Michelle González, thirty eight, mother of two boys, wife to Sebastián González, stood in her loose black night dress in front of the open window in her bathroom.
The room around her was bathed in a mellow orange glow, light from the bedroom window directly opposite their bathroom.
It was His bedroom, Michelle knew, a teenager no older than eighteen. Every summer he and his family – his mum, a short grey haired woman with kind eyes, and his younger sister, mousy brown hair and a face younger than she appeared – would appear. A home away from home, the mother described once to Michelle, the two out the back seeing to their respective gardens.
Michelle never spoke to the daughter, their timelines never seemed to sync, but the son she saw at times through the open window. Sometimes she could see him curled up in his bed against the wall while she brushed her teeth in the morning. Other times, when she’d open the bathroom to let the steam out while she bathed her son Alejandro, she’d spot the son sitting on the aged wooden floor, watching from the television that must’ve been facing him from beneath the bedroom window. It was comforting in a way, listening to her child play while the background noise of voices drifted in through the window. She would sit and try to guess what he was watching, who was starring and what the plot was, while she washed her son’s hair. In a way it felt comforting, having this male presence, while Sebastián kept busy hours at the office.
Other times the son would still be watching television when Michelle came back to the bathroom for her own bath. She would close the bathroom window, of course, heart in throat, petrified of being seen, of her body being glimpsed by someone other than herself after motherhood has had its way with reshaping her figure, but the that orange glow was ever-present in the space. Sometimes, Michelle would even use the glow as her own candle in the darkness, enjoying having one foot in the dark and another in the glow.
Now Michelle González, thirty eight, mother of two boys, wife to Sebastián González, stood in her loose black night dress in front of the open window in her bathroom.
The room around her bathed in a mellow orange glow, light from the open bedroom window directly opposite their bathroom.
Michelle stood in front of the bathroom window – screen free and open, to get some of that sweet, sweet air through – washing her face, preparing to bathe. The children were in bed relatively early and she had time to soak in the tub before time got away from her.
As she turned off the faucet and dried her hands, she heard the bedroom door through the window open. He stepped in, dressed in black jeans and faint blue collared shirt, Michelle noted, unable to turn from instinct that was her curiosity.
As he closed the door behind him, the faint blue collared shirt was off and tossed in a corner in the room, revealing his pale torso and dark patches of body hair trailing down his stomach.
Senses kicking in, Michelle reached forward, fumbling for rubber handle on the window. By this point, the son was down to his boxers, grey with black stripes. Michelle’s hands slipped, knocking the handle and causing it to clack loudly.
Deathly silence followed.
He looked up to where the sound came from, his grey eyes alerted, and found Michelle standing still, no where to shrink away to and die of embarrassment.
His eyes met hers in silence.
They regarded each other a moment, both frozen, unsure whether to laugh it off or nod and apologise and close the window and be on the way and then feel cheeks burn with shame and fear and guilt, riding the residual wave of anxiety.
Michelle couldn’t explain what happened next. For days afterwards, she would ruminate, turning every moment over in her head, examining aspects she thought she knew all along, basically re-evaluating her own mind.
She couldn’t explain why she lifted her hands to the tied velvet knot around her waist, nor could she explain why she undid it, letting her loose nightgown fall to the floor. Was it an act of anxiety, seeking validation, attraction to this son or was the problem more insidious, a rotting root in her life, in her marriage that she never picked up on until after the fact?
Michelle from the future could never find the answer to these questions, instead boiling the act down to a lapse of judgement, a moment miscalculated.
Michelle of the present stood in front of the open window nude, conscious of her stretch marks around her waist, of her perceived misshaped breasts, of the fact her pubic hair was untouched and untamed – and yet, Michelle González, thirty eight, mother of two boys, wife to Sebastián González, stood defiant to her thoughts, stood exposed to this son, for reasons she would never quite fully understand.
There was a pressure forming in her chest as she stood in front of the window. It knotted its way around her organs, twisting and turning and burning. Any minute, Michelle thought, I could breathe and my ribcage could snap in half.
Her breasts, the only things she could find that she liked second to her eyes, only added to that pressure from where they rested.
Through the window, the teenager stood watching, his chest as still as the bed next to him.
In a heartbeat, he removed his shirt. Michelle cast her eyes to the bathroom, her breathing kicking into gear, her hands starting to tremble, something whispering into her ear to look up. She did.
He was unzipping his jeans and tossing them aside.
It had been quite some time since Michelle had seen another person’s penis.
It was semi-hard, still reaching its full length.
From where Michelle stood, she could see a faint fuzz of pubic hair.
Trimmed, she thought, unable to move her eyes from looking through the window at it.
As Michelle regarded the head – smooth, large, uncircumcised (she knew, as Sebastián’s was) – she found her mouth strangely salivating. She could feel a little bit of saliva pooling in her mouth and with that realisation, her cheeks burned as if blasted from the sun.
Yet despite the heat radiating outward from her cheeks, something was drawing Michelle along to touch herself. A maddening itch pulsating out across her body, screaming for help. An ache so distracting that Michelle stopped her travelling hands to pinch her stomach, where her stretch marks left reminders of an age long past, just to feel something.
A pinch of bite-sized pain didn’t help the ache; it only brought it to the forefront of her mind.
Before her, He had gripped his cock, finding rhythm.
Michelle found the pinpoint of her ache, her clit, and began to trace her fingers along gently. How long it had been since she masturbated, since she came, she had not known. Days? Weeks? It was without Sebastián though, that much she knew.
Her fingers slid down her slit while her thumb-applied pressure on her clit, just the way she liked it.
She had a toy, she thought in that moment, hidden in the second drawer beside the bed in the bedroom, but she couldn’t leave. She didn’t want to. Her body was frozen; her eyes glued to how He was massaging his cock, bringing his hands over the shaft upwards then back down.
His eyes were open, watchingher intently, scanning downwards over her exposed body to her hands.
One hand lifted instinctively to her right breast, rolling her nipple between her thumb and index finger. This happened in almost of an unconscious state, as Michelle watched the hypnotic movements of the teenager’s hands across his cock.
Her mind caught up to her act when her nipple was stretched to her limits, her breast taking shape with the pull from her hand, stretching outwards the window.
Whatever possessed her to reach across to the bath beside her and pull up the hairpins she left for her own bath time, she did not know. But before she could find a reason, any reason, they were attached to both of her nipples, digging in tightly, like a fingernail pressing downwards into flesh.
This must’ve excited the teenager, for his rhythm quickened. His cock, now fully hard and held tightly, throbbed in his palm.
How long they watched each other, him teasing himself, massaging, pulling, stretching, her teasing, circling, pulling at her lips, Michelle did not know, nor did she care to know. She needed to come desperately, her body covered in a thick layer of sweat, the room boiling even in the soft glow.
The teenager tensed, his body coming to a screeching halt. Michelle could hear his stifled moans as his cock, jerking on its own upright, vein down the shaft throbbing, ejaculated.
At that precise moment, Michelle couldn’t wait any longer, couldn’t tease any longer, she slid two fingers inside herself. Her body seized into a spasm, her orgasm crashing over her warm and dizzying and ferocious.
An image came to her in the throes of pleasure, crawling up to him on her knees to suck the come coated cock of his just to taste him, but the thought was soon washed away with another feeling. Guilt.
Shakily, she closed the bathroom window and pulled the blinds down.