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.
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.
.... There is more of this story ...