The Break In
Copyright© 2026 by Eros Alban
Chapter 3: The Client’s Reveal
Incest Sex Story: Chapter 3: The Client’s Reveal - In the quiet suburbs of the Greater Wolferton Valley, 17-year-old Rick and his 36-year-old mother Nina share a modest home filled with unspoken tension and lingering glances. One humid September night, a sudden, violent intrusion shatters their routine, forcing long-buried desires into the open in the most raw and irreversible way. What begins as fear and chaos spirals into an intense, all-consuming connection that neither can deny.
Caution: This Incest Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including mt/Fa Coercion Heterosexual Incest Mother Son Cream Pie Big Breasts Size
The back booth at O’Malley’s Pub smelled like old spilled beer, cigarette ghosts that had never quite left the wood paneling, and the faint metallic bite of regret that clung to every dive bar on the southern edge of the Greater Wolferton Valley. Neon from the Coors sign outside buzzed and flickered through the grimy window like trapped insects, throwing sickly green and red pulses across the scarred tabletop. The leader—known in certain circles simply as Scar—sat alone, nursing a double whiskey on the rocks. The jagged white line running from his left temple to the corner of his mouth twitched every time he clenched his jaw. Three weeks since the Elmwood Lane job. Footage uploaded to the encrypted drop box two days later. Half the payment wired clean. But the client had demanded this face-to-face handoff for the balance, voice distorted over the burner like someone speaking through a mouthful of gravel.
He checked his watch again—cheap digital, cracked face. 9:47 p.m. The door at the front of the bar creaked open, letting in a sharp gust of October wind that carried the scent of wet leaves and distant lake water from Gahan. A woman in a dark hooded coat slipped inside, head down, moving with purpose. She wove past the handful of regulars hunched over their pints and slid into the booth opposite Scar without a word.
She pushed the hood back.
Nina Thompson radiant in a way that made the dim bar light seem to bend toward her—stared back at him. Dark hair pulled into a sleek ponytail, green eyes sharp and satisfied, lips curved in the smallest, most dangerous smile. No tremor in her hands. No downcast gaze. Just calm, predatory certainty.
“You’re late,” Scar grunted, swirling the whiskey in slow circles. Ice clinked softly. “Job’s done. Footage delivered. Where’s the rest of my money?”
Nina’s smile widened a fraction. She reached inside her coat and slid a plain manila envelope across the sticky table—thick, no bulge from being folded wrong. “Right here. Count it if you want. You and your boys earned every dollar.”
Scar didn’t touch it yet. He leaned back, scarred cheek catching the red neon glow. “The break-in. The ransacking to plant the cameras. Making sure the kid fucked you on tape.” He paused, letting the words hang. “Perfect setup. Almost too perfect.”
Nina laughed—low, throaty, the sound of a woman who’d already won. “He never would’ve crossed that line on his own. Too tangled up in the taboo, the guilt, all that bullshit teenage morality. But I knew. I saw the way he stared at my tits when I bent over to grab something from the fridge. Watched his shorts tent every time I stretched after yoga in the living room. He was hard for me constantly—huge, obvious, leaking pre-cum through the fabric. I just needed the push. A little theater. A little fear. And you gave it to me.”