Mystery at the Gloryhole
Copyright© 2024 by Jimbo545
Chapter 3
Incest Sex Story: Chapter 3 - A guy looking for his first blowjob visits a gloryhole.
Caution: This Incest Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including mt/Fa Cheating Incest Mother Son Sister Swinging Cream Pie First Oral Sex
I’m cumming. I’m cumming, Mom. I’m cummmmming!
The silence on the other side went on forever. Then this soft, surprised laugh came through. Breathless. Almost like she was delighted.
“What ... what did you just call me?” Her voice floated through the hole, low and husky, still thick from her orgasm. “Mom?”
I froze. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe right. My heart was pounding so loud I was sure she could hear it through the thin wall. Every instinct screamed to run, but my legs were jelly and my softening dick was still half-stuck in her warmth. I tried pulling back slow and careful, but her fingers were suddenly there, wrapping around the base, holding me gently in place.
“Hey ... don’t run off yet, sweetie.” She gave me one slow, teasing stroke, coaxing out the last drops. “Did you really just call me Mom while you filled me up?”
I opened my mouth but nothing came out. I was completely fucking frozen. Another soft chuckle from her, throaty and turned on. “Oh my god ... you’ve got a mommy thing, don’t you? That’s so filthy. And kinda adorable.”
She shifted and I slipped out of her, leaving my cock hanging limp and hypersensitive through the hole. My legs were shaking. I pressed my forehead to the partition like it could hide me from what I’d done. But she didn’t let go. Her palm cupped my balls, warm and careful, rolling them slowly in soft circles. Her thumb pressing just enough to draw out those final tiny beads. Each gentle squeeze sent a humiliating aftershock through me. Then her soft lips kissed the swollen tip once, twice, light and comforting. Her voice came again, low and tender.
“How old are you, sweetie?”
“Twenty,” I managed, hoarse and barely there.
“Mmm.” One last slow squeeze, milking out the very last drop. She kissed it away. “I have a son your age, you know. Sweet boy, always so quiet around me lately.”
My stomach dropped like a stone. She’s talking about me. Right now. While her fingers were still wrapped around my balls, gently squeezing the last of my cum like it was the most natural thing in the world. Panic flooded me. Did she know? Was this a test? My heart slammed so hard I thought she’d hear it through the wall. Every squeeze felt like evidence piling up, like she was about to say my name any second. But she didn’t. Instead she kept that slow, soothing rhythm, roll, squeeze, release, while her other hand steadied my softening shaft.
“Are you too afraid to admit it to her?” she asked gently. “Your mommy kink, telling your real mom how much you need her like this?”
A choked grunt forced its way out, not yes, not no, just pure panic. My whole body jerked. She couldn’t know. She couldn’t. But the question landed like she’d read my mind, like she’d seen every guilty thought I’d had since the first time. She hummed softly, delighted. “Poor shy boy, too scared to say it out loud to her, huh?” Another light kiss on the tip. “But you said it to me. Slipped right out while you were cumming. So needy.” Her fingers gave one final tender squeeze, emptying me utterly. Then she released my balls with a gentle pat.
“Do you want me to be your mommy for you, sweetie?” she whispered, voice dripping with playful warmth. “Right here, just us. I’ll hold you, kiss you, squeeze every last drop while you call me Mommy. No one has to know.”
Grunt, strangled, desperate. My cock twitched traitorously despite being spent. Terror and arousal twisted together so tight I could barely stand. She was offering exactly what I craved, what I’d accidentally confessed, while holding me, her real son, in her hand. And she had no idea. None. She laughed under her breath, soft, affectionate. “Mmm, I can feel you like that idea. Such a good boy when Mommy teases you.”
One last feather-light kiss on the head. Then she let my shaft slip free. “Next week, sweetie?” she asked quietly. “I’ll be waiting, ready to be your mommy again. Maybe make you beg a little.”
Footsteps. Door opening. Door closing. I stayed frozen against the wall, pulse roaring, shame burning through every inch of me. She didn’t know. She really didn’t know. But the way she’d said “sweetie”, the same pet name she used at home, while asking if I wanted her to be my mommy ... it felt like the wall between us was thinner than ever. I finally managed to zip up with numb fingers and stumbled out into the night, cock still tingling, balls aching from her careful grip, head full of her voice looping: “Do you want me to be your mommy for you, sweetie?”
The house was dark when I slipped through the back door. I kicked off my shoes, trying to be quiet, but the floor creaked like it was betraying me. I made it to the kitchen sink and turned on the cold tap full blast, splashing water on my face like it could wash away the feel of her lips, her fingers, her words. The hallway light clicked on behind me.
“Jim? That you, baby?”
Her voice, soft, a little sleepy, hit me like a slap. I didn’t turn around.
“Yeah. Just got in.”
She padded closer in bare feet. I could hear the soft rustle of her robe, the same one she’d worn earlier when she hugged me goodnight. Now it probably still carried the faint scent of the club, of us, though the laundry smell masked most of it. “You’re home late again.” She stopped a couple feet away. “Everything okay? You’re all sweaty.”
“Walked fast,” I mumbled. “Needed air.”
A small pause. Then the fridge door opened. “Want some water? Or juice? You look like you could use something cold.” I nodded without looking. She reached past me for a glass from the cabinet above the sink, her arm brushing my shoulder, nothing deliberate. Just normal mom stuff. But the motion made her robe pull tight across her chest for a second, and I caught the faint outline of her nipple through the thin fabric before I jerked my eyes away. She filled the glass at the tap next to me, hip bumping mine lightly as she maneuvered. “Here, sweetie.” She handed it over. Our fingers touched. Hers were warm. The word, sweetie, landed exactly like it had through the hole. My hand shook so bad water sloshed over the rim. She leaned back against the counter, crossing her arms under her breasts, casual, settling in to chat. The robe gaped a little at the neckline. I stared at the floor.
“You’ve seemed so distracted lately,” she said gently. “Everything alright at school? With friends? Or anyone special?”
The question echoed her earlier probing. I almost choked on the water.
“Just busy,” I croaked.
She gave a small, understanding hum. “Well, if you ever need to talk, you know I’m here. No matter what it is.” She reached out and brushed a damp strand of hair off my forehead, light, maternal, the same way she’d done a thousand times. “Mommy’s always got time for her boy.”
The word Mommy hit like a blade. Exactly the way she’d purred it while kissing the tip of my cock, while squeezing the last drops out of me. But here it was just casual. Everyday. She didn’t even seem to notice how it landed. I made a strangled noise and set the glass down too hard. Water sloshed again. She frowned, concerned. “Hey, you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah. Fine. Just tired.”
She studied me for a second, then nodded. “Alright. Get some rest, baby.” She stepped forward to give me a quick goodnight hug, the usual one-armed squeeze around my shoulders. Her cheek pressed to mine for a heartbeat. “Sweet dreams, sweetie. Try not to stay up too late worrying about whatever’s on your mind.” She turned to leave, but as she did, she bent down to pick up a dish towel that had fallen off the counter earlier. The robe rode up the backs of her thighs, slowly, naturally, as she reached for it. Pale blue cotton panties came into view, the fabric clinging slightly where she’d been active earlier. A faint damp spot at the center, barely noticeable unless you were looking for it. From my cum leaking from her? I was looking. I couldn’t stop looking. She straightened up, smoothed the robe back down without a second thought, and tossed the towel into the sink. “Oops. Clumsy tonight.” She flashed me a quick, tired smile over her shoulder. “Night, sweetie. Love you.”
“Love you too,” I whispered, voice barely there.
She disappeared down the hall. A moment later, her bedroom door clicked shut. I stood there gripping the counter until my knuckles ached. My cock was rock-hard again, painfully, shamefully, pushing against my zipper. All from a hug. A word. A glimpse of panties she didn’t even realize she’d shown. From the innocent echo of phrases that had just been filthy, whispered questions in a dark booth.
“Do you want me to be your mommy for you, sweetie?” I waited until the house was silent. Then I bolted upstairs, locked my door, shoved my pants down, and came so hard I had to bite my fist to keep from moaning her name.
Half a block away from the club, Mom pulled into a parking spot, fingers tight on the wheel. She’d been replaying last week’s encounter all day: the shy boy’s desperate grunts, the way he’d called her “Mommy” while he came, the way her body had responded to his need. It made her feel wanted, alive in a way she hadn’t in years. She stepped out of the car, adjusted her coat, and started toward the entrance. Then she froze. A tall figure in a familiar hoodie was pushing through the club door. The hunched, anxious walk. The beat-up gray sneakers she’d bought him for his birthday last year. The way he tucked his hands deep in his pockets when he was nervous.
Jim.
Her breath caught in her throat. No. It couldn’t be. Her son, her quiet, sweet Jim, here? The late nights lining up with her visits, the flushed cheeks and distracted silences at home, the voice that had always felt vaguely familiar. The pieces slammed together so hard she staggered back a step. She stood paralyzed on the sidewalk, stomach churning. Run. Go home. Pretend you saw nothing. But a deeper, darker need clawed at her: she had to know. If it was him, if her anonymous “sweetie” was her own boy, what then? Tears stung her eyes. She paced in the shadows for what felt like forever, torn between horror and an unbearable curiosity. Lust twisted with maternal worry: her son, so lost he was seeking this out? She had to see. Had to confirm. Finally, trembling, she slipped inside. She waited until the lobby was clear, kept her head down, moved quickly to her booth without looking at any doors. Every sound in the hallway made her flinch. She couldn’t let him see her, couldn’t risk him recognizing her silhouette or her heels.
She locked herself in, leaned close to the hole, and tried to steady her voice.
“Hey sweetie,” she managed, softer than usual. “Mommy’s here.”
I exhaled hard when her fingers appeared, guiding me through. Relief and terror crashed together as she wrapped her hand around me, slow, almost hesitant at first.
She stroked me gently, long pulls from base to tip, thumb brushing the leaking slit. Her other hand cupped my balls so lightly it was almost not there. A small grunt slipped out of me.
“I’m sorry if this is too much,” she whispered, voice shaky. “I just ... I keep thinking about what you said before. About ... about calling me ‘Mom’. And I ... I don’t know. I don’t know why I’m asking this.”
She kept moving, slow, faltering strokes, like she might pull away any second.
“Is she ... um ... is she pretty?” The question came out small, nervous, like she was afraid of the answer. “Your mom, I mean.”