"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.
