Taboo's Glare
The air hung heavy--damp, sour, a whiff of sweat and something sticky you shouldn't want. The house squatted in the haze, its walls thick with whispers, floors slick with breaths held too close. Summer pressed down slow, and inside, bodies pressed harder--skin on skin, a hunger creeping where it didn't belong.
Seven days. That's all it took to break it open. A week of heat that didn't just burn--it melted shame, blurred every line, until only the swelling remained. Bellies tightening, whispering life bred in the dark, in the wet, in the wrong. No one planned it. No one stopped it. A spark flared, a grunt spilled, and now the seed took root, ready to burst through flesh.
It was raw--cum and guilt smeared thick, a stain that stuck like the heat. A lens caught it all, cold and sharp, zooming where lust crossed into the forbidden, where it fucked its way to forever. By the end, there'd be no hiding--not the shame, not the milk, not the wreckage left in that house's rot.
Chapter 1
The living room hummed with morning stillness, sunlight slicing through dusty blinds to spotlight a sagging couch. Donna perched on its edge, thirty-eight, blonde hair a wild tangle spilling over her shoulders. Her thin gown clung to her curves--tits heavy, hips wide--slipping off one shoulder as she fidgeted with a cigarette she didn't light. Her hazel eyes darted to the empty driveway, lips tightening. Her husband, David, had stormed out again last night, no note, no call--another absence chewing at her, leaving her body restless, skin itching for touch she hadn't felt in weeks. She shifted, gown riding up her thigh, and sighed, a low, frustrated sound.
Her daughter Alisha sprawled across an armchair nearby, twenty-three, dark ponytail swaying as she tugged at her cropped tee. The fabric stretched tight over her chest, outlining sharp peaks that pressed against it. She winced, yanking at her bra straps--red marks marred her pale shoulders where the frayed elastic dug in, the cups too small now, squeezing her tits uncomfortably.
"These straps are killing me," she muttered, adjusting again, her shorts low on her hips as she stood.
She grabbed her purse from the coffee table, motivated by the ache to replace the worn-out thing, and headed for the hall. "I'm hitting the store--back soon."
Her son Adi slouched in the doorway, twenty-two, lanky frame leaning against the frame, black hair greasy and flopping into his eyes. His tank top hung loose, sweat staining the pits, shorts sagging to hint at a bulge stirring beneath. He scratched his chest lazily, watching his sister's ass sway in those shorts, a horny itch crawling up his spine. He'd been fantasizing about her for weeks--catching her changing, her tits bare, maybe more--his cock twitching at the thought.
"Got stuff to do upstairs," he said, voice rough, slipping a small black spy cam from his pocket.
He shuffled up the stairs, driven by the urge to plant it in her room, to watch her strip later, his pulse quickening with every step. In her bedroom, a cluttered mess of sheets and dust, he moved fast. Adi slid the cam onto a shelf--nestled between a stuffed bear and a cracked perfume bottle--angled at her bed, its red light blinking alive. His fingers lingered, imagining her peeling off that tee, her cunt bare under those shorts, and he grinned, sharp and crooked, before heading back down. He kicked gravel in the driveway, mind buzzing with what he'd catch, the thrill of spying on his sister fueling him as he ducked around the house's side.
Alisha's exit left the living room quiet, screen door banging shut behind her. The mother, Donna, stood, brushing hair from her face, gown swishing as she paced. Her husband's absence gnawed deeper--another night alone, no hands on her, no release--her body a coiled spring. The doorbell's shrill cut snapped her out of it. She shuffled over, bare feet slapping linoleum, and pulled it open.
Her brother Samuel filled the threshold, forty-two, rugged--flannel unbuttoned, hairy chest slick with sweat, stubble framing a grin too sharp for family. His dark eyes flicked over her, boots thudding as he stepped in, dropping a duffel with a dull thud.
"Hey, sis, good to see you," he said, voice a low rumble, kicking the door shut.
He smelled of grease and whiskey, a raw musk that hit her gut, stirring something she pushed down. He'd left home to escape his wife's nagging, restless and rough, his gaze lingering on his sister's tits spilling soft against the gown, her hips a silent pull. He masked it, playing the concerned brother, but his intent simmered--her vulnerability was an opening he'd take.
"Didn't expect you," she said, forcing a smile, stepping back. "Cleaning up--David's out again."
Her tone bit, resentment flaring, fingers flexing at her sides. She turned to the stairs, gown riding up, unaware of how it drew him. "Alisha's room a mess--Mia's sleeping over tomorrow."
He followed, boots heavy, duffel slung, staring at her ass, lust curling under his casual nod. He was a man she desired. In her daughter Alisha's room--sheets twisted, red bra dangling--he dropped his bag, shut the door with a deliberate click.
"Alisha's growing up," he said, snagging the bra, twirling it on a finger, sniffing it.
Donna grabbed her daughter's bra from her brother Samuel's hand, then a broom, sweeping slow, gown inching higher, baring her thighs.
He stepped closer, floor creaking, heat rolling off him. "Did you hear some shit about me and Mia?" he said, testing her, voice dropping.
"Did you?" she asked, broom pausing, eyes locking his, a spark flaring in her gut.
"Yeah," he growled, leaning in, breath hot on her neck. "Fucked her yesterday--tight, begged for it."
Her thighs clenched, nipples stiffening. "That's sick, she's your daughter," she whispered, heat pooling low, "she's your kid."
"And you're my sister, Donna," he said, hands gripping her waist, yanking the gown up--bare ass trembling, cunt wet.
"You need it, don't you? Did not have sex in a long time?" His cock pressed hard against her thigh, fingers digging in.
