I Only Found Out Grandpa Was a True Sex King When My Brother Started Fucking Me!!

My name is Angela White, and this is how my life changed on my nineteenth birthday. It was a warm June morning in our quiet semi-detached house on a leafy street in suburban Birmingham. Grandad everyone called him Pops had bought me a new summer dress as my present: light blue cotton with tiny white flowers, the kind that flutters when you walk. I slipped it on, twirled in front of the hall mirror, then went downstairs to thank him properly.

He was sitting in his favourite armchair by the window, newspaper open but unread, cup of tea steaming beside him. “Come here, love,” he said, voice soft. I bent down so he could kiss my cheek. Instead he cupped my face gently and pressed his lips to mine a proper kiss, lingering just a second too long. I froze, then laughed it off. “Pops, what was that?”

He smiled, eyes crinkling. “Nice nineteen, Angela. You’re a proper young woman now.” He patted the arm of the chair. “Birthday dress looks lovely. But you know what you wore the day you were born, don’t you?”

I rolled my eyes. “Nothing, obviously. Don’t be daft.”

“Nothing at all,” he repeated, chuckling. Then, without warning, he stood, loosened the tie on his old dressing gown and let it fall open. Beneath he wore nothing. His cock stood out, thick and hard, veins prominent. I’d never seen anything like it up close. My breath caught.

“Pops…” I whispered, eyes wide.

“Look properly, love. If it frightens you, close your eyes again.” His voice was calm, almost kind.

I couldn’t look away. Curiosity burned hotter than shock. “It’s… so big,” I managed.

“Touch it,” he said. “Feels like warm stone, doesn’t it?”

My fingers trembled as I reached out. The skin was hot, velvet over steel. A strange ache bloomed low in my belly, sharp and sweet.

“Bite it,” he murmured. “I won’t feel pain.”

Half daring, half terrified, I leaned in and grazed my teeth along the head. He groaned softly encouragement, not hurt. “Harder, Angela. Go on.”

I bit down properly. Nothing. He just stroked my hair. “Good girl. That’s it.”

My knickers were already damp. I’d touched myself before, late at night under the covers, but this felt different urgent, alive.

“Where’s your… pussy, Pops?” The word felt dirty and thrilling on my tongue.

He pulled me close, hands sliding under my dress to cup my bottom. “I’ll show you.” His fingers found my clit through the cotton and rubbed slow circles. I gasped, clinging to his shoulders. He kissed me again, deeper this time, tongue exploring. My nipples hardened against the thin fabric.

“You’re wet already,” he whispered. With one quick tug he ripped the front of my dress open. No bra I hadn’t bothered that morning. My breasts spilled out. He lowered his head and sucked one nipple hard, then bit just enough to make me cry out. Pain and pleasure twisted together. His other hand kneaded the second breast roughly.

I whimpered, legs shaking. He pushed the dress down over my hips; it pooled at my feet. For the first time I stood naked in front of a man my grandad and the shame only made me wetter.

I reached between my legs, rubbing myself. “This is my pussy, isn’t it?”

He knelt, pushed my hand aside and pressed his mouth to me. His tongue flicked over my clit, then dipped inside. I moaned loudly, fingers tangling in his grey hair. The sensation was electric.

Then he stood, guided me to the sofa and positioned me on my back. “Relax, love. Let me do the work.”

He rubbed the head of his cock along my slit, coating himself in my wetness. When he pushed in, the stretch burned. I was tight, untouched. He went slowly at first, then deeper. Something tore; a sharp sting, then fullness. I cried out.

“Shh, it’ll feel good soon,” he promised, starting to thrust. Six minutes later though it felt like forever he groaned and emptied inside me, hot pulses that triggered my own shuddering climax. I clung to him, trembling.

“That’s fucking,” he said simply, kissing my forehead. “Happy birthday.”

I laughed weakly. “Best present ever, Pops.”

He hardened again almost immediately. “Fancy another go?”

I nodded. This time he turned me over, face down across the cushions. He spat on his fingers, rubbed my arsehole, then pressed in from behind. The pain was fiercer; I sobbed into the fabric. He didn’t stop. Each thrust hurt, yet the hurt blurred into something addictive. I came again, harder.

“Why didn’t we do this sooner?” I gasped when he finished.

He chuckled. “Patience, love. From now on, every day. You don’t need school anymore. I’ll teach you everything – books, films, all the ways to fuck. You’ll learn to love every filthy word.”

I smiled against his chest. “Teach me the dirty ones first.”

And he did.

School became a memory. Days blended into long, lazy sessions. One afternoon he lay on the living-room rug and told me to climb on top. I guided him inside myself, rocking slowly at first, then faster. My breasts swayed; he caught a nipple between his lips. “Bring me milk, Angela,” he’d say when he wanted them. I’d arch forward so he could suck until I ached.

Then his old friend Graham came round one Saturday. They’d been mates since National Service. Pops called me in. “Angela, love, Graham fancies a cup of tea and maybe some milk.”

I thought he meant actual milk. Giggling, I lifted my top and offered my breasts. Graham’s eyes widened. “Christ, mate, what’s this?”

Pops grinned. “My little whore. Best fuck I’ve ever had. Tight, eager a proper cum slut. She’ll do anything.”

Graham swallowed. “I’ll give you fifty quid to have her.”

Pops looked at me. “Want to be a proper slag, Angela? He pays, I get the cash, you get the cock.”

I nodded, pulse racing. “Yes.”

Graham was on me in seconds, biting my nipples, squeezing hard. Pops joined in, taking my mouth while Graham fucked me from behind. They swapped, used every hole mouth, pussy, arse. Three hours of relentless pounding. When Graham left he handed over sixty quid instead of fifty. “Worth every penny,” he muttered.

Next day Graham returned with two mates Mike and Derek. Same routine: “Milk, please.” I stripped. They latched on, sucking and biting until I whimpered. Then all four took turns. One in my mouth, one in my cunt, one stretching my arse, the fourth I jerked with both hands. They carried me outside to the back garden, laid me on the grass and fucked me under the open sky. Four hours later they collapsed, spent. I was sore, dripping, bruised – and still hungry.

“Another round?” I asked, voice hoarse.

Pops laughed. “Bloody hell, you insatiable little tart. Four men, four hours, and you’re begging?”

I grinned. “Fucking gives me energy. The more I get, the more I want.”

No one ever suspected. At family gatherings I was still sweet Angela, helpful granddaughter. But behind closed doors I was Pops’ private whore and soon the neighbourhood’s too, one careful introduction at a time.

Years on, when my older brother finally had me, I realised Pops had been a master. But nothing matched that first birthday the dress torn open, the shock turning to craving, the moment I understood pleasure could be endless.

That’s how I became Angela the girl who traded innocence for cock, and never looked back.