Skip to content Mom ran a yoga class out of the studio two blocks over and treated our living room like the leftover hour. Mats, a cheap block and the coconut oil she swore was for her hips. She was forty and looked like a hot MILF. Dark blonde hair in a knot that always slipped. Green-hazel eyes. That mouth … I had lost count of how many times I’d fantasized about her blowing me. She taught other people’s mothers how to breathe and then came home in the same uniform: old gray yoga pants that sat on her hips and a white tank that used to be mine. Forget about bras. She was a well endowed woman with natural Ds.
I was twenty-one and I had been getting hard about her cleavage and ass since I was old enough to know I should stop.
It wasn’t one thing. It was her bending to roll a mat. It was sweat at the base of her throat after a class. It was the way she said hips back in that instructor voice and my brain put me behind her. I took cold showers. I dated. I told myself it was just living with someone who looked like that. None of it stuck. Some nights I came in my fist thinking about her ass in those pants and then I sat on the bathroom floor until I felt like a person again. I couldn’t stop fantasizing about her, like a forbidden curse.
“Jack! Please, come and help me!”
I tucked my boner against the waistband and hurried downstairs. She was on the mat when I came downstairs. Puppy pose, chest down, hips high, the long line of her spine. From the hallway it was just her ass in the air … Or doggystyle as they call it.
“Don’t lurk,” she said into the floor. “Hip’s been locking since class. I need weight on it. Come square me.”
I should have said I had to be somewhere. But I knelt behind her. Hands on her hips like a student. Warm, soft, and the tank had ridden up. I leaned my weight in the way she’d shown a room full of strangers.
My crotch met her ass, and oh, it felt so good and forbidden. I angled off. She pushed back into my hands.
“Hold,” she said. “You’re drifting.”
I was drifting because I was hard. There was no way to hide it in shorts, not pressed against her like that. I felt myself thicken along the split of her ass and I knew she felt it because she went still.
“Jack.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s not the stretch.”
“I know. I’ll—”
I started to move back. Her fingers hooked my wrist and kept my hands on her waist.
“Don’t make it a thing,” she said. Then she lowered her voice, “How long has that been happening.”
“A while.”
She let her head hang. I watched a drop of sweat travel the groove of her spine. She rocked a millimeter, like she was testing the pose, and the pressure dragged over me on purpose.
“We can’t,” I said as I kinda knew what she was aiming for. My mother wasn’t only hot but also a sweetheart. If she noticed something troubling me, then she’d go above and beyond to fix my troubles, even how taboo or unconventional it might be. “You’re my mom.”
“I’m aware.”
“We’re related. That’s not … I shouldn’t even be thinking about it.”
“You think I don’t know what you look at when I pick a mat up off the floor?” She laughed to calm my nerves. “I teach this. I know when someone’s behind me for the wrong reason.”
“Then tell me to leave.”
She didn’t. She dropped her chest lower. The tank slipped. I saw the side of her breast, and her thick suckable nipple. She was breathing like the end of a flow, the kind she used in class when she wanted people to stay in the discomfort.
“This is a bad idea,” she said. “But I think it will be the best for you.”
“Then why are you still—”
“Because my hip is actually tight and because you’re hard against my ass and because I’m not made of stone.” She looked over her shoulder. The instructor face was gone. “Do you want to, yes or no?”
She reached back and hooked two fingers in her waistband. She didn’t pull yet. She just held the fabric like a decision.
I was so hard it hurt. She shifted her knees apart a fraction. The yoga pants pulled tight across her pussy. There was a darker patch. She was getting wet in a pose she’d taught all afternoon. And I could clearly see her camel toe now.
“Mom.”
I didn’t go. My hands tightened on her hips. She peeled the pants down to mid-thigh. She wore no underwear. Pale ass, bikini line, the dark pink of her pussy when she arched. Slick but not soaked. The smell changed.
“Yes, or no,” she said firmly. “Releasing tension is healthy, don’t try to hold it in.”
“Alright, let’s do this.” I shoved my shorts down. I set the head against her and didn’t push. She was hot even before I was in. She pushed back the smallest amount, and that was the better yes.
I slid into my mother on the living room mat.
She was tight and wet. The stretch showed: her lips going taut around the head, then taking me. An inch then two. She made a sound she didn’t use in class. I fed her the rest and stayed buried, hips flush to her ass, yoga pants a useless ring around her thighs, my cock inside my sexy mother.
“Fuck,” she whispered. “That’s … don’t talk. Just—”
I pulled back. The drag was filthy. And then I pushed in again. Doggystyle because that was the stretch. Because my hands already belonged where they were. Short deep strokes. The tank swung. I shoved it up so her tits hung free, heavy, nipples tight. She let me.
Every thrust pushed her up the mat. I pulled her back onto me. She was getting wetter, shine on my cock, on her thighs. Her hole clung when I drew out. I watched it happen from behind: my mother taking me, ass moving when I bottomed out, that little flutter when I went deep. I thought this is incest and it made me slam harder instead of stopping.
“We shouldn’t,” I said anyway, wrecked, still fucking her.
“I know.” She pushed back to meet me. “You’re already in me. Don’t waste it.”
I hooked her hips and drove into her. Each stroke made the mat creep toward the couch. I hauled her back onto me and felt her take every inch, her ass slapping against my stomach, her pussy gripping like it didn’t care I was her son. I looked down because I couldn’t not. That was my mother on her elbows. That was my cock disappearing into her. The yoga pants trapped her thighs so she couldn’t close. The pose that started as help was just doggy now, raw, wet and the kind of quiet that made the wet sound huge.
“Say it,” she muttered into her arm.
“I’m fucking my mom.”
“Again.”
“I’m fucking you.” I swallowed hard. “Mom.”
She clenched when I said it. I felt the flutter all the way to the base. I kept one hand on her waist and put the other on the back of her neck, not shoving, just holding her there so she didn’t have to look. She didn’t fight it. She arched and let me use the stretch against her.
“This is wrong,” I said, and my hips didn’t stop. “If anyone walked in—”
“Nobody’s walking in.” Her voice broke on a thrust. “Finish what you started.”
I gave her longer strokes, almost out, then in to the hilt. Her hole stayed open a second when I pulled back, shiny, stretched around nothing, then swallowed me again. Taboo wasn’t a thought anymore. It was the heat, the smell, the fact that the woman who taught breathing was panting under me and dripping down my balls. I was so close it scared me.
“I’m gonna come—”
“Do it raw,” she said. No pause. “Don’t you pull out of me.”
I slammed home and came in my mother, hard, stupid, pulse after pulse into her pussy while she held still and took it. I ground through it with my weight on her hips like I was still squaring her, emptying everything I’d been saving in the shower, on the bathroom floor, in every lie that this was just living with someone pretty.
I stayed buried until it stopped. When I eased out, she stayed in the pose. Open, pink and a thick line of me slipped out of her and ran down her thigh onto the mat.
I sat back on my heels, shaking, shorts still around my thighs.
She tugged the yoga pants up like the set was over and finally looked at me. The instructor face didn’t come back all the way. She reached out and squeezed my knee, once, like she was checking I was still in the room.
“Hey. Look at me.” I did. “Is the tension gone, or did we just make a bigger mess?”
I let out a breath. My hands were still buzzing. The sick heat in my gut wasn’t there. In its place was something stupid and clean, like I’d put down a bag I’d been carrying up the stairs for years.
“It’s gone,” I said. “I feel … better. A lot better. I didn’t think it would.”
“Good.” She meant it. She pushed a strand of hair off my forehead with her thumb, the same way she did when I was sick. “I care about you. I wasn’t going to watch you eat yourself alive over something you couldn’t tell anybody.”
I nodded. I believed her. That was the part that scared me less than the sex.
She turned on the mat, dropped her chest, and popped her hips up again, the same puppy pose as the start.
“Alright,” she said. “Now help me with the actual stretch. Hip’s still tight. Hands on my waist. And Jack—” she glanced back, mouth twitching, “try not to drift this time.”
I put my hands on her hips, and I managed to concentrate … for now.
Enjoyed this story?
Browse the books → Incest Books
Get 50% off your first order.
Use code: FIRSTREAD
Or if you want to read similar stories → Mom-son incest stories