The soft hum of the air conditioning was the only sound in the quiet living room, a steady baseline beneath the distant murmur of the weekday morning news. Outside, the summer sun was already painting the lawn a brilliant green. Inside, the cool, dim light felt like a sanctuary.
From her spot on the plush sectional, she watched her son pad into the room, his movements loose and easy with the freedom of a graduate. At eighteen, he seemed to have grown another inch since the ceremony last month, his shoulders filling out the simple gray t-shirt he wore. He carried two mugs, the steam curling lazily in the slant of light from the window.
“Coffee, Mom,” he said, his voice still rough with sleep. He placed a mug carefully on the coaster in front of her.
“Thanks, sweetheart.” She wrapped her hands around the warm ceramic, inhaling the rich scent. “You sleep okay?”
He flopped down on the opposite end of the sofa, tucking one foot under his knee. “Like a rock. No alarm is a beautiful thing.”
She smiled, sipping her coffee. This, she thought, this is the good part. The frantic years of schedules and practices and projects were over. For these few, precious months, he was hers again, before the world claimed him for college in the fall. They had time.
On the large flat-screen TV, a somber-faced anchor was speaking over a graphic of a microscopic cell. “…health officials are urging caution as a new strain of virus is being monitored. Early reports suggest it may be highly transmissible.”
“So,” she said, turning her body towards him, deliberately tuning out the television. “We need to make a summer bucket list. Seriously. Before you vanish into a dorm room and forget your poor old mom.”
He grinned, a flash of white teeth that still made her heart clutch. “You’re not old.”
“Flatterer. But I’m serious. We should do Six Flags. Make a day of it. You, me, maybe your friends if they want. Get dizzy on roller coasters and eat terrible, overpriced fries.”
“That actually sounds awesome,” he said, his eyes brightening. “We haven’t done that since I was, like, twelve.”
“Exactly! Or a water park. Something to beat this heat when it really kicks in.” She gestured vaguely toward the window, though the room was perfectly cool.
On the screen, the news cut to a woman in a lab coat standing in front of a complex chart. The caption beneath her read: DR. ANITA CHOE, VIROLOGIST. The scientist’s lips moved, but her words were just background noise.
“…distinct from common respiratory viruses. Our primary concern isn’t pulmonary. Initial data indicates a pronounced effect on the limbic system and endocrine pathways, essentially influencing emotional regulation and… certain biological functions.”
“You should go on some dates, too,” she said, the idea popping into her head. “Summer romance. It’s a rite of passage.”
He let out a soft laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. A faint blush crept up his throat. “Mom. Come on.”
“What? It’s true! A handsome guy like you, with the whole summer free? You should be out there, having fun with people your own age.” She meant it. She wanted that for him—the innocent, thrilling crush, the butterflies. All the things she remembered from a lifetime ago.
Dr. Choe’s face was earnest on the screen. “Affected individuals report a significant amplification of libido, paired with a dramatic reduction in social and personal inhibitions. It appears to… remove filters, for lack of a better term. The usual boundaries become blurred.”
“It’s not that easy,” he said, shrugging. “Everyone’s scattering for trips or work. It’s kinda weird, this in-between time.”
She nodded, understanding completely. The conversation felt easy, familiar. The news was just a drone in the background, unimportant.
Suddenly, a wave of heat washed over her. It started at her core, a flush that spread outwards, prickling across her skin. She blinked, surprised. “Is it hot in here to you all of a sudden?”
Her son shifted on the couch. “Now that you mention it… yeah. A little.”
She fanned her face with her hand, but it did nothing. The flush was insistent, uncomfortable. Without thinking, her fingers went to the buttons of her light cotton blouse. She undid the first one, then the second. A third. The fabric fell open, revealing the swell of her breasts above the lace of her bra. The air against her skin was cooler, a slight relief. She kept fanning herself.
“That’s a good idea,” he said, his voice slightly thick. In one smooth motion, he grabbed the hem of his t-shirt and pulled it over his head, tossing it onto the armchair. His torso was lean and defined, the result of a season of swimming. A dusting of hair trailed down from his navel, disappearing into the waistband of his sweatpants.
She stared for a half-second too long. He’s just a kid, she told herself, but the thought felt slippery, wrong. He wasn’t just a kid. He was a young man, sitting in her living room, shirtless. The sight sent a strange, warm pulse through her. She looked away, back at the TV.
Dr. Choe was speaking with urgent emphasis. “If you experience sudden onset of fever-like symptoms, specifically a sensation of intense heat, or… or find yourself having inappropriate or accelerated romantic or sexual thoughts about individuals in your immediate vicinity, you must self-isolate immediately. Secure your door. This is paramount to prevent transmission and… unintended consequences.”
“You know,” she heard herself say, the words coming out softer, a little breathless. “Taking your shirt off looks like a really good idea.”
Her own hands moved as if they belonged to someone else. She shrugged the unbuttoned blouse off her shoulders. It slithered down her arms, and she let it drop to the floor beside the sofa. She sat there in just her jeans and her lace bra, the air cool on her bare skin. She felt exposed. She felt… good.
Her son’s gaze was locked on her. His eyes, the same shade of hazel as her own, were wide. Darker. He didn’t look away. The blush on his neck had deepened, spreading across his chest.
The scientist on the TV leaned into the camera, her expression grave. “We have confirmed reports of the virus precipitating overt sexual advances in workplaces, among friend groups, and… tragically, within family units. The inhibition loss is that severe.”
Family units.
The words seemed to hang in the air, vibrating.
She couldn’t look away from her son’s face. The familiar lines of it—the curve of his jaw she’d kissed as a baby, the arch of his brow—seemed different. Sharper. Desirable. A heavy, liquid warmth pooled low in her belly. It was a feeling she hadn’t entertained in years, and never, never in this context. It should have horrified her. It didn’t. It felt inevitable.
His chest rose and fell with a quickened rhythm. He was breathing faster.
“Mom…” he whispered. It wasn’t a question. It was a sound of pure, fraught recognition.
She didn’t think. She moved.
In one fluid motion, she closed the distance between them on the couch. Her knees bumped against his thigh. Her hand came up, her fingers trembling slightly as they brushed a lock of hair from his forehead. His skin was warm.
His eyes searched hers, filled with a confusion that mirrored her own, and beneath it, a hunger so raw it stole her breath.
Their lips met.
It wasn’t a gentle, motherly kiss. It was deep and searching from the first moment, a collision of heat and softness. His lips were fuller than she’d imagined, and he tasted like coffee and the mint of his toothpaste. A small, shocked sound escaped her throat, swallowed by him.
His hands came up, clumsy at first, then firm. One cupped the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair. The other splayed across the bare skin of her back, pulling her closer until her chest was flush against his. The feel of his warm, smooth skin against the lace of her bra was electric.
The rational part of her mind screamed, distant and fading. This is wrong. This is your son. The news… the virus…
But her body roared louder. Every nerve ending was on fire. The taste of him, the smell of his skin—clean soap and something uniquely, essentially him—was an intoxicant. She kissed him back fiercely, her tongue sweeping into his mouth, and he groaned, the vibration humming through her.
His hands began to move, to explore. One slid down her spine, over the waistband of her jeans, pulling her hips tight against him. She could feel the hard ridge of his erection through the soft fabric of his sweatpants, pressing insistently against her belly. The sensation made her dizzy with want.
She broke the kiss, gasping for air. Her hands flew to the front clasp of her bra. Her fingers, usually so deft, fumbled.
“Let me,” he breathed, his voice husky and unfamiliar.
He reached behind her, his movements surprisingly sure. With a soft click, the clasp gave way. The lace loosened. He didn’t pull it off. He just looked, his gaze dropping to her breasts as the bra fell open.
A shudder ran through her, part shame, part unbearable excitement. His look was one of pure, reverent awe.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, the words ghosting against her heated skin.
He bent his head, and his mouth found her nipple.
She cried out, her head falling back. The sensation was white-hot, a direct line of pleasure to her core. Her hands clutched at his shoulders, her nails digging in. He laved and suckled, one hand coming up to cradle her other breast, his thumb brushing over the peak. It was too much. It was everything.
On the television screen, the news anchor had reappeared, his usual composed demeanor slightly frayed. “We thank Dr. Choe for that… sobering information. The phenomenon has, unfortunately, led some commentators to dub this pathogen ‘The Taboo Virus’ in online circles. We urge the public to disregard such sensationalist labels and focus on the health guidelines: avoid contact, isolate if symptomatic…”
The anchor paused, blinking rapidly. He cleared his throat. A sheen of sweat was visible on his forehead under the studio lights. “I… apologize. Is it particularly warm in the studio today, or is it just me?”
With a stiff, unnatural motion, his hands went to the knot of his tie. He yanked it loose, then began unbuttoning his crisp, blue dress shirt. He pulled it open, revealing a damp white undershirt beneath. He stared into the camera, his expression vacant, confused.
The screen flickered.
A harsh, electronic tone blared.
A bright blue graphic filled the display: WE ARE EXPERIENCING TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES. PLEASE STAND BY.
Then, silence. The low hum of the air conditioner rushed back into the void it left behind.
But in the quiet, dim living room, the silence didn’t last. It was filled with ragged breathing, with the soft, wet sounds of their mouths, with the rustle of fabric.
He lifted his head from her breast, his lips glistening. His eyes were glazed, dark with a need that terrified and thrilled her. His hands went to the button of her jeans.
“Wait,” she gasped, though every cell in her body screamed not to stop.
He froze, his fingers hovering. A flicker of uncertainty crossed his face.
She didn’t want uncertainty. She wanted him. This strange, impossible hunger was a beast inside her, and it demanded to be fed. She captured his mouth in another searing kiss, her own hands sliding down his chest, over the taut planes of his stomach, to the waistband of his sweatpants.
“Don’t stop,” she whispered against his lips, her voice a raw plea she didn’t recognize.
His hands were on her hips, rolling her jeans down her thighs. She helped, kicking them off her ankles along with her panties, the last scrap of fabric between them. The cool air of the room hit her naked skin, a stark contrast to the furnace burning inside her. She watched, breath held, as he pushed his own sweatpants down, freeing himself.
Her eyes widened.
He was fully erect, thick and flushed, standing proudly from the thatch of dark curls at his groin. The sight sent a fresh, dizzying wave of heat crashing through her. It was a primal, visceral reaction. This was her son, the boy she’d bathed and bandaged. But the virus, that insistent heat in her blood, burned away the memory, leaving only raw, female need.
She didn’t wait. She couldn’t.
Pushing him back gently against the cushions, she lowered herself between his knees. The coarse weave of the rug pressed into her bare knees. Her hands trembled as she wrapped one around the base of his shaft. It was hot, almost feverish, and velvety smooth over a core of iron-hard steel. The scent of him, musky and male, filled her senses.
She looked up, meeting his hooded gaze. His chest was rising and falling rapidly.
“Mom…” he breathed, the word a mixture of shock and desperate encouragement.
She leaned down and took him into her mouth.
He cried out, a strangled, guttural sound. His hips jerked off the couch, an involuntary thrust that pushed him deeper into her throat. She relaxed her jaw, letting him in, the taste of salt and skin exploding on her tongue. She used her hand to stroke what she couldn’t take, her head bobbing slowly at first, then with a growing, hungry rhythm.
His hands flew to her hair, not guiding, just clutching, his fingers tangling in the strands. “God… oh, God…” he chanted, his voice breaking on each syllable.
She could feel every ridge, every pulse of the vein along his length. Her own arousal was a slick, aching throb between her legs, a maddening counterpoint to the rhythm she set with her mouth. She hollowed her cheeks, sucking hard, swirling her tongue around the sensitive head on each upward stroke. The sounds she made were obscene, wet and needy, and they only drove her own desire higher.
She wanted to taste him. She wanted to devour him.
But it wasn’t enough. The deep, clenching emptiness inside her was becoming a scream. She needed him in her. Now.
With a final, long lick from root to tip that made his whole body shudder, she released him. She sat back on her heels, her lips swollen, her chin wet. She was panting.
“I need you,” she gasped, the words torn from a place of pure, animal instinct. “Inside me. Right now.”
She didn’t wait for an answer. She moved, pushing him back so he was sitting fully on the couch, then climbing astride his lap. His hands gripped her waist, steadying her. His eyes were wild, glazed, fixed on her face.
She positioned herself over him, feeling the blunt, hot head of his cock nudge against her entrance. She was so wet she dripped onto him. She looked down, watching as she began to sink down, taking him in an agonizingly slow, inch-by-inch descent.
A ragged sob escaped her. He was big, stretching her in a way she hadn’t felt in years, filling a hollowness she hadn’t even known was there. Her inner muscles clenched around him, trying to pull him deeper. She sank all the way down until she was fully seated, her hips flush against his, him buried to the hilt inside her.
For a moment, they were still. Connected. Breathing the same air. The world had shrunk to this point of searing, impossible union. The wrongness of it was a faint, ghostly whisper at the edges of her mind, drowned out by the roaring, physical rightness of the feeling.
Then she moved.
She rose up, almost letting him slip out, then sank back down with a sharp cry. He met her thrust with an upward surge of his hips. The rhythm began, clumsy and frantic at first, then finding a brutal, perfect sync. The couch groaned beneath them. Her breasts bounced with each driving motion. His hands were everywhere—kneading her ass, gripping her hips, sliding up to cup and squeeze her breasts, pinching her nipples until she saw stars.
“Yes… yes… harder…” she moaned, her head thrown back.
He obeyed, his thrusts becoming punishing, slamming her down onto him with a force that stole her breath. Each impact sent shockwaves of pleasure through her core. The slick, wet sounds of their joining filled the silent room, a filthy, beautiful music.
“God, you feel… you’re so tight…” he gritted out, his face buried in her neck, his breath scalding on her skin.
The coiled tension in her belly was winding tighter and tighter, a spring about to snap. But a thought pierced the haze of pleasure, a fact that suddenly seemed like the most important thing in the world.
“I’m ovulating,” she gasped into his ear, the words tumbling out amidst her panting. Her nails scored down his back. “Right now. This week. Your step-father… we were going to try. Tonight. When he got home… we decided… we want a baby.”
He froze for a second, his body rigid beneath her. He pulled back to look at her, his eyes searching hers, confusion and heat warring in his expression.
The confession, instead of shocking her back to sanity, only poured gasoline on the fire inside her. It made this depraved act feel fated. Necessary.
“But I don’t want him,” she whispered, her voice thick with a truth so profound it terrified her. She rolled her hips, taking him even deeper, making them both gasp. “I want you. I want your baby.”
His eyes darkened, the confusion melting away under a tidal wave of pure, possessive lust. His hands clamped onto her hips like vices.
“Say it again,” he demanded, his voice rough.
“Get me pregnant,” she begged, the words a fevered chant against his lips. “Fill me up. Put a baby in me. Your baby. Please… I need you to… I need to have your child…”
It was the ultimate taboo, the final forbidden line, and crossing it unleashed something feral in both of them.
With a groan that sounded like it was ripped from his soul, he flipped them. One powerful motion and she was on her back on the floor, the rug scratchy against her skin. He was over her, between her legs, his weight a delicious anchor. He didn’t re-enter her…
