[A moment's inspiration. Something hot and sweet, if not many pages. I hope you enjoy!]
"Michael? Your grandmother called. She would like some help clearing out her attic. I told her you'd be glad to help this Saturday."
I groaned inwardly. I love my mom, but she had a habit of volunteering me for duties that I really would rather NOT do.
And don't get me wrong -- I love my Gram, too. But still, spending most of my weekend dragging around dirty old boxes just wasn't something I looked forward to.
" 'kay, Mom," I mumbled and shuffled off to my room where I indulged in downloading porn and jerking off. I figured I'd reward myself in advance, since I'd miss out on time to do this during the weekend.
Saturday came and my mom dropped me off at my gram's house -- a quaint two-story on a quiet, tree-lined lane. The neighborhood had that all-American look: plenty of grassy lawns, each house different from the other (no blocks of look-alike, cookie-cutter urban sprawl); the Normal Rockwell of standard American neighborhoods.
"Michael!" my grandmother opened the screen door and welcomed me in with a tight hug. She smelled good, like apple pie and mild spices. It was a comfy smell, and I kissed her cheek and squeezed her back.
"Hiya, Gram," I replied shyly. My grandmother's affection always felt a bit overwhelming to me and made me contract in compensation. But I liked her, and so it wasn't unwelcome.
My gram was an attractive woman, only in her early sixties, though slightly out of shape. Still, she wasn't OLD old, you know?
"How about some cookies?" she asked with a glimmer. My gram knew my penchant for baked goods, and hers were among the best.
"Maybe later," I said as I stepped in and adjusted to the dimmer interior. My gram kept the curtain drawn "to keep her cooling bills down." I smiled and looked toward the hall. "Mom said you needed help moving things out of the attic?"
My gram nodded, her expression going apologetic and kind of sad. "Yes. I figured it would be good to get rid of your grand's old things -- knick knacks and whatnots, old clothes, that sort of thing."
"Sure, Gram," I said. "No problem. What should I look out for and what should I keep?"
My gram shrugged. "Oh, I'm not sure, really. Pictures I want to keep, of course. Any old photos or artwork. The rest, well, I'll trust your judgment on what might be worth some money and what to donate."
My grandfather had been an amateur painter, but not without skill. He supplemented his retirement with selling paintings -- still-life and a few portraits -- at the local flea market. It wasn't much, but people enjoyed his paintings and it gave him some free spending money.
"Sure, no problem," I repeated and headed to the attic.
The attic. Ah, such a place of mystery and some superstitious dread when I was a kid. Now, it seemed kind of -- empty. Lonely. Devoid of life.
I looked around at the piles of books, stacks covered in old linens, and boxes of all sorts, and sighed. "Where do I start?" Since it didn't seem to matter, I picked the closest pile and started in.
I spent time sorting things and dragging boxes downstairs for three groups: donate, toss, and possible sale. I was startled out of my focus when my gram said: "Here! Some cookies and milk!"
I smiled weakly, thrown by how much I'd lost track of time. I took the plate and glass from her and said, "Thanks, Gram," and munched on a warm, chewy, chocolate chip cookie. "You just made these?"
"Well, I started before you arrived. But, yes, they're fresh baked," my gram said as she surveyed what I had cleared. "Oh, my, but you're fast! You'll be done in no time."
"Oh, hardly done, but I might get a good start on it today. I can always come back tomorrow if need be."
My gram pat my arm. "You're a good boy," she said and headed back downstairs.
I ate a few more cookies and had some milk. Well, soy milk -- my gram had moved on into that realm of alternative "milks" years ago when I let her know I was lactose intolerant. Still, the sugar and liquid renewed my energy and I dove back in.
It was a little after midday when I moved aside some boxes and found a stack of paintings hidden under some drop cloth. The first few were some of my grand's still-lifes -- fruit bowls and flowers, that sort of thing -- but under a few of those was a nude, and it was actually quite good!
"Whoa, Grand!" I muttered and drew the painting over to the sunlight coming in from the small shutter that let a bit of fresh air in. "This is actually pretty nice!"
I studied the painting. It was a woman, probably in her early thirties -- slender and graceful. She had a lovely body, and looked vaguely familiar. I figured I'd ask my gram about it when I had the chance.
Under that were a few more still-lifes, and then a series of more nudes. The model was clearly the same, and in one she was posing with a younger female, probably late teens, and the two of them were caressing each other in a very lovely and sightly erotic manner.
"Grandpa!" I chuckled and set the series out where I could see them all in a line.
"Oh!" I heard my gram say and turned to find her looking embarrased. "I had forgotten all about those!" she said.
