Stacy makes a mistake

The first Friday of the month arrived grey and cold. I stood at my window, watching rain streak the glass, my hand pressed against my stomach. He'd be here by noon.

The knock came at eleven. Earlier than expected.

I opened the door. Grandpa stood in the hallway, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, his white beard damp from the rain. His eyes found mine, and something in them—hunger, relief, possession—made my breath catch.

"Stacy-girl." He stepped inside, dropped his bag, and pulled me against him. His arms wrapped around me, thick and strong, the familiar scent of wool and soap filling my nose. "I've been thinking about this all month."

"Me too," I whispered.

His hand slid down my back, cupping my ass through my jeans. Squeezed. "Mr. Dewitt knows I'm here?"

"He said to come over after dinner. He wants to watch again."

Grandpa's laugh rumbled through his chest. "Good. But first, I want you to myself."

He led me to the bedroom. My bedroom. The same bed where he'd sleepwalked into me, the same wall where he'd first taken me. He sat on the edge of the mattress, pulled me between his knees.

"Undress," he said. "Slow."

I reached for the hem of my blouse. Pulled it over my head. My bra followed, then my jeans, my panties. I stood before him naked, the afternoon light painting my freckled skin grey through the window.

He reached out, traced the line of my collarbone, the curve of my breast. "You're more beautiful than I remembered."

"Grandpa—"

"Frank," he said. "Call me Frank."

His hands found my hips, pulled me closer. His mouth pressed against my stomach, kissing a path down to my navel. His beard scratched my skin. I shivered.

He laid me back on the bed, spread my thighs. His mouth found my clit immediately—no teasing, no delay. He licked with purpose, with hunger, his tongue pressing hard. My back arched. My fingers twisted in the sheets.

I came fast, a sob catching in my throat. He didn't stop. He licked through the aftershocks, slow and deliberate, until I was gasping, pushing at his head.

"Too much," I breathed.

He pulled back, lips glistening. "Good. I want you sensitive for what comes next."

He stood, unbuckled his belt. His trousers fell. His cock sprang free—thick, hard, the head flushed dark. I reached for him, wrapped my fingers around the shaft, guided him to my mouth.

I took him deep, my tongue tracing the ridge beneath the head. He groaned, his hand finding the back of my head. I moved slow, savoring the weight, the taste. His hips began to thrust, shallow movements, feeding his cock deeper into my throat.

"Stop," he said, pulling back. "I want to be inside you when I come."

He positioned himself between my thighs. The head of his cock pressed against my entrance. He pushed in—one smooth motion, deep and full. I gasped at the stretch, the thickness that filled me completely.

"You feel that?" he said, his voice strained. "That's me. Your grandfather. Inside you."

He began to move. Long, deep strokes that rocked my body against the mattress. His hand found my clit, rubbing in rough circles. The pleasure built fast, fed by the wrongness, the fullness, his weight pressing me down.

"Come," he said. "Come on my cock."

I shattered. My body convulsed around him, a cry tearing from my throat. He thrust deeper, held, and I felt the first pulse—hot, thick, flooding me. He pumped again, again, his seed spilling into my pussy, filling me completely.

He collapsed onto me, breathing hard. His softening cock stayed inside me, his forehead pressed against my shoulder.

"One," he said. "More to come."

---

We spent the afternoon in my bed. He fucked me in every position—on my back, on my stomach, on all fours, riding him in the armchair. Each time, he came inside my pussy. I felt his seed pool in me, leak from me, be pushed deeper by his next thrust.

By evening, I was raw. Slick. Full of him.

"Mr. Dewitt," I said, my voice hoarse.

Grandpa checked his watch. "Seven. He's expecting us."

We dressed slowly. I pulled on jeans, a loose blouse. Grandpa buttoned his flannel, ran a hand through his grey hair. His eyes met mine in the mirror.

"Ready?"

I nodded.

We crossed the hallway. Mr. Dewitt opened the door before we knocked, as if he'd been waiting. His pale blue eyes swept over me, noting the flush on my cheeks, the slight unsteadiness in my legs.

"She's already full of you," he said.

Grandpa smiled. "All afternoon."

Mr. Dewitt stepped aside. "Come in."

The apartment smelled of lemon polish and old paper. The bedroom door stood open, the black sheets visible, the ropes coiled at each post. Mr. Dewitt gestured to the bed.

"Undress," he said. "Both of you."

We stripped. Grandpa's body was broad, solid, his cock already half-hard. Mr. Dewitt was leaner, paler, his silver hair catching the lamplight. I stood between them, naked, my skin prickling.

Mr. Dewitt approached me first. His fingers found my folds, slick with Grandpa's seed. He brought them to his mouth, tasted.

"She's ready," he said. "And full."

He guided me to the bed, laid me on my back. The ropes went around my wrists—familiar loops, a turn around each post. My ankles followed, spread wide. I was bound, open, exposed.

Grandpa moved to my right, Mr. Dewitt to my left. Two pairs of hands found my skin—Grandpa's thicker fingers on my thigh, Mr. Dewitt's slender ones on my stomach.

"I want to taste her again," Grandpa said. "With you inside her."

Mr. Dewitt nodded. He positioned himself between my thighs, the head of his cock pressing against my entrance. He pushed in—slow, deliberate—and I felt his length slide into me, mixing with what Grandpa had left.

He began to move. Long, languid strokes. Grandpa lowered his head, his mouth finding my clit, his tongue pressing hard. The double sensation—Mr. Dewitt's cock inside me, Grandpa's mouth on my clit—built fast, overwhelming.

I came with a cry, my body clenching around Mr. Dewitt. He thrust deeper, held, and I felt him pulse—another flood, another filling, mixing with Grandpa's seed.

He pulled out. Grandpa rose, positioned himself between my thighs. His cock pressed against my entrance, slick with both of them.

"Still my turn," he said, and pushed in.

He fucked me with a driving rhythm, harder than before. His hand found my clit, rubbing in circles. Mr. Dewitt moved to my head, his cock pressing against my lips.

"Open," he said.

I parted my lips. He slid inside, the taste of myself, of Grandpa, of everything we'd done. I closed my eyes, focused on the rhythm—Grandpa thrusting into my pussy, Mr. Dewitt sliding across my tongue.

Grandpa's pace quickened. "I'm going to fill you again," he said, his voice strained. "Fill this tight pussy until it's all you can think about."

He thrust deeper, held, and I felt the pulse—hot, thick, flooding me again. His seed spurted into me, wave after wave, filling me past capacity. I felt it leak from where we were joined, warm against my thighs.

He pulled out. Mr. Dewitt withdrew from my mouth.

They switched. Grandpa at my head, Mr. Dewitt between my thighs. Mr. Dewitt pushed into my pussy, now overflowing with both their seed, and began to thrust.

"I want to feel you come with all of us inside you," he said.

The orgasm broke me apart. I came with a sob, my body convulsing against the ropes. Mr. Dewitt followed, his seed pumping into me, adding to the flood.

They untied me. I lay limp on the black sheet, my pussy full, my thighs slick. Grandpa sat beside me, his hand resting on my stomach.

"How many times did I fill you?" he asked.

I tried to count. "Four. Maybe five."

"Good." His thumb traced circles on my belly. "That's what I want. To fill you so full you feel me for days."

Mr. Dewitt returned with a glass of water. I sat up, drank. The liquid was cool, grounding.

Then I remembered.

The pill pack. On my nightstand. Full, untouched, the days unpunched.

I'd forgotten. This morning, yesterday, the day before. Three days. Three missed doses.

Three days.

Grandpa had come inside me four times this afternoon. Twice tonight. Six loads, all in my pussy. All without protection.

My hand pressed against my stomach, where his seed was warm and deep.

"Stacy?" Grandpa's voice. "You okay?"

I looked up. Both men were watching me. Mr. Dewitt's pale blue eyes, curious. Grandpa's grey ones, concerned.

"Yeah," I said. "Just tired."

They accepted it. Grandpa pulled me against his chest, his hand resting on my belly. Mr. Dewitt curled behind me, his arm around my waist.

I lay between them, full of both, and stared at the ceiling.

The pill pack sat on my nightstand, three rooms away.

Empty days. Unpunched.

My hand pressed harder against my stomach.

I closed my eyes, and tried not to think about it.