The Sin We Share: A Mother-Son AffairI’m Owen, 23, and this is the story of how my mom, Lila, and I fell into a sin so deep it stained our souls in Thornfield, a quiet village tucked in the rolling hills of nowhere. It’s raw, forbidden, and heavy with the weight of what we did—a secret affair that thrived in the shadows of barns and backroads. I’m telling it all, every filthy, heart-wrenching detail, because it’s ours, and no one else can claim it.Mom was 40 when it started, a beauty weathered by village life—honey-brown hair tied in loose buns, hazel eyes that held too many secrets, and a body that turned heads at the market—full tits that strained her aprons, a round ass from years of labor, and legs strong from walking the fields. She’d raised me alone in our stone cottage on Thornfield’s edge after Dad drank himself dead when I was nine. We were the village’s quiet pair, until that quiet cracked open and let the sin spill out.It began last harvest, when I’d come back from a season shearing sheep up north. The air was thick with hay and cider, the village buzzing with the annual fair. I was in the barn, shirtless and sweaty, stacking bales, when Mom came in with a jug of water. She was in a sundress, faded blue and clinging to her curves, her hair damp from the heat. The dress hugged her tits, and when she bent to pour me a cup, I saw no bra—just the outline of her nipples.“Hard work today,” she said, her voice soft as she handed me the cup, her fingers brushing mine. She lingered, her eyes tracing my chest, my arms, and I felt my cock stir in my jeans. I tried to laugh it off, but she stepped closer, wiping sweat from my brow with her thumb, and the air shifted.“Yeah,” I muttered, my throat tight. “Hot as hell.” She smiled, a flicker of something dark in her gaze, and walked away slow, her hips swaying. That was the first thread unraveling.The next few weeks were a slow burn in Thornfield’s stillness. She’d brush past me in the kitchen, her ass grazing my crotch as she reached for flour. I’d catch her hanging laundry, her dress riding up to show her thighs, no panties some days, and I’d have to turn away before she saw my bulge. We’d sit on the porch at dusk, her bare feet nudging mine, and I’d fight the urge to grab her, to feel her. The village watched us—nosy old Mrs. Hale, the preacher’s sidelong glances—but they didn’t see what was brewing.Then came the night we shared it.A late frost hit Thornfield, the kind that creeps in silent and bites hard. I was in the living room, in just a pair of worn pants, stoking the fireplace, when Mom came down in a flannel nightgown, unbuttoned low, her tits half-out, her legs bare. She sat beside me, too close, her hand resting on my knee.“Owen,” she whispered, her voice trembling, “do you ever feel… wrong about me?” Her fingers slid higher, brushing my thigh, and I froze, my cock hardening fast.“Mom,” I rasped, “what are you saying?” She leaned in, her breath warm on my neck, and kissed me—soft, guilty, then hungry. I groaned, pulling her onto my lap, her nightgown hiking up as I tasted her—sweet, like cider and shame. “We can’t,” I muttered, but my hands were on her ass, pulling her closer, her pussy grinding against me through my pants.“We already are,” she breathed, tearing the nightgown off, baring herself—her tits full, nipples stiff, her cunt wet and shaved. I shoved her onto the rug, ripping my pants off, my cock springing free—thick, aching, leaking. She spread her legs, and I dove in, licking her pussy—tangy and hot—sucking her clit as she moaned, “Oh fuck, Owen, yes!” Her hands clawed the rug, her hips bucking, and she came, her juices coating my tongue.“Fuck me, baby,” she pleaded, and I thrust into her, deep and slow, her tight cunt gripping me as she gasped, “You’re so big!” I fucked her steady, the fire crackling, her tits bouncing as I growled, “This our sin now, Mom?” She nodded, tears in her eyes, wrapping her legs around me, pulling me deeper.I flipped her onto her stomach, slamming into her from behind, spanking her ass as she pushed back, her moans soft and desperate. “Harder,” she whispered, and I grabbed her hair, pounding her, her cunt dripping onto the rug. She came again, trembling, and I grunted, “Gonna cum,” spilling thick cum inside her, filling her as she whimpered, “Yes, share it with me.”That night bound us. Thornfield became our secret stage. In the hayloft, I’d bend her over a bale, fucking her quick and quiet, her apron hiked up, the cows lowing below as she bit her lip to stifle screams. By the creek, late at night, she’d ride me in the shallows, water splashing, my hands on her tits as frogs croaked around us. One time, we snuck into the old mill, and I tied her to a beam with twine, teasing her pussy with a feather from the henhouse until she begged, then fucked her hard, dust falling as she came.The wildest was during the harvest dance. We slipped out to the orchard, the music faint, and I pinned her against an apple tree, her skirt up, no panties. I ate her ass—yeah, she begged for it after I fingered her there—then fucked her standing, her moans blending with the wind. She came so hard she soaked my jeans, and I painted her thighs with my cum, the village none the wiser.We knew it was wrong, knew Thornfield’s pious folk would stone us if they found out. But our sin—her cunt, her tears, her body—was a bond we couldn’t break. Even now, she’s in the kitchen, apron on, no panties, waiting for me to take her again. And I will, because this affair, this shared shame, is all we’ve got in this damn village.