Oral History

Mrs. Weinstein wasn't like the other women in the neighborhood. It's probably a little over the top to say that she looked glamorous all the time, but she was always put together in a way that the other moms weren't. No matter the situation. I had never seen her in any athletic wear or sweatpants, not even a tee shirt on the rare occasion I saw her picking up the paper on her steps or having a friendly chat with the mailman. Instead, a skirt or a dress hugged her curvy ass and a fitted blouse struggled to contain her chest. She'd traverse the sidewalks in impractical heels and the long talons of her painted nails suited her perfectly, even if they seemed out of place at a barbeque. And always with the jewelry; a long necklace that plunged into her cleavage, a gold tennis bracelet, or small diamond earrings that complemented her dark hair and skin.

She was the star of the show and the rest of us were extras. That's how it felt to me when she was around. As far as I knew, she didn't have some backstory that set her apart from the suburban mundane and entitled her to have this mystique. I don't think that she ever worked a job and I never heard any stories or rumors about her. At least not the kind that adults brought up around a kid that was still in high school. Mrs. Weinstein just carried herself in a way that set her apart from everyone else because that's who she was.

And it drove me wild. For as long as I can remember I was attracted to the older woman down the block in a serious way. Definitely my first crush. Even more than that, it seems that she had imprinted herself on me in a way that made it so that every girl I liked was a version of her. I had a type and it was Mrs. Weinstein. Of course, none of the girls at school could compare in any meaningful way and I would go back to lusting after the real thing.

A part of me always knew that there was more to Mrs. Weinstein than just a suburban housewife from New Jersey. There had to be. And I finally had a plan to figure it out.

I didn't want to seem overdressed, but I made sure that I looked good before I left the house. It was hot for early June so I put on a nice pair of tight shorts and a tucked in button down with the top two undone and the sleeves rolled up. Baseball season had just ended and I was in great shape from a couple months of games and practice. I grabbed my backpack and headed out to pay Mrs Weinstein a visit. It was a weekday afternoon and not much was going on, so the neighborhood felt quiet. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest as I approached.

Mrs. Weinstein's house was in the middle of the block, the front door at the end of a long driveway. Even though it was the suburbs and the houses were fairly close to one another she had a lot of privacy due to the tall shrubs and elm trees that grew around her property. A landscaper was there twice a week for as long as I could remember. Everything on her property was a bit hidden except for the stone walkway that led to the curved wooden door, the secrecy of the property only made me want to know more about her. My excitement clashed with my nerves as I approached the door. If nothing else I could have a conversation with her and a peek inside her house, even that was thrilling to me. It would be great to just have a glimpse of her. She was in my mind often, but in reality it was sometimes months at a time between sightings.

I knocked and waited. A long moment later I heard her voice.

"One moment..." Everything was quiet and I heard the sharp tap of her footsteps in time with the beating of my heart. I slid a hand in my pocket for a quick adjustment and stood up straight when the door began to open.

A brief look of surprise crossed Mrs. Weinstein's face and then it widened into a smile at the sight of me. I mirrored it with one of my own.

"Stevie... what a pleasant surprise. It's so nice to see you," her voice wrapped around me like a silk blanket, soft and all consuming, blocking out everything else. Mrs. Weinstein stood in the doorway on display and I didn't know where to look first. A yellow sundress gripped her body like a glove and came just below her knees, a tempting mix of mystery and showing off. A string of pearls rested on the swell of her large breasts and matched the bracelet that dangled from her wrists. She tapped her heels, yellow like her dress, to fill the empty space while I recovered from the sight of her appearance.

Her curly, raven hair was too dark to be natural and hung just past her shoulders. All of her features were dark; eyes, skin tone, even the heavy shade of red that her nails were painted. Mrs. Weinstein was short and I towered over her by at least a foot. But it didn't make a difference, she could have knocked me over with a feather. Or just a step or two forward and her tits would have done the job as well. Her dark eyes looked me over and she pursed her plump lips and waited for me to say something.

"It's... nice to see you too, Mrs. Weinstein," it really was. Whatever confidence I had sort of went out the window. Not that it was gone, just totally lost in the overwhelming presence of her sexuality. My eyes darted down and I froze at the pronounced curve of her hips and ass. Even looking straight on her rear was visible. Her silhouette was impossible to hide, and the way that she was framed in the doorway made her look like a pinup from another time.

"What can I do for you? Is everything alright with your parents?" I noticed her eyes run me up and down without any sense of hurry, lingering a bit longer on my thighs and crotch.

"Oh yeah, they're good. Everything is fine. I, um, actually had something that I wanted to ask you. A thing that I was hoping you could help me out with?" I looked into Mrs. Weinstein's dark eyes and tried to stay focused. My peripheral vision was warped by the curves of her body and I had to fight to keep my eyes where I knew they should be. It was a challenge.

"Well, that's so intriguing. Come on in, sweetie," she smiled and pivoted on her heels, smoothed her dress, and headed into the house. "Can I get you anything? An iced tea? Water?" Once her back was to me I was free to look and I ate it all up. Mrs. Weinstein had a huge ass, there was no point in pretending it was anything other than gigantic. Despite how tight the dress was it jiggled with each step, a natural reaction from the way that she was built. But the strut was all her. A pronounced shake that demanded attention and found a willing audience with me.

"Iced tea would be great." Mrs. Weinstein led me into a sunken den with windows that looked into the backyard. The room was dark and private, overwhelmingly intimate to me. This was certainly the first time I had been alone with her.

I looked around while she made off for the kitchen to get my drink. One picture hanging by the brick fireplace grabbed my attention immediately. It was Mrs. Weinstein, a much younger Mrs. Weinstein for sure, but she was easy to recognize. In the photo she probably wasn't much older than I was now and had the same dark hair and full lips. Her hair was twisted into two braids that fell in front of her and those lips were curled around a cigarette. She was thinner but she came by her curves honestly and there was no hiding them. The picture must have been from the early 70's and her tits looked it, that sort of braless, low slung look that I always associated with that era. She was in front of the arch at Washington Square with two other people, a guy and a girl that were both looking at her. Mrs. Weinstein was the center of attention even back then. The smile on her face said that she was having the time of her life.

I didn't want to linger on this one photo for too long, my cock was beginning to throb with life and bordering on being visible. I turned and browsed the other objects in the room, my thoughts more lost in the past than on what was actually in front of me.

Despite the life that Mrs. Weinstein brought to any room that she was in, the house itself had a lonely feel to it that I couldn't ignore. There were plenty of markers of a life lived; pictures on the wall, art in the hallway, a folded newspaper on the coffee table. But I knew it wasn't that straightforward.

Her husband passed away when I was young. I remember when it happened, the way that news made its way through the neighborhood and felt like a huge deal. And then it was over and everyone moved on to the next thing. Except for Mrs. Weinstein, it was her reality. Mr. Weinstein was a banker or something financial, I wasn't really sure. Apparently he died right at his desk in the classic ways of the overworked man. After the dust of his death had settled I remembered asking my mom about Mrs. Weinstein, even then I was drawn to her and looked for any excuse to bring her up in conversation, and my mom had said that the recent widow "would be fine." Suburban speak that translated to having money. And while her house wasn't ostentatious in its decor or size, it was clear that my mom's prediction was correct. At least about her finances.

Her daughter Rachel was probably ten years older than me and I never knew her as anything other than a much older person in the neighborhood. Her son Seth overlapped briefly with me in high school, a senior during my freshman year. He was in the class of 1995 to my 1998. We'd occasionally wind up in a neighborhood football game when there were enough kids to field two sides. Seth seemed like a nice guy. Last I heard he was at college somewhere in Massachusetts and I don't recall seeing him around most summers. Probably the type that would take an internship or maybe get into some travel right after the school year ended. I don't even know the last time I saw him.

All of this is to say that it wasn't lost on me that Mrs. Weinstein and I had the house to ourselves.

Mrs. Weinstein came back from the kitchen with two glasses and some cookies on a little silver tray inlaid with a flower pattern. She placed it all on the coffee table and patted my knee in a way that sent a shockwave through my body. I noticed the grin on her face when she felt my body tense. "Help yourself," in a low voice before sitting down on the couch about an arms length away from me. She crossed her legs and sat upright, looking me over with a smile like she wanted to know all of my secrets.

"First off, it's so nice to have you over. This neighborhood isn't as friendly as it used to be. At least, I don't think so." Mrs. Weinstein turned and gave a look to the mirror opposite where she was sitting. "So, Stevie, what was it that you wanted to ask me?" Her tits were straining at the yellow fabric of her dress, making it light enough to see the dark shadow of the bra beneath.

"Well..," I stammered, so many thoughts were running through my mind that it was hard to concentrate on everything that was fighting for my attention. "I've got a project for school. It's the final for my media class and we're supposed to make an oral history with someone. Sort of record a person talking about their life, or some part of it, and then edit it so that it, like, tells a story of who that person is." It counted towards our grade but the project was meant to be fun more than anything else. The school year was just about over and no seniors were working too hard right now.

I watched her eyes light up when I described what I wanted to do. "And you'd like me to be that person? You want to know more about me?"

I nodded. "I do. If that's okay with you. It won't take very long and it could be about whatever you want."

"Stevie!" Mrs. Weinstein leaned forward and patted my leg again in a way that was anything but maternal, this time the sharp spike of her nails lingered for a moment on my thigh, "I would love that. I'm so flattered." She paused and pulled her hand away. "Why me? I've got to ask."

"Well, it can't be a person that I know really well. So no family or anything. And I was thinking about who would be interesting and I thought of you. I know I don't know you too much but you've always seemed so...," I let my voice trail off. There were so many things I could have said here but Mrs. Weinstein jumped in before I could pick one of them.

"I seem so... what?" I could tell that she was excited. "I'm just the older lady up the block, Stevie." Neither of us believed that, it was obvious to me from the way that she carried herself that she thought that she was anything but that. Mrs. Weinstein just wanted to hear otherwise.

"That's not true at all!" I smiled. "To me you've always seemed glamorous. I feel like you must have some good stories. The way that you carry yourself and act. It's different from the other women in the neighborhood. Even now, it's just a Tuesday afternoon and you're dressed up in a nice dress and jewelry. I saw Mrs. Parker on my walk over and she had on sweatpants. I don't think that you would ever do that."

She grinned like she wanted to say more about Mrs. Parker but instead she just nodded. "I don't own a pair of sweatpants."

I chuckled at that. "I figured. You seem like you have some stories and I was hoping that you would want to share them with me," I explained. "For the oral history project." The two of us were hitting it off, I felt good about everything that had happened so far.

"Oh... I've got some stories, Steve. You're an excellent judge of women to figure that out. That will serve you well. So, yes, I would love to sit down with you for your project. It seems like a lot of fun for both of us," she settled back into the couch with a slight adjustment of her dress. Again, her tits shook a little bit from the movement. They were high on her chest, higher than I would have expected considering the size of them. I didn't know a ton about women's bodies, but I guessed that she probably had on a pretty heavy duty bra for them to look the way that they did.

"That's great, Mrs. Weinstein." I reached into my backpack and pulled out the recording device I had borrowed from school. "We can get started whenever you want? Do you need time to think about it?"

Mrs. Weinstein eyed me warily while I started to set it up. The disappointment in her face was obvious when she saw the recorder.

"That's what you're going to use? Not a camera?"

"Yeah, my teacher said it's good because people forget it's around and they speak more openly."

She sort of shook her head at the idea of it and glanced over to the mirror again. "That won't do, sweetie. How about this? You come back next week with a camera and we'll have a good time. And I'll give you everything that you want." Her smile was incendiary. This was a woman that knew how to get what she wanted.

I nodded, a bit taken aback but thrilled more than anything. Not only would I be spending time with Mrs. Weinstein, I'd have a video of all of it. "Okay. I can get one from school and set it up."

"Wonderful. I love the camera," she smiled and paused. "And it loves me." The intensity of her gaze was powerful, it was like she could see through me and knew exactly what I was trying to do here. But I got the impression that she wasn't turned off by a teenager trying to weasel his way into some time with her. Quite the opposite actually.

I took a deep breath to settle myself. All the thoughts that had been racing through my mind had settled into my cock and I could feel myself starting to swell inside my pants. At least I had enough sense to sit back down and make it less obvious. Though I could feel the dark eyes of Mrs. Weinstein following each move I made like a hunter.

The silence hung in the air, sudden tension that was too heavy to ignore. Finally, Mrs. Weinstein spoke again.

"Sweetie, is there anything I should prepare for our next visit? I want to make sure I do a good job for your project," she was all smiles again. Her hand was on the couch and dangerously close to the skin of my leg. The dress she was wearing had ridden up and her thick thighs were rubbing against one another.

"Oh yeah, I should have explained more to you. So, it's not supposed to be a long project. After editing it should be about ten minutes or so. But we can certainly talk for as long as you want to. Maybe think of one part of your life that you want to focus on and we can start from there?"

"That sounds lovely. I've already got a good idea of what we should talk about," she raised her eyebrows, hinting at what was to come. "This time next week?"

"For sure, that sounds great." I stood up, packed the recorder away, and started to walk towards the door, my hands in front of me to hide the outline of my cock. "Thanks so much for this Mrs. Weinstein. I really appreciate it."

She was following close behind me and had her hand on the small of my back as we neared the door, the sharp points of her nails pushed against me with just enough pressure to send another spark through my body.

"The pleasure is all mine, Stevie. I'm excited about this! How fun to share my story with such a handsome young man," her hand drifted a tiny bit lower to my waist and my cock felt ready to burst from her touch. I swallowed hard and my body shook.

"Okay, then I'll see you next week."

"Don't forget the camera." She didn't hide the look down to my tented shorts.

I nodded and walked out the door.

The week until the next visit was agonizingly slow. School was almost wrapped up for the year and baseball was over, so I didn't have much to distract me from the constant fantasies of Mrs. Weinstein that ran through my head. I walked past her house a couple of times hoping to catch a glimpse, but the curtains were drawn closed and there was no sign of her. It just made the anticipation that much stronger.

I was able to check out a camera with no problem from the AV department at school. I wasn't sure how long the interview would last, but I picked up a couple of blank VHS tapes just in case I needed them.

The day finally arrived and I tried to recall everything that my media teacher, Mr. Peterson, had told me about how to be a journalist. One thing that he had said was to dress for the part, make a good impression by showing that you're treating it seriously. So I went through my closet and found a nice pair of pants, a crisp button up, and a tie. I looked alright, a bit more mature than I typically did. Plus, I thought that Mrs. Weinstein would appreciate the effort on my part.

I packed up all the gear and made the walk over to Mrs. Weinstein's house. The anticipation of the week had built up and I was far more nervous than the first time I had paid her a visit. I knocked and waited.

The door opened and I was speechless.

Mrs. Weinstein was dressed to kill. Clad in a black cocktail dress, she looked more appropriate for a night out in the city than an interview with a high school kid. For a moment she said nothing, the invitation to look her over was clear and I took full advantage. The plunging neckline of the dress showed off her cleavage, a long line of soft flesh that was speckled with freckles and almost overflowing from the open panel on her chest. The dress hugged her waist and flared out at her hips to create the silhouette of my dreams. Mrs. Weinstein was built.

The dark fabric ended just above her knees and gave way to shapely legs, wrapped in nylon until they vanished into a pair of blood red heels. Her lipstick matched the shoes, but neither were as smoldering as the grin on her face as she watched me eye her up and down. There was no rush from either of us.

"Look at you, Stevie. Dressed up so handsome for our interview," she stepped back from the door and looked me up and down. "Come on in." I awkwardly looked down and by the time I looked up her dark eyes were waiting for me. It was obvious that I had been checking her out.

"Wow, Mrs. Weinstein. You look...," there were a million words I could have used to describe her. Beautiful. Glamorous. Breathtaking. "... hot." It just came out, simple and true. Her expression changed and I wasn't sure if I had gone too far, lost in a powerful moment of desire for her. "Sorry, I shouldn't have said that."

"It's quite alright, sweetie. A lady never grows tired of hearing that. It's good to know I can still have that effect on a young man," she turned and headed inside and I followed as close as I could. I caught a whiff of her scent, floral with something heavier lurking beneath it. "You know, in my younger days...," she cut herself off. "Actually you'll be hearing all about that soon enough."

"I can't wait," I answered.

Mrs. Weinstein led me inside to the sunken den. Some snacks were laid out on the coffee table. Two glasses were next to a bottle of wine.

"Alright, Mr. Director, you're in charge now. How do you want me?" Her open arms alluded to the possibilities.

I looked around the room and began to piece it together in my head, drawing on what little I had learned about lighting and setting up for an interview. After a couple of minutes I pulled out a large cushioned wingback chair from the corner and set it in the center of the room. The soft overhead light cast a glow that would be perfect. A couple more minutes and I had the camera set up on a tripod and another chair that was across from the wingback. I put the coffee table off to the side, sort of between us, and added the audio recorder as a backup.

Before I turned on the camera I went over the expectations of the interview. I let Mrs. Weinstein know that we could talk about whatever she wanted to, that the idea wasn't to capture her entire history because we didn't have time for that, but to dig as deeply as we could into one part of her life. She seemed to love that idea.

"I'll follow up on some of what you say with questions to add more detail," I explained. "Think of me as the director. My voice won't be heard on the final edit so make sure you repeat everything as best as you can."

"Sounds fun, Stevie. I'll do my best to make it interesting," she said in a way that let me know that Mrs. Weinstein had been thinking about the interview and she had no plans for it to be dull.

The moment I turned on the camera Mrs. Weinstein transformed. Never a wallflower, she came alive as soon as I hit the record button and her posture became more engaging and I couldn't take my eyes off of her. Her shoulders went back and ample chest pushed forward, her dark eyes became tractor beams, and all of the light in the room seemed to gather around her body.

"Why don't you start with some biographical info, if you don't mind? A little bit about where you are from and your family," I prompted.

"Of course, Mr. Director...," she dragged out the last word in a way that made it clear that she understood I was in charge. I can't deny that it turned me on to see her cede control like that. I sat up a little straighter and focused on her.

Mrs. Weinstein was born Deborah Schwartzman in Newark, New Jersey, not far from the suburb we were currently in. The youngest of two girls, she described a normal upbringing with all the trappings of middle class. She came of age in the 60's, she avoided specific dates, a time when there was still a large Jewish population in Newark. Her father was a tailor and her mother a homemaker.

Mrs. Weinstein spoke easily, she barely needed follow ups or prompts, and was natural in front of the camera. She acted like it wasn't there, instead focusing on me when she spoke. Some stories got her animated and she'd lean forward to emphasize a detail or reach for me to drive home a point. Whether it was expanding cleavage, rubbing thighs, or a curve enhancing tug at her dress, there was no shortage of eye candy to keep me enthralled. I was immensely thankful for her suggestion to use a camera.

A couple of minutes into the conversation she leaned back and a halting look crossed her face. An eyebrow arched, red lips pursed. Breaking the character of the camera queen, Mrs. Weinstein asked me a question, "Stevie, you're eighteen. Right?"

"Yes, Mrs. Weinstein. As of January," I answered.

"Good," she smirked and went on with her story. "These women would come by my father's shop all the time for dresses. And I thought they were all so beautiful. Curvy and mature, all the pretty ladies I would see at synagogue would come to my father. I don't know how he could stand it. I'd watch him take their measurements and his hands would be all over their bodies. He'd send me off to grab pins or whatever he needed for his work. My sister was never interested, I was a bit of a daddy's girl and I'd hang around the shop whenever I could. So I learned a little about being a seamstress. It was never what I wanted to do, and my father didn't want that either, but it was a useful skill. When I...," she paused and smirked, "started to develop I could make alterations. Because, let me tell you, off the rack clothes are not made for someone built like me."

The question hung in the air like bait. I took it.

"Do you want to say more about that?" I had a timer running and I noted the time of my question. I was already planning on rewatching her answer.

"I do, actually. I grew up faster than the other girls," she gestured to her chest, "but I was never embarrassed. Probably because I saw how my father would make all of these women look beautiful, I learned that a woman's body is something to be proud of. Not ashamed of. I still feel that way, Stevie."

Hearing Mrs. Weinstein talk about her body, even in vague ways, was electric. I felt it connect with something inside of me and my own body responded in the way that a man does. My dick came to life and snaked down my thigh. I gave a quick glance and could just barely make out the thick outline of it pressing against my pants. Not too visible, but certainly there.

"And so," she continued, "I wanted to show off what I was blessed with. Not cheap. Never cheap, Stevie. My clothes fit so that they showed off what I had. And, frankly, I loved the attention. To be honest, I still do."

Like earlier, the invitation was there.

"You're certainly the prettiest woman in the neighborhood," I spit out the words in a rush of teenage uncertainty. My face was red, I didn't need to see it to know that. And I didn't need to look to know that my cock was on fire. But the smile on Mrs. Weinstein's face settled whatever nerves I had.

"Thank you, Stevie." She sat up straight and adjusted the dress, a tug that stretched the material tight across her tits. Her eyes looked to the coffee table. "Would you mind?" It took me a moment to realize that she was referring to the wine bottle on the table.

"No, not at all," I said. "Here, let me open it." I reached for the corkscrew, unstoppered the bottle, and poured her a glass of the white wine.

"Thank you. Help yourself to a glass. It'll be our secret," she placed the glass on the small table next to her.

"Um, sure." I poured myself a small glass and she raised hers when I sat back. "Cheers. To old stories."

I raised mine. "And new ones." She raised her eyebrows suggestively at my comment.

We each took a sip and the temperature in the room felt like it had jumped ten degrees.

"Now, where were we...," she smiled at the camera and continued her story.

After she finished some more stories about her childhood, Mrs. Weinstein jumped ahead a couple of years to when she was nineteen. Still living at home, she dreamed of moving to the city and eventually made it happen. She moved to the lower East Side with a friend of hers. They had no real plan, but none of it mattered to her. Even now I could tell by the look on her face how much fun it was. I guessed that the picture of her on the wall was probably from this era.

"New York was so different back then," she started after topping off her wine. "To a sweet Jewish girl from Jersey it felt like the most exciting thing in the world to be in the big city. There was something to do every night and the people were all so much fun and different. Like everyone else, I dreamed of making it big. In what? I had no idea. I was nineteen and the only thing I had going for me were these tits."

We both laughed at this. Hers tinged with temptation, mine with barely disguised desire.

"That's not true." I paused. "You had that ass too."

She howled at the comment, her tits shook and she almost spit out her wine. But beneath the facade I could sense something else. The skin of her chest flushed red and I could make out the stiff nubs of her nipples pressed against the black dress. Mrs. Weinstein loved it. The dynamic was changing between us, some sort of line had been crossed and we both liked what was on the other side of it. Or at least the recognition of what could happen was bubbling to the surface and neither of us squashed it.

"You're bad, Stevie. You are right though," she composed herself. "I guess you'll edit that part out?"

"Yeah, I think so. I'm not sure Mr. Peterson would appreciate it," I helped myself to a little more wine and she winked at me.

"So one day I was looking through the paper for work and I saw a listing that a little film shoot needed a seamstress for costuming, a little makeup too. Perfect, I thought. I knew how to do all of that. The pay was only a couple of bucks but this could be my big break. Right? I was so naive," she rolled her eyes and trailed off. "A couple days later I walked into a warehouse in the Bowery and..."

For the first time Mrs. Weinstein seemed a bit shy, or at least hesitant to divulge details. Whatever happened next in her story was something that she wasn't sure that she wanted to share. Or, at least, she wanted to play coy. Of course, that made me want to know more than anything. I reminded myself that I was in charge here, this was my project and I needed to direct it.

"Tell me what happened next at the film shoot." I didn't leave her any room to keep it to herself.

She responded immediately to my command.

"Well, it was obvious right away what kind of movie they were making. The set was just a couple of couches and the wardrobe... they didn't need me for much. The talent, that's what they were called, were four people. Two men and two women. The men were... incredibly sexy, is the best way that I could describe it. Both of them were tall and lean, not much different then you Stevie. They were older than me. Maybe mid twenties. I had never been around anything like that before."

"What did the women look like?" I pressed for details. I knew that a good oral history would cover it all, but more than anything I wanted to know. It was shocking to me that Mrs. Weinstein was telling me this, that she had worked on the set of a porno movie in the early 70's.

"They were beautiful. They were stars! I'll never forget how perfect they looked to me. One was a thin blond woman with long hair and small breasts. She was so sweet to me and I later learned was very talented... in her particular way. Let's say that she was very accommodating. The other was a black woman. She had these massive hips and ass, the shape of her body was like nothing I had ever seen. But more than anything? I remember the way that the camera followed the women, how they never needed to seek it out. It came to them, trailed after them like a desperate lover," her voice was rising as she recalled the distant memory.

"How did it make you feel? Being there and seeing all of it. It must have been shocking."

"I was... turned on by it. And I can admit now that I was jealous of them. Of the women. Here I was, a nineteen year old, watching them get all of the attention in the room. They deserved every bit of it, too. It was magnificent to watch them work. It opened my eyes in so many ways," Mrs. Weinstein looked off for a moment and took another sip. She looked at me. "Stevie, have you ever watched anyone make love?"

Of course I had seen movies and pictures, but never the real thing. I shook my head. "Not in person. No."

"It's incredible to see. The way that two bodies come together in shared desire, cast aside inhibitions or reservations in pursuit of pleasure. It's indulgent and decadent. But also special, to give yourself to someone in that way. And to be the star? The reason that people are watching? I knew at that moment that I wanted to be one of those girls," she purred. "They were beautiful to look at. They truly were. But I was too."

I nodded slightly in agreement. I didn't want to seem over the top but I moved my head enough so that Mrs. Weinstein knew that I agreed with her. "And did you? Did you get to be one of those girls?" My heart pounded at the possibility of what she was going to say. My cock throbbed in anticipation of her answer.

Mrs. Weinstein continued her story. I knew that she had heard my question.

"I thought about them all night. The next day I showed up on the set again for another scene. More hair and makeup. When I arrived everyone was in a bad mood. Apparently the woman for the scene hadn't shown up and they needed someone to play the part," she explained with a mischievous grin, her red lips tight together like they were holding back a secret. "I've thought about this over the years. Was this how they got new girls? There was hardly a need for someone to do costumes and makeup for a blue movie. After a little while an older man on the set approached me and asked if I wanted to fill in. Actually," she smiled and laughed a bit, "he started by saying how beautiful I was and I just melted. I had seen him on the set the day before, one of the girls called him the money man, and he was around women all day. For him to say that I was beautiful? I think I would have done anything at that moment."

My cock was raging inside my pants and I didn't care. The slight outline from before had grown to a thick impression and there was no point in trying to hide it.

"And what did you do?"

"I said yes. I said yes and that I would be the best girl he had ever seen. That I would suck any cock that he put in front of me if the camera was there. And I meant it. The man, Harold Weinstein was his name," she said casually, "he just smiled when I told him."

"That's how you met Mr. Weinstein?" I was astonished. My memories of Mr. Weinstein were of a much older, quiet man. I never would have thought that he was a pornographer. I wouldn't have thought that of her either, though.

"It is. How about that? Harry had all sorts of interests, this was just one of them. He invested in books and movies, stocks, whatever. And it's given me a very comfortable life," she said in a tone that contained so much. It was commentary on her neighbors and their nine to five lives, on the trivial gossip that ran like wildfire through the cul-de-sacs, and on the buttoned down lives that we all kept hidden. Mrs. Weinstein was confiding in me in a way that I hadn't expected. There wasn't an ounce of shame in her past. She was proud of all of it, even if it wasn't something that she advertised.

I smiled back at her to let her know that I liked what she was saying. I put aside my directorial imperative for a moment. "I always knew that you were different. I guess I didn't realize just how much so. So... what was your first scene like?"

Mrs. Weinstein crossed her legs and the soft flesh of her thighs squeezed together. Her dress had ridden up and she made no move to cover up. "It was wonderful. It started as oral, that was the direction. I was at home in my apartment and a handy man showed up," she laughed at the memory of it, "a classic setup for the time. We each had a couple of lines and then that was it, I was on my knees with the biggest cock I had ever seen in my mouth."

I glanced down and saw a wet spot on my pants. She noticed it too.

Mrs. Weinstein went on. "I was nervous, of course. But the moment that director said action and I saw the light on the camera I was a different person. Until that point I had had sex with one person, my high school boyfriend. Lights off or in the back of the car. Nothing like what I was about to do. I didn't really know what I was doing, but it didn't matter. I was hungry to prove I was deserving of the attention. I was powerless against the camera and a man directing me what to do," she looked straight at me when she spoke. "You know what I'm saying, Stevie?"

""Um...," I stammered before gaining control of my runaway thoughts, "yes, Mrs. Weinstein. I think I do."

"Good," Mrs. Weinstein's eye bore into me like a drill. "That day was eye opening for me. That man, Stan was his name, fucked me like I didn't know possible. It wasn't like today with all the magazines and sex everywhere. Sex wasn't talked about as much and it certainly wasn't everywhere you looked. I just knew that I was supposed to let a boy stick it in me and that's all I had done."

"But this was different," I jumped in, needing to know more. "Tell me about what you and Stan did. As much detail as you're comfortable with."

"Well... he took me from behind. Not my ass!" She laughed at that. "But he bent me over so that my ass was in the air and it felt... wonderful. There were other people in the room and I loved that they were watching me. I felt like I could let go and be in the moment, enjoy what this young man was giving me. And the camera followed me the way that it followed those other girls. The director told the cameraman to get close, get close to her beautiful body is what he said. I followed Stan's lead, did whatever he wanted me to do. And that boy fucked like a stallion," Mrs. Weinstein ran her hands up her dress as she relived the memory. Her thick ass had slid to the edge of her chair and her knees pointed downward. Another inch or two and she would be on the ground.

"And where did Stan cum?" I had to know so I could picture it. I reached down and adjusted my raging cock to keep it at bay for a little longer.

"All over my tits. That's what the director wanted so that's what I did. It felt so good to have his hot cum all over me. Everything got so quiet on the set when he came, all the attention was on us. I could practically hear his heart beat as it all came out of him in massive spurts, over and over. It was so much. But as soon as Stan was done I pulled him close and I whispered to him that I wanted him again. And this time I wanted it all down my throat," she confided.

"And did you?"

Mrs. Weinstein nodded. "We went out that night, Stan and I. He took me to a restaurant on the West Side and I felt like a movie star in my prettiest dress. Maybe some people recognized him from the movies? And I felt like Cinderella. It was an incredible night. Stan had a little apartment and we wound up back there and I sucked his cock again. This time I kept it all for myself. The movies never wanted that, they wanted a money shot for the camera so I would do that. I'd do whatever the director told me to," she looked me dead in the eyes and then I watched as she trailed down to the outline of my cock. "I love doing what a man wants me to do."

The offer was there. I just needed to claim it. My cock was on fire, likely to burst out of my pants if I didn't do something about it. Across from me, Mrs. Weinstein looked like she was in heat. She still had her mature composure but her breath was coming in deep inhales that slowly lifted her tits and then brought them back down on each breathy exhale, her shoulders bare from where the dress had begun to slide and I could see the tops of her breasts begging to be set free. The black dress had risen up even higher and her legs were spread, the dark skin of her thighs parted in invitation. Perched on the edge of the chair, she was just waiting for the command that would unlock that nineteen year old girl that loved to suck cock. We both knew it. But that was as far as she would go on her own.

She needed a man to take her the rest of the way.

I stood up, never breaking eye contact with her and took a step forward so that I was in the frame of the camera with her.

"Show me how you sucked his cock," my voice was as hard as the rod in my pants. I glanced at the camera and the thrill of it coursed through my body. I understood the appeal of being on display. "Show everything to the camera."

"Yes, Mr. Director. Whatever you say."

Mrs. Weinstein dropped to her knees and reached for my pants. Her long painted nails traced their way up my thighs, a single sharp talon dragging along my cock, until she came to my belt. She undid it confidently and slowly, nothing about her was rushed in any way, and pulled my pants down. My cock sprang out and pointed straight at her, the tip glistening with desire.

I bit my lip to calm myself.

"Nice cock, Stevie. You could be in the movies." Mrs. Weinstein didn't look at the camera once. She was a pro. She knew its eye would find her like it had before.

Her tongue darted from her mouth like a snake and curled around my tip. One hand reached up and gripped me at the base of my dick and then she brought her lips against my swollen head. I could already feel the fuse lit inside of me and my entire body was trembling from her touch. But it wasn't just her touch, the knowledge of who she was turned me on more than anything.

I needed a distraction or this would be over in a moment.

"Let the camera see your tits," I directed, looking down at her. In response she reached back and pulled down the zipper of her dress. She shrugged her shoulders and the black straps fell to the sides and then she tugged and it all came free. The tits that I had dreamed about since I was a kid, probably the first ones I ever fantasized about, were better than I could have imagined.

From her knees, Mrs. Weinstein leaned back against the chair and let me have a long look. Her tits were big, heavy breasts that hung with maturity and filled her torso. A dark olive complexion like the rest of her skin and capped with purple areolas the size of quarters, a stiff nub pointing slightly downward at the end of each.

She held each one up with one hand and let them drop against her skin with a crash. They settled without much wobbling or fanfare, instead the soft texture rippled and sank back against her.

Then she went back to work on my cock. I gasped as I vanished inside of her mouth. Each inch of me slowly disappeared as Mrs. Weinstein demonstrated her skill. She went slowly, pleasure building with each moment. Her eyes were locked on me, dark eyes that revealed that she loved this as much as I did. There was desire, hunger, and pride in her look. I felt her arms reach around and squeeze my ass, cupping each tense cheek in her hands and pulling her body close to mine as she neared her destination.

I moaned out loud when her lips met the skin of my stomach. "Mrs. Weinstein... you're incredible..." I was close to the edge, my cock was harder than it had ever been. I was on a different level, aroused to a degree that I didn't know was possible.

Suddenly she pulled back and my cock reappeared in full. With one hand she pointed me skyward and licked from the tip to the bottom of my balls and back again.

"This one is for me," she said. "I've missed this, Stevie."

My cock vanished again in a flash down her throat. I clenched down as hard as I could to hold back but I didn't stand a chance against the talented Mrs. Weinstein. The dam broke and I unleashed a torrent of cum that splattered against the back of her throat. For the first time her composure broke. The well dressed, proper, mature neighbor disappeared and an animal replaced her. Mrs. Weinstein was moaning and writhing with each spasm from my cock, pushing her mouth against my body and sucking like a vacuum to get everything out of me. Her tits were swinging wildly from the gyrations, her dress hanging off of her body and her ass sticking out far behind her.

Even in the throes of ecstasy I couldn't help but realize how it would look on camera. How I would watch and replay this video everyday for the rest of my life.

Finally, when there was nothing left in me, she slowly pulled back and let my cock drag across her flushed face. There wasn't a drop on her, she had gotten every bit of me. Still on her knees, she leaned back and regained her composure. Her tits were out, the dress barely on, but she looked perfect.

"That was...," I stuttered, not sure how to even describe it. "You're a star, Mrs. Weinstein." I stepped back and reached for the pants gathered around my ankles.

"Thank you, Stevie. I think we make a good pair," she eyed me up and down. "You can leave your pants off. I've got more stories."

"I'd love to hear them. And I think that there is plenty of time left on the tape to record it all," I answered. I kicked off my pants and, feeling silly in my shirt and tie, took those off too. My dick hadn't gone soft, far from it. Mrs. Weinstein had sucked the rigid life out of it but I was still swollen and not far from a second round.

She got back in the chair and crossed her legs, leaning back to give me and the camera a good look at her body. Her tits were magnificent. Better than anything I had ever seen in a magazine or a movie, superior to any of the girls that I had been with in any of the dalliances of my brief life.

"Now, where were we?" Mrs. Weinstein poured herself a little more wine and smiled at me.

"You were about to tell me about your film career. It didn't end with one movie, did it?" My dick was already rising from the sight of her, just the proximity to Mrs. Weinstein was an aphrodisiac.

"No, Stevie, it didn't end there. Being with Stan on camera only made me want it more. A couple of days later I got a call from Harold. He was lovely on the phone, let me know that he had watched the footage and said that I was a natural, that I was born to be in the movies," there was no containing the smile on her face. My cock was suddenly rock hard, a fact that didn't go unnoticed. But as much as I wanted to direct her into the next scene between us, I also wanted to hear her story.

"Go on, please. What happened next?" I pumped my cock, a slow stroke to vent off some of the desire that was threatening to overwhelm me.

"Harold took me to lunch in the park, Tavern on the Green. I had never been and it felt like such a New York thing to do. Like I had suddenly made it and all these doors had opened to me. All from sucking cock. Can you believe that?" She paused and considered her next words. "I really love doing it, sucking a man's dick. I know that some girls, even girls I worked with, considered it a chore. But I never did. I love the feel of a cock in my mouth. The control of it, but even more I like the way that a man can watch me pleasure him. The way that I can feel his cock tense up right before he unloads in my mouth, or all over my tits. It's like nothing else."

I wanted Mrs. Weinstein again so badly. I knew I could have her too, but something was holding me back.

"What did Mr. Weinstein say to you at lunch?" I had to keep my hands away from my cock or I might explode all over myself. Instead, my dick bobbed in the air, pointing straight up like a rocket waiting for blastoff.

"He said that he wanted to make me a star. A featured girl. It would be money, and I could pick the men that I wanted to work with. Harold was... very convincing. He always was, it was a very tempting offer," she explained.

"And did you do it?"

She bobbed her head. "I did. I said yes immediately. How could I not? I didn't do it for long. I couldn't. By this time porno was getting to be out in the open and I was scared to death that someone would recognize me. Well, some people did in the city. More than once I went out and a man, sometimes a woman, would approach me and make a comment. I thought I was Marilyn Monroe when that happened. Even when the comments were nasty I loved it. But I was so scared that my family would find out. So I had to stop," Mrs. Weinstein was matter of fact about it, the longing in her voice was apparent though.

"And then what?"

"That's when Harold said that he would take care of me. And he did, wonderfully so. I never had to worry about anything again. Sex with Harold was different, it was tender and sweet and he gave me two wonderful children...," her voice tailed off.

"But...," I filled the gap and pressed for more.

"But when you've done what I've done it's hard to leave it behind. And I loved it, really loved it. For a lot of the girls it was a job. Something that was easy to walk away from when the money wasn't there or they found something new. But me? I loved it. Being with women, two or three cocks at a time. All of it. When it was over Harold made sure that I was taken care of in all ways. We always had friends in the city and I could go have fun when I wanted. It wasn't the same though," Mrs. Weinstein was at the edge of her seat again. Her hands found her tits and she pushed them together with an anxious sexual energy that matched what I was feeling.

"What was different? What was missing?" I knew what it was though.

Mrs. Weinstein stood up and slid her dress down, nothing below it. "The camera, Stevie. That's what I missed most of all." The red light burned in my periphery, as hot as anything in the room.

Between Mrs. Weinstein's legs, her thick bush of dark hair was matted and damp. Her scent, raw and primal and feminine, filled my nose like a love potion and I rose up.

Mrs. Weinstein dropped back into the chair and spread her legs wide to me. "Come here, baby."

My cock led the way and I sank into the heaven between her legs. Mrs. Weinstein pulled my face close to hers and kissed me. Her velvet cunt swallowed me whole like it was quicksand. Soft and hot, she was irresistible. I didn't stand a chance against her.

"Fuck me good, Stevie. Let me feel how hard I make that young cock," her hands reached to my ass and squeezed, then pulled back and spanked me like a jockey. I could feel the eruption inside of me, eager to break free in an explosion of pleasure. It started in my balls and began its journey to her. My entire body stiffened as I tried to hold it back.

"Uuuuhhhh...," I started.

"Not yet, baby. We have a movie to make," she cut me off. Her smoky voice came strong and took control of the room. Her pussy flexed around my cock, cutting off what was coming, and she locked her dark eyes onto mine. In response, the urgency of my body passed but the pleasure remained, heightened even. I flashed a look to the camera, its red eye staring at the two of us, and then back at her beneath me.

I took a deep breath and fucked Mrs. Weinstein harder than I had ever fucked before. Her deep moans encouraging me with each thrust.

Mrs. Weinstein laid back onto the loveseat and I grabbed her legs by the ankles, holding them up and pressed against my shoulders. The heels were still on her feet and I licked one up and down as I sank my cock into her soft body. Her enormous tits laid against her chest, sliding to the side of her body and dropping towards the cushions, shaking with each thrust as I pounded into her.

The gaze of the camera heightened everything. My cock was iron, her curves exaggerated, the moans from each of us sounded like animals with no regard for anything else. We weren't just two people fucking on the loveseat in her sunken living room. As Mrs. Weinstein had said, we were making a movie. And it turned me on in ways that I could not have imagined.

She shared the energy, I could feel it radiating from her body. For as much as this turned me on, and it did immensely, this was her fantasy. Mrs. Weinstein was nineteen again and getting fucked for the camera by a young man. Was I a prop for her? Probably. Did I doubt that she loved every second of this? Not at all.

Her nails scraped down my torso and gripped my hips, pulling me tight with each thrust and shoving me away on the backswing.

"All the way back, Stevie. Snow everything. Don't hide," it was her turn to direct. Suddenly, she switched positions and rolled over on the loveseat. Her legs spread wide and she arched her ass upwards at me.

Mrs. Weinstein looked over her shoulder at me, earrings sparking in the light and her dark hair still in place. "Fuck me."

"Yes, Mrs. Weinstein," I said, hypnotized at the sight of her. I had lusted after her entire body, but mostly her ass since I was a kid. I loved everything about her, but it was her ass that I thought of first when I dove into my fantasies. On some level, I think that she knew that. I'm sure I wasn't the first. She was clearly a woman that understood the male gaze and I doubt that I was subtle in my attempts at voyeurism. And now she was giving me what I wanted most. I was her audience and she aimed to please.

Her ass was big, enormous even in the way that it bubbled out from her body and reached for me. In turn, I grabbed for the curvy mound and my hands sank into the soft flesh of her cheeks. I followed with a gentle slap, then a harder one that made her shake. I lifted one leg onto the love seat and the other stayed on the floor, angling my cock at her entrance and making sure that the camera saw it all. With a slow, deliberate stroke I pushed in as far as I could until I bottomed out and her ass was pressed against my stomach. The sensation was unbearable pleasure and the urgency returned, the countdown in my balls had begun again. This time I didn't fight against it or hold anything back. I embraced it, flexing my cock inside her, and Mrs. Weinstein responded.

"That's right, Stevie. I can feel how much you wanted this. This ass is what you've been waiting for. Isn't it?" She pulled away from me and my cock slowly unsheathed.

"Yes, Mrs. Weinstein, it is. And now I'm going to make you a star again," I meant every word of it.

I pounded into her as fast as I could like a jackrabbit, eager to get as much of Mrs. Weinstein as I could before reaching the finish line. My breath sped up and I felt my cock somehow get even harder, a length of iron capable of intense sensation.

Sensing the end, Mr. Weinstein pulled away and dropped to her knees in front of me. For a second my cock dangled between us, soaked and throbbing. I moved my hand to pump my cock and she beat me to it. She gripped my dick with one painted hand and aimed for her heaving tits. The other squeezed my full balls, coaxing everything to the surface with an urgent pressure. Her eyes were glued to my cock as she worked me up and down with a furious motion.

"Oh... fuck...," I moaned as the dam began to break.

"Cum all over my tits, sweetie. I want every drop of you on me." Mrs. Weinstein got her wish and I exploded all over her in two massive bursts that splattered against her burning skin.

"Aaaa...," I had no words, just the pulsing reality of pleasure that she had brought me to.

"Just like that," her voice was desire and fantasy, a dream come true. Two more thick strands sprung from me, one hitting her tits and the other dangling from her chin. "Good boy, Stevie."

Mrs. Weinstein didn't stop until she had squeezed every bit of cum from me. I stood there spellbound on weak legs and with a racing mind. It was all on camera, every moment of what the two of us had done. For her it was nothing new, I knew that now. But for me... I felt changed.

Finally she rose up from her knees and gave me a kiss while her hand still stroked my cock. There was passion behind the kiss. Not a smoldering, intense prelude to more sex. Though I knew I could be ready in an instant if that was what Mrs. Weinstein wanted. But rather a connection between the two of us. In turn, we had each given each other a gift that came from a real place.

"I bet you'll have the best project in class, sweetie," she said and reached for the remains of her wine.

I smirked. "I'm sure of it. I've got a lot of editing to do, but I don't think anyone will have a project like what I have."

"What we have," she corrected. "A group project."

She swirled her wine and sauntered over to the picture of her younger self on the mantle. Comfortable in her nudity, Mrs. Weinstein was in no hurry and I took my time to drink up every bit of her. Eventually she turned to me.

"You know, Stevie. I've got plenty of stories to tell. And if you have time this summer I'd be happy to share them all with you."

My cock began to stiffen at her words and the sight of her. Leaned against the wall with her legs spread wide, the long string of pearls sinking into the deep crevasse of her cleavage and mixing with my drying cum. She looked like a movie star.

"Yes, Mrs. Weinstein. I'd like that very much."