Fun Company
Copyright© 2026 by Georgy Beck
Story 3
Erotica Sex Story: Story 3 - Mike and Susie, even though they're adults now, have never had sex the way they did that night. What happened? Read it and find out. ----- My friend, who is already publishing on this site, suggested that I also publish my stories on SOL. I've been refusing for a long time, not considering that my stories are worth showing somewhere else. But in the end, I gave up and decided to give it a try. This story couldn't be here without her. ----- The story has been translated into English using AI
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Teenagers Consensual Romantic Fiction Sharing Incest Mother Son Brother Sister Daughter Group Sex First Facial Masturbation Petting Voyeurism AI Generated
Mom’s gaze swept over us like an X-ray. First over me — and in an unconscious gesture I covered my groin with my palms, as if that could somehow hide my nakedness. My fingers trembled with awkwardness, and the skin beneath them was still warm from the shower. I knew it was pointless. She had already seen everything. But my hands wouldn’t come down.
Then her gaze slid to Susie. She instinctively covered her chest and groin, but her palms covered only a small part of what needed covering. Her nipples, hard from the morning chill, protruded between her fingers, and between her legs a dark strip of hair was visible, damp from the shower, with droplets of water running down her thighs.
Mom finished her inspection. A barely noticeable smile flickered on her lips, which she immediately suppressed. Then she raised an eyebrow and said calmly, but with a note that made my stomach tighten:
“Well, my children. So you’ve decided that just because we’re relaxed about sex ed, this house is now clothing-optional in the mornings? And that waking everyone up with crashes and shouting is fair game too?”
It had begun.
I caught myself still covering up, even though Mom had seen everything long ago. But something in her gaze kept my hands in place. Why did I suddenly feel like a kid caught red-handed again? We’re adults. But under her gaze, that “adults” sounded very unconvincing.
Susie, as always, was faster. She straightened up, put her hands on her hips, and, deliberately dropping her hands to her sides, answered with a challenge, lifting her chin so that her throat stretched into a graceful line:
“So what? After all, we’re adults.”
Her voice sounded confident, but I noticed her toes curl slightly against the floor. She was nervous after all.
Mom snorted. A shadow of a smile flickered in her eyes, but she quickly suppressed it, pressing her lips into a thin line.
“Adults, huh,” she repeated, emphasizing each word like a teacher in class. “Adults who can’t even manage to get dressed for breakfast. Or have you decided you’re going to live like savages now?”
I opened my mouth to answer, but the words stuck in my throat. Susie didn’t give me a chance to recover.
“We were just—” I began, feeling color flood my cheeks, but my sister cut in, not letting me make excuses:
“So what? Like Dad says: ‘Nothing natural is ugly!’”
She rose on her tiptoes and raised her arms above her head like a ballerina before a pirouette. Susie had taken dance classes since childhood, and it showed: her body was slim, toned, with clear muscle definition that didn’t spoil but emphasized her femininity. Every movement betrayed years of training — lightness, precision, control. She slowly, with obvious pleasure, twirled in place. Her wet hair flew out in a fan, water droplets splashed onto the tile. Her back arched, her stomach pulled in, her buttocks tightened — and all of it looked not vulgar, but mesmerizing, like a dancer who knows her body and knows exactly how to command it. I couldn’t look away — she was incredibly beautiful in that movement, like a goddess stepping out of a painting.
For that she immediately got a towel smack on her butt.
“Ow!” she yelped, jumping in place and grabbing the sore spot.
“And there’s your ‘ow,’” Mom answered, keeping her calm. “Only before, you at least had the decency to be embarrassed.”
We were saved from further scolding by the sound of the timer on the stove. A loud, piercing beep tore through the tense silence. Mom sighed, took the pan off the heat, and waved her hand toward the chairs like a conductor giving the signal to begin.
“All right. Sit down. And even though we allow a lot around here, that doesn’t mean you get to wander the house naked.” Her voice softened, but a note of irritation remained. “I can put up with you two sleeping in the same bed, and with what happened, but let’s not turn breakfast into a nudist parade. One of the neighbors might look in the window.”
Susie sat down first, pulling toward her a plate of eggs, the smell of crisp bacon still hanging in the air. I followed her example, feeling awkward. Though, hell, why awkward? We’re adults. But in Mom’s presence, you somehow immediately stop feeling like one. Her gaze bored into me, and I instinctively covered my groin again, as if that could change anything.
“You two, I take it, are a lost cause by now,” Mom added, pouring more coffee into her cup. Steam rose from the hot liquid, and the aroma of coffee mixed with the smell of eggs. “You’ve already seen what you’ve seen, done what you’ve done. Better this than catching some disease, especially an incurable one. So this afternoon, you have a sex ed lesson.” She paused, and her gaze turned conspiratorial. “And I hope you take it the right way.”
Susie, apparently still smarting from the towel smack, muttered quietly under her breath — but loud enough for everyone to hear:
“As if you were any better at our age.”
I froze. Oh no. She actually said that out loud? My stomach tightened again. Susie had managed to hit a nerve, and now we were definitely going to get it.
Mom, of course, heard. Her lips curved into a mocking smile.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she said, setting her cup down on the table with a clatter. “Of course we weren’t better.” She paused, savoring our embarrassment. “But at least we didn’t parade around the kitchen naked.”
“That’s not fair!” Susie protested, her cheeks reddening. “Mom, you know what I meant.”
Mom didn’t answer right away. She sat down, leaned her hands on the table, and tilted her head like a teacher about to reveal the secret of the universe. She took another sip of coffee and said thoughtfully:
“No, we weren’t better.” A pause for effect. “We had our moments too.” She smiled wider. “But your father and I never thought up anything quite like what you two have done.”
My pulse quickened. What does she mean?
“So what did you think up?” I blurted out, deciding to seize the thread of conversation from my sister.
Susie kicked me under the table, and I barely held back a laugh. Her eyes sparkled with curiosity too, but she always wanted to be first.
“You want a story?” Mom set down her cup and folded her hands on the table. “Fine. I’ll tell you.”
Susie and I froze at the same time. Silence fell over the kitchen, broken only by our tense breathing and the quiet hiss of the pan cooling on the stove.
“But you eat while I talk,” Mom continued, drumming her fingers on the table. “And no comments. Understood?”
We nodded, not taking our eyes off her face.
Mom took a sip of coffee, ran her finger along the rim of the cup.
“So. Where should I start...”
She shook her head, as if choosing where to begin.
“I think I’ll start with how we met.”
“At the party?” Susie couldn’t hold back. “We already know that part.”
“Hush,” Mom said, not raising her voice, but with such an edge that Susie immediately fell silent. “Oh, you know, do you? Did you know that that same evening I smashed a plate of roast meat over his head, and he poured a glass of cola with ice over mine in return?”
Susie and I exchanged glances.
“And that the evening ended in his car,” Mom continued, shrugging, her eyes flashing with amusement, “where I basically ‘raped’ him.”
She thoughtfully bit her nail.
“Or he ‘raped’ me,” there was laughter in her voice. “That’s where your father and I disagree.”
“What?!” My exclamation coincided with my sister’s. Susie even managed to drop a piece of egg white off her fork, and it plopped back onto the plate with an offended, wet little sound.
She never picked the dropped piece back up. She just sat there with her mouth open, fork frozen in midair, eyes wide. I felt my heart pounding in time with hers.
“I told you,” Mom said, wagging a finger at us and making us instantly fall silent. “Eat and listen. Or are you not interested?”
We shook our heads, still not believing our ears.
“Then eat,” Mom concluded, picking up her cup again. “And no more comments.”
She took a sip of coffee, and Susie and I stared at each other, trying to process what we’d just heard. Silence fell over the kitchen again, broken only by the scrape of forks against plates and our quickened breathing. The air was thick with the smell of coffee, eggs, and secrets we’d only just begun to uncover.
Stoty 3. Mom’s story
Mom set her cup aside, propped her chin on her palm, and looked somewhere past us—through the wall, through the years. I saw her face softly change: the fine lines at the corners of her eyes smoothed out, and a smile appeared on her lips—not the sardonic one we were used to, but something else entirely: warm, a little wistful, and very young. For a moment it seemed the woman at the table wasn’t our mother but an eighteen-year-old girl I’d never met.
“So. Let’s start with the fact that at your age, your father and I were unbearable,” she said, and playful notes crept into her voice that I’d never heard before. “Good-looking, young, smart—and proud to the point that we’d sooner have dropped dead than admit we liked each other.”
“You?! Proud?” Susie couldn’t help herself.
“Very,” Mom smirked, but then fixed her daughter with a long, appraising stare that clearly read: and where exactly do you think you’re looking? “You know, Susie,” she went on, lazily tracing the rim of her cup, “while I tell this story, try not to recognize yourself too much. Because when I look at your current ... prince-hunting—the little list of requirements, the pickiness, the bravado in public and the shyness behind closed doors...” She stretched her lips into a lazy, feline grin. “I understand one thing: the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, sweetie. Though I’ll admit, the copy is a bit weak so far. My pride at least had something to stand on—while you run entirely on nerve and good looks.”
Susie opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. Her cheeks turned pink—whether from indignation or from the uncomfortable amount of truth in Mom’s “diagnosis,” I couldn’t tell.
“Mom! I do not—!”
“You do, you do,” Mom nodded placidly. “I can see right through you, because I’m looking at a mirror twenty years ahead of you. So listen up and learn how it was done in the original.”
She sipped her coffee, her gaze drifting past us again, her lips curling into that same young smile—the way people smile when an old film is playing in their heads.
“Every single encounter between me and your father ended with us trying to sting each other as hard as possible. I mocked his jacket—he’d bought it at a flea market and was immensely proud of it. He’d fire back about my makeup: ‘hope the plaster doesn’t chip.’ I’d hint that he was a bit dense. He’d say I was as unattainable as some titled countess, doomed to die a spinster surrounded by cats. He cast me as a spoiled hysterical diva; I cast him as a self-admiring turkey. And you know the funniest part?” Mom glanced at us over her cup, her eyes gleaming with frank delight. “We both loved it. It was a game. Whoever cracks first, confesses first.”
“And did anyone ever confess?” I asked, forgetting about my eggs.
“Ne-ver,” Mom pronounced with relish, syllable by syllable. “Too proud. We could run into each other at the same parties for months, trading barbs—and never, you hear me, never say one kind word to each other. While everything inside ached and gnawed. Pride, kids, is like carrying a firecracker inside you and being afraid to light it.”
She leaned back in her chair, paused a moment, and continued in a different tone—businesslike, but still sparkling.
“And that time, things were worse than usual. I had just broken up with my then-boyfriend,” she grimaced so expressively that the memory itself seemed to smell bad, “handsome as an ad, well-off, from a ‘good family.’ His assets: a car, his father’s money, and the ability to book a good table. I’d fallen for him out of boredom—and for the money, why hide it; I told you already: being mercenary isn’t a vice, it’s a standard. I figured, if a man tries that hard to impress, he’ll try just as hard at everything else.”
Mom snorted and shook her head.
“One month. Exactly one month I put up with him, and in that month he managed to bore me to death. First, we had to do it in his car—which, by the way, is far less romantic than the novels claim. Elbow against the window, knee in the glovebox, gearshift in the ribs...” She theatrically rubbed her thigh. “After the third time I seriously considered billing him for the bruises. And second—which was worse than any bruise—he was hopelessly obsessed with his own exalted status. He genuinely believed he’d ‘won me over’ with his position, his car, and his watch. That I was, so to speak, a trophy confirming his level. Right. A trophy he got out of boredom. The moment it got tedious even to argue with him about which of us mattered more, I showed him the door. He, by the way, is still convinced I ‘cracked under the pressure of his charm.’ Let him keep that thought—people need some kind of faith to live on.”
“Mom, what did you even want from him?” Susie asked carefully.
“Good question,” Mom nodded with approval, clearly relishing the chance to talk it out. “Here’s what I wanted. I lost my virginity, by the way, long before all this—at sixteen.” She said it calmly, matter-of-factly, like reading a weather forecast, without even thinking of lowering her voice. “I was cheering for our school football team back then. Little skirt, pom-poms, jumps—the whole kit. And there was this one running back...” Her lips quivered in a smile, but not the tender one—more of a pitying one. “A heartthrob, the star of the team, square jaw, every girl was in love with him. Well, you get the picture. At sixteen, do you even know what you want? Back then it seemed—if he chose you, you had to live up to the honor.” She smirked. “I actually ran into him downtown recently, can you imagine? Bald, with a beer belly, and his suit fit him like a saddle on a cow. He stood there telling me about his ‘business successes,’ staring straight through me at my chest. And you know what I thought? That my first time was still better looking than his entire subsequent life.”
Susie and I choked in unison. Mom carried on serenely:
“So. By nineteen, I was already a grown, healthy, passionate woman who knew exactly what she wanted. And most importantly—unlike many—I wasn’t embarrassed to admit it. Even to myself. So I put it down honestly, clearly, like an adult: the list. Listen up and take notes—this is called ‘working on yourself.’”
And she began counting off her fingers—confidently, without a shadow of embarrassment, like dictating a shopping list.
“One: attentive. Someone who notices my mood, brings flowers for a reason, not just because the calendar says so. Two: courteous, with manners—someone who doesn’t yell ‘yeah, right!’ at the waiter in a restaurant. Three: generous, with money—yes, mercenary, and what of it? I’m a beautiful woman, and a beautiful woman shouldn’t have to ride the bus. And four,” and here Mom didn’t lower her voice at all; if anything, she enunciated the words more clearly and more loudly, as if throwing down a challenge to the whole table, “with a good cock. Big. And above all—with an understanding of what to do with it, because size without skill is like a trunk without wheels.”
I choked on my tea. Susie made a sound halfway between a squeak and a cough and dropped her fork.
“Mom!! We’re eating!”
“What did you expect?” Mom shrugged with such calm, adult directness that arguing with her was pointless. “You wanted sex education? Well, this is sex education. Bodies, desires, standards. Or do you think your mother was born forty years old, with curlers and a rolling pin? No, sweetie. I was a young, healthy, passionate woman, and I wasn’t ashamed to say so. Even to myself.”
She took another sip, her gaze drifting back into the past again—that warm smile flickering on her lips, her fingers absently caressing the cup handle.
“Now imagine my disappointment when I discovered that men fitting this list simply ... didn’t exist. The attentive ones were broke. The rich ones were lousy in bed, because they’d spent their whole lives being told everything was owed to them, not the other way around. The handsome, well-endowed ones were either married or jerks. I went through,” she wiggled her fingers as if counting, “about seven candidates in six months. Seven, kids! The market was empty. Total shortage. I was seriously thinking of lowering the bar to ‘at least has a car and no warts.’”
“And then,” Mom paused, and her smile grew wider, softer, and more dangerous all at once, “your father crossed my path. Let’s score him against the list. Attentive—no, he slammed doors in my face. Courteous—never in his life. Rich—a motorcycle, a rented room, and a guitar with a crack in it. And as for item four,” she spread her hands theatrically, “I knew absolutely nothing back then. And didn’t want to know, because I couldn’t stand him.”
“Then why did you even...” Susie began.
“That’s exactly why I’m telling you this,” Mom set down her cup. “The party was at a mutual friend’s place. The house—Lord help us: the parents had been shipped off for the weekend, about thirty people, speakers on the windowsill, beer chilling in the bathtub with ice. I arrived in full battle dress—dress, heels, hair done—with one specific goal: scan the room for candidates from the list. And I was scanning quite successfully, mind you. One guy from the department was already fetching me lemonade; a second was telling me all about his business...” She sighed. “Ugh. And right then, rattling and gleaming, HE storms into the room.”
Mom closed her eyes and reenacted her reaction from back then—an expression halfway between “ugh” and “finally.”
“A leather jacket with studs, jeans, boots—like out of a motorcycle ad he couldn’t afford—no wait, the motorcycle he actually had. Tousled hair, a grin across half his face, the guitar slung over his shoulder—that same one, with the crack. From the doorway he bellowed something like ‘wake up, you corpses, the music has arrived,’ and half the room rushed to hug him like they hadn’t seen him in a week. He knew how to enter a room so that everyone else instantly became furniture. I hated that trait in people. Especially back then. Especially in him.”
“He noticed me about ten seconds later. Swept his eyes over me—head to toe, slowly, like an appraiser sizing up goods he has no intention of buying—and the grin got wider. Then he said, addressing no one but loud enough for the whole room: ‘Well, well, look who’s graced us with her presence. The Queen. Where’s your entourage, Your Majesty? What, the wallet got sick and they let you out all alone?’”