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“What’s your next project?” Lorraine asked.
“I’m doing a feature on the explosion of porn on the internet,” I answered in a businesslike tone, not looking up from my screen.
“Seriously?” she chirped, folding her arms.
“Take a look,” I said as I turned my laptop toward her.
She choked back a laugh as she saw the image of a bleach-blonde porno queen being double-penetrated by a couple of tattooed skinheads with inhumanly large penises.
“What’s your hook?” she asked, meaning the journalistic angle of the piece I would write.
“Today’s porn is so vivid and explicit that it spoils the viewer’s appetite for erotica.”
“It’s addictive, no?” As she viewed the action on my computer screen, she leaned over my shoulder, as if she were dangling her boobies for me.
“Yeah, but the porn addict develops a kind of immunity,” I explained. “He keeps raising the bar, craving ever more hardcore stuff. What turned him on last week, is boring him this week.”
“It looks more like a barnyard than a brothel,” Lorraine observed while watching a full screen shot of the lady’s anus and vagina riding a faceless cock.
“Yeah, I know,” I laughed. “You can’t tell if she’s fucking or taking a shit.”
“I’ll leave you to your work,” the bright young staff writer said to me as she turned away.
“My research,” I informed her.
Lorraine was wearing a one-piece dress that hugged her full body like a glove, hemmed six inches above the knee and two inches below her twat. Her buttocks danced a rhumba for me as she walked down the hall. She would do well in a porno.
The internet has everything, including erotic art dating back to ancient Egypt and Mesopotamia. I also found silent “stag films” from the 1920s. I noticed that the beginning of the film dwelt on the performers getting undressed. I guess that was foreplay for the viewer.
There also was a plethora of photo galleries sorted by era and country of origin. I surfed a dozen web sites and must have glimpsed a thousand pictures of mostly young women, although they ranged the full spectrum of humanity in terms of ethnicity and body type.
Most of the pictures were head and boob shots—I call it the nude Mona Lisa—plus ass shots with comely over-the-shoulder smiles. The full frontal shot was rare—more frequent were the closed leg cover-ups—but what the old-time pictures showed was the fur rather than the pussy.
I surveyed the faces, becoming curious about who these women were. I assumed most were dead, or maybe a hundred years old if they were still living. Their bios were not the focus of my story, but I couldn’t help but see these women—these girls—as people.
I opened up a pay-for-view website, one of those one-dollar-a-day deals. The site advertised itself as the largest collection of retro and vintage porn on the web. I waded through page after page of cuties from the 1920s, ’30s, ’40s, ’50s, and ’60s. I started to feel the boredom of same old, same old.
Then I saw my mother.
I stared dumbfounded at the screen. There was a gallery of thirty or forty pictures on the screen. In the middle, three rows from the top, the fourth photo in the row was a dead ringer for my mom. She graduated from high school in 1957. So, if the tag 1959 was accurate, she would have been twenty.
This was impossible. There were a million young ladies with the same brunette perm, wide brown eyes, sensuous lips, full round breasts, and gleaming smile.
It was a black-and-white picture and I was assuming the color of her eyes and hair. I can’t say that I recognized the crest of her naked breasts with their dark, puffy nipples. I only saw my mother’s tits fleetingly in her mature years.
“This is nuts!” I told myself out loud.
The resemblance of a nude model from half a century ago to my matronly, dignified, prudish, and devout mommy was nothing but a coincidence.
I scrolled down the web page in a vain effort to survey the assembled photos. My vision blurred. I looked at the pics without seeing them.
I returned to the single smiling face that was a dead ringer for Eileen, my late mother. I double clicked the image.
The link read “Select Private Collections” and led me to a web page with a plain, no-frills design. The pro forma “Are you 18?” box popped up. I clicked yes.
Inside were thumbnails, all clearly old-school, showing erotic poses and sexy action by classic cuties.
I sipped my lukewarm coffee and glided my cursor over one frame after another, not knowing what I was looking for or where to find it.
Then I saw her again. I recognized Irene’s distinctive smile, her head thrown back a la Marilyn Monroe, holding her tits as if offering them to her gentlemen admirers.
I was shaking, dry mouthed, and sweating rivulets, as I double-clicked the photo of the woman who looked like my mother.
She was identified as Iris. The label indicated picture 1 of 16. I clicked the right arrow symbol. My mother smiled brightly, raising her arms in the air, showing shadowy armpits and flexing her breasts like great muscles. bahis firmaları She crossed her right leg over her left to hide her sex.
The next picture showed her squatting coquettishly, pouting her lips, displaying twin plump buttocks, and just the hint of a nipple.
Picture number 4 was a full frontal view with her hand covering her mound of Venus, but her arms squeezed her boobies together, making them seem to swell larger. It looked like she rouged or put lipstick on her darkened nipples.
I clicked to picture number 5 and saw my mother’s cunt. She sneered at the camera lasciviously and crossed her arms with her legs spread apart to form a pyramid. Her ladyhood was blanketed under a thick patch of coarse dark hair.
Truth be told, I can’t say I recognized my mother’s vagina. I saw it once when I was five. It looked like a giant caterpillar and it scared me. I never spied on her again.
Picture number 6 made me gasp. Irene or Iris—whoever she was—lay prone on a bed with two fingers between her legs, spreading her labia, showing the pulpy, fleshy interior of her cunt.
I felt queasy. If this was truly my mom in these pictures, I would retch. I wasn’t even halfway through the set of pix. I tempted fate. I viewed the next slide, and the next, and the next.
I saw Iris bury her finger in her slit, followed by three fingers, then a fist with the other hand twizzling her anus, all accompanied by progressively slutty expressions on her face.
The next-to-last pic hit me like a punch in the gut. She stood stark naked, smiling sweetly, holding a man’s penis in her hand. The man in the photo was a typical wavy-haired greaser with sideburns from the doo-wop era.
My first thought was: “He’s not my father, thank goodness.” My next thought was: “Oh, my god, he’s not my father.”
The last pic was the end of innocence. Iris was sucking and stroking the cock of that man who was not my father. Her tits stuck out proudly and her hairy pussy was wide open.
To my horror, I felt my erection, aroused at the sight of my asexual female parent re-imagined as a whore. When I rose to stand, a little droplet stuck to my whities and pinched the tip of my wiener. I was mortified and exhausted.
On my way out, I passed Lorraine’s cubicle and she asked me with a curious look, “Everything okay, Donnie?”
“Yeah,” I responded unconvincingly. “I think I pushed the envelope a little too far.”
“Bleary eyed from all that smut?” she chuckled.
“I just need to clear my head and start fresh tomorrow.”
I left the Bleecker Street office of the Village Observer. I trotted to the subway, waded through the mob at Grand Central, and elbowed my way to the commuter line to get home to Shorehaven in the green hilly burbs of Connecticut.
“Rough day?” Joanne seemed to sense something was out of the ordinary.
After a quick dismissal, I told her. “I’m doing research for a feature on internet porn and I think I found dirty pictures of my mother.”
“Your mother? Of all people? No way!” My wifey seemed at once disturbed and amused.
“I know it’s impossible, but I saw the pictures of a woman who looks just like her when she was about twenty years old.”
“Well, they say everybody has a double.”
Jo put her arms around me, a welcome display of affection.
“Mom’s doppleganger,” I said with a nod. “I’m sure it’s not her, but I couldn’t help imagining that it was.”
“What did the pictures show?” Joanne asked provocatively.
I told her as she snuggled up to me and I smelled her familiar scent, the pheromones that first seduced me thirty years ago.
Since the kids moved out—being independent for millennials means that they live away from home and we pay their rent—we have plenty of time and privacy, but our middle-aged libidos have become somewhat dampened.
Tonight was different, however. We wrestled our way up to our bedroom, ripping off each other’s clothing while sucking the wind out of one another’s lungs with aggressive kissing.
I plowed my lady’s fertile field bareback. We are long past the need for birth control. She shrieked with strained joy as I fucked her hot, sopping pussy. Joanne was an old-fashioned girl, keeping her unshaven pubic beard neat and tidy. It reminded me of my mother’s hairy vagina in the porn pix.
Joanne expected me to roll over and go to sleep after I finished filling her vessel. She was in for a surprise as I rolled her over, plunged my face between her butt cheeks, to prime her with my tongue before pounding her in the ass. I came so hard that I sobbed.
“What got into you?” she asked afterward, looking exhausted from screwing me.
I shrugged.
“Did you take a little blue pill?” she asked, twirling her long fingers around my spent cock.
I shook my head.
My dingus hardened and grew in response to her touch. As Jo-Jo sucked me off, I closed my eyes and recalled the pictures of Iris.
The next day at work I tried to clear away the normal batch of e-mails, interoffice memos, and phone calls to return before kaçak iddaa noontime so that I could resume my pornographic research.
I was like someone walking in one direction while looking somewhere else. I surfed the net’s vintage, classic, retro, and classic sites. I wasn’t trying or expecting to find more models that looked like my mother. At the same time, that was exactly what I was doing. I was looking for Iris.
I gave in to temptation and googled “Iris, porn, xxx” and waited for the first ten hits to fill out the list on my laptop’s screen.
The most prominent web site producers came up: Big Bang Brothers, Porno Hub, and Muffin Hunters. On the second page was where I found the real old-school web site operators. The one that had several cross-references for Iris was called “The Whore Next Door.”
I searched the site for Iris and a row of thumbnails appeared, all black-and-white video clips. In three of them, the woman looked vaguely like my mother. The other three snippets were blurred, as one should expect from 35-millimeter film half a century old.
I watched a women that might have been my mother cavort in the first five-minute clip, masturbating, feeling up her own tits, wiggling her hips, and bending over to spread her legs and display her honey pot from behind.
I viewed all of the video slices, which appeared to be excerpts from different movies, the longest of which was five minutes. Two of the clips showed Iris getting fucked and another showed her kissing, licking, and sucking a cock.
The last film clip showed Iris dressed like a parochial school girl in ponytail, white shirt, plaid skirt, bobby socks, and penny loafers. The scene ended with her walking into the boys’ locker room, where a group of naked football players awaited.
“CLICK HERE TO DOWNLOAD FULL-LENGTH VIDEO.”
I read the message on the screen, but I couldn’t pull the trigger. I put my head down on my desk and closed my eyes. I didn’t cry, though I felt like it.
I avoided watching the video for the rest of the afternoon. Around three-thirty, I went to see Lorraine.
I told her what I had found and she didn’t speak, but before I finished explaining my suspicions, my angst, and my burning desire to learn the truth, she found “The Whore Next Door” web site on her desktop.
“Let’s see what we’ve got,” she said, while literally pulling my chair right alongside hers.
After viewing the excerpts, she downloaded the video. The plot began with Iris playing an innocent young girl going through a typical high school day, leading up to her getting lost on her way to the library and ending up in the locker room instead.
Iris ogles the beefcake lined up before her and their oversized sexual organs. The team captain approaches her, unbuttons her blouse, lifts up her skirt, and pulls down her panties.
I commented to Lorraine that Iris’s pubic hair was less bushy than in the earlier clips. She raised her eyebrow at that odd observation.
Iris proceeded to suck cocks, jerk off two boys at a time, and squat to let a boy eat her out. Cycling through the group, she finished by getting triple penetrated by three studs—one in her ass, one in her mouth, and one in her cunt. She smiled for the camera throughout.
“I wonder who was working the camera,” I said, getting another questionable look from Lorraine.
“Why do you care about who the camera guy was?” she asked me.
“Just curious,” I replied, but, in fact, I wanted to see through the invisible theatrical fourth wall. I wondered if there was a film crew, an audience, or one chubby guy with a home movie camera.
The video’s finale was a typical porn climax, where the biggest dude held his cock in front of Iris and pumped semen all over her face. She swirled her tongue around her mouth, but didn’t actually swallow any of the goop.
“They usually end with a facial.” I told Lorraine, “Standard operating procedure.”
“It’s so demeaning,” she pronounced. “Till that point, she’s the star, the queen bee. Then they squirt all over her. It’s like they’re pissing on her.”
I understood what she meant and agreed, but I said what was really on my mind. “I think Iris is my mother.”
“It turns you on, doesn’t it?” As she spoke, she reached into my lap and touched my erection, tenting in my slacks.
“”Everybody’s left the office,” I said.
“It makes me so hot.” I noted a huskiness in her voice and a cross-eyed stare in her eyes. The young vixen moved toward me with predatory intent.
I unhitched my belt while she unzipped my fly. Beads of sweat rose on my forehead and wisps of Lorrie’s hair swirled about her head as she caressed my cock with her velvety tongue inside her sweet, hungry mouth.
After she sucked and swallowed my juice, I commented, “We’ve been working together for two years and this is the first time we’ve done anything.”
“It’s about time, dammit!” she proclaimed, as she unbuttoned her shirt and unhooked her bra. “That was just for starters, Donnie.”
“I’ll miss my train,” I said lamely.
“Text your wife kaçak bahis and tell her you’re working late,” she ordered me in no uncertain terms. “Then get naked and fuck me like those guys fucked your mother.”
I came hard and strong but quickly inside Lorraine’s hairless flower. We didn’t even kiss until we said goodnight.
The next day I couldn’t wait to continue my surfing the net for historic pornography. I found Iris in another video collection. The gang-bang in the locker room had no dialogue, only music. It was sort of phony jazz, more like elevator music than the cool modern jazz from back in the day.
This video had dialogue and was in color. It was likely made a couple of years later. Iris’s hair was longer, lighter colored, and twisted in an up-do. The film begins with her sitting on a couch, reading a magazine, when the doorbell rings.
She opens the door and greets two handsome soul brothers. She gives them both exaggerated and undulating kisses. They get busy right away.
My mother’s impassioned belief in racial equality, instilled in me by her from my earliest memories, took on a different connotation as I watched Iris sucking and fucking the pair of black studs.
Around four o’clock, Lorraine peeked through my ajar office door. “Still looking for your mama?”
I motioned for her to come in and shut the door. “I think I found her.”
About five minutes into the movie, while Iris shrieked in orgasm in the middle of a man sandwich, getting drilled by two cocks at once, Lorraine asked, “Do you recognize her voice.”
“I can’t tell,” I said disappointedly. Then I looked at Lorraine, her cheeks flushed and her brow sweaty, as she watched my mom’s porno. I wiggled in my chair to keep my hard dick from rubbing against my pants.
We watched Iris—or maybe it was Irene—move through a typical porn plot sequence. She reclined, moaning, as each lover licked her pussy willow.
Next she started sucking the first guy, nicknamed Candy Bar, while the other guy, whom we dubbed Needle Dick, finger-fucked her. Then she switched off, followed by missionary fucking, with her wings spread wide. Iris shrieked with orchestrated pleasure.
The final sequence showed Iris on all fours, taking Needle Dick from behind while vigorously giving Candy Bar fellatio. I felt Lorraine stir and moan softly as the final facial played.
I grabbed my colleague and kissed her—a wet and sloppy smooch that made her laugh.
“There’s still people in the office,” Lorrie proclaimed.
I jumped out from behind my desk. “Knock on the men’s room door in five minutes.” She nodded and resumed watching the dirty movie.
I went into the men’s bathroom, locked the door, and dropped my pants. Lorraine knocked on the door as instructed and I pulled her inside. She went down on me while dissembling her clothes.
On the crest of orgasm, she mounted me with her muscular pussy lips enveloping my engorged dick. She called out to heaven when we came together.
“I’m going to start bringing extra undies to work if we’re going to fuck like this every day.”
I laughed, but she was serious. I wondered how I could muster the energy to do her every day.
“Watching your mother having wild and crazy sex really arouses you,” she offered matter-of-factly.
I took offense at that. “That’s not what’s happening here.”
My beautiful fuck-buddy laughed somewhat derisively. “Oh, yeah, it is.”
I got mad. “Fuck you, Lorrie.”
She spat, “Fuck you, too, asshole!”
I fumed with anger at Lorrie while riding the rail all the way home. I also relived the dirty images of Iris.
The weekend came and I tried to put my mother the porn whore out of my mind, to no avail. I found myself surfing the net for porn by Saturday night. My wife caught me.
“I’m obsessed,” I told Joanne. “I need to know whether it’s her or not.
“You’re making yourself crazy,” Joanne observed accurately.
“She’s not around to speak for herself,” I said regretfully.
“Is there anyone else you can ask?”
I shook my head no. Eileen died at age seventy-two three years ago, ten years after my dad.
Joanne joined me on the couch and watched “Iris Gets Blacked” with me. She gave me a hand job before the finale, where the two studs, Candy Bar and Needle Dick, sprayed white goop all over Iris’s face, tits, and belly.
Then Jo prompted me to search for more Iris movies and we found one. It was called “A Cup of Sugar.”
This last video was clearer and more professional looking than the ones I had viewed thus far. The opening scene showed Iris, dressed as a suburban housewife, ringing a neighbor’s doorbell. A skanky blonde answered.
Iris spoke: “May I borrow a cup of sugar?” I quaked as I recognized my mother’s voice, the clothes she wore, and her pretty face in a full-screen close-up.
I choked up and started to cry. Joanne paused the video and hugged me. Then she said, “Man up, Donnie. Let’s watch the show.”
The storyline unfolded as two housewives discussed baked goods, bowling, and bingo nights in a suburban kitchen. Their body language suggested an interest in more than granulated sugar and baking powder. Before long the blonde skank was touching Iris’s hair, cheek, neck, and shoulder. They kissed.
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