Another incest tale from me. I decided to move into new territory with this one by introducing a different generational mix. I tried to make Granny as sexy as I could without bending reality too much; I mean, a lady in her 60s isn't going to be smooth and flawless as a 20 year old, but I used yoga to keep her supple and toned. Anyway I hope the imagery comes across.
As usual, since I self-edit, there are probably fuck-ups. And, as usual, I ask for your understanding.
If you enjoy the piece, let me know; if you don't, let me know. The only way I can improve is if I know what you like or dislike.
GA. Hostel Camino Verde, Santa Elena, Costa Rica 6 April 2012.
He had no business being there. Why had he entered? If questioned afterwards he'd have no explanation as to why he went in. There was no malicious intent, he'd just been nosey and acted on a whim. He'd always been inquisitive. The clocks had gone forward an hour the previous weekend, it was officially spring and with the days lengthening and gardens to be tidied there were opportunities for him to supplement his income from his day job with a few odd jobs for friends, neighbours and family. The more jobs he did, the quicker he'd have the motorbike.
Granny, his mother's mother, could put some work his way.
"Come around next Saturday," she'd said over the phone. "The garden needs a brush up after winter. I'd do it myself," Granny added, "but I'm so busy with the village fete and all that. There's only a week left to go," she fussed. If I didn't keep on top of things ..."
They agreed a time of 8:30. He pressed the red key on his mobile to end the call. Another twenty quid in the fund, he thought, smiling as he imagined the runs down to Brighton this summer with the lads. The bike, birds and beer -- What more could a twenty-two year old bloke want?
"I've got to go to the church hall," his grandmother said when he arrived promptly. She clicked her tongue, tutting with annoyance at being called to some crisis of committee. She put on her wide-brimmed sun hat, waved cheerily, and bade her grandson goodbye. "There are beers in the fridge," she called just before the front door slammed. "Help yourself to a sandwich later. I don't know how long I'll be."
And she was gone.
The work was easy enough and he cracked right on. The benign spring sunshine warmed his shoulders despite being relatively early in the season. In deference to the warmth of the day he slipped his tee-shirt over his head. Following a further half an hour of working he decided he'd earned a little break. The kitchen clock said 9am, too early for a beer so he settled for a glass of Coke instead. Then he needed a piss.
It was then things changed. Not that he knew it but a turning point in his life had arrived. He was about to make a shocking discovery.
The door was only slightly ajar when he walked past it on the way to the toilet. He'd moved from the kitchen into the hall and climbed the stairs to the second floor of his grandmother's modest cottage -- a detached place with three-bedrooms, tastefully furnished (no chintz, and which had been modernised and renovated in the last decade. He supposed, distantly, that being the only grandchild he'd inherit the place one day; not that such thoughts were in his head right then, he was focussed on an event much closer on his horizon, namely the bike and the fun he was going to have. He noticed the open door on his way to the toilet. On the return trip he paused.
Her bedroom. He'd never been inside. There'd never been cause. Why he pushed the door open wider? No clue. There was no reason at all other than his curiosity.
At first nothing appeared out of the ordinary. The bed wasn't made and he was surprised by that, Granny was usually meticulous in all things. Perhaps it was the call to the committee -- the desperate emergency concerning the village fete? Maybe that was the reason for his grandmother's uncharacteristic untidiness. Surveying the scene from a point a pace inside the room he saw a dressing table with neat rows of cosmetics, all martially arranged. That was more her style, neat and tidy; she was always immaculately turned out, well-groomed and well-spoken, the precise rows of bottles and lotions and potions were just as he'd expect. He moved stealthily into his grandmother's boudoir and slid open a mirror-fronted wardrobe. Within he saw clothes, all arranged according to colour, orderly. A massive television was mounted to the wall opposite the bed, which linked to a DVD player that sat on a small table. The close proximity of the DVD machine meant that Granny could easily insert a disc into the machine while sitting in bed. He noticed a colourful box lying half open on top of the silver player. Idly he wandered over, curious as to the film his grandmother would choose to watch in bed.
He blinked several times, his brain unable to grasp the reality of what he held in his hands. A cement block lumped in his guts as he gawped at the lurid cover of the DVD box, which depicted a Barbie doll blonde with her face distorted by a mouthful of enormous black cock.
The shock slapped him across the face; he hadn't expected Blacks on Blondes to be a title his grandmother would choose.
As if things couldn't get any more shocking, he then saw something nestled in the rumpled folds of his grandmother's bed. An indefinable feeling swept over him. He looked at the picture on the box, then towards the thing on the bed.
"Shit," he gasped, not realising he'd spoken out loud. That weird feeling tickled in his guts. It felt as though fingers were gently squeezing his testes, and he experienced the sudden, illicit urge to touch himself. "No," he muttered. "She can't ..." Then, not realising what was doing so great was his shock, he rubbed absently at the front of his jeans, palm moving against a sudden erection. The insistent urge to touch himself was irresistible. In his mind he saw her naked, on the bed watching the pornography on the screen while she used the dildo -- the long, thick, black length of rubber that lay there on her bed. The thought, which would have disgusted him if it had been articulated, overwhelmed him. His Granny watching porn and fucking herself with that rubber cock ...
Just as he picked the thing up to examine it, still not believing what his eyes told him was true, he heard a sound. Another cold water wave of shock washed over him. Inevitably, with fated timing, it could only be this way, when he turned towards the sound, he saw his grandmother standing in the hall looking in at him with her palms against her cheeks and her mouth an oval of surprise.
He saw her face redden with embarrassment, he first assumed, but he was wrong, his grandmother was livid.
"What do you think you're doing?" she stormed at him as her hands fell to her sides, fists clenched. "Get out. Get out now! You've no right to be in here. Not in my bedroom snooping through my private things. Get out!"
"But ... I ..." He stood there, bare-chested, gaping like a goldfish, with the lurid DVD case in one hand and his grandmother's dildo in the other.
Almost a scream: "Get out, I said!" The woman trembled with anger.
And he fled. He dropped the box and rubber cock onto the bed and all but ran from the room. He pushed past his distraught grandmother and took the stairs two at a time. Pausing only to collect his tee-shirt from where he'd dropped it in the back garden he got away from the cottage as fast as he could.
"Shit, shit ... shit." How could he ever look her in the eye again? What was he thinking? She was right, it was her private stuff. "Fuck," he hissed, grinding his knuckles against his forehead with chagrin twisting in his guts. What had he been thinking about just before she burst in on him? I was imagining her fucking herself, he admitted, and I was going to wank. He groaned when he thought of it. Being caught red handed was ignominy enough, how much worse would it have been if he'd been knocking one out when she came in?
During the short walk home, past the pub, past the church with its adjacent village hall, the site of next weekend's fete, he worried. What would she do now? Would she report his trespass at all?
But, as he thought that point through, he came to the conclusion that his grandmother, as angry as she was now wouldn't broadcast the mortifying event. After all, he reasoned, she wouldn't really want her porn and dildo made public. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad after all?
It wasn't until that night, in bed, that the insidious desire tickled his scrotum. At first he pushed the thoughts away, but eventually relented and, with images in his head of his grandmother easing the long, black length of dildo into her opening, he slid his fist along his erection.
His grandmother was a good-looking woman he realised; even he could see that she'd taken care of herself over the years. He visualised his grandmother's breasts. Fine pair of tits he conceded, stroking his erection faster, applying some squeezing pressure to the girth. "I bet she's got some piss-flaps on her," he murmured lewdly into the dark. And then the semen gushed from him in a torrent, making him gasp and scrabble for the tee-shirt at the side of his bed. Wiping the outpouring from his stomach and chest with the shirt he chastised himself, grinning ruefully. "You fuckin' perv," he muttered. He dropped the soiled garment to the carpet at the side of the bed and rolled onto his side. Sleep remained elusive, tormented as he was by fantasy scenes playing in his mind.
Scenes of his grandmother in old-fashioned lingerie, masturbating with her dildo while sucking on a thick, rigid cock.
"You look rough," his mother commented the next day when he eventually crawled out of bed.
"Bad night. Couldn't stop dreaming." He didn't volunteer any information on the subject of his nocturnal disturbance. Somehow he thought his mother might not appreciate it.
The toast stopped halfway to his mouth. "Your grandmother phoned," his mother said as she left the kitchen. "Something about you not finishing the job yesterday?" His mother's voice receded upstairs, dwindling as the distance increased. "She wants you round there today ... About one o'clock."
This was going to be awkward. At first he considered an excuse, and then thought about simply just not going at all. What mood would she be in? Still angry? Had she asked him to go around just to berate him further? His face burned when he recalled his actions during the night. Had he really thought of his grandmother while he wanked? That was just too sick. What kind of human being thinks like that?
Evidently he did.
Anxious and with his heart hammering he found himself at the front gate to the cottage at the allotted time. There was a brief flash of hope as he knocked timidly on the back door, the customary portal to his grandmother's house -- the reason he'd not heard her ill-timed return, for the back door had been open and she'd walked right in. The hope that she'd ignore the event completely, never mention it, was dashed as soon as he stepped into the kitchen.
"Ah, there you are, Michael, there's something we have to discuss." His grandmother indicated a slat-backed wooden chair. The feet scraped across the ancient flagstones when Michael dragged it from beneath the kitchen table. He sat, elbows on the wood, forehead in hands, waiting. "Would you like a beer?" He looked up.
To his surprise she seemed quite calm, cheerful in fact as she'd smiled at him and welcomed him into the kitchen. Now his grandmother waited for an answer, her head tilted to one side, questioning. Michael noticed the wavy, honey-blonde hair -- did she colour it? At 62 he was sure she must. He saw the usual immaculately presented matron, neatly dressed in a bright yellow summer dress which fell to a flattering point just above the knee. Michael remembered how he'd admired his grandmother's legs in his fantasy. She did have great legs. He blushed at the thought. His eyes, of their own accord, flicked to her chest. Big tits he confirmed mentally. In fact the old girl looked pretty good all round. Then he blushed deeper when he caught his grandmother's eye. Had she seen him checking out her boobs?
Her voice interrupted the whirling thoughts in his head. "Did you want a beer?" she asked with a strange expression on her face. "I thought we could go through what happened yesterday over a drink. Civilised. Adult. But you seem ... distracted."
Her face wore a sly grin, unsettling the young man even more than the lewd imaginings of his grandmother's sexuality. "A beer would be good," he replied, voice wavering with consternation. "Thanks."
The woman handed him a can of lager. "I can't open it with these nails." She extended her fingers to show her grandson red-painted talons before pouring a glass, a large one, of red wine. Sitting adjacent to him, ninety degrees around the table, she crossed her legs and sipped at her drink.
His eyes went to her calves again.
"So, Michael ... About yesterday—"
"I'm sorry, Gran," he blurted, interrupting. "I shouldn't have been in your room. It's private. Those ... things ... I shouldn't. I'm sorry ..."
"I've been thinking about all that, Michael," the woman said softly. "And I'm sorry I got so angry and shouted at you. It was just such a ... shock seeing you there, with my ... things. I normally tidy away but with rushing about yesterday ..." She shrugged, her cheeks colouring slightly.
Her upraised hand halted Michael's protestation. "It was a shock, Michael. That's all. But after you'd gone and I'd calmed down, I began to think. I'd like you to know some things; I'd like to explain ... Just to clear the air. I mean, this could be so awkward for both of us." His grandmother regarded him soberly. Her light blue eyes were steady on his face. "Don't you agree," she added, sipping wine.
"Yeah, it'd be ... weird," Michael concurred, grateful that the whole awkward mess could be put aside.
The woman shifted position, wriggling against the hard chair. "Bring your beer into the best room," she instructed, standing and smoothing her dress over her hips. "We can talk more comfortably in there." Michael followed his grandmother into what she called her best room, a cosy space with a two-seater settee, a single seat chair in the same modish fabric, a flat screen television and decorated with an arrangement of family photographs from over the years. It was a room familiar to Michael; he'd spent a lot of time in there, unlike his grandmother's boudoir. "That's better." The woman settled into the two-seater and, after kicking off her shoes, tucked her feet under her body. Again there was that distracting flash of bare leg. "Now, where was I?" She sipped delicately at her wine. "Ah, yes ..." Michael sat opposite his grandmother as she began. "I've been a widow for fifteen years, Michael." Her eyes moved to a portrait of a grinning sunburned man, Michael's grandfather. "And after a while I realised I had certain ... needs." Michael shifted in his seat, uncomfortable at the tone the monologue was taking. "It took me a long time to go through your granddad's things, but when I did, I made a little discovery."
Oh shit, Michael thought. I don't really want to hear this.
"I found some dirty books, magazines they were, quite explicit." His grandmother's precisely sculpted eyebrow arched. "And some videos," she added. Michael gulped several swigs of beer. "Another drink, dear?" the woman asked. Without waiting for a reply she uncurled her legs and went into the kitchen, returning with a second can.
"You don't have to do this, Gran," Michael said with a catch in his voice. "I understand, I do, really ..."
"Oh, that's good to know, darling." The lady responded, giving her grandson the benefit of a wide-eyed smile. "So we're going to keep this little incident between us? Strictly confidential."
With an air of relief, Michael said: "Oh yeah, sure. I'm happy enough to forget the whole thing." He placed the empty can on the side table next to his seat and popped the fresh one.
"It would be so embarrassing if we hadn't cleared the air, Michael," the woman continued softly. "I mean, you thinking the worst of me, I don't know what you must have thought ... Granny's a pervert who watches dirty films and ..."
Michael flinched. She didn't know that he'd thought about her in a carnal way, or that he'd actually fantasised -- and masturbated -- imagining her doing just as she'd described, his grandmother watching a porn film while she drilled herself with a rubber cock. And not just any rubber cock, a black dildo of quite eye-watering proportions.
"Are you all right, dear?" the woman asked, her voice full of concern as she leaned forward. "You look queer all of a sudden." Michael coughed, alarmed by a sudden erection. "It's the surprise, isn't it?" his grandmother continued. "Finding something like that is a bit of a shock." She nodded. "I know it is from when I discovered your grandfather's little cache. Of course," she continued blithely, apparently lost in her reverie. "I had to watch the videos ... Well one at least ... And to my surprise I found I quite enjoyed watching it. It gave me a totally unexpected thrill. I felt like some kind of voyeur. I'd never seen anything like it. People doing it. And so brazenly! The girls just didn't seem to care about what they did, or with whom they did it. It was all so casual and indiscriminate. And the films were so explicit ... There was no plot to speak of, and some of the situations were laughable, but," the woman paused, staring intently at her grandson. "That's not the point is it -- the plot?"
"No, Gran," Michael managed to croak.
"So I like sex, Michael. I'm a woman and I like sex. I enjoy my films and I like to ... relieve myself as I watch them."
"Shit, Gran. I don't need to know this ... Please."
Ignoring him she ploughed on. "I'm a woman of standing in the village, Michael. I have to be careful of rumour and gossip. If I were to take a lover it would be subject to so much scrutiny. Not that it really matters but I have my pride. Hence my private collection upstairs."
A long silence developed between the pair. The cottage was still and silent around them, nothing disturbed the Sunday peace other than a fat bee that wove its meandering way into the room from the kitchen. The thing buzzed a lethargic circuit and departed, disappearing back into the kitchen where it presumably found the open door to the garden. Then, in the distance, the church bells, long since automated, tolled the half hour.
The sound of the bell brought a comment from the woman, breaking the silence at last. "Another blasted committee meeting at two." She sipped at her wine and shifted position on the sofa. "You know," she continued, "yesterday, when I found you upstairs ..." Michael could only nod. "... I thought ..." The woman grinned, her eyes downcast as though embarrassed to finish.
As usual his curiosity got the better of him. "What?" Michael asked.
"With your shirt off..." She giggled then, actually tittered behind her hand. "I thought you were ... You know ... Relieving yourself."
Michael's face filled with blood. If she knew what he'd been about to do, if she'd been five minutes later returning home she'd have caught him in exactly that situation.
He explained in a rush to mask the discomfit. "I was hot in the garden, working. I took my shirt off and then needed a drink. Then I needed a pee. The door to your room was open, and ..."
"It doesn't matter, Michael," his grandmother said kindly. "We all do it."
"Gran ..." Michael groaned, closing his eyes, shutting her out. "Please, this is just too embarrassing. We shouldn't talk like this. Let's just put it behind us ... Please?"