I Thought it was Over But...

The smell of bacon pulled me from sleep. Grease and salt, the familiar sizzle of a pan. Morning light cut through the curtains in sharp lines. I was alone in bed.

My body ached. A deep, internal soreness that shifted when I moved. The space between my thighs was tacky, drying. I touched my stomach, felt the faint warmth still lingering there. Two men’s seed, mixed together, sealed inside me.

I sat up slowly. The sheets were twisted. My blouse from last night lay crumpled on the floor. I found a robe, tied it tight, and walked to the kitchen.

Grandpa stood at the stove, spatula in hand. A plate of eggs and bacon sat on the counter. Toast in the rack. He wore the same flannel shirt from yesterday, sleeves rolled to his elbows.

“Morning, Stacy-girl,” he said, not turning. “Coffee’s fresh.”

I leaned against the doorframe. Studied his back. The broad shoulders. The white beard. He moved with easy confidence, flipping eggs, humming something I didn’t recognize.

He didn’t look at me like someone who remembered.

“Grandpa.” My voice came out rough. “About last night—”

“What about it?” He turned, smiled. The expression was warm, open, untroubled. “You had a long night. I made breakfast. Figured you’d be hungry.”

I stared at him. His eyes held no shame. No guilt. No flicker of recognition.

He remembered nothing.

The sleepwalking. The murmuring. The way he’d pushed inside me, driven by a dream of my grandmother. It was gone from his mind, wiped clean by the night.

“Right,” I said. “Breakfast.”

We ate at the small table. He talked about the bus ride home tomorrow, about the garden he’d planted in his backyard, about a neighbor’s dog that kept escaping. I nodded, pushed eggs around my plate, watched his hands.

He didn’t flinch when I touched his wrist reaching for the salt.

By the time I finished my coffee, I’d almost convinced myself it hadn’t happened. Almost. The ache between my legs reminded me otherwise.

“I’m going to shower,” I said, standing.

“Mind if I join you?”

The words hung in the air. My hand froze on the plate.

“What?”

He looked up from his toast, calm as ever. “I said, mind if I join you? Save water. We can talk.”

My pulse hammered. He remembered. No—he couldn’t. He was being casual, grandfatherly, testing nothing.

Except his eyes. There was something in them now. A flicker I hadn’t seen before.

“I…” I swallowed. “I guess not.”

He stood, rinsed his plate, set it in the sink. Then he walked past me toward the bathroom, unbuttoning his flannel.

I followed.

The bathroom was small, steam already rising from the showerhead. He’d started the water before asking. He knew I’d say yes.

He stepped under the spray, let it soak his hair, his beard. The water darkened the grey on his chest, plastered the white hair flat against his skin. He turned to face me.

“Come in,” he said.

I untied the robe. Let it fall. The air hit my skin, raised goosebumps. I stepped into the shower, the water hot against my shoulders.

He looked at me. At the freckles across my chest, the coral of my nipples tightened by the steam. His gaze traveled down, past my stomach, to the space between my thighs.

“You’re still wet,” he said.

Not a question.

He stepped closer, his hand finding my hip. “You’re still wet from me.”

My breath caught. He remembered. Not the sleepwalking—he’d been dreaming. But the first time. Against the wall. The armchair. The way he’d begged for it.

“Grandpa—”

“Frank,” he said. “Call me Frank.”

His hand slid around my waist, pulling me against him. The water ran between us. His cock was already hard, pressing against my belly, thick and insistent.

“I want to try something,” he said. “Something I never did with your grandmother.”

I knew before he said it.

“I want to fuck your ass.”

The words were blunt. No poetry. No gentle buildup. Just the raw need of an old man who’d buried his wife five years ago and found a body that looked like hers.

I should have said no. Should have stepped out of the shower, wrapped myself in the robe, told him to pack his things.

Instead, I turned around. Pressed my palms against the tile. The water streamed down my back.

“I’ve done it before,” I said. “With him.”

His hand found my hip, squeezing. “I want to do it anyway.”

He reached for the shampoo bottle, squeezed some into his palm. The liquid was cool against my skin as he worked it between my cheeks, circling my entrance. His fingers pressed, one then two, working me open.

I gripped the tile. The stretch was familiar, sharp, welcome. He worked slowly, scissoring, spreading the makeshift lubricant.

“You’re tight,” he said. “So tight.”

“Go slow.”

“I will.”

He withdrew his fingers. I heard him stroke himself, the wet sound mixing with the shower’s spray. Then the head of his cock pressed against me.

The pressure was immediate. Blunt. Demanding.

“Breathe,” he said.

I exhaled. He pushed.

The stretch burned. Even with preparation, even with familiarity, the intrusion was intense. I gasped, my forehead pressing against the cool tile. He paused, gave me a moment.

“More,” I said.

He pushed deeper. Inch by inch. The fullness spread through my pelvis, pressing against something deep. When he was fully seated, he stopped.

“I’m inside you,” he said. “I’m in my granddaughter’s ass.”

The words were different in the shower. Colder. More deliberate.

He began to move.

Slow strokes at first, each one drawing a gasp from my throat. The water drummed against my back, his hips slapping against my skin. The sound echoed off the tile.

“You feel incredible,” he said. “So tight. So hot.”

His hand reached around, found my clit. He rubbed in rough circles, matching his rhythm. The pleasure built fast, fed by the wrongness, the steam, the fullness.

“I’m close,” I breathed.

“Good. Cum with me.”

He thrust harder, faster. The angle shifted, pressing against a spot that made my vision blur. The orgasm rose, crested, broke. I cried out, my body clenching around him.

He followed, a low groan, his seed pumping into me. Hot. Thick. Filling that channel, mixing with what was already there.

He stayed inside, breathing hard. His forehead pressed against my shoulder blade.

“Thank you,” he murmured. “Thank you.”

We stood like that as the water ran cold. He softened inside me, slipped out. The shower swallowed the evidence.

I stepped out first. Wrapped myself in a towel. He stayed under the spray, watching me.

“I leave tomorrow,” he said. “But tonight…”

I didn’t let him finish.

“Tonight,” I said, “I’m going to Mr. Dewitt’s.”

Something flickered in his eyes. Hurt. Jealousy. Acceptance.

He nodded. “I understand.”

I dried off in the bedroom. My body ached. His seed trickled down my thigh. I pressed my thighs together, held it in.

Tomorrow he’d be gone. Friday I’d be back in Mr. Dewitt’s bed.

But tonight, I needed to think.