Like Mother, Like Son
Copyright© 2026 by Deckhard
Chapter 2
Incest Sex Story: Chapter 2 - A mother and son discover they share the same insatiable appetite. What starts as a shared frustration over failed relationships quickly turns into a taboo exploration of their undeniable chemistry.
Caution: This Incest Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fiction Incest Mother Son
Viggo heard the back door slam. Then the front door. Then a car engine starting and tires squealing down the street.
Then silence.
He sat there for a minute. His cock was still hard. He looked down at it.
“What the fuck is wrong with us?”
He got up and went to the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face and looked in the mirror.
Blond hair. Blue eyes. Square jaw. The face that women seemed to love. The body that Rebecca had called a “fuck machine.” Right now he looked like a guy who’d just watched his mother get fucked and was still hard from it.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he asked his reflection.
His reflection didn’t answer.
“I’m talking to you.”
His reflection stared back. Same blue eyes. Same confused expression. Same obvious erection.
“This is not normal.”
His reflection shrugged.
“Don’t shrug at me. You’re supposed to be the voice of reason.”
His reflection raised an eyebrow. Like it was saying: When have I ever been the voice of reason?
“Fair point.”
He splashed more water on his face. Dried off. His reflection still looked like a guy who wanted to fuck his own mother.
“Okay. We’re not going to do that.”
His reflection looked doubtful.
“We’re not.”
His reflection glanced down at his crotch.
“Stop looking at my dick.”
Frida grabbed a towel from the stack by the pool door and wrapped it around herself. She just wanted to get inside, get upstairs, get in the shower, and wash that guy off her. That stupid, hot, muscular, young guy. That fucking hot motherfucker.
She stopped halfway through the kitchen.
“Oh god. I kicked Viggo out...”
She closed her eyes.
“I mean Sam. God damnit. Sam.”
She leaned against the counter.
“Sam is the same age as Viggo. Looks so much like him too. You did it again, Frida. Found yourself a hot young guy who actually wants to fuck you more than twice and what do you do? You kick him out. Because it’s too much. Because he’s too young. Because he reminds you of...”
She stopped.
“Nope. Not saying that out loud.”
She pushed off the counter and started walking again.
“Every guy since the divorce. Every single one. Young. Hot. Full of energy. And they all have the same...” She waved her hand vaguely. “The same something. The same...”
She froze.
“The same vibe as your own son. There. Happy now? Said it out loud in an empty kitchen like a crazy person.”
She walked up the stairs. Down the hallway. Viggo’s door was ajar. She glanced in as she passed.
He was sitting on the edge of his bed. Jeans around his thighs. A bedsheet pulled over his lap. And under the bedsheet, something was very obviously standing up. Like a tent pole.
She stopped.
“Viggo? I didn’t think you were going to be home tonight.”
He looked up at her. His eyes were hazy. Dazed. Like someone who’d been hit in the head.
“Yeah. We broke up.”
“What happened?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
“Are you okay?”
“Peachy.”
Frida stood in the doorway. Her skin was flushed pink. The towel was wrapped around her chest but it was loose and barely holding on. She kept having to grab it with one hand to keep it from slipping.
She looked like a goddess. Her golden hair, damp from her own and Sam’s sweat, was dripping onto her shoulders and clinging to her face and neck in wet tendrils. Her blue eyes were glazed and heavy-lidded. Her mascara was a little smeared, giving her a slightly slutty, just-fucked look that was still somehow beautiful. Her full lips were swollen and pink, glistening with the same sweat that covered her body.
“I just took a shower,” she said.
Viggo stared at her. Then he looked away. Then he looked back. Then he looked at the wall.
“Right,” he said. “A shower.”
“Yes.”
The air in the room suddenly felt heavy. The silence was unbearable.
“I guess you heard everything,” she said.
He nodded.
She shifted her weight. “Did you ... see things too?”
He didn’t reply.
“Oh god.” She pressed her fingers to her forehead. “How much?”
He just sat there staring at the wall like it was the most interesting wall he’d ever seen.
“Viggo.”
“Some.”
“Some?”
“Yeah.”
“Great. That’s great. This is great.” She wasn’t talking to him anymore. She was talking to the universe.
“It’s fine,” he said. “It’s nothing. I didn’t see that much.”
“You saw enough to...” She gestured at his lap. At the tent.
He looked down. Then away. “That’s not from...”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
They stared at each other. Then Frida laughed. Just one laugh. Short and sharp. The towel slipped. Dropped to her waist. Her breasts were right there. Full and wet and pink from the flush.
“Oops.” She pulled the towel back up and held it tight.
Viggo looked at the ceiling.
“Okay,” she said. “I’m going to take a shower. A real one. That gives you time to take care of ... whatever you need to take care of. I’ll meet you downstairs for a drink.”
She turned to go. Then she stopped. She looked back at the bedsheet tent for one last time.
She walked away toward her room.
Viggo sat there. Alone. Still hard. Still mortified.
He looked down at the tent.
“Down boy,” he said to his dick. “Down. Now.”
It did not go down.
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