When I was a little girl, every summer my parents would pack me and my sisters off to stay with our maternal grandmother and her husband in Idaho. I say her husband, because he wasn't our biological grandfather. Our real grandfather had died the year after my birth. Granny married his best friend Ernest Poole, shortly thereafter.
We called granny "granny", but Ernest was always Mr. Poole. My parents and maybe even granny, had no idea that Mr. Poole was sexually attracted to young girls. Every summer I spent on the farm, from 1969 (when I was eight) well into my teens, I and my sisters were subjected to Ernest Poole's sexual urges. We kept it to ourselves, rarely discussing it even with one another.
A lot of the time I'd freely offer myself up to Mr. Poole just to keep him away from my little sisters. But it didn't always work. When he was in the mood for what he called "Little Green Apples", all my charms such as they were at that age, couldn't dissuade him.
One of Ernest's favorite things to do was to sit we girls on his lap and hold us there tight against his crotch so that we could feel his hardon pressing up into us. Then he'd subtly grind against us until he'd cum in his pants. At other times he'd come into our bedroom at night while we slept and take our panties out of the drawer, sniffing the crotches and rubbing himself down there. If that aroused him enough, one of us girls could expect a bedside visit. Usually me or Sarah Jane, the next oldest after me. But the two youngest, Emily and Lizbeth weren't exempt.
A bedside visit would typically involve being fingered by one of his long, big knuckled index fingers. When I was younger I'd pretend to be asleep, clenching my eyes shut. But as I got older I'd stare up at him, because he liked it more if he knew you were awake.
If he got you out into the barn or the little stable, then anything was possible. The first sex I ever had involved Ernest sodomizing me in the horse stable. He held me down in an unoccupied stable and yanked my panties down and anal fucked me, hawking and slathering thick phlegmy wads of saliva all over his cock as lubricant. I can still hear his labored breathing, almost a wheezing as he pushed deep inside me again and again, ignoring my tears and my pleas that it hurt, finally cumming and letting me back up. I hadn't been able to sit down for days and granny thought I'd had my first period because all my panties in the clothes hamper were bloody. "Your becoming a young woman, Carol!" Granny smiled. Ernest winked at me. "Ain't that the truth."
Another time he made Sarah Jane and me both undress and do things to one another while he watched. Kiss her, he'd say. Now stick out your tongue and lick her titties. Lick em good. Finally, get down on the floor there and spread your legs Sarah Jane. Carol, you get down there and lick her privates. Don't stop til I say so or I'll switch both of you raw. So I lay there on the ground and licked Sarah Jane's pussy while he jacked off watching us.
Oh, Mr. Poole greatly looked forward to summer. Us girls, not so much. But mom and dad always said they needed some time to themselves and that we'd miss granny once she was gone. We never told them.
It was in my teens that I started willingly having sex with Ernest. He'd taken an interest in little Lizbeth and she was my favorite. I'd protect her if I could, and so I'd flirt with him and ask him out to the barn sometimes.
"Oh you're a regular little fire britches, ain't you??" He'd smile, pushing me against a hay bale or up against the wall. "You want it?? I'm gonna give it to you."
To be in his seventies, Ernest seemed to have a limitless reserve of cum. He wanted sex all the time. And over the course of the summer I was sure I had literally gallons of his spunk pumped directly into my ass, pussy or swallowed down into my stomach. It was the same for Sarah Jane and Emily. I'm sure Lizbeth didn't escape some of it, but hopefully I and my other sisters spared her as worse as we got.
Granny finally passed away just after New Year's Eve 1976 and we attended her funeral in Idaho. I hated seeing her last name listed as Poole on her headstone, what with my real grandpa not half a dozen rows over. Apparently Ernest intended to be buried with her when he went.
That summer, just after school let out Ernest called mom and dad and asked if we girls were coming up. He was awfully lonesome all by himself, and we girls were just like his own he said. Mom practically begged us to go, but we all flat out refused. This time no amount of pleading, prodding or demanding would budge us. When mom and dad asked why, it was Sarah Jane that finally broke and spilled the beans.
What followed was one of the longest summers of my life. A summer full of psychologists, law enforcement officials in two states, vehement denials by Ernest and detailed recounting of summers past and Mr. Poole's predations. In the end, despite everything, he got away with it. But it had been enough to completely tarnish his reputation with his neighbors and the community around the farm. He packed his bags and retired to New Mexico, where he was originally from. He died there two years later and was never buried with granny (whose new stone now bares the name Nichols, my grandpa's name).
The farm still stands. Another family owns it now. I haven't been there in thirty-three years (I went back in 1980 to exorcise some psychological old ghosts) and doubt I'll ever return. But it will always be a part of my past and who I am today.