Skip to content The first thing you should know about me is I read a lot of porn. Not the glossy, dead-eyed stuff you find on the homepage of free tube sites, but stories. Long, winding, honest-to-god stories, with character arcs and dialogue and, if you’re lucky, at least a couple scenes of the kind of forbidden, skin-crawling sex I’d be mortified to admit I like in real life. My favorite stories are the mom/son ones, and I’m not ashamed, or not really, since the Internet exists for exactly that reason. The best stories all come from one author: SonsSweetMom. I’d been following her work for almost two years. Every Friday, sometimes more often, a new story would drop and I’d devour it in a single sitting, one-handed on my phone in the dark, straining not to wake up my actual mom across the hall.
You could say it was a coping mechanism. Real girls always felt like a test I was failing, and I was good at exactly two things: hiding in my room and getting myself off. If that makes me sound like a loser, whatever. In the stories, the sons are all tall and quiet and sensitive, just like me. The moms are lonely and secretly wild, and they don’t care about the rules or the risk, and they never act grossed out. Instead, they beg for it. That was the difference between the stories I read and the rest: in the stories, Mom wants it just as much as the son, maybe even more.
The summer after sophomore year, when this started, Mom was going through a phase. She was reading her way through every classic novel ever written, bingeing on library apps and falling asleep every night with her glasses still on, glowing Kindle screen propped against her chest. I got used to her staying up until two in the morning, giggling at her phone or typing little notes into Google Docs. Sometimes she’d glance up from her reading and look at me over her glasses, warm but tired, like she could see right through me.
Maybe she did. But if she knew what I was doing online, she never let on.
The story that finally broke my brain wasn’t any different on paper from the rest. It was called “Ice Cream Movie Night,” and it started with the son on the couch, Mom in the kitchen. They eat bowls of ice cream while watching a movie, and Mom, who is fresh out of the shower and wearing pajamas, keeps letting her hand “accidentally” brush his thigh after she spills ice cream on his bulge. Then she just goes for it, and the son goes for it too, and five minutes later she’s on her knees, blowing him right there while the TV keeps playing. The part that haunted me, though, was the little stuff. The way the mom joked about watching the same dumb movie every year. How she called her son “sweetie.” And the detail about the pajamas: soft, pink, fraying at the cuffs. My own mother had a pair just like that.
I tried to ignore the similarities at first. It was probably a coincidence. Lots of moms wear pajamas. But the next story had more, and the next, and by the time college started in the fall I’d catalogued a dozen tiny overlaps, the kind of things that would mean nothing to anyone else but lit up my brain like a slot machine.
A more rational person would have written it off, or, better, stopped reading. But I couldn’t stop. Each new story was like being taunted by an evil genius who knew everything about me. I jerked off so hard my dick hurt, then hated myself for it. I started calling my mom “Nikki”, which was her name, in my head, the way her stories did, which felt sick but also intimate.
My mother’s the kind of woman guys still check out, even at forty. I knew this because sometimes when we’d go to the grocery store I’d catch the cashiers checking out her ass, and my college friends kept saying lewd things about her. She had that bombshell figure that makes even her oldest t-shirts look hot. Sometimes she’d lean over the sink to rinse a mug, and her shirt would ride up, flashing a strip of belly and the tan lines from our last vacation. She had natural dark blonde hair and what I believed to be natural double D’s.
The second thing you should know about me is I have no impulse control.
It was a Friday night, late, and Mom was in the shower after her run. I’d just finished reading the new story. It was another “movie night” setup, but this time the son goes into Mom’s room, where she’s sprawled out on her bed, naked under her towel. The story ended with him eating her out while she moans into the pillow. It was so vivid it made my hands shake.
I did a lap of the house to calm down, but now I was almost certain she’s the author of these stories. Her bedroom door was open. I stood in front of her door, unable to breathe. I had to check if there were any clues. Luckily, her laptop was on the bed, still open and glowing.
I slipped into her room, and I zeroed in on the laptop. The screen was on her usual email, but a few tabs were open above it. Chrome browser. A doc, her Goodreads, and a link to Literotica.
My hands shook as I clicked. The browser loaded a story called “After the Shower.” It was the story I’d just read, except in the draft version … the comments tracked in the margin, notes about “tighten up the dialogue” and “add more detail about the towel slipping.” I clicked the username at the top. There it was: SonsSweetMom. Logged in, with a little author icon and a link to her profile.
A bomb went off in my chest. I backed away from the bed, eyes hot. I’d been jerking off to my own mother’s stories for years, and she’d been writing about me.
Something thudded in the bathroom. My heart stopped. I scanned the room for any sign I’d been here. That’s when I noticed the drawer next to her bed wasn’t fully closed. I don’t know why I checked, only that I had to see. I nudged it open and saw a pink dildo, a little bottle of lube, and a neatly folded towel. So she was getting off to the same stories and fantasies I was …
The shower stopped. I sprinted out, made it back to my own room just as she opened the bathroom door. I could hear her humming as she walked down the hall. I lay face-down on my pillow and tried not to die.
She knocked on my door a few minutes later. “Ty?”
I tried to sound normal. “What’s up?”
She poked her head in. Her hair was wet and she wore a different pair of pajamas. “Wanna watch a movie and eat ice cream? Or are you out with friends tonight?”
“Movie’s good,” I said, barely managing to keep my voice steady.
“Perfect. I’m dying for something dumb and funny.” She winked. “Go pick. I’ll be in the kitchen.”
When I made it to the living room, she was already scooping vanilla into two bowls. She handed me one, her hand brushing mine, and I tried not to look at her chest, which was bouncing slightly with every movement.
She curled up on the couch, tucking her legs under her. I took the end closest to her, as usual, and stared at the TV. I could see the profile of her face in the reflection: soft, lit by the blue flicker of the screen, her lips parted in a half-smile.
Half an hour into the movie, I was still rock hard. I kept thinking about the story, about the way she’d described the son’s cock in detail, about the way she’d written herself begging for it. In the story, the mom couldn’t help herself. She had to taste him. The thought made me dizzy, my mom’s lips wrapped around my most intimate part.
She laughed at the dumbest jokes, her head tipping back, and when she wiped her mouth with a napkin a bit of ice cream clung to her lower lip. She licked it off and caught me staring.
“You okay, Ty? You seem kinda jumpy tonight.”
“Just tired, I guess.”
She stretched out, her foot nudging mine. “I know that look. Too much screen time and not enough fresh air.” She gave my arm a squeeze. “You know you can talk to me about anything, right?”
“Yeah. I know.”
She picked up her bowl and set it on the coffee table. “You’re not a kid anymore. I mean, you’re basically a man.” She smiled, warm and a little sad. “I’m proud of you.”
I set my own bowl down, my hand shaking. “Mom—”
She turned to face me.
I said, “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
I took a breath and said, “Why do you write those stories?”
A long silence and then her lips parted. “What stories?”
I tried to keep my voice from cracking. “On Literotica. The SonsSweetMom ones.”
Her face went completely still. Then she laughed nervously. “What are you talking about?”
“I know it’s you.” I waited for her to deny it, to freak out, but she didn’t move.
Instead, she turned away from me and pressed her palms to her cheeks. “Oh, God,” she said, muffled. “You weren’t supposed to ever read those.”
“Too late,” I said.
She kept her hands over her face. “Are you mad at me?”
“I’m not mad,” I said. I felt my own cheeks go hot. “I just … I’ve been reading them for years. I had no idea it was you till today.”
She peeked at me between her fingers. “How much did you read?”
“All of them,” I said, unable to meet her eyes. “Some more than once.”
“Jesus, Ty. I didn’t think you’d find them.”
I nodded. “You’re really good at it.”
She turned to me, her face pink. “Why would you read that stuff?”
I could have lied. I could have said it was a coincidence, that I clicked by accident. But the words that came out were, “Because it’s hot.”
She just stared at me.
“Because,” I said, struggling for words, “I thought you, I mean, not you, but the mom in the stories, she actually wanted it. She wanted her son so much she couldn’t help herself. It wasn’t gross or fucked up. It was just, honest, I guess.”
Her hands fell to her lap. “Tyler, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
I cut her off. “You don’t have to apologize.”
She blinked at me, uncertain.
“I like your stories,” I said. “A lot.”
She bit her lip, thinking. “You know, the son in the stories, he’s always a little bit you.”
I said, “Yeah. I figured that out.”
She shook her head then laughed again. “I don’t know what to do now. Are you going to tell anyone?”
I snorted. “Why would I? It’s not like anyone would believe me. Besides, it’s private, right?”
She nodded, relieved.
“But,” I said, “I don’t want to just read them anymore.”
She tilted her head. “What do you mean?”
“I want to do it for real. I want to do everything you wrote about. Tonight.”
I thought she’d laugh. Instead, she stared at me, mouth open, and I knew my mother. She wanted it too.
“I mean it,” I said. “You wrote about it for years. I read about it for years. It’s not just a fantasy, right? You want it, don’t you?”
She quietly said, “Yes.”
I leaned in, every inch of me burning. “So let’s do it.”
She searched my face. “Right now?”
“Right now.”
Her eyes darted to my lap, where I was visibly hard under my sweatpants. She reached over and put her hand on my thigh, fingers trembling. “Okay,” she whispered, biting her bottom lip, clearly getting into the mood.
The TV kept playing. She scooted closer, her hand sliding up my leg. She brushed her lips against mine, at first so light I wasn’t sure it counted. Then she kissed me for real, soft and wet and careful, like she was afraid I’d shatter. I kissed her back.
She pulled away, breathing hard. “Is this okay?”
“More than okay,” I said.
She ran her hand up my shirt, tracing the muscles on my stomach. “God, you’re so grown up.” She sounded proud and hungry all at once. “I always wondered if you’d figure it out.”
I said, “I always wanted you to want me.”
She grinned. “You have no idea.”
She dipped her hand into my waistband, finding my cock. She gasped, then started laughing again. “You’re bigger than I imagined.”
I said, “You imagined?”
She blushed. “Every time I wrote those scenes, I pictured you. Or, you know, what you’d look like.” Her hand tightened. “And now I get to find out.”
She started stroking me, her eyes locked on mine. I reached for her shirt and tugged it up, exposing her breasts. They were as perfect as I’d always imagined: two bell-shaped double D’s with a jaw-dropping cleavage and topped with thick, peachy nipples. She let me stare, then reached up to cup them, squeezing them together for my benefit.
“You want to taste?” she teased, slipping into the voice from her stories.
I nodded, and she pulled my head to her chest. I sucked her thick, sweet nipple, gently at first, then with more pressure, the way she’d described it in her stories. She moaned, wrapping her arms around my head, holding me tight.
She pressed my hand to her thigh, then up under her shorts. She was wet, soaked through the cotton. I pushed her underwear aside and ran my fingers over her, exploring. She arched against my hand, gasping.
“I’ve wanted this forever,” she whispered.
I said, “Me too.”
She slid off the couch, kneeling in front of me. She tugged my pants down and freed my cock, staring at it like it was something holy.
“I never thought this would happen,” she said, voice shaky.
I stroked her hair. “You wrote it.”
She laughed, the sound muffled by my dick as she took me into her mouth. She was a little awkward at first, but she got the rhythm quick, using her hand to pump what her lips couldn’t reach. I watched her, stunned by how beautiful she looked with her mouth full of me.
She licked me up and down, using her tongue just like she’d described in the stories. She looked up at me, eyes bright, and said, “Tell me what you want, baby.”
I said, “I want to fuck you.”
She nodded, eager, and climbed onto my lap. She stripped off her pajama shorts, tossing them onto the floor. Her pussy was flushed, pink and swollen and glistening.
She hovered over me for a second, the heat of her bare pussy radiating against the head of my cock. I could feel how wet she was already, the slick kiss of her folds brushing the tip. Her hands rested on my shoulders for balance, fingers digging in just enough to leave little crescents.
“Look at me,” she whispered.
I did. Her eyes were dark, pupils blown, the same warm brown I’d known my whole life now glassy with pure want. She reached down between us, wrapped her fingers around my shaft, and guided me to her entrance. The first push was agonizingly slow. The fat head of my cock parted her and then the tight, scalding grip of her pussy swallowed me inch by inch. I watched it disappear into her, the stretch of her pink lips around my thickness, the way her stomach fluttered as she took more.
“Fuck… Tyler…” My name left her mouth like a prayer and a curse at the same time. She sank down until I was buried to the root, her ass flush against my thighs, every pulse of her walls fluttering around me. The feeling was hotter and tighter than anything I’d ever imagined while reading her words. This was the real thing. My mother. Riding my cock on the living-room couch while some forgotten comedy still played on the TV behind her.
She stayed still for a long moment, just breathing, letting her body adjust. I could feel her heartbeat through the place where we were joined. Then she started to fuck me, experimental rolls of her hips that made her breasts sway and her breath hitch. Each upward lift dragged her wet heat along every vein and ridge of my cock; every downward slide forced me deeper than I thought possible.
“You’re inside me,” she said, almost in wonder. “My own son is inside me.” The words were filthy and soft at the same time. She braced her hands on my chest and began to ride in earnest, rising high enough that the head nearly slipped free before slamming back down with a wet slap. The sound of it filled the room: skin meeting skin, the soft squelch of her arousal, the broken little moans she tried to keep quiet.
I grabbed her hips hard, fingers sinking into the soft flesh, and started thrusting up to meet her. The angle changed everything. Now I could drive into that perfect, greedy heat while she ground down, chasing her own pleasure. Her tits bounced with every impact. I leaned forward and caught one nipple between my lips, sucking hard the way her stories always described. She cried out and clenched around me so tightly I saw stars.
“That’s it, baby,” she said, slipping fully into the voice from the page. “Use your mother’s pussy. It’s yours now. It’s always been yours.”
The taboo of those words hit harder than the physical sensation. This was the woman who had packed my lunches, who had kissed my forehead when I was sick, who had written page after page of filthy confession about craving exactly this. And now she was bouncing on my cock like she had been starving for it.
I flipped us without warning. She landed on her back against the cushions with a startled laugh that turned into a moan when I shoved back inside in one long stroke. I hooked her knees over my elbows and folded her open, driving deep and hard. The new position let me see the way her pussy stretched around me, the shiny trail of her wetness coating my shaft, the soft jiggle of her stomach with every thrust.
“Tell me,” I said. “Tell me how long you’ve wanted this.”
“Years,” she said, nails raking down my back. “Every time I wrote those scenes I was thinking of you. Every time I came with my fingers or that toy I was imagining it was your cock. God, Tyler, fuck me harder—”
I gave her exactly what she asked for. The couch creaked under us. Her moans grew louder, less controlled. I could feel the flutter of her walls, the way her thighs started to shake against my arms.
She came, pussy clamping down so hard I could barely move. The pulsing heat of her orgasm milked me ruthlessly. I lasted only a few more savage thrusts before the pressure in my balls detonated. I buried myself to the hilt and flooded her, thick ropes of cum pumping deep into my mother’s pussy. The sensation was hot, wet and endless. I kept coming, grinding against her as the last pulses left me, marking her from the inside the way her stories had always ended.
We stayed locked together, both shaking, the only sound our ragged breathing and the forgotten movie still flickering on the screen. My cock twitched inside her with aftershocks. I could already feel my cum starting to leak out around the seal of her stretched lips, warm and messy against my balls.
She cupped my face with both hands, eyes shining. “That’s what it feels like,” she whispered. “That’s what I’ve been writing about all this time.”
I kissed her slow and deep, tasting the salt of sweat and the sweetness of ice cream still on her tongue. When I finally pulled out, a thick trickle of our mixed release followed, sliding down the cleft of her ass onto the couch cushion. She reached down, gathered some on her fingers, and brought it to her mouth, tasting us with a satisfied hum.
“Next time,” she said, voice low and wicked, “we do the one where you wake me up with your tongue.”
I was already half-hard again just from the promise.
To be continued
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