Ellie s night out in Blackpool
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Blackpool, Sinatra And Other Musings free porn video
We met Larry at the pier. He stuffed a fiver into my palm and told me to get some chips. He liked doing stuff like that, partly to show off his wad, but mostly to bribe me into ‘doing off’ for ten minutes or so.
I watched the two of them through the cafe window as I stood in line at the counter. They were conjoined in the sort of embrace most adulterers save for hotel rooms and back seats in isolated woodland car parks. He even had his hands tucked into the back of Mum’s jeans, squeezing her ass as she stood on tip toes to meet his embrace. It could have been a Hallmark card…For the man I adore cheating with, on our dirty weekend away…
It was a peculiarly hot September afternoon, as if the weather was making a belated apology for screwing up summer with a furtive last hurrah before autumn closed the shutters.
I suppose a part of me admired Mum’s shameless bravado - and I got a dark sort of kick out of being in on her secret. It cut through the otherwise mundane drudgery of my humdrum existence. She’d even used my jaded mood as her excuse to get away. It would do me good, she’d said, ostensibly persuading my dad of the trip’s validity. He wouldn’t be able to come with us, of course, he explained, what with work being so busy. Mum played the devastated spouse making the best of things and promptly packed our bags. I truly believe she even persuaded herself that we were taking the trip for my benefit.
Someone once called Blackpool the Las Vegas of England.
Pauses for Laughter.
It’s a description you’d only use if you’ve never been to Vegas, work for Blackpool’s tourist authority, or happen to be an eighteen year old girl who’d barely ventured outside of Sheffield. In 1991 I fell into the latter category.
Blackpool had no Rat Pack, but it did have a terrifyingly raucous clown, and with its gargantuan tower, looping rollercoasters and glitzy arcades, it felt like the ultimate antidote to the dour steel town I’d grown up in.
Trams clattered along the seafront, amusements shrieked their goading welcome, people milled about in vast hordes clutching candy floss, giant lollipops, and roaring with laughter - all to the backdrop of a giant pier that stretched triumphantly out into the ocean. Everyone was happy, rather than glum, and the sun was scorching overhead.
It took us about two hours to get there. Mum kept looking across at me sheepishly. She was nervous, she’d never used me as the excuse for her cheating before. She needn’t have worried. It was a weekend away. I wasn’t about to go and fuck that up by spilling the beans. Besides, I figured I could always use it against her in the future.
It was fun watching her chain smoking Player’s and swearing at the truckers that seemed intent on overtaking our shuddering Morris Marina as we clung to the slow lane at a nervous fifty miles per hour.
‘You’re so uptight Mum, you need to get laid.’
She scowled.
I laughed for the both of us.
Larry drove up on the Thursday. He’d claimed that he was exploring a new sales lead in Wakefield and would work the weekend. Dad never seemed to join the dots. He even called Larry the company’s ‘best asset’ when Mum asked how things were going at the factory.
‘He seemed nice when I met him,’ she’d replied, without a hint of irony.
I bought myself ten Benson’s with the change from Larry’s fiver and wandered back towards the canoodling cheaters. Mum always made bad choices with men. Larry was just the next in line. He was creepy, but in a way that was hard not to gravitate towards. I pondered that as I watched him sticking his tongue down Mum’s throat. He looked like he was trying to swallow her head. Even that was peculiarly endearing. It made me wonder if being gallingly drawn to sleaze bags with a dubious taste in chinos was hereditary. Say it ain’t so.
He’d got rocking biceps though, and a buff gym bod bristling beneath his plaid flannel shirt. He knew it too, which somehow made him even more attractive.
I’m pretty sure my dad knew about the others. He wasn’t the confrontational type, so I reckon he put up with Mum’s extra curriculars and took solace in the consolation that he at least had gotten a ring on her finger. But he definitely didn’t know about Larry.
That’s why Mum had picked Blackpool. I guess she figured that driving eighty miles would guarantee their anonymity. They say men will do almost anything for a fuck, but women are no different. We just pretend otherwise.
We ambled onto the beach and Larry immediately suggested I take a stroll along the water’s edge. It was one of those insistent ‘suggestions’ that’s really an affirmative expectation. The cheeky fucker even patted my ass encouragingly.
Beware the handsy ones.
‘Your mum and I are gonna hang here., he explained, laying down his denim jacket for Mum to sit on. I nodded, kicked off my trainers and wandered away in my cut off jean shorts and ketchup smeared t-shirt, leaving the two of them to play at being a couple in a town where nobody knew their shame.
I turned back occasionally, just to see if Larry was actually screwing her as they lay together under the shadow of the pier. I kinda liked the idea that he might fuck her there and then - on Blackpool beach of all places. That would have been ballsy. I chuckled and imagined the two of them humping desperately as Mum tried in vain to wrap them in denim to mask their truth.
Afterwards she’d be embarrassed and hugely apologetic. I’d reassure her with an anecdote of how I once fucked Willis Fairclough on the backseat of his Cortina for a can of Fanta and some Nice’n’Spicy Nik-Naks. She’d pretend not to be shocked and we’d bond over our mutually slutty behaviour. Like mother like daughter, apparently.
I’d been feeling horny since we arrived. It explained the train of thought. Forget oysters, for me it’s always been sweltering, sun drenched afternoons. Our lunchtime arrival in the northern seaside town had only heightened the vibe - and I hadn’t had Willis Fairclough’s dick in me for three weeks. He’d only gone and joined the fucking army. I so miss those Nik-Nak’s.
I guzzled on the chips I’d just buried in salt and drenched in vinegar and watched the frothy seawater kiss my bare feet. It did little to deter my lurid imaginings, so I punched The Dead Milkmen into my Walkman, slapped the cassette door closed and pushed play on Metaphysical Graffiti.
I turned and peered back up the beach before easing a Benson between my lips. It was one of those subconscious things that I’d still not shaken, like hiding condoms and pretending I didn’t shave my cunt yet. But this was stupid. So what if Mum didn’t like me smoking - what was she gonna do? Tell Dad?
‘What have you got to say for yourself young lady?’
‘Erm, Mum fucked Larry on Blackpool beach…Am I still grounded?’
Leverage. Beautiful fucking leverage.
I laughed inwardly and flicked the top of the silver zippo I’d liberated from Larry’s desk at the factory. I loved the way it clunked open and then fizz-hissed whenever I flicked the wheel and brought it to light. It felt like such an adult thing to own, which, looking back, seems so childish.
I’d never seen Mum topless before. Not even in Spain. We’d only been on holiday twice in all my eighteen years, and both times she’d worn cozzies or an overbearing bikini. Perhaps that’s what Dad had wanted. Some men are like that.
Others definitely aren’t.
Larry clearly had a more voyeuristic palette and Mum seemed palpably amenable to nourishing it heartily. It was oddly captivating watching the two of them laughing and frolicking as she shimmied out of her jeans, unbuttoned her blouse, and then slid her bra elegantly off her shoulders until she lay on her elbows in nothing but her knickers. Was this really the same woman who wore a pinny in the kitchen and brought dad his t.v. dinner on a tray?
I smirked to myself. But she deserved some kudos. I actually found myself admiring her pluck. There wasn’t a single other woman on the beach with her boobs out. And it wasn’t like she was gonna go unnoticed. She had big tits, really big tits, the sort that turn heads, not only for their fulsome shape and size, but because they’re hanging from a petite hourglass figure with an ever diminishing waist atop long, slender legs.
Mum and I looked very alike. It was often remarked upon - usually to my dad, mostly by other women. It was if they felt he might want to hear an appraisal of his daughter’s physical similarity to the woman he shared a bed with. Yeah Dad, next time you’re banging Mum, think of me instead, huh? Pretty please and all that.
But we were very similar, and the older I got the greater the truism. We even wore our hair in the same shaggy bob, just like Madonna, but as brunettes. Sheffield lasses do it better.
I’d had boobs and my period before any other girl in my year, even knew how to fasten a bra. I’d hated that for a while, but by sixteen I’d begun to realise the fruits that came with having big tits and wide hips in a man’s world. Mum was the role model I should never have had.
The Larry thing had started about six weeks earlier. Mum had borrowed the car so we swung by the factory to pick Dad up. He was on the shop floor, elbows deep in grease with a wrench buried in some kind of printing machine. How is it that the hard workers in life never get the breaks?
He told us to wait upstairs in the office. Larry was inside, idly reloading a stapler in a baggy fit, pastel blue double breasted. I guessed he was about thirty, maybe thirty two, with a Shaun Ryder curtain cut and Crockett’s designer stubble. He was good looking, stunk of Jazz, and reeked of arrogance.
I hated him because I fancied him, which was sort of my thing when it came to older guys. I just hadn’t clocked on to Mum quietly liking younger ones.
‘You two could pass for sisters, anyone ever tell you that?’
It was literally the first thing he said when we shuffled through the door. Mum beamed like a Cheshire and I desperately sought out a waste bin. Turns out it was on the far side of the room with a half eaten salami sandwich popping out the top, so I swallowed the puke reflux and braced myself for the next killer line.
‘Seriously, it’s uncanny.’
Stop it, I’m getting dizzy here.
He grinned and then slouched on the edge of Dad’s desk with one of his moccasins hanging lazily off the end of his foot. (If you’re gonna wear white socks, please at least keep them clean.)
Mum faux blushed and told him to ‘give over’ with a playful swish of her hand that did everything it could to contradict her statement. The two of them laughed like flirty teenagers and Larry insisted he was serious (again). He then closed with the offer of a smoke. Mum accepted and seductively pulled a cigarette from the outstretched packet before leaning forward to receive the flame he’d just aroused from his Zippo. Their hands brushed against each other, lingered inappropriately, and an affair was born. Dad walked in about five minutes later, none the wiser.
I took a draw on my ciggie and wandered down the beach. A group of boys sauntered passed, sniggered and the acne-peppered alpha of the pack offered an ‘alright’. He’d get first dibs, seemingly. It’s funny how they’re always cocksure when huddled in the safety of their mob, but lose the swagger when they’re cut from the herd. On another day I might have flirted or shown some interest, but I didn’t fancy some fumbled teenage misadventure.
I pulled off my t-shirt and wedged it under the Styrofoam chip carton beside my Walkman. Nature jabbed a twelve inch needle full of adrenalin into my ass and I whipped off my bra in a head-fucking rush of exhilaration. It wasn’t my favourite one, so I buried it under my top, before hastily dropping my cut off shorts and then scampering into the sea in nowt but my white cotton knickers. The whole thing took less than thirty seconds and was akin to an out of body experience.
I don’t know why I did it (that’s a blatant lie). I’d never gone topless before (true). I knew Mum would freak, which seemed like the ultimate in hypocrisy, all things considered.
Looking back, I’d have preferred my grandiose unveiling to have been on some tropical island, or on a rich man’s yacht in the Seychelles, but I’d also have preferred my first shag to have been with Morten Harket - sometimes shit just doesn’t roll your way. So my moment came amongst the backdrop of bell clunking donkeys’ and ice cream vans on Blackpool beach instead. The fucking romance of it.
I wandered back up the beach about a half hour later, without putting anything other than my headphones back on. I didn’t want to get my clothes wet. That was how I sold it to myself, anyway.
Larry saw me first. He was sitting upright, sucking an ice lolly in his boxer shorts. Mum was flat on her back beside him. At some point she’d folded their clothes neatly beside her, before dozing off in the sun. Some habits die hard.
He watched every step of my catwalk stride back up the beach and I gave him every opportunity to do so. It was sleazy and gratuitously lurid - the salacious leering of an unapologetic douche bag, and I fucking loved it.
You’re so vain, I bet you think this tit show is for you, don’t you, don’t you…
Mum sat up when she heard my voice. I’d expected to be on the shitty end of one of her rants, but instead she just smiled at me and blinked through the sunlight.
‘Those boys seemed to like your striptease down by the water,’ she offered, running a hand through her hair as the breeze toyed with her brunette curls.
‘Which boys?’ I asked, playing the absent minded innocent as I nestled my clothes beside Mum’s neatly organised pile. I didn’t want Larry to see how bland my bra was compared to the lacey white one sitting snugly beside Mum’s blouse.
‘Not your type then eh?’ Larry interjected.
No, I’m into douche bags like you, unfortunately.
‘How’s the water?’ he asked, passing Mum his ice lolly so she could show the world what she’d be doing to his cock a few hours later.
‘Cold.’ I offered, with a subconscious shiver as the breeze danced softly around me.
Larry looked straight at my tits. See, I told you it was cold.
‘Oh, I thought I might have a dip,' he mused, but he didn’t go in.
We’d booked into a seedy hotel complete with all the cliches. It was down a side street just off the sea front, the sort that proudly claimed to be a family run place, but was full of addled drunks and anonymous couples hoping to remain persona non grata amongst its green wallpaper and kitsch fixtures and fittings.
The stairway was so narrow you had to wait for anyone coming the other way to pass. The paint-flecked front door had a bell that didn’t ring, a missing door knocker, and the handle didn’t turn properly, but other than that it worked like a dream.
We had a twin room. The steel rung beds looked like they’d been volunteered from a lunatic asylum and the circular patterned wallpaper, aside from being an LSD taker's worst nightmare, peeled from various cracks and crevices without hindrance.
‘At least it’s clean,’ Mum offered, ignoring the plethora of dubious stains littering the threadbare carpet as she threw her suitcase onto the nearside bed.
Larry had taken the double next door. Mum could easily have put her belongings in with him - but that would have been to acknowledge the reality of why we were there, and for some reason she needed the facade to play out instead. It was as if she imagined my dad bursting in on us and believed she could still play dumb right up until the very end. Larry’s in the room next door? What the fuck? Really? Small world.
We hadn’t even brought bathing suits. You don’t when you’re supposedly headed somewhere for a bit of mother-daughter time and an evening innocently watching a minor celebrity turning on a bunch of neon lights.
‘It’s Derek Jameson and Judith Chalmers,’ Mum offered, checking her lippy in the functioning half of a warped mirror on the dressing table.
‘What is?’
‘They’re going to be turning on the lights this year - for the illuminations,' she replied, pouting, puckering and then turning away happy.
‘Oh.’
Booze o’clock was upon us.
Mum opted for her prized Steve Madden clogs and a cream slip dress that could’ve passed for a nightie. I went with a tartan plaid mini skirt, fishnet tights, my fashionably scuffed eight hole DM’s, a rock chick choker and a crop top with no bra (Look Larry, no stretch marks and pert tits). Not that Mum and I were competing against each other at all.
We did the ‘ooh that so suits you’ thing and both quietly seethed at the attractiveness of the other. Then Larry knocked on the door and we applied fake smiles to boot.
We drank gin and tonics in the lounge bar. Larry had three pints of Skol and declared he was the luckiest man in Blackpool.
The place was rocking. Two salesmen swayed on bar stools sharing drunken anecdotes and an elderly couple with a fat kid squashed themselves into an adjacent sofa while sipping 7up's to douse their searing sun burn.
An hour and a half later I was back on my bed listening to Mum over-egging the pudding as Larry balled her in the next room. But hey, that’s why Sony made us Walkmans and Fugazi recorded Steady Diet Of Nothing.
I smoked a joint out the hotel window and crashed back on the bed. Gotta love that post-sun, apres-booze, first joint of the day head fuck.
I’d gotten all the way to Long Division when the door opened and Larry strolled in. He was blathering something, but the words were lost to MacKaye’s vocals and a blur of drums.
I stoner grinned at him and fixated on how he’d missed a button when doing up his linen trousers.
‘Did you just put that in my mummy?’
He waved my sarcasm away and kept waffling.
I languidly pulled one headphone aside.
‘I said your Mum’s passed out,’ he reiterated, lighting a cigarette as he shifted back and forth.
‘Oh. She okay?’
‘Yeah, she’s just pissed.’
I nodded. He closed the door and stepped inside the room.
‘So whadda you wanna do?’
I stared back at him and shrugged.
‘Dunno, whadda you wanna do?’
‘Dunno.’
I sat up on my elbows and looked back at him all sultry and smokey eyed.
‘You wanna take me to see the lights?’
He nodded, and almost managed to hide his disappointment.
There was a giant stage. And a ton of people. Derek Jameson waved a giant stick of rock and announced that we were in ‘the greatest tourist resort in Europe’. Jack the mayor looked on in all his finery and Judith Chalmers reminded us why every man she’d ever met wanted to sleep with her - and all before pushing a giant leccy plug into an equally substantial socket.
Music suddenly blared, strobes lurched, people cheered and balloons cavorted into the air as fireworks exploded overhead. The only thing missing was Sinatra and Caesar's Palace, but we got pissed in Yates’s wine lodge instead.
We drank for about an hour and then had a snog down a back alley. Larry fingered me. It was one of those drunken, fall into each other, clatter against a dimly lit wall and then frenchie the shit out of each other moments. His hands took about five seconds to grope my tits and another ten to dip inside my knickers.
He wanted a blow job but I needed a fuck, so I fell to my knees, gave him a taster and then pleaded for him to do right by me.
‘Back at the hotel? What if she hears us?’ he asked, suddenly stricken by his grave conundrum.
‘She won’t, and anyway, she won’t mind,’ I insisted, nuzzling my lips around the tip of his fat cock as three men and a lady staggered past in song.
We swayed arm in arm back to the hotel with the faulty front door. Somehow his dick had persuaded him that the drunk teenage girl had spoken sound sense. Dicks can do that.
We were really quiet, like proper drunk people always are.
‘Shhhhhhh!’ Larry hissed as he tried repeatedly to push the key in the lock. We finally staggered inside like baby elephants tip-toeing about in bespoke ballet shoes.
He threw me on the nearside twin, Mum’s bed, and then tore off his shirt like a man about to enter a bar fight.
I gave him my best Lolita doe eyes and lay back on my elbows with my legs spread. I thought about Mum lying comatose in the next room, about how Larry’s cock had been inside her first, and of how I’d tasted her juices when he’d put it in my mouth. And I thought about how I’d heard her moaning for him, of how I’d imagined her on all fours, tits swaying, cunny dripping, eyes rolling - and how it had turned me on so much I’d had to drown it out with punk rock.
I hadn’t been able to handle it three hours ago, but those MD 2020s had eased the guilt and let that twisted shit run riot inside my head. My cunt was as wet as April before Larry had even reached the bed.
I didn’t see Mum come in. Nor did Larry. He was too busy yanking my tights to my ankles so he could duck under my uplifted legs and push his thick eight inches inside me.
Maybe it was some kind of sixth sense that goaded me into glancing across at the door. Mum was standing about two steps inside the room, in her slip dress, with one of the straps hanging loosely off her shoulder.
I felt the most peculiar cocktail of utter delight and rabid terror as I stared across at her. How on earth had she heard us get back? I thought we’d been so quiet….
Larry had me bent double with my knees around my ears and my crop top hitched up to my neck as he relentlessly piston fucked my pussy from the edge of the bed. I guess foreplay was the drinks.
I hollered and groaned. Loudly. For Mum’s benefit. See, look, I won - your boyfriend is balls deep in my tight young pussy.
‘Yeah baby. I’m gonna fuck you so hard!’ Larry enthused, thinking my slut song was entirely for him. The bed squealed its hysterical monotone rhythm and skin smacking on skin echoed around the room. The defiling grunts of masculinity swan dived with my soprano croon. I wrapped my arm around Larry’s head to hold his gaze and upped my whore’s chorus.
And still Mum just stood there, frozen, looking back at my twinkling eyes as if she was stuck in some kind of trance.
‘Fuck that’s good! That’s so fucking good!’ I whaled as I clutched Larry’s head to stop him looking anywhere but down at me.
‘Yeah baby? You like that?’
‘Uh huh, uh huh.’
I came. I crooned. I hollered. Mum stormed out. Larry was oblivious. He just kept on pounding away until he’d emptied his nuts into me.
Afterwards we lay on the bed for a while. There was silence, but for some panting, a few giggles and the occasional whispered appraisal of what a great fuck it had been. We shared a cigarette.
And then Larry got up, put his clothes on and wandered back to his room. He didn’t even notice the door being wide open.
I rolled a joint and waited for the shit storm. But none came. So I lay back on my bed and waited some more, and wondered, and worried. Maybe that was the punishment.
It was just after one a.m. when I woke to the repetitive thud of a headboard and Mum’s unabashed slut song trying to bring the house down. Larry was doing her again, and she was making absolutely sure that everyone in Lancashire knew about it.
I couldn’t make out her words, but she was spurring him on with all the fervour of a jockey chasing victory on Derby Day.
Thud, thud, thud, thud.
It was beautiful to listen to as I drifted in and out of a soft, hazy, stoned slumber. I imagined her reaching back and clutching the headboard as Larry pushed her knees around her ears, just like he had to me, and how he’d be fucking the shit out of her. He was probably telling her how much he preferred screwing her over me, that I was just a stupid kid whereas she was all woman. I liked that idea, and I didn’t feel guilty about how wet it made me.
The following morning came way too fast. If it had taken a year, it would have come way too fast. Sobriety slapped me in the face and my mind seemed to be playing the previous night’s shenanigans on a loop - with a fucking clown howling hysterically in the background.
I hid under the bed sheets for as long as I could while straining to hear any kind of sound from next door. But nothing suggested itself. The silence was agonising. Maybe Mum had checked out and left me to find my own way home.
I managed to fall out the side of the bed and crawl to the bathroom. The small part of my cranium that wasn’t ripping me for the previous night’s antics suggested a shower might blow off some cobwebs.
My cunt felt sore, which was nice, and the warm gushing water offered soothing sanctuary.
Mum sidled in about five minutes later, flipped the toilet lid and plonked her ass down on the seat with a shudder. I shrieked. I hadn’t seen her come in and was part way through washing my hair.
‘You could’ve asked,’ she blurted irritably, ‘And you didn’t have to be so scheming.’
But Mother, you know fine well that’s half the fun.
I could have said it, maybe I should have said it - but I just nodded apologetically and peered between her legs at the golden gush of piss squirting from the flamboyant petals of her cunt.
‘Sorry Mum. Dunno what I was thinking. Must’ve been the drink.’
She sighed, dabbed her flower with a sliver of toilet roll and shook her head.
‘What a pair we are, eh?’
The car journey home was pretty surreal. I smoked in front of Mum for the first time as we sauntered down the motorway. It didn’t seem like such a big deal after what she’d witnessed the night before.
‘I like your Zippo,' she offered, as I lit two ciggies and passed one across to her.
‘Thanks. I nicked it from Larry.’
She sniggered. I burst into laughter - and for a moment I felt sure we were actually fucking bonding.
© Gnarly Quim
Fawn
- 20.06.2021
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