Volume 1: Erin's Inheritance
My Grandma Marta, God rest her soul, was a FOX in her twenties! I set the dusty photograph back on the stack of old books where it had been lying and coughed for several seconds before catching my breath. I was standing in her attic. I had left the arguments of my extended family below stairs where they belonged. My cousins, uncles, and aunts all had very specific ideas of what Grandmother's earthly possessions were theirs by right.
My parents had anticipated this particular storm the night she died; and displayed a practicality that would have made her proud. They simply stopped by her house after the service, picked up a few photo albums, books, and small trinkets, then rejoined everyone at the cemetery for the burial, simple! The only reason we were stuck here now was for show. Both of them were enthusiastically shrugging their shoulders and forming thoughtful "Hmmm" noises at the strange disappearances of familial heirlooms. After experiencing most of our extended family in one place for a period exceeding four hours, I could see why we had kept our visits to Marta apart from theirs.
So while they bickered and fought over Grandma's ephemera, I had ascended the stairs to her attic. I lapsed into another coughing fit as I pulled a heavy drop cloth off a full-length mirror. When I recovered, I spent a good minute appreciating myself in it. Turning to the side I spoke to the dead air: "I don't need anything from you Grandmother, I think I have everything I need already." Tight ass, breasts of a firm and reasonable size, dark of hair and eye; I inherited enough from Grandma's genes via my mother. I smacked an ass cheek, just to hear the noise fill the empty attic.
I promptly started coughing again as a cloud of dust rose from my freshly slapped ass. Stumbling through the maze of old furniture, books, and an assortment of antiquated but potentially dangerous rattraps, I was able to open a window and let some air in. I took a few big gulps before resuming my exploration of the attic. Books with names like "The Passion of the Secret Flame" and "Hand That Wields the Axe" sat on bookshelves that were little more than planks of wood with nails attached. Grandma had been frugal. If she could make it herself in twenty minutes with some sweat and elbow grease, she did.
If it was obviously beyond her not considerable skills at nearly damn everything, she'd buy it without a second thought.
She once told me: "Spend your time on things you know you are capable of doing, rather than those that'll just waste your time." I had responded by asking her what if you wasted time on something that paid off with unexpected dividends in the future?
She thought about this for a good thirty seconds and said, "I've never been good with words," and left it at that. This is what happens when you give an eight-year-old free run of the family library and she picks an economics textbook as her bedtime story. I doubt Grandma even knew what "dividends" meant. I know I hadn't.
The most interesting things in her attic that were least likely to poison, maim, or incapacitate were the books. I grabbed a few from a shelf, pulled a blanket out a trunk that appeared to be dust proof, and sat down on an old leather chair. The books were amusing old things, printed with ancient typefaces in latin and greek. Grandma didn't believe in light reading and had been an avid collector of the occult.
She once joked that: "Most are junk, some have their uses, and only a handful are lethal."
I'm not sure if she ever devised a system to sort these diverging categories from one another. I had secretly placed a bet with myself that "going quietly in her sleep" was code for "beaten to death by an old grandfather clock". Hey, the funeral was closed-casket.
As I was getting up to make my way back downstairs, a black rectangle the size of a shoebox caught my eye. It had been stuffed into a corner of the trunk. It felt surprisingly light when I picked it up and set it on the chair. A bead of sweat ran down the center of my breasts as I undid the catches and opened it.
On a bed of black velvet lay a phallus, a dildo, a COCK. Dark red, superbly detailed, and warm to the touch. I picked it up gingerly by its base and smelled it. If Grandma ever used this, she kept it exceptionally clean. It smelled new. The material felt like leather, but with no sign of any stitching having been done to put it together.
A single unbroken sensuous surface.
A note about my own sexual history: being an eighteen-year-old virgin is not uncommon, but within the social circles I frequented, it was a bit unusual. Given my level of attractiveness and significant sex drive, I had often wondered why I had decided to preserve my "virtue" as long as I had. I felt little attraction to my other teenaged brethren, male & female alike. My Father and my best friend Cory were the only people I had ever felt a deep, positive, and possibly carnal love.
My Dad was obviously not an option; Cory had a girlfriend.
Surreptitious purchases over the past year had secured me a few toys: three vibrators of varying sizes, nipple clamps, handcuffs, lubricants, several strap-ons, a ball-gag, rope, two cock rings, an anal massager, one whip, two pair rubber sheets, and an assortment of condoms. A small collection to be sure, but I had never owned or even seen a dildo so lifelike and virile as what I held in my hands.
I needed to fuck my brains out with this thing. Before I gave myself time to think I was rotating the old mirror to face the chair, pulled off my panties, and had lain down. I pulled my black funeral dress up around my waist until I could see my well-trimmed bush in the mirror. Moisture, I don't know if its origin was the heat from the attic or my own arousal, made it glisten in the sunset spilling through the windows. I quickly pulled my substantial breasts out of my top and wrapped both hands around the shaft of my new best friend.
"I'm so bad, playing with you like this," I whispered to the fiend in my hands, licking my lips. "It would be so easy for us to get caught together, I'm not so sure I wouldn't mind being caught. "Maybe by one of my better-looking cousins, gender non-specific. Or maybe by Daddy! Still dressed in his-
Waitwaitwait.
Stop.
