It was my 20th birthday when Brian, whom I'd been dating (exclusively, I thought) informed me rather bluntly he was "moving on.

It was my 20th birthday when Brian, whom I'd been dating (exclusively, I thought) informed me rather bluntly he was "moving on." The fact we were in his parent's pool house and I was wiping his cum shots off my belly and tits at that moment actually, strangely, struck me as funny. I laughed, rather uproariously, while he sat on the bench looking downcast; occasionally waving his deflating cock like a white flag of surrender. I replayed the scene for a couple of my girlfriends that night, and, yeh, they had some giggles, but the big laugh would come later. It turns out, ya see, that Brian's new fuck buddy was his 39-year-old aunt (well, not new in the truest sense since we learned he'd been plowing her furrow quite regularly for longer than he'd been doing me). Their friendship, and let's not forget kinship, became pretty well known except, apparently, to his dad. It took him about 6 weeks to clue in. When the light bulb finally clicked on, his very loud and very public rant (in their front yard on an otherwise quiet Sunday afternoon) left no doubt among those who witnessed it, or simply heard it, precisely where he stood with regard to Brian fucking his sister. Hilarious? Yes! It was the big laugh that kept on repeating for several weeks. However, I digress. What I really want to focus on are the developments in my life since the Brian split. While I had girlfriends with whom I could commiserate, I almost immediately sought out the comfort and wisdom of my loving Grandpa, my PopPop. We've shared a special bond for as long as I can remember. He's been the 'man' in my life, the dad I never had, since being unceremoniously handed that role. My teenage mom's sperm donor simply came, and went, and unprepared (more a case I'm sure of unwilling) to be a mommy, she passed me off to PopPop hen pulled a disappearing act. She's a chapter in my book that's seldom opened. Although a widower at 35, PopPop took on his imposed fatherhood with nary a backward glance, becoming my provider, my confident, my source for encouragement and sage words of wisdom. We had this special bond that's served us both very well. But here I was at the point of needing something to help me over the hump of this breakup. Not that I was stressed by the departure of Bri (good riddance quite frankly), but a seeming lack of boy-toy replacement possibilities meant I was left to rely on my own devices (ya, really) for reaching the Big 'O'. Realistically, of course, there likely were potential fuck buddies out there, but the chance of hooking up was made ever more difficult as pandemic restrictions became stacked one on top of another. It made finding someone hard (both literally and figuratively) a challenge. I will note that I love every sensuous second of getting off, and regardless of how it's achieved an explosive orgasm is undeniably cathartic. But given current circumstances masturbation was my fast track (or sloww depending on mood) to that pleasure place. Whether it was the magic wand, the pulse massage setting on the shower head, or the old reliable 4 finger rub down that was tasked with driving the train I was always ready for the ride. Since I had been living in Brian's apartment, the plan was to move back with PopPop, and in that there was certainly nothing suggesting a need to alter my self-satisfaction activities. My bedroom was on the opposite side of the house from his and I'd learned to "keep the volume down" (somewhat) when circumstances dictated. The first Saturday home was a typical July scorcher, but shade cast by a huge roll-out awning made things bearable as we relaxed on the patio. Coming out from the house with a two frosty glasses and a pitcher of lemonade (a healthy shot of gin enhancing the flavour) I reached around from behind and placed a cold glass on PopPop's chest. He gave a yelp and bolted upright but quick reflexes allowed him to catch the glass when it slipped from my hand. Laughing, he set it on his side table, grabbed my wrist with his free hand and pulled me into his lap. We were both laughing as I gave him a peck on the cheek, a movement that caused me to spill a small amount of the pitcher's contents on my belly and into my crotch. "My god, girl, don't be spilling the good stuff," he exclaimed. "That's just wasteful. Much more and I'd be down there licking it up." The words hit us both, not in what I'd say was an entirely shocking way, but still left us sitting silently for a few brief seconds. It was when I shifted my weight to stand that PopPop's full blown erection became very obvious. I decided it best to remain seated. A jumble of witticisms -- "so I guess you are happy to see me," "that's an interesting point you've raised," and several others -- whipped through my mind though I put voice to none of them. Not sure what I should do, I simply followed PopPop's lead as he lifted my right leg and in a tremulous, husky voice said "turn around, baby girl. We need to talk." I knew exactly where I wanted that conversation to lead. We didn't really talk, just mumbled an almost meaningless exchange of sounds (that might have contained words), obscured by our rapid breathing. Sitting astride him I buried my face in his neck, nibbling gently, then pulled back and kissed him full on the mouth. Unable to speak with my tongue down his throat, he slid his hands under my ass, managed to stand, and careful to avoid stepping in the remnants of a now shattered pitcher carried me to his bedroom. With legs wrapped around his waist and arms squeezing me tight to his body, I almost couldn't seem to let go when he lay me down. But his hands tugging at my shorts had me untangling my limbs to assist in his endeavour. Leaning over me, PopPop's ragged breath was hot on my face as he shoved my sports bra up to free my tits. As he began suckling -- one then the other, neither getting more than its share of attention -- my hand snaked down to my pussy. Gaining momentum to rub one out, I was only vaguely aware that his mouth was now trailing wet, sloppy kisses over my belly and onto my thighs, but when he pulled my hand up and away my legs went wide. In my head I was screaming: "Fuck me, PopPop! Fuck me, fuck me!" though it was likely just a guttural moan. He dropped his head and drew my clit deep into his mouth, then easing back caressed it with his lips. A tune played in my head - Heaven's just-a-lick-away...' were the words I heard -- as with knees up and feet flat on the bed I arched my back to improve his angle of attack. When he rimmed my asshole, and then slowly - heart-stopping slow - dragged his tongue to deliver a rapid flicking lick of my clit, I simply exploded. I thought he was going to gag on my juice flow but he stayed the course, thoroughly mowing the grass and removing all debris. On topic: The only one who's ever made me cum like that is my BFF, Sara. The first time with her I was ready to swear off boys, but Bi-savy Sara called such a thought pure foolishness. "I'm more than happy to munch your pie anytime," she said, "but those times when a man stirs your juices is still, most always, a most pleasing way to get off." And she, of course, spoke truth. I was crying. I don't when I started; if it was when he was sucking my tits, munching down, or when I came, but there was certainly nothing sad about the way I was feeling. PopPop had 3 fingers in my cunt, wiggling them to their own secret beat. Pulling back slightly he began to rapidly stroke in and out. Lifting my ass high, I pushed back hard against his hand and grabbing fistfuls of beddings I squirted, squirted, and squirted more. I was loud and proud, and the bed was one total wet spot! I wasn't crying now, but that was probably because I couldn't summon enough energy to produce tears. We lay quietly for a while, well, quietly if my body's thrumming vibrations weren't as loud to PopPop as they sounded in my head. Although he had yet to get off -- I was thinking he at least deserved a blow job (surely I could find the energy for that) -- he seemed content to caress my tits, rub my belly, and gently work his fingers through my bush. It felt good. It felt right. I knew we would take this further; that PopPop and I would share great intimacy. Above all else I knew with absolute certainly that for the first time in my young life I had been loved, not simply fucked. With our bodies tight to each other, we slept. The clock on the bedside table read 9:06. The soft light coming through the window made clear it was still Saturday. Feeling refreshed but totally famished I slipped out of bed. Stepping into my cotton panties (love the texture and I'm not a thong girl!) I put on one of PopPop's well-worn T's and padded out to the kitchen. My heart did a mini-flip when I saw him at the table, newspaper and coffee at hand. He smiled and my heart flipped again. There was half a rotisserie chicken in the fridge, and I pulled together an easy cucumber-spinach salad. On the patio, PopPop swept up the broken pitcher and hosed away the sticky lemonade residue in which a few flies lay; whether dead or simply in a gin-induced stupor. The outdoor thermometer still read almost 90 so we ate in the slightly cooler kitchen. Moving to the living room and snuggled side by side, we settled in to watch "Murphy's Romance," one of my favourites. I'd watched it many times but was struck now by the seeming similarities between James Garner and the man beside me. Both have that solid outdoorsy look, are in almost any circumstance soft spoken, and (usually) display a gentle, caring soul. Of course I also noted how unlike Sally Field and I are, except perhaps for our abbreviated height. (For the record, I think she's a real sweetheart!) At some point during the movie my hand slipped under the waistband of PopPop's shorts and fondled his flaccid cock that, with a little soft stroking showed rapid and remarkable growth. I fumbled with my free hand to open his shorts, and my first thought when it finally stood free was 'Oh. My. God. It's magnificent!' To be clear, its length is probably average but its girth is, uh, substantial. Tales of snakes supposedly unhinging their jaw to swallow large prey flashed through my brain. What would it take to get my mouth around this monster? An attempt to encircle PopPop's cock with my index finger and thumb proved impossible. (A later measurement (because, I admit, I wanted to know) revealed a circumference just shy of 18cm)). In the glow from the TV screen its head was a plum-purple and glistened with droplets of pre-cum. I wrapped my lips around the tip and releasing a mouthful of pent-up saliva I worked my way down till it was poking the back of my throat. It was making my eyes bulge, but I hadn't had to unhinge my jaw to do it! I was rhapsodic; savouring its taste, its texture, and how its quivering vibrations seemed so in-synch with my own. This was unlike anything I'd ever experienced. I was not in a head-bobbing "cum-on baby blow your nuts" frenzy but instead gently caressing, loving, this part of this man. I wasn't ready for it to be over, so when PopPop moaned and shuddered I freed him from my mouth, reached in and grasping the cock at its base, squeezing hard. After a tense few seconds I uttered a soft, mumbled, "Not yet. No, not yet." Cuddling contentedly, it took just a short while for us both to reach a calmer state. My hard squeeze had stilled PopPop's potential climax but had not lessened his erection and I was soon thinking I'd like another lick of that PopPop-sicle (sorry, really I am, but . . .). To lead the way I was gently massaging his pendulous scrotum; a soft, loose bundle that hung low and had never -- it now occurred to me -- drawn up into that typical tight wrinkled bag even when he seemed on the verge of cumming. No big deal then or now, but the sensation of its large plum-sized residents swinging free, slapping against me with his rhythmic thrusts is most lovely. I had turned slightly to be better able to again take him in my mouth when he said in the softest way, "No, wait. I want to have you in my lap. I want to see your beautiful face when you cum." I was just as eager to see his face, and his arm behind my shoulders helped me to roll into position. Already primed, I rocked back and forth, my pussy depositing a thick wet coating on his cock. I was headed for an orgasm till PopPop's hands raised me up. His voice was thick but the words distinct: "Put it in, baby girl. Sit on it, take it all." I reached down and managed easily to line up Part 'A" with Part 'B' but making the one fit inside the other did take some finesse. I had luxuriated in the sensations produced by his cock in my mouth, but having his fullness in my vagina was beyond description. Every nerve ending sparked, no ignited, as I eased up and down and my hips developed their own rhythmic swinging motion. It was the most sensual, sensuous coupling I had ever experienced. I was loving this marvelous man. Riding, rocking, we were in synch, and with a joyful cry and shuddering release I came, twice. An intense feeling of peace and wellness flooded my very being and I collapsed into his chest. "Beautiful! You are so absolutely beautiful! God, you simply sparkled when you came." PopPop's words flowed like warm honey, a soothing caress that slowed my hammering heart. He nuzzled his face in my hair, stroked my back, all the while continuing to thrust into me with the rhythm I'd established. Hips lifting, keeping me positioned right and tight, he allowed me to find my way back to that synchronized state. Ecstatic may be too strong a word, but he was certainly giddy when I showed him my happy face three (it might have been four) more times. Staying power, stamina, the "how long can he last" question is -- I've been led to believe -- a common topic among girls. I can't be sure since I've never asked, perhaps because I've never considered it an issue. Now Brian, the Ex, was a porn hound and besides (boastfully? fearfully?) doing regular him/them comparisons was forever raving about the lengthy duration of one of his stud "heroes" performances. "Uh, Bri, Sweetie," I would repeat ad nauseam, "you really do know that some guy going for (whatever extended time frame he was on about) without dumping his cookies is pretty much imaginary, right?" I always held back from pointing to his own stats: From hard in to droopy out he could never break the ten minute mark. But hey, I'd never found fault with that. So the stamina "issue" above is directly tied to this: PopPop can last a lonngg fucking time! I can't tell you -- would not even hazard a guess -- the duration of that first night (that extended well into the following morning), but the past seven months have had me doing multiple happy dances over spans as brief as 22 minutes (a nooner 'quickie'; the shortest of all), to an eye popping 48 minutes (we've rung that bell twice). And here are two very interesting side notes: It is rare that he ever cums within the first 15 minutes (versus one, two, or more times for me) and; he can ejaculate multiple times, able to carry on almost instantly after each (until the "earthshaker" which is immediately followed by a little boy saying "Now I lay me down to sleep.") The pandemic has taken a toll on folks. It has complicated lives -- and taken far too many of them -- and has left a deeply traumatized world in turmoil. We all simply want it to be over. I really want to go back to the office, and people, and lunch in a café; to a club for a night out, and for a holiday or unrestricted visit with friends. PopPop has been among the fortunate who've stayed "on the job" (he operates heavy equipment for the city), but he too wants a return to normalcy, whatever meaning that word may take on. We've obeyed the instructions from the health professionals; wearing masks when appropriate, washing hands frequently, restricting activities to the family bubble, even social distancing (which, had it applied in this family bubble, just wouldn't have happened!). We've talked a lot about the future, our future, and for now we plan to keep on keeping on. He's nearly three times my age, but those are only numbers (and you can shape numbers to be whatever you want them to be). I have loved this man as my PopPop from day one and as my lover since, well, now. I'm simply unable to separate, to categorize if you will my feelings on those two planes of existence. Love is love, to me. You may have wondered about any possible anal action and I will say simply: that's a painful subject. As much as I would love to have him explore my poop chute, he is just too big. We've tried a couple of times, both of us lubed to the max -- an almost half bottle squirted into me! -- but alas it's been no-go. PopPop can't breach that sphincter fortress with naught but his thumb (although a thumb in the bum at the opportune time certainly can add to the other pleasantries). And, since we're now allowed to add another person to our family bubble, we've invited Sara for a visit. Having filled PopPop in on some of her unique talents you can bet he's as anxious as me for her to come. I'll make sure to update you on our future fun times. Be Kind. Be Calm. Be Safe. Love, Holly rn"