The bedframe squealed like a gutted pig, each thrust sending a shudder through the warped wooden slats. Tina straddled Jake, her gaudy red negligee—two sizes too small and pilfered from a clearance bin—slipping off one shoulder, exposing a faded rose tattoo. The air in the cramped bedroom hung heavy with cigarette smoke and the sour tang of sweat. Jake, shirtless in a too-tight tank top that clung to his wiry frame, grimaced beneath her, his hands hovering awkwardly over her hips as if unsure where to land.
A flickering spotlight, jury-rigged by Barb and propped on a stack of unpaid bills, cast harsh shadows across the peeling wallpaper. The camcorder, a scratched-up relic borrowed from Mikey’s cousin, hummed on its wobbly tripod, capturing every strained moment.
“Mom, we need to stop sexing!” Jake’s voice cracked, half-scripted, half-panicked, his face flushed red under the glare.
Tina, leaning forward, her peroxide-blonde hair falling in a sweaty curtain, didn’t miss a beat. “No son, it’s totally ok!” Her tone was syrupy, porn-star exaggerated, but her eyes flicked to the camera with a glint of exasperation.
Jake’s rhythm faltered, his hips stalling. “It is? Why?” The line came out wooden, like he was reading off a teleprompter in hell.
Tina pressed on, her voice dropping to a rehearsed purr. “Well, you see, your DNA is half your father’s DNA, and it’s ok for me to have sex with him, right?”
Jake blinked, his mouth twitching. “Yeah... I guess...” He sounded like he was trying to solve a math problem while drowning.
“And the other half of your DNA is my DNA,” Tina continued, grinding against him for the camera’s sake, “and it’s ok for me to have sex with myself. That’s just masturbation, right?” Her lips curled into a forced smile, but her jaw clenched tight enough to crack a walnut.
“You’re right, Mom!” Jake’s delivery was so flat it could’ve been a pancake, his eyes darting to the side like he was begging for an escape hatch.
“Of course I am, sweetie,” Tina cooed, leaning closer, her breath hot against his ear. “Now go faster, make Mommy scream.” The words dripped with artificial lust, but her free hand gripped the headboard so hard her knuckles whitened.
Jake froze, his face twisting like he’d swallowed a lemon. “Fuck this!” he shouted, shoving Tina off and scrambling to the edge of the bed. The springs groaned in protest as he yanked a stained sheet over his lap. “This is deranged! Who writes this DNA bullshit?”
Tina sprawled across the mattress, her negligee hiking up to reveal a constellation of stretch marks. She propped herself on one elbow, glaring. “You wanna eat, Jake? You want your kid eating cat food? Keep going!”
“Cut! Cut!” Mikey’s voice boomed from behind the camera, his skinny frame lurching into view. His greasy ponytail swung as he waved his arms like a discount traffic cop. “You’re killing the mood, man! This is gold! Pure gold!”
Barb, slouched against the wall with a vape pen dangling from her lips, snorted. The spotlight flickered as she nudged it with her foot, nearly toppling the stack of bills. “Mood? Mikey, this is a goddamn circus. We’re one step from a clown orgy.”
Carl, slumped in a folding chair in the corner, took a long swig from a half-empty whiskey bottle. His grizzled beard was flecked with crumbs from a gas station burrito. “Told ya,” he mumbled, barely audible. “Shoulda gone with the alien abduction script.”
The room—a claustrophobic box in a crumbling suburban house on the edge of a dead Rust Belt town—felt like it was closing in. Empty beer cans littered the floor, mingling with cigarette butts and a neon “OPEN” sign stolen from a shuttered dive bar. It was July 16, 2025, and the world outside was no kinder: the factories had gone silent after the 2024 economic collapse, leaving Tina, Jake, Carl, Mikey, and Barb to claw their way through the gig economy. This amateur porn shoot, a desperate bid to pay their bills, was their latest low. Tina needed cash for her daughter’s braces. Jake’s girlfriend was six months pregnant. Carl’s whiskey wasn’t free. Mikey was dodging child support. And Barb? She just wanted to feel something other than the grind of her old HR job at the plant.
“Jake, get your ass back in position,” Tina snapped, yanking her negligee back into place. She lit a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating her tired eyes. “We’re all in this shitshow together.”
Jake ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair, his bony shoulders hunching. “This is wrong, Tina. I’m not some perv who gets off on this incest crap. I just need the money.”
“Join the club, kid,” Barb said, exhaling a cloud of cotton-candy vapor. “You think I’m here for the art? My car’s on its last tire, and the repo man’s circling like a vulture.”
Mikey clapped his hands, the sound sharp against the hum of the air conditioner, which rattled like it was coughing up its last breath. “Focus, people! This DNA angle? It’s niche. It’s what the perverts pay for. You want clicks, we need taboo. Jake, you’re the son, Tina’s the mom, Carl’s the dad. Sell it.”
“Sell what?” Jake shot back, his voice rising. “That I’m banging my fake mom because of some half-assed biology lesson? This is dumber than Mikey’s last script about the haunted dildo.”
Barb choked on her vape, cackling. “Oh, God, the dildo one. I still have nightmares.”
Carl raised his bottle in a mock toast. “To the dildo. Better than this shit.”
Tina stubbed out her cigarette on a cracked ashtray shaped like a heart. “Enough. Jake, you’re twenty-nine, not twelve. You knew what this was when you signed up. Two hundred bucks, split five ways. That’s forty each. You want your girl eating ramen for the rest of her pregnancy? Get back on the bed.”
Jake’s jaw worked, but he didn’t move. His eyes flicked to the camcorder, its red light blinking like an accusing eye. The room fell silent, save for the air conditioner’s death rattle and the distant wail of a siren outside. The town was a graveyard of shuttered factories and broken dreams, and this house—its paint peeling, its pipes groaning—was their last stand.
Barb broke the tension, nudging the spotlight with her boot. “Look, Jake, we’re all selling pieces of our souls here. Tina’s right. You want out, fine, but you’re screwing us all. And for what? Pride? Pride don’t pay the electric bill.”
Jake’s shoulders slumped. He rubbed his face, muttering, “Fine. But I’m not saying that DNA line again. It’s creepy as hell.”
Mikey threw up his hands. “It’s not creepy, it’s edgy! The X forums are eating this shit up. I checked the trends last night. Incest porn’s trending, but we need a twist. That’s why the DNA thing works—it’s like, science-y.”
“Science-y?” Barb said, arching an eyebrow. “Mikey, you failed ninth-grade biology. This is like explaining quantum physics with a crayon.”
Carl snorted, spilling whiskey on his faded Metallica shirt. “Let’s just shoot the damn thing. My buzz is wearing off.”
Tina climbed back onto the bed, the springs creaking under her weight. She patted the mattress, her voice softening just a fraction. “C’mon, Jake. We’ll tone it down. Keep the vibe, lose the weirdest lines. Deal?”
Jake hesitated, then tossed the sheet aside and crawled back into position. “Fine. But if this ends up on the dark web, I’m hunting you down, Mikey.”
Mikey grinned, his teeth yellowed from too many energy drinks. “That’s the spirit! Barb, fix the light. Carl, stay awake. Tina, give me sultry. Jake, just... don’t look like you’re gonna puke. Action!”
The camcorder whirred back to life. Tina resumed her position, straddling Jake, her movements mechanical but practiced. She arched her back for the camera, her negligee slipping again. “Oh, sweetie,” she purred, “you’re making Mommy so happy.”
Jake gritted his teeth, his hands finally settling on her hips. “Yeah... Mom...” The word sounded like it was choking him.
Tina leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper that was more for him than the script. “Just think of the money, kid. Picture your girl’s ultrasound. You got this.”
Jake nodded, barely, and picked up the pace, the bed squeaking in rhythm. The spotlight flickered, casting jagged shadows across the room. Barb adjusted it, muttering, “If this thing catches fire, I’m not putting it out.”
Mikey, hunched over the camera, gave a thumbs-up. “That’s it! More heat! Tina, louder!”
Tina obliged, her moans escalating into something between a porn star’s wail and a cat in a blender. Jake’s face twisted, but he kept going, his movements stiff but passable. For a moment, the scene held together—until Carl staggered into the frame, clutching his whiskey bottle like a lifeline.
“Uh... what’s all this then?” he slurred, his “Dad” character barely coherent. He tripped over a stray extension cord, nearly toppling the tripod. The camera wobbled, and Mikey let out a scream that could’ve shattered glass.
“Cut! Goddammit, Carl!” Mikey yanked at his ponytail, pacing like a caged animal. “You’re supposed to say, ‘Son, you’re making your old man proud!’ Not whatever the hell that was!”
Carl blinked, swaying slightly. “Proud? Of this? Shit, Mikey, I’m just tryin’ not to puke on the rug.”
Barb doubled over, laughing so hard her vape fell to the floor. “Oh, my God, Carl, you’re a national treasure. Can we keep that in? It’s authentic.”
Tina slid off Jake, pulling her negligee back into place. She lit another cigarette, the smoke curling toward the ceiling. “Mikey, your script’s a train wreck. Carl’s right—this is a mess. Jake’s half-dead, I’m losing my voice, and Barb’s light is gonna burn the house down. Fix this, or we’re done.”
Jake sat up, rubbing his temples. “I’m with Tina. This DNA crap? It’s not just creepy, it’s stupid. Nobody’s buying this. Why can’t we just do, I dunno, regular porn? Like, hot neighbor shit?”
Barb clapped slowly, her sarcasm dripping. “Genius, Jake. Hot neighbor porn. Truly groundbreaking. Next you’ll suggest the pizza delivery guy.”
“Hey,” Mikey snapped, pointing a finger at her. “Hot neighbor’s oversaturated. The data says taboo family stuff gets clicks. I checked the X analytics. Fifty percent more engagement than vanilla crap.”
“X analytics?” Barb said, rolling her eyes. “You mean you jerked off to a forum thread and called it research.”
Carl chuckled, slumping back into his chair. “She’s got you there, Mikey.”
Tina exhaled a plume of smoke, her voice cutting through the haze. “Enough. We’re not debating genres. We need this done tonight. The site’s paying upfront, but only if we deliver by midnight. Mikey, rewrite the damn scene. Keep the family vibe, ditch the DNA nonsense. Jake, you good?”
Jake rubbed his neck, his eyes bloodshot. “No. But I’ll do it. For Lisa. She’s got a doctor’s appointment tomorrow, and we’re out of cash.”
Tina’s face softened, just for a second. “That’s the spirit. Barb, you got any ideas to make this less... gross?”
Barb picked up her vape, taking a long drag. “Call it a step-family. Less icky, same fetish. And maybe throw in some dirty talk that doesn’t sound like a biology textbook.”
Mikey groaned, but he grabbed a crumpled notebook from the floor and started scribbling. “Fine. Step-family it is. Tina, you’re the hot stepmom. Jake, you’re the horny stepson. Carl, you’re... I dunno, the creepy stepdad. We’ll rework the dialogue. Something like, ‘You’re not my real mom, so it’s cool, right?’”
Jake winced. “Still creepy.”
“Better than DNA,” Barb said, adjusting the spotlight. It flickered again, buzzing like an angry wasp. “Jesus, this thing’s gonna electrocute us before we finish.”
Carl raised his bottle. “Here’s to dying rich.”
They spent the next twenty minutes hashing out a new scene, the room filling with more smoke and bickering. Mikey’s revised dialogue was barely better—clunky lines about “step-family bonding”—but Tina took charge, ad-libbing sultry innuendos to smooth the edges. Jake, fortified by Barb’s Xanax and a swig of Carl’s whiskey, agreed to try again. The camcorder whirred back to life, and they climbed onto the bed, the springs protesting louder than ever.
Tina straddled Jake again, her movements more confident now, her voice dripping with fake lust. “Oh, sweetie, you’re making your stepmom feel so good.”
Jake, his face still tight with discomfort, managed a strained, “Yeah... you’re not my real mom, so it’s fine, right?”
“Perfect,” Tina purred, leaning in close. “Just keep going, baby.”
The scene held together for a shaky minute, the spotlight casting a harsh glow over their sweat-slicked bodies. Mikey nodded approvingly, muttering, “This is it, this is the money shot.” But then Carl stumbled in again, his “stepdad” entrance timed perfectly to ruin everything. He tripped over the same damn cord, this time sending the tripod crashing to the floor. The camcorder hit the carpet with a sickening crunch, and the room plunged into darkness as Barb’s spotlight finally gave out.
“Goddammit, Carl!” Mikey roared, fumbling for the camera. “You broke it! That’s our only gear!”
Carl swayed, unfazed. “Oops. My bad. Got another one in your ass, Mikey?”
Barb cackled, her voice echoing in the dark. “This is our masterpiece, folks. Oscar-worthy.”
Tina slid off the bed, lighting another cigarette. The flame briefly illuminated her face, etched with exhaustion. “Mikey, fix the fucking camera. Barb, find a light. Jake, don’t you dare quit on me now.”
Jake, still clutching the sheet, muttered, “I’m not quitting. But this is the worst night of my life.”
Barb rummaged through a pile of junk in the corner, pulling out a dusty desk lamp. She plugged it in, and a weak yellow glow spilled across the room, barely enough to see by. “There. Now we’re shooting in ambiance. Like fucking Spielberg.”
Mikey, cradling the camcorder like a wounded child, fiddled with the buttons. “It’s not dead. Just... temperamental. We can still make this work.”
Carl took another swig, slumping onto the bed. “Work? This ain’t work. This is purgatory.”
Tina rounded on him, her cigarette glowing like a tiny ember of rage. “You wanna talk purgatory, Carl? Try raising a kid on food stamps. Try dodging the landlord for three months. We’re all in hell, so suck it up and say your lines.”
Carl raised his hands in surrender, the whiskey sloshing in the bottle. “Alright, alright. I’m the creepy stepdad. I got it.”
Mikey set the camera back on the tripod, which now leaned like a drunk at last call. “Okay, people, we’re going again. Living room this time. Big finale. Tina, Jake, Carl, you’re all in. Make it hot, make it messy. Barb, keep that lamp steady.”
Barb snorted, holding the lamp like a medieval torch. “Steady? I’m one bad wire from setting this dump on fire.”
They shuffled into the living room, a claustrophobic mess of stained furniture and discarded dreams. The couch, its cushions sagging like tired lungs, became their stage. Tina sat in the center, her negligee barely holding together. Jake perched on one side, his face a mask of grim determination. Carl flopped on the other, his whiskey bottle still in hand.
“Action!” Mikey called, his voice hoarse from yelling.
Tina leaned back, spreading her arms across the couch like a queen on a thrift-store throne. “Come here, my sweet stepson,” she purred, patting her lap. “Show your stepmom some love.”
Jake hesitated, then slid closer, his movements stiff. “Yeah... you’re not my real mom, so it’s cool, right?”
“Very cool,” Tina said, her voice dripping with forced seduction. She pulled him closer, her hands roaming for the camera’s sake.
Carl, slurring his lines, chimed in. “That’s my boy. Making the family proud.” He raised his bottle, spilling whiskey on the couch.
Mikey clapped from behind the camera. “Yes! That’s it! More family vibes!”
But the scene unraveled fast. Tina’s moans escalated into something feral, like a coyote caught in a trap. Jake’s rhythm faltered, his eyes glued to his phone, which buzzed with a text from his girlfriend. Carl, trying to join in, fumbled his bottle, soaking Tina’s negligee. She yelped, shoving him away, and the couch creaked ominously under the chaos.
“Cut!” Mikey screamed, his ponytail practically standing on end. “What the hell is wrong with you people? This is our big finish!”
Tina stood, whiskey dripping down her legs. “Your big finish? Mikey, this is a fucking disaster! Carl’s drunk, Jake’s texting his girlfriend, and Barb’s lamp is giving me a migraine!”
Jake held up his phone, his voice shaking. “Lisa’s at the hospital. Contractions. I gotta go.”
Barb lowered the lamp, her sarcasm softening. “Shit, Jake. Go. We’ll figure this out.”
Mikey spun on her, his face red. “Figure it out? This is my vision! We’re this close to a masterpiece!”
“Your vision’s why we’re broke, you sleaze!” Jake snapped, pulling on his jeans. “I’m done with this circus.”
Tina grabbed his arm, her voice low and urgent. “Jake, wait. We’re all fucked if we don’t finish this. Lisa’s gonna need that money. We’ll wrap it quick. One last scene.”
Jake’s eyes darted between her and the door. He rubbed his face, the Xanax and whiskey warring in his system. “One scene. Then I’m gone.”
Barb raised the lamp, the light flickering like a dying star. “Let’s make it quick, folks. Before Carl pukes or Mikey has a stroke.”
Carl raised his bottle, grinning. “To the American Dream.”
They reset, the couch creaking as they piled back on. Tina took charge, her voice steady despite the chaos. “Okay, step-family bullshit. Keep it simple. I moan, Jake moves, Carl grunts. Mikey, don’t fuck this up.”
The camcorder whirred, the red light blinking. Tina leaned back, her negligee slipping off both shoulders now. “Oh, baby,” she moaned, pulling Jake closer. “Show your stepmom how much you love her.”
Jake, his jaw tight, moved mechanically, his hands gripping the couch. “Yeah... love you, stepmom.”
Carl, barely upright, muttered, “Good boy. Family... bonding.”
Barb’s lamp wobbled, casting wild shadows. Mikey whispered, “Perfect. Keep it going.”
For a fleeting moment, it worked. The scene was sloppy, desperate, but it held together. Tina’s moans hit a fever pitch, Jake’s movements found a rhythm, and Carl managed not to fall over. Then the lamp sparked, a loud pop echoing through the room, and the light died. Darkness swallowed them, the camcorder’s red light the only glow left.
“Fuck!” Mikey screamed, kicking the tripod. It fell, the camera clattering to the floor.
Barb laughed, a...
