Grandpa's New Hole: Chapter Four
- Hamlin
- Apr 19
- 5 min read
Updated: Sep 4
The house was a tomb of silence that evening, the kind that pressed against Janey’s ears until they rang. She stood in the narrow corridor, a glass of water trembling in her hand, the cool liquid sloshing faintly as her pulse thudded beneath her skin. Dusk had bled into night, the windows black mirrors reflecting her shadowed shape—wide eyes, flushed cheeks, a girl teetering on the edge of something she couldn’t name. Al had vanished into the basement an hour ago, the metal door clicking shut behind him with a finality that lingered. She’d tried to ignore it, pacing the living room, flipping through job listings on her laptop, but the pull was there, sharp and insistent, tugging her toward the stairs.
A sound broke the quiet—a low, raw moan, faint but unmistakable, drifting up from below. Janey froze, her breath catching in her throat, the glass nearly slipping from her fingers. It came again, louder, a woman’s voice twisted with something primal—pleasure, pain, she couldn’t tell. Her feet moved before her mind caught up, sandals scuffing the carpet as she crept toward the staircase. The basement door was there, still and cold, but the sounds seeped through—moans, rhythmic thumps, a clank of metal she’d heard before. Her hand hovered over the handle, trembling, and she bit her lip, tasting sweat and indecision. “Off limits,” Al had said, but the moans clawed at her, daring her to disobey.
She turned the knob, slow and silent, and it gave—unlocked, a betrayal of his rules that sent a jolt through her. The stairs creaked under her weight as she descended, each step a whisper of rebellion, her breath shallow and hot in her chest. The air grew cooler, damp with the scent of concrete and something muskier, something alive. A soft glow spilled from the bottom, flickering like a candle, and the moans sharpened, punctuated by wet, slapping sounds that made her thighs clench. She reached the last step, peering around the corner, and what she saw stopped her cold.
The basement was a dungeon of shadows and steel—a workbench, chains bolted to the wall, a camera on a tripod blinking red. Al stood there, shirtless, his broad back slick with sweat, muscles flexing as he thrust into a girl bent over a padded bench. She was young—Janey’s age, maybe—her skin pale and glistening, her wrists and ankles bound tight with leather straps. A harness of black straps crisscrossed her body, digging into her flesh, and her ass was high, red from use, as Al’s massive cock plunged into it, stretching her wide. The girl’s head was thrown back, blonde hair matted with sweat, and her mouth spilled filth in a ragged chant: “I’m an ass whore for old men—fuck, I’m an anal slut—Grandpa’s filthy cockhole!”
Janey’s glass slipped, caught just before it hit the floor, and she pressed herself against the wall, heart slamming against her ribs. Shock burned through her, sharp and cold, but her eyes wouldn’t move—locked on Al’s thick shaft, slick and veined, driving into the girl’s hole with a brutal rhythm. The camera caught it all, the lens glinting like an unblinking eye, and Janey’s breath hitched, her body betraying her with a flood of heat between her legs. The girl’s moans were a song, raw and desperate, and Al’s grunts matched them, low and commanding, his big hands gripping her hips like he owned her.
She should’ve run. Should’ve fled back upstairs, locked herself away, scrubbed the image from her mind. But she stayed, transfixed, her sandals rooted to the concrete as the scene unfolded. Al’s pace quickened, his thrusts deeper, and the girl’s cries peaked—“Fuck my ass, Grandpa, make me your slut!”—until he groaned, a sound that rumbled through the room, and buried himself to the hilt. His body tensed, shuddering, and Janey knew he was cumming, filling her, claiming her in a way that made Janey’s knees weak.
He pulled out slow, his cock still hard, glistening with lube and cum, and the girl whimpered, straining against her bonds. Al untied her with quick, practiced movements, then grabbed her hair, guiding her to her knees.
“Clean it,” he said, voice rough and steady, and she obeyed, her tongue lapping at him, sucking him deep as he fed her every inch. Janey’s mouth went dry, her free hand pressing against her stomach, trying to hold back the ache blooming there. The girl’s lips stretched wide, drool spilling down her chin, and Al’s eyes flicked up—straight to Janey.
Their gazes locked, his sharp and unreadable, hers wide with panic and something darker. He didn’t flinch, didn’t stop, just watched her as the girl sucked him, her gags echoing in the tight space. Janey’s chest heaved, shame and thrill twisting together, and she couldn’t look away—not from his cock, not from his stare, not from the filthy tableau he’d built. The girl finished, collapsing back with a moan, and Al tucked himself away, his movements calm, deliberate. He said nothing, just held Janey’s eyes for a beat longer, then turned to the camera, shutting it off with a click.
She bolted, glass clutched tight, her sandals slapping the stairs as she fled. The door banged shut behind her, the sound loud in the silent house, and she stumbled down the corridor, her breath ragged. Her room was a blur—door locked, key turned, a barrier against what she’d seen. She sank onto the bed, the glass clattering onto the nightstand, and pressed her hands to her face, fingers trembling. “Fuck,” she whispered, the word a shaky exhale, and the image burned behind her eyes—Al’s cock, the girl’s screams, the leather biting into skin.
Her nightshirt felt too tight, clinging to her sweat-damp skin, and she yanked it up, thighs spreading as her hand slipped between them. She was wet—soaked, shamefully so—and her fingers found her clit, rubbing fast and desperate. The memory flooded her: Al’s grunts, the girl’s filthy pleas, that giant erection pumping into her ass. Janey bit her lip hard, stifling a moan, her hips rocking against her hand as she pictured it—his hands on her, his voice in her ear, calling her his slut. Her breath hitched, a sob and a gasp tangled together, and she came hard, her body shaking, tears pricking her eyes.
She collapsed back, chest heaving, the ceiling spinning above her. Shame curled in her gut, thick and sour, but the excitement wouldn’t fade—a pulsing heat that lingered in her veins. She’d locked the door against him, against what she’d seen, but it was in her now, alive and clawing. Al had seen her, known she was there, and said nothing. That silence was worse than words, a weight that pressed down on her as she lay there, sticky and spent. The crickets hummed outside, a distant drone, and she stared at the window, the backyard passage a faint shadow in the dark. What the fuck was she supposed to do now?
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