I never thought I'd end up playing babysitter to my own granddad, but that's what happens when you're a rebel like me. At 18, living in Cardiff, Wales, my life was all about football—I'm an attacker on the local team, scoring goals and turning heads—and even more about the girls. Women are my real passion. With my sculpted body from all those training sessions, blond hair that falls just right, and piercing blue eyes, I've had my pick. Dozens of girls under my belt, at least twenty girlfriends over the years, and yeah, I've juggled a few at once without them catching on. Even my best friend Jade who is a lesbian is jealous of me because she thinks that if she could be me she could sleep with all the girls she wants. Right now, it's Amanda who's official, but I sneak around with others because, hell, I just love women that much.
But my folks? They weren't having it anymore. My disruptive streak—skipping school, partying too hard, the usual—landed me this punishment: take care of Granddad Charles. He's 85, Dad's father, and he's been alone since Grandma died a few years back. Dad refused to stick him in a nursing home; said it cost too much. So, it fell to me. 'Do it, or you're out on the street,' they told me. I was pissed, but what choice did I have? I dragged Amanda along for the ride. She agreed, thinking it'd be a quick favor.
We pulled up to his old house in a quiet Cardiff suburb that afternoon. The place smelled like dust and forgotten meals. Granddad Charles opened the door, his eyes foggy from the dementia. He shuffled around with jerky movements, muttering to himself. 'Who're you?' he barked at first, then grinned like he remembered. 'Dylan, my boy! And who's this pretty thing?' Amanda smiled politely, but I could tell she was uneasy.
We got to work right away. First, I helped him into the kitchen to make lunch—simple sandwiches, but he kept knocking things over, his hands trembling. Amanda sorted his pills, counting out the colorful capsules into a weekly organizer while he watched her with a vacant stare. Then we tidied up: I vacuumed the living room, dodging stacks of newspapers, and she wiped down the counters in the bathroom, where mold was creeping in. I even helped him change into fresh clothes when he spilled tea on his shirt, awkwardly assisting as he fumbled with buttons. It was exhausting, and his random outbursts—like yelling at shadows—made it worse. 'The war's coming!' he'd shout, then laugh it off.
Finally, it was time to head out. Amanda excused herself to use the toilet, leaving me alone with him in the sitting room. Granddad patted the armchair beside him. 'Come here, lad. Sit with your old granddad.' I hesitated—I'm a big guy, built like a tank from football—but he insisted. 'Sit on my knee, like when you were little.' His voice was softer now, almost pleading. I felt a weird twist in my gut, uncomfortable as hell, but I didn't want to upset him. Sighing, I lowered myself onto his lap, the worn fabric of his trousers scratching against my jeans.
He wrapped his thin arms around my waist, pulling me closer. His breath was warm and stale against my neck. 'I'm so happy you're here, Dylan. Taking care of me like this. You're a good boy.' His voice cracked with emotion, and for a second, I felt a pang of guilt amid the annoyance. Then he leaned in and planted a kiss on my cheek—dry, papery lips pressing firm. 'Thank you,' he murmured, kissing the other cheek. I stiffened, but he kept going, little pecks trailing closer to my mouth. One on my jaw, another near the corner of my lips. My heart started pounding, a mix of confusion and something I couldn't name.
Before I could pull away, his mouth found mine. A full kiss, right on the lips. I froze, shocked, my eyes wide. 'Granddad, what—' But he didn't stop. He smacked his lips against mine again, insistent, his tongue flicking out to probe. It was wrong, so fucking wrong, but a strange heat stirred in me, unfamiliar and electric. My body betrayed me; I parted my lips, and suddenly his tongue was in my mouth, wet and probing, tasting of tea and age. I kissed back, hard, our mouths grinding together in a heated frenzy. His hands gripped my sides, pulling me tighter onto his lap, and I felt his body respond beneath me, a hardness that shouldn't be there. My own cock twitched in my pants, the taboo rush making my head spin. Tongues tangled, sloppy and deep, breaths mingling in the quiet room.
Footsteps echoed from the hall—Amanda. We broke apart just as she rounded the corner, wiping her hands on her jeans. 'Ready to go?' she asked, oblivious. I nodded, sliding off his lap, my face burning. Granddad just smiled faintly, like nothing happened.
We said goodbyes and left, the door clicking shut behind us. In the car, Amanda chattered about grabbing food, but I barely heard her. My mouth still carried the scent of his breath, that mix of mint and something deeper, lingering like a secret. As we drove through Cardiff's rainy streets, I couldn't stop replaying it—the shock, the heat, the way my body had reacted. What the hell was that? And why couldn't I shake it?
The drive back to my place felt endless, Cardiff's gray skies mirroring the storm in my head. Amanda kept yapping about how cute Granddad was in his confused way, but her words bounced off me like rain on the windshield. All I could taste was that lingering hint of his breath, earthy and forbidden, clinging to my tongue. By the time we pulled up to my house, I was itching to bolt. 'Thanks for coming with me,' I muttered, leaning over for a quick peck on her lips. She smiled, oblivious, and drove off. I slammed the car door and headed inside, my heart still racing from whatever the fuck had just happened.
Mom and Dad were in the kitchen, Dad flipping through the paper while Mom stirred something on the stove. 'How'd it go with your granddad?' Dad asked without looking up. I shrugged, avoiding their eyes. 'Fine. Made him lunch, cleaned a bit. He's... the same.' Mom nodded sympathetically. 'Good on you, Dylan. Keep it up, and maybe we'll ease up on the grounding.' I forced a grin. 'Yeah, sure.' But inside, I was unraveling. I bolted upstairs to my room, slamming the door behind me and locking it. The posters of football legends and half-naked models stared down at me, but they did nothing to distract from the heat pooling in my groin.
What the hell was wrong with me? I stripped off my shirt, my muscled chest heaving as I paced the small space. That kiss—his thin lips pressing into mine, his tongue slipping in like it owned the place. It was my grandfather, for fuck's sake. Eighty-five years old, dementia-riddled, and I'd kissed him back. Let him French me like some desperate hookup. I dropped onto my bed, jeans tenting painfully. My hand moved on its own, unzipping and pulling out my cock, already hard and throbbing. I closed my eyes, and there he was: Granddad's wrinkled face, his sparse white hair, those foggy eyes locking on mine as his mouth claimed me again.
I stroked slowly at first, shame burning my cheeks. I'd always been straight as an arrow—girls only, the hotter the better. The thought of a guy touching me used to make me gag. But this? This twisted shit with my own blood? It should have repulsed me. Instead, my fist pumped faster, pre-cum slicking my palm as I imagined his tongue deeper, his bony hands roaming my abs. 'Fuck,' I groaned, hips bucking. The orgasm hit hard, cum spurting over my knuckles in thick ropes. But it didn't stop there. I wiped up, but ten minutes later, I was hard again, replaying the way his lap had felt under me, that surprising stiffness pressing against my ass.
All night, it was like that. I'd jerk off, cum, then lie there panting, only for the itch to return. By midnight, I'd lost count—five times? Six? Each one dirtier than the last. In my head, the kiss evolved: his mouth sucking on my neck, whispering my name in that gravelly voice. 'Dylan, my boy... let Granddad take care of you.' I'd imagine pushing him back, grinding against him, feeling his old cock twitch under my weight. Shame twisted in my gut every time, hot tears pricking my eyes as I shot load after load onto my sheets. Why did it feel so good? So wrong, yet so fucking electric? By dawn, I was exhausted, sticky, and obsessed. Sleep came in fits, haunted by his scent.
The next morning, I dragged myself out of bed, muscles sore from the night's frenzy. A quick shower washed away the evidence, but not the thoughts. I texted Amanda: 'Coming over? Miss you.' She replied instantly: 'Door's open, babe. Hurry.' Perfect. Maybe burying myself in her would snap me out of it. I grabbed my keys and headed to her flat on the other side of Cardiff, the city buzzing with morning traffic. She greeted me at the door in a tiny tank top and shorts, her curves on full display. 'Hey, stud,' she purred, pulling me inside and locking the door. We didn't waste time—her hands were on my belt before I could say a word.
She dropped to her knees in the hallway, yanking down my jeans and boxers. My cock sprang free, hard from the drive over, fueled by guilty flashes of Granddad. Amanda licked her lips, eyes sparkling. 'God, you're always so ready for me.' She wrapped her mouth around the head, sucking greedily, her tongue swirling. I groaned, threading fingers through her hair, but in my mind, it wasn't her. It was him—Granddad on his knees, those papery lips stretching around my shaft, his dentures grazing just enough to tease. 'Yeah, like that,' I muttered, thrusting shallowly. She hummed, taking me deeper, but I pictured his watery eyes looking up, begging for more. The taboo surged through me, and I came fast, flooding her throat with hot spurts. She swallowed, grinning up at me. 'Missed that taste.'
I pulled her up, kissing her roughly to hide the tremor in my hands. We stumbled to her bedroom, clothes shedding along the way. She pushed me onto the bed, straddling my hips. 'Fuck me, Dylan,' she demanded, guiding my still-hard cock to her wet pussy. I slammed up into her, the slap of skin echoing. She rode me hard, tits bouncing, moaning my name. But as I gripped her ass, pounding deeper, my brain twisted it again. I imagined flipping Granddad over, spreading his skinny legs, sliding into his tight, untouched ass. 'Take it, old man,' I'd growl in my fantasy, his frail body shuddering under me. Amanda's cries pulled me back—'Harder, yes!'—but the image lingered, pushing me over the edge. I thrust up, filling her with cum, my roar muffled against her shoulder.
We lay there after, her head on my chest, chatting about nothing. 'That was intense,' she said, tracing circles on my skin. 'You okay? Seemed distracted.' I laughed it off. 'Just thinking about football practice later.' Lie. All I could think about was him. I left soon after, claiming I had errands. But instead of going home, I texted Sarah—the brunette from the team I'd been sneaking around with. 'Free? Need to see you.' She replied with her address, and I was there in twenty, knocking on her door with a raging hard-on.
Sarah answered in lingerie, smirking. 'Knew you'd come crawling back.' She was feisty, always had been—one of the girls who didn't mind sharing me, as long as I made it worth it. We crashed onto her couch, her hand stroking me through my pants. 'Tell me what you want,' she whispered, nipping my ear. 'You, now,' I growled, flipping her onto her back and shoving her panties aside. I ate her out first, tongue lashing her clit until she writhed, but even then, flashes intruded: Granddad's cock in my mouth, salty and veined, me sucking like a pro. She came on my face, screaming, and I flipped her over, entering her from behind in one brutal thrust.
'Fuck, Dylan, you're wild today,' she gasped as I railed her, balls slapping against her. Her pussy clenched around me, but I closed my eyes, envisioning his wrinkled hole yielding to me, his moans weak and needy. 'Beg for it,' I'd command, and in my head, he would: 'Please, grandson... fuck your Granddad.' The dirtiness of it—me, the stud footballer, balls-deep in my 85-year-old relative—sent me spiraling. I pulled out and came on her back, ropes of semen painting her skin. She laughed breathlessly. 'Damn, that was hot. Call me anytime.' I dressed quickly, mumbling excuses, and fled.
Back home that evening, alone in my room again, the obsession hit full force. I'd fucked two girls today, the ones I'd always craved—their soft bodies, eager mouths—and it hadn't touched the fire inside. No, it was him. That single kiss had rewired me. I wanted his mouth on mine again, tongues battling in that sloppy, heated way. I wanted to strip him down, see his sagging skin, his old dick hardening for me. Touch it, suck it, then bend him over and fuck him raw, claiming what no one else ever had. The scandal of it burned: Dylan Dinham, 18, blond Adonis of Cardiff's pitches, scorer of goals and girls, now drooling over his grandfather—67 years my senior, frail and forgotten. It was sick, incestuous, gay as hell, and that taboo? It was the spark. The wrongness made my cock ache constantly.
I paced, heart pounding. No more waiting. Tomorrow, I'd go back to his house alone. No Amanda, no distractions. I'd make it happen—kiss him, touch him, fuck him if he'd let me. The thought alone had me stripping down, hand flying over my shaft once more. 'Granddad,' I whispered to the empty room, cum erupting as resolve hardened in me. This was going to happen.
The alarm on my phone buzzed me awake that morning, but I was already up, heart pounding like I'd just scored the winning goal in extra time. Today was the day—my punishment shift to look after Granddad. But fuck the punishment; this was my chance. Ever since that kiss two days ago, I'd been a mess of shame and horniness, jerking off nonstop to the memory of his thin lips on mine, his tongue probing like he knew exactly what he wanted. Girls? They were fine, but nothing compared to the twisted thrill of wanting my own grandfather. Eighty-five, wrinkled, dementia-fogged Charles Dinham—my blood, my taboo fantasy. I showered quick, the hot water doing nothing to cool the fire in my gut. As I toweled off, staring at my reflection—blond hair tousled, blue eyes sharp, body ripped from endless football drills—I couldn't believe it. Me, Dylan Dinham, the guy who'd fucked half the cheer squad, now rock-hard at the thought of an old man. But that wrongness? It was everything.
I threw on jeans and a hoodie, grabbed my keys, and headed out without a word to Mom and Dad. They were still asleep, thank fuck—no awkward questions. The drive to Granddad's house on the outskirts of Cardiff felt charged, the Welsh drizzle smearing the windshield like my blurring thoughts. What if he didn't remember the kiss? What if he did, and it freaked him out? Nah, screw that. I'd make him remember. I'd make him want it too. My cock twitched in my jeans just imagining it—pushing him against the wall, stripping him down, burying myself in that ancient body. By the time I pulled up to his shabby bungalow, I was breathing heavy, palms sweaty on the steering wheel.
I knocked, and the door creaked open almost immediately. There he was, Granddad, shuffling in his slippers, his white hair unkempt, eyes a bit glassy but lighting up when he saw me. 'Dylan! My boy!' he rasped, arms opening wide. He pulled me into a hug, his frail frame pressing against mine, bony arms wrapping around my back. I hugged him tighter than I ever had, burying my face in his shoulder, inhaling deep. God, his smell—musty old clothes mixed with that faint, sour tang of unwashed skin and whatever cheap soap he used. It hit me like a drug, stirring memories of the kiss, making my pulse race. 'Missed you, Granddad,' I murmured, my voice low, holding on longer than necessary. He patted my back, chuckling softly. 'Good lad. Come in, come in. Hungry?'
I stepped inside, the familiar clutter greeting me: stacks of newspapers, dusty photos of Nana on the mantel, the faint hum of the fridge. 'Yeah, I'll sort lunch later,' I said, guiding him to his armchair in the living room. He sank into it with a sigh, and I busied myself with the routine—checking his meds, helping him sip tea, wiping down the counters. But my mind was elsewhere, plotting. Every glance at him fueled it: the way his shirt hung loose over his scrawny chest, the veins bulging on his hands, the slight tremor in his legs. I imagined those hands on me, that mouth opening wider. 'How you feeling today?' I asked, kneeling to adjust his slippers, my fingers brushing his ankle. He smiled vaguely. 'A bit fuzzy, but seeing you helps. You're a good grandson.' If only he knew.
The morning dragged, but I kept it normal—chatting about football to distract him, helping him to the bathroom, even reading the paper aloud when his eyes wandered. Inside, though, I was buzzing, cock half-hard the whole time. By noon, my stomach growled, and so did his. 'Spaghetti sound good?' I suggested, already heading to the kitchen. He nodded eagerly. 'Love that. Nana used to make it.' I boiled the pasta, heated canned tomato sauce, the savory smell filling the air. Simple, messy—perfect for my plan. I plated it up, but instead of two bowls, I dumped it all into one big dish. 'We'll share,' I said casually, carrying it to the table where he'd shuffled over. He raised an eyebrow but shrugged. 'Saves washing up.'
I sat close, our chairs touching, and handed him a fork. At first, it was innocent enough—twirling noodles, sauce splattering, him struggling a bit with the dementia making his hands shake. I helped, feeding him bites when he fumbled, my fork guiding pasta to his mouth. 'Open up,' I said softly, watching his lips part, red sauce staining them. He chewed slowly, humming approval. 'Tastes just like hers.' My heart hammered. This was it—time to push. 'Hey, Granddad, remember that movie? Lady and the Tramp? With the spaghetti?' He blinked, confused but smiling. 'Aye, the dogs.' I grinned, forking a long strand and dangling it between us. 'Let's try it. Fun, yeah?'
He laughed, a wheezy sound, and leaned in. I did the same, the noodle connecting our mouths like a bridge. We sucked gently at first, eyes locked—his foggy blue ones meeting my clear ones. The pasta shortened, pulling us closer, until our lips brushed. Sauce smeared, warm and sticky, as the last bit vanished. Time froze. 'Oops,' he murmured, but didn't pull away. Neither did I. Instead, I pressed in, a small peck, then another, tasting tomato on his mouth. 'Dylan...' he whispered, but his lips parted slightly. Emboldened, I kissed deeper, our mouths opening, tongues tentatively touching.
It exploded from there—slow, sensual rolls, my tongue sliding against his, exploring the wet heat. He tasted of sauce and age, but fuck, it was intoxicating. We licked each other's tongues deliberately, savoring, the kiss turning sloppy as saliva built. Granddad drooled heavy, his mouth flooding with spit that dribbled down his chin. Strings of it stretched between us when we paused for breath, glistening in the kitchen light. 'God, Granddad,' I groaned into his mouth, then licked the edges of his lips, lapping up the excess saliva like it was nectar. He moaned softly, tongue pushing back, our kiss growing dirtier, baver wetter, tongues wrestling in a slow, lewd dance. My cock strained against my jeans, throbbing with need. This was better than any fantasy—real, forbidden, his spit mixing with mine.
I couldn't stop. Hands shaking with lust, I reached for his shirt buttons, popping them one by one. His chest exposed—pale, wrinkled skin, sparse white hairs, nipples dark and flat. I broke the kiss, saliva trailing, and leaned down, tongue flicking his left nipple. He gasped, arching slightly. 'Oh... boy...' I sucked harder, teeth grazing, then switched to the right, licking circles. His moans grew louder, ragged—'Ahh, Dylan... feels good'—fueling my fire. Each groan shot straight to my dick, making it leak pre-cum. I was rock-hard, grinding subtly against the chair leg for friction.
The table was in the way, but I slid under it anyway, the wooden edge digging into my back. Granddad's legs parted instinctively as I tugged off his socks, revealing feet gnarled with age, toes crooked, skin rough and unwashed. The smell hit me—stinky, cheesy, days of sweat baked in. I inhaled deep, nose pressed to his sole, the pungent odor making my head spin with filthy excitement. 'Fuck, yeah,' I muttered, then dragged my tongue along the arch, tasting salt and grime. Like a desperate slut, I lapped at his heel, then up to the toes, sucking each one into my mouth. His big toe first—sensual, slow swirls around it, bobbing my head like it was a mini cock. He squirmed above, moaning, 'What... oh, lord...' I sucked harder, tongue probing between toes, cleaning the lint and stink, my own arousal peaking. This was degradation at its finest—me, the alpha footballer, worshipping my granddad's nasty feet.
I emerged, face flushed, and went for his pants. Buttons undone, zipper down, I yanked them to his knees. His underwear—faded briefs, stained yellow at the crotch from piss, brown streaks at the back from shit. The musk was overpowering, urine-soaked cotton mixed with ass sweat. I buried my nose in the bulge, sniffing like an animal, the rank scent making my cock pulse. 'Smells so fucking good,' I whispered, then tugged the waistband down. His cock flopped out—soft, veined, uncut, nestled in gray pubes. But I wanted more. I spun him gently, bending him over the table edge, and spread his cheeks. His ass—wrinkled, hairy, with a dark pucker that reeked of neglect. I sniffed close, the earthy, shitty tang invading my senses. Then I dove in, tongue flat against his hole, licking broad strokes. He bucked, groaning loud—'Dylan! Ahh, haven't... since your Nana...'
His moans confirmed it—he hadn't been touched like this in decades, since she died. I rimmed him deep, tongue pushing inside the puckered ring, tasting bitterness and salt. He trembled, ass clenching around my probing. 'Tastes nasty, Granddad,' I said between licks, 'but I love it.' He whimpered, pushing back. The excitement built in him fast—too fast. Suddenly, a hot stream hit my face. Piss. He was so worked up, his old bladder let go, spraying my cheeks, lips, dripping down my chin. 'Shit—Granddad!' I yelped, shocked, the warm urine acrid and sharp. But the shock twisted into thrill, the ultimate taboo. I stood, wiping my mouth but not cleaning, and grabbed his face, kissing him hard. Our mouths crashed, tongues sharing the piss taste—salty, bitter, mixing with sauce and spit. He froze for a second, then kissed back fiercely, moaning into it. 'Sorry, lad... couldn't hold...'
'It's okay,' I panted, breaking away to shove down my joggers and boxers. My cock sprang free—thick, veined, eight inches of young meat, head glistening. 'Now suck it, Granddad. Suck your grandson's cock.' His eyes widened, but lust glazed them. He dropped to his knees awkwardly, mouth opening. I guided in, his lips wrapping around the head, dentures careful but tongue sloppy. 'Yeah, like that,' I groaned, hands in his hair, thrusting shallow. He sucked eager, saliva drooling down my shaft, slurping noises filling the kitchen. It was messy, uncoordinated—his age showing—but the sight of my granddad on his knees, bobbing on my dick? Pure ecstasy. I face-fucked him gently, balls tapping his chin, pre-cum mixing with his spit.
I was close already, but I wanted more. Pulling out with a pop, strings of saliva connecting us, I spat on my hand, mixing it with his drool for lube. 'Bend over,' I ordered, voice rough. He complied, pants around ankles, ass presented. I slicked my cock, then pressed the head to his hole. Tight—virgin tight, probably. 'Relax, Granddad.' I pushed in slow, inch by inch, his ring yielding with a pop. He cried out—'Oh god, Dylan! It's big!'—but didn't stop me. I sank deep, balls against his, the heat enveloping me. 'Fuck, you're tight,' I growled, starting to thrust. Like a bitch in heat, he took it—moaning, ass pushing back. I pounded harder, table shaking, skin slapping. His hole gripped me, milking every stroke.
The build was intense—taboo waves crashing. 'Gonna cum in your ass, Granddad!' I roared, hips slamming. He wailed—'Yes, boy! Fill me!' And then it hit: ORGASM exploding, my cock pulsing, CUM flooding his guts in hot jets. I thrust through it, groaning loud, body shaking. He shuddered too, his own soft dick dribbling weak spurts onto the floor. We collapsed, me still inside him, panting. Minutes passed before I pulled out, cum leaking from his stretched hole.
Reality crept back. I helped him up, wiping us both with a dish towel, the kitchen a mess of sauce, spit, piss, and semen. 'That was... something,' he muttered, eyes clearing a bit, confusion flickering. Dementia would erase it soon, I knew—his foggy brain resetting. But me? I'd remember every filthy second. The shame hit mild, but the satisfaction overpowered it. My incestuous, gay fantasy with my own granddad—fulfilled. As I buttoned his shirt and cleaned the table, a grin tugged my lips. 'See you soon, Granddad.' He nodded sleepily. 'Aye, lad.' Driving home, cock still tingling, I was already planning the next visit. This was just the start.
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