Pastor David’s wife, Rebecca, was the picture-perfect Christian mother to everyone in our small town. Forty-two years old, with a voluptuous body she tried to hide under modest dresses — massive DD breasts, wide breeding hips, thick thighs, and a round ass that strained against her Sunday skirts. She taught Bible study, led the women’s prayer group, and always had a sweet, pious smile for the congregation.
But behind closed doors, especially after church social events with the “special wine,” she became a completely different woman.
Tonight was one of those nights.
I heard the front door slam at 1:17 AM. Mom stumbled in, clearly hammered. Her conservative blouse was half-unbuttoned, showing deep cleavage, and her skirt was wrinkled and riding up her thighs. She kicked off her heels and nearly fell over.
“Mom? You okay?” I called from the living room.
She giggled drunkenly. “Just… had a little too much… communion wine, sweetie. Don’t tell your father.”
Pastor David was away at a three-day conference. It was just me and my very drunk mom.
I helped her to the couch. She collapsed onto it, legs splayed, skirt riding dangerously high. I could see the lace edge of her panties. My cock stirred instantly.
“Baby… be a good son and get Mommy some water,” she slurred, eyes half-closed.
I brought the water, but she barely drank any before her head lolled back. Within minutes she was out cold, snoring softly, completely passed out drunk.
This was my chance.
I’d fantasized about my hot pastor’s wife mom for years. Now she was right here — drunk, vulnerable, and completely at my mercy.
I sat beside her on the couch and slowly unbuttoned the rest of her blouse. Her heavy tits spilled out, barely contained by a lacy white bra. I pulled the cups down, exposing her hard pink nipples. I leaned down and sucked one into my mouth, then the other, while my hand slid up her thigh under her skirt.
Mom stirred slightly. “Mmm… no… David, not tonight…”
I froze, but she didn’t wake up fully. Just mumbled in her drunk haze.
I took her hand and wrapped her soft fingers around my rock-hard cock. Even unconscious, her hand felt incredible.
“Stroke it, Mom,” I whispered, moving her hand up and down.
She groaned weakly. “No… I’m a pastor’s wife… this is wrong…”
But her fingers instinctively tightened around my shaft as I used her hand for a slow, forced hand job. I guided her wrist, making her pump me while I played with her exposed tits.
“Fuck, Mom… your hand feels so good,” I groaned.
She mumbled protests but her body was betraying her. Her nipples were rock hard and her thighs kept shifting.
I got bolder. I pulled her skirt all the way up and pushed her panties aside, fingering her surprisingly wet pussy while continuing to force her hand up and down my cock.
“Drunk mom is getting wet for her son,” I taunted softly.
Her hand moved a little on its own now, still mostly me controlling the forced hand job. I sped up, using her soft palm and fingers to jerk me off while I rubbed her clit.
Her breathing grew heavier. Even drunk and half-asleep, her body was responding.
I leaned over and kissed her on the mouth. She weakly tried to turn away. “Nooo… I’m married… to the pastor…”
That only made me harder.
I straddled her chest, still holding her hand around my cock, and continued the forced hand job right over her face. Her eyes fluttered open for a moment, confused and glassy.
“Baby… what are you doing?” she slurred.
“Getting a hand job from my drunk pastor’s wife mom,” I answered, pumping her fist faster.
She tried to pull her hand away weakly, but I held it firmly in place. “Please… don’t…”
I was too far gone. With a loud groan I erupted. Thick ropes of cum shot across her face, tits, and into her open mouth as I forced her hand to milk every drop.
Mom coughed and sputtered, cum dripping down her cheek. “Oh god… what have I done…”
But I wasn’t finished.
I kept her hand on my cock, stroking myself back to hardness with her fingers while I fingered her soaked pussy. She moaned despite herself, drunk body responding to the taboo stimulation.
The rest of the night became a blur of non-con incest.
I stripped her completely naked, spread her legs on the couch, and made her give me multiple forced hand jobs while I played with her body. Every time she weakly protested that she was a pastor’s wife and my mother, it only turned me on more.
At one point I had her on her knees on the floor, still drunk and wobbly, using both her hands to jerk me off while I held her hair and fucked her tits.
“Stroke your son’s cock, Mom. This is what drunk pastors wives do.”
She cried a little but kept pumping me with her soft hands until I painted her face and chest again.
Later I carried her to her marital bed — the one she shared with my father, the pastor — and continued using her. Forced hand jobs turned into her riding me while barely conscious, then me fucking her from behind while she mumbled drunken protests mixed with moans.
By morning she was a cum-covered mess, leaking from multiple loads, face and tits glazed.
When she woke up hungover and horrified, I was lying beside her.
“What… what happened last night?” she whispered, voice shaking.
“You got drunk, Mom. And you gave your son the best hand jobs of his life while I took care of the rest.”
She covered her face in shame, but I saw the conflicted lust in her eyes.
The morning after that forbidden night, the house was thick with tension. Mom — Rebecca, the respected pastor’s wife — woke up in her marital bed covered in dried cum, her modest nightgown pushed up around her waist, her pussy still leaking my load. She stared at the ceiling for a long time before bolting to the bathroom to shower.
I stayed in my room, replaying every moment: the way her soft hand felt wrapped around my cock while she was too drunk to stop me, her weak protests of “I’m a pastor’s wife,” and how her body betrayed her again and again.
When she finally came downstairs, she couldn’t look me in the eye. She was back in full “pastor’s wife” mode — modest floral dress, hair neatly pinned, wearing her silver cross necklace.
“Last night… never happened,” she whispered firmly. “I was drunk. It was a mistake. We will never speak of it again. Your father can never know.”
“Yes, Mom,” I said obediently, but we both knew the truth. I had tasted the forbidden fruit, and I wasn’t going to stop.
That evening was another church event — a fundraising dinner with more of that “special communion wine.” Dad was still away at the conference. Mom promised herself she would only have one glass.
She came home at 11:45 PM even drunker than the night before. Her modest dress was rumpled, several buttons undone, and she was giggling to herself as she fumbled with her keys.
I was waiting on the couch.
“Mom… you’re drunk again,” I said, standing up to help her.
“I’m fine… just a little tipsy,” she slurred, stumbling into my arms. Her heavy breasts pressed against my chest. The smell of wine on her breath was strong.
I guided her to the living room couch — the same one from last night. She collapsed onto it, legs parting slightly, her dress riding up her thick thighs.
“Baby… get Mommy some water,” she mumbled, eyes already glassy.
Instead, I sat right next to her and put my hand on her knee. “You look so beautiful tonight, Mom. Even when you’re drunk.”
She tried to push my hand away weakly. “No… we can’t. I’m your mother… and a pastor’s wife. Last night was a sin.”
But her protests were soft, slurred, and half-hearted. The alcohol had already melted her resistance.
I took her right hand and placed it directly on the bulge in my pants. “Feel that, Mom? That’s what you did to me last night.”
Her fingers twitched but didn’t pull away. I unzipped and pulled my hard cock out, wrapping her warm palm around the shaft.
“Stroke it, Mom. Just like last night.”
“Nooo… please, sweetie… this is wrong,” she whimpered, but her fingers slowly closed around me. I started moving her hand up and down, forcing another hand job from my drunk pastor’s wife mom.
Her hand felt even better than I remembered — soft, slightly clammy from the wine, and reluctantly moving under my guidance. I leaned in and kissed her neck while pumping her fist faster.
“Such a good drunk mom,” I whispered. “Giving your son another forced hand job.”
Tears welled in her eyes even as her nipples hardened visibly through her dress. “I’m supposed to be a good Christian wife… not this…”
That guilt only made me harder. I pulled her dress open, exposing her massive DD tits in a plain white bra. I yanked the cups down and sucked hard on her nipples while she continued the forced hand job.
Her breathing grew ragged. Even in her drunken state, her body was responding strongly.
I stood up, pulling her to her knees on the carpet in front of me. “Use both hands this time, Mom.”
She looked up at me with glassy, conflicted eyes but obeyed when I guided her. Both of her soft hands wrapped around my cock, pumping me in the dim living room light while her cross necklace swayed between her tits.
“Faster,” I ordered, holding her hair. She stroked me with reluctant but increasing speed, her drunk moans mixing with weak protests.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this again… I’m a pastor’s wife…”
I groaned and erupted, shooting thick ropes of cum across her face, tits, and neck. Some landed on her cross. She gasped and coughed as it hit her lips.
But I was far from done.
I pulled her up onto the couch, stripped her dress completely off, and left her in just her bra (pulled down) and panties. I sat beside her and placed her hand back on my cock immediately.
“Keep stroking, Mom. Don’t stop.”
For the next hour I forced her to give me multiple hand jobs while I fingered her soaked pussy and sucked on her tits. Every time she tried to pull her hand away, I held it firmly in place and reminded her she was too drunk to fight.
At one point I made her stand up, bend over the couch, and reach back between her legs to stroke me while I spanked her ass and called her my drunk pastor’s wife slut.
Later I took her upstairs to the master bedroom — her and Dad’s bed. I laid her on her back, straddled her chest, and forced another long, slow hand job right over her face. She was mumbling prayers mixed with drunken moans as I used her hands.
“Please… no more… I’m married to the pastor…”
I came again, this time aiming most of it straight into her open mouth. She swallowed some involuntarily, coughing and crying softly.
The night escalated further. I made her give me a tit job combined with hand job, then had her ride me cowgirl while barely conscious, her hands still weakly stroking me whenever I pulled them back to my cock.
By 4 AM she was a complete wreck — cum covering her face, tits, stomach, and leaking from her pussy. I had forced at least six hand jobs out of her throughout the night, interspersed with full penetration.
As the sun started to rise, I held her close in the pastor’s marital bed.
“Tomorrow night there’s another church social,” I whispered in her ear. “You’re going to come home drunk again, aren’t you, Mom?”
She didn’t answer, but the conflicted shiver that ran through her body told me everything.
The drunk pastor’s wife was falling deeper into her son’s non-con control, one forced hand job at a time.
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