Black Grandpa the Second Cumming
Copyright© 2026 by Mary Not Wollstonecraft
Chapter 1: An Unexpected Visitor
Coming of Age Sex Story: Chapter 1: An Unexpected Visitor - In a whirlwind of desire and seduction, "Black Grandpa, the Second Cumming" unfolds a scintillating tale that defies boundaries and ignites forbidden passions. Meet Faith, a young, white woman whose world is turned upside down when she encounters Black Grandpa, a figure of irresistible allure and commanding presence
Caution: This Coming of Age Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/ft Coercion Consensual Reluctant Romantic Fiction Interracial Black Male White Female Cream Pie First Masturbation Oral Sex Petting
The Grace Way Church was one inch shy of a pastor worshiping cult. They had an aggressive outreach program modeled on the Church of Latter Day Saints and the Jehovah’s Witnesses, which involved sending young, attractive people door to door. Especially going into the homes of the elderly.
Even if they couldn’t get them into the services, they expected to bring back donations.
When Faith Anderson parked her rusty Civic under the shade of a dying sycamore, she double-checked the address scrawled on the scrap of pamphlet. Six digits, all correct. As if triple confirmation might still her heart.
The whole street stank of cut grass and watered dirt, with every house showing off their little trophies. Star-spangled buntings, ceramic birdbaths, the rare Obama-Biden sticker fading to a bruise in the late June sun.
However, Faith’s target had no flag, no decoration, only a door as black and severe as the lines of a barcode.
Before exiting the car, she smoothed her skirt and adjusted her cardigan. The sleeves of the sweater pinched at the elbows, and she hated the way the polyester tickled her arms. Coiled into two severe pigtails, her hair yanked at her scalp.
Clutching her Bible to her chest, the pink Post-its stuck up, neon teeth markers. Clutched in her other hand, a fan of four-color tracts, each with its own promised path to salvation.
“God does not give us a spirit of fear, but of power, love, and a sound mind,” she said, and forced her sneakers out onto the curb.
Marcus Thompson’s house squatted at the end of the cul-de-sac, alone, confident, not trying to impress anyone. Windows mirrored the sky, refusing to let strangers peek in. However, Faith’s hands trembled anyway. Counting every step, she made herself walk in the open. The hedge scratched her ankle, so she made herself do it again, slower, like she owned the sidewalk.
She practiced her smile and lines, tossing them out into the muggy evening. “Hello! I’m Faith, from—” No, too eager. “Good afternoon, sir, may I speak—” Too telemarketer. Maybe just knock and let the Spirit move.
At the door, she wiped the sweat from her palms onto her skirt and prayed the polyester would dry quick. Eyeing her reflection in the narrow sidelight, she hesitated. Blue eyes too large for her face, skin too milk-white, lips chewed raw. She didn’t see anything there that hinted of bravery.
Knocking on the door, her fist barely made a sound against the old painted wood, but the sound carried anyway, all the way down her spine. Again, Faith knocked, three times, like she meant it.
She shivered, forced herself to roll her shoulders back, and smooth her skirt. This was what she was supposed to do. This was what Sister Chapman had told her: “He’s been on the list for years, Faith, but nobody ever makes it past the first minute. Now it’s your turn to try, and I’m sure you can get a foot in the door.”
However, Faith wasn’t sure if that was a compliment.
The wait took forever. The inside of Faith’s mouth dried up. Probably, he wouldn’t answer. It might’ve been that he saw her from a window and decided to hide, or the rumor about the recluse Black Grandpa who lived here was true.
Perhaps he’d died inside and no one knew. She tried again, this time a little harder. Out of frustration, Faith pressed her ear to the door, listening.
The deadbolt shot back with a sharp, metallic click, and the door whipped open. Shocked, Faith jerked upright, face to face with the largest human she’d ever seen up close.
Marcus Thompson—Black Grandpa, as everyone called him stood on the threshold in a sleeveless gray tee and navy sweats. With his bare feet planted wide on the cool tile. He loomed, not just in height (Faith guessed at least 6’6 or 7), but in density, a man who had aged into his bones rather than out of them.
Ebony skin, rich and smooth, caught the lamplight and made Black Grandpa’s arms and neck shine. Silver fuzzed the edges of his frizzy hair, and he wore a look that could turn milk sour.
He did not say hello. He did not say anything. He just waited, arms crossed, as if measuring how long Faith could last under direct fire.
“Um, Mr. Thompson? I’m Faith Anderson. From Grace Way?” Faith squeaked the words mousy and weak.
A slow blink, not unfriendly, but not much else.
“You’re early. Supper’s not till seven.”
“Oh! No ... I mean, I’m not here for supper. I’m...” She forced her mouth to shut for a half-beat. “I wanted to talk to you about ... um ... well, we’re going door-to-door, talking about the Good News. Just for a few minutes?”
Black Grandpa glanced down, his gaze moving from the tracts to the Bible, to the pink-white knuckles of her hands. For the life of her, Faith tried not to shrink, but her shoes turned into two blocks of ice.
“Despite them immense ole tits, you look young. That a requirement now? The looking young with big tits, I mean.”
Faith blinked, flushed, and managed a nervous giggle.
“Eighteen, actually. Just small.” She raised her chin a bit, trying to hit her mark. “And my dad always said my faith made me younger.”
“Hmm.” Marcus leaned into the jamb, showing off the musculature of his shoulders, and sighed through his nose.
“Let me tell you something, had three women last week at this door. Jehovah’s Witnesses, Mormons, and two girls in blue skirts from the Unification Church. All tried to save me. You gonna tell me you’re different?”
Black Grandpa considered Faith as though she were the most perplexing of the set.
The directness staggered her. She stammered, “I ... I don’t ... um ... think I can save anyone. Only Jesus can do that. We just, um, bring the message.” The words came out by reflex, a catechism, but her voice rose at the end, like a question.
He nodded once, a micro-expression of respect, and stepped aside.
“Come on in, girl. But make it quick. I got a game coming up.”
She moved past him, almost bumping his shoulder. The air inside hit her like an arctic blast: cold, dry, more luxurious than any mall or bank. He shut the door with a gentle click—so precise, not an inch wasted in the movement.
The entryway opened into a living room that could have staged a magazine photo shoot. Leather sofas in a rich caramel, throw pillows in dark navy, shelves lined with more books than a library, and not a speck of dust anywhere.
Every picture frame hung perfectly level. Every surface gleamed. A subtle scent rode the air, something smoky and floral—his cologne, maybe, or some fancy candle. But Black Grandpa didn’t seem like the fancy candle type of person.
Faith perched at the edge of the nearest sofa, knees glued together, pamphlets fanned on her lap. Her skin pebbled as the A/C hit sweat that had not yet dried. A shiver ran up her spine and made her shoulders twitch.
Marcus noted it, lips tightening.
“Cold?” he asked, not unkind.
“I’m fine,” she lied.
He circled around to a matching leather armchair, dropped into it, and gazed at her over steepled fingers.
“So, you live in this neighborhood, or did they ship you in from the country?”
“Closer to I-25. Near the community center,” Faith said. And she tried to keep her breathing even. The memory of his size, the way the room shrank around him, kept buzzing in her mind.
“You bring cookies, or you one of the carrot-stick evangelists?” Marcus grunted, scanning her with a sharpshooter’s eye.
“I ... I have a recipe card, if you want it. We just talk. No obligations.” She tried a smile, but her lips kept folding back into a line.
His eyes roved over the pamphlets and locked onto her face.
“All right. Preach at me.”
Faith inhaled. Her first line, scripted and practiced for a month, stuck in her throat. She remembered her mentor’s advice: let the Spirit fill the space. She forced her shoulders down, laced her fingers atop her Bible, and gazed directly at him.
“God loves you. He really does. That’s not a sales pitch, it’s ... it’s the whole reason I’m here.”
He waited, silent, stone-still. Despite the cold, Faith’s sweat prickled behind her knees.
“We believe everyone has worth. No matter what you’ve done, or ... who you are. The world tries to tell people they’re not enough. God says you are.” She swallowed, feeling ridiculous. “Have you ever—?”
Marcus raised his hand, palm out, as if silencing a toddler.
“Let me tell you something. You walk into a man’s home, you best believe he’s already heard that line, ten times over.” Without warning, he leaned forward, elbows on knees, voice dropping into a register that made the air vibrate.
“So you either believe it yourself, or you’re just reading a line off a card. Which is it?”
Faith’s throat closed up. She blinked, felt the shiver again, this time from inside.
She answered, “I ... I believe it. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”
Accepting, he nodded and let a silence expand. Faith wanted to fill it, but didn’t know how. Her hands fussed with the corners of a pamphlet, crumpling it, and she forced herself to set it flat on the coffee table.
With eyes quick as radar, Marcus picked up the movement.
“You ever get scared, knocking on strange doors?” he asked.
“All the time, especially this one.” Faith surprised herself with honesty.
He grinned, just for less than a second, showing a flash of teeth.
“Good. That means you got some sense.”
Faith noticed, on the side table, a cluster of photographs. A boy with an astronaut helmet, a woman smiling in a cap and gown, and a huge dog with a tongue hanging out the side. All of them, she guessed, his family. All of them wore the same stubborn, tight-lipped expression he did.
“You have a lovely home.”
He shrugged, unimpressed.