Chapter 1: Meet the Marlows
Caution: This Coming of Age Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including mt/ft, mt/Fa, Consensual, Sports, Incest, Mother, Son, First, Oral Sex, Petting, Exhibitionism, Voyeurism, Slow, School,
Desc: Coming of Age Sex Story: Chapter 1: Meet the Marlows - This is a story of Phil Marlow as he grows up in a medium-sized Midwest town in Indiana with his TV newscaster mom, Sharon. The first installment follows Phil through his sophomore year in high school where Phil learns what growing up and pursuing his dreams begins to mean. The story begins slowly with much of the sex and baseball occurring later.
The commotion originating from outside of the office was more than normal chatter. When he heard his secretary scream, he knew his first impression was the correct one. As he stepped out of his office, he could see the looks of shock and horror emanating from the employees being lined up against the opposing wall, staring back at the intruder standing beside the secretary's desk. That's where Jack Harrington, disgruntled former employee, was wielding a shotgun, menacing it back and forth from one employee to another.
He couldn't make out what Harrington was yelling, but it was obvious the man was extremely agitated, which helped, in part, explain the presence of the shotgun. Harrington was focusing on the staff on the other side of the room, which gave him an advantage. He was able to take advantage of Harrington's blind side to get within a few feet, poised just beyond the secretary's desk. The advantage was his until it wasn't – until a secretary averted her eyes and alerted Harrington to his presence. Harrington brought the shotgun around quickly and aimed for his chest, pulling the trigger just before he was able to complete his attack. The shotgun blast threw him back against the desk before slumping to the side on the floor. Blood was pouring from his chest. When he looked up again, he was looking directly into the barrels of the shotgun. Just before Harrington pulled the trigger again...
... I woke up.
My bedside alarm clock indicated it was just after four in the morning. I rolled over onto my back, sweat beading on my forehead, my breathing accelerated.
I wasn't there when my father, Mark Marlow, was killed. In fact, I really had no idea how close my dreams were to the reality of my father's death. What I did know was gathered from the police reports and testimony by witnesses during the murder trial, which was more than enough to feed my rather fertile imagination. I had been five years old at the time, and really didn't understand a lot of the trial, but Jack Harrington's face would not be a face I would ever forget. Harrington was a soulless killer. Putting it simply, his face portrayed no amount of remorse, regret or any real human emotion during the entire trial. Harrington had been put away for life, but his image had ruled my dreams for years.
I slumped back into my pillow, trying to calm my mind. What day is this? Saturday morning. Anywhere I have to be? Early? Other than some basic lawn maintenance and some household chores, I didn't really have any commitments. With a part-time housekeeper, the chores really didn't amount to more than making my bed and picking up my room anyhow. And while Maria did a great job maintaining the house, my mother refused to hire anyone to take care of anything outside. Lawn, pool and car maintenance were all mine, although she did have a pool cleaner drop by once a week and a landscaper once a month.
I glanced over at the clock again – seven minutes past four. Adrenaline still pumping, it was an easy decision not to go back to sleep. "I'll bet none of my friends have trouble sleeping in", I was thinking as I tossed on a t-shirt, running shorts and socks before grabbing my running shoes and heading downstairs and through the kitchen towards the door to the garage.
I had three different routes mapped out covering two, five and seven miles. Before stepping outside, I left a note on the table for my mom and Maria, indicating which route I had planned to take, in the event they happened to notice I was not there when they woke up. I grabbed the pepper spray from the workbench in the garage before heading out for the seven-mile route.
The half-way marker would occur just past the center of Middlefork Reservoir Dam, near Richmond, Indiana, where we Marlows – my mother Sharon and I (my name is Phil) live. I could spend a few minutes there awaiting sunrise, and meditate a bit before heading back to the house. Although the running was somewhat boring and repetitive, it did make me feel good physically and helped me focus. The rhythmic steps drew me into a semi-meditative state that helped calm my mind. The running and the meditation were just a couple of tools that my ... friend? ... trainer? ... therapist? ... had taught me the past three years after the two 'incidents'. Although thinking about the incidents didn't make me happy, knowing that I now had tools to help cope for the rest of my life, did.
Sixteen minutes later, I had arrived at the dam. A small pier pierced the reservoir to the west of the dam. At this time of day, the area was deserted. I sat near the end of the pier, dropping into my mediation posture, Indian-style, palms up and resting on my knees. Meditation is not something I had yet mastered, as I still found it took several minutes to clear my mind. Thoughts of my dad; the dream I had; the fight when he was eight; my being banned from organized baseball when I was twelve; meeting Ken, my martial arts master; learning about meditation; girls; turning sixteen soon. Calming my mind was like trying to herd cats!
And then they faded into the background. I had been focusing on the color of the lake as my other thoughts drifted away. I didn't know how long I had been in this state before noticing how the hue of the lake was changing as the first rays of sunlight began streaming through the tree line in the distance. Within a few seconds, I began to feel the pier vibrating with movement. Someone was joining me. Without turning, I knew who was approaching.
"It's been awhile since you've been up this early, hasn't it?"
I released a lengthy sigh and turned to face my mother.
"Yeah. Been awhile."
"Bad dream again, or something else?"
"Dream, mostly," I said and turned back towards the lake. "I'm having a hard time quieting my mind."
Mom sat down beside me and put her arm around me while resting her head on my shoulder. She was also dressed in running shorts and a workout shirt.
"Anything you want to share?"
I paused to take in the moment. This was my mother. She had raised me by herself, sacrificing everything since my father, her husband, had died. All of her energies over the past ten years had been focused on raising and providing for me, her son. Going back to school to get a good job, raising me, along with grandma and grandpa in a house full of love; surviving the tough times I had brought to her as I fought through seemingly uncontrollable anger and then helping me discover an outlet through martial arts and meditation. She was a rock for me and easily my best friend. She had established early that no subject would be left on the table; no discussion was off-limits, which was something I had tested early and often while attempting to push the boundaries.
Now that I was getting closer to becoming a man, I started working to payback some of what my mother had given me. Our conversations had been almost exclusively about me and my needs as I had grown. Now I was able draw her out more, bit by bit; what her needs and desires were; dreams and aspirations. She had promised early that their conversations would be open and honest. The last test really was not for me, but for her. How much was she willing to share of herself to her only child? She was certainly my best friend. I felt like I was transitioning into that role for her as well. We needed each other and our relationship was growing as I developed the maturity to allow it to do so.
And she was beautiful; absolutely stunning at 5'7 and around 110 pounds. She had blue eyes and shoulder length light brown hair that looked adorable in the pony tail she was now sporting, which showed off her long, sensuous neck. Her breasts were certainly larger than average and attracted plenty of attention, but her legs and shapely rear end were equally notable. She had an easy smile which could light up the darkness when I was at my worst.
After completing her education and receiving her degree in journalism, it wasn't long before she began appearing as a reporter on the local news. She was nineteen when I was born. Fifteen years later, she held the late night co-anchor position with the local television station and had become a bit of a minor celebrity. She was approached by potential suitors time and again, but other than a small handful of boyfriends, she was not much for going out and had expressed a preference for my company on more than one occasion recently.
"Phil? You in there?" Mom asked, gently knocking on my head.
"Sorry, Mom. Still getting caught up in my thoughts."
"Why haven't you remarried?"
"I was really hoping you would tell me more about why you are out here scaring the little fish away."
She paused for a few seconds collecting her thoughts.
"C'mon, Mom, no cheating. You said from the beginning that our conversations were to be open and honest. No filters. Those were your rules and I agreed to them, much to my embarrassment, at times."
She giggled. "You know those rules only apply to you, don'cha?"
She got a raspberry for her efforts as I added, "Stop delaying."
"Okay, fine. Why haven't I remarried? I guess there are a few reasons, really, but two are more important than any of the others."
"Well, first of all, you have to know what a really tough act your father was to follow. There really just hasn't been a guy I've met and gone out with that even comes close to him. And, yes, I know you are going to tell me that I haven't really given them much of a chance, which is probably true."
"And the other reason?"
"I already have a man in my life."
"I'm your son, Mom. I have to be in your life. That's hardly a good reason."
"You asked for honesty, so here it comes. Yes, you are my son, but the amount of our time that we share is really a choice both of us make. I choose to spend time with you, now, less out of motherly obligation and more because I really do enjoy spending time with you, whenever that happens. Between your school and my job, there is less of it than ever. Adding someone else to that mix would reduce it even further."
She paused a few seconds and her voice softened.
"You remind me a lot of your father, Phil. I don't mean to compare the two of you, but I see so many of the good things from him in you – the caring, athleticism, intelligence, humor. It's scary sometimes, but also very comforting to me. I know, as a mother, I shouldn't be as much your friend as your parent; but, it's been hard not to see you as my best friend. There's just this ... connection that we seem to have. I hope you understand just how much that means to me."
I pulled my mom closer for a tighter squeeze and kissed the top of her head.
"I do, Mom. I love you, too."
We sat in silence for the next several minutes watching the sun crest the tree line as the mist rising from the reservoir began to fade.
"Halfway through your run?"
"Yeah. Wanna join me for the second half?"
"Sure, but I get to set the pace. Your legs are longer than mine, now, you bastard."
We both were avid runners, using the time to boost our mental and physical health. Until the summer began, Mom had set the pace, but the tide had quickly changed as I had grown and my stride lengthened. Now I was finding that I was working less to stay even with my mom.
I was in the middle of a fairly significant growth spurt. Since the beginning of May, I had grown more than four inches, hitting 5'9". Whereas I had retained some baby fat previously, that had all but disappeared and with my workout routine, the shadow of six-pack abs had started to emerge. My upper body was still a work-in-progress, but toned, and my leg muscles had really started to develop and 'cuts' were appearing. I was looking forward to seeing the Baker kids when they returned from their summer vacation in Florida with their grandparents and also Sammie – Samantha Espinosa, our housekeeper's daughter who had spent the summer with her father in California. The Bakers were due to return later that day and I had hoped to invite them to hang out with me at the pool tomorrow. Sammie wasn't returning until just before school began, which wouldn't be for another three weeks.
As we completed their cool down and entered the driveway, Maria showed up with a couple of water bottles.
"Give me the pepper spray, you two, before you hurt each other," Maria started, swapping the pepper spray with the water bottles. "I swear you guys are loaded for bear! What did you think you were running from?"
"Well", I said, "Mom was constantly nipping at my heels. I was worried I'd have to take her out."
"It's a good thing I'm faster than you. Those ankle biters can really hurt!"
That, apparently, was the last straw. Mom's water bottle quickly turned into Mom's squirt gun, and mayhem ensued. Before the battle was over, I had Mom wrapped up in one arm, while my other was squirting the water bottle – in full force – down the back of her shorts.
"Geez, Mom, what happened? Little bathroom issue going on?"
"You really are a rotten bastard of a son, you know that?"
Mom was laughing as her shorts continued to drip, soaking her legs, shoes and socks.
"Yeah. I feel really bad about it, too."
Mom tossed the empty water bottle towards me, missing horribly.
"Both of you are crazy!"
Both of us had neglected to check Maria during the 'battle'. When we turned towards her, she rewarded us with a face full of water from the garden hose.
"Now you are even! Battle over!"
"Let's go get cleaned up," Mom offered.
"Not happening!" challenged Maria. "Neither one of you are stepping foot in MY house, until you are dry!" Maria muttered a few unrecognizable Spanish curse words. "And LOOK AT THIS!!! You had to get poor Maria involved in your silly battle." Maria stated upon further inspection of her own, slightly damp clothes. "You wait here, you lunaticos! I'll get some towels."
Maria headed back to the house for dry towels, continuing to mutter.
"Geez, Mom, you really pissed Maria off, this time!"
Maria turned, pointed at me, and said, "Don't you go blaming your mother, estupido! You are now #1 on Maria's mierda list!"
"Hey! What about Mom? She started this whole thing."
"She is right under you on that list! Bite your tongue when you talk about your mama, cabrón"
"Maria certainly is feisty, today!" Mom noted.
"Mmmm, yes, she is." I paused for a few seconds. "You sure you guys aren't directly related?"
And the battle resumed!