Grandfather Fucked His Granddaughter And Daughter In Law 8211 Part 1
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The Third Daughter - Chapter 3 free porn video
I woke up on Sunday morning and was disappointed to find myself alone. I felt alive from the moment I awoke. My thighs hurt and, I noticed, my nipples were large, almost as if they had just been sucked. My cunt lips were swollen. Was I doomed to be in a permanent state of sexual arousal?
There was a delicious smell of coffee emanating from, I assumed, the kitchen so I got out of bed and looked for my clothes. That search fruitless, I noticed a dressing gown, black, laid out on the bed and, I assumed, for me. It was sure to fit perfectly. But, reassuringly, it didn’t although my nipples showed prominently through the fabric.
I tied the belt as I made my way down to the kitchen where, before I got there, I could hear the murmur of conversation.
Clemency looked up, smiling, as I walked into the kitchen and found her sitting across the table from another woman. “This,” she said, “is my sister, Patience.”
Patience was a pretty woman, a little older than her sister but with the same if shorter, black hair. Her eyes were reassuringly a normal shade of brown and she was dressed in jeans, trainers, and a shabby jumper.
“Hi, Maggie. I am taking a brief refuge. I work all week and look forward to spending the weekend with my kids then, by Saturday evening, all I want is some adult conversation and liberation from football and iPads and computer games. Have we met?”
I took a sip of the coffee Clemency had poured for me and sat with them at the table. “Well, I have to confess you’re somehow familiar.”
“The library!” she exclaimed. “Grange St library.” I pleaded guilty as charged. “My daughter, Tina, absolutely loves it there. She loves the woman who does the Wednesday afternoon readings for her.” I admitted that that was me. “Oh wow, she’ll be so excited when I tell her I met you at Auntie Clem’s.” How could I ever think of Clemency as Auntie Clem? “You look so different in a dressing gown.”
“Most people,” said Clemency, drily, “do.”
We nattered for a while and I have to say I revelled in the normality, the mundanity. Patience was funny, quick-witted and, thank God, didn’t so much as produce an egg from behind my ear. “She’s a dreadful show-off,” she said, pointing at her sister, “don’t encourage her. I always try to appear bored. But I have to admit, the kids love her.”
When Patience left, Clemency and I went upstairs to shower. Inevitably it took longer than strictly necessary and I discovered how pleasant it is to kneel in the shower while someone washes your hair. I found a suitable way to pass the time while I was there. Use your imagination.
“Why don’t we have a walk down by the canal?” That was Clemency’s suggestion.
“Could we walk past my house so I can change into something more suitable?”
So we did. I wore the sparkly dress and heels, since I had nothing else and I was pleased that my coat covered the inappropriate clothes. My knickers and stockings etc were in my bag. “You’re such a slut, walking around with no knickers on.” She was dressed remarkably like her sister in jeans and trainers, but with a black shirt and a soft leather jacket.
“You might have offered to lend me a pair of yours.”
“Why did that thought not occur to me?”
We got to my place and Clemency wandered around, taking it in, feeling (I sensed) me in the house. Then, clad in a dark green corduroy skirt and a pale yellow sweater under a Barbour coat with brown, sensible shoes, I walked with her through the park and along the canal towpath.
It was a bright, warm late morning. Clemency suggested lunch at a little pub that nestled beside the canal and I agreed. We walked and talked. I slipped my arm through hers as we walked and it felt good, normal, real.
“Did you recognise Patience?” she asked.
“Vaguely. But I know her daughter well. She’s a clever little thing, great sense of humour.”
“What’s the best thing about being a librarian?”
“Seeing kids discover books.”
“And the worst?”
“Adults. For a start, they turn down the corners of pages as bookmarks which is vandalism. They make up ridiculous stories about why they shouldn’t pay the fine for being late returning books; they moan when the book they want isn’t there; they steal.” A thought occurred. “Why don’t you come and do a little magic for my reading group?”
“I don’t do a routine for kids.”
“Well you do when you’re ‘Auntie Clem’,” I sniggered. “So, do what you do for adults, they’d love it.”
“We’ll see.” We came to a bench set on a low mound beside the towpath and she guided me to sit on it. She half-turned to me and very deliberately unzipped my jacket and slipped her hand inside, covering my breast with her long fingers over the sweater. She looked, very directly, into my eyes. “I owe you an apology. I have to go away for a while.”
The news stung me like a slap in the face. “Why.”
“Just something I need to do. I don’t know how long I will be gone.”
“You’re dumping me?”
“Don’t be silly. I’ll keep in touch.”
“So, where are you going?”
“I have to visit some friends. Not sure how long I’ll be.”
“More fucking mystery.” My words were sour, but my voice was low, calm as I tried to keep my anger in check. “Will you ever be straight with me?”
“Yes, I will, when the time is right.”
I stood up and faced her. “Enough. I cannot do this anymore. You’re turning me inside out. I’m going home, be well.”
And, to my astonishment, I did. I walked off, angry, hurt, half expecting her to call me back, follow me, restrain me, hold me. If that was what I wanted it wasn’t going to happen. I got home, cried for a bit, then a bit more, then told myself I was better off without her and she could go and fuck herself. I cried a bit more after that too.
That night, I slept the sleep of the dead. No dreams, no restlessness. I woke on Monday morning and felt refreshed, liberated and decided, very quickly, that I had made the right decision. Plenty more fish in the sea, I told myself. And, some of those fish might be normal, less mysterious, straightforward. I threw myself into my work, scribbled some lines for a play I was trying to write, and generally got on with my life.
Wednesday afternoon and I was preparing for my kids’ reading group. I’d found a great story for them. It was a spoof murder, not too frightening (kids love a bit of fear) but funny, witty, and well-written. Patience’s daughter, Tina, one of my favourites in the group, skipped in, her mother a few paces behind her.
“Hi, Maggie,” said Patience. “How are you?”
“Great thanks. Tina’s looking full of beans.”
“Your reading group is the only time she sits still. Have you seen Clem?”
“No, she told me she had to go away for a while.”
She could obviously see the hurt in my eyes. Giving my back a friendly rub, she smiled. “That’s Clem. Don’t worry, she’ll be back. She’s like an aborigine, likes to go walkabout. Restless spirit.”
I was spared further embarrassment by the arrival of the kids. It went well, they were fun, as always even though I have no maternal instincts. There was a lot of laughter, chatter and it all passed quickly, for which I was rather grateful. Patience arrived to collect Tina who was full of it so there was no chance for us to chat any more than we had before the group. I was grateful for that too.
At home that evening, I was cooking myself an omelette when my phone rang. I didn’t recognise the caller’s number, but I picked up anyway. It was Patience. “You seemed a bit glum, I wanted to check you’re ok?”
“I’m fine thanks, really.”
“She can be a total bitch at times. It’s nothing personal. Come over for supper with the family one evening.”
“That’s kind, but I’ll pass thanks. I need to straighten myself out.”
“That’s fine. If you change your mind, you’d be welcome, and I promise you don’t have to read to Tina.” Her voice was so like her sister’s.
I laughed. “Thanks, Patience. See you next week.”
A couple of days later, I learned that funding was going to be cut by our local council. The made me incandescent with rage. Already pared to the bone, the library service was always, but always the poor relation of council services despite the huge benefits it brings to the community. The anger galvanised me. I wrote to local councillors, to the Member of Parliament, to the Prime Minister. I organised posters around the city. I thought of nothing else.
On Wednesday afternoon, I was setting out the chairs for the reading group when a woman came in. I saw her speak to the receptionist who pointed her towards me. I watched, warily, as the woman approached. She was my height, slim, well if casually dressed in dark blue trousers and an expensive-looking grey, woollen jacket, with a mop of grey hair and smiling, green eyes. I guessed she was about 50.
“Ms Mason?” I nodded. “I’m Eleanor Torven. You wrote to me about cuts to the library service.” It finally dawned, she was the councillor I had written to. “It seems you’ve been pretty active.”
“Well, somebody has to be.” I was cold, my anger far from dissipated. At that moment, the kids started arriving. “You’ll have to come back, I’ve got a hoard of kids arriving for reading group.”
“May I stay, watch and listen?”
I nodded. “Of course. Have a seat.” The usual organised chaos ensued. Some of the kids, including Tina, sat and listened attentively. Others charged about but still somehow paid attention. There was laughter at the jokes, shrieks when it got scary, and sighs of relief when all turned out to be well. It lasted half an hour but felt far more like hours. At the end, Torven spoke to a few of the children and their parents.
Over a cup of egregious coffee, we spoke. “I had no idea,” she said. “Libraries in my day were silent, temples of learning. This,” she did a sweep with her arm, “was fun, like school without shitty teachers.” We were interrupted as Tina, slightly embarrassed, gave me a small bunch of flowers as if she were presenting a posy to the Queen. The card read, simply, ‘from Patience and Tina.’ Patience waved from the doorway. I waved back.
Torven went on to say she’d do all she could to help. She had, she said, been impressed not merely by the campaign I had started but by the engagement of the children, the commitment of their parents. Somehow, I believed her. She touched my hand and I knew then she was gay too but it wasn’t flirtatious, but somehow supportive. She asked if she could visit us again and I found myself wanting her to.
When she left, I sat back and felt, for the first time for ages, that something good had happened.
I got home, dropped the posy of flowers into a bowl of water in the sink while I went to my bedroom and stripped.
Showered and changed into a pair of loose, silk trousers and a camisole, I went back to the kitchen and sorted the flowers into a vase. I opened the card and froze.
“From Clemency.”
No, Patience and Tina, just Clemency. I dropped the card and covered my face with my hands. I suddenly felt a shaft of arousal. My nipples had hardened against the camisole. I could feel the wet in my crotch. I had to put a hand down onto the worktop to support myself as my knees buckled. Something hard pressed against my cunt. I looked into the mirror on the kitchen wall and bent forward, feeling the silk trousers being pulled down my legs. In the mirror, I was alone, my nipples like fingertips under the silk. My hair was pulled back. I looked down to see the trousers around my ankles and I felt it, the hard thing, enter me, just as I felt a hand on my shoulder. The thing, I could not give it a name, pushed inside me as another handheld my breast. It wasn’t like the tongue, it was like a dildo. Describing a circular motion, as if an unseen lover was gyrating her hips, the dildo worked deep inside me. The hands that weren’t there caressed me and then, oh sweet heaven, a voice, her voice was in my head, deep inside me, low, barely a whisper.
“Mystery, different, fear. Are you afraid, Maggie?”
“Yes, yes I am afraid. I’m afraid I am mad.”
The hand on my shoulder moved down my flank, to my waist and held me, gentle, warm, secure. The other, on my breast, squeezed me, gripping my nipple between its fingertips.
“You’re not mad, you’re different.” The dildo was driving in and out of me now, so hard I had to steady myself with both hands on the counter. Heavens forgive me but I pushed back on it. I wanted it, I wanted her. “I am always with you,” thrust, “in you,” thrust, “Embrace the mystery. Look at me.”
I turned my head to look at the mirror and suddenly I was there, at the point of no return. I knew I was going to orgasm. In the mirror I could see I was alone, but, in my head, she was there, behind me, inside me, holding me. I watched as my mouth opened and I began to keen, to moan as if I were really being fucked. The orgasm started, deep in me. It was like a turbulent sea. It boiled inside me and then, oh Clemency, it began to overwhelm me, and as I began to scream in ecstasy, it happened.
My eyes turned blue.
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