He Cannot Control Himself

The hallway stretched forever. Each step toward my apartment door felt like wading through cement. My thighs were slick, still full of Mr. Dewitt's seed. Grandpa's footsteps had retreated, but the echo of that slammed door rang in my skull.

I reached my door. It was slightly ajar.

Pushed it open.

Grandpa sat in the armchair, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. The lamp beside him cast half his face in shadow. His thick white beard seemed darker somehow, his eyes fixed on the floor. When I stepped inside, he looked up.

The silence was worse than yelling.

"Grandpa—"

"Don't." His voice cracked like ice. "Don't you dare."

I closed the door behind me. My legs wobbled. I leaned against the wall, still in my blouse, still smelling of Mr. Dewitt's cologne.

"He's taking advantage of you." The words came out flat, hollow. "That old man. He's using you."

"It's not like that." My voice barely carried.

"Then what is it like, Stacy?" He stood, his frame filling the small room. "I walked in on my granddaughter being fucked by a man three times her age. What am I supposed to think?"

"He's helping me." The words tumbled out. "With rent. Dad lost his job and I was going to be evicted and he offered—"

"Offered what? To fuck you in exchange for a roof?"

I flinched. The word hit like a slap.

"Yes."

Grandpa's face crumpled. For a moment he looked old, defeated. Then something else flickered in his eyes. Something I didn't recognize.

"You could have asked me." His voice dropped. "I would have helped."

"You have your pension. You can't afford—"

"I could have found a way. Done something." He stepped closer. His hand reached out, touched my cheek. The gesture was gentle, almost reverent. "You're all I have left, Stacy. Your grandmother's blood in your veins. Her red hair. Her freckles."

I held still. His hand slid down my cheek, my neck, resting on my collarbone.

"I should have protected you," he whispered. "I should have been here."

The kitchen light hummed. The refrigerator clicked on. I didn't move.

His hand dropped to his side. He turned away, walked to the window, stared out at the streetlights.

"Did you want it?" he asked.

"I—"

"Did you want him? Or did you just need the money?"

The question hung in the air. I thought of Mr. Dewitt's hands, his voice, the way he filled me. The orgasms I couldn't control. The way my body had learned to crave him.

"Both," I said. "It started as just the rent. But now..."

Grandpa turned. His eyes were wet.

"Now what?"

"I need it," I said. "I need him."

The words hung between us. He crossed the room in three strides, stopped inches from me. His breath was warm, smelled of the tea I'd made him earlier.

"I need you to understand something." His voice was low, rough. "I haven't touched anyone since your grandmother died. Five years. Not a kiss. Not a handshake that lingered."

"Grandpa—"

"I watched you tonight. Bent over that old man's bed. Letting him take you." His hand found my shoulder, squeezed. "And I hated him. But I also..."

He trailed off. His eyes searched mine.

"I hated that it wasn't me."

The air left the room. I stared at him, at the flush creeping up his neck, at the way his hand trembled on my shoulder.

"You don't mean that."

"I'm an old man, Stacy. Lonely. Missed your grandmother every day." His thumb traced my collarbone. "And then I see you, looking so much like her, letting a man use you for money. And I think... I could have given you that. I could have taken care of you."

"Grandpa, this isn't—"

"Show me." His voice broke. "Show me what you do with him."

My heart hammered. The room spun. I should have said no. Should have pushed him away, called him crazy, locked myself in the bathroom.

Instead, I reached for the hem of my blouse.

I pulled it over my head.

His breath caught. My bra was still on, white cotton, simple. His eyes traced the freckles across my shoulders, my chest.

"Stacy..."

"Don't talk," I said. "Just... don't talk."

He stepped forward. His hands found my waist, hesitant, trembling. He pulled me against him, his body warm, solid. Different from Mr. Dewitt—broader, stronger, the scent of soap and old wool.

I kissed him.

His lips were soft at first, tentative. Then his arms wrapped around me, crushing me against his chest. His beard scratched my chin. His mouth opened against mine, desperate, hungry.

He broke the kiss, breathing hard. "I can't. This is wrong."

"It's already wrong," I said. "You already walked in. You already saw."

I reached for his belt. He caught my wrists.

"Wait. Wait." His eyes searched mine. "I don't want to be like him. Taking advantage. I want you to want this."

I looked at him. At my grandfather, grey-haired, broad-shouldered, trembling with need. At the loneliness in his eyes, the hunger he'd buried for five years.

"Show me you want it," he said.

I sank to my knees.

His sharp intake of breath was the only sound. My fingers worked his belt, his trousers. He was already hard—pushing against his boxers, thick and straining. I pulled them down.

His cock sprang free. Longer than Mr. Dewitt's, less curved, the head flushed dark. He was circumcised, the skin smooth, a single bead of pre-cum glistening at the tip.

"Stacy..."

I leaned forward. My tongue touched the head, tasted salt. He groaned, his hand finding the back of my head.

I took him into my mouth.

The sound he made—a broken gasp, a word that might have been my grandmother's name—spurred me on. I moved slow, deliberate, my tongue tracing the ridge beneath the head. His hips twitched, fighting the urge to thrust.

"Stop," he said. "Stop, or I'll finish too fast."

I pulled back, lips slick. He pulled me to my feet, turned me around, pressed my palms against the wall.

"Like this," he said. "I want to see you from behind."

He pushed my jeans down. My panties followed. I heard him spit into his palm, the wet sound of him stroking himself.

Then the head of his cock pressed against me.

I gasped. He was thicker than Mr. Dewitt, the stretch sharper. He pushed slowly, inch by inch, until he was fully seated.

"I'm inside you," he whispered. "I'm inside my granddaughter."

He began to move. Slow at first, tentative. Then greed crept into his rhythm. His hands gripped my hips, pulling me back onto him with each thrust. The sound of his skin slapping against mine filled the kitchen.

"Grandpa—"

"Frank," he said. "Call me Frank. Just for tonight."

I did. His name on my lips drove him faster. I felt myself climbing, the pleasure building, fed by the wrongness of it. His hand reached around, found my clit, rubbed in rough circles.

"Cum," he said. "Cum with me inside you."

The orgasm took me by surprise—sharp, sudden, pulling a cry from my throat. I clenched around him, and he followed, a guttural sound escaping his chest. I felt him pulse, hot and thick, flooding me.

He stayed inside, breathing hard. Then he pulled out, stumbled back, and sank into the armchair.

"Oh God." His face was pale. "Oh God, what did I do?"

I turned, naked, his seed trickling down my thigh. He stared at his hands, trembling.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm so sorry, Stacy. I shouldn't have—I'm a sick old man." He buried his face in his hands. "Your grandmother is looking down at me. She's disgusted."

I crossed the room, knelt in front of him. Took his hands.

"It's okay," I said. "I wanted it too."

"You don't mean that."

I looked at him. At the tears streaming into his beard. At the shame carved into every line of his face.

"I forgive you," I said. "We were both lonely. We both needed something."

He pulled me into his arms, held me tight. I felt his tears on my shoulder, his sobs shaking his chest.

"Thank you," he whispered. "Thank you."

I led him to the bedroom. He undressed slowly, ashamed, not meeting my eyes. We lay down, his arm around me, his body curled around mine. I felt his softening cock against my thigh, still damp.

He fell asleep first. His breathing evened out, the tension leaving his body.

I lay awake, staring at the ceiling. His seed was warm inside me, mixing with Mr. Dewitt's. Two men. Both senior citizens. I was full of both.

I must have drifted off. Because the next thing I felt was weight.

Pressure between my thighs.

His mouth.

I was on my stomach, my legs spread, and his tongue was pressing into me, lapping at the evidence of what we'd done. I froze, half-asleep, not understanding.

He was murmuring. Words I couldn't catch. His hands gripped my hips, and I felt his cock, hard again, pressing against my entrance.

"Grandpa?"

He didn't answer.

He pushed inside me.

I gasped, my body responding before my mind caught up. He fucked me in his sleep—eyes half-lidded, movements automatic, driven by something deeper than consciousness. His rhythm was slow, mechanical, relentless.

"Mary," he whispered. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

He was dreaming. Dreaming of her, dreaming of me, the two images blurring together. His hips rocked against mine, filling me again, taking what he'd taken hours before.

I lay still beneath him.

And I let him.