My Taboo Life
Copyright© 2026 by H. Malcom Walker
Chapter 2: The First Sight
Incest Sex Story: Chapter 2: The First Sight - 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
I drove through Pine Bluff Estates at ten in the morning in the 2008 Honda Civic I had bought with cash a few days ago in Austin. The air conditioning barely worked and the vinyl seats stuck to the backs of my bare thighs. The early July heat pressed down like a physical weight, with the humidity thick enough to cut with a knife, making my clothes cling to my skin. I had the windows down, and the air that moved across my face smelled of sunbaked asphalt, cut grass, and unemptied garbage containers.
I had the address memorized for weeks now. 147 Cypress Lane. I drove past it once, twice, three times, my heart hammering against my ribs. On the third pass, I saw her.
She came out of the trailer and I heard the door banging shut. A few moments later she was sitting on the swing in the back corner of the porch, the chains squeaking as she moved back and forth. She looked up at my car as I pulled past, but quickly lost interest and opened the book she was holding. I was wearing a scarf around my head and dark sunglasses as a disguise. I pulled over four trailers down and cut the engine. My hands shook as I reached for the binoculars on the passenger seat.
I lifted them to my eyes as I took a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves.
The magnification brought her so close I could see the sweat on her upper lip. She was wearing black spandex shorts, the kind that cyclists wear, so tight they looked painted on. The fabric clung to every curve of her hips and thighs, riding up slightly where her they came together. The material was thin enough that I could see the outline of her underwear, a slight seam, and the suggestion of heat between her legs. Her tank top was pink and thin, damp with perspiration, making it cling to her torso. She was not wearing a bra. Just like in the picture I had, her nipples were hard, visible through the fabric, dark and pressing against the cotton.
She was fanning herself with a paperback book. I wasn’t certain, but I think the title of it was “Southern Heat.” It looked like a trashy romance novel you’d find on the rack in the back of a Dollar General. Her legs were spread slightly on the swing, her thighs parted just enough that I could see the shadow between them at the apex. The spandex was pulled tight across her groin, outlining her lips, showing the slight swell of her mound.
My mouth went dry. I adjusted the focus.
She stopped fanning herself and set the book down beside her on the swing. Her hand moved to her leg and stayed there, resting on her thigh. Slowly, her fingers traced up her inner thigh, pushing against the spandex. She was looking off into the distance, unaware, her eyes half-closed. Her fingers reached the edge of her shorts and stopped, then pushed underneath the tight fabric.
I stopped breathing.
She was touching herself. Right there, on the porch swing, in broad daylight, her hand down her shorts, her hips shifting slightly to give herself better access. I could see the movement of her wrist, the subtle flex of her fingers beneath the spandex. Her head fell back against the swing, her throat exposed, her mouth opening on a sigh I could not hear but could imagine.
I fumbled for the camera, my hands shaking with a need I could barely contain. I raised it to my eye, the viewfinder bringing her even closer, filling my vision until she was all I could see, all I could think about, all I had ever wanted without knowing her name.
She had pulled the spandex and panties to the side with her free hand, exposing herself completely to the empty yard, to the humid air, to my lens. I could see her fingers now, slender and sure, sliding through her folds with a familiarity that made my mouth water, finding her clit with unerring accuracy. She was bare, her cunt pink and glistening in the harsh summer light, the inner lips darker, swollen, peeking out from between her thighs like a secret she kept even from herself. I could see the sheen of her arousal coating her fingers, could imagine the smell of her, musky and young and fertile, filling my lungs until I could taste her.
She circled herself with two fingers, her hips rocking into her hand with a rhythm that spoke of practice, of solitude, of lonely afternoons spent learning her own body. The swing moved with her, swaying gently, carrying her through arcs of pleasure that I witnessed in silence. I watched her thighs spread wider, her heels digging into the porch floor for leverage, her body opening to her own touch with an abandon that made my own cunt clench in sympathetic need.
I pressed the shutter, and the camera made a soft whir, capturing her in that moment of abandon. I took another picture, and another, my finger trembling on the button, my breath coming in shallow gasps that fogged the car windows. She was beautiful, obscene, perfect, and she was mine, my flesh, my blood, my daughter and my sister, the product of my father’s violence and my own body’s betrayal, and she was also fucking herself not fifty yards from where I sat, unknowingly performing for me, offering me a show I would replay in my mind until the day I died.
I zoomed in tighter, the lens pushing past the limits of decency. Now I could see the individual folds of her labia, the hood of her clit peeking out, the way her fingers pressed and rolled and teased. She was wet, so wet, her arousal making her fingers glide with obscene ease, the motion of her hand growing faster, more desperate, as she chased her peak. It made me want to taste her, to bury my face in that sweetness, to drink from the source of my own bloodline, to claim what had been stolen from me eighteen years ago.
She sped up, her fingers moving faster, her hips bucking off the swing seat, her body seeking more pressure, more friction, more of the building sensation that was clearly cresting inside her. I could see the muscles in her thighs tensing, the definition of her calves, the toes on her bare feet curling and releasing with each stroke. Her free hand moved under her tank top, finding her breast, pinching her nipple through the thin fabric, and I moaned aloud in the car, the sound swallowed by the noise from the engine and the useless air blowing through the vents.
She bit her lower lip, her eyes squeezed shut, her face contorted with the effort of holding back, of building the pleasure higher, of riding the wave to its peak. I could see her stomach muscles contract, could see the flush spreading from her chest to her neck, could see every telltale sign of her impending orgasm as clearly as if I were touching her myself. I captured it all, every frame, my camera’s motor drive whirring constantly now, filling up the memory card with images of her face contorted in pleasure, her cunt pulsing around her fingers, her body trembling through the first spasms of release.
She came with a violence that shocked me, her body arching off the swing, her fingers pressed hard against herself, her mouth open in a silent cry that I could almost hear in my imagination, almost taste, almost feel vibrating through my own body. Her hips jerked in staccato rhythm, her thighs clamping around her hand, her toes curling so hard they turned white, and I watched her orgasm ripple through her, watched her lose herself completely to the pleasure she had given herself, watched her be beautiful and broken and perfect in her solitude.