So, me.  
I didn't have family, just a basket left at the ER door.  Who goes out and gets a basket for that, anyway?  Well, whoever dropped me off, they wrapped me in red.  Deep, like blood.  Not real silk, just something sorta like.  Not a blanket either, just a big strip sheared off something bigger.  
They let me keep it: the not-blanket, not the basket.  At least for a while.  I still dream of it.  
So my first fosters called me Red.  
I was a problem pup: never where I was supposed to be, always where I wasn't.  Too loud, too quick.  Too sharp in the tooth.  When they hit me, I bit.  And bit.  And bit.  Until they bit back.  Then I bled, and got sent to another city, another home.  
But that didn't matter so much.  
I went to schools.  Lots of them.  One gave me a test, not like the rest.  They asked me to do what I could: no failing, no pressure.  So I did.  
Things were different after that.  Different classes.  Different teachers.  Different rooms.  I was just a kid, I didn't know how much that mattered.  But it was nice.  
Home wasn't.  Got bit again, got moved again.  But what I'd done at that school, it followed me.  At the new one, my classmates were older.  I did better.  Good with numbers.  Good with words.  Didn't make friends, though.  
Moved again, finished high.  The one thing going for a foster pup, free college.  Went with a two year.  Got hired.  Got the promotion.  Got better offers.  First in my life, I'd a choice where to go.  
I chose home.  
Well, "home".  Born in that city, shipped off days after.  But I felt I'd find a piece of me still there, something I'd lost even before so much else got bitten off.
I'd no friends there.  Kept in touch with my dorm mates, but they'd stayed where they were or gone off to other cities.  So no real pack scene.  Which was fine.  Couldn't be comfortable in crowds, too much like foster.  I liked quiet.  I liked dark.  
By day, everyone's going.  By night, what's still there is just happening.  That howled to me.  One day I'd happened.  Hadn't stopped yet.  
I roamed from set of sun into the dim, and then into the black.  Not the smartest thing, or safest.  But I guess I looked tough.  Been bit so much, so early, those marks came out rough by the time I'd stopped growing.  I wasn't that big for my breed, but y'know… big's relative.  And I didn't so much mind bleeding.  
Tried some brothels, the better kind.  Paid to pretend, but they were honest about it.  And their spades didn't lie.  I liked their taste.  I liked their feel.  I liked the ones who knew how to get knotted.  I don't think I was bad at it.  They'd ask me back, at least.  
And I would, sometimes.  But not much.  'Round and 'round, chasing the same tails - no.  That wasn't me.  Well, not quite.  I was chasing just one.  
When I'd been dumped all those years back, it wasn't your box-and-newspaper deal.  Basket.  Blanket.  Red, remember?  Me.  
Mine was fancy.  Kinda.  So, where do you go to find kinda-fancy, and maybe make an unwanted pup?
Stupid odds, I knew.  But it was something to make of my nights, more than just keeping my cock wet.  A dozen places, a dozen more.  Spade on spade.  Fucked my way half across the city.  The best ones were older - not old-old, but with a few years more experience.  Most of them would take the knot.  And they took it better.  And that was good.  So damn good.  
And then, one day, her.  Same breed, same fur.  Not exactly like me, but still like me.  Not quite as big, but still big.  Not so much bitten-up, but still bitten.  I knew her face, I'd seen it in the mirror every morning, every night.  Two decades on, she was still at it.  And she wasn't the slightest bit shy about her scars.  
Of course I booked her.  
"I work the Red Room, though we have others if that's not to your taste."
She didn't know my name.  I couldn't say no.  
"Come in, big boy."  She led.
I followed.
It was red, of course.  Hardly a rare color in those places.  But this was all red.  Red carpet, red wallpaper, red drapes.  Doors, lights, veils, bed.  Bright reds.  Dark reds.  Redwood.  Not an inch of the place was anything but red.  
She pointed me to the shower.  I stripped and put the water on full.  It steamed, it stung, but I was already melted inside.  My head, my heart, my belly.  Paws buzzed, thighs too.  I didn't know what to say, how to start.  I'm Red.  Your son.  No: too much, too fast, hadn't even been ten minutes.  Her voice rolled like a song from the next room.  I'd never even thought about what she'd sound like.  
Maybe I was wrong, maybe it wasn't her.  What were the odds?  I'd have to ask around it, find out first.  But how do you even bring that up, especially in a brothel?  She'd catch on, or think I was a nut, a stalker, something.  Either way, I'd be out on my ass before I got a good answer.  
Worse, so much worse: my cock wanted in.  Rest of me, too.  I'd done this too many times.  Every bitten bit of me knew what came next, and I couldn't make it know the difference.  
Shower was taking too long.  She'd notice, she'd know something was up.  I cranked the water off, ran myself through the towels, and struck back out into the red.  
A long, ruby shawl hung from her shoulders down to her belly, to that darker tuft just below.  Her spade peeked out, an even brighter gem.  
And then the shawl was on the floor, and she was bare.  In front of me.  Grinning, sly.  Inviting.  
"Like what you see?"  
And I did.  
"Want this?"  
And I did.  
"Then come on, big boy."  
And I did.  
Shoulda told her who I was.  Woulda been the right thing to do, the sane thing to do.  And I did want to ask her, to tell her, to hear her say what I knew.  That she'd gotten knocked up.  That it'd been me or the work.  That she'd chosen the work.  
But there wasn't any of that I could say that wouldn't end in distater.  
And I was naked, same as her; ready to fuck, same as her.  I couldn't stop staring at her spade.  
She laid back to the bed, held up the condom.  I knelt on the edge, took it from her, slid it up.  And once I had, she spread for me.  
I put my paws to her chest, ran them down, felt each pair of nubs along the way.  She looked rough at her edges, but that fur was so soft.  Her tail spun between my legs, thick and fluffy.  It tickled my thighs, my rump, my balls.  
She didn't know.  Did I want her to know?  I didn't know.  
Her hand followed mine down her middle, slow, all the way to her spade.  I held her at the hips and watched her work.  Those claws - long and curved - moved with a deliberate grace.  She fingered her sex open and held it for me.  
My shaft was ready.  I wasn't.  But the tip fit so well.  She made a noise, like purring, like cooing.  Her other hand put to my chest, gripped my fur, pulled me down.  I slid right in.  She was warmer, wetter than any bitch before.  Maybe I was just paying more attention.  Her insides weren't tight, they didn't fight me inch by inch.  But once it was in, well and truly in, she squeezed all around me.  First a gentle caress, then a blanketing wrap, and then a lustful grip.  Her hips worked up and down, her spade stroked the whole of my length.  
"Big boy indeed."  She grinned wide, showed me some fang.  
I gave it right back.  The fang, the thrust.  Even a snarl.  Must've looked more hungry than anything else.  Can't say I wasn't.  
And all the while, her hand kept on the last little bit that hadn't yet gone in, what was gonna be my knot.  Telling me it was okay.  Telling me it was good.  Telling me to keep it in.  
But she was my mom.  I was in her.  Fucking her.  Or, she was fucking me.  And if she didn't stop, she was gonna get that knot.  
She didn't stop, she wouldn't.  That's what I'd come for, why - she took knots.  And I was all wrapped up and ready.  She was gonna fuck 'til we tied, and then 'til I came.  Just like every other john getting their rocks off on the age gap.  
And I was getting my rocks off, fast.  She was good.  Why was she so fucking good?  I mean, I knew.  She wouldn't still be doing it that long, in a room like this, if she wasn't god-fucking good.  
It was there at the base of my cock, and almost as much at the tip:  The pressing.  The beating.  The itch at the back that needed her scratch.  My knot wanted in.  She already had me close.  I bore down.  It hissed out, "Oh fuck, Mom!"  
I bit my tongue trying to take it back.  But she'd heard.  Her hips stopped.  My face burned beneath my fur, my heart banged so damn loud.  
And then she said, a little softer, "Aren't you a bad boy?"  
Her hips came up, she took me to the hilt, gave my knot what it needed.  Pop, and I was in.  All the way.  Then her rhythm was back.  I looked down, and she wore this odd little grin.  It hit me - this wasn't the first time someone'd said something like that.  I was still just another john.  Just also a perv.  
"Come on, baby, I know you've been wanting this."  
But her words bit just right.  They made my shaft beat.  They made my heart race.  I smelled her on me, I wanted it.  My shame broke, instinct spilled through.  I grabbed her shoulders, thrust back in, sudden, hard.  It rippled through her, thighs to belly to chest; it rose through her throat and came out as a gasp.  Her paws went from me to the sheets, she dug her claws in.  I hilted again, rocked the whole bed, made her snarl with pleasure.  
"Bad... boy," she gasped out.  "You're gonna-!"
My tail curled between my legs, my hips shook with each good rut.  It itched so bad, that ring at my base, the start of my knot.  Popped it in, then out, then in again.  She gripped it at each pass.  Each time a little tighter, a little harder, a little closer.  Almost, almost...
"Of fuckin' course," I snarled back, slammed in one more time, hilted and held.  
I felt it swell.  I felt her clamp.  I felt it catch.  She clutched me, stroked me like she wanted my pups.  I couldn't not give them to her.  She was gonna make me cum.  I was gonna cum in her.  It was coming.  I was coming.  It, I…!
"Fuck, fuck!"  A spark at my tip, a burst, a bang.  Her pucker kissed it, swallowed it.  "Take it, Mom!"  
I shot and shot and shot.  The condom caught it, every drop.  I filled it inside her, right at her bottom.  And when I was done breeding - or something sorta like - her hands uncurled from my waistfur.  I hadn't even felt her holding me in.  
She was panting.  I was, too.  She rolled me off onto the bed at her side, and we lay there, tied at the waist, belly to belly.  I put my hands around her.  She put hers to my knot.  Her grip held the warmth in.  There wasn't room for thoughts in my head - only that sharp little grin at the corner of her muzzle.  It was beautiful.  She was beautiful.
Until time was up, and we had to untie.  
I went back to the shower, stood under the water.  It was still hot.  Every bit of me was trying, failing, to shake.  
She was my mom.  No doubts left.  Dunno why, but fucking her'd proven it.  And she was good.  Goddamn good.  Best I'd ever had.  Couldn't wait to do it again. 
Freak.  Motherfucking freak.  That's what I was.  And worse: the longer I turned it over in my head, the harder it was to not want to do more.  Taking it all the way.  Her cunt on my cock, nothing in between.  I wanted to fuck her raw.  I wanted to knot her bare.  I wanted to shoot it all inside and leave my fat wad in her.  
I wanted to knock her up.