The warm air of Spain wrapped around us the moment we stepped off the plane, a sweet relief from the recycled cabin oxygen. The sunlight was a tangible weight on my shoulders, promising golden days ahead. “Ah, finally,” my husband, Richard, stretched with a groan, hoisting his carry-on higher. Beside him, our son Carl grinned, already scanning the terminal with the restless energy of eighteen. His girlfriend, Claire, nineteen and radiating that effortless youthful confidence, adjusted the thin strap of her sundress, her eyes bright with anticipation.
“Feels good, doesn’t it?” I smiled, pulling my tank top strap back into place where it had twisted. It stretched across my chest, the material clinging slightly in the heat. “Let’s get our bags and head straight for the hotel, dump everything, and hit that beach.”
The hotel was a low-rise building with terracotta tiles and blooming bougainvillea spilling over balconies. Our rooms were side-by-side on the third floor, promising quick access to the pool and, beyond that, the sea. After a swift unpack – just enough to swap travel clothes for swimwear – we made our way to the shore.
The beach was postcard-perfect: soft, pale sand, the Mediterranean a dazzling sapphire under a cloudless sky. The waves whispered gentle greetings as they met the shore. Richard and I found a spot under a rented umbrella, slathering on sunscreen and settling into lounge chairs with a couple of cold drinks. Carl and Claire, however, were magnets drawn to the water and the action. They were off in the distance almost immediately, splashing each other, laughing, their bodies sleek and tanned. If I was being honest, their closeness and constant physical contact suggested they were probably already “up to no good,” as the saying goes. At 18 and 19, their sex drives were practically visible forces of nature. I knew I should have a serious talk with them about safety and responsibility, but watching them look so happy and free, I pushed the parental worries aside and just focused on the warmth of the sun on my skin and Richard’s familiar presence beside me.
The day melted away into a comfortable haze of sun, sea, and the occasional dip in the cool water. As the afternoon wore on, Richard and Carl migrated towards the beach bar, sampling the colourful cocktails. By the time the sun began to dip towards the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink, both men were decidedly tipsy, their laughter a little louder, their movements a little less steady. Claire and I exchanged amused glances.
“Think I’m going to head back,” Claire said, stretching. “All that sun and swimming, I’m wiped.”
“Me too,” I agreed. “Let’s leave these two to their… extensive cocktail research.”
We said our goodnights to the wobbling men and made our way back to the hotel room. I felt pleasantly tired, my skin warm and slightly tight from the sun. The first thing I did was head for the bathroom. I turned the shower to hot, letting the spray hit my back and shoulders, washing away the salt and sunscreen. The heat felt incredible on my sun-kissed skin, soothing and relaxing. After a good soak, I stepped out, wrapped a towel around myself, and moisturized my skin until it felt soft and supple. I slipped into a simple, silky navy blue nightie, the fabric cool and smooth against my skin. It was loose and comfortable, perfect for sleeping. Too tired to wait up for Richard, whose boisterous laughter I could still faintly hear from the direction of the bar, I climbed into the large, comfortable bed. The sheets were cool and crisp, the mattress seemed to contour perfectly to my body. It was heavenly. I nestled down on my side, facing away from Richard’s expected arrival spot, and was soon fast asleep.
Some time later, I was pulled from the depths of sleep by the subtle shift of the mattress beside me. A warm weight settled behind me. Then, strong arms wrapped around my waist, pulling me back against a solid chest. It felt like Richard. He didn’t say anything, which wasn’t unusual after he’d been drinking – he often just quietly climbed into bed. A hand slid slowly, deliberately, up my bare thigh, under the hem of my silky nightie. It moved higher, pushing the thin fabric up my leg as it went, a definite purpose in the touch. I held my breath, a jolt of surprise running through me, but also a flicker of anticipation. The hand continued its ascent until long fingers brushed against the sensitive, intimate crease of my groin.
I gasped softly as his fingers made first contact with my most intimate area, the sudden, direct touch stealing my breath. Shock mixed with an immediate, startling wave of pleasure. My core felt instantly awake, buzzing with a warmth that spread rapidly. His fingers were warm and skilled, not fumbling like Richard could sometimes be when he’d had a few. They parted my outer folds, delving gently into the slick, moist tissue within. My body was already responding, dampening almost instantly at the skilled touch. His thumb found my clitoris through the delicate skin, pressing lightly, causing a sharp, delicious current of sensation to shoot straight through me. My silk nightie was now rucked up around my hips, exposing me completely from waist down. Behind me, I could feel the undeniable, hard pressure of his rigid cock pressing insistently against my ass cheek and the back of my thigh. He was clearly very ready, and still silent, his breathing a low, ragged sound near my ear. Without hesitation, his hand moved lower, easing my simple cotton panties down over my hips and off my leg. I bit my lip, surprised by the intense surge of arousal flooding me. It felt incredibly illicit and exciting, being taken so silently and directly.
Richard’s hands – or who I believed was Richard – shifted, one staying low, fingers still subtly teasing my throbbing clit, while the other reached up to my breasts. He kneaded the soft flesh through the thin silk of my nightie, his touch firm and possessive. His thumbs found my nipples, which were already pebble-hard with anticipation, and pinched them gently. The dual stimulation – the exquisite pressure on my clit combined with the sharp little bursts of pleasure from my nipples – sent jolts straight to my core. I couldn’t help but arch my back into him, pressing my ass more firmly against the straining, pulsing erection behind me. He let out a low, guttural sound, almost a growl of impatience or desire, vibrating against my back.
Suddenly, he was inside me. It wasn’t a slow entry; it was one smooth, deep thrust, catching me completely by surprise. His thick shaft filled me instantly, stretching my inner muscles wide. I cried out softly at the sudden intrusion, a mix of shock and intense pleasure. My body, already slick and ready from his touch, clenched instinctively around him. He didn’t pause for a second, immediately setting a relentless, hard, and fast rhythm from behind. It was unlike our usual lovemaking; Richard was often more tender, more lingering, especially when he’d been drinking. But this felt primal, urgent. Clearly, the alcohol had stripped away any inhibitions. His cock felt incredibly thick as he began to pound into my mature pussy hole, stretching me pleasurably with each powerful stroke.
His hips smacked against my ass cheeks with a wet, rhythmic sound as he drove into me, taking my already soppy pussy with a rough, delicious intensity. I was breathless, gripping the sheets beneath me.
“Ohhh,” I moaned, the sound muffled slightly by the pillow as I lay there, absorbing his manhood, feeling it slide in and out of my wet gash. The slapping sound of our bodies colliding was loud in the quiet room.
His hips worked tirelessly, drilling into me with deep, powerful strokes. My slick walls clung to his thick member, stretching and yielding with each thrust. Then, faintly at first, but growing clearer, I heard sounds from the room next door. High-pitched cries of ecstasy, the rhythmic thud of a headboard hitting a wall. Claire. And Carl. They were at it too, just on the other side of the wall. Hearing them, hearing Claire’s uninhibited moans and gasps, sent a sharp bolt of excitement through me, adding another layer to my already heightened state. It felt incredibly naughty, almost like we were competing.
Just as I felt myself nearing the edge, Richard suddenly reached one hand down again, abandoning my breast to return to my throbbing clit. He rubbed and tugged at the sensitive nub while continuing to piston deep inside me with the other. The dual stimulation was almost unbearable. It was too much, too fast, too intense. My pleasure rapidly built to an explosive peak.
With a long, shuddering moan that I couldn’t silence, my climax crashed over me. My entire body tightened, my inner muscles clenching rhythmically, fiercely, around Richard’s pistoning cock as I came hard, waves of pleasure radiating out from my core. A few moments later, with a deep groan, he buried himself balls deep inside me and pulsed hot, thick liquid into my channel.
As the intensity subsided and we both came down from our high, the weight behind me shifted slightly. He slipped out of me, and I felt him settle back, still holding me close from behind. His breathing deepened almost immediately. Drunk as he was, he was already drifting off to sleep. I lay there, panting softly, my body humming with the afterglow. A small smile played on my lips. Maybe this was the key, I thought contentedly. Maybe getting Richard drunk was the answer to spicing up our sex life. Feeling utterly exhausted and completely satisfied, I soon fell asleep myself, nestled in the arms I assumed were my husband’s.
I awoke the next morning slowly, groggily, my body stiff but pleasantly heavy. Sunlight filtered through the gap in the curtains. I shifted slightly, feeling a warm weight beside me. I needed to use the bathroom. I blinked, trying to clear the sleep from my eyes, and turned carefully onto my back. I looked over to see the face lying on the pillow next to mine, the face that had been pressed against my back just moments before.
My breath hitched.
It wasn’t Richard.
The face staring back at me in the morning light, peaceful in slumber, was young, lean, and utterly, terrifyingly familiar.
My son. Carl.
His dark hair was mussed, his face relaxed, his body naked beside mine. I let out a strangled scream, a sound ripped from my gut, and scrambled backwards in the bed, pulling the sheet up to cover myself.
“Oh my god! Carl! What are you doing here?!” My voice was a hoarse whisper, laced with pure, unadulterated panic. “Where’s Richard?! What… what happened?”
My mind reeled, replaying the events of the night, the drunken men, the silent lover, the intense sex, the sounds from the room next door… It all crashed down on me in a horrifying wave of realization. My son, naked, in my bed. What was happening?
Omg it was him fucking me last night, and the sounds of Claire next door, was that Richard having it off with her. They got the wrong rooms, the sex last night was so good and now I know why.
“MOM… what the… what you doing in my bed, and naked oh my…” he looked shocked.
“No this is mine and your dads bed, I thought you…” I was still shocked.
“Wait we didnt… I didnt… we did didn’t we,” he said looking confussed.
I sighed still embarrassed, “It isn’t your fault, I know you wouldnt intentionally have sex with me.”
“Wait… so we actually had sex.” He covered his face with his hands.
“Yes, you were… well, like an animal. Tell you what, you sure as hell are better than your father,” I said, embarrassed.
“We can’t… we can’t tell anyone,” I said finally, forcing the words out. “This was a mistake. A fucking awful, drunken mistake. Richard… Claire… they can’t know.” My voice cracked on Claire’s name, and the sounds from next door came rushing back—her high-pitched moans, the rhythmic thud of the headboard.
If Carl had ended up here, then Richard… oh, fuck. My husband had likely been balls-deep in Carl’s girlfriend, thinking she was me. The thought sent a jolt through me, equal parts horror and a twisted, inexplicable thrill.
Carl nodded quickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. “Yeah. Yeah, no one can know. Shit, Claire would… she’d lose it.” He ran a hand through his hair, his movements jerky, and I caught a glimpse of his cock, half-hard under the sheet, the sight making my breath catch. It was thick, still glistening faintly from our earlier fucking, and my pussy clenched involuntarily at the memory of how it had stretched me, filled me so completely. I tore my eyes away, hating myself for even noticing.
2 Weeks later we were back home, early Monday morning I am running to the toilet being sick.
The early Monday morning light filtered weakly through the bathroom blinds, casting slatted shadows across the cold tile floor. My knees pressed hard against the porcelain rim of the toilet as I retched, the sour taste of bile burning my throat. Sweat beaded on my forehead, my hair clinging damply to my neck. The nausea had hit like a freight train, sudden and relentless, pulling me from a restless sleep. I gripped the edge of the sink, hauling myself up, my legs shaky. The mirror reflected a pale, hollow-eyed version of myself, the navy blue nightie—that nightie—clinging to my sweat-slicked skin, the hem still faintly wrinkled from where it had been shoved up my hips two weeks ago in Spain.
I rinsed my mouth, the tap water cold and metallic, and leaned against the counter, my breath uneven. Two weeks. Two weeks since that night, since Carl’s thick cock had pounded into me, since I’d come so hard I saw stars, thinking it was Richard. Two weeks since the horrifying morning after, when I’d woken to my son’s face on the pillow, his body naked and warm beside mine. And now, this—sickness, sudden and violent, my stomach roiling like the sea we’d left behind.
A flicker of dread curled in my gut, sharper than the nausea. I tried to dismiss it, chalk it up to stress, to the greasy takeaway we’d had last night, to anything but the unthinkable. But my body knew better. My breasts felt tender, heavy, my nipples sensitive even against the soft silk of my nightie. I pressed a hand to my lower belly, the skin warm and slightly taut, and a cold sweat broke out across my back. No. It can’t be. But the math was merciless, the timeline too precise. That night, Carl’s cum had flooded me, hot and thick, pulsing deep inside my unprotected pussy. I hadn’t thought to take a pill, hadn’t thought at all, too drunk on pleasure and then too horrified by the truth.
I stumbled back to the bedroom, my bare feet silent on the carpet. Richard was still snoring softly, sprawled across his side of the bed, oblivious. I sat on the edge, my hands trembling as I reached for my phone. A quick search confirmed what I already feared: morning sickness could start this early. My throat tightened, and I pressed my fingers to my lips to stifle a sob. Pregnant. Possibly. Probably. With my son’s child. The thought was a knife, twisting deep, and yet—fuck, there was that traitorous heat again, that flicker of something dark and forbidden, remembering how his cock had felt, stretching my pussy, slamming into my cervix with a force Richard hadn’t managed in years.
I needed to know. I needed certainty. Quietly, so as not to wake Richard, I slipped into a pair of leggings and a loose jumper, grabbed my keys, and drove to the nearest chemist. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as I snatched a pregnancy test from the shelf, my hands shaking so badly I nearly dropped it. The cashier’s bored glance felt like a spotlight, but I forced a smile, paid, and hurried back to the car. At home, I locked myself in the bathroom again, the test clutched in my clammy palm. I peed on the stick, set it on the counter, and waited, my heart hammering so loud I thought it might wake the house.
Two lines. Clear as day. Positive.
“Fuck,” I whispered, sinking to the floor, the test clattering to the tiles. My mind spun, a chaotic whirl of panic and something else—something primal, raw, that made my pussy throb even now, remembering Carl’s hands, his thrusts, the way he’d growled against my neck. I hated myself for it, but the memory was vivid, etched into my body like a brand. His cock, thick and veined, splitting my slick folds, my pussy juice dripping down my thighs as he fucked me raw. The way my clit had pulsed under his fingers, the way my cunt had clenched around him as I came, milking every drop of his cum into my womb.
I pressed my thighs together, my breath hitching. This was wrong. So fucking wrong. But my body didn’t care, already slick at the thought, my panties dampening against my swollen pussy lips. I needed to talk to Carl. We needed to figure this out—quietly, secretly, before Richard or Claire suspected anything. The thought of Claire brought another jolt, the memory of her moans through the hotel wall, the rhythmic thud of the headboard. Richard had fucked her that night, thinking she was me, just as Carl had fucked me. The symmetry was sick, twisted, and yet it made my clit throb harder, imagining them together, imagining Richard’s cock buried in Claire’s tight young pussy while Carl claimed mine.
I slipped out of the bathroom, the test hidden in my pocket, and padded downstairs. The house was still quiet, but I knew Carl would be up soon, always an early riser. I made coffee, the routine grounding me, and sat at the kitchen table, my fingers tapping nervously against the mug. When I heard his footsteps on the stairs, my stomach lurched, not from nausea but from the weight of what I had to say.
Carl appeared in the doorway, his dark hair mussed, wearing only a pair of loose grey joggers that hung low on his hips. His chest was bare, lean muscles shifting under tanned skin, and I cursed myself for noticing, for the way my eyes lingered on the faint trail of hair disappearing below his waistband. He froze when he saw me, his expression wary, like he could sense the storm brewing.
“Morning,” he mumbled, heading for the coffee pot. His voice was rough, still thick with sleep, and it sent a shiver down my spine, reminding me of his low growl that night, the way he’d sounded when he came inside me.
“Carl,” I said, my voice low, urgent. “We need to talk. Now.”
He turned, his eyes narrowing, and I saw the flicker of fear in them, the same fear I felt. He nodded, grabbing a mug and sitting across from me, his posture tense. “What’s wrong?”
I took a deep breath, my hands clenched around my coffee mug. “I’m pregnant. Oh and no it isn’t your dads, he can’t have children any more, he had the snip years ago.”
“Pregnant?” he whispered, his voice cracking, barely audible. “You’re… you’re sure?”
I nodded, my throat tight, and pulled the test from my pocket, sliding it across the table like it was a live grenade. The two pink lines glared up at us, undeniable. “Took it this morning. I’ve been sick, Carl. It’s… it’s yours. Richard had a vasectomy years ago. There’s no way it’s his.”
So there is was, one mistaken night of identity now left me carrying my sons child. Life became a rocky one, eventually I had so much quilt I left my husband and I left the country to start a fresh with my unborn child.