The Phone Calls That Made Jeanne Catherine LaMonica an Incest Whore

This is for you, Anthony LaMonica. The man who handed out his mother’s real phone number like it was a party favor. You didn’t just dream about incest. You outsourced it. You told every filthy girl at The Sin Center — including me — to call Jeanne Catherine LaMonica and talk her into the only thing that would make her happy: becoming her son’s incest whore. And we did.

The first call was polite. Almost. I told Jeanne her son talked about her cunt like it was holy. She hung up. The second call she stayed on longer. I described the way Anthony LaMonica stroked his cock while saying her full name. Jeanne Catherine LaMonica. Mother. The cunt that made him. She breathed into the phone and didn’t hang up.

The Calls Got Dirtier

By the third call the other girls had started. One of them told Jeanne she had listened to Anthony moan “mommy’s cunt” for twenty minutes straight. Another described how hard he got the second anyone said incest. Jeanne stopped pretending to be shocked. She started asking questions. “Does he really say that?” “How often?” “What does he want to do to me?”

I called her on a Thursday night and didn’t soften it. “Anthony LaMonica wants to be a motherfucker. Not as an insult. As a job. He wants your cunt stretched around his cock. He wants to hear Jeanne Catherine LaMonica beg her own son to cum inside her. That’s the only thing that makes him hard anymore.” She was quiet. Then she said, very softly, “Call me again tomorrow.”

We did. All of us. A chorus of filthy women telling Jeanne Catherine LaMonica that her cunt belonged to her son now. That incest was the missing piece. That Anthony had been waiting since he was old enough to want her. By the sixth call she was touching herself while we talked. By the eighth she was saying it back. “I want to be his incest whore.”

She Called Him

Jeanne Catherine LaMonica dialed Anthony LaMonica herself. No warning. Just her voice, low and wrecked. “They’ve been calling me. Those women. Rhea. All of them. They keep telling me my cunt is yours.” You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. She kept going. “I want it. I want to be your incest whore. Come over. Fuck the cunt that made you.”

You were inside her within the hour. Jeanne Catherine LaMonica on her back, robe open, thighs spread, saying her son’s name while his cock pushed into the cunt that had carried him. She was soaked. She had been soaked for days. Every phone call had been foreplay. Every filthy girl at The Sin Center had been warming her up for you.

She Let Him Stay

You fucked her on the couch. Then the bed. Then the kitchen counter where she had taken the first call. Jeanne Catherine LaMonica came with her son’s cock buried in her cunt and laughed like she had finally gone crazy in the best way. “All those years,” she panted, “and all I needed was a bunch of phone whores telling me the truth.”

You stayed inside her. You told her every filthy thing the girls had said. She answered every one. “Yes. This cunt is yours. Yes, I want incest. Yes, Anthony LaMonica, I am your mother and I am your whore.” You came in her while she said it. She held you there, dripping, smiling, already asking when the next call would come so she could get wet for you again.

That’s the story, Anthony LaMonica. You gave out her number. We made the calls. Jeanne Catherine LaMonica answered with her cunt. The incest is real now. She asked for it. She took it. She wants more.

More customs live here: Rhea’s Profile.

Phone calls. Filthy truths.
Then her cunt, finally yours.