“Check!” I said, interposing my rook between Layla’s king and queen. The spot was marked by one of my nearby knights as well as by my distant bishop; she could not take my rook with her king, because that would put her in check … and if she took it with her queen, she would lose her queen to either my bishop or my knight, neither of which she would then be able to take with her king.
She took my rook with her queen. I smiled, and took her queen with my bishop.
“Can’t do that,” she said, tapping one of her own rooks. “Check.”
My jaw dropped. Somehow I had missed the fact that my bishop was in between my king and her rook at the far end of the board. Had she planned that? When did she move her rook there? Oh yes – when she castled.
“Fine!” I said, and I took her queen with my knight instead. She moved one of her pawns one space forward, into danger of one of mine. I raised an eyebrow, and took her pawn. She slid her other rook all the way down to my end, through the space my pawn had just vacated.
“Checkmate,” she said.
“What?” I said, stunned. Surely she was mistaken. I just needed to … no I couldn’t do that … or that … or that. “Confound it all, Samwise Gamgee!” I exclaimed.
Layla giggled. “You were so hellbent on getting my queen, you didn’t notice how trapped your king was,” she said. “The only thing I had to worry about was keeping your bishop in place, so you didn’t have an escape route.”
I sighed. “Well done,” I said. “Five games to nothing. I really thought I had you there.”
“You nearly did,” Layla replied. “I was quite worried.”
The sound of a car outside caught my ear. “Dad’s home,” I remarked.
“Ooh, I wonder if he’s bought me anything,” said Layla, getting up.
“You shouldn’t encourage him!” I told her disapprovingly.
“Ohh, why not?” she asked happily. “He enjoys it. He doesn’t have a wife or daughter to spoil.”
“I know,” I sighed. “Look, could you maybe put something on before he comes in?”
Layla pouted. “Babe, your dad’s seen me in this outfit lots of times already; I’m sure he’s used to it by now.”
“That’s the problem,” I grumbled. “He’s TOO used to it. He gets bolder every time. First it was just goodnight hugs, then it was good morning hugs as well, and then coming-home-from-work hugs. And somewhere along the way he started kissing your cheek each time, and then he talked you into kissing him on the lips that one time…”
“It was your mum’s birthday!” said Layla. “He was sad!”
“Yes, I know, and that’s why I didn’t complain about it,” I said. “But then kissing on the lips became the standard, and I was much less happy about that. Particularly because you’d grown comfortable being around him in your panties, and his ‘hugs’ had evolved…”
Layla chuckled. “Yes, he got a bit gropey; you don’t have to remind me!”
“It’s the escalation that bothers me,” I said grumpily. “Once he realised he could get away with squeezing your bottom, he started doing that every time. And not just squeezing – more like caressing and fondling!”
“Yes,” Layla admitted. “And he kept trying to get his tongue in my mouth…”
“Which should have prompted you to cut off his hugs and kisses!” I said. “Instead of which, you let him talk you into French-kissing you…”
“He’d just given me a beautiful diamond necklace that belonged to your mum,” said Layla, “and when he started crying, I felt so sorry for him…”
“I know,” I said heavily. “You’re very kind-hearted, and I love you for that. But pretty soon, all the kisses were French. Good morning, goodnight, hello after a long day at work … his tongue went straight into your mouth. And then his hands started going inside the back of your panties instead of staying on the outside. I know you’re just trying to be nice to him, but it’s really hard to watch, Layla!”
“It won’t be for much longer,” she assured me. “As soon as we can get the results of the survey back, we can finalize the offer and set a completion date. Maybe we’ll be in our new home by Christmas!”
I nodded glumly. “Still a long time to wait,” I said. “For … you know what.”
Layla smiled. “It’ll be worth it,” she said. “You just wait.”
“Not like I have much choice,” I muttered, as Layla got up and went to greet Dad, who had just walked in through the front door. I watched her buttocks jiggle in her panties as she trotted up to him and threw her arms around his neck. “Hi Daddy!” she said, and I grimaced. She had taken to calling him that, at his request, about a week ago … and she had readily agreed. It bothered me, though. ‘Dad’ was fine – lots of women call their father-in-law ‘Dad’ – but ‘Daddy’ just seemed a little weird to me.
“Hi Layla!” he said, dropping his shopping bags and putting his arms around her. He planted his lips on hers, and I shuddered as they began a lengthy, vigorous, and sloppy-sounding French kiss. Then, sure enough, Dad’s hands found their way into the back of her panties, and he kneaded and caressed her buttocks for the remainder of the kiss – which seemed to last forever.
“All right, Dad, let her up for air!” I said eventually, feeling annoyed.
Dad pulled his hands out of Layla’s panties and stepped back, his eyes shining. “Wow, he said. “That’s how I like to be welcomed home!”
Layla giggled. “You’re welcome!” she said. “What’s in the bags, Daddy?”
“Oh, just some articles of clothing for my favourite daughter-in-law,” he replied, grinning. “But a fashion show will have to wait, I’m afraid. My dad’s invited us all round for afternoon tea. I’m afraid I told him you’d come … I hope I didn’t promise something I can’t deliver?”
“Not at all,” said Layla. “I’d love to see Grandpa again. We can go to afternoon tea at his house, right babe?”
“Sure,” I said, without enthusiasm. Grandpa had met Layla just once, and his comments about Layla’s body had been highly inappropriate. Both Dad and Layla were inclined to make excuses for him, saying that he was old and exhibiting early signs of dementia. But I did not really buy that; Grandpa may have been 74 years old, but he was fit and healthy for a man of his age, lived independently, and somehow managed to drive, shop, and pay his bills on time without assistance. I was not convinced that his lewd behaviour where Layla was concerned was a result of dementia. More likely, I thought, he was simply too old now to care what people thought of him.
“I did get you a dress to wear for the occasion,” said Dad, reaching down into one of the bags. He pulled out what looked like a jumper. “It’s a jumper dress!” He opened it out. “Very soft – I hope you like it.”
“I think it’s more of a jumper than a jumper dress!” said Layla, laughing, as she took it from him. “But I’ll certainly try it on.”
“You should probably take off your top first,” said Dad slyly.
“Ha! You just want to see my boobs,” she teased him.
“It’s true,” he admitted. “But who could blame me?”
“I could,” I said, glaring at him. “No ogling my wife’s boobs, Dad!”
“Oh, don’t be a wet blanket,” said Dad. “There’s no harm in it! Layla doesn’t mind, and you shouldn’t either. It’s not like she’s going to leave you for me, just because I have a look at her breasts.”
“That’s not the point!” I retorted. “The point is, it’s rude for you to ogle Layla in front of me. It doesn’t matter if she doesn’t mind. I mind! You know it makes me uncomfortable, so if you do it anyway, you’re being inconsiderate.”
“I see,” said Dad. “So if Layla and I go upstairs, and she shows me her boobs up there … that would be okay?”
“No!” I replied hotly. “Can’t you just manage to get through life without ogling Layla at all?”
“While she’s going around the house, looking the way she does?” Dad inquired. “Honestly … no.”
Layla giggled. “Gentlemen, gentlemen!” she said. “Please don’t argue over me. I don’t want to be the cause of friction in this house. Personally I don’t really mind if Daddy sees my breasts, and even ogles them if he wants to – I think it’s funny, and flattering, and I like making people happy. If you don’t want me doing that, Lindsay, then obviously I want to be mindful of that … but let me ask you: what’s the real reason you don’t want your dad seeing my boobs? What feelings does the idea stir up in you?”
I shrugged, my cheeks turning red. “The same feelings I get when he kisses you and fondles your bum,” I said. “Jealousy. Possessiveness. And I know what you’re going to say – that I shouldn’t be jealous because this flirtatious, exhibitionistic side of you is part of who you are and who I fell in love with … and you’re right. I just … sometimes I just can’t help feeling that way.”
Layla nodded. “It’s human nature, I suppose,” she said. “Your nature is to be jealous; mine is to flirt and show off. How do we reconcile the two?”
I thought about this for a moment, and then my shoulders slumped. “Not by trying to change you, I suppose,” I said. “I’ll just have to learn to manage my jealousy better.”
Layla nodded. “You think you can do that?”
I sighed. “Yes – I think so,” I replied. “I have to.”
Layla came over to me, and I stood up. She put her arms around me, and stood on tiptoe to kiss my cheek. “Okay,” she said, “I’m going to take off my top now, and your dad’s going to ogle my breasts. He might even comment on them. Can you handle that?”
I shuddered at the thought, but I did not want to let her down. “I can,” I said. “I will.”
She smiled, then she disengaged, and walked back towards Dad, taking off her top as she went. Dad stared in delight at her gorgeous breasts. “Wow!” he gasped. “Such beauties!”
Layla giggled, then she pulled the jumper over her head. When she had tugged it down into place, it looked like it barely covered her panties. It had a shaped waist, but it did indeed look more like an ordinary jumper than a jumper dress.
“Yeah, you definitely need something on your bottom half with that,” I said.
“Oh, nonsense,” said Dad briskly. “It covers everything, doesn’t it?”
Layla felt behind her, then turned around. “Does it?”
Her bottom was covered, just. “Yes,” I conceded. “But what if you raise your arms?”
Layla did so, and practically her whole panty-clad bottom became exposed. “This really isn’t a dress,” she said apologetically.
“You can wear it as one though, surely?” said Dad. “Just remember to keep your arms down, if you want to keep your panties hidden. Although, I get the feeling you don’t generally mind too much it they peep out once in a while.”
Layla giggled. “Busted!” she said. “Well, perhaps if it’s just for a visit to Grandpa…”
“That’s the spirit!” said Dad happily.
“I should put on a bra though,” Layla added, looking down at the deep V-neck exposing much of her chest. “If I bend forward, I’m going to be showing rather too much otherwise!”
“Oh, it’s supposed to be worn without a bra,” said Dad hurriedly. “The woman in the shop said so. The neckline is too deep; a bra would show.”
“That’s probably true,” Layla remarked. “Which is why I should really wear a tank top underneath…”
“No need for that!” said Dad cheerfully. “Just be careful not to bend over. Although, my dad certainly wouldn’t complain if you did!”
Layla laughed. “I’m sure,” she said. “All right, I’ll wear it like this. Happy?”
“Very!” said Dad.
“Seriously?” I asked uneasily. Layla had, I thought, been successfully arguing that this jumper was not an appropriate outfit on its own. But she had just let Dad talk her into wearing it outside the house! “It looks silly on its own…”
“Sexy, more like!” said Dad. “Don’t be a spoilsport, Lindsay. Are you both ready to go?”
“I need to fix my hair and touch up my makeup,” said Layla. “I’ll be ten minutes.”
“Okay,” said Dad.
It was more like fifteen minutes, but then we were off. As Layla walked to my car, wearing that silly little jumper, I shook my head and tried to shake off a sense of foreboding that had come over me. We were only going to Grandpa’s house; what could possibly happen?
The drive took us about twenty-five minutes. Grandpa still lived in the house he and his family had moved into way back in 1973, when Dad and his brother Geoff were just seven and four respectively. It was like a time capsule; the carpets, upholstery, curtains and wallpaper were all browns, yellows and oranges. Stepping into the house felt like going back in time. Dad had told me that Grandpa never got over Grandma’s death, and wanted to preserve the house exactly as it had been when she died in 1982, as a way of keeping her memory alive. Personally, I suspected it was more because Grandpa was a lazy and tight-fisted git, but I never said this to Dad. He and Grandpa were alike in having lost their wives young – just as Dad and I were alike in having lost our mums when still children.
There was certainly no sign that Grandpa was stuck in a cycle of perpetual mourning. “Hello, come in, come in!” he greeted us warmly. “Oh, Layla, don’t you look a vision! My word, that’s a lovely … dress?”
Layla giggled. “We’re not quite sure!” she said. “Daddy bought it for me. I think it’s probably just a jumper, but he thinks it’s a jumper dress.”
“Well either way,” said Grandpa, “it looks very good on you. Come in! Have a seat in the living room – I’ll just go and pour the tea.”
Five minutes later, we were all sitting down in Grandpa’s dreary living room, politely drinking tea and eating little Mr Kipling cakes. Layla and I were on the sofa – a shorter and less comfortable sofa than Dad’s – while Dad and Grandpa were sitting in matching armchairs. Grandpa could hardly take his eyes off Layla’s legs … except perhaps to look at her chest.
The conversation had been pleasant so far, if rather uninspired. But then Dad launched into a story from my childhood, which I would have been happy for Layla never to have heard.
“It was that awful Barnes boy,” he recalled, rubbing his chin. “What was his first name? Cheddar? Cheshire?”
“Chester,” I said. “We called him Chezza though, or just Chez.”
“That’s right,” said Dad, nodding. “My goodness, he was awfully mean to you. Him and two other boys – I don’t remember their names – they’d climbed up our old apple tree after you. You remember the one – I had to cut it down eventually. In the front garden. That Chester was shaking the branches, trying to knock you off. Then your mum came running out, shouting at all of them! She was a fierce woman if you got her worked up, she really was. Chester’s friends jumped down and scarpered, but Chester just pretended like the two of you were playing a game! Kath was having none of it, and she told Chester to scram. Poor little Lindsay – I could see you through the window. You were trying to climb down past Chester. And then, you fell…”
“Dad…” I said uncomfortably.
“I felt so awful for laughing!” Dad continued, his shoulders shaking. “But there you were, upside down, your shorts caught on a bit of branch – and then they slid down your legs and caught on the backs of your knees, along with your underpants…”
“I remember this story!” said Grandpa, chuckling. “This is how you got the nickname Wee Willy Winkie, isn’t it?”
“I was twelve!” I protested. “I hadn’t hit puberty yet!”
Dad wiped a tear from his eye. “Your mum, bless her, managed to keep a straight face. And by heck, she gave Chester what for! He went running with a clip round his ear.”
“Oh, poor Lindsay!” said Layla sympathetically, and she gave me a side-hug. “That must have been awful.”
“It wasn’t fun,” I admitted. “The whole of the next year at school was hell. I suppose I should consider myself lucky that smartphones weren’t yet a thing back then, or there would have been photos of my humiliation as well.”
“Ugh, don’t talk to me about smartphones,” said Grandpa in disgust. “All the teenagers these days, noses in their phones all day, missing everything that’s going on around them.”
Dad chuckled. “Come on, Dad,” he said. “Don’t tell me you haven’t benefitted from yours. You’re always on WhatsApp, sharing your wildlife photos with me and Geoff. How often would you even communicate with Geoff if it wasn’t for WhatsApp?”
“I’m not saying they don’t have their uses,” Grandpa grudgingly admitted. “But they’re best used in moderation – a quality sadly lacking in today’s youth!”
“You take wildlife photos?” Layla inquired.
Grandpa nodded. “Butterflies and birds, mainly,” he said. “At this time of year, just birds. I have a bird table and some feeders outside my kitchen window, and I like to photograph the birds that visit me.”
“Not to mention the squirrels!” said Dad. “And you’ve sent us pics of foxes and hedgehogs.”
“Yes, sometimes mammals wander in front of the camera,” Grandpa agreed. “Speaking of which … I have something to show you. Remember Terri Mantell, who used to live next door?”
“Of course!” said Dad. “I confess I had quite a crush on her when I was in my teens.”
I nodded. “I remember her too,” I said. “She taught me how to play Rummy. Her daughters weren’t very nice though, as I recall.”
“Well they were teenagers, and you were just a little sprog running around squirting them with a water pistol,” said Dad. “Both beautiful girls though – didn’t the older one go into modelling?”
Grandpa nodded. “Sarah, yes,” he said. “And she’s the one who came round yesterday with her little boy. She works in cosmetics now. Still as beautiful as ever – and she let me take some photos!”
“Oh?” said Dad, interested.
“Yeah, let me find my phone,” said Grandpa, looking around. “Oh wait – it’s in my pocket!” He fished it out, and spent some time looking for his latest photos. “Here we are. Look!” He got out of his chair, and handed his phone to Dad.
“Very nice!” said Dad. “Lovely girl. The boy looks like a real rascal.” He chuckled. “Nice photo! Oh, there are more? Haha – she put on a bit of a shoe for you, it looks like!”
Grandpa grinned. “Once a model, always a model, I suppose. She seemed to enjoy posing, anyway. I think she might have been persuaded to shed some clothes, too, if her son hadn’t been here.”
Dad laughed. “Dream on, Dad,” he said. “Anyway, you did a good job with these. Maybe you should take some of Layla while she’s here!”
“Oh, I’d love to!” said Grandpa. “Would you mind, Layla…?”
“Not at all!” said Layla. “I always wanted to be a model.”
“You did?” I asked her in surprise.
“Well,” she said, “I always thought it would be a fun thing to try.”
“You’ve certainly got the looks for it,” said Grandpa.
“And the body!” added Dad. “Why not give it a try, then? A proper modelling shoot?”
“Ooh, yes!” said Layla. “That sounds wonderful!”
“I’ll not use my phone, then,” said Grandpa. “I’ve got a decent camera upstairs, with a tripod.” He got up from his chair. “I’ll be right back!”
He shambled out of the room, and I turned to Layla. “Pity we didn’t bring more outfits for you,” I said. “I didn’t expect this would turn into a modelling photo shoot!”
Layla smiled. “I suspect Grandpa will be happy to work with just this outfit,” she said. “But who knows? Maybe he has some women’s clothes stashed somewhere.”
“Very likely,” said Dad. “I don’t think he got rid of Mum’s old clothes. But I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t want you wearing them anyway.”
When Grandpa returned, carrying his camera and tripod, he set up the latter in front of the sofa.
Dad regarded the camera with a mixture of amusement and disdain. “You really going to use that geriatric thing? Does Boots even develop film these days?”
“They do!” said Grandpa. “But even if they didn’t, I’ve still got my darkroom in the attic, haven’t I?”
Dad chuckled. “When was the last time you used it? 1980?”
“More like 1995,” said Grandpa. “But one doesn’t forget these things.”
“What’s a darkroom?” Layla asked.
“A room where you develop camera film,” Dad explained. “It has a red lightbulb so you can see what you’re doing when you expose and develop the film. White light would quickly turn the film black.”
Layla looked bemused. “Why not just use a digital camera…?”
“Good question!” said Dad, and he laughed.
“Because this is the best camera I’ve got!” said Grandpa, a little huffily. He clipped the camera on to the tripod. “There. Now, Lindsay, if you could let Layla have the sofa to herself…?”
“Sure,” I said, getting up.
Layla kicked off her shoes, then reclined on the sofa, crossing one leg over the other, and supporting herself on one elbow. She smiled at the camera. I was quite impressed; she looked like a natural model.
“Oh, lovely!” said Grandpa, looking through the viewfinder. “Nice pose!” He took a photo, the flash bulb briefly flooding half the room in a harsh glare, and then the old camera automatically wound on to the next frame. “Let’s have you kneeling up now, facing me, with your knees apart … yes, like that … and your hands clasped above your head.”
Layla giggled. “Um, that’ll show my panties,” she said.
“No harm in that!” Dad remarked cheerfully.
Grandpa smiled. “Models often have to model underwear,” he said. “Do you mind if your panties show a bit?”
Layla shrugged. “No, not really,” she said. “I just thought I should warn you.” She put her hands up, and clasped them together about eight inches above her head. Sure enough, her jumper had risen up to reveal most of her white panties.
“Lovely!” said Grandpa, eyeing them with a distinctly unprofessional expression.
I pursed my lips. “Try not to ogle my wife quite so obviously, Grandpa,” I chided him.
“Hehe!” he said. “Sorry Layla. Your panties are very pretty, and I am a man, after all!”
“That’s okay,” Layla giggled. “I’m used to it. Your son ogles me all the time!”
Dad, turning red, cleared his throat and spluttered an unconvincing denial. I smirked, and silently thanked Layla for calling Dad out on his misbehaviour. I had grown so used to seeing him hungrily eyeing Layla’s panties, I had long since stopped bothering to tell him off for it. After all, it seemed like a minor infraction compared with the gropings he now gave her several times a day during their kisses.
Grandpa took another photo, then had Layla adopt a new pose – again with her panties exposed. For the pose after that, he asked her to pull her jumper off one shoulder – which she did – and then off both shoulders, while hiking the bottom of her jumper up around her middle.
“A little lower, perhaps, at the top there?” said Grandpa hopefully.
“Any lower,” I said uneasily, “and she’ll be close to exposing her nipples!”
Grandpa chuckled. “I do love that you’re not wearing a bra, Layla,” he said. “But what do you think? Are you up for some tasteful topless shots…?”
Layla blushed, smiling. “I suppose I don’t mind,” she said.
“Um, are you sure, darling?” I asked nervously, not keen on the idea of my father and grandfather seeing my wife’s breasts.
She nodded. “I feel safe going topless here,” she said. “You’re here, after all … and Daddy and Grandpa are family in any case.”
“Quite right!” said Grandpa. “You’ve nothing to fear from us. Let’s see you without that jumper.”
Layla pulled her jumper up and over her head, and handed it to Dad, who had stepped forward and reached out for it. I was alarmed at how quickly she had gone from fully dressed to wearing nothing but her panties.
“What a stunning sight!” Grandpa enthused. “Your breasts are beautiful!”
“They really are,” said Dad fervently. “Quite the most perfect breasts I’ve ever seen.”
“Indeed!” Grandpa agreed.
Layla giggled. “You’re both very kind,” she said.
“All right all right,” I said irritably. “They’re gorgeous, obviously … but frankly it’s a little uncomfortable for me, as Layla’s husband, to watch my dad and grandpa drooling over them. Can we get on with the photo shoot please?”
“Of course!” said Grandpa. “Layla, can you do a Little Mermaid pose? Like the statue in Copenhagen? With your feet out to the side … yes, that’s it – that’s perfect.”
“Lovely!” said Dad. “But, um, wouldn’t it be better – more artistic – if she were fully nude for a shot like this?”
“Hey!” I protested.
“Keep your hair on, Lindsay!” said Grandpa. “Nobody’s going to pressure Layla into anything. Yes, it would look better if she were naked, but I’ve got to take her comfort level, and Lindsay’s, into account.”
“Thank you!” I said gratefully. This whole experience was proving uncomfortably reminiscent of Damon’s visit to our house last week, and Layla’s massage by Kent the week before. I was determined that this time, at least, Layla’s panties were going to stay on!
“I don’t mind doing it in the nude,” said Layla with a shrug. “I think you’re right, Daddy – it would feel more artistic. I’m not shy, and that’s one of the things Lindsay loves about me – isn’t it babe?”
“Well … yes,” I conceded reluctantly. “At least I did. But sometimes … it’s not easy to watch you being ogled by other men…”
“That’s quite understandable,” said Dad. “That’s basic biology. It’s in your nature, Lindsay, to regard Layla’s modesty as your property and something to be jealously guarded. But I like to think you’re a little more enlightened than that, and that you recognise Layla’s her own person and can make her own choices.”
“Uh … of course!” I said, my cheeks becoming very warm. “Absolutely. I mean, I know Layla isn’t my property or anything. I think it’s only natural for me to want her not to be naked in front of other men. Isn’t it? But, um, if she really wants to pose nude … I have no objection…”
“Good man!” said Dad.
“All right then, Layla,” said Grandpa. “Panties off!”
To my chagrin, Layla did not even hesitate before standing up and pulling her panties down. She stepped out of them, picked them up, and tucked them into one of her shoes.
“Wonderful!” said Grandpa. “Little mermaid pose again?” Layla posed again, and he took another photo. “Beautiful!”
It was, I had to admit, a nice artistic pose. But Grandpa’s threadbare sofa hardly did it justice. “Not exactly the best backdrop, though,” I remarked.
Dad nodded. “Where’s a nice rock in the sea when you need one…?” he quipped, but then he frowned, and pulled out his phone. “Oh crap, not now! What awful timing…”
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
He sighed. “Jill needs me at the shop,” he said. “Bother! I have to go. Oh, but we only came in your car…”
“You can borrow it,” I told him. “How long do you think you’ll be?”
“No more than half an hour, I should think,” he said.
I nodded, and pulled out my keys. “Here. See you soon.”
“Thanks – I’ll be back before you know it!” he said. Then he hurried to the front door, and left.
Grandpa seemed disappointed. “I hope he’s not gone long,” he said. “Anyway, you’re right of course – this sofa isn’t ideal, especially for nice artistic nudes. I’d suggest your dad’s old bedroom, but it’s full of junk. And the spare room hasn’t been cleaned or dusted in forever. The only decent bed in the house, frankly, is mine. I suppose we’ll have to use that.” He partially collapsed his tripod. “Come on upstairs.”
“What other photos do you want to take?” I inquired. “You got your artistic nude…”
“Oh, I have some other ideas,” said Grandpa.
I was a little uncomfortable with the thought of Grandpa using his own bed to take more nude photos of my wife. I was even more uncomfortable with the idea of watching him do so … but I felt as though I ought to keep an eye on things, and make sure the old man did not take advantage of the situation. Not that he would – would he? He was my grandfather, after all. I was probably just being paranoid as usual.
As Layla followed Grandpa out of the living room, I noticed she had not taken any clothing with her. “Um,” I said, “darling? Want me to bring your clothes?”
“Not much point!” she replied. “Once we’re done upstairs, if Grandpa is finished taking photos, I’ll just come back down and get dressed.”
“All right,” I said, my sense of unease not much soothed by this plan. Layla was going into Grandpa’s bedroom with him, naked, and there seemed little I could reasonably do about it. Except go with them and supervise, of course.
It started out fairly predictably. Grandpa asked Layla to get on the bed and pose, while he set up his camera again. The pose in question was quite modest, as nude poses go – Layla was on her front, with one knee extended toward the camera, resting on one elbow, with the other behind her head. One breast was exposed, but that was the naughtiest thing about it. I found myself relaxing a little.
“Lovely!” said Grandpa. He took a photo. “Now turn over, and let’s get a nice tasteful full-frontal shot.”
I was not sure that the words ‘tasteful’ and ‘full-frontal’ belonged in the same sentence together. But I refrained from comment, willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. As Layla posed, lying on her side with one hand on her hip and the other supporting her chin, I tried not to stare at her naked pussy with its neatly trimmed little isosceles trapezium of soft copper-coloured hair, her shaven labia, the cleft between them…
Grandpa seemed to have no such compunction. “What a pretty pussy!” he said in delight, as he took the next photo. “I like what you’ve done with it. Back in my day, young women just let the hair grow wild, covering that whole … area. Yours is so neat and tidy!”
Layla blushed. “Thank you,” she said.
“Do you mind not talking about my wife’s pussy?” I requested plaintively.
“It’s part of the photo,” said Grandpa, “and if I may say so, a very eye-catching part! It would be rather strange to simply ignore it. But, hmm … something’s not quite right. Can’t put my finger on it. Let’s try a different pose. Can you lie on your back, Layla, with your legs apart and your hand covering your pussy?”
I liked the sound of the pussy-covering; not so much the legs apart. “I hope you’re not planning to go too … naughty,” I said warily.
“Well, let’s see what Layla’s comfortable with!” said Grandpa with a grin. “I hope you have no objection to this one though?”
As Layla got into position, with her thighs spread apart and her hand covering her intimate parts, I reluctantly said, “I suppose not…”
Grandpa took another photo. Then he frowned, and then brightened. “Aha!” he said. “I know what the problem is. It’s the colour scheme of this room – the pale green and yellow – and the tone of Layla’s skin. You have lovely skin, don’t get me wrong Layla – but everything in here … it’s all pale shades, including yourself. There’s nothing bold and bright. Nothing pops out.”
“How about a nice bright red dress?” I suggested. I honestly thought this was a good idea – it fulfilled the brief, and had the added benefit of covering up Layla’s nudity.
But Grandpa just laughed. “Oh no,” he said. “No more clothing for Layla.” Which sounded rather more sinister than he no doubt meant it. “I think what we need is to have Layla’s entire body glistening – covered in baby oil or something – so that she really stands out amid the drabness of her surroundings.”
“Ugh!” I said. “You don’t really want to be covered in oil, do you darling?”
Layla shrugged. “I don’t mind,” she said. “But do you have any baby oil in the house, Grandpa? It’s been a while since you had any babies here, I’m guessing!”
“I don’t,” Grandpa confessed. “But there’s a chemist just don’t the road. Lindsay, would you mind running down there and getting some baby oil?”
I would rather not have done, but both Grandpa and Layla were now looking at me expectantly. “Um, of course,” I found myself saying. “I’ll, um, be right back.”
I knew in which direction the shops were, so I left the house and began walking. ‘Just down the road’ turned out to be more than half a mile, and as I walked, my sense of unease grew. I had left Grandpa alone with my naked wife. Sure, he was an old man and moreover my grandfather, but Layla was Layla, and I had a hard time believing that any man could take naked photos of her without getting aroused and wanting to take liberties.
I broke into a trot. What if he convinced her to uncover her pussy? With her legs spread? What if he asked her to finger herself? Or to let him finger her? Or put his wrinkly old cock inside…
I shook my head, and slowed to a walk. I was, as always, being paranoid and ridiculous. I forced myself to think of other things as I entered the chemist’s.
I soon found a bottle of baby oil, and having bought it, I returned home at a brisk walk. Not a run – I was not letting my paranoid jealousy get the better of me – I just wanted to make sure Layla was okay, and not feeling too cold with nothing on, and whatnot.
I reached Grandpa’s house slightly out of breath, and trotted up the old creaky stairs two at a time. Then I entered Grandpa’s bedroom … and almost screamed at the sight before my eyes.
Grandpa was raping Layla. That was the conclusion my mind immediately jumped to, and frankly it seemed like the only possible explanation for what I was seeing. Grandpa was naked, lying on top of Layla, and holding her shoulders down with his hands. Layla’s legs were spread, her knees out either side of his hips; the two of them were in fact in the classic ‘missionary’ sex position, and Grandpa was thrusting his elderly loins for all he was worth. Layla was gasping and moaning, and since I could not believe she had willingly agreed to have sex with the old man, my natural assumption was that he was raping her.
As her husband, it was time for me to step up, and do my job as a man. Layla was my wife; I had to defend her honour, rescue her, save her from my horrible rapist grandfather.
“Hey!” I exclaimed. “What the deuce do you think you’re doing there, Grandpa?”
He froze. “Oh … nothing really,” he said. “Just getting Layla in the mood.”
“By … by raping her?” I demanded hotly.
“Raping … I’m doing nothing of the sort!” he said indignantly.
“Lindsay, babe, calm down,” said Layla breathlessly. “Don’t jump to conclusions. Grandpa isn’t fucking me.”
My brow furrowed. “Well it certainly looks like it!” I was now feeling confused. Was it possible I had misread the situation? But how?
“He’s not inside me!” said Layla. “Check for yourself.”
I hesitated, feeling doubtful.
“Go on, lad,” said Grandpa. “I haven’t moved. Take a look – if only to clear my name!”
I reluctantly approached the bed. Squatting down, I peered beneath Grandpa’s right thigh, and as Layla spread her legs wider to give me a better look at her pussy, I realised I could see both her anus and her vaginal opening. Grandpa’s cock, it appeared, was lying on top of her pussy, pressed between his pelvis and hers. He leaned to his left to give me an even better view, and I saw his cock sandwiched between Layla’s labia.
The relief I felt was enormous. They had not been having sex! The thought of my grandfather having sex with my wife was too horrible and awful and disgusting to contemplate; I could not have been happier to discover that my initial assumption was wrong.
“But … what are you doing, then?” I asked, both relieved and bewildered. They might not have been having sex, but it was still a very intimate position!
“We were brainstorming how to make the photo shoot better,” said Layla, “and after taking a couple of photos of my pussy, Grandpa suggested that it might look better if I was … you know … aroused. As you know, a woman’s pussy changes in appearance with arousal – it becomes puffier and more flushed-looking.”
“I … um … of course I know that,” I said, feeling rather hot.
“So I started masturbating, but then of course Grandpa got very aroused too…”
“Can you blame me?” Grandpa asked with a chuckle. “A beautiful woman like Layla, naked and masturbating in front of me…” He had settled back into his former position, and was now rocking back and forth.
“I … I suppose that was probably inevitable,” I conceded uncomfortably.
“So I started having a wank,” Grandpa continued, “and then Layla said…”
“I said it was a little weird and awkward to masturbate in front of each other,” said Layla. “And I remembered the lovely mutual rubbing that your boss and I gave each other last Friday. And I thought … why not do the same thing?”
“You were drunk last Friday!” I said. “We agreed the next morning that it had been a bad idea!”
“Because your boss is a jerk!” said Layla. “But your Grandpa isn’t – he’s nice! And he’s been alone for such a long time; I thought it would be a nice treat for him.”
“And it really has been,” said Grandpa fervently. “Such a nice treat!”
“That’s all well and good,” I said, frowning, “but I don’t think it’s appropriate for my grandfather to be rubbing his cock on my wife’s pussy!”
“Appropriate?” Layla inquired. “Lindsay, when you fell in love with me, was it because I’m the sort of woman who likes to behave in an ‘appropriate’ way?”
“No,” I admitted, remembering how effusively I used to compliment her and thank her for flashing her panties at me in public places, even when other people could see. Of course, I was thanking her for flashing ME, not for flashing the other people … but I suppose I did get the benefit of her carefree, uninhibited nature.
We had had this conversation before … or some variation thereof. And it always ended the same way. “You’re right,” I conceded. “I’m sorry. I was just taken aback, that’s all. It does weird me out to see Grandpa on top of you like this, but I suppose it’s nice that you’re being so kind and generous to him.”
“That’s very decent of you, Lindsay!” said Grandpa. “So I have your blessing to rub my cock on your wife’s pussy?”
I would not have put it like that! But it seemed that that is what I had just agreed to. “I suppose so,” I said reluctantly.
“Splendid!” said Grandpa. “Now … you have the baby oil?” He climbed off Layla, and I hurriedly looked away as his mostly-erect cock swung and bounced around.
“Ugh, Grandpa!” I said in disgust. “Can you put some clothes on?
“I could,” he conceded. “But I might want to rub up on Layla again. We’ll see how aroused I get. Let’s have that baby oil.”
I handed it to him. “Look,” I said, “I don’t want you just rubbing your cock all over Layla whenever you feel like it!”
“Of course not!” said Grandpa. “I wouldn’t do it without asking first.” He took the cap off the bottle. “Okay, Layla,” he said. “I’m going to oil you up, if that’s okay with you.”
“Of course,” said Layla. “I’m looking forward to seeing how it’ll improve the photos.” It bothered me that her thighs were still spread apart, and both Grandpa and I had a very detailed view of her pussy. It did not seem to bother Layla, however – which was rather disturbing in itself.
Grandpa poured some oil on to his palm, and began applying it liberally to Layla’s right arm. Putting down the bottle, he used both hands, smearing oil over every inch of her arm and hand. He was just as thorough with her left arm, and then he moved on to her chest.
“Couldn’t she do this herself?” I complained, unhappy about the way he was massaging oil into her breasts.
“Oh, I don’t mind doing the whole lot,” he said cheerfully. “I can reach parts she can’t, so I mights as well. Plus, I know how much to apply, because I know how I want her to look.” He was now squeezing her breasts and pinching her nipples, which did not seem particularly necessary. Layla seemed to like it, though; she closed her eyes and bit her lip.
“That’s not really the point, though,” I grumbled. But I did not pursue the matter; I had after all somehow apparently given him permission to rub his cock on her pussy, so this hardly seemed worth making a fuss about.
As his hands continued down her belly and approached her pussy, however, I had no doubt that he would take plenty of time to rub oil into her vulva, and this thought infuriated me. Getting to stroke Layla’s pussy was a rare and wonderful experience, a privilege she afforded even me only occasionally … and yet Grandpa would be the third other man in as many weeks to enjoy that privilege right in front of me. And all of them were practically strangers as far as Layla was concerned.
Sure enough, Grandpa was soon running his slippery hand directly over Layla’s pussy, oiling it up, pressing his middle finger between her labia … and my anger and indignation and jealousy finally boiled over.
“Now look!” I said huffily, “that’s enough of that! As Layla’s husband I … I order you … to stop rubbing her pussy.” I wagged my finger at him as I spoke, for further emphasis.
Grandpa laughed. “Feeling possessive, are we?” he asked, still massaging Layla’s labia and clitoris. She moaned, and ground her pelvis against his hand. Then Grandpa lifted his hand away. “That’s understandable,” he continued. “I suppose it can’t be an easy thing to watch. Legs next.”
I felt somewhat mollified as I lapsed back into an uneasy silence. I had ordered him to stop, and he had stopped. It felt like a victory. With folded arms, I watched him oil up Layla’s legs, one after the other, frowning slightly as he approached her pussy twice more. But although he came very close, he did not actually touch her vulva again, and this reinforced my feeling that I had, in a way, won. It was a silly notion, really – I was obviously not competing with my own grandfather for access to my wife’s body – but it felt good nonetheless.
“Ugh,” said Grandpa, grasping his now very rigid erection with his right hand and slowly massaging it. “Sorry Layla – I’m only human, and rubbing oil into your beautiful body has got me ready to explode. Can I rub on you a little more?”
Layla glanced at me uncertainly. “I don’t mind,” she said. “But … um … Lindsay? Would you prefer to leave the room?”
I had thought she was going to ask for my permission to let Grandpa rub his cock on her! But then, of course, I recalled that I had already given him that permission. “No,” I said stiffly. As painful as it would no doubt be, I knew that it would be worse if I were outside the room, just imagining what was happening inside.
Grandpa grinned, and climbed on top of Layla again. This time, however, he lay across her right thigh, on his side, propped up on his left elbow. Taking hold of his cock with his right hand, he guided it to Layla’s pussy and began rubbing its tip against her clitoris.
“Ohhh…” Layla gasped.
“You like that?” asked Grandpa with a grin, steering his slippery cock up and down the groove between her labia.
“Mmmm, yes,” Layla murmured, closing her eyes.
I felt sick. Watching Grandpa pressing the head of his elderly cock against the sweet, tender, oily pussy of my darling wife was a particularly horrible form of torture. Why on Earth had I agreed to let him do this?
Grandpa’s expression was one of pure lust. He wanted Layla; I could see it in his eyes. And as he slid the head of his cock down to her vaginal opening, I almost retched, fearing what he might do next.
“My god, you’re beautiful,” he said to her, lodging the tip of his erection in the entrance to her vagina. “It would be so easy … just one quick thrust…”
She was looking into his eyes. “I wouldn’t blame you,” she said. “It must be so tempting for you, being alone for so long. I wouldn’t blame you at all if you just thrust your hips, and drove your cock deep inside me.”
“Well I would!” I protested vehemently. “Damn it, Grandpa, I said you could rub your cock on her, I didn’t say you could … do anything else!”
Grandpa laughed. “I know,” he said, climbing off Layla again. “I was just teasing. You’re way too easy to wind up, Lindsay!”
I felt relieved beyond my powers of description. “Oh my gosh!” I exclaimed. Then I laughed, almost hysterically. “You old rascal! You really had me worried there!”
Grandpa chuckled. “Yup, I got you!” he said. “Now, let’s take some photos.”
I was feeling almost giddy with relief, and so it took me a few moments before I realised what was happening. Then I gasped, rather appalled, as Grandpa took a highly explicit photo of Layla’s oily pussy, vaginal opening, and anus, with her smiling face in the background.
“Grandpa!” I said, shocked. “So much for tasteful nudes! Are you taking porn photos now?”
“I’m photographing Layla’s body in all its beauty,” he explained. “Her sexual parts are just as much a part of her as her face, her arms, her feet, or her breasts. I’m capturing the whole package of Layla, in all her glory.”
“But Layla!” I said uncomfortably. “Are you really okay with him photographing you like this?”
Layla smiled. “I suppose I am,” she said.
“Now,” said Grandpa, “do you think you could try to pull your vagina open a bit, so I can see inside?”
“Sure,” said Layla, and as I watched in horrified fascination, she tucked two fingertips of each hand into the entrance of her vagina, and pulled them apart, revealing her dark interior … whose pink details then became brightly illuminated by Grandpa’s flash.
I had to sit down on a chair in the corner; I was feeling faint. I was vaguely aware that Grandpa was talking Layla through a series of other highly explicit poses, and she was complying readily with each. But then Grandpa put his camera down, and grasped his erection with his right hand. “I need some relief!” he said. “I’ve just got to climax – I can’t wait any longer!”
“How do you want me?” Layla asked.
“Standing on the floor, bent over the bed,” he instructed her.
Layla climbed off the bed, then bent over it, resting on her elbows. Grandpa positioned himself behind her, guided his cock to her pussy, then slowly eased himself forward, as Layla gasped, her face taking on an expression of sheer joy. From where I was sitting, to their right, I could not see Grandpa’s cock rubbing against my wife’s pussy … nor did I want to. Seeing Grandpa rubbing himself all over Layla’s most intimate parts had been one of the most horrific sights of my life, and an image that would probably haunt my nightmares for years. I had no stomach for going over and squatting down to get a better look.
“Oh, it feels so good inside me!” Layla gasped.
“What?” I said sharply, sitting forward in my chair.
“I mean,” Layla hastily clarified, “this feeling inside me is so good.”
“Oh,” I said, settling back into the chair. She had just misspoken. But her word choice, while Grandpa was thrusting his pelvis repeatedly against her buttocks, was not very good for my paranoia!
“Now on your back,” said Grandpa to Layla, taking a step back, his cock gleaming slickly.
Layla crawled on to the bed, and turned over, lying flat on her back. As she spread her legs apart, Grandpa climbed on top of her again, taking hold of his cock to position it correctly as he settled down upon her. He eased himself forward again, groaning with pleasure as Layla uttered a delighted moan, and then he withdrew his hand and began thrusting back and forth.
I scowled. Layla was being far too generous with her body, it seemed to me. I resolved to have words with her later about this whole ‘genital rubbing’ thing. I decided I did not want her doing it with anyone but me. Was that really too much for a husband to ask of his wife?
Grandpa groaned, and stiffened. He eased himself back, then thrust forward, groaning again. Layla, who by now had her legs wrapped around his back, was panting as she caressed the old man’s back.
“Oh god,” Grandpa muttered, as he thrust again. “Oh yes…” Then he collapsed on top of her.
“Well that was one of the least pleasant things I’ve had to witness,” I grumbled. “Glad you had fun though, Grandpa!”
Grandpa looked down at Layla. “You’re amazing,” he said. “Thank you, from the bottom of my heart. May I … kiss you?”
“Of course,” she said warmly, and she put her arms around his neck as he pressed his lips against hers, thrusting his tongue into her mouth.
I looked away in disgust, and spotted a box of Kleenex on Grandpa’s bedside table. “Can I get you a tissue?”
“Yes please,” said Layla, emerging breathlessly from the kiss.
I got up, plucked a tissue from the box, and handed it to Layla. “Here you go.”
“Thank you,” she said, reaching down to mop up Grandpa’s cum, which was no doubt plastering her abdomen.
Grandpa climbed off her, cum oozing from the tip of his cock. “One last photo?” he said.
“Sure,” said Layla, leaving her legs wide open.
Grandpa took a photo, and as I returned to the chair, I happened to glance at Layla’s pussy. To my horror, I saw a trickle of what had to be Grandpa’s semen, running down from Layla’s vaginal opening, down over her anus and a little beyond.
“Oh my God!” I exclaimed, rushing to grab another tissue. “Grandpa, some of your cum went … down here!” I pointed, then hurriedly wiped it up. “You’ve got to be careful; some of it could have got inside her!”
“Ah well, we wouldn’t want that, would we?” he said, clearly trying to suppress a smile.
“No we would not!” I snapped. “Crumbs, what if she got pregnant from your sperm?”
Grandpa chuckled. “Surely she’s on the pill?”
“No!” I told him, irritated at his lack of seriousness. “She isn’t! We talked about it, and she … we decided not to wait, and to start trying for a baby right away. Well, very soon anyway.”
“Very soon?” asked Grandpa, puzzled. “She’s not on the pill, but you haven’t started trying yet? Have you been wearing condoms?”
“No!” I said, growing increasingly embarrassed. “Not that it’s any of your business! We just haven’t … at least not … successfully…”
Grandpa stared at me. “You and Layla haven’t had sex yet?”
“It’s complicated!” I fired back, now rather upset. “Sex is … tricky!”
Layla got up from the bed, and gave me a hug. “We’ll figure it out, Lindsay,” she said. “Don’t worry. Would you like to go home now?”
“Yes!” I said emphatically. “Yes please, Layla. I’m sorry, but this … Grandpa and you … it wasn’t fun to watch.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t,” said Layla, stroking my back as I held her naked body. “But thank you for your patience and understanding. Let’s go downstairs, and I’ll get dressed.”
As she left the room, I moved to follow her, but Grandpa caught my arm. “I’m sorry, Lindsay,” he said. “I didn’t realise you and Layla hadn’t even had sex yet, otherwise I wouldn’t have … well, anyway. May I ask: what the heck is the issue? Maybe I can help. Can’t you get it up, or what?”
“Of course I can get it up!” I replied, annoyed. “Look, I don’t want to talk about it. Now put something on, for heaven’s sake! Layla and I are leaving.”
“Well,” said Grandpa, “you can’t yet – y our dad has your car.”
I groaned. “So he does. All right, we’ll wait for him to get back.”
I went downstairs, to find Layla already dressed except for her shoes, which she was starting to put on. I slumped on to the sofa, and Layla quietly sat down beside me.
“Don’t be cross with Grandpa,” she said, putting her arm around my shoulders. “He’s old, he’s been alone a long time. I thought I’d let him have some fun with me, and you can’t blame him for jumping at the chance.”
I sighed. “I don’t, I suppose,” I said. “I just wish you weren’t so … generous.” I turned to look at her. “Wasn’t it … gross? Like, feeling his old willy rubbing against you?”
Layla’s expression turned thoughtful. “It was … tolerable,” she said. “I mean, when I’m being rubbed down there, it inevitably feels quite nice.”
I nodded. “I don’t think you climaxed this time though. Not like with Damon.”
“No,” she agreed, with a little smile. “But then, I was controlling the action with Damon. Plus, he had a little more staying power than Grandpa.”
I looked down at her bare thighs. “Would you like me to … you know … rub you? So you can climax?”
“Nah, it’s okay,” she said, kissing my cheek. “I’ve gone off the boil, a bit. But it’s okay – I got what I wanted out of it.”
My brow furrowed. “Which was?”
Layla smiled. “Your grandfather’s happiness, of course,” she said. “I like making people happy.”
I nodded. “You’re a very kind person,” I said. Then, with a great effort of will, I called upon my deepest, most self-sacrificing reserves of generosity. “If, um, you know, you want to come back here sometime, and, um, make Grandpa happy again … I suppose I wouldn’t mind.”
Layla smiled happily. “Thank you, Lindsay!” she said. “That’s very sweet of you. Yes, I think I’d like that.”