Memories of Nana (274 hits)
Category: GeneralRating: 0.66 on 4 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Spam (View user info) at 2009-08-14 19:22:58 EDT
My father died when I was very young.
Mum was a wreck for months after, so my grandmother came to stay and help her take care of things for a time.
I was obviously pretty shaken up, but my siblings were younger than I, so being "the man of the house," I didn't get as much attention as they did, and rightfully so.
My dad's mum took to talking to me in the evenings after everyone was asleep, telling me stories about her son that I imagine he would have told me himself one day had he lived.
Sometimes I would close my eyes as she spoke, imagining myself as an adult, sitting with dad in a boat on a lake, or in a pub somewhere having a few beers, anywhere two men might swap the kinds of stories only men share.
See, that's the thing about losing your dad so young. What you want more than anything in the world is just a single moment with him, man-to-man. You want to be able to look him in the eye without craning your neck, and just talk to him like your best mate. For the rest of your life you wonder if you'd measure up in his eyes, and what he'd think of you as a man.
That goddamn movie with Kevin Costner gets me every time. Field of Dreams. When he introduces himself to his father and shakes the old man's hand, I get misty every time. I just can't help it.
I wish I could shake my dad's hand as an adult.
So one night as Nana spoke, I closed my eyes and I swear I could hear the voice of my father.
I began to imagine him talking, as if in a trance. At that moment, it was like reality was a dream and my imagination was real. Dad was still alive to me at that moment. It wasn't a big deal, either, it just was.
I opened my eyes and saw a strange look on Nana's face. I was about to ask her what was the matter when I noticed her robe had fallen open, partially exposing her large, pendulous breasts.
My face was burning, and when she opened her mouth to speak, I knew that she was going to say something sweet and grandmotherly and soothing to ease my shame, but he jaw dropped and her eyes fell and we both knew a thing of horror had come to be inside my shorty pyjamas.
Yes, it was a full-on rager, a boner-fide diamond cutter, and Nana's eyes grew large even as mine were inexorably drawn back inside her robe.
I was frozen, my body as tense and coiled as my schoolboy chub was engorged, and what next happened I shall remember all of my days.
Nana took hold of my hands and pulled them to her bosom.
Her breasts were full and semi-firm, with saucer-sized aureolas the gentle hue of sun-ripened honeydew melons and a slightly vein-y feel underneath.
I began to fondle them, and I guess in my excitement I was a bit rough, because twice she took my hands in her own and gently guided me to a softer touch.
After a bit, her hands left mine and I felt sinewy fingers slide inside my bottoms.
Her hands were cold on my willy, but Nana knew her stuff and I soon exploded through her bony fingers like a milky geyser.
She continued working my shaft, and before I knew it she was gripping another blue-veiner and I was moving my hips to the rhythm of her strokes like I was born to it while squeezing and licking her breasts.
"Oh, Nana!" I cried, as she lowered her head and I first felt the warm embrace of her soft lips on my John Thomas.
I'm amazed I didn't erupt again right away, but my Nana repeatedly and expertly stopped and squeezed at just the right moment, allowing me to ride wave after wave of ecstasy, helpless as a starfish in a riptide.
At one point, she looked up at me through feral, slitted eyes and long strands of gray hair loosed from her bun, cupped my balls, and hissed, "Mmm, these feel heavy."
My grandmother drained me dry that night, and the next day when I awoke, she was gone.
Each year at Christmas after she'd had a few egg nogs, I'd excuse myself for bed and wait, stiffy in hand, praying she'd sneak into my bedroom for a repeat performance, but it was not to be.
I never fucked Nana again.
Sometimes, when I dream, I have a beer with dad and swap the kinds of stories only men share.
And then I rub one out to the image of my grandmother.
It's not a handshake, but I guess it'll have to do.
User Reviews
Submitted by 8track (user info) at 2009-08-15 02:49:40 EDT (#)
Ranking: -2
No Comment
Submitted by scourge (user info) at 2009-08-15 01:33:20 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
did she take her dentures out first?
Submitted by HateMudkips (user info) at 2009-08-14 20:24:51 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
i see what you did there.
Submitted by Spam (user info) at 2009-08-14 19:29:47 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Sorry for the typos. I'm a bit emotional.