Mother finds out that her son secretly had sex with her on Halloween; at first she freaks out, but later she has a violent orgasm with him—but they were caught!
This story takes place right after Part 1 -> Halloween Taboo-saster – I Accidentally Fucked My Mother! <- For the best experience, read part 1 first!
James lay on his back in the dark and stared at the ceiling. Half past three. He hadn’t closed his eyes the whole night. Not because he’d done it – he’d thought she was a stranger, a costume – but because knowing hadn’t changed anything. His body didn’t care. He was still hard, had been hard for hours, aching, throbbing against his zipper every time he remembered the stairs, her weight on him, the way she’d called him a “good boy” while he came inside her. His mother. He knew now. And it made him sick, the kind of sick that lived in his stomach and his cock at the same time, twisting together until he couldn’t tell which was which.
He squeezed his eyes shut. Sleep. He needed sleep. But every time he started to drift, she was there waiting – not with the mask, not the stranger from the stairs, but her face. Diane’s face. His mother’s face, clear as daylight, taking him in. And still his cock twitched, leaping against his stomach like it recognized her, like it wanted back inside. He groaned, rolled over, buried his face in the pillow. It was almost four when exhaustion finally pulled him under, still half-hard, still wrong, still hers.
He woke before ten, dry-mouthed, head pounding, cock already hard against the sheet. The morning light made it worse. He tried to piss, couldn’t. Tried to ignore it, couldn’t. The shower was an excuse, a last stand against himself. He stood under the cold water until his skin goosebumped, teeth chattering, but his cock stayed heavy, stubborn, pointing upward like it didn’t feel the cold. His hand found it. He tried to make it quick, mind blank, just friction, just release. But every time he got close, his hand stopped. Just for a second. Just long enough to let the image form – the stairs, her hair, the weight of her on him. The shame dulled each time, replaced by something hotter, something that felt like hunger.
He ended up in front of the mirror, hand working furiously, hips thrusting into his fist. The words slipped out before he could stop them, barely a whisper: “Fuck me, Mom.” His eyes snapped to his own reflection, wide, dark, desperate. He froze, hand still wrapped around his cock, the horror of what he’d just said hitting him like ice water. For one clear second he what he was becoming, what he wanted. Then he grabbed his keys. No jacket, no plan, just the car and the road and the burning need to see her. To know if she looked like his mother again, ordinary, safe, someone he could pretend he hadn’t fucked.
He pulled up just before noon. His hand hovered over the bell, then pressed it. Footsteps. The door opened and there she was. Diane. His mother. The cream cardigan with the four amber colored buttons, all done up across her chest. Mom jeans. White socks. Her hair falling loose around her shoulders. She blinked, surprised but blank, completely blank. No knowledge in her eyes, no memory of the stairs. “James,” she said. “I definitely wasn’t expecting you today.” Then she smiled, warm, ordinary, the same smile she’d given him since he was five, and stepped aside to let him in. “Come in, come in. You’re just in time.”
James managed a “Hey, Mom” that sounded almost normal. He followed her down the hallway, eyes fixed on her back. The kitchen smelled like roast and potatoes. Robert sat at the head of the table, dark sweater over his blue shirt, looking up from his plate with surprised pleasure. “James! Good to see you, son.” Sarah sat to the left, her brown blouse buttoned tight, black pants, that gold ring in her nose catching the light. She nodded at him, cool, assessing. “Hey, brother.” Diane moved around him, reaching for a placemat, a fork, a knife. “We’re having roast,” she said, her voice bright. “And potatoes. What a nice surprise, really. Sit, sit.”
“How was Halloween?” James asked, the words feeling thick in his throat. He kept his eyes on his plate as Diane moved around the table, setting down bowls, pouring water. “Oh,” she said, sitting down across from him, the cardigan buttons straining slightly as she reached for the potatoes, before Sarah interrupts her. “Just a house party with the girls. Nothing wild.” Robert chewed, swallowed. “Your mom and I went to that city thing at the bar,” he said. “The usual. Nothing special, really.” Diane’s hand paused over the serving spoon. She looked at her husband, her eyes flicking away just as fast. “Well,” she said, her voice steady but softer. “I wouldn’t say nothing. I had my fun.”
“And you?” Diane asked, her fork pausing halfway to her mouth. “What did you do?” James felt the potato stick in his throat. He coughed, reached for his water, took a gulp that did nothing to cool the heat rising in his neck. “Just… you know,” he mumbled around the food in his mouth, not looking up. “Guys’ night. Benji, Kyle. Nothing crazy.” He forced himself to chew, to swallow, to keep his eyes on the roast dividing his plate. Robert nodded, started talking about work. Sarah picked at her food, her blue eyes drifting between James and Diane with a look he couldn’t read. Small talk filled the room—weather, the neighbor’s dog, Sarah’s classes—words bouncing off James like static until plates were scraped clean and Robert leaned back with a satisfied groan.
Robert stretched his arms above his head, vertebrae cracking. “Time for my nap,” he said, pushing back from the table. “You two help your mother with the dishes.” Sarah slouched deeper in her chair, arms crossed. James was already standing, stacking plates, grabbing silverware. Anything to move, to not sit across from her anymore. A fork slipped from his fingers, clattered to the floor. Diane’s eyes followed it. “I’ve got it,” he said quickly, bending down. He reached for the fork, and as he did, Diane’s gaze drifted down, casual at first, then stopped. The green smudge. Faint, but unmistakable.
Diane’s face went white. The green paint. The bar. The lie about the guys’ night. The turtle. Her son. Her mouth opening, closing, her hand gripping the edge of the counter until her knuckles matched the color of her cardigan. James stood up slowly, fork in hand. He glanced at her, sensing something shift in the air between them, but when he met her eyes, she looked away, down at the sink. Sarah was still at the table, scrolling on her phone, oblivious. Diane forced her hands to move, turning on the faucet, picking up a plate. The water ran too hot, steam rising. She scrubbed a dish, then another, her movements mechanical, jerky, wrong. James stood beside her, drying, neither of them speaking, the silence thick, heavy, changed.
Something snapped. Diane’s hands stilled in the sink, water dripping from her fingers. The silence had been wrong, heavy, pressing against her skull for minutes now. She turned, her movements sharp, nothing like her usual controlled grace. “Sarah,” she said, her voice loud in the small kitchen. Too loud. “Get up. Do the dishes.” Sarah looked up from her phone, eyebrows raised. “What? James is already—” “I said do them,” Diane cut her off, her voice cracking, her hands shaking now, water splattering on the floor. “Don’t just sit there lazy while James and I do everything ourselves. Now.” Sarah stared at her mother, mouth open, then slowly stood, confused, defensive, but moving.
James swallowed hard, his throat clicking. He looked at his mother, confused, searching her face for something he couldn’t name. Then her hand shot out, fingers wrapping around his wrist, tight, hard enough to hurt. “I need help,” she hissed, not looking at Sarah, not looking at anyone but him, her eyes black, wild. “In the laundry room. Now.” She pulled. He stumbled after her, feet catching on the tile, through the kitchen doorway, down the hallway. The laundry room was at the end, last door on the right, small, windowless.
She yanked him inside, slammed the door, turned the lock. Two washing machines rumbled against the wall, shaking, water sloshing behind metal. The room was barely big enough for the machines, let alone two people. Diane spun him around, her hands on his chest, shoving him hard against the plaster. Her face was inches from his, twisted, teeth bared. “You disgusting pig,” she whispered, fierce, vicious, her breath hot against his mouth. Not a scream. A hiss. Controlled. Dangerous. “You filthy, sick animal.” Her fingers dug into his shoulders, nails biting through his shirt.
Her control broke. She shoved him again, harder, her palms flat against his chest, her whole body shaking. “You knew,” she whispered, her voice cracking, desperate, furious. “You knew it was me. In the stairs. With the mask. You knew and you still—” She couldn’t finish, her mouth twisting, her eyes wet, wild. “You fucked me, James. You fucked your own mother.” The words hit him like stones. He flinched, pressed back against the wall, his hands coming up, helpless, useless. “I didn’t,” he stammered, his voice thin, breaking. “I swear, I didn’t know. The mask, I couldn’t see, I thought you were—”
Her hand cracked across his face before the last word left his mouth. His head snapped sideways, the sound sharp, wet, echoing off the washing machines. The sting bloomed hot across his cheek. “Don’t you lie to me,” she breathed, her chest heaving, the buttons on her cardigan straining, her face flushed dark red. “Don’t you dare lie.” She hit him again, open palm, then shoved him, her hands clawing at his shirt. “You fucked me,” she said, louder now, losing control, her voice rising despite herself. “You put your cock inside your own mother. You came inside me. You disgusting motherfucker. You sick, filthy motherfucker.”
James’ cheek burned. Something shifted in him, anger rising hot and sudden in his gut, mixing with the fear, the confusion, the desperate need to be believed. “I didn’t know,” he said, his voice hard now, loud, the truth ringing in it like a bell. “I swear on my life, Mom. I swear I didn’t know it was you.” He grabbed her wrists, stopping her hands, holding them tight between them. “But you don’t get to hit me,” he said, his jaw tight, his eyes meeting hers, black and furious. “You don’t get to fucking hit me.”
Diane froze, her wrists still caught in his grip, her breath coming fast. Something flickered in her eyes. She saw it then, the truth in his face, the desperation that matched her own. But James didn’t stop. The words were pouring out now, unstoppable, shame and confusion curdling into rage. “You call me disgusting?” he spat, his voice low, trembling. “You? You who wanted me to call you Mommy? You who begged for it, who told me to fuck you harder, who came screaming while I was inside you?” He let go of her wrists, shoved her back a step, his hands shaking. “You’re a fucking hypocrite. You’re a cheater. You’ve been cheating on Dad and you stand there and judge me?”
Diane went white, her lips parted, no sound coming out. The color drained from her face until she looked like a ghost, like someone else entirely. James saw it, the crack in her, the break. His anger faltered, guilt rushing in to fill the space. “Mom,” he said, softer now, his voice rough. “It was an accident. What happened. I know that.” He reached for her, tentative, his fingers brushing her arm. “But I can’t pretend I didn’t feel it. I can’t pretend I didn’t…” He stopped, swallowed hard, his eyes dropping. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But I felt it. And I can’t… I can’t make that go away.”
Diane didn’t pull away. Her arm stayed where his fingers touched, her breathing shallow, her eyes still wide, still wet. James pressed closer, the space between them shrinking, the washing machines rumbling against their backs. “I came because I couldn’t think,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper, raw, honest, shameful. “I edged myself stupid this morning. Over and over. Until I couldn’t see straight. Until the only thing in my head was…” He stopped, his jaw tight, his hand sliding up her arm to her shoulder. “I drove here without thinking. Just lust. Just. Just-“
Her hand shot up, fingers curling around the back of his skull, gripping hard, pulling him down. Her mouth crashed into his, desperate, furious, hungry. It wasn’t gentle. It was teeth and tongue and need, born from the chaos twisting inside her—the despair, the rage, the frustration, the wanting. James stiffened, shocked, his hands hovering in the air for one heartbeat, two. Then he grabbed her, hard, his arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her against him, feeling her softness yield against his chest as he kissed her back.
They kissed wildly, messy, spit slick on their chins, their cheeks. James pulled her with him, stumbling back until his shoulder blades hit the wall, using it to hold them both up. She followed, pressed against him, her hands in his hair, his hands on her hips, pulling her closer, closer. They didn’t stop, couldn’t stop, the kisses bleeding into each other, no beginning, no end. Then they broke apart, just for a second, gasping, chests heaving, their eyes locked, black and wild, neither daring to speak, the silence screaming between them. Then they crashed together again, mouths finding each other, hungrier, harder, desperate.
Diane’s hand dropped from his hair, fumbling between them, finding her belt, yanking it open. The leather hissed through the loops, landed somewhere on the floor with a clatter. She kicked, frantic, her hips twisting, the mom jeans sliding down, tangling with her white socks. She stepped out, clumsy, desperate, never breaking the kiss. James saw, felt her moving, and his own hands went to his jeans, tearing at the button, the zipper, shoving them down with his boxers in one frantic motion, his cock springing free, hard, aching, slapping against his stomach. All of it messy, uncoordinated, their mouths still locked, tongues sliding, teeth clicking, the kiss the only anchor in the chaos.
Diane pressed forward, her hips snapping, her bare cunt meeting his cock with a wet slap. She didn’t take him inside, not yet, just ground against him, her slit dragging up and down his length, his swollen head catching, sliding, vanishing into the dense tangle of hair between her legs. It was wild, thick bush that had grown untouched for quite a while, the hair coarse and wiry against his sensitive skin, cushioning him, hiding him, swallowing him up every time she rocked forward. Her breathing turned ragged, heavy, moaning into his open mouth. The kiss broke, their lips separating with a wet sound, and they stared at each other, mouths gaping, panting hard, her forehead pressed against his as she kept rubbing, grinding, the friction building, building, the wet heat of her sliding against his shaft.
The need between them peaked, something broken and desperate, beyond reach, beyond reason. James couldn’t stop it, the words tearing out of him, raw, hoarse: “Fuck me, Mom.”
Diane’s hand grabbed down, fingers wrapping around his shaft, guiding him, angling him. She rose up on her toes, her hips tilting, and he bent his knees, lowering himself to meet her. Then she sank down, taking him inside, her wet heat enveloping him, swallowing him whole. She moaned unrestrained, her mouth open against his chest, her arms climbing up his shoulders, half pulling herself onto him. She started to bounce, her weight driving him deeper, her tiptoes barely touching the floor, using him, fucking herself on his cock. “That’s it,” she gasped, her voice ragged, broken, filthy. “Fuck me, baby.”
Her face was crushed against his chest, her mouth gaping, drool spilling from her lips, wetting his shirt. Her eyes rolled back with every thrust, showing only white, her lashes fluttering. James back pushed relentless against the wall, finding leverage, then his hands dropped to her hips, gripping hard, fingers digging into the soft flesh he’d grabbed in the stairwell. He started lifting her, throwing her down onto his cock, again, again, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the small room. “Take it,” he grunted, his voice unrecognizable. “Take it, Mom. Take my cock.”
Diane couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything but take it. The space was too tight, the angle too precarious—if she shifted wrong, they’d tumble, collapse into the washing machines or the floor. So she held on, her body limp, being used with every thrust. The pressure built inside her, unbearable, rising, and she opened her mouth against his chest, biting down, hard but harmless, her teeth sinking into the fabric of his shirt, into the muscle beneath, a desperate, loving, uncontrollable anchor against the storm. She moaned around the bite, the sound vibrating against his skin.
James’ legs gave out. With the last of his strength he grabbed her under her ass, lifting, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist, clinging. He stumbled forward, lowered her, laid her out flat along the top of the washing machines, her full length stretched across the vibrating metal. The machines rumbled beneath her, shaking her whole body, her breasts trembling, her thighs quivering. James stood at her head, looking down at her, his hand pushing through her loose hair, then he bent and kissed her, deep and slow. His other hand moved between her legs, finding her wet, open, where he’d just been, where she was still vibrating from the machines and from him.
He worked her gently, two fingers sliding in and out, curling, finding the spot, while the machines shook beneath her, the vibration traveling up his arm, into her cunt, a relentless hum that made her eyes roll back. She tried to brace herself, hands flailing, finding nothing but smooth metal, her body wobbling, shaking, out of control. James looked down at her, his fingers still moving, his voice low. “I liked the dress better,” he said, his free hand reaching for her cardigan, fingers working the top two buttons, popping them open, revealing the lace underneath. “But I’ll fuck you in this old lady cardigan too, Mom.”
Diane’s hands shot to her now only partly buttoned cardigan, yanking the fabric apart where he’d unbuttoned, pulling it wide, tucking the edges under her breasts, framing them. Then she reached her bra, dragged it down until the lace caught under her tits, lifting them, presenting them. They shook like jelly with the vibration of the machines, her nipples hard, dark, erect. She grabbed them, pinching hard, rolling, her back arching off the metal. “Not so boring now,” she moaned, her voice high, breaking, her eyes finding his, wild and wet. “Is it, baby? Is your mommy’s cardigan boring now?”
James’ eyes went wide, his cock leaping against his stomach, twitching with its own heartbeat. “Look at those fucking udders,” he breathed filthy and plunged his fingers deeper, harder, curling them against her vibrating walls, making her cry out. His other hand grabs one of her shaking breasts, the flesh spilling over his fingers, heavy, soft, the nipple pressing into his palm. He squeezed, kneaded, pulling, his thumb flicking the hard peak while his fingers worked her below, relentless, driving her toward the edge.
Diane went limp, dazed, her body overwhelmed, vibrating from the machines, from his fingers, from everything he was doing to her. She was floating, shaking apart. Then she heard it—her own voice, the scream she’d let out, too loud. Her eyes snapped to the door, looking over her own head, but the vibrations made it blur, quadruple, four doors shaking in her vision. Panic cut through the haze. She shot both hands to her mouth, clamping them over her lips, holding them shut, hard, her fingers digging into her cheeks, muffling the moans that kept trying to escape.
Her fingers cramped over her mouth, white-knuckled, but still the moans slipped through, leaking from the gaps between her fingers, louder than the rest, desperate. James saw, his hand smoothing across her forehead, pushing back her sweat-damp hair. He lowered his head to her ear, his lips brushing the shell, his voice a whisper, filthy and soft. “Almost done, Mom,” he breathed. “Almost there. You’re gonna come for me, aren’t you? Come on my fingers like a good mommy. Come hard and quiet so nobody hears what a hot slut you are.”
James pressed harder, giving everything, his fingers working her relentlessly, deep and fast. Her wetness gushed, squirting, splashing between her thighs, pooling on the washing machine beneath her ass, running down her crack. She convulsed, her body arching, her hands still clamped over her mouth. He kept his mouth at her ear, his voice low, filthy, recounting every dirty detail from the night before. “Remember when I came inside you in the stairs?” he whispered. “When you begged for it, Mommy? And it felt… better than anything before!”
Diane’s head exploded, pleasure short-circuiting her brain. Her eyes rolled back, whites showing, and her body seized, a convulsion ripping through her. She nodded frantically, violently, her head jerking in agreement, then the twitching spread, her limbs locking and releasing, her torso dancing on the machine faster than the vibrations, out of control. She moaned into her palms, loud, desperate, the sound muffled but raw. Each second the moan grew shorter, breathless, until her hands spasmed away from her mouth, falling to her sides, fingers curling. What came out then was airless, a whistling gasp, high and thin, before she collapsed completely, limp, spent, her body sinking into the wet pool on the shaking metal.
James stared, unbelieving. He’d never made a woman come like that, never seen convulsions rip through a body, limbs twitching, eyes rolled back. And it was his mother. The sight of her, limp now, gasping, her chest heaving, her cardigan open, her tits still out, the wet spot beneath her ass—it was too much. His cock throbbed, aching, close to exploding just from watching. “Fuck,” he breathed, his hand moving to himself, stroking once, twice. “Look at you. You came so fucking hard, Mom. You shook apart. You pissed yourself like a dirty crazy girl all over the machine.”
Without thinking, James climbed onto the machines. The washers groaned louder under his added weight, shaking harder. He planted his knees on either side of Diane’s chest, his ass landing heavy on her stomach. She expelled a sharp breath, air forced from her lungs by the impact, still dazed, still twitching. James looked down at her tits, wobbling from the vibration, her nipples hard and dark, and wrapped his hand around his cock, stroking furiously, his hips bucking, his eyes fixed on her flesh.
Diane’s hand shot up, slapping his away from his cock. He jerked back, confused, but then her hands replaced his, both of them wrapping around him, stroking, her grip firm despite her trembling. She lifted her head with effort, her forehead slick with sweat, her eyes glazed but sharp with renewed hunger, completely turned on but dazed. The machines made her voice vibrate as she spoke, shaking with the metal beneath them. “Your turn,” she said, her mouth open, breathless. “Come for Mommy.”
She worked him fast, her upper arms burning, her hands shaking, pushing his foreskin back too far, the stretch almost painful, almost perfect. His body jerked, twitched, a button from her partly buttoned cardigan pressing hard against his ass. “You gonna visit more often now?” she asked, her voice filthy, vibrating with the machines. “Not just every two weekends for fucking coffee? You gonna come home to Mommy whenever she needs this cock?”
James moaned, his voice cracking high, trembling, nothing like himself. He was right there, teetering, his hips thrusting into her hands, the button digging into his ass, her tits shaking below him. “Yes,” he whimpered, the word breaking, pathetic, desperate. “Yes, Mommy.”
Diane’s breath caught, her own arousal spiking again, a low moan slipping from her lips, unstoppable. She worked him harder, her hands slick, her eyes locked on his face, watching him fall apart. “I’m gonna take this cock,” she whispered, her voice ragged, filthy, vibrating with the machines beneath them. “Every hole, baby. Every room in this house. You will fuck your mother stupid!”
James let out a high, pathetic whine, his body locking up, his cock pulsing in her hands. He came harder than he ever had, the first shot arcing far over Diane’s head, splattering wet against the wall behind the machines with a loud slap. The second hit her face, even her open mouth, shooting down her throat, making her gag and cough. The rest spilled out, thick and white, pooling between her tits, mixing with the sweat and the wetness already there.
Silence. Heavy, satisfied, thick between them. Diane looked up at him, her face streaked and marked, her expression content, almost maternal, pleased with herself, with him. James stared down, seeing her clearly—no mask, no costume, just his mother’s face, her real eyes, her real mouth, covered in him. And he couldn’t imagine anything more arousing, anything more perfect.
But then – A sound. Small, against the door. A scrape, a shadow passing underneath. Followed by footsteps, light, fast, fleeing down the hallway. Diane and James froze, their eyes snapping to the door, then to each other, the horror hitting them like ice water. Their hearts shot back up to their throats, pounding, choking. “Sarah,” Diane whispered, her voice barely audible.
—————
Hey there! I hope you enjoyed it! Feel free to leave a comment below about what you think would be the hottest thing to happen to the sister next! You won’t have to wait long for the resolution—it’ll be released Friday as a time-exclusive on taboochapters.online later than here ^^
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