Grandpa's New Hole: Chapter Six

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

The house hummed with a quiet that felt like a lie, the kind that smothered Janey as she sat cross-legged on her bed, the blinds cracked just enough to let slivers of morning light spill across her thighs. Her phone rested in her lap, screen glowing, a portal to a world she couldn’t unsee. It had been three days since the basement, three days since Al’s voice—“Forget what you saw”—had lodged in her skull like a splinter. She hadn’t forgotten. She couldn’t. The memory clung to her—leather straps biting flesh, the girl’s filthy screams, Al’s cock thick and relentless—and it burned, a fever she fed instead of fought.

Her thumb swiped the screen, landing on a video: “Old Man Breaks Teen Slut.” The title alone sent a shiver through her, hot and sharp, and she tapped play, sound muted, her breath shallow as the scene unfolded. A gray-haired man—broad like Al, stern like Al—tied a girl to a bench, her wrists cuffed, her ass up. He spanked her hard, red blooming across her skin, then fucked her mouth until she gagged, drool spilling down her chin. Janey’s hand slipped under her shorts, fingers finding her clit, already slick, and she rubbed fast, her hips twitching as the man growled, “Take it, you little whore.” Her eyes fluttered shut, the basement flashing behind them—Al’s grunts, the girl’s pleas—and she came quick, a silent shudder that left her panting, shame and thrill tangled tight in her chest.

She didn’t stop there. The phone stayed glued to her hand, hours bleeding away as she scrolled—Xvideos, Pornhub, dark corners of Reddit where users swapped bondage tips and age-gap fantasies. “Grandpa’s Good Girl,” “Old Cock, Young Holes,” “Bound for Daddy”—each click pulled her deeper, her fingers trembling as she typed searches she’d never dared before. She found forums too, threads of girls confessing their kinks: “I love when he calls me his slut,” “The older, the better—makes me feel owned.” Her breath hitched, her pussy throbbing, and she’d watch another clip—some grizzled bastard tying up a teen, fucking her raw, her cries echoing the ones from Al’s dungeon. She’d cum again, biting her lip to stay quiet, her shorts soaked, her mind a mess of want.

The job search was a ghost now, forgotten on the cluttered table downstairs. Her laptop sat untouched, emails piling up—“We regret to inform you”—while she chased this instead, this dark rabbit hole that swallowed her days. She’d surface only when Al was around, pulling on a mask of normalcy—sweeping the kitchen, nodding at his gruff “Morning”—but her eyes lingered on him too long, tracing the lines of his shoulders, the bulge of his forearms. He’d caught her once, mid-stare, and his brow had furrowed, a flicker of something crossing his face—concern, suspicion?—but he’d said nothing, just turned away, boots thudding toward the basement. The silence between them stretched tight, a wire ready to snap.

Midday sun baked the living room, dust motes swirling as Janey sprawled on the couch, phone propped against a cushion. She’d found a new clip—“Silver Fox Dominates Brat”—and her shorts were bunched around her knees, her fingers buried deep as the man onscreen bent a girl over, spanking her until she sobbed, then fucking her ass slow and hard.

“You’re mine,” he rasped, and Janey mouthed the words, her free hand clawing the upholstery, imagining Al’s voice, Al’s hands. She came again, a low whine slipping free, her body arching off the couch, and collapsed back, sweat slicking her skin.

Her head lolled to the side, catching the clock—2:17 p.m. Hours gone, again. She should’ve been job hunting, filling out applications, proving herself useful like she’d promised. Instead, she was here, drenched and panting, her phone a lifeline to a world she’d never known she craved. She tugged her shorts up, the fabric clinging uncomfortably, and sat up, running a hand through her damp hair. Al’s truck was gone—he’d left after breakfast, no word on where—and the house felt too big, too empty, without him. She wondered if he was down there now, in that basement, with another girl, another camera. The thought twisted her gut, jealousy and lust braiding together, and she hated how much she wanted to see it again.

She wandered to the kitchen, barefoot and restless, the hardwood cool under her feet. The broom leaned against the counter, a half-hearted nod to chores, but she ignored it, grabbing a glass of water instead. Her reflection in the window stared back—flushed cheeks, wild eyes, a girl unraveling—and she sipped slow, the cold liquid doing nothing to douse the heat inside her. Al’s mug sat on the table, coffee ring staining the wood, and she pictured him there, his warning echoing: “Focus on your studies.” She hadn’t. Couldn’t. All she could focus on was him—shirtless, sweat-slick, his cock stretching that girl’s ass—and her fingers twitched, itching to touch herself again.

Dusk settled heavy, the backyard a bruise of purple and shadow. Janey stood by the passage again, arms crossed tight, her tee sticking to her back in the humid air. The lock glinted under the fading light, a silent taunt, and she stared at it, her mind spinning. Was this the way in? Did he sneak them out here, those girls, after he’d used them? She’d watched a clip earlier—“Backdoor Slave”—where an old man fucked a girl against a wall, her hands tied, her ass plugged, and she’d cum so hard she’d nearly dropped her phone. Now, standing here, she pictured Al doing it—bending someone over this hatch, taking them raw—and her breath quickened, her nipples hardening against her shirt.

The screen door slapped shut behind her, Al’s boots crunching gravel as he came home. She flinched, darting back inside before he saw her, and hid in her room, heart pounding. He moved through the house—keys clinking, fridge opening—and she stayed put, door cracked, listening. He didn’t call for her, didn’t check, but his presence seeped through the walls, thick and unavoidable. She grabbed her phone again, scrolling to a forum thread: “Why older men are better—they know how to own you.” Her fingers slipped under her waistband, rubbing slow this time, savoring it, and she came whispering “Grandpa,” the word a secret she’d never say aloud.

Dinner was tense, a silent dance in the cramped kitchen. She set the table, her hands shaky, while Al stirred a pot of stew, his back to her. He didn’t look at her, didn’t speak beyond a grunted “Eat,” but she felt his eyes anyway, catching her when she wasn’t watching. She’d barely touched her food, her stomach too knotted, and he noticed—his fork paused midair, his brow creasing again—but he said nothing, just chewed slow, deliberate. The air crackled, heavy with what neither of them would say, and she excused herself early, fleeing to her room with a mumbled “Tired.”

Night wrapped her tight, the streetlamp’s glow a faint lifeline through the blinds. She lay on her bed, phone discarded, staring at the ceiling as crickets droned outside. Her body ached—five times today, maybe six, her fingers raw, her mind a haze of porn and Al. The job search was dead, her laptop a relic on the dresser, and she didn’t care. All she cared about was this—this pull, this need, this dark thing growing inside her. She saw him everywhere now—every old man on her screen was him, every tied-up girl was her, and the shame was fading, replaced by a hunger she couldn’t name.

Al’s boots thudded down the hall, stopping outside her door. She held her breath, waiting, but he didn’t knock, didn’t speak—just stood there, a shadow under the crack, then moved on. The basement door creaked open, shut, and she exhaled, shaky and hot. He knew she was off, distracted, lost in something, but he didn’t push. That silence was worse, a judgment she couldn’t fight, and it fueled her more. She rolled onto her side, thighs pressing together, and let her mind drift—leather, chains, Al’s voice calling her his. Sleep came slow, fractured by dreams of him, and when she woke, the want was still there, sharper than ever.