A Fly on the Wall: It's Right Up Inside Me, Grandpa
A Fly on the Wall.
by Ganymede
A Fly on the Wall is the story of Savannah Martin, a ten-year-old fashion model, and the journey to change gender. With surgery in Mexico depending on meeting certain conditions, the responsibility falls on Grampa.
To read the rest of the story, click here: Contents
To read other Ganymede stories, click here: Ganymede
Copyright 2019
The responsibility falls on you, the reader, to support Nifty.
It’s easy, safer than using a condom, and personally satisfying.
Why let others pay the bills for your thrills?
Vignette < < < It’s right up inside me, Grampa > > >
The New Year’s Eve’ forecast was even better than Frank Martin expected. The next four days would be sunny, a high of 67oF, and a low of 33o F, not exactly balmy, but typical for southern Arizona in early January. It was warm enough to camp out in Coronado National Forest, warm enough for Savannah to learn how to ride cross-country, and maybe learn a few other things along the way. Just above freezing was too cold for most dangerous critters to be roaming, including illegals, who preferred to hike their sorry asses over the border in summer. Frank still packed his Remington pump-action shotgun and a box of 12-gauge buckshot. Anything could happen on a three-day trail ride.
Four saddlebags carried the other necessities, a two-man bivouac tent, a double sleeping bag, air mattress, and food and water for five days; plus a few luxuries like scented body wipes to compensate for not having showers.
With the sun up for three hours, and both his Sperry Palamino Quarter and Savannah’s Welsh Palomino, Sandy Girl, saddled and waiting in the corral, Frank was ready to head out. Newly minted nine-year-old Savannah, on the other hand, was doing what Savannah did best, putting on a fashion show for her grampa.
Frank watched her all the way from the house, walking with the sophisticated self-assurance of a $1,000 per hour fashion model on the runway.
“Hard to believe you’re nine,” he mused aloud for the umpteenth time in three days.
Almost overnight, the bright and talented kid had become a natural head-turner. She was a YouTube celebrity, too; 93,000 views of the videotape of her wacky TOMBOY birthday party.
“So goddamn pretty.”
That was the worst part of gender dysphoria for Frank Martin. Precocious little Savannah was pretty, pretty like a girl should be, with long curly hair reaching to the middle of her back. It ended tantalizingly close to what had to be the cutest butt in the county, or maybe Arizona, maybe the whole darn country.
Savannah strolled through the open corral gate, beaming at him. She stopped a few yards away, so focused that the entire world could wait. When she had his attention truly rapt, she pivoted to show her pony-riding attire.
“You look great, Sanny. Only, you really can’t ride dressed like that.”
“Why not, Grampa?”
“You could wear Gangsta clothes, I suppose. Only I know they’re really expensive, and you look like you’re from Chicago during Prohibition. You’ll scare the prairie dogs half to death.”
“What’s Prohibition?”
“It doesn’t matter. The cactus will rip ‘em to shreds. You’ll be better off in blue jeans.”
“I hate blue jeans! They make me itch.”
There was another reason why Savannah chose Gangsta. Karen’s unisex 1920s theme went extreme with flared pinstriped pants and a glittery mid-thigh flapper. She exuded sexy with every flouncy, bouncy step, although her grandfather would never admit it except in a whisper to the fresh morning air.
A year earlier, Frank got the shock of his life after seeing the hot-of-the-presses TOMBOY pre catalog photos. Savannah graced the front cover. No flapper, no undershirt, just pinstriped pants with bright red braces. His shocking conclusion, his only grandchild was extremely desirable, whether boy or girl. And now, he had the same unsettling feeling; spending just a few minutes in bed with Savannah would be worth the world ending in a cataclysmic explosion.
Frank stumbled on. “What about the riding pants I bought you?”
“They make my thighs look flabby, Grampa.”
Rather than explain that loose pants made riding more comfortable, he took the easy way out.
“Once we get into Coronado, no one’s going to see you, Sanny.”
“You’ll see me, Grampa!”
Frank groaned aloud, tired of being frustrated at every step by a barely nine-year-old fashion brat.
“I saw you stark naked a hundred times last year, kid. With that kind of exposure, clothes don’t matter one iota.”
“What’s an iota?”
“Damn, Savannah. Just put on the fricking riding pants.”
“I know what fricking really means, Grampa.” Savannah erupted in giggles. She whispered, “Fucking.”
He pointed and used his sternest voice. “You. House. Change. NOW!”
He chuckled to himself as Savannah scampered.
“Find an old T-shirt in my drawer,” he called after her. “You can use it as a nightshirt.”
<<>>
Frank’s plan was to stay on the back roads until he was certain Savannah could handle Sandy Girl. Unfortunately, the roads were open to all vehicles, which means an SUV or trailbike could come screaming around the corner without warning. Night was a few hours away when they finally left the gravel behind and headed across the grasslands. He intended to stop at Kaia’s Grove. It sounded romantic, just a bunch of trees in the middle of the prairie. Instead, they made such good progress, they ended up camping in well-protected Deadwood Gulch.
With the horses unsaddled and grazing, their tent set up, firewood collected, and canned chicken and dried-tomato spaghetti consumed, Frank and Savannah stretched out beside the fire, looking up at a vast star-filled sky. After a few minutes of pestering, he showed Savannah how to shuffle a deck, how to deal five-card hands for straight poker, the essential first step for strip poker.
“I’ll teach you the rules as we go.”
“I need to go pee before we start, okay Grampa?”
“Oops, I forgot to bring toilet paper. “ Frank pointed into the darkness. “Use grass. It ought to be too cold for rattlesnakes.”
Savannah muttered something about using body wipes. She got up, and cautiously stepped across crackly dry grass, certain one of the sticks on the ground was a rattlesnake. With one eye on her, just in case a critter ventured out in the night chill, Frank sipped from his hipflask, savoring Jack Daniels’ Tennessee Rye.
In the dim light from the fire, he watched Savannah unbutton, unzip, and push down her riding pants. She squatted the same way she did to poop, knees wide apart, balancing on her toes. It would’ve been amusing but for one little problem; she kept reaching underneath to position her ‘boy-thing’.
He was enjoying his third swig, and the lingering grainy smell when Savannah yelped.
“Grampa!”
Frank grabbed his LED tactical flashlight and completed the ten-yard dash in under two seconds. By the time he reached Savannah, she was standing, clutching riding pants, and not at all happy. One sniff was enough to realize the riding pants were soaked with pee.
“What happened?”
“A snake bit my boy-thing.” Savannah pointed at the ground.
He checked, sweeping the flashlight around, just dead branches and twigs. “Never heard of a rattler doing that. They generally head for cover when you piss on ‘em.”
“Not funny, Grampa.”
“Do I need to check the ‘boy-thing,’ just in case?”
He flashed the right on Savannah’s crotch, her creamy girl-thong blending in so well she might’ve been naked.
“Stop it, Grampa!”
There was no sign of her ‘boy-thing.’ Usually, she poked the glans through the slit underneath when she wanted to pee.
He couldn’t help smiling. “Maybe the snake bit it off.”
“Maybe it wasn’t a fucking snake!”
“Keep it up Potty Mouth and you’ll get a mouth rinse, with soap.“ He squeezed Savannah’s hand. “Let’s get you cleaned up and into bed.”
He stripped her in front of the fire, boots, socks, riding pants, pastel-purple panties, and the down-insulated vest that Savannah had put on when it started to get cold. She shivered even as he wrapped his arms around her, hugging tightly.
“Grampa, I’m sorry about using the bad word.”
“You know why I don’t want you saying it? Having sex, making love to someone is a good thing. That word makes it bad, something to ashamed of.”
“I only said it the one time. Some kids say it all the time.”
“Once is not okay. If you’re angry, say something else.”
She smirked. “You say ‘fricking.’ Is that better?”
He growled.
“Mom says ‘eff’ sometimes. Fricking snake. Effing snake! Which is better, you think?”
He shook his head, giving up. With no water to spare for washing clothes, he spread the damp stuff around the fire.
Savannah caught on immediately. “No way am I wearing them tomorrow, Grampa.”
“At least they’ll be dry. You should’ve been standing up!”
“Little girls do *not* stand up to pee.”
“Little boys don’t squat, and they don’t piss all over themselves.”
Savannah gave him a terrified look. “I hate you!”
She bolted into the tent. He could hear her bawling. He felt awful. He needed to apologize, say and do whatever it took to calm her down, yet the whole situation was crazy. Worse, Savannah would call Mom as soon as her iPhone had service.
Frank groaned, thinking sooner is better. He approached the tent quietly. Bawling had already switched to sniffling.
“I think I handled that rather well, don’t you?”
Sniffling stopped. “I don’t really hate you, Grampa.”
“Even if you did, I still love you. May I come in?”
“Not yet. I don’t have anything on.”
He could hear Savannah scuffling about.
“Kinda cold out here, Sanny.”
“Okay. You can come in, if you behave.”
Frank squatted, crawled through the narrow gap, and zipped the flap behind him. It was too dark to see more than shadow. Naked, Savannah huddled in a corner, goose flesh arms wrapped around bare legs.
“Where’s your T-shirt?”
Savannah looked up, withdrawn and grumpy. It was a bad combination. “I fricking got pee all over it.”
“Sometimes, it’s okay to say ‘fuck’ when really bad things happen. Now, I think about it, being attacked by a rattlesnake qualifies for a fuck, don’t you Honey?”
Savannah giggled and nodded. “You handled it good, Grampa.”
“Just don’t tell Mommy, okay?”
“There’s bunches of stuff I don’t tell Mommy.”
Frank grinned in the darkness. “You better get in the sleeping bag before you freeze.”
He felt around the floor of the tent, finally putting his hand on Savannah’s oversized T-shirt. There was a small damp patch near the hem, nothing to worry about. He draped it over his shotgun scabbard, standing guard over the saddlebags.
When he turned around, Savannah was inside the sleeping bag, one bare arm and a head showing.
“Is there room in there for me?”
“Uh huh. I thought we were going to play strip poker before bedtime?”
“I left the cards outside. Besides, you’re already naked. Is there another game you want to play?”
Savannah smiled. Out of sight, inside the sleeping bag, her other hand was busy, her little fingers squeezing a very tiny, very firm nipple. It made her quiver, the same as when Mickey did it.
She made him wait, pretending to think about it so he thought it wasn’t her first choice. “Tickle Teddy D. Bear.”
“We didn’t bring Teddy D. Bear.”
“You’ll have to pretend I’m a teddy bear, Grampa.” Savannah pointed at her tummy as if she expected him to start there.
For a moment, Frank considered getting into the sleeping bag with her. Then, he had a better idea, and far more exciting.
“How about I wipe you off first so you smell fresh and clean?”
“All over?”
Savannah’s tone bothered him. Anxious or hopeful, he couldn’t decide.
“If you want. You decide where to stop.”
He’d put six travel packs of body wipes in one of Savannah’s saddlebags, figuring she’d most likely use all but a few of them—she was fastidious about wiping her hands and face. Natural Aloe left her skin silky smooth and moist, essential for an aspiring fashion model.
With his LED flashlight switched on, he rummaged through three saddlebags to find two of the packs already opened, about normal for a finicky nine-year-old.
Savannah lay face-up with the sleeping bag unzipped down to her bellybutton. With the flashlight clipped to the tent, Frank started with the nearest bare arm, cleaning each finger before wiping up to the shoulder. He dried goose-flesh skin with his cowboy kerchief.
“You getting cold?”
“Kinda. Can you hurry, Grampa?”
He replaced the sleeping bag and Savannah lifted her other arm. After he finished, she sat up so he could do her face and back.
“You smell really nice,” Frank murmured, his hands hot like his face.
“The wipes are scented, Grampa.”
Frank kissed her forehead, nose, and both cheeks, and guided her to lay back so he could wipe her front. Warm LED light revealed every contour, every rib indentation, every one of nature’s flawless achievements, except the one he really wanted to see.
“Time for a fresh wipe,” he muttered.
He tossed the used one toward the saddlebags. He carefully wiped Savannah’s elegant neck, relocating her choker, extending cleanliness out to her shoulders before hurriedly working lower. He swiped both pinprick nipples, hating what lay in store when she started taking estrogen. As soon as her chest was dried, he hurriedly pulled up the sleeping back and tucked it around one side of her. Armpits were anything but perfunctory.
“Tickles, Grampa,” Savannah murmured, one hand tugging the wipe across to where she wanted.
As much as the thought of breasts depressed him, his thumb had a mind of its own. He stroked Savannah’s flattened flesh, almost no muscle, circling around the tiny papilla until it firmed.
“If this feels good, lower down will feel even better,” Grampa whispered.
Savannah was face-up, not at all embarrassed when he opened a gap in the sleeping bag. Her thighs and belly got wiped twice, both times to the start of her crotch.
“Let’s take off your girl-thong.”
“Let’s not! My boy-thing doesn’t need cleaning. That’s why it got circumcised.”
Frank choked, which was better than saying that was where the smelly pee came from in the first place.
With the sleeping bag more or less back in place, he reached down and wiped legs and feet, eliciting giggles when he tugged on her toes.
“The only thing left to clean is your cute little butt. You can do it, or I can. Your choice!” he teased, getting out a fresh wipe.
She met his eyes, frowning. Taking the wipe and doing it herself would’ve been normal for a nine-year-old, not Savannah. Instead of rolling onto her front, she hiked up her legs, knees bumping her shoulders, sleeping bag wide apart, exposing herself, grinning from between her feet.
“Good choice,” Frank murmured. . The enormity of it left utter disbelief.
Presented shamelessly like that, at first glance, there was nothing under her skin-toned thong. It covered everything ‘boy,’ leaving a slight drawn-out bump, certainly not a little girl’s puffy ‘camel-toe.’ Through a tiny slit, he could just make out the ruddy tip of a circumcised penis. It had to be uncomfortable.
Frank scoured both buttocks, leaving the center untouched. However, as soon as he stopped wiping butt cheeks, Savannah rolled back, lifting her butt and most of her back completely off the sleeping bag. Her intention would’ve been obvious to a halfwit; however, by then, Frank wasn’t certain of anything.
“Are you sure, Sanny?” he whispered timidly.
Savannah regarded him with nine-year-old coolness.
Confused, yet tempted like never before, Frank picked at the stretchy waist cord where it disappeared between her buttocks. With a finger underneath, he levered the cord away. He dabbed the wipe several times on what was surely the smallest roseate pucker he’d ever seen.
Savannah inhaled deeply, and slowly exhaled. Quickly, he turned over the wipe, and dabbed again.
“All clean,” he announced. He had a growing sense that his enjoyment would be short-lived, as long as it took to cover her with the sleeping bag.
“Now, you can tickle me, Grampa.”
She could only mean there, where Frank stared.
“Do Rubber Ducky, Grampa.”
Savannah and déjà vu went hand in hand. “We didn’t bring Rubber Ducky.”
“With your finger, Silly.”
“You’re gonna get cold.”
“So stop wasting time.”
Frank touched with his extended index finger, ever so lightly. Savannah still gasped, twitching down there as if his finger had actually gone inside.
“Sorry, Sanny. I didn’t mean to…” he muttered, his finger scarcely touching the tiny anus.
“It’s okay, Grampa. You didn’t hurt me.”
He rubbed gently, caressing crinkles and firing up nerves. Savannah smiled up at him, tiny toes wriggling, curling over as he circled lovingly.
“Feels funny, Grampa. It’s not tingly like Rubber Ducky.
“I think it needs to be slippery to feel nice.”
His hand shook as he lifted it to his mouth. He drooled hot slimy spit on his index finger, and quickly repositioned it in Savannah’s narrow crack. The added slipperiness was life changing for both of them. Savannah’s heat seemed to flow up his finger as soon as he touched the opening. A tremble passed through his arm and into the rest of him. He stopped tickling and began rubbing, still very gently.
“If you want me to stop, say so,” he murmured.
Savannah closed her eyes, taking slow deep breaths. Eventually, she whispered, “Don’t stop, Grampa.”
“Your wish is my command, milady.”
Savannah giggled. “Grampa slave game?”
It wasn’t a game they played very often. Karen thought her daughter got her way too often as it was. Real Grampa Slave, when she told him exactly what to do, they played when she wasn’t around.
“Up to you, Sanny. I don’t want you catchin’ a chill.”
“Go in.”
Frank wasn’t sure he’d heard right. Rubbing with soap with an occasional quick prod in the bath was one thing; this was a game with an entirely different set of rules. He felt honored and more than a little embarrassed.
“Go in, slave.” Insistent, now.
Frank pressed. Where they met was hot and tight, impossibly tight. Without forcing, it would be over before it got started, especially with the temperature dropping quickly. He could feel it seeping through the tent’s thin nylon wall, desert chill settling in for a long dark night.
He rubbed gently, twisting his finger into the gap. It went on and on, always soothing and very restrained. He’d never been so patient. After a while, he stretched alongside her, sharing their warmth. Soft bare skin became warmer, even more intimate when he positioned slender legs over his hips. After making sure everything was under the sleeping bag, Savannah pulled herself closer with her heels until Frank put his left arm around her shoulders. He tucked the sleeping bag around her as much as possible, surely trying to hide what he was doing.
Savannah giggled. “More spit, slave.”
“This is going to take a while. Just relax as much as you can.”
However, he was quick to obey, slathering saliva over his finger before cautiously reinserting. Savannah’s tight sphincter gripped, protecting until Frank switched to corkscrewing and wriggling. His determined thick finger began to burrow deeper.
Hearing no complaint, just attenuated sighs and an infrequent whimper, he pulled downward, sideward, upward, stretching in earnest. Instinctive and attentive, constantly massaging the sleek muscular canal, he alone caused the change, turning taut into something approaching elastic.
Like George W. Bush, he was ready to declare victory when Savannah’s sphincter suddenly squeezed, exerting a surprising amount of pressure. A second squeeze followed, every bit as unwavering. Dozens of them followed, each one savagely clamping down on his finger as if trying to strangle it. It was frustrating for both of them
“Hurts, Grampa,” Savannah whined.
“I’m sorry, Sanny. You want me to stop?”
“No!” Savannah mumbled something else. “Fucking hurts, Grampa.”
Then, the Miracle of Deadwood Gulch happened. It was as if something broke inside Savannah, or simply gave up the fight and surrendered to Grampa. His finger slid in, past the second joint, all the way to the knuckle.
Inside Savannah was hot, and sleek, and slippery, and firm. It was hard to believe, yet simply by rotating his wrist, he found a lot more room than seemed possible inside such a small slender body. With nothing inside her except hot mushy tissue, there was plenty of room for his thick adult finger, all 3 ½ inches of it. It fit as if it belonged there, like a pubescent boy’s penis.
Savannah gasped loudly on the second, or was it the 22nd rotation, not in pain, something else. Frightened half to death, Frank yanked back most of his finger.
“Don’t !” Savannah grunted. “Please, Grampa; don’t take him out.”
Astounded, Frank emptied his mouth of saliva before easing his very slippery finger back inside Savannah’s now-gaping anus. With a little pressure, his finger glided through the dilated sphincter, until his knuckle seated firmly in the crack.
“Jesus,” he whispered, once again ascertaining how much room there was. It was almost as if nature designed a young rectum for intercourse. “Can you feel it?”
“It’s right up inside me, Grampa.”
Meek, no longer precocious, or demanding, Savannah seemed almost dreamy.
Frank went back and forth, just as his finger went back and forth. Caught between guilty pleasure and doing irreparable harm to a nine-year-old, he finally figured it out. Savannah was unable to stop shuddering whenever his finger pushed in all the way. However, it had to be just right; his finger needed to be crooked up. If the tip pressed into one spot, it made the shudders even stronger. He focused on that. So did Savannah.
The girl-thong tightened, Savannah’s erect penis making itself known with a thicker, longer bump. It stretched the cloth, seeming desperate to escape. Frank tried to touch it.
“Don’t!” Savannah knocked his hand away.
“You’re beautiful, Sanny. So, so sexy. ” Frank crooned, telling himself it was only to make up for insulting her.
He strummed the little gland, barely two inches inside. Savannah trembled and tried to move with him, gasping for each erratic breath.
“More!”
More meant faster, deeper, harder. It didn’t seem possible.
Already much looser, Frank began to think two fingers could fit, and in a shocking realization, it struck him that something much bigger could fit, if he was patient enough. He pushed that thought deep down, like his finger hidden inside his grandchild.
Savannah grew hotter, sweaty and naked under the sleeping bag.
“You want me to stop?”
Savannah glared at him.
He kept on, the finger vibrating, stabbing, stirring up rectal juices for the very first time. All of a sudden, Savannah tensed, deliberately. He could feel muscles squeezing, straining down, then relaxing. A minute later, it happened again. The third time, Savannah strained, breathing deep for as long as the spasm lasted.
“Grampa,” she whispered. “I feel so shaky.”
It was scary, watching a nine-year-old kid discover ecstasy. Switching back and forth from dreamy to frantic, disbelieving that anything could feel like that.
After the fifth or sixth paroxysm, Savannah gazed at Grampa, all but biting the tip off her tongue.
“How’s my teddy bear doing?” Frank whispered.
Savannah didn’t answer. She strained down yet again.
“You really like this, don’t you?”
Too embarrassed, Savannah looked the other way, stayed looking the other way for several long minutes. Aware he was going too far, too quickly, Frank tried to slow down.
Savannah was having none of it. “Don’t stop!”
A few more deep finger thrusts and a burst of raw excitement contorted both face and body. Yet another paroxysm of pleasure blasted through her, like fireworks going off. If affected Frank, too. He quickened the pace. Suddenly, he was the one thrusting in, and Savannah was thrusting back, both of them determined to reach some kind of pinnacle that always seemed just out reach.
“Had enough, yet?” Frank was increasingly worried.
Savannah’s little sphincter offered no resistance at all. None.
“No!” Savannah cried, shoving herself down as hard as she could.
So close to the end, her heart raced, completely carried away by overpowering sensations that only got stronger. Squeezing down with every muscle inside her, using her last bit of strength, Savannah’s first anal orgasm was inevitable, frenzied, and frightening. Her little body contorted before shuddering violently.
Perhaps the experience was even more overwhelming for Frank. Savannah momentarily blacked out as her little unwanted penis clicked frantically and tried its very best to spit boy-juice.
Then, silence, except for Savannah’s labored breathing, an occasional whimper, and the plaintive howls of coyotes far in the distance.
Frank leaned over, brushing stray curls. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”
Ashamed, he used another wipe to clean up the mess, mostly his saliva, just a little slimy stuff from inside her. He straightened Savannah’s legs, disgusted with himself, worried that entire experience was overwhelming for a brand-new nine-year-old, that he’d destroyed the wonderful closeness they shared.
“I couldn’t stop myself. It won’t happen again, I promise.”