I Am My Own Grandpa

by Lubrican


This feels really strange, because as I write this, I know it may be read by a lot of people some day, but of course I can't see any of them and won't know most of them, so I feel like I'm just talking in the woods and there's nobody else around. And if anybody ever does read this, that will be in the future anyway. I might even be dead and gone by then! Who knows?

The reason for this whole thing is because Ray Stevens sang a song about it. You can probably find it on You Tube if you want to. I'll put the lyrics at the end of this document. But people thought it was just Ray Stevens being cute when, in fact, he was singing about the story of my life.

But he glossed over the details, which is why some people insisted I needed to write all this down. They feel like my story needs to be documented, because my story is kind of bizarre too. Except it wasn't to me.

How bizarre?

Well ... as it turns out ... I'm my own grandfather.

I know, I know. You're shaking your head. Everybody always does. But I can prove it. That's the reason, in fact, that I'm documenting what happened.

It started when I was twenty-three. I had a degree, but wasn't working in that field. Instead I was a handyman. Don't sneer. The world is desperately in need of people like me. For example, if you've got a leaky faucet, without a guy like me in the picture your only option is to call a professional plumber. They all work for some company, which means the bill you get will have to cover the plumber, markup on the parts, transportation costs, and profit for the owner(s). That's why it costs you ninety bucks just to get the guy out to your house. And that's before he actually does anything. By the end of it, a leaky faucet that can be fixed with a part costing eight bucks ends up being priced to you for over three hundred dollars.

Me? I can do it for fifty or sixty bucks if I have two other jobs that day that will bring in the same amount.

That's the key to making money as a handyman. You schedule your jobs so you make a couple hundred bucks a day.

Anyway, the only reason that's important is because on a day in June, I had a job to do at the home of one Charity McPhereson, who had a torn screen that needed replacing.

Charity was a widow, and her late husband Rodney couldn't have fixed the screen anyway, but that's neither here nor there. What's important is that Charity was still young and a bombshell. She was also as horny as a three antlered deer.

I fixed the screen on her kitchen table, rolling the new spline in with a tool made for that. Charity hung around, dressed in short shorts and a halter top that looked like it was made of three pound material, trying mightily to contain ten pound breasts.

Mrs. McPhereson called me a lot, and she flirted with me incessantly every time I showed up to solve one of her little problems.

"This screen was cut with a knife," I observed, as she leaned forward showing cleavage a squirrel could hibernate in with no problem.

"Oh my!" she squealed, softly. "Do you think I'm in danger from some awful predator?"

"Probably not," I said. "Since it was cut from the inside," I added.

"Oh." She blushed prettily. The pink tint started in what I could see of those breasts, and traveled upwards. Finally, probably out of frustration that I had always been so proper, she admitted it. "I just get so lonely," she sighed.

"I'd be happy to come see you socially," I said. "But I didn't think you'd be interested in that, seeing as how I'm a bit younger than you."

"I'm only thirty-eight!" she said, bristling.

"I'm not saying you're old," I said. "I'm saying I didn't think you'd be interested in callow youth."

"I doubt seriously that you're callow, Bob," she said, looking at me with smoky eyes. "Are you going to make me beg?"

I did not make her beg. I finished the screen, locked it back in place, and then let her take me to her bedroom.

Charity was a wet dream when she shed those clothes. She had big nipples to go with big breasts. Her waist was tiny, even though she'd had a child. Her hips had stayed wide after spreading for that baby. Her pussy was as bald and soft as a baby's butt.

Let's just say I was inspired to please her. And I think I did myself proud. Basically, I just fucked her socks off.

After she'd had about four orgasms, during which it sounded like some predator had forced his way in and was killing her, I sped up and started panting pretty heavily.

She wrapped her legs around me in an iron lock and whispered, "You better not cum in me, Bob. I'm not on anything and I'm ovulating."

"What?" I gasped, already too far gone to hold it back.

"Why do you think I'm so all fired horny, silly," she cooed.

Did I mention the iron lock of her legs.

So, basically, after fucking her socks off, I bred the crap out of her.

When I left that day she was sock-less and crap-less, but very, very satisfied.

I went back five or six more times and she finally said, "Well, if you're going to knock me up, you should at least tell me you love me."

I did her one better.

I married her.

I mentioned that Charity had given birth. That was to a girl she named Elizabeth, or Beth for short. When Charity and I got married Beth had just graduated from college and, like many graduates these days, had decided to veg out at home and take it easy for a while. Beth had long, red hair, and green eyes, and breasts that were not quite carbon copies of her mother's. She was gorgeous, but had that red-head temperament, which I didn't find all that erotic. Besides, I had my hands full already.

My dad is semi-retired, which means he works at what he wants to work at, and goes fishing when he feels like doing that. My folks divorced when I was fifteen and he never remarried. It wasn't because he didn't want to. He just never met the right woman. He is a handyman of sorts too, primarily whenever I need an extra man to do a job.

He was a frequent visitor to Charity's house when I was "courting" her. They were about the same age and, as it turned out, he had known her husband before the man drove his car into a tree one night after drinking too much. As a kid I'd known who Mrs. McPhereson was, of course. She was a babe before she was a widow. What I didn't know was that she and my dad knew each other through the bridge club they both belonged to. She didn't feel any attraction to him after her husband died, but she'd sort of watched me grow up and felt a powerful attraction to me. That's the back story I didn't know about when we got married. All I knew was that after we were "dating" and I was at her house, my dad would show up looking for me. Charity always invited him in and offered him coffee or whatever. And Beth was usually there, too.

I think all of us were dumbfounded when, one afternoon he asked Beth if she had a boyfriend.

"Not currently," she said. "Men my age are so juvenile."

"You should try going out with an older man," he suggested. "Older men have enough experience to know how to treat a woman."

"I don't think so," she said. "Where am I going to go to find an older man, and where they won't think I'm a hooker if that's what I'm doing?"

"Fret not your lovely head, Beth," he said. "I am at your service."

Who knows why that schmaltz worked, but it did and she went out with him on a date.

Turns out he did know how to treat a woman. Maybe it's genetic.

Pretty soon, as I was pounding Charity's lovely, married pussy, my dad was down the hall pounding the pussy of her daughter, long, deep and continuous.

Two months later they announced their engagement.

And six months after that, I was the best man as my dad married my daughter.

And that made my dad my son-in-law, who went on his honeymoon with the woman who had become my mother by marrying my father.

And before you experts out there start adding "step" or "half" or "adopted" to things, I'll tell you the reason I'm not going to do that myself.

It's already going to be confusing enough. Let's not complicate things even more. Those qualifiers may show up, once in a while, but they weren't put there by me.

Life went on and, surprise, surprise, being locked in my wife's iron grip while I ejaculated billions and billions of sperm cells into her led to her having a case of the swollen belly. Of course I was delighted. I'd always wanted to be a dad.

And so it was that nine months later little Timothy came into the world. Charity had a pretty easy delivery though, one time as the doctor stuck his fingers up inside her to check to see how effaced the cervix was, some little automatic response kicked in and her right leg kicked out. Caught the poor guy right on the chin and he staggered back, seeing stars.

But that was the only real excitement, until, as she held my new son, Beth said to my dad, "You know, he's actually my brother, which makes him your brother-in-law, Honey." She grinned.

"Can't be," said my dad. "If he's my brother of any sort, that makes him Bob's uncle."

"Why not?" giggled Beth. "By marrying you, I became his step-mother, and he's two years older than me!"

We ignored all the strangeness and just got on with our lives.

As always, sons and fathers compete.

That included Dad having to compete with me. I'd knocked up my wife, so it became imperative to him that he knock his up too.

The result of that was a boy they named Todd, who was my father's son. He was also Beth's son, obviously, but since she was my wife's daughter, which also made her my daughter, that made Todd my grandson. The problem was that, after she married my father, she became my mother, so her issue was my brother, too. And, of course, since Beth was Charity's daughter, Todd was her grandson.

And, of course, since Todd and I were brothers, whoever his grandmother was ... was also my grandmother.

So that night I took Charity to bed and fucked my grandmother's socks off.

Now think about that. I was married to my grandmother, which made Todd my grandson.

And since Todd is my brother, whoever his grandpa is ... is also my grandpa.

And there you have it.

I know it sounds crazy. But it's true.

I am my own grandpa.

The End

Ray Stevens - I'm My Own Grandpa Lyrics

Many, many years ago when I was twenty-three
I was married to a widow who was pretty as could be.
This widow had a grown-up daughter who had hair of red.
My father fell in love with her and soon they too were wed.

This made my dad my son-in-law and really changed my life.
For now my daughter was my mother, 'cause she was my father's wife.
And to complicate the matter, even though it brought me joy,
I soon became the father of a bouncing baby boy.

My little baby then became a brother-in-law to dad.
And so became my uncle, though it made me very sad.
For if he were my uncle, then that also made him brother,
Of the widow's grownup daughter, who was of course my step-mother.

Father's wife then had a son who kept them on the run.
And he became my grandchild, for he was my daughter's son.
My wife is now my mother's mother and it makes me blue.
Because although she is my wife, she's my grandmother too.

Now if my wife is my grandmother, then I'm her grandchild.
And every time I think of it, it nearly drives me wild.
'Cause now I have become the strangest 'case you ever saw.
As husband of my grandmother, I am my own grandpa

I'm my own grandpa, I'm my own grandpa
It sounds funny, I know but it really is so
I'm my own grandpa.

The End

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