that this had not been an accident, nor the last time.

***

After that I got dressed in silence. Nuria stepped into the shower without saying a word, smiled at me with her eyes when I closed the door behind me, and stayed in there humming a song I used to sing to her when she was little.

I went down to make breakfast like every Monday. I made coffee for my husband. I served toast to my eldest son. I asked about classes. I scolded Nuria, when she finally came down with her hair wet, for taking so long in the bathroom. She laughed with her mouth full of sponge cake and said “sorry, Mom” as if we hadn’t just crossed something that could never be uncrossed.

That same afternoon she came up behind me in the kitchen, pretending she was going to get a glass, and ran her hand over my ass on top of my skirt. I didn’t turn around. I just shut my eyes for an instant and kept peeling the potato in my hands.

It was the first time.

It wasn’t the last.

But that, I confess, was the day I understood that my youngest daughter was no longer my youngest daughter. And that I, no matter how long I had pretended otherwise, was not exactly the mother they thought they had sitting at the table either.

The rest would come later. The rest, if you let me, I’ll tell another day.