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.