Coming Home

In this chapter, Mateo deepens his relationship with his Abuela while learning some shocking family news. Warning: I like very slow burn stories! There is some spiciness in this chapter, but do not expect a full-blown orgy. I'm interested in exploring what it's like for characters to break taboos in something close to a realistic way, while exploring their inner worlds. We're still fooling around at this point, so if you prefer quick action, look elsewhere. Thanks for reading and commenting!

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Mateo drifted towards his house that night, his body humming with a buoyant warmth. Everything felt less jagged. His Abuela's touch, her breath, her willingness to show her truth to him had unknotted something deep in his chest. For the first time, he felt... okay. Okay to be himself, to have desires, needs, wants. Okay to take up space. His mind reeled at how fundamentally his perspective had shifted from the seemingly small act she'd performed. A small act, though made earth-shatteringly profound because of who had performed it.

As his parent's house came into view, his steps became heavier. He heard an abrasive voice, tinny and sharp, somewhere in the background. It hurled accusations, calling him pervert. Disgusting, filthy, sinner. Sick. He had kissed his own grandmother, let her suck his cock. He'd watched his cum dribble down her chin. What kind of person was he? He had crossed an uncrossable line. An icy feeling of shame crept into his chest and burned his cheeks, threatening to overwhelm him. He felt his old pattern return, here to save him, urging him to turn from the abuse the voice heaped on him. To hide from it, to avoid the discomfort.

But no. Mateo's feet slowed, stopped. Planted firmly, he turned to the voice inside and simply stared at it, his courage building by the moment. Without judgement, without fear, he leveled the weight of his full attention on that voice. As he did, memories came flooding back. The music, their dancing, his Abuela's tears of gratitude at what it had meant for her to relive that moment from her past. The depth of love he had felt for her when he kissed her, and how she'd accepted him fully.

He thought even of all the small moments of love and affection she had shown him over the years, things that he had disregarded because they hadn't fit his narrative. The voice became weak, almost pathetic in the light of his attention. Mateo realized he was the one in charge. He would decide what meaning to make of his life, and he knew deep down that the moment he'd shared with his Abuela was holy.

It was also hot, he thought with a wry smile. It was amazing to him how religion treated the purest expression of love as something dirty and sinful. He shrugged, letting that old worldview drop like a ratty old jacket he no longer needed.

He let himself quietly into the silent house, feeling a satisfied weariness creep in like he'd just fought off an attacker and lived to tell the tale. He didn't bother with a shower, not ready to wash off Elena's lingering scent as he clumsily disrobed and collapsed into bed. He smiled at the memories triggered by the faded band posters on the walls of his childhood bedroom. Sleep crept up behind him, cradling him in a warm, dreamless rest until morning.

---

The sun sliced through the blinds, sharp and insistent. Mateo stirred, eyes blurry and blinking against the light. He felt grounded and calm, a flutter of excitement at the memory of the night before. He smirked as he felt the judging voice trying to catch him again, impotent like a dog chasing a passing car. A newfound power coursed through his veins at the simple realization that he was the one who let the voice run wild. Sure, he may may not have created it, but now? He revoked its permission with a giddy finality.

Mateo stood, pulling on a pair of jeans and faded T-shirt. The fabric was soft against his skin, which brought to mind the softness of his Abuela's hands against his skin. His head tilted, sensing something before he became consciously aware of it. The house was quiet, but in the wrong way. The stillness was different, like a guitar string about to snap.

He padded downstairs, hearing a clatter from the kitchen, the sharp scent of bleach intruding on his morning peace. His mother was there, her hair in a messy bun, frayed strands that seemed hell-bent on escape. She scrubbed the dishes like she was trying to punish them for being dirty, her muscles straining with a ferocity bordering on violence. She didn't look up as he entered, but her shoulders stiffened, a silent acknowledgement.

"Morning," Mateo ventured cautiously, his voice still rough with sleep.

"Morning," she muttered, the word clipped. The sink was piled with dishes, though Mateo couldn't remember the last time she'd left dirty dishes in the sink overnight. Maybe never.

He hesitated, watching her. The air felt wrong, heavy with latent violence. He knew he was trapped, unable to retreat without consequence, but fearing what was to come. "Everything okay, mamá?" he asked hesitantly, already knowing the answer to his question.

"Fine," she snapped, not looking at him. A plate clattered in the sink, miraculously unbroken. "Just trying to keep this place from falling apart. Someone's got to."

The edge in her voice hit him like a slap, sharp and unprovoked. Mateo's first instinct was to shrink back, to escape like he always had. Growing up, he'd learned to tiptoe around his mother's moods. Her anger was always lurking around the corner, never exploding all at once, but released in controlled bursts at innocent passers by. The key was to keep moving, to let someone else absorb the impact, which usually meant his father. He seemed to weather her moods without a care.

Mateo realized the house was empty save the two of them, and he was caught without a buffer. Yet something shifted in him. A quiet, indignant resolve kindled by his Abuela's warmth the night before, an insistence that he deserved to take up space. He didn't need this. It wasn't his responsibility to manage his mother's moods. He had done nothing wrong.

"Mamá," he said, his voice quiet but steady, "I don't like being spoken to like that. I'm just trying to check in with you." He could scarcely believe he had uttered those words, and took them as the first real sign that he had indeed changed.

His cheeks burned all the same with the anticipated conflict. However, he realized with surprise that he didn't regret them, no matter how mad it would make his mother. His words hung in the air, a line drawn in the sand. Isabel froze, her hands still in the sink, water dripping from her fingers. As Mateo's shoulders tensed in anticipation, he watched hers slump. She slowly turned to face him, her eyes red-rimmed, tired, and glassy.

Her face was a mask of pain. "Dios mío, Mateo," she whispered, her voice cracking like thin ice. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean--" She pressed a wet, soapy hand to her mouth, stifling a sob. The sponge dropped into the sink, forgotten, as she tried to busy herself looking for a towel to dry her hands. She turned away, but not before he saw tears begin to roll down her cheeks.

He stared, completely caught off guard. This was not the reaction he was expecting. She was always the one who held it together, who kept everything ordered while his father disappeared into his own head. Seeing her unravel felt like watching a pillar crumble. His chest tightened, his indignation instantly forgotten as he tried to process his next move. His old instinct to avoid difficult feelings warred with the empathy bubbling up from his center. His family avoided uncomfortable things. They didn't cry, didn't talk about what was bothering them. He should retreat, to let her rebuild her walls in private. But he couldn't.

"Hey," he said, crossing the kitchen towards her slowly. He hesitated for a moment, then pulled her into a hug. She stiffened, then melted against him quicker than he expected, her face buried in his shoulder. Her tears soaked through his shirt, warm and vulnerable as her body shook. "It's okay," he murmured, his hand resting on her back. "Whatever it is, it's okay."

Isabel clung to her son, her breath hitching as she tried to get control of her sobs. For a long moment, they stood there, the kitchen quiet except for the steady drip of the faucet, and her sniffling. Mateo didn't understand what was happening, but he understood that his presence was needed. He recognized the echo of this feeling from the night before, with his Abuela.

Finally, she drew back, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. Her face was raw, unguarded, her hastily-applied makeup a smeared mess. For the first time, Mateo saw her age--how tired she looked. Not from wrinkles, but a soul-deep weariness in her eyes. He found himself surprised to see just a person, a woman, who was going through something. It was strange to him how little you can notice about a person you know so well.

"Can we sit?" she asked, her voice small. "There's... there's something I need to tell you."

---

A couple heavy hours later, Mateo breathed the free, late morning air. His arms strained, laden with tupperware. Leftovers, for his Abuela. His mamá was attempting to get back to business as usual, but he knew she needed some time to regain her center after unburdening herself of the news she'd just shared.

Mateo's head spun with the memory of that conversation. Divorce. Infidelity. Isabel had wanted to pretend just a bit longer, to keep it together so as not to ruin her mother's birthday party and Mateo's homecoming. But last night, while she cleaned after everyone had left the party, Isabel saw a text light up Javier's phone from *her*. She had known about it, had forgiven Javier more times than she could count. He had promised it was over, and she always believed him. But something about last night was different. She had broken, finally. She kicked him out for good, then crawled into bed and cried herself to sleep.

Mateo felt his walls crumble as she shared her pain and loneliness with him. The weight of his father's transgressions threatened to crush him. Some part of him knew, and was not surprised. But the thing that was most surprising was how well his mother's anger clicked into place for him. He understood, and felt the weight of it. His father had treated her like worthless garbage, and in response, she had tried to make herself perfect. She wanted to be the woman Javier wanted, trying to control everything around her from fear of losing her family. Mateo felt a cold hatred towards his father begin to bloom. He realized the coldness his mother showed to him was probably rooted in her trying to live up to his father's ideal. To raise Mateo to be the strong independent man who didn't feel his feelings.

As she shared, he saw the burden she carried clearly for the first time. She was so incredibly lonely, yoked to a man who didn't want her, trying to keep her life from falling apart. It was a wonder she lasted as long as she did. His image of her--the judgemental, never-quite satisfied, control freak--crumbled before his eyes. In its place, he saw just a girl. Hurting, vulnerable, and in need of comfort. He told her then that his father was a fool who didn't deserve her. He meant it.

And honestly? Fuck him.

The old Isabel emerged then. She apologized for oversharing, despite Mateo's insistence he was grateful for it. She asked him to give her a bit of space to get herself together, and not to tell anyone yet--not even his Abuela or sisters. She needed to be the one to do it. He agreed, as she shooed him out the door, his arms full of leftovers for his Abuela. He wanted to respect her need for space, and frankly he needed it too.

The cool morning air helped wash away the heaviness. Before long, he turned onto his grandmother's street and his thoughts shifted. Memories from last night arose unbidden, a surprising rush of lewd thoughts that felt surprising to Mateo given the intensity of the morning. He thought of the warmth of Abuela Elena's mouth, the wet sounds as her tongue swirling his head. Despite himself, he felt his cock twitch in anticipation.

And yet, a lingering fear gnawed at him. What had last night meant? Not for him, but for his Abuela? Would she feel ashamed, guilty? Would she be angry with him, or worse--cold and distant? Pretend it didn't happen?

Her house came into view, the garden bursting with color. Mateo stilled the anxiety roiling his gut, feeling as prepared as he could be for what was to come. He knocked on the door, his pulse thrumming in his ears.

"Come in, mijo!" Elena's voice called, warm and familiar. Well, he thought, at least she didn't sound mad.

He stepped inside, the air was cool and scented with lavender. The living room was empty, but the terrace doors were open, the sheer white curtains wafting in the late morning breeze. He found her there, lounging in a wicker chair, a book open on her lap. She wore a silk robe, deep green, tied loosely at the waist. Her silver hair hung loosely over her shoulders. A teacup steamed beside her, and the morning light caught her skin in a gentle glow. She was smiling at him with a radiance that calmed the uncertainty in his belly, her eyes crinkling at the corners in joy.

"Mijo! If it isn't my favorite visitor," she said, setting the book down.

He smiled warmly as he crossed the terrace, leaning down to kiss her cheek. Her skin was soft and warm. The memory of her mouth on him flooded back, vivid and unyielding. He felt like a horny pervert, standing before his grandmother thinking such lewd thoughts. He shook the feeling off and stood, holding up the containers. "Hola, Abuela. Mamá said you forgot your cake. And other leftovers."

She laughed, patting the chair beside her. "That woman. She just wants the cake out of her house." She smiled warmly at him. "Sit, mijo, tell me how you're holding up after the chaos of the party. Did your mamá rope you into scrubbing the whole house?"

He smiled. "Oh, you know..." he offered noncommittally, hoping she wouldn't press any further.

He sank into the wicker chair beside her, setting the containers on the table. She leaned back to look at him, her green robe slipping slightly to reveal the curve of her collarbone. The morning light reflecting off the white stucco of the terrace made her skin luminous, and for a moment Mateo saw the ghost of the gorgeous young woman from the photograph sitting before him--sharp cheekbones, full lips, a classic beauty. His breath caught. He wasn't used to this, noticing an older woman's allure. Society had drilled into him that youth was the only currency worth a damn. But here, watching Elena's graceful movements, the way her eyes sparkled with mischief and wisdom, he felt that conditioning crack. Her mature beauty wasn't just striking, it was magnetic.

"You look good, mijo," she said. Her voice caressed him. "Happier than yesterday."

He smiled, his chest loosening. He wasn't ready to talk about the divorce, even if his mother had allowed it. He just wanted to bask in the bubble of warm acceptance and love his Abuela had created for him. She hadn't brought up last night yet, but he wasn't worried about it given her easy-going demeanor. He figured they would talk about it when the time was right. "Thank you, Abuela. You do too. That color looks great on you."

She leaned in, brushing her hand against his arm. "You're such a charmer. Don't ever stop." She smiled warmly, clearly enjoying the banter. "Speaking of keeping me happy," she said, nodding at the containers, "let's have some cake. Life's too short not to savor sweet things." She winked at him knowingly. Mateo's heart skipped as a thrill electrified his spine. Okay... so that's how it was going to be.

He stood, his legs a bit unsteady. "Well said, Abuela. I couldn't agree more. I'll grab plates and forks."

He put the leftovers in the fridge and brought back two plates filled with birthday cake. He sat, his knee brushing against hers in the adjacent chair. He noticed her robe had slipped a bit more while he'd been in the kitchen, and she hadn't bothered to readjust it. He could see a dangerous amount of cleavage. Was it intentional? He didn't want to think too hard about it, but decided to enjoy the sight just the same.

They each dug into the cake, the chocolate rich and creamy. Elena took a bite, her eyes closing briefly in pleasure. "Mmm. Perfecto." She scooped another forkful, this one heavy with frosting and held her fork out to him. "This is the bite, mijo. Perfect balance of frosting and cake. Try it."

Her voice was low, charged. Mateo's pulse raced. He could take the fork from her hand, or... let her feed him. He realized that his Abuela had skillfully offered up a test. How far did he want to go? Did he want keep things as they were? A warm grandmother-grandson relationship, with a single, confusing night of passion they could blame on wine? Or did he want to push further?

He met her gaze, her eyes dark and searching. Leaning forward, eyes locked with hers, his lips closed around the fork slowly, deliberately, letting his tongue graze the tines. He moaned sensually, tasting the sweetness of the frosting melt on his tongue. He hoped he communicated eagerness, while maintaining plausible deniability in case he was misreading the situation. Elena's lips parted, a faint flush rising to her cheeks. She brought the fork slowly to her own mouth, licking his saliva clean in a conspicuous manner. His heart hammered as felt a low heat build.

The ate in silence for a moment, the air thick. She spoke, her tone teasing. "This cake's almost too good, don't you think? Makes you hungry for more... indulgence."

He gulped. She smiled, but then he saw a shadow darken her face. Her expression shifted, and she took a breath to steel herself. She set her fork down, her fingers tracing the edge of her teacup. "Mateo," she said, softer now, "I'm sorry, I don't mean to get carried away. I wasn't sure you'd want to come back today. After last night... I thought maybe you'd feel different in the daylight."

The vulnerability in her voice caught him off guard. He straightened, his brow furrowing, and set his plate to the side. Here it was. He was relieved to finally address the elephant in the room. "Abuela," he said, his tone stern but warm, "I'll always love you. You're my abuela. Nothing will ever change that."

Her eyes dropped, worry passing over her face, like she was bracing for rejection. He leaned closer, his hand finding hers. "And I loved last night," he continued, his voice steady and deliberate. "I was hoping you'd want to keep... exploring. I mean, if you want to. I don't feel bad about anything. In fact, I've never felt better"

Elena's gaze snapped up, her face breaking into a radiant smile like sunlight breaking through heavy clouds. Relief and joy danced in her eyes. "I would like that very much, mijo." After a moment, more thoughtfully, she added. "Of course I know this is... unconventional. I don't have any expectations of you, and you shouldn't have any of me. However, I don't think there's anything wrong with having a bit of fun together, do you?"

He grinned. "Not at all. Of course, we probably don't want to go telling everyone--" she held up a hand to cut him off.

"Of course not, mijo! This will be our secret." Her voice lowered. "Our naughty little secret..." She leaned forward, her hand cupping his cheek. Her lips brushed his, gentle at first, a tender seal to their exchange.

Mateo's arousal surged, his hunger rising as he pressed back into her kiss, deepening it. His tongue grazed hers as he probed further, tasting the frosting on her lips.

His heart swelled with love for her, as his cock swelled with desire. She had given him a priceless gift the night before. No, not just the blowjob, though that was an amazing gift. She had accepted him fully, shared something of herself, and helped him reframe the narrative of his childhood in a way that unblocked the stuck parts of him. He felt an overwhelming desire to return that gift, to make her feel beautiful, desired, alive and young, in a way that defied what the world tells women about their age.