Fauna's mind was fracturing.
One part of her—the mother—was screaming, clawing at the walls of her conscience:
This is Mika. Your baby. Your son. Stop this. Push him away. Be the adult.
The other part—the woman—was melting, surrendering, drowning in sensation:
It feels so good...so alive...I haven't felt this way in years...maybe ever…
Her internal voice was a frantic, adorable mess, innocent and lustful all at once.
'No, no, no, Fauna! Bad! This is wrong! He's your little boy! Remember when he was tiny and you rocked him to sleep? Remember his first steps?'
'His first word was "Mama"! You can't feel this way when he's sucking on your—oh god—when he's sucking on your breasts like that!'
But another voice, breathy and needy, whispered back:
'But it feels so good...so warm.'
'His mouth is so hot and perfect and my nipples—oh they've never been this hard...it's like electricity every time he pulls.'
