Unexpected Inheritance

Simon Clore, the senior partner of Clore & Son, where I worked as an accountant, passed by me frequently during the evening office party, lightly touching me intimately each time, leaving no doubt what he wanted from me. He had me in such a vice. Not only did my livelihood depend on keeping him satisfied with me, but also he was married to my second cousin, Betsy, who I thought a lot of and who was going through an ordeal with cancer. I didn't, for the world, want to burden her with any more grief than she already was coping with. Simon was using that to his advantage. As soon as he had learned that I was gay, he started taking advantage of me.

He finally came up beside me at the punch bowl. "I want you to stay after the party and help me . . . clean up, Paul."

Simon Clore wasn't the type who cleaned anything up, especially an office party, so the other office workers were surprised and extra grateful when he announced that he and I would take care of everything afterward. I knew what "everything" entailed. I, in fact, was horny tonight, but it wasn't from Simon's touches and hints of what was in the offing. During the party I kept looking over at the "son" part of the Clore & Son partnership. Young, hunky Hal was perpetually surrounded by adoring young women, and tonight was no exception. We played tennis together and each time I fantasized about him taking me in the locker room shower—I melted at the sight of him, hunky and hung, when we showered at the club after playing, but it was a "no go" with Hal. He obviously was a woman's man and had his hands full without thinking of me—at least not in the way I thought of him.

The post party assignation was over in twenty-five minutes, and a good fifteen minutes of that was me working to get Simon's small cock up as he sat in his office chair and I knelt between his knees and worked on the old man's cock with my mouth. The fuck itself was only five slides—yes, I counted them, wondering if the old man ever would get up to ten—and a jerk and a spurt in a condom that barely was able to stay on his dick—as I bent over his desk and he poked me from behind.

He left me to finish the cleanup—he'd done practically nothing toward the end, of course—and then, when my car wouldn't start, he offered to drive me home to my apartment.

In front of the apartment, he asked, hopefully, "I'd like to come up. Betsy's in the hospital overnight again. They want to monitor something. That's why she wasn't at the party. I didn't want to cloud the employees' enjoyment, so I didn't say anything."

Of course, most of us already knew Betsy was in the hospital again. Hal had told one of the receptionists that their tryst that night had to be postponed because he was visiting his mother in the hospital. There was a pact not to talk to Simon about his wife's lingering death, so we all were keeping mum about her hospital stay as well.

"That would be lovely, Simon," I said. "But there's the problem of Demont."

"Ah, yes, Demont. Possibly you could come on to my house for the night, then."

I shook my head sadly—or at least tried to make it look sad. "Alas, there's still Demont. He's the jealous type, I'm sure you know. He expects me to be in bed under him every night."

"Yes, I see." Simon might be expected to be disappointed at having missed out on an entire night with me—which I could have guaranteed him would be no more than fifteen minutes of me working him up, six pokes from him, and him snoring off for the rest of the night—but his eyes were flashing with arousal and he was licking his lips. He often quizzed me about what Demont did with me, and I tried not to disappoint in my descriptions.

"So, I'll see you at the office Monday?"

"No, not until Thursday," I answered, already, thankfully, out of his car and leaning down and looking through the open passenger door. "I'm sure you remember that I'm taking most of the week off in vacation time. I'll be home working on your and Betsy's personal taxes for three days."

"Ah, yes." He answered. No "thank you for doing my taxes on your personal time," just an "ah, yes." But that was Simon. Just a taker. I smiled as he drove off—not at the memory of him screwing me, which he did in various forms, but at the taillights of his car moving away from me.

There was no Demont waiting for me upstairs. I had invented a jealous black bull roommate to aid in holding Simon off precisely for circumstances like this. There was no one waiting for me upstairs The legend of Demont had worked somewhat of an opposite effect to the one I was going after, though. Since I'd made the mistake of describing to Simon some of Demont's rough sex and bondage positions, the descriptions had aroused him and made him more horny for me.

I went upstairs and, while coffee was brewing to take the buzz off me from whatever someone had spiked the punch with at the office party, I sifted through the mail I'd taken out of the box downstairs. Mostly "gimmee" letters and catalogs from stores I'd shopped online for Christmas gifts and that assumed I was going to give gifts weekly from then on. There was a letter from Professor Hollins, at my alma mater, who wrote longing letters to me almost monthly. He who had taken my virginity during a picnic near the river and who wanted to continue reliving that moment. And there was a bulkier, official-looking letter with British stamps on it.

I started to open the letter but then noticed that the coffee was ready. I really needed that coffee. The letter from Hollins also had put me in a "mood." He'd been a proficient lover with a long cock, and he'd been my first. I'd save the letter to read later, I thought, as I set it aside, on top of the letter from England, and rose to pour coffee.

The postmark on the bulkier letter had also made me think of Phil and Rigger, the gay couple I chatted with, who lived in England. I was in the mood to chat. I went to my computer and started to compose my daily chat to my fantasy pen pals.

Sorry this chat is late. The Curtis & Caldwell office party ran overtime tonight and I came home late—and sore and exhausted. Steven Curtis came up behind me at the spiked punchbowl I'd made three too many visits to and, squeezing one of my butt cheeks hard, whispered that he and I had a separate party to go to in his office. I knew what he wanted, and the thrill of doing it just a closed, but not locked, door away from the office party in full swing was both a frightening and an arousing sensation. When we got there, he pulled the fleeced-lined handcuffs I've told you about from his desk drawer and in no time he had my wrists bound behind my back and me bent over his desk, fucking me furiously from behind, my belt looped around my throat and Curtis using the belt as reins, choking me as he pulled back hard on the reins with each thrust.

I heard the increased noise of the party beyond the private office as the door opened, and there was the hunky Hank Caldwell—you remember, the other, younger partner who fucked me on top of the Xerox machine? I watched him make a phone call for Dion to come up from the loading dock before he was grabbing my hair and forcing my mouth down on his cock on the other side of the desk from where Curtis was furiously fucking me in the ass. And when the black bull Dion came into the office, he relieved Curtis in drilling me. I nearly passed out from that monster cock of his plowing my ass.

It didn't stop there either. When I left the office, my car wouldn't start and Curtis volunteered to drop me off in his limo, which Dion was driving, on his way home. They doubled me in the parking garage of my apartment house, Curtis on his back on the hood of the car—the bonnet to you lot—with that long cock of his snaked up into me from the rear, while Dion pumped me from the front with that monster cock of his. I only wish it had been you two. I'm not sure I can hobble out of bed for work tomorrow. What do you say, should I bother to wear a thong pouch to the next office party? *smile* Gotta go and soak in the tub, both legs over the side to sooth my bruised ass channel. Kisses to and a deep-throated suck for you both. Todd.

I'd been slipping my hand to my crotch during the chat and now, finished and the e-mail sent, I opened the chat they had sent me, full of descriptions of a threesome on a bale of hay in a barn, and I unzipped myself and stroked off to that.

I went back to the kitchen counter and refilled my coffee cup, remembered the letter from Professor Hollins, and, feeling mellow and a bit melancholy, reached for the letter. Pulling it away, my eye caught the bulkier letter from England. Curious, I slit it open. Several pages of very official looking legalese unfolded in my hand.

I sat down at the table and read over it several times. It had to be one of the most elaborate scam letters I'd ever read. Although, even though I was an experienced accountant, for the life of me I couldn't figure out how the scam worked. The papers claimed I had inherited a third interest in a pub south of Gloucester, England, called The Laughing Lion, as well as a third interest in an ancient house near the pub in the Forest of Dean.

Where the hell was Gloucester? I wondered. Or the Forest of Dean, for that matter. I didn't know anyone in England, or anyone anywhere else who would die and leave me anything.

It had to be a scam. But, for the life of me, I couldn't figure out what the scam was. It was both frustrating and intriguing, and I knew I had to check it out and figure it out or I wouldn't sleep well all weekend. I decided to call Aaron, my lawyer, in the morning and have him read the legalese and tell me what the scam was. It would mean calling him on Saturday morning, but I knew he worked Saturdays, and he didn't hesitate to call me on Saturdays to ask how I was coming on doing his taxes. This would be justifiable tit for tat.

I went to bed and masturbated myself to the drowsy state before sleep slipped in, dreaming of a big brute fucking me rough and standing against a wall, with an arm being painfully pulled high up my back. Seeking the height of all the sensations I could—pain as well as pleasure—and to be totally controlled and used by a man—or men.

* * * *

Waking with the morning light from the Gloucester hotel room window hitting me in the face through the gap that the curtains wouldn't cover, I felt groggy from the drink the previous evening and took a moment to remember where I was. I was laying stretched against him, my back cuddled into his chest. A mop of reddish-blond hair was tickling the hollow of my neck. A beefy arm, ruddy and covered in reddish down, was thrown over my torso. A similarly beefy leg was thrown over my thigh. His left leg stretched down mine, his foot barely reaching my ankle. The thickness of his cock pressed into the small of my back. Bulldog thickness. He was built like a bull dog—close to the ground; stocky, but muscular, not fat; young, younger than I was; the ruddy good looks and vitality of what they'd call a footballer over here; his cock not appreciably long flaccid, but unusual thick and lengthening significantly in arousal, the bulb an angry red; even his balls, pulled tight up to his groin, were beefy.

He was a powerful, muscular man—powerful in his thrusts. I'd been ridden hard the previous night. That I could remember. Nothing like I'd ever had in the States. It was good for me. Nothing had been meeting my fantasies in the States, certainly not the fantasies I'd spun with my English pen pals.

I gently lifted his arm off my torso and then pulled out from underneath his leg, hoping not to disturb his light snoring. But as I sat up on the side of the bed, he snorted and turned over onto his back. A hand came down and scratched his balls. He was half hard.

"Where you goin'?"

"To the bathroom. To take a piss and maybe a shower."

"In a minute," he said, a light growl in the depth of his throat. He'd used the same growl in telling what he wanted me to do the previous night. And I'd done it.

He raised his torso, cupped the back of my neck, and brought my face down to his crotch. I opened my mouth to him and gave him head for nearly a minute. Pulling off him then, I said, "I really do have to take a piss."

"OK, but the shower can wait."

When I returned from the bathroom, he was sitting on the other side of the bed, smoking a cigarette, rolling a condom on his cock, and slathering his sheathed cock with lube.

He fucked me with me on my back, legs spread and bent, hands gripping the rails of the headboard over my head, back arched, mouth hanging open in a big yawn, and his bulldog body between my legs. His torso was raised, his fists dug in the bedspread at each side of my chest, his buttocks moving forward and back with hard powerful thrusts.

Welcome to England. I'd been here less than twenty hours.

* * * *

Aaron called me back early Saturday afternoon. "I don't know what's going on either, Paul, but it's no scam. After I couldn't see anything wrong with the documents, I called the solicitors in Gloucester, England, listed on the letterhead—after I'd checked with a couple of firms in England I knew of and was told the Gloucester firm was legit. The inheritance is also legit, apparently. You don't know a Peter Townsend, a Brit by that name?"

"No, never heard of him."

"Well, he's left you one third of British pub on the Severn River and one third of an old house in the hills above a town called Newnham. Either one ring a bell?"

"Not a tinkle. I'm thoroughly confused."

"The solicitors are quite anxious to see you. They've schedule a meeting with you at their chambers in Gloucester for 3:00 p.m. Monday. Do you think you can make it, or should I try to schedule later?"

"I don't know. Where in England are Gloucester and the Severn River anyway?"

"I don't know, but the solicitors suggested you fly to Birmingham and rent a car from there. Are you curious enough to break away that soon?"

"You bet I am," I answered.

"In that case, you'd better find out where those places are quickly. Good luck, Paul, and keep me posted on what this is all about. I'm almost curious enough to go with you."

I had no trouble booking a flight from New York that night, although all I could get in the way of a seat was steerage. I'd also booked a subcompact Kia Rio at the Birmingham airport. They tried to get me to upscale in size, but I'm glad I refused. Driving right-hand drive on narrow lanes hemmed in by hedgerows was about as much fright in life as I could endure. The somewhat seedy three-star Station Hotel in Gloucester, just off the AA30 ring road, was the best I could do for booking on such short notice. In the eventuality, that was a good thing. The desk clerk didn't even bat an eye when I came in half drunk on Sunday night and took a man up to my room.

I'd arrived in Birmingham in late morning after an all-night endurance flight, and the drive south, after the hour of getting out of the airport and into a car, took more than two hours. The driving wasn't bad, though. I'd driven on the left both in England and Australia before and the roads were all highways. Working against that was being tired from only dozing during the night in the crowded plane.

I grabbed a bite to eat—I couldn't remember what it was ten minutes after I finished it: some sort of soggy sandwich wrapped in plastic, a piece of sandwich meat and a pimento spread, I think—after I'd check into the hotel and then went upstairs and tried to sleep. But, of course, I couldn't. I kept thinking of this pub I supposedly now owned a piece of.

Since I couldn't sleep, I decided to check the pub out before meeting with the solicitors the next day.

I had picked the hotel from the available choices because it was on the south side of the city. When I asked at the desk where the road along the west side of the Severn toward Cardiff, in Wales, was, the A48, I was pleased to find that it was easy to find from the hotel.

I'd been told the Laughing Lion pub was on the bank of the river on A48 just before I reached the village of Newnham. I had no trouble finding it. I surveyed it as I got out of the car, which had been making rather disturbing noises for the last mile of the drive. The building rambled a bit and looked like it almost, but not quite, was in need of remodeling. Still, it looked inviting and there were a fair number of cars in the car park, so it also looked reasonably prosperous. As indicated on the map, it did, indeed, sit just above the river on a riprap-enforced embankment. The river was fairly broad at this point, but the maps told me it would broaden significantly before entering the Bristol Channel. I could see small container ships moving on the river toward or from Gloucester. And there was considerable car traffic on the A48, even for a Sunday. The pub was well located.

Still, I had already decided to sell out my third as soon as possible. It was still a mystery why I had inherited it.

I entered the pub, the main room of which was divided off in three zones. To the left as I entered at the side of the building, was a large room with continuous windows on three sides looking out on the river. This what first caught my attention, as it was where the light was the brightest. To my right, in a section with a step up and the ceiling lowered, was a long bar, swathed in shadow, with points of light above the bar and on the few tables in this area. Straight ahead, in a separate room, served by a wide entrance, was a smoky pool room. I could see three tables, two of them in use. The river room, as I thought of it, was occupied, but not to overflowing, with the patrons coming and going frequently.

No one was in the bar area except for the bartender taking up position behind the bar. He was young looking, a sportsmen type. Sandy haired, ruddy complexion. A nose that had been broken more than once, the second time seemingly back toward where it originally was. It gave him a somewhat dangerous, thuggish look, but, in fact, added to the attraction of him. He smiled at me, as I entered, so I was drawn to the bar and perched on a stool. I noticed then, in the darkness, that a few of the tables in the bar were occupied too.

The barman came around the bar occasionally to serve the table, but then he always came back to me.

I ordered a Guinness Stout, if for no other reason than I assumed that was what one drank in a pub. And, famished, off schedule, and with less-than-fond memories of the soggy sandwich I'd last eaten, I asked him if they were serving food yet.

"It's a bit early, but I think I could have fish and chips served up for you."

"Thank you, that would be great," I answered. And when it came, indeed it was great. Far better than the fish and chips I could get served in New York, not that I ordered it very often.

"Sorry," I said, when it came and when I ordered another Guinness, the barman having been off to clean tables in the river room for several minutes, "I've just gotten off a plane from the States. I don't even know what time you'd be serving here."

"The evening food service won't come on for another hour. We close at 10:30 on Sunday nights, though, so last calls on everything would be at 10:00. I'd be out of here at 10:31." He laughed, and I laughed with him. He had a hearty laugh and a very nice smile. "American or Canadian are you," he asked.

"American. From New York."

"Sweet. You here for pleasure or business? In England, I mean. You'd be here in the pub for pleasure."

That sounded a bit strange, but I answered what I thought was being asked. "Business. I'm staying in Gloucester—at The Station Hotel. Tried to sleep and couldn't. Discovered I was hungry and thirsty and decided to take a short drive down the Severn. I wonder, is the owner of the pub in this evening?"