Taboo Mother-son-fantasy
by BangMySlut
Copyright© 2025 by BangMySlut
Incest Sex Story: Busty mother named Monica with large DD and curvy body was alone while husband business trip. Son Mark secretly been watching her undress and began to fantasize having sex with his mom. It got more intense after sniffing at worn panties laundry basket began masturbating and set up hidden cams in her bedroom. Each night would intensify further into their forbidden taboo sexual encounters. Mom always pretending to be sleeping while her son sexually abused her.
Caution: This Incest Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Ma/Ma Ma Consensual NonConsensual Reluctant Heterosexual Slut Wife Incest Mother Son Hispanic Male Hispanic Female Anal Sex Cream Pie Facial Oral Sex Squirting Tit-Fucking Big Breasts AI Generated .
Busty mom named Monica with large DD tits, curvy body, black hair, brown eyes, and enormous sex appeal unknowing turns on son while husband away on business. Her son Mark secretly been watching her undress and begins jacking off fantasizing having sex with his mother. He began sniffing at her worn panties while jacking off and set up hidden spy cameras in her bedroom to watch her masturbate. One night he quietly enters her room, rubs his penis on her lips while she is sleeping. After many visits he got bolder and began to grope huge tits and fingers her pussy and now began shooting cum on her face and between her legs. Later moms discover his actions and was aroused and wanted to be fucked while pretending to be asleep. Mom begins enticing more taboo sex by accidentally flashing tits and open her legs and more touchy feeling during the day and couldn’t wait for action during bedtime.
The summer heat clung to the house like a lover’s breath, thick and unrelenting, as Monica moved through her evening routine. Her husband was away on another business trip, leaving the spacious home feeling both empty and charged with an unspoken intimacy. Monica, with her raven-black hair cascading in loose waves down her back and her warm brown eyes reflecting a quiet confidence, slipped into her bedroom. Her curvy figure, accentuated by the sway of her hips and the generous swell of her DD breasts straining against the thin fabric of her blouse, carried an effortless allure she was blissfully unaware of.
In the shadowed hallway, her son Mark lingered, his heart pounding with a forbidden rhythm. At eighteen, he should have been out exploring the world, but instead, his world had narrowed to the intoxicating vision of his mother. It had started innocently enough—a glimpse through a cracked door as she changed, her skin glowing under the soft lamp light. But innocence had eroded quickly, replaced by a hunger that twisted in his gut. He’d watched her undress that first time, her fingers deftly unbuttoning her top to reveal the lace bra cupping her full, heavy breasts. The way they moved, soft and inviting, had seared into his mind.
That night, alone in his room, Mark had given in. His hand wrapped around his throbbing length, stroking slowly at first, imagining those breasts pressed against him, her body arching beneath his touch. The fantasy built like a storm, vivid and unrelenting: her moans filling the air, her legs parting for him, welcoming him home in the most primal way. He came with a shudder, spilling onto his sheets, but the release only fueled the fire.
Emboldened, he’d rifled through the laundry hamper the next day, his fingers trembling as he lifted a pair of her worn panties—soft cotton tinged with her scent, musky and feminine. Inhaling deeply, he lost himself again, the fabric pressed to his face as he pumped his fist, envisioning her writhing under him, her brown eyes locked on his with desperate need.
The spy cameras came next, tiny devices he’d ordered online and hidden in the corners of her bedroom: one angled toward the bed, another capturing the vanity where she sometimes touched herself in the quiet hours. Through his laptop screen, he watched her now, night after night. Monica’s solo moments were a revelation—her hand slipping between her thighs, circling her clit with relaxed strokes, her lips parting in silent gasps. Her body, so lush and responsive, undulated against the sheets, breasts heaving with each breath. Mark mirrored her rhythm, his own pleasure syncing with hers across the digital divide, until he erupted in hot bursts, whispering her name like a prayer.
On evening, the pull became too strong to resist. The house was silent save for the distant hum of the AC. Monica lay in bed, sleep in a light summer nightgown that clung to her curves, the neckline dipping low enough to hint at the valley between her large DD breasts. Mark slipped into her room like a shadow, his pulse thundering in his ears. He approached the bed, his pajama pants tented with his arousal. Kneeling beside her, he freed himself, the cool air kissing his heated skin. With a trembling hand, he guided his tip to her parted lips, rubbing gently along the soft fullness. The sensation was electric—warm, plush, a tease of what he craved. He soundless a groan, tracing her mouth, imagining it yielding to him.
She didn’t stir, or so he thought. In truth, Monica had sensed his presence weeks ago, the subtle shifts in the air, and the faint creak of floorboards. At first, shock had frozen her, but curiosity—and something deeper, a long-dormant spark—kept her still. Tonight, as his velvety hardness brushed her lips, a thrill uncoiled in her core, warmth pooling between her legs.
Visit after visit, Mark grew bolder. And, His hands, once hesitant, now cupped her breasts through the thin fabric, thumbs circling her hardening nipples until they peaked like ripe berries. He’d knead the soft weight, marveling at their responsiveness, how they filled his hands almost perfectly but large to handle. Sliding lower, his fingers ventured beneath her gown, tracing the slick folds of her pussy. She was wet—always wet now, her body betraying her feigned slumber with subtle twitches, her breath hitching just enough to encourage him. He’d probe inside, curling against that sensitive spot, feeling her clench around him as he worked her to the edge.
Climax came in waves of recklessness. He’d pull back, stroking himself furiously until ropes of cum painted her face—warm streaks across her cheeks, her lips glistening with his essence. Other nights, he’d aim lower, spilling between her thighs, the sticky heat mingling with her own arousal, dripping onto the sheets. Each time, he’d linger, watching her ‘sleeping’ form, heart aching with a mix of guilt and adoration.
Monica couldn’t deny it anymore. The discoveries—the hidden cameras she’d found while cleaning, the faint scent of him on her skin—ignited something wild within her. Arousal simmered constantly now, a low hum that made her ache for more. She wanted him inside her, filling the void her husband left, but the pretense added a delicious edge, a game of shadows and secrets.
The daytime shifts were subtle at first, laced with innocent intent. In the kitchen, bending to retrieve a pan from the lower cabinet, her robe becomes wide open, offering Mark a fleeting view of her bare breasts swaying freely, nipples dusky and erect in the morning chill. His eyes widened, fork pausing mid-air, and she felt a rush of power, her core tightening at his stare.
Later, lounging on the couch during a movie, she shifted closer, her thigh pressing against his. ‘It’s chilly tonight,’ she’d murmur, her hand resting on his knee, fingers tracing idle patterns that lingered just a beat too long. The touch was electric, sending sparks up his spine, and she’d catch the way his gaze dropped to her cleavage, the nightgown’s strap slipping off one shoulder to expose more creamy skin.
Evenings brought bolder invitations. Crossing her legs on the patio chair, she’d let her skirt ride up, parting her thighs just enough for him to glimpse the shadow between, no panties to bar the view. Her brown eyes would meet his across the table, holding a gaze heavy with unspoken promise, a soft smile playing on her lips as if it were all accidental.
Bedtime was the buildup she craved. As the clock ticked past midnight, Monica would settle into bed, heart racing, her body primed and waiting. The door creak open again, and there he was—her boy, her secret lover—approaching with that mix of reverence and hunger. Tonight, she lay on her side, the sheet draped loosely over her hip, one breast fully exposed in the moonlight, nipple taut with anticipation.
Mark’s breath caught at the sight. He stripped quietly, his cock springing free, already leaking with need. Starting slow, as always, he traced her curves with feather-light touches—along her arm, down her waist, savoring the silk of her skin. His hand cupped her breast, rolling the nipple between fingers slick with his own arousal, drawing a soft, sleepy sigh from her that urged him on.
Emboldened, he slipped between her legs, parting them gently. Her pussy was soaked and gooey pussy lubricate, folds swollen and inviting and he groaned low as he positioned himself. The tip nudged her entrance, sliding through her wetness, teasing without entering. Monica bit her lip to stay silent, but her hips tilted ever so slightly, a silent plea.
He pushed in then, inch by agonizing inch; it was very thick, thicker than her husband’s cock, the tight heat enveloping him like velvet fire. God, she was perfect—warm, yielding, clenching around him as if made for this. He rocked slowly, building that slow-burn rhythm, each thrust deep and deliberate, his hands roaming her body: gripping her hip, thumbing her clit, rubbing her breast until she trembled all while pretending be sleeping.
The tension coiled tighter, their breaths syncing in the dim room. Monica’s pretend sleep cracked with a whisper of a moan, her walls fluttering around him. Mark’s pace quickened, the slap of skin soft but insistent, until he buried himself deep, flooding her with his release—hot pulses that made her own orgasm crash over her in waves, body arching subtly as pleasure ripped through.
He collapsed beside her, exhausted and satisfied, pressing a tender kiss to her shoulder before slipping away. Monica waited until his door clicked shut, then touched the warmth between her thighs, smiling into the darkness. Tomorrow, she’d find new ways to tease—perhaps a lingering hug that pressed her curves and huge tits against him, and the nights ahead promised even deeper surrender.
The morning sun filtered through the kitchen curtains, casting a golden haze over the breakfast table where Mark sat, nursing a cup of coffee. His mind replayed the night’s forbidden union—the way her body had welcomed him, tight and eager, even in silence. A flush crept up his neck at the memory, his gaze drifting to the doorway as Monica entered, her presence like a warm breeze carrying the faint scent of lavender soap.
She wore a simple sundress that hugged her ample curves, the fabric whispering against her skin with each step. The neckline plunged just enough to tease the swell of her DD breasts, their soft weight shifting enticingly as she reached for a mug from the cabinet. ‘Good morning, sweetheart,’ she said, her voice a hoarse murmur that sent a shiver down his spine. Her brown eyes met his briefly, holding a spark of mischief before she turned away, but not before he caught the subtle curve of her lips.
As she poured her coffee, Monica ‘accidentally’ brushed against him while passing to the fridge, her hip grazing his shoulder. The contact was fleeting, yet it lingered in the air between them like an unspoken invitation. Mark’s breath hitched, his fingers tightening around his mug. She bent slightly to retrieve the milk, the dress riding up the back of her thighs, offering a glimpse of smooth, bare skin. No panties, he realized with a jolt, his arousal stirring instantly.
Later, as they cleared the dishes together, she closed the distance. ‘Let me help with that,’ she offered, stepping behind him at the sink. Her arms wrapped around his waist in what could pass for a casual hug, but she pressed forward, her full breasts molding against his back, the hardened peaks of her nipples evident through the thin material. The embrace lasted a beat too long, her chin resting on his shoulder, breath warm against his ear. ‘You’ve grown into such a strong young man,’ she whispered, her hands splaying across his abdomen, fingers tracing the ridges of muscle beneath his shirt. Mark froze, the heat of her body seeping into him, igniting that familiar ache. She pulled away slowly, her touch trailing down his sides, leaving him breathless and yearning.
The day unfolded in a tapestry of subtle provocations. In the living room, while folding laundry on the couch, Monica crossed her legs toward him, the hem of her dress inching higher to reveal the soft inner curve of her thigh. And, her eyes flicked to his, dark and knowing, as she adjusted her position, parting her knees just enough for the air to cool the dampness gathering between her folds. Mark shifted uncomfortably, his jeans growing tight, but she only smiled innocently, patting the cushion beside her. ‘Come sit, Mark. Tell me about your day.’
He obeyed, drawn like a moth to flame. As they talked—about mundane things, the weather, a book he’d read—her hand found his knee again, resting there with feigned casualness. Her fingers drew lazy circles, inching upward with each pass, stopping just short of where he throbbed for her. The conversation flowed, laced with undercurrents of tension, her laughter low and throaty when he stumbled over words, his gaze inevitably dropping to the way her chest rose and fell, straining the fabric.
By afternoon, the teasing escalated in the garden. Monica knelt to weed the flowerbeds, her dress opening at the front as she leaned forward, exposing the deep cleavage that invited his stare. Sweat glistened on her skin, a bead tracing down her neck and disappearing into the valley between her breasts. ‘It’s so hot out here,’ she sighed, fanning herself, which only made her curves jiggle enticingly. Mark, helping with the hose, felt her ‘accidentally’ back into him, her ass pressing firmly against his groin for a moment that stretched into eternity. The friction was deliberate, her body yielding just enough to feel the hardness of him, before she straightened with a soft gasp. ‘Oh, sorry, honey. Clumsy me.’ But her eyes, when they met his, burned with invitation.
As evening descended, the house hummed with anticipation. Dinner was a charged affair—shared glances across the table, her foot brushing his under it, toes tracing his calf in slow, deliberate strokes. Monica’s touches grew bolder: a hand on his arm as she passed the salt, lingering to squeeze the bicep; leaning in to wipe a crumb from his lip, her thumb grazing the sensitive skin there, close enough for him to inhale her scent, intoxicating and heady.
Bedtime approached like a promise fulfilled. Monica retired early, her body aroused with need after a day of stoking the fire. She slipped under the covers in a sheer negligee that did little to conceal her form, the lace barely containing her heavy breasts, nipples already pebbled in expectation. Lying on her back, she let one strap fall off her shoulder, exposing the full globe of one breast, the areola dark and inviting in the moonlight filtering through the blinds.
Mark waited in his room, every nerve alight, until the clock edged past one. The hallway was a gauntlet of shadows as he padded to her door, pushing it open with a soft creak. There she was, ‘asleep,’ her chest rising and falling in rhythmic invitation, legs slightly parted beneath the sheet. His heart hammered as he approached, shedding his clothes along the way, his cock heavy and aching, tip already glossy with pre-cum.
He started with reverence, kneeling beside the bed to trace the exposed curve of her breast with his fingertips. The skin was silk-smooth, warming under his touch. Cupping it gently, he lifted the weight, thumb circling the nipple until it tightened further, eliciting a faint sigh from her parted lips. Emboldened, he leaned down, his mouth replacing his hand—tongue flicking the peak, then sucking softly, drawing it deep. Monica’s body arched invisibly, a soft hum vibrating in her throat, but she kept her eyes closed, savoring the illusion.
His hands roamed lower, pushing the sheet aside to reveal her nakedness. She was bare, pussy glistening with arousal, folds swollen and ready. Mark groaned quietly, settling between her thighs. He kissed his way up her inner leg, nipping at the sensitive skin, until his breath ghosted over her core. With deliberate slowness, he parted her with his fingers, tongue delving in to taste her sweetness—salty and rich, and her essence coating his lips as he lapped at her clit, circling with firm pressure.
Monica’s hips twitched, her pretend sleep fracturing with shallow breaths, but she held still, the pleasure building like a tide. He worked her expertly now, two fingers sliding inside, curling to stroke that inner wall while his mouth sucked and teased. Her walls clenched around him, wetness flooding as she neared the edge, body trembling.
Unable to wait, Mark rose, positioning himself at her entrance. The tip nudged her smooth heat, sliding through once, twice, coating himself before he pressed forward. Inch by inch, he sank into her, the stretch exquisite, her pussy gripping him like a vice of velvet. ‘Mom,’ he whispered hoarsely, though she ‘slept,’ his hands framing her face as he began to thrust—slow at first, savoring the drag, the way she enveloped him completely.
The rhythm built, hips rolling in a dance of raw need. He captured her mouth in a kiss, tongue exploring as if she were awake, tasting the faint salt of her lips. One hand kneaded her breast, pinching the nipple, while the other gripped her thigh, pulling her closer. Monica’s body responded instinctively, legs wrapping around him, heels digging into his back, urging deeper penetration without a word.
Passion overtook them, thrusts growing harder, the bed creaking softly under the force. Skin slapped against skin, wet and passionate, his cock plunging to the hilt each time, grinding against her clit. She bit her lip to suppress moans, but a whimper escaped as orgasm crested—waves of ecstasy rippling through her, milking him relentlessly.
Mark followed with a guttural groan, burying deep as he spilled inside her, hot jets filling her core, overflowing to trickle down her thighs. He collapsed atop her, their bodies’ slick with sweat, hearts pounding in unison. For a moment, he stayed buried, nuzzling her neck, pressing tender kisses to her pulse.
Reluctantly, he withdrew, cleaning her gently with a face towel before tucking the sheet around her. As he slipped from the room, Monica’s eyes fluttered open, a satisfied smile curving her lips. The pretense heightened every sensation, but soon, she mused, the dam might break entirely—leading to awakenings in the light of day, where touches turned to caresses, and secrets became shared ecstasies. The nights, though, would always hold this delicious edge, promising deeper explorations of their taboo flame.
The days blurred into a haze of unspoken hunger, each one laced with Monica’s artful provocations that left Mark on the edge of unraveling. She moved through the house like a siren in domestic guise, her sundresses and loose blouses chosen for their capacity to slip and reveal— a shoulder bare while reaching for a high shelf, the curve of her hip accentuated as she bent to pick up a fallen napkin. Her laughter rang brighter, her touches more insistent: a palm flat against his chest during a shared joke, fingers splaying to feel the rapid beat beneath; or her thigh pressing against his under the dinner table, warm and unyielding, as if anchoring him to the heat simmering between them.
Yet it was the nights that bound them in their shadowed ritual, where pretense wove the tightest spell. Monica lay awake in the quiet hours, her body a live wire of anticipation, pulse thrumming low in her belly. The craving had deepened since that last union, a specific ache blooming in her thoughts— the desire to taste him, to feel the velvet hardness of his length sliding past her lips, filling her mouth with his essence. It was a perversion that thrilled her to the core, amplifying the forbidden thrill of their game. She imagined it vividly: her jaw relaxing in feigned slumber, lips parting just so, an unwitting invitation that he couldn’t resist.
When the clock whispered past midnight, the soft tread of footsteps in the hall sent a shiver racing across her skin. Mark entered like a shadow given form, his silhouette framed by the dim glow from the streetlight outside. He paused at the threshold, eyes adjusting to the sight of her— sprawled languidly on the bed, the thin sheet draped haphazardly over her hips, leaving her upper body exposed. The negligee had twisted in ‘sleep,’ one full breast spilling free, nipple dusky and erect in the cool air. Her black hair fanned across the pillow, lips slightly ajar, breath even and inviting.
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