Wet Dreams of espionage

You wake up with the sheets stuck to your thighs and the unmistakable cold, sticky mess of a full wet dream dried into your underwear. The last images from the train video and the Josh threesome are still tangled in your head. It’s your late day for classes, so you drag yourself out of bed, peel the ruined underwear off, toss them in the hamper, and pull on fresh clothes.

Downstairs the kitchen smells like coffee. Your mom is at the table working on your old MacBook, the one you haven’t touched in years. She’s in another short night shirt—nipples clearly visible through the thin fabric, the hem high enough that you catch a flash of bare ass when she shifts in the chair. She looks up the second you walk in, eyes flicking to the hallway like she already knows.

“Wet dream?” she asks casually, taking a sip of coffee. “Who starred—me or Josh?”

You grunt something that isn’t quite words and head for the fridge.

“It wasn’t that.”

She hums like she doesn’t believe you and turns back to the laptop for a second. You lean against the counter, the questions that kept you half-awake all night finally pushing out.

“Why did you suddenly start tormenting me like this?”

She actually laughs—light, genuine, almost surprised.

“Honey, Mommy isn’t tormenting you.” She spins the MacBook slightly so you can see the screen is full of video files and browser tabs. “Mommy’s laptop is fried. I found your old MacBook, but I couldn’t figure out how to get your phone number off the Messages side. So I just started having them text the videos to you so I could download them from your phone for my Pornhub account.”

You stare at her.

She keeps talking like she’s explaining a minor inconvenience.

“All of your friends have been fans for years. It’s literally how I pay for this house since I got let go in COVID. The tips and the custom requests add up.”

You sit down hard in the opposite chair, slack-jawed. A wide range of emotions hits you in no particular order—shock, disbelief, a weird flicker of relief, then fresh confusion, then something that feels like the floor tilting.

She can’t be serious.

She has a fucking degree.

What porn?

Why didn’t she just ask you to log out of your accounts and link everything to hers?

Is this how she found your crush from algebra?

Why the constant teasing?

Why fucking Josh of all people?

You manage to get the questions out in a tangled rush. She answers each one without hesitation, still half-focused on the MacBook.

“The degree doesn’t pay the mortgage right now. The account is under a different name—nothing that traces back to us easily. I didn’t ask you to log out because I didn’t want to explain the whole thing until I had to. Your crush tagged herself in a comment on one of the older videos months ago; that’s how I found her. The teasing keeps the content feeling real for the regulars. And Josh… he tips well, he’s hung the way a lot of viewers like, and he already knew how to talk shit on camera. It was easy.”

Every answer is delivered in the same calm, practical tone she uses when she reminds you to take the trash out. You can’t tell if she’s being completely truthful, carefully gaslighting you, or if she really is just that tech-illiterate and pragmatic about the whole thing.

She closes the laptop, stands up, and stretches. The night shirt rides higher. Bare ass. Hard nipples. Gold chain.

“Coffee’s fresh,” she says. “You want some before you head to class, or are you going to keep sitting there with that look on your face?”

You stay seated, still trying to decide which version of reality you just walked into, and which one is worse.