Grandpa's New Hole: Chapter Five

Parts: One,Two,Three,Four,Five,Six,Seven,Eight,Nine,Ten,Eleven, Twelve,Thirteen

Morning light sliced through the kitchen blinds, sharp and unforgiving, painting the linoleum in stark stripes. Janey stood at the counter, her fingers wrapped tight around a mug of coffee, the steam curling up to sting her eyes. She hadn’t slept—her body still buzzed from last night, a restless ache that lingered in her thighs, her mind replaying the basement in vivid, filthy loops. The house was quiet, too quiet, until the heavy thud of Al’s boots broke it, each step a hammer against her nerves. She didn’t turn, couldn’t, her shoulders hunching as he entered the room, his presence a weight that filled every corner.

“You were told not to snoop in the workroom,” he said, voice low and steady, cutting through the silence like a blade. He stood behind her, close enough that she felt the heat of him, the faint scent of tobacco and sweat curling into her lungs. The mug trembled in her grip, coffee sloshing against the rim, and she set it down fast, the clink loud in the stillness.

“I—I’m sorry,” she stammered, her face burning as she turned to face him. His eyes were on her, gray and piercing, his jaw set hard beneath the stubble. He wore a flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up, forearms thick and veined, and she couldn’t help it—her gaze flicked to his hands, picturing them on that girl, gripping, commanding.

She swallowed, the shame a sour knot in her throat, but her voice slipped out, small and unsteady. “I couldn’t help it. I heard… something.”

He didn’t blink, just watched her, his silence a wall she couldn’t climb. “You saw plenty,” he said finally, the words flat but heavy, and her stomach twisted, heat flooding her cheeks. He stepped closer, boots scuffing the floor, and leaned against the table, arms crossing over his chest. “What’s in your head, Janey? Spit it out.”

She bit her lip, her fingers twisting the hem of her tank top, the fabric damp with nervous sweat.

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” she admitted, the confession tumbling free before she could catch it. Her eyes darted up to his, then away, her voice dropping to a whisper. “What you were doing… with her.”

The memory flashed—leather straps, the girl’s ass stretched wide, Al’s cock pumping hard—and her thighs pressed together, a traitor’s pulse throbbing between them.

Al’s expression didn’t shift, but his eyes narrowed, appraising her like she was a puzzle he hadn’t expected to solve. He uncrossed his arms, one hand resting on the table, fingers tapping once, twice—a slow, deliberate beat.

“It’s a business,” he said, his tone clipped, practical. “I make bondage porn with young women. Pays good—damn good. People like the old guy with a fresh girl thing. Been doing it for years.” He paused, letting the words sink in, then leaned forward slightly, his voice hardening. “You’re here for school, Janey. Focus on that. Forget what you saw.”

The command landed like a slap, firm and unyielding, and she nodded quick, a good girl’s reflex.

“Okay,” she said, barely audible, her eyes fixed on the floor. But her mind raced, a storm of questions and images—leather, cum, that giant erection sliding into the girl’s mouth. How many girls? How long? Did he like it, or was it just money? The shame was there, thick and sticky, but beneath it, something else bloomed—hot, curious, alive. She wanted to ask, to dig, but his stare pinned her in place, and she stayed silent, lips pressed tight.

He grunted, a sound of dismissal, and grabbed his coffee mug from the counter. “I mean it,” he added, his back to her now as he poured. “Stay out of it.” Then he was gone, boots thudding down the corridor, the basement door clicking shut behind him like a full stop. Janey stood there, alone, the coffee cooling in her hands, her breath shaky and shallow. Forget it. She couldn’t—not the moans, not the straps, not him.

The day stretched long and jagged, the house a maze she navigated to avoid him. She hid in her room first, the door cracked just enough to hear his movements—boots on the stairs, the clink of keys, the screen door slapping as he left for town. When he was gone, she slipped out, barefoot and restless, her nightshirt swapped for shorts and a loose tee. The kitchen felt too close, too raw after breakfast, so she took her laptop to the living room, curling into the sagging couch with the sun beating through the window.

She tried to focus—job applications, emails, anything—but her fingers hovered over the keys, useless. Her mind wouldn’t settle, darting back to the basement, to Al’s voice laying out his secret like it was nothing. Bondage porn. Profit. Young women. She pictured the girl again—tied up, screaming filth, her body a canvas for Al’s hands—and her breath hitched, a flush creeping up her neck. She slammed the laptop shut, the sound sharp in the quiet, and paced the tight space, three steps to the wall, three back.

Shame gnawed at her, a bitter edge that made her want to crawl out of her skin. She’d locked her door last night, fucked herself to the memory of it, and now Al knew she’d seen—knew and didn’t care. Or did he? That look in his eyes, steady and unreadable, haunted her. She should’ve been disgusted, should’ve packed her bags and run back across the country. But she wasn’t. She was here, pacing, her body humming with a fascination she couldn’t shake.

The backyard called her next, the passage a dark smudge against the green. She stepped outside, the grass prickling her feet, and stood over it, arms crossed tight. The lock glinted in the midday sun, taunting her, and she wondered—was that where he took them? Down there, under the earth, to his dungeon? Her fingers itched to pry it open, to see for herself, but Al’s warning rang clear—“Stay out of it”—and she turned away, the heat of the day pressing down on her like a hand.

Back inside, she cleaned—frantic, mindless—scrubbing counters, sweeping floors, anything to keep her hands busy. The broom swished hard against the hardwood, her movements jerky, and she avoided the corridor, the basement door a shadow she couldn’t face. Her tee clung to her back, sweat beading on her brow, and she muttered to herself—“Forget it, Janey, just forget it”—but the words felt hollow, a lie she couldn’t sell. The girl’s voice echoed in her head—“I’m Grandpa’s filthy cockhole”—and her grip tightened, the broom handle biting into her palms.

Al came back late, the truck rumbling into the drive as the sun dipped low. She heard him through the window—keys jangling, boots on gravel—and bolted to her room, shutting the door soft but firm. She sank onto the bed, legs crossed, and stared at the wall, her breath uneven. He moved through the house, a steady presence she couldn’t escape, and she waited, listening—boots in the kitchen, the clink of a plate, then silence. No knock, no call, just him, existing, while she hid.

Night fell, and she stayed there, the streetlamp’s glow seeping through the blinds. Her fingers tapped the mattress, a restless beat, and her mind raced—questions she couldn’t ask, desires she shouldn’t have. She saw him in her head—shirtless, sweat-slick, his cock thick and hard, the girl bent and begging. Shame twisted tighter, but the fascination grew, a dark flower unfurling in her chest. She didn’t go to him, didn’t dare, but the space between them felt charged now, alive with what she’d seen. Studies, he’d said. Focus. But all she could focus on was him—down there, doing that, and the part of her that wanted to know more.