Jeanne Catherine LaMonica Finds the Blog

This one is for you, Anthony LaMonica. The handsome middle-aged man who has spent his whole life wanting to be a motherfucker. Not in the insult way. In the real way. You want your mother’s cunt. You want Jeanne Catherine LaMonica on her back, saying her son’s name while she cums. You commissioned me to write it. Then she found it.

It was late. Jeanne was in the kitchen in that short red robe, the one that never quite closes over her tits, scrolling because she couldn’t sleep. Your name was in the search. Anthony LaMonica. She clicked. She read the first paragraph and went still. Then she read the second. Then she sat down, because her knees had gone soft and her cunt had gone wet.

She Couldn’t Stop Reading

The blog was filthy. Every line was incest. Your obsession with her body. The way you used to watch her undress. The way you wanted Jeanne Catherine LaMonica to spread her mature cunt and let her son in. She read it twice. The second time her hand was already under the robe.

She told herself she was angry. She wasn’t. She was throbbing. She pictured you at forty-something, still handsome, still hers, stroking while you read the same words. A motherfucker in waiting. Her son. She came once in the kitchen chair, biting her lip so she wouldn’t say your name out loud. It didn’t work. “Anthony,” she whispered, and came harder.

By morning she had the blog bookmarked. By afternoon she had texted you. Come over. We need to talk. You knew that tone. You came anyway, because you always come when Jeanne Catherine LaMonica calls.

She Made You Read It to Her

She was on the couch when you walked in. Robe open. Thighs apart. No apology. She held the phone up and said, “You paid for this. Read it to me.” You tried to laugh it off. She didn’t let you. “Read the part where you fuck your mother’s cunt. I want to hear it in your voice.”

So you read. Every filthy line. Incest. Mother. Son. Jeanne Catherine LaMonica. Anthony LaMonica. She listened with two fingers in her cunt, eyes on your mouth, getting wetter every time you said the word motherfucker like it was a title you had earned.

“That’s enough reading,” she said. She pulled you down between her thighs. “Now do it. Re-enact it. If you’re going to be my motherfucker, be my motherfucker.”

The Re-Enactment

You ate her like the blog said you would. Slow at first, then starving. Jeanne Catherine LaMonica held your hair and moaned her son’s name. Not baby. Not honey. Anthony. She told you her cunt had been yours since the first time she caught you staring. She told you incest tasted better than she had imagined. She came on your tongue and didn’t let you up.

Then she pulled you inside her. Hot. Tight. Soaked. A mother taking her son’s cock and thanking him for it. You fucked her on that couch until the blog on the phone went dark and neither of you cared. She locked her legs around you. “Don’t you dare pull out. Fill your mother’s cunt. That’s what a real motherfucker does.”

You did. She came again while you were still pulsing in her, laughing, filthy, delighted. “All those years,” she said, kissing you with her own taste on your mouth. “And all I had to do was find the blog.”

She kept you there the rest of the night. Reading lines. Acting them out. Making you say incest every time you pushed back into her cunt. Jeanne Catherine LaMonica didn’t just find your secret, Anthony LaMonica. She hired herself as the ending.

More of these filthy customs live here: Rhea’s Profile.

She found the blog.
Then she made the motherfucker real.