Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Mother, Son,
Desc: Sex Story: Chapter 1 - I made two major life mistakes. Both turned out not to be mistakes. The first I blame on my youth, giving birth at age 14. Turner turned out to be a good kid despite my distinct lack of parenting skills. My second fuck-up was not being able to talk Turner out of marrying that cunt, Darlene. Turner was 19, barely out of high school. Darlene was 24. Was and is a slut. Both events - - Turner's birth and marriage - - ended up making me the happiest woman in Denver (through luck and happenstance).
Hi, Tammy Ferguson reporting for duty. I'm easy on the eyes and I like sex. I also like downhill racing on my extra long skis, the Broncos and chocolate. They're not central to my reportage though. Sex is.
I'm 35 now, my son Turner is 21. Back in 1994 -- and how sad is this? -- I wasn't even the youngest girl in 9th grade to get knocked up. I certainly could have been, I'd been fucking enough boys to have won the tittle, but I didn't.
I considered an abortion. Giving the baby up for adoption. Suicide (passing fancy, nothing serious). My mom, Terry Ferguson, talked me down.
She gave me a part-time job in her headhunting firm. Entry level -- typing, filing, making coffee and the like. Mom (Terry) paid me $1200 month, enough to pay for a babysitter while I worked and finished school. Living at home, the rent was manageable -- zip, nada, zilch.
Terry also made sure I remembered to take the Pill. No more Turners, not by mistake anyway. Terry didn't give me any grief about getting pregnant. She liked sex as much as I did. Still does at 41. She had me when she was 15. Must run in the family.
Back then Terry looked like I look now, tall at 5' 10" and slender at 120. Small boobs, green eyes, long legs. Good, if I do say so myself, cheekbones. Generous mouth with a lot to say to the world.
My dad, the cocksucker, split before I was born. Fuck him.
Turner's father? Not sure who he is. Was never curious enough to find out. I wouldn't have married any of those losers anyway. I do know one thing about the father, whoever he was. Cute. I was always a sucker for cute.
Terry was good, very good, in the headhunting racket. I still work for her and I'm good at it too. Not quite in her league, but pretty damn good.
The trick is to obtain the corporate listings for A-level jobs. Finding qualified applicants is relatively easy, except for the very tip top slots. Neither Terry nor I are blatant about using our sex appeal, but we don't hesitate to do whatever is necessary to land the listings.
I don't mean that mom built her startup business flat on her back. She has a good eye for talent and a strong network of friends and business colleagues that she can tap into.
But, like Terry told me, "It never hurts whey they know some pussy is available at the end of the day."
As she moved me from gopher to secretary to assistant to junior headhunter, she got a couple of things. A second willing pussy and a younger network to utilize. A second very willing pussy.
Poor Turner. No father figure. Two high-energy females on the go day and night.
Lucky Turner. Two sexy females, often rushing around in various stages of dress. Or undress. Or just stark fucking naked.
Terry hadn't had any experience raising a boy and I hadn't had any experience raising anyone. Turner saw a lot of female flesh, I doubt either Terry or I slowed down enough to consider the effect we might be having on an impressionable boy. She and I were both so busy with work and boyfriends. Boyfriends and work.
Terry had a four bedroom house, with herself in the master suite. One level, ranch style. I had the next largest bedroom, followed by Turner. We turned the smallest one into an office large enough for all three of us to use. Although Turner keeps his devices up in his room. Masturbation of course.
Terry had her own bathroom. Turner and I shared the one that connected our two bedrooms. There was also a half bath for guests with just a toilet and sink.
Architecturally, it's a pretty boring house. Terry mumbles from time to time about buying something more to her taste. She can certainly afford it now. But she and I are so busy...
Turner was always a pretty good kid, didn't give us much trouble. Most of the time, anyway. He got along well with me. Loved me. Well, he should love his mother. But he also got along with Terry famously. In many ways he was closer to her than to me.
Not that I minded. Terry and I were always rushing around ... work and boys, boys and work. We sort of raised Turner between us, in a distracted kind of way. Whoever had the time was the one addressed the event of the moment.
Terry was amused that Turner went to her when he was too embarrassed to ask me something. I wouldn't have minded talking with him about sex, in fact I like to talk about sex. But he was just more comfortable with Terry, so I didn't push it.
And Terry loved teasing him. Loved to make him blush. Loved to embarrass him. But around the time my son turned 15, he turned some sort of corner. Turner was already three inches taller than Terry and I were. Almost overnight a calm seemed to settle over him.
I won't say he matured, he was still a freaking teenager. but he changed. Terry might innocently ask him at breakfast, "Jack off in the shower sweetheart?"
In the past he would blush furiously, look down and mumble something. But now he just grinned and said, "Sure did. Come watch me tomorrow."
Terry and I were both pleased with his newly discovered ... what? Confidence? I guess that's as good a word as any. I thought maybe he'd scored some pussy, he was certainly old enough. But Terry was pretty sure he hadn't. Turner told her practically everything. Best pals.
There were three distinct areas where I fully assumed the Mom role. Turner's homework, his bath, and The Kiss.
These arenas of responsibility weren't thought out. There wasn't any careful planning between Terry and me regarding Turner. Life just evolved in our hectic home. Is it that way for most families? Probably not. I imagine more thought goes into most peoples' lives.
Homework oversight was a natural for me. I'd been through similar material not that long ago myself.
Bath time? That had always been bonding time for Turner and me. When Terry and I finally got him out of those fucking diapers, I actually looked forward to taking Turner into the bath with me.
As he grew older I vaguely thought that it might be time to let him take baths, or showers, on his own. I'm a bath girl myself, but Terry told me boys preferred showers. At least that's what her girlfriends told her.
Turner didn't give any indication of wanting his privacy at our bedtime bath. Even when puberty hit. I told Terry, "I guess I'll just let him bathe with me until he doesn't want to."
Terry shrugged. She didn't care one way or another. Plus we were both so busy, so distracted by our day to day lives, Turner simply wasn't on our radar that much.
Oh, we both snapped to when he got into one of his rare delinquency scrapes. That was unusually enough to tear our attention away from whatever current crisis or passion we were lost in.
It's cornball, but I always thought of the three of us as the Golden Triangle. Terry was every bit as much of a mother, maybe more, to Turner as I was. He was loved, that little boy, and he knew it.
As far as nurturing, what little nurturing took place, Terry was more of a mother than I was. Not that I was cold nor indifferent. It's just that Turner and Terry connected on some special Pal level.
It was so common to see Terry and Turner talking, murmuring really, with each other. She'd have her arm around his shoulders, or hold his hand. A lot of giggling because a lot of Turner's questions revolved around sex.
The three of us basically ignored each other's privacy. Turner thought nothing of going into Terry's or my bedroom unannounced.
Terry and I did Kegel exercises almost every day. After Terry explained why we were strengthening our pelvic floors, Turner often watched us. He was equally fascinated by our Ben Wa balls.
One morning Terry traced the lips on her face and told Turner, "Pretend these are my pussy lips." She placed his middle finger her mouth and barely closed her lips.
She said, "Boys don't like loose pussies." Then she curled her lips under her teeth and bit down on his finger. Hard. Terry grinned at Turner, Turner grinned at Terry. He got it. Understood our pussy exercises.
She and I finally had to agree to stop bringing men home. At first it didn't make that much difference to us when Turner barged in to see what all the happy yelping was about.
But he'd always been an observant kid and was getting to the age where even Terry and I realized it would soon become inappropriate for him to see his mother and grandmother fucking a string of guys.
So, responsible parenting, that's what Terry and I decided to try on for size. At least as far as not letting Turner see us merrily fucking our way through a healthy percentage of the Denver's male population. With some visitors tossed in as well.
But my son saw everything else that Terry and I had.
Since I was still taking a nightly bath with him well into his teens, I told Terry, "What's the difference, in my bath or in my bedroom? He's seen me naked a million times."
Terry shrugged. Didn't matter to her either. She didn't usually bathe with Turner, oh she might if I were down with the flu or something. But he saw her nude plenty of times. Getting dressed in the morning. Her after-work shower. Getting gussied up for a date. Like that.
That meant Turner observed the evolution of our pussies. Both Terry and I had always trimmed ourselves carefully and precisely. A heart shape. Diamond. Arrow.
But for the past few years we were like so many other women: bald and smooth.
One morning at breakfast Turner asked Terry about it. She shrugged, "Men like it."
Turner nodded, understanding the logic.
The Kiss. It's funny, but I can't remember how old Turner was when The Kiss first started. Fifth or sixth grade probably.
But I do remember the occasion. Or what Terry and I were working on at the time: the Colorado Rockies. The major league baseball team's account wouldn't be all that large to our headhunting firm.
But it would be prestigious. And if we could land it, there would be tickets to spread around among current and prospective clients. Plus, even though the organization wasn't that large, there was considerable turnover from time to time. Especially during long losing seasons.
I was fucking an assistant to the guy who ran the concession side of the Rockies' business. Not because he had anything to do with HR decisions, he didn't. But he knew all of the execs in the organization. And I was good at pillow talk.
That night Terry was rushing around getting ready for her date with the head scout for Latin America. It's a key job I understand, but again nothing to do with HR.
But, you never know. Diego was even closer to the top brass than Mr. Concession. Terry might pick up some inside info. Our corporate rivals who currently worked with the Rockies were reportedly on the outs. At least according to the gossip we chose to listen to. We did know that their contract was up for renewal.
As usual, Turner was sitting on Terry's bed, his pal's bed, watching her towel off after her shower. On cue, he picked up her perfume bottle and spritzed a tiny cloud into the air.
Terry smiled at him, walked through the faint scent and turned to the critical selection of which heels to wear on her date. She and I always started there and worked our way up.
I remember the oddest things. I suppose most people do. That night, the night of The Kiss, Terry was standing there nude, a pair of red heels in one hand, green in the other. I thought at the time: Christmas.
Turner watched with interest. Not that he cared about shoes. He knew from having watched us dress hundreds of times that the pair Terry selected would dictate the dress she wore.
She decided on green. Stepped into them and walked up and back in front of her three-sided mirror. There's an identical mirror in my room.
Terry grinned at Turner and stuck her butt out saucily. Another cue: he slapped it and grinned back, "No wobble, Terry. Tight as a drum."
I suppose every household has its internal dialogues, its inside jokes. Although I'm not sure how many include a little boy complimenting his grandmother's ass.
As she slid hangers back and forth, Terry grinned over her shoulder at Turner. "Diego's gonna get lucky tonight."
Turner, always fascinated by Terry's social life, nodded solemnly, "Third date? Or fourth?"
Pulling on a short dress, Terry said, "Third. I blew him on Tuesday."
"Once or twice?"
Terry had to think as she brushed her hair back into place. "Twice. Before dinner and after."
Turner nodded, filing the information away.
Terry turned to him for the final inspection. Turner nodded, "Nice. No panties?"
Sometimes Terry and I wore them on dates, sometimes not.
Terry grinned down at my son, "Not tonight, sweetheart."
The Golden Triangle, that's how I thought of us.
As he watched her touch up her lip gloss, Turner asked, "What's a French kiss, Terry?"
In a rush, she said, "Ask Tammy, gotta run. Love you.'"
Turner remembered his question during our bedtime bath. I grinned, "Tongue."
"Like this." I bent toward him and gave him 10 or 15 seconds worth.
"Well, usually the boy kisses back. Doesn't just sit there like a lump."
Turner frowned, thinking life over. Then he leaned up to me. Did better his second time.
I complimented him, "That's the way, baby, fuck the girl with your tongue."
Turner was always good back then at putting himself to bed around 10. He instinctively seemed to know to do some essential things himself. Which was a good thing, because Terry and I weren't that attentive, parenting wise.
I remember that first night of The Kiss. Turner came into the kitchen to tell me goodnight. I bussed him on the lips as usual. Then felt his tongue probing.
I dismissed any concerns and kissed him back.
That became our nightly ritual which lasts to this day. Or to this night. The Kiss.
As close as he was to Terry, he only French kissed her a few times. Terry said, "He probably just wanted to see if I'd let him." Which she did, no biggie.
So The Kiss was reserved for mom.
I didn't realize it at the time, but this pleased me. I didn't resent how close Terry and Turner were. But I must have been feeling some vague misgivings that he was closer to his grandmother than he was to me.
In any case, I let The Kiss continue.
After a month or so, Turner asked me, "Am I doing it right?"
"Sure are, sweetheart. But usually a kiss like this leads to this." I placed his slender hand on my boob. Grinned at him, "But not with your mother. Do it when you start dating." Moved his hand away.
Of course that didn't stop the little cunt from trying to sneak more tit. Depending on my mood, I let him him cop a feel once in a while. Hey, I never ran for Mother of the Year.
So, the Golden Triangle. Terry, Turner and Tammy.
Terry continued to be Turner's go-to gal for most things sexual. Like when he started noticing his erections.
(Which -- critical aside -- these were impressive erections. I didn't know who his birth father was, didn't care. And I didn't know if penis size was handed down. But Terry and I did know that Turner was hung. He only grew an inch or so longer when he got hard. But he was fat from the get-go. Lucky him.)