The first time, it was 3:17 a.m. I remember the red numbers on the clock blinking like they were trying to wake me.
I’d been asleep only a couple hours, tangled in the sheets, window cracked to let in late summer air. Then I felt the mattress shift, slow and creaky, like a hesitant apology. I thought maybe I was dreaming. But then the blankets moved again.
When I opened my eyes, she was there. My mom. Curled on her side, back to me. Her nightie—a thin lavender one, kind of loose around her shoulders—slid down one arm and showed the pale slope of her back.
I didn’t say anything at first. I just watched her chest rise and fall, slow and steady. Her hair looked darker in the moonlight. She smelled like her usual lotion—coconut and something floral—but the room felt off. Too full. Wrong kind of quiet.
I sat up. “Mom?”
Nothing. She didn’t stir. Just breathed, shallow and steady, like she’d been asleep for hours. I got out of bed, stood there with my hand halfway out like I might shake her awake, then pulled it back. It felt too weird.
The next morning, she blinked at me from my pillow. “What… where am I?”
“In my room,” I said. “You, uh… came in during the night.”
She blinked again, looked around like she didn’t recognize the walls. “Why would I do that?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “You didn’t say anything. Just climbed in and went right to sleep.”
She touched her temple, like she had a headache. “I don’t remember any of that.”
We both laughed, kind of stiffly. But something about it stuck with me.
So I took her to the doctor. He asked a lot of questions, tapped her knees with a rubber hammer, had her follow his finger with her eyes. Finally, he nodded like he knew everything and said, “Some people sleepwalk under stress. Could be hormonal, age-related. Try not to wake her suddenly—it can cause panic or disorientation.”
“Just let her be?” I asked.
“For now,” he said.
The second time was a week later.
It was earlier that night, maybe just past midnight. I’d been scrolling on my phone, lights off, under the covers. I heard the soft creak of the hallway floorboards. At first, I thought it was the cat.
Then the door opened—slow and smooth. No knock.
She stepped inside like she knew where she was going. Her nightie was different this time. White. Thinner. It clung in places where the air was damp, and I could see the curve of her stomach under it, the faint dip between her collarbones. She didn’t look at me.
She just walked over and pulled back the blanket.
“Mom?” I said, quietly.
No response. She climbed in, lay down on her back this time, one arm across her middle. The fabric shifted as she moved—bunched around her thighs. It was hard not to notice the outline of her hips, the way her chest lifted the cotton with each breath.
I looked at the ceiling. Stiff. Cold. Like the air had dropped ten degrees.
Next morning, same thing. Confusion in her voice, blinking like a child. “Why am I here again?”
I tried to laugh. “I think you’ve got a new sleepwalking route.”
“That’s not funny,” she said, frowning. “Did I say anything?”
“No. Just… climbed in and passed out.”
She looked at the sheets, the pillow she’d crumpled. “This is embarrassing.”
“Not your fault,” I said. “Doctor said it’s harmless.”
But it didn’t feel harmless. It felt strange. Not dangerous, exactly—but like something nobody prepared me for.
The third time was a month later. It was raining hard. Thunder in the distance, long and low. The house felt hollow, like a shell with too much echo.
I’d already fallen asleep when I felt her again. The bed shifted, her weight pressing the mattress just enough to make it sigh. Then her hand—light, tentative—on my arm.
“Henry,” she whispered.
That’s not my name.
That was Dad’s.
I didn’t say anything. I knew what the doctor had said. Don’t wake her. Don’t cause a shock.
Her hand stayed there, warm and still. Her breath touched my shoulder. “I missed you,” she said, soft as a thread.
I stayed frozen. Part of me wanted to pull away. Another part just… stayed.
She curled closer. Her nightie was short again, maybe too short for this. My arm touched the bare skin of her thigh. I closed my eyes. Tried not to think.
She whispered, “Do you remember the lake? When we got lost?”
I said, “Yeah,” even though I didn’t.
“Your hands were so cold,” she murmured. “Then we fucked like rabbits.”
Omg I started getting hard. She then put her hand in my boxers, I couldn’t stop her. Did I want to? Fuck. I stayed quiet. She started to jerk me off. Oh fuck it felt good. After a while she stopped and she was struggling under the blankets. What was she doing. I hear the elastic go on her panties. She threw something out of the bed, wait did she take her panties off. Next thing she straddles me.
Next thing she straddles me.
My breath hitched. The world tilted. Her weight was on me, warm and heavy, and the scent of her lotion, usually comforting, suddenly reeked of something horrifying. Every fiber of my being screamed. This wasn’t harmless sleepwalking anymore. This was a nightmare I was wide awake for.
My hands, which had been frozen, suddenly shot up. I didn’t think about the doctor’s warning, didn’t think about startling her. All I knew was that I had to stop this. I pushed against her shoulders, not gently, a desperate surge of adrenaline fueling me. “Mom! No!” I said, my voice a strangled gasp, louder than I intended in the quiet room. But it was to late.
She slid down on my cock and it was deep inside her as she fully seated on it and started to ride my dick. It felt so fucking good, I just held her hips and went with it.
“Ahhh fuck mom, that… that feels so good,” I moaned as she didn’t respond she just kept on riding my dick thinking I was dad. Her pussy felt so fucking good.
She rode me with an instinctive, primal rhythm. Her hips pumped, slow at first, then gaining a desperate cadence against mine. Each thrust buried her deeper, scraping against the base of my shaft, and a choked groan escaped my throat. My hands, still locked on her hips, tightened, pulling her closer, deeper, ignoring the screaming part of my brain that knew this was a terrible, unforgivable sin. The pleasure was a blinding, suffocating wave, washing over me, drowning out everything else.
Her head was thrown back, the pale moonlight catching the curve of her throat, her hair fanned out around her. Her eyes were closed, her face calm, almost serene, as if she were dreaming the most beautiful dream while her body betrayed us both. Soft, breathy moans escaped her lips, little sounds that sounded like they came from a deep, unconscious place, echoing the ones that tore from my own throat.
Her hips moved with a fierce, unwavering purpose. It was like she was a machine, programmed for this single motion, her body remembering something deep and old. The bedsprings creaked a low complaint under their shifting weight. I could feel her slickness, hot and tight around me, each push a deeper invasion, a more profound surrender.
My own body was a mess of contradictions. A part of me was screaming, a high-pitched, desperate whine in the back of my mind. But the rest of me, the primal, roaring beast, was consumed by the feel of her. Her skin was soft, a little damp, and the scent of her lotion mixed with something more raw, more musky. It was a smell I never thought I’d associate with her.
Her breath came in short, quick gasps now, still unconscious moans. Her hands, resting on my chest, curled into soft fists, pressing lightly. She never opened her eyes. Not once. She just rode, lost in whatever dream she was having, lost with Dad, believing me to be him.
I couldn’t stop myself. My hips began to lift, meeting her thrusts, driving deeper into her. The friction was a burning joy, building and building. My fingers dug into her flesh at her hips, pulling her down, desperate for more. It was wrong, so wrong, and yet the only thing I wanted.
A low growl tore from my throat, raw and uncontrolled. Her riding quickened, a desperate, frantic pace now, matching my unspoken need. We moved together, a single, rocking, sweating mass, locked in a rhythm that felt both ancient and utterly forbidden. The room spun around us, the moonlight streaming through the window a silent, judging witness.
Then, a sudden tremor ran through her. A shiver, quick and involuntary. Her moans turned into a series of soft, guttural cries that were almost silent. Her body convulsed around me, tightening, milking every last inch. And then I felt it too, a wave crashing over me, sharp and overwhelming. I groaned her name, a strangled, broken sound, as my own release tore through me, hot and pulsing deep inside her.
Her body went slack, dropping heavily onto my chest. Her head rolled to the side, still eyes closed, her breathing shallow and fast. She was heavy, warm, and completely limp. I could still feel the echoes of our climax, the lingering heat between us. My chest heaved, my heart hammering like a trapped bird.
She didn’t stir. Not a twitch. She was just… asleep.
The sun was already bright when she stirred. I must have fallen into a light doze, slumped against the headboard. She blinked, slowly, like always. Her eyes found mine.
“What…” she started, her voice raspy with sleep. “Where am I?”
My throat was dry. “My room,” I said. It sounded thick.
She pushed herself up, rubbing her temples. Her nightie was twisted. “Again? Oh, Lord.” She looked at the sheets, then at me. Her brow furrowed. “Did anything… I mean, was I… weird?” She looked at my floor and saw her panties.
“My…my panties?” she whispered. Her voice was small. She looked at me. Her eyes were not sleepy anymore. They were scared. And seeing.
I couldn’t speak. My mouth was dry. My heart hammered. It was loud in my ears. She looked from the panties to me. Then to the rumpled bed. Her face went pale.
“What did I do?” she asked. It wasn’t a question. It was a plea. I looked away. I couldn’t meet her eyes. The silence was thick. It pressed down on us. Like a heavy blanket.
I sighed, “Do you really wanna know?”
Her eyes widened. They were glued to me. She nodded, a slow, small movement. Her lips trembled. “Tell me.”
My voice was a whisper. “You… you came in.” I looked at the floor, at her crumpled nightie, at the panties. “You took off your clothes.” Her breath hitched. She didn’t look at the panties again. She looked only at me.
“You thought I was Dad,” I continued. It was hard to say. Each word was heavy. “You… you said his name.” Her face was chalk white. Her hands went to her mouth, covering it. Her eyes were wide, full of terror.
“You didn’t wake up,” I said, the words rushing out now. “Not at all. You were… you were sleeping. The whole time.” She squeezed her eyes shut. A low sound, like a broken sob, came from deep in her throat. She slowly uncovered her mouth. Her voice was barely there. “The… whole time?”
I nodded. I couldn’t lie. Not now. Not about that. She stared at me, then at the rumpled sheets, then back at me. Her gaze was frantic, searching. It landed on my face, then lower, at my body under the blanket. Her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, God,” she choked out. “Oh, my God.”
She pulled her knees to her chest. Her body shook. “I… I can’t believe it.” I said nothing. There was nothing to say. The truth sat between us, cold and hard. “Wait… did you… cum inside me. Be truthful I wont be mad it’s not your fault, did you cum in me. Also, I shouldn’t say this but did you also enjoy it.”
I swallowed. My throat was still dry. I nodded again. My voice was a rasp. “I did try to stop you when you got on top of me. But yeah. I did cum inside you, hard.”
“And…” Her voice was barely audible, a fragile thread. “And the other thing? Did you… did you enjoy it? You said you tried to stop me, but…”
I looked away again. The blankets felt heavy. My face felt hot. My mind went back to how good it felt. Too good.
“Yeah,” I whispered. The word ripped out of me. “Yeah, Mom. I did.”
The air left her lungs in a whoosh. She slumped back against the headboard. Her eyes, wide and wet, never left my face. Her lower lip trembled. She looked broken.
“Oh, God,” she said again. It was just a breath. A broken sound.
She started to cry. Soft, silent tears at first. Then faster. Her whole body shook. She didn’t make a sound, just these deep, silent sobs. Her hands covered her face.
I just watched her. My stomach hurt. A cold knot. I wanted to say something. Anything. But what? What could I say? I enjoyed it. That was the truth. The awful truth.
She uncovered her face. Her eyes were red. Her cheeks were wet. “I… I can’t believe this.” Her voice was tight, choked. “My son. My own son.”
She looked at my blanket. At the shape of my body under it. Then back at my face. A different look came into her eyes. A new one. It wasn’t just fear now. There was something else. Hurt. Disgust. And something unreadable.
She slowly, carefully, slid off the bed. Her nightie clung to her. She didn’t look down at her panties on the floor. She just moved. Like a ghost.
She walked to the door. Her back was to me. Her shoulders were hunched.
“Mom?” I said. My voice was a croak.
She stopped. She didn’t turn around. “Just… just stay there.” Her voice was flat. Empty.
She left the room. The door clicked shut softly behind her. The sound echoed in the sudden quiet.
I was alone. The room was bright. The bed was a mess. Her scent was still in the air. Sweet lotion and something else. Something raw.
I lay there. Frozen. My heart was still pounding. Faster now than before. It felt like I couldn’t breathe.
I had told her. She knew. Both truths. The nightmare was real. And I was wide awake. The silence in the room was louder than thunder. It screamed at me.