Soiled Sheets

by Slutsinger

Copyright© 2016 by Slutsinger

True Sex Story: A humorous story about water sports presented as a monologue from a grandfather upset about his grandchild's comments after discovering some soaked sheets. It is not an incest story, simply an exploration of water sports, shame and openness. Based on a true experience.

Caution: This True Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Consensual   True Story   Humor   Oral Sex   Masturbation   Water Sports   .

The primary sex scene in this story is true: real orgasms, real messes of cum and real puddles described as the events unfolded. However the characters and their voices are all fictional. I am always looking for ways to share in the joy and wonder of love and connection, while respecting the privacy of those involved. Here I’ve transported a true situation to the lives of fictional characters. There is an essential core of the experience that I think survived; I’m proud of that. Let me know what you think.

Sit down. We’re gonna have us a talk.

I thought your ma and pa raised you better. You do not go ‘round laughing at someone carrying sheets all covered in piss, asking if they done wet the bed.

What if the answer were yes? Your gramma and I are getting on in years. Controlling your body ain’t always easy when you get old.

You can’t go ‘round shaming folks for things they can’t help. Course I reckon I know better than just yellin’ at you. yellin’ just gets folks all riled up and digging in their heels.

Instead, I’m gonna trust you and tell you what you saw. It’s gonna be hard. We’ll both be beet-red by the time we’re done. I reckon though that ya listen good, and we both face the embarrassment good’n hard, we’ll both grow. The alternative is I sit on my upset and it festers between us for a good while.

Will you work with me? Thanks. Like your ma and pa, you’ve always faced life, even when it’s hard.

You were right. Those sheets were soaked in piss. It weren’t no accident, though. It’s hard to say that; the rest is harder. For gramma and me, pissing is more than just emptying our bladders. Piss is flying free, love and the joy of some of the best sex ever, all rolled into one.

I reckon my face just turned the same color as yours. The next ain’t any easier. I’m gonna tell you ‘bout one of our first times playin’ that way. The very first time was all ‘bout learnin’ how to do it and making sure we were really willin’. We were past that, but it was still new. Everything had to line up just right for us to try.

I hope you can see past your embarrassment and understand. I hope you can begin to understand how hard it is when someone mocks and shames you ‘bout something this deep.

One day, years gone by, your gramma was horny like a bitch in heat. Nah, you’ll get the wrong idea: she weren’t grumpy or crazy or anything like that. She was all horny and wanted to be eaten and fucked, and if she were loved real good, she was all set for some amazing comes.

Gramma wears her horny proud, drawing strength from it like some lady all regal in her expensive gown. Good thing too she wore her horny strong and proud, ‘cause that’s all she was wearin’. I was wearin’ even less.

We sure got all worked up and sweaty. We were resting up a bit and I said I wanted to put on a show for her. She liked that. I suggested she could climb on top and get a front row seat while I played with myself.

Look, I hear what you’re sayin’. You don’t wanna know ‘bout sex between gramma and me. I get that. It ain’t easy telling you, but I need to be heard something fierce.

If it helps, just pretend it ain’t really sex. That’s what the president said when they caught him coming all over his intern. Actually, that’s what your pa told me once, when ... Nah, your pa don’t want me tellin’ ya that story.

Anyway if you want what I’m sayin’ not to be ‘bout sex, the president and your pa both say that’s right. Perhaps that’ll help.

You still willin’ to listen on?

So, as I were sayin’, gramma’s crotch was coming down on my face when she climbed on top. Sure, a woman spreading her legs to fit around your head’s gonna open her pussy nice and wide, but your gramma was real open that night.

You don’t like pussy? Don’t like thinking ‘bout your gramma having one of the most amazing pussies in the universe? I guess I can see that. See here though. Gramma’s a girl clear enough, so there can’t be any surprise she’s got a vagina.

I draw the line there though. Gramma don’t have no fancy orgasms, like in those books, all detached from the sweaty joy that is two bodies getting together: she comes! And she comes real good. Now I ain’t gonna sit here talking ‘bout how I played with my penis for gramma; I have a dick and I’m leavin’ it at that.

So, gramma’s vagina is all open as she presses down on my mouth and nose. That was glorious. I think I know what honey bees feel like when they catch scent of the nectar in a flower. My nostrils flared as I scented her flower open before me. I needed to taste her, to lick, to dig into her.

Having her legs spread good’n wide weren’t half what I mean when I say she was open. She was open on the inside where it counts. Every lick and touch meant something, and she was all there meaning too. She was joyous there on top of me, watching my hand pump my dick. Her breasts were on my belly, rubbing against me when she moved. That’s amazing: a woman so comfortable with you like that, reveling in her body as it plays you.

I played her too, squeezing, teasing. I pulled gramma against me, reminding her I was open too. She was there humping my face like she had to fit a lifetime’s pleasure into those few moments. She let it all go. She rubbed her vagina into me, pressing so hard I thought we might merge into each other like two lumps of dough allowed to touch. I licked and enjoyed every inch of her.

Then she started coming. I might’ve said your gramma was like a bitch in heat before, but she’s no bitch in her release. She comes with the intensity and volume of a cat. With her head facing out into the room, no pillows or fabric muffling her, that was a spectacle of awe. I took her by the hair and pulled her head up, my hand sayin’, “Yeah! Gramma, come with pride like the wonderful woman you are.”

Course I done my part too, giving her the show I’d promised. Between one thing and another, we were facing the results of all that excitement, and had some decisions to make. If we carried on there was gonna be cum all over your gramma’s breasts and neck. We took a different approach. I won’t tell you about that part because there ain’t even no fancy president who’d say that weren’t sex.

A while later we was together on the bed. By then, I was looking for a come something fierce, although Little Dickie had fallen down on the job as it were. Your gramma was still revved up, although she was coasting down from fifth gear, probably somewhere ‘round second or so. Once again, I was stroking away. I suggested your gramma roll towards me and cuddle in. She did, curling under my arm, hers sprawled across my chest. When Little Dickie got his firing solution all worked out, gramma was gonna end up a mite messy, but we’re fine with that.

If I turned slightly, her head was practically under my nose. Her hair smelled amazing--most times, stronger than the smell of her vagina. Her other end, down there against my leg, was a snaky little scent of womanly lust, gone one second, grabbin’ you by the nose and balls the next. Her hair smelled homey, the reassuring musk of a woman after a day full of work and excitement, no unpleasant undertones of fear or upset.

It was as if she’d shrunk down to something small enough to easily be cuddled and wrapped up into an embrace. There weren’t no immense creature like the one that had been humping my face, howling her release to the neighborhood. Gramma was all snuggled into me while I stroked for that come.

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