If a stranger to the neighbourhood walked past Penrose Books the subtle name wouldn’t fool them for long. It’s got mirrored windows, peeling paint and fluorescent blacklights illuminating the “Over 21s ONLY” sign plastered in the door. Although, in truth, the only reason to walk anywhere near Penrose Books is to get _to_ it. There isn’t much through traffic on this dingy little alley and every other business in the area is long gone. Boarded-up rowhouses sit on the main street and abandoned auto-shops flank it on either side. The Penrose family sex-shop won’t be going anywhere anytime soon, though. It’s been in the same spot, doing roughly the same thing, for eightysome years.

*

PART I – (1935-1937)

1.

Charles Penrose Sr bought the building in 1925 to use as a anonymous back-street speakeasy, thanks to a healthy inheritance from an uncle he’d never even met. He set himself apart from the competition when he hired his new wife Ava to serve the customers and give a little nudie dance on the bar towards the end of the night. Of course after drinking 100 proof hooch the patrons never let it end at a dance. Charles would look on with a wry grin as the boys would grab ass for all it was worth. When a finger would sneak up the crack she’d playfully turn around to face them and give a shriek of mock disgust when they instead went for pussy. One or two fingers to start, but one or two fingers on three or four hands before long. Then the routine was to pull her down off the bar and lay her across a table. She’d take a fucking from them all – a man in each hole, in rotation. Hell, even the 73-year-old negro piano player, Old Dog Hickens, joined in, if he could get it up. If she didn’t have cock in her mouth, one of the guys’ girlfriends would surely give her a facefull of snatch to chow down on, or a kiss to swap some cum and spit. When every guy had shot his load across her, Charles would thank the crowd for their custom, have them finish their drinks and usher them out. Ava would often still be lain across the table when he’d finished cleaning up, her face dazed with happiness.

In 1933, prohibition ended, and Charles didn’t even bother getting a liquor license. He bought the apartment upstairs and expanded his operation into a full fledged cathouse. Ava tried to take care of all the horny fuckers who came through the door, but finally relented and allowed Charles to hire some of the local girls to pick up the slack. He’d open at noon with Ava and at four o’clock the high-schoolers and middle-schoolers would come in one by one. It became the most popular whorehouse in the city. Every judge, clergyman, cop and con-artist had a regular at “Charlie’s”, as it was then known. After all, where else could you get a blonde 15 year old beauty to drink a pint of piss or take a fist up the ass? And love it? Charles’ girls were enthusiastic as all hell, because he insisted on it. Some of them were recommended by the teenage neighbourhood boys and some found their own way there. His best piss-drinker, Betty Mae, was spotted by the soda jerk two streets over, offering her services for free outside the bathroom. Another young filly took the bus 90 minutes each way from the county for a few cocks every night. A local preacher even donated the afternoons of his precocious and insatiable thirteen year old daughter, Julia Jean, probably hoping against hope that she’d get her fill and be ready to marry before too long.

Needless to say, things were going well.

2.

One morning, as he was walking past the local picturehouse, a lightbulb went off in Charles’ head. Movies! He’d seen some of the stag flicks floating around, of course, but that was tame stuff compared to what was going on in his establishment. He bet some folks would pay alot of money for a 8mm loop of his action. He made a detour down Primrose Ave and visited the electrical store. Then he hurried back to the flophouse to explain to his wife.

*

“Darlin’?” he called as he walked through the bar, leaving the package on the counter and heading up the stairs. He paused for a moment when he saw his wife ahead of him, on the landing, dramatically lit by a window of low, eastern sun. It was 1935, eleven years since he’d married the eighteen-year-old Ava. As far as he was concerned, she looked better than ever. Tight hips, long legs and full breasts in a newfangled French brassiere. Her black hair was up in a stylish bun. She kept it that way until it fell from a brutal plowing or some drunk asshole pulled too hard while face-fucking her.