Grandfather s Busty InternChapter 4
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I never really knew my father.
I had only just turned seven when Mum and Dad split up. He'd told her one night that he was going to set up home with his secretary (the usual scenario: middle-aged man trades in spouse for a younger, sportier model). Mum was devastated and grappled with acute depression for months, but managed to hold down her job, as a senior supervisor at our local supermarket. It was really her tenacity which kept our heads above water.
Dad never came round to visit us, even though he only lived 80 miles away with his Disco Queen (as Mum called her). Just sent me a birthday card each year, with a book gift voucher inside. Though even that stopped when I was 18. Mum never showed any interest in men again.
Most of the guys at college were terribly immature and shallow and I began to think that perhaps I'd unwittingly absorbed Mum's 'man phobia'. I turned down all the offers (of which there were plenty), until word got round that I was probably a dyke. Who was I to disabuse these jerks? At least it stopped them pestering me. But sapphic play certainly wasn't my scene. Admittedly, I'd often looked longingly at some of the shaven pussies I caught sight of in the gym's changing rooms. But it was more because I wanted a smooth snatch too (I still had a trimmed bush), rather than drooling over the delights of 'eating' any of my college girlfriends.
Then one sunny Spring afternoon everything changed. I'd cut a class to go into town to pick up some groceries for Mum and on the way back, I decided to cash in my parsimonious father's birthday gift token at our local indie bookshop. I was heavily into mildly-erotic vampiric romps, where the girl vampire vanquishes the vile Visigoths from outer space. The shop had a display of my favourite author's latest title.
As I was leafing through the opening chapter, I sensed the presence of someone standing beside me: a middle-aged man, who I'd always taken to be the bookshop's owner, but had never spoken to.
"Hi! I see you're into Velda Samson."
"Yes, I love her stuff. I've read them all."
"We only took delivery of that one this morning."
"Do you work here, then?"
"For my sins, I own the place. I'm Tony. Tony Metcalf." The tall, dark-haired proprietor before me was clean-cut, with a nice trim figure, clad in expensive casual wear. I recognised his Cuba aftershave, a sexy mix of tobacco smoke and rum cocktails. Mum had once bought it for Dad one Christmas.
"Pleased to meet you. I'm Samantha."
"Hi Samantha. Is there anything else I can show you?"
"No thanks, Tony. I'll just take this one." I handed over Dad's voucher.
"Let me wrap it up for you." So saying, he took the book from me and went over to the counter to bag it up, popping a receipt inside. As he handed me my package, he said: "Listen, we close in 10 minutes. Would you fancy coming to the wine bar across the street for a drink?" He gave me a lovely smile.
Butterflies started flapping in my stomach. The offer, though innocent enough, was clearly an opening gambit to a flirtation. Possibly even an affair. And this good-looking guy was at least 20 years older than me!
"Er, well that's very sweet of you (I instantly regretted the use of the word 'sweet', thinking: 'why the fuck didn't you say "kind" you silly cow?'), but you see I have to get these groceries home for Mum. She's cooking us a paella. Special celebration."
"I see. May I ask what you're celebrating?"
"My birthday. I'm 18." (There, I'd said it. Laid down a clearly-visible marker. But was I warning him off or egging him on?)
"Many happy returns, Samantha. Then maybe we could take that drink another time?" (He wasn't going to be deterred.)
"That would be nice. I'd like that." (Would I? Fucking hell, yes I would! I'd really like to flirt with an older man!) "And please call me Sam?"
"Then why not call by here on Friday... Sam?" (I loved the embarrassed hesitation before the first use of my shortened name. It was as if I'd given him a password.) "I stay open until 7.00pm, but if we went over to the Bar Italia, we could have that glass of wine I suggested and maybe a bite to eat too? They do superb deep-pan pizzas."
"Yeah, so I've heard. Friday would be good for me. Mum always has to work late and so I usually finish up snacking on crisps, watching rubbish on TV." I fluttered my eyelashes a little as a signal that, as far as I was concerned, the affair had just been 'launched', "Yes... I'd like that very much, Tony."
"Great! That's a date then. I'll see you on Friday. Let's meet over there, shall we - say around 7.15pm?"
I left that bookshop feeling slightly heady. His final use of 'date' seemed a confirmation that my bookseller had designs. Who was I to deter him? I felt a divine wetness seeping from my slit, wetting my thighs, as I walked home.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
For my first assignation with quiet, bookish Tony, I'd decided that I should dress 'on the cusp', somewhere between an out-an-out slutty harlot (like that bitch who'd seduced my Dad) and some demure mid-American Vestal Virgin, who has Virgil's Aenead for her bedside reading. Though I say it myself, my chosen Bar Italia outfit was stunning.
I'm fortunate to have small, tightly-formed breasts which don't require artificial support, and I'm also endowed with extra-large puffie nipples. This mammary combination, sitting beneath a semi-transparent patterned midnight blue silk blouse, tied at the front, would be very alluring. My tanned midriff was bare, exposing my diamond navel stud. Below, my green silk pantaloons showed off my slim legs, with their ribbon-tied ends finishing above my ankles. On my feet, I wore Mum's emerald green suede pumps.
When I nervously entered, the Bar Italia was still quiet (the raucous late-night throng had yet to arrive). Proprietor Mario ushered me to a candle-lit corner table. He looked down appreciatively at my outfit as he murmured, "Senior Tony will be joining you shortly, signora. Here is a glass of Prosecco, with the compliments of the house."
Tony appeared at my side a few minutes later and placed a hand lightly on my shoulder. I thought (hoped) that he would lean forward a peck me on the cheek, but instead he took the seat opposite me at the table. He gave me that lovely smile. "Hi, Sam. May I say, you look simply gorgeous." Mario brought him a glass of sparkling wine.
"Not over the top?"
"Far from it. I think your outfit is extremely well-chosen, young lady."
"Why thank you, kind sir." I raised my glass. "Cheers!"
"Cheers. Let's get the ordering out of the way, shall we? Then we can chat." Mario approached with his order pad at the ready.
Tony effectively took over, ordering for us both. I admired his confident style and his command of the Italian language. He folded the menu card and handed it back to the proprietor, saying, "And we'll have a bottle of the vintage Chianti, when you're ready."
All the while, my naughty mind had been fast-forwarding to what might happen after the meal. Would we be going back to his place? Would he run me home in his car, stopping to neck in some leafy lay-by? Did his car have full reclininng seats, so we could fuck? I was suddenly jolted out of my sexual reverie, when I realised I was being spoken to.
"Sorry, what was that?"
"Hey, you were miles away!"
Lowering my head, I saw that my nipples were sticking against my blouse like organ stops. I blushed and hastily reached for my wine glass.
"So was it good?"
"Was what good?"
"That day dream you were having?" He stared hard at my breasts and smiled. "It looked like it, from where I was sitting!"
I decided to go for broke. Fuck it, why beat about the bush with small talk about college grades and career prospects, or his bookshop's sales. I wanted this guy to fuck me this evening. "Well... if you must know... I was wondering whether there's a Mrs Metcalf?"
"Nope."
"Well that's a relief. You see, Tony (I nervously twisted my empty wine glass round)... I find you... extremely attractive and... when I agreed to come out with you for supper, I was hoping that... er... maybe..." (then I dried up).
"You were hoping that maybe it might lead somewhere?"
"Er... sort of. Yes."
"So was I." He beamed that lovely smile again.
We paused in our gentle flirtation, as Mario had appeared with the Chianti, insisting on Tony tasting it, before filling my glass and then my companion's. After the Italian had departed, Tony waded straight back in. Lifting his red wine, he whispered, "If it wasn't so public in here, I'd love to run my hand along your thigh right now, Sam. Would you let me?"
"Shit!"
"Sorry, did that offend you?"
"Far from it. It caused a minor seismic reaction 'down there', that's all."
He sniggered. "Mmm, how nice. Are we a bit wet, perhaps?"
"That's an understatement. I could do with a panty liner right now!"
"I'm quite restricted myself, actually." He shuffled in his chair.
I was enjoying this cool sexual banter. Boldly taking a swig of my wine, I nonchalantly asked, with an angelic smile, "Hard?"
"Very!"
"I'm so pleased I'm having that effect on you. Tell me, did you ever see a movie called 'Shampoo'?"
"I'm not sure. Remind me of the plot."
I paused, while ever-attentive Mario delivered a huge bowl of dressed salad to our table, then shuffled off to the kitchens.
"It's quite old. Mid-70s probably. Nixon-era political comedy. Warren Beatty is a suave ladies' hairdresser, and at a formal dinner party, his girlfriend Julie Christie climbs under the table and gives him a blow job. Just like that! On screen!" I took a bread stick, snapped it dramatically in half and gave a wicked grin. "Pity these tables haven't got tableclothes!"
Tony's reaction was to half-choke on his first forkeful of lettuce and olives. "Jeez!"
Two plates of piping hot deep-pan pizzas soon arrived, saving further embarrassments. We greedily tucked in.
I knew that once the coffees and Amaretto had been consumed - it was now gone 11.00pm and Mum would be home and in bed, assuming that I was out on a girls' night out - Tony would have to make his intentions clear. He nervously twisted the empty liquor glass in his fingers. "Sam?"
I looked at him, as if butter wouldn't melt in my mouth. "The answer's 'yes'."
He laughed quietly. A knowing, gentle, adult laugh. God, I was really smitten by this guy and I hadn't even undressed him!
"Suppose I'd been going to ask you if you'd like another coffee?"
"But you weren't, hun. You were about to ask me if I'd like to come back to your place. And I most definitely would. What's more, I'd love to undress in front of you and then take your clothes off, so's I can see that trim body of yours and gaze at your cock. I'm simply dying to see your cock."
"And?"
There was a couple of fingers of Cianti left in the bottom of my wine glass. I threw it back in one gulp. "Then we'd get down to some serious fucking."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Tony's apartment was over the bookshop, just across the street from Bar Italia. We had barely 50 paces to stagger.
It was a nice space. Open-planed and welcoming, its pastel-coloured boarded walls lined with bookshelves. There was a Thonet bentwood rocking chair in the corner and a Charles Eames leather armchair, as well as a veritable kaleidoscope of antique oriental rugs, criss-crossing the polished parquet floor. His taste in art prints ranged from Matisse to Monet. Tony turned the lighting down low and disappeared into the kitchen annexe to collect a bottle of Prosecco and two flutes. I slumped down on the long black leather sofa and kicked off my pumps.
He stood before me, holding two filled glasses of sparkling wine. "Can you stay the night, Sam? I'll run you home later if you'd rather."
I took a glass and smiled. "Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, as they say. Hell, why not?"
He unbuttoned his shirt and threw it behind him. Then he slipped out of his slacks, but remained in his jockey shorts. "Would my little girl like to unveil the goods on offer?" he asked.
I placed my empty flute on the floor. "I thought you'd never ask."
I reached forward and, with both hands, pulled his shorts down to his ankles, freeing his semi-rigid cock. It certainly was big. "My, my," I giggled, "that looks good enough to eat!" Small droplets of pre-cum were seeping out of its pee hole. I eased myself onto the edge of the sofa, cradled his cock in my hands and licked the heavenly cream off.
He looked down, smiling. "You like?"
"I like very much indeed." I stroked his ball sack, marvelling at the enlarged size of his testes. "Do you suppose there might be a lot more in there for your little girl?"
"I'm quite sure there is, sweetie. I haven't jerked off for over a week."
"Wow! So your Samantha might finish up with a very full cunnie by the morning?"
"Let's hope so!"
As we moved to the bedroom (armed with the fizzy wine), I began disrobing, wantonly shedding my clothes in a trail across the living room floor. By the time I'd arrived at the foot of his king-size bed, I was down to my well-soiled panties. Tony helped me slip them off, then held them to his face to inhale the aroma of my fresh secretions.
I slumped onto the bed in a spread-eagled position, and began fingering my slit to further wetness. My soon-to-be lover stood at the foot of the bed, slowly stroking himself. We exchanged lustful smiles.
Beckoning him to take up a position between my opened legs, I whispered, "Please come and fuck me, Daddy?"
I had only just turned seven when Mum and Dad split up. He'd told her one night that he was going to set up home with his secretary (the usual scenario: middle-aged man trades in spouse for a younger, sportier model). Mum was devastated and grappled with acute depression for months, but managed to hold down her job, as a senior supervisor at our local supermarket. It was really her tenacity which kept our heads above water.
Dad never came round to visit us, even though he only lived 80 miles away with his Disco Queen (as Mum called her). Just sent me a birthday card each year, with a book gift voucher inside. Though even that stopped when I was 18. Mum never showed any interest in men again.
Most of the guys at college were terribly immature and shallow and I began to think that perhaps I'd unwittingly absorbed Mum's 'man phobia'. I turned down all the offers (of which there were plenty), until word got round that I was probably a dyke. Who was I to disabuse these jerks? At least it stopped them pestering me. But sapphic play certainly wasn't my scene. Admittedly, I'd often looked longingly at some of the shaven pussies I caught sight of in the gym's changing rooms. But it was more because I wanted a smooth snatch too (I still had a trimmed bush), rather than drooling over the delights of 'eating' any of my college girlfriends.
Then one sunny Spring afternoon everything changed. I'd cut a class to go into town to pick up some groceries for Mum and on the way back, I decided to cash in my parsimonious father's birthday gift token at our local indie bookshop. I was heavily into mildly-erotic vampiric romps, where the girl vampire vanquishes the vile Visigoths from outer space. The shop had a display of my favourite author's latest title.
As I was leafing through the opening chapter, I sensed the presence of someone standing beside me: a middle-aged man, who I'd always taken to be the bookshop's owner, but had never spoken to.
"Hi! I see you're into Velda Samson."
"Yes, I love her stuff. I've read them all."
"We only took delivery of that one this morning."
"Do you work here, then?"
"For my sins, I own the place. I'm Tony. Tony Metcalf." The tall, dark-haired proprietor before me was clean-cut, with a nice trim figure, clad in expensive casual wear. I recognised his Cuba aftershave, a sexy mix of tobacco smoke and rum cocktails. Mum had once bought it for Dad one Christmas.
"Pleased to meet you. I'm Samantha."
"Hi Samantha. Is there anything else I can show you?"
"No thanks, Tony. I'll just take this one." I handed over Dad's voucher.
"Let me wrap it up for you." So saying, he took the book from me and went over to the counter to bag it up, popping a receipt inside. As he handed me my package, he said: "Listen, we close in 10 minutes. Would you fancy coming to the wine bar across the street for a drink?" He gave me a lovely smile.
Butterflies started flapping in my stomach. The offer, though innocent enough, was clearly an opening gambit to a flirtation. Possibly even an affair. And this good-looking guy was at least 20 years older than me!
"Er, well that's very sweet of you (I instantly regretted the use of the word 'sweet', thinking: 'why the fuck didn't you say "kind" you silly cow?'), but you see I have to get these groceries home for Mum. She's cooking us a paella. Special celebration."
"I see. May I ask what you're celebrating?"
"My birthday. I'm 18." (There, I'd said it. Laid down a clearly-visible marker. But was I warning him off or egging him on?)
"Many happy returns, Samantha. Then maybe we could take that drink another time?" (He wasn't going to be deterred.)
"That would be nice. I'd like that." (Would I? Fucking hell, yes I would! I'd really like to flirt with an older man!) "And please call me Sam?"
"Then why not call by here on Friday... Sam?" (I loved the embarrassed hesitation before the first use of my shortened name. It was as if I'd given him a password.) "I stay open until 7.00pm, but if we went over to the Bar Italia, we could have that glass of wine I suggested and maybe a bite to eat too? They do superb deep-pan pizzas."
"Yeah, so I've heard. Friday would be good for me. Mum always has to work late and so I usually finish up snacking on crisps, watching rubbish on TV." I fluttered my eyelashes a little as a signal that, as far as I was concerned, the affair had just been 'launched', "Yes... I'd like that very much, Tony."
"Great! That's a date then. I'll see you on Friday. Let's meet over there, shall we - say around 7.15pm?"
I left that bookshop feeling slightly heady. His final use of 'date' seemed a confirmation that my bookseller had designs. Who was I to deter him? I felt a divine wetness seeping from my slit, wetting my thighs, as I walked home.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
For my first assignation with quiet, bookish Tony, I'd decided that I should dress 'on the cusp', somewhere between an out-an-out slutty harlot (like that bitch who'd seduced my Dad) and some demure mid-American Vestal Virgin, who has Virgil's Aenead for her bedside reading. Though I say it myself, my chosen Bar Italia outfit was stunning.
I'm fortunate to have small, tightly-formed breasts which don't require artificial support, and I'm also endowed with extra-large puffie nipples. This mammary combination, sitting beneath a semi-transparent patterned midnight blue silk blouse, tied at the front, would be very alluring. My tanned midriff was bare, exposing my diamond navel stud. Below, my green silk pantaloons showed off my slim legs, with their ribbon-tied ends finishing above my ankles. On my feet, I wore Mum's emerald green suede pumps.
When I nervously entered, the Bar Italia was still quiet (the raucous late-night throng had yet to arrive). Proprietor Mario ushered me to a candle-lit corner table. He looked down appreciatively at my outfit as he murmured, "Senior Tony will be joining you shortly, signora. Here is a glass of Prosecco, with the compliments of the house."
Tony appeared at my side a few minutes later and placed a hand lightly on my shoulder. I thought (hoped) that he would lean forward a peck me on the cheek, but instead he took the seat opposite me at the table. He gave me that lovely smile. "Hi, Sam. May I say, you look simply gorgeous." Mario brought him a glass of sparkling wine.
"Not over the top?"
"Far from it. I think your outfit is extremely well-chosen, young lady."
"Why thank you, kind sir." I raised my glass. "Cheers!"
"Cheers. Let's get the ordering out of the way, shall we? Then we can chat." Mario approached with his order pad at the ready.
Tony effectively took over, ordering for us both. I admired his confident style and his command of the Italian language. He folded the menu card and handed it back to the proprietor, saying, "And we'll have a bottle of the vintage Chianti, when you're ready."
All the while, my naughty mind had been fast-forwarding to what might happen after the meal. Would we be going back to his place? Would he run me home in his car, stopping to neck in some leafy lay-by? Did his car have full reclininng seats, so we could fuck? I was suddenly jolted out of my sexual reverie, when I realised I was being spoken to.
"Sorry, what was that?"
"Hey, you were miles away!"
Lowering my head, I saw that my nipples were sticking against my blouse like organ stops. I blushed and hastily reached for my wine glass.
"So was it good?"
"Was what good?"
"That day dream you were having?" He stared hard at my breasts and smiled. "It looked like it, from where I was sitting!"
I decided to go for broke. Fuck it, why beat about the bush with small talk about college grades and career prospects, or his bookshop's sales. I wanted this guy to fuck me this evening. "Well... if you must know... I was wondering whether there's a Mrs Metcalf?"
"Nope."
"Well that's a relief. You see, Tony (I nervously twisted my empty wine glass round)... I find you... extremely attractive and... when I agreed to come out with you for supper, I was hoping that... er... maybe..." (then I dried up).
"You were hoping that maybe it might lead somewhere?"
"Er... sort of. Yes."
"So was I." He beamed that lovely smile again.
We paused in our gentle flirtation, as Mario had appeared with the Chianti, insisting on Tony tasting it, before filling my glass and then my companion's. After the Italian had departed, Tony waded straight back in. Lifting his red wine, he whispered, "If it wasn't so public in here, I'd love to run my hand along your thigh right now, Sam. Would you let me?"
"Shit!"
"Sorry, did that offend you?"
"Far from it. It caused a minor seismic reaction 'down there', that's all."
He sniggered. "Mmm, how nice. Are we a bit wet, perhaps?"
"That's an understatement. I could do with a panty liner right now!"
"I'm quite restricted myself, actually." He shuffled in his chair.
I was enjoying this cool sexual banter. Boldly taking a swig of my wine, I nonchalantly asked, with an angelic smile, "Hard?"
"Very!"
"I'm so pleased I'm having that effect on you. Tell me, did you ever see a movie called 'Shampoo'?"
"I'm not sure. Remind me of the plot."
I paused, while ever-attentive Mario delivered a huge bowl of dressed salad to our table, then shuffled off to the kitchens.
"It's quite old. Mid-70s probably. Nixon-era political comedy. Warren Beatty is a suave ladies' hairdresser, and at a formal dinner party, his girlfriend Julie Christie climbs under the table and gives him a blow job. Just like that! On screen!" I took a bread stick, snapped it dramatically in half and gave a wicked grin. "Pity these tables haven't got tableclothes!"
Tony's reaction was to half-choke on his first forkeful of lettuce and olives. "Jeez!"
Two plates of piping hot deep-pan pizzas soon arrived, saving further embarrassments. We greedily tucked in.
I knew that once the coffees and Amaretto had been consumed - it was now gone 11.00pm and Mum would be home and in bed, assuming that I was out on a girls' night out - Tony would have to make his intentions clear. He nervously twisted the empty liquor glass in his fingers. "Sam?"
I looked at him, as if butter wouldn't melt in my mouth. "The answer's 'yes'."
He laughed quietly. A knowing, gentle, adult laugh. God, I was really smitten by this guy and I hadn't even undressed him!
"Suppose I'd been going to ask you if you'd like another coffee?"
"But you weren't, hun. You were about to ask me if I'd like to come back to your place. And I most definitely would. What's more, I'd love to undress in front of you and then take your clothes off, so's I can see that trim body of yours and gaze at your cock. I'm simply dying to see your cock."
"And?"
There was a couple of fingers of Cianti left in the bottom of my wine glass. I threw it back in one gulp. "Then we'd get down to some serious fucking."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Tony's apartment was over the bookshop, just across the street from Bar Italia. We had barely 50 paces to stagger.
It was a nice space. Open-planed and welcoming, its pastel-coloured boarded walls lined with bookshelves. There was a Thonet bentwood rocking chair in the corner and a Charles Eames leather armchair, as well as a veritable kaleidoscope of antique oriental rugs, criss-crossing the polished parquet floor. His taste in art prints ranged from Matisse to Monet. Tony turned the lighting down low and disappeared into the kitchen annexe to collect a bottle of Prosecco and two flutes. I slumped down on the long black leather sofa and kicked off my pumps.
He stood before me, holding two filled glasses of sparkling wine. "Can you stay the night, Sam? I'll run you home later if you'd rather."
I took a glass and smiled. "Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, as they say. Hell, why not?"
He unbuttoned his shirt and threw it behind him. Then he slipped out of his slacks, but remained in his jockey shorts. "Would my little girl like to unveil the goods on offer?" he asked.
I placed my empty flute on the floor. "I thought you'd never ask."
I reached forward and, with both hands, pulled his shorts down to his ankles, freeing his semi-rigid cock. It certainly was big. "My, my," I giggled, "that looks good enough to eat!" Small droplets of pre-cum were seeping out of its pee hole. I eased myself onto the edge of the sofa, cradled his cock in my hands and licked the heavenly cream off.
He looked down, smiling. "You like?"
"I like very much indeed." I stroked his ball sack, marvelling at the enlarged size of his testes. "Do you suppose there might be a lot more in there for your little girl?"
"I'm quite sure there is, sweetie. I haven't jerked off for over a week."
"Wow! So your Samantha might finish up with a very full cunnie by the morning?"
"Let's hope so!"
As we moved to the bedroom (armed with the fizzy wine), I began disrobing, wantonly shedding my clothes in a trail across the living room floor. By the time I'd arrived at the foot of his king-size bed, I was down to my well-soiled panties. Tony helped me slip them off, then held them to his face to inhale the aroma of my fresh secretions.
I slumped onto the bed in a spread-eagled position, and began fingering my slit to further wetness. My soon-to-be lover stood at the foot of the bed, slowly stroking himself. We exchanged lustful smiles.
Beckoning him to take up a position between my opened legs, I whispered, "Please come and fuck me, Daddy?"
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