A Fly on the Wall.

by Ganymede

A Fly on the Wall is the story of Savannah Martin, a ten-year-old fashion model, and the journey to change gender. With surgery in Mexico depending on meeting certain conditions, the responsibility falls on Grampa.

Vignette < < < What if Mommy saw us doing this? >>>>

“I called Mommy. She said I could sleep in your bed, Grampa.” Eight-and-a-half-year-old Savannah pushed his shoulder for the third time. “Stop faking it!”

Frank snored loudly, closing his eyes to block out the light from her iPhone.

He was pooped after spending from dawn to dusk entertaining Savannah. Day Three of spring vacation began with a two-hour horse ride. Then, he drove 40 minutes to Tombstone for breakfast at Longhorn, not the chain restaurant, the family diner on the outskirts of town. The rest of the day was whirlwind, a ghost tour, a gunfight tour ending at the O.K. Corral, counting bullet holes at the Bird Cage The-ater (it had to be said just right), a stroll through the Boothill Graveyard, and a visit to the Good Enough silver mine. They detoured on the way back to Elgin to see historic Gleeson jail—he had a great photo of Savannah behind bars.

Part of him hoped she’d get the hint and go back to her bed; another part was ready to play until midnight. His only question was, what did Savannah have in mind?

He heard a muted giggle, the patter of bare feet on the wood-plank floor, the tap of her phone placed on his dresser, what sounded like the rustle of clothing coming off. She giggled all the way back to his bed, propped Teddy D. Bear on the nearest pillow, pushed back the covers, and hopped up beside him.

Not even 55 pounds of warm, bare, and silky soft kid snuggled into his side, smooching his shoulder, little fingers clutching his chest hair, slender arms squeezing him tightly, her own special thank you for a very fun day.

“I told Mommy what we did today,” Savannah stated, not even close to being sleepy.

Karen was in Toronto, business, not pleasure.

“Not all of it, I hope.”

“She said to tell you playing shootouts aren’t a girl thing.”

“Oh! I messed up again, huh?”

“She’s going to have a little talk with you.” Savannah was gleeful at the prospect of listening in once again. She confided, “I didn’t tell her we had a barf together.”

“Probably a wise move. I thought you liked playing shootouts.”

“I do. That’s why I didn’t tell Mommy about the guns.”

Instead of an expensive lunch, he bought Savannah not one, but two diecast-replica cowboy Colt 45s, pearl grips with holsters. Twenty shootouts later, the kid’s draw was snappy, if a mite slower than Johnny Ringo’s.

“Go to sleep,” he whispered into the darkness.

Savannah climbed onto him, laying belly on belly, squirming skin on skin and breathing deeply. “We’re both naked, Grampa.”

“Your mom knows I don’t wear pajamas; however, you’re supposed to when you’re in my bed.”

Frank fondled silly curls, brushing fingers down her back, tickling little ears, inhaling orange-blossom scent like a California orchard.

“Mommy won’t know. Can we practice shooting cans tomorrow?”

Savannah’s Benjamin air rifle was top-of-the-line, for a spoiled eight-an-a-half-year-old.

“After chores. Plus someone needs grooming.”

‘Grooming,’ now there was a word with loaded meaning

“When am I going to get a rifle of my own?”

“When you hit every can without reloading,” Frank teased.

Even with a scope, it would be a while at 33 grampa-paces.

A few more deep breaths, a little squirm to get comfortable, and Savannah whispered. “You got a stiff, Grampa.”

“So do you, Sanny.”

Frank could feel it jabbing at his belly whenever Savannah moved.

She sulked for a minute before wriggling deliberately on Frank’s huge hot penis. It throbbed, unable to get any more erect.

“You’re making my tummy slimy.”

“I can’t help it. It’s because you feel so nice, Sanny,” Grampa whispered, afraid to interrupt the magic.

“How do I make it come out?”

“You just do,” Grampa said. It took all his willpower not to grasp Savannah’s little hips and start thrusting up to meet her. “The slimy stuff comes out when a man gets turned on.”

He could almost hear kid-brain cogs churning, putting jigsaw pieces into order.

“Turned on is a special kind of excitement.” He stroked Savannah’s little bottom. “It’s the same as feeling horny; when you want to do sexy stuff.”

She giggled and wriggled on top of his belly, his erection drooling, rubbing it into the delicate whorls of her navel.

“You’re turned on, huh, Grampa?” Little hands stroked inexpertly, mostly tickling his hairy chest. “Because I’m a girl, even if I don’t have boobs, yet.”

Frank tingled and exhaled, frustration barely checked. “Um, there’s more to it than that; but yes, I’m turned on.”

“Mommy said my boobs will start to grow once I have estrogen.”

“They’re fine the way they are.”

“They’re so tiny compared to Mom’s nipples.”

“What if I like little nipples?”

Delighted, Savannah lifted up, both slender arms stretched and straight, studying between them. It was too dark to see anything.

“It’s really slick now, Grampa.”

In mute disbelief, Frank Martin felt Savannah reach down and clutch his leaky penis. It was way too big for a kid’s small hand, yet it felt so good that he gasped.

She giggled, pushing herself onto her haunches, squatting over his thighs, fingertips collecting her grandfather’s excretion from the source, smearing it over her belly, rubbing it in like skin lotion. Frank groaned, reaching down, capturing both adult penis and juvenile penis in one hand. In a minute, he made both of them slimy, bringing man and ‘boy-thing’ together in a slippery, sticky, hot embrace.

“Grampa, you’re making me feel funny.”

“Uh huh. If you were a few years older, you’d be making slimy stuff, too.”

“What if Mommy saw us doing this?”

“Shhhh. Lay down again, ‘kay.”

Frank’s hands settled over little rubbery buttocks, thumbs caressing, fingers daring to penetrate the narrow crevice, slipping into moist warmth, a single fingertip seeking a little puckered opening.