Chapter 1: Caught in the Act

I woke gently from a dreamless sleep and opened my eyes to the glare of an August sun trying to burn its way through the curtains. Pushing the light covers to one side, I groaned a little as I rolled my body to the edge of the bed and sat there for a moment rubbing my right knee. "It'll be raining before the day's out," I muttered to myself. My arthritic knee was as good as those weather people on the radio when it came to predicting the rain.

But my old body was full of aches this morning. It didn't help that it was the anniversary of my Petey's death. I decided to treat myself to a mustard bath to ease my joints. Pulling off my nightie I turned to reach for my bathrobe, catching a glimpse of myself in the dressing table mirror and for a fleeting moment it seemed that the years had stripped away and I had my young body back. I smiled at my overactive imagination and it was my old, wrinkled body which smiled back at me.

I sighed and tried to conjure back that vision of the nubile girl I used to be. Gone now was that young beauty, the face I saw was wrinkled and careworn. I smoothed my bony hands over my hips and thighs as I had done so many times over the years and even attempted a sexy wiggle of my hips but the old bones didn't wiggle; the shrivelled skin just wobbled a bit. The breasts which used to threaten to burst out of any blouse or sweater or DD bra I wore now hung down from my bony chest with the nipples, once so proud and erect, looking at the floor.

I smiled as I noticed the small gold rings through them, remembering the day my Petey held my hand as a strange man had pierced them with a fierce-looking needle and then inserted the bars. I was so proud of myself when I barely flinched. This was years before piercings became commonplace and my various nipple ornaments often brought gasps of surprise when revealed for the first time. As I stood there I twiddled the rings reminiscing about the things Petey, and others, had done to them over the years. It was those memories which kept the rings in place when only I ever saw them. I brushed a tear from my rheumy eye, pulled my bathrobe over my shoulders, wincing at the ache then grabbed my stick and hobbled towards the bathroom.

I wondered why the master bedroom door was open so I looked in and saw Clive, still in his pyjamas, going through his mother's dressing table drawers. He had a lacy red brassiere in one hand and was retrieving a matching pair of panties with the other.

"And what do you think you're doing, young man?" I said in my most imperious voice. As he turned towards me his face went white then suffused to a bright red.

"G-G-Gaygan," he stuttered, "I was ... er ... I er..." He hung his head and looked so pathetic with those incriminating articles dangling from his hands and a tent very quickly deflating between his legs. I stood with my back to the door and stepped backwards until it clicked home. On hearing the door close he looked up in panic like an animal in a trap, the flimsy garments dropping from lifeless hands...

"Well, what are you doing – or what were you about to do?" He remained mute, almost defiant. "Were you going to wear them and then play with yourself?" The blush renewed itself but he remained silent. "Were you?" I snapped harshly.

"Gaygan, I..."

"Answer me." I demanded. Still not speaking he hung his head again and barely nodded. "Well?"

A tortured voice half whispered, "Yes, Gaygan."

I moved over and sat on the bed. "Then do it, Clive. Here and now, put them on."

"What? No way," he blurted out then stared me in the eyes with mutiny in his. But I had stared down bigger men than him in my life. I had role-played the dominatrix so often it came naturally to me. We remained like that for several minutes, glaring at each other and, as I felt his nerve begin to sway, I allowed a smile to cross my lips. It felt good to be in control again. His eyes slid away from mine and with a defeated sigh started to unbutton his jacket

Clive was my great grandson, 19 and in the prime of his life. Gaygan was what he used to call me when he was just a toddler. He couldn't get his mouth around 'great grandmother' so I became Gaygan and so have been called by all the family ever since.

My heart skipped a beat when I saw him standing before me stripped. I hadn't really noticed it until now: he was a mirror image of my Petey when we were on our honeymoon. Standing at about 5'9", Clive displayed a finely honed body and the cutest bum. His light brown hair fell neatly about his ears and his eyes were deep liquid brown pools framed by sensually long dark lashes. His quiescent manhood twitched as my gaze settled on it. The soft cylinder came to a point where the prepuce closed over the glans penis. It looked unnervingly familiar; half-hiding behind the luxuriant bush of pubic hair, it masked one testicle but revealed the other hanging heavily in the loose, wrinkled sac. Everything so achingly reminiscent of Petey; I was certain that body held no secrets.