Fractured Hearts – the Wrong Way to Love
Copyright© 2026 by Dilbert Jazz
Part III – Claire’s World & Inner Lives
Erotica Sex Story: Part III – Claire’s World & Inner Lives - In a sweltering Kansas City summer, a mother and son cross the forbidden line, claiming every room in their home with raw, possessive passion. When the daughter returns and uncovers a decades-old secret, the family’s hidden lover reappears, drawing them into a tangled, defiant polyamory of guilt, desire, and unbreakable love. Facing judgment from the outside world, they choose each other—loudly, unapologetically—proving the “wrong” way can be the only way to heal.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa mt/ft Ma/ft Fa/Fa ft/ft Fa/ft Mult Teenagers Consensual Romantic Lesbian BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction Tear Jerker Incest Mother Son Brother Sister Light Bond Rough Spanking Group Sex Harem Orgy Polygamy/Polyamory Anal Sex Analingus Cream Pie Double Penetration Exhibitionism Facial Masturbation Oral Sex Pegging Sex Toys Squirting Tit-Fucking Voyeurism BBW Big Breasts Public Sex AI Generated
Claire’s Solo Existence
Claire Moreau’s house sat on a quiet street in the Overlook neighborhood, perched on a gentle rise overlooking the Willamette River.
It was a modest cedar-sided Craftsman, painted soft gray to blend with the perpetual Pacific Northwest drizzle, with a front porch crowded by ferns and a single Adirondack chair that rarely saw two people at once.
The house had been hers for fifteen years—bought with freelance money after she’d fled Kansas City, after she’d told herself distance would dull the ache.
It hadn’t.
Inside, the rooms were spare and deliberate: exposed brick walls lined floor to ceiling with bookshelves, a worn leather armchair angled toward the river view, a small home office in what used to be a sunroom, where light streamed through tall windows even on the grayest days.
She woke most mornings around 7:00 a.m.
No alarm.
Just the low groan of barge traffic on the river and the soft patter of rain on the metal roof.
Claire would lie there for several minutes, staring at the ceiling beams, letting the old ache settle into her chest like sediment.
Twenty-one years since she’d walked out of Lisa’s life.
Twenty-one years since she’d held newborn Ethan for the last time, kissed Lisa’s temple, and told herself leaving was the only merciful thing left to do.
Twenty-one years since she’d looked at the positive pregnancy test in the bathroom mirror and known—deep in her bones—that she couldn’t stay and watch Lisa raise their child with someone else, even if that someone else was the lie Lisa told the world.
The ache hadn’t dulled.
It had simply learned to breathe with her.
She rose barefoot, padded to the kitchen—small, efficient, one-burner stove, French press that had been a gift from a long-ago client.
Coffee first: dark roast, black, steaming in a chipped mug that read “World’s Best Aunt” in faded, ironic script.
She’d bought it on impulse at a thrift store years ago, a private joke she never shared with anyone.
While it brewed, she opened her laptop at the breakfast nook.
Freelance graphic design was feast or famine: today, a revision request from a local brewery for their winter stout label—hop vines twisting around minimalist sans-serif type.
She worked in focused bursts, headphones piping ambient rain sounds (redundant, given the real thing tapping the windows), pausing every hour to stretch or stare at the river.
The Willamette flowed gray and relentless below, carrying driftwood, fallen leaves, and the occasional heron.
She thought of Ethan most during these pauses—her biological son, the one she’d carried but never raised.
Did he have her restless hands? Her sharp jaw? Her inability to sit still when the world felt too small?
Did he ever wonder about the woman who’d given him half his DNA?
Did Lisa ever tell him?
Lunch was simple: avocado toast on sourdough from the bakery two blocks away, eaten standing at the counter while she scrolled LinkedIn.
No partner to cook for.
No children demanding PB&Js.
Her last relationship had ended five years earlier—a fellow designer who’d wanted more commitment than Claire could give.
“You’re still in love with her,” the woman had said, packing her bags.
Claire hadn’t denied it.
Afternoons blurred into client calls via Zoom—color tweaks, font adjustments, the occasional spark of inspiration that made the isolation feel worthwhile.
But by 4:00 p.m., the loneliness crept in like fog off the river: empty rooms echoing her keystrokes, silence broken only by the occasional train whistle from across the water.
She’d break then—bundle into a wool coat against the drizzle and walk the river path.
Muddy trails lined with blackberry brambles, the air thick with petrichor and faint diesel.
She passed couples holding hands, families with strollers, and felt the familiar stab: What if?
What if she’d stayed?
Fought for Lisa?
Raised those children as hers?
The thoughts turned erotic in their rawness—memories of Lisa’s body under hers, the way she’d gasped Claire’s name in the dark while Ethan slept nearby.
Claire would return home, flushed and heart pounding, shed her coat, and sink into the leather armchair.
Sometimes she’d touch herself there—slow, deliberate strokes while staring at the river, imagining Lisa’s mouth, Ethan’s eyes (her eyes) watching.
Climax came sharp and guilty, leaving her hollower than before.
Evenings were quiet: a frozen meal heated in the microwave, a glass of local pinot noir, Netflix documentaries on lost histories.
She’d sketch personal projects late into the night—abstract pieces inspired by fractured families, swirling colors that hid faces in the negative space.
No social life beyond occasional meetups with designer friends at a downtown co-working space, where she’d nod through conversations about trends and tools, her mind miles away in that old house back east.
Claire’s life was a carefully constructed cage—productive, independent, achingly empty.
She checked Lisa’s social media sometimes, late at night when the wine hit hard: glimpses of grown children, a life rebuilt without her.
She wondered if they ever thought of her.
Wondered if the pull was mutual.
Lately, the dreams had grown more vivid: showing up at their door, confessions spilling like rain.
She pushed them down.
But in the quiet of her river house, the current kept tugging—whispering that solitude wasn’t forever.
And on nights like this, with the rain relentless against the glass, Claire allowed herself to imagine what might happen if she finally answered that call.
She didn’t know the storm was already moving toward her.
Three heartbeats.
One secret.
Coming to break the silence she’d kept for twenty-one years.
Claire’s Erotic Fantasies
Claire Moreau’s nights were never tranquil.
The Willamette murmured constantly outside her window—barges groaning downstream, distant train whistles cutting through the rain, the soft hiss of tires on wet pavement.
But the real noise lived inside her head, and it grew loudest after the second glass of pinot noir, when the house felt too big and the bed too empty.
She rarely fought the pull anymore.
It began innocently enough: a memory of Lisa’s laugh, low and throaty, the way it used to vibrate against Claire’s throat when they kissed in the dark of that old Kansas City house.
But memories have a way of evolving when left alone too long.
Claire would sink into the worn leather armchair by the river window, lights off, only the glow of the city across the water and the occasional flash of headlights painting her skin in fleeting gold.
She’d let her robe fall open—slowly, deliberately—cool air kissing the insides of her thighs, nipples tightening against the chill.
Her hand would drift downward, fingers tracing lazy circles over the soft swell of her stomach, then lower, parting dark curls, finding the slick heat that waited there.
The first fantasy was always Lisa.
She pictured arriving unannounced at the old house—door unlocked, as it always had been.
Lisa is in the kitchen, back turned, wearing nothing but an apron tied loosely at the waist.
Claire would step silently behind her, hands sliding up the backs of Lisa’s thighs, fingers finding her already wet and ready.
“I’ve missed this,” Claire would whisper, voice rough with twenty-one years of longing, as she pressed Lisa against the counter.
Their bodies would fit together like puzzle pieces never meant to separate—Claire’s mouth on Lisa’s neck, biting down just hard enough to leave a mark, while her fingers plunged deep, curling to hit that spot that made Lisa gasp and arch.
The fantasy intensified: Lisa turning, dropping to her knees, taking Claire into her mouth with desperate hunger—tongue swirling, lips sucking, eyes locked upward in submission and Fire.
Claire would fist Lisa’s hair, guiding the rhythm, hips thrusting gently at first, then harder, chasing release until she came with a shuddering cry, spilling into Lisa’s throat while the river outside roared in approval.
But the fantasies had darkened over time, weaving in Ethan—the son she’d carried, the boy who’d grown into a man with her sharp jaw and restless hands.
She pictured him walking in on them, frozen in the doorway, eyes wide with shock that melted into hunger.
In her mind, he’d step forward without a word, his young, strong body pressing against Claire from behind while she still trembled from orgasm.
“You’re mine too,” he’d growl, hands roaming her breasts, pinching nipples until she moaned.
The taboo thrill electrified her: Ethan sliding into her from behind while Lisa watched, then joined—kissing Claire deeply as their son fucked her slow and deep, every thrust a reclamation of lost time.
Claire would imagine the slick sounds, the mingled breaths, the way Ethan’s cock filled her, stretching her in ways that blurred mother and lover.
She’d come hardest then—fingers frantic on her clit in the real world—fantasizing Ethan’s release flooding her, hot and thick, while Lisa whispered, “We’re whole now. All of us.”
Lately, the dreams had expanded to include Sarah—the daughter she’d abandoned entirely, now a woman in her twenties with Claire’s eyes and Lisa’s soft mouth.
Claire knew little of her beyond stolen social media glimpses, but fantasy filled the gaps: Sarah discovering the letters, showing up at Claire’s door in the rain, soaked and furious.
“You left us,” Sarah would accuse, but her eyes would betray desire.
Claire would pull her inside, peel off wet clothes layer by layer, revealing soft curves and skin that begged to be touched.
The fantasy turned tender at first—Claire’s mouth trailing kisses down Sarah’s neck, breasts, stomach—then fierce: Sarah straddling her face in the armchair, grinding down while Claire licked and sucked, tasting the forbidden fruit of her own bloodline.
Ethan and Lisa would appear in the vision too, the four of them tangled on the floor—bodies slick with sweat, hands everywhere, moans echoing off the brick walls.
Claire would imagine Sarah’s tight heat around her fingers, Ethan’s cock in her mouth, Lisa’s strap-on taking her from behind—a symphony of transgression that left her gasping, spent, in the empty house.
These fantasies weren’t just release; they were punishment and prayer.
Each one ended with Claire alone again, hand sticky, wine glass empty, staring at the river as guilt washed over her like the tide.
But the pull grew stronger—whispering that maybe, one day, she’d cross the country and make them real.
She didn’t know that three heartbeats were already moving toward her—carrying secrets, desire, and a reckoning she’d spent two decades running from.
Claire allowed herself one last stroke—slow, lingering—then closed her eyes.
The river kept flowing outside, indifferent.
But inside her chest, something ancient and restless was waking up.
And it was hungry.
Ethan’s Perspective
I don’t sleep much anymore.
Not really.
The nights stretch long and thin, and when I do drift off, it’s shallow—always half-waiting for her to slip away in the dark.
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.