(This story is based on my memory of actual events. I hope the long buildup isn't too much. I'm open to constructive criticism. // There are references to drugs, a lot of infidelity and some light cum swapping. If that's not to your liking consider yourself warned. Everyone described here is 18 or over).
In my younger days I ran with a pretty wild, multicultural bunch. I'm black and from the south side of Chicago, but we had Asian, Latino, White, Persian, Native American, etc. in our group, from all over the city. This was the 1980s. Long before cell phones and full time media consumption. We lived life outdoors and defined ourselves with music and fashion.
At 14 I'd become enamored of the original, non-political, Skinhead subculture and by the age of 18 (1985) I was rising through the ranks of our crew and fully codified as a traditional skinhead (if this confuses you search the internet for the origins of skinhead). The same was true of most of my friends but we also had punks, House heads, and a few skaters. We were an adventurous bunch so there was a fair bit of experimentation with drugs and a lot of freely available sex. Many of our activities centered around a juice bar / dance club called Medusa's which, at that time, provided entertainment into the early morning for those of us who were over 18. At closing time, 6 or 7 the next morning we'd emerge into the light and make our ways home, or wherever.
Fortunately, one of my skinhead friends, Noah, lived nearby and his parents were rather permissive so we often wound up at their house to crash after running the streets of Chicago.
Noah's parents were somewhat young-ish, and the mother wasn't quite ready to fade away into middle-age just yet. The faint remnants of a West London accent told the story that she'd been transplanted several years prior and had settled in Chicago with her family. She fell in with a handsome boy (Noah's father) and quickly earned the status of teen mother. With luck and ingenuity she landed softly after marrying her high school sweetheart.
Noah's father, Mr. Harrington, was a professor at a nearby university and had also been involved in radical politics. He knew everything about the chemistry of drugs and guided many of us through pleasant acid trips. Curiously, he had a huge stash of porno mags all around the house but no one seemed to think it was strange or shameful which was the exact opposite of my home life. Every time my mother found my porno mags she'd rip them up and toss them in the trash. I've no doubt that Mr. Harrington loved having the pretty, free-spirited girls around his home. He'd get eyefuls of their young bodies in various states of undress and on more than a few occasions I could hear him taking his desire out on his wife, most-certainly inspired by the taut young flesh parade he'd just witnessed.
Noah's mother, Mrs. Harrington was an art gallery owner and an attractive 30-something woman. About 5'6". She had a few extra pounds but also had a fantastic C-cup rack that made her stand out from the crowd. I have no idea what her natural hair color might have been but she had a sweet pale complexion that she accentuated with dramatic post-punk makeup. She dressed in a new wave style like women several years younger than herself - asymmetrical skirt, shoulder-baring tops, and the occasional bullet belt. I got the sense that she enjoyed the youthful energy that we brought to their house, not to mention the spark it added to her husband's libido. She'd been around at the first wave of punk rock and seemed to know everyone in the Wax Trax industrial music scene. She was undoubtedly part of our tribe, just a few years too old to run the streets with us.
Their home was a safe place for us to crash and she'd leave the door unlocked so we could come and go at will.
When the adults weren't home we'd hook up and have sex and get high in every room of the house, and when they were home we still had our illicit late night fun but usually in the living room. Various couples or triples, side-by-side, fucking for the hell of it... or just waiting for the LSD to wear off. We were discovering our 18 and 19 year old bodies and finding any number of ways to derive pleasure.
One morning, for various reasons (school, work, grocery store, etc), everyone drifted away from the house leaving me alone there. I hopped into the shower then got myself ready for the Chicago Transit Authority bus and train journey to my home on the south side. I wasn't in much of a rush so I found myself distracted by some of the porno mags on the living room coffee table. I was lazily paging through one when Mrs. Harrington came into the room. I hadn't known she was home but fortunately there was nothing overtly objectionable about my presence. I was fully clothed in my classic skinhead gear. White Ben Sherman short-sleeve button down shirt, Levi Sta-Prest pants, Levi trucker jacket, Dr. Martens boots and braces (narrow suspenders). I looked the whole part. I was a fit young machine. Not overly buff, not overly skinny. Just a solid, fit young man that could hold his own in most situations and who'd been in enough street scuffles that street savviness just kind of dripped off me.
So, like I was saying, there was nothing objectionable about my state or my presence. The only questionable aspect was that I was sitting on some white folks' couch looking at dirty mags. Mrs. Harrington surveyed the situation silently, then politely dismissed herself back up the stairs.
A couple minutes later she quietly came down the stairs with more magazines. She invited me to look them over to see if they were to my taste. These magazines were all interracial sex, specifically, Black men and white women. She said "Jim got some new magazines, you should give them a look." Some were hardcore, others were more softcore, with artistic photography.
I was a bit dumbfounded by the scenario which gave her the opening to take the lead.
She sits down next to me on the couch and starts to thumb through the magazines, stopping occasionally to show me the images that she enjoyed most. She'd describe the photographic techniques, the differences between pornography and erotica, and how men are generally more visually excited than women yet the softcore erotica was particularly exciting to her. And 'had I ever considered posing for photographs?'
"You haven't? You should. I think the camera would love you."
I don't know if it was the porn or her closeness or the dialogue or all the above, but I started to tune into the erotic potential. As a young man, relatively inexperienced, I also had doubts. She's married. She's older. She's my friend's mother. Am I just an irrepressible horndog and reading this all wrong?
Sensing my reticence, she became more direct. She leaned in with a magazine and asked "How does your cock compare to this one?" When I didn't answer, she said "I'll bet it's really nice but sadly I may never know." Her light English lilt draws my attention to the way her lips move when she speaks. She's close enough to kiss. Her perfume is intoxicating.
She goes on in a breathy tone... "I hear you fucking your gang girls... Those little tarts certainly seem to enjoy it. I'm very curious. You should show it to me." She tapped the fly of my Levis with two fingers, right where my hardened manhood strained the most.
Now, it should be said that I was a perpetually horny 18-year old male. I was pretty much always hard and have always been very proud of my dick. I could think my way to a full erection and showing it off to anyone who wanted to see it was a favorite pastime. Naturally, her words were like those of a snake charmer. I stood up next to her, dropped my braces, undid the button, then the fly to drop my pants. My young wood sprang up from beneath my shirt, standing in sharp contrast to the white cloth of my shirt.
