With Age Comes Wisdom

** This is another one of those stories that could be listed as "Incest/ Reluctance." Some commenters seem to think that incest stories should be about lovers, while reluctance implies seduction. I believe that they are all just dirty stories to add a little perversion to your life. If you disagree, just go on to the next story, it won't hurt my feelings. **

I never intended to become a lecherous, incestuous monster but when the illicit pieces of this sordid story fell seductively into place, I was almost challenged to accept my role. This cautionary tale began a few months ago, right about the time that my grandmother fell and broke her hip. When she was released from the hospital after her surgery, she was supposed to exercise gradually but due to her age and the possibility of another accident, she was advised to have someone help her around the house until she could resume her lifestyle. My small family is not wealthy but with one noticeable exception, we do look-out for each other.

She was my mother's only surviving parent, her given name was Elizabeth. This was an age before grandparents had cutesy names like "meemaw" or "nana," and since my father's side of the family had passed when I was a baby, I simply referred to her as Gramma, granny or some other endearing and intimate form of that term. She lived alone in an apartment that was situated in a neighborhood that had not aged as well as Grandma. We lived on the other side of town, my parents and me. My name is Walter and I have an older sister who lives across the country and is married and expecting her first child.

The first task after the hospital was to bring Grandma home and for mother and me to collect her mail, gather some clothes and toiletries and to close-down her apartment for a few weeks. Then we got her settled in our house. The house was small, with my parent's room on the ground floor and my sister's old bedroom next to it. My room was added later in a second-floor attic. Though cramped, my room had some level of privacy and its own bathroom. That was where we installed granny and I was temporarily displaced to the first floor.

Her right leg was still raw from the operation and her left was bruised and sore from the fall. Her right shoulder was also dislocated in the accident and needed to be in a sling for a while longer. Because of some medical loophole, she was considered to be ineligible for in-home care or therapy, while my folks couldn't afford the luxury. My dad was a "fix-it guy" by day and a bartender at night, even before the accident we barely saw him. I was a day-laborer but at the moment, there wasn't much work. Mom wasn't in the best of health herself, but she never complained and worked even harder when her mother came to live with us and she was obviously being worn-down. So, it fell to my mother and me to provide or assist grandma with meals, laundry, therapeutic care and personal hygiene. This was an obligation that we took seriously, and I really adored my granny, but it did place a strain on everyone.

Even with the aid of a walker, she could hardly get around, and she was unsteady on her feet. Since she was right-handed, her feeding and bathing were also drawn-out procedures and the doctors reminded us that she required daily exercise for her legs and massages to keep her arm from growing stiff. It was soon apparent that I would need to help with the recovery, my mom didn't have the strength or stamina, for even though granny wasn't heavy she was practically "dead weight," and we didn't want two people invalided at the same time. Then to add further confusion to the situation, my sister went into early labor and though my folks had always intended on helping her, they were now rushed to make travel plans and for their ease of mind, I assured them that I could take care of grandmom for a couple of weeks.

I am twenty-years-old, with straight black hair worn long. I'm 6'1" and about 200lbs. Fairly muscular through hard work and not dating anyone for the moment. And for the remainder of the summer, I can see that I will be called on to mostly stay at home and help to nurse my granny back to health.

My grandmother is not your typical "little old lady." She isn't dried-up and wrinkly, hunched over with false teeth, and knitting afghans when she is not canning preserves. She is slightly vain about her appearance, wears stylish, youthful clothes and is usually engaged in aerobics or yoga classes. The overall effect is stunning for someone of retirement age.

Her hair is naturally auburn shaded with sun-streaked highlights, (these days, probably enhanced by chemicals.) She has a warm, smiling face with round cheeks and crystal-blue eyes that I've seen her flash to younger men. She doesn't wear much make-up and when she does, its understated and enhances the appeal. She likes to tease the guys but I've never seen or heard that she did anything inappropriate. The reddish hair falls to the middle of her back and her eyelashes flutter coquettishly. Just a dab of light gloss makes her lips look inviting and her naturally curvy frame has kept most of its taut sexiness. Her 34Cs are eye-catching and often used for that purpose, generously restrained in low-cut blouses or form-fitting dresses, but again she is not slutty- merely flirty. When the two of us are out and about, if we meet some of my friends or anyone about my age, she has asked me to call her Elizabeth, or Liz. And "under penalty of death," she will slyly laugh, to never introduce her as my grandmother.

The folks hurriedly adjusted their traveling itinerary. Dad would drive all-day to save money, mom would pack food and they would stay one night in a roadside motel. At the end of 1,200 miles, they would sleep at my sister's house and then take a few weeks to help with the baby and then make a more leisurely drive home. It would be a tough trip but with a happy ending, my vacation would be like that too.

I can skip over the first few days of plodding upstairs ten or eleven times a day; delivering food trays, helping her into the bathroom and waiting just outside the door for the sound of the little bell she used, or just sitting with her watching television or reading, and helping with her course of physical therapy. I don't mean to make this sound like drudgery, it absolutely was not. I love my grandmother, but I was twenty-years-old and this would be my summer. And she is a very independent woman who is used to doing things her own way and not having to answer to anyone else for her pleasure. She hated to use "the damn bell," and was always apologizing for ruining my day with her disability.

Our basic routine involved me lifting her from her bed to either a wheelchair- which I would try to take down the steps and then carry her to it, giving her some freedom - this proved exhausting and counterproductive. Or, she had a walker, but I needed to remain close because her wounded hip could give way at any moment. In the attic bedroom, this became very claustrophobic. So even though we were as close as relatives can be, we started to grate on each other's nerves. This came to a near boiling point one afternoon when I heard the cursed tinkling of the insistent little bell after I had just come down the steps and poured milk on my cereal.

I plastered a smile on my face, took a quick sip of coffee and climbed back up to the second floor. The bathroom door was closed but that normally meant that she was out of breath from hobbling about and had finally finished her morning procedures, was dressed in her day clothes and resting on the toilet waiting for me to help her back to her chair. Since she rang the bell, that meant that she was ready. I would always tap on the door but then I'd proceed right in, gramma never fussed but I presumed that she would, if something was amiss. That's where we both made our first mistake.

What I didn't know, was that while washing and struggling into her clean clothes, she had knocked the bell to the floor, which produced the first ringing. She could not bend all the way down to retrieve it and when she tried to push it closer with her bare foot, she only kicked it across the floor, making it sound from a floor below, even more demanding or urgent. That's how I happened to burst through the door, thinking that she might be in some hardship. In reality there was a problem, but it mainly involved her getting tangled in her own pajamas and getting frustrated attempting to maneuver in a tight space, while hopping around one-handed and being only partially dressed.

When I flung the door open, moving too quickly to heed her calls for restraint, our wild eyes met in mutual astonishment and both bodies seemed to freeze in place. Hearing the door open, she turned to face me and I caught an instant glimpse of her near-naked torso, still glistening from the rinse water and her pouty nipples exposed to the cool, moist air. It was like a moment captured in time and was quite an embarrassing encounter for the both of us. In the blink of an eye, and before she could calmy but deliberately, shuttle me back outside, I was furnished with a thorough and enticing observation of my gramma's magnificent and obscenely sexy body.

She hustled to cover her bountiful bosom with her single arm, still clutching a wet cloth. And it became obvious that she no longer went through the battle of tugging underwear up and around her aching hips with just one workable hand, so I got a full few of the reddish-brown curls that framed her slim pubic area, still damp and matted from the rinse water. As my glance stole upwards from her sensual "Y," I caught the bold gaze of her steely eyes; that had instantly transformed from shock to pride as she noticed my wide-eyed expression, but now her face reddened and though I believe that she was secretly pleased that her nude body could evoke such a drooling, lustful response, she was faced with the uncomfortable fact that this stunned gawker was her dear grandson.

We both babbled apologies as I stepped back out of the room and waited apprehensively for her to summon me. I can be fairly certain that the time I spent stewing in my own discomfiture was matched by her sense of helplessness and having to accept a situation that posed calamitous and possibly treacherous. The minutes dragged on as we both held dialogues in our heads, forming some reasonable way to get past this awkward circumstance. When she finally bypassed the bell and simply called my name lovingly, I managed to control my erratic breathing and flop-sweat, to cradle her in my arms and half-carry her to the chair, where we would follow the daily therapy routine.

Granny was obliged to allow me to slide her robe from her shoulders, revealing that she wore only an old, thin sleeveless undershirt to cover her smooth skin and big boobs. My throat was so constricted that I had trouble swallowing my own saliva. This was no ordinary frail, older woman. My grandmother was every inch a GILF, and for the first time, I really began to understand that. Her right arm was out of the sling and I saw the purplish and yellow bruises that colored her from neck to wrist. I warmed an oily lotion between my palms and gently rubbed the soothing cream across her neckline and over her shoulder, slowly and continually trying to loosen the joint and lengthen her arc of motion. This obviously, was no medicinal massage as I had no experience other than relaxing the kinks of stiffened joints on either of my parents if requested.

But today, as my nervous fingers smoothed the slick oil over her tense frame, I could only picture her body as it was revealed to me, minutes ago. She wasn't just an injured patient, in my warped mind she was a "Happy Ending." Each time that my fingers rounded her feline-like muscles, I could only imagine that they were producing the same graphic, sexualized impulses on her that were rapidly spreading through my frame. For a week, I had performed this exact exercise with the only goal of increasing her range of motion while lessening her aches. Now, as my trembling fingers glided along her slippery flesh, listening to the soft purring sounds coming from deep in her diaphragm, I became conscious of the steady rise and fall of her exhalations and a rapid swelling in my pants.

I was jittery with an unaccustomed guilt and it reflected in my fidgety handling of her bruised body. My grip tightened at odd moments as I cupped the quivering skin of her heated frame, causing her to look up at me with a concerned and furrowed brow and biting her lip to hide some uncertain response. Then she would close her chocolaty-brown eyes and resume her mewling whimper. She took deep breaths and heaved melancholy sighs as I watched her firm tits expand under the stretched cotton fabric straining to conceal them. Her occasional soft moans, which I formerly took as an indication that she was healing, were now interspersed with twitches and grunts that could only mean that I was hurting her with my rough manipulations. But she said nothing, only shifting her weight as much as her injured torso would permit.

While I stood behind her, gently working the warm cream into her lithe upper body, I was leaning over her to catch another fleeting glimpse of her plump, round tits swaying softly under the thin cotton tee. The neck of the overlarge shirt was growing damp with perspiration and clinging to her bouncing mammaries. The nipples stood proudly erect and pointed straight ahead, the soft, dimpled ridges of her pink areola were clearly defined and a slow trickle of sweat leaked into her deep cleavage.

When my hand glided over her neck and shoulders, thin streams of lotion would "accidently" seep down her front and funnel into that bodacious decolletage. I knew enough to not let my hands follow the supple trail but the temptations and the mere thought that she was permitting me this obvious and awkward intimacy was confusing. The pressure that she experienced from my easy twisting motions seemed to excite her. I thought that atfirst she was biting-back the pain to make it easier on me, but I was getting an eerie feeling that she was getting turned-on by the helpless experience of being at someone's mercy.

When she did finally speak; in a throaty, sensual tone filtered through many years of tobacco smoke, she simply kept saying that unforeseen things happen and that I needed to be a little more careful, only because she was still sore. Could she be letting me in on a secret, the final clue I would have to discover myself? It appeared that a little pain was not a detriment but might possibly be an enhancement to her debased imagination.

Ofcourse at this time, I was still perplexed at every little turn of events. All that I knew for sure, was that being this close and physically handling the sexy body of a mature, nearly naked woman, was beyond my dirtiest thoughts. It is often frightening and possibly intensely taboo to act-out your deepest desires, that's why they are called "fantasies." But my perverted brain was working overtime. She recoiled slightly from my heavy-handed and heavy-breathing approach. That's when I got the hint that she could feel my hot, hard erection pressing against the nape of her neck. I stood back for a second to collect my wits. She seemed to shudder, sprouting a visible layer of gooseflesh upon her silky skin and a softly whispered moan escaped her moist lips.

I also needed to change the bandage on her hip and to rub the same lotion around her pelvis and thighs. This was always done with strategically placed towels and a hint of embarrassment. Today, there was a different vibe. I saw that she had wriggled into some old boxer shorts that my dad had provided, they were striped and much too big for her, but amazingly she made them look sexy just by wearing them. Still though, they had to be lowered so that I could get to the affected area on her body.

What amazed me most was that although I have ofcourse known her all of my life and had even seen her being flirty and sexy with others, I had just always regarded her as a member of my family and thought nothing more about it. Now, being twenty years old and actually required to undress her, then again to be rubbing a scented lotion along those previously untouchable parts of her bare body and facing the incestuous fantasy in reality, that had so recently just taunted me in my mind, I was beginning to wonder about my self-control.

She stared at me through those warm coffee eyes, almost challenging me to proceed with my manipulations. She looked as if she had been riding a horse, her hair seemed shimmering and her skin vibrant, and her body loose-limbed but excited. There was a glow to her body from the all-over perspiration and she was breathing hard, making me almost forget why I was there. Then in an instant, the spell was broken. Her eyes questioned my own, I worried that I had been too rough.

She looked strangely at me, taking extra notice of the emerging bulge in my pants, inducing blushing cheeks from us both. Again, her brown eyes seemed to see right through me, reading my thoughts and figuring how best to use them to her advantage. Her hand reached for me and I was certain that she was going to grab my throbbing cock. She only squeezed my palm and offered her thanks for all that I had done for her. Today, she decided that maybe she should try to replace the bandages herself. I could only nod my head, being unable to form useful sentences. So, I slowly went back downstairs to finish my breakfast.

This was my grandmother in name only. She was not the person who swaddled me on the first day that I was brought home. The woman who bandaged bruised knees and made chicken soup on cold days. She let me drink my first glass of wine and took me to Victoria's Secret when I needed a gift for that first "special" girl. Has she changed or have I?

Today I see a mature woman with flowing, dark reddish hair and enticingly sensual brown eyes. Her luscious pink lips smile alluringly at me in a very un-familial way. The small lines that form sexy parenthesis on her sharp eyes and pouty smile, only add character and tempt me with hidden secrets. And she sits before me naked, with her one good hand resting demurely across her bounteous breasts or with her firm thighs delicately and painfully crossed, not so much to cover her vulnerability but to artfully beguile me to take that one last step across the most bold of all red lines. I was sweating so hard that I was one drop away from standing in a puddle.

I made a quick detour into my new bedroom because my cock was swelling to dimensions so large, that I had trouble walking. "How would I ever look at her again, and not picture her naked?" There was one good thing about this arrangement, I could wrestle my pants down my legs and pump my steely cock, without fear of anyone walking in on me. It didn't take long before my mind was clouded with illicit images of my grandmother, on her knees with her bare breasts bouncing as she wrapped her seductive lips around my firm cock, and a lake of my syrupy cream drying on my chest. Chest heaving and coated in a mixture of my own sweat and ejaculate, my cock remained solid and the illicit fantasies continued to flow. This would be one of those rare occasions when the perversion ran so deep, that I considered rubbing-off another one, while I still held this degenerate image and the unique privacy. But then I heard the tinkling of the damned bell.

I hurried to mop-up my frazzled form and grab some clean shorts and a shirt, then I climbed the steps to make my granny more comfortable. She appeared more worn-out and flustered and her alluring smile had morphed to a disconcerted frown. Her beautiful eyes were teary and loose strands of her auburn mane were plastered to her face with perspiration. The used bandage was on the floor under her chair, and pieces of gauze and yards of crumpled tape were strewn around the room, where apparently they had been flung in a fit of rage. Her pelvis was smeared with lotion which was also running down her legs and the skin near the surgical stitches was rubbed raw.