Horny 19-year-old is seduced by his parent's best friends during a summer stayover.
Author's note -- this story contains scenes of homosexual activity.
Portions of this story have been inspired by the author's previous works, including Morning Sex with Mom, and the Tits Are for Sucking series.
1.
My parents left town for a few weeks on a combination business trip and vacation, leaving me, their only son, behind due to my school obligations. I was doing poorly in math, so had to attend summer school to catch up in preparation for my first year at community college. Dad worked for a large office supply manufacturing firm and traveled frequently. As he had done for many years, he took advantage of a generous expense account which allowed my mother to accompany him once or twice per year to a destination selected by the corporation. His job was to find and develop new sales territories, and he was good at what he did.
Normally, I got to tag along, which I loved. Mom felt the same way about these trips. Getting us out of the house and our routine -- her with her domestic chores, club meetings and lunches with friends and me with my school -- effectively broke up the daily monotony. Although some of the travel destinations included Asswipe, North Dakota, or Inbred Holler, West Virginia, we didn't mind, as long as we could experience something new and different.
This time, I stayed behind and concentrated on my studies, but not at home. At least to their sensibilities, I was not of a responsible age yet, so they sent me to stay under the careful watch of their best friends - John and his wife Rosemary.
John was a successful writer of both fiction and non-fiction books, and some of his publications had made it to the New York Times Best Seller list. That and some wise investments in the burgeoning personal computer industry resulted in a comfortable lifestyle for him and his wife. John divided his time between burrowing away in his writing den, door closed, clacking away at his pale blue IBM Selectric, enjoying the fruits of his labor by traveling with Rosemary, or just relaxing with her at home.
A friendly, nurturing woman with a big, toothy smile, Rosemary was a few years younger than her husband, a hippie homebody who dabbled in New Age spirituality mixed with good, old-fashioned homespun wisdom. An excellent cook, she also enjoyed working in her garden during the season, maintaining a household, and painting abstracts in her sunny studio.
John and Rosemary were like a second set of parents to me, I having known them all my life, although they had recently begun treating me more like an adult than a shy high school kid. Yes, I had just turned nineteen and hoped that, before long, my real parents might deem me mature enough to take care of myself. John and Rosemary were ahead of the curve, but we were still not quite free from that grey area where they still called me things like "kid" and "boy" -- like I was a child -- and Rosemary drove me to summer school every day in her brilliant, yellow Beetle, like a doting mother. Having no choice in the matter but to stay with them during my parents' trip, I appreciated the change of scenery, and made the best of my situation.
There was another reason I didn't mind the stayover. Honestly, for the past few months, my wandering mind and roiling young sexuality were taking me to a place I thought I'd never be. To my surprise, I'd been harboring a burgeoning lust for Rosemary -- hell, I was hot for both of them. Rosemary was like an alluring, younger aunt, with a lithe body and small breasts. I never knew her age, but she looked to be thirty or thirty-five, tops. She never struck me as a beauty queen or seductress, but her pale, freckled skin was smooth and pretty, her body a pleasant combination of boyish and feminine, as natural and unapologetic as her personality. I noticed her blood-red hair had sprouted a few strands of grey, just like my mother.
John had always sported an impressive physique and I found myself glancing at him more and more as I matured. During most of my stay, he went shirtless, wearing only his shorts, much to my delight. It was obvious that he worked out regularly and jogged, as was the vogue in the late nineteen-seventies. When not admiring Rosemary, I spent many hours surreptitiously eyeing John's firm, radiant body.
John and Rosemary owned a beautiful, modern home in one of the town's well-established, middle-class suburbs. The low, ranch-style structure was mostly canopied by large, old-growth shade trees. Thick foliage surrounded the house, filtering out external noises and providing a certain degree of privacy from neighbors.
The back yard contained a modest swimming pool next to a partially-enclosed patio which, in turn, was attached to the rear of the house. A decoratively-bricked area containing lawn furniture filled the gap between the patio and pool. At the edge of the patio was a hot tub just large enough for two or three people. Since these were the dog days of summer, we spent a lot of time by the pool's glittering, blue water.
When not engrossed in other projects, Rosemary could be found stretched out on a long, plastic lawn chair, lounging in the dappled sunlight in a skimpy, two-piece bathing suit. A more powerfully-built woman would've made the suit obscene, but Rosemary still managed to make it look demure.
Her body always glistened with suntan lotion, and I longed for the chance to refresh that sheen, but she always asked her husband to take care of her back. The other parts of her body she tended to herself. As a Bach Invention wafted down on us from the external speakers mounted in the patio area, I watched with great care as she dutifully applied the lotion. She'd start with her face, shoulders and arms, working down to her chest and stomach, then to her thighs and legs, finishing up with her feet.
Day after scorching day, watching the two of them go about their business, my libido started to do its work. I had already surrendered to masturbating frequently, filling my head with all sorts of naughty encounters. Now, these encounters included Rosemary's limber body and John's taut, solid form. Initially, I fought these desires, feeling shame for thinking of them in that way. They were almost my parents, for Christ's sake!
At night, I writhed bare-assed on the bed in their guest room, beating my pole into milky submission. It took a little time for me to think of these two parent-like figures sexually, but soon, I learned to submit to my newfound desires, to relax and enjoy the ride. Now they were front and center during my Onanic sojourns.
During my nocturnal masturbatory fantasies, I happened upon a pleasant discovery. In spite of the size of John and Rosemary's mid-century home, my bedroom and theirs shared an interior wall, a barrier that was not totally soundproof. Was it a minor shortcoming on the part of the original architect, perhaps, who had done such a thorough and tasteful job on the house overall? Should the wall have been more solid and sound absorbing? Probably, but I soon came to appreciate this constructional oversight.
Hence, I would often hear sounds from their bedroom -- doors closing, drawers opening and shutting, water running in their bathroom, plus the ambling cadence of John's low voice -- seeping through the wallpaper, enflaming my curiosity.
In the wee hours, I would awake to other sounds -- persistent and rhythmic -- from the other side. Holding as still as possible, I would press my ear against the wall behind my bed and listen intently. One night, after an eternity of tedious monitoring, I could make out a voice. It was Rosemary's. As I continued to listen, I could tell she was obviously exited, spilling out a stream of words I could not make out.
The rhythmic sounds emanating from their room became a dull banging. It would be barely noticeable if my ear wasn't glued to the wallpaper. Motionless, I closed my eyes in the near-darkness, keeping my breaths shallow and slow as I tried to keep other noises from interfering with my aural voyeurism. John's voice chimed in with Rosemary's. To my delight, I could understand his words - the words of an aggressive lover.
"Yeah, honey...take it...take it," he said. "Horny slut, I'm going to punish your pussy."
My eyes opened wide. No doubt there was some fucking going on! Jesus, I thought, I shouldn't be listening to this, but screw it. I couldn't pass up this opportunity. My penis swelled.
Rosemary responded, but again, I couldn't make out specific words. John continued, his voice mixing with the rhythmic thumping. With demeaning words and tone, he instructed his wife on what to do.
"That's it, you bitch, that's it...right there. Get that ass up. What a wet pussy you have!"
More agitated noises came from Rosemary as all of my senses focused on the encounter happening only a foot or two away.
"Goddammit," John growled. "Fucking whore. Take my seed. Take it...now!"
Christ, he was giving her a good workout! In spite of John's tone, I didn't sense that Rosemary was being hurt or forced in this encounter. The sounds I heard indicated a woman getting a good, thorough fucking. The banging ramped up until I heard what sounded like stifled screams from Rosemary. My cock by now was straining against my shorts. I reached down, tugging at the elastic waistband to let it out. Once it bobbed free, I wrapped my hand around it and began to squeeze and pull.
"Ohhh, Goddamn! Fuck...fuck!" John cursed as I listened, stroking my cock, imagining him crushing out his orgasm inside his wife's body. It didn't take long for me to feel the approach of my own climax.
"That's it, John," I whispered to myself, "Fuck the shit out of her. Come inside her and let me watch." I envisioned their naked bodies pounding furiously, glistening with sweat, John's cock wet with his wife's juices. I wanted to be part of it! At that moment, a delicious surge flashed through my loins. My mouth fell open as I fought to keep still, my young seed squirting out, making a mess on my shorts and the pillows.
"Damn," I hissed between clenched teeth as the orgasm persisted. I milked the sensation for another minute, savoring it as the climax subsided. Taking care not to make a sound, I grabbed a few Kleenex from the nightstand and tried to clean up the goo as best I could.
