Chapter 3

Over the next six years, the girls matured and their relationship with their great grandfather deepened in a way that, to an outsider would have been fascinating and strange. It would have been strange to their mothers too, who had basically ignored the sleeping man in the bed, since their mothers did all the taking care of him ... in more ways than one.

Martha, June and Betty, knew that the day would come when they could no longer care for their father, and they knew that their daughters had no real connection to the man. They also knew that, had Sunny, Gidget and Polly known the facts, they might have felt a lot more connection to their grandfather ... who was actually their father... and the father of all their brothers too. But that was a family secret, and though telling Sunny, Gidget and Polly the actual identity of their father was discussed on more than a few occasions, it was always agreed that no good could come of that. Their daughters had enough problems with men as it was, and didn't need anything else to upset their worlds.

But, some day, someone would have to take over the care of Bob Winkle.

And so the grandmothers chose their granddaughters as the persons to eventually pass that particular torch to. They planned on waiting until the girls had finished college. Then, perhaps, they would be mature enough to take over. There were hot debates between Martha and her sisters about just how much would be told to the three young women. Those debates had never resulted in a clear decision as to exactly what ... care ... would be described ... and prescribed. They all knew that if the man didn't wake up soon, it would be taken out of their hands. Once he went over a hundred, someone such as the insurance people would take notice of his history, and they would no longer be able to keep a lid on things.

Val, Becca and Fran had no grandfathers, in the normal sense of the word. Only Fran had a father she knew and talked to, but his dad was dead. Sunny had no contact with her ex-husband's family. It would have been confusing to an outsider, or even an insider who hadn't grown up knowing the situation. Bob, on the surface, was their great grandfather, when in reality he was their grandfather. Or maybe he was both. It was easy to get confused. But it was also easy to encourage everyone in the family to just call him Grandpa. Everyone knew exactly who you were referring to if you just said "Grandpa".

So they taught the girls to read to him, and encouraged them to talk to him as if he could hear them, like any grandpa would listen. It was a mission of mercy and love, which was easy for the girls to understand when they were under ten years of age, if a bit harder to believe as they grew older and began to doubt.

But the finding of Rip's journal changed all of that. Now the girls knew that he would wake up some day ... just like Rip had. And, since Rip had slept only twenty years, it stood to reason that Bob would wake up soon. He was, at the time of the finding of the journal, already twenty-four years overdue to come out of his slumber.

Rip had talked at some length about his theory of why things had happened to him the way they had. His level of scientific knowledge was severely limited, and a lot of his rambling had to do with overtones of divine punishment, or the winds of fate, or maybe even witchcraft ... all unscientific explanations for what had happened to him. But he also predicted that, whatever it was that had happened to him, it might happen to another member in the family. It was for this reason, he said, that he wrote the journal.

The girls, as they decoded and read about his life, had the benefit of a good American education, though, and as time went on they postulated a genetic flaw, or capability, depending on how you looked at it, that was recessive, and so didn't repeat itself very often, and which caused the sleeping "sickness" they witnessed. They had no idea how close to the truth they were in that hypothesis.

It was the deepening of this bond between three young girls and a man who had never said a word to them that caused them to begin to confide in him their most secret feelings. He suddenly had a magical quality about him, and being with him made them feel like some of that magic might just rub off. In a strangely familiar way - one could argue about their genetics - they reacted to him in much the same way as their great grandmother had when she gave him that sponge bath that had such a profound impact on her and her daughter's lives.

Not that they were taught to give him sponge baths. Their grandmothers still reserved that right for themselves.

But they were growing adolescent girls.

And they were as curious about men as all adolescent girls are.

As such, when they were alone with him, they had an opportunity that few girls have to assuage that curiosity. They explored. All of them lifted the sheet and stared for long minutes at his manly equipment. And all of them eventually touched that wrinkled worm that they had been told - at least so far as the ones on boys - would get long and hard and was supposed to go in a girl's vagina.

Val and Becca touched it longer than little Fran did, and discovered, almost as their great grandmother did, that there was life in that odd looking lump of flesh.

As she began to date Val ... practiced ... on the sleeping man the things she felt the urge, or was requested to do with the boys she went out with. This, she kept secret, even from her cousins, but as she tried each new thing, she talked to her sleeping relative, telling him what she wanted to do ... asking him if it would be okay for her to try it on him ... telling him she hoped it was as much fun for him as it was for her, and wondering why his penis seemed to be so much longer and larger than any of the ones she saw on boys her own age.

Her specialty, as it turned out, was masturbation. She soon learned that it was messy, but a girl at school told her the solution was to catch it in a towel or washcloth. You could then fold it up and the mess was controlled. It also kept you from having to fight the boy off in case he wanted to do other things with his penis. Val perfected it on great grandpa who produced a lot more sperm than the boys on her dates. That, for the most part, was all she ever did, either in the bedroom with the sleeping man, or on those dates.

Becca did virtually the same thing, also keeping it secret, except that the girl she talked to said to take it in your mouth. Then you could either swallow or spit to control the mess, and the boys just loved it. The first time she tried it, she handled Bob's cock until it was long and hard and then tentatively put her lips over the sheath-covered head. She pulled off quickly, making a face and trying to taste something that, it turned out, just wasn't there. It felt strange in her mouth, but there was no bad taste, like she had expected. She skinned the foreskin down and tried it again. This time everything that touched her mouth was smooth and hard, and she liked it much better. So she kept licking and sucking the thing, finding that it was very exciting to do so. She was only sixteen at the time, and the sudden rush of salty/sweet fluid in her mouth not only surprised her, but it completely unnerved her as well.

While she knew that something came out of that amazing thing, she hadn't ever been able to tell when it was going to happen. Usually it happened after she stroked it a lot, maybe fifteen minutes. When she put her mouth on it, it exploded in less than five. Then her mouth was full of something she suddenly didn't want to taste. But, by the time she got to the bathroom, her stomach heaving and her hand keeping her mouth closed, the emergency seemed to have passed.

She did spit, but she didn't upchuck, and the lingering taste of his spunk didn't seem so bad as it first had. By the time she got back to clean him up, she decided it hadn't been bad at all. The next time she got some time alone with him, she repeated her experiment and this time she savored his offering, swirling it in her mouth and swallowing it down.

She had done so countless times since, making that a special little ceremony she did with him. She learned the hard way that the spunk of different men has different tastes, some of it not so good, and while she eagerly drank her great grandfather's spend, most of the other, when she was aware it was about to come out, she let fly into the air, watching in glee as the boy groaned and cried out and promised her anything at all if she'd just leave her mouth on him.

For Fran, the discovery that Great Grandpa Winkle had what she secretly called ... his winkle ... was a thing of more innocence. Curiosity led her to look, and touch, and look a lot of times in the future. She had no idea how that was supposed to go inside a girl. It just lay there like an old, soft banana. But she knew where it was supposed to go. And she played with that part of herself while she stared at his winkle, squeezing an amazing number of orgasms out of her young clitty as she told her ancestor what she was doing. In her mind, the thing she stared at, and which gave her so much pleasure, would someday go inside of her and she would magically understand all the things she wasn't sure about now.

Well, perhaps not this winkle, but one like it, most certainly.

She found that highly erotic and immensely satisfying, and couldn't wait for her sixteenth birthday, when she would be able to go on dates and explore men, like the stories she heard from her cousins. Until then, she'd just have to make do with Great Grandpa Winkle while he slept. She had only recently tried what she had heard all boys liked a girl to do, stroking her hand up and down the sleeping man's penis until, just like she had heard, it stiffened and lengthened and then erupted in streams of thick silvery stuff that made a horrible mess. She'd had to run and get a washcloth to clean him up, terrified that someone would come in and find out what she'd done. Though she didn't yet know it, she had done something that came as naturally to her, if a bit later in life, as it had come to her two older cousins.

Which was why, on that lovely morning in the spring of 2000, when Fran walked into her Great Aunt Martha's house to collect her Grandmother Betty, so they could go shopping for her sixteenth birthday present, she was, shall we say, overcome by the sight of the man she knew to be Great Grandfather Winkle, walking upright, stark naked, down the hallway directly toward her.

She knew it was him, because she had gazed at his face for hours on end. She knew it was him because of the thing dangling between his legs. It was as recognizable to her as her own hand, because she had gazed at it for hours on end as well.

But she had never seen him either awake or walking, and because he was both of those things at the present, her brain, being suddenly under great pressure, instructed her vocal chords to relieve the pressure instantly.

She screamed.

Then, perhaps because of another genetic similarity between her and her grandmother, she fainted.

Bob was having a rough day, and that day, at least the part he was awake for, had only been five or six minutes long. First he had awakened from his nap, in his Barca Lounger, to find himself in bed instead, with a woman who reminded him of what his lovely wife Valerie might look like at some point in the future. Not only that, but this lovely woman had just ridden him to ejaculation. Then, before he could ask her who the hell she was, and what the hell she was doing, she promptly fainted on him.

Now, when faced with a much younger woman who was the spitting image of his lovely wife Valerie when they had first met, she had screamed and fainted as well. He hadn't even had time to draw breath to ask her who the hell she was, and what the hell she was doing in his house.

He stood, looking down at the girl on the floor. She was a cute little thing. He noticed that she was wearing an oddly designed top that, while it covered her breasts, had no shoulders, and didn't cover anything else. It had a strap that went from one side of the front up and around her neck to the other side. As he moved her from her crumpled and uncomfortable looking position, he saw that there were buttons on the front, like a shirt might have. It was as if someone had taken a shirt, cut most of it off, added the neck strap, and called it ... something.

The girl moaned softly and Bob looked at her face. The resemblance between her and Valerie was astonishing. But this girl was only in her mid teens, and his wife was twenty-one.

He felt sudden pain in his bladder, the insistent kind that suggests that if you don't find a urinal or handy bush, you'd better plan on changing your pants. Since he wasn't wearing any pants, he stood up and turned for the bathroom.

It was right where it was supposed to be, and it was exactly as he remembered it ... except it was totally different.

The walls had wallpaper on them, whereas when he'd gone to sleep there was only white paint. The stool was exactly the same, but the bathtub, with its clawed feet was gone completely. In its place was a gleaming white thing that formed not only a tub, but ran up the walls as high as he was tall. There was a nozzle sticking out of the wall, about the height of his head, obviously a shower head, but it was like no shower head he'd ever seen. It was a monstrosity of plastic and metal, with images on it of different kinds of water drops.

He felt his penis leaking as his bladder screamed and found that he had to go so badly that he was erect. He sat down on the toilet and, when he finally got a stream going, held his cock down so he wouldn't pee between the seat and the porcelain of the toilet.

He looked around.

Gone was the white metal cabinet that had been on the wall where he had stared into the mirror while shaving. It had been mysteriously replaced with something made of beautiful wood, with a line of large round light bulbs projecting from the wall above it. It had two doors on it, rather than the one on the old cabinet, and each door had a mirror. There were cubby holes on either side of it that had all manner of things sticking out from them. He noticed something that looked like a gun lying on the counter, which was also new, along with the sink installed in it. The gun was made of plastic, and had a muzzle as big as a golf ball. It also had a cord coming out of the handle. He blinked, trying to figure out what such a gun would shoot, and how it could be powered by electricity. There were tubes, and bottles of all sorts sitting on the counter top. He reached to pick one up and read the label: "Vaseline Ultimate Care".

Vaseline he was acquainted with, but it came in a glass jar, not a plastic bottle. It took him two full minutes to figure out how to get anything out of the bottle. There was a cunningly hidden cap that flipped up, revealing a small hole in the top. How was someone supposed to scoop out any Vaseline through such a small hole? He tipped the bottle and a greenish fluid squirted out of the hole as his fingers accidentally squeezed to hold the bottle up. The stuff went everywhere and he dropped the bottle in his attempt to stop it.

His head hurt. Everything was so similar, but so completely strange. He got up and opened the door of the new cabinet. He saw what he recognized as pill bottles, brown, but not the right color of brown, and made of plastic, instead of glass. He sifted through them, reading words he'd never heard of before, with directions on how to take the medicine inside.

Aspirin! Bayer Aspirin! He knew that name. He took the bottle down and stared at it. Plastic. Everything seemed to be made of plastic! He turned the cap, but nothing happened. He turned it again, and again, unconsciously growling. He could see it turning, but it wasn't coming off. Where was he? This was his house ... but it wasn't his house! Everything looked different.

He felt fear for the first time.

Betty came to, her mind swimming and off balance, but it cleared quickly. She raised her head to find herself lying on the bed. Her father was nowhere to be seen.

She experienced panic, and then blinked. Why was she so upset that her father had awakened? Wasn't that what all of them had dreamed about all these years? She sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, having to scoot to reach it. She left a trail of Bob's semen as she did so and remembered why she was so embarrassed. While she was quite used to having sex with her father, she doubted that it would make a positive impression on him.

She jumped up off the bed, ambivalent about what to do. She spied her clothing lying on the floor where she'd abandoned it in her haste to get her father's long, thick prick in her pussy. Bending she quickly dressed and then went looking for the man she didn't know if she could face or not. Half of her was overjoyed that he was awake. The other half was terrified of what he'd say when he saw her again.

Francine's eyes popped open and intelligence flooded her mind at once. She sat up and was dizzy for a moment as her heart tried to compensate for her sudden consciousness and the blood it seemed to demand. Her great grandfather was gone. She looked behind her and saw the door still open, the beautiful day drifting inside on the air. She had a sudden vision of the man stumbling down the street, stark naked, while neighbors called 911 to report the "crazy naked man" on the sidewalk, or in the street.

She giggled, but then sobered quickly.

"Grandma?" she called.

Bob raised his head at the sound of a girl's voice calling "Grandma?" That didn't make any sense. Where was he? It had to be the girl who'd come crashing through the front door... his front door ... though, now that he thought about it, it had looked different somehow.

Glass.

The door had glass in it ... about three quarters of it was glass, with some kind of pattern on it. And to one side there was another long and narrow section that had glass in it too, with the same pattern. It was not the door to his house. He took a long breath, trying to get his heart to slow. It was thudding in his chest. His head still ached horribly.