Being Groomed
Copyright© 2024 by LJ_Tesfaye
Chapter 1: Baby Steps
Coming of Age Sex Story: Chapter 1: Baby Steps - My parents had groomed me since early teens to become their sex object. This here is the first steps they had taken.
Caution: This Coming of Age Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Ma/ft ft/ft Fa/ft Ma Fa ft Teenagers Coercion Consensual Lesbian BiSexual Fiction High Fantasy School Vignettes Sharing Slut Wife Incest Mother Father Daughter Group Sex Polygamy/Polyamory Exhibitionism First Food Safe Sex Voyeurism ENF Nudism Slow
I’m fucked up. Not the kind of fucked up that a few years of therapy and a hobby in pottery can fix. I mean biologically, psychologically, and sexually wired for a frequency that doesn’t exist in the “normal” world. I’m 27 now. Polyamorous. Solo dating. A connoisseur of fetishes that would make a seasoned porn director blush.
Most people look at me and see a confident woman. They don’t see the circuitry underneath, the way my mind is a constant loop of craving and escalation. I don’t blame a bad breakup or a wild phase in college. I blame the architects. I blame my parents.
They didn’t just open the door to my sexuality; they tore the house down and rebuilt it into a temple of addiction.
It started in 8th grade. I was fourteen, hovering in that awkward space where my limbs felt too long for my torso and my skin felt like it didn’t quite fit. Then the changes hit. Not just the periods—though those were a chore—but the physical shifts. My breasts swelled, pushing against my bras until the underwires dug into my ribs. Twice in one semester, I had to go up a size. My nipples became hyper-sensitive, aching at the slightest brush of a cotton t-shirt.
And then there was the moisture. A sudden, pulsing heat between my legs that would arrive without warning in the middle of algebra or during a silent reading period. It felt like a demand. A hunger.
I was innocent, or at least I thought I was. I didn’t have a name for the electricity humming under my skin. I just knew I needed answers, and in my house, there were only two people to ask.
My father was a gentle giant. He moved through the world with a quiet, spiritual grace, a man who listened more than he spoke. He was the emotional anchor, the one I went to when the world felt too loud. He was a perfectionist, whether he was sanding a piece of mahogany in his workshop or guiding me through a difficult homework assignment. He took his time. He noticed the details.
My mother was the storm. Dominant, assertive, a woman who walked into a room and owned the air inside it. She knew exactly what she wanted and exactly how to get it. I worshipped her for it. She possessed a fearless confidence that radiated from her, a refusal to be diminished by anyone’s expectations. She loved her body, flaunting it with a casualness that bordered on aggression.
On paper, my mother wore the pants. In reality, the moment she stepped into my father’s orbit, she became a different creature. She submitted to him with a natural, fluid ease, turning into a soft, eager thing in his arms.
Their bond was forged in a fire of shared, unapologetic lust. They didn’t just have a healthy sex life; they lived in a state of perpetual arousal. My mother treated nudity like a birthright. She’d drift through the kitchen naked while the coffee brewed, or lounge in the living room without a stitch of clothing on, even when we had guests over. She was an exhibitionist, feeding on the stolen glances and the awkward coughs of visitors.
My father was more reserved about the nudity, but he was tactile. He couldn’t keep his hands off her. He’d grope her in the grocery store or pull her against him in the middle of a conversation with a neighbor, his hand disappearing beneath her skirt with a practiced, possessive familiarity. When they were in the mood, the world ceased to exist. Hunger, chores, and the presence of their children were irrelevant.
They only started limiting their activities once they noticed I was maturing. They stopped the “anywhere, anytime” policy in the common areas, but the house still breathed with their desire. The walls were thin, and my mother’s moans were the soundtrack to my afternoons.
I remember the day the shift happened. I walked home from school, the strap of my backpack digging into my shoulder, feeling that strange, pulsing heat again. I found Mom in the living room, draped across the sofa in a sheer robe that left nothing to the imagination.
“Mom?” I asked, shifting my weight. “I think something is wrong with me.”
She sat up, her eyes scanning me with a sudden, sharp intensity. “Wrong? What do you mean, baby?”
“My chest hurts. And ... I keep feeling these things. Down there. Like I’m leaking, or like something is pushing.”
Mom’s eyes lit up. It wasn’t a look of concern; it was a look of recognition. A spark of excitement danced in her pupils.
“Nothing is wrong, Candice,” she said, her voice dropping into a smooth, comforting register. “You’re just waking up. It’s called puberty. Your body is becoming a woman’s body.”
“It feels weird,” I whispered. “It feels ... hungry.”
Mom laughed, a rich, throaty sound. She patted the cushion beside her. “Sit. Let’s talk.”
I sat, feeling small beside her.
“These feelings will peak as you get older,” she explained. “You’re going to start getting these urges. Strong urges to fiddle down there, to touch yourself and see what happens. It’s a phase of discovery.”
I giggled, my face flushing a deep crimson. “I can’t! That’s ... that’s gross.”
“Gross?” Mom arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow. “Candice, your body is a gift. Why would it be gross to enjoy it? Every girl goes through this. It’s how you learn who you are.”
Over the next few weeks, I became a mirror of every other eighth-grade girl, obsessing over my reflection and worrying about my acne. But there was a difference. I began to notice the boys. Not just the crushes, but the way they looked at me. I saw the way their eyes dropped to my chest, the way they tracked the movement of my hips when I walked down the hallway.
I brought this up to Mom one evening while she was painting her nails.
“The boys at school ... they stare,” I told her. “It’s like they’re looking through my clothes.”
Mom didn’t look up from her pinky nail, but a small, knowing smile played on her lips. “Of course they are. You’re developing beautiful curves, honey. You should be proud of the effect you have on them.”
“It makes me feel exposed,” I admitted.
“Exposure is power, Candice,” she replied, finally looking at me. “Once you realize that people want you, you can decide how much of yourself to give them. It’s the most delicious feeling in the world.”
That evening, my parents sat me down for “The Talk.” It wasn’t the awkward, clinical conversation most kids have. There were no diagrams of reproductive organs or warnings about “the dangers” of sex. It was an open forum.
“We want you to know that in this house, there is no shame,” Dad said, his voice warm and steady. “Sex is a beautiful part of being human. It’s how your mother and I stay so close.”
“If you ever have a question, or if you feel something you don’t understand, you come to us,” Mom added. “No secrets. No embarrassment.”
I hesitated, then blurted out, “I’ve ... I’ve seen porn. A little bit. On the computer.”
I expected a lecture. I expected them to be horrified that I’d accessed adult sites. Instead, my parents looked at each other, and my mother’s expression turned into one of pure delight.
“Really?” she asked, leaning in. “What did you watch? What did you like?”
I stammered through an explanation, my face burning. They didn’t judge. They encouraged. They told me that porn was a tool for discovery, a way to see what felt right before I ever had to deal with a real partner.
A few weeks later, my best friend Tiffany started spending more time at my house. Tiffany was a whirlwind of energy, a girl who lived for gossip and the latest fashion trends. We spent our weekends huddled in my room, whispering about the boys in our grade.
“Do you think Leo would actually kiss me?” Tiffany asked one Friday night, lying stomach-down on my bed, kicking her feet in the air. “I saw him looking at my legs in gym class.”
“He totally would,” I said, staring at the ceiling. “He looks at everyone.”
“What do you think it would feel like?” she wondered. “The first kiss? Would it be like in the movies, or just ... wet?”
“I don’t know,” I whispered. “I wonder what they look like naked.”
We both groaned, half-disgusted and half-fascinated. The conversation shifted, as it always did, to the forbidden.
“Have you seen any new videos?” Tiffany whispered, her voice dropping.
“A few,” I replied. “My parents actually told me it’s okay to watch it.”
Tiffany froze, her eyes wide. “Wait, what? Your parents know? And they’re okay with it?”
“Yeah. Mom says it helps with ‘self-discovery’.”
“That is so weird,” Tiffany said, though her tone suggested she was more jealous than disturbed. “My mom would literally kill me. She thinks the internet is a portal to hell.”
The following Sunday, after Tiffany left, my mother called me into the living room. She had a look of focused curiosity on her face.
“I overheard you and Tiffany,” Mom said. “About the boys. And the porn.”
My heart plummeted. I started to apologize, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I’m sorry, Mom, we were just talking, I didn’t mean to—”
“Stop apologizing,” Mom interrupted, her voice firm but kind. “Why would you be sorry for being curious? In fact, I’m glad you’re exploring. Tell me, what are you watching? I want to know what’s catching your interest.”
I told her. I told her about the categories I’d stumbled upon, the things that made my heart race. Mom listened with an intensity that felt almost predatory, yet supportive.
“You know,” Mom said, “my first kiss was actually with my best friend. We practiced on each other for months. We wanted to make sure that when we finally kissed the boys we liked, we were experts. We didn’t want to be clumsy.”
I looked at her, stunned. “You kissed a girl?”
“I did. It was wonderful. It taught me how to use my mouth, how to feel the other person’s response.”
Later that night, I heard Mom and Dad talking in their bedroom. The door was ajar, and their voices were low, conspiratorial.
“She’s ready,” Mom whispered. “The curiosity is there. We just need to guide it.”
“You think she can handle it?” Dad asked.
“I know she can. She’s my daughter.”
Before bed, they sat me down again.
“Candice,” Dad said. “We’ve decided that if you feel those urges—those needs—you should feel free to watch porn whenever you want. Don’t fight it. Let it happen.”
I protested. “But ... isn’t that too much? I’m only fourteen.”
“It’s not too much if it’s handled correctly,” Mom countered. “It’s about education. We want you to be comfortable with your body before the world tries to tell you what to do with it. Just ... be mindful of Marcus. Your brother is too young. Keep it away from him.”
Marcus was five years younger than me, a quiet boy who spent most of his time in his room with Legos or video games. He was an easy variable to avoid.
And so, porn became my ritual. It started as a way to quiet the pulsing heat, but soon, the “urges” evolved. They weren’t just urges anymore; they were a craving. A hunger that lived in the center of my chest and radiated downward. I spent my school days in a haze, counting the minutes until I could get home, lock my door, and dive back into the digital world of pleasure.