Milf's Taboo Blackmail 

This page contains fictional adult erotica including dark themes.
All characters are 18+.

Content warnings are provided.

If these themes are not for you, please do not subscribe.

In a conservative Western Anglican family, a opportunistic 20-year-old son, Peter blackmails his neglected mother with her accidental nudes, forcing her into escalating acts of forbidden intimacy that blur the lines between desire, guilt, and coercion.

My bedroom felt like a tomb that night, the only light bleeding from my phone screen onto the walls. Around two in the morning, as I was scrolling mindlessly through class announcements, a new message thread popped up with a notification sound I'd assigned only to one person: Mom. My heart did a little flip. She never texted this late. A mistake, probably. My thumb hovered, then tapped open the chat.

The first image loaded, and my breath caught. It was my own mother, posed on what I recognized instantly as her and Dad's king-sized bed. She was wearing a black lace bra, the delicate fabric straining against the full swell of her breasts, her nipples clearly visible as dark circles beneath. Her blonde hair was fanned out across the comforter, her lips slightly parted in a way that seemed both inviting and incredibly out of character.

Then another picture came through, this one even more explicit. Her legs were spread, one knee lifted. She had pulled the matching black lace panties aside with one hand, completely exposing herself. Her pussy was smooth, waxed bare, and it gleamed with moisture in the soft lamplight of her bedroom. I could see the tight, pink folds of her labia, parted slightly, and her clit peeking out from its hood.

My cock, which had been completely dormant seconds before, sprang to life, hardening so fast it was almost painful. A damp patch of precum immediately soaked through the thin fabric of my boxers. I stared, unable to look away, a heat spreading through my gut that was equal parts shock and a sudden, overwhelming lust. This was Victoria. My mother. The woman who made my lunch, who lectured me about my grades, who sang slightly off-key in the car. And here she was, spread open and wet, intended for my father's eyes but landing on mine instead.

A third message followed: *Did you get these, honey? Are they okay?*

My thumb froze over the screen. Honey. She thought she was texting Dad. His contact must be right next to mine in her phone. A cruel, thrilling idea began to bloom in my mind, a dark weed pushing through the cracked pavement of my shock. My dick throbbed in agreement.
I took screenshots. Three of them. Quick, precise taps. I saved them to a hidden folder, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. Then I began to type, my fingers slick with a nervous sweat, but my mind was terrifyingly clear. *They're perfect. Can't wait for you to get home.* A lie. A baited hook. I sent it, then immediately silenced my phone.

I leaned back against my headboard, the phone lying face-down on my chest. The images were burned onto the back of my eyelids. Her smooth, bare pussy. The way the lace bit into the soft flesh of her hips. My hand slid down my stomach, under the waistband of my boxers, and wrapped around my rigid cock. The skin was hot and tight. I gave it a slow, deliberate stroke, smearing the bead of precum over the head. I pictured her face, the mix of embarrassment and terror she would wear when I showed her what I had. The power. The absolute control.

A shudder ran through me. This wasn't just about lust anymore. It was about shattering the perfect, pristine image of our family. Stuffy church services, judgmental neighbors, the unspoken rules of our conservative, Anglican world. I was holding a bomb, and I was the only one who knew when it would go off.

I stroked faster, my breath coming in ragged gasps. In my mind, I wasn't just looking at the pictures. I was there. I was on that bed with her. Her breath was warm on my neck. Her hands, which I knew so well from a lifetime of her care, were now tangled in my hair. My hips bucked up into my fist, the fantasy so vivid it felt real. My orgasm hit me like a physical blow, a violent, draining rush that left me panting, my stomach and chest covered in warm, sticky cum. It was the most intense, shameful, and exhilarating release of my life. As I cleaned up with a handful of tissues, I knew with a cold certainty that this wasn't over. It was just the beginning.

The next morning, the air in the kitchen was thick with the scent of coffee and burnt toast. I found her at the counter, her back to me. She was wearing a black silk robe, the one I'd seen in the pictures, tied loosely at her waist. As she reached for a mug on a high shelf, the robe gaped open, revealing the smooth curve of her back and the swell of her ass cheek. My cock stirred instantly.

"Morning," I said, my voice sounding rougher than I intended.

She jumped, spinning around. Her eyes, wide and blue, had a frantic, hunted look. "Pete! You startled me." She clutched the robe closed at her throat, a defensive, automatic gesture.

"Sorry," I said, pulling out a stool and sitting. I watched her, letting the silence stretch. I could see the pulse beating rapidly in the hollow of her throat. She knew. I saw it in the way she avoided my eyes, in the tense line of her shoulders.

"Did you... did you sleep well?" she asked, her voice a little too high. She turned back to the coffeemaker, her movements jerky.

"Like a log," I replied. "Had some... interesting dreams, though."

Her hand froze on the carafe. I had her. I had her right where I wanted her.

"They were about you, actually," I said, my voice low and deliberate. "About some pictures you sent me last night."

She made a small, choked sound, like a strangled sob. She didn't turn around. "Pete, please. It was an accident. You have to delete them. Right now."
"Delete them?" I let out a short, harsh laugh. "Why would I do that? They're... inspiring." I pulled out my phone, my thumb moving with practiced ease to the hidden folder. I held up the screen. It was the most explicit one, her legs spread, her pussy glistening. "This one, for instance. It's my new favorite."

Her shoulders slumped, a gesture of utter defeat. She turned slowly, her face pale, her eyes swimming with unshed tears. "Peter, you can't. Your father... what would he think?"

"I don't care what Dad thinks," I said, standing up and walking toward her. The kitchen tiles were cold under my bare feet. I stopped directly in front of her, so close I could smell the faint scent of her jasmine soap and the coffee on her breath. "I care about what you're going to do for me to keep me from showing him. And everyone else. I could post these online, you know. 'Sexy Anglican Mom'. Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"

A tear finally escaped, tracing a path through the light powder on her cheek. Her gaze dropped to my crotch, where my erection was straining against the thin fabric of my sweatpants. Her expression was a volatile mixture of disgust, terror, and something else, something darker that flickered for just a second in the depths of her eyes.

"You wouldn't," she whispered, the words barely audible.

"Try me," I said, my voice dangerously soft. I reached out and hooked a finger into the collar of her robe, pulling it down just enough to expose the black lace of her bra strap. "This is what you wanted, isn't it? To be looked at? To be wanted?" My other hand came up to cup her breast through the silk, my thumb finding the hard nub of her nipple. She flinched but didn't pull away. I could feel her heart hammering against my palm. "Well, Mom, I want you. Right now. Right here."

The power was intoxicating, a drug coursing through my veins. Her resistance was crumbling, replaced by a numbed acceptance. Her body trembled under my touch. I let go of her robe and took a step back, leaning against the counter opposite her. I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my sweats.

"Get on your knees," I commanded, my voice low and firm. "Now."

Her breath hitched, a sharp, ragged sound. For a moment, I thought she would refuse, that she would scream, that she would run. But then, slowly, as if her bones had turned to water, she sank to the tiled floor. The black silk pooled around her, a dark shadow on the white tile. She looked up at me, her eyes wide and pleading, her tear-streaked face a mask of beautiful, broken submission.

"You're sick," she whispered, but there was no conviction in her voice. It was a statement of fact, hollow and defeated.

"And you're about to find out just how sick," I replied, pulling my sweatpants and boxers down in one smooth motion. My cock sprang free, hard and thick, the head already glistening with precum. I watched her eyes widen, a flicker of shock (or was it awe?) crossing her features before it was stamped out by shame.

Her hands trembled as she reached for me. Her fingers were cool against my hot, sensitive skin as she wrapped them around the base of my shaft. She hesitated, her gaze fixed on my cock as if she'd never seen one before. I'd seen the way she looked at Dad sometimes, a tired, perfunctory glance. This was different. This was pure, unadulterated lust, fueled by fear.

"Put it in your mouth," I ordered, my voice thick with desire. I tangled my fingers in her blonde hair, not roughly, but enough to let her know I was in control. I could feel the fine strands sliding between my knuckles.

She closed her eyes for a second, took a shuddering breath, and then leaned forward. The first touch of her lips was electric. They were soft, fuller than I'd imagined, and they parted slowly as she took the head of my cock into her mouth. The wet, heat of her tongue sliding against the sensitive underside made my hips jerk. A low groan escaped my throat.

"Oh, fuck, mom..."

Her technique was hesitant at first, almost clumsy, but she followed the unspoken guidance of my hand in her hair. I showed her the rhythm I liked, the pressure, the depth. Soon, her movements became more confident, more fluid. She took me deeper, her tongue swirling around the head, her lips creating a delicious suction that made my balls tighten. I watched, mesmerized, as my cock disappeared between those perfect lips, the lips I'd seen a thousand times smiling, speaking, lecturing. Now they were stretched around my dick, slick and swollen from the effort.

She looked up at me, her blue eyes watering, mascara smudged at the corners. There were tears on her cheeks, but they weren't just tears of sorrow. In their depths, I saw a dark, unwilling hunger. Her cheeks were hollowed out as she sucked, and a thin line of saliva escaped from the corner of her mouth, trailing down her chin. It was the most erotic thing I had ever seen.

"Deeper," I grunted, pushing my hips forward. I felt the head of my cock brush against the back of her throat. She gagged slightly, her body tensing, but she didn't pull away. Instead, she relaxed her throat, taking me even deeper. The feeling was incredible, a tight, convulsing heat that sent waves of pleasure coursing through me.

I could feel the pressure building at the base of my spine, a familiar, tightening coil. I was getting close. My grip on her hair tightened, holding her in place. I started to thrust, fucking her mouth in short, sharp jabs. She moaned, the vibration traveling up my shaft and sending a jolt straight to my balls.

"That's it," I panted, my head thrown back. "Just like that. Take it all."

Her hands came up to rest on my thighs, her nails digging into my skin. Whether it was to push me away or pull me closer, I couldn't tell. Her breathing was ragged, choked sounds of effort and arousal. The sight of her, on her knees, her silk robe disheveled, her face streaked with tears and my precum, servicing me with a desperate, hungry need, was pushing me over the edge.

I felt my orgasm hit me like a freight train. My body tensed, every muscle coiling and then releasing in a shuddering wave. "I'm gonna cum," I warned, my voice a harsh gasp. I expected her to pull back, to refuse. Instead, she just moaned again and took me even deeper, her tongue working frantically against the underside of my cock.

I exploded in her mouth, thick, hot spurts of cum flooding her tongue and throat. She swallowed convulsively, her throat working to take it all. I could feel her struggling to keep up, a thin, white trickle escaping from the corner of her lips and dripping onto her chin. The sight only intensified my pleasure, drawing out my orgasm until I was completely spent.

I pulled out, my cock softening but still tingling from the intensity of the release. She stayed on her knees for a moment, gasping for breath, her head bowed. A long, sticky string of cum and saliva hung from her lower lip. She wiped it away with the back of her hand, her face a mask of shame and disgust.

"You're bigger than your father," she said, the words so quiet I almost missed them. It wasn't a compliment. It was a sad, broken observation, a confession that seemed to hang in the air between us, heavy with implication. She pushed herself up from the floor, her movements stiff and awkward. Without another word, she turned and fled the kitchen, leaving me leaning against the counter, my sweatpants still around my ankles.

I watched her go, my mind a chaotic mess of triumph, guilt, and a lingering, insatiable hunger. I could hear her footsteps hurrying down the hall, then the sound of the bathroom door closing and the lock clicking into place. I pulled my pants up, my body still buzzing with the aftermath. I took a deep breath, the air thick with the scent of coffee and my own release. I knew this wasn't over. It was a temporary ceasefire, a pause in a war I had just declared.

I gave her a few minutes, letting the silence settle. I wanted her to stew in it, to replay every moment, to feel the weight of what she'd just done. Then, I walked down the hall, my footsteps slow and deliberate. I stopped outside the bathroom door. I could hear the sound of running water, a frantic splashing. She was trying to wash me away, to erase the evidence from her skin, her mouth. But she couldn't erase it from her memory. Or from my phone.

I didn't knock. I tried the handle. It was locked, of course. I leaned my forehead against the cool wood of the door. "Mom," I said, my voice low and even. "Open the door."

The water stopped instantly. Silence. Then, her voice, muffled by the door. "Go away, Peter. Please. Just leave me alone."

"You know I can't do that," I said, my tone turning cold. "You know what I have. And you know I'm not done with you yet. Are you going to make me show Dad the pictures? I can do it right now. One tap."

There was a long, agonizing pause. I could picture her on the other side of the door, her face pale, her hands trembling as she weighed her options. There was only one. I heard the soft click of the lock being turned.

I opened the door and stepped inside. The room was steamy, smelling of her jasmine soap and the sharp, clean scent of toothpaste. She was standing by the sink, her back to me, her hands gripping the edge of the porcelain so tightly her knuckles were white. She had splashed water on her face, and her blonde hair was damp at the temples. In the mirror, I saw her reflection, her eyes wide with a fear that was now tinged with a dull, weary resignation.

I walked up behind her, not touching her yet, just letting my presence fill the small space. I was so close I could feel the heat radiating from her body. In the mirror, our eyes met. Hers darted away immediately.

"Look at me," I commanded. Her gaze slowly rose to meet mine in the reflective glass. "Did you think that was it? That a blowjob in the kitchen would make us even?"

"Peter..." she started, her voice cracking.
"Don't 'Peter' me," I cut in, my voice a low growl. I reached around her, placing my hands on the counter on either side of her, effectively caging her in. I leaned down, my lips brushing against her ear. "You sent me those pictures. You showed me what's under that robe. You can't just put it back on and pretend it never happened." I pressed my hips against her, letting her feel my rapidly hardening cock through my sweatpants. "I want to see it for real. I want to touch it. I want to taste it."

She flinched at the contact, a full-body tremor shaking her. "Please," she whispered, her eyes squeezing shut. "I can't. We can't."

"We already have," I reminded her, my voice hard. "And we're going to again. Right now. Or I go to my room, and Dad gets a very interesting photo album to look at when he gets home from work."
Her eyes flew open, a fresh wave of terror washing over her features. She knew I wasn't bluffing. The power was absolute, and I was drunk on it. I straightened up, stepping back just enough to give her room to move.

"Go to your bedroom," I ordered. "Now."

She hesitated for a fraction of a second, her gaze darting toward the door as if calculating her chances of escape. I saw the hope die in her eyes, replaced by that familiar, crushing defeat. She pushed away from the counter and walked out of the bathroom, her movements stiff and robotic. I followed her down the short hall, watching the gentle sway of her silk-clad hips, a motion that was now fueling a dark, triumphant fire in my gut.

Her bedroom was exactly as it was in the pictures. The king-sized bed was made, the cream-colored comforter pulled taut. The lamplight was soft, bathing the room in a warm, intimate glow that felt obscene given the circumstances. She stopped in the middle of the room, her back to me, her hands twisting the tie of her robe.

"Take it off," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

Her shoulders slumped. With shaking fingers, she pulled at the knot, and the black silk whisper-opened, sliding down her arms and pooling in a soft heap at her feet. She was wearing the matching black lace bra and panties from the photos. The sight was even more potent in person. Her skin was pale and smooth, her stomach flat, her hips flaring out in soft, womanly curves. The lace of the bra was a delicate cage for her full breasts, and the high-cut panties accentuated the long lines of her legs.

I walked toward her, my gaze raking over her body. I reached out and traced the edge of her bra strap with my fingertip, feeling the slight tremor that ran through her. "Turn around."

She complied slowly, her eyes downcast, unable to meet my gaze. I unhooked her bra with a flick of my wrist, the small metal clasp giving way easily. The straps slid down her arms, and I pulled the piece of lace away, tossing it aside. Her breasts were perfect, round and heavy, with pale, pink areolas and nipples that were already hardened into tight, pebbled points.

I cupped them in my hands, feeling their weight, their warmth. I brushed my thumbs over her nipples, and she gasped, her back arching involuntarily. It was a small, almost imperceptible movement, but I felt it. I felt the flicker of unwanted arousal in her body. I leaned down and took one of her nipples into my mouth, swirling my tongue around the sensitive bud, then biting down gently.

"Peter, no," she whimpered, but her voice was weak, her protest half-hearted. Her hands came up to rest on my shoulders, not to push me away, but to steady herself.

I released her nipple and looked up at her. "Yes," I said, my voice firm. I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of her panties and slowly peeled them down her legs, kneeling as I did. The air was thick with the scent of her arousal, a sweet, musky smell that made my head spin. Her pussy was just as I'd imagined it, smooth and bare, the lips glistening with moisture. I leaned in and ran my tongue along her slit.

She cried out, a sharp, strangled sound of pleasure and shame. Her knees buckled, and I had to catch her to keep her from falling. I guided her backward toward the bed, her legs trembling so badly she could barely walk. When her knees hit the edge of the mattress, she collapsed onto it, landing in a heap of pale skin and dark lace.
I stood over her, my gaze sweeping over her naked body, spread out before me like a feast. I quickly shed my own clothes, my t-shirt and sweatpants landing in a pile on the floor. My cock was rock hard, jutting out from my body, a testament to my absolute control over her, over this moment.

I climbed onto the bed, moving over her, caging her in with my arms and legs. I could feel the frantic beat of her heart against my chest. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

"Look at me," I commanded again, my voice a low growl. "Open your eyes and look at me while I fuck you."

She obeyed, her lids fluttering open. Her blue eyes were filled with a storm of emotions: fear, shame, anger, and a dark, unwilling desire that was fighting to break through the surface. I reached down and positioned my cock at her entrance, the head nudging against her slick, wet folds.

"This is what you wanted, isn't it?" I whispered, my lips brushing against her ear. "To be wanted. To be fucked."

I didn't wait for an answer. I pushed inside her, slowly at first, savoring the tight, wet heat of her pussy as it enveloped me. She was so wet, so ready for me, despite her protests. A long, low moan escaped her lips, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure that she couldn't hold back.

"Oh, God," she gasped, her back arching off the bed. "Peter..."

I started to move, my hips finding a slow, deliberate rhythm. Each thrust was deep and powerful, pushing her further into the mattress. I watched her face, watched the conflicting emotions play across her features. Her body was responding to mine, her hips rising to meet my thrusts, her legs wrapping around my waist, pulling me deeper. It was an instinctual, primal response, a betrayal of her mind's resistance.

"You're so tight, Mom," I grunted, my pace quickening. "So fucking wet for me."

"Don't," she whimpered, her head thrashing from side to side. "Don't say that."

"Why not?" I growled, my hand coming up to wrap around her throat, not squeezing, just holding her in place. "It's the truth, isn't it? You're wet for your son. You wanted this."

Her eyes widened at the mention of the forbidden word, a fresh wave of shame and arousal washing over her. I could feel her pussy clench around my cock, a spasm of pleasure that was both involuntary and undeniable.

"Tell me," I commanded, my voice low and dominant. "Tell me you want it."

"Please..." she begged, her voice cracking.

"Say it," I insisted, my grip on her throat tightening slightly. "Tell me you want me to fuck you."

Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes, tracing paths through the sweat on her temples. Her lips parted, and a strangled sound, a mix of a sob and a moan, escaped. "I want it," she whispered, the words barely audible. "I want you to fuck me."

The confession seemed to break something inside her, a dam holding back a flood of pent-up desire. Her hands came up to claw at my back, her nails digging into my skin, leaving red, angry marks. Her hips bucked up to meet mine, our bodies slapping together with a wet, rhythmic sound that filled the room. I let go of her throat and grabbed her hips, pulling her harder against me, driving my cock deeper inside her.

I leaned down and captured her mouth in a brutal, demanding kiss. It wasn't a kiss of love or affection; it was a kiss of conquest, of claiming. I bit her lower lip, tasting the coppery tang of blood, then soothed it with my tongue. She responded with a hunger that was both desperate and wild, her tongue tangling with mine in a primal dance.

Her body was a symphony of contradictions. Her legs were wrapped around me, pulling me closer, while her hands pushed against my chest, a feeble, half-hearted attempt to create distance. Her moans were a mix of pleasure and pain, of shame and ecstasy. I could feel her orgasm building, a tension coiling deep within her, a storm gathering on the horizon.

"Cum for me," I growled, my voice rough with my own impending release. "Cum for your son."

"No, I can't..!" she whimpered, but that was all it took. Her body arched off the bed, a taut, trembling bow. A scream tore from her throat, a raw, primal sound of pleasure that was so intense it was almost agony. Her pussy clamped down around my cock, a series of spasms that milked me, pulling me over the edge with her.
I buried my face in the crook of her neck, muffling my own roar of release as I emptied myself into her. Wave after wave of hot, thick cum flooded her, a physical testament to my dominance. The world narrowed to the feel of her body beneath mine, the frantic beat of her heart against my chest, the scent of our combined release filling the air.

For a long moment, we lay there, a tangled, sweaty mess of limbs and spent passion. The only sound was our ragged breathing, the frantic thumping of our hearts gradually slowing to a more normal rhythm. I could feel the stickiness of our sweat, the slickness of our combined fluids between her thighs. I lifted my head and looked down at her.

Her eyes were closed, her face a mask of exquisite, shattered beauty. Tear tracks glistened on her cheeks, mingling with the sweat that beaded on her brow. Her lips were swollen and bruised from my kiss. She looked thoroughly, completely fucked. And she looked magnificent.
I pulled out of her slowly, my softening cock making a wet, sucking sound as it left her body. A thick trickle of my cum leaked out of her, trailing down her thigh and staining the cream-colored comforter. A visual claim. A brand. I moved off her, lying on my side beside her, propping my head up on my hand to watch her. I didn't speak. I just let the silence stretch, let her feel the weight of what had just happened, of what I had just taken.

After a few minutes, her eyes fluttered open. They were hazy, unfocused, like someone waking from a dream they couldn't quite remember. Then, reality seemed to crash back in. The haze cleared, replaced by a stark, piercing clarity, and with it, a fresh wave of shame. She scrambled away from me, pulling the comforter up to her chin, as if the thin fabric could shield her from my gaze, from her own body's betrayal.

"Oh, God," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Oh, God. What have we done?"

"We didn't do anything," I corrected her, my voice flat, cold. "I did. And you let me. Because you had no choice." I reached over and traced the line of her jaw with my fingertip. She flinched but didn't pull away. "And because you wanted to."

"That's not true," she choked out, tears welling in her eyes again. "I didn't... I would never..."

"Didn't you?" I leaned in, my voice a low, conspiratorial whisper. "I felt you, Mom. I felt how wet you were. I felt you cum. You can't lie to me, and you can't lie to yourself."

She shook her head, a silent, frantic denial. But her body told a different story. I could see the memory of the pleasure flickering in her eyes, the unwanted memory of her own orgasm. I had broken something inside her, and in the process, I had awakened a part of her she didn't know existed.

I rolled over, reaching for my phone on the nightstand. I unlocked it and pulled up the screenshots, handing it to her. "Look," I said, my voice flat. "Look at what you sent me."

She took the phone with a trembling hand, her gaze reluctantly falling on the screen. I watched as her eyes scanned the images, her face growing paler with each passing second. She saw the woman in the pictures, the woman who was confident, desired, adventurous. And she saw the woman lying in the bed next to me, a woman who was ashamed, broken, and utterly mine.

"I... I was just trying to spice things up with your father," she whispered, her voice cracking with the weight of her confession. "Things have been... stale for so long."

"And you sent them to the wrong person," I finished for her, my voice devoid of sympathy. "A mistake that's going to cost you. Over and over again." I took the phone from her and tossed it onto the other side of the bed. "Now, get up."

"What?" she asked, her eyes wide with confusion.

"Get up," I repeated, my voice harder this time. "Get in the shower. You're a mess." I got out of bed and stretched, feeling a deep, satisfying ache in my muscles. I looked down at her, a small, cruel smile playing on my lips. "And don't be long. I'm not done with you yet."

I didn't wait for a response. I walked out of the bedroom, leaving her there, a broken, beautiful mess amidst the rumpled sheets and the stain of our transgression. I went back to the kitchen, my body humming with a triumphant energy. I poured myself a glass of orange juice, the cold, sweet liquid a sharp contrast to the heat still simmering in my veins. I could hear the sound of the shower starting down the hall, the hiss of the water a promise of more to come.

I drank my juice slowly, savoring the moment, the power. I had shattered the perfect facade of our family life, and in the ruins, I was building a new world, one where I was in control. One where my mother, the woman who had always been the pillar of propriety and grace, was now mine to command.

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