The Healer’s Secret Touch
After the passing of my father, my mother had become a shadow of her former self. She was a petite woman with short, straight brown hair and pale skin, her eyes reflecting a deep, lingering sorrow. She rarely left the house, except for the necessary trips to the market, moving through the rooms of our home like a ghost in her own life.
One afternoon, a friend of hers visited, bringing news of a man named Don Justo. He was described as a healer, someone capable of curing the soul of its grief and restoring the vitality that death had stolen. My mother, desperate for some semblance of peace, agreed to see him. The next morning, while my sister and I were supposed to be at school, curiosity drove me back home. I slipped through the backyard, entering the house unseen, and found a vantage point behind the thin curtains of the living room.
Don Justo was a formidable man, burly and confident, with salt-and-pepper hair and a chest covered in thick hair that peeked through his open shirt. His voice was a deep, soothing rumble that seemed to vibrate through the walls, instantly calming the atmosphere. As he spoke with my mother, he probed into her past, asking about the intimacy she had shared with my father. My mother admitted that while they had children, the physical connection had always been lacking—mechanical and brief, leaving her perpetually unsatisfied.
“That is a wound that can be healed,” Don Justo murmured. He proposed a treatment: three sessions a week for a month. He began by giving her a mixture of wine and a mysterious floral essence. As she drank, a glazed look entered her eyes, and she became suggestible, her inhibitions melting away under his commanding presence.
He instructed her to undress slowly. I watched, breathless, as she revealed her mature curves, her full breasts and the soft lines of her body. Don Justo’s touch was masterful; he began to caress her, awakening desires that had been dormant for years. He guided her through the art of pleasure, teaching her how to touch herself, her breath hitching in rhythmic gasps of rediscovered ecstasy.
When he finally stripped, he was as rugged as his voice. He was well-built, his masculinity imposing. He began by kissing her deeply, his tongue exploring her mouth before he moved lower. He treated her body like a temple, using his mouth and hands to drive her to the brink of madness. My mother, semi-conscious and overwhelmed by sensation, clung to him, her cries of pleasure echoing through the room.
The climax of the session was intense. He positioned her on the sofa, his movements powerful and deliberate. He filled the void she had felt for so long, providing the intensity and passion she had never known. When the release finally came, it was explosive, leaving my mother trembling and spent, a look of absolute serenity on her face.
Before leaving, Don Justo collected the essence of their encounter in a small vial, instructing her to add it to the family meals to prolong the healing effect. He commanded her to spend the next two days exploring her own body in every room of the house to ensure the cure took hold. When I finally rejoined my mother later that day, she didn’t look like a widow anymore. She looked alive, wearing a radiant smile and a glow of secret satisfaction that promised a very different future.