My Slutty Redhead Granny

"My Slutty Redhead Granny"

by J.D. Savanyu

Leaving Pasadena High School and strolling down Sierra Madre Boulevard on a lovely Friday afternoon, all by my lonesome at the start of spring break. I'm a dorky eighteen year-old bookworm virgin, listening to celtic doom metal on my earbuds and checking out some random L.A. hotties on the sidewalk. (Those conceited bitches are way out of my league, so I should just settle for the "notties.")

My parents are at the Los Angeles airport right now, boarding a plane to Tokyo for a super-important semiconductor convention. They'll be sipping sake for the next five days, and I'll be staying at my grandmother's house till they get back. Sounds boring as hell, right?

I should probably mention that my mee-ma became one of the first porn stars in 1970, shortly after the supreme court legalized hardcore fucking and sucking on the silver screen. She starred in thirty-six XXX movies over nine years, under the screen name of Sally Strapper. That was much more titillating than her real name, Dolores Flanagan. That smokin' hot redhead loved getting tied up and dominated on camera, as evidenced by many hours of grainy VHS rips on retrospank.xxx. Back then, finding BDSM porn was liking finding a needle in the proverbial haystack; forty years before Fifty Shades took millions of housewives by storm. It was an underground niche market in a world that was still very "vanilla," despite all those drug-crazed hippies and campus riots.

Sally Strapper retired from that shady industry in 1979, turning back into plain ol' Dolores Flanagan. She mellowed out in the 80's; marrying an insurance adjuster, buying a station wagon, raising a respectable family, and taking out a life insurance policy. She cashed in half of that policy two years ago, after her husband suffered a fatal heart attack while driving his fifth station wagon, crashing it right into Jerry's Bar at happy hour.

I go to my parent's empty house on Hermosa avenue and pack a suitcase in my bedroom. Then I walk five more blocks to my grandma's dark green ranch-style house. I ring the doorbell, and Dolores opens the door ten seconds later, wearing jean shorts and a pink t-shirt. My seventy year-old granny used to be a ginger Irish bombshell, but she's still pretty sexy. (As creepy as that sounds from a barely legal teenager.) Her skin is getting somewhat leathery and blotchy, and her d-cup tits have sagged considerably, but her hair is still amazingly red, and she could still bust my balls with minimal effort. A perky GILF with great gams. (Damn, I really need a girlfriend.)

"Hey Jakey! Great to see ya!" she beams with a smoky voice. Half a pack of cigarettes a day; typical for a vintage porn star. "Your parents called me a few minutes ago, and said their plane was about to take off. We're gonna have a lot of fun this week."

"No doubt, granny," I mutter unconvincingly.

"How was school today?"

"Same-old, same-old," I mutter while lugging my suitcase into her living room. A fading cathode ray television is tuned to M.A.S.H. on a satellite rerun channel.

"I'm good at reading body language, so I can tell something's wrong. Did you flunk your trigonometry test, or did a bully muscle you out of your milk money?"

"Neither. I just... can't find a girlfriend."

"A handsome devil like you can't find a girlfriend? I find that hard to believe."

"Maybe my standards are too high."

"Well, you can't waste your life waiting for a 'perfect' girl to come along. Like Stephen Stills once said: 'If you can't be with the one you love, honey, love the one you're with.'"

"I really hate that song, and I'm glad they don't play it on the radio anymore."

She pats my shoulders reassuringly. "Don't worry, Jakey. I'm sure you'll find a nice lady-friend next year at Iowa University. English departments are full of desperate people like you."

"Yeah, whatever. I'll hook up with some gothy lit chick, and we'll earn a degree that will be completely useless by the time we graduate, thanks to artificial intelligence."

I go upstairs to do my homework while grandma watches her stories in the living room. I prop up some pillows against the brass headboard of her comfy king-size bed, then I open my laptop and start writing a book report about A Raisin in The Sun for my English class.

What happens to a dream deferred? Does it shrivel up like a pathetic loser in the L.A. suburbs? It sure as hell does.

I finish the book report an hour later, and write another report about Isaac Newton's laws of motion for my physics class. After that, I sit motionless on her bed, staring at an open dresser drawer full of granny panties. She must have thrown out her sexy panties in the late 90's, a few years before I was born. Back when it took forever to download a low-resolution Jenna Jameson video with dial-up. The "golden age of porn" ended about ten years earlier, when VHS tapes flooded the market and dumbed everything down. I prefer artistic emotionally-charged hardcore films like The Opening of Misty Beethoven, Inside Jennifer Welles, and Shock... but most guys don't want to think while they jerk.

I close the word processor on my laptop, open the internet browser, log onto retrospank.xxx, and search for Sally Strapper. Indulging my morbid curiosity while I'm stuck in her house for five straight days. The first page of the search results list the most popular films that she made from 1971 to '79: Punishing Maid Marian, Bound and Gagged Bitches, Biker Dykes Like it Rough, Kinky-a-Go-Go, and my personal favorite from '77, Kinky Phantom of the Opera. I plug in some headphones and skip right to my favorite scene from Phantom.

The laptop monitor reveals an underground nineteenth-century reservoir, thirty feet below the Palais Garnier, the biggest opera house in Paris. An arched stone walkway along the edge is illuminated by gas lamps, with a disco-classical instrumental tune setting a creepy mood. The camera pans toward a tall mysterious man in a top hat and three-piece tuxedo with a black cape trailing behind. His hands are covered with black leather gloves, and he's holding a red rose in his right hand. The iconic phantom is played by Mick Hammer, with that iconic white mask covering his disfigured face. The dusty 35 millimeter film gives everything a warm vintage hue. A stone stairway in the background leads up to a series of secret passageways that the phantom used to terrorize the cast members of Faust without being detected.

The camera pans a few feet to the right, revealing a naked foxy redhead lying in bondage on a wooden platform. Christine Daae, a Swedish soprano played by Sally Strapper. Her arms and legs are chained to the cedar beams, and her swollen cunt is dripping with anticipation. Eager for the psychotic domination of a twisted "phantom." Like most 1970's porn stars, her big tits are all-natural, and her red pubic hair is untouched by shaving blades. It was much better that way, IMHO. I fail to understand our current obsession with silicone breast implants and pussies that look like sphinx cats.

The phantom lowers the red rose toward her pretty pale lightly freckled face. She inhales the sweet aroma and sighs pleasantly. That opera diva is now his willing kink slave. He lowers the thorns slowly toward her perky tits, and she murmurs in erotic anticipation. One of the thorns presses gently against her erect left nipple, making her moan in painful pleasure. Another thorn presses against her right nipple, making her moan louder.

"I love your kinky games, master!" Christine utters passionately, in a fake Swedish accent. "Make me feel your dark desire!"

The phantom gently taps the rose thorns along her well-toned belly, tracking slowly downward. The disco-classical tune gets more dramatic with the rising tension. He taps a thorn right on her clit, and her ecstatic shriek reverberates across the dimly lit reservoir (which protects the opera house from the swampy ground it was built on.) His big dick presses hard against his fancy pants, demanding satisfaction in his subterranean lair.

"Are you truly in love with me, Christine?" he asks in a creepy fake french accent.

"Yes, master!"

"I can tell you're lying. Your true affections belong to that rich playboy Raoul."

"No, master! I no longer care for him."

"You lousy perjuring bitch! I've seen you flirting with Raoul in the opera house, and promenading with him on the Champs d'Elysees in your Sunday finest. I'm your soulmate, and I better teach you the importance of loyalty."

The phantom reaches under the wooden platform and grabs a genuine leather riding crop. The real solidly-built deal, designed for horses, not hoes. He swings it firmly, lashing her big tits with five crisp thwacks that echo against the stone walls along the huge dark reservoir, chased her own harsh moaning.

"You uncouth lady of the town! You filthy Jezebel! You fucking harlot!"

He whips her hot titties ten more times, covering them with pink stripes. I try hard not to get an erection in my grandmother's bedroom while watching her much younger self getting dominated real good in a Victorian neo-gothic dreamscape.

I'm still a virgin, but not by choice. A bitter "incel," purging my frustration with elaborate dark fantasies such as this. Pretty girls usually gravitate toward dim-witted jocks, actors, and band boys, and they act like I don't even exist, so I "punish" them in my mind.

"You will not open your legs for that lousy lothario! You will keep your pussy pure for your true master!"

"Yes, master! I will stay--" she shrieks, her word cut off as his riding crop strikes her impure pussy. He whips that red hairy twat over and over and over in a rapid blur, as she thrashes about in bondage on the boards. I love how her well-toned core muscles spring into clear view with every blow from that hunky dapper creep.

"Sing for me, my angel of music! Sing for the phantom of the opera!"

She wails in a sweet operatic singing voice. (I like this version a lot better than Andrew Lloyd Webber's schmaltzy '80s musical, and the '04 film adaptation.) Her voice cracks awkwardly when he cracks that whip yet again.

Pash! Pash! Pash! Pash! Pash! Pash! Pash! Pash! PASH! PASH! PASH! PASH! PASH!

He finally stops, growling over her bound writhing body like a french bulldog.

"Have you learned your lesson, bitch?"

"Yes, master. I promise I will never cheat on you again."

"Merci beaucoup, ma belle poupée d'opéra."

"Je t'aime tellement, maître."

"I love you even more, my opera belle. Now I shall prove that love with some rough fornication."

He frees her from bondage and shoves her down to her knees on the damp stone ground. The phantom unbuttons his pants (before zippers were invented; a nice historically accurate touch) and pulls out a huge prick. Nine inches long and seven inches in circumference, give or take an inch or two.

"Open your fucking mouth!"

She opens wide and braces herself for some hard skullfucking. He grabs her red bangs with both hands and shoves his impressive manhood through her kissable red lips and down her throat, making her gag right off the bat. He keeps thrusting his strong hips at full speed while growling fiercely. Gagging her a dozen more times while slapping her cheeks with his leather-gloved hands. Spittle oozes out of her lips, dripping down to her pale perky breasts. The reclusive phantom purges his deep well of rage a hundred feet below a conceited City of Lights that treated him like a subhuman circus freak. My grandmother groans loudly against Mick Hammer's hammer. Her eyes get bloodshot from the prolonged gag reflex.

"Bend over like a poodle, bitch!"

"As you wish, master."

She gets off the wet stone ground and bends over against the wooden bondage platform, spreading her cunt lips and showing plenty of pink for the camera. The phantom grabs her firm heart-shaped ass and slams his dick up her dripping twat, making her squeal in rapture. He keeps bashing his french baguette up her honey-hole while spanking her ass cheeks real hard.

"Oh god, yes! Fuck me and spank me so good, master!"

Her ass gets redder and redder.

"I'm ravishing you like Faust, with all my hellish fury!"

She soon reaches a powerful orgasm, blasting clear female ejaculate all the way over to the lake. Meanwhile, a bunch of rats scurry along the wall behind them, frightened by the sexual commotion. The phantom's breath gets louder and louder as he thrusts with relentless aggression, making her cum theatrically three more times, turning on the waterworks spectacularly. I love porn stars who squirt like hell every time they get pussy-pounded. Especially Naomi Swann and Bonnie Rotten.

"Get down on your knees, bitch! You will take my seed all over your pretty Swedish face."

"As you wish, master."

She gets back down on the ground, and he aims right between her eyes, blowing out a huge thick wad. Drenching her pale white face with whiter jizz. His triumphant roaring echoes across the dark reservoir. Christine sucks every drop out of the shaft while moaning contentedly. She fingers the rest into her mouth, swallowing it with ravenous gluttony. Then she looks up at his white plaster-of-paris mask with a sweet smile.

"That was viciously divine, Erik."

"You are truly my soulmate, Madame Daae."

"A match made in heaven."

"I am your angel of music, soothing your soul evermore."

"But I'm getting worried about my family in Montmartre. They're probably wond--"

"Hey Jake, time for dinner!" Old Dolores beams while entering her bedroom. I got a raging boner while watching Young Dolores, but fortunately the laptop screen blocks her view of it.

"Come on down for your favorite meal: corned beef and cabbage."

"Oh goody. Irish cuisine is my second favorite guilty pleasure."

Sally Strapper was a good porn star, but Dolores Flanagan is a good cook. I go downstairs, sit down at her dining table, and savor every bite of a traditional recipe that was passed down by our humble tenant farm ancestors from County Cork. My seventy year-old mee-ma looks a lot more Irish than I do. She stares curiously at me from across the table with those sexy green fairy eyes, and I stare back curiously, wondering if she's still a crazy kink slut beneath that white-bread suburban facade. Meanwhile, my parents are watching in-flight movies over the pacific ocean, heading toward the land of the rising sun for a computer nerdgasm convention. An amazing southern california sunset blazes through a picture window next to a china cabinet, bathing that gorgeous GILF in a flattering orange glow.

"Hey grandma, have you ever read The Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux?" I ask with a sly grin.

"No, I sure haven't. I flunked out of high school, and I haven't read any of those high culture books that you like."

"You should read that one, at least. The original phantom is much more interesting than the kinky one you got whooped by."

She giggles sweetly. I love how her old-lady wrinkles enhance her smile. "Ah, so you've been watching my old skin flicks on the web."

"I can't help it. I'm an eighteen year-old virgin, and not everyone's grandmother was a porn star."

"I had a lot of fun back in the Swingin' Seventies, but I wouldn't recommend that lifestyle to anyone."

"Why? Did those sleazy porno guys treat you bad off the set, like a bunch of cliché pimps with feathered fedoras?"

"Yeah, they treated me like shit. Pardon my french."

"You can swear all you fucking want, Sally. I mean, Dolores."

"Okay then. I fucking will," she giggles.

"I treat women a lot better than that. I'm a real chivalrous gentleman... but oddly enough, I can't get laid. Those L.A. Barbie girls have tits for brains, and they won't even give me the time of day."

She sighs pleasantly, takes another sip of red wine, and lights up a menthol cigarette. "Maybe you should study more real ladies, and less literary ones. Real chicks don't act like characters in a fucking Jane Austen novel."

"I know, I know. But a good fantasy life is important for an aspiring writer."

"But you can't let your fantasy life ruin your entire life."

"Like you did?"

"Exactly. I loved getting bound and whipped and fucked hard on camera, but it just left me broken, physically and emotionally. I never experienced true love until I met Conan."

I glance at a painted portrait of her late husband Conan Flanagan hanging over a fireplace, next to a triangular-folded american flag that honors his army tenure. He got drafted in '67 and spent four action-packed years in Vietnam, blasting commies in the sweltering jungle.

"I really miss that guy."

"Me too. He was always fun to be around. He loved my cooking even more than my body."

I sigh wearily. "Damn. Could this conversation be any more awkward?"

She giggles once again, tossing her amazing red hair. "Count your lucky stars, Jakey-boy. My life was way more awkward than yours will ever be."

"Probably."

We have some delicious homemade Irish Bannock for dessert, while discussing the safer topic of Shohei Ohtani's superhuman baseball skills. Then I go back upstairs and unwind by reading a Dragonlance fantasy novel while Dolores stays in the living room and watches Young Sheldon. The shallow sword-and-sorcery storyline blurs into more kinky daydreams about my granny. Picturing her wild gangbang scene with a bunch of Hell's Angels in Bound and Gagged Bitches. She got tied up to a motorcycle that was tied to a tree, and then she got ball gagged, nipple and pussy-clamped, whipped with leather belts, dildoed in both holes by ten pistols, and fucked in both holes by ten dicks. After forty long minutes, her face finally got soaked with high-octane biker jizz. (That was back when you had to go out to an actual theater to watch porn. It's hard to imagine all those leisure suit-wearing creeps packed into an old dingy building on skid row. More blue balls than a racquetball tournament.)

I soon give up reading and decide to do a little snooping through her shelves and drawers, looking for juicy memorabilia from the golden age of porn. Digging through tons of boring shit like old electric bills and insurance market research, until I finally unearth a treasure trove of vintage adult magazines. The one on top is the very first edition of Hustler from July 1974, with a naked blonde bimbo on the cover. I've seen a few of those being sold online for a thousand bucks, but this one is far from mint condition, with lots of creases and dog-eared pages. I dig deeper through hundreds of dirty mags, finding more vintage "vanilla" titles like Cheri and Fox, along with many obscure BDSM titles like Taskmaster and Bondage Parade.

The August 1976 issue of Taskmaster has Sally Strapper on the front cover, bound with rope to a mosaic-covered column and gagged with a red bandana, wearing a red leather strap harness that leaves little to the imagination. The caption reads: "SALLY'S HOT DESERT S&M." I turn to page 35 and see her in that same harness with the leather bra and panties removed; getting bullwhipped, pussy-pounded and sodomized by a middle eastern beefcake. This photo spread is from the movie 1001 S&M Nights, where she played an American news reporter who gets kidnapped by Arab sex traffickers and sold to the harem of King Abdul-Jabbar of Ballistan.

Damn, these kinky pre-digital pics are getting me so fucking horny. I can almost feel the blazing desert heat on my skin, and hear the entrancing belly dance music while watching her get thrashed by a cat o'nine tails and fucked senseless. Before I know it, my pants are unzipped and my right hand is pumping my average six-inch jalopy.