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Introduction:

The end of the Cold War, the start of a hot new life
The acrid smoke swirled and twisted as it poured from her nostrils. Olga absentmindedly puffed at her cheap, bitter cigarette, her lips streaked with wrinkles from decades of smoking. She didn’t even enjoy the taste, but cigarettes were a permanent part of Olga’s daily landscape, and she attended to them with the same combination of tenacity and indifference that had kept her alive all these years.

Olga was now 64. She lived in a cramped apartment, one of a thousand generic concrete housing structures that blot out the Moscow skyline. The building was built in the 1970s, but shoddy Soviet-era materials and a complete lack of pride in craftsmanship guaranteed that all these “modern” edifices were already crumbling. The ceiling leaked on the top floor where Olga’s apartment was, and she’d grown accustomed to standing water in the hallway.

Olga stubbed out her cigarette, glancing across the dinette table at her shelf of photos. Her eyes passed over a yellowing family portrait, and Olga’s eyes fixed on it for a moment. She missed them, all of them. Olga had raised three children in the slums of Moscow during the Cold War. While Michael Jackson was making millions with “Thriller,” Olga was standing in line to buy stale bread in the depths of winter. But she had raised them well; the two boys had gone on to University, and her daughter had become a teacher. They were good kids, but rarely came to see her. Her husband Misha had, like most Russian men, drank himself to death before he turned 50. He’d already been dead fifteen years. Olga missed him least of all.

Olga pulled her gaze away from the picture and refocused on the task at hand. Standing up, she stepped to the small mirror that hung on the wall and checked her hair and makeup. The garish blue eye shadow was wildly out of fashion, but Olga was not one to throw away perfectly usable cosmetics.

Satisfied, Olga stepped to the small bedroom. The lights burned brightly, warming the small, cold apartment. She sat on the edge of the bed and peeled off her threadbare robe.

The young man couldn’t have been 19 years old. His features were classically Slavic—the deep, sunken eyes, the large head, the narrow, pointed chin. He was wiry and hairless other than a badly cropped head of straight blond hair. He was also waffling between uncomfortable and excited.

The familiar voice of Sergei the photographer clattered noisily behind the bright lights, but Olga didn’t need to hear the specifics. She knew the routine. First she sat next to the lad, looking sexy but demure while the awkward boy stared in amazement. She heard the shutter click four times. She moved to the next pose, cuddled closer to the boy’s nude frame, her hand on his nearly skeletal chest. Again the shutter clicked. Pose three was her favorite. She cupped his shriveled genitals in her hand, all the while making a coy face of feigned embarrassment. With the fourth pose, Olga removed her bra and pressed her large, sagging bosom to the boy’s bewildered face. Click.

Finally with the fifth pose, Olga’s real work began. She leaned down and took the lad’s semi-erect penis into her mouth. The photographer snapped away. It would have been enough to get the shot and move on, but Olga took enough pride in her work to at least get the boy aroused. She swirled her tongue around his thin, reedy phallus, orally prodding him toward a full erection. She felt him respond, his slender prick lengthening in her mouth. Finally she released him, cherishing shot number six where she pulls the male counterpart’s glistening pecker from her mouth with glee.

Olga tried to feel excited. It certainly wasn’t a requirement; the photographer didn’t care, and the boy was probably still in shock. Nevertheless, she always tried to enjoy the sex. It made it less of an act of prostitution. It wasn’t a moral distinction; Olga would do the work whether or not she enjoyed it. Something had to pay for her apartment now that the pension so long ago promised by the State had vanished in a puff of smoke with the fall of Communism.

But today, she just wasn’t feeling it. The boy’s cock tasted good in her mouth, but she just wasn’t getting the tingle between her legs. So she soldiered on as she always had, getting done the things that needed to be done. She knew the photos would look great; they always did. No one would know that while the boy was poking her pussy doggy-style, Olga was mentally planning her food shopping for the week. When at last the boy sprayed his sad dollop of semen across the lumpy wrinkles of her stomach, Olga flushed appropriately while the camera clicked away.

By mid-afternoon, Olga had her apartment to herself again. Sergei left the lights in place, but turned them off and unplugged them. He packed up his camera equipment. The boy, whose name Olga had never caught, slinked out of the apartment silently, as if humiliated. Olga lit another cigarette and watched Sergei let himself out.

It was four years ago when the young man approached Olga at the supermarket. He had complimented her looks, admiring how good she looked for her age. Sergei had explained the Internet in all its glory. He described the limitless money that could be made there; selling things to people you’ll never meet. Then he explained the West’s sex obsession, how perversion had become so sophisticated that every fetish had countless websites devoted to it, all of them selling photos and videos made by ordinary people.

“Lots of Americans love older women, especially having sex with younger men,” Sergei had told her. “They love older women with fatty bodies and sagging breasts.”

Olga hadn’t taken offense. She’d never harbored any delusions about the broader appeal of her naked body. Her vagina had borne three children, and her breasts had fed them all. Beyond that, she hadn’t given it a second thought.

The photo sessions had started innocently enough: Olga wearing revealing clothes, usually something Sergei would bring over. He didn’t have a studio, so he used the homes of his subjects as the backdrop for his work. Chintzy art and non-heirloom trinkets completed the picture, firmly seating the photos in the former Soviet bloc. Well-educated Americans could probably tell what countries the photos came from: the hairstyles, the clothing, the bad décor. Amazingly, they seemed to like it. He had been told that these things provided a sort of amateur credibility. Sergei didn’t care, as long as he got paid.

Within a month, Sergei had persuaded Olga to start showing more skin. Her breasts were perfect for this genre: large and heavy, with long, rubbery nipples. They laid flat against her chest when upright, and dragged on the ground when Olga was on her hands and knees. Her thighs were thick but shapely in their own way. Her buttocks were large and round, with just a hint of dimpling. Her stomach was coiled with small rolls of fat and stretched skin. She was in every way the typical early grandmother image. Dumpy enough to satisfy the throngs of American and European perverts, sexy enough to be every inch a woman. Sergei had several such photo subjects, but Olga was his favorite.

After six months of occasional and unprofitable nude photography, Sergei convinced Olga to go for the gold. Sex acts were where the premium rubles came from. Olga wouldn’t really have to have regular sex with the other models. They need only appear to be having sex. But Olga wasn’t concerned with making that distinction. This new career was making her feel alive and sexy. And while it was starting to sound more like the world’s oldest profession, she didn’t see any reason to not give it her all.

Now almost four years later, Olga had engaged in photographic sex with at least 25 young men. She rarely learned their names, but she always enjoyed watching them get caught up in the assignment. Most were a photocopy of the boy she’s just worked with: short of 20, slightly geeky, skinny and boyish. Apparently the American perverts loved the mother-son angle, so they wanted very matronly women with very juvenile boys. She would always be the seductress and the teacher, and the boys always the seduced and the student.

The remarkable thing was the Olga had never had so much satisfying sex in her life. Misha had been a bore; his career alcoholism kept his sexual interest and erections at bay. She didn’t know if she was having actual good sex now, but she was certainly having a lot more of it. Sergei repeatedly cautioned her that she needn’t have full intercourse with the male models. But Olga came to recognize a good thing when she saw it. And a stream of quasi-vetted, sexually naïve young men through her bedroom would not get the cursory treatment.

Though perfunctory in its own way, the day’s session was significant for Olga. It marked the last strictly photographic sitting. Sergei’s associate, Leo, would come next week with a video camera. Olga was anxious, but genuinely enthused. Sergei and Leo would pay her three times more for the videos. She also liked the idea that having a man’s penis in her mouth or in her vagina would be commemorated by more than just a handful of snapshots. Olga sat at the dinette, assembling her dinner. A chipped plate held a piece of dark brown bread topped with smelly combination of pickled fish and a pinkish mayonnaise. She stubbed out her cigarette and began to eat.

Sergei and Leo arrived a few minutes early. Leo was taller, a little younger, and surprisingly polite. The last of Olga’s fears vanished. Sergei made small talk with Olga while Leo prepared his mini-DV camera. Olga was curious, never having seen a decent video camera up-close. Leo showed her the features. He probably could have used a lower quality consumer model, he explained, but he was a director with vision, and had decided to spend three months’ income on a professional model. Now he had to pay for it by doing this kind of work. Olga ignored the snub, gawking through the viewfinder to see her living room.

“Olga, I won’t be stopping to tell you what to do like usual. It’s like a play or a movie. You have to stay in character the whole time,” Sergei cautioned. “Leo will direct you as he needs to. Otherwise, just pretend like what we do for my camera is happening for real. Make it look good, Grandmother!” Sergei said the word бабушка tenderly, as if she was his own family. Olga was almost touched.

Leo finished his adjustments to the lighting and the camera settings. He was taking this shoot very seriously, Olga noticed.

“Da!” Leo nodded. He raised a finger, then pointed it at Olga to cue her.

Olga draped herself across the small twin bed, her weathered hands coursing over her pudgy body. The satin nightie that Sergei brought was attractive, but cheaply made. It was rather coarse against her skin, but it accentuated her heavy breasts nicely, and Olga liked the way she looked in it.

“Are you there?” Olga called out in feigned wonder.

A thin young man appeared at the doorway, dressed in American-style jeans and shirt. Olga began to play with her breasts, imagining herself as a horny housewife.

“Do you like the way I look?” Olga batted her eyes dramatically. Her ruby-red lips curled into a sexy smile.

The youth nodded in agreement, awkwardly rubbing at his crotch as he had been instructed to do. That was Olga’s next cue.

“What do you have in there? Something for me?”

“Da,” the boy finally spoke. His voice cracked, and he blushed in embarrassment.

“Oooh, let me see!” Olga pulled herself onto her knees as the boy approached the edge of the twin mattress.

She ran her hands over his thin torso, over his slender hips, finally resting on his crotch.

“Wow,” Olga exclaimed, as if impressed by the yet-unseen equipment. “It must be a monster.”

In truth, the boy was terrified, flaccid as a newborn. Olga committed herself, as always, to making sure they both looked good on camera.

Her practiced hands unfastened his cheap leather belt and opened his button and fly. To save time, Leo had told the boy not to wear underwear. His small penis fell disappointingly out of the open jeans. The boy’s face fumed with humiliation. But Olga was a professional, and she started improvising like a career vaudevillian.

“Oh, it’s going to be enormous. I’d better suck on it while it will still fit in my mouth!” She gave a subtle wink at the boy to relax him, and then popped his tiny member into her inviting mouth.

Olga sucked him slowly and deliberately. Leo took the camera from the tripod and came in closer, handheld. Aware of the camera’s immediate presence, Olga went for it. Moaning with believable wantonness, she pulled the boy’s cock as far back as she could, hoping the suction would lengthen it, even if natural arousal could not. Meanwhile, she tugged down his jeans and began to fondle his balls. The boy moaned slightly, and Olga felt him start to firm up in her mouth.

Olga made a show of deepthroating the cock, though in truth it was barely reaching the back of her mouth. She released his cock and stuffed the boy’s scrotum into her mouth. Her tongue danced around its peach-fuzz surface. She sucked gently, pulling with her lips, working diligently to bring the boy to erection. When she resumed her work on his phallus, Olga noticed that he’d grown significantly. She moaned in encouragement, rolling her eyes back in her head as if lost in her lusty ministrations.

The boy, feeling his own courage in the rise, placed a hand on Olga’s head, mimicking the poses he’d probably seen in magazines. As he stiffened under her expert touch, his bravado stiffened as well. Soon he was making at the right porn star noises, grabbing at Olga’s beehive hairdo, pumping himself into her mouth. Olga played along, pretending to be aroused by his amateurish moves.

Finally Leo silently indicated for them to move to the next phase. The boy saw the signal, and reluctantly withdrew from Olga’s mouth. She whimpered in mock disappointment. She sat up on her heels, and the boy leaned in to kiss her. They shared an awkward wet kiss. Oddly, this was Olga’s least favorite part. The sex was fun, but the kiss spoke of an emotional intimacy that was not present here.

As their tongues tangled, the boy rubbed his cool hands over Olga’s satin-covered breasts. Olga lay back across the bed, breaking the kiss. The boy took the cue and pulled her heaving fatty breasts from their satin covering. He drew one rubbery nipple into his mouth, pressing at it insistently with his tongue. Olga responded predictably by pulling the boy’s head to her bosom in a characteristically maternal fashion. Leo and Sergei shared a smile. This was internet porn gold.

Olga mashed her tanned, fatty breasts together around the boy’s pink pecker. His gangly legs straddled her broad rib cage, and he thrust with unskilled recklessness. His member positively vanished in Olga’s pillowy bosom, and she cooed as if it was having some direct stimulation. In truth, Olga has never understood Sergei’s emphasis on penis/breast combination. But he was the director, and now Leonid was making the same request. So she crammed her flabby breasts together, and occupied her mind with well-timed licks at the boy’s rapidly emerging and receding cockhead.

Olga had one leg up on the spring-worn mattress. She leaned forward, her fleshy breasts swaying low and heavy in pendular rhythm. Leo knelt beneath her, his video camera aimed at her shaved crotch. Her puffy labia made the vulva look like a deep cut, and Leo knew instinctively that this particular angle was going to really get men steamed up. The boy’s vein-twisted phallus slammed dynamically into Olga’s hairless pussy, her fatty clit engorged and highly visible. Leo found himself aroused by the scene mere inches from his face. The boy had his hands on Olga’s large, round ass, pumping away. Olga’s tits swung wildly with each stroke.

The boy lay back on the bed, and Olga lowered herself onto him. She thought absentmindedly that she was probably in the best shape of her life, with all the gymnastic poses and acrobatic sex acts she’d come to learn. The boy’s cock slid into her, and she returned her thoughts to her performance. She rode him hard, feeling him slide deep inside her. She found her clitoris with her fingers, spreading the rubbery labia for Leonid’s wide-angle camera lens.

Finally, Leo indicated that the end was near. He circled a raised finger in the air, meaning, “wrap it up”. Olga was relieved. She was starting to get tired. Time for the finale. She lifted herself from the boy’s turgid member and crawled off of him, eventually settling on the floor between his bony legs. The boy sat up, awaiting Olga’s unspoken instruction. She turned with her back to him, and leaned her head back. Remarkably, the boy understood. He lifted himself from the bed and stood over Olga’s reclined head. He bent his painfully stiff cock down toward Olga’s face. She opened her wrinkled lips, and touched his cockhead with her tongue.

The boy raised and lowered himself, with each squat his cock sliding down Olga’s throat. His scrotum flattened across the bridge of her nose with each stroke. Leo almost laughed, but the video was so good, he couldn’t lose focus.

Olga fondled his balls as the boy made his final strokes. He muttered a hint that the end was nigh. Olga pulled him from her mouth, and began quick strokes with her hand to finish him off. She already had her face under his balls, so she sucked them into her mouth while she jacked him. Within seconds an incoherent mutter heralded the spray of ejaculate across Olga’s saggy chest. The boy continued his grunting, and Olga released his scrotum, spinning out to face the erupting phallus. The last spurts of his cum dripped thickly from the cockhead, and she rubbed the sticky bulb against her wrinkled lips. Her tongue danced across the glistening tip.

Olga sat alone at the dinette. She stared at her plate, shaking more pepper onto her meal of pickled fish and pinkish mayonnaise. She felt so alive. With that cock in her throat, in her pussy, between her tits. His balls across her nose, his cum across her chest. It was nothing new, on one hand. But the seemingly simple transition from still photos to motion video had completely transformed her part-time in-home business into the most interesting thing that had ever happened to her. Even now, her pussy tingled. It wasn’t the boy. It wasn’t the size or shape or length of his penis. It was, in retrospect, good sex. Cheap and amateurish, to be sure, but real, and sensual, and captured for all time. She pushed the smelly plate away and slipped a hand between her thighs where her clit buzzed. She couldn’t wait for her next time in front of Leo’s fancy camera. She inhaled deeply on her cigarette as her fingers pressed against her swollen clit. As the now-familiar sensation of orgasm spread over her body, she muttered under her breath, “Oh, Misha, you stupid bastard. Look what you’re missing!”
7 comments

anonymous readerReport

2011-05-12 14:38:27
You’re the one with the brnais here. I’m watching for your posts.

street wearReport

2009-10-06 15:44:20
Thank you very much,your site is perfect

streetwearReport

2009-09-10 14:34:07
Fantastic work!

Anonymous readerReport

2009-02-21 19:09:21
"fatty clit"? I am STAGGERED by the intensity of your hatred for women. The description of Olga is bad enough -- newsflash, moron: bodies with extra weight just look different, not disgusting -- but the IDEA that a clit gets fat is ridiculous (weight gain does not affect clits), and it's sad that you hate clits so much that you have to use an ugly adjective. You are SO beyond misogynistic that no word exists to describe you. You're as sick and twisted as any hate-riddled member of the KKK, and you desperately need therapy.

READERReport

2008-03-01 12:38:36
what a load of shite

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