#Blackmail #Incest #Mature #Teen
By Flikk
A devout mother’s hidden past resurfaces, challenging faith and family as she embraces a secret life of submission and devotion.
Hey. I’m taking a break from Ashley and Elara’s series. I’ll write some different stories. Please leave a comment if you enjoyed this and what you’d like to read more of.
“My mother is the perfect example of obedience, devotion, and submission—a standard all women and girls should strive to uphold.” – Zayd
The room was quiet. Zayd sat cross-legged on the floor, the glow from the screen highlighting the sharp edges of his young teenage face. His mother sat beside him, her posture as straight and composed as ever, her hands resting lightly on her lap. She had asked for his help—something she rarely did when it came to technology—and he was determined to show her he could handle it. Her grey hijab framed her face perfectly, a picture of serene modesty, though her brows were slightly furrowed with concern. “You’re sure this will work?” she asked, her voice soft and unsure.
“Yeah, Mama. It’s just a support chat,” the thirteen year old said, trying to suppress a grin. “It’s not like they’re going to make you prove your identity with blood or something.”
She gave him a sharp look, but the corner of her mouth twitched into a small smile. “Be respectful. This is important.”
Zayd rolled his eyes slightly but kept his focus on the screen. The chat was straightforward, and within minutes, the support representative confirmed her identity. The temporary password arrived shortly after, and Zayd quickly logged in to show her how to access the account.
“Here you go,” he said, gesturing to the screen as the inbox loaded. “You should change the password, though.”
“I’ll get to it later,” she said, her tone dismissive as her eyes scanned the unfamiliar interface. “Thank you, Zayd. I’ll handle it from here.” He nodded and stood, but his gaze lingered on the screen. Among the clutter of emails, one caught his eye: “Portfolio Archives.” The title was vague, yet something about it stood out. He glanced at his mother, but she was too focused on the account to notice his hesitation. “You’re welcome,” he said casually, slipping out of the room. He didn’t mention the email, but the thought of it nagged at him as he headed to his room.
The door to Zayd’s room clicked shut softly behind him, and he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The hum of his laptop filled the silence as he sat down, his fingers already reaching for the keyboard. The moment the inbox loaded, it was as though a door to another world had opened—a world where his mother wasn’t the devout, composed woman who ran their home and commanded respect in their community, but someone entirely different. Someone he could barely reconcile with the person he knew.
So he logged into the account , the temporary password unchanged. She hadn’t even bothered to secure it, probably assuming it no longer mattered. But it did matter—more than she could have ever imagined. His eyes landed on the email that started it all, the one titled “Portfolio Archives.” He clicked on it, and the attachments loaded quickly. The first photo opened, and there she was: younger, radiant. Her hair, dark and thick, cascaded around her bare shoulders, framing a face he had only seen hints of in old family photos. But this wasn’t like any picture he had ever seen of her. Her full lips curved in a sultry smile, and her dark eyes held a confidence that felt magnetic, even through the screen.
Zayd’s breath caught as his gaze lingered on her body. She wasn’t covered in her usual flowing abaya or carefully arranged hijab. She was utterly and completely naked, her curves unabashedly on display, the softness of her skin glowing under the studio lights. The room suddenly felt too warm, and he shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his heart pounding in his chest. He clicked to the next attachment, then another, and another. Each image showed more of her
His thoughts began to race. How could this be his mother? The woman in these photos wasn’t just beautiful—she was mesmerizing. He got horny. Zayd felt a strange mix of emotions churn inside him: shock, curiosity, and something darker, something he couldn’t quite name yet but felt growing with every passing second. His hand hesitated over the mouse, but the pull of the next attachment was too strong. He clicked on a video, and the screen flickered to life. Her voice filled the room—submissive, playful, and teasing in a way that felt so alien to him. Her moves hypnotic, her every gesture deliberate, her smile disarming. It wasn’t just the content that held him captive—it was the fact that this was her. His mother, getting raw dogged by two men. He felt his own hands move automatically to his erect teenage cock. Before he could fully comprehend his actions he had already shot his load all over the screen. Clumsily he wiped it off. Fuck, he hadn’t even watched porn before, let alone see a woman naked and on top of all that his own whore of a mother. He felt his cock twitching again as he flipped through the mail.
The name “Amara” popped up repeatedly in the emails and contracts he found, and with a few quick searches, he uncovered an entire archive of her work. Websites, forums, and old promotional material painted a vivid picture of a life she had kept hidden. The more Zayd uncovered, the clearer the timeline became. She had been active for years, building a reputation for herself, before abruptly disappearing. Emails hinted at a desire to leave it all behind, to start fresh. “Family plans,” one message had said. That was when Amara had disappeared, replaced by the woman who now lived a life of strict faith and discipline. But that didn’t matter now. What mattered was that he had found her past, and he was the only one who knew about it.
His pulse quickened as he clicked through more files, his fingers trembling. With each new discovery and each stroke of his cock, a plan began to form in his mind. He didn’t even have to think about it—it just came together naturally. His own mother seduced him. He would confront her, and needed to discipline her. Now, he needed to take his time, to make her understand just how vulnerable she was, that she needed to be punished for her sins against Him. He would show her a photo, maybe two, just enough to let her know he had everything. Then he would let her fear grow. He could already imagine her reaction—the shock, the shame, the desperate attempts to rationalize it all. She would do anything to keep this hidden, to protect her family and her reputation.. The power of that thought sent a thrill through him, and he felt his body respond with another orgasm. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind, but the images of his naked, slutty mother lingered. Every photo, every video played back in his head, each one more intoxicating than the last. She wasn’t just beautiful—she was perfect, he wanted to fuck her. And she had spent years hiding that part of herself, suppressing it under layers of modesty and faith. But now it was all his. She had no choice but to submit. Something in his head clicked. He wasn’t just uncovering her past—he was creating her future, a submissive Mommy slut.
The moment came on a quiet evening, the kind where the house felt heavier under the weight of routine. His father was away for work, as usual, and his mother had just finished clearing the dinner table. She moved with her usual grace, her hands deftly folding the dish towel before draping it neatly over the edge of the sink. The scent of jasmine trailed after her as she walked into the living room, her grey abaya flowing softly around her.
Zayd sat on the couch, his laptop open but untouched. His heart beat faster than usual, though he kept his face impassive. Everything was in place. He had rehearsed this moment over and over in his mind, calculating her reactions, her responses, the words she might say. And yet, as she sat across from him, her serene expression unbroken, a flicker of hesitation crept in.
“Zayd, is something wrong?” Her voice was calm, maternal, yet there was a faint note of concern as she tilted her head. “You’ve been quiet all evening.”
He looked up, forcing himself to meet her gaze. This was it—the point of no return. “I need to talk to you,” he said, his tone measured, but the weight behind his words was unmistakable.
Her brow furrowed slightly, the first crack in her composed exterior. “What is it, habibi?”
Zayd hesitated, his fingers tapping lightly against the laptop. “It’s about the AOL account.”
Her face softened into a small smile, relief flickering in her eyes. “Oh, that. Did I forget to change the password? I keep meaning to ask you for help with that.”
“You did forget,” he said, his voice steady but cool. “And I’ve been in it.”
The smile faded instantly. Her posture stiffened, her hands folding tightly in her lap. “What do you mean, you’ve been in it?”
Zayd didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he turned the laptop toward her, the screen lighting up with an image that sent a visible shiver through her. It was one of the photos—unmistakably her. Younger, exposed, collared and on her knees sucking cock. Her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide as she stared at the screen.
“Zayd,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Where did you find this?”
“In your inbox,” he said simply, his tone devoid of emotion. “There’s more.”
Her hands shook as she reached for the laptop, but he pulled it back, his movements deliberate. “Don’t,” he said firmly.
Her face paled as he began to speak, laying out everything he had found: the photos, the videos, the emails, the contracts. He described her life as Amara with unfair precision, each word stripping away a layer of the identity she had so carefully built. She tried to interrupt, to deny it, but the weight of his knowledge was undeniable.
“You don’t understand,” she said desperately, tears welling in her eyes. “That was a long time ago. I wasn’t… I’m not that person anymore.”
“But you were,” Zayd countered, his voice sharp. “And now I know everything.”
Her hands trembled in her lap, her composure crumbling as he leaned forward, his gaze unrelenting. “Do you know what would happen if this got out? To Dad? To your friends? To the community?” His words were calculated, designed to cut deep, and he saw them land with devastating accuracy.
“Zayd, please,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “This isn’t who I am.”
“Maybe not,” he said, leaning back, his expression cold. “But it doesn’t matter. Your secret is safe with me…for now” He left it at that and motioned for her to leave.
The days that followed were a careful balancing act. Zayd didn’t push too hard at first, letting the weight of the initial confrontation settle. He began with small demands—her silence when he stayed out late, her compliance when he asked for things she would normally refuse. Each time, she acquiesced without argument, the fear of exposure hanging over her like a storm cloud. He watched her closely, noting every crack in her resolve, every flicker of hesitation in her movements. She had always carried herself with quiet strength, but now, there was a fragility to her, a sense of uncertainty that hadn’t been there before. One evening, as she moved silently around the kitchen, preparing tea in her usual quiet ritual, he leaned against the counter and spoke without preamble. “You don’t need to wear that at home.” His words were casual, but the underlying intent wasn’t lost on her. She froze, her hands gripping the edge of the counter, her knuckles whitening as her eyes darted toward him. “What are you talking about?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. He nodded toward her hijab, the neatly pinned grey fabric that framed her face. “You wear that for modesty, right? But it’s just us here. No one else. You don’t need to wear it around me.” Her lips parted as if to protest, but she stopped herself, and for a long moment, the room was filled only with the faint hum of the kettle on the stove. “I… I wear it because I choose to,” she said finally, her voice trembling but firm. He tilted his head, studying her, the faintest smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “Then choose to take it off,” he said simply, his tone light but unyielding. “Unless you’d rather I start showing people what I’ve found.”
Her breath hitched audibly, and she looked away, her fingers moving reluctantly to the pins. Slowly, almost painfully, she removed the fabric, letting it slip from her head and fall onto the counter. Zayd’s gaze lingered on her, taking in the cascade of dark, glossy hair that framed her face. She seemed smaller somehow, exposed, her usual composure crumbling as she avoided his eyes. “Good,” he said after a long pause, his voice calm and measured. “You look better this way. Don’t wear it around me anymore.”
The demands escalated. One afternoon many days later, he placed a small box on the table in front of her, watching as her face shifted from confusion to dread when she opened it to find lingerie inside. Her fingers trembled as she touched the fabric, and her voice cracked when she spoke. “Zayd, this is… this is just not okay, I’m not doing that.” He leaned back in his chair, his expression cool and unreadable. “It’s just clothing,” he said, shrugging as though it were the most natural thing in the world. “You wear what I tell you to. That’s the deal.” She stared at him, her chest rising and falling in shallow breaths as she tried to formulate a response, but no words came. “Put it on,” he added, his tone softening, almost gentle. “You don’t have to show me now. Just… take a picture. Prove you’re wearing it.”
Her reaction was immediate and visceral, her hands gripping the edge of the table as her face flushed with humiliation. “This isn’t right,” she said, her voice shaking. “You can’t ask me to…” He cut her off with a sharp glance, his voice low and steady. “I can ask you to do whatever I want. Or we can talk about what happens if I don’t keep your little secret.” The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating, until finally, she nodded, her eyes cast downward. “Fine,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “I’ll do it.”
Each time she complied, it became easier for him to push further, to test the limits of her submission. He began to see the shame that seemed to settle deeper with every passing day, a quiet understanding that her past had returned to haunt her, and she had no way to escape it.
His demands grew bolder. He instructed her to remove the hijab permanently while at home, to always wear the lingerie under her clothing and send him proof. The first time she did, the photo arrived late at night, a grainy, poorly lit image taken with trembling hands. Her face wasn’t visible, but he recognized her instantly, the curves she had once flaunted now hidden beneath layers of modesty for years.
Zayd sat in his room late that night, the photo open on his laptop as he stared at it, his cock shooting load after load fantasizing about his own mother. He could feel the control he had over her growing, the way she responded to his words, his presence. It wasn’t just about leverage anymore—it was about the thrill of seeing her bend to his will, of knowing she belonged to him in a way no one else ever could. He couldn’t stop. Not now. Not when she was so close to breaking completely.
…
The air in the house felt heavier one evening. Tonight, it was all coming to a head.
His mother walked into the living room, her movements slower than usual, her hands brushing over the folds of her abaya as though to steady herself. She no longer wore the hijab at home—a change he had insisted on—but the loose fabric of her clothing still swayed around her like a shield, a reminder of the modesty she clung to even now. Her face was a picture of quiet apprehension, her dark eyes darting toward him before quickly looking away.
“Zayd,” she began softly, her voice trembling slightly, “what do you want from me tonight?” She was trying to sound composed, but he could hear the undercurrent of fear in her words. It sent a thrill through him, a sharp jolt of power that settled low in his gut. He leaned back, spreading his arms across the back of the couch as he studied her. The sight of her, standing there so vulnerable, so completely at his mercy, made his breath hitch.
“You know what I want,” he said, his voice calm but laced with something darker. “I’ve been very clear.” Her hands tightened into fists at her sides, and he could see the struggle in her posture, the way her body seemed to shrink under his gaze. Yet, she didn’t move to leave. She didn’t protest. She simply stood there, waiting, her breathing shallow.
His eyes roamed over her, taking in every detail. He noticed the faint flush creeping up her neck, the way her chest rose and fell with each unsteady breath. Her lips parted slightly as though to speak, but no words came. The sight of her like this—caught between defiance and submission—made something tighten inside him, a hunger that he could no longer ignore. He shifted in his seat, the heat pooling in his stomach spreading through his body, his pulse quickening.
“Take it off,” he said finally, his voice low but commanding. The words hung in the air like a challenge, daring her to refuse. Her eyes widened, and she took a step back, her hands clutching at the fabric of her abaya as though it could protect her.
His jaw tightened, and he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he fixed her with a steady gaze. She looked away, her shoulders slumping as the fight drained out of her. He could see the tears welling in her eyes, the way her hands trembled as she loosened her grip.
Zayd’s breath caught in his throat as she stood there, defeated, her head bowed. The hunger inside him surged, overwhelming and impossible to suppress. He wanted her—wanted to see her, to have her, to break through the last of her defenses and claim her completely. The thought made his hands clench into fists, his juvenile dick almost bursting through his pants.
“Look at me,” he said, his voice softer now, almost gentle. She hesitated, her lashes wet with unshed tears, before lifting her gaze to meet his.
Her hands trembled as they hovered near the clasp of her abaya, hesitating. He didn’t move, didn’t press her further, but the weight of his gaze was enough to push her forward. Slowly, she unclasped the top button, her fingers fumbling slightly before moving to the next. The room was deathly quiet, the only sound the faint rustle of fabric as it loosened around her shoulders.
It slipped lower, revealing the curve of her neck and the faint line of her collarbone. She paused again, her breathing uneven, her hands gripping the fabric as though it might anchor her.
Zayd’s pulse quickened as he watched her. The sight of her like this—vulnerable, exposed, and completely under his control—was intoxicating.
“You’re doing fine,” he murmured, his tone softer now, coaxing rather than commanding. “Just a little more.” She hesitated, her knuckles white as paper as she clutched the fabric, and for a moment he thought she might stop altogether. But then, with a deep, shuddering breath, she let the abaya slip further, revealing the delicate curve of her shoulders.
“Let it go now,” he said again, his voice low, measured, but carrying the unmistakable weight of command. She closed her eyes briefly, as though summoning the strength to continue, then loosened her grip. It slipped further, pooled at her feet. Zayd’s breath caught as his eyes traveled over her, taking in the sight of the delicate lace and satin that clung to her body.
She wore the lingerie he had given her, as he had instructed, the black lace framing her curves, accentuating her smooth belly, her perfectly formed 34 C cups, and the bushy pubes that crept past her panties.
Zayd’s gaze remained locked on her, his chest rising and falling steadily as he let the moment linger, savoring the power that radiated from the silence. Her arms moved instinctively to cover herself, one arm draped across her chest while the other pressed between her legs, shielding her most intimate places. The curve of her shoulders hunched slightly, her posture betraying a mix of shame and submission. She didn’t dare look at him, her lashes fluttering against her flushed cheeks as her breathing quickened.
“Don’t hide,” he said softly, his voice low but firm. She flinched at the words, her body trembling as she hesitated. “I told you to show me, not cover yourself.” Her fingers twitched as though she wanted to disobey, to cling to what little dignity she had left, but slowly, reluctantly, she obeyed. Her arms fell away, leaving her exposed, her body framed in the lace lingerie that clung to her curves like a second skin.
“Kneel,” he said, his voice steady despite the heat pooling low in his stomach. Her head jerked slightly as though she hadn’t heard him, but when his gaze darkened, she understood. With agonizing slowness, she lowered herself to the floor, her knees pressing into the soft rug beneath her. Her movements were hesitant, almost mechanical, as though her body obeyed without her mind’s consent. Her dark hair fell around her face in soft waves, obscuring her expression, but he could see the way her hands clenched into fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms.
“Crawl to me,” he said, his voice softer now, almost coaxing. Her breath hitched audibly, her shoulders stiffening at the command. But then, with a deep, shuddering breath, she leaned forward, her hands trembling as they pressed against the floor. She moved hesitantly, her knees shuffling across the rug as she crawled toward him, her movements slow and deliberate.
When she finally stopped at his feet, her hands resting on the floor beside her knees, he felt a surge of triumph unlike anything he had ever known. This was it. She was his.
Her head hung low now as tears streamed down her cheeks, but she knew she couldn’t fight back – her son held all the power now.
“Take off my pants,” he commanded,
She reached forward with a tear covered face that spoke volumes of shame and disgust and began undoing the button of his trousers, sliding the zipper slowly down until they parted. Her breath hitching slightly at the sight of his thick erection protruding through the opening in his shorts.
Her heart thudded painfully in her chest as she pulled down his boxers. His teenage cock jumped out hard and straight. Exposing him fully, his glistening precum stained love rod looked at her expectantly with all its 4.7” length. “Take it,” he ordered.
Without complaint, she took hold of his shaft and stroked it gently. She was unable to disguise the way her fingers quivered; each movement of her palm along its length caused small sparks of desire to race throughout his entire being. In her mind she chanted “this is okay… this is okay…” but nothing could calm her nerves as he continued speaking.
Zayds felt himself quickly approaching orgasm at the sight of his Mommy slut giving him a handjob. But he wanted more. “Suck me off.”, came bis command.
He positioned himself between her legs and pushed his dick towards her mouth, against her mouth. Slowly at first, then more forcefully as her resistance waned away. Finally, it popped inside and she gasped around its girth. His hands gripped the sides of her head firmly, guiding it up and down over his shaft.
“Mommy… you know what to do,” he whispered, staring intently into her eyes. It took everything within her not to fall apart out of pure shame. Instead, her breath hitched when his cock touched the back of her throat. When he pulled back slightly so only the tip remained in her mouth, she started moving her head on her own accord, taking him deeper into her mouth each time. Just get this over with and he’ll be done with it she thought naively.
As he thrust harder into her mouth, slamming it into the roof, the salty taste of precum coated her tongue. Mere seconds later, his balls tightened up against her chin and hot spurts began shooting down her throat as she sucked off her own, inexperienced son with the professionalism of a cock sucking street whore. A few times he hit the back of her mouth and she gagged reflexively, trying to swallow every last drop. At length, his body jerked violently and her nose was buried deep within his pubic hair, his hands on the back of his head, locking her there.
Eventually he let go of his mother. She knelt there for a moment longer, her body tense and trembling, her lips pressed tightly together as though sealing away the taste of what had just happened. Her reddened eyes flicked upward, meeting him briefly before darting away, unable to hold his gaze.
Zayd leaned back, his breathing still uneven, his expression a mixture of satisfaction and something deeper—something darker. He studied her, taking in the faint flush of her cheeks, the way her hands clenched into trembling fists against her thighs. She looked fragile in that moment, stripped of the composure she always carried, yet there was still a flicker of defiance in the way her shoulders stiffened, as if trying to reclaim some semblance of control.
“You did well,” he said quietly, his voice calm but carrying an edge of command. “I told you this would be easier if you obeyed.” She flinched at the words, her head bowing slightly, her hair falling forward to obscure her face. He could see the conflict in her every movement, the way she shifted as though wanting to pull away but unable to move.
The taste of salty young seed still lingered and she swallowed hard again, the motion small but telling, and the faintest tremor passed through her as she finally spoke, her voice barely audible. “Are we done yet?” Her words hung in the air like a challenge, but there was no strength behind them, only a quiet, trembling fear that betrayed her vulnerability.
Zayd leaned forward, his gaze steady, his tone measured. “Never,” he said simply, his words deliberate and unyielding. She looked away, her body rigid as she knelt before him, the weight of his words sinking into her like stones.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke, the silence stretching between them like a chasm. And then, without another word, she rose slowly to her feet, her movements hesitant and stiff, her hands clutching at the folds of her abaya as though trying to piece herself back together. She didn’t look at him again as she turned and walked away, her steps faltering but steady enough to carry her out of the room.
Zayd watched her go, his mind racing with thoughts he couldn’t quite articulate, the fire inside him still smoldering. He knew there was no going back now, no undoing what had been set into motion. She had obeyed, reluctantly, swallowing her shame along with everything else. And he knew, with a certainty that sent a thrill through him, that his Mommy slut would obey again.
Later that evening….
The door clicked shut, and the weight of the moment settled over them both. She stood with her back to the door, her fingers twisting nervously at the fabric of her abaya, her body trembling as she avoided his gaze. Zayd watched her closely, his heart pounding, his breathing heavy with anticipation. She had come willingly—or at least without protest. That alone was enough to send a surge of heat coursing through him.
“Take it all off,” he said, his voice low but unyielding. She flinched as though struck, her hands tightening around the folds of her clothing. “Zayd, please…” she whispered, her voice cracking with emotion. He didn’t respond, only tilted his head, his gaze steady, commanding. “You know what I want,” he said quietly, each word deliberate. “Don’t make me ask again.”
Zayd’s breath caught as he took her in. The black lace traced intricate patterns over her skin, clinging to her curves with an almost impossible perfection. Her chest, full and rounded, pressed softly against the delicate fabric, the outline of her 34C figure clearly visible. Her hips flared naturally, the lace hugging them tightly before tapering down to her toned thighs. The faint sheen of her skin caught the light, highlighting the smooth lines of her body as she stood there, trembling and exposed again.
“Kneel,” he murmured, and she sank to her knees before him, her head bowing as though she couldn’t bear to meet his gaze. His pulse quickened as he reached forward, his fingers tilting her chin upward until her dark eyes locked with his. “Good,” he said softly, his voice heavy with approval. “Now, the rest.”
Her hands trembled as they reached for the ribbon at the back of the lace, undoing it with painstaking slowness. The fabric loosened, sliding over her shoulders and down her body, revealing her bare skin inch by inch.
“Lie back,” he said, his voice steady despite the pounding of his heart. Her body tense, but after a moment, she complied, moving to the bed behind her. She lay down slowly, her legs folding before parting slightly, her knees trembling as they fell open. Zayd’s gaze swept over her, his hunger rising as he took in the sight of her completely exposed, vulnerable, and waiting.
She lay beneath him, trembling and exposed, her figure the embodiment of softness and vulnerability. Her breasts were full and perfectly shaped, the roundness giving way to taut, rosy nipples that stood out sharply against the light tone of her skin. Her stomach was smooth, slightly curved, leading down to her hips, highlighting her femininity. Between her legs, her skin flushed a deeper pink, the soft folds delicate and glistening faintly, framed by the smooth curve of her thighs. Every detail of her seemed heightened under his gaze, from the slight shiver in her legs to the way her breaths came in shallow, uneven gasps.
Zayd positioned himself closer, his hands firm on her hips, holding her steady as he lowered himself.
“Just relax,” Zayd whispered, his thumbs gently massaging circles into her sides while his dick twitched and jerked in anticipation. Slowly, he pushed inside her, feeling her muscles clench and resist as if trying desperately not to let him enter her. He gritted his teeth, exerting more pressure, gradually forcing himself further and further until finally breaking past the resistance. Once fully embedded within her tight warmth, he paused, savoring the sensation of being deep inside his mother.
Despite the tension surrounding them both, an overwhelming sense of bliss consumed him as her body accepted him without fighting anymore. It felt surreal – like touching something precious or sacred, almost divine – having her embrace him in this way.
Watching tears stream down her face was haunting: a woman who loved her child reduced to nothing more than sexual release for him; yet one unable to voice objections due to the cultural pressure of his blackmail, leaving him caught between wanting more and praying for forgiveness. Although physically spent, his soul ached; burdened by feelings of shame. Still, he didn’t withdraw nor stop – after all, her submission provided comfort, pleasure and obscene power, reminding him there existed boundaries which only few men dared cross. Therein lay the power dynamic inherent in sexslaves; one party yielded control to another participant, whether they want it or not. That realization chilled him deeply, amplifying his egoistical narcissism.
Zayd began pumping more steadily into his crying mother, rhythmically driving himself home again and again. He sighed in contentment and desire, lost in pure physical ecstasy. With each thrust, he experienced a surge of heat rising from within, building until an intense rush of energy exploded throughout his entire body, shattering the barriers erected years ago when she gave gave up her life as a whore. A torrential downpour of jizz flooded her depths, painting the fertile walls of her insides a vibrant hue of white.
Finally, he finished filling her womb, releasing one final sigh before carefully pulling out. Catching her sobs, he wrapped her protectively in his arms, allowing her emotions to pour forth unhindered while whispering promises he wasn’t sure whether he could keep:
“It’s okay…you don’t have to hold anything in…”
He felt guilty taking advantage of her submission during such emotionally fraught moments, but also knew it was essential for closure. She needed honesty regarding their situation.
Her body still trembling faintly from the weight of what had transpired. Her dark hair clung to her damp skin, her breaths shallow and uneven as she lay there, staring at the ceiling. Zayd’s presence lingered beside her, his body warm and relaxed, his breaths slow and steady as though he had found peace in what they had done. But for her, there was no peace—only the numb acceptance that this son of her’s was a monster she created, that He sent, to punish her for her sins as a young woman.
She rose slowly, her limbs heavy with exhaustion and the quiet shame that pressed down on her like a suffocating weight. Her abaya lay discarded on the floor as did the lace. She reached for it mechanically, wrapping it tightly around her as though it could shield her from the reality she had stepped into. Her fingers trembled as she adjusted the folds of her hijab, pinning it securely in place before glancing back at the bed where Zayd still lay, his gaze following her with an unspoken command.
Her steps were hesitant as she left the room, fresh teenage seed dripping down her thighs, the silence of the hallway wrapping around her like a shroud. Each step felt heavier than the last, the enormity of what had happened settling into her bones. But she didn’t cry. There were no tears left for her to shed. Instead, she straightened her shoulders, her body moving with practiced precision as she prepared for the night. To face the world outside. To them, she was still the perfect mother, the devout woman of faith who upheld every value and tradition with unwavering conviction.
The End
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By Flikk
#Blackmail #Incest #Mature #Teen
