Misc. Erotica MILF Apartments

Growing up the son of a billionaire wall street titan might sound like a fantastic childhood, but let me assure you, mine was anything but father was an odd person, and that’s putting it mildly. When he passed, the world lost a great man, and I lost a father, but I gained so much more than I thought possible.

When I was in third grade, my teachers sent me home with a twenty-question quiz that was supposed to test if any of the kids in the class were on the spectrum. In those early days father still spent evenings with me, and he helped with the assignment. That’s when he discovered that it wasn’t me who was on the spectrum, but himself.

The man could function in society, and strangely, even excel in it, but he was rude and abrupt with people and had no patience for stupidity or dissembling. He would regularly cut people out of his life for the smallest infractions, and never see or speak to them again. He was married seven times, but I was his only child. After I went off to boarding school at twelve, I only saw him once a year at Christmas, where we would share a meal in his austere penthouse rooms, in either stuttering conversation or awkward silence.

He grew stranger as the years went on. Eventually barricading himself in his rooms and only speaking with his assistant Brooke or emailing to handle all his business.

He could be a real son of a bitch sometimes, but I always knew he loved me. The only thing I envied about the man was his fearlessness. He could say anything to anyone and never cared about the consequences. I was the opposite in that respect. I often got a lot of anxiety around people and crowds and found it very difficult to make friends.

The school I attended didn’t help much. It was a remote religious school with very few students and those, mostly children of oligarchs, Chinese property magnates, and South American cartel bosses. All of their parents were involved in shady dealings, and the school was encouraged to keep the children unobtrusive. There were no crazy drunken breakouts at my school or smoking weed under the bleachers, but they kept us busy with activities like cleaning, chess competitions, and enthralling debates.

I never spoke with a girl who wasn’t a nun over sixty, but I learned how to recite whole passages of the bible in the original koine Greek. So, that’s something, I guess.

After graduation, I put a backpack on and headed off into the woods for a seven-week trip. I’d been planning it for years and had purchased all the gear and supplies with the money I’d earned myself writing and selling financial articles under a pseudonym to a glossy magazine.

It was a fantastic time, and I learned a lot about myself out there on the Appalachian Trail. Mostly I learned that I don’t like sleeping on cold hard stone. I also learned that I was not a solitary creature, as I’d always thought. I craved people and connections. I left the trail after five weeks and found a payphone, not an easy thing to do nowadays it turns out. I called my father’s office. His secretary was the person who usually arranged for my travel, but she connected me right away to his longtime assistant.

“Hello Mr. Whitaker,” Brooke began, her voice oddly formal, “We’ve been trying to track you down for the past week.”

“I was backpacking,” I said, “I let word with dad’s secretary that I would be gone for a few weeks.”

“Have you had a chance to see the news yet?” She asked.

“No, I literally just got off the trail and found this phone, why, what’s up?”

“Connor, I’m so sorry to be the one to tell you this,” the woman’s voice broke, which shocked me coming from her; Brooke was always so composed and professional, “It’s your father… he… I’m so sorry, he succumbed to his illness and passed away last week.”

“What?” I asked, her words didn’t quite register, I just heard this loud rushing sound as my blood pounded in my veins, “Illness?”

“Yes, the cancer came back six months ago. Your father gave strict orders that no one was to know. I’m so sorry, Connor.”

“My dad is dead?” The words sounded hollow to my ears, unreal, and foreign. My brain couldn’t fathom a world without the powerful hand of my father guiding my life.

“According to the phone company’s records, you’re calling from Asheville, North Carolina, is that correct?”

“I’m not sure,” I said, looking around, “I’m somewhere in North Carolina, though.”

“I’ll send a car to take you to the nearest airport, the service is in two days, and you’ll need to meet with your father’s lawyers. Is there anything you need young master? Do you require cash or credit cards?”

“No,” I said, my mind still processing everything but asked the question that was floating on the edge of my mind, and I knew would haunt me later, “Did he try to contact me, at the end?”

“Your father was very ill… he… he was not a man that would allow others to see him in a weakened state… I’m sorry young master, your father didn’t try to contact you in the end, but he was tracking your progress on the trail, and he was proud you did it all on your own, I know that for a fact.”

“Thank you,” I said, and as my voice broke, I hung up the phone, unwilling to let my father’s beautiful assistant hear me cry.

Her voice had been so gentle, it was almost painful to receive such kindness from another person. There was a diner across the road, so I went over to wait. I sat on the plastic cushioned seats and got myself a cup of coffee and a giant plate of waffles. The hot coffee with cream and the warm, rich waffles and syrup tasted like heaven after five weeks of rations, nuts, and jerky.

A black town car pulled up outside and waited as I finished my meal and coffee, then paid. I realized I was numb inside, not thinking about my father’s death at all. In truth, it was like the man had died years before, other than the monthly emails and awkward Christmases, we didn’t have a relationship.

I stared out the window and watched the forests fly by and make way for the sprawl of civilization. It was a marvel how quickly we were covering ground that had taken me so long to cover on foot. There was a peace that comes after a few hours of trudging, the mind recedes, and a haze of non-thought takes over. You float in the back of your mind, legs churning tirelessly, so long as you don’t pay attention to the aching muscles and feet.

I found myself falling back into that mindset as I was ushered through the small airport’s security. Passing by the little coffee kiosk they had, I saw a newspaper cover that had a blaring headline about the future of Whitaker Industries, but I didn’t pause to read the article. I knew the world and markets would thrash for a while as the fate of my fathers’ company was decided. In truth, I didn’t think it would have much to do with me. I had never cared to learn his business or planned to follow in his footsteps. He had a board of directors that would appoint a new CEO if they hadn’t already.

I wasn’t sure what my inheritance would be, if it would include my father's shares in his company, and I’m not proud of how eager I was to speak with the lawyers about this. I had a fantasy in my mind of cashing out and buying a private island for my friends and me to hang out on. The illusion was only spoiled by the fact that I didn’t have any friends or at least none I’d want to spend any real-time with. But hell, I’d have enough money I could buy friends.

My father’s loss, and all that I hadn’t been able to say to him, ached and rested heavy on my mind as the company’s private plane flew me to up-state New York. I arrived at the old manor house late in the evening, and after a long hot shower, I passed out in my childhood room. It was early afternoon the next day when I woke, and I spent a lazy day kicking around the house, getting my suit ready for the funeral.

A few of my father’s distant relatives arrived and stayed the night in the house. It was good to have guests, but I stayed clear of them for the most part. Too many hinted, but unspoken questions, about the will and any possible inheritance of theirs.

Finally, the morning arrived, and the servants prepped the house for the wake, as I headed over to the old cemetery. It was a somber service, filled with people who barely knew my father. The priest gave a very moving sermon about the need for service and donation, hinting that the church would be a good steward of my father’s vast fortune. I left there more jaded than I’d arrived, happy to be free of the parasites and bootlicks.​