Three Generations

The Delgado women have been watching me all summer.

I started helping with their yard work in June—Mrs. Delgado's husband died three years ago, and the property was getting away from them. Her daughter Camila moved in to help, bringing her own daughter Sofia with her.

Three generations. Three single women. All of them finding reasons to be in the yard when I'm working shirtless.

Today is August hot—ninety-five degrees, sun beating down, sweat dripping everywhere. I'm trimming hedges when the back door opens.

"Mijo." Mrs. Delgado—Rosario—steps onto the patio. At seventy-two, she's still striking: silver hair pulled back, a body that's gone soft and ample with age, curves that her sundress can't hide. "You're going to have a heatstroke. Come inside."

"I'm almost done—"

"Inside." It's not a request.

I set down the trimmer and follow her.

The kitchen is blessedly cool.

Camila is at the counter, pouring lemonade. She's forty-five, divorced, with a body that splits the difference between her mother's softness and something more firm. Heavy breasts, curved hips, a stomach that's rounded but strong.

Sofia sits at the table, phone in hand, barely looking up. Twenty-three, thick in the way her family breeds—full-figured but toned from the yoga she does every morning on the back lawn. I've been trying not to stare.

I've failed constantly.

"Sit," Rosario commands. "Drink."

Camila hands me a glass. Our fingers brush. She doesn't pull away.

"We need to talk to you, Marco," she says.

"We've been watching you," Rosario begins.

"All summer." Sofia sets down her phone. "The way you work. The way you move. The way you look at us when you think we're not paying attention."

"I don't—"

"Shh." Rosario presses a finger to my lips. "No lies in this house. We're too old for lies."

"I'm not old," Sofia protests.

"You're too young to have the patience for them." Rosario withdraws her finger. "The point is: we've noticed. And we've discussed it. The three of us. Many times."

"Discussed what?"

Camila sets down her glass. "What to do about you."

"I'm confused," I admit.

"Are you?" Sofia stands, circles behind me. Her hands land on my shoulders. "Because you've been eye-fucking all three of us since June. Grandmother's tits when she bends over her plants. Mom's ass when she walks to the mailbox. My everything when I do yoga."

"Sofia—"

"Don't deny it. We have eyes." Her hands slide down my chest. "The question isn't whether you want us. The question is whether you're brave enough to admit it."

"And whether you can handle all three of us." Camila moves closer. "Because we come as a package deal."

"Package deal?"

Rosario smiles, slow and knowing. "We share everything in this family, mijo. Everything."

Rosario kisses me first.

I'm kissing a seventy-two-year-old woman, and it doesn't feel wrong. It feels like coming home. Her mouth is soft, patient, tasting of lemonade and decades of wisdom.

Camila is next—more aggressive, more hungry. She kisses like she's been starving for years.

Then Sofia—young, eager, her tongue demanding. She bites my lip and laughs when I gasp.

"Upstairs," Rosario commands. "The big bedroom. We prepared it."

The bedroom is filled with afternoon light.

The bed is massive—king-sized, covered in white sheets. The three women undress in front of me, revealing bodies that span generations.

Rosario first: skin loose but still beautiful, breasts that hang heavy to her waist, a belly rounded with age, hips that flare wide and welcoming.

Camila next: fuller than her mother but firmer, breasts that sag but still fight gravity, thick thighs marked with stretch marks.

Sofia last: young and ripe, heavy breasts sitting high, stomach soft but flat, an ass that could break hearts.

They stand before me like a timeline of beauty.

"Your turn," Sofia says.

I undress while they watch.

Their eyes travel from my face to my chest to my cock, which is harder than it's ever been.

"Dios mío," Rosario breathes. "The young ones are blessed."

"It's not the young ones." Camila reaches out, wraps her hand around me. "It's him."

"Lucky us." Sofia joins her mother, both of them stroking me. "Very lucky us."

"On the bed," Rosario commands. "Let us take care of you."

They work as a team.

Rosario takes my cock first—her aged mouth still skilled, still knowing exactly what to do. Camila and Sofia flank me, kissing my neck, my chest, pinching my nipples.

"Abuela's had practice," Sofia murmurs in my ear. "Fifty years of marriage. She knows things."

"Things she taught me," Camila adds from the other side. "Things I'll teach Sofia."

"When I'm ready." Sofia bites my earlobe. "For now, I'm just watching. Learning."

Rosario pulls off, passing me to her daughter. Camila is more aggressive, taking me deeper, gagging slightly but not stopping.

"That's it, Mami." Sofia reaches down, strokes my balls. "Show me how it's done."

When I'm close to breaking, Rosario stops them.

"Not yet. He needs to last."

She climbs onto the bed, positions herself over my face.

"Eat me, mijo. Show respect to your elders."

I pull her down to my mouth while Camila and Sofia take turns with my cock. The taste of her is unexpected—sweet and musky, the flavor of a woman who knows exactly what she wants.

"That's it. Right there. Don't stop—"

She comes against my mouth, her aged thighs clamping around my head. I don't stop until she pulls away, trembling.

"Your turn," she tells Camila.

They rotate.

I eat Camila while Sofia rides my cock—tight, young, enthusiastic. Then I eat Sofia while Rosario takes her turn—slower, more deliberate, savoring.

Three generations of women.

Three pussies on my tongue.

Three bodies taking pleasure from mine.

I lose track of who's doing what. There's only sensation—wet and warm and overwhelming.

When they finally let me come, it's inside Camila.

She's on top, riding me hard, while Rosario kisses me and Sofia fingers herself beside us.

"Give it to me," Camila gasps. "Fill me up—"

I do. I come harder than I've ever come, flooding her while her mother and daughter watch.

"Beautiful," Rosario murmurs.

"So hot," Sofia breathes.

Camila collapses onto my chest, panting.

"Welcome to the family, Marco."

By sunset, I've made each of them come at least twice.

By sunset, I've come three times myself.

By sunset, we're all sprawled across the ruined bed, too exhausted to move.

"This can't be a one-time thing," Sofia says.

"It wasn't intended to be." Rosario traces patterns on my chest. "You'll come for dinner every Sunday. You'll stay for... dessert."

"And during the week?" Camila asks.

"The yard always needs work." Rosario smiles. "And we always need... supervision."

I finish the hedges the next morning.

When I come inside for lemonade, all three of them are waiting.

"Bedroom," Sofia says. "Now."

I'm pretty sure I'm never leaving this house again.

I'm pretty sure I don't want to.