Straight Shooter

Literotic asexstories – Straight Shooter by OnePaige,OnePaige Straight Shooter

I hope I marry a girl like dear old mom

My father always told me, Say what you mean and mean what you say. It served him well in life and business. So I knew he wasn’t kidding on that sere December day as we followed the meandering stream of Gap Run back from checking out a kitchen that we were pricing, when he looked at me seriously, his big-knuckled hands on the wheel, and said, “Grant, your mother wants the three of us to have sex together.”

You’d be right if you think I was surprised. But I didn’t jump out of the truck and run screaming either.

He let me sit with the idea. I watched the fallow, tan hayfields drift past under a low, gun-metal sky pregnant with snow, and listened to my heart beat fast in my ears.

It’s not that the idea was totally alien. I was a healthy twenty-year-old only child who’d lived on a farm with his parents all his life, still deciding on college or not. They’d had me when dad was twenty-six and mom seventeen, and they’d grown up quick when dad’s parents died two years later, leaving him the farm, the building business and a young family. As a pair they were beautifully matched in temperament and values. They looked like clothing models for Orvis – outdoorsy, lean, sun-bleached and smiling. Dad and mom were pragmatic, get-things-done kind of people. Mom had her household domain and dad had veto power over everything. For them, life was clear rules and hard work rewarded with exuberant play.

I had an inch on dad and I’d filled out into a well-muscled man who was sometimes mistaken for his brother. That day the illusion was enhanced as we both wore the informal company uniform – khakis and a dark green collared shirt.

My mother was just five-two, only coming up to my chest, bouncy and ponytailed, a horse-woman who couldn’t sit still. If she wasn’t mucking the stalls she was baking bread or weeding the garden. Mom was the kind of woman who kept her nails short and didn’t waste money on glamor. It truly would be wasted; she had a natural beauty that came from sun, real work, vivacity and confidence. She valued loyalty in friendships and fidelity in love. Cheerfully obedient, mom would do anything my father directed. And he didn’t ask anything frivolous of his family. I wondered whose idea this menage-a-trois really was.

Dad changed the subject, “That job’s one of those trophy-house projects. The client’s a K-Street lobbyist. He’ll use it maybe five weekends out of the year and definitely try to nickel and dime us on every line item.”

“Another millionaire with no sense?” I was glad to be diverted.

“Well, sense enough to take Mickleson’s advice and hire us.” he chuckled. We, Robert Brown and Son, were known as bespoke kitchen builders. It’s all we did and we did it hands-on and as much in-house as possible. Our waiting list stretched to three years. Being fifth-generation Virginians and living on the family acreage we reeked with the kind of authenticity that the DC crowd couldn’t hope to buy. We milled our own moldings and hand-crafted most of the cabinets, we set our own tile, too. Power brokers liked to brag to their buddies about how expensive we were. And then that guy would hire us to one-up him. Dad always said that the real money and power in DC were with the lobbyists, think-tanks, military contractors and political advertisers. The politicians were just empty suits, distracting the marks, the voters, while the real action happened in the mansions of the quietly influential. And we worked for them.

“She told me the other night,” dad said matter-of-factly.

“My parents are weird,” I sighed. He’d always been a straight shooter with me about anything. He could demonstrate how to gut a deer or outfox a cheating client, explain how to make out with a girl or break up with her. He had said as early as I could remember that their project with me was to raise a strong adult man. My job was to take on responsibility as I grew into it. They’d be there to catch me, coach me, cheer me on. It worked. I think dad’s experience losing his parents early was behind it. And I felt pretty much ready to step into his shoes, though youthful arrogance played a part.

My parents knew I wasn’t a virgin and my latest girlfriend, Maggie, a buxom redhead, had gone west to school and we’d broken up over Thanksgiving break. There was little we couldn’t talk about, but the thought of him and mom inviting me into their sex lives?

“Well, your mom’s a firecracker, that’s for sure,” he grinned. “I’ll tell you her reasoning if you’re ready to hear it.”

“Jeez, let me just absorb the concept for a minute.” So, of course I’d noticed my mother’s very fine feline body around the farm. Her energy was…let’s say, inviting. I knew it wasn’t unusual to have sexual fantasies about your mother. And mine was especially sexually charismatic. Dad always watched smugly when he introduced clients to her at parties and they responded to that special animal energy she gave off. Like deer in the headlights at first, then wolfishly, those other men would light up in her presence. He was confident that no amount of money or power would get between him and his wife. He liked showing these posers what they couldn’t have. Dangling my mother in front of them was good marketing. She cleaned up well for formal events, carrying off a designer satin gown as well as she did her jeans. The overly-made-up women at these parties looked artificial beside her, fragile; mom was real, unbreakable. She had elegance when it was called for and an earthy, smoldering hunger with dad.

I know that last part because of course I’d often watched them scamper off to their bedroom. Mom liked to tease him anyway and over the years I’d become an innocent bystander to their playful grab-ass foolishness. At times they both could be pretty relaxed about what they wore around the house, especially after they’d been frolicking in their bedroom. Some Sunday mornings I’d find mom in the kitchen making coffee clearly naked under a short robe and dad in just his boxers by the spa. I thought it was because they took my presence for granted. They said they didn’t want me to have any hangups about bodies. Adults have sex, mom had said, there’s no need to be secretive about it. Maybe mom was thinking of me and my body all along. It made me rethink something that I’d witnessed in June.

I’d been upstairs in my bedroom in the hundred and fifty year old original house, a two-over-two ‘carpenter’ georgian. Mom and dad were off in their wing out beyond the kitchen which was off-limits to me. I’d gone downstairs for some apple juice about eleven. But I noticed the lights from the spa out on the deck and peeked through the window over the sink. Apparently they hadn’t realized that I’d come home instead of staying at Maggie’s. The deep, lightless shadow of the Appalachians as backdrop, my mother sat spread-eagled on the edge with dad eyebrow deep in her sex, pushing her knees apart with his big hands. I turned quickly to go, but curiosity got the better of me. I stayed. You’d do the same.

So I watched her writhing under his tongue for a while. In the spa lights she could have been twenty-something, her breasts fresh as pears, her thighs as smooth and gently curved as a polished art nouveau cabinet. Mom put her hand on dad’s head and held him there while she yipped out an orgasm. In the kitchen I’d reached in the fly of my pajamas and begun stroking. Maybe it seems pervy to think of wanking to my parents, but at that moment my cock wanted stroking and my hand obliged.

Then dad stood up, his long, dripping boner pointing at mom. He put his hands on his hips confidently. “Take it,” he said and she smiled and leaned forward. Mom grasped his shaft and went down on him smoothly. He threw back his head and groaned, like howling at the moon. I stroked my oozing juice along my shaft, imagining the slipperiness of mom’s mouth. Watching my petite mother choking down dad’s cock filled out a mental image of her that must have been lurking in my unconscious mind. It seemed natural. It looked beautiful. To see two healthy bodies so gracefully giving each other pleasure just clicked in my brain. It wasn’t skeevy me, a voyeur of my own parents, but one virile male appreciating a pair of loving people simply and skillfully giving each other pleasure.

They weren’t putting on a show for me but I bet they looked that good every time. At that moment I didn’t have enough functioning frontal lobe to wonder. I just yanked my crank while mom blew dad in the misty, steaming tub. Her hand whipped up and down his shiny shaft like my hand did on mine. Her head bobbed, she pulled off for the occasional breath, smiling up at dad, then dove on him again. He reached for her ponytail and went all stiff. I did the same there above the sink, my whole body becoming erect as the switch in my prostate flipped and my spunk raced for daylight.

Dad rose on his tiptoes and so did I. He held mom’s head firmly but gently on his knob as his hips twitched, his torso flexed, his lips contorted. My explosion drummed into the sink as his filled mom’s mouth and bubbly, white froth streamed down over her chin and into the roiling spa.

I wiped the sink with a paper towel and high-tailed it upstairs. That was good stroke fodder all summer. I never happened to see them at it again, but I did drink a lot of midnight juice. By which I mean I went down to the kitchen after bedtime any time I spent the night at home for some apple juice in hopes of a repeat, but I had to be OK with only one thirst satisfied.

That day in the truck, winding our way home past the mostly bare trees, I finally asked, “how long has she been considering this?”

“Oh, I’d guess for a while…” dad said, vaguely. He shifted the old, exquisitely restored ’65 Jimmy forcefully into third. The clutch needed adjusting; the Detroit iron could run forever, but it was finicky.

“Do you, uh, have you two, I mean, have you done it with someone else before?”