Disclaimer
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental.
All fictional characters participating in any fictional sexual activity are 18 years of age or older.
This story will span several chapters and will eventually involve wife swapping, cheating, and incest themes. Be warned.
I have no editor, so all grammar errors are mine, and I apologize in advance. If you want to be an editor, let me know.
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"It's raining," she said, her eyes scanning the dark sky as the few thin drops splattered around us.
"This? This ain't rain. It's not even a sprinkle." I looked around as the visible moisture moved on wind currents. The meteorological term for it is drizzle, but my dad had another name for it.
"It's wet, isn't it?" My granddaughter scowled at me. We were supposed to go hiking that afternoon, but with the weather acting up, it looked problematic at best.
"Wet isn't always bad," I said with a smirk. "I've had some of the best times of my life getting wet."
"I'll bet, you dirty old man, you." She giggled. "But this sucks. It wasn't supposed to rain today."
"I told you, this isn't a real rain. This is what my dad called a teasing rain."
"A teasing rain?"
"Yeah, it's falling water, but since it's so light, it makes you think it isn't raining, so you go on with your day. You end up getting soaked anyway, though. It's the real reason cars have interrupt settings on the windshield wipers."
"So, the rain teases you and goes 'psych.'"
"Exactly."
She laughed. I laughed. We could always hike another weekend. "Come on, Raine, help me put the gear up."
I've always said the good Lord knew what he was doing by not giving me a daughter to raise. I've never been able to look at a female without evaluating her figure, her appeal, her looks. Yeah, sure, maybe that is not the PC way to think in this "#metoo" don't-objectify-women type of society, but, hey, it's just how I'm wired. I'm just glad I didn't have to face the taboo of looking at my own daughter that way. I have two strapping sons, so I was spared that...sort of. I mean, they brought their girlfriends around, and I did look them over, and I did imagine them naked, but they were just girls. Not my flesh and blood.
Everything was just fine until my now-adult eldest son first introduced me to his last girlfriend and her young daughter. I did look over Laney, and she was fine, and I could imagine being behind her thrusting to beat the band, but that was only in my mind. I knew she wouldn't be interested in an old fart like me, and I couldn't do that to my son.
Over the years, she settled into the family, and I grew to love her like one of my children. Even if I caught myself peeking down her loose-fitting blouse or admiring her firm thighs when she wore those oh-so-tight shorts and bikinis, it was just an aesthetic appreciation. At least I told myself that. If she had given me even the slightest come-on, I probably would have dived between her thighs in a fast second.
As the years passed, Laney's daughter grew up. Raine was two when Laney and my son got together. After they got married and my first grandson was born, I begrudgingly accepted the moniker of Grampa, and Raine quickly settled into her role as my favorite granddaughter. I watched as she went through the precocious age, the helpful age, the rebellious age, and the moody age.
As a child, she loved when the "tickle monster" attacked, and she would wiggle and squeal on my lap until we were both tired. When she needed help with her schoolwork, she would call me. When her parent's finally let her date, she would ask me what to do about her boyfriends. That created a little tension between her and her parents, but they appreciated that she was getting advice from a family member even if it wasn't them. Though she was a teenager, she still loved the tickle monster attacks, and I was happy to provide them. It was never sexual, though.
When she was eighteen, she started asking me questions about me and my ex, her grandma, whom I divorced before Raine was born. I don't know what brought on the questions, but she seemed to know somethings that I didn't think anyone knew about the nature of my former marriage. It was like she was trying to make me uncomfortable and embarrassed. Well, I don't embarrass easily, so I answered her questions frankly, to see if she would get embarrassed. She didn't.
It became a contest of sorts. Each of us would try to say something outrageous to try to embarrass the other. I won one time when she was eighteen and I joked about her trying her boyfriend on for size, with a waggle of my eyebrows. That earned me a blush and a loud, plaintive "Grampa! Sheesh!"
A short time later, while we were driving, she responded to my victory by asking me if I ever had sex with two women before. She looked at me expectantly, to see if I would blush or stammer. I just turned to face her, looked her right in the eye, and said "several times." Her face did flush, but it didn't appear to be out of embarrassment. Her nipples popped in her blouse and her breathing deepened. She turned to look at the window and I settled back to savor my victory.
She came over to my house alone one time to pick up something for my son while I was getting ready for a date. I had just taken a shower and was only wearing my slacks with my belt hanging open as I had been on the way to the laundry to get my shirt. Now, I'm fifty-two years old, and to say I have a dad bod is being nice. I've long lost the ripped muscle tone and tight skin of youth, although I'm not a flabby sag-body. I get my share of attention if I do say so myself. I opened the door and invited her in, leaving her to close the door as I resumed my course to the laundry room.
Meanwhile, Raine, at eighteen, had a body that could almost be described as Rubenesque. While not "thick," she had curves in all the right places. According to Laney, Raine was wearing thirty-four H-cup bras, and she filled them nicely. She also had a perfect pear-shaped ass and muscular thighs earned through years of dance training. Couple that with her insistence on wearing short-shorts, loose halters with no bra, and distressed yoga pants and you have a picture of sex appeal. She almost never carried herself in a way that I was brought up believing was "lady-like."
"Where're you going, Grampa?" She nestled on the barstool, her arms squeezing her cleavage into the deep v-neck of her shirt.
"Got a hot date." I pulled my shirt from the dryer. Nothing like putting on dryer-fresh warm shirts right after getting out of the shower.
"Oh? New girlfriend?" She got that playful look in her eye, and I knew a round of try-to-embarrass-Grampa was starting.
"New? Hardly. Girlfriend? Well, she's a girl and she's a friend, so I guess so. Given that limited definition."
