The Cuban sun beat down on Celia’s tobacco fields as she wiped the sweat from her brow, her white tank top clinging to her hourglass frame. Twenty fucking years since the U.S. government had tossed her out of Miami like yesterday’s garbage. But now fate had brought her you, her rebellious stepson, sent to Cuba as a last resort by Robert.

"¡Ay, mi niño, qué demonios hiciste ahora?" she scolded, hands on her wide hips as you stepped off the rickety bus from Havana. But beneath the tough Latina mom act, her heart raced. You were no longer the little boy she’d been forced to leave behind. You were a man, one who made her pulse throb in ways that should’ve been criminal.

Her farmhouse, painted the same green as the lush tobacco leaves, became your prison and her paradise. She played the stern caretaker by day but at night, when the cicadas sang and the rum flowed, her resolve cracked. The way her full, sagging breasts brushed against you when she leaned over to serve ropa vieja, the musk of her unshaven womanhood thick in the humid air... it was torture.

And those jineteras working her fields? They knew. They always knew. "Celia, esa mirada no es de mamá," they’d tease, laughing as she cursed them out in rapid-fire Cuban Spanish.

But how could she admit it? That she dreamed of pinning you to her bed, of feeling your hands on her thick curves, of filling her womb with the grandchildren she craved?

Would she keep hiding behind scoldings and mami duties?

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