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If you've been following me on here, you will know that I have perhaps, a certain... style. If it exists, it has certainly evolved over the previous twenty stories I have uploaded. Now that evolution has come full circle. I've come home, in a sense.
This story was never intended for publication. It was the first thing I ever wrote, other than work emails and birthday cards. I wrote it for myself, just to see if I could. I didn't have any other readers in mind, never mind strangers on a site like Literotica! I yearned for a romantic story. Something with emotion and heart. Like real life, I think. I wasn't writing erotica, just a story with depth and meaning. Something to make me think. And smile.
So don't go unzipping your pants just yet. Take some time to yourself and read this story in the manner that it was intended. If you're in a shitty mood, give it a pass. Come back later. Wine can help with that, by the way! I think the writing here shows a naivete, a simplicity, perhaps. I have grown much thicker skin during my Literotica publishing career. But this one's different. Don't judge it too harshly, please. It's my baby!
If there is anything sexual here, the participants are all over eighteen.
Nobston -- July 2021
~~~~
"Mike and Mollie"
~~~~
Steve Milano had the perfect life. Hot trophy wife. Four perfect kids. Well five in truth, he supposed. And now he was the senior partner at his father's old law firm.
He looked up at the sprawling home he shared with his family on the outskirts of Austin and thought "life is sweet."
Looking down, he watched himself moving, balls deep in the pool boy Javier. He was about to release a second creamy load into the boy's sweet, tangy asshole. His entire being tensed as Steve strained towards orgasm. He sensed the tell-tale tightening of his scrotum. This time though, the feeling began to extend upwards - throughout his belly. The sensation accelerated up into his throat. It then erupted down his left arm.
As his longed-for release finally exploded, so did his heart! He toppled over onto Javier's back, slipping sideways. He was dead before he hit the floor.
The nineteen-year-old's screams reached Steve's wife Mollie, as she parked her car beside the house. Hurrying towards the pool area she stopped stock-still. Her mind struggled to make sense of the scene before her.
There was Javier, another of those grubby little Mexican boys that Steve liked. He was kneeling beside her husband. Shaking him and screaming like a wounded animal. Somehow, both seemed to be completely naked!
Steve was slumped over at an unusual angle. He was half on his side with his cheek lying flat against the hard Spanish tile. His penis was hard, and so, she gasped, was Javier's!
"What the fuck is going on here?" Mollie screamed. "What the fuck have you done to him?" she wailed at the traumatized teenager.
As she moved closer, Mollie could see Steve's erection wilting. But that was the only movement she could see from him. Javier scrambled sideways, falling on his back. His thighs spread wide, offering Mollie a lurid tableau. A hard, sweaty cock, bloated ball sac, and slimy, fetid asshole. She could even see the frothy discharge as Steve's sperm began to dribble out of him.
"Nothing Mrs. Milano," Javier gasped. "We were just c... c... cleaning the pool and he fell over."
As she approached the pair, she became aware that this was really bad. Steven's eyes were open, but glazed, unfocused. His mouth gaped in a rictus. A look of what could have been either pleasure or pain. Kneeling down she listened for his breathing but heard nothing.
"Help him!" she screamed. But Javier had scrambled to his feet and set off running. He grabbed a pair of shorts from one of the loungers by the pool. Without a backward glance, he sprinted around the side of the house. His pounding footsteps faded as he disappeared from view. Mollie never saw him again.
She fished her phone from her Gucci handbag and dialed 911. She had no first aid experience. She felt pretty sure it wouldn't have helped much anyway.
Her tears splashed on the tile beside Steve's unblinking eyes. Tears of loss and pain but mostly of humiliation.
"You've left me alone, you bastard!" she hissed. "All the bloody kids have gone, and I'm left here by myself. This was supposed to be our time. And you ruined it by fucking yourself to death with the goddamned pool boy."
She lay down on her back and stared into the deep azure sky. Big, fat tears rolled down her cheeks until the paramedics arrived.
Once they had finished up, she had spoken to her lawyer. He had hurried over before she gave her statement to the police. When that was over, Mollie poured herself a triple shot of bourbon. Slumping back on the couch, she stared dazedly into space. Lost...
For the first time in twenty-five years, she realized ordu escort she was truly and utterly alone.
Her mind was racing, random thoughts swirling and clashing.
What the fuck am I going to do now Steve? I've got no job, no skills. The kids have all left home. What am I going to tell them? Their hero 'Big' Steve Milano - dead. Blew an O-ring in the pool boy. It's going to crush them. I've got nobody. Oh, Steven, why did you have to leave me all by myself?
"Hi Mom," a small voice piped up. "I passed an ambulance as I walked home from school. Did you see it?"
Shit! Fucking Michael! Where the fuck had he come from?
Michael, or 'The Runt' as his big brothers had derisively christened him. As usual, she had completely forgotten about her youngest child.
"That was for your father. He's dead. They took him to the morgue for an autopsy," Mollie said callously. "He died by the pool, heart attack I presume. Balls deep in Javier's butt. Now go to your room and stop bothering me."
"Dad's... dead...?" whispered the bewildered boy. "What? How?"
"Fucking that Mexican pool boy. His heart blew just as his balls did. Look, I can't explain it all to you now, I'm grieving. Morrison from the firm will be here in the morning to talk to you about your options." Mollie dismissed him with a wave of her hand.
"My options? What do you mean by options? I'm fifteen!" Michael asked.
"Oh, for fuck's sake, boy! Go away and leave me alone. It's not as if you were bosom pals. You haven't even spoken to your father for years!" All of Mollie's rage and hurt was now focused on Michael. He was an easy target.
Michael squeezed his eyes shut as the tears welled up, his head bowed.
"No, he hadn't spoken to me, that's true, but I still tried," he whispered. He had always tried. His shoulders slumped. His dad was dead. Michael took a deep breath and opened his eyes, blinking away the tears. Looking straight at his mother he thought,
This is going to hurt.
"Mom, are you OK? Can I get you anything?"
"Fuck off and leave me alone! My husband just died! What in the name of Christ could you do for me?" Mollie was screeching now.
Again, Michael had tried, it was all he could do. His heart was breaking for her. But deep down he was beginning to realize something. Something painful. Something terrifying. His mother didn't see him as a real person anymore. Never mind as her own flesh and blood. He picked up his backpack from where it had slipped onto the floor and made his way to the kitchen. From there he slipped out the back door and away.
Skirting the pool, he looked at medical detritus which still lay beside it. Taking a deep breath, he moved on, making his way down through the trees to the guest quarters. It was a squat brick building, plain and functional. It almost looked unfinished compared to the magnificent main house. It was hidden from view by a majestic stand of fir trees. It gave Michael a kind of refuge. His "Fortress of Solitude" he sometimes called it.
As so often before, he almost laughed out loud at that thought. How ludicrous was it that a fifteen-year-old boy needed a refuge from his family? But that was his life.
He had moved out here two years before. Before that, he had come here to practice his violin (or that "godawful racket" as it was known in the main house). But now it was his home.
It was kitted out with a chef's kitchen, laundry facilities, and 3 bedrooms. They had en-suite bathrooms too. He imagined that his father had expected to entertain friends or family here when it was built. But it had turned out the Milano's didn't have anyone like that to come visit.
Michael made himself a calming cup of peppermint tea and reflected on his life. It wasn't the worst life in the world for a kid. His family was wealthy, the estate was secure. He went to a good school and there was (usually) food in the pantry. He knew that some kids like Jose and Hector who used to look after the pool, never got enough to eat. They didn't have decent clothes to wear and couldn't afford an education.
He sometimes watched TV, so he knew that around the world there were kids who never grew past infancy. Kids who starved in famines and kids who were refugees. Spending their short lives in fear and on the run. But he knew that all those kids were better off than him in one very important way. They had all received some love and affection from their families, however fleeting. They'd had moms who hugged them, brothers and sisters who played with them, people who cared. Michael did not. He was "The Runt" and was simply not wanted by any of them.
It hadn't always been that way. He was 4 years younger than the triplets and 6 years behind Hannah. Growing up from toddler to pre-teen he had got on with his brothers and sister pretty well. He'd had some novelty value to them but once they hit puberty and their hormones went crazy, he had been left behind. Well, not left behind in truth. More... set aside, he thought.
His siblings were ordu escort bayan astonishing physical specimens. Not much wonder, given their parents he supposed. Father an All-American defensive end at LSU. Mother a ballet dancer who married at nineteen, right before Hannah was born.
They were idiots of course. He knew that now -- stone-cold morons. Towering social butterflies with tremendous physical prowess. But with empty heads and painted-on personalities. Products of their parents' genes and a horribly dysfunctional home life.
Hannah was tall at 5'11" while Joe, Luca, and Chris had been 6'7" at age 16. He didn't even know what size they were now. Today he was 5'1". He hadn't seen or spoken to any of his siblings for three years. That's when the triplets had left for college on full-ride sports scholarships. Joe and Luca played basketball at Notre Dame while Chris had gone to Duke. But he had dropped out and was now a starting pitcher in the Yankees farm team.
He hadn't seen Hannah for even longer. She had got married in her sophomore year to the son of his father's biggest client. They'd moved to Charleston to manage his family's business interests there.
He knew from browsing social media that she now had two children of her own. He wondered if he would ever get to meet them.
Finishing his tea, he opened his violin case. He ran his finger across its lacquered wooden top. Spruce, with gorgeous warm maple on the sides. It was the most important thing he owned. It wasn't a particularly valuable instrument. But it was his and he'd worked and saved to buy it. He had quickly outgrown the cheap mass-produced one he had started with. His was at least Italian but less than a hundred years old. Lucy, his friend at the music store downtown had a saying. "It's not the strings that make it sing, it's your fingers and heart that give it that zing."
Playing relaxed him, as his conscious mind calmed and settled. It let his subconscious take the wheel and steer for a while. He remembered years before when he was starting to learn the fickle instrument. So many accidental squeaks and growls had come from the thing. But sometimes when he got it, the sound was otherworldly. Ethereal. It transported him. It momentarily lifted him away from his pain, his unhappiness. The unhappiness that he was too young to recognize or understand. Until the inevitable shouts of, "Stop that infernal racket..." resonated towards his bedroom.
Once, aged eight or nine, he had tried to make up his own piece of music. His tutor had been fired months before in the hope that Michael would give up. But he was nothing if not persistent. He'd said to his mother,
"Momma, I made this. Just for you," and he had played his own little piece for her. Sweet and clear, it was in fact a very beautiful melody. Surely it was far too intricate and melodic for a child to have produced.
She had stopped whatever she was doing and listened. Actually listened, for almost thirty seconds. Then she'd said,
"Yes, yes Michael that's all very well. But you must go and tell your sister we're leaving for ballet practice in five minutes."
And that was that. It had taken him six months to put together the music and perfect how to play it without stumbling. And she had dismissed him as if he'd brought her a lump of dog shit off the sidewalk.
He should have been crushed, but Michael was a very special little boy. As his family ran out of love for him, his strength and capacity to love them, grew and grew. He was too young to understand how shallow and cruel they were. They were his family, and his job was to love them with all his heart, no matter what.
That job was getting harder now. His brothers and sister almost felt like figments of his imagination these days. His home life had until today revolved around an absent father and an erratic mother. He loved them and loved them and loved them as hard as he could. But as time went by, even he had begun to admit defeat. Even his capacity for unreciprocated love was not infinite.
So, as he picked up his violin and began to play. The exquisite, delicate music floating up from the deepest depths of his soul. He began to think selfishly. Perhaps for the very first time in his life. Dad was gone, only Mom was left. He would love her as much as he could. But he had to think of himself. He had to think about getting away. He hoped that the lawyer would have some ideas to make things better.
~~~~
The next morning, Michael got ready for school as usual. The night before he had asked his mother if he should spend the day with her. Her pithy two-word answer had been quite clear.
So, he'd take his violin today and work in the music store that evening as usual. It was a great place to practice, teach and learn. Michael knew he was a gifted player. But he didn't truly recognize what an extraordinary virtuoso he was. He just liked to play and help his friends get better on their own instruments.
As he trudged up into the main escort ordu house, he met Juanita the maid busy in the kitchen.
"Hi Juanita," he said, "that smells amazing."
She was cooking her famous Huevos Rancheros for breakfast. She tousled his mop of curly blond hair and said,
"I made extra for you this morning kiddo. I know you need to keep your strength up. I'm sorry about your papa."
He wasn't supposed to talk to Juanita, but she was so nice, and he liked her. Besides his mother was nowhere to be seen. As if reading his mind, she said,
"Mamacita is not feeling well this morning. I will look after her later."
Michael knew that this was her way of saying, "Keep out of your mother's way for a while!"
"Thanks, Juanita, please tell her I hope she feels better soon." Suddenly he remembered, "Did the lawyer come to see me yet?"
"Yes, he's in the dining room. I said you would see him after breakfast. He looks fierce but I think it will be OK."
"Oh, OK," Michael said as she served his breakfast.
The lawyer said his name was Phil Morrison. In clipped tones, he told Michael that his father's will would be formally read next week. However, he was able to tell Michael that unlike his siblings he was not mentioned in the will. At all. As a minor, he would remain the responsibility of his mother.
"She said you would tell me about my options," Michael said.
Morrison blinked. "Options? I don't think you have any options. As a child, you are the responsibility of your surviving parent. She will provide for you and present whatever options she sees fit."
"Do my brothers and sisters have options?" Michael asked.
"I can't say but I do know your father has made provision for them," Morrison replied.
"Provision? Does that mean money?" Michael enquired.
"Sorry I can't say. Please excuse me. The reading of the will shall be held here next Thursday at 1:00 pm, after the funeral. Good day to you." The man packed up his briefcase and hurried out of the room.
That was a yes then, Michael thought. His siblings would get more money they didn't need. And he still didn't have a spare bowstring for his violin.
Oh well, you can't miss what you never had.
Lucy had lots of pithy sayings like that. It was one of the things he liked most about her. That and her smile. He sometimes thought that she smiled and laughed more in a single day than his whole family did in a month.
Michael wondered what the point of the lawyer's visit had been. Doubtless a way to add $1000 to their bill!
He grabbed his backpack and violin and waved to Juanita. He headed out to catch the bus to school. His father was dead, but what else could he do?
~~~~
The following Thursday, Michael and Mollie returned from the cemetery. Steve had been laid to rest in a lavish service attended by hundreds of his colleagues and rivals. Mollie didn't think the circumstances of his death were well known outside the family. But she had received enough sideways looks at the graveside to begin to wonder.
The other kids had all sent their apologies. Schoolwork, playoff games, takeover discussions, all had to take precedence. Dad would have understood, they said.
Michael had asked if he could play something on his violin at the service. Mollie had shut him down immediately, barking "You know how he hated that... that noise!"
"I know, but I think it would be beautiful," he had said.
"No means NO Michael. This will be a difficult enough day. The last thing I need is an embarrassing farce like that on top," Mollie had screamed at him.
"OK, Mom, whatever Dad would have wanted," he had said, eyes downcast.
Steve's will was formally read at the house. Mike and Mollie were there in person. The other family members attended via video link set up by the lawyer Morrison.
For a lawyer, Steve had kept his will simple. All of his physical assets, the house, cars, investments, etc., went to Mollie. The cash was divided equally between Hannah and the triplets. It amounted to almost $2 million each. Michael received... nothing. "The square root of fuck all," as Steve himself might have said.
Michael didn't care. He thought it might have been nice if his father had even mentioned him in the will. But he hadn't expected it. That was the trick of it he thought, the secret to his life. Managing expectations. Don't get too excited, don't get kicked in the balls. Keep it somewhere in between. It worked for him.
The meeting broke up. He thought he heard the word runt from the video conference speakers, but he wasn't sure. He certainly hadn't heard anyone say, Michael. As the lawyer packed up and prepared to leave, Michael asked his mother if she would like a drink or a snack.
"No, Juanita will make dinner soon. I've got a headache so don't go annoying me with that screeching racket," she said.
It was strange he thought. His mom had been a ballet dancer when she was younger. Surely, she would have had an appreciation for classical music back then. He'd seen pictures of her from that time. There were all sorts of musty photo albums in the library. He didn't think anyone else in the family had ever looked at them. They'd sort of petered out when he was eight, as digital cameras and storage became more popular.