Ms. Penelope and the Blowjob Revolution

by Jessica James

Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Coercion, Incest, .

Desc: Sex Story: Penny Astor, Bradford Apartments resident, Jimmy Fowler's little girlfriend, a precocious little girl, loved sex. Had a very inventive attitude toward it. Jimmy was so impressed with her creative sexuality that he put her in charge of his latest apartment building - the Faulkner. Being the boss meant that Penny could choose which of the desperately poor young mothers and their children could live in the Faulkner. Using these kids, Penny started a blowjob movement that captured Seattle.

Penny, like her mother, Mary Astor, was petite and sexy. Blonde and sexy. With her flat chest and hairless pussy, she was sexy. With her naughty mind, she was sexy.

Penny Astor was one sexy little girl.

Who knew it and liked knowing it.

Jimmy Fowler was the first to fuck her. He continued to do her on a regular basis, although they both had other lovers.

Jimmy Fowler was from those Fowlers. The Seattle Fowlers. The real estate titans, those Fowlers. His mother, Glory, and his grandmother, Gwendolyn, owned huge swatches of property in and around Seattle. Apartment buildings, bank buildings, housing divisions, farmland, office buildings, parking garages.

They had recently started a buying spree in and around Vancouver, BC.

Jimmy was following in his family’s business traditions.

His mother gave him the seven-story Bradford apartment building when he was 16. Jimmy discovered a lust for young mothers who were about to become homeless. As he honed his craft, he narrowed his focus. The tenants he allowed to live in The Bradford had to meet three criteria:

  1. Young and female.

  2. Mothers with young children, boys and/or girls.

  3. Poor. Desperate, almost-living-on-the-street, poor.

In the interview process, his favorite Bradford residents -- The Six -- made one thing clear when they interviewed the endless stream of rental applicants. You, Ms. Applicant, will be pussy. Your children, Ms. Applicant, will be pussy.

Some of the kids would be too young even for Jimmy to fuck. But they, Ms. Applicant, will become pussy as soon as The Six decides they’re ripe enough.

Jimmy bought a mirror-image apartment building next door to the Bradford called the Barstow.

More pussy.

Then he bought a four-story building, the Hemingway, next door to the Barstow.

More pussy.

Much more pussy, because at Penny’s suggestion, he had all of the apartment walls and doors removed from every floor, and the Basement as well. The Hemingway would have an Open Floor Plan. With single mothers and their children. A clothes-free environment for all of the Hemingway pussy.

Jimmy bough the next building over, the Fitzgerald. Take the Hemingway formula, stir, repeat.

More pussy.

Jimmy was so delighted with the results of Penny’s Open Floor Plan that he turned his next building, the Faulkner, over to her. He assigned his rather homely teenage business manager, Sylvie, to oversee the building’s financials for Penny.

Sylvie was a genius when it came to keeping the books. She had established a formula and stuck to it, apartment building after apartment building.

Penny was a genius when it came to sex. Everyone was curious what she’d do with the Faulkner. And its inhabitants.

One thing she didn’t do was reinvent the wheel. She replicated the Open Floor Plan on all four levels and the Basement. Well, Penny didn’t personally do it. Sylvie hired Chuck Higgins and his crew to do the renovations.

Sylvie and her mother, Sophie, moved into the Faulkner to live during the renovation process. They would provide daily pussy to Chuck and his crew of 15-20 remodelers, plumbers, electricians. Fortunately, Sylvie was on summer break so she didn’t have to worry about school for several weeks.

And Penny had told her it was fine to do the books for the apartments after the men had finished working on the Faulkner for the day.

Young as she was, Penny decided to live on her own. To have her own apartment built on the fourth floor of The Faulkner. The building was her responsibility, and its inhabitants were her own pussy. Penny would be a hands-on landlady.

The renovations on all five floors included Sexy Nozzle sections everywhere. Boys backed up to the Nozzles and enjoyed a pleasurable butt-fucking sensation. Girls and their mothers took advantage of the dual nozzle arrangement and enjoyed simultaneous pussy and butt attention.

The temperature could be adjusted from warm to much hotter. The water pressure from gentle spurts to stronger and stronger streams. All controlled with a remote.


Jimmy loved Penny in that limited way some geniuses have. Love mixed with curiosity mixed with his lust for little girls, mixed with his passion for her fierce intelligence, tempered by the low range of emotions he had inherited from his mother, Glory, and his grandmother, Gwendolyn.

Penny ‘got’ Jimmy. Didn’t over-expect anything from him, understood him. Loved him in a non-clingy way.

Penny didn’t want Jimmy for a husband, didn’t want him for a father figure. He was, for fuck’s sake, only 16-years old. She certainly didn’t want him for his vast wealth. Instinctively, she sensed that she’d figure out a way to make money on her own.

The Jimmy / Penny relationship was built on sex, without question. But it was more than that. Yes, they appreciated each other’s love of sex, of pushing boundaries. And of the exploitation of the weak. Here, Jimmy and Penny enabled each other, egged each other on.

There were worse types of mutually beneficial relationships.

Penny would cheerfully provide Jimmy with whatever type of pussy he was currently in the mood for. Usually it was youth. Young boys and young girls. Some even as young as Penny herself. In return, Jimmy provided Penny with whatever resources she required to provide pleasure for them both.

Sometimes, alone together, each was the only person the other needed.


The Six, Jimmy’s trusted cadre of the six smartest mothers in his buildings, didn’t oversee Penny and the Faulkner apartments. But Penny was sharp enough to seek their counsel, listen to their advice, bounce new ideas off them.

However, Jimmy had made it clear that the Faulkner was Penny’s baby. She didn’t know it, but he was going to transfer ownership to his favorite little girl once she had the building up and running.


Penny still attended the Saturday morning breakfast meeting in Jimmy’s top-floor Bradford building. The Six fixed breakfast, cleaned up, reported to Jimmy on the previous week’s happenings.

Sylvie, buttoned down Sylvie, ran the meeting as she ran the business side, efficiently.

Penny waited until the end of the meeting to give her Faulkner report. She and Jimmy were nude for each breakfast meeting.

She had modeled her old-style, almost courtly, speaking style on Jimmy.

“Mr. Jimmy, like the other buildings, all the pussy in the Faulkner will be nude. Of course. If the mothers need to go grocery shopping they’ll go to the Barstow to get dressed. Their kids too.”

Dana Richards, the newest member of The Six said, “You’re allowing your Faulkner kids to leave the building?”

“Yes ma’am. Each kid has to earn $20 a day giving blowjobs. It can be one blowjob for $20 or 20 for a dollar. We want even the very youngest, the ones too young for Mr. Jimmy to fuck yet, to be out there sucking cock.”

Laughter, applause, whistles of appreciation.

Jimmy, smiling fondly, said, “Ms. Penelope, tell The Six of your plans for the very youngest kids.”

“Ms. Sylvie and I are putting them to work behind the school bleachers where Ms. Dana used to go.”

Chuckles around the room.

Penny grinned, “The most they can charge is one dollar a BJ.”

The math registered instantly. Wow, 20 blowjobs a day! Per kid.

Mary Astor, so fucking proud of her daughter, “What happens if they don’t come up with the $20?”

Jimmy, playing with himself, obviously pleased, said, “Ms. Penelope won’t tolerate that.” Penny removed his hand and started stroking him.

Sylvie grinned, “There’s a $5 per day penalty for every day they’re short. Penny hopes some of the kids will end up owing her over $100.”

Mary chuckled.

Penny held up a distinctive pink baseball cap, “Each of the Faulkner kids will wear one of these when he’s on blowjob patrol. Pretty soon, Seattle will recognize the caps. Guys will learn they can ask any Pink Cap kid to suck their cock.”


The first single mothers had come to Jimmy’s first apartment building, the Bradford, when they were broke, downhearted, beaten down with misery. Jimmy had let them live rent-free until they got jobs, got back on their feet.

These days the only unemployed Bradford renters were the very newest ones. Most of them were working moms with steady jobs ranging from quite decent to pretty damn good.

Mary Astor had earned her real estate license and was earning enough commissions, working for one of Gwendolyn Fowler’s companies, to pay market rates for the apartment she and Penny lived in. Gwendolyn was Jimmy’s grandmother. Gwen was 36, looked 26. Just as his mother, Glory, who at 28, looked 18. Jimmy, the most beautiful boy imaginable, was 16 and looked about 10. Except for his stupendously thick cock.

The newly-prosperous Mary Astor still put out every bit as much as the most recent renters did. She not only enjoyed sex, she felt it her responsibility, given all of Jimmy’s generosity.

But the newest buildings? Completely different story. Almost certainly most of the new renters there would be broke, on the verge of homelessness. Desperate. Vulnerable. Lugging young children around. Vulnerable ... Jimmy and Penny’s favorite work.

Pussy.

Pussy, just as The Six and Penny wanted them to be, mothers and children alike. Pussy for Jimmy. New pussy and younger pussy for the enjoyment of all the Bradford. And, eventually, the Barstow.

Of course the Basement Supply of both the Bradford and the Barstow were also available to all of the Upstairs guests of both apartment buildings. The Basement Supply was composed of young mothers and their children who were even poorer, more desperate, more vulnerable.

Those pitiful families had been living on the street, eating at soup kitchens. Living naked in a Basement crowded with similar young families was a comparative blessing.

That, and knowing that The Six would eventually find them a job paying enough to live on, made servicing, sexually servicing, Jimmy and the Upstairs tenets more than palatable. Compared with where they’d come from.

This type of Basement renter would comprise the entire population of the Hemingway and Fitzgerald. Depending on how long it took The Six to find jobs for the Basement, Hemingway and Fitzgerald mothers, their kids could go months without wearing a stitch of clothing.

Pussy.


Jimmy’s latest building -- the Faulkner -- could follow the Hemingway / Fitzgerald model, or be completely different. It all depended on what Penny decided to do with it. And with its inhabitants.

The Jimmy Fowler pecking order, starting with number one:

  1. The Bradford. His first apartment building. The Bradford now housed successful mothers, with good-paying jobs. Of course the Basement was the exception.

  2. The Barstow. Some successful, working moms. The rest would be someday. Of course there were always the Basement denizens, a class onto themselves.

  3. The Hemingway and the Fitzgerald. Five stories counting the Basement. Both buildings would be fully populated with Basement-caliber families. Families who had been homeless, hopeless, hungry.

  4. The Faulkner. At this point an enigma. No one, not even Jimmy, knew what Penny would do with her four-story building. Nor what she would do with her Basement. Nor if her Basement would be any different from the upper four floors


Penny had thought a lot about what to do with a building full of her very own pussy. She started out with little things.

First she changed the blowjob formula.The maximum the Pink Cap kids could charge for a BJ was now 50 cents. She told her mother, “It’s only 40 blowjobs a day.”

Mary Astor smiled at her daughter.

At that price, 50 cents, it actually became easier for the kids to meet their daily quota of $20. The Faulkner kids developed regular cock sucking routes. The backroom of a bar, the men’s room of a pool hall. Some enterprising hipster entrepreneurs allowed them to use clothing store dressing rooms.

Police looked the other way. Cheap blowjobs were driving prostitutes to other neighborhoods, to other cities.

Word spread online and in the underground press. Sex tourists streamed into this Seattle neighborhood. At 50 fucking cents, who could blame them?

Local merchants became protective, then fond of, the Pink Cap kids. Understandably so. The sex tourists ate, drank, shopped after being sucked off. Many stayed for a second and third blowjob. Some rented hotel rooms. At 50 cents why the fuck not stick around?

Of course all those blowjobs were merely an amusement for Penny. She saved the $20 that each kid turned in every weekday, it was starting to add up. Eventually she’d give it to their moms. Mad money.

The Faulkner kids also provided pussy to the Upstairs residents of the Bradford and the Barstow. Penny, in a trait learned from her mentor, Jimmy Fowler, never lost sight of the pussies’ ultimate purpose.

Over time, Seattle developed a surprising acceptance, then something akin to admiration for the little Pink Cap cocksuckers. The pink baseball caps themselves became a civic symbol of tolerance, of acceptance. Then, surprisingly, of pride.

It started as a tipsy dare when one mom opened her car door, smiling at a little Pink Cap girl. Who hustled into the minivan where she cheerfully sucked off the woman’s son.

Her friends spread the word. It wasn’t a movement, it wasn’t a citywide craze. But it wasn’t unusual either for a mom to pick up her kids after school and make a detour to find a Pink Cap kid to suck off her son. Or sons.

These mothers quickly realized they could use the blowjobs, or denial of them, as a reward / punishment system to keep their boys in line. Sisters, younger and older, grew so used to seeing their brothers getting sucked off, that they no longer gossiped about it with friends.

The boys, once mortified to be seen nude, let alone with erections, by their mothers, now casually undressed as soon as they were in the car.

The progressive moms, the cheeky moms, put a decal of the now ubiquitous pink baseball cap above their license plates. They were politically progressive, most of them, and insisted that Pink Cap boys suck off their sons as often as the girls did.

Most of these moms were met with little resistance. What many mothers told their boys turned out to be true, “Honey, it feels just as good to cum in a boy’s mouth.”

The naughtiest of these forward-thinking moms took to wearing replica pink baseball caps themselves. No, they weren’t selling 50 cent blowjobs. They were just showing Pink Cap support, just telling Seattle, “Yeah, I approve, I encourage my son’s blowjobs. Deal with it.”

Because, why the fuck not?

The husbands’ reaction?

With the full knowledge and approval of his wife, many a husband, stopped for a quick BJ on his way to work. And, on his way home. It became so common that his family no longer even discussed it. Daddy got another Pink Cap blowjob. So?


Enterprising merchants placed benches in front of their shops. Black benches with a jaunty Pink Cap image stenciled on it. It wasn’t a Traffic Department edict, but Seattle motorists were soon in the habit of not parking in front of the benches unless they were there to be blown.

Each bench soon had four, five, six Pink Cap kids sitting on it. They were courteous with each other, judiciously took turns sucking cock after cock.

Sooner than many would have thought possible, pink baseball caps became standard wear from preschool through middle school. Pink Cap booties, onesies, baby caps became witty baby shower presents.

Blowjobs were now discussed openly in classrooms, at work, in the local media, around the breakfast table. The Pink Cap program became another liberal element of the increasingly progressive attitude celebrated by the city of Seattle.

Penny knew that her Pink Cap kids were being paid a lot more than 50 cents by many of the older men. But she let it go. All in all, she was pleased with the cock sucking movement she had launched.

No one knew how it had started in the schools, nor even which school was the first. But, seemingly overnight, everyone understood. If a student, boy or girl, wore his pink cap backwards, he was offering to suck cock.

After-school blowjobs became a thing.

The teachers didn’t try to stop it, not any more than they would try to stop the Pacific tide from rolling in. Some mothers were a little startled to see their youngest daughters come home from school with their caps still worn backwards. And even a little more surprised when it was their sons.

But discussions with their friends assuaged any maternal doubts. After-school blowjobs were just a fact of life now. It was now officially a thing. Mothers giggled when her son turned his sister’s cap around as they left for school. And many moms felt a little jolt of pride when their daughters just grinned and left the cap alone. For all the world to see.

Besides most of these young mothers had sucked their fair share of cocks back in the day. They had come of age during the hookup era. A blowjob had more significance than, say, a handshake. But not a lot more.

Her son turns his sister’s cap around. So? She leaves it on backwards. So?


In retrospect, it was only a matter of time.

The Seattle moms started imitating their children. At first it was only the gutsiest mothers who left the house with her pink baseball cap worn backwards.

The immediately recognizable signal, “I’m ready to suck cock,” was an instant sensation in downtown Seattle. Honking horns, smiles, shoutouts. Many men thought nothing of renting a $200 hotel room for 15-minutes of heaven from a sexy young mom.

The mom movement gathered steam as more and more mothers grew comfortable with being seen in public. It blossomed even more as they discovered how much they loved the attention, the adulation, the praise for a job well done.

By this time, the cheeky moms thought nothing of coming home in the evening with their caps still on backwards. Once their children got used to the sight, got used to what it meant, got used to the fact that Mom leaves the house in the morning to suck cocks ... well, the daughters, anyway, were comfortable with it.

The sons? Not so much. Staring at his sexy mom, still wearing that fucking pink cap at the dinner table ... shit, time to cross his legs again.

Fully aware of the effect on young hormones, it was interesting what a young mother could do when snacking on a celery stalk. Or sipping from a beer bottle. With a little wink to her son. Who saw ‘bottle’ but thought ‘cock.’


Canny merchants soon started installing Privacy Rooms -- really nothing more than curtained-off areas for the young mothers to suck customers off.

Not only did the presence of the Privacy Rooms draw more foot traffic from male shoppers, it led to measurably increased sales.

Women were interviewed and the consensus was, “I won’t shop in a store without a Privacy Room.”

Store owners got it. A ‘Privacy Room’ sign was in every store window. ‘Privacy Rooms’ were in print, digital, television ads. It was a thing. Just like after-school blowjobs.

At first, most of the men and some of the moms were a bit furtive as they entered and left the curtained-off areas. But it soon became such an everyday event that so that no one thought any more about it than entering a restroom.

Upscale merchants placed handsome club chairs in the area so the young moms could wait comfortably for the next cute guy to show up.

Some moms, the braver ones, simply stripped and remained in the Privacy Room for the next lucky guy. She would leave enough of the curtains parted so anyone in the vicinity could see her, nude in the flattering light, calmly leafing through magazines, soft music playing.

As one mom told her goggle-eyed son, “When I was your age, my friends and I used to suck cock in glory holes. This is so much classier. Cuter guys too.”


The first bar manager to put privacy curtains around her booths was employed in the classy Four Seasons Hotel. Her Public Relations gal had the unveiling covered by local media, including three broadcast television stations.

The word ‘blowjob’ had long enjoyed public usage over the airwaves.

“Mamie, how many cocks a night do you figure will be sucked in your bar?”

Smiling directly at the camera, “No way to tell, Annabelle. But our reservations, and this is just for the bar, are overbooked for the next month.”

Within a week, only the lesbian bars didn’t have Privacy Curtains. And they were considering it.


Was there any end to the Pink Cap movement that Penny Astor had started? If so, it wasn’t yet in sight.

Pink Cap jewelry didn’t exist. Then one day it was all over Seattle. The most popular was a small pink cap that pinned to blouses, jackets, tops of any kind. The daughter of a prominent Seattle jeweler, the owner of Carter’s, designed it herself.

On the back, “I’m proud to suck cock” was engraved in a classy sans serif font. It wasn’t visible of course. But somehow everyone in Seattle knew about the signature line. Conversationally, the initials IPTSC were shorthanded to SC. Suck Cock.

“Have an SC day,” became a grade school thing. One TV weather girl signed off, “It’ll be an SC day in Seattle.” Her boss reprimanded her. Then flipped his attitude when the only viewer comments were positive.

Would-be pickup lines in bars went from the over-obvious, “Say, do you SC?” to more clever versions. Surprisingly, or perhaps not so, women in bars, girls in school, younger girls on playgrounds would grin and tell a particularly cute boy, “Yeah, I SC.”

At first, it was young, single, bar-crawling women who sported the Pink Cap ornament. Then a few mothers said, ‘fuck it’ and it became part of their everyday wardrobe. Just like putting on a wristwatch.

Not overnight, but inside of a month, tens of thousands of moms were wearing the cock-sucking ornament. Teachers, finding no administrative resistance, soon followed. The students, boys mostly, were awestruck with by the idea of the woman he was staring at was wearing an SC right out in the open.

The newness wore off and they went back to regular fantasies about this teacher of that one.


Another Pink Cap hit was as trinkets for charm bracelets. Some mothers, not exactly sure why, gave their daughters bracelets that consisted entirely of Pink Caps.

It was a look that caught on.

The more daring mothers bought trinkets with the “I’m proud to suck cock” engraved on the back. Soon, girls refused to wear trinkets that didn’t contain the saying.

Creativity spawned creativity.

One jeweler, Fannie Francis, crafted a necklace with a pink cap on each side of the “I’m proud to suck cock” saying that was rendered in tasteful gold letters.

Women who initially wore the necklace under their tops soon had it proudly on display. When the more daring teachers didn’t get any static, it became a school thing. Re-enflaming the boys.

There was token resistance at some of the grade schools, but it soon became apparent that it wasn’t worth getting into an argument with determined mothers.

By the time little versions of the ‘I’m proud to suck cock’ necklace appeared in preschool, it was no longer an issue.


Penny’s little Pink Cap movement was cresting in Seattle and starting to move east to New York and south to Los Angeles.

Then the SC teeshirt fad started in LA, moved up the coast to Seattle and soon was nationwide.

It was started in the Silver Lake neighborhood by an enterprising LA mother. She designed a black tee with a pink ‘I’m proud to SUCK COCK’ inscription on the front. The back featured the Pink Cap emblem at its usual jaunty angle.

She told her girlfriend, “I know it’s controversial to have the cap on the back, but I wanted to emphasize SUCK COCK.”

“I think it’s brilliant.”

Her daughter rocked the look in grade school and soon, this mom and her banker friend, also a mother, had a factory churning out SC tees of every size from babies, through toddlers, through preschool and grade school to middle school.

In the American tradition, they located the factory in a South Central slum and hired undocumented workers.

The tops now came in every color imaginable because so many kids wanted to wear one to school every day.


It was Seattle, quite properly, where the redefined SC line of clothing was born.

Two Seattle mothers, also every entrepreneurial, came up with the chevron idea. For every boy you sucked off, you would add a chevron to your tee. They hadn’t planned it, it was just serendipity, but girls, and some boys, started having the blowjob recipient sign his name inside the outline of each chevron.

The Seattle mothers quickly realized, from their own daughters, that they needed long-sleeved tops to accommodate the number of trophy chevrons. Adding the sleeves created a new burst of sales. The original short-sleeved tops were suddenly so yesterday.

A glass bowl with the Pink Cap decal became a popular accessory when it was filled with blank chevrons. Many mothers positioned what became known as the Blowjob Bowl by the front door. A visual reminder to her kids not to forget to stock up on chevrons as they left for school.

Of course there was controversy. A few heated discussions. Mothers of the youngest kids wanted a dry cum counted as a blowjob, thus earning a chevron.

But the traditionalists prevailed. The monthly PTA meeting at the prestigious Seattle Turner Day School held a two-hour discussion period, long enough for every concerned mother to voice her opinion.

Laura Dennison, aged 56, wife of the pastor of the largest fundamentalist church in town, closed the testimonial period, “A blowjob isn’t a blowjob unless there’s cum in the mouth.”

That made sense, had logic to it and was easily understood.

The vote was roughly 80% to 20% in favor of the cum standard. Other schools soon adopted the policy and that was it.

Oh, there were holdouts. There always are. Some moms argued that it was unfair to their younger kids. But the Seattle Times, the city’s mainstream paper of record, laid that argument to rest in a rare front-page editorial. With a border around it.

“There is nothing ageist in accepting agreed-upon community standards. We side with closing arguments at the Seattle Turner Day School, “A blowjob isn’t a blowjob unless there’s cum in the mouth.”

Panel discussions on television, radio and online mirrored the newspaper’s conclusion.


Kids, being kids, went overboard at first. It was a race to see who could earn the most chevrons. Since none of them, nor their mothers, knew how to sew, a chevron cottage industry bloomed overnight. Sewing booths, indoors and open air, were suddenly everywhere.

As with nail salons, the sewing booths were peopled by young Asian women.

Of course kids, being kids, opted to go topless while their chevrons were sewn on. No big deal for the boys, but many girls felt a little zap of pleasure.

Fads morph, of course. The cooler kids went from seeing how many chevrons they could earn to looking for quality instead of quantity. The caliber of the boys they sucked off became more important than the number of boys.

The coolest boys, the most popular, could have had lines of kids waiting to suck them off. Eager for that cherished chevron autograph.

Mothers of the most in-demand boys grew used to answering the door and seeing a little girl, sometimes a boy, usually a stranger, asking, “Is Jeffery home?”

The moms were understanding of the yearning to fit in, to have a special chevron signature. And they were patient with the kids, especially the youngest ones.

Often the child’s mother accompanied the little girl. Or the little boy. If the kid got lucky, the two moms would sit and visit over coffee or wine. The in-home blowjobs led to new friendships, moms bonding with moms.

Mothers of the coolest boys learned to ask him when he came home from school, “How many do you want this afternoon, honey? Dinner’s at 8.”

The answer was usually two or three. Most boys loved the BJs, but also wanted time for video games, texting, they needed time for homework.

It wasn’t a planned movement, nothing like that. But the practice grew, almost organically. The cool boys often had cool mothers. And many of these cool mothers were quite proud that their sons were in such high demand.

These moms, cool and proud, started bringing their sons in to meet the mothers who had brought their daughters or sons over in hopes that little Missy or little Buster could earn a coveted autograph.

And part of the maternal pride was often in their son’s appearance. It wasn’t universal, and it wasn’t fair, but many of the most popular boys were good looking. A few, downright handsome.

So, it was a little ego booster when a proud mother introduced her nude son, “Billy, say hello to Mrs. Armstrong. And this is her daughter, Hannah.”

Billy, if he weren’t already erect, usually became so under the appreciative gaze of Mrs. Armstrong and Hannah.

As he walked the little girl up to his room, Mrs. Armstrong sighed and said, “God, he’s a hunk.”


Afterwards, after Billy had signed Hannah’s chevron, both mother and daughter thanked him. His mother was amused. When she was Hannah’s age, boys used to thank her. Now it’s like Billy is doing the little kids a favor.

Like his mother, Billy was understanding. And gracious.

His mother’s pride was understandable. His popularity was a reflection on her. And some of his good looks were directly attributable to her. So, it was a rational line of reasoning to want to show him off to another mother brave enough to swallow her own pride and ask a stranger to accept a blowjob from her little girl. Or little boy.

That was another good thing about the cool moms. Well, most moms, actually. They encouraged their sons to let the little boys suck them off. They were progressive mothers and proud of it.


There was a sidebar attempt at creating a parallel pussy licking movement. It created a brief flare of interest -- it’s only fair! gender equality! -- but never really caught on.

The visuals weren’t quite right. Sucking cock was easy to see, to understand, to get. No matter how young you were.

But licking pussy ... not so much. You wouldn’t even see the tongue unless the licker went through some contortionistic trouble. Plus, the climax was evident with a blowjob.

Eating pussy? Not so much.


It started, as so many things did, with a couple of gutsy mothers. These young women were from the Queen Anne neighborhood in Seattle and so far as local yore is concerned, they were the first moms to wear chevron-enhanced ‘I’m proud to SUCK COCK’ tops.

Their husband’s reaction to seeing the chevron signatures of his friends and neighbors has been lost to history. But a few of the wives of those friends and neighbors were not amused and went on their own chevron-earning treks.

In Seattle, more and more mothers were sporting SC tops. Followed closely by ranks of teachers from preschool through middle school. Waitresses, businesswomen, clerks ... the look was suddenly everywhere.

A weather girl was the first to flaunt the top on live broadcast television. Colleagues and competitors soon followed. Mainstream magazines and newspapers carried ‘I’m proud to SUCK COCK’ ads.

Babies were dressed in the tops. Grannies. Everyone in between.

There were over 40 outdoor chevron-sewing booths in downtown Seattle alone. They were far more popular than the indoor services. Topless women all over the city reveled in the attention from honking motorists and grinning passersby.

Call-in radio and television hosts open discussed blowjobs with their callers. “How many cocks have you sucked this week?”

Live in-the-street interviews with random cocksuckers were common in the morning and evening newscasts. Grinning moms, holding the hands of their youngest children, might say, “Slow day today, only three blowjobs.” Then winking at the camera, “Two of them were at the same time.”


Boys were more hesitant to be open about sucking cock. But in city after city, someone prominent, someone admired, would step up. In Seattle it was a middle school boy, Trent Scott, already heavily recruited for his other-worldly basketball skills.

Trent and his mother, Vicky, both wearing chevroned-SUCK COCK tops, appeared in a live television interview. Trent had been MVP of the citywide championship game the week before.

He looked straight into the camera, his proud mother beaming, her arm around his shoulders, and said, “I suck cock. I love to suck cock. My friends all know it and they’re cool with it.”

Vicky smiled at the camera, “I encourage all you little boys out there who have never sucked cock to give it a whirl.” She smiled more broadly, “And for all you secret cocksuckers, come out into the light. Tell your moms, you’ll be surprised how supportive they are.”

There was a media frenzy congratulating Trent and Vicky. Broadcast, print, digital endorsements encouraged boys to start sucking cock. Moms, grandmothers, sisters, aunts, cousins, were openly supportive. Many moms gave their sons SUCK COCK tops and chevrons just in case.

The positive media blitz combined with family encouragement began working. As more and more boys started sucking cock, peer pressure was added to the mix.

Teachers were particularly influential. After-class chats, open classroom discussions ... it all added up. A few lucky teachers had 100% class participation, but that was more the exception during the first couple of years.

But, as kids grew up seeing their older siblings sucking cock so openly, it became a rarity to find a boy who wasn’t swallowing cum on a daily basis.


Cock-sucking mothers were luckier than their cock-sucking children in many ways. The moms were out of school, didn’t need to pursue the most popular, the coolest boys.

Oh, there were the equivalent of star-fuckers. Moms who specialized in professional athletes. Or politicians. TV personalities. To them, the autographed chevron meant just as much as it did to little Sally yearning for the older boy, the football captain.

But most mothers, the reasonably mature ones anyway, didn’t chase after men and boys because they were well known. These moms, generally fell into one of two categories.

They loved sucking off friends, neighbors, guys at their husband’s office. The pool boy, the lawn guy, the paperboy. Husbands of their girlfriends. Sons of their girlfriends.

The other group of moms preferred strangers. Cute strangers. They selected guys in bars and restaurants. They lingered near the changing rooms at clothing stores. Privacy Rooms. Privacy Curtains in bars.

They smiled, flirted, offered. “Want to sign my chevron?” became a common conversational opener.

Of course there were always some slutty moms. When both sleeves were maxed out with signed chevrons, they used the front, then the back, of their SC tops.

Another enterprising mother designed a long-sleeved dress that doubled the chevron space. Naturally these mothers thought nothing of standing outside a sewing booth wearing only heels as an Asian seamstress added yet another signed badge.

And, the smiling, naked mom acknowledged honking horns, shoutouts, wolf whistles.

There was probably some civic ordinance against public nudity, but no one bothered to look it up. When the relatively staid Seattle Times published its first naked mom photo, on the front page no less, live television interviews soon followed.

Young mothers soon learned that having both sleeves covered with signatures usually ensured a crowd of men, happily buying her drinks in the bar.

At home, some daughters were embarrassed at their mother’s profligacy being so openly displayed. In other families there might be a friendly Saturday morning mother / daughter contest to see who collected the most autographs. They’d meet for lunch and compare notes, giggling happily. Bonding.

The sons, being boys, were often in awe. That any woman, let alone their own fucking mother, would suck that many cocks was wonderfully exciting. It enflamed their immature minds. A state that the moms were fully aware of.

And not a few young mothers were only too happy to fan those flames. “Shit, Billy. Connie’s husband shoots more cum than any three guys. Four. My cheeks were bulging, you should have seen me. Maybe next time.”

The flirty moms tended to run with other flirty moms and they often compared notes on how long it took them to create pants bulges in their sons. Not long.


Once the moms were out on the town, caps backwards, cheerfully sucking cock, competitive subgroups emerged. Each with its distinctive colored chevron.

Green was, for some reason, for religion. And, because it was forbidden on some atavistic level, it was one of the more popular pursuits. Sucking off rabbis, ministers, priests, imams, Pentecostals, Methodists, Baptists, Presbyterians, zen masters and the like ... well it was extremely difficult to obtain cooperation from many of the pious men.

At first.

But after they’d sinned, and enjoyed, each time became a little easier.

Another subcategory was age. Age measured in decades. The oldest men were in their 70s, with rumors of some avails in their 80s. Competitive moms usually started at the oldest end of the spectrum, there were fewer men who could cum.

There, get the 70s out of the way and work your way down the ladder. A similar problem occurred at the youngest level. The boys could get it up, but could only dry cum.

When a boy did start spurting -- finally! -- friends told friends. The kid’s mother was usually understanding. The entire city of Seattle knew about the various blowjob competitions -- they were covered on television, in print, online.

After school, Mom would smile at little Frankie, “Don’t bother to get dressed, baby, I scheduled you right up to dinner.”

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