Okay, take a deep breath. This is… this is hard to even say out loud, but you asked, and honestly, I need to get it out. You know how Andy’s sleepwalking? It’s been a nightmare, off and on, for years. Since he was a teenager, really. But lately? Since he turned eighteen, it’s gotten… disturbing. Really, really disturbing.
He’s always been restless in his sleep sometimes, but these last few months, it’s like… like a switch flips. He becomes… sexual. In his sleep. It’s been building. A few times, I’d wake up in the middle of the night and he’d be in my room, just standing there, sometimes trying to climb into my bed. Always asleep, eyes glassy, but… the intent was clear.
Just a few nights ago, I woke up because I felt my pajama bottoms shifting, being nudged down. It was him, half in my bed, fumbling. My heart leaped into my throat. I managed to just barely pull them back up, catch his arm, and gently, quietly, guide him back to his room. Get him tucked in, praying he wouldn’t wake up and remember any of it. Praying I wouldn’t remember it in the morning, but you always do.
Every single time before, the fear would snap me awake. Just that jolt of ‘oh my god, what is happening?’ would be enough. I’d wake up, stop him, steer him away, and we’d both be spared the absolute, soul-deep horror of acknowledging it.
Not last night.
I don’t know why. Maybe I was too tired. Maybe I was finally just… done? But last night, I didn’t wake up until it was already… happening.
I woke up because of the movement. Heavy, rhythmic. My body felt… enclosed. Trapped. And the first thing, the very first thing I registered, was the pressure. The heat. The unmistakable feeling of something hard and alien behind me, pushing, moving. I was on my side, curled up, and through the hazy confusion of waking up, I realized I was being spooned. But wrong. So, so wrong.
My breath hitched, a choked sound I barely contained. My body went rigid, every muscle screaming. No. No. NO. But the movement didn’t stop. It just kept going. Pushing in, pulling out. Deep and insistent. And then the smell hit me – his familiar scent, but mixed with something else, something thick and hormonal and utterly terrifying.
My brain was short-circuiting. Who? Who is that? And then the horrifying clarity hit me with the force of a physical blow. It was Andy. My son. He was in my bed. And he was…
Oh god. He was inside me.
A strangled gasp did escape me then. “Oh, fuck,” I whimpered, the sound barely audible, buried in the pillows. He didn’t react. Just kept moving. Relentless. Blind. Asleep.
Panic, hot and sharp, clawed its way up my throat. My mind was screaming, Get up! Push him off! Wake him up! But my body… my body was frozen. Stiff with shock, yes, but also… something else. Something insidious and shameful.
I risked a glance back over my shoulder, my neck craning. There he was. His face buried in the pillow behind me, his eyes closed tight, mouth slightly open, breathing hard with the effort. He looked like a stranger, driven by something primal, something completely separate from the boy I knew. He wasn’t him in that moment. He was just… this force.
I should have screamed. Kicked. Something. Anything. But the fear of waking him, of him snapping into consciousness mid-thrust and seeing me, seeing us like this… it was paralyzing. They say you shouldn’t wake sleepwalkers, that it can be dangerous. And in that moment, the danger I feared most wasn’t for me, but the utter, soul-destroying shame he would feel if he woke up and knew. Knew what he was doing. Knew he was inside his mother.
So I lay there. Trapped. On my side. Feeling… everything. His heat pressing against my back. The weight of his body heavy and unfamiliar. And inside… oh god, inside. He was so… full. Thick. Stretching me in a way I hadn’t been stretched in years. Each thrust drove him deeper. Deeper.
My mind was in a freefall. Taboo. Wrong. Depraved. But my body… my body didn’t get the memo. It betrayed me. A dark, forbidden heat started to coil low in my belly, a twisted echo of the rhythm he was setting. It was the absolute wrongness of it, the horror, that somehow… intensified the raw physical sensation.
“Oh, fuck, Andy,” I whispered again, a ragged, choked sound that must have just sounded like a sigh or a moan in his sleep-addled brain. My pussy clenched around him, a involuntary response that horrified me even as it registered as… something else. Something that felt dangerously close to pleasure.
It was agony and… something else. A raw, visceral intensity fuelled by the shock, the shame, the utter violation, and the undeniable physical reality of being filled so completely. My hands gripped the sheets, white-knuckled, trying to anchor myself, trying to push back against the rising tide of sensation that wanted to consume me. Guilt was a physical weight on my chest, suffocating me, warring with the desperate, carnal demand building lower down.
He just kept going. Pounding. Not slowing. Not reacting. Lost in whatever dream or instinct was driving him. Each thrust was a brutal reminder of what was happening, and a searing, undeniable physical force.
“Oh, God, Andy,” I whimpered, a broken prayer. Stop. Please, stop. But part of me… a dark, fractured part I didn’t recognize… was bracing for the next thrust.
And then… it shifted. His breathing got heavier. The pace quickened, becoming frantic, desperate. His body tensed against mine. I felt a guttural sound rumble in his chest, a muffled moan against the pillow. And then the sudden, intense clenching deep inside me. A final, powerful thrust.
And then… the heat. Hot. Thick. Flooding me. Filling me completely from the inside.
He stiffened for a moment, his weight heavy on me, body vibrating slightly with the aftershocks. Then… slowly, he went slack. His breathing eased, calming back down to the soft, even rhythm of deep sleep. He didn’t withdraw. Just lay there, heavy and still, buried behind me, deep inside me.
The silence that followed was deafening. The physical act was over, but the reality of what had happened crashed down on me with sickening force. I lay there, rigid, feeling the wet heat of him inside me, the phantom echoes of his thrusts still thrumming. Shame. Disgust. Horror. It all flooded me at once, cold and sharp, chasing away the confusing, unwanted physical sensations.
Carefully, so carefully, I shifted my weight, trying not to disturb him. Sliding away felt… like tearing myself apart. I needed to get up. To get out. To be anywhere but here.
I scrambled out of the bed, my legs shaky, bare feet hitting the cool floorboards. I didn’t look back at him, just stood there for a second, trembling. The feeling of him still inside me, the dampness between my legs, was unbearable. I fumbled for the pyjama bottoms abandoned on the floor, pulled them up quickly, yanking them into place like they could somehow un-do what just happened.
I couldn’t stay there. Not in that bed. Not in that room. Not with him.
Quietly, moving like a ghost in my own house, I slipped out of the room, down the stairs, and went to the living room. I couldn’t face my own bed. Not ever again, it felt like. I just… curled up on the couch, pulling a throw blanket around me, trying to make myself small, trying to disappear, and just stared into the dark, feeling utterly empty and completely full all at once. Deep down I knew it wasn’t his fault, he had no idea what he was doing.
The living room was cold. Not just temperature-wise, but a bone-chilling coldness that seeped into me, mirroring the emptiness I felt inside. Curled up on the couch, the throw blanket a pathetic shield against the night, I watched the sky slowly lighten through the gap in the curtains. Each shade of pre-dawn gray felt like another layer of dread settling over me.
Sleep was impossible. Every time I drifted, the memory would surge back, vivid and horrifying. The weight, the heat, the violation… and the shameful flicker of something else. God, that “something else” was the worst of it. How could my body betray me like that? How could I feel anything other than pure revulsion?
By the time the sun finally crawled over the horizon, painting the room in a weak, watery light, I felt like I’d aged a decade. My head pounded, my eyes burned, and my stomach churned with a nausea that wouldn’t quit.
I needed a shower. I needed to scrub myself raw, to wash away the feeling of him, to reclaim my body as my own. But even the thought of touching myself, of feeling the lingering tenderness, made me want to vomit.
I forced myself up, my legs stiff and aching. The house was quiet, still shrouded in the unnatural calm that follows a storm. I crept back upstairs, heart hammering, and peeked into my room.
Andy was still asleep, sprawled on his stomach, one arm flung over his head. He looked… peaceful. Innocent. Like the boy I knew, the boy who wouldn’t hurt a fly. The sight of him both broke my heart and filled me with a fresh wave of nausea.
I gathered some clothes, trying not to make a sound, and fled to the bathroom. The shower was scalding hot, almost painful, but I welcomed the burning sensation. I scrubbed and scrubbed, until my skin was red and raw. I washed my hair twice, trying to erase the scent of him from my body.
But it was no use. I could still feel him. Inside me. The memory was etched into my skin, burned into my mind.
When I finally emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, I knew I couldn’t avoid the inevitable. I had to talk to him. But how? What could I possibly say?
I went downstairs and made coffee, my hands shaking so badly I nearly spilled it. I knew I needed to be calm, to be rational. But inside, I was a mess of conflicting emotions – fear, disgust, shame, guilt, and a strange, twisted protectiveness.
He appeared in the kitchen doorway an hour later, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He looked… normal. Groggily, he mumbled, “Morning, Mom.”
My heart lurched. That simple greeting, so ordinary, so everyday, felt like a punch to the gut.
“Morning, Andy,” I managed, my voice barely a whisper.
He poured himself a cup of coffee, oblivious. “Sleep okay?” he asked, yawning.
The question hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Did he sleep okay? Did he have any idea what he’d done?
“Yeah,” I lied. “Fine.”
He sat down at the table, scrolling through his phone. The silence stretched, thick and unbearable. I had to say something.
“Andy,” I began, my voice trembling. “We need to talk about your sleepwalking.”
He looked up, his brow furrowed. “What about it? Is it getting worse again?”
“It… it’s more than that,” I said, my throat tightening. “It’s… it’s becoming something else.”
I couldn’t bring myself to say the words. I couldn’t tell him. Not yet.
“Last night,” I continued, my voice cracking. “Last night, you… you came into my room.”
His eyes widened slightly. “I did? Oh, man, I’m sorry, Mom. Was I bothering you?”
“It was… more than just bothering me,” I said, my voice barely audible. “Andy, you… you got into bed with me.”
He stared at me, his face paling. “What? No, I… I wouldn’t…”
“You were asleep,” I said quickly, trying to reassure him. “You didn’t know what you were doing.”
I could see the dawning horror in his eyes, the flicker of understanding. He was starting to piece it together.
“I… I don’t understand,” he stammered. “What… what happened?”
I took a deep breath, trying to find the words, trying to protect him from the full, devastating truth. But I knew I couldn’t sugarcoat it. He needed to know. We both did.
“Andy,” I said, meeting his gaze, my voice finally steady. “Last night… you were intimate with me. While you were asleep.”
His face crumpled. His eyes filled with tears. He looked like he was going to be sick.
“Oh, God,” he whispered. “Oh, God, Mom. I… I didn’t… I would never…”
He buried his face in his hands, sobbing. The sound was like a knife twisting in my gut.
“I know,” I said, reaching out to touch his arm. He flinched away from me.
“I’m so sorry,” he sobbed. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” I said, my own eyes filling with tears. “But we need to get you help. We need to figure out what’s causing this. I don’t know how to say this but, last night I woke up to you having sex with me.”
Weeks had passed and he got the help he had needed, and for me well I will never forget that night. Sad part is I enjoyed it.