My Mother the Porn Star
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My Sister The Porn Star free porn video
During my senior year of college, in 1969-70, I shared a rundown old hippie house with three roommates.
One of them, Phil, was a serious photographer. Our school was so small it had only two photography classes, and he was allowed to take them over and over. He was a Philosophy major, not an art student, but that spring he was given a senior show at the campus gallery.
I went to the opening and I was shocked silly to see a huge photo of my sister Ellie, twenty and a sophomore, stark raving naked. It was a "torso shot," from the neck to the knees, but there was no mistaking her scrawny body, flat chest, and extremely hairy pussy. I knew what she looked like because we were having an affair. And at that moment, I was holding her hand.
I wanted to tear that photo down and bust it over Phil's fat head. But there were about two hundred people present and no one seemed upset or laughed. It was a black and white study in contrast and texture, all light and shadow, and it could have been any subject. But it was my sister's tits and pussy, for the whole world to see!
Phil later apologized and gave me a smaller copy to jack off over when I graduated and moved to the Big City. He stayed behind to go to grad school and fuck Ellie, which he had been doing for several months, anyway.
One Friday, I came home from work and Ellie was sitting on the front steps of my apartment building. I was thrilled to see her. I was stressed out by my first real job, I was a small town boy in the Big City, and I didn't know anyone. I hadn't had any nookie in almost two months and I was suffering from a horrible case of MSB (Massive Sperm Buildup: a painful condition that, left unattended, can cause your balls to petrify and fall off).
Ellie told me she wasn't there to make my pecker happy. She was going to be a model!
A professional photographer had seen Phil's show and had offered her two hundred dollars to pose nude. That was a lot of money in 1970, and an art model got maybe twenty dollars. Ellie was pretty, but not gorgeous, and no one was ever going to think she was a playmate.
But it was true, she insisted. All she had to do was shave her pussy.
I may not be the sharpest bulb in the lamp, but it took me only four or five minutes to figure that one out. The photographer had seen Phil's photo and realized with her flat chest and no bush she was a perfectly legal model who looked a lot younger. Nowadays, a lot of women are hairless. But back then, even the women in men's magazines had bushes, though no doubt trimmed and air-brushed. I had never even heard of a shaved beaver, much less seen one. I sensed a pervert.
But I didn't say anything. Just the thought of Ellie's sweet snatch without all that fur hiding it was giving me a boner. I guess I was kind of pervy, too. Especially when it came to Ellie.
I tried to get her into the sack, but she said she didn't want to fuck because she wanted her puss to look pristine the next day. She knelt and said she would blow my tiny tail, which she almost never did, and swallow my pecker snot. I bared it for her and she gobbled it up. When her fingers drifted to the crotch of her jeans, I warned her she'd better not be sinful with herself or her love place would be bright red on Saturday morning.
"I wanna fuck so bad!" my uptight, Sunday school teaching, goody two-shoes genius of a sister told me.
I'd never seen her so hot and horny. She was used to getting it from one or more of my ex-roommates, who were now her roommates, on a daily basis.
After I shot about a gallon of steamy goo down her throat, we took a shower together and then spent an hour mowing her lawn with a weed-whacker.
Where we grew up, a "beaver" meant pubic hair and what was under it. With all that fur, I was sure her twat must be gigantic. But it was actually quite small and delicate, a perfect match for her flat chest. We shaved it and it was so cute I had to give it a lick and get another blow job. We were both amazed at how sweet and sensitive her unadorned lower lips could be.
The next day, we went to Dennis's studio, which was in his basement apartment in a not-so-nice part of town. He was about forty, with a big beer belly and an unfiltered cigarette glued to his lower lip, and a lot of homemade tattoos he probably got in prison. He had an assistant, Brian, a long-haired good-looking young guy. That made me uncomfortable. If they tried something nasty, I wasn't sure I could defend Ellie's honor. What honor she had left, anyway. But Dennis had professional cameras and lights and a backdrop and he seemed to know what he was doing.
When he asked who I was, Ellie told him and he gave me a weird look. Like I was the pervert, not him.
"Ya fuckin' 'er?" he asked around his cigarette. I admitted I was and he said, "Cool."
He told Ellie to put her clothes on a chair. When he saw her naked, he handed over the two hundred bucks and had her sign a model's release stating she was over eighteen.
He hadn't realized she was tall, five feet nine inches, but he adjusted his equipment for quite a while, getting everything just the way he wanted it. He said the camera couldn't tell how tall anyone was except in relation to other objects.
He took photos of Ellie standing there, looking very vulnerable and nervous, and then he had her relax in an easy chair with one leg over the arm so her cunt was visible. Then on her hands and knees, smiling back over her shoulder with her cunt and freshly-shaved asshole showing. It was odd to see him hold his light meter up to her back door and aim the lights so it would photograph well.
After shooting several rolls of film, he wanted her to pose with Brian, who was also a model.
Ellie was reluctant, and I couldn't blame her. What if she married some jerk who became the President of the United States and someone found photos of her getting banged?
"Aw, what the hell," Dennis said. "I'll throw in another hundred bucks."
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One of them, Phil, was a serious photographer. Our school was so small it had only two photography classes, and he was allowed to take them over and over. He was a Philosophy major, not an art student, but that spring he was given a senior show at the campus gallery.
I went to the opening and I was shocked silly to see a huge photo of my sister Ellie, twenty and a sophomore, stark raving naked. It was a "torso shot," from the neck to the knees, but there was no mistaking her scrawny body, flat chest, and extremely hairy pussy. I knew what she looked like because we were having an affair. And at that moment, I was holding her hand.
I wanted to tear that photo down and bust it over Phil's fat head. But there were about two hundred people present and no one seemed upset or laughed. It was a black and white study in contrast and texture, all light and shadow, and it could have been any subject. But it was my sister's tits and pussy, for the whole world to see!
Phil later apologized and gave me a smaller copy to jack off over when I graduated and moved to the Big City. He stayed behind to go to grad school and fuck Ellie, which he had been doing for several months, anyway.
One Friday, I came home from work and Ellie was sitting on the front steps of my apartment building. I was thrilled to see her. I was stressed out by my first real job, I was a small town boy in the Big City, and I didn't know anyone. I hadn't had any nookie in almost two months and I was suffering from a horrible case of MSB (Massive Sperm Buildup: a painful condition that, left unattended, can cause your balls to petrify and fall off).
Ellie told me she wasn't there to make my pecker happy. She was going to be a model!
A professional photographer had seen Phil's show and had offered her two hundred dollars to pose nude. That was a lot of money in 1970, and an art model got maybe twenty dollars. Ellie was pretty, but not gorgeous, and no one was ever going to think she was a playmate.
But it was true, she insisted. All she had to do was shave her pussy.
I may not be the sharpest bulb in the lamp, but it took me only four or five minutes to figure that one out. The photographer had seen Phil's photo and realized with her flat chest and no bush she was a perfectly legal model who looked a lot younger. Nowadays, a lot of women are hairless. But back then, even the women in men's magazines had bushes, though no doubt trimmed and air-brushed. I had never even heard of a shaved beaver, much less seen one. I sensed a pervert.
But I didn't say anything. Just the thought of Ellie's sweet snatch without all that fur hiding it was giving me a boner. I guess I was kind of pervy, too. Especially when it came to Ellie.
I tried to get her into the sack, but she said she didn't want to fuck because she wanted her puss to look pristine the next day. She knelt and said she would blow my tiny tail, which she almost never did, and swallow my pecker snot. I bared it for her and she gobbled it up. When her fingers drifted to the crotch of her jeans, I warned her she'd better not be sinful with herself or her love place would be bright red on Saturday morning.
"I wanna fuck so bad!" my uptight, Sunday school teaching, goody two-shoes genius of a sister told me.
I'd never seen her so hot and horny. She was used to getting it from one or more of my ex-roommates, who were now her roommates, on a daily basis.
After I shot about a gallon of steamy goo down her throat, we took a shower together and then spent an hour mowing her lawn with a weed-whacker.
Where we grew up, a "beaver" meant pubic hair and what was under it. With all that fur, I was sure her twat must be gigantic. But it was actually quite small and delicate, a perfect match for her flat chest. We shaved it and it was so cute I had to give it a lick and get another blow job. We were both amazed at how sweet and sensitive her unadorned lower lips could be.
The next day, we went to Dennis's studio, which was in his basement apartment in a not-so-nice part of town. He was about forty, with a big beer belly and an unfiltered cigarette glued to his lower lip, and a lot of homemade tattoos he probably got in prison. He had an assistant, Brian, a long-haired good-looking young guy. That made me uncomfortable. If they tried something nasty, I wasn't sure I could defend Ellie's honor. What honor she had left, anyway. But Dennis had professional cameras and lights and a backdrop and he seemed to know what he was doing.
When he asked who I was, Ellie told him and he gave me a weird look. Like I was the pervert, not him.
"Ya fuckin' 'er?" he asked around his cigarette. I admitted I was and he said, "Cool."
He told Ellie to put her clothes on a chair. When he saw her naked, he handed over the two hundred bucks and had her sign a model's release stating she was over eighteen.
He hadn't realized she was tall, five feet nine inches, but he adjusted his equipment for quite a while, getting everything just the way he wanted it. He said the camera couldn't tell how tall anyone was except in relation to other objects.
He took photos of Ellie standing there, looking very vulnerable and nervous, and then he had her relax in an easy chair with one leg over the arm so her cunt was visible. Then on her hands and knees, smiling back over her shoulder with her cunt and freshly-shaved asshole showing. It was odd to see him hold his light meter up to her back door and aim the lights so it would photograph well.
After shooting several rolls of film, he wanted her to pose with Brian, who was also a model.
Ellie was reluctant, and I couldn't blame her. What if she married some jerk who became the President of the United States and someone found photos of her getting banged?
"Aw, what the hell," Dennis said. "I'll throw in another hundred bucks."
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