u/Author_BrookeKinks

Whenever my mom brought her boyfriend home, like clockwork, they’d fight, then they’d fuck. I‘d press my ear against my thin bedroom wall, my ears pricked up to catch Mom’s breathy moans.

She finally dumped her boyfriend, so I decided to celebrate by taking her on a trip. She’d always dreamed of a European cruise.

But they messed up our reservations, and now we’re stuck sharing a bed on a romantic European cruise. How am I going to survive this, when the mere sound of my mom breathing in the dark beside me gets me rock hard?

All characters 18+.

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Mom and her new boyfriend were at it again. This time, they were fighting over the dishes in the sink.

With a sigh, I got up from the dining table where I’d been working on my university assignment.

The tap water ran warm over my hands as I washed the dishes. Mom and her boyfriend were still going at it, both voices rising and crashing like waves against the walls.

I would give anything to make it stop, anything for them to find some kind of peace. The arguments exhausted me. I hated to see her hurt.

I hated even more to be a helpless witness, caught in a cycle that was not my own. As I rinsed the dirty plates from dinner, the shouting began to die down.

I knew the drill. I knew it too well. They’d fight, and then they’d fuck. It was their routine, one I was never happy about, one I’d been forced to take part in.

To be fair, nobody made me do it. It wasn’t as if I had a gun to my head. I could have put on my noise-canceling headphones and buried my head in my textbooks.

Nobody made me wash the dishes. Nobody made me stay in the house while they got up to their antics. And nobody made me go to my room, take my pants off, and jerk myself off while I listened to the sounds of Mom being fucked in the next room.

I don’t remember when it started.

When I was growing up with my single mother, I never saw her with a man. But something changed when I moved away for college.

I noticed it when I visited—the cigarette lighters that couldn’t have belonged to my non-smoker mom, the men’s clothes in the laundry hamper, Mom’s phone that constantly demanded her attention.

After I got my degree, I moved back in with Mom. It wasn’t easy to get a job in this economy, so I’d been taking extra courses to pad my resume.

In the few months since moving back into the house, it had become a familiar pattern, watching Mom bring her boyfriend home late at night. His visits grew more frequent, and soon he was a constant background in the house.

They'd come in like a tempest, always in the middle of some argument, the door slamming behind them, his heavy footsteps echoing on the hardwood floors.

He didn’t speak to me much. When he did, a curt nod or a passing grunt was the most I could expect.

His presence loomed large, drowning the house in testosterone and tension. This was his territory as much as ours now, even if he wouldn’t look me in the eye.

Most of the time, they’d spend the night outside the house and then come home to fight and fuck.

Otherwise, we’d have a tense, quiet dinner together, all three of us, and then they’d go into Mom’s bedroom to fight and fuck.

Lately, I’d started to join them.

As much as I hated Mom’s boyfriend and their fights, I’d spent a lot of time in bed tossing and turning to the sounds of their lovemaking.

At some point, somewhere between waking and dreaming, my mom’s moans buried themselves in my mind and refused to leave. All I could think about was what was happening right behind the thin wall I shared with Mom’s bedroom.

I tried to stop myself, to replace images of my mom in my fantasies with past girlfriends, but I couldn’t get away from those fucking moans.

I saw my mom’s face then, her mouth wide open, her breathing heavy and punctuated with those fucking, inescapable moans.

I thought about what she looked like being fucked. Was she lying on her back, or was she on all fours, being fucked like an animal?

I couldn’t stop it from overtaking me, this sinful ache to know, this wicked hunger to imagine. I kept thinking about my mom and her boyfriend, their bodies entwined right beyond that thin wall, his cock thrusting, her cries rising, filling all the empty spaces in the house.

My own cock was suddenly in my hand, already hard and throbbing as I squeezed it. I pumped it in time to their fucking, to the sound of their panting, to the rhythm of the headboard’s relentless banging on the wall.

I wanted to hate myself, wanted to stop, but instead I imagined them on top of each other, tangled and slick and shameless.

When they came, I came too, spurting ropes of hot white cum onto my stomach and chest, my eyes squeezed shut as I imagined it was me, not him, who was making my mom moan.

The day after the first time I’d done the dirty deed, after her boyfriend had left, I sat at the dining table as Mom fluttered around me, making coffee and toast while fielding phone calls from her clients.

As she moved around the kitchen, I could hear the soft swish of her skirt against her thighs. When she leaned over to pour coffee, I could hear the gentle rustle of her shirt against her skin. And when she spoke, I heard her soft voice as a series of moans in my head.

A faint hint of vanilla from her lotion entered my nostrils as Mom joined me at the table. The faint musk of perfume, mixed with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, gave her a warm, comforting scent I’d come to associate with mornings.

I was frozen in place, surrounded by last night’s clutter and the echoes of my own shame. I couldn’t stop thinking about what Mom might know, whether she’d heard me, whether she was looking at me different that morning with those unreadable eyes.

Despite her calm demeanor, I kept imagining that she must’ve known that I'd listened to her being fucked, that she’d sensed the sick pull of it whenever I was around her, that she knew which fantasies got me off.

I could see her in my mind, whispering to herself, piecing it together, realizing that I came to fantasies about me fucking her instead of her boyfriend.

But she acted like it was just any other morning, and she soon left for work, but not before giving me a kiss that felt different from other kisses she’d given me in the past.

My mom had always been a beautiful woman. As I got older and my friends started to notice, I had to tell them to knock it off when they started to stare too long, or when they made lewd, disrespectful comments about her womanly curves.

I hadn’t allowed myself to think about what she looked like under her clothes then. But now that I’d come to the sounds she made while being fucked, I couldn’t help but study her.

She was lean with subtle curves, still toned from years of playing sports in her youth. Her curves were soft and alluring, with just the right amount of fullness in all the right places.

Her skin was a warm shade of olive, with freckles scattered across her shoulders and chest. Long, blonde hair fell in loose waves around her face.

Her breasts were covered in a modest, button-down shirt for work. When she bent down and pulled me into a hug, they squished against my chest. Her skin was smooth and soft to the touch, like silk against my fingertips.

The harder I tried, the harder it became to control myself. As I sat there at the dining table, I felt my cock stir in my pants and begged the universe to not let my mom notice my erection.

Luckily, she was in a rush this morning, as she often was.

As I watched her leave for work, her full hips swaying tantalizingly in the driveway, I couldn’t help but imagine running my hands over every inch of her.

The lingering scent of her vanilla lotion curled around me, weaving through the air like a haunting melody. I watched through the window as the sound of her heels clicking against the ground and the hum of her car engine disappeared.

The world outside was quiet and still, but my heart was racing as I fought against the fantasies that threatened to consume me whole.

I could almost hear the echo of her laughter from moments before, light and airy, contrasting sharply with the weight of my thoughts.

The warmth of her embrace lingered on my skin, a ghostly reminder of our closeness that filled me with both longing and dread.

My pulse quickened at the memory of her warmth—how she had pressed herself against me, her body just a breath away from igniting a spark I dared not acknowledge.

A rush of guilt washed over me as I recalled those intimate moments. Mom had touched me with warmth and innocence, and here I was, twisting it into something dark with my fucked up mind.

I felt trapped between two worlds: the son who loved his mother and the man who couldn’t escape his own darkest desires. And as much as I tried to drown them out with other thoughts, my mind drifted back to her—my beautiful mom—and the moans that crept under my skin like an itch I couldn’t scratch.

I wandered into the living room, half-heartedly attempting to focus on my assignments spread out on the coffee table. But the words blurred together, twisting into indecipherable shapes that mocked me.

The echoes of last night still lingered in my ears. They were sharper than before, vivid.

My thoughts swirled in the silence, slowly driving me insane.

I’d had enough.

I swore, then and there, that I’d never, ever, think about my mom like that again—sexually.

Abandoning my assignment, I went out to the drugstore to buy myself a pair of the best earplugs they had.

I was determined. And I stuck with it—for two whole weeks.

Then one night, Mom came home with her boyfriend again.

The air in the house instantly thickened with tension as they entered, their voices raised so loud they rippled through the walls.

I pressed my back against the cool surface of my bedroom door, breathing in the scent of Mom’s laundry softener that wafted from the pile of clean clothes on my bed.

I tried to drown out the sounds, to bury myself in thoughts of academia, but every syllable Mom emitted slipped through the cracks of my resolve.

They fought like wounded animals, raw and feral—her voice rising high and desperate, his response a growl filled with frustration. It was intoxicating and agonizing all at once; I couldn’t escape it.

Curiosity tugged at me. I crept closer to the wall that separated our worlds, leaning against it as if it could somehow reveal its secrets to me.

Then there was silence—a heavy pause that felt pregnant with unsaid words and unfulfilled desires—before everything erupted again into a fresh cycle of heated whispers and urgent breaths.

The cadence shifted from anger to something darker, more primal.

A shiver of anticipation slithered down my spine as I realized this was morphing into something else entirely.

“Just shut up!” he barked suddenly, and I could almost picture her flinching at his harsh tone.

I held my breath, the darkness of the night wrapping around me like a shroud. In that moment, time felt suspended, the air crackling with an electric tension that both terrified and exhilarated me.

I pressed my ear against the wall, desperate to catch even the faintest hint of what was happening beyond that thin barrier. Their voices softened into a murmur.

“Please…” Mom’s voice trembled, the word laced with something achingly vulnerable.

A plea? A challenge? I couldn't tell. But it ignited an insatiable fire within me, a perverse curiosity mixed with unyielding desire.

Then came another sound—an unmistakable thud as her body connected with something solid. I imagined her on the other side of the wall, her petite body pressed against it, her skin flushed, her chest heaving with every breath.

She must’ve known I could hear her. A thought crept into my mind: did she want me to hear her?

I imagined my mom caught in a tempest of conflicting emotions just like mine, her mind filled with thoughts of me every time she moaned. My fingers trembled as I shoved my hand into my pants and grabbed my cock, which was already aching, throbbing.

My heart raced. I was standing on the precipice of something forbidden, teetering at the edge of a dark abyss. The walls around me felt alive, pulsing with my mom’s desire.

I closed my eyes, imagining the wall disappearing, the boyfriend disappearing, until it was just me and my mom, caught in a spiral of guilt and lust.

I was gone. I couldn’t quit even if I wanted to.

The more I gave in, the less guilt I felt, the easier it got.

My mom became my obsession. I spent my nights fantasizing about an incestuous union between us. And when Mom was at work, I spent my days collecting material from her social media accounts and old photo albums to fuel my fantasies. I even started to take pictures of her when she wasn’t looking.

I had one of her sitting in her favorite armchair, reading a book. Another one of her loading the dishwasher, her svelte body bent at the waist. In my favorite picture of her, she was gardening in a summer dress, the sun partially shining through the thin, floral material.

That summer, I got myself my first job out of college. I knew I couldn’t break this addiction if Mom was always around, so I moved out before it took me any further into the dark.

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Hi, Brooke here! Thanks for reading the first chapter of Romancing Mom. Watch this space for the next few chapters, which I’ll post over the next couple of weeks. Follow my reddit profile and never miss out!

If you want to read the rest of the story now, good news, I just published a collection of my consensual incest stories. It includes the complete Romancing Mom series, as well as other taboo erotic stories. Interested? Get it on Smashwords now while it’s ON SALE!