When My Mother Read What She Never Should Have Read

From the age of fifteen, I used to masturbate thinking about my mother.

I don’t know exactly when it started. It was something gradual, like a tide rising without you noticing until the water is already at your neck. One day I saw her come out of the shower wrapped in a towel that was too small, and something settled in my head that never left again. After that came guilt and pleasure mixed together, and the two fed on each other.

I had imagined her in every possible position for years. I had given her every script a twenty-year-old guy could invent. But between the world of imagination and the real world there was a wall that seemed impassable, so I never did anything. Just the usual hugs and kisses when coming and going from the house, a habit since I was little, which I would prolong for an extra second longer than necessary.

***

My mother’s name was Gloria. She was forty-two when what I’m about to tell happened, although nobody would have guessed that age. She was brunette, with dark eyes, and straight hair that fell to her shoulders. She was just over five foot three, with a figure the years had not treated badly: wide hips, a generous chest for her size, an ass I tried not to look at and always ended up looking at.

My father was a year older than her. They both worked as operators in a logistics plant on the outskirts of town, with rotating shifts that sometimes put them on completely different schedules. There were weeks when my father worked nights and my mother mornings, and they barely saw each other except for a few minutes while crossing the hallway. Those weeks the apartment had a different rhythm. More silence. More space.

I had taken after my father: six foot and change, broad shoulders. Next to my mother I always looked like I could break her just by hugging her. She used to say it sometimes, laughing: “You look like the older brother, not the son.” I laughed too, though for reasons I couldn’t tell her.

***

It was August, one of those nights when the heat doesn’t let up even after sunset. My father had been on the night shift for four days: he left the house around eleven and came back the next day after nine. My mother started at six in the morning, so during those weeks they didn’t even cross paths when waking up.

That particular night was Saturday. I had gone out with some friends in the afternoon and came back after midnight. I took a long shower because the heat was unbearable, ate whatever was left in the fridge, and lay down in bed. Just in my boxers, as always in summer.

I fell asleep quickly.

The thunder woke me. One of those dry, short cracks that yanks you out of sleep at once. Outside, an August storm was dumping rain and lightning flashed across the blinds every few seconds. Another crack sounded and the windows trembled slightly.

And then the door to my room opened.

***

—Oh, shit... —I heard her voice before I saw her.

It only lasted an instant: lightning lit up the room and I saw her in the doorway. Her hair down, her arms slightly crossed over her chest, though not enough to hide the dark nipples peeking between her fingers. Her heavy breasts hanging with that rounded shape of a woman who’s given birth, the soft curve of her belly marked by the shadow of black hair that ran down to her cunt. I saw all of it in that instant, burned into my mind by the flash. Before my brain had fully processed what my eyes were seeing, everything was dark again.

—I’m coming in with you until it passes —she said, and her voice had that genuine tremble I had always known when there was a storm—. You don’t mind, do you?

—Of course not —I managed to say.

She got into bed without turning on any light. I assumed she would at least be wearing panties. The August heat justified sleeping without a top. I moved aside to make room and she curled up against me, back to me, looking for the spooning position.

—Hold me —she asked.

I held her. And when I slid my arm over her body, my hand found the curve of her breast.

Naked. Nothing on. The whole breast settled into my palm as if it had been shaped for it, the hard nipple pressing into the center of my hand.

I stayed still for a moment, processing that information. I felt the heat of her skin, the softness under my palm, the living weight of flesh. My body reacted before my head did: an immediate erection that shoved against the elastic of my boxers, my cock swelling all at once until it hurt. Easy, I told myself. It’s normal. She’s just scared.

But then I lowered my hand almost without meaning to, in a gesture that I wanted to convince myself was meant to cover her, protect her. I brushed her belly, kept going down, and my fingers sank into soft, thick hair. A centimeter lower I found the lips of her cunt, hot, already a little wet. And I confirmed what deep down I already suspected.

She wasn’t wearing panties.

My mother was completely naked in my bed.

***

Outside, the storm kept going. Thunder came every two minutes and she pressed herself against me each time. I could feel her back against my chest, her big soft ass fitting against my crotch, and my erection was already impossible to hide. My cock, trapped sideways between my mother’s buttocks, throbbed with each beat and left a spot of pre-cum in the boxers she had to be noticing.

I brought my hand back to her breast because I didn’t dare leave it lower, and started stroking it slowly, drawing circles around the nipple. She let out a very soft sigh, almost inaudible, and arched her back a millimeter, pressing her breast against my hand and her ass against my cock at the same time. The elastic of the boxers gave way and the head of my dick was left free, sliding along the wet crease of sweat between her buttocks.

I should have pulled away. I should have said something, put distance between us. But I didn’t. I pinched her nipple between my index finger and thumb and felt her tremble all over.

The storm threw one of those thunderclaps that make the window frames shake. My mother jerked backward, an instinctive movement, and suddenly I felt the head of my cock sliding between the open lips of her soaked cunt. She was so wet that there was no need to push: the tip swallowed itself on the startle alone.

We both froze.

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t move. Neither did I, for a few seconds that dragged on. I felt her cunt clenching around the head of my cock, throbbing, searing hot, so wet that the juice was running down the inside of her thigh. And then I pushed slowly, carefully, sinking into her centimeter by centimeter until I buried my cock all the way inside her. I felt her open to take me, her walls adjusting to me like a hot, wet glove, until my balls were pressed against her ass.

A soft sound escaped her throat. A muffled “ah,” a woman’s moan, one that has been waiting a long time for this. Neither a protest nor a complaint. Something in between, held back, that I couldn’t quite interpret at the time. I stopped for a moment, waiting. Nothing. Only her breathing, a little more ragged, and the involuntary contractions of her cunt strangling my cock.

I started moving.

***

At first I went slowly, pulling almost all the way out and sliding back in to the hilt at an easy rhythm, expecting that at any moment she would say stop and I’d have to stop even if it cost me my life. But she didn’t say anything. She pushed her ass back slightly, looking for me, a movement so small it might not have been intentional.

But it was. I knew it. She was pushing so I’d go deeper, so she could feel me all the way to her womb.

I put my free hand on her hip and stopped being careful. I started really fucking her, with long, firm thrusts, pulling my cock all the way out and driving it back in hard to the hilt. Her ass bounced against my pelvis with each shove, a wet, slick sound of flesh slapping flesh, and she pressed herself into me, looking for every inch of cock I could give her.

Her moans started out soft, muffled, as if she were trying to hold them in by biting her lip. I stroked her breasts while I fucked her and felt her nipples harden until they were like stones under my fingers. I squeezed one whole breast with my open hand and lowered my mouth to her neck, sucking the salty sweat from her skin. The smell of her hair, the smell of my mother’s wet cunt, the heat of her body, the wet sound coming from her sex every time I thrust: it was all too real for how much I had imagined it.

—Harder —she whispered suddenly, and her voice cracked on the last syllable.

It was the first word she had said since I started fucking her. The first proof that she was as awake and as present as I was. I dug my fingers into her hip and started thrusting with all the strength I had, shaking the whole bed, making the frame creak with every blow. She took my free hand and brought it down, guiding me, and pushed my fingers between her legs so I could find her clit. I rubbed it the way she showed me, in circles, while I kept fucking her from behind.

—Yes —she gasped—, there, like that, don’t stop...

That made it different from any fantasy I had ever had. Not just because of what was happening, but because she was participating, she was asking, she was guiding my hand to her clit and pressing my fingers against her nipple.

When she came, she did it by squeezing my thighs with hers and letting out a long, guttural moan that I felt run through my entire back. Her cunt closed around my cock in waves, literally milking me, and I felt a stream of hot juice wash over my balls and run down the inside of her thigh. The contractions inside her pushed me to the edge in two seconds and I came inside her without being able to stop it, emptying myself in bursts, feeling every spasm of semen filling her womb. I thrust to the hilt and stayed there, buried in her, spilling, with my face in her hair and my teeth clenched so I wouldn’t shout.

We stayed still for a long while, me still inside, feeling my cock throb slower and slower inside her cunt while semen leaked out around the edges and soaked her thighs. The storm kept going, but farther away now. Neither of us spoke for a while.

I was the one who broke the silence, my mouth near her ear:

—I’m sorry, Mom.

She took a moment to answer.

—Don’t apologize —she said. And her voice was calm, not the voice of someone who has just been dragged into something. The voice of someone who has just arrived where she wanted to arrive—. It’s my fault for getting into your bed naked.

***

I slowly pulled away from her and my cock came out accompanied by a long, thick thread of semen that slid down her thigh to the sheet. She turned over to face me. The storm had eased and the thunder was coming muffled now, distant. We could see each other now, even if only in the dim light.

—How did you know? —I asked.

She smiled. A smile from someone who has had a secret for a long time and can finally let it out.

—Your notebook —she said.

I went cold.

—What notebook?

—The one you keep in the bedside table drawer, under the other things. I found it a couple of weeks ago when I was looking for some old photos I thought you had stored there.

The notebook. I had been writing in it for two years. Fantasies, scenes, things I imagined. Everything about her. Everything about my mother. Pages and pages I never thought anyone would read.

—I read the whole thing —she added, as if she knew what I was thinking.

—Everything —I repeated, more to myself than to her.

—Everything. Even the scene where you fuck me in the ass in the kitchen while your father’s at work. I read that one twice.

Silence. I felt myself get hard again all at once.

—And then...? —I started.

—Then I thought about it a lot. For days. I told myself I should ignore it, that it was madness, that it could never happen. —She paused briefly—. But I kept thinking about it. And one day I realized it wasn’t just because of you. It was because of me too.

—Because of you?

—Baby —she said, smiling again—, when the first thunder rolled tonight I didn’t go to your room because I was scared. Well, yes, I was a little scared. But mainly I went because I’d been waiting for an excuse like that for days.

She slid her hand under the sheet and grabbed my cock, which was already half-hard again. She squeezed it fully, measuring me, and smiled again when she felt it grow in her fist.

—And because I needed to check whether this was as big as you described in the notebook.

***

What followed that night was different. No rush, no storm to serve as a pretext, no shadow of accident. My mother threw the sheet aside and knelt on the bed between my legs. She looked me in the eyes while she took my cock in both hands and lowered her head. I watched her mouth open, her tongue come out and slowly lick my tip, gathering the mix of semen and her own juices still there. She didn’t make a single disgusted face. On the contrary: she clicked her tongue like someone tasting something good and went back down.

She took my cock into her mouth all the way to the root, until the tip touched her throat, and held it there for a few seconds before coming back up slowly. She started sucking me calmly, unhurriedly, looking me in the eyes the whole time. She took my cock out completely, licked me from base to tip like you lick an ice cream, and sucked my balls one by one, taking them whole into her mouth. I held her head with both hands, tangling my fingers in her hair, and I couldn’t believe what I was seeing: my mother giving me a real blowjob, the kind you see in movies, drool hanging from her chin and her eyes half-closed with pleasure.

—You’re going to swallow every last drop —I said, my voice hoarse.

—I’m going to swallow every last drop —she repeated, and took me to the back of her throat again.

But I didn’t let her finish like that. I pulled her up onto the bed by her hair and put her on top of me. She climbed over me and took control with a calm that left me speechless. She sat down slowly, taking my cock in her hand to guide it to her cunt, and lowered herself centimeter by centimeter until I was all the way inside. When her ass touched my thighs she let out a long sigh, closed her eyes, and started moving.

She was another person. Or maybe she was the same person she had always been, but at last she could be that person in front of me. She rode me up and down, her breasts bouncing loose with every thrust, her hair plastered to her face with sweat, her mouth open. I gripped her hips and helped set the pace, pushing up every time she came down, driving it into her womb.

She said things in my ear that I had written in that notebook believing they would never leave it. She told me I was her son and that I was fucking her like nobody ever had. She told me she wanted me to fill her again, to come inside her as many times as it took. She asked me for things that belonged to my fantasies and that she had read in my own words. There was something disturbing and completely arousing about it: that she knew exactly what I wanted before I said it.

—Put it in my ass —she whispered, leaning over me—. Like you wrote it.

She got off me, got on all fours at the edge of the bed, and looked at me over her shoulder with her ass raised. I came up behind her on my knees. I spread her buttocks open with both hands and saw her cunt red, swollen, shining with my earlier cum and her juices mixed together. I drove my cock in with one thrust and she screamed into the pillow.

I fucked her like that for a long time, gripping her hips with both hands and pulling her into me with each shove. Her ass bounced making that flat sound of flesh hitting flesh. I ran my wet thumb over her asshole and she shuddered.

—Not there, not today —she gasped—. Another day. Today just the cunt.

But she said “another day,” and those two words made me harder than I already was.

We fucked two more times that night besides the first time. The last time she got on top of me again, braced her hands on my chest, and looked straight at me while she moved over me, with that mix of pleasure and something like awe on her face, as if even she could hardly believe what she was doing. She came like that, eyes open and fixed on mine, whispering “my son” through clenched teeth, and I came inside her for the third time that night, with the last drops I had left.

When we finished, it was almost four in the morning. We stayed silent for a while, her lying on my chest, my hand stroking her sweat-damp back, feeling the semen drying between our bodies.

—Sleep a little —she told me, settling beside me—. I have to get up at five-thirty.

—And tomorrow? —I asked.

—Tomorrow is tomorrow.

But the way she said it, I knew it would never be the same again.

***

The next morning, when I got up around noon, my father was snoring in his room and my mother had already gone to work. Everything in the house was just as always. The kitchen tidy, the mail in the entryway, the fridge with the same old things.

As if nothing had happened. As if everything had happened.

***

In the weeks that followed, we learned how to move within the space we had given ourselves. We were careful. We calculated the schedules, the days when the apartment would be empty, the dead hours in the afternoon. It was never careless. Never thoughtless.

There was something in the way she looked at me when the three of us were at the table that I would have taken a long time to decipher if I hadn’t known what I knew. A long look, a half-smile, an accidental brush in the kitchen. The private language of two people sharing something that cannot be named in front of anyone else.

My mother was smart. Much more than I had assumed. She knew exactly how much space to take up and when to step back. She never gave anyone reason to suspect anything. With my father, with the world, she was the same old Gloria.

Only with me was she something else. Only with me did she lift her skirt in the kitchen when my father got in the shower and offer herself braced against the counter, with a whisper of “quick, very quick,” and I would fuck her with her clothes on and cover her mouth with my hand while she came in less than two minutes. Only with me, some afternoons, did she kneel in the hallway before leaving for work and take my cum in her mouth with the calm of someone who doesn’t want to be late but doesn’t want to finish too soon either.

***

I threw the notebook away a month after that night. I didn’t need it anymore. What I had written there for two years had stopped being fantasy.

Sometimes I wondered whether I should feel guilty. And sometimes I did, of course I did. But there was something stronger than guilt: the certainty that what existed between us was real. Not an accident. Not a slip with no consequences. A choice we had both made with our eyes open.

My mother had chosen it before I did. She had only been waiting for the storm that would give her the excuse to begin.

And so we continued for more than two years. With all the caution in the world. With all the intensity that can fit inside a secret belonging to only two people.