Incest Whore Jeanne Flaunts Her Affair
Jeanne Catherine LaMonica adjusted the neckline of her silk blouse, letting it dip just low enough to reveal the scalloped edge of her black lace bra. At fifty-eight she still turned heads—curved hips, smooth legs, lips the color of ripe cherries. She smiled at her reflection in the hallway mirror. Today felt bold.
Downstairs, Elena clattered dishes in the kitchen, humming tunelessly over the radio. Anthony’s wife remained as oblivious as ever: pretty in a predictable, blonde way, always scrolling her phone or fretting about her latest cleanse. Jeanne had long stopped pretending to tolerate her.
“Mom, coffee?” Anthony called from the living room, voice lazy and warm.
Jeanne descended the stairs slowly, heels clicking a deliberate rhythm. Anthony sprawled on the sectional in gray sweatpants that outlined every thick inch of him. He didn’t bother hiding the bulge. Why would he?
She paused behind the couch, leaned down until her breasts grazed his shoulder. “Morning, sweetheart,” she purred, loud enough to carry.
Elena glanced over the half-wall. “Hi, Jeanne. You look nice today.”
“Thank you, darling.” Jeanne’s hand drifted along Anthony’s neck, fingers slipping beneath his collar to stroke warm skin. His pulse kicked against her fingertips.
Anthony tilted his head back, met her gaze, and smirked. “You always look good, Mom.”
Elena laughed. “She’s basically ageless. I’m jealous.”
Jeanne slid onto the cushion beside her son—close, thigh pressed to thigh. She crossed her legs so her skirt rode up, flashing the lacy band of her thigh-highs. Anthony’s hand immediately found her knee beneath the throw blanket Elena had left there.
They’d been lovers for eight years. It started with a drunken confession after one of Elena’s epic tantrums—Anthony admitting he’d fantasized about his mother since his teens. Jeanne hadn’t flinched. She’d led him upstairs that same night while Elena sulked in the guest room. The first time was raw, desperate. Now it was choreography.
Elena set three mugs on the coffee table. “I’m heading to yoga soon. You two behave.”
Anthony squeezed Jeanne’s knee—hard. “Always do.”
The moment Elena’s SUV disappeared down the street, Jeanne swung a leg over his lap. Skirt bunched at her waist, she ground against the rigid length beneath soft cotton. “You’ve been hard since I came downstairs,” she whispered, nipping his earlobe.
“Since I heard your heels on the stairs,” he corrected. His hands slid under her blouse, palming her breasts, thumbs circling stiff nipples through lace until she arched.
Jeanne reached down, tugged his waistband just low enough. His cock sprang free—heavy, veined, already slick at the tip. She stroked him slowly, spreading precum with her thumb.
“Fuck, Mom—”
“Quiet.” She pressed two fingers to his lips. “She might forget her mat.”
The risk only made him throb harder.
Jeanne shifted her panties aside and sank onto him in one fluid glide. They both exhaled—low, filthy sounds. She was drenched, had been since breakfast when he’d brushed past her in the hallway and whispered what he planned to do.
She rode him with steady rolls, savoring the stretch, the way he filled her completely. Anthony gripped her ass, guiding her rhythm, occasionally delivering a sharp smack that echoed softly.
“Look at you,” he growled. “Fucking your son on his own couch while his wife stretches in a studio.”
Jeanne laughed breathlessly, clenching around him. “She’s so fucking stupid. Doesn’t even smell me on your cock when she kisses you goodnight.”
Anthony bucked up harder. “She thinks the wet spots in my boxers are hers.”
The words sent a fresh rush of heat through Jeanne. She ground down, circling her hips. “Tell me again how you fuck her.”
“Every damn time,” he rasped. “I close my eyes and picture your tits bouncing, your tight cunt milking me like this. She comes quicker when I accidentally call her ‘Mommy.’”
Jeanne moaned—too loud, deliberately. If Elena forgot something, she’d hear. Part of Jeanne craved discovery now. Let the clueless bitch walk in, see her mother-in-law riding her husband like a seasoned whore, watch Anthony’s face twist with pleasure as Jeanne hissed, “Fill Mommy up, baby.”
Anthony’s fingers dug into her flesh. “Gonna come inside you. Mark you so deep she’ll taste me on her tongue later.”
“Yes,” Jeanne gasped, nails raking his shoulders. “Breed me right here. Right where she sits.”
He thrust up once, twice—then buried himself and pulsed, hot spurts flooding her. Jeanne shattered seconds later, shuddering, soaking them both. She stayed seated, rocking gently, keeping every drop inside until he softened.
When she finally lifted off, a thin thread of their mixed release glistened on her thigh. She left it.
Anthony tucked himself away, breathing ragged. “She’ll be back in forty minutes.”
Jeanne leaned down, kissed him slow and deep—tasting coffee, sweat, sin. “Then we’ll do it again. In your bed this time. Let her sleep in it tonight.”
He grinned, lazy and sated. “Love you, Mom.”
“Love you more, baby.”
Jeanne smoothed her skirt, poured fresh coffee, and waited for Elena’s return—flushed, glowing, quietly triumphant.
Elena breezed in later, yoga mat under her arm, cheeks pink from class.
“Everything good?” she asked brightly.
Jeanne smiled over the rim of her mug. “Perfect, darling.”
Elena never noticed the faint musk in the air, the damp spot on the cushion, the way Anthony’s gaze lingered on his mother’s mouth.
She never would.