A Fly on the Wall: Savannah 9 5 14
A Fly on the Wall.
by Ganymede
A Fly on the Wall is the story of Savannah Martin, a ten-year-old fashion model, and the journey to change gender. With surgery in Mexico depending on meeting certain conditions, the responsibility falls on Grampa.
To read the rest of the story, click here: Contents
To read other Ganymede stories, click here: Ganymede
Copyright 2019
The responsibility falls on you, the reader, to support Nifty.
It’s easy, safer than using a condom, and personally satisfying.
Why let others pay the bills for your thrills?
< < < Savannah is nine years, five months, and 1__4 days old > > >
Frank Martin gave his Remington shotgun a final wipe down, and checked the action with a ‘pump.’ It was an American Classic, top of the line. He looked up to find Savannah frowning, aimlessly spooning cereal in her bowl.
“It’s way better for you than those granola bars you’re always chowing down, Sav.”
With a hint of a smile, Savannah rolled eyes. “It tastes like horse feed, Grampa. Dry and chewy.”
He was awkward around her, filled with a kind of guilty delight; the same reason why he couldn’t stop glancing from the breakfast table to the kitchen counter, where Savannah sat on a stool, no flimsy panties between skin and varnished oak.
She picked dried apricots from Cimarron ‘cereal,’ Grampa’s concoction of raw rolled oats, dried cranberries and raisins, pumpkin seeds, and walnuts. It was health food in a bowl, diluted with almond milk, almost no calories.
Impossible that she could sit like that, not with her ivory-smooth buttocks impaled on D-5, her anus fully dilated, and then some. She’d laid back on the breakfast table when he’d slathered on lubricant and pushed it in until the ring disappeared. All seven-point-five inches; he got it all the way in without a peep, not even a whimper!
“Doesn’t it hurt?”
Savannah shook golden curls in need of brushing.
“Even with Emile, it ought to hurt like the dickens. You’re sitting on the dang thing.”
She wriggled purposefully, her pale bottom tiny on the sculpted seat. “Feels really full up inside; that’s all.”
“I reckon yer cute little butt-hole ain’t so little any more.”
“The app says once I’m big enough, I have to get used to it moving around, Grampa.”
“Yeah, I read something about repositioning internal organs for more give and take.”
He blushed immediately—‘give and take’ meant his penis could move around inside her, not just in and out.
“The app calls it flexibility, Grampa.”
He stirred eggs, bacon, cheese, and tomato into frying-pan mush with olive oil, sautéed onions, and garlic salt.
“You want some Cimarron omelet to go with your horse feed? Looks like crap, but tastes scrum-diddly-umptious. Definitely bad for the waistline.”
“Uh uh. What are we doing today?”
“Yesterday, you said you’d like to go for a ride. I was thinking we might head over to Mustang Mountains. Maybe stay a night or two at Los Ansias Conquistador.”
“Huh?”
“It’s a bed and breakfast, old-fashioned hacienda style. It’ll be fun. It’s a bit primitive though…”
“Can we? Please?”
“Um, there’s a reason we’re going away for a few days, Sanny.”
“You want to go somewhere nice so you and me can …” She giggled, unable to say it. Instead, she mouthed, ‘…fuck.’
Frank dropped the spatula in the frying pan. He fished it out without burning his fingers. “Um, well, hopefully there’s more to losing your virginity than just that.”
Savannah looked up at him, uncertain.
“Your mom called while I was in the barn. We talked about you.”
“You told her about Wayne, didn’t you Grampa?”
“It was her idea, get out of Dodge for a while; just in case he’s not 12.”
“But he said he was.”
“She’s with me on this, Sanny. Do it again and we confiscate your iPhone until you go to college.” Frank winked purposefully. “She’s with me on something else, too. It has to do with D-5.”
“I told you it doesn’t hurt any more.”
“She’s not sure it’s such a good idea, leaving it in longer than we’re supposed to.”
Savannah sighed loudly. “I told you she’d be upset if she finds out I’m ahead of schedule.”
“Well, you are; way ahead; which is why this trip is going to be extra special,” Frank hinted.
“We’re doing it at the bed and breakfast? YES!” Savannah whooped, making a very un-girl-like fist in the air.
“There’s nothing I’d like more than for you to lose your virginity at Los Ansias Conquistador; only it’s not going to happen, not with old Missus Cardoso stalking the halls. I’m not ending up in jail till I’m 95.”
The look on Savannah’s face made him backtrack quickly—a wink was enough.
“We better get a move on, Sanny. I’ll saddle the horses. We’re travelling light this trip. Pack only what you need.”
“Don’t worry Grampa, I won’t forget Emile.”
“Um, I was thinking...” He took a breath. “Maybe I ought to bring a couple of...”
She cut him off. “I want it inside me, where it’s supposed to go, Grampa. You do, too.”
<<>>
On the east side of Elgin, a gated gravel road turned off Upper Elgin Road. Already in the mid-90s, and at 5,000 feet, Frank and Savannah dismounted. He led their horses along a deteriorating track, Savannah skipping along beside him, hot as blazes in range stovepipe jeans and denim shirt, long sleeves rolled up past elbows, elongated tails hanging out. Sexy kid with only her grampa to see her, chattering about her Welsh Palomino, Sandy Girl, her mom’s latest designs for TOMBOY ROCK, why gay kids liked emotional hardcore, nothing in particular.
“This place we’re staying at tonight, Grampa; what’s it like?”
It was so unexpected, Frank chuckled.
“Well, it’s real pretty in Spring. The verandah looks over a river, yellow roses all over the place. It used to be a mission and trading post. It’s a fair way, yet; on the south side of these mountains. It ought to be empty this time of year, maybe a few soldiers from Fort Huachuca.”
“Were you kidding about old Missus Cardoso stalking the halls?”
He grinned. “We’ll see. They have a few cabins by the river. Maybe, she won’t venture that far at night.”
Any number of fences and side tracks, until a sign proclaimed, ‘This is not a road.’ After that, a contorted rocky canyon ran for a mile, crawling up between Mustang Peak and Mustang Mountain High Point. Soon, it made sense to switch to easier terrain, a grassy slope up a north-running ridge to Mustang Peak. Grampa insisted on calling it ‘Little Butt Mound.’ ‘Little Butt Crack’ was the canyon, a shady fissure filled with brush and haphazard rock slabs.
It was lunchtime when they took a break from hiking, close to 6,000 feet and just enough breeze that sweat evaporated quickly, avoiding sunburn in broad-rimmed cowboy hats. With the horses grazing among cactus, Frank concealed his shotgun under thornbrush, and agave, and followed Savannah into a Juniper forest. Bushes and splintered boulders offered a semblance of shade to rattlesnakes, and not much else.
Savannah looked around, sweltering heat suspended on the ridge, inhaling deeply, stretching. She might’ve been posing in front of Bruce’s camera, lithe and sensuous, yet cautious as a wildcat. It was enough that Grampa wondered if he should’ve brought Savannah’s khaki canvas backpack. It was still slung over the horn on her saddle.
“That D-5 must be feelin’ right nice about now,” he said quietly.
She winked back mischievously. “It’s good.”
“All that riding and then hiking up here; it’s not botherin’ you?”
“That full feeling; it’s kinda gone.”
“Means your hiney hole’s getting looser, I reckon.”
“We could’ve done it at the motel, Grampa.”