Impregnated my drunk mother

Drunk, she mistook her son for her husband. She doesn't remember it. For Samuel, however, it was the opportunity he had waited his whole life for. The one he had dreamed of, had fantasized about. His obsession with his own mother finally found its fulfillment. He finally tasted her, explored her, and could plant his seed in her, which will be both his brother and his son.

Tags - Incest, Mother / Son, Breeding / Impregnation, Vaginal and Oral Sex, Creampie

Words - 7039

Story sample - 

Samuel lay in the tangle of his navy sheets, eyes stinging from the light of his phone as he scrolled through his timeline. The house was quiet—midnight had swallowed all the clatter from downstairs hours ago, after his mother had finished cleaning up from her impromptu birthday “girl’s night” with her old work friends. He could still taste the residual syrup of the cherry liqueurs she’d brought home, echoing the sickly perfume that crept through the vents whenever she drank too much and started up with her French pop records, volume at war with her own shrieking laughter.

He heard her voice now, a slurred shout at the foot of the stairs. He thought about ignoring it—he’d gotten good at that over the years—but it was followed by a strange scraping noise, something metal and glass, and then the slam of a heel against the lowest step. Samuel yanked one of his earbuds out. The house went deathly silent again.

He waited, staring up into the nothingness, phone screen guttering to black and leaving him adrift in the static glow from his alarm clock. Two minutes, maybe three, and then the unmistakable thump of feet up the stairs. Not the even, purposeful stride he recognized, but a heavy, off-kilter lurch—like a giant or a sleepwalker. His mother’s voice came again, a hoarse moan:

“Thomaaaas…” she called for his father, her husband.

He felt a wave of guilt and annoyance crash together, making him clamp his jaw shut. He’d seen his mother like this before: her face painted a little too brightly, the lipstick bleeding into the wrinkles around her mouth, her blond bob just slightly askew and smelling faintly of whatever cheap hairspray she was rationing to make ends meet. She would laugh a lot, repeat herself, say things she didn’t mean. He would try not to meet her eyes.

His door handle suddenly rattled, a frantic, clumsy sound that made him flinch. It wasn't the slow, deliberate turn of someone entering a room; it was the fumbling of a drunk person mistaking one door for another in the dark hallway of their own home. The door swung inward with a soft groan, spilling the dim, yellow light from the hall onto his floor. And there she was.

Exactly as he’d pictured. The blond bob was definitely askew, one side flattened as if she’d leaned against a wall for too long. The bright pink lipstick was a disaster, a messy smear that made her look like a sad clown. She was leaning heavily against the doorframe. The smell hit him immediately—that familiar, cloying mix of her floral perfume, wine, and the cheap hairspray.

"Thomas?" she repeated, her voice quieter now, tired and vulnerable. She blinked into the darkness of his room, obviously not seeing anything clearly. "Sweetheart, help me with my boots. The zipper's stuck again."

Samuel remained silent, frozen. His heart was hammering against his ribs. He wanted to tell her: "Mom, it's me. Dad's asleep." But the words were stuck in his throat. It was that old, familiar clenching in his stomach—a mixture of pity and disgust. Just don't move. Maybe she'll realize she's in the wrong room and leave. But she didn't leave. Instead, she pushed off from the doorframe and took two unsteady steps into his room, her hand outstretched in front of her as if searching for a light switch that wasn't there.