My Taboo Life
Copyright© 2026 by H. Malcom Walker
Chapter 17: The Birth
Incest Sex Story: Chapter 17: The Birth - 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 midwives arrived before the next contraction could even fully crest. I heard the tires on the gravel drive, the car doors slamming, and voices approaching the bedroom door. I lay there beside Amelia, our hands clasped between us, both of us wet with broken waters and sweat and fear and excitement, our massive bellies rising and falling with labored breathing.
Elena entered first, her silver braid swinging as she took in the scene with practiced eyes. She had attended hundreds of births, but I saw the surprise flicker across her face when she saw us both, two women in the same bed, both clearly in active labor, both ready to birth. Behind her came Maya and Jo, carrying equipment, and the doulas Sarah and Rebecca with their birth bags and calm presence.
“We’re in labor,” I gasped out, another contraction building. “Both of us. Our waters broke together.”
Elena moved to the bedside, her hands already gloving, her voice steady and sure. “Together then. We’ll do this together.” She turned to her team. “Maya, stay with Piper. Jo, you are with Amelia. Sarah, Rebecca, I need the supplies ready ... we have two babies coming.”
The next hours blurred into a tapestry of sensation and sound. They did not move us from the bed. They brought a birth pool into the room, and started to inflate it in the corner, but neither Amelia nor I wanted to leave the mattress where we had started this journey. We wanted to stay together, to birth beside each other, to witness our daughters entering the world side by side. The pool disappeared a few minutes later.
I labored on my left side, pillows propped between my knees, Amelia’s hand gripping mine through each surge. The contractions came hard and fast, my body efficient from having birthed before, even if that first time had been decades ago in a sterile hospital room far from this paradise. Now I was home, in our Hawaiian bedroom, surrounded by women who understood birth as a natural process, not a medical emergency.
Amelia labored beside me, her jaw set, her eyes fixed on the ceiling as she rode each wave with fierce determination. She refused to vocalize her pain, refused to show weakness, even as her body opened to bring Grace into the world. I watched her between my own contractions, marveling at her strength, my love for her swelling larger than my belly.
“How far?” Amelia gritted out between surges.
Elena checked her, gentle but efficient. “Seven centimeters. You are moving fast, Amelia. This baby wants to meet you.”
“And me?” I asked, my voice hoarse.
Maya smiled, her hand on my belly. “Fully dilated, Piper. You can push whenever you feel the urge to.”
The energy in the room shifted. I moved onto my back, propped up with pillows, my knees falling open. Amelia shifted too, onto her side facing me, her leg lifted and supported by Rebecca’s strong hands. We were positioned so we could see each other, so our eyes could meet as we pushed our daughters into the world.
“I love you,” Amelia whispered, her face contorting as a contraction built.
“I love you,” I gasped back, my own body seizing with the undeniable urge to bear down.
We pushed together. I bore down with everything I had, my face purple with effort, my hands gripping the sheets, my body curling around the task of bringing Hope into the world. Beside me, Amelia did the same, her strong body working, her determination absolute.
Elena coached us both, moving between us, her experienced hands ready to receive our babies. “Beautiful, Piper. I can see the head. She is crowning. Slow now, slow, let yourself stretch.” Then to Amelia: “You too, Amelia. Your baby is coming. Push into it. Work with your body.”
I pushed again, screaming this time, not from pain but from effort, from the ancient power of creation moving through me. Hope’s head emerged, then her shoulders, and then she was out, slippery and perfect, caught by Elena’s waiting hands and placed immediately on my chest. Finally, I was holding my newborn ... my beautiful Hope.
“Hope,” I sobbed, tracing her perfect face, her dark hair plastered to her head, her eyes blinking open to stare at me with confusion and wonder. “My Hope.”
Beside me, Amelia gave one final, fierce push, and Grace entered the world with a cry, placed on her mother’s chest by Jo’s capable hands. We lay there, two mothers, two babies, four hearts beating in rhythm in that seaside bedroom, the cameras still recording everything for our private archive, the midwives working quietly around us.
The room smelled of birth, of blood and amniotic fluid and sweat, but also of love, of completion, and the miracle we had created together. Sarah and Rebecca moved through the space, offering sips of water, pressing cool cloths to our foreheads, helping us initiate breastfeeding as the babies rooted instinctively.
Hope latched onto my breast immediately, her tiny mouth working, her hunger apparent. I had milk ready, my body having prepared for months, my breasts full and heavy with colostrum and the promise of abundance. She sucked greedily, and I felt the familiar rush of oxytocin, of love, of the hormonal high that followed birth.
Beside me, Amelia struggled. Grace tried to latch, but Amelia’s breasts, so full during pregnancy, produced only drops at the moment. We had known this might happen, had prepared for it. Amelia’s body would take a bit to catch up to everything, and her milk had not come in yet.
“Give her to me,” I whispered, already knowing what we needed.
Amelia looked at me, her eyes soft with exhaustion and love. She passed Grace to me, and I positioned my second daughter at my other breast, guiding her to latch. She found my nipple and began to suck, and I felt the letdown reflex trigger, my milk flowing freely for both girls.
“You are feeding them both,” Amelia said, her voice thick with emotion. “My milk slave. My wet nurse. Feeding my daughter with your body.”
“Yes,” I breathed, looking down at both babies nursing from me, at Hope and Grace both taking nourishment from my body. “I am yours. My milk is yours. My body is yours.”
The midwives continued their work, managing third stage labor, ensuring our placentas delivered completely, checking us for tears. Elena repaired a small tear for me with quick, skilled stitches while Maya did the same for Amelia. They weighed the babies, documented their Apgar scores, cleaned up the blood and fluid that marked the bed as a birth space.
But as the initial chaos subsided and the golden hour of bonding deepened, the dynamic that had defined our relationship for years reasserted itself in subtle but undeniable ways.