Incest For women -Immersive sex story

[Naruto411]

You wake up slowly, the light streaming through the curtains coaxing you into awareness. The sheets cling to your body, sliding down as you shift. Your camisole—thin, teasing, almost indecent—cups your curves, your nipples already hard against the fabric. Every movement reminds you how little it leaves to the imagination.

That slut inside you stirs, whispering in your mind. "Feel it. Feel how your body aches to be touched, even now, first thing in the morning. Touch yourself through the fabric, tease those stiff peaks with your fingertips."

Your legs stretch out, your thighs brushing together, the softness of your skin igniting sparks of sensation. There’s a damp heat blooming low between your legs as you roll out of bed. The camisole slides against your breasts with every step toward the bathroom, the weight of them swaying slightly, a silent, sensual rhythm only you can feel.

The mirror catches your eye. You pause, leaning in, letting your heavy breasts press against the cold countertop. You watch yourself—your lips parted, cheeks flushed, your hair wild from sleep. The sight makes your core tighten, a quiet ache demanding attention.

The slut in you whispers again. "Don’t just look at yourself—see yourself. See how those breasts rise and fall, how your nipples stand out so boldly. Cup them. Pinch them. Let yourself feel how hard they’ve become."

You pick up your toothbrush, trying to ground yourself, but even the act of brushing feels charged. The bristles scbang your tongue, mint flooding your senses, your lips curling around the handle. You know what you look like, and it’s enough to make your thighs press together involuntarily.

The shower waits, a tantalizing escape. You strip off the camisole and step into the cold spray. It shocks you at first, a sharp jolt as the water streams over your skin. You gasp, the droplets racing down your body, tracing every curve. Your nipples harden even more under the icy touch.

The water warms, steam rising around you. Your hands reach for the soap, lathering it until your palms are slick with foam. The slut in you purrs. "Start at your shoulders. Let the lather slide down, over your chest. Feel the softness of your breasts, the way your fingers sink into them. Don’t rush. Take your time. They deserve it."

You follow her command. Your hands move over your skin, spreading the soap, teasing your nipples with slow, deliberate circles. The friction sends a jolt straight to your core, and a soft moan escapes your lips before you can stop it.

"Don’t be shy," that voice urges. "This is your body. It’s yours to explore, yours to worship. Imagine my hands there if you like. Imagine anything, as long as you don’t stop."

The water streams over you, washing away the soap but leaving the heat. Your hands slide lower, over the swell of your hips, your fingers tracing every curve, every dip. Your breath catches as your fingertips brush just below your stomach, teasing the edge of something deeper.

"You’re alive in this moment," the slut inside you hums, satisfied. "You’re alive, and you’re everything. Now show yourself what that means."

The story doesn’t stop here—it’s only just begun. But right now, let your hands take over. Let the water, the warmth, and that voice inside you drown out everything else.

[Naruto411]

Your hands move lower, the soap clinging to your palms as they slide over your hips. The water pools briefly between your thighs, the heat sending a shiver up your spine. As your fingers brush against the soft, sensitive folds of your pussy, you pause, the warmth of your touch mingling with the slipperiness of the soap. You press gently, exploring the softness, careful and deliberate.

The soap slipped between your thighs, cool and slippery as you lathered your skin. The water cascaded down, washing the foam from your chest, leaving your nipples tender and flushed. Your hands moved lower, over your stomach, until they reached the soft, sensitive folds below. You hesitated for a moment, your breathing shallow, before spreading the foam there, letting it coat every inch of your skin.

The voice in your head—a filthy little whisper—urged you to do more. "Slide your fingers inside, feel how slick you are already." But you pushed it down, smothering it with firm resolve. Instead, your soapy fingers focused on your clit, circling it slowly, teasing just enough to make your knees tremble under the water. The slickness of the soap mixed with the warm water, amplifying the sensation. You bit your lip, a soft moan escaping as you worked in rhythm, pressing and rubbing until the heat coiling inside you softened, leaving you content, satisfied—but not consumed.

You rub slowly at first, spreading the soap’s slickness. The sensation is electric, sparking heat deep inside you. You tilt your head back, letting the water cascade over your face and chest as your fingers work in tight, teasing circles. A soft moan escapes your lips, echoing faintly in the steamy bathroom.

The pace quickens, each motion sending waves of pleasure radiating through your body. The pressure builds, your knees trembling slightly as you lean against the wall for support. You rub harder, your breath hitching, and the release comes in a quiet, pulsing wave that leaves you trembling and sated.

You linger under the water, rinsing away the soap and the last vestiges of tension from your muscles. When you step out, the air hits your damp skin, goosebumps rising along your arms and legs. You towel yourself dry lazily, standing in front of the full-length mirror that waits like a silent admirer.

You look at yourself, your skin glistening with droplets of water. Your breasts are full and heavy, the nipples still flushed and stiff from the attention they received. The curve of your waist dips into the swell of your hips, leading down to the soft, inviting mound of your pussy. Your eyes are dark, smoldering with the remnants of pleasure, your lips slightly parted and kiss-swollen.

"God, look at you," you think, admiring every inch of yourself. "Those tits could make anyone fall to their knees. And that ass—tight, round, perfect. Your pussy's still wet, glistening, begging to be touched again. You’re fucking gorgeous, and you know it."

The slut in you stirs, a wicked thought bubbling to the surface. "What if you didn’t put on panties? What if you went out like this, letting the breeze tease your bare skin? Or better yet, what if you walked out of this room completely naked? No one would know… or maybe you’d want them to know. Maybe you’d want someone to see."

You bite your lip, your imagination running wild for a moment before you shake your head. The slut in you grins, unbothered. "Maybe next time," it hums, settling back down.

You turn to your wardrobe, sliding the doors open and running your fingers over the rows of delicate lace and silk. Matching innerwear—it has to be perfect. You pick out a dark red set, the bra sheer enough to show a hint of nipple, the panties cut high to accentuate your curves. The fabric feels like sin against your skin as you slide them on.

Over that, a formal dress: sleek, tailored, accentuating your figure without giving too much away. The way it hugs your body makes you smirk at your reflection. "You’re a fucking masterpiece," you think. "They won’t know what’s underneath, but if they did, they’d lose their goddamn minds."

The slut in you agrees wholeheartedly, purring at the thought as you smooth down the fabric and prepare to step into the world.

[Naruto411]

Should I include incest elements in this ? Not sure how many women are into it  give your opinion



Also men who came here wandering should I make one like this for men

[sri7869]

Good start

[Naruto411]

Warning if incest is not your cup skip to next post


You step out of your room, the soft rustle of your dress brushing against your thighs as you walk down the hallway. The warmth of the shower still lingers on your skin, mingling with the coolness of the air. Your hair is damp, framing your face in a way that draws attention to your lips, still slightly swollen from where you’d bitten them earlier.

As you enter the hall, you feel eyes on you. Or maybe you imagine it. The slut in your mind wakes, purring her little truths, the ones you’d rather not admit. "They’re looking," she whispers. "They always look. You know they can’t help it."

Your brother is slouched at the table, a glass of milk in hand, but his eyes flicker toward you the moment you step in. The slut in you chuckles. "See? Watch how he glances. His gaze lingers just a second too long on your chest. He thinks you don’t notice, but you do."

You catch him staring, his focus darting back to his drink awkwardly as if he can play it off. But you know better. Your dress hugs you in all the right places, the neckline just low enough to hint at the swell of your breasts. You could swear you see his throat bob as he gulps down the milk.

Your father sits nearby, the morning paper spread in front of him, but his attention shifts the moment you approach. "Remember," the slut reminds you, a low, teasing whisper in the back of your mind, "how he softens the moment you hug him? How his hands freeze when they brush against your chest, no matter how innocent it seems? And that time on his lap… oh, you felt it, didn’t you? The hardness pressing against you before you quickly got up. He didn’t say a word, but you know he remembers too."

You shake off the thought, moving toward the kitchen where your mom is bustling around, her movements quick and efficient as she makes breakfast. The smell of eggs and toast fills the air, and she greets you with a cheerful smile. She doesn’t notice the tension in the room, the way your brother steals another glance, or how your father seems overly focused on his coffee now.

“Sit down, honey,” your mom says, setting a plate on the counter. “You must be starving.”

You take a seat, acutely aware of the way your brother shifts in his chair, pretending not to look as you lean forward to grab a slice of toast. The slut in your head laughs again. "He’s imagining things," she says. "Just like always. You know how he is. The way his eyes always follow you, especially when you’re not wearing a bra. And today? That dress? You’re killing him."

You glance at him briefly, your eyes meeting his for a split second before he looks away, his face slightly flushed. He takes a long drink of milk, as though it’ll distract him. The slut in you sighs contentedly. "They can pretend all they want," she murmurs. "But you see everything. You feel everything. And it’s delicious, isn’t it?"

Your mother sets a cup of tea in front of you, oblivious to the undercurrent of the room. As you sip it, you feel the slut in your mind stirring again, imagining scenarios that are too wild to admit even to yourself. But the reality is enough for now—the unspoken tension, the stolen glances, the way you’re always aware of the power you hold without even trying.

[Naruto411]

Incest warning

You sip your tea slowly, letting the warmth spread through you as you glance toward your brother. He’s leaning back in his chair now, his phone in hand, scrolling lazily through something that doesn’t seem to hold his interest. The sharp cut of his jawline is more pronounced than you remember, the neatly trimmed beard framing his face in a way that makes him look... older. Different.

The slut in your mind perks up, stretching like a cat. "Look at him," she purrs. "When did he get so jacked? Those shoulders could pin you down easily, couldn’t they? That beard—God, imagine how it would feel against your lips. Or better yet, on your thighs. Grazing your skin while his tongue does all the work."

You shake your head slightly, trying to refocus. He looks up, catching your eye, and smiles. “It’s good to see you,” he says, his voice deeper than you remember, rumbling low like it’s meant to be heard just by you. “Feels like I haven’t been home in ages.”

“How long are you staying?” you ask, your voice casual, but your throat feels tight, like the words don’t quite want to come out.

“A week, maybe two,” he replies, shrugging. “Depends on how much I can get done remotely. The semester was intense; I just need to recharge.”

Your eyes flicker to his arms as he stretches, the veins standing out against his forearm, the muscles flexing under his shirt. You can’t help but notice how much he’s filled out—broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, the kind of build that makes you wonder how strong his grip would feel against your hips.

The slut whispers again, her tone teasing. "Don’t stare too long, or he’ll notice. But God, doesn’t he look good? Imagine pulling him close, feeling that beard scratch against your cheek. Or better yet, pressing those soft lips to yours until neither of you can breathe. What would it feel like between your legs, rough and soft at the same time, while he devours you?"

He says something else, but you barely register it, too busy hiding the flush rising to your cheeks. You nod, offering a vague response as you focus on your plate, nibbling at the edges of your toast to distract yourself.

When you finish eating, you excuse yourself, slipping into the washroom under the guise of freshening up. As you close the door, you turn toward the mirror, catching your reflection. Your cheeks are pink, your lips slightly parted, and your dress clings just a little too closely to your curves. You lift the hem, just enough to check your panties in the dim light. There’s no mistaking the damp spot—a darkened patch of fabric right at the center, evidence of thoughts you shouldn’t have entertained.

The slut in your mind smirks, her voice dripping with amusement. "Caught you, didn’t I? All it took was a few words, a glance, and now look at you—wet for your own brother. He’d notice if he got close enough. Don’t pretend you don’t wonder what he’d do if he saw."

You quickly smooth down your dress, composing yourself before stepping back out into the hall. The air feels heavier now, charged with something unspoken as you rejoin the room. But you keep your face neutral, your smile easy, pretending everything is perfectly normal.

[Naruto411]

The office cab is already idling outside when you step out. The morning air is crisp, the faint hum of the engine blending with the quiet rustle of leaves in the breeze. You climb into the cab, squeezing past one of your coworkers to find a seat in the middle row. The space feels tight, the proximity to everyone else forcing you to be hyper-aware of every movement, every glance.

There are ten of you, including the driver. Four women and six men. The atmosphere is typical—idle chatter here and there, the hum of the radio filling the gaps. But you’ve ridden this cab enough times to know the unspoken dynamics, the invisible tension that lingers in the air.

You feel their eyes, fleeting but unmistakable. The men’s gazes dart subtly over you and the other women, lingering just long enough to make your skin prickle. The slut in your mind stirs, smirking. "You know what they’re thinking," she whispers. "It’s written all over their faces. They’re picturing things they’d never admit—how your body would feel under their hands, how your lips would taste, how you’d sound."

You glance out the window, pretending not to notice, but your mind betrays you. You start to wonder, imagining the roles reversed. What do they look like beneath their neatly pressed shirts, their corporate masks? That one in the corner, with his glasses and quiet demeanor—does he have a rough edge hiding under that soft exterior? Or the one sitting directly across from you, his leg brushing yours just slightly when the cab takes a turn—how strong are his hands? What would they feel like gripping your waist?

The slut hums, satisfied. "You’re just as bad as they are," she teases. "The only difference is you’re better at hiding it. They don’t know how you look at them when they’re not paying attention, how you imagine them in ways that would make them blush."

The women in the cab are chatting softly, their voices blending into the background. You steal a glance at them, admiring their polished appearances—the way their hair frames their faces, the way their skirts hug their hips. You know the men are looking too, trying to seem casual but failing miserably.

"And you," the slut whispers, turning her attention back to you. "You’re the one they look at the most, aren’t you? You see it in their eyes, the way they try not to stare but can’t quite help themselves. They wonder what’s under that dress, how your skin would feel, how you’d taste."

The cab hits a bump, and the slight jolt makes you shift in your seat, your thighs brushing together in a way that sends a flicker of warmth through you. You suppress a smirk, keeping your expression neutral, but inside, the slut is grinning. "They’d lose their minds if they knew what you were thinking right now, wouldn’t they?" she muses. "You could have any one of them wrapped around your finger if you wanted. They’re practically begging for it, even if they don’t say a word."

The ride continues, the tension unspoken but palpable. You keep your gaze forward, your hands folded neatly in your lap, but your mind is anything but innocent. Just like theirs. The only difference is, you know how to hide it better.

[Naruto411]

The cab hums along the road, and you notice it again—how their eyes flicker. Quick, darting glances they think you won’t catch. Some are focused on you, others on the curves of the other women, but it’s all the same. Men and their gazes.

You shift slightly, adjusting your posture, and it draws their attention like a magnet. Your dress dips just enough to tease the swell of your cleavage when you lean forward, pretending to rummage through your bag. You feel their stares, even as they try to hide them. The slut in your mind laughs softly. "Look at them," she murmurs. "Hungry little boys. They can’t help themselves, can they? Always so predictable."

A slight jolt shakes the cab as the driver takes a speed breaker too fast. You glance up, catching the briefest flash of his eyes darting to the rearview mirror—not at the road, but at you. Or rather, at your chest, where the motion of the bump made things shift in ways that were impossible to ignore.

The slut hums, her tone dripping with mischief. "Poor guy," she whispers. "Imagine how tight his pants must feel right now. Bet his cock is straining, and he’s trying so hard not to think about it. You could make it worse, couldn’t you? Uncross your legs, shift just enough to let the hem of your dress ride up. Would you?"

Your cheeks flush slightly at the thought, but you don’t dismiss it. Instead, your mind wanders further. "What if he asked?" the slut continues. "Would you let him pull over, slide into the backseat, and take you in front of everyone? Or maybe you’d slip into the front and let him unzip, give him just enough relief to keep driving without crashing. Not that you would, of course. But… would you?"

The idea sends a flicker of heat through you, pooling low in your belly. You press your thighs together subtly, but it doesn’t help. You’re still damp from the morning, your panties clinging uncomfortably as the cab’s heat settles around you.

You glance around. The men are quiet, but their body language betrays them—the way one shifts awkwardly in his seat, probably trying to adjust himself without being obvious. Another has his arms crossed tightly, his eyes fixed firmly out the window, but his jaw is tense, and you know where his thoughts are.

The slut in you grins, feeding on the silent tension. "What if it wasn’t just him? What if they all asked?" she whispers. "Would you spread your legs right here, let them see how wet you are? Let them touch, taste, take whatever they wanted? Not that you’d do that, of course. But maybe you would. Maybe you don’t even know."

The thought makes your breath hitch, your pulse quickening. You shake your head slightly, trying to clear it, but the heat lingers. The slut retreats, satisfied with the chaos she’s caused, leaving you alone with your thoughts as the cab continues down the road, the tension unspoken but thick enough to taste.

[Naruto411]

The cab pulls up to the office, and as you step out, you feel the fresh wave of eyes on you. The morning sun glints off the glass doors of the building, but your attention catches on the watchman standing by the gate. His posture stiffens when he sees you, his eyes tracking you a little too closely as you walk toward the entrance.

The slut in your mind chuckles knowingly. "Look at him," she whispers. "Practically drooling. Bet he wishes he could stop you right here, press you up against the wall, and take just one taste. Poor guy doesn’t even bother to hide it."

You glance at him briefly, offering a polite nod, and his face flushes. He quickly averts his gaze, pretending to focus on something else, but you don’t miss the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard. The slut hums. "You have that effect on them. Always have."

Inside the building, the air is cool, a relief from the warmth outside. The elevator doors slide open, and you step in with a group of people, the space quickly filling up until it’s packed shoulder to shoulder. You press the button for your floor, and just as the doors close, someone squeezes in at the last second, ending up directly behind you.

The press of bodies is unavoidable, the proximity making every movement feel amplified. The faint scent of cologne tickles your senses, sharp and musky, and you realize it’s coming from the man behind you. He’s close—too close—but there’s no room to step away.

The slut in your mind perks up instantly, her voice a low, teasing murmur. "Feel that? The heat of him against your back? Bet he’s trying not to move too much, but you can feel it anyway. The brush of his chest, the way his breath tickles the back of your neck."

You shift slightly, the motion causing your body to graze against his. It’s subtle, almost accidental, but you feel the tension in the air spike. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move, but you can sense it—how he’s holding himself still, his body taut like a wire about to snap.

The slut laughs softly. "What if you moved just a little more? Just enough to let him know you feel it too. Would he press closer? Would he try to stop himself, or would he give in?"

The elevator hums as it ascends, each floor ticking by slower than the last. You glance at the mirrored walls, catching a glimpse of his face. His jaw is tight, his eyes focused somewhere above your head, like he’s trying not to look down. But his hands, resting by his sides, clench into fists briefly before relaxing again.

The slut smirks. "He’s imagining it, you know. How you’d feel under his hands, how your body would arch if he pressed against you fully. What would you do if he leaned in, whispered something filthy in your ear, right here in front of everyone?"

You bite your lip, your cheeks warming as the elevator slows to a stop. The doors slide open, and you step out quickly, leaving the tension behind as you make your way to your desk. But the memory lingers—the heat, the closeness, and the wicked little voice in your mind that never lets you forget just how much power you hold.