In the dimly lit corridor of my grandparents house the scent of rosemary and turkey still lingered from the Thanksgiving feast. I had noticed the way my grandpa’s gaze had been lingering on the top of my dress all evening, but brushed it off as the curiosity of an old man whose days of sexual desire were long behind him. The sound of his voice, gruff yet strangely gentle, echoed through the hallway.

"Bella, my dear," he called out, "Could you do an old man a favor?" My heart pounded as I approached, unsure of what he could possibly need from me in the bathroom. I paused before the closed door, my hand hovering in the air as I contemplated the potential awkwardness of the situation.

"I've got a bit of a... situation," Grandpa explained, his voice tinged with embarrassment. "My hands have been aching something fierce, and I need to make sure they're still working properly. Would you mind letting me... uh, test them out? Just for a second."

My cheeks flushed a deep crimson at his suggestion, but the innocence in his eyes and the desperation in his voice convinced me to push aside my doubts. I nodded, swallowed hard, and allowed him to pull me into the small, cramped space of the bathroom.

The bathroom was warm and steamy. I felt the tension coil in my stomach as Grandpa's trembling hand reached out and tentatively cupped my left breast. His touch was surprisingly gentle, his thumb brushing against my nipple, which hardened instantly under the soft fabric of my shirt. I stifled a gasp, unsure of whether it was from the sudden rush of arousal or the sheer audacity of the situation.

His eyes searched mine, looking for reassurance. I felt the heat between my legs. He began to knead my tits more firmly, his thumb and forefinger pinching my nipple in a way that sent shockwaves of pleasure through my body. Despite the initial discomfort, I found myself leaning into his touch, as his other hand moved to my right breast.

"Tell me, Bella," he murmured, his eyes glazed with a desire, "How do they feel? Are they too soft, too firm?" The question sent a shiver down my spine, and I could feel the wetness growing in my panties as I replied, "They feel fine, Grandpa. Just like they should."

The room was filled with the sound of our heavy breathing, the only other noise the occasional drip of water from the faucet. Grandpa's grip tightened, his knuckles whitening as his strokes grew more insistent. I could feel the fabric of my bra straining against the swell of my tits, and I knew he was getting more than just a handful.

The pressure grew, the sensation of his rough, calloused skin against my tender flesh sending sparks of pleasure through my body. My mind raced, trying to comprehend the situation, but my body had already made up its mind. I leaned in closer, my breath hot against his cheek, and whispered, "How does this help your hand?"

He chuckled, the sound low and deep, and said, "It's all about the grip, my dear. The grip and the release." With that, his hand moved from my breasts to the bulge in his pants, and I watched with wide eyes as he began to stroke himself, his breathing becoming ragged as he grew harder.

"F cup, huh?" he murmured, his eyes never leaving mine as he continued to masturbate. "They're... magnificent." My cheeks burned, and I couldn't help but feel a strange sense of pride in the way he said it, the way his voice seemed to caress the words.

And then, with a guttural groan, he came, his hot seed spurting onto the floor, the release seemingly taking years of tension with it.

When it was over, Grandpa leaned heavily against the sink. He looked up at me with a mix of gratitude and something else I couldn't quite place. "Thank you, Bella, that was just what I needed."