Page 6 of Good Boy
I took another drag of my cig and let it slip through my lips. “It’s called an inheritance, you old fart, not a job. No work needed.”
He grumbled, his old fingers pattering the crisp, cream-colored sheets laid out on his desk.
I doubt he could even see the words on the fucking paper. I swallowed hard, expecting him to make some sort of demand regarding money or control over my life, but he spoke words that I never expected.
“You must work at the family law firm for the next three months if you want to keep your inheritance.”
I drew closer to the desk, and the toxic stench of his old faithful cologne filled my lungs. Givenchy Gentleman. “Sounds like a dream. When’s my first day?”
He stood, his skyscraper height towering over me. That was the signature Ashbourne trait. All the men stood over six feet tall, with stout postures and dead eyes. I lucked out and got my mother’s height, but what I lacked in height I made up for in the girth swinging between my legs.
“This isn’t a game, boy. You’ll be under close watch the entire time.” He stopped on the side of me. “So, showing up late and fucking the secretary in a closet won’t go unnoticed. I assure you.”
I craned my neck to meet his walking corpse’s gaze. “I’m always late, can’t help that, and I don’t fuck pussy. I eat ass and fondle balls instead.” I leaned in the chair and took another drag of the cig.
“Well, that’s not my problem, boy. That’s Weston’s problem.” He stepped back, smoothing out his suit to make sure it hung just right.
“You old fucking—"
He turned on his heel. “I had Martha set up your space in the coach house. If you need anything, bother her.”
I rose from the chair, words piling on the tip of my tongue as the old bastard walked away. There was only one person I hated more than my own grandfather, and it was Weston.
The piercing sound of my alarm clock sent me jolting out of bed. I was already late. My reflection in the mirror showed off my short, blond-colored hair, tousled from sleep, my blue eyes filled with annoyance, and my lean build tense as I hastily brushed my teeth. I grabbed a towel from the closet and hung it on the back of the bathroom door as I stepped inside. The steamy water cascading from the shower head felt soothing against my skin. I could feel all of my worries start to drift away as I lathered up my body. Scalding waves of steam poured into the room, smothering all rational thought until only the haunting images of last night’s illicit gay porn remained. Guilt and shame heated every inch of my skin as I glanced at my wife sleeping innocently beside me, utterly unaware. It was a dark secret I buried down to the depth of my soul over the past three decades of my life. No one could know, no one could bear witness to the real Weston Ashbourne.
My cock grew hard, throbbing with need. Fuck, the sight of those two muscle hunks going at it, all sweat and cum—my hand moved to stroke myself. I hadn’t touched myself in weeks, and fucking my wife did nothing for me. I couldn’t even remember the last time I got hard for her, because of her. Most of the time I could think of something demented to get my blood flowing, but as of late, she had been working with my flaccid flesh. A deep-seated moan dripped off my lips as I massaged the pulsating flesh in my hands, and my fingers gripped the shower wall. The heat of the water magnified the sensations, turning my breathing erratic as the seconds passed.
The pressure within me started building until it became unbearable; I knew what was coming next. With one more stroke, I reached that heightened state of ecstasy and finally let go, spilling all over the shower floor in a hot stream of cum until there was nothing left inside me. The water had gone cool now, but that didn’t stop me from leaning forward against the wall again and allowing myself a few more moments of peace before having to face reality. My wife shuffled into the bathroom, the kitten heels on her slippers echoing across the floor. Steam thicker than fog covered the shower door, for which I was grateful.
“Honey, I made fresh coffee,” she said, her voice soft.
I placed my hand on the shower knob and killed the water. “I’ll be right out.”
It wasn’t Cynthia’s fault that I craved men. I’ve been wanting the feel of a man’s lips on me for as long as I could remember. But the thought of giving myself to another man this late in the game… It would destroy her, it would destroy us. I slid my hand up and down one last time before pulling away, knowing I had to get ready for work. I washed off the remnants of my jerk-off session before exiting the bathroom to get ready for work.
The aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled my nostrils as I grabbed a steaming cup, its heat searing my fingers. I took a slow sip, hoping the bitterness would jolt me awake.
“Is everything okay?” she asked, eyeing me. “You seem… tense.”
I took another sip. “Fine, just worried about this case.”
I kept my gaze locked on the swirling black liquid in my cup, doing everything in my power to ignore the concerned expression on my wife’s face.
She continued talking, and moved around the kitchen with a sense of calmness that I could never emulate. Despite my lack of attention toward anything she was saying, I drank down the last drop of coffee before making an abrupt exit without a word.
“Mr. Ashbourne,” my driver said as he opened the door.
I slid inside, and as soon as the door closed, my day began. The city streamed by outside the tinted windows as I barked orders at my assistant through the phone. My mind wandered, flashes of hard flesh and wicked pleasure assaulting me. I shifted in my seat, my trousers uncomfortably tight.
By the time we arrived at the gleaming monolith of Ashbourne & Associates, I was in a foul mood. I took the private elevator to the top floor, my domain overlooking the skyline. The door to my office was ajar. I strode in, ready to eviscerate whatever idiot had dared—
My father turned from the window, a glass of brandy in his hand. “Weston.” His gravelly voice conveyed his displeasure.
My stomach knotted, uncertainty and annoyance twisting to create a volatile cocktail.
“Father,” I bit out. No matter how old I got, hearing my father say my name still had to the power to make me shrink.
He took a sip of brandy, eyes cold. “I have a proposition for you.”