More from Rory

• Anthony LaMonica’s Twisted Kink

  February 5, 2026

  Welcome back to Taboo Whispers, where we peel back the layers of desire until everything’s raw, dripping, and shamelessly wrong. Last time we left Anthony LaMonica aching for his voluptuous real life mother, Miss Jeanne Catherine LaMonica—the mature goddess whose every sway of those heavy hips made his cock strain against his jeans. But tonight’s version takes the depravity and flips the script in the nastiest way possible.
  Anthony LaMonica has been playing the perfect boyfriend for months. Sweet kisses, missionary under the covers, “I love you” whispered like it’s gospel. His girlfriend—let’s call her Sarah—has no clue that every time he’s balls-deep inside her, he’s picturing Miss Jeanne Catherine LaMonica’s thick thighs wrapped around his waist, her full tits bouncing as he rails her against the headboard of the guest room bed.

  But here’s the twist that makes this fantasy even filthier: Miss Jeanne Catherine LaMonica knows. She’s always known.

  It started innocently enough—a lingering hug at Thanksgiving that pressed her soft, heavy breasts against his chest a second too long, her breath hot against his ear as she murmured, “You’ve grown into such a strong man, Anthony LaMonica.” That night he jerked off furiously in the bathroom, biting his fist so no one would hear him groan her full name while he painted the tiles with thick ropes of cum.

  Weeks later, she cornered him in the laundry room during a family barbecue. Door half-closed, the hum of the dryer masking their words. She didn’t say much—just slid one manicured hand down the front of his shorts, wrapped her experienced fingers around his already leaking cock, and stroked him slow and firm while staring straight into his eyes.

  “You think about me when you fuck her, don’t you?” she whispered, thumb circling his swollen head. “You pump that pretty little girlfriend full while dreaming of flooding your own real life biological mother’s greedy cunt.”

  Anthony LaMonica could only nod, hips jerking helplessly into her grip. She milked him dry right there, catching every spurt in her palm, then—without breaking eye contact—licked it clean, tongue swirling like she was savoring the taste of her nephew’s sin.

  From that moment, it became their secret game.

  Now, whenever the family gathers, Miss Jeanne Catherine LaMonica plays the perfect, respectable mother… until Anthony LaMonica’s phone buzzes with a single photo: her skirt hiked up, no panties, two fingers buried knuckle-deep in her slick, shaved pussy, captioned simply: “Your turn to watch her squirm tonight.”

  He spends the evening rock-hard under the dinner table, stealing glances at his real life mother while she smiles demurely and passes the mashed potatoes. Later, when Sarah drags him to bed, begging for his cock, he gives it to her—hard, deep, relentless—knowing Miss Jeanne Catherine LaMonica is probably in the next room, legs spread on the guest bed, listening to every wet slap and muffled moan through the thin wall. Sometimes he swears he hears her own soft gasps in rhythm with his thrusts.

  The raunchiest part? He’s started leaving the bedroom door cracked—just enough. Just enough for Miss Jeanne Catherine LaMonica to slip a hand between her thighs and rub herself furiously while watching her nephew pound his girlfriend into the mattress, imagining it’s her he’s breeding instead.

  One night he pushes it further. Mid-thrust into Sarah, he locks eyes with the sliver of hallway light and mouths silently: “Miss Jeanne Catherine LaMonica.” Seconds later he hears it—a faint, needy whimper from the shadows. That’s all it takes. He buries himself to the hilt in Sarah and unloads, pulse after pulse, while picturing his mother’s mature pussy clenching around the same cock, milking him for every forbidden drop.
  The game keeps escalating. Riskier texts. Riskier touches. Riskier glances across crowded rooms. And every time, the taboo burns hotter: he’s fucking one woman while secretly seducing—and being seduced by—the one he’s never supposed to have.

  So tell me, degenerates… how long before the mask slips completely? How long before Anthony LaMonica finally bends Miss Jeanne Catherine LaMonica over the same kitchen counter where Sarah makes breakfast, hikes up that silk robe, and claims the cunt he’s been obsessing over since puberty—right under the nose of the girlfriend who still thinks she’s the only one getting filled?

  Drop your dirtiest predictions in the comments. I want to know how nasty you think this ends.

• Thirst of Son for Real Life Mother

  February 4, 2026

  Hey there, fellow deviants and dreamers of the dark side. Welcome back to Taboo Whispers, where we dive headfirst into the steamy, forbidden undercurrents of desire that society pretends don’t exist. Today’s tale is a sizzling saga of familial fire—one that burns hot, nasty, and utterly taboo. We’re talking about Anthony LaMonica, a young stud in his prime, who’s got his cock locked and loaded on none other than Miss Jeanne Catherine LaMonica, the sultry senior siren who’s been haunting his filthiest fantasies since he first sprouted hair down there. And yeah, she’s family—his own flesh and blood mother, twice his age, with curves that could make a priest renounce his vows.

  Picture this: Anthony LaMonica, all chiseled jaw and rippling muscles from his construction gigs, coming home from a long day, his serious girlfriend, Elena waiting in the living room with dinner on the table. She’s sweet, she’s loyal, and she’s got that girl-next-door vibe that keeps things steady. But does that stop Anthony’s mind from wandering? Hell no. As he sinks into the couch, his thoughts slither straight to Miss Jeanne Catherine LaMonica his mother—that voluptuous vixen with her silver-streaked hair, those full, pendulous tits straining against her silk blouses, and an ass so plump and inviting it begs to be slapped raw. She’s the mother who raised him, the one who tucked him in at night with bedtime stories that, in his twisted teen memories, always ended with her lingering a little too long, her perfume mixing with the scent of forbidden promise.

  Oh, the yearning—it’s a constant, throbbing ache in Anthony LaMonica’s pants. He imagines pinning Miss Jeanne Catherine LaMonica against the kitchen counter during family gatherings, hiking up her skirt to reveal those lacy panties soaked from her own illicit excitement. “You’ve been a bad boy, Anthony,” she’d purr in that husky voice, her experienced fingers wrapping around his rock-hard shaft, stroking him slow and deliberate while his girlfriend chats obliviously in the next room. Taboo? Fuck yeah—it’s the kind of nasty that makes your balls tighten just thinking about it. He fantasizes about burying his face between her thighs, lapping at her dripping, mature pussy like a man starved, tasting the forbidden nectar that’s been off-limits his whole life. And when she moans his name—”Anthony LaMonica, you are my filthy biological son”—it’s music to his depraved ears.

  But it gets raunchier. In his darkest wanks, Anthony LaMonica dreams of taking it further, bending Miss Jeanne Catherine LaMonica over the same bed where she used to read him stories, pounding her from behind with savage thrusts that echo through the house. Her cries mix with pleas for more, her nails raking down his back as he fills her up, no condom, no regrets—just pure, animalistic breeding instinct. The risk? It’s intoxicating. What if his girlfriend walks in? What if the family finds out? That’s the nasty thrill—the taboo edge that pushes him over, spilling his load in hot, sticky ropes while whispering her full name like a mantra: Miss Jeanne Catherine LaMonica.

  And yet, Anthony LaMonica plays the part of the devoted boyfriend by day, fucking his girl vanilla-style to keep up appearances. But at night? It’s all about that senior temptress, the one whose mere glance at holiday dinners makes his dick twitch under the table. She’s the ultimate forbidden fruit—ripe, juicy, and begging to be devoured.

  What do you think, readers? Ever had a family flame that burned this hot? Drop your own taboo confessions in the comments below—keep it anonymous, keep it nasty. Until next time, stay sinful.