My name’s Nigel. I’m twenty-two, lanky in a way I haven’t quite grown out of, and this trip to Spain was meant to be a reset or something. Dad called it a break from routine. Mum called it a proper family holiday, her eyes going soft and distant, like she was already sunbathing in her head.
We flew out of Gatwick. The lounge smelled like overripe fruit and bad coffee. I wore my navy hoodie and the same grey joggers I wear to sleep. Mum was already sweating through her linen top—white, thin enough to see the peach-coloured bra beneath—and fussing about passports. Dad had that greasy, puffed-up look he always gets when he drinks the night before flying, his pale forehead already glistening like clingfilm. He pretended to read The Guardian but was mostly glaring at people’s luggage.
On the plane, I got the window seat. Mum sat between me and Dad, which felt deliberate. She ordered a gin and tonic before takeoff and another one somewhere over the Bay of Biscay. Her laugh got louder with each sip, a kind of melodic bark that made the old man across the aisle shift in his seat. Dad stuck to lager, cracking open the little can like it personally offended him. I just had a Coke, headphones in, watching the clouds sink and stretch like wet wool.
Landing in Málaga was a blur of sticky air and beige signs. We waited forty minutes for the bags. Mum kept tugging at the hem of her dress—pale blue cotton that rode up whenever she turned. Her thighs, soft and pale, pressed together like they were used to being ignored. Dad stood three steps away, pretending to be interested in a vending machine.
The taxi to the hotel reeked of coconut air freshener. Mum sat in the front and laughed at everything the driver said, even when it wasn’t funny. Her laugh had a raw edge now. Dad sat beside me in the back, legs spread wide like he owned the place. He didn’t say a word the whole ride.
We checked in at Hotel Sol Mar. The lobby had one of those ceiling fans that looked like it might come loose and kill someone. Mum signed us in while Dad leaned against the counter, sunglasses on indoors. The receptionist gave me a look I couldn’t place—boredom, maybe, or pity.
They booked two rooms—one for them, one for me. Maybe it was just easier that way now. Our rooms were side by side on the third floor. Both had a double bed and a balcony. I claimed mine without saying much. Mum and Dad’s door closed softly behind them. From my room, I could hear them moving around, bumping into furniture, Mum laughing faintly at something.
I lay on the double bed by the window. Mum opened their balcony door and stepped out, the thin fabric of her dress catching the wind, pressing tight against her body. I tried not to look but couldn’t help noticing how her breasts shifted with the breeze, her nipples faintly outlined in the sunlight.
Later, we went down to the beach. The sand was hot, coarse. Mum wore a black swimsuit with gold straps, her hips full and unashamed. She lay on a towel reading a paperback, sunglasses slipping down her nose. Dad wandered off to rent a lounger, muttering something about back support. I waded into the surf, water up to my knees, watching Spanish kids scream and chase foam.
That evening, we found a bar with plastic chairs and cheap wine. Mum drank sangria like it was fruit juice. Her lipstick smeared by the second glass. Dad switched to whiskey, always a bad sign. They started off laughing—Mum’s laugh too sharp now, Dad’s a low grunt—but by the fourth round it got quieter. More teeth in their smiles. Dad accused her of flirting with the bartender. Mum told him he was paranoid and pathetic, her voice wobbling slightly. I stared at the condensation running down my glass, wishing I’d just stayed in the room.
When Mum knocked over her wine, I stood up. Said I was tired. Neither of them really looked at me. I walked back to the hotel alone. The air was warm, full of moths and car horns. I climbed the stairs instead of taking the lift. Our hallway smelled like bleach and tired air. In my room, I peeled off my shirt and lay in the double bed in just my boxers, the ceiling fan barely turning. Through the open balcony door, I could hear the faint pulse of music and someone laughing, high and lonely.
I heard Dad come back alone and angry, in the room next door. He was cursing and sounded very annoyed. As I started to nod off I heard someone enter my room drunk and giggle. It sounded like Mum. She’d gotten the wrong room. She strips off and get’s into my bed. Shit she thinks I am Dad, I pretend to be asleep.
I feel the bed dip and her body snuggle up against me. Fuck, was she naked. “I- I am… sorry for… for tonight Mark.” She thinks I am Dad. I stayed quiet. “Let me… make it,” hiccup, “make it up to you baby.”
Her breath, hot and smelling faintly of sangria and the coconut air freshener from the taxi, ghosted across my cheek. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. Every muscle in my body seized, rigid, pretending to be the heaviest, soundest sleeper on earth. I could feel the soft weight of her breast pressing against my side, the curve of her hip against mine, naked skin radiating warmth through the thin cotton of my boxers. The air in the room, already thick with the scent of the sea and stale cigarette smoke from the bar, suddenly felt suffocating. Fuck my dick was getting hard.
It was dark, I turned to face her and my hand went up and I felt her breast. I squeezed it, “Ahh Mark, fuck me honey. We need to be quiet though we don’t want Nigel hearing us from the next room.” Nigel was me, she thinks I am Dad.
My heart was a frantic drum against my ribs, each beat a monstrous clang of guilt and something else, something shameful and hot. My dick, already hard, throbbed with a life of its own.
Her hand, still clasping mine, moved from her breast downwards, across her stomach, a slow, deliberate slide that made my gut clench. Her fingers, soft and warm, traced a path, then paused, her thumb brushing against the waistband of my boxers. “You’re ready for me, aren’t you, baby?” she murmured, her voice a low purr. It wasn’t a question.
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. My throat was dry, sealed shut with a mixture of horror and a strange, bewildering thrill. Every nerve ending in my body felt alive, screaming. I could feel the heat radiating from her skin, the faint scent of her shampoo, the lingering sweetness of the sangria. The darkness of the room was a heavy blanket, a perfect accomplice.
Her other hand moved, rising to my neck, her fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me gently closer. Her face was a blurry shape inches from mine, her lips parted slightly. The breath she exhaled was soft, warm. I could feel the brush of her eyelashes against my cheek. Then her mouth found mine.
It was soft at first, tentative, tasting of alcohol and something sweet, like the cheap wine from earlier. But then it deepened, her lips pressing harder, her tongue tentatively exploring. It was a kiss I had never imagined, never wanted to imagine, and yet, I found myself responding. It was a reflex, a primal surge, a horrifying curiosity. My mouth opened slightly. Her tongue, slick and urgent, darted in.
A low moan escaped her, muffled by our kiss. “Oh, Mark,” she whispered against my lips, her voice thick with desire and drunkenness. “I’ve missed you.”
Missed him. Not me. The thought was a cold splash, but it barely registered over the roaring in my ears, the feel of her body against mine. My hands, still guided by hers on her breast, were now free. One of them, almost without conscious command, slid down her back, tracing the delicate curve of her spine, feeling the soft skin, the slight indentation where her buttocks began.
She gasped, a soft, sharp intake of breath. “Yes,” she encouraged, her voice cracking slightly. She began to move against me, a slow, sensual grind that made my already throbbing erection pulse even harder against her bare leg. My boxers were a flimsy barrier, a thin cotton shield that felt utterly useless.
My other hand moved, hesitantly at first, then with more purpose, down her side, over her hip, finally resting on her bare thigh. Her skin was incredibly soft, like warm silk. My fingers twitched, wanting to explore further, but a sliver of my mind, the last vestiges of Nigel, cried out in protest. This was Mum.
But the other part, the part that was a twenty-two-year-old man, surging with hormones and caught in an impossible, illicit moment, was taking over. He was drunk, too, in a way, drunk on the forbidden, on the sheer intensity of the situation.
“More, baby,” she whispered, her voice husky now, impatient. “You’re so quiet tonight. But I like it. Keeps me guessing.”
She shifted, twisting her body slightly, and suddenly her hand was between my legs, exploring, finding me through the thin fabric of my boxers. A jolt, electric and raw, shot through me. I squeezed my eyes shut, a silent groan tearing through me internally. No, this couldn’t be happening.
Her fingers wrapped around me, a gentle but firm grip. “Oh, you really are,” she chuckled softly, a low, knowing sound that sent shivers down my spine. “Always so eager, aren’t you, Mark? Your dick feels so much bigger than normal. Come on get on top, put it in me.”
My mind screamed. No. But my body, an autonomic traitor, was already responding. The sheer audacity of the situation, the terrifying thrill of it, had seized control. I shifted, a clumsy movement, my hand still holding hers, still wrapped around me. The bed creaked under my weight.
She helped, her hips lifting slightly, guiding my movement. In the dim light, I could just make out the curve of her belly, the dark shadow between her legs. My boxers felt like a foreign object, a last desperate barrier that needed to be shed. I fumbled with the waistband, pulling them down quickly. They bunched around my ankles.
Her hand, still on me, left me for a moment. She reached down, her own fingers tracing the wetness between her thighs. “So wet for you, Mark,” she whispered, her voice thick, almost guttural. “Always so wet for you.” The scent of her, sex and sangria and something undeniably hers, filled my nostrils.
I knelt between her legs. My erection, pulsing and engorged, brushed against her soft, wet skin. The heat was immediate, shocking. My eyes were still clenched shut, trying to block out the image, but the sensation was vivid, overwhelming. Her legs parted wider, her knees drawing up slightly, inviting me.
“Come on, baby,” she urged, her voice a low moan, barely audible. “Don’t tease me.”
I didn’t hesitate anymore. The point of no return had been crossed somewhere back when her lips first met mine. I pushed forward, a slow, deliberate movement. The head of my penis slid against her, a slick, warm friction. I felt the moist, yielding entrance, the soft folds of her labia, the incredible, intoxicating texture.
She gasped, a sharp intake of breath. “Oh… Mark,” she moaned, her voice catching.
I pushed deeper, feeling the gradual stretch, the wet warmth engulfing me. It was tight, intensely hot, and utterly consuming. A shockwave of pleasure and terror shot through me. She was so incredibly tight. I could feel every ridge, every soft curve of her vaginal canal. It was raw, primal, and utterly forbidden.
“Fuck,” I heard myself groan, a sound that wasn’t mine, a guttural noise born of instinct. It might as well have been Mark. She didn’t seem to notice.
“Yes,” she whispered, a long, drawn-out sigh. “Oh, yes, just like that. You feel so… big inside me tonight, honey.” She bucked her hips up, meeting my thrust, taking more of me. “So full.”
I collapsed onto her, my chest pressing against her breasts, their fullness soft against me. My hands, which had been bracing on the bed beside her head, moved instinctively. One found her hip, gripping tightly as I began to move, a slow, deep rhythm. The other tangled in her hair, pulling her head back slightly, exposing her throat.
“Oh, Mark,” she moaned again, louder now, her voice thick with desire. “That’s it. Harder. Please, harder.” She wrapped her legs around my waist, pulling me even deeper, sealing me inside her. Her fingernails dug gently into my shoulders.
The rhythm took over. Each thrust was a mix of exquisite pleasure and sickening dread. Her body was so responsive, contracting around me, milking me with every move. The wet sounds of our bodies slapping together filled the quiet room, echoing in my ears, making my heart race even faster.
“You’re so good, baby,” she gasped, her breath hot on my ear, her hips moving in perfect unison with mine. “God, Mark. I needed this. I needed you.”
The lies, the misconception, fueled the fire. It made it more illicit, more intense. A strange, perverse power surged through me. I was her husband, her lover, her release. And I was her son. The thought was a searing brand, but it was lost in the overwhelming tide of sensation.
I picked up the pace, my hips grinding against hers, each thrust deeper, firmer. She cried out, a small, choked sound, her head tossing from side to side. Her hands gripping my back, her nails scraping lightly, then harder, pulling me closer still.
“Faster, Mark,” she pleaded, her voice breathy, desperate. “Please, Mark, give it to me. Come on, honey.”
I buried my face in her neck, inhaling her scent, tasting the salt of her skin, the lingering sweetness of sangria. The alcohol had clearly dulled her senses, blurring the lines of reality. She was completely consumed by the moment, by the man she believed me to be.
My own release felt imminent, a storm building inside me. Each thrust brought me closer to the edge, the pleasure almost unbearable, mingling with a raw, desperate need to escape the situation even as I perpetuated it. My hips slammed into hers, a relentless rhythm.
“I’m coming, Mark,” she cried out, her voice rising to a high-pitched moan. Her body tensed, her hips arching wildly, spasms wracking her. She gasped, a long shuddering breath, her legs clamping around me, squeezing me tightly. “Oh, God, yes!”
Her climax was a torrent of shudders and gasps, her body contracting around me in waves. It pushed me over the edge. A guttural groan tore from my throat, raw and uncontrolled. I squeezed my eyes shut, pushing one last, deep thrust, burying myself inside her as I emptied myself. The hot, pulsing release was overwhelming, a mix of pure, unadulterated pleasure and a crushing wave of self-loathing.
I collapsed on top of her, my body heavy, spent, still fully inside her. My breath came in ragged gasps, mingled with hers. The room was silent save for our ragged breathing, the distant pulse of music from the street below. Her body was still trembling slightly beneath mine. My face was buried in her hair, damp with sweat, smelling faintly of coconut and something else, something distinctly maternal.
For a long moment, neither of us moved. My heart hammered against my ribs, slowly, painfully. What had I done? This wasn’t Mark. This was me. Nigel. Her son.
She stirred beneath me, a soft sigh escaping her lips. Her hand, still resting on my back, stroked gently. “Oh, Mark,” she murmured, her voice soft, drowsy, filled with a contentment that made my stomach churn. “That was… exactly what I needed. Thank you, honey.”
She didn’t move to get off. She seemed to just want to lie there, holding me, holding Mark. My body, still connected to hers, felt heavy, cold, despite the lingering warmth. I wanted to scream, to disappear, to rewind time. The weight of my actions, of her blissful ignorance, pressed down on me, suffocating me. I felt a sick mixture of disgust and a horrifying, lingering thrill. And then, slowly, her breathing deepened. She was falling asleep. And I was still inside my mother.
I eventually pulled out of her, she was out of it. I had to discreetly get her in to her own bed. I got out of bed and grabbed her clothes off the floor. I went out of the hotel room and to dads. Good the door was not locked. Dad was snoring, I dropped mums clothes to the side of the bed. I went back to my room and gently picked up my naked mum and carried her to her room and gently put her to bed and I went to bed.
Few weeks on back at home, Mum never knew she still acted like the loving mother. I felt bad deep down but thinking of that night and how responsive she was to my cock turned me on more.