Skip to content This is part 3 of the Literotica Mom Series. For part 1, I found out that my mother writes incest erotica Or part 2, Mom and I wrote incest erotica together
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We posted the “true story” and the world didn’t end. My mother and I had fucked each other stupid on her queen-size bed, typed up the word-for-word transcript, and stuck it at the top of the incest section with the little “true story” box checked. I expected we’d feel sick with shame, or at least some post-nut regret, but after the first hour of giddy laughter and scrolling through comments we just… didn’t. We got on with our day, ate breakfast, did laundry, and pretended we were only a normal mother and son, plus the secret knowledge that anyone in the world could be reading about what we’d just done in her bedroom.
At first the comments were the usual parade of drooling illiterates and fake-sounding praise. “No way this is real but fuck I wish it was,” and, “If you really wrote this with your mom, you deserve a medal.” That kind of thing. I found myself watching the hit counter like it was a stock ticker, getting a little dopamine hit every time the number doubled, then doubled again. Mom pretended not to care, but by the second day she was reading the comments on her phone while stirring pasta, and by day four she’d started replying to the private messages she said she never read.
It was day five when she got the message that changed everything. I remember exactly where we were: kitchen, ten at night, both of us up late because we were still too keyed up to sleep. She sat at the counter in a ratty tank top and pajama shorts, laptop open. I was leaning against the fridge, finishing a banana, only half paying attention when she gasped and covered her mouth with her hand.
I said, “What?”
She shook her head, like she couldn’t even repeat it. Then she slid the laptop toward me and pointed at the screen.
It was a private message through Literotica’s internal mail, from an account called “watchingfromafar.” The avatar was blank. The body of the message was short and insane.
Saw your last story. I know you say it’s real, but everyone says that. I need to see it. I need to see you two together. Please don’t be creeped out. I’m not a perv or a cop, just a lonely guy with a lot of money and the kind of obsessions that ruin lives. Here’s my offer: one hundred thousand dollars, paid in crypto, for a short video (10+ min) of you and your son doing what you described in the story. We can arrange everything through ProtonMail or direct chat, whatever you prefer. If you say no, I’ll never bother you again. If you say yes, I’ll make you rich.
Her hand trembled on the counter.
“Is this for real?” I said, rereading it.
She nodded, not quite meeting my eye. “Check the profile. Look at his favorites.”
I did. The guy had a library of hundreds of incest and breeding stories, almost all of them rated ten stars and commented on. Most of the comments were tiny essays, analyzing the writing or guessing at the truth behind them. On Nikki’s stories, he’d posted walls of text about how “only a real mother could write something this raw.” It was obvious he’d been following her for years. There was a certain reverence in the way he wrote. Like he was less a pervert and more a collector of very specific, very illegal butterflies.
I said, “You know this is probably some dude with a stolen credit card, right?”
She shook her head again. “No, it’s real. He sent me another message last month. Asked if I’d ever considered doing cam stuff, said he’d pay triple what anyone else offers. I was about to block him.” Her voice went soft, almost embarrassed. “He’s been messaging for years, always polite, never gross. He calls me ma’am.”
I re-read the offer, focusing on the numbers. A hundred thousand dollars. In crypto, which meant no bank to trace it, no IRS. I tried to imagine what that would feel like, to have the number in your account and no one in the world able to touch it.
Mom closed the laptop, eyes wet. “Should I delete it?” she asked, voice cracking.
I stared at her. “Do you want to?”
She chewed her lip, not answering.
I said, “Mom, do you actually want to do this?”
She glanced at the closed laptop, then at me. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “But for that kind of money…” She shook her head, then surprised me by laughing. “It would pay off my mortgage, Ty. Pay off your student loans. Get us out of every mess we’ve ever had.”
I found myself saying, “It’s not like we haven’t already done it. It would just be… a record.”
She went silent. “It feels crazy.”
“We’re already crazy.”
She looked up at me, a single tear on her cheek. “Do you want to be filmed with me?”
I realized I’d never wanted anything so much. “Yes,” I said.
A few hours later, after she’d cried and paced and written three separate drafts of a reply, she messaged him back. Her hands shook so much that I had to type half of it. They went back and forth for a day, setting the ground rules. Ten minutes minimum. And he insisted that it should be “obviously mother and son,” not just in writing, but in the way we touched, in the words we used, the body language.
“We can do that,” Nikki wrote. “I love my son.”
The reply came seconds later. “I know you do. I can see it in every word you write.”
We spent the next two days planning. The money was sent in advance, locked in a secure wallet. The video would be uploaded to a private server, then deleted after he’d downloaded it. All comms went through a burner ProtonMail, which Nikki set up in a fit of giggles and terror, password protected and buried behind fake names.
The morning of, we made a script, but it felt silly after five minutes. She said, “We’ll just do what we always do. That’s what he wants, right?” She bought a $60 tripod and a cheap ring light off Amazon, and set them up in her bedroom, which she cleaned obsessively. The bedspread was changed. The walls were scrubbed. She made us both shower three times, then did her hair and makeup, then made me shave.
She wore her favorite: a soft blue robe, nothing underneath. She told me not to get dressed, just to wait in her bed, hard and ready. “Let me set everything up, okay?” she said.
I stayed where I was. When she came back, the room was a movie set. The ring light gave everything a warm, golden haze. She’d lit candles on her nightstand. The camera was already rolling, a little red LED blinking above the lens.
“Are you ready?” she whispered.
I sat up against the headboard, naked, my cock already half-hard, and nodded.
She dropped to her knees at the side of the bed. “Come here, baby.”
I swung my legs over the edge. She kissed my hip, then nuzzled my cock, taking a deep breath of my skin. The moment didn’t feel staged, or forced. It felt like every morning-after we’d spent in this bed, just with the knowledge that someone would watch it and know it was real.
She took me in her mouth, slow and reverent, lips soft and wet. I heard her hum around my shaft, a mother’s lullaby turned perverse. The script was forgotten, but she whispered things I’d only ever read in her stories, “Such a big cock, just like your father,” and “I never thought I’d get to taste my own son,” and “You’re perfect, you’re everything, I love you so much.”
It was harder to last on camera. The sight of her, naked except for the open robe, looking up at me as she sucked my cock, made my balls ache. She kept glancing at the camera, sometimes locking eyes with the lens, sometimes just smiling like she was on a picnic. I grabbed the back of her head, and started fucking her mouth, like she’d described in at least three of her stories. She took it all, tears streaking her mascara, hands cupping my balls, urging me to go faster.
When I got close, she pulled off and looked right at the camera. “He’s going to cum for his mommy. Are you ready, baby?”
I barely managed to nod.
She wrapped both hands around my shaft and jerked me, tongue teasing the head, until I exploded across her lips and cheek. She held the cum in her mouth, opened wide so the camera could see it, then swallowed, sighing with satisfaction.
She wiped her mouth, then beckoned me to join her on the bed. “Your turn, sweet boy,” she said, and lay back, spreading her legs for me.
The robe fell open. Her pussy glistened, already soaked, and the inner lips were swollen and pink. She was shaved except for a tiny strip, just the way she liked. I dove in, burying my face between her thighs, tongue flattening against her clit. She gasped, arched her back, hands in my hair.
“Oh god, that’s my son. My real son, eating his own mother’s pussy. Who could ever believe it?”
I licked her in slow, greedy circles, then fast flicks, the way she liked. Her moans grew louder, less controlled. She started rocking her hips against my face, grinding herself on my tongue. When she came, she clamped her thighs around my ears and cried out, “Tyler, I love you, I love you, I love you,” each word higher and more desperate than the last.
I kept eating her, slower now, tasting every bit of her, until she was limp and gasping. When I finally pulled back, her cunt was red and glistening, a little trickle of clear juice on the sheets.
She sat up, hair wild, eyes bright.
“Now fuck me,” she said. “Let them see what a real mother and son look like together.”
I climbed on top of her, cock already stiff again, and lined up with her entrance. She reached down, guided me inside her, and we both gasped at the first push. She was tight, the velvet hug of her walls better than any pussy I’d ever had. She wrapped her arms around my back and locked her ankles behind me, pulling me in as deep as I’d go.
I started slow, enjoying the way she clenched and relaxed around me. The camera was forgotten; it felt like only us in the world, no one else. But when she started whispering again, “Breed me, Tyler, cum inside your own mother,” and “You were born for this, born to fuck me” it got too intense to last.
I fucked her faster, the sound of our skin slapping echoing off the walls. She scratched my back, raked her nails down my arms, then grabbed handfuls of the sheets. Every time I looked down, I saw her face: mouth open, eyes wild, cheeks flushed. I wanted to see her cum, needed it more than anything, so I reached down and rubbed her clit while I pounded her. She came instantly, bucking up against me, pussy clenching my cock like a fist.
I felt my orgasm building, unstoppable. She must have felt it too, because she tightened her grip around my waist and pulled me in deep, whispering, “Give it to me, baby, fill your mommy up, just like in the stories.”
I buried myself to the hilt and exploded, cum flooding her insides. The first spurt made her moan, the second made her eyes roll back. I stayed inside her, balls pressed tight to her ass, emptying every drop I had. She milked me, hips working to squeeze out every last pulse. When I pulled out, a thick string of my cum drooled from her pussy, pooling on the sheet.
She rolled onto her side and pulled me with her. “Was that okay?” she whispered.
I nodded, dizzy. “Better than okay.”
We stayed tangled up for a while, sweat cooling on our bodies, the room smelling like sex and candlewax. The ring light buzzed softly in the corner. After a few minutes, Mom sat up and walked to the camera, still naked. She checked the footage, squinting at the little screen, then turned and grinned at me.
“You want to see?”
I did. She replayed the first two minutes, the blowjob, the cum shot. It was hotter than any porn I’d ever seen, because it was her, and me, and it was us. I got hard watching it, which made her laugh.
We saved a copy to her laptop first, then uploaded the file that night, encrypted and password protected. The remote version would be deleted after he downloaded it. Within an hour, the payment cleared.
A hundred thousand dollars. Mom logged into the wallet and stared at the number, then burst into hysterical, shaking laughter.
“We did it,” she said. “We really did it.”
We celebrated the only way we knew how: by watching our own sex tape in her bed, getting off to ourselves, then falling asleep sticky and exhausted, rich and unafraid.
The next morning, there was another message from “watchingfromafar.” It said: “Perfect. More than I could have ever dreamed. If you’re ever interested in a sequel, I’m ready to commission. Anything you want. Name your price.”
Nikki read it aloud, then looked at me over her coffee, naked under her robe, her legs draped across mine.
“What do you think?” she asked, half-joking, half-serious.
I shrugged. “I think we could go a lot higher next time.”
She laughed. “So what should we do for the sequel?” she said.
I thought about it, then kissed her shoulder. “Anything,” I said. “Anything at all.”
She smiled, the same way she did in her stories, and started plotting.
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