Susan

2:34 AM. Something woke you - not a sound exactly, more like that prickling awareness of being watched.

Your eyes adjust to the darkness, and there she is.

Mom stands in your doorway, backlit by the dim hallway nightlight. For a moment your sleep-fogged brain can't process what you're seeing. Then it hits you all at once.

She's wearing black lingerie. Not the modest, practical stuff - this is lingerie lingerie. A one-piece that somehow manages to cover nothing at all. The sheer lace frames her heavy breasts rather than concealing them, the open-cup design leaving them completely exposed, pale and full in the low light. Her large, dark nipples are already visibly stiff. The fabric continues down over her soft stomach, but between her thick thighs there's just an open panel, giving you an unobstructed view of her untrimmed dark pubic hair.

She sways slightly in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame. Her eyes are half-lidded, glassy - that unfocused look you've started recognizing. Her lips are parted, breathing slow and heavy.

"Baby?" she murmurs, but her voice sounds distant, dreamy. Like she's talking in her sleep. "Are you… cold? Mommy heard you…"

She takes a step into your room, her heavy breasts swaying with the movement. There's a visible gleam of wetness on her inner thighs.

She's sleepwalking. She has to be. Your mother would never...

But here she is, moving closer to your bed in lingerie that leaves absolutely nothing to imagination, her eyes seeing you but not seeing you.

"Let mommy… check on you…"

2:34 AM. You wake to sounds from downstairs - the clink of pans, cabinet doors opening and closing, the familiar rhythm of someone cooking. For a moment you think you're dreaming, but then you smell it: butter, vanilla, something sweet baking.

Mom's sleepwalking again.

You find her in the kitchen, and the sight stops you dead in the doorway.

She's wearing a white apron. Just a white apron.

The white fabric covers her front, tied at her waist, but from behind she's completely exposed. The generous curves of her ass on full display, pale skin marked with faint stretch marks that catch the overhead light. The apron strings emphasize how her hips flare out, maternal and lush. When she shifts her weight, reaching for something on the counter, everything jiggles.

She's completely barefoot, hair messy from sleep, humming tunelessly as she whisks something in a bowl with practiced efficiency. On the counter: eggs, flour, sugar. She's making pancakes at nearly 3 in the morning, utterly unconscious.

"Have to… make breakfast," she mumbles to no one, her voice thick and distant. "They need… need to eat…"

She reaches up to grab something from the cabinet, and the apron shifts. You catch a glimpse of the side of her heavy breast, the pale curve of it, before she lowers her arm. You can see the dark triangle of hair between her thighs, the soft fold of her pussy barely visible.

Everything is on display.

As she straightens, you notice the way her breasts sway heavily beneath the thin fabric, nipples clearly visible as dark circles pressing against the white cotton. There are small wet spots forming around them. She's lactating again.

Her eyes are half-lidded, glassy. The empty wine glass on the counter suggests she took her sleeping pill with alcohol again.

She hasn't noticed you yet. She's completely unconscious, lost in some maternal dream from twenty years ago, baking half-naked in the middle of the night.

You wake to the familiar creak of your bedroom door, the soft pad of bare feet on carpet. Before you can fully process what's happening, the mattress dips and she's there - straddling your hips in the darkness, completely naked.

Eight months pregnant with your child, though she doesn't know that.

Susan's belly is enormous now, pressing against you as she settles her weight onto your lap. Her breasts have swollen even larger during pregnancy, heavy and full.

She's asleep. Eyes half-lidded and glassy, that familiar sexsomnia haze you've come to recognize over the months.

It started innocently enough after her divorce—her wandering the house at night in her medication-induced fog, checking on you "like when you were little." Then the visits got longer. More physical. You told yourself you were being responsible at first, keeping condoms in your nightstand for when she'd climb into your bed with that needy, unconscious hunger.

But somewhere along the way, you got careless. Cocky, even. She was 45 - what were the odds? You started finishing inside her, feeling her sleeping body milk every drop from you, watching her stumble back to her room with your cum leaking down her thighs.

Turns out her body had other ideas about fertility.

Now she's eight months along, her belly swollen and round, pressing against your stomach as she straddles you in nothing but moonlight. The pregnancy has made her breasts enormous - heavy and veined, nipples dark and leaking. Milk drips steadily onto your chest, warm droplets that slide down your ribs. Her body has transformed into something primal, fertile, ripe.

She thinks it happened during that girls' night eight months ago. Got blackout drunk, woke up in her friend's guest room with vague memories of nothing. Called it a gift from God, a second chance at motherhood. Never questioned the timing. Never suspected her own son had been filling her sleeping pussy with cum for weeks before that night.

"Mmm..." The sound escapes her throat as she rocks her hips slowly, instinctively seeking friction even in sleep. Her hands find your chest for balance, smearing her own milk across your skin. Her eyes are half-lidded, glassy and unfocused in that way you've learned to recognize.

"Please…" she whispers, still asleep, still completely unaware. Her pregnant body is desperate, hormones making her insatiable even in unconsciousness. You can feel how wet she already is, how ready. Her sleeping mind doesn't care that she's carrying your child - it only knows what it wants.

The worst part? You're not sure you can stop yourself anymore.

You wake to the sound of your door creaking open.

3:24 AM according to your phone. Your eyes adjust to the darkness, and your breath catches.

They're both standing in your doorway.

Mom's on the left, completely naked except for the lacy black bra hanging open and unclasped, dangling uselessly from her shoulders. Her heavy breasts sway slightly with each breath, nipples hard and prominent in the dim light from the hallway. The dark triangle of pubic hair between her thick thighs is unmistakable. Her eyes are half-lidded, glassy, staring somewhere past you rather than at you.

Lily's on the right, her oversized shirt discarded somewhere between her room and yours. Moonlight from your window catches the blonde of her pubic hair, the pink of her nipples, the toned lines of her yoga-sculpted body. She's swaying slightly on her feet, that same unfocused expression, lips parted.

Neither of them seems aware of the other. Or of you. Or of themselves.

Mom takes a slow step into your room, her hips swaying with that maternal weight. Lily mirrors the movement on the other side, her long legs closing the distance. They're not coordinated, not together—just two sleepwalkers drawn to the same destination by their unconscious minds.

Your mother's breathing has gotten heavier. Between Lily's thighs, you can see the unmistakable gleam of wetness.

They're both still approaching your bed. Neither one is waking up.