Date: Wed, 28 Apr 2010 22:30:42 +0100
From: Harry Miller <harry.miller67@googlemail.com>
Subject: Tactile Sam, Part 3

EXPLICIT CONTENT FOR ADULTS ONLY. This story is a work of fiction: the
characters aren't real, the plot isn't true, the places don't exist.
The story contains scenes of a sexual nature between a grandfather and
his grown up grandson.  If you are a minor, or it is illegal for you
to read this story, then stop reading now.  Commercial use of this
work is prohibited without the author's express permission.

I was so frustrated at the lack of stories on Nifty that involved
frottage, I decided to write my own.  It's a shame there aren't more
frot stories - why don't you write one and submit it?

This is the third story in the Tactile Sam series; please let me know
what you think.


Tactile Sam, Pt 3


After dropping Sam off at home, I stay on the coach until it gets
closer to Grandad Derek's farm.  I get off, and go through the gate.
I'm still a bit dazed after this morning's events.  It all seems a
blur now; getting off on Sam in the changing rooms and then again on
the coach.  How did that happen?  What was I thinking?  It all seemed
so natural at the time, and he was certainly enjoying himself.  I'm
not sure what's more shocking: that he's just a boy; that he's my
brother; or that he's a "he".  I've never been attracted to anyone
except some of the local beauties before (and the odd actress, of
course).  Too much to think about right now, I must find Grandad so
that we can get the barn sorted out.

"Hey, Grandad!  Where are you?" I call.

He emerges from around the back of the barn, but takes me by surprise.
 "What are you wearing?  Are those your cricket whites?"  I ask.

"Of course, Adrian.  The village team has our first match in a few
weeks and I need to get some practice in.  Now, how's my big grandson,
I haven't seen you much over the winter?"  he replies.

"I'm fine, I'm fine.  But Dad said you needed some help shifting
things in the barn because the tractor's playing up."  I state.

"Yes, yes, I know, but I managed to fix it this morning and
everything's sorted.  Now, I need to get some batting practice in, so
get changed and meet me at the nets behind the barn.  I've put some
spare whites out on the bed.  Come on, shift yourself, boy."  he
commands.

I'm not really into cricket; it's quite slow and dull compared to
other sports.  All that standing around for hours; I just don't
understand what people see in it.  However, I know how much it means
to my grandfather; he's been playing in the village team for many,
many years.  There's no harm in helping him out; it's a lovely day and
it's better than humping things around in the barn, I suppose.

I go to Grandad's bedroom, and just as he'd said, there are some
whites laid out on the bed.  They're pure white, as new; almost
blindingly white.  I strip off my t-shirt and shorts, and pull on the
shirt and trousers.  They're quite old fashioned trousers: at school
we used to have nylon trousers with an elasticated waist, but these
are cotton, and do up at the front with a button and zip.  The clean,
smooth cotton feels really nice against my skin.  I look in his
full-length mirror, and can't help myself but to smooth my hands over
my chest, stomach, arse and thighs, and then to squeeze my cock
through the white cotton material.  Boy do I look good: very smart,
and a bit of a hunk if I say so myself.  All this makes me feel a bit
horny, and I have a semi as I go back downstairs to find Grandad.

He's already in the nets (I call it the nets, it was very much DIY in
a true farmer style).  He's swinging his cricket bat about as though
he's facing some famous fast bowler.  Bless.  I know the men in the
team take their village cricket seriously, but please, it's just a few
middle-aged men trying to relive their youth.

"Come on then, Grandad, let's see what you can do with this!"  I pick
up a cricket ball near the back door, run up towards the net and bowl
as fast as I can at him.  He doesn't swing at it, just ducks, all the
while staring straight at me.

"Blimey," he says, "when did you grow up?"

"Eh?  I'm 24, Grandad, I grew up a long time ago" I reply.

"But the last time I saw you, at your Dad's for Christmas, you were a
chubby little boy.  In fact, chubby is being generous - you were
bloody fat."

"Grandad!  OK, I'd let myself go a bit.  But now that I'm coaching at
the pool, and helping Uncle Greg with the rugby, I've had to get fit,
quick.  I'm in the gym at the sports centre almost every day
exercising and working out.  Do you think it's paying off?"

"Adrian, my boy, you look like one of them models off of the
television.  To be honest, I didn't think my old whites would fit you,
but they're the only size I have.  Looking at you now, I'd say they
fit you perfectly; very snug in fact.  Turn around so I can see all of
you."

I feel a little silly and bashful, but I do as he asks.  I'd almost
swear he's checking me out, so to tease him I smooth my hands over my
body again as I turn: my lower back, my arse, my thighs, my stomach.
I don't squeeze my cock again, that would be silly, although all this
attention is still keeping it fairly firm, if not hard.

I notice the bucket of cricket balls he has by the nets, and pick one
out.  "Right, I thought you wanted to practice.  Watch out, here it
comes!" I shout.

Grandad's jaw is still open: anyone would have thought he'd seen a
ghost.  I suppose what with the training, and that I like to wear lots
of layers during the winter months, it must seem quite a
transformation for Grandad, from a huge blob, to this adonis dressed
in pure white!

We spend half an hour or so with me bowling at Grandad.  I try all
sorts of different bowls: different speeds, spins, placing of the
ball.  I'm not brilliant, but it's enough for Grandad's practice
session, and he's certainly working up a sweat.  I've seen him bat
much better than this before; he seems distracted, and whenever I turn
around from picking up a ball, I swear he's checking out my arse,
crotch or both.  It must be my imagination; after what happened with
Sam earlier, I'm still a little confused.

"I need a break," he says, "I'll get us a cold drink."

I didn't realize how thirsty I had become, and easily down a pint of
ice-cold, sweet orange squash.

"Right then," says Grandad, "time to practice my bowling.  Get those pads on."

I strap the pads to my legs and walk towards the makeshift net.  "And
don't forget a box!" cries Grandad.  I've seen his bowling, and he's
right, I'll need a box unless I want my balls thrust back up inside
me.

"There wasn't one upstairs with the whites," I tell him, "where do you
keep them?"

"Oh, come to think of it, I don't think your Uncle returned my spare
one after last season.  Here, you'll have to use mine."  He reaches
inside his trousers and pulls out the box he'd been wearing throughout
the first part of the practice, and hands it over to me.  I must
admit, I didn't relish the thought of wearing a box that has just come
out of Grandad's sweaty crotch, but needs must, and I'm certainly not
going to face any of his bowling without some protection around the
family jewels.

The tight fit of the trousers Grandad had lent me makes it difficult
to fit the box down the front.  "Here," he says, "let me help."  He
walks over, gets down on one knee, and without a second thought
unbuttons my trousers and lowers the zip.  There really wasn't a lot
of room inside those trousers, and the bulge in my pants pushes right
out as soon as the zip allows.  It doesn't help that, as Grandad
lowers the zip, his thumb is on the inside of my trousers, and strokes
along my cock all the way down, and gently nuzzles my balls as it
reaches the bottom.  He pauses for a couple of seconds, and I feel the
cool, Spring air seep through my pants to cool my cock and balls.
Without even looking at me, Grandad starts to gently rub the knuckles
on the back of his hand up and down the length of my cock.  I try not
to react, I'm not sure about this at all, but my cock isn't listening
and starts to stiffen.  I suppose I could pull away, grab my clothes,
and run to the bus stop; but something keeps me rooted to the spot.
Grandad turns his hand around, and ever so slightly tickles my balls.
He's only just touching the fabric of my pants, the soft, thin cotton,
yet the effect it's having on me is intense.  I let out a slight moan,
and my cock is straining against the front of my briefs.

He uses his knuckles again, but presses harder against my cock this
time.  I just can't believe the feeling, it's like electricity rising
along the length of my cock every time he strokes it.  He moves his
other hand up, and uses that one to tickle my balls.  I've already cum
twice this morning with Sam, and once in the shower, of course, this
morning, yet I can feel another load building up inside me.  He's not
even touching the bare skin, just rubbing my cock and squeezing my
balls through the cotton.  He shifts his hand slightly so that his
thumb and forefinger are running up and down my length.  He's not even
moving his hand that quickly, but I'm moaning and moaning, desperate
for release.  I can feel my face starting to contort, it's just so
intense.  He now focuses purely on my knob, and more rapidly strokes
up and down.  He flattens his other hand, and turns it so that he can
slide it in and out of the top of my thighs, rubbing the underside of
my balls.  That does it, I can feel the cum welling up inside me.  I'm
panting heavily and moaning, and suddenly it starts: I start shooting
my load into my pants.  Spurt after spurt, it's so forceful the the
front of my tight briefs balloon out slightly.  He keeps squeezing my
knob and rubbing my balls until my orgasm starts to subside.  It feels
like it's been going for minutes, and my knees start to go.  I put my
hands out and rest them on Grandad's shoulders.  Very gently now, he
kneads my cock and tickling my balls again, and rather than a sudden
transformation, I slowly subside back to normality.  I can feel cum
dribbling down my still hard cock, although most of it has soaked my
pants.  My breathing starts to return to normal.  He does up the zip
and button on my trousers, and stands up.

"Feel better now?"  he asks.  I don't know what to say.  "Cricket
whites always have the same effect on me, boy, and you look so
handsome in yours; you remind me of myself and your father.  I thought
it best to help you out."

I just stare at him, while he walks over to the bucket of cricket
balls and lifts one out.

"In your place now, kiddo, it's not the same when I just bowl at empty
space.  Get in that net."  he tells me.

Without another thought, I walk over to the nets, and stand in front
of the wicket ready to face the first ball.  He starts slowly, and
treats me gently, but I'm no cricketer, and only just manage to hit
them (and not very well at that).

"My arm's warmed up now, are you ready for some proper bowling?"  he asks.

"Blimey, OK then, but be nice, Grandad!" I reply.

As I expected, I really struggle to hit the balls, and when I do I
usually miss-hit.  Given that I never managed to get the box down my
pants, I'm quite pleased that his bowling is fairly accurate.
Nevertheless, I can see that Grandad is getting frustrated at my lack
of cricketing-prowess; he walks over.

"Look, you're not holding and swinging the bat properly.  You'd be out
in no time, let alone hit a 6!"  he scoffs.  "I'll show you".

He takes the bat from me, and shows me how to hold it and swing it for
maximum effect.  It looks simple enough, yet when he gives the bat
back to me and I show him what I think he wants to see, he just shakes
his head.

"Here, let me help."  he says.

He moves behind me and reaches around with both of his huge farmer's
arms, and wraps his fingers around mine, holding the bat.  He starts
to swing us both from side-to-side.

"You see," he says, "it's all in the action."

He continues to swing my arms back and forth.  I feel his breath on my
neck, and notice that he's pressing himself against me more and more.
I don't understand why he just keeps swinging our arms, but then I
notice something pressing up against my arse.  Is that his cock?  What
do I do now?  I didn't ask him to relieve me earlier, but he did it
and I certainly feel a lot better for it.  Should I deny this old man
a little pleasure, it's not as if he's trying to fuck me or anything,
he's only rubbing himself against me?  I just relax, and let him take
control.

"I told you these clothes have an unusual effect, and looking at you,
boy, has me very excited."  He says no more, but takes his hands off
mine, and rests them across my chest and stomach.  He really starts
grinding his crotch against my arse now.  To be honest, I'm not
finding it particularly arousing, nor is it uncomfortable, although I
do feel like I'm intruding a little bit on a private act.  But that
changes when Grandad moves his hand down, undoes my zip, and slips his
fingers inside my trousers, grabbing hold of my package through my
pants.  There's no way I'm going to cum again so quickly, not after
today's events, but my cock certainly starts to respond.  I've got my
Grandad pushing his cock up and down the crack of my arse, with his
huge hand cupping my balls.  I feel good, right now.

Grandad's really humping against me now, bending his knees and then
straightening them so that he can stroke his cock against my arse
crack with maximum length.  I want to reach round and help him, or
maybe turn around, but he's holding on to me tighter and tighter, and
clearly getting off on this; his moaning against my neck is getting
more intense, and every now and again his lips press against my neck
(although I wouldn't call it kissing).  He's squeezing my cock now,
although I know he's not trying to get me off, but is just doing it
for his own pleasure.

Suddenly Grandad's groaning, and humping hard against me in quick,
fast jerks.  His orgasm's erupting, I recognize the signs and I let
out a moan as he gives my balls a real squeeze.  Grandad's shaking,
and I know he's shooting his load inside his own pants now.  He
breathes heavily against my neck, and removes his hand from down the
front of my trousers, and I do them back up.  I'm disappointed,
really: by the end I was really enjoying that.  Grandad certainly
knows how to work my balls, especially through my cotton pants, which
I never realized could feel quite so good.

"Look, I think it's time you went home young man.  I've got things to
do around the farm and I'm sure you've got things to do to."  says
Grandad.  I agree and go to get changed back into my clothes.  As I
peel down the trousers, I notice that my pants are still very wet: I
certainly shot a huge load with Grandad.

As I leave, I'm sure I notice a tear in his eye.