The third and final variation on this theme. Enjoy
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Like most of you, I have two sets of grandparents. First are my mother's parents, whom I call Gramma and Grampa, and second are my father's parents, whom I call Gran-Gran and Papa. There are big differences between the two. For instance, Gramma and Grampa never made it beyond high school while Gran-Gran and Papa both held Doctorates in their respective fields of Art Appreciation and Architecture. Gran-Gran was a high-end home decorator and wedding planner while Papa owned his own firm. To contrast this, Gramma was a successful floral arrangement designer while Grampa owned his own auto shop.
I always seemed to feel more comfortable around Gramma and Grampa than I did Gran-Gran and Papa. I guess that was because with Gramma and Grampa, I could just kick back and be myself, while with Gran-Gran and Papa, I felt like I had to be who they wanted me to be. You know, the model trophy grandson they could show off to their ... Did they even have friends? More colleagues, I would say. Regardless, Gramma and Grampa were my favorites even though they could not afford to lavish me with gifts the way Gran-Gran and Papa did.
All my grands got along well enough, I suppose; yet, it seemed to me that whereas Gramma and Grampa embraced Gran-Gran and Papa and tried to include them in all familial activities, Gran-Gran and Papa merely tolerated Gramma and Grampa to the point where they would conveniently forget to invite them to one function or another. Mom and dad would argue over this. Not with each other. No. I never heard either say a cross word to the other as long as they lived. They would argue with Gran-Gran and Papa, often citing that their behavior was indicative of perceived class superiority.
My parents died shortly after I turned sixteen. Some young girl who, just that very day, had gotten her driver's license, was texting while driving. She ran a stop sign and crashed into my parent's car, sending it into a high-voltage electrical grid where it immediately caught fire and exploded. In typical ironic fashion, the girl survived with just minor cuts and bruises.
I was able to choose with whom I would live, so I chose Gramma and Grampa. Gran-Gran and Papa felt they could offer me a better life, but when it came down to it, I wanted a place where I felt loved, not a place where I felt like my love was being bought.
A good year into my living with Gramma and Grampa, tragedy struck once again. Grampa was at work replacing the tie rods on a car. He had the car on a hydraulic lift, and one of the hoses containing the fluid that makes the lift work burst. The car fell on Grampa, killing him instantly. Investigation into his death ruled out foul play. He just never replaced the hoses, is all. Grampa's shop manager, Walter Willis, made Gramma a decent offer for the place and she took it. She was planning to retire soon anyway, so the money would come in handy once she did.
Not even six months later, Papa was out surveying one of his newest projects, a skyscraper that would rival the Burj Khalifa in Dubai, which was over 2700 feet high. Papa's building, which would reach 2850 feet, was a new establishment for Donald Trump that would house a casino, hotel, business offices, a shopping mall, and restaurants in Las Vegas. One of the welders did not affix a series of girders as well as he should have, and as Papa and a few supervisors stepped onto it, it buckled and sent them plummeting fifty feet down to their deaths.
Consoling Gramma had been bad enough, but Gran-Gran completely lost it. She spent time at a facility to help her cope with her loss. Gramma and I visited her often, and she eventually learned to live with Papa's death. Like Gramma, Gran-Gran sold Papa's share of the business to his partners. This ensured she would live the remainder of her days in comfort.
As Graduation approached, I still hadn't figured out what I wanted to do with my life. I had thought of going into the military, but college seemed the next step for me academically. Then again, I'd probably be just as happy flipping burgers for the next six months while trying to figure out what it was I wanted to do.
I opted for the army, and shipped out the day after I turned eighteen. At boot camp, I met Stephen Spivey, who was the craziest cat I had ever known. He would tell us stories of getting drunk or high or both, pranks he used to play on his folks ... but the thing that got us all was the affinity he had for GILFs.
"Oh, man. You ain't never had any sex till you've had Granny sex. Them old broads'll do anything for you on account of they want you to keep coming back, so you tell 'em you want to skeet it down their throats, they'll let you. You tell 'em you want to stick it up their ass, they'll let you. Hell, I had one giving me half her pension."
Toward the end of boot, I confided in Stephen that I was a virgin. "Don't worry, Mark. I got you. I'm gonna get you laid first shot of leave we get. Find you a nice old biddy to hook up with. I'm telling you, man, Granny Love is the only way to go."
To his credit, he did just that. We were at a small bar on the outskirts of nowhere. It looked like Senior's Night considering all that was there were people fifty and older. Ever the gentleman, he sent two beers to a table that held two overweight women in their sixties. They invited us over, at which point Stephen sat down next to the one with greyish-red hair, leaving me with the one who was completely white-headed and looked like a female John Goodman. We laughed and talked for a while, then Stephen mentioned to Jamie or Jenny or whatever her name was that I was still a virgin.
"Been a while since I had one of those," she said.
"Been a while since you
were
one of those," her friend said, causing a round of drunken laughter. "Think you can teach this pup some tricks?"
"Let's take 'em both back to our place," she responded.
On the way there, I found out that her name was Jessie, and the other woman was her sister, Pat. When we arrived, Pat said to Stephen, "You need any special training, big boy?"
"One hundred percent non-virgin and ready to rock your world," Stephen told her. They began kissing right there in front of Jessie and me. Stephen pulled back and said, "Damn, I love me some old pussy."
"Then come on and get as much as you want," Pat said as she led him to a bedroom.
Jessie looked at me. "Are you really a virgin?"
"Yes ma'am."
She smiled. "Not for long. You're getting the crash course tonight." She led me into her bedroom and closed the door. She began undressing, so I did the same. She approached me, placed her palm against my chest, and said, "Calm down. We have all night." We began to kiss then. She slowly backed toward her bed, then fell onto it, pulling me on top of her. "Just keep kissing me," she said, and I did.
"Kiss the side of my neck now," she said softly, so I began to. "Oh. That feels nice. Keep doing that. Nothing gets me wetter than a man who spends a lot of time on my neck." After about a minute, she said, "Do you know how to give a hickey?"
"Ma'am, Iā"
"Stop calling me 'Ma'am.' My name is Jessie."
"Jessie, I am probably the most inexperienced person you will ever meet."
She began sucking on my neck, and after a good thirty seconds she said, "That's how you give a hickey. Now you try."
I did, and when I pulled away I said, "I can see it! I did it."
"Keep doing it," she said, and squirmed when my mouth met her neck again. "Now, kiss your way down to my breasts. Not the nipples. The breasts are very sensitive. Take your time with them." I did as she said, slowly kissing each breast, trying my best to place little hickeys on them as well. "Mmmmm, yes. Now the nipples, Mark." I lightly sucked one into my mouth. "Harder." I did. "Harder." I did. "Gnaw on it a little." My cock was so hard, but I was not in any rush. I gnawed her right nipple, then her left.
