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A while after Jacob's departure, with the remainder of the Eriksson family settling in to a good night's sleep, Michael lay in bed. Falling asleep sporadically, waking up cranky and barely-rested with irritating regularity, he decided to take a stroll. He needed to pee. Badly. Only then could he contend with the unfamiliar bed and how it differed from what he was used to. He rose with nary a shred of clothing except his underwear — there was no time to lose, the bathroom beckoned.

Slowly, softly, he opened the door. The second-floor landing was quiet, and shrouded in darkness. No lights were turned on, bar the porch-light at the front of the house. He stepped out of his room. The floorboards didn't creak...good...

A clock on the wall ticked. Michael glanced at its analogue display. Crunching the numbers in his head (old-fashioned timepieces were never his speciality) he saw that it had been an hour since he climbed into bed:

10:38 p.m.

No-one woke from him creeping through the silent night. Everyone was exhausted from today. They'd gotten up early, spent all their time preparing — along with the equivalent amount of time settling in once they arrived. His drained state left an unfortunate buzz in his ears, obscuring his senses. He approached the bathroom door.

Click. Thunk. Fssssshhh.

Once his business had been concluded, he exited the bathroom, flicking off the light behind him — returning the house to shadow. He stepped once more onto the landing, relieved.

Something caught his attention. Something...strange. Through one of the closed doors around him he heard a noise. An intriguing noise, lying somewhere between distress and arousal. Half-asleep, and with most of his faculties operating at a loss, he decided to investigate.

Closer he came, until the door in front of him held the source. It was very low, almost impossible to discern, but Michael heard it clearly. The crack at the base of the door exuded orange light, likely from a table-lamp, glowing warmly, coaxing him to enter. Who was behind it? Were they in pain? They sounded feminine...was Cynthia sick? Or—

He turned the handle, and pushed forward.

Michael stopped in his tracks.

This was his mom's room.

Uma lay naked, her bare body exposed to the world — or whoever happened to wander into her midst. Her motherly figure writhed, in a deep sleep, issuing forth mewls and moans that failed to wake her, no matter how harsh what dream or nightmare she was experiencing seemed. Michael was treated to the sight of his naked mother, rolling sensually atop her bed, any semblance of shame absent. Transfixed, he couldn't take his eyes off her...

Uma's luscious figure did not match a supermodel's, or a woman of similar age who dedicated hours to keeping in shape, but it held a charm all of its own. Soft, tender flesh. Curvy ass, thighs, and legs. Generous cleavage. Features never before seen by her son. In her maternal maturity she retained enough of her gorgeous youth to attract any hot-blooded male. Michael watched her swivel and swirl, her legs rubbing against each other, desperately trying to sooth an itch. His mom's arms stretched and squirmed, head tossing, eyes shut...causing her body to shake, her large breasts to wobble.

Michael gulped. He wasn't sure what to do. He felt like he couldn't leave, couldn't tear himself away from his mother.

A breathy moan emerged from open lips. The sound held a dissonant quality, as if the moan was repeated simultaneously at several pitches. Almost demonic, if one were to describe it. This otherworldly noise startled her son, who retreated from the room, crossing the threshold of the doorway. Oddly, once he left the room, he didn't hear it any more. He still picked up on the faint noise that drew him to her, but the obvious moan was missing.

Curiosity got the better of him. He returned to his previous position, staring at his mom's lustful wriggling.

Her voice became louder, resonant, shaking the room around the pair of them. Michael swore there were multiple distinct voices in that cacophony, all mixed together. Repeating his test, he found that the sound didn't escape her bedroom. It turned into a roar, incredibly loud and ear-splitting. He stood in shock at what happened next...

Uma brought her hands between the thighs, teasing her inflamed pussy. Her legs spread, unconsciously treating her son to a full view of her swollen lips, secreting womanly juices in agonising anticipation of relief. Trapped in her sleep, she held her nether-lips apart, one hand gently pressing her labia aside, the other diving inside, making sure to glide across her clitoris as she massaged her sensitive folds. Her roar deafened Michael. His own arousal began to match hers.

He tried again to experiment with the sound barrier, in vain attempts to distract from who this woman was and what she made him feel. Every time he stepped back she continued to roll and roar, muted once beyond the confines of her bedroom. Michael knew what was happening — he was stuck in his own bizarre dream. A god-damned wet dream about his mother, he knew that was it! His underwear felt tight, and this wouldn't abate anytime soon.

His mother's erotic display took a turn. Her masturbation failed to achieve the desired result, and her otherworldly yowling continued. Subtle changes began to take hold. Small things, like the consistency of her complexion resembling a much younger woman all of a sudden. Any mark or discolouration that indicated the passage of time faded — slowly at first, but then the changes occurred at a faster rate. Her body was changing...improving. She arced her back, suspending her naked self in the air. Bones cracked, and the growling kept up. He height increased, taking her from five-foot-nine to six feet tall. He breasts firmed up, the flesh a luxurious texture, increasing in size and scaled accordingly to her new stature. Her waistline thinned, burning away the fatty excess. A thin waist meant further alterations: her hips widened, cracking as her pelvis adjusted at fit her bigger frame. Held above the bed by her arcing spine, her ass inflated, going from bubbly to a perfect apple-bottom...thick and tasty.

This woman...this goddess before him...was not his mom.

No, she was built for breeding. Perfectly-proportioned in every way. Her skin looked so warm and inviting...no pimples, freckles, moles, or any kind of blemish. Breasts and ass to die for. Silky-smooth pussy, lips neat and tidy. The tell-tale signs of toned muscle beneath those curves. This wasn't his mom, this was someone greater!

And her face...in her sensual contortions it remained the image of his mother. Her face screwed in want of pleasure, every grimace cleaning her appearance to match the rest of the physical changes. She'd returned to her prime, and more.

Uma's fingering picked up the pace, flopping back flat on the bed after holding herself high. She whimpered as her digits danced in front of her son. Michael's erection had developed to a point where he could not contain it in his underwear. His turgid cock stuck out from the boxer short's front, the button bursting after refusing to give sway. He inhaled sharply, his penis painfully hard and already leaking pre. He didn't dare touch it.

He watched her sit up straight, face scrunched-up. Her tender touch had turned erratic. She was cumming. Uma sat shivering, her legs quaking as she lay cross-legged in the centre of the bed, her teardrop-shaped breasts quivering with hard nipples and deep-brown aureolae firming. At the peak of sexual ecstasy, she screamed loudly, her voice booming. Gasping followed bellowing, as her climax descended from its heavenly heights.

A frightened and disoriented Michael rushed out of the room, erection throbbing. He wasn't noticed by Uma, who drowned herself in endorphins. Her divine body reclined, settling into the bed's embrace. She had no idea she'd been spied on. But that didn't matter; to her once her orgasm arrived she felt at peace...her deepest, darkest instincts badgering her no more. The bedsheets felt less irritating and more inviting now, and she curled up among them, dragging them in a spiral around her as she turned in the centre of the bed, looking for the most comfortable position.

The door — once held open by her son's curiosity — gradually swung shut.

* * *

Relax! Take a deep breath. You're overreacting!

Michael's mind did little to soothe his panic. This was, of course, a bad dream. It had to be. But his dreams had never felt so real, he'd never felt so alive during them. He returned to his bed, his erection a reminder of what he witnessed.

Go to sleep. Forget what you saw. It wasn't real!

If it was...nobody saw him. His mom's eyes were closed the whole time...

...at the very least, nobody saw him.