My Taboo Life
Copyright© 2026 by H. Malcom Walker
Chapter 8: The Wide World
Incest Sex Story: Chapter 8: The Wide World - 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 night it happened, the sky was clear and the heat was suffocating, pressing down on the trailer park like the lid of a pressure cooker. I was watching from my window when Earl stumbled out onto his porch, drunker than usual, screaming Amelia’s name. She had been at my place until ten, reading on my couch, her legs in my lap, and she had gone home to find him waiting.
I couldn’t hear the words, but I saw the gestures, saw him grab her arm, then saw her pull away. I was already moving when he shoved her, hard enough that she stumbled off the porch steps and fell to the gravel. I was out my door and running before I could think, barefoot, my heart hammering.
“Get your hands off her,” I screamed, and Earl turned, his face purple with rage and liquor.
“Stay out of this, you dyke bitch,” he slurred. “This is family business and ain’t none of yer concern!”
“She’s not going back in there,” I said, putting myself between them, helping Amelia up. She was shaking, her cheek red where he had slapped her, tears streaming down her face. “She’s coming with me, and if you touch her again, I’ll fucking kill you.”
He laughed, an ugly sound. “Take the worthless cunt, then. She’s yours. She’s been yours since the day you moved in. Everyone knows what you are. What you both are. Perverts.”
I walked Amelia back to my trailer, my arm around her waist, her body trembling against mine. Once inside, I sat her on the couch and held her while she cried, her face pressed into my neck, her hands clutching at my shirt.
“You live with me now,” I said, the words out before I could plan them. “Not just tonight. Not just for a while. Forever. You live with me, you sleep in my bed, and you’re mine.”
She looked up at me, her eyes swollen, her lip bleeding slightly. “Really?”
“Really,” I promised. “We’ll pack whatever you want tomorrow. We’re leaving this place and we’re never coming back.”
The next morning, while Earl was gone, we loaded the Honda with her clothes, her books, the cheap bookshelf, everything that mattered. Her mother cried the entire time, but Amelia stayed strong, only breaking down when she hugged her for the last time.
We left the keys in the trailer, abandoned it, and drove west on I-30 until Arkansas was behind us, and the trailer park was just a memory. I had already texted my people and they found us a one-bedroom apartment in a complex outside Texarkana. It was anonymous, ugly, and perfect.
It was smaller than the trailer, and cramped. The walls were thin, and the carpet stained, but it was ours. No one knew us. No one watched us. We existed in a bubble of stolen time and intense sex, and the outside world ceased to matter.
As you might expect, our perversions got deeper. I was already fucking my daughter, so what could be so bad to compare to that? Another shift happened on a Tuesday night, two weeks after we moved. We were on the bed, the cheap mattress that squeaked and sagged, and Amelia was crawling across it, reaching for a book she had left on the nightstand. I watched her, the way her ass lifted, the way her thighs parted, and something in me snapped, something hungry and demanding.
I grabbed her wrists and yanked them back toward her ankles, pulling her arms out from under her, trapping her face down on the mattress. She gasped, surprised, the side of her face pressed against the sheet, her arms stretched back behind her, immobilized.
“Paige,” she started, but I didn’t let her finish.
I released one wrist long enough to pushed her panties down to her knees, baring her ass, then I buried my face between her cheeks, my tongue finding her asshole immediately. I began licking, probing, and eating her there with a hunger that shocked us both. She screamed into the pillow, her body tensing, trying to pull away, but I held her wrists tight, keeping her trapped, keeping her open.
I rimmed her for what felt like hours, my tongue circling, pressing inside, my saliva making her slick and wet and ready. She was moaning and sobbing, her hips bucking helplessly against my face, her cunt dripping onto the sheet beneath her. When I finally let her wrists go, she didn’t move, didn’t try to escape. She stayed there, ass up, begging for more.
Stopping only long enough to grab a vibrator off the nightstand, I handed it to her then pushed my tongue into her little starfish again, letting go of her wrists and using my hands to spread her open as wide as possible. She pushed the vibrator between her thighs and started buzzing her pussy with it while I ate my fill.
The next day, I bought the plugs. A set of matching ones, pink silicone with heart-shaped bases. I showed them to her that evening, and her eyes went wide, but she didn’t say no. I inserted hers first, slowly, with plenty of lube, watching her face as she felt the fullness, as she adjusted to the constant pressure. Then I got on all fours as she inserted mine, kneeling beside me. The matching plugs made us twins in a new way, connected by what we held inside.
We wore them constantly after that, making sure the other always had hers inserted. We checked each other, my fingers sliding between her cheeks to feel the base, hers doing the same to me. It became our ritual, our secret, the constant reminder of what we were to each other.
Then we made the rule, the test of wills. If you needed to go, if your body demanded release, you had to beg the other woman to pull the plug out first. You had to ask, politely, submissively, and you had to wait until she decided you had earned it.
I tested her the first time, making her wait an hour, her face flushed, her body trembling, the plug pressing on her full bladder, making her desperate. She begged, beautifully, her voice breaking, “Please, Mommy, please, I need to go, please pull it out, I’ll be good, I’ll do anything.”
I made her wait longer, then made her promise me things. I made her describe what nasty, perverse things she would do for me later. When I finally pulled it out, slow and deliberate, she was shaking, tears on her face, gratitude in her eyes as she rushed towards the bathroom.
She tested me as well, making me beg, making me wait, learning her own power, her own forms of dominance. We played this game for days, for weeks, the plugs always inside us, the power always shifting, the control always negotiated in whispers and moans and desperate pleas.
I introduced her to more after that, the anal play building slowly. She could take my fingers easily now, then two, then three, her body opening for me, trusting me, wanting me there. We also started filming ourselves, my one digital indulgence. I bought a camera with cash, pushing all the raw footage up to an encrypted server on the cloud. We watched it together, learning what we looked like, how our bodies moved, the way the plugs looked inside us, matching and obscene.
As her confidence grew, Amelia started asked questions as well, questions I dodged with kisses and distractions. Why did I have no family photos on the walls? Why were there no stories about my childhood, my parents, my past? Why did I sometimes look at her with an expression she couldn’t name, something hungry and sad and desperate all at once?
I would hush her with my mouth, with my fingers, with toys. I would make her come until she forgot what she had asked, until she was limp and sated and trusting.
The sex grew more perverse in that apartment, and more intense. I continued to have her call me “Mommy” all the time, but especially during our roleplay, testing the word, watching her come harder than ever before when she whispered it, not understanding why it affected her so deeply, or why it made her shake and sob and beg. I whispered back that she was my baby, my girl, my everything, and the words carried double weight, truth and lie braided together so tightly I could no longer tell them apart.
Two months in, I made up a story and told her we were about to run low on money. I also told her I had a plan. Before she could panic, I told her about my past, which wasn’t even a lie, that I had been a stripper in Dallas for a while. I knew a man named Melvin who managed a club just outside Texarkana, where we could make fast cash if we were willing.
At first, she was extremely reluctant, and even tried to laugh it off as some new sexual roleplay, but I showed her one of my bank accounts that I kept very low on funds for just this purpose. After I explained that we had less than a month of funds left, she finally agreed, reluctantly, that we should try it to see what kind of money we could make.
I bought her an outfit that was expensive, glittering, and completely obscene on her barely legal body. A bikini top that was barely there, bottoms with a thong so narrow it disappeared inside her ass cheeks. Those were matched with thigh-high boots that made her legs look endless. Since my stage name was Bambi, I told her that hers would be Thumper. I don’t think she got the reference. “We’ll pretend to be sisters on stage,” I said. “The perverts will love that and throw cash at us.” I dyed my hair the exact same auburn to match hers, got it cut the same way, and we styled it identically each night.
We were wildly popular. The men loved us, loved the idea of two sisters, and that we looked alike enough to be twins. We danced together, grinding against each other, our bodies slick with sweat under the lights, our fake names flashing across the marquee. It was actually Amelia who came up with the idea that during the show, we should replace our plugs with some she’d found on the Internet.