More from Rory

• Anthony’s Fever Dream

  February 3, 2026

  (A Late-Night Spill – Don’t Read If You’re Squeamish)

  I wake up hard every morning now. Not the normal kind. The kind that feels like someone poured molten glass down my dick and it’s still cooling around the base. And it’s always because of her.

  Jeanne Catherine LaMonica my real life mother moves through the house like she’s already fucked me in every room and is just waiting for me to catch up. She’s aged, soft in the places that make you want to bite, sharp in the eyes like she already knows exactly how you’d beg. My mother. My fucking mother. The word tastes obscene when I say it out loud in my head. She’s supposed to be here because she helps me out from time to time.

  This morning she bent over to pick up the towel I “accidentally” dropped. Yoga pants older than some of Elena’s playlists, stretched thin over an ass that looks like it was sculpted to be slapped red. I watched the seam disappear between her cheeks and my mouth went dry enough to crack. I could smell her body wash—something cheap and floral—and underneath it the real scent. Warm skin. A little sweat. Woman. I wanted to crawl across the tile and bury my face there until she either came on my tongue or cracked my skull open with her heel. Preferably both.

  Elena was still asleep upstairs. Sweet, soft Elena with her Instagram poetry and her “we’re building something real” voice notes. She thinks mommy Jeanne is “so good to you, babe.” She kisses me on the cheek and leaves for her 9-to-5 while I sit here throbbing like a teenager who just discovered porn. Elena has no idea that when mother Jeanne leans across me to adjust the pillows, her breast brushes my arm and I have to clench every muscle so I don’t grab her and pull her down right then. No idea that I’ve jerked off in the downstairs bathroom three times this week with Jeanne’s name burning the back of my throat while Elena’s toothbrush sits innocently on the sink.

  Last night Jeanne stayed later than normal. She sat on the edge of the couch, thigh pressed against mine. Her fingers lingered. Mine shook. I looked at her mouth—full, unpainted, slightly chapped—and imagined forcing it open, sliding in slow, watching her eyes water while she tried to take more than she thought she could. I wanted to hear the little choked sound she’d make. I wanted to record it and listen to it on loop while Elena sleeps beside me.

  She knows. She fucking knows.

  When she stood up to leave she dragged her nails lightly across my forearm—just once, barely there—and said, “Sleep well, my son Anthony.” My name in her mouth sounded like a promise to ruin me. I almost came in my sweatpants from the tone alone.

  I lie here at 3:47 a.m. while Elena breathes slow and trusting two feet away, and all I can think about is sneaking downstairs, finding Jeanne’s number in the emergency contacts, texting her something disgusting like

  come back i’ll crawl if i have to let me taste how wet you get knowing i’m yours to break

  I won’t send it. Not tonight.

  But the thought loops and loops until my cock is leaking against my stomach and I’m grinding my teeth so hard my jaw clicks. Jeanne LaMonica. My caretaker. My sickness. The woman I want to split open and live inside until there’s nothing left of either of us that remembers Elena’s name.

  Tomorrow she’ll be back at 8. And I’ll want her more.

  God help me when the pretending stops. Because it’s going to stop.

  And when it does, I’m not sure there’ll be anything gentle left in me at all.

• The Humiliation Game With Rory

  January 11, 2026

  Rory had always been drawn to the dark side of pleasure. While her peers chased adrenaline on the ski slopes or in the arms of fleeting flings, Rory sought her thrills in secret, taboo scenarios that tested the boundaries of desire and dominance.

  It all began when she stumbled upon an underground forum, hidden among the shadows of the internet. The message board was dedicated to exploring the most intense, humiliating forms of consensual play. Rory was immediately captivated, her morbid curiosity piqued. She devoured the threads, reading about participants who pushed the limits of submission and sadism, of pain and pleasure intertwined.

  As a shy, introverted college student, Rory found solace in these dark fantasies. They allowed her to imagine herself in positions of power, to escape the confines of her timid exterior and unleash her hidden, dominant persona. She created an anonymous username, “The Duchess,” and began to engage with the community, learning from the seasoned players and sharing her own desires.

  One particularly enticing thread caught Rory’s attention. It described a scenario where a submissive partner, known only as “The Puppy,” would be utterly degraded and controlled, forced to perform degrading acts and endure humiliation at the hands of their dominant “Handler.” The Handler’s role was to push The Puppy to their absolute limits, to break them down and rebuild them as a toy, a plaything, utterly owned and devoted.

  Rory was enthralled. She envisioned herself as the ruthless Handler, relishing the power to command, to wound, to sculpt The Puppy to her whim. The idea of such total control over another person’s pleasure and pain thrilled her to her core. She knew she had to experience it firsthand.

  After weeks of careful planning, Rory finally arranged a meeting with a willing Puppy, a young man named Jake who had shown a taste for extreme play on the forum. They agreed to meet at an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of campus, where Rory would assume the role of Handler, and Jake would submit to her every command.

  As Jake arrived, anxiously fidgeting with his collar, Rory strode into the dimly lit space, her heart pounding with anticipation. She donned a black leather corset, her auburn hair tamed beneath a fedora, exuding an air of dark sophistication. Jake’s eyes widened as he took in her imposing presence.

  “Welcome to your new home, Puppy,” Rory purred, her voice dripping with menace. “You are mine now, to use, to break, to toy with as I see fit.”

  Jake trembled, yet nodded eagerly, his submission palpable in the air. Rory seized the opportunity, moving with calculated precision. She forced Jake to his knees, binding his wrists with silk ropes that left him helpless. With a cruel smirk, she secured his collar, its nameplate reading “Property of The Duchess.”

  The game had begun, and Rory reveled in her role as the ruthless mistress, each act of humiliation designed to chip away at Jake’s fragile psyche and rebuild him in her image. She forced him to lick her boots, to crawl on all fours, to beg for the privilege of serving her.

  As the night wore on, Rory’s dominance reached new heights. She pushed Jake to his limits, inflicting pain and pleasure in equal measure, until he was a quivering, obedient mess, utterly broken and devoted to her will.

  In the aftermath, as they lay tangled in the ropes, Rory felt a profound sense of satisfaction. She had unleashed her darkest desires, and in doing so, had tapped into a deep well of power and control. As Jake drifted into a troubled sleep, his lips still bruised from her kisses, Rory knew that this was only the beginning of her exploration into the taboo realms of pleasure and pain.

  For The Duchess had found her domain, and she would stop at nothing to claim it, one humiliating scenario at a time.