Misc. Erotica MILF Mansion Inheritance

Great Uncle Albert always was a bit of a recluse. To the rest of the family, he was the eccentric uncle who might show up to ever third Christmas. If he came it was with dozens of well thought out gifts. He was related to my dad's side, but no one ever really knew how. He had just always been crazy old Uncle Albert.

My first memory of the man he arrived early one Christmas morning just as the snows began to fall. The gentle white flakes sticking to the icy pavement as a long elegant car drove down the street. Our small town of Brewster, Nebraska had never seen anything so fancy before.

He hopped out of the car dressed in an expensive suit and carrying bags of presents into the house. The presents were clothes and other practical goods, but on that first Christmas, I met him he gave me only one gift. It was an ancient wooden box, and inside arranged neatly were several glass tiles with gold on them, spools of wire and other odd things to my ten-year-old mind. Tucked within the lid was a slim book listing all sorts of different circuits and basic electronic information. I did not understand what it all was at first and thought the wire was meant to be the toy.

He only stayed a few minutes to hug my dad and mom, drop off their presents and give me my odd box. Then he asked if I would walk him to his car and my parents look at each other, as if to say, that’s rather odd, but agreed. Great Uncle Albert walked with slow steps through the fresh snow and paused at the sidewalk. I hugged my coat, wondering what the strange man wanted with me.

“I’ve been told you excel with your studies,” he finally said quietly, his small eyes suddenly very sharp as they gauged me, “that you have been placed in the gifted programs.”

“There isn't much of a gifted program," I said laughing, "it's a student-teacher and two other kids. We mostly make baking soda and vinegar volcanos, because the county budget can only afford a box of baking soda.”

“Is that so,” He said with a frown, “It’s a shame your grandfather moved out here, but I haven’t come to litigate the past. I’ve come to find the next key-holder.”

“Next what?” I asked.

“I have a challenge for you,” he said, his eyes boring into mine, "The box I gave you contains several items. The challenge is to use what’s in that box, and only what’s in that box, to construct a device that will turn a light bulb on and off without touching it.”

“Ok,” I said grinning, “That sounds pretty cool. But by when?”

“Good question,” he said with a small smile, “You have exactly one year, give or take a few hours. I will be here next Christmas to see your results. Any more questions?”

“What do I get if I beat the challenge?” I asked.

He smiled a small sly smile and said, “A key.”

“To what lock?” I asked, puzzled. The old man just laughed and headed out to his car.

“The lock is in Massachusetts. You should visit sometime!" Then he hopped in the back of his car and the driver sped off. That was crazy old Great Uncle Albert. I spent the whole year playing with that box, but I solved the puzzle.

Now I sat in my dorm room with a letter, written in calligraphy, informing me that Great Uncle Albert has passed away the weekend before and that my presence was requested at his lawyer’s office in Boston. Along with the letter was an ancient key. I hadn't been especially close to Uncle Albert; the man wasn't close to anyone in the family, so I couldn't imagine what he would have left me. I thought after I got into MIT at sixteen that he might visit more often, seeing as how he lived somewhere in Massachusetts, but I hadn’t heard from him in the three years I had been at the school so far.

It had been a rough transition, moving from Nebraska to MIT at such a young age. But I couldn’t turn down the scholarship the prestigious university offered me. I had always been into science, electronics and mathematics growing up, my interest sparked by Uncle Albert’s constant puzzles and challenges throughout the years. The school was amazing and for the first time in my life; I felt challenged and engaged with meaningful material.

Living in the dorms was never fun when you're a few years younger than every roommate they assign you. But not having a social life helped me to focus on my studies, and I got top marks in nearly all of my courses. Though my studies went well, I never really made friends at school and never dated. In my second year, I got up the nerve to ask a plump sweet redhead from my Complex Numbers and Complex Exponentials course. I stood outside the classroom, struggling to meet her eyes as I asked for her number. The look of surprise and awkwardness on the girl’s face when she said, ‘no sorry, I’m seeing someone’, cut to my heart. I resigned myself to a life of celibacy and study.

The door to my room opened and my roommate and one of his lacrosse friends came in talking loudly to one another.

“So, I told Todd, that girl is a slut even Blake should be able to hook up with her,” Eaton glanced at me standing in front of my small computer desk, “The little pimple could even hook up with her. Right pimp?” He snickered at the nickname in his cruel way. He shoved me aside, and the letter slipped from my fingers. His friend snatched it out of the air before I could grab it. Holding me off easy as I tried to grab it back from him.

“Give that back!” I said the anger boiling up in me. I usually put up with my roommate's bullying, but something felt ragged inside me, perhaps it was the loss I felt finding an outlet.

“What is it?” Eaton asked in his snide voice, “A love note from his boyfriend?”

“To the young master Aiden Alric Agustus Sussex,” Eaton’s friend read off the letting in a mocking voice.

“Young masturbator, huh huh,” Eaton said.

“We regret to inform you of the passing of your Great Uncle Albert Alric Agustus Sussex the II,” he frowned at that, “Ahh your uncle passed away, damn man I’m sorry.”

“Give me that,” Eaton said, snatching the paper out of his hand, frowning as he read it, “Looks like you’re getting some inheritance. Maybe you can get off the voucher program, huh huh, fucking Pimple.” He pushed me with one hard shove and snatched up his lacrosse bag and slouched from the room. His friend bent and picked up the paper and handed it to me, with an apologetic look, then tagged along after the walking chode I had been forced to room with for the past three years.

Pulling out my cell phone, I called the lawyer's office and asked a pleasant-sounding woman for its address, as the letter I’d received had no return address and I couldn’t find any information on it online, which was strange.

“Young Master Sussex, a car will be sent to pick you up at your current residence. You are still located at Westgate?”

“Yes,” I said, “how did you know that?”

“Young Master Sussex,” she said in her pleasant manner, “Cohn & Stepford, have been the personal attorneys for the estate and all its antecedents for over a century. You’ll find that we keep ourselves informed and discreet about our client’s business.”

“Then if you have to communicate with me again, just send an email,” I said wryly, “that letter wasn’t very discreet.”

“My sincerest apologies Young Master,” the woman said, sounding shaken, “I assure you we will adjust out communications to coincide with your wishes in the future. We have been operating as per your Great Uncles wishes up until now, and it would behoove us to modernize our systems.”

“Um, ok,” I said.

“The car will arrive in the next three minutes, we look forward to your arrival, Young Master, and have a pleasant trip.” She hung up, and I sat up and quickly changed, running into the bathroom and slicking back my unruly black hair as best I could. I threw on my old jacket and a tie, not knowing what to expect, but wishing to be respectful. I threw my laptop and a book into my backpack and ran downstairs and out to the street.

There was a small crowd gathered near a car that looked like it had been stolen from a 1930s tycoon. It was all black and chrome, with a long engine block and big scoop fenders. The cab was lined with soft black leather and appointed in mahogany and silver. Standing next to the vintage car was a short blond woman dressed in a uniform of dark blue and white, wearing black leather driving gloves and dark shades. Her hair was pulled back into a tight braid that hung down her back. As I came running up, I saw her stand straighter and turn to open the back door of the car. The small crowd began to mutter as I walked up.

“Hey Pimple,” I heard a familiar voice from the crowd. I turned to see Eaton swagger out of a small pack of his lacrosse friends, “have fun burying your dead gay uncle!” He laughed his stupid ‘huh huh' laugh and a few of his friends laughed along. Most looked slightly uncomfortable, though. I turned back to the car, ignoring him.

“Aiden Sussex?” The blond woman asked, her eyes searching my face in a strange way, almost like she was looking for an old friend and recognizing it, afraid to find out it wasn’t who she thought it was. I could see now as I drew close. She was perhaps in her mid-twenties. She was also really cute, with a button nose and bow-shaped lips. I tried not to notice how well her uniform showed off her slender body, and round behind, but it was hard not to.

“Yea, that’s me,” I said with a smile, and her expression of relief and joy at my words took me aback. Then she bowed low at the waist, her braid swinging down with the motion.

“Young Master, I am so sorry for your loss,” she stood, her face solemn, “I am Penny, I will be your driver.”

“Thank you,” I said sincerely, “it was a shock.”

“Please, sir, they are awaiting your arrival,” then she stepped aside and opened the door, bowing low as she did.

I stepped into the back of the car and found the seat even more comfortable than it looked. The young woman closed the door softly and hopped into the driver's seat. The small crowd still watched on, Eaton with a sour look to his face. I saw one kid in the same engineering major as me. He raised a hand and waved as we drove off, his face puzzled.

“Where are we going?” I asked the driver as she pulled out.

“The offices of Cohen & Stepford,” she said, speeding away.

“Do you know what this is all about?” I asked, hoping to get some information before I walked into the offices of lawyers.

“I think it would be best if they answer your questions, Sir,” she said in a courteous tone.​