Ron Taylor: X-rated mother

Stacy felt a magnificent oozy shudder beginning somewhere just beneath her navel and filtering through the rest of her body. She sighed around his cock, just as the first tingle of cum rippled in her labia, and then she opened her gullet to receive Don's love offering.

He was really turned on. His cum flowed in thick, greasy spurts, each ejaculation following upon the heels of the one before, and Stacy's cheeks puffed out with the weight of Don's cream. She rolled it in her mouth before she swallowed, savoring the taste of him, and her fingers kept working to tease every last drop of juice from his balls. As he squirted he thrust into her mouth, attempting to ram his cock down her gulping throat, but Stacy had enough presence of mind, despite her own orgasmic convulsions, to keep her lips tight and her fingers a steady rein on his dick.

Don kept jerking and thrusting, even after he'd stopped gushing, and his middle finger stabbed a counterpoint through the raw mouth of Stacy's cunny. They came apart slowly, Stacy still gulping and sloshing as she sat up once more. Don's cock was a small red dangle now that it had shot its wad, and she tucked it back inside his pants. Even in the darkness she could see that the theater was as empty as before and, if any of the few other patrons had noticed what she and Don had done, they gave no indication.

On screen Bob was with his girlfriend once again, the same girl who'd tried and failed to get him up. He was explaining his day's adventures to her, mentioning that he was still horny, pointing to the big lump in his pants.

"Ooohh!" she gurgled. "You're my big beautiful stud again!" And with that she got his prick out for some sucking. Stacy knew that the film was nearly over. Maybe one more fuck between those two, and that would be it. She looked at her watch. The film had been running for almost seventy minutes. That was about standard length for an X-rated movie. "C'mon," she told Don, standing up. "Take me home."

He came without reluctance, following her up the aisle as she went out. His car was down the street and Stacy waited impatiently as he unlocked the door. Don started the engine and signaled for a left. "No," she said, "take me home, I told you!"

He shrugged and turned right at the light. Stacy squirmed as she at beside him, and she didn't notice that she was, tapping on the dash. "Is something wrong?" Don asked, "I thought that movie was gonna turn you into a maniac or something. Jesus, did you catch that old lady? The one in the curlers and housecoat? She wasn't bad at all when she got naked, and the way she made it! God, I wonder how they ever got somebody as classy-looking as that into a fuck film?"

"I intend to find out," Stacy said in a voice so soft she barely heard it herself. Don was still talking but she wasn't listening to him.

The car pulled up in front of the apartment building where Stacy lived. Dan reached to shut off his engine but she caught his hand. "I'm sorry as hell, love," she told him, "but I can't ask you up. We'll have to postpone it for a day or two. I have to go into the city this afternoon. Call me Thursday, okay?"

She left him in the car and trotted up the steps to her door, unable to forget the filmed image of that classy-looking woman. Wasn't that what Don had called her? An old lady, he'd said, too. God, even when she closed her eyes Stacy could see that naked body, mature and trim, the passion-etched face, the nipples stiff with their arousal, the cunt opening to receive the man's penile thrusts, the mouth that drank hungrily of his spurting jism – It was all far real, she reminded herself. This wasn't one of those simulation features, where the actors just pretended to sex each other. It was a genuine X-rated movie, hard core, cum shots. Everything. They were really doing it, those people.

Stacy let herself in and turned on the light. It was always so dark here in the winter. She walked past the typewriter. Three days ago she'd started a letter to her brother, in response to one he'd sent her a month ago, and she'd never gotten around to finishing it. Maybe she should write him now? No. Definitely no. Gerry was her brother, but he was such an asshole. He had the makings of another Nixon in him, God forbid. When he wanted, the kid could be the biggest horse's ass alive.

She went into the bedroom, not bothering to take off her coat. On the dresser, beside the stupid ring that Goddamned Melissa had given her, was a picture of the three of them. Stacy, Gerry, their mother. It was a summery photo, two or three years old. She picked it up.

When had she seen them last? At Christmas. She'd been home for a day or two, long enough to say "Hi" and hunt up a party. Jesus, Amherst wasn't that far from New York. She should go home more often, find out what was happening, for Christ's sake!

As Stacy looked at her mother in the picture, the image seemed to change before her eyes. The chic pantsuit dropped away, the body twisted into a bare, erotic posture, and the eyes began to sparkle in liquid brown passion – Stacy hugged the photograph to her bosom. "I still don't believe it," she said aloud. "It couldn't be." Everyone had a double, somewhere in the world. She'd heard that once. Somewhere there was somebody who looked exactly like you. If the two of you met on a street corner without warning it would be like stumbling against a mirror.

That was it. No, it wasn't. The woman in the porno movie couldn't have looked so much like Stacy's mother, couldn't have sounded exactly like Stacy's mother, unless – unless she was. "Oh, Christ, Mother," said Stacy. She put the picture down, packed a few clothes into an overnight bag, and went to the basement garage where her Volkswagen was parked. With any luck, and if it didn't snow without warning, she'd be in New York by nightfall.

There was a name tag at eye level on the door. It read CONSTANCE TALBOT, and just beneath it was a button. Stacy pushed the button and listened as the bell rang inside the apartment. There was no answer. That was impossible. She'd dialed the number from half a dozen phones since parking her car, and each time Mom's line had been busy. Someone must be in there.

Stacy fumbled in her purse for the key. She hadn't used it in so long she was afraid it might not be there, but it was, thank God. She tried the bell once more, then unlocked the door and went inside. "Mom!" she said.

Connie Talbot was sitting on the couch in a pink robe, an ashtray full of cigarette butts on the coffee table in front of her. She was just stubbing out still another cigarette, and she didn't even look up when Stacy spoke. Instead she knocked a fresh Newport out of the package, stuck it in her mouth, and lit it. Smoke drifted into the air around her head in a heavy gray cloud.

Beside her on the couch lay the phone receiver, half-buried between two cushions. There was a tabloid-size newspaper on the floor next to her feet, and Stacy thought that was strange, for her mother had always called the Daily News a Neanderthal publication.

"Mom," she said again, stepping closer.

Connie looked up, her eyes red and swollen. "Stacy." Her voice was weak, almost inaudible even at such close range.

Stacy dropped to her knees and leaned across the coffee table to take her mother's shaking hand. As she did, she noticed that the tabloid on the floor wasn't the Daily News at all. It was a weekly sex paper called Twat, that labeled itself the "Snatchiest Rag in New York" and seemed well on the way to overtaking Screw in the porno paper sweepstakes.

"What's wrong?" Stacy asked. "You've been crying. Why is the phone off the hook? Why are you sitting here chain-smoking? Mother, say something, for the love of Christ!"

"Why are you here?" Connie asked suddenly, bitterly. "Have you come to put in your two cents' worth? Stacy, I can't take any more! I'm finished. I just want to go to bed and never get up again."