No But Grandpa Frank Does

The next night, Mary found me in the kitchen and asked for Grandpa. Not Elliot. Not my father. Grandpa. I watched her face, the certainty in her grey eyes.

"I talked to Elliot," she said. "He understands. Grandpa can be first for some things. But not everything."

"He'll want all of you," I said.

"I know. That's why I get to set the rules."

I found Grandpa in the garden, his hands buried in soil, his white beard catching the evening light. I told him Mary was waiting. He stood, brushed dirt from his knees, and walked inside without a word.

---

Mary's POV:

The bedroom was mine now. The one I'd chosen when we moved in, with the window that faced the garden and the old oak tree I'd climbed as a child. I'd stripped the bed and put on fresh sheets. White. I wanted to see everything.

The knock came at nine.

I opened the door. Grandpa stood in the hallway, his flannel shirt buttoned wrong, his hands shoved into his pockets. He looked nervous. I'd never seen him nervous before.

"Mary," he said. "Your mother said you wanted to see me."

"I want you to use my mouth."

The words hung between us. He blinked, once, twice, then nodded slowly.

"Just my mouth," I said. "That's the rule tonight. You don't get the rest until Elliot has taken all of my virginities."

He stepped inside. The door clicked shut.

"I can do that," he said.

He sat on the edge of the bed, his knees spread. I knelt before him, the carpet rough through my thin nightgown. My hands found his belt, worked the buckle loose. The leather slid through the loops with a soft rasp.

"You're sure about this," he said.

"I've never been more sure."

I pulled his trousers down. His cock was already hard, jutting from the grey curls at his base. Thick. Familiar. I'd seen it before, through cracked doors, in the dim light of early mornings. But never this close. Never in my hands.

I wrapped my fingers around the shaft. Warm. The skin was soft over the hardness beneath. I leaned forward, and my tongue touched the head.

Salt. Heat. The taste of him.

He groaned, his hand finding the back of my head. "Easy. Take your time."

I circled the head with my tongue, learning the shape of him. The ridge beneath the crown. The slit where a drop of moisture had gathered. I tasted it, and his hips twitched.

He was different from Elliot. Thicker. The foreskin moved as I explored, sliding back to reveal the smooth, dark head. I kissed it, then took him into my mouth.

The stretch was immediate. Wider than Elliot. I focused on breathing through my nose, on relaxing my jaw. He slid deeper, and I felt him press against the back of my throat.

"Easy," he said again.

I pulled back, breathed, then took him deeper. His hand guided me, gentle but firm, setting a rhythm. I found it quickly, the rise and fall, the pressure of his palm against my skull.

"Your mother," he said, his voice strained. "She learned this way too. On her knees. Taking me in her mouth."

The words sent heat through me. I moved faster, my hand gripping the base of his shaft, my tongue working the underside. His breathing grew ragged.

"I'm close," he said. "If you want me to pull out—"

I shook my head. Kept moving.

He came with a low groan, his hand tightening in my hair. The warmth flooded my mouth, thicker than Elliot's, saltier. I swallowed, and he pulsed again, and again, until I'd taken all of him.

He pulled out slowly. I looked up at him, his seed warm on my tongue.

"Good girl," he said.

I smiled, my lips tingling.

---

Stacy's POV:

I stood in the hallway, my ear pressed to the door. The sounds were muffled, but I could hear the rhythm, the low groan that meant Grandpa was close. I pressed my thighs together, felt the warmth building.

I didn't go in. Mary had made her choice. Grandpa was hers tonight.

I turned, walked down the hall, past Elliot's closed door, past the stairs, to the room at the end. My father's room. The one he'd moved into after the motel, after we'd all agreed he belonged here.

I knocked. Soft.

The door opened. He stood in his undershirt, his salt-and-pepper stubble dark against his jaw. His eyes widened when he saw me.

"Stacy. What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong." I stepped past him, into the room. The bed was unmade, a book open on the nightstand. "Mary is with Grandpa. I heard them. And I need—" I stopped, my voice catching.

"Need what?"

I turned to face him. "I need to not think about it. I need to feel something else."

He crossed the room in three strides. His hands found my waist, pulled me against him. "You're shaking."

"I know."

He led me to the bed, sat me on the edge. He knelt before me, his hands pushing up the hem of my dress. The fabric bunched around my hips, exposing the pale skin of my thighs.

"I heard you," he said, his voice low. "In the hallway. With Grandpa. I heard you come."

I flushed. "You were listening?"

"The walls are thin." His hands spread across my thighs, parting them. "I heard him take you. I heard the sounds you made. And I lay here, stroking myself, imagining it was me."

"It could have been."

"I know." His fingers found my panties, pulled them down. "It will be."

He lowered his head between my thighs. His tongue pressed against my clit, and I gasped, my hands finding his hair. He licked with slow, deliberate strokes, the same rhythm Grandpa had used, but different. Softer. More careful.

"Dad—"

"Don't talk," he murmured against my skin. "Just feel."

I closed my eyes. His tongue worked me, circling, pressing, dipping into my entrance. The pleasure built slowly, fed by the sounds from down the hall, by the knowledge that Mary was learning what I had learned.

"Coming," I said, the word broken.

He pressed harder. The orgasm crested, broke, and I cried out, my body arching against his mouth. He licked through it, drawing out every pulse, until I was gasping, pushing at his head.

He pulled back. His lips glistened.

"Better?" he asked.

"Yes."

He stood, unbuckled his belt. His cock was hard, the head flushed dark. "I want to be inside you," he said. "I want to feel you come around me."

I lay back on the bed, spread my thighs. He positioned himself between them, the head of his cock pressing against my entrance.

"Tell me you want it."

"I want it. I want you inside me."

He pushed in. The stretch was familiar, welcome, his length filling me completely. He began to move, slow and deep, his forehead pressed against mine.

"I can hear her," he said. "Mary. She's making sounds now. Learning."

I closed my eyes. Listened. Through the walls, I could hear it—a soft cry, a rhythm, the sound of my daughter being claimed.

"Fuck me," I said. "Harder."

He did. His pace quickened, his hand finding my clit, rubbing in rough circles. The pleasure built fast, fed by the sounds, the wrongness, the weight of him inside me.

"Come," he said. "Come with me."

I did. The orgasm tore through me, a sob catching in my throat. He thrust deeper, held, and I felt his release—hot, thick, flooding me.

He stayed inside, breathing hard. "I love you," he whispered.

I didn't answer. I lay there, full of him, listening to the sounds from down the hall. Mary. Grandpa. The cycle continuing.

He pulled out slowly, lay beside me, his hand resting on my belly. "Do you think she's okay?"

"She's more than okay," I said. "She's learning to surrender. Just like I did."

He pressed his palm flat against my stomach. "And you?"

I turned to face him. His eyes were wet, his jaw soft. "I'm learning to let go."

The house settled around us. Mary's sounds faded. The lamp flickered. My father's hand stayed on my belly, warm and steady.

I closed my eyes and let the darkness take me.