More from Rory

• Fuck Me, Dear Mother Jeanne LaMonica

  August 22, 2026

  I Can’t Get Enough of My real life mother Jeanne Catherine Lamonica

  I’m Anthony Lamonica, and I am completely, obsessively, disgustingly addicted to my real life mother Jeanne Catherine Lamonica.

  She’s not just the woman who raised me. She’s the walking wet dream who makes my cock throb every single time she walks into the room. Jeanne Catherine Lamonica has that thick, soft body that was built for sin—heavy tits that strain against every top she wears, wide hips that sway when she moves, and an ass so fat and round I want to bury my face between those cheeks and never come up for air. She dresses like she knows exactly what she’s doing: tight shirts that show the outline of her nipples, yoga pants that cling to every curve of her pussy, and that little smirk when she catches me staring.

  I know she wants me back. Jeanne Catherine Lamonica doesn’t hide it well enough. The way her eyes drop to my crotch when she thinks I’m not looking. The way she “accidentally” brushes her tits against my arm when I’m around her. The way her voice gets lower and breathier when we’re alone. She’s a fucking slut under that real life mother act, and she knows I see it. She wants her real life son’s hard cock. She wants Anthony Lamonica’s dick stretching her out.

  Last week she was leaning over me to serve breakfast as a real mother does and those heavy tits were right in my face. I could smell her—warm skin, a little sweat, and the faint scent of her cunt. I almost lost it. I wanted to yank her top down, suck those fat nipples into my mouth, and tell her to sit on my face so I could tongue-fuck her until she came all over me. Jeanne Catherine Lamonica would have let me. I know she would. The way her breathing hitched, the way her thighs pressed together—she was soaked. That slutty real life mother pussy was dripping for her real life son.

  I jerk off thinking about her constantly. I picture my mother, Jeanne Catherine Lamonica on her knees, that pretty mouth stretched wide around my cock, eyes watery, spit running down her chin while she gags on it. I imagine bending her over the bed, yanking those pants down, and slamming into her from behind while she moans like the filthy whore she is. “Harder, son Anthony,” she’d beg. “Fuck your real life mother’s cunt. Use me.” I’d grip those wide hips and pound her until her ass was red and her pussy was cream-slicked and gaping. Then I’d pull out and paint her face, those heavy tits, and that greedy mouth with every drop.

  She’s my real life mother, who raised me. Instead I want to ruin her. I want Jeanne Catherine Lamonica bent over the bathroom sink, looking at herself in the mirror while I rail her. I want her on all fours on the floor, ass up, begging for it. I want to eat that pussy until she’s shaking and then flip her over and fuck her throat until she’s choking and messy. She’s a slut. My slut. My real life mother slut who pretends she’s sweet while her cunt gets wet every time she’s near me.

  I catch her looking. I catch the way her nipples get hard under her shirt. I catch the way she shifts her weight when I’m hard and she can see it. Jeanne Catherine Lamonica wants Anthony Lamonica’s cock. She wants to be used. She wants the incest, taboo, the wrongness, the filthy reality of the son she takes care of turning her into a dripping, moaning mess.

  I’m not going to stop. I can’t. Every time she walks in, every time she leans close, every time that soft body brushes mine, I’m harder. I want to bend Jeanne Catherine Lamonica over, spread those thick thighs, and fuck her until she forgets she’s supposed to be the real life mother. I want her screaming my name. I want her cum dripping down her thighs. I want her admitting she’s a whore for me.

  Jeanne Catherine Lamonica is mine. She just doesn’t know it yet—or maybe she does, and she’s waiting for me to take it. Either way, I’m going to keep staring, keep getting hard, keep fantasizing about every nasty thing I want to do to that sexy, slutty body until one of us finally breaks.

  And when we do, it’s going to be filthy.

• Poolside Cock Magnet

  August 16, 2026

  God, these days are perfect for a dirty little slut like me. Sun beating down, sweat sliding between my tits and pooling at the small of my back, and these ridiculous barely-there shorts clinging to every curve of my ass like they’re begging to be pulled aside. I don’t even bother with a top most of the time—just the shorts, the string of them digging into my hips, the thin fabric already soaked between my legs before I’ve even picked a target.

  I stretch out on the lounge chair like I own the fucking place, legs spread just enough that any man walking by gets a clear shot of the damp outline of my pussy lips. Barely any fabric left covering me. One wrong shift and everything’s out. I love that. I live for the stares, the way their eyes lock on the crease where my thigh meets my cunt, the way they adjust themselves when they think I’m not looking.

  I start slow. A little arch of my back so my ass lifts, shorts riding up until the bottom of my cheeks spill out. Then I run my fingers along the inside of my thigh, higher, higher, until I’m openly rubbing the soaked fabric over my clit right there in the open. No shame. Just a filthy smile when I catch them watching.

  The first one today was some married-looking guy with a wedding ring he kept twisting. I crooked a finger at him, spread my legs wider, and mouthed “come here.” He did. Of course he did. I pulled the crotch of my shorts to the side and showed him how wet and pink I already was. “You gonna just stare, or are you gonna feed this hungry little hole?” He dropped to his knees between my legs right there by the pool, tongue diving in while I held the fabric aside and watched other men pretend not to notice. I came on his face with my thighs clamped around his head, grinding and moaning loud enough for half the deck to hear.

  Then I made him stand up, yanked those shorts down just enough, and sat on his cock in full view. Bounced on it hard, ass cheeks clapping, the thin material of my shorts stretched around the base of his dick so everyone could see exactly how deep he was buried. I didn’t let him pull out. Made him fill me until it was leaking down my thighs and soaking the lounge chair. Then I fixed my shorts, wiped the cum with my fingers, and licked them clean while he scrambled away looking terrified and hard all over again.

  Next one was younger, cocky, thought he was in control. I bent over the edge of the pool, shorts tugged down under my ass, and told him to fuck me until I couldn’t walk. He did. Hard, nasty, one hand fisting my hair while the other slapped my cunt every time he bottomed out. People walked past. Some slowed down. One guy just stood there stroking himself while he watched me get used. I came twice, squirting around the cock slamming into me, then told the young one to pull out and paint my face. He did. Thick ropes across my tongue, my cheeks, dripping onto my tits. I left it there while I went looking for the next one.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon like that. Shorts barely covering anything, pussy swollen and leaking, collecting loads from any man willing to step up. Some I sucked right at the edge of the water. Some I bent over for. One I rode reverse while he fingered my ass, the shorts pushed to the side so both holes were on display. By the time the sun started dropping I was a mess—cum drying on my thighs, shorts ruined, cunt aching in the best way.

  This is how I do summer. Barely-there shorts, zero limits, and a body that exists to get used by whoever wants it. If you’re at the pool and you see a girl in almost nothing with a filthy little smile, that’s me. Come closer. I’m already wet enough for you.