Mom’s Summer Heat My Dirty Incest Secret

WARNING: This story contains explicit mother-son incest themes and adult erotic content. Strictly 18+ only. Purely fictional fantasy.

I never thought I’d be the one spilling my guts like this, but here I am, staring at the screen in the dead of night, my heart pounding like a drum in my chest. It’s been years since it all started, but the memories are as fresh as if they happened yesterday—the heat of her body against mine, the way her breath hitched when I touched her in ways no son should touch his mom. Yeah, that’s right, this is my real mom and son incest story, the kind that burns through your veins and leaves you craving more even when you know it’s wrong. But fuck, it felt so right, so dirty and primal, like we were meant to cross that line together. I’m Jake, by the way, and my mom—God, calling her Mom even now sends a thrill down my spine—is Albina. She’s the woman who raised me, the one who bandaged my scraped knees and cheered at my soccer games, but she’s also the one who taught me what real pleasure feels like, deep inside her, where no one else has ever been allowed.

It all began when I was home from college for the summer, that sweltering heat wave turning our old Victorian house into a sauna. Mom was forty-five then, but she looked ten years younger—curvy in all the right places, with full breasts that strained against her sundresses and hips that swayed when she walked, like she knew the power she held. Her hair was a cascade of auburn waves, and her green eyes could pin you in place with a single glance. Dad had left us when I was a kid, off with some younger fling, so it was just us two, always had been. We were close, maybe too close, sharing inside jokes and late-night movies, her head on my shoulder as we laughed at the screen. But that summer, something shifted. I started noticing her not as Mom, but as Albina—the woman with soft skin that begged to be touched, lips that curved into a smile that made my cock twitch without warning.

One evening, after a day of yard work, I came inside drenched in sweat, my shirt clinging to my chest. Mom was in the kitchen, bending over to pull a tray from the oven, her short robe riding up just enough to show the curve of her ass, the lace edge of her panties peeking out. I froze, my eyes locked on that sight, blood rushing south as I imagined sliding those panties aside and burying my face there, tasting her forbidden sweetness. “Hey, sweetie,” she said, straightening up with a pie in her hands, oblivious or maybe not—her eyes flicking over my body, lingering on the bulge starting to form in my shorts. “You look like you could use a shower. Want me to run you a bath instead? I could scrub your back, like when you were little.”

The words hung there, innocent on the surface, but laced with something deeper. I laughed it off, but my mind raced—images of her hands on me, soapy and slick, exploring places she hadn’t touched since I was a boy. That night, I jerked off in the shower, picturing her joining me, her naked body pressed against mine, whispering “Let Mommy take care of you” as she stroked my hard cock. The cum splattered the tiles, hot and thick, but the guilt hit harder. This was incest, pure and filthy, son lusting after his own mom. But the dirtiness only made it hotter.

The next day, things escalated without warning. Mom suggested we go swimming in the backyard pool to beat the heat. She emerged from the house in a bikini that left little to the imagination—strings tied at her hips, the top barely containing her ample tits, nipples faintly visible through the thin fabric. “What do you think, Jake? Still got it?” she teased, spinning around, her ass cheeks jiggling slightly. I mumbled something about her looking great, but my eyes devoured her, my swim trunks tenting embarrassingly. We splashed around, playful at first, but then she swam close, her body brushing mine underwater, her hand “accidentally” grazing my thigh.

“Race you to the deep end,” she challenged, her voice husky. I won, grabbing her ankle to pull her back, but she twisted, wrapping her legs around my waist in a mock wrestle. Our bodies pressed together, her breasts squished against my chest, the heat between her legs right against my hardening cock. She laughed, but her eyes darkened, pupils dilating as she felt me throb. “Oh, Jake… you’re all grown up,” she whispered, not pulling away. Time stopped; the world narrowed to the feel of her, wet and warm, the scent of sunscreen and her natural musk filling my nose. I could have kissed her then, claimed her mouth as my own, but I chickened out, diving away with a forced laugh.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I tossed in bed, my dick aching, replaying the pool moment over and over. Around midnight, I heard her door creak open, soft footsteps padding down the hall. She knocked lightly on my door. “Jake? You awake? I can’t sleep either.” She slipped in, wearing a sheer nightie that hugged her curves, the outline of her body visible in the moonlight. “Mind if I join you? Like old times, when you’d have nightmares.” I nodded, scooting over, my heart racing as she slid under the covers, her leg brushing mine.

We lay there in silence at first, but the tension was electric. Her hand rested on my arm, fingers tracing lazy circles. “You’ve become such a handsome man,” she murmured. “Makes me feel… things I shouldn’t.” My breath caught. “What things, Mom?” I asked, my voice rough. She turned to face me, her face inches from mine, eyes searching. “Things a mother shouldn’t feel for her son. But God, Jake, you’re all I think about lately.” The admission hung heavy, and before I could process, she leaned in, her lips brushing mine—soft at first, tentative, then hungry as I responded.

Our kiss deepened, tongues dancing, her taste sweet like forbidden fruit. My hands roamed, cupping her breast through the nightie, feeling the nipple harden under my palm. She moaned into my mouth, arching into my touch. “Touch me, son,” she whispered, guiding my hand lower, under the hem, to the heat between her thighs. Her pussy was wet, slick with arousal, my fingers slipping between her folds as she gasped. “That’s it, feel how wet Mommy is for you. This is incest, Jake—dirty, wrong, but I need it.”

I finger-fucked her slowly, curling inside to hit that spot, her hips bucking against my hand. “Fuck, Mom, you’re so tight,” I groaned, my cock straining against my boxers. She reached down, freeing me, her hand wrapping around my shaft, stroking with expert rhythm. “So big, my boy. I want to taste you.” She pushed me back, sliding down, her mouth engulfing my cock—hot, wet, sucking like she’d been starving for it. I threaded my fingers in her hair, guiding her, the sight of my own mom blowing me the dirtiest thing imaginable. “Suck your son’s cock, Mom. Swallow me deep.”

She did, gagging slightly as I hit the back of her throat, but loving it, her eyes watering with lust. I came hard, shooting down her throat, and she swallowed every drop, licking me clean. “Good boy,” she purred, crawling back up. But I wasn’t done—I flipped her over, spreading her legs, diving between them to taste her pussy. Tangy and sweet, her clit swelling under my tongue as I lapped at her. “Eat Mommy’s cunt, son. Make me cum.” She did, grinding against my face, her juices flooding my mouth as she shuddered.

We fucked then, raw and urgent. I slid into her, inch by inch, her walls gripping me like a vice. “Fill me, Jake. Fuck your mom like you own her.” I pounded deep, our bodies slapping, sweat mixing as I grabbed her tits, pinching nipples. “This is our incest secret, Mom—son breeding his mother’s pussy.” We came together, my cum filling her, leaking out as we collapsed, panting.

That was just the start. Mornings became our ritual—waking to her mouth on me, or me eating her out while coffee brewed. One day, in the kitchen, I bent her over the counter, hiking up her skirt, slamming into her from behind. “Imagine if the neighbors saw—son fucking his mom like a whore.” She moaned louder, pushing back, her ass rippling with each thrust.

We explored every inch of the house. In the living room, she rode me on the couch, her tits bouncing as she ground down, whispering “Mommy’s pussy loves her son’s cock.” In the shower, water cascading, I took her against the wall, soapy hands everywhere, fingering her ass while pounding her cunt. “Want me in your backdoor, Mom? Incest anal?” She nodded, and I eased in, her tightness milking me as she cried out in pleasure-pain.

Nights were marathons. We’d tie each other up—her wrists bound to the bedpost as I teased her with toys, vibrating her clit until she begged. “Please, son, fuck me—fill your mom’s incest hole.” I’d edge her, pulling out just before she came, making her whimper. Then, when I finally let go, we’d explode, bodies entwined.

We role-played too. She’d pretend to catch me jerking off, “punishing” me by sitting on my face, grinding her wet pussy until I couldn’t breathe. “Bad boy, sniffing Mommy’s panties—now lick me clean.” Or I’d “force” her, pinning her down, whispering “Take your son’s cock, you incest slut,” though it was all consensual, our dirty game.

One weekend, we drove to a cabin, away from prying eyes. There, we fucked outdoors—against a tree, her legs wrapped around me, leaves crunching under us. “Breed me, Jake—give Mommy your incest baby.” The risk thrilled us, no protection, just raw passion.

Years passed, but our bond only deepened. Now, at thirty, I still sneak into her bed, her body softer but no less inviting. Last night, I woke her with my tongue, lapping her pussy until she came, then flipped her for doggy, pounding her ass while calling her my “mom whore.” Our incest love is eternal, filthy, and ours alone.