Date: Fri, 29 Sep 2006 17:23:07 -0700 (PDT) From: James Spaulding Subject: Not Just His Grandpa, Part 1 The following story is a piece of fiction. If suggestions of incest offend you please do not read. There is also some racially sensitive moments in this story; please understand it as a part of the fantasy. Besides, in a future installment, race will come back to haunt Grandpa. If you enjoyed this story, feel free to contact me at fathercandy@yahoo.com. There is more to come... Not Just His Grandpa As my account progresses, you will figure out pretty quickly why there are certain missing details. Most of the story takes place at an unnamed Southern university, a university to which I give quite a bit of money. The fraternity -- my fraternity and my grandson's fraternity -- is also unnamed. No need to embarrass those who might be embarrassed by our relationship. Homecoming 2003. As an alumnus, I do my best to make it to the big Homecoming football game every year. 2003 was special. It was my grandson's first year at the university and his first year as a member of my fraternity. I looked forward to seeing the university through his eyes. I had graduated 46 years ago. For those of you who are good with math, that makes me 68. Before my adventure commences, I need to explain how it is possible that a man of 68 could actually make the sort of splash I made in 2003. Twelve years ago, both of my older brothers died. Neither was old. Jack was 59. George was 61. Both were overweight. Both smoked. And neither took care of himself. Exercise was a four letter word for them. And for me. I was well on my way to chunky -- on the cusp of being fat. When George died, and Jack died seven months later, I had the sort of forced wake up call that made me change my life. In the past twelve years I have lost over 50 pounds. Run three marathons. And I am a yearly participant in the Gulf Shore's Ironman competition -- of course, at the senior level. I divorced my wife eight years ago. I am not proud of the fact that she caught me fucking her best friend's daughter -- a woman younger than my own daughter -- but it does sort of prove my virility. I look good. 5'10". A bald head I keep cleanly shaved. I got some muscles. I got some body hair. Hell, Peter, my grandson, and few of his buddies have said I look "fucking hot." Their words. But I like the way they sound. Peter invited me to stay at the frat house. Something I had always wanted to do on each of my Homecoming visits, but something that never seemed quite right. For the past 30 years I always thought I was a little too old for frat boy shenanigans. But Peter asked me right after I had run a half-marathon (my race of choice), a race where I had beaten my personal best. He asked if I wanted to share his room with him. I laughed. Told him he was making a big mistake. And said I'd stay with him only if he let me take him and his buddies out for dinner. I also said I would buy the beer for their party. I didn't want anyone to think I was some old man, unable and unwilling to have a good time. I arrived on Friday night. Of course I knew the house, and I knew where Peter's room was. I climbed the stairs, admiring the old building, still in fine shape, regardless of the generations of horny, humpy, drunk college students that have called her home. Before getting to Peter's room I stopped at the bathroom; after a three-hour drive I needed to take a leak. I wasn't the only one in the bathroom. An attractive, chocolate colored young man was standing at the sink, shaving. He had a blue towel wrapped around his waste. I couldn't help but admire the stomach on the boy. Firm. Solid. His was a perfect package. In the 46 years since I left the University some pretty big changes have occurred. Back then the only black boys were the black boys who took care of our garden. Now I was making my way to a urinal I had pissed in countless times, sharing the bathroom with a black boy. The south had changed. "Hello, Sir" "Hello." "You must be Peter's grandpa. He told us you were coming. Buying the beer I'm told." I had unzipped my pants, pulled my cock out from the slit in my boxer shorts, and -- with cock in hand pointed at the urinal -- I turned to the black boy. "Paul Eggert. I am Peter's Grandfather and I am buying the beer. I'd shake your hand, but my hand is full at the moment. " I started to piss. "No problem, Sir. We rarely stand on ceremony around here. I'm Jamal. I live across the hall from Peter." Jamal. A polite young man. Obviously some sort of athlete. And then he took the towel from his waste, put it around his shoulder, and moved toward the showers. I stared. And I caught him staring. It took a while for me to realize that this beautiful colored boy, a boy blessed with a beautiful body was interested in my meat. He glanced. I glanced. I saw a beautiful black cock. I saw a young black man adjust himself, raise his balls away from his thighs, letting his cock swing as he did. I had to look away. And then I looked him in the eyes. Jamal smiled. His teeth white, perfect. He put his towel on the hook outside the shower stall, turned to me, and said he would see me later. He was looking forward to having a beer with me. I've been around the block enough to know that Jamal wanted more than a beer. The boy's smile said everything that needed to be said: I saw you looking. I know you liked what you saw. You know I looked at your cock while you were pissing. And I'm sure you know it's a nice piece of meat. All that was said by his smile. And, actually, those were pretty much the words he used after his tenth beer, right before I fucked his beautiful black ass. After my piss, I adjusted my growing erection: no need to advertise Grandpa's virility. Or cock. I walked to Peter's room. Knocked. Thought I heard a grunt in reply. And I walked in. Yeah, I heard grunting. But it wasn't a grunted "come in." It was a grunted "I'm cumming". Peter was fucking some girl and had just pulled off his condom and shot his load all over her face. She was in the process of cleaning off his cum slick cock when she saw me at the door. She screamed. Peter turned. Put a hand to his head and groaned. "Oh shit, Grandpa. I'm sorry, I was just... I mean we were...." "Peter. I will walk out of the room, close the door, and give both of you a chance to put yourself back together. No need to be embarrassed. I was 18 once, myself." Was I a "cool grandpa" or what? Actually, I was a flipped out grandpa. I had just seen my eldest grandchild -- my favorite grandchild -- buck naked. I had seen a load of his semen. And I had seen his cock -- quite frankly, the biggest cock I had ever seen. To use the parlance of the day, the boy was fucking hung. Damn. Quite frankly, the testosterone of the fraternity house was beginning to overwhelm me. I had to reconsider my willingness to spend the weekend in the frat house, in Peter's bedroom. After a few minutes, the door opened. Peter's "girlfriend" walked out. Her eyes were red; she was certainly upset and probably still crying. What a mess. "Peter, I am so sorry, I..." "Grandpa, shit happens. Come on. Welcome. It's great to see you." Peter pulled me toward him and once again I was hugging my little boy. Of course, my little boy was only wearing a pair of boxer shorts. His chest had grown muscular and was covered by a nice mat of blonde hair. His face was covered by a few days worth of stubble. And his huge cock was still erect, pushing out the front of his shorts. But a grandpa can certainly hug his grandson and forget such things. I did my best to forget. But I'm pretty sure I failed miserably. We walked into his room. He'd obviously done his best to clean up after his tryst. The bed was covered. And there was no sign of condom or condom wrapper. "Sit down grandpa. You get the bed." I sat. He stood. It took everything I had to not stare. My grandson was a man. And for the first time his manliness was evident. It wasn't just his body. His confidence and charm revealed a strength I had never seen before. "Peter, YOU have grown. It's not been that long since I saw you last. It was early August. What the hell have you been doing boy." "I'm already working with the Lacrosse team. It's a full year regiment. Season doesn't start until the spring, but coach has us in the gym most days and running long distance when were not lifting. Pretty intense. But I'm glad you noticed. Makes me feel like it's worth it. It can be kinda hard to drag my ass to the gym every frickin' day." He also talked like a man. I don't remember him every saying a cuss word. College changes the boy. And the boy becomes a man. I was in for a period of adjustment. "I'm going to throw on some clothes, Pops. And then I figure I could give you a tour of the place and we could walk around or whatever." "Don't you need me to get the beer for tonight's party?" "We can do that, too. If you want. I wasn't sure if you were still up for it." "I'm game, Son. I am going to show you young pups that I got what it takes to keep up with you all. You just might be surprised. ... In my day, Fraternity parties were civilized. We dressed. Our dates dressed. And our alcohol consumption remained relatively controlled. Not so these days. First, I found myself purchasing six kegs of beer. Yes, SIX kegs. I said nothing; I refused to be that kind of grandpa. The party started. The beer began to flow. And I found myself surrounded by boys and their girls. There were also a few older men, men like me who made their way back for the big game. I knew most of them. And soon found myself drinking like a twenty yearold frat boy. Making a fool of myself in the same way my peers were making fools of themselves. It must have been around my sixth beer when I noticed a man I knew as Jonathan. He was a little younger than me, somewhere in his late fifties. He had just pulled out a bottle of whiskey and passed it to a young man sitting next to him. The young man drank. Jonathan took the bottle, drank deeply, put the bottle down, and bent to whisper into the young man's ear. Jonathan's hand quickly grabbed the boy's crotch; he must have thought he was invisible in the beer-dazed crowd. In not time at all, the young man got up. Jonathan followed. They had left the party. I stared for a moment, amazed at what I had just seen. Again, in my day such stuff happened -- believe me, I know -- but I had never seen it so obvious. "Looks likes Burl got what he wanted tonight?" "Excuse me?" "I was just commenting on our former guests, Sir. Burl likes his men a little older. So he got what he wanted." "I don't know what to say, Jamal. It's just a little different. That's all. But, this is 2003, after all. I've seen that Will and Faith show once in a while." "Will and Grace." "Right, Will and Grace." "Hey, are you getting a little tired of this swill?" "Swill? I paid good money for this." "Sorry, Sir. I just thought you might like a change of pace." "Don't call me Sir, Jamal. It makes me feel old enough to be your grandfather." "Uh." "Jamal, I'm joking: I AM old enough to be your grandpa. What did you have in mind regarding of a change of pace? Cheap beer -- hell, any beer -- is not my drink of choice." "We have a bar downstairs. I'm sure I can find a bottle of something more suiting to a Southern gentleman of your standing." Was Jamal flirting? Of course. Did I enjoy it? Of course. Did I have any intentions? Of course not. It had been years since I had fucked around with a guy. I considered myself bisexual. And yet, to a guy of my generation, such a label was certainly discomfiting. I mostly like pussy. And I will leave it at that. "Come on. Let's see what we have." I followed Jamal. Looking at his perk little ass as he walked to the basement bar. I couldn't help but admire what I saw. Perfection. Black perfection. On second thought, this stud was not flirting with me. I was letting the beer carry me way. Jamal was just being nice to the grandfather of his friend. Kindness counts. As does chivalry. Jamal was chivalrous. Though there were more than a few people at the basement bar, he shouldered his way through the crowd, entered a closet, and returned with a bottle of relatively decent Scotch. "Come on, Mr. Eggert, let's enjoy ourselves." Again, it seemed as though Jamal was flirting. But he was also handing me the bottle of Scotch. I drank. Deeply. I gave him the bottle. He drank deeply. "Fuck. This sure perks a guy up." "That it does, Jamal." "You want to side down?" "Ah... Jamal, there doesn't seem to be any place to sit down." Jamal looked around the room. Yes, all of the chairs were taken. As were all of the sofas. "Can't you sit on the floor?" I sat on the floor. Jamal followed. We drank more. Jamal's right leg fell towards me. I let it rest on my left leg. Enjoyed the sensation. This boy was the epitome of virility. When his leg touched mine, I felt a charge, a charge strong enough to reassert my virility. (Yes, that is a Southern gentleman's way of saying he had an erection.) "So, Mr. Eggert, what do you like to do for fun?" Jamal looked me in the eye. I returned his stare. "Fun? Well, I have a feeling the fun is just beginning." "That it is, Mr. Eggert." Jamal's right hand went to my left thigh. And, for the first time, I was certain he was flirting with me. The hand stayed there. Jamal drank more. I took the bottle, and took a deep swallow. "Mr. Eggert, would you like to see the furnace room?" What the hell? See the furnace room? I knew a euphemism when I heard one. See the furnace room, my ass. The black boy wanted me to go with him. I stood up. Gave him my hand. "Show me the furnace room, Boy." No one watched as I followed Jamal to a door in the far wall. I knew the room. The furnace room. Back when I was a young man, the furnace room was out of bounds to all decent young men. It was where the black workmen went. They worked in its dim light. We assumed their work would lead to our comfort; they kept us warm. The door shut behind us. "It's a little dark in here. Let me get a candle." In no time at all the candle was lit and in the soft glow I looked around at a room like all other furnace rooms. Then I noticed a difference; there was a mattress on the floor in one of its corners. "Some tour Jamal. What am I supposed to see?" "Well, Sir. I thought you might have something to show me." I paused. "Let me start by asking, is there something you would like to see?" "Yes, Sir. Very much." At this point I was as hard as I could be. My flat front khakis clung to my erection, and even in the dim light, Jamal could see that I had a boner that wasn't about to go down on its own. My hands went to my belt. I took it off. Threw it to the floor. And then unzipped my pants. As I reached inside my shorts, Jamal got on his knees, as if to get a better look. "You like this, boy?" "Yes, Sir. It's beautiful." Jamal's hands reached for my cock. His touch was warm. His hands caressed my dick, slowly moving from the shaft to the head. He spat in his right hand, and it went back to work. Jamal's touch was sending me back to a place I had left a while ago; I was feeling lust for another man. I was ready to consummate. I was ready to let go of the restraints that had guided my actions for the past 10 years. "Suck my cock, Boy. I want to see your pretty black boy lips on my pretty white daddy cock." Without a moment's hesitation, Jamal's mouth replaced his hand. His right hand moved to my balls. His left hand went to my pants, pulling them down to my ankles. I stood there, watching this young, black athlete worship my cock, losing my self in the warmth of his mouth and the massage of his hand. I had never been with a black man. I was a man of the old South, a man who grew up in tumultuous times. Sex with a negro was simply not something I had imagined, as if it were a taboo far greater than an inclination towards other men. But this black boy was something. "Jamal, stand up." He stood. "Take your clothes off." "Yes, Sir." And I watched him undo his tie, unbutton his shirt, undo his belt, unzip his pants, and free his cock. He was fully hard and totally beautiful. "Do you like this, Sir?" I liked it. I liked all of it: the body, the dim light of the furnace I kept my hands on his head, and began to fuck his mouth with an urgency that made him gag. Spit was falling from his lips, as though he were salivating with an intensity known only to animals. I pulled my cock out. It was slick with spit. And slapped his face with my shaft. room, the sounds of the frat party, the fact that I was going to have sex with a colored boy. I reached for Jamal, looked in his eyes, put my hands on his head, and forced him back to his knees. "Yes, Sir." And my cock was once again making its way between his lips. "Yes, Sir. Use me, Sir. I am you little black boy. Make me you nigger." His words, words urging me to go where no gentleman would go, were turning me on. Taboo. His words were rich with meaning and significance. Words that should not be uttered. I uttered them. "Suck my cock, Boy. Make it slick. And when it's all slick, I am going to fuck your black ass." My hands went back to his head. His mouth went back to my cock. I was close. I needed to take a break. I had already decided that my semen was going to fill his ass. I pulled my cock out. Lifted his head and spat in his mouth. He took it and swallowed a wad of my spit. He opened his mouth again. I spat some more. The boy was a pig. He went back to my cock. "Stand up boy, let me see your ass." As Jamal stood, I sat on a bench and took off the rest of my clothes. When I turned around, he was on the mattress, on his hands and knees, his ass standing at attention, an invitation that could not be misunderstood. I knelt behind him, my hands massaging his ass cheeks, moving to his thighs, moving back his ass. "What sport do you play, boy?" "Lacrosse, Sir." "Is that how you got such a firm butt? "I guess. Please, Sir, I want you to fuck me." An offer I would not refuse. "Do you have lube, boy?" "Sir, under the mattress." I found the lube, squeezed the tube and prepared my cock. "Do I need a condom, boy?" "No, Sir. Only if you want one." I didn't want one. I squeezed some lube on my hand, and worked my way between his black ass cheeks, I found his hole and began to massage it, working my finger in gently, loosening his tight hole, preparing him for my thickness. My finger worked its way inside him. I added another finger. Jamal was moaning. "Yes, Sir." His face was pressed into the mattress, he shoved his ass towards me. Another invitation. He was ready for me to take him up on the offer. I shifted my position, roughly spreading his legs, allowing me easier access to his hole. "You ready, Boy? You ready for me to fuck you." "Yes, Master." I shoved it in with no regard for his pain. As he took my inches, he gasped. He felt me deep inside of him. He felt some pain. But his ass moved back towards me. Again, inviting more. I gave him more. I began to fuck him. I put my hands on his waste, and thrust towards him as I pulled him towards me. His moaning continued. His pain was obvious. As was his pleasure. "Oh, Mr. Eggert. Oh...Fuck me, Sir." Though the light was dim, I could still see my white cock slide into his black ass. It was beautiful. My thick white dick sliding between his firm black ass cheeks. I was lost in lust. I had forgotten who I was. I didn't care who I was. I was my cock, I was the orgasm that was building. "You like my nigger ass, Sir?" "Boy, you are a nice piece." "Just fuck me hard, Sir. Keep pounding me. You are so big..." I could no longer contain myself. I pulled out and told Jamal to roll over on his back. He did what I asked. I moved closer to his mouth. "You're going to eat my fucking white load, black boy. Got that?" "Oh, Sir. Yes, Sir." He opened his mouth, his tongue extended. I stroked my cock. So close. Closer. And then I shot my load. The first jet landed in his hair, but after the initial propulsion, my cum landed on his tongue. His lips closed around my cock, furthering my orgasm. He sucked. He swallowed. He pulled my cock out of his mouth and squeezed, forcing out another wad of cum. He looked in my eyes as he ate it. "You are one fucking hot pig, aren't you, Jamal?" "Yes, sir." "Are you going to cum for me, Boy?" "Yes, Sir." It didn't take long. His hands moved to his cock. Yes, a cock to prove the old adage true: this black man was hung. At least nine inches. Thick. Uncut. And ready to blow a wad. "Will you suck my cock, Sir?" "I don't suck cock, Boy. Understand?" "Yes, Sir." And with a few more stroked he brought himself to orgasm, shooting a load for the record books. His cum hit my right arm. It hit his face. It hit his chest. As he squirmed in the final moments of orgasm, I raised my arm to his mouth, lifted his head, and made him eat his cum off my arm. The boy was an avid cum eater. After he cleaned my arm, his hand moved to his face; he wiped his cum into his mouth. He swallowed. My hand went to his chest. I scooped up the cum that covered his body, and he eagerly took it. He swallowed. He caught his breath. "Sir, thank you, Sir." "That was hot, boy." "That was fuckin' hot, Sir" I appreciated his intensity. Jamal got up to dress. I followed suit. We left the furnace room, and reentered the party. Or so I thought. The party had ended. The basement was dark. We made our way to the main floor. The gentleman in me was reawakening. I was beginning to feel remorse for what I had done. The way I had used him. The language I used. "Jamal, I...I;m sorry if I..." "Mr. Eggert, you gave me what I wanted. We all have our fantasies, right?' "Yes." "My fantasy is an older white man, a man that reminds me of the pigs who raped my great grandmothers and grandfathers. I want to be raped in return." I didn't know what to say. I just stood their, uncomfortable and confused. "It's alright Mr. Eggert, a black boy like me isn't ashamed to be a nigger. Once in a while it feels good." Again. What could I say? "Goodnight, Jamal." "Goodnight, Sir. And thanks." With that I climbed the stairs to my grandson's room.