Coming Home Ch. 02

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!

---

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.

Elena's fingers curled into his shirt, pulling him closer before pushing him away gently a moment later. Her eyes darted to the edge of the terrace, where the garden fence met the neighbor's line of sight.

"Okay, Romeo," she murmured, her voice husky. "That was an amazing kiss, but we should stop. If someone saw me making out with a young stud on my terrace..." She laughed softly, cheeks flushed. "I'd be the talk of the block. Especially if anyone recognizes you as my grandson." She winked at him. For reasons he couldn't begin to unpack, her calling attention to their relationship as grandmother and grandson ignited a fierce hunger within him.

He leaned back, breath uneven. A grin spread across his face. He wasn't done with her, not by a long shot. He took her hand, smiling wickedly. "You bring up a good point, mi amor. We should move inside, away from the prying eyes of jealous neighbors. More room inside for what I have in mind, anyway." He winked at her as he stood.

Elena's eyes widened, a spark of surprise lighting them. "Oh, and what's that, mijo?" Her tone was playful and curious, but cautious.

He lifted her hand, kissing her knuckles. "It's a surprise." He turned her hand, his lips brushing her wrist and forearm in a series of feathered kisses. He felt her shiver, then giggle as she let him lead her inside.

"Well I hope this is a gentlemanly surprise," she teased, her blush deepening.

Mateo's grin widened, his eyes locking on hers. "My dear Abuela, it's anything but." He felt daring, debonair, relishing her charmed reaction. She slapped his arm playfully, her lips parting slightly in a smile while her fingertips lightly touched the hollow of her neck.

He led her to the overstuffed chair by the window, its cushions soft, inviting, and bathed in sunlight. His hands were steady but his heart raced as she stood before him, trusting, her silk robe clinging to her curves. He pulled her close, wrapping his arms fully around her. Her small frame felt fragile but firm, the silk cool against his forearms. He leaned in to kiss her again. The kiss was deeper, and he poured his intent into it. He pulled her closer, made sure she felt his hard cock pressed into her belly. He wanted her to know about it, to know that she was the reason for it.

She pulled back slightly, her eyes serious and searching. "Mateo," she said cautiously. "Are you sure about this? I know this is... well, some would say this is wrong. And... I'm not young anymore." Her voice was small, and shy. He saw the vulnerability etched into her face. "My body is not like the girls your age. The bright light of day is not kind to a woman of my years."

Mateo's heart twisted with affection for her. He looked carefully at her expression, and truly saw her. Not just the woman she was now, but the woman who had carried a burden he could never understand for more years than he'd been alive. He gazed into her eyes unflinchingly as he pulled on the belt of her robe deliberately, slowly, releasing it. His fingers traced a path up the edges of the robe to her shoulders, carefully easing the silk until it slipped to the floor in a pool. His grandmother stood before him, completely, gloriously naked.

He took her in, unflinching. Her skin was soft, marked by time--wrinkles at her eyes, a gentle sag to her breasts, her tummy softer than it was decades ago. But she was radiant, her curves graceful. The silver hair framed her face, her dark eyes alive with fire. "Abuela," he said, his voice thick with reverence, "you are so beautiful. You are aging like a goddess. I want this, I want you. I want to return the gift you gave to me last night."

Her eyes glistened, a mix of gratitude and desire. She nodded, letting him guide her to the chair. She sank into it, her body relaxed but expectant. Mateo knelt before her, his hands resting on her thighs, feeling the warmth of her skin. He leaned in, kissing her neck, tasting the faint jasmine of her perfume. He moved lower, his lips brushing her collarbone, her chest. Her breasts were soft, heavy in his hands, and he planted soft kisses all over them reverently until he found himself at her nipple. He opened his mouth, closing on it as he heard her sharp intake of breath. His tongue circled languidly around the stiffening peak, gentle suction coaxing it to hardness. He worshiped her as she moaned, her fingers threading through his hair.

"Abuela," he murmured against her skin, his voice rough, his cock straining against his jeans. "I love your tits. Your skin tastes so good." The words felt wild, taboo. They sent a jolt through him.

His grandmother gently chided him, "My breasts, dear. Let's not be crude." She smiled, then they laughed at the irony of her correcting his propriety as she lay naked before him.

He kissed the soft curve of her tummy. "Of course, my apologies. You're absolutely gorgeous," he whispered, his lips grazing her hip. "Every inch of you." She bit her bottom lip, letting her thighs part slightly as he felt her surrender.

She reached out, her hand cupping his face as he looked up into her eyes, darkened with desire. "Mijo," she whispered, her voice trembling with need. "You make me feel so... alive."

Mateo felt the hot ember within him ignite. It wasn't lust--or at least, it wasn't only lust. He felt a deep urge to give to her what she'd given to him. She'd unraveled his shame, shown him that he was enough. That he was valued, not for what he did, but simply for being him.

He leaned in, his lips brushing the soft skin of her inner thigh, feeling the warmth radiating from her. Her scent hit him first--musky, rich, a faint trace of jasmine perfume lingering on her skin. It was intoxicating. He let his nose graze her thigh, savoring the texture, smooth but lived-in. His hands rested on her hips, fingers tracing the gentle curve, and he looked up at her. His abuela's chest rose and fell, her breasts heavy, nipples taught. Her silver hair spilled over her shoulders, catching the soft light through the curtains. Her eyes held a mix of trust and hunger that made his cock throb in his jeans.

His gaze drifted lower, and he finally permitted himself to look directly at her core. There it was. His grandmother's pussy. The phrase felt radioactive--dangerous, forbidden, and incredibly hot. He paused to just take in the sight. Her bush was full, a soft tangle of silver curls, framing her pussy like a crown. It was beautiful. Unapologetic, feminine beauty. "So beautiful..." he breathed, hot and low, but loud enough for her to hear.

He leaned closer, his nose brushing the edge of her curls, inhaling deeply. Her scent was stronger, heady and primal. It made his mouth water. His instincts kicked in--not just desire, but a need to please, to pour every ounce of himself into making her feel adored.

"Dios mio, Abuela," he said, his voice rough. "You smell so good. I could stay here forever." He nuzzled her bush, feeling her curls tickle his nose, soft and resilient. She let out a soft moan, her thighs parting wider, which he understood as permission. He hands slid to her inner thighs, and he gently spread her open.

The folds of her pussy came into view, slick and glistening with arousal, a deep pink that lightened toward her center. He opened her carefully, reverently, like unveiling a sacred treasure. Her clit was already swollen, peeking from its hood, and he felt a pang of awe at how responsive she was. The sight was mesmerizing.

"Look at you," he whispered, his breath warm against her. "So fucking beautiful." He kissed the crease where her thigh met her core, slow and teasing, delighting in the feeling of her trembling muscles. His tongue darted out, tasting her skin as he felt her breath quicken. He let his tongue move closer, the tip of it brushing the delicate edge of her engorged lips. She was wet, her arousal coating her. He licked gently, savoring the first taste of his Abuela's pussy--salty, tangy, with a sweetness that made his head spin. She inhaled. He wanted more.

"Mateo," she breathed, her voice a mix of need and wonder. "It feels so good..." He felt her fingers tighten in his hair, urging him on. But he didn't rush. He wanted this to last, to build her up until she couldn't hold back. His tongue traced her outer lips, slow and deliberate. He explored every curve, every crease. She was soft, pliant, her folds engorged and yielding to his touch. He opened her lips wider, his thumbs gentle but firm, exposing her hole to his appreciative gaze.

Her clit called to him, proud and sensitive. He hovered above it, letting his breath tease it, watching it pulse faintly. "Abuela," he said, his voice thick, "your pussy's perfect. I love how wet you are for me."

She smirked at him. "The mouth on you..." she gently chided, but she didn't actually seem very upset. He flicked his tongue against her clit, light as a whisper, and she gasped, her hips twitching. The resistance of it, firm yet delicate, drove him forward. He did it again, circling slowly, delighting in her response. Her taste flooded his mouth, and he groaned in satisfaction.

He buried his face deeper, his nose nestling in her bush, the hairs tickling his skin as he licked her in earnest now. He dipped his tongue into her entrance, then dragged his tongue slowly upwards, flattening it as he went. She was slick with arousal, her juices coating his lips and chin. He reveled in the messiness of her desire. His tongue probed her entrance, which caused her to arch, her moan loud and unrestrained. "Oh, mijo," she whispered hoarsely.

He settled into a rhythm, letting her body speak to him in the oldest language. "That's it, Abuela," he murmured. "Let me take care of you, let your grandson make you feel good."

His tongue circled her clit, his lips locked around it while her hips bucked. With a single finger, he began to gently probe her entrance. He felt her arch involuntarily, searching for a way to impale herself down onto his finger. Deciding he'd teased her enough, he slowly inserted his index finger as she released a guttural moan. His lips were locked on her clit as his finger curled upwards, exploring her inner walls for the spot that would give her the most pleasure. He sucked and slurped, greedy for more.

"Mijo, please," she gasped, her voice breaking. He looked up, seeing her face--flushed, eyes half-closed, lips parted as she panted. She was stunning, lost in sensation, and he felt a surge of pride. This was his doing. He was making her feel like a goddess. He kissed her clit again, slowly and deliberately increasing the suction while his tongue teased it. He felt her body respond as his finger found her g-spot, her hips rocking against him urgently. He matched her pace as he felt her hold her breath in anticipation of her release.

"That's right, Abuela. Cum for me, cum for your grandson," he urged, his voice hoarse with need. He dove back in, tongue and lips pressed against her clit while his finger worked her hole steadily. He felt her thighs shake, felt her fingers grip his hair in a way that was almost too painful. Her moans turned sharp and desperate. He held on for dear life, doing his best to match the pace her body needed.

Finally, her thighs clamped around his head, pinning him in place. He couldn't have moved if he wanted to, but that was okay--he had no plans to move. She was riding his face, her hips grinding into him as she chased her release. Her cry finally broke the air, raw and primal as she came. Her body convulsed, her pussy pulsing against his mouth. Her arousal flooded him, which he lapped up greedily. He kept licking, drawing her orgasm out longer. He softened the pressure as she rode the wave, her moans dying to a whimper as she gradually came down.

He kissed her pussy sweetly, reverently, feeling her shudder with each touch. Her clit was sensitive and swollen. Eventually, her thighs relaxed, releasing him from her grip. He looked up, his face wet with her juices. His Abuela heaved, eyes glassy, and silver hair wild against the chair. She looked shell-shocked, exhausted but radiant. He had never felt more proud in his life.

He rose, his knees aching, and squished his body alongside her in the chair. Mateo pulled her into his arms, her naked body soft and pliable against him. She clung to him, her ragged breathing slowing as he kissed her forehead, cheeks, and lips. "You're so sexy, Abuela," his voice hoarse. "I love you so much."

She smiled at him, a weary yet heartfelt expression lighting up her face. "You've made me feel so vibrant, so cherished, mijo. Your generation has some unique talents..." she paused, a playful glint in her eyes, before continuing, "thank you, mi amor."

He smiled at her. "You are special, Abuela. I'm glad I could repay your kindness." He kissed her softly on the lips. He wondered if she could taste herself on him.

She smiled once more, faint yet radiant, as she nestled into his embrace. He felt no rush to satisfy his own desires. Not just yet. Being here with her, crafting the same cocoon of love she had spun for him, brought him true contentment. Gently kissing the top of her head, he understood that their age difference and familial bond, despite its taboo nature, allowed him a unique freedom. He could give and receive love without any expectations. It was a beautifully liberating sensation.