The Compromise

Copyright© 2015 by Jimmy James

Sex Story: Chapter1 - Randolph Andrews was an early bloomer. By 14 he'd been masturbating for - - what seemed to his mother - - ages. Daily. Several times a day. Morning. After school. After dinner. Before bed. Rather than grow out of it, he was stepping up. Sandy had to figure something out. Something. Somehow. Her best friend, Salty, wasn't helping. Not at all.

Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including BiSexual   Heterosexual   Fiction   Oral Sex   Masturbation   Exhibitionism   Voyeurism   Nudism  

Sandra Andrews, 28 years of age, was, at heart, happy in life. Known to everyone as Sandy, her life was fairly well balanced among three disciplines -- single motherhood, a not too aggressive career as a corporate litigator, and sex. Which she and her best friend, Salty, vaguely referred to as their social life.

Once in a while the job did get to her. It was usually smooth sailing, and occasionally boring. But once in a while everything imploded. Or exploded. Her boss panicked, two other attorneys were out, the opposing side outgunned her. It happens, but it passes.

And sometimes Sandy's sex life stalled. No particular reason -- she met a string of duds, got pissed at a current lovers, the usual.

At home, on Capital Hill in Seattle, there were occasional flareups. But basically Randy wasn't that much of a pain in the ass. A botched chemistry test. A bloody nose from an after school spat. But, all in all, a pretty decent kid. For a teenager.

Sandy had told her friend Salty, "I know, terminally cute. Sandy and Randy." Sandy had named her baby after her brother, Randolph. She didn't consider the name 'Fred, ' who was her son's biological father. And archived over 14 years ago.

Salty said, "Well, it's appropriate anyway, the kid is randy."

"Fuck you."

Sandy and Salty had had each other's back for years and years. It was Sandy who gave Salty her nickname. When they'd first been promoted from jacking off older boys to sucking cock -- which happened about as soon as the boys learned about blow-jobs -- Salty had told Sandy several times how much she loved cum, how salty it tasted.

Salty reciprocated. When the two of them had graduated to full fledged fucking, Salty would tell guys, "Go pound sand, she's feeling slutty today."

To Randy, Salty was a sex goddess. The sex goddess. Well, along with his mother. Salty didn't touch him, not sexually, although that was only out of respect for Sandy. But she drove the lad crazy with lust. From talking to him. From telling him about her sex life. From telling him about his mother's sex life. From just talking about sex, the only female he knew who did. Well, his mother too, of course.

Salty talked pleasantly. Casually, as if, of course all girls fuck all the time. She spoke In detail. Graphically. Past, present, and future.

Salty had been tormenting Randy for -- again, what seemed to Sandy -- ages. Right after his mother had done the birds and bees thing with him.

Sandy knew that Salty's conversations were the inspiration for much of her son's masturbatory flights of fancy. Probably most of them.

Sandy also knew better than to try to discourage Salty. That would only tickle Salty, inspire her to new heights of obscenity.

Salty, who was an accountant at the largest Toyota dealership in the area, ate dinner with Sandy and Randy as often as not. Typical conversation:

"We got our pussies waxed today, sweetie. Have your mom show hers to you, she's bald as a baby. Smooth as buttah."

Randy: Blush. Glazed eyes. Imagining. Then, "Mom, can I be excused for a minute?"

Sandy: Glare at Salty. Sigh. Then, "Okay, I'll put it in the warming oven."

Salty: "Hope everything comes out okay, sweetie."

Thunder-run up the stairs. Door slam. Five minutes later Randy is back in the kitchen taking his plate out of the oven. Crisis over with.

Salty kept the kid off balance, she might go a week, or two, or three, of perfectly appropriate conversation. Then:

"Whoa! Met this guy last night at Jackson's. Sweetie, he could cum a gusher. My cheeks were bulging out."

Salty was one sexy little number. Dark hair, brilliant smile. Criminally dirty mind. A little over 5' 2" and curvy. Much of the curves were attributable to her boobs. And butt.

Sandy was even sexier. Just the luck of the blueprint of life. Taller, 5' 6" and less curvier. Smaller, but very perky boobs. Legs that went on forever and led straight to paradise. Sandy had an even dirtier mind than Salty, but she tried to tone it down at home. Sandy was, after all, a responsible mother of an impressionable boy.

And that boy, Randolph, was a male version of his mother. Already taller than she was, he had a similar slim build. He didn't realize it yet, but Randy was already attracting favorable attention from girls. Including Salty, who masked her willingness to fuck him. Any time, day or night. Right this instant.

Salty was working on Sandy, "Wake up, bitch. He's jacking off a hundred times a week. I'll give him some pussy, put him out of his misery. He'll turn into just a normal perv."

The Masturbation War was of concern to Sandy. While she maintained some vestiges of parental control over her son, jacking off was a constant, frequent, bone (sorry) of contention.

When Randy first started playing with himself, often in front of his mother and Salty, Sandy wasn't worried. She went through the usual blah, blah, blah ... it's normal, everyone does it, it feels good, don't be embarrassed. But it's something to do in private, honey.

That worked. For about a week. Randy soon discovered that it was more fun in front of a girl. Any girl in the world. Although of the two at home, one was his mother. And it didn't help Sandy's cause that Salty frequently whispered to her son, "Your mom loves to see you jack off, she's just pretending that she doesn't."

Then Salty would confide in Sandy, "Let me fuck him, I'll make him promise to stop beating off in front of you."

Sandy wasn't stupid, in fact she was rather bright. She saw through the transparent ploy, figured out Salty was encouraging Randy behind her back. She sat Salty and her son down and spoke to Randy, "Look, you little motherfucker..."

Salty howled with glee and Randy exploded in laughter. They high-fived each other at Sandy's gaffe. The last epitaph she should ever hurl at Randy was motherfucker.

Sandy regrouped. "Listen you little cunt, I know Salty is telling you to jack off in front of me. Stop it. Today. No more." Sandy took a breath, "Look, baby, I know it feels wonderful..."

Salty said, "She should."

Randy smirked.

Sandy said, "And I don't care how often you do it, I really don't. You're at that age ... well, the urges are so strong. Anyway, ever since you ... started, I've always given you all the privacy I could. I respected you. You aren't respecting me. You're insulting me. And you're a better person than that. You know it too."

That was one of what seemed to Sandy like a thousand similar talks she'd had with her son. In front of Salty, with just the two of them, in her own mind as she made brilliant point after brilliant point.

Sometimes it worked for a week or son.

Meanwhile, life went on.

Salty lived in an old rambling Pioneer Square co-op with one of the most gorgeous men in Seattle. Mark was gay, but other than that, an ideal roommate. Both Salty and Sandy adored him, shared everything with him, no secrets whatsoever.

Even Randy thought the handsome, hunky, friendly, funny 24-year old was cool.

And Mark wouldn't move on Randy, but he, in turn, appreciated the slender blonde-haired boy.

Mark was around 6' 2" and built like a swimmer. Broad shoulders, tucked-in waist that many girls envied, tight buns and thighs. Black hair and a devastating grin. He was no exhibitionist, but Salty and Sandy had seen him nude dozens and dozens of times.

They had seen him erect a few times, usually the first think in the morning on his way to his shower. Not that long, the girls estimated a little under 6." But thick, my god!

As for Sandy and Salty, they would have had no hesitation about being naked in front of him even if he were straight. Which, unfortunately, he was most definitely not.

No secrets, not among Sandy, Salty and Mark. No secrets whatsoever. He knew when he saw Sandy on Sunday morning that the girls hadn't let anyone pick them up. And Mark appreciated their lack of concern about striking out. It didn't bother them, there was always next weekend.

He also know that they had probably made love with each other, there had never been an attempt to disguise it.

Mark was the assistant creative director at the ad agency that handled the local Toyota dealerships. Salty had nothing whatsoever to do with advertising except cut the monthly agency check. That didn't stop her from trying to pick Mark up.

Even though that didn't pan out, they continued to meet for after-work drinks, which led to dinners, which led to increasingly frank discussions. Mark had been living with his lover, grew tired of him, and was looking to move on. It was Sandy who suggested that he and Salty live together. Mark was looking for a new pad, Salty had plenty of room, and she would appreciate help with the mortgage.

Not exactly a match made in heaven, but it worked.

Saturday was Sandy's big night out. Randy had learned, long ago, not to expect to see his mother until Sunday. Sometimes Monday. She always called him, checking up, letting him know not to worry about her.

But Saturday Night was Saturday Night.

Sandy and Salty had a wide range of bars and restaurants they frequented. Unlike most girls their age, they didn't limit themselves to a single, familiar neighborhood. A Cheers bar, where everyone knew your name, was fine. Maybe every two or three months.

The two friends took a cab to dive bars, sports bars, elegant hotel bars. Upscale seafood restaurants, steak houses, burger joints, oyster bars. They mingled easily, flirted even more easily, and politely turned away more men in a night than most girls did in a month.

But they didn't turn down everyone. When the right guys with the right approach ... well, Sandy and Salty didn't even have to exchange a glance. They knew. They just knew.

Inevitably, after introducing themselves, one boy or another would ask Salty about her name. If she and Sandy weren't interested in these guys, Salty would say, "My dad was in the navy." Which happened to be almost true, he wasn't actually in the military, but had served in the Coast Guard.

When the girls were interested in the boys, Salty would say something like, "When Sandy and I first started sucking off middle school boys, I liked, no we both loved the taste of cum. I liked how salty some guys tasted."

Reactions were universally positive:

"Love your name!"

"Best name ever!"

While all of Sandy and Salty's long term relationships were with married men, they were a rare commodity on Saturday nights. Family obligations. So Sandy and Salty fed each other a steady stream of 'possibles.' Sandy from her downtown corporate connections and Salty from her suburban car dealership customers and, occasionally, a new mechanic or salesman.

Each girl had a well-honed line... "Look, I know you're married, but my best girlfriend has a thing for just your type..."

A few men thanked them and took a pass, but most were flattered and intrigued.

So both girls had two levels of lovers -- married men, the Steadies, and new men, the Occasionals.

For those Saturday nights when they didn't meet at least a couple of Mr. Rights, they usually went to Salty's Pioneer Square apartment and took care of each other. Way back when, to please middle school boys, then high school boys, Sandy and Salty cheerfully made out with each other. One thing led to another.

Sandy may have liked eating pussy a tad more than Salty, but each loved having her pussy licked. When they were in the mood, they used sex toys on each other as casually as trying on new clothes.

After a Saturday night with each other, Sunday brunch with Randy might go something like this:

"Sweetie, your mom licks pussy better than any guy on earth."

Blush. Mind churn. Then, "Mom, can I..."


Sometimes, and she never could figure out why, Sandy wasn't upset by her friend's inflammatory, teasing words. She knew her son was almost always on the verge of wanting to jack off when he was in the presence of Salty and herself. What Salty did by talking so sexily to him was transform desire into need.

When they heard Randy's bedroom door slam, Salty smiled, "At least he's closing the door."


What Sandy had come to think of as The Compromise between her son and her wasn't really a single agreement. It was series of bargaining chips, some she won, others not.

In any case, The Compromise was complicated by a tactical mistake that Sandy had made. On her own, nobody else to blame. It was The Contract.

Around two years earlier, Sandy had caught her son in a lie. Blatant lie. Important lie. He had been caught peeking at a neighbor's test paper during a history exam. His teacher sent him home with a note for his mother. Said note was never delivered.

When the teacher called Sandy to follow up ... well, that was The Confrontation between mother and son. Randy furiously denied that he had cheated, that there had ever been a note in the first place.

Sandy didn't blow up, she was patient. She understood that Randy was ashamed. Mortified. Scared. They talked it over. Then again, then a third time. In the end, Sandy said, "Only one thing really bothers me, that you lied. Trying to verify a test answer, being embarrassed to give me the note ... understandable. We're all human. But one thing I will not tolerate is to have you lie to me."

Salty, when it was something important to do with Randy, always backed up her friend. She told Randy, "Don't lie to your mother, sweetie, just don''t."

Looking at the two women in his life whom he adored, who drove him crazy, who were the sexiest girls on the planet ... well, teamed up, they captured Randy's attention.

He didn't know which one he lusted after more, his mother or Salty. Even wearing jeans and sweaters, they were sex personified. He loved to watch them move, sit still, talk, breathe.

Imagine the feelings coursing through his lust-filled mind when they dressed to go out. No bra, Randy was dying to know about panties. Each and every Saturday Night outfit drove him wild. Painted-on shorts, skinny-legged jeans, micro-mini skirts, backless dresses, sometimes, well only one time, nothing but fuck-me heels and a butt-length tee. Nipples clearly outlined. He needed, desperately needed, to solve the pantie enigma.

So when Sandy and Salty nailed him to the floor on 'don't lie to your mother, ' Randy capitulated.

Sandy, being a lawyer, drew up a formal contract where she and Randy agreed to Always Tell The Truth to each other. Both the party of the first part and the party of the second part signed two copies in front of Salty who used her Toyota notary seal to formalize the agreement.

It was two legally-binding years later -- when Randy had turned 14 -- before Sandy realized her mistake. Because The Contract was the result of Randy's having lied to her, she hadn't considered the fact that the agreement was two-way. They had both agreed, signed and been notarized, not to lie to each other.

Sandy was as obligated to tell the truth as Randy.

Sandy, and more so Salty, enjoyed enjoyed teasing Randy, just once in a while, with The Contract. Salty might say:

"Tell your mother how many times you jacked off this morning."

Furious blush.


Mumble: "Three."

Then, one fine day, Randy realized that if he had to tell the truth, no matter how mortifying, so did his mother. Eureka! Randy had always had a sense of timing -- he was in every school play there was.

Sunday brunch. Sandy, Salty, himself.

"Mom, did you fuck anyone last night?"

"Randolph Andrews! Do you want me to wash your mouth out with soap, you little cocksucker?"

Salty grinned, this was right up her alley.

Randy, smiling innocently, brought The Contract out from behind his back.

Salty guffawed.

Sandy blushed.

But a contract was a contract. An attorney was an attorney. Sandy forced herself to answer each increasingly detailed question. Cock size. Positions. How many times she climaxed.

Salty was her usual generous chipper-inner, "Ask her what his cum tasted like, sweetie."

"What'd his cum taste like, Mom?"

Glaring at Salty, "Salty."

It was at that Sunday brunch that Sandy realized she would have to change things around. She couldn't go through life answering every intimate question that Randy could think up. With help from her dear friend, Salty.

That was when Sandy began thinking of The Compromise.

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