Some mornings, I lie there and pretend I don’t hear him pacing. The house is old enough that the floorboards tattle; his weight creaks along the hallway just outside my door. Back and forth, socked feet sliding in a rhythm that no longer startles me. If I breathe slowly, I can time it with his steps. That’s how I know how bad the day might be.
Liam turned eighteen in April, and the silence between us has grown more articulate than any conversation we manage. He doesn’t yell much anymore. Just goes still in a way that makes me ache. Like he’s folded in on himself. Like he’s learning how to disappear one organ at a time.
I make him breakfast out of habit, not expectation. Toast, sometimes eggs. He rarely eats it, but he notices. He used to stand behind me at the stove, lean his chin on my shoulder, and mumble the same joke about “five-star service.” Now he slips in when I’m not looking and takes coffee black, the mug clutched like it’s something to survive.
He still has the shoulders of the boy he was—sloped, shy—but his hands have changed. Veined and large, always in motion. Picking at the skin of his knuckles, rolling his lighter between his fingers even when he isn’t smoking. Once, I asked if he was using. He laughed, sharp and short. “If I was,” he said, “would you stop me?”
I told him I didn’t know.
It’s not that I think he wants to hurt me. It’s just that I’m not sure he cares who gets hurt. The line between neglect and cruelty is fine and shifting. I don’t think he knows which side he’s on.
Last night, I found a drawing in the kitchen—a torn scrap of notebook paper with a sketch in ballpoint pen. It was of me, or I think it was. A woman hunched over a sink, shoulders round, hair pulled back like I always wear it after work. It wasn’t flattering. It wasn’t unkind either. Just… unguarded. Observed. I left it on the counter, didn’t mention it. This morning, it was gone.
There’s something that tightens in me every time I look at him—like I’m bracing for impact, even when all he’s doing is breathing. Still, when he mumbles “I’m out” before heading to who-knows-where, I say “Be safe” without thinking. And sometimes, not often, but sometimes—he says, “You too.”
It was past eleven by the time I pulled into the driveway. The porch light was off, though I always leave it on. That was the first sign. The second was the faint flicker of the television seeping through the living room window—pale blue pulses against the dark.
I let myself in quietly. The house smelled like sweat and something sweet-rot, maybe beer gone stale. The TV was on low. Liam was there, slouched on the far end of the couch in a way that made his limbs look longer than they should be, legs spread wide, one arm thrown over the backrest. He didn’t even look over when I came in.
“Hey,” I said softly, kicking off my shoes. “Why’s it dark in here?”
He blinked at the screen, then turned his head. His eyes were glossy. Red-rimmed. A can of beer rested loose in his hand, dented along one side. A few empties stood sentry on the coffee table.
“You’re late,” he mumbled.
“I told you I had the night shift.”
“Doesn’t mean you had to take it.”
I sighed and lowered myself to the couch, leaving a respectful gap between us. The cushion sagged gently beneath me. I could feel the warmth of his body through the space.
“You drinking alone now?” I asked gently.
He shrugged. “Not alone if you’re here.”
There was a strange warmth to that—deflective, almost flirtatious in the way only teenagers trying to be men can be. I let it pass.
“You okay, Liam?”
He ran a hand through his hair, tousling the curls until they stuck out in lazy defiance. His chest rose and fell heavily beneath his hoodie—grey, oversized, the sleeves pushed up. I noticed how much broader his shoulders had gotten. How his thighs filled out his sweatpants, bunched high. The way he slouched made it all look careless, but there was tension underneath—coiled like a spring.
“Been a rough day,” he said finally. “Week. I dunno. My head’s just… full.”
“Of what?”
He didn’t answer right away. On the TV, a rerun of something dumb played with the sound down. Some sitcom full of forced laughter and people with perfect teeth.
“I feel like I’m made of electricity,” he said. “Like I could punch a wall or… I don’t know. Just burn out.”
His voice cracked a little. Not the way it did when he was twelve. But not far off, either.
“You’ve been—” I paused, searching for the word that wouldn’t spook him. “—different lately. I notice.”
He laughed, bitter and under his breath. “Yeah. Hormonal, right? Isn’t that what you think? Like I’m some dog about to hump the furniture.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“You look at me different.”
I turned toward him, the words catching like burrs in my throat. “I’m trying to understand you. That’s all.”
For a moment, he looked like he might say something more. But he didn’t. Just tilted the can to his lips and drank the last of it in one slow pull.
“Why do you sit so far away?” he asked then, almost childishly.
I didn’t answer right away. My hands were folded in my lap. There was a tightness in my chest I couldn’t name.
“You’re my son,” I said.
He stared at the screen. “Yeah,” he muttered. “But sometimes I don’t feel like it.”
His words sat between us like something left to rot—vague, provocative, unfinished. I looked at him, really looked this time. His neck was blotchy, flushed, like heat blooming under skin. His lips slightly parted, breathing too shallow for calm. One leg bounced with restless energy.
“I don’t feel like it either sometimes,” I said, my voice low, honest. “Like your mother, I mean.”
He blinked, eyes flicking toward me, surprised. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I shifted, tugging my cardigan closed at the front. The fabric was soft, oatmeal-coloured, worn at the elbows. Underneath, I had on a navy work blouse, creased from a long shift, the top buttons undone for air. My slacks were still on—black, snug at the hips from sitting all day. I felt the shape of my body more keenly in clothes meant for function, not rest. Everything itched. The wire of my bra had left a red line beneath my skin, and my feet were aching from flats with no support. Still, I hadn’t changed. Some part of me hadn’t wanted to.
“It means sometimes I feel like we’re two strangers stuck in the same house,” I said. “Like I don’t know what to say to you anymore. And I hate that.”
He let out a small breath, but it didn’t sound like relief. More like surrender. The kind of sound someone makes when they stop holding themselves up inside.
I moved then, almost without deciding. Shifted closer until our knees nearly touched. The air warmed between us. He didn’t move away. His hand, still gripping the empty can, rested near my thigh now. A soft tremble ran through it—barely visible, but there.
“You don’t have to sit over there,” he said again, quieter this time.
I reached out and gently took the can from his hand. Set it on the table with a soft clink.
“Okay,” I said. “Then I won’t.”
I sat back, just enough so that our shoulders brushed. His body was radiating heat—the kind of drunk flush that made everything seem louder and closer. His scent was all soap and sweat and something sour underneath. I felt his muscles twitch under his hoodie, like a dog dreaming.
He leaned his head back and looked at the ceiling, jaw tight. “Sometimes I feel like my skin’s too small,” he murmured. “Like there’s too much of me and nowhere to put it.”
“I know,” I said. “I can feel it. Every time you walk past me like I’m not there.”
He looked at me then, and something passed across his face—grief, maybe. Or fear. Or just tiredness. I noticed something long straining down the leg of his jeans and I blushed.
“I don’t mean to,” he said. “It’s just… hard. Feeling everything all the time.”
His voice shook at the end. I wanted to say something soothing. Something wise. But all I did was reach for his hand. He let me. Our fingers fit awkwardly, like puzzle pieces from different sets.
“I still see the boy in you,” I whispered. “Even when you’re trying so hard to be anything but. Are you… lonely or something?”
“Trust me Mum what I need you can’t give me,” he said looking embarrassed.
He shook his head, eyes darting away. His jaw was clenched like he was holding something back—words, tears, or just the raw edge of humiliation.
“Nothing,” he muttered. “Forget it.”
But I didn’t. I couldn’t. The room had gone still, the kind of still that has weight. I felt it pressing down on us both, thick and unsparing. The only sound was the tinny murmur of laughter from the television, surreal and misplaced.
“I’m not trying to push,” I said. “But you said that for a reason.”
His eyes flicked to mine, full of something hard to name. Shame, maybe. Or longing tangled with frustration. He was trying to keep his body still, but it betrayed him—a flex in the thigh, a twitch in the hand, a faint pulse fluttering in his neck.
“You ever want something,” he said slowly, “so bad it makes you feel sick?”
I nodded before I could stop myself. “Yes.”
He breathed out, sharp. “But what if it’s… wrong?”
The word hung there, thick and dangerous.
“I guess,” I said carefully, “that depends who’s deciding what’s wrong.”
He looked at me again, for real this time. His gaze was too direct, too adult. It knocked the air out of me a little.
“I don’t want to feel like this,” he said, quieter now. “I hate it.”
I swallowed. My cardigan had fallen slightly open, the lapels parting just enough to feel the night air on my blouse. His eyes flicked there and back, fast—almost imperceptibly—but I felt it like a current. My heart knocked once, hard.
“This thing you feel,” I said, just above a whisper. “Is it about me?”
He stared at the blank part of the wall beside the TV, jaw clenched, his throat working around silence. Then, finally, a nod. The tiniest one. A tremble more than a gesture.
My breath caught.
I didn’t move. Not away. Not toward.
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice cracking. “I shouldn’t’ve said that. I should go—”
He started to rise, legs unsteady, the hoodie riding up at his waist to reveal a strip of skin, the sharp jut of his hip bone. But I reached out instinctively, my hand closing around his wrist.
“Liam. Sit down.”
He did. Slowly. Eyes glassy, jaw tight.
“I’m not angry,” I said. “I’m… trying to understand. That’s all.”
We sat like that for a long stretch—shoulder to shoulder, breathing in sync without meaning to. I didn’t speak. Neither did he. The silence wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t unbearable either. Just the kind that knew not to move too quickly.
Eventually, the TV clicked over into static. That soft, blue snow. I reached for the remote, turned it off. The room went quiet. Liam shifted beside me—restless, fidgeting. His thigh brushed mine and didn’t move away.
“I should go to bed,” I said, though I didn’t stand.
He didn’t answer right away. Then: “You don’t have to. I mean… not yet.”
I turned my head. He was looking down, jaw working side to side like he was chewing a thought. His hand, still resting close to mine, opened and closed slowly. The tension in his body wasn’t just emotional—it was physical, almost visible in the way he held himself taut, like every nerve ending was raw.
“I can stay a little longer,” I said. My voice was quieter than I intended.
He exhaled, a low, shaky breath. “It’s just easier when you’re here.”
I don’t know what came over me—maybe it was the hour, or the softness in his voice, or just the ache I’d been carrying for weeks—but I reached over and brushed a hand through his curls. Once. Lightly. Like I used to when he was little and feverish and wouldn’t sleep unless I sat on the edge of his bed.
He closed his eyes.
“You’re burning up,” I said, touching his cheek briefly.
“It’s the beer,” he whispered. “Or maybe just me.”
“You should drink some water.”
He opened his eyes again, turned to look at me. His face was flushed, but there was clarity there now—painful, heavy, but clear. He was trying so hard not to fall apart.
“I don’t want to be weird,” he said, voice cracking. “But I don’t know how to stop this thing inside me.”
I nodded. “You don’t have to name it tonight. Just… let it settle. Let yourself breathe.”
And then—very gently—I reached for his hand again. This time, I laced my fingers through his.
We sat like that until the house felt smaller, and the night pressed in. Until his eyes drooped and his body softened beside mine.
“Come on,” I said eventually, standing slowly. “Let’s get you to bed.”
He didn’t argue. Just stood, sluggish, swaying slightly. I put a hand on his back—solid, too warm—and guided him down the hallway. His door creaked open, and he stepped inside, blinking slowly like a boy half-awake.
“Goodnight,” I said, stopping in the doorway.
He looked at me, like he wanted to say something else. But instead, he nodded.
“Mum… don’t go,” he said as I was about to leave.
I sighed, “Fine, just at least let me get changed for bed, I have been in these clothes all day.”
He didn’t answer. Just stood there in the dimness of his room, swaying slightly like a shadow waiting to see what I’d do. The hallway light pooled behind me, drawing my outline against the frame. His face was flushed, his eyes heavy—not with sleep exactly, but something more worn out, more fragile.
“I’ll be right back,” I said, keeping my tone soft, even.
I went to my room and closed the door behind me. For a moment, I leaned against it, eyes closed, breath shallow. My skin felt too tight, like I’d worn the day too long. I stripped slowly peeled off the blouse, unhooked the bra and stepped out of the slacks—and pulled on a cotton sleep shirt, long enough to skim my thighs. Loose, faded from too many washes, the old band logo across the front barely readable. It felt like a different version of myself lived in that shirt. One softer, quieter. More worn in.
I washed my face at the sink and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror—bare shoulders, hair mussed, tired eyes. I looked older than I felt, and younger than I pretended to be. That’s the hardest part of this kind of night: realizing how much of you still wants to be needed. I have not felt needed in years.
I went back to his room he had managed to get ready for bed as I caught him stumbling into bed in his boxers.
I walked back into Liam’s room, the door closing softly behind me. He was already under the covers, sheets rumpled, hair a mess against the pillow. The dim light from the hallway cast long shadows across his face, making him look younger, more vulnerable.
“Come on,” I said, climbing into the bed beside him. “Let’s get comfortable.” He made a soft noise, half-sigh, half-moan, as I draped my arm over his waist and tugged him close. His skin was warm, almost feverish, and he smelled of sweat and beer and something else, something that made my heart flutter in my chest.
I settled my head on his shoulder, feeling the rapid beat of his heart against my cheek. His arm came up to wrap around me, fingers curling into the back of my shirt. It was a gesture of comfort, of reassurance, but it felt like so much more.
“Thanks for staying,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, like sandpaper on stone. “You always know just what to do.”
I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me. “You’re my son, Liam. It’s what I do. I will do absolute anything for you.”
“Anything,” he said.
He rolled onto his side, facing me now. His eyes were dark in the low light, pupils dilated and glassy. He looked drunk, but not just on alcohol. There was a hunger in his gaze that made my breath catch.
“Even if it’s something… weird?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. My heart raced at the implication, but I kept my expression neutral.
“Define weird,” I said carefully.
Liam’s gaze intensified, his hand tightening slightly on my back. “Something you wouldn’t normally do,” he murmured, his breath hot against my face. “Something… inappropriate. I am you know hard and horny. Have you got any… knickers on.”
I froze and blushed, “of course I have knickers on. What do you mean you are horny.”
Liam’s eyes flicked down to my legs, then back up to my face. His pupils were dilated, his gaze intense and unblinking. “I mean exactly what I said,” he murmured, his voice low and rough. “I’m hard, Mum. Really fucking hard.” His hand squeezed my bum and he started kissing my neck.
I breathed slowly, “honey… ahh your drunk. We can’t do this I am your… mum.”
Next thing I knew we roll over and he is on top of me. He starts to trail kisses down my neck and collarbone and into the valley of my breasts. He yanks at the neckline and notices I am not wearing a bra as one boob flops out.
Then, with a low groan, he leaned down and captured my nipple in his mouth. His tongue swirled around the hardening bud, sending shockwaves of pleasure straight to my core. I gasped, my hands flying to his shoulders, unsure whether to push him away or pull him closer.
“Liam,” I breathed, my voice trembling. “We shouldn’t… oh god…” My protests died on my lips as he switched to my other breast, his hand coming up to knead the neglected flesh.
“Your tits are perfect. I’ve wanted to do this for so long.” His hand slid down my stomach, fingers dipping beneath the hem of my shirt to caress the bare skin underneath. I shuddered at his touch, my body responding despite the voice in my head screaming that this was wrong.
Liam’s hand slipped lower, slipping into the waistband of my knickers. He cursed under his breath when he found me wet. “You’re so wet Mum,” he murmured, his fingers parting my folds to stroke through the slickness. “I think your ready for dick ain’t you.”
I moaned loudly as Liam’s fingers found my wet pussy, my hips bucking up against his hand. “Oh god, Liam…”I gasped, my voice trembling with a mix of pleasure and shame. But the pleasure was winning out, my body responding eagerly to his touch.
Liam growled possessively, his fingers sliding deeper inside me. “Fuck, Mum. You’re so tight and wet. I bet your cunt would feel amazing wrapped around my cock.” He pumped his fingers in and out of me roughly, his thumb circling my clit.
I cried out, my nails digging into his shoulders. “Liam, please…” I begged, though I wasn’t sure what I was begging for. For him to stop or for more?
He shifted his hips, pressing the hard bulge in his boxers against my thigh. I could feel the heat of him through the thin fabric, the outline of his cock clear and intimidating. “I need to be inside you,” he growled, his hand fumbling with the waistband of his boxers.
I froze, my heart pounding in my chest as Liam’s words sank in. He wanted to be inside me. He wanted to fuck me. My own son.
The thought should have repulsed me, but instead, it sent a surge of heat straight to my core. “Liam, we can’t,” I gasped, even as my body arched into his touch.
“This is wrong.” But he was already pulling his boxers down, his hard cock springing free. It was long and thick, the head flushed a dark red and leaking pre-cum. I stared at it in shock and awe, my mouth watering despite myself.
“Fuck that,” Liam growled, positioning himself between my legs. He pulled my knickers to the side instead of taking them off. My pussy wet and ready, fuck I still had time to stop him. But I didn’t, I needed a good hard fuck.
Liam’s thick cockhead nudged against my entrance, hot and insistent. I gasped, my hands flying to his chest. “Liam, wait-“But he was already pushing forward, the broad tip parting my folds and slipping inside.
“Fuck,” he groaned, his eyes rolling back as he sank into me inch by inch. “You’re so fucking good.”
I cried out, my back arching off the bed as he filled me completely. It had been so long since I’d been with a man, and Liam was bigger than anyone I’d ever had.
“Oh god,” I moaned, my nails digging into his shoulders. “You’re so big.”
Liam started to move, pulling out slowly before thrusting back in. His hips snapped forward, driving his thick cock deep into my pussy. “Fuck yes,” he grunted.
Liam started fucking me hard and fast, his hips slamming into mine with each thrust. The bed creaked and shook beneath us, the headboard banging against the wall. I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper as he pounded into me.
“Oh fuck, Mum,” he groaned, his face buried in my neck. “Your pussy is so good.”
I moaned loudly as Liam’s thick cock slammed into me, my pussy stretching deliciously around his girth. “Ahh, Liam! Yes, fuck me harder!” I cried out, my hips bucking to meet his thrusts. This was the same bed I told bed time stories to him when he was younger. Now I am laid on it and under him. Taking his meaty cock in the place I popped him out of 18 years ago.
He started shagging my pussy harder and I could hear his balls slap against me. “Ahhh Mum. You need to… shave this tomorrow for me ok. Unnngh take my cock.”
“Ohhh Liam!” I screamed as he hit a spot deep inside me that made my toes curl. My pussy clenched around his throbbing shaft, trying to milk him for all he was worth.
Liam’s pace quickened, his thrusts becoming more erratic as he chased his release.”Fuck, Mum,” he gasped, his voice strained. “I’m gonna… I’m gonna cum.”
I felt his cock swell inside me, the head throbbing against my inner walls.”Yes,” I moaned, tilting my hips to take him deeper. “Fill me up, Liam. Give me your cum.”
With a final, shuddering thrust, Liam buried himself balls-deep and came. His hot seed spilled into me, coating my insides with his thick, creamy essence. I cried out at the sensation, my own orgasm crashing over me like a wave. “Oh god,” I panted, my body convulsing beneath him. “Liam… Liam…”
He collapsed on top of me, his face buried in the crook of my neck as he rode out the last waves of his climax.
Liam stayed inside me, his softening cock still buried deep in my pussy as we both caught our breath. I could feel his heart racing against my chest, his skin slick with sweat. Slowly, he lifted his head to look at me, his eyes heavy-lidded and satisfied.
“That was…” he started, then trailed off, seeming to struggle for words. “Fuck, Mum. That was incredible.”
I nodded weakly, still trying to process what had just happened. My body felt limp and sated, but my mind was reeling. I had just slept with my own son. The guilt was already starting to creep in, but it was overshadowed by the lingering pleasure and the warmth of Liam’s body pressed against mine.
I blinked slowly, my mind still foggy from the intense orgasm. Liam’s words echoed in my head -“That was incredible.” I knew it was wrong, but I couldn’t deny the pleasure I had felt. My pussy was still throbbing from the feeling of his thick cock inside me.Liam rolled off of me, flopping onto his back beside me. He looked over at me, a lazy smile on his face.
“You’re amazing, Mum,” he said softly, reaching out to brush a strand of hair out of my face. I turned my head to look at him, our eyes locking. In that moment, I saw something in his gaze that made my heart skip a beat. It was more than just satisfaction or gratitude – it was affection. Deep, genuine affection. Before I could analyse it further, Liam leaned in and pressed his lips to mine in a soft kiss.