Traci was a stay-at-home mom, doing the usual stuff: laundry, dishes, cleaning, cooking—nothing out of the ordinary.
Until this time.

While tidying her son’s room, she found a sock—crumpled under the edge of the bed. Stiff. Crunchy. Clearly used for something other than feet.

She wrinkled her nose, muttered, “Boys are gross,” and held it between two fingers like it might bite.

She tossed it in the laundry with everything else, washed it, dried it.

She’d been washing that sock twice a week for months now. Every time, it was so stiff it could practically stand on its own. How often does he jerk off? she wondered, shaking her head as she dropped the crusty thing into the wash again.

But one day, she got her answer.

She walked into the room, arms full of fresh laundry… and caught him mid-stroke.

His eyes went wide. He yelped and dove under the blanket like a kid caught stealing cookies—except way more naked.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” she shouted, frozen in the doorway.

He stammered something unintelligible from under the covers.

“Is jacking off your only hobby?” she snapped, tossing clean towels on the dresser with a thud. “You need a goddamn girlfriend… or a hobby that doesn’t require lube!”

She sat on the edge of the bed, still fuming—until something crunched under her.

“What the—?”

She stood, pulled back the blanket… and there it was.

A stack of printed pictures. Porn. Dozens of them. Glossy, wrinkled, some stuck together. His little wank collection, clearly well-used.

“Jesus H. Christ,” she muttered, holding one like it might burn her. “What in the ever-loving FUCK?”

He didn’t say a word. Just stared at the ceiling like maybe if he stayed still enough, he’d disappear.

“Can you not control yourself?” she snapped, flipping through the stack. “Seriously… do you do anything else besides jerk your dick all day?”

Still nothing. Just red cheeks and deep shame.

She shook her head. “Unbelievable,” she muttered as she stood and walked out—leaving the door wide open behind her.

In the kitchen, Traci thought about her husband—not much different. Always needing a blowjob or quick fuck to sleep or focus. Like it was some reset button for his brain.

A few days later, she headed downstairs for laundry again. The “special sock” wasn’t in its usual spot.

“That nasty thing has to be here somewhere,” she muttered, scanning the room.

Sure enough—tucked between mattress and wall—there it was. A fresh hiding spot. Same disgusting condition. Stiff. Sour. Stuck to itself.

She shook her head, holding it like it might bite. “Unbelievable.”

Back in the laundry room, sock in hand—stiff, crusted, and just as nasty as ever—she muttered, “Jesus Christ, this thing could file for unemployment. It’s working so damn hard.”

She stormed down the basement stairs without knocking.

He was at his desk, headphones on, tapping at his laptop, barely noticing her until she smacked the sock on the table beside him with a heavy thud.

He jumped, ripping off his headphones. “What the hell?”

She stared at him, one brow raised. “Lose something?”

His face went crimson.

“You seriously think I don’t notice when your crusty-ass cum sock goes missing for days, only to reappear twice as heavy? What are you feeding this thing, protein shakes?”

“I—I didn’t know you were doing laundry today,” he stammered, scrambling for dignity.

“Oh please,” she scoffed, arms folded. “You’ve got this thing tucked behind your headboard like a secret pet. Every time I touch it, I have to wash my hands twice.”

He opened his mouth to defend himself, but Traci leaned in, smirking.

“You know… if you’re that pent-up all the time, there are other ways to take care of it. Might even be cleaner. More fun.”

He blinked. “Wait, what?”

She winked, turning to leave. “Wash your own sock next time. Or don’t.” She glanced over her shoulder.

Weeks later, she walked in with the laundry basket, expecting the usual pile and maybe that crusty sock—but froze.

He was on the bed, cock in hand, pants down, stroking slow and steady while staring at his phone.

His eyes widened when he saw her, but he didn’t stop. Instead, he looked her up and down, shameless now.

“Seriously?” she said, exasperated but no longer surprised.

Then she caught a glimpse of the screen—her jaw tightened.

“Wait… are those—? Are those pictures of me?”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. From a fetish site.”

“What site?” she asked, stepping closer.

She grabbed the phone, his thumb still wrapped around his hard shaft. “I was just scrolling… and then I saw you. You’re on a fetish dating site? Bikini shots, topless, nudes. That see-through dress at some club? The naked one in the garden? You posted them?”

Traci raised an eyebrow. “I deleted that account! Didn’t think those were out there anymore. That was a long time ago.”

“I saw your page right away,” he said, voice cracking. “For some reason, I keep going back to it.”

She crossed her arms, pissed seeing him with cock in hand. “COVER UP, for fuck’s sake! So what, you’ve been jerking off to my pictures?”

“I mean… yeah,” he admitted, unabashed. “You were fucking hot back then. Those pictures are so naughty. I had no idea you were into that kinda stuff.”

She tilted her head, unimpressed by the “back then” comment.

“And what exactly is ‘that kinda stuff’?”

He licked his lips. “Men, women, groups, and more. That one picture where you’re bent over a table at the campground with all those guys lined up…”

Her eyes gleamed. “I don’t know what to say.”

“I’ve jacked off to every picture you’ve posted.”

A beat of silence. The tension thick, simmering.

Traci’s thoughts spun, blending like fruit in a high-speed blender.

God… it’s been so long since I lived in that world, she thought, heart racing.

She hadn’t expected him, of all people, to stir something that deep. But now, it was humming through her veins—like a match relit.

She used to live for this thrill. Anonymous hookups. Teasing messages. Walking into parties knowing anything could happen. Private groups. Dark corners of sex clubs. Reckless. Raw. Untamed.

But that was a lifetime ago.

Marriage, motherhood—all quiet, safe, vanilla.

And honestly? She missed the filth.

Not just the sex… but the freedom. The confidence. The fire. The way men looked at her. The way she looked at herself.

And now, her son—stroking himself to her old Fetlife photos? It shouldn’t have turned her on.

But it did.

Maybe… just maybe… it was time to remind herself what that part of her tasted like.

A minute passed as she stood, lost in thought.

This would definitely be something new…

Incest?

Jesus, why am I even entertaining this?

She glanced down at him—at the shape beneath the blanket, what he was doing, and who it was to.

Her heart thumped hard. That ache stirred low in her belly, a tingle blooming between her thighs.

Was this really a line she wanted to cross?

Did she want to find out what it would feel like?

What it would do to her?

“Stand up,” I told him.

“Why?” he asked, blinking like he wasn’t sure he heard right.

“Just stand up.”

He did as I asked. I peeled off my shirt slow and deliberate, unhooked my bra, and handed it to him.

My boobs weren’t the same as before, but hell, they were bigger—and still got looks.

I dropped to my knees, pulled him closer by the hips, and looked up.

“Apparently, you’ve been getting off thinking of me for a while now,” I said. “Now you’re gonna find out what it’s like to do some of those things you’ve seen in those pictures.”

I took him into my mouth—slow, deep, savoring my son’s cock.

“Ho… ho—holy shit,” he gasped, hands clenching at his sides.

He spilled his load into my mouth, and it was a ton. No wonder that sock was starched stiff in a couple days.

I collected and swallowed every drop he gave me.

I stood and gave him a gentle push back toward the bed.

“Lie down,” I said, voice low but firm.

He obeyed without question. I climbed over him, straddling his face. No invitation needed—I grabbed his head, positioned myself, and slowly lowered my pussy onto his mouth.

He hesitated at first—tentative, unsure what to do. His tongue flicked out shyly.

I didn’t need shy.

I took over, grinding forward, rolling my hips in slow, deliberate circles. My pussy smeared across his lips and chin as I rode his face, using his mouth how I wanted. He’d figure it out—or drown trying.

“That’s it,” I muttered under my breath, more to myself than him, rocking back and forth.

His hands grabbed my ass—unsure at first, then gripping tighter when he felt my pussy on his tongue.

I grabbed a fistful of his hair, tugging just enough to get his mouth right where I wanted it.

His tongue started moving with purpose—slower strokes, then firmer, deeper—like he was reading my body in real time.

I moaned, grinding down harder. Now he was learning.

His tongue moved with purpose—pressing my clit just right. I rode it like it was the only thing that mattered.

My moans got louder, sharper. My thighs trembled as the pressure built fast—too fast.

I didn’t slow down. I chased it.

My fingers curled tight in his hair. I slammed my hips down one last time, grinding hard as I came on his mouth—body clenching, head thrown back, loud moan escaping.

My legs shook. I didn’t move—not yet. I wanted every last wave to hit me.

He kept going—tongue flicking, hands gripping like he was addicted to the taste of his mother’s pussy.

And then another one crept up—unexpected, raw, rolling through me harder than the first.

My body tensed, bucking against his face as I came again. Nails dug into his chest for something to hold.

Panting, soaked, needing more, I slid down to his cock—hard and long.

“You earned this.”

I sank down slow and steady, taking every inch.

Paused, just sitting with him buried inside me. My pussy hugged his cock, already hungry.

I found it ironic—my son’s cock was now in a pussy he came out of years ago.

He groaned beneath me, hands sliding up my thighs, eyes locked on my tits—the same tits he nursed from in the hospital and at home.

I gave him a little grind, teasing, feeling that cock move inside me. Then I started to ride.

Slow at first, just up and down—enough to feel the ridge drag along the spots that made my toes curl.

His hands grabbed my ass, pulling me down harder, guiding me rougher.

I picked up the pace—hips slapping, tits bouncing with every thrust as I rode him hard.

His cock filled me perfectly—every vein dragging along my walls like it was meant to be.

I leaned forward, planted my hands on his chest, and fucked him like I needed it—like I hadn’t been touched in months.

It didn’t take long before I trembled again.

My first orgasm hit sharp—tight pulses rolling through me as I ground down, circling my pussy around his cock.

I cried out, high and breathless, but didn’t stop. I couldn’t. The more I moved, the more I needed it.

I chased it again, fingers digging into his chest, mouth hanging open.

He groaned, watching me with disbelief.

“Fuck… ride me,” he growled, voice strained. “Just like that.”

I did.

I kept going—faster now, body hot, sweat starting, skin slapping echoing.

Another orgasm built fast—deeper, heavier.

I felt it coiling in my belly, pressure rising like a wave about to break.

“Oh fuck—” I gasped, body locking as it hit.

My thighs clamped tight, pussy squeezing so hard I saw his face twist in pleasure.

I kept grinding through the tremors, milking him with every squeeze.

“Shit,” he mumbled, jaw tight, hips bucking. “I’m gonna fucking cum.”

I didn’t slow down. I rode harder, chasing that last burst before he busted inside me.

I wanted it—wanted to feel him lose control.

I dropped all the way down, stayed there, grinding hard.

“Yeah,” I whispered, breath ragged. “Fill me up. I want all of it.”

He groaned—loud, broken, deep—and came.

Whole body tensed, hips jerking into mine as he emptied inside.

I felt it—hot and deep, spilling around him as he stayed buried to the hilt.

I stayed, breathing hard, twitching as aftershocks rolled through.

His hands slid up my tits, holding me as we came down—soaked in sweat, sex, everything we poured into each other.

I didn’t move yet.

I liked how it felt—filthy, taboo, wrong.

I knew I’d be dripping with him as soon as I stood.

Slowly, I lifted off. His cock slipped out with a wet sound, a drip of cum following.

I already felt it running down my thighs—my son’s cum. What the fuck was I thinking?

He lay there, chest rising and falling, spent and dazed.

I grabbed a fresh folded sock from the laundry basket near the closet and tossed it at his chest.

“Clean yourself up,” I said, turning toward the bathroom.

He caught it mid-air, half-breathless, grinning like he didn’t know whether to be offended or turned on.

In the bathroom, I flipped on the light, leaned against the counter, legs spread just enough, reached for a towel.

His cum trailed down my thighs in sticky, lazy drips.

I wiped slowly—pressing between my legs, dragging the towel across my freshly used pussy.

My reflection looked back: hair a mess, cheeks flushed, lips parted.

I looked fucked. And I liked it.

Back in the bedroom, he lay there, sock in hand, wiping himself off—cock soft now, resting on his stomach, streaked with what was left of me.

His eyes trailed down my body slow and hungry.

“You done staring, you fucking pervert?” I asked, already knowing the answer, fingers running through my hair.

He laughed. “Not even close.”