The smell of garlic bread and supermarket chicken nuggets hung heavy in the air. The kitchen clock read exactly 12:00 PM. I balanced the phone awkwardly between my shoulder and ear while stirring a pot of leftover gravy.
“Seriously, Carol, you’re making that up.”
My sister, Carol, laughed down the line. Her voice was always too bright, too loud. She was talking about her new boyfriend, some personal trainer who seemed to have endless stamina.
“I’m telling you, Jen. Three times before brunch. I can barely walk. You need to get some of this action.”
I sighed, scraping the wooden spoon against the enamel. Mark was upstairs, thankfully. He usually kept to himself lately, busy with college enrolment forms and computer games.
“Easy for you to say, Ms. Frequent Flyer,” I muttered. “You know my situation.”
“Yeah, you’re 44, hot, and living in a drought. It’s tragic.”
I lowered my voice, though I knew Mark couldn’t hear. “It’s been years, Carol. Actual years. Since your brother-in-law walked out. I haven’t had a relationship, haven’t had a date, haven’t had…” I paused, choosing the simplest word possible. “I haven’t had cock in years.”
Carol made a dramatic gagging sound. “Oh, honey. That is the saddest thing I’ve ever heard. You need to get cleaned out.”
“I know. But who has the time? Or the energy? It’s just me and Mark here. It’s hard enough keeping things straight without bringing some strange man into the house.”
We talked for another ten minutes, the conversation drifting safely back to bills and laundry before we hung up. I finished plating my food—mine, Mark’s, and a third plate of plain chicken I set aside for tomorrow’s lunch.
The house felt too quiet once the phone was put down. I ate quickly, scrolling through social media, seeing photos of Carol’s latest exotic holiday. My own life felt pale in comparison. I was worn down, busy, and painfully aware of the lack of warmth in my life.
Mark came downstairs fifteen minutes later. He was tall now, towering over me. Not a boy anymore. His shoulders were broad, his face sharp. He had a faint dusting of dark stubble that he hadn’t shaved properly.
“Food ready, Mum?” he asked, his voice low and just starting to deepen fully.
“Dinner is lunch today,” I said, pointing to his plate. “How’s the college paperwork coming?”
“Long. Boring.” He didn’t look up, already attacking the nuggets with focus.
I watched him, a familiar wave of protective pride mixed with a strange, newer discomfort washing over me. He was beautiful—my boy—but every year that passed made that gap between “child” and “man” wider, more defined. I tried to still see him as the little boy who needed me, but the man was increasingly obvious.
The afternoon dragged into a slow, muggy evening. I spent hours in the spare room, wrestling with taxes and bills, the loneliness of domestic routine wrapping around me.
Mark eventually retreated to his room to game with friends. I could hear the muffled shouts and the sharp clicks of his keyboard through the thin drywall.
Around 10:30 PM, I gave up and headed to bed.
I pulled on a pale blue silk nightie. It was one of the few pieces of clothing I owned that still felt a bit luxurious, though it did little to hide the shape of my chest. I brushed my teeth, took my nightly paracetamol for my back, and slipped under the covers.
It was humid, even with the window cracked. I lay there, trying to read on my phone, but my eyes kept closing. The house was silent now; Mark must have finished his gaming session.
I was just drifting into a light sleep when the door creaked open.
I didn’t move. I knew it was him.
Mark stood framed in the faint light filtering from the hall. He looked frantic, his breath coming in shallow bursts.
“Mum?” His voice was shaky, quiet.
I sat up slightly. “Mark? What is it, sweetie?”
“I… I had a bad one. Really bad,” he whispered, gesturing vaguely.
I knew the routine. Despite being 18, nearly 6 foot 2, and capable of driving a car and voting, Mark still suffered from vivid, occasionally terrifying nightmares. They had been happening since he was little, usually tied to stress or big changes.
“Oh, honey. Come here.”
He crossed the room in two strides and slipped under the duvet beside me. He was instantly a furnace of heat. He smelled faintly of sweat and cheap aftershave.
I wrapped an arm around him briefly, a purely maternal gesture, rubbing his shoulder. “It’s okay. Just a dream. You’re safe.”
“Yeah,” he murmured, his body stiff.
He didn’t make any move to leave. He never did after a nightmare. I knew he would stay until he was definitely asleep.
I relaxed my hold and turned onto my side, facing away from him, towards the wall. I always did this, giving him space, pretending normalcy. He settled behind me, a heavy presence against my back.
“Night, sweetie,” I said softly.
He didn’t reply, but I felt him shift, getting comfortable. Soon, his breathing evened out, deep and steady. I assumed he was asleep.
I closed my eyes, exhausted.
I woke up roughly an hour later. Not suddenly, but gradually, pulled from sleep by an odd pressure.
Something cool and heavy was resting low on my back. My mind was fuzzy. I tried to place the feeling.
My heart hammered when I realized what it was.
It was his hand. Mark’s hand. It was reaching under the hem of my silk nightie, resting directly on the cotton of my knickers.
I froze. Every muscle locked up. I pretended to be asleep. I kept my breathing deep and even, though my lungs felt tight.
No. No, he wouldn’t.
I was shocked, violently so. But the shock was instantly mixed with a confusing, dark current of warmth that spread through my belly.
He’s just asleep. He’s eighteen; he’s sprawled out. He’s unaware of where his hand is, that’s all.
I waited for him to move, to withdraw the hand. He didn’t. Instead, the cool fingers pressed slightly, tracing the soft cotton.
I didn’t stop him. I couldn’t move. That deep, forgotten part of me, the part Carol had just mocked for being in a drought, was suddenly alert, buzzing with terrible anticipation.
Then, I felt a deliberate shift.
The hand moved lower, gripping the waistband of my knickers. Slowly, agonizingly, he dragged them down. They slid past my hips, catching briefly at the crook of my thighs, bunched there beneath the nightie.
The sudden cold air on my bare skin was electric.
My breath hitched, but I managed to turn it into a soft, fake snore.
He was awake. He had to be. This was too purposeful for sleepwalking.
I felt him shuffle up closer immediately. I was still pinned on my side, facing the wall, my back to him. He was right behind me now, pressed against the full length of my body. I could feel the hardness of his pelvis against my lower back.
Then, the terrifying realization hit me.
A thick, warm head nudged against my bare, exposed skin—right in the cleft of my bum.
Oh. God.
It was sticky.
I heard a sound, a low, guttural whisper right next to my ear. It didn’t sound like my sweet boy. It sounded dark, possessive, adult.
“Please don’t wake up, Mum.”
His hand settled on the gentle swell of my hip.
“I am so horny,” he breathed, the heat of his words raising Goosebumps all over my neck. “I heard you on the phone with Aunt Carol.”
My stomach clenched violently. He had heard everything.
“How you haven’t had some dick in years,” he continued, his voice barely audible, thick with desire and menace. “Your so damn sexy in that nightie. Banging tits as well.”
I felt his fingers spread on my ass, cupping the flesh. He then pressed down, spooning me tighter, and gently, with brutal efficiency, he lifted my upper ass cheek to gain better access to my hidden entrance.
I felt him shift back slightly. I heard a wet, slick sound right behind me.
He spat on his hand.
He was lubing himself.
The internal screaming was deafening, a frantic mix of ‘stop him’ and ‘I am dreaming, this isn’t real.’
Why was I letting him? Why wasn’t I screaming, rolling over, pushing him away? The answer was a cold, hard knot in my chest: fear, yes, but also a desperate, shameful curiosity. The knowledge that the drought might finally be broken, no matter the devastating cost.
Nah, he won’t. I am dreaming now. This is a nightmare.
Then, the dream ended.
He pushed forward, slowly, with careful, deliberate pressure.
A thick, hot intrusion began to force its way past the tight, unfamiliar entrance. It was a sensation I hadn’t felt in too long, magnified tenfold by the shock of whose body this was.
A low, involuntary noise tried to escape my throat. I instantly clamped my teeth down on my bottom lip, hard enough to taste copper. I threw my hand over my mouth, pressing the heel of my palm against my lips to smother any sound.
He was inside me. Mark, my son.
He gasped quietly, his breath warm on the back of my neck. I felt his hand settle back on my bum, holding me steady, spooning me close as he began to move. Slowly. Shallow thrusts at first.
“Ahh, fuck,” he whispered against my hair. His voice sounded strained, high with effort and desire. “Your pussy feels so fucking good.”
He took his time, moving in and out, claiming the space. I could feel the bed frame rock slightly beneath us, the springs letting out a faint, terrified squeak with every slow push.
I pressed my face into the pillow, trying to ground myself in the cotton sheets, trying to pretend the weight filling me was a ghost, a phantom lover.
“Fuck,” he whispered again, pulling out almost completely before sinking back deep. “Your fanny is taking my cock really well.”
My entire body was shaking now. Not from cold, but from pure, concentrated wrongness mixed with building sensation. The sheer size of him, the tightness, the forbidden nature of the act—it was overwhelming.
I held my mouth tightly, muffling the soft hn sound that escaped when he hit a deep spot.
He picked up pace. The slow, careful movements gave way to rhythmic urgency. His breath grew heavier, panting directly behind my ear.
The bed began to thump softly against the wall.
It was so wrong.
But his cock felt so good.
“Unngh,” he grunted as he went at it faster his dick sliding in and out my pussy faster, “fucking hell. Maybe I… should stop. Fuck it, I can’t your pussy feels to good.”
His hand snaked around and to my chest and squeezed one of my boobs through my nightie. His dick still pounding my mature cunt. I still pretending to be asleep with my hand around my mouth.
His hand squeezed my tit harder as he kept fucking me faster and harder, his dick sliding in and out of my wet cunt. The bed was shaking now, the headboard banging against the wall with every thrust. I was biting my lip so hard to stop from moaning.
The pleasure was building, a dark, shameful crescendo. I could feel my body responding, my inner muscles fluttering around his invading length. I was wet now, embarrassingly so. The sounds of our illicit coupling were louder now—wet flesh meeting flesh, the creak of the mattress, our ragged breathing.
His hand left my breast and slid down my belly. His fingers found my clit, rubbing in tight circles. “Unnghh fuck, ahhh am… gonna…”
He thrusted harder and faster, his hips slamming against my bum as his fingers rubbed my clit. The pleasure was overwhelming, a dark, shameful crescendo building inside me. Icould feel my body responding, my inner muscles fluttering around his invading length.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he grunted, his voice strained and high with impending release. “I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna cum in your pussy.” His fingers rubbed faster on my clit, pushing me closer to the edge. The bed shook violently beneath us, the headboard banging loudly against the wall.
“Ahhhh!” he cried out suddenly, his body stiffening behind me. I felt a hot flood of liquid fill me as he climaxed, pulsing deep inside my core. His fingers continued to rub frantically on my clit, pushing me over the edge with him.
I came hard, my cunt clamping down around his pulsing cock as I rode out the waves of pleasure. It was intense, overwhelming, and I couldn’t hold back any longer. A loud, muffled moan tore from my throat, my body arching into his as I came undone. Mark collapsed against me, his hot breath on the back of my neck, his softening cock still buried inside me.
We lay there, tangled together, the bed creaking and shaking from the force of our coupling. After a long moment, he pulled out slowly, his slick length sliding free of my pussy with a wet pop. I felt the loss immediately, a chill spreading through my over-sensitized flesh. He rolled off the bed, stumbling a bit as he found his footing. I heard him move to the bathroom, the sound of running water a moment later.
I stayed in bed, my heart racing, my body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure. I then adjusted my knickers and fell back asleep.
The next morning, I woke up to the sound of the shower running in the bathroom. I lay in bed for a long moment, replaying the events of the previous night in my head. It felt like a dream, a twisted, fevered nightmare. But the soreness between my legs and the lingering scent of sex on my sheets told a different story.I finally dragged myself out of bed, wincing at the stiffness in my back and the tenderness between my thighs.
I washed and dressed quickly, avoiding looking in the mirror. I wasn’t ready to confront the reality of what had happened. Downstairs, Mark was in the kitchen, eating a bowl of cereal. He looked up as I entered, his eyes wide and guilty. We stared at each other for a long, uncomfortable moment before he looked away, focusing on his breakfast.
“Morning,” he mumbled, his voice low and rough.
“Good morning, did you sleep well,” I replied, my own voice strained.
Mark looked up at me, his face flushed. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, seeming to think better of it. He pushed his cereal bowl away, suddenly uninterested in finishing his breakfast.
“I…I need to go out,” he said abruptly, standing up from the table. “I’ll be back later.”
He grabbed his phone and keys and headed for the door without another word. Ilistened as he let himself out, the sound of the front door closing behind him echoing through the house.
I stood in the kitchen, alone, staring at the empty cereal bowl on the table. The silence was deafening, broken only by the ticking of the clock on the wall. What had happened last night? Had it really been Mark? My own son? The thought made my stomach churn with a mix of disgust and shame.
But beneath that, there was something else. A lingering warmth between my legs, a phantom sensation of fullness. Fuck it felt good.