Jeanne’s Incest Cunt On Anthony’s Face
Jeanne Catherine LaMonica stepped through the front door of her son’s house at exactly 10:17 a.m., the same time she arrived every weekday morning like clockwork. Her short blonde hair was still damp from the shower, curling slightly at the nape of her neck. At sixty-eight she carried her voluptuous body with the same shameless confidence she’d had at thirty—full heavy breasts straining the thin silk of her blouse, wide hips swaying beneath a knee-length skirt that hugged every lush curve, thick thighs that still made men half her age stumble over their words.
Anthony was already waiting in the master bedroom. The bed—their bed now, really—was still unmade from the night before, sheets tangled, Elena’s vanilla perfume clinging faintly to the pillows like an accusation neither of them cared about. He stood barefoot in nothing but gray boxer briefs, cock already thick and half-hard against the cotton, eyes dark with the same hungry certainty that had burned between them for the last seven years.
“Morning, Mommy,” he said, voice low and rough.
Jeanne kicked off her heels, let her purse drop to the carpet. “Morning, baby boy.” She crossed the room in three slow steps, grabbed the front of his briefs and yanked him toward her. “Have you been thinking about your mother’s incest cunt all night while that clueless bitch slept next to you?”
“Every fucking second,” he growled, hands already shoving her skirt up around her waist. No panties—of course no panties. Jeanne never wore them on these visits. She liked the cool air kissing her swollen lips on the drive over, liked knowing she was already dripping for her own son before she even turned onto his street.
She pushed him backward until the backs of his knees hit the mattress. Anthony dropped onto the bed, pulling her with him. Jeanne straddled his chest, knees sinking into the same sheets Elena had smoothed flat just yesterday. She hiked her skirt higher, exposing the thick blonde curls above her cunt, already glistening, lips puffy and dark pink from wanting him.
“Look at it,” she ordered, spreading herself open with two fingers. “Look at your mother’s filthy incest cunt. This is what you were born from, Anthony. This is what you come back to every day.”
He groaned, hands gripping her thick thighs, pulling her forward. “Fuck yes. Smother me with it. I want Elena to taste you on my mouth tonight.”
That was the dirtiest part—the part that made Jeanne’s clit throb hardest. She lowered herself slowly, deliberately, until her soaked cunt pressed against his lips, his nose, his chin. Hot, slick flesh dragged over his face in a long, lazy glide. She rocked, grinding, painting him with her juices, marking every inch of skin Elena would kiss when she came home from work.
“Eat your mother’s cunt, baby,” Jeanne hissed, fingers twisting in his hair. “Tongue deep. Suck it. I want you drenched. I want that bitch to lick my cum off her husband’s face and never know she’s tasting the same pussy that pushed him into this world.”
Anthony obeyed like a starving man. His tongue speared inside her, thick and insistent, curling against the front wall while his nose bumped her clit. Jeanne rode his face harder, hips rolling in filthy circles, cunt lips smearing wetly across his cheeks, his jaw, the bridge of his nose. She could hear the obscene sucking sounds, could feel how slippery he was becoming, how her arousal coated him like glaze.
“More,” she demanded. “I want it dripping down your throat. I want you to swallow every drop of your mother’s incest juice so there’s still plenty left for Elena to lap up later.”
He moaned into her, vibrations shooting straight to her core. One hand slid up to pinch her nipple through the silk; the other gripped her ass, spreading her wider so he could bury his tongue deeper. Jeanne’s breath hitched. She was close already—always so close when she thought about the betrayal, about defiling their marriage bed, about turning her son into her personal incest whore while his wife kissed him goodnight.
She ground down harder, clit pulsing against his upper lip. “That’s it—fuck yes—cover your face in Mommy’s cunt cream. Make it shine. Make it reek of me.”
Her orgasm hit fast and vicious. She clamped her thighs around his head, rode through the spasms, gushing hard enough that she felt the wet heat splash across his cheeks, his closed eyelids, the stubble on his jaw. Wave after wave pulsed out of her, drenching him, soaking into the collar of the shirt Elena had ironed for him two days ago.
When the aftershocks finally eased, Jeanne lifted herself just enough to look down. Anthony’s face was a glistening mess—lips swollen, cheeks shiny, strands of her arousal strung between his chin and her cunt like spider silk. He looked wrecked. He looked perfect.
She leaned down, licked a slow stripe across his soaked mouth, tasting herself on him. “Good boy,” she purred. “Now when that stupid cunt kisses you tonight, she’s going to taste the inside of her mother-in-law’s incest pussy. She’s going to swallow me without ever knowing.”
Anthony’s cock jerked hard against her ass. “I’m gonna fuck you on her side of the bed next,” he rasped. “Gonna fill you up so deep some of it leaks out onto her pillow.”
Jeanne smiled, slow and filthy. “That’s my good incest son.”
She slid down his body, yanked his briefs off, and took him into her mouth—tasting the pre-cum he’d leaked while she rode his face. The morning was young. Elena wouldn’t be home for hours.
And Jeanne still had so much more incest cunt to smear across her son’s skin before she left.