If the atmosphere got any chillier around my house, I’d have to start wearing a parka inside. Dad had just rolled his eyes and given me his patented ‘At least she isn’t pregnant, how long til she graduates and gets out of our hair?’ look. Mom wasn’t speaking to me. She was currently downstairs, banging around in the kitchen, doing the dishes as obnoxiously loudly as possible.
Sheesh, for all the drama, you’d think I’d robbed a bank or something. On second thought, maybe I would start wearing that parka.
It seems I was doomed to be the perpetual disappointment, the bad daughter. I tell you, I could not fucking wait to get my own apartment!
Downstairs, the phone rang. Mom picked up.
She hollered up the stairs to me. So much for the silent treatment.
“Would you mind terribly picking up your grandmother and giving her a ride to the senior center on your way to class?” Would you mind terribly not fucking any random strangers while you’re at it, you filthy amoral slut. You know those are your father’s genes, not mine. Is there anyone in this town you haven’t fucked?
“Sure Mom, no problem.” Go sit on a corncob you old prude. When was the last time you had an orgasm?
I actually didn’t mind one bit. Gramma was 83, but she didn’t look it. She was kind of thin and frail now, but her sea-blue eyes were bright, and her mind was sharp as a switchblade. She was smart as hell, and she had a pretty twisted sense of humor. I couldn’t really see any of my mother in her. Except for the eyes.
Gramma still lived alone, in a split-level ranch painted muddy yellow. She walked herself out to my waiting car, leaning heavily on her cane. She suddenly looked old to me, old in a way she never had before, and I found myself wondering how much longer I’d have Gramma in my life.
She got in, kissed me with thin, dry lips, and buckled up. She looked a little like a baby bird, fresh out of the egg; all awkward bones and stretched out skin, and thin, shellacked, bluish hair.
“So,” she asked as I pulled out into traffic, “How are Spike and Bunny?”
I nearly choked, and caught myself swerving into the opposite lane.
“Word gets around fast, doesn’t it?” I asked bitterly.
“Word always gets around fast,” Gramma said, “Get used to it, Dear. So how are they? I have to assume you three are having a ball?”
My parents had barely gotten used to the idea that I was a lesbian. Then they had found out that I was involved in a three-way open relationship. That, and they had just recently discovered my porn stash on the computer. Amused, they were not.
“We are having a good time.” I told Gramma.
“Good.” She said, “I want to tell you a story. If that’s ok with you?”
“Go ahead,” I said. I maneuvered the car through suburban streets, slowing down if not actually stopping for each stop sign as Gramma told her tale:
“Let’s see, this would have to have been 1949. That was before your mother or your uncle was born. Theo and I had just moved to New York City, and I didn’t know anyone. I was lonely, and I was bored, and I felt like an ingrate for feeling that way. I taught a few piano classes in the afternoons, and I insisted on doing my own grocery shopping, but that was the extent of my responsibilities.
Theo was working terribly long hours — I think that’s what killed him in the end — and many days I didn’t see him at all. He’d be off to work at the consulate in the morning, and he wouldn’t come home until I’d already gone to sleep. Can I tell you that our sex life at this time wasn’t exactly cracking? And I’d just started enjoying it, too!
I wouldn’t say we were rich, exactly, but Theo and I were certainly comfortably well-off. It was strange for me; up to that point in my life, I’d always been poor as a dormouse. The piano lessons weren’t really for the money; in those days you were sort of expected to do something like that, up until you had children.
Anyway, this was a Monday, so that morning I went down to the grocers to do my shopping for the week.
I was in the checkout line, and the boy behind the register kept looking at me and looking at me… I was starting to get all flustered. By the time it was my turn to pay, I was all higgledy-piggledy. He was a couple years younger than me — I was only 20 at the time, you know — and he looked like a Juvenile Delinquent. You know, all the boys his age look like that now, but back in those days, he really looked like a thug. He looked like the sort that might abduct you and hold you hostage with a switchblade knife. He wore tight blue jeans and a white t-shirt that was too small for him under his apron. His hair was black and thick, with one impudent curl poking out from beneath the stupid little paper cap all the cashiers had to wear. I was ashamed to be thinking what I was thinking — I was a married woman, a proper lady and all — but I thought he was Hot, with a capital ‘H’, and I’m afraid even then I possessed a dirty mind and a vivid imagination.
He says to me, ‘That’s and awful lot of groceries you’ve got there Mrs.…?’
‘Whittaker’, I said. It still sounded strange to me, and I had to think a second before I said it. ‘Mrs. Whittaker.’
‘That’s an awful lot for a pretty little lady to carry.’
‘Yes…’ He had me positively flummoxed now, and I’m sure I was blushing. There was no way he could tell what I was thinking, was there?
‘We do deliver, you know. I could bring these by this afternoon for you if you want. No charge.’
‘Oh… well… yes, that would be nice.’
‘Sure thing.’ He grinned at me. Our eyes met for a second, and I felt suddenly dizzy. ‘So, where do you live?’
I told him. There was no harm in it, I thought; it wasn’t as if I’d let him do anything. It wasn’t my fault he was so cute. Besides, it was an awful lot to carry.
‘Ok Mrs. Whittaker, I’ll see you this afternoon then.’
‘Call me Molly’ I said.
‘Alright Molly,’ he said, ‘and my name is Ron.’
I left the grocer’s empty-handed and flustered in a pleasantly giddy sort of way. I felt… naughty. And I’ll tell you one thing: I was just starting to discovering that I really liked feeling naughty. Naughty beats nice, any day of the week, in my book it does!
Next up on my agenda was tennis lessons. What a bizarre turn my life had taken! Imagine… me, little Molly Hugger, taking tennis lessons in Central Park!
Since I was early, I sat on a bench and watched my instructor, Andre. He was working with another client, a girl my own age.
She was a better tennis player than me (though who wasn’t!), and she was blonde and she was busty. Watching them together, I felt a jolt of jealousy that surprised me with its intensity. It was like sticking my finger into a light socket. Where had that come from?
Andre was beautiful… tall, fair-skinned, sandy-haired, a natural athlete, and he moved across the court like a big cat, a panther or a jaguar: lithe and strong, almost lazily. He seemed to expend no effort, always arriving just where he needed to be just in time to hit the ball. It was like watching a classical dancer.
I suppose I’d always known that I’d found him attractive, but this was the first time I let myself really think about that fact, and what that implied. And I did think about it, sitting there on my shady bench under an elm tree, watching him in his white shorts and shirt. I caught myself thinking some very naughty, very unladylike thoughts about him.
Maybe he read my mind. When it was time for my lesson, he seemed to stand extra close to me, and kept touching me: correcting my swing, adjusting my stance. I didn’t mind one bit. In fact, I may have encouraged him. I’d never played better.
After my lesson, we were both hot and sweaty. I felt like I was glowing.
“Are you hungry?” he asked, “I’d love to buy you lunch.”
He did buy me lunch, tiny and very expensive sandwiches which we ate at an outside table on the fringe of the park. I remember feeling shy and girlish and unsophisticated. Andre was an ‘older man’ — he must have been in his early 30s — and he was a charming conversationalist. He seemed so confident and experienced!
After lunch, Andre asked if I’d like to get a cup of coffee.
“I’d prefer a Bloody Mary” I said.
“That sounds delicious.”
“You could come up to my apartment,” I heard myself say, “I make an excellent Bloody Mary!” I couldn’t believe how brazen I was being. I don’t know what I was thinking… Well, yes I do, but I was just enjoying the attention and the flirtation. I didn’t really mean for anything to actually happen.
I mixed us two Bloody Marys — which were excellent by the way — and we sat on the couch together, sipping our drinks and chatting about nothing in particular. Andre was sitting very close to me and I was very aware of his body and how near it was to my own. He kind of casually put his arm around my shoulders and I didn’t object. I pretended not to notice; but in fact his proximity was having quite a physical affect on me.
There was one of those awkward pauses in the conversation, it was as if we were both holding our breath, and then he leaned in to kiss me. I knew it was wrong, I knew it was bad, but I didn’t stop him. I liked it. I kissed him back.
I felt his hand on my bosom, cupping my breast through my cotton blouse. It felt good. Part of me was wondering just how far I was willing to let this go. He was a very good kisser, quite talented. Another part of me was already quite far gone, let me tell you! — Gramma looked at me over her glasses from the passenger seat — My panties couldn’t have been wetter if I’d gone swimming in them!
I let my own hand slip up inside his shirt, exploring his broad, muscular chest. I liked the way he felt: smooth and strong. Theo was a very hairy man. I enjoyed the contrast.
Andre was still kissing me, passionately kissing me in a way I hadn’t been kissed since Theo and I were first married, and his fingers were now deftly unbuttoning my blouse. I was kissing him back, as hard as I was able, losing myself into his mouth. I only hoped he wouldn’t be disappointed with what he found inside my blouse; I wasn’t flat-chested, but I certainly wasn’t as buxom as that blonde girl whose tennis game was so much better than mine.
Meanwhile, I was petting Andre through the front of his trousers, and I had succeeded in creating a very promising-looking pup tent in the front of his slacks. My blouse was hanging open and my brassiere was going to be next. I knew it and Andre knew it. My breasts ached for his touch.
I still wasn’t sure just how far I was willing to let this go. Birth control wasn’t really an option in those days, and it wasn’t an auspicious time of the month to be pushing my luck. I supposed we’d just cross that bridge when we got to it. There are, after all, many more than one way to skin a cat! Gramma smiled at that thought. Yes indeed there are!
I was completely absorbed in Andre and his fabulous body and the attention he was lavishing on me; I barely noticed the perfunctory knock at the apartment door.
The door swung open with a bang. Andre and I froze, mid-grope. I’m sure we looked exactly like the cover of one of those five-cent “adult” novels: “Sitting Room Sinners” or “Lust In The Afternoon” or some such trash. I certainly hope you don’t waste your time reading that sort of tripe! — Gramma smirked, and it made me giggle. — They didn’t have internet porn in those days; they didn’t even have an internet!
It was Ron, the boy from the grocery store, carrying two heavy-looking, over-stuffed canvas bags, one in each hand. The door swung closed behind him. He seemed totally unfazed by the scene laid out in front of him.
“Hi Molly,” he said, “Hello there”, he nodded to Andre. “Is this a bad time? ‘Cause I can just leave if you want me to.”
Andre looked at me. I looked back at him, and I thought I saw a mischievous glimmer in his eye. ‘Well what the heck,’ I thought, ‘In for a dime, in for a dollar!’
“No,” I told Ron, “You can stay.”
“Do you mind if I join in?” he asked, setting down the bags, “Is there room on that couch for a third?”
Ron was no longer wearing his silly apron and hat, and he looked even more like a motorcycle thug. And you understand, I mean that in the sexiest kind of way. It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that he would pull out a switchblade and threaten to rape me at knife-point. I wondered if he and Andre would get into a fight. I couldn’t see Andre winning that one.
Andre’s hand slid between my thighs, lifting up my skirt, and revealing the front of my undies. “Come on in,” he said, “The swimming’s fine!”
I found myself sandwiched on the couch between these two hot men, neither of whom was my husband. I felt like an Oreo cookie! Andre kept playing with my inner thighs and stroking me through my underpants while Ron felt up my breasts and ran his fingers through my hair. The special place down between my legs — can you believe I didn’t even know what a clitoris was — was throbbing like an air raid klaxon.
I stood up and turned to face them. My blouse fell to the floor, my skirt was not far behind. I reached behind my back and unsnapped my brassiere, tossing that implement aside. I was brazenly bare-breasted, in broad daylight, right in front of two men! I felt deliciously out of control.
I looked down upon my two paramours, expecting to see them ogling my bosom. I wasn’t disappointed. They appeared to be suitably enthralled. I felt flushed and gratified.
So I got down on my knees in front of them. Zippers came down. Andre shrugged off his shorts. I couldn’t quite believe what I was doing, but, well I imagine you know how it is: I was horny, hornier than I could ever remember being before, almost painfully horny, and it felt great!
I didn’t know a lot about penises at the time. As a matter of fact, I’d only encountered two so far in my life: my husband’s, and one before. The one time before had been rushed and embarrassing and in the dark, so that hardly counted. I took a moment to admire the two specimens quivering hardly in front of my face.
Andre’s tool was circumcised, which I understand was something of a rarity in those days. It was long and skinny, and had a bright red head on it, like the nose cone of an ICBM. Ron’s, on the other hand, was shorter than my husband’s cock, but notably fatter. The head was a livid purple and bulbous like a mushroom, and was leaking sticky clear fluid out the pee hole. Both of them looked absolutely delicious.
I may not have had a ton of experience with penises, but I didn’t let that stop me! I started making up for lost time, flitting happily from prick to prick like a hummingbird in a flower patch. I love the way cock tastes, don’t you? A nice, clean, horny, excited man in your mouth? Have mercy!
I may not have had a ton of experience, but neither of the guys were complaining. I was making it up as I went along; sucking, fondling, stroking, kissing, licking. I was, I can tell you, in a state of giddy bliss. Andre in particular was getting really excited, rocking his hips and humping, trying to shove his long cock all the way down my throat, which threatened to make me gag.
With a wet dick in each hand, I came up for air. I looked up at them, and do you know what? They weren’t paying any attention to me at all! They were kissing, lips mashed together, arms intertwined, petting and caressing.
I’d heard of fairies of course. There had been one boy in high school who everyone said was queer, but I’d never really believed it. What would two guys do together, without a, you know, a pussy to play with? Well, it looked like I was going to find out.
I don’t know about you — Gramma looked at me confidentially — but I find there are very few things sexier in this world than the sight of two hot men making out. I relaxed my grip on their cocks, and their hands replaced my own, criss-crossing over their bodies.
My own hand found its way inside my panties, where, my dear, I can tell you I was absolutely drenched! We didn’t really talk much about these things back in those days, but if we did refer to it, we girls called it ‘fiddling’. I started fiddling right then and there, inside my undies, watching my two lovers kiss and fondle and play with each other’s dicks.
Andre maneuvered Ron over onto his hands and knees, and in a flash I knew what he was going to do. I couldn’t really believe it, but still I knew. And I wanted it, I wanted to watch, and I wanted it for myself. Ron was making little noises, whimpering like a small, frightened animal, saying he wasn’t sure, he wasn’t ready, and Andre was saying reassuring things, stroking and petting him even as he slid his long skinny penis up and down the length of Ron’s darling butt crack.
My panties had to go. They weren’t exactly the sexy things you girls wear these days; they were mostly just in the way. They joined my other clothes on the floor, and then I was naked, naked as a newborn, with about three fingers getting busy with my slippery cunny.
Apparently, Andre found what he was looking for. Both men froze, like a still picture taken from some perverted stag film. Ron’s back was arched like a yogi, he was still wearing his tight white t-shirt and his tiny hard nipples were poking out. Andre had both hands on his own penis, taking careful aim, his face was a mask of concentration, and then slowly, very slowly, he rocked forward, burying himself into Ron’s tight virginal asshole.
Ron made a noise that was half cry and half moan, and then Andre started fucking him in earnest, slowly at first, then faster and faster as he grew more and more excited. Both guys were grunting like animals. I could see Andre’s cock sliding in and out, and that just turned me on all the more! Part of me wished it were my asshole he was violating; part of me was just enjoying the show. Ron’s cock was hanging straight down beneath him, harder than hard, bouncing with every thrust Andre delivered, and leaking a steady stream of sticky, clear, boy juice. I just had to reach out and touch it. It was hot, hot and hard. I could feel his heart pounding all the way through his cock. I started moving my hand up and down in time with Andre’s thrusts, and the grunts became more urgent, louder and more frantic.
Andre yelled out something like “Oh shit I’m going to come, take it slut-bitch!” Ron yelled something I couldn’t make out, squirming, trying to get more of Andre inside him and hump back against my busy hand at the same time. And then both men were coming; Andre deep inside Ron’s cute little ass, and Ron all over my couch, his cock twitching in my hand as he pumped what seemed like a never-ending stream of hot white semen onto the couch cushions, making an enormous sticky pool of the stuff.
They collapsed into a heap, just as I found my own peak. They both watched me, smirking sleepily, as I came, hiccupping and squeaking, too turned on to feel one iota of self-consciousness about what I was doing.
Andre disengaged, made his excuses, got dressed and left. He was in such a hurry to get out now that he’d gotten his rocks off, I was a little embarrassed for him. Ron, naked from the waist down, flushed and sweaty and sticky, now looked less like a thug and more like a regular boy. A cute boy. He smiled sheepishly at me.
“To tell you the truth, Molly,” he said to me, “This wasn’t exactly what I had pictured happening this afternoon.”
I laughed. “Me either!”
“My butt is kind of tender…”
“I bet it is!” I said, feeling more than a little bit jealous of him and his butt.
“Do you suppose I could use your shower?”
“Well of course!” I said. I was already scheming about what would happen once he came out of the shower, pink and clean and wet and ready for more action.
I fetched him a clean towel, and he went into the bathroom and closed the door, and I pulled on some clothes and went about cleaning up the mess we’d made of the living room. (I ended up wiping his come stain off the couch with a dishrag, and then simply flipping the cushion over. The stain stayed there for years. Theo never noticed it.)
I poured myself another drink. If Ron was willing to do to me what Andre had just done to him, I wouldn’t have to worry the least bit about getting pregnant. Why, it hardly counted as cheating at all! I wondered idly if it would hurt…
I was contemplating making a third drink when there was a perfunctory knock, and the apartment door swung open. I had forgotten all about Sally, my two-o’clock piano lesson!
I could hear the shower still running in the bathroom. Sally was an intensely freckled redhead, sixteen or seventeen years old, a stout girl who liked to show off her sizeable bust in tight sweaters. She tended to wear skirts that were just a shade too short to be really decent, and liked to make me blush with off-color jokes and innuendo. She flounced right in and sat down in front of the piano. She was a lackadaisical student, and her musical talent was mediocre at best.
Sally noticed Ron’s clothes, neatly folded and stacked on the seat of the armchair. “Oooh, Mrs. Whittaker! Am I interrupting something?” she asked.
I must have blushed redder than a sugar beet. At that moment, the water from the shower cut off, and we both swiveled to face the bathroom door. I suppose we looked like the cover of another cheap and sleazy novel, one with a different theme entirely.
Oh look! We’re here.”
I had just pulled up in front of the senior center. I double-parked the car right in front of the handicap ramp.
“And then what happened, Gramma?”
“What happened after that? Well, I had your mother and then your uncle, and I raised a family and got old.”
“You know what I mean!”
Her old blue eyes twinkled merrily. “I’d better get going,” she said, opening the passenger door and maneuvering her cane out onto the pavement. Laboriously, she hoisted herself out of the car. “There’s a bingo game this afternoon. You never know, maybe I’ll get lucky.”
END
So Wrong (the collected pornographica of Elsie) 