If Only

All characters are over 18, fictional, and none of it ever happened. Think of it as a grimm fairytale.

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Grandpa deals with life and loss in his own private way. Trigger warning on implied depression and death.

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"Grandpa, I have a run in my stocking. And they're itchy. Do I have to wear them?"

"You know it's important to me, and it's how we show respect. I've told you, this is a big day for you and me. It's your chance to learn how to behave when we're together in public. I want to be proud of you."

"But I didn't like her, even when she and Aunty Betsy came to visit me and Mummy. And in any case, even though she can't come now, Angela could. I've been waiting for this sleepover, and Angela would still come as my BFF and bestest cousin. Just the two of us and you."

"I'm sorry about Angela. You are three... um, two... now... of my favorite grand-daughters, just as your mummy and Angela's mummy have always been my two favorite daughters. You were even born on the same day. I've been waiting for this special sleepover for years now. With all three... I mean... with you and Angela... you know that."

"We do, Grandpa. We talk about it all the time. Should we just wait till next month?"

"It won't be the same, Jilly. This is the first month for you and Angela. You know that. Two weeks ago was a special time. So exciting. It's what we've all been waiting for. You know I've been waiting since even before you and Angela were born. And now it's time."

"Oh, Grandpa. You're so special and I love you so much!" and she unfastens her seat belt, kneels up on the seat, throws her arms around his neck, and kisses him. The first lands on his cheek, and the second on his lips as he turns—as she intends—to her upturned face and open lips. They hold the kiss for at least a minute while his tongue dances with hers and he watches the road ahead out of the corner of his eye. Finally he sits back with a grunt.

It's beginning to sink in. He's beginning to seethe. He drives on in silence.

***

Suddenly he swears.

"God-damn it! Why did she have to pick this month to do it. So selfish! She just wasn't thinking of anyone else, and now all of us have to change our plans on a week's notice, just to deal with her!" In his anger, he jerks the wheel and veers across the road and back again.

Jilly's knuckles are white on the grab handle.

"Gramps, I'm sorry. I know she didn't like me. I think she was jealous of me and Angela. Even though she was never sure herself, I know you had plans for her. You would have made her so confident. Like me, and like Angela is learning. She's much older than us but she's still special to you. You wanted it for her just as much as you want it for the two of us."

"Yes. I did. I do. I don't love you and Angela any less, but I loved Evelyn too and wanted the same for her as I want for you, even if it would have been years later than it should have been."

He thumps the wheel in frustration and swerves again.

***

He drives on in silence. Jilly knows his moods and let's him think.

Finally something settles in his mind. He drops his hand to her knee and slides it up her thigh to rest comfortably under the hem, where his fingers uncurl, searching for the familiar warmth between her spreading thighs.

"Jilly, maybe I can make it up to you and Angela. Perhaps we can leave early and call Angela and she can come over and we'll have a nice night. It won't be the same without Evelyn, but I've been looking forward to you and Angela coming tonight, just as much as you have.

"Besides, I think everyone's emotions of the afternoon will get my blood going. Power is definitely an aphrodisiac. And besides, I always get frisky when your mummy wears black. You know that."

"Yes, I know Gramps," she smiles, reaching for his knee,"...and you like me in black too..." tracing circles with her fingers, "...just like in these stockings you and mummy bought me..." her fingers moving higher.

"Yes, Jilly, I...uh...", a quick glance at her, "...I sure do."

He brings his hand from her thigh to cover her hand resting on his thigh. His large masculine hand with its thicket of black hairs which she loves encloses hers. He savors the small, soft, delicate form curled beneath his palm, and in response to her body's invitation—which he could never resist—presses her hand into the welcoming chasm between his thighs. They both sigh, as one.

She glances up at him, his handsome strong face reminding her of her mummy, Jane. They have the same cheek bones, nose and full lips. Just like her own. She loves to examine her delicate features in the mirror, tracing the family resemblance. It's unmistakeable in all three of them, in both masculine and feminine versions, and reminds her where she came from. She loves when they go out in public, both of them holding his hands, people thinking she and Mummy are his daughters. She's proud to belong to Grandpa.

In his turn, he glances down at her, at his Lil'JIlly, loving and gentle, and squeezes her hand more closely around the rod she can barely get her hand around. He feels pre-cum leaking. But it's another hour to the church so he has plenty of time.

"Tell me again how you and mummy made me," she says, and her little hand moves up to clasp the familiar shaft in his black suit pants.

***

"It all started," he begins, winking at her, as he always does when the memory comes flooding back, "as I was tucking Lil'Janey in bed one night,"—resorting as always to his favorite pet name for her—"years ago. It was raining outside, bucketing down, and there was a summer thunderstorm coming up the valley, and Nana had called to say she'd stay overnight with Dave and Aunt Betsy."

"Oh, that must have been scary," and she intentionally squeezes a little harder, causing Gramps to hold his breath and pause, and letting her continue, "I'm sure mummy was scared. She and I are both like that."

She releases her squeeze, at which he exhales with a grunt and, then slowly get's back on track. "Uh. Um. Hmm. What was I saying? Yes, she still is, and most definitely was that night, and she cuddled up to me and asked me to stay with her until the storm passed."

"Did you get under the blankets with her?"

"I started to, but her bed was too narrow, so I carried her into Nana's and my bedroom."

"Ooh, I like that. It must have been so nice. It always is for me. I can slide down under Nana's big down comforter and curl up against you. Mummy must have loved it."

"Yes, she certainly did. She's always liked it. Ever since she was a girl. Still does. It was—is—our special time when Nana's away. Which she often was. Is. Betsy needs a lot of help with her lot, especially Evelyn." And he falls silent as Jilly runs her little index finger over the moist spot on his black suit pants at the end of his cock.

"Go on Gramps," she says, looking up at him. "And keep your eyes on the road."

He clears his throat and resumes.

"So anyway, that night was different. Janey had just become a woman..."

"Oh gramps, don't be stuffy, you mean she'd had her first period. I know all about that. I'm all grown up now..."

"...yes, that's right, I forget," and he blushes a little. "...you... um... er... had..."

"...yes Grandpa, I 'um..er..had' my first period two weeks ago." and giggles as she mimics him.

"...yes, yes, yes..." and he hurries on, "Well Janey had had her first monthly visit..."—another giggle from his wide-eyed darling looking up at him with a sly grin—"...and when that happens a male is particularly attracted to the female and the female is particularly receptive to the attentions of a male."

In his embarrassment he has become quite clinical. But beside him, Jilly is anything but clinical and is smoothly and rhythmically running her hand up and down the thick hard shaft which has somehow become disengaged from Gramps pant leg and is now rising vertically inside his boxers.

"And then what happened?" she asks, looking up at him in wide eyed innocence. Keeping her eyes raised to him—Lil'Janey taught her well—her fingers work with a combination of muscle memory, feel and experience. She expertly undoes his belt, pulls down his zip and releases the imprisoned phallus. Her fingers now expertly smooth the slick of pre-cum around the head and urethra and start to draw out more.

"Well... (fuck, that's good!)... I managed to get her on her back... and... (God almighty! Jesus Christ have mercy on me)... she came twice... (shit and fuck)... and then I spread her legs and took her for the first time... (uh, uh, uh)... I remember it like it was yesterday..."

Her last words for now are, "...or do you remember it like it was last night, Gramps... I heard you and Mummy going at it and... (glumph...galumph)..." the last phrase becoming muffled and slurred as she slurps down her favorite Grand-daddy's cock.

***

Half an hour later they are back on the road. He had managed to swing into a lay-bye just in time to put the car in park, drop his seat back and give himself over to his favorite Grand-daughter's expert mouth.

Now, cleaned up and driving fast to make up time, he is full of love and pride for Janey. She has been an excellent teacher for Jilly these past many years, and he is proud of them both.

Ten minutes later, just as Jilly finishes straightening her unfamiliar stockings, touching up her red lipstick in the mirror, and hastily checking Gramp's trousers for stains, they pull into the church parking lot next to the cemetery.

He checks his close clipped hair and clerical collar in the mirror, assumes a serious expression, gets out slowly and retrieves his suit coat and vestments from the back seat, and walks solemnly around to the passenger door.

"On with the show," he winks so no one can see, as he takes Jilly's hand and helps her alight from the car like he's escorting a beautiful young woman to a night of entertainment.

***

Everyone is already gathered, waiting, and they move forward to greet him, respectfully, as each best knows how. In turn they either step forward to plant a kiss on his cheek, or step back and give a slightly self-conscious bow to usher him ahead.

He is known as a perfect father, grand-father, pastor and gentleman. Beloved and respected by all. Butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, though many a female at the funeral surreptitiously remembers her cunt creaming on his tongue, fingers or cock.

As he hugs his family—who today are also his parishioners—he breathes in deeply the musk of myrrh and grief—the scent of which he has become a connoisseur. He has known his whole life that nothing raises the alpha in him as much as the smell of men and women yielding to raw emotion and vulnerability.

As he pulls the women in close, he feels their breasts, nipples, bellies and pelvises press into him, and imagines his cock in them, lifting them on wings of desire to moments of transcendence and loss, of orgasm and death. A woman weeping in his arms for a daughter lost to her own hand is enough to make him cum. He imagines being balls-deep in her, his cock-head seeking her womb, his pulsing jets giving her the blessing of another child to replace that lost in the casket behind her, the casket he is pressing her to, one of her hands reaching back to caress the hard oak behind, the other reaching forward to caress the hard oak thrusting inside.

As for the men, his certainty delivers dominance, which in their grief they accept willingly. They think it absolves their guilt, and he is quite ready to oblige. To the father of the deceased, still broken, he might murmur, "You did your best," knowing quite well this is a dagger in the man's heart. "Leave it to me," he says, "I know best. Bring your wife to me tomorrow so I can comfort her," and reaches out a hand to grasp the weeping female's hand, accidentally sliding his fingers along her pelvis, assessing, measuring, approving.

After the funeral, as the family files past, they touch his hand, they murmur, they glance up. They think they seek comfort, but actually seek direction, control, authority. As they do he looks into their eyes and instantly decides. Most he releases with a subtle glance to the side and they move on, downcast, or dejected, he doesn't care. But some, particularly females, particularly certain weeping nieces, especially of a ripe and responsive age, find in that moment his gaze locked and loaded as he leans in to embrace and comfort them.

The particularly observant notice a warm flush of moisture beneath their mounds and an imperceptible upthrust of their pelvis as he enfolds them long and tight in his strong embrace. He murmurs in their ear so only they can hear, "Come and see me when your need becomes great."

He is such a comfort. God's faithful worker. A true gentleman.

***

After a minimally polite and scant two hours he moves to take his leave. He wants to get on the road soon with his Jilly and call her delightful and still reticent cousin Angela. He's already arranged with Janey to keep Nana occupied and not let her come home until at least tomorrow night. Janey knows what's expected of her and is as obedient as ever. And Nana will do what she's told. As ever.

Before he leaves he goes to Betsy and, taking her two hands in his cold bony fingers, offers his final condolences. Only he and God know what he really means as he tells her, "I never got to know Evelyn quite as well as I wanted. Though we did make a start, and I was so looking forward to her visit tonight." He allows his voice to catch in his throat, a trick learned long ago. "I know she was a warm and wonderful girl to know. In so many ways. I will always miss not being present as she started a family. If only."

"We all have our 'if only's'," Betsy replies.

He cannot read her, and therefore continues smoothly, "I thoroughly enjoy being a pastor to young women as they enter adulthood. It is my calling and joy. Come unto me, said Jesus, and I try to live that every day. I try to live without 'if only's'."

"I don't have a choice," says Betsy, her eyes steady on his.

As he draws back, Betsy keeps his eyes locked on hers longer than he wants. She holds his gaze in silence and slowly adjusts her grip on his large masculine hands with their thickets of black hair. Her small delicate soft hands—a moment ago enclosed by his—now slide down the hairy backs of his, move over his bony knuckles, clasping and bundling together his fingers. Each of his two bundles of four long fingers is now encircled, firmly, in a grip that is vaguely familiar.

They are both silent and those standing by think they are witnessing a moment of transcendence and meaning. He is such a comfort. God's faithful worker. A true gentleman.

Betsy is grasping tightly his two, now helpless, upright bundles of masculine knuckles and fingers. Each bundle is perhaps five inches in girth and seven inches in length. She starts to squeeze. Her hands are like two slowly closing vices, inexorably and painfully pressing his digits together, with all the strength of a desolate parent who has lost her daughter. He starts to yelp in pain but catches himself, aware of eyes all around, watching, assessing, approving. He needs to be a perfect father, grand-father, pastor and gentleman.

With stinging eyes, he grits his teeth against the pain of the bereaved mother, who leans in and murmurs so quietly he thinks her words are a secret stirring in his own heart. "Father, father-in-law, do these fingers do God's work? Did Evelyn know? Did you enter her head? Her heart? Her body? Did she come unto you?"

She releases him and turns away to the casket, while he surreptitiously rubs his hands, wipes his glistening eyes, and smiles in sweet benediction for his parishioners and family.

***

Squiring Lilly on his arm in her black stockings, black dress and red lipstick, he makes his escape.

In the Porsche, the road spooling behind them, they call Angela and tell her to meet them at home. The sleepover is back on.

That night, as he cums in Jilly, impregnating her like he impregnated her mother, he cries out, "Evelyn.." then rolls on his back, his arm across his eyes, weeping.

The next morning, as he cums in Angela, impregnating her like he impregnated Jilly and Janey, he cries out again, "Evelyn..." then rolls on his back, his arm across his eyes, as Jilly and Angela clean him up.

A month later he is living happily with his two pregnant girls, an understanding Janey, and a resigned and forbearing Nana who has moved to the spare bedroom.

When Betsy hears that Jilly and Angela are expecting, she smiles for the first time in six weeks. She closes her eyes and sees a baby in Evelyn's arms, a smile on Evelyn's eyes, and silently on Evelyn's lips the words, "If only."