I pushed open the front door with the side of my hip, still in my black mini-skirt and the same red blouse I’d been wearing since 9 pm last night. One heel was already dangling from my fingers, and the other was still half-on, scraping uselessly against the inside of my foot. I didn’t bother taking it off—just let it clack across the laminate as I stumbled into the hallway.
The house smelled like toast and a teenage boy. The kind of smell that clings to the air when you’ve got a son old enough to make his own breakfast but not old enough to clean the crumbs. I dropped my bag by the stairs and pulled the other heel off with a sigh that came from somewhere behind my ribs.
8 a.m. The birds were chirping with that irritating cheeriness they reserved for the sleep-deprived.
I caught sight of myself in the mirror. My eyeliner had melted into a raccoon smudge, and my blouse—low-cut, of course, nightclub uniform policy—was clinging to my chest like it knew it had earned its keep. I looked tired. No. I looked done. Every bit of me ached, not just physically, but somewhere deeper. My wrists from pulling pints. My back from bending across bar tops to hear half-cut city boys tell me I had a lovely smile. My heart from carrying on.
The telly was on in the living room. I hadn’t noticed until now, the low hum of canned laughter leaking into the hall. I wandered in.
My 18-year-old son Bobby was curled on the sofa under one of those scruffy fleece throws, blinking sleep from his eyes, remote on his chest. His hair was a mess—just like his dad used to be when he first woke up. I stared at him for a beat too long.
“Morning, Mum,” he said, voice hoarse, eyes still half-closed.
He looked at me properly then—at the smudged face, the wrinkled skirt, the woman who hadn’t had a proper night’s sleep in weeks. I tried to smile.
“Morning, love. I’m going for a lie-down. I’m shattered.”
“Alright,” he said softly. “Hope you get some proper sleep this time.”
He turned back to the telly, but I saw the way his shoulders shifted—like he was carrying something too. Guilt, maybe. Or worry. Or just growing up too fast in a house that sometimes felt one heartbeat short of full.
I climbed the stairs slowly, my knees stiff from standing all night. The house felt too quiet, the kind of silence that used to mean peace but now just reminded me who wasn’t here anymore.
Tony’s old aftershave bottle still sat untouched on the windowsill in the bathroom. I hadn’t moved it. Couldn’t. Not even after a year and a half. He was just… gone. No long illness, no warning. Just a phone call and a cold Tuesday and a bag of his things in the back seat of a copper’s car.
And ever since, something inside me had been wanting—not just for him, but for the feeling of new life. For the possibility of more. Another child. A girl, maybe. Or just a baby. Just the chance to pour out the love I still had but didn’t know where to put anymore.
I know it sounds mad. Forty-three and still dreaming of night feeds and dummies and prams. But it’s not about logic. It’s about longing.
I took my clothes off even my underwear and I lay down in bed and stared at the ceiling, the imprint of nightclub neon still flashing behind my eyelids. My body was sore in all the usual places, but it was the quiet that hurt most.
Downstairs, the laughter track ended and another sitcom started. Bobby moved around—probably making cereal or tea. He was good like that. Quietly responsible. Even he knew how bad I wanted to get pregnant.
And I thought—not for the first time—how cruel it was that my body might still want what life had already said no to.
An hour passed, maybe more. I stored a little and I caught myself moaning. I felt a deep sexual pleasure between my legs and heavy breathing above me. I moaned a few times, “Ahhh… ahhh.”
That is when I was shocked at what was happening, I looked up and Bobby was looking down at me. My legs were open and he was thrusting his cock in and out of my pussy.
“Bobby… what are you… ahh doing” I moaned and he just ignored me and continued fucking me. “You… ahhh god, you can’t be fucking me. Oh, son. Ahhh your so big, ahh fuck.”
Bobby didn’t stop. He just kept pumping into me, his hips snapping forward with a rhythm that was both desperate and practised. I couldn’t believe it was happening. My own son, fucking me so hard and deep. The taboo of it made my clit throb almost painfully.
“Mum… ahh, you’re so tight,” Bobby grunted, his face a mask of concentration and lust.
“I know, love… ahhh… just like that… don’t stop,” I moaned, my hands reaching up to grip the bedsheets as he drove into me. The feel of his young, hard cock stretching me open was almost too much to bear. I could feel every ridge and vein, the way it pulsed with each thrust. Bobby’s eyes were fixed on where we were joined, watching in fascination as his hips pistoned in and out of my dripping fanny.
Bobby’s thrusts grew faster, harder, the bed creaking beneath us. I could feel the heat building in my core, my clit aching for friction. I reached down and spread my own thighs wider, giving him even more access.
“Bobby… oh God, love… ahhh,” I gasped, my voice breaking into a desperate moan. My fingers twisted in the sheets, knuckles white as I fought to anchor myself against the tidal wave of sensation. His young body loomed above me, lean muscles flexing under his skin, his face flushed with a mix of lust and something darker—something that mirrored the forbidden hunger I felt deep in my bones.
“Mum… fuck, you feel so good,” he grunted, his voice low and rough, like he was barely holding himself together. His eyes, dark and intense, stayed locked on where his cock disappeared into my slick fanny, the wet squelch of our bodies colliding filling the room. The sound was obscene, filthy, and it made my thighs tremble.
I shouldn’t have wanted this. I knew it was wrong—every thrust screamed it—but my body didn’t care. My fanny clenched around him, greedy and slick, pulling him deeper with every stroke. The taboo of it, the sheer wrongness, only made the heat coil tighter in my belly. My son, my Bobby, fucking me like he’d been starving for it. And God help me, I was starving too.
“Harder… ahh, please, love… don’t stop,” I whimpered, my hips bucking up to meet his. My thighs were spread wide, shamelessly open, my fingers digging into the soft flesh of my own legs to keep them apart. The stretch of his cock was almost too much, a delicious burn that made my clit throb with every thrust. I could feel my fanny lips, swollen and slick, clinging to him as he pulled back, only to slam in again with a wet, filthy slap.
Bobby’s hands gripped my hips, his fingers digging into my skin hard enough to leave marks. “Fuck, Mum… you’re so wet… so fucking tight,” he growled, his voice thick with need. He shifted, changing the angle, and I cried out—a sharp, desperate noise—as his cock hit that spot inside me that made my vision blur. My fanny pulsed around him, dripping with arousal, the slickness coating my thighs and pooling beneath me on the sheets.
The bed creaked louder now, the headboard tapping against the wall in time with his relentless rhythm. My breasts bounced with every thrust, heavy and full, the nipples hard and aching for touch. I brought my arms together, squeezing my tits until they pressed into a deep cleavage, the soft flesh spilling over my forearms. “Bobby… touch me… please,” I begged, my voice a needy whine.
His eyes flicked up to my chest, and a low, hungry grunt escaped his throat. One hand left my hip, sliding up to cup my breast, his thumb brushing over the nipple. The sensation was electric, a spark that shot straight to my clit. “Fuck, Mum… your tits are perfect,” he muttered, squeezing the soft mound, his fingers sinking into the flesh. He pinched my nipple, rolling it between his fingers, and I arched off the bed with a sweet little cry.
“Ohhh… yes, love… like that,” I moaned, my head falling back against the pillow. My fanny clenched harder around his cock, the pleasure building into something unbearable. I could feel every inch of him—thick, veined, pulsing with heat as he fucked me deeper, faster. My labia were stretched wide, the sensitive skin tingling with every thrust, my clit swollen and begging for friction.
Downstairs, the telly droned on, a faint hum of canned laughter that felt a million miles away. The house was quiet otherwise, the world outside oblivious to the sin unfolding in this bedroom. My bedroom. Our bedroom, once. The thought of Tony flickered briefly in my mind—his aftershave still on the windowsill, his absence a ghost in the room. But Bobby’s cock drove that thought away, filling me so completely there was no room for anything else.
“Mum… I’m… fuck, I’m close,” Bobby panted, his thrusts growing erratic, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. His hand slid from my breast to my thigh, pushing my leg up higher, opening me even more. The new angle made me scream—a sudden, filthy noise that echoed off the walls. His cock was relentless now, pounding into my fanny with a wet, squelching rhythm that made my toes curl.
“Don’t stop… oh God, Bobby, don’t stop,” I pleaded, my voice breaking into a series of breathless moans. My fingers found my clit, circling the swollen bud with desperate, sloppy strokes. The pleasure was overwhelming, a white-hot coil tightening in my core. My fanny was soaked, the slickness dripping down to my arse, coating his cock as he fucked me harder, deeper.
His eyes were wild now, his face a mask of raw need. “Mum… I’m gonna… fuck, I’m gonna cum,” he groaned, his hips slamming into me with a force that shook the bed. I could feel his cock swelling inside me, the pulse of it driving me closer to the edge.
“Cum for me, love… fill me up,” I gasped, my fingers working my clit faster, the pleasure cresting into something explosive. My fanny clenched around him, milking his cock as the first wave of my orgasm hit. “Ohhh… fuck, yes… ahhh!” I screamed, my body convulsing, my thighs trembling as the pleasure ripped through me. My fanny gushed, the slickness coating his cock, dripping onto the sheets in a filthy, wet mess.
Bobby let out a low, guttural grunt, his hips stuttering as he buried himself deep. “Fuck… Mum… here it comes,” he growled, and then he was cumming, his cock pulsing as thick, hot ropes of semen flooded my fanny. The sensation was overwhelming—his cum was warm, viscous, filling me to the brim, some of it leaking out around his cock to drip down my thighs. Each pulse of his release sent another shudder through me, my fanny clenching around him, drawing out every last drop.
“Sorry mum,” he said painting as he rest his forehead on my tits. “I know you want a baby, and I want to be the one to get you pregnant. I know I shouldn’t have taken advantage, but I knew you wouldn’t want to do this so I thought… well I don’t know what I was thinking.
“Bobby… love,” I whispered, my voice hoarse, barely audible over the faint hum of the telly downstairs. My hands hovered over his shoulders, trembling, unsure whether to push him away or pull him closer. “This… we can’t… it’s wrong.”
He lifted his head, his dark eyes meeting mine. They were wide and vulnerable, but burning with a stubborn intensity. “I know, Mum. I know it’s fucked up. But I see you… every day, hurting. Wanting a baby. Wanting something. And I… I can’t stand it.”
My throat tightened. I wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong, that this wasn’t the answer. But my body betrayed me, still tingling from the orgasm that had ripped through me, my fanny slick with his cum. The bed beneath us was damp, the sheets twisted and stained with our sin. I shifted slightly, and a trickle of his semen leaked out, warm and sticky against my thigh.
“Bobby, you’re my son,” I said, my voice cracking. “This… it’s not right. You know that.”
He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Yeah. I know. But… you didn’t stop me. You wanted it too.” His voice was soft, not accusing, but it cut deep all the same.
I opened my mouth to protest, but no words came. He was right. I hadn’t stopped him. I’d begged for more, spread my thighs wider, screamed his name as I came. The truth of it sat heavy in my chest, a weight I couldn’t shake.
The room was quiet now, save for the distant chatter of the sitcom downstairs. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting soft stripes across Bobby’s bare back. His skin was smooth, taut over lean muscles, a stark contrast to the softness of my own body—curves worn by time, motherhood, and grief. My breasts, still flushed from his touch, heaved with each uneven breath.
“I’m sorry, Mum,” Bobby said again, his voice barely a whisper. He pulled back slightly, his cock slipping out of me with a wet, obscene squelch. I gasped, a needy little moan escaping my lips at the sudden emptiness. More of his cum dripped out, pooling on the sheets, the scent of it sharp and primal.
“Don’t be sorry,” I said, surprising myself. My hand reached for his cheek, my thumb brushing over the stubble there. “I… I don’t know what this means, love. But I’m not angry.”
His eyes softened, relief flickering across his face. “I just… I want to help you. I want you to be happy again.”
A few weeks later, I woke up ran to the toilet and threw up. I stared at the toilet bowl, my body heaving with each retch. The morning sickness hit me like a freight train—another unwelcome reminder of the path I’d gone down with Bobby. Myson. The word felt foreign now, tainted by the memories of that day in my bedroom.
I flushed the toilet and leaned against the wall, my breath coming in shaky gasps. My hand trembled as I reached for the glass on the counter, gulping down the water in desperate swallows. The cool liquid soothed my throat, but it did nothing to quell the storm of emotions churning in my gut.
A baby. I was pregnant. And it was Bobby’s fault. His responsibility. His legacy, growing inside me.
I closed my eyes, trying to block out the reality of it all. But I couldn’t escape the truth—that I was carrying my own son’s child.
That night I sat Bobby down, this is going to be hard.
“Sit down, love,” I said, my voice soft but firm. Bobby looked up from his phone, a flicker of wariness in his eyes. He sat on the edge of the sofa, his lean frame seeming to shrink under my gaze. “I am pregnant, and yes its yours.”
“That is great Mum, you are mad at me, aren’t you? You have been wanting a baby for months.”
I shook my head, trying to clear the swirl of emotions. “No, Bobby. I’m not angry. I’m… overwhelmed. Surprised. Scared, maybe.” He looked at me, his eyes searching, trying to read my expression.
“But you’re happy, right? About the baby?” I took a deep breath, weighing my words carefully. “I’m trying to be, love. I really am. It’s just… this is a lot to process. You’re my son, and now you’re going to be a father too.
“Bobby’s face paled slightly, his jaw tightening. “I know, Mum. I know it’s complicated. But we’ll figure it out. Together.”I nodded, a small, grateful smile tugging at my lips.
9 months later:
I lay on the hospital bed, my body aching and exhausted as I held my newborn daughter in my arms. Bobby stood beside me, his eyes wide with wonder as he gazed at the tiny, perfect creature cradled against my chest.
“She’s beautiful,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “Just like you, Mum.”I smiled, my heart swelling with love and a sense of rightness. This was what I had wanted—what I had ached for, even if the path to get here had been twisted and taboo. Bobby’s child.
As I looked down at my daughter’s sleeping face, a soft, contented sigh escaped me. Her tiny nose, her rosebud mouth, the wisps of dark hair on her scalp—it was all so familiar, so comforting. She was a piece of Bobby, yes, but also of me.