My Taboo Life
Copyright© 2026 by H. Malcom Walker
Chapter 13: The Processing
Incest Sex Story: Chapter 13: The Processing - She lost her once. She won't lose her again. Piper spent eighteen years searching for the newborn daughter taken from her. Now she's found Amelia, eighteen, in an Arkansas trailer park, unaware the stranger watching is her flesh and blood. With a new name to go along with her large bank account, the only thing Piper lacks is conscience. Some bonds survive separation. Some loves break every rule. A dark, transgressive novel about obsession, dominance, and the terrible gravity of blood.
Caution: This Incest Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Fa/Fa Coercion Consensual Lesbian Incest Mother Daughter BDSM DomSub FemaleDom Humiliation Light Bond Spanking Analingus Masturbation Oral Sex Pregnancy Sex Toys Water Sports
The days that followed were a blur of intense, obsessive sex, as if Amelia needed to consume me completely, needed to mark every inch of me, so she could process the truth of our connection through the relentless physical claiming of my flesh. We barely left the bed. The cage sat forgotten at the end of it, gathering dust. The leather belt lay discarded, thrown inside a closet. The collar still remained locked around my throat, the silver heart catching the light that peeked through the curtains, the constant reminder of who owned me now, who I belonged to, the mistress who had now claimed me utterly.
She made me speak the words aloud. Made me claim her with language that matched our twisted biology. I called her my baby, my girl, the child I created within my womb. I whispered those words into her ear while I took her from behind, shoving the strap-on hard into her cunt. My hands gripped her hips, the metal of my own collar pressing cold and hard against my skin as I moved inside her. I told her she was the infant I had screamed into this world, the one they had torn from my arms, the ghost I had chased for eighteen years until I found her and made her mine again.
“Say it again,” she would command, her voice rough, her eyes dark with that mixture of desire and fury and love that defined us now. “Tell me who I am. Tell me what I am to you.”
“You are my daughter,” I would gasp, my body arching, my breath coming in short pants. “You are my sister. You are the child my father forced me to carry when I was thirteen years old. You are my flesh and my blood. You are my daughter...”
The words destroyed us and rebuilt us, over and over. The taboo was no longer hidden in shadows but spoken, claimed, owned. We were lovers and we were family in the most literal, most twisted sense, and we no longer hid from any of it.
One afternoon, three days after she had accepted my submission, Amelia spent an hour in the bathroom with me up on the counter, where she carefully shaved my pussy completely bare to match the way she kept hers. “I know Daddy Hartwell liked your hairy pussy, but I want it this way. You’ll keep it that way going forward,” she said in her new authoritative voice.
“Yes, mistress,” was all I said.
Then she casually announced a new way she would bind me to her. Something permanent. Something that would mark me forever.
“I found a place,” she said, her voice casual, her eyes sharp. “A tattoo parlor. They take cash and they don’t ask questions. We’re going.”
“Yes, mistress.”
She drove me to a rough part of Austin, to a storefront with blacked-out windows and a heavy metal door covered in stickers. The bell jangled when we entered, and the inside smelled of antiseptic, ink, and something else ... something metallic and industrial.
The artist was a woman named Kat, her arms completely sleeved in ink, her face pierced in multiple places. The expression on her face was bored and professional until Amelia explained exactly what she wanted. Then Kat’s eyebrows rose slightly, and she looked at me with new interest, with curiosity, with a hint of respect for the depth of my submission.
“Back room,” Kat said, gesturing with her chin.
I lay on the table in the small back room, naked from the waist down, my legs spread, my now shaved cunt exposed to the air and to their eyes. The room was cold, the air conditioning blasting, and my skin was prickling with goosebumps. Amelia stood beside me, holding my hand, watching my face with an intensity that made me tremble as Kat prepared her equipment, the tattoo machine buzzing to life.
The design was devastating in its simplicity and its completeness. A small heart, no larger than a quarter, with a keyhole cut out of the center. Positioned just above my pubic bone, low enough that only the most intimate eyes would ever see it, high enough that I would see it every time I showered, every time I touched myself, every time I remembered who I belonged to, who owned me, what I was to her.
“Above the heart,” Amelia instructed, her voice steady and commanding, brooking no argument, “I want the words ‘Amelia’s Slut.’ Below it, I want ‘Mother, Sister, Whore.’ In script font. Small but absolutely legible. I want her to read it every time she looks down, so she will remember.”
Kat nodded, making notes on her pad, preparing the stencil, her expression professionally neutral. I whimpered at the words, at the permanence, at the absolute humiliation of having my relationship to Amelia etched into my skin for anyone who ever saw me naked to read and understand. I didn’t protest, though. I wanted this. I needed this. I deserved this mark, this brand, this permanent claim.
The needle hurt more than I expected. A burning, grinding pain that felt like it went deep into the bone. I cried out, a sharp sound that echoed in the small room, and I squeezed Amelia’s hand until my knuckles were white, until I thought I might break her fingers. There were tears streaming down my face and into my hair, and my body trembled with the pain and the humiliation and the absolute rightness of what was happening. I watched the heart take shape, watched the keyhole form in the center, watched the words appear letter by letter in black ink.
When Kat finished, she bandaged me with professional efficiency, gave me instructions for care and cleaning, then took the thick envelope of cash from Amelia without meeting her eyes, without acknowledging what she had just witnessed. I walked out of that parlor marked forever, owned in a way that could never be erased, the tattoo throbbing with my heartbeat. It would remind me every moment of every day exactly what I was, and exactly who I belonged to.
While that was happening, we also researched the legal reality of what we were. We found a lawyer through anonymous channels, a man who specialized in unusual family law, who asked no questions when we paid his retainer in cash and requested absolute confidentiality. We met him after hours in his downtown office, a sterile space with diplomas on the walls.