Marcos, 38, had just died of a heart attack. He was married to Marta, 35, and together they had a son, Pedro. Marcos and Marta met on the street, back in their youth. They faced a difficult life, as they were orphans and, from a very early age, began struggling to achieve some stability. They lived in a medium-sized city, and both always dreamed of having a small farm and producing goods to sell. The opportunity arose with a farm in an isolated place. Without thinking twice, they set off for that small farm.
On the small farm there was nothing, so they began building everything from scratch. Over time, things gradually came together and, in the meantime, they had Pedro. They produced vegetables, pigs and sheep to sell in the village, which was 350 km away. In that village, a middleman bought the products and animals to resell them later in the city.
It was a rather hard life, but at least they were building something that was theirs — until Marcos had a heart attack and died, mainly due to the lack of medical assistance, because of the distance. With the death certificate in hand, Marta and Pedro buried Marcos in a place prepared on the farm.
Pedro was always close to his mother, very affectionate and attentive. Marta cried a lot, and Pedro stayed by her side, giving her affection and a shoulder to cry on. Since Marcos’s death, the house had seemed emptier, quieter, as if the very air had become heavier. Marta still couldn’t believe that her husband had gone just like that, so suddenly, without even a goodbye. Marcos had died far from any hospital, far from any doctor, with only the pain in his chest and the helplessness of someone who could do nothing. Marta remembered watching him fall, holding his hand, speaking to him, screaming for help — but there was no one. No one but the silence of the farm and the cruel distance from the city. Pedro, still so young, had to be strong before his time. He was the one who helped his mother deal with the death certificate, who dug the place where they buried Marcos, who held Marta when she almost fainted over the fresh earth. And now, every night, he was the one who comforted her.
That night, in the living room, embraced on the sofa, Marta spoke:
MARTA: — Son, I think the best thing is for us to go back to the city. (Marta speaks through her tears.)
PEDRO: — No, Mother. This is our achievement. (Pedro kisses his mother on the head.) I’ll leave school and start taking Dad’s place to help you, Mother.
MARTA: — NO. (Marta raises her voice.) You have to study, son. You can’t give up on school.
PEDRO: — But, Mother, the school is far away… (Marta interrupts.)
MARTA: — That’s why we have to go to the city.
PEDRO: — Mother… (Pedro speaks calmly.) What we have here is ours. We were the ones who achieved it. In the city we’ll have nothing, and I doubt anyone would want to buy the farm. I want this, Mom. (Pedro kisses his mother on the head again.)
MARTA: — But, son… (Pedro interrupts.)
PEDRO: — Mother, it’s decided. Let me take Dad’s place. I really want this.
MARTA: (Marta adjusts herself and looks at her son with red eyes and speaks.) — Are you sure, son?
PEDRO: — I am, Mom. (Pedro hugs his mother, kisses her neck and speaks in her ear.) I love you, Mom.
MARTA: — I love you too, son
That night, Pedro slept with his mother, embraced in a gesture of affection and care. The next day, the new normal began: Pedro took Marcos’s place in the work on the farm. The following night, Marta again asked her son to sleep with her — an act that, from then on, would become habitual.
Mother and son then began to keep the farm going, side by side. They got up early, divided the tasks and faced the difficulties of daily life together. Over time, they became increasingly close, and that closeness helped them cope better with the pain of losing Marcos. The emptiness he left behind never completely disappeared, but the constant presence of one another made the weight more bearable.
At night, after a long day of work, they found comfort in each other’s company. Several times, especially on Fridays and Saturdays, they had movie nights embraced on the sofa, watching films until late, sharing silences and smiles. Those moments became their refuge, a way of reconnecting with life and with hope. Little by little, what had once been only pain gave way to a deep complicity, made of memories, shared work and a love that kept them on their feet.
The months went by, slow and heavy, but also full of a routine that kept them on their feet. The work on the farm gave no respite: the animals had to be tended to, the land cultivated, the products prepared to sell in the village. Marta and Pedro divided the tasks as best they could, and each day ended with the two of them exhausted, but with a sense of duty fulfilled.
That night, however, everything went more slowly. They had left for the village late, and the journey back seemed never to end. When they finally got home, it was almost fully dark. Tiredness weighed on their shoulders, on their arms, on their eyes. And, to make matters worse, dinner still had to be made. Marta set the things down on the kitchen table and sighed deeply. Pedro leaned against the counter and ran his hand through his sweaty hair.
PEDRO: — Mother, take your bath first, I’ll wait. I still have to set the table and make dinner.
MARTA: — No, son, you go. You worked all day too, and tomorrow you have to get up early.
PEDRO: — And so did you, Mother. Come on, I’ll make dinner in the meantime.
MARTA: — Pedro…
PEDRO: (Pedro approaches, gently takes his mother’s arm and says.) — You go, Dona Marta.
MARTA: — Dona? (Marta raises an eyebrow, surprised by the address, and then takes her son’s arm.) — Since when am I “Dona Marta” to you?
PEDRO: — Since you deserve to be treated like a queen, Mother. (Pedro smiles, tired but sincere.)
MARTA: (Marta laughs softly, a tired but genuine laugh.) — Then let’s both go.
PEDRO: (Pedro is astonished, his eyes wide.) — Really, Mother?
MARTA: — Of course, son, what’s the problem? We’re mother and son, there’s nothing wrong with it. We’re not children anymore, and the tiredness is the same for both of us. Let’s go.
PEDRO: — But…
MARTA: — No “buts,” son. Let’s go. (Marta speaks as she gently pulls her son along.)
PEDRO: (Pedro lets himself go, without resisting, as if in that gesture he found a comfort he no longer knew how to ask for.) — All right, Mother. Let’s go. (Both go to the bathroom. Marta enters first, and Pedro follows her, still a little hesitant, but confident that, with his mother, everything seemed lighter.)
Marta begins running the water over her body. The heat of the shower makes her skin glisten as she picks up the soap and starts lathering herself with slow movements, running her hands over her shoulders, her breasts and her belly. Until she turns and sees her son.
Pedro is hard. The erection is obvious, thick and throbbing, pointing right at her. He quickly covers himself with his hand, trying to hide it, his face already flushed with embarrassment.
PEDRO: — Sorry, Mom… — he murmurs, voice low and awkward, eyes down.
Marta freezes for a second. She tries to look natural, but her gaze drops inevitably to her son’s cock. It’s been a long time since she’s seen a cock… and never one so young and so hard. She swallows, then forces a calm smile.
MARTA: — It’s alright, son. — her voice comes out steady, almost maternal. — Don’t feel bad. It’s normal for a man to get like that when he sees a woman’s body. I’m your mother, but I’m also a woman.
She keeps soaping herself, now more aware of her own movements, and smiles sideways, trying to ease the tension in the air.
MARTA: — Now take that hand away and start washing yourself. — she lets out a soft, casual little laugh. — You’re not going to stand there hiding all day, are you?
Pedro hesitates, his hand still covering the erection. His fingers tremble slightly. He’s never been like this in front of his mother. Shame burns his face, but her voice is so calm that he ends up obeying, slowly lowering his hand. His cock springs free, even harder now that she’s looking at it.
Marta looks away for a moment, pretending to focus on the soap, but her eyes return to him almost immediately.
Pedro obeys. He lowers his hand and starts washing himself, still hard and throbbing. Soap runs down his torso and thighs, but the erection won’t go down. Marta stays under the water, mostly with her back to him, but every time she turns — to grab the shampoo, to run a hand through her hair, simply to shift position — her eyes drop almost without meaning to down to her son’s cock. Sometimes it’s a quick glance, almost unconscious. Other times it lingers a second longer than it should.
She finishes washing first. She turns off her side of the water, runs a hand over her body to rinse off the remaining suds and looks at Pedro, who is still soaping his chest, his cock pointing upward, ignoring it as best he can.
MARTA: — Son, I’m going to make dinner. You can stay here and try to… take care of that.
She gives a small smile, her eyes deliberately dropping to his erection, then steps away. She gets out of the shower, grabs a towel and wraps it around herself without turning back. The bathroom door closes behind her with a soft click.
Pedro is left alone.
The water keeps falling. He looks down at the cock that refuses to soften. He’s never stayed hard this long. He doesn’t know what to do. He’s heard the guys at school talk about “taking care of it,” but he’s never actually tried. And now, alone in the shower, the only image that keeps coming to his mind is his mother naked — her wet breasts, her stomach, the way the soap slid between her legs. Every time he tries to think of something else, the image returns, sharper.
He stands there, waiting for the erection to go down on its own. Minutes pass. The water starts to cool. Nothing.
On the other side of the house, Marta has already dried off in the bedroom, put on a loose shirt and light pants, and is in the kitchen preparing dinner. The prolonged silence starts to feel strange. She checks the clock. Too much time has passed.
MARTA: — Pedro!
Her voice echoes through the house.
Pedro jumps. He shuts off the water in a hurry, grabs a towel and dries himself any which way. His cock is still hard, pushing against the fabric. He struggles into his underwear, then a pair of loose shorts, trying to shift the erection to the side, hide it as best he can. The cloth still shows the outline.
When he walks into the kitchen, the food is already on the table. He sits down quickly, legs pressed together, body slightly leaned forward. Marta serves the plates and only then looks at him. Something about his posture feels off. Her son is too quiet, too flushed.
Her eyes drop.
Even under the shorts, the shape of his still-hard cock is impossible to miss.
Marta lets her gaze linger a second longer. Then she lifts her eyes to his face and smiles sideways, almost imperceptibly.
Marta watches her son for another second. The bulge under his shorts is still obvious. She frowns slightly, but her voice comes out calm:
MARTA: — Son… you didn’t “take care” of that?
Pedro lowers his head even more. His ears turn red.
PEDRO: — Ahh… no, Mom. (he answers awkwardly, his voice almost a murmur)
MARTA: — But you stayed in the bathroom for so long… (she says with genuine confusion)
PEDRO: — Mom, it’s just… (he pauses for a long moment, swallows hard and continues, his discomfort growing) …I don’t know how to deal with it.
Marta stays quiet for a moment. Surprise shows on her face, but right after comes understanding. They’re isolated. If his father never talked to him about this, it’s normal that he doesn’t know. Pedro never had close friends, never had those kinds of conversations. Everything he knew came from bits and pieces overheard at school.
She puts down her fork, crosses her hands on the table and looks at him more gently.
MARTA: — Your father never talked to you about this?
PEDRO: — No, Mom. (he answers with his face down, almost ashamed to admit it)
Marta takes a deep breath. She realizes that from now on she also has to take on that role. The role his father should have filled. Teaching him. Explaining the things about the body. She forces a small smile, trying to ease the atmosphere.
MARTA: — Son, don’t feel like that. It’s normal. (her voice comes out low and calm) Mom can explain to you how to take care of it. Actually… that’s called an erection. A man gets like that when he feels desire. When the body reacts to something that turns him on.
Pedro lifts his eyes a little, curious and still flushed.
PEDRO: — Ahh… really, Mom? But… isn’t it kind of wrong?
Marta takes a second to answer. She chooses her words carefully.
MARTA: — No, son. It’s not wrong. (she shakes her head slowly) You’re becoming a man. And here we live isolated. Since your father died… I’m the one who has to explain these things to you. Someone has to do it.
She keeps her eyes on him, calm, but inside she feels the strange weight of the situation. Her son still with the erection visible under his shorts, sitting at the table, waiting for his mother to explain what to do with it.
Marta stands up from the table calmly. The chair scrapes lightly against the floor.
MARTA: — Son, pull the chair out… lower your shorts and underwear. (Pedro obeys without arguing. His face is burning. He pulls the chair back, lifts himself enough to push his shorts and underwear down to mid-thigh. His cock springs free, still hard, the tip already shiny. He doesn’t know where to put his hands, so he leaves them resting on his thighs, fingers trembling slightly.)
Marta kneels in front of him. Her gaze lingers a second on her son’s cock before she reaches out. Her fingers wrap around it gently, warm and firm. Pedro lets out a short breath, surprised by the contact.
MARTA: — Son, to make an erection go down you need to jerk off. (her voice is low, almost instructional. She starts moving her hand slowly, up and down with a soft, steady rhythm.) — Like this, see?
PEDRO: — Y-yes, Mom…
Her hand keeps the motion, slow, the thumb occasionally brushing over the head. Pedro squeezes his thighs, his breathing growing more uneven. He’s never felt anything like this. The pleasure rises through his lower belly in a strange, intense way.
After a while, Marta slows down and lets go.
MARTA: — Now you do it. (Pedro hesitates only a second. Then he wraps his own hand around his cock, copying the rhythm his mother showed him. The movements are a bit clumsy at first, but he soon finds the pace. The pleasure increases. His eyes close almost on their own.)
Marta watches him in silence for a moment.
MARTA: — Son… you can use spit to lubricate. It feels better. (Pedro stops, brings his hand to his mouth, wets the palm with saliva and grips his cock again. The movement is smoother now, the wet sound filling the quiet of the kitchen. His breathing grows heavier. His hand speeds up without him noticing.)
Marta remains kneeling in front of him, watching, her face calm, but her eyes attentive to every reaction from her son.
Inevitably, it was affecting her. After all, she was a woman, and it had been quite a while since she’d had a man. Her body was responding despite everything — a low heat in her belly, a tension she tried to ignore. Still, she kept her composure. She remained kneeling, watching her son in silence.
She noticed when his movements started to speed up. His hand rose and fell faster, the rhythm losing its controlled pace and gaining urgency. Marta found herself wondering, without meaning to, if he was thinking about her naked body. The idea excited her in a strange, forbidden way: knowing that such a young man felt that kind of desire for her, that he was jerking off with so much intensity… What ruined the thought was the certainty that this man was her son.
Caught up in those thoughts, she didn’t notice in time.
Pedro suddenly sped up, his body tensing. He let out a low, rough moan. The first jet of cum shot out hard and hit her in the face, hot and thick. The next ones landed on her chest, staining the shirt over her clothes. Marta pulled back instinctively, startled, eyes wide.
Pedro, still breathing hard, his hand trembling around his cock, looked at her worriedly.
PEDRO: — Sorry, Mom… (his voice comes out weak and embarrassed)
Marta wiped her face with her hand, cleaning the liquid that was running near her mouth. She tried to pull herself together quickly, forcing normality.
MARTA: — It’s alright, son. (her voice comes out a little hoarse, but controlled) That liquid is semen. It’s what, if you put it inside a woman, can make a baby. In this case… they’d be my grandchildren. (she lets out a short laugh, trying to lighten the moment, even though her heart is still beating faster than she’d like)
The strong smell and the warmth of the liquid on her skin were still there. Marta kept her eyes on her son, who was still breathing deeply, his cock slowly softening between his fingers.
Marta stands up, still with the cum on her clothes, and sits back down at the table. The fabric of her shirt is damp and the strong smell rises to her. She was aroused — her body still reacting to what she had just seen and felt — but she forced an expression of normality. She adjusted her posture, ran a hand over her skirt and smiled at her son.
MARTA: — There, son. Now you know how to make an erection go down. (she gives a calm, almost maternal smile)
Pedro was still breathing deeply, his body relaxed from the orgasm. He looked at her with gratitude and a little embarrassment.
PEDRO: — Thank you, Mom… It feels so good. (his voice comes out low, still a bit breathless. Then his eyes drop to her shirt and he notices the clear stain) Sorry, Mom, for getting you dirty…
Marta looked down as well. She saw the cum on her clothes and smelled it more strongly. For a second her stomach tightened — not from disgust, but from something more complicated. Still, she kept the smile.
MARTA: — It’s alright, son. It’s normal. (brief pause) Shall we eat?
PEDRO: — Yes, Mom.
The two of them started eating in silence. The sound of the cutlery was the only noise in the kitchen. Pedro seemed lighter, almost relieved. Marta, however, felt the opposite. The arousal was still lingering in her body — a stubborn heat between her legs, the memory of his moan, of the hot jet on her face. At the same time, a heavy doubt was beginning to settle: had she done the right thing? Had she crossed a line she shouldn’t have?
She tried not to let any of it show on her face. She chewed slowly, smiled at her son now and then, and kept the conversation to the bare minimum. Inside, though, the thoughts wouldn’t stop.
They ate in silence for several minutes. Pedro, relieved and still a little sleepy from the orgasm, ate with appetite. Now and then he lifted his eyes to his mother and smiled, as if he had just discovered a good secret and wanted to share it only with her.
Marta could barely swallow. The cum on her shirt had already dried a little, but the smell was still there, mixed with the aroma of the food. Every time her son looked at her with that open, grateful expression, she felt a strange tightness in her chest — a mixture of tenderness, guilt and a desire that refused to disappear.
When they finished, Pedro stood up to clear the plates.
PEDRO: — I’ll wash up, Mom. You rest.
MARTA: — You don’t have to, son…
PEDRO: — I want to. (he smiles again, simple) Thank you again… for teaching me.
MARTA: — All right, son. (she stands, gives him a short kiss on the head and leaves the kitchen toward the bedroom)
In the bedroom, Marta sits on the edge of the bed. The silence of the house wraps around her. She stays there quietly, hands resting on her thighs, trying to organize her thoughts.
“I had to instruct him,” she tells herself. “There was nothing wrong with that. We didn’t have sex. I only taught him how to deal with his body. Any responsible mother would do the same, if she were isolated like we are.”
The argument felt solid. Logical. Safe.
But the smell of the cum was still present. Stronger now, in the closed bedroom. Marta looks down and sees the pale stain on the shirt. She hesitates only a second. Then she pulls the garment over her head and is left in just her bra. The stain is right in front of her eyes. The fabric is still slightly damp in places.
A sudden, violent temptation rises in her throat: to run her tongue over that stain. To taste it.
The thoughts split immediately.
In favor:
It’s only cum. It was already on her face minutes ago. The taste wouldn’t be strange. And her body is asking for it. She’s been aroused since the kitchen, since she watched her son come, since she felt the hot jet. One quick lick, just to kill the curiosity… no one would know. Pedro is in the kitchen. She’s alone. It would be only a moment. A small slip.
Against:
That would no longer be teaching. That would be something else. Crossing a line on purpose. Not out of necessity, not for instruction — out of desire. And desire for her son. he is still her son. If she runs her tongue over that stain, what comes next? Tomorrow? The day after? She would blame herself for days. Maybe weeks.
Marta holds the shirt with both hands, fingers tightening on the stained fabric. The smell rises stronger. Her tongue presses against the roof of her mouth, almost by instinct.
She stays like that for several seconds, still, the internal war happening in silence.
Finally she opens her hand. The shirt falls to the floor beside the bed.
She stands, goes to the wardrobe, takes another clean shirt and puts it on quickly, as if she could push the temptation away with the movement. Her heart is still beating too fast.
She sits on the bed again, now in the clean shirt, and breathes deeply.
“No,” she murmurs quietly to herself. “Not this time.”
But the arousal hasn’t disappeared. And she knows it.
Marta decides to take a cold shower, hoping to kill that stubborn arousal. She goes into the bathroom, takes off the clean clothes she had just put on and turns on the shower. The freezing water hits her shoulders and runs down her chest, making her shiver immediately. She forces herself to stay under the stream, teeth slightly clenched, trying to let the cold take over her body.
It doesn’t work.
The heat between her legs is still there, throbbing, indifferent to the temperature of the water. Every time she closes her eyes, the image returns: her son’s cock in her hand, the rhythm she herself taught him, the rough moan when he came, the hot jet hitting her face. The cold only makes her skin more sensitive.
Marta rests her forehead against the wet tiles. Her breathing is uneven. One hand slides down almost without her deciding — over her stomach, over her mound, and her fingers find themselves already wet, and not just from the water.
She starts touching herself.
The movements are slow at first, tentative, as if she were still negotiating with herself. Two fingers slip between the lips of her pussy, find her swollen clit and start circling. A low sigh escapes her, muffled by the sound of the water.
The pleasure rises too fast.
She speeds up. Her fingers move with more pressure, more urgency. The other hand goes up to a breast, pinches the already hard nipple. In her mind, her son’s cock is there again — thick, throbbing, the head shiny with precum. She imagines the weight of it on her tongue, the taste, the heat. She imagines it’s his hand, not hers, touching her like that.
The pleasure is intense, almost aggressive. Her legs tremble. Marta bites her lower lip to keep from moaning out loud.
At the same time, guilt tightens her chest like a cold hand.
“He’s your son.”
“You’re masturbating thinking about his cock.”
“There’s no going back from this.”
The two feelings mix and, instead of stopping her, only turn her on more. The forbidden edge makes everything sharper. Her fingers move faster, her hips push against her own hand. The cold water is no longer felt. Only the heat, only the tension climbing through her lower belly, tightening, demanding release.
When the orgasm hits, it’s strong and silent. Her body clenches, her legs give slightly, a muffled moan escapes against the tiles. The waves of pleasure run through her for long seconds, mixed with a hot shame that doesn’t fade even after the climax.
Marta stays leaning against the wall, breathless, fingers still resting on her pussy, the cold water running over a body that now feels far too sensitive.
She closes her eyes. The pleasure still throbs. So does the guilt.

NOTES:

I’m Marcos, I’m 36 years old, and this text is my own work.

I’d like to find someone with whom I can continue this story, write others, or simply talk about the most diverse subjects, without prudishness or judgment. I already have an idea of the direction I want to take with this story, but two or more heads always think better than one.
If you’re interested, contact me at:
– Email: sandrorpg36@gmail.com
– Site message box, if one exists.

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