Lachlan Imagines the Worst

I stumbled into my room, colliding with the bed. The mattress squeaked under my weight as I curled into a fetal position, hands pressed over my ears—but nothing could drown out the sounds leaking through the thin walls. The rhythmic thud of the headboard, Mom's gasps sharpening into **** whines, Jeremy's low growls punctuated by the wet slap of skin. I squeezed my eyes shut until colors burst behind my eyelids, but the images seared into my brain wouldn't fade: Mom's flushed face contorted in pleasure, her body arching to meet every thrust like she'd been built for it.

I hypothesize the worst—that the wet squelching sounds leaking through the wall weren’t just Jeremy finishing inside her, but him starting again. That Mom’s breathless giggles weren’t post-orgasm exhaustion, but eager anticipation for round two. That the creaking bedframe wasn’t settling, but gearing up for another round of punishment. My fingers dug into my pillow, imagining Mom’s thighs—still slick with sweat and cum—spreading wider, her swollen cunt accepting him all over again like a fucking revolving door.

I imagined his fat baby batter churning inside her like spoiled milk in a broken fridge—thick, curdling strands of alpha DNA rewriting her insides with every pulse of her overstimulated walls. Mom's stomach was still rounded from the sheer volume of him, her usually flat abdomen now a subtle dome where his cum pooled hot and heavy against her cervix. She'd always complained about bloating after Chinese buffets, but this was different—this was him, marking territory like a fucking wolf.

The thought struck me like a punch to the gut—Jeremy’s offspring latched onto Mom’s tits for years, draining her dry while she cooed at some hybrid of his smirk and her doe eyes. I could already picture it: her stretched nipples glistening with saliva as a toddler with Jeremy’s square jaw suckled greedily, his tiny fingers kneading her swollen breast like he was priming a pump. And when the kid hit puberty? Those same thick fingers—now sporting Jeremy’s knuckle hair—would still be groping her sagging tits during Saturday morning cartoons while she absentmindedly stroked his hair.

The mental image burned brighter than reality ever could—Mom kneeling naked on the nursery carpet, her postpartum belly still soft from birthing Jeremy’s spawn. The toddler wobbling toward her on fat legs, sticky fingers reaching for the drooping breasts that had nourished him for years. She’d coo, brushing his dark curls (so like his father’s) aside as he latched onto her nipple with the same voracious hunger Jeremy had once claimed her with.

I imagined mom at Jeremy's son's 18th birthday. Nude for her favourite child as per tradition. His friends gawking at her sagging tits and loose cunt—the same one Jeremy had ruined years prior—as she served cake on all fours, her nipples brushing the frosting with every sway. The son's hands, so much like his father's, gripping her hips possessively when she moved too slow.

I imagined the worst: the whole town laughing calling Jeremy 'the alpha that tricked a MILF into raising his bastard.' Meanwhile, Mom would be at PTA meetings, swollen tits leaking through her blouse as she sheepishly excused herself—her womb still tender from another rough night servicing Jeremy's needs.

The pillow smelled faintly of Mom's lavender shampoo—or maybe it was just my imagination filling in the gaps where her presence used to be. I pressed my face into it anyway, inhaling deeply like I could somehow pull her back through sheer willpower. But all I got was the stale scent of my own sweat and the distant, rhythmic creak of the bedframe next door. My eyelids felt like lead weights, each blink lasting longer than the last until darkness swallowed me whole.