In My Beginning Is My End

Mom had written of Louis Pasternak, a low-life and greasy palmed opportunist known about town by his rat faced visage and Hitleresque moustache stepped from the building's cranky elevator into the shabby lobby, was murdered a little more then two years ago.

A group of up and coming, hard charging plastic surgeons, young Turks in their profession, held court here during the day, planned nose jobs, tummy tucks, breast augmentations and lap band procedures. I imagine their business has petered off in light of the present gloomy mode cast over the planet. In one suite of offices, an Indian orthodontist jabbered all the livelong day re-balancing teeth and re-adjusting lopsided jaws. A union local on the second floor under investigation by the U.S. Attorney and a CPA named Bushman on the third floor under indictment by the city's bi-sexual district attorney. A jowly, ancient private eye named Blake occupied a seedy office around the corner from the CPA. Visited by few clients, this fat shamus lolled in his chair all day as though it was a throne, sucked down gin toddies, wheezed and squinted through bifocals at glossy pictures of crack whores squatting on filthy, clogged toilets.

The top floor was given over to one enterprise. The walls paneled in rich blond wood and framed lithographs of crimson cloaked, horse riding English dandies chasing foxes through hill and dale. Flambeaux provide tame lighting, offer plenty of intentional shadow. Wanda said the fresh cut flowers packaged into decorative urns scented the rooms with too much funeral dread. A well stocked mahogany and brass bar, an alcoholic dreamland fronted by leather wing back chairs, squatting oval maple coffee tables, sofas arranged for intimate conversations, conferred the feeling of a rich gentleman's private club, a soothing oasis of serenity in a mad, out of kilter world. Instead, it is an exclusive downtown clinic, a sex club at a less then posh address.

In the perfumed missive received in the midst of finals; Mother took her turquoise pen in hand and in flowing bold loops and confident swirls described the typical cab ride, the wasted neighborhood, the clinic in scintillatingly vivid detail. Every time I read the letter, I ended beating off into my palm. Thoreau said it best: "I have received no more than one or two letters in my life that were worth the postage." This was one of my pair of letters.

In the same stimulating letter, she described her psychiatrist, a goateed; youthful looking doctor with arched black eyebrows named Wolfgang Vongoyan; a legend in Californian medical circles who had husbanded the place from its inception. In detail, Mom told me of all the raunchy fucking she meted out to the good doctor, nearly killed him I think.

He started his therapeutic career using hypnosis to treat phobias, stop smokers dead in their tracks. After writing a well received text book on sexual addiction, another on incest, he made a fortune in the mass market writing a clever, easy to read primer on sexual peccadilloes. For a year he worked for Doctor Conrad Vein in Vienna sharpening his psychoanalytical skills. Now in the city by the bay, he treated a cadre of sexual addicts adamant in their refusal to abandon their vices. Instead, he catered to them. The place was pure refuge now, a spot to slake addictions before the world died.

Her attire, her attitude, her aptitude was a veritable carnival thrill ride. Thank God her appeal to me and the many she tempts has not moderated in the least. We have so little time left to us. Well, as compensation, I did have pleasurable moments on the road, but always in my mind were Mom, her capable body.

The heels created a theatrical impact, focused attention on her quaking behemoth boobs. She walked with a cat's sureness. Every stride was a provocation. The corded musculature in her legs, the forward angle of her chest, all that fine, firm flesh confined under silk and rayon drew eyes, set fires in heterosexuals within a dozen miles of my mother.

Wanda, not one to do anything in half measure, costumes her body, uses her assets to captivate, to ensnare, to reveal her sexual availability. The rock on which she has built her church is this exhibitionist nature, this compelling need to flaunt, to quench her fires with her openness to anything sexual, in catering to a baker's dozen of fetishes.

Birds of a feather always flock together. Licentious Wanda had found a haven to placate a sexual addiction born out of her incestuous youth. A new batch of sexaholics show up at Doc V's fetes every week; momentarily join the group for short order thrills, stay for full five course feasts. I saw a steady stream of people making their way into the decrepit building. The women were hot blonds, brunettes, redheads and raven haired beauties. Most of the men looked fit. Some looked to be tow headed Aryan supermen with unimaginably large pricks no doubt; others were dark and dangerous looking, ready to go down on a woman soon as they stepped inside. Another group represented fat, slovenly and ugly men. Several women were equally flabby and looked disbelieving as they approached the building.

The number of people enjoying the seamier side of life, who freely accommodated their wild side, who were so fierce in their determination to walk to the beat of a different drummer stunned me. It made me proud to be Wanda's son, to be another one who hears his own drummer.

Every Wednesday night Mom freely offered her considerable contributions to these people. Nestled in their bosom, Wanda found easy acceptance of her familiar feelings, took sustenance in their easy manners toward incest and any other sexual thrill. In an odd way it made her feel remarkably virtuous. Incest was nothing to be ashamed of, not evil and definitely should not be considered illegal. It was to be admired, to be appreciated for its pristine reliability in garnering the most wicked of pleasures.

On these Wednesday evenings gang bangs, heterosexual humping, homosexual romping, straight fucking, horizontal coupling were referred to as group therapy and confrontational sexual coupling.

On these nights before heading to Center Street, Wanda Goodwill, slut, nympho, whore and harlot paces about her Pied a terre, a luxurious second floor flat a few blocks from the Transamerica Tower. My ultimate destination until I realized it was Wednesday night. Better to glimpse her here. She'd get well and truly fucked by her buddies, and then we'd go back to the apartment and get down to business. The more my mother fucked, the more she wanted to fuck and tonight and until the end, I'd be the recipient of her wanton excesses.

On earlier visits, we stayed naked, fucked and sucked. Travel was so much easier then. Hop on a plane, fly straight and level for five hours and hop off. Hailing a cab at the airport, anxious to restore my familiar bond, the taxi dropped me in front of her place. For a few minutes, I'd watch her shadow, her contours floating back and forth behind the white lace curtains of the apartment. I'd hearSleep Walkby Santo and Johnny bellowing and booming through her rooms. No doubt these surf tunesmiths, the Beach Boys, Jan and Dean, the Ventures, Ronny and the Daytonas still played in her apartment before she stepped into the night. The same music wafted through the house back in Ohio. Always yearning for new conquests and old comrades, she'd be naked, sipping claret, mixing and matches clothing for the right effect, getting her game face on, the war paint arranged just so before going out into the night for some more end of the world partying.

Mom's comfortable place is decorated in pastel colors and subdued earth tones. An inexplicable black and white poster of a chimpanzee doing some serious nose picking looks down on her sleigh bed. In the hallway a grouping of stark black and white photographs, close up studies of her sexual parts, are always conversation grabbers.

My sweet, sexy mother has always enjoyed rubbing fragrant lotions into her huge, firm breasts, peering intently at her nipples in the full length mirror on the back of the bedroom door. Vanity seems to be a common trait in the family but we do I think have much to be vain about. She dabs feminine scents into her gash, uses a shiny silver vibrator named Mad Mike, a hot pink vibrator big as a torpedo to take the edge off.

Earth shattering sex is the only appropriate response when the earth is destined to be blown apart in a few months by a meteor. I know this, my mother knows this, everyone in this city and people all about the world realize this too.

Wanda, born Bethany Ann Johnson, entered her father's bed at 18. Under his guidance, his monster cock in her, she first experienced this earth shattering sex long before any cosmic orb showed up, bent on wiping out humanity.

By the age of 16, she had topped out with the biggest bust in western Ohio, the tiniest waist, the most incredible long legs. Sex mongers appreciating her stunning figure and appraising her stupendous value had stomped about Ohio, ready to sign her soon as she reached that magical and golden one eight number. All those squalid entrepreneurs eager to see Bethany nice and legal, old enough to feature in their stroke books and video productions, offered untold riches to her dad. They talked of bonus scenarios, stock options, off shore tax free situations. He had all the wealth one needed.

In this bidding war for this budding sex star, Bethany played the part of the blue-eyed, buxom blond doll vied over by bordello madams and white slavers. Hank Masters of Astral Productions, Tiffany Cupps, the former porno diva, now CEO for Avid Enterprises saw Bethany's virginity as pure platinum, her hymen as nothing but a gossamer veil draping untold riches for plunder and profit.

Her father was in no hurry to see Bethany leave his bed. Brandi, Bethany's sister not ready for plucking. Barbara, the senior sister well seasoned to her father's passions often spent her nights fucking Rudy or Donny, one of her older brothers somewhere in the house.

Barbara in a royal blue camisole and vivid blue stiletto heels going down on Max Steelman, Barbara in a black cocktail dress getting doggy fucked by Peter Packer was already paying off quite handsomely for Dad.

My grandmother was fully aware of Barbara's, Bethany's and Brandi's place in the family's hedonistic hierarchy. While not oblivious to Bethany's pre-eminence in her husband's bed, Cecelia Mae Johnson and her gushing, insatiable pussy was busily catering to her several sons, their at home education in the sexual arts.

Some day I wanted to write a book, a tell all book about these doings in a comfortable, all American white clapboard house outside Dayton, Ohio. I even had a plan for the video's cover. It would parody the paintingAmerican gothic. In front of a white wood frame house, big busted Wanda, my mother, in a plunging calico dress, her hair bound in a tight bun, standing next to Dan Doher, the bald headed, bespectacled and bemused porno legend from the seventies. Dan still hard at work, still toting a cock of Herculean proportions and in his right hand is something other then a pitchfork. Something signifying an incestual relationship between father and daughter but I had not figured that one out yet. Mom, her lips pressed together, looking sensual and sultry and she stares at something off to her left, something desperately wanted, something revving her up. Maybe she is holding Dan's cock.

I knew her story cold and only I could do it true justice, tell it with the necessary verve, capture the details with the right degree of wickedness, glamour and charming innocence. All of played out with humor, the feelings of family bound together in common cause to experience domestic bliss, harmony at home.

Now with the world doomed so is the video.

Three months and two days following her eighteenth birthday, for the first time Bethany squatted down on Josiah Johnson's formable member. In his bed, her feet ice cold, she came to him one night in the middle of November. She wrestled him out of his pajama trousers, sat down on his cock. Naked, breasts warm and toasty from the nearby fireplace, Bethany nearly did cartwheels about her father's cock.

Blond curls blanketed her fine, long neck, swept down on her tantalizingly smooth back. In the fireplace's light her nubile body glowed golden; the soft angles of her face were twisted by the ecstasy of her union. No longer having a virgin's hymen, she was now slut bedded by a master cocksman, a fresh faced whore branded for all time by daddy's domination.

Two decades later, she told me of this festive night, every intimate detail of her first night with her Dad, my still randy grandfather.

It was all scripted into my seduction, a preface to our fucking in her flashy new car parked by the farm's silver propane tank where my dog, a cocker spaniel named Don, watched us intently. She was in her bucket seat, her slim left arm resting on top of the dark blue steering wheel. Her blond hair swept up on top of her head, ringlets dipping in front of each exposed ear. In my leather bucket seat, I spouted a raging hard on. Bethany-Wanda-Mom wearing a tight blue tank top, her nipples hard buttons under the smooth fabric, her breasts immense, just as firm as when her father sucked them when she was a tender 18. Oh, and I had an intimate familiarity with them too, sucked them religiously as a baby. Now, I longed to have them back in my mouth.

Short black skirt, long, bare legs, shaved not an hour earlier with a disposable razor. The sexiest come fuck me pumps, a whore's favorite shoes. Black heels with five inch stiletto heels that trumped her feet into works of art.

Looking at my erection, Mom told me of all her doings with her dad, fucking Rudy and Donny her brothers, going down on compliant cousins, being closeted between muscular, hairy thighs, getting all that good loving in virtually every room of the homestead, finding time to wonder down to a tranquil pond, getting well and truly fucked in the verge of soft grass, being banged senseless against an elm tree.

My busty, sensual mother was 39 years and the wickedest, sultriest slut east of the Mississippi, and no doubt west of that river too. The two of us alone, car windows rolled down, sunlight sparkling on the hood, the rich odor of surrounding fields sprinkled with manure filling the car's interior, the scent of cut grass, I, a tender 18, was being initiated, taking my rightful place in the family.

It was so easy seeing Mom on Josiah Johnson, getting rigorously fucked, learning to suck his cock with proper ardency, being schooled in the pleasures of anal pummeling. Such images played in my head--often. And did I ever beat off.

At night, I jacked my cock listening to Mom being fucked by a new lover, another hard man, his gun cocked inside her, making merry with her. This in addition to whatever loving was coming her way courtesy of granddad and my dad. My fist moving up and down the length of my member as passionately as my mother was fucking in her bed a few feet away.

My father, intensely serious in all things, wore horned rimmed glasses to mask his furious gaze. Favored as no other by my mother, he satisfied her as few others were capable. He had passed away one horrible night during my twelfth year. A night in which his cock was buried in her mouth at the moment his heart stilled. It was eerily similar to the Duc d'Orleans, how he had died during an epic lovemaking session with his insatiable mistress. One minute there, the next not and dad was gone.

Mom had waited a suitable time before taking another lover, luring a fuck buddy into her bed. Her sexual proclivities no longer blocked, she rushed back to her former ways. Her needs, the addiction she had suppressed required satiation.

I was not yet old enough to fill that need. For a time she blamed her father, her brothers. Angry, filled with a bitter rage for the killing stress they inflicted on Dad and she had no desire to take to their beds. I remembered the bruises of grief beneath her eyes, how she languished in some private hell.

All was forgiven now. Once more she frequently enjoyed fucking father and brothers.

Reclining in my tub on nights her lovers visited, I poured shampoo on my nine inch cock and fisted my left hand around its four inch circumference. I'd shoot out a stream of semen to the sound of hot water tumbling out of the faucet. Seeing my sperm free style swimming in the tub was such a turn on. Such spending stored in my body and ceaselessly replenished would eventually find its way into my mother and a good many other women I imagined.

My initiation took place on our farm in Vandalia, Ohio, a Victorian manse purchased for a princely sum. Mom's sanctuary; her happy place achieved from her astronomical earnings as a pornographic diva, a thousand dollar a night escort, a woman who carried out special duties for her father and others as necessary.

Three or four times a year she lived in the apartment with a spectacular if generally foggy view of the bay. Billed as Wanda Goodwill she'd do some shoots, make a God awful amount of money and return to the farm.

I owned a video of her co-starring in a Hollywood movie calledSTRIPLAND.I beat off to it--often. She had no dialogue, but needed none in this her first non porno extravaganza. Naked, natural, assured, she stood in a dressing room filled with other naked strippers. Torrents of blond hair flowed down on to her smooth back, dipped across her forehead, her tits nearly smacking her dressing room mirror. She steps into thigh high stockings, clips them to a garter belt. Teetering on high heels, she plays the born again Christian, the ditz with a heart of gold to the movie's star, an actress of some note paid something like 300 million dollars to take her clothes off. In the movie she the fellow stripper plagued by a felonious husband whose dim intellect is always getting him into trouble.

Jason, you are one lucky bastard, I said to myself, listening to mother telling of her wicked youth.

"Honey, show Momma your monster cock. Don't let the zipper's teeth bit you though."

I knocked back my bucket seat, lowered that puppy flat and got comfortable, my head resting against the padded head rest, my Pumas firmly planted on the floor mat. Looking up, my mother's tits filled my eye sight as did her silky legs and full, rich red lips. Opening my zipper, fishing around inside, I extracted my cock.

"Honey that is one impressive cock, a Johnson cock. Stroke it; get it nice and hard for your Mom. How many times you beaten that sucker thinking of fucking your momma?"

"Jesus Mom, please don't torture me. Suck it; suck it like you did grand dad, like Dad, like your other fellas."

This woman, source of my fantasies, bastion dispensing pleasure to me and so many others, dipped down, confidently took me into her mouth.

"Sweet lord," I screamed from my bucket seat as my mother's mouth engulfed me, settled down as though she planned to remain the entire season sucking my prick.

An extraordinary calm dispersed through me. Never had I felt so in tune with my body, so needy in sustaining it.

Bethany-Wanda-Mom deftly rolled me around in her pliant mouth, sucked with a passionate exuberance unseen since Messalina a millennium ago fellated half of Rome's male population.

Chambered in her mouth, I felt a connection to the man who had perished under such unfavorable circumstances, a man who had helped make me into what I was. He had died with my mother's mouth working on him in the same fashion. Was a son not honoring his old man by burying his tuna in his mother, by being his Dad's proxy in keeping her warm and fulfilled?

My hands reached under her tank top, played with her tits, sought out her nipples.