A Mother's Guilt and Devotion
Copyright© 2025 by Alicia
Chapter 2
Incest Sex Story: Chapter 2 - After a devastating accident, Alice’s son Ben awakens from a fourteen-month coma. But his recovery is overshadowed by a single, shocking physical change and a torrent of new, confusing desires that both terrify and consume him. In the quiet of their home, a dangerous new bond forms. How far will a mother's guilt-driven devotion go to save the son she feels she broke? In the hushed stillness of their basement, a dangerous new therapy begins—one where a mother’s touch becomes a son’s deliverance.
Caution: This Incest Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa mt/ft mt/Fa Heterosexual School Sports Sharing Wife Watching Incest Mother Son Sister Exhibitionism First Facial Masturbation Oral Sex Voyeurism Big Breasts Size Teacher/Student Illustrated AI Generated
Day 2
Scene 3: The Morning Session
The morning light, pale and determined, cut through the high basement windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Alice stood at the top of the stairs, her hand resting on the banister, taking a steadying breath. The clinical part of her, the teacher and the coach, was ready. The mother, the guilty woman, was a trembling mess.
She descended, the sound of her footsteps a deliberate announcement of her arrival. Ben was already on the exercise mat, dressed in a pair of thin grey shorts and a loose t-shirt. He looked small and impossibly young, his gaze fixed on the far wall.
“Good morning, sweetheart,” she said, her voice carefully calibrated to be bright and professional. “Ready to get started?”
He flinched at the sound of her voice, his shoulders hunching. “Yeah, I guess.”
She knelt on the mat beside him, the cool concrete seeping through the thin foam. “We’ll start with some gentle assisted stretches. It’s important to get the blood flowing and ease the muscle tension.” She kept her tone light, instructional, as if she were addressing one of her students. “Lie on your back for me, please.”
Ben complied, lying down stiffly. His eyes were squeezed shut, as if bracing for impact.
“Okay, I’m going to take your right leg,” she explained, her hands moving with practiced efficiency. She placed one hand on his knee, the other on his ankle. “Just relax into it. Let me do the work.”
Her touch was firm, confident. But as she began to gently press his leg towards his chest, she felt the rigid tension in his entire body. He was like a tightly coiled spring. Her eyes, drawn downward by the movement, caught the outline of his anatomy through the thin fabric of his shorts. The shape was ... prominent. Even in a relaxed state, the sheer size was undeniable. A flush of heat crept up her neck. Focus, Alice. He’s your patient.
“Just relax into it, Ben,” she repeated, her voice slightly strained now. “Let me support you.”
A low, guttural grunt was his only reply. He was clearly in discomfort, but she knew, with a sinking certainty, that it wasn’t from the stretch. The air in the basement, once cool, was now thick and heavy, charged with an intimacy that was anything but therapeutic. The morning session had only just begun, and the carefully constructed wall between mother and son was already showing dangerous cracks.
The stretches continued, each one a fresh exercise in shared, unspoken agony. Alice moved with a coach’s precision, her hands guiding his limbs, her voice a steady, low murmur of instruction. But her mind was a battlefield. The professional facade was crumbling under the relentless assault of sensory input.
“Okay, now roll over onto your stomach,” she directed, her throat dry.
Ben obeyed, the movement clumsy. He settled face down on the mat, his arms at his sides. Alice positioned herself over him, one knee on either side of his hips, not touching, but close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from her body.
“This is for your hip flexors,” she explained, her voice tight. She placed her hands firmly on his lower back, just above the waistband of his shorts. The skin there was warm and surprisingly smooth. She applied pressure, leaning her weight forward, using her own body as a tool.
A sharp, choked sound escaped him. Beneath her, she felt the sudden, involuntary clenching of his glutes and the muscles in his lower back. And then, she saw it. As he instinctively arched his back against the pressure, the thin grey fabric of his shorts stretched taut over his buttocks, and the thick, unmistakable shape of his erection was pressed visibly against the exercise mat. It was a blatant, undeniable ridge, a testament to the arousal her proximity was causing.
Her breath hitched. Her hands froze on his back. The clinical distance she had been fighting to maintain evaporated. She wasn’t just a therapist working on a patient. She was a woman, kneeling over a young man—her son—who was visibly, physically reacting to her.
My god, he’s so tense. Is that...? Her thought fragmented, unable to finish. The evidence was pressing up from the mat below him, a silent, screaming confession.
Beneath her, Ben was rigid, his entire body trembling with the effort of staying still. He could feel the heat of her body so close to his, the gentle weight of her presence a torment and a thrill. The pressure of the mat against his hard cock was agonizing, a constant, maddening friction. He was drowning in the scent of her—clean sweat and the faint, lingering hint of her morning coffee.
“Mom...” he gasped, the word a desperate plea for her to stop, or perhaps, terrifyingly, to continue.
Alice snapped back to herself. “That’s ... that’s enough for that one,” she stammered, pulling her hands away as if burned. She scrambled off him, her own heart hammering against her ribs. The air was thick enough to choke on. The morning session was no longer about recovery; it had become a dangerous dance on the edge of a precipice, and they were both perilously close to falling.
The final ten minutes of the session passed in a blur of strained silence and mechanical movements. Alice’s instructions were clipped, her touches brief and purely functional. She avoided looking directly at him, her focus fixed on a point on the wall just beyond his shoulder. The easy, nurturing warmth that usually defined her was gone, replaced by a stiff, professional chill that was somehow more telling than any outburst could have been.
“Alright,” she said finally, her voice unnaturally bright. “That’s enough for today. You did well.” The words were hollow, a script she was reciting by rote.
Ben sat up slowly, his movements guarded. He kept his legs drawn up, a feeble attempt to hide the persistent, telling bulge in his shorts. His face was flushed, a mixture of exertion and profound shame. He couldn’t meet her eyes.
“Thanks,” he mumbled to the floor.
Alice stood up, brushing nonexistent dust from her yoga pants. Her own body felt strangely alert, her skin humming with a disquieting energy. The memory of his body tensing beneath her hands, the visual imprint of his arousal pressed against the mat—it was all seared into her mind.
“I’ll ... I’ll leave you to clean up,” she said, already moving towards the stairs. “Remember to drink plenty of water.”
She didn’t wait for a reply. She climbed the stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last. As she reached the top and closed the basement door behind her, she leaned against it for a moment, closing her eyes. The image of him, vulnerable and aroused because of her, wouldn’t leave her.
Down in the basement, Ben finally released the breath he felt he’d been holding for an hour. He looked down at himself, at the obvious tent in his shorts, and a fresh wave of self-loathing washed over him. He had turned a mother’s loving care into something sordid. The physiotherapy session was over, but the real workout—the one wrestling with his own treacherous body and forbidden desires—had only just begun. The morning light now felt accusatory, illuminating the new, uncomfortable truth that lay between them.
Scene 4: The Noon Discovery
The humid, soap-scented air of the main floor bathroom did little to cleanse Ben’s mind. He stood under the spray of the shower, the hot water stinging his skin, but it was no match for the fire still burning in his veins. The morning’s physiotherapy session had been a special kind of torture. Every stretch, every press of his mother’s capable hands, had been a brand, searing her touch into his memory.
He could still feel the ghost of her weight over him, the firm pressure of her palms on his lower back. The image of her, focused and beautiful, her large breasts swaying slightly with her movements as she knelt over him, was a film reel on a loop behind his eyelids.
His gaze drifted downward, over his own skinny, boyish frame, to the monstrous appendage that hung between his legs. It was already half-hard, just from the memory. The sheer size of it, the heavy weight of his balls, still felt alien, like a grotesque prank played on him by the universe. But now, it was also a source of a relentless, aching need.
Tentatively, almost fearfully, he reached down. His fingers, slick with soap, brushed against the thick, soft skin. A jolt, like a live wire, shot up his spine. He wrapped his hand around the base. It was so thick his fingers didn’t quite meet. He gave an experimental stroke.
A choked gasp echoed off the tiled walls. The sensation was overwhelming, a tidal wave of pleasure so intense it was almost painful. It was nothing like the frantic, shameful release of the night before. This was slower, more deliberate, and infinitely more dangerous.
Because as his hand began to move, sliding up and down the immense length, his mind provided the fuel. It wasn’t a faceless fantasy. It was her. Her soft voice whispering encouragement. Her blue eyes, full of concern, looking down at him. The scent of her perfume as she leaned in close.
His breathing became ragged, his strokes more urgent. The water cascaded over his head, mingling with the sweat beading on his forehead. He braced one hand against the cool tile, his legs trembling. The pressure built, a coiling, unbearable tension deep in his core, centered in his huge, aching balls.
“Mom...” the name tore from his lips, a desperate, forbidden prayer. It was no longer a plea for her to stop, but a raw admission. The confession shattered his last vestige of control.
His body seized. With a guttural cry, his back arched and his hips bucked forward uncontrollably. Thick, pearlescent ropes of cum erupted from his hard cock, splattering against the shower wall with shocking force, the viscous strands swirling down the drain almost immediately. The orgasm was a convulsion, a total system overload that left him panting, weak-kneed, and clinging to the wall for support.
The water continued to fall. The evidence of his transgression was washed away in seconds. But as he stood there, spent and trembling, he knew the truth was now etched into his very soul. He had discovered a release for his body, but in doing so, he had irrevocably chained his desire to the one woman it could never, ever touch.
The water ran cold, a final, bracing shock to his system. Ben stood there for a long moment, shivering, the last tremors of his climax still echoing through his spent body. He stared at the spot on the shower wall, now clean, where the physical proof of his sin had been. Washed away in an instant, as if it had never happened.
But it had.
He turned off the water, the sudden silence in the bathroom deafening. He stepped out onto the cool tile, his legs still unsteady, and wrapped a towel around his waist. His reflection in the fogged-up mirror was a ghost—pale, wide-eyed, and haunted. The boy staring back at him was a stranger. The childish features were the same, but the eyes held a new, dark knowledge.
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