It was my 20
th
birthday when Brian, whom I'd been dating (exclusively, I thought) informed me rather bluntly he was "moving on." The fact we were in his parent's pool house and I was wiping his cum shots off my belly and tits at that moment actually, strangely, struck me as funny. I laughed, rather uproariously, while he sat on the bench looking downcast; occasionally waving his deflating cock like a white flag of surrender.
I replayed the scene for a couple of my girlfriends that night, and, yeh, they had some giggles, but the big laugh would come later. It turns out, ya see, that Brian's new fuck buddy was his 39-year-old aunt (well, not new in the truest sense since we learned he'd been plowing her furrow quite regularly for longer than he'd been doing me). Their friendship, and let's not forget kinship, became pretty well known except, apparently, to his dad. It took him about 6 weeks to clue in. When the light bulb finally clicked on, his very loud and very public rant (in their front yard on an otherwise quiet Sunday afternoon) left no doubt among those who witnessed it, or simply heard it, precisely where he stood with regard to Brian fucking
his
sister. Hilarious? Yes! It was the big laugh that kept on repeating for several weeks.
However, I digress. What I really want to focus on are the developments in my life since the Brian split. While I had girlfriends with whom I could commiserate, I almost immediately sought out the comfort and wisdom of my loving Grandpa, my PopPop. We've shared a special bond for as long as I can remember. He's been the 'man' in my life, the dad I never had, since being unceremoniously handed that role. My teenage mom's sperm donor simply came, and went, and unprepared (more a case I'm sure of unwilling) to be a mommy, she passed me off to PopPop hen pulled a disappearing act. She's a chapter in my book that's seldom opened.
Although a widower at 35, PopPop took on his imposed fatherhood with nary a backward glance, becoming my provider, my confident, my source for encouragement and sage words of wisdom. We had this special bond that's served us both very well. But here I was at the point of needing something to help me over the hump of this breakup. Not that I was stressed by the departure of Bri (good riddance quite frankly), but a seeming lack of boy-toy replacement possibilities meant I was left to rely on my own devices (ya, really) for reaching the Big 'O'. Realistically, of course, there likely were potential fuck buddies out there, but the chance of hooking up was made ever more difficult as pandemic restrictions became stacked one on top of another. It made finding someone hard (both literally and figuratively) a challenge.
I will note that I love every sensuous second of getting off, and regardless of how it's achieved an explosive orgasm is undeniably cathartic. But given current circumstances masturbation was my fast track (or sloww depending on mood) to that pleasure place. Whether it was the magic wand, the pulse massage setting on the shower head, or the old reliable 4 finger rub down that was tasked with driving the train I was always ready for the ride.
Since I had been living in Brian's apartment, the plan was to move back with PopPop, and in that there was certainly nothing suggesting a need to alter my self-satisfaction activities. My bedroom was on the opposite side of the house from his and I'd learned to "keep the volume down" (somewhat) when circumstances dictated. The first Saturday home was a typical July scorcher, but shade cast by a huge roll-out awning made things bearable as we relaxed on the patio. Coming out from the house with a two frosty glasses and a pitcher of lemonade (a healthy shot of gin enhancing the flavour) I reached around from behind and placed a cold glass on PopPop's chest. He gave a yelp and bolted upright but quick reflexes allowed him to catch the glass when it slipped from my hand. Laughing, he set it on his side table, grabbed my wrist with his free hand and pulled me into his lap.
We were both laughing as I gave him a peck on the cheek, a movement that caused me to spill a small amount of the pitcher's contents on my belly and into my crotch. "My god, girl, don't be spilling the good stuff," he exclaimed. "That's just wasteful. Much more and I'd be down there licking it up." The words hit us both, not in what I'd say was an entirely shocking way, but still left us sitting silently for a few brief seconds. It was when I shifted my weight to stand that PopPop's full blown erection became very obvious. I decided it best to remain seated.
A jumble of witticisms -- "so I guess you
are
happy to see me," "that's an interesting point you've raised," and several others -- whipped through my mind though I put voice to none of them. Not sure what I should do, I simply followed PopPop's lead as he lifted my right leg and in a tremulous, husky voice said "turn around, baby girl. We need to talk." I knew exactly where I wanted that conversation to lead.
We didn't really talk, just mumbled an almost meaningless exchange of sounds (that might have contained words), obscured by our rapid breathing. Sitting astride him I buried my face in his neck, nibbling gently, then pulled back and kissed him full on the mouth. Unable to speak with my tongue down his throat, he slid his hands under my ass, managed to stand, and careful to avoid stepping in the remnants of a now shattered pitcher carried me to his bedroom.
With legs wrapped around his waist and arms squeezing me tight to his body, I almost couldn't seem to let go when he lay me down. But his hands tugging at my shorts had me untangling my limbs to assist in his endeavour. Leaning over me, PopPop's ragged breath was hot on my face as he shoved my sports bra up to free my tits. As he began suckling -- one then the other, neither getting more than its share of attention -- my hand snaked down to my pussy. Gaining momentum to rub one out, I was only vaguely aware that his mouth was now trailing wet, sloppy kisses over my belly and onto my thighs, but when he pulled my hand up and away my legs went wide. In my head I was screaming: "Fuck me, PopPop! Fuck me, fuck me!" though it was likely just a guttural moan.
He dropped his head and drew my clit deep into his mouth, then easing back caressed it with his lips. A tune played in my head - Heaven's just-a-lick-away...' were the words I heard -- as with knees up and feet flat on the bed I arched my back to improve his angle of attack. When he rimmed my asshole, and then slowly - heart-stopping slow - dragged his tongue to deliver a rapid flicking lick of my clit, I simply exploded. I thought he was going to gag on my juice flow but he stayed the course, thoroughly mowing the grass and removing all debris. On topic: The only one who's ever made me cum like that is my BFF, Sara. The first time with her I was ready to swear off boys, but Bi-savy Sara called such a thought pure foolishness. "I'm more than happy to munch your pie anytime," she said, "but those times when a man stirs your juices is still, most always, a most pleasing way to get off." And she, of course, spoke truth.
I was crying. I don't when I started; if it was when he was sucking my tits, munching down, or when I came, but there was certainly nothing sad about the way I was feeling. PopPop had 3 fingers in my cunt, wiggling them to their own secret beat. Pulling back slightly he began to rapidly stroke in and out. Lifting my ass high, I pushed back hard against his hand and grabbing fistfuls of beddings I squirted, squirted, and squirted more. I was loud and proud, and the bed was one total wet spot! I wasn't crying now, but that was probably because I couldn't summon enough energy to produce tears.
We lay quietly for a while, well, quietly if my body's thrumming vibrations weren't as loud to PopPop as they sounded in my head. Although he had yet to get off -- I was thinking he at least deserved a blow job (surely I could find the energy for that) -- he seemed content to caress my tits, rub my belly, and gently work his fingers through my bush. It felt good. It felt right. I knew we would take this further; that PopPop and I would share great intimacy. Above all else I knew with absolute certainly that for the first time in my young life I had been loved, not simply fucked. With our bodies tight to each other, we slept.
The clock on the bedside table read 9:06. The soft light coming through the window made clear it was still Saturday. Feeling refreshed but totally famished I slipped out of bed. Stepping into my cotton panties (love the texture and I'm not a thong girl!) I put on one of PopPop's well-worn T's and padded out to the kitchen. My heart did a mini-flip when I saw him at the table, newspaper and coffee at hand. He smiled and my heart flipped again.
