This is a work of fiction created by the author.
All caricatures involved in sexual acts are over the age of 18.
This story will have many parts.
This is a work of fiction created by the author.
All caricatures involved in sexual acts are over the age of 18.
Hi, my name is Christopher.
I live with my family in a small town on an isolated island near Australia.
Although our town is small compared to the big cities, I can assure you that we have everything we need, and we almost need nothing from the outside world.
To the south of our town is our small international airport. To the west, we have our industrial district and the ocean port. In the east, we have our farms and the woods, and to the north, we have our beach.
I have an athletic build, standing 185 cm tall and weighing 80 kg. I'm also good-looking, with brown curly hair and wide brown eyes.
We live in the suburbs near the farms, where the cream of our society resides.
Our house is a large mansion, which my friends from high school used to call "The Palace." Later, I found out that everyone in the town calls it that. Maybe it's because it's almost like a palace, with its 10 rooms, the servants' wing, a large garden at the front, and a swimming pool in the backyard.
Or maybe it's because we live there with my grandfather, Richard Christopher.
My grandfather is the crowned king of our town. He owns almost half of it, including the farms, factories, shops, lands, and even the companies that run the airport and the port. Nothing happens in the city without his knowledge--and often, without his approval.
He was almost 65 years old when our first major crash took place, he was at that time still in great shape. At 185 cm tall, I was the same height as him--perhaps I had inherited his height. He could break your arm just by shaking your hand. I loved and respected him, but I also feared him, thinking a million times before doing anything that might upset him.
There's no need to tell you that he controlled every aspect of our lives--mine, my mother Carol's, my Aunt Elizabeth's, my twin sister Emma's, and my cousin Jean's. It was almost impossible for any of us to make a decision without his approval.
My mother, Carol, is the kindest person in the world. She is my grandfather's assistant; they are always together. She is his counsel and his right hand in his business. She was blonde, a walking atomic bomb with her 175 cm height and 65 kg weight. Sometimes, I thought she was a perfect creation, with every part of her body in the right place and the right shape.
I always wondered how they could be so close with their different personalities. But Mom once told me that they both needed each other. She stops him when he's getting too cruel, and he stops her from being too merciful. I didn't understand what she meant, but I didn't care either. They both treated me well, and I had almost everything I needed, so why should I care?
My Aunt Elizabeth is younger than my mother. She also helps her father in business, but she is like a smaller version of him, only prettier. No need to tell you that she, too, is tall--just like the rest of my family.
It was always difficult to catch her laughing or even smiling, and she obeyed her father blindly, always taking his side.
My twin sister, Emma, was smarter than me. She left early that year for college in Sydney, studying business in one of the prestigious university, enjoying one of the many scholarships she earned after high school. She visited us every weekend.
Finally, Jean, my 19-year-old cousin, left for her college too studying marketing in the same university with my twin, but she rarely visited us.
I felt stuck in my small town, though I had big dreams of going to college and living on my own for the first time--without the fear of being caught by my grandfather. Unfortunately, I wasn't smart enough to earn the grades needed to attend college, nor was I talented enough to secure a scholarship like Emma and Jean had.
Of course, my grandfather could afford to send me to any college in the world, but to my surprise, he refused. That was when the first clash happened.
Grandfather told me that colleges were for the smart or the talented, not for airheads like me. He said he wouldn't invest his money in me until I proved I deserved every penny. "Nothing will be offered to you on a golden plate, boy," he said.
I didn't fully understand what that meant, especially since he knew that with my academic skills--and even my sports abilities--I didn't stand a chance in a hundred years of getting into college. Strangely, my mother, who had always taken my side in every battle, sided with her father this time.
Before I could even process that disaster, he hit me with another: he cut all my allowances.
Suddenly, I wasn't receiving anything from him--or from my mom. He said it was enough that he let me live in his house, but now I had to work.
"Okay, let's work," I thought when he again blew me with his third decision---he wouldn't hire me at any of his companies. At that moment, I was really fucked.
But my mother came through for me. Thanks to her, I found a job at one of her best friend's restaurants. I was honored--to become the new delivery boy for the place.
At first, I was furious. How could I explain this to my friends? Or better call them my high school mates, because I had no actual friends at that time, The idea of delivering food to their houses made my ego ache. I seriously considered leaving the house and heading to Sydney to start my own life.
"It's only a start, Chris. Believe me, this will be good for you," my mother tried to reassure me.
Good for me, MY ASS, was that all what she could say instead of battling with her father for me.
"It's just a matter of time until he hires you in one of his companies. Believe me, just don't fight the storm until it passes," Mom said on another occasion.
"Mom's right, Chris," my twin sister, Emma, chimed in.
"Sooner or later, we'll inherit that stubborn old man's empire. He'll have no choice but to hire you. If not for you, then for his image in society."
Honestly, I didn't have many other choices. Even leaving for Sydney to start from scratch didn't seem like a smart idea. At least here, I was guaranteed a roof over my head and three meals a day.
So, I started my new job. And, between you and me, I actually began to enjoy it.
It suited me well. I was always on the move, bouncing from place to place, meeting new people every day. More importantly, I was out of the house almost all the time.
But before you start thinking I'm just an airhead like my grandfather always said, let me set the record straight: I'm smart--really smart--but not a hardworking student.
I was athletic, in excellent shape, but again, I couldn't bring myself to put in the effort required to win championships or secure a scholarship.
You've probably heard my problems by now, and maybe you sympathized, maybe you didn't. But that wasn't my real problem.
My real problem was that I was 19 and still a virgin.
I used to think I was good with girls, but the truth is, I've never been with one intimately. I've never even seen a naked woman in real life. The closest I've gotten was with my girlfriend--or maybe she's my ex now; I'm not sure where we stand anymore. Just before she left for college, we shared a moment of intimacy, a hand job, but nothing more. Since then, she hasn't come back home, or may be she came but didn't call, I'm not sure too.
My body feels like it's betraying me these days, especially my cock. It refuses to settle, constantly reminding me of its frustration by standing tall under my trousers. No matter how hard I try to ignore it, it insists on making its presence known, creating an embarrassing tent that I can't hide.
Today, I decided to take a risk--a big one. I've become obsessed with the idea of being with a woman. Just thinking about it drives me insane. The word alone--fucking--sends shivers down my spine. It's not just a thought anymore; it's a dream I need to make a reality soon, or I'll lose my mind entirely.
So why haven't I found someone yet? The answer, strangely enough, lies with my grandfather. No, I'm not trying to shift the blame onto him, but because of his influence in the city, people have always treated me and my family with caution.
Even back in high school, our classmates were hesitant around us, wary of stepping out of line. It created a barrier I could never quite break through, and that hesitation followed me into adulthood.
Even the teachers were careful around us. They believed that upsetting us meant upsetting the king, and no one wanted to deal with the wrath of royalty.
To give you an example, when my twin and I turned eighteen, we held a grand party in what our classmates called "the palace"--our home.
Everyone showed up, bearing expensive presents, but most of them left within half an hour. No one wanted to linger in the lion's den or play with his cubs.
So I decided if I can't find my luck with girls in my age why don't I try my luck with older women.
All what I had to do is planting seeds everywhere and wait for the harvest.
Collecting all my courage I decided to put my desperate plan in action.
I entered our kitchen and started,
"Good afternoon Mrs. Monica,"
Mrs. Monica was our housekeeper--or, as she preferred to call herself, the "house manager."
She'd been working in our house for as long as I could remember, managing everything with the help of two maids, Jasmine and Lilly, and Samuel, the gardener.
She's the kind of woman who blends practicality with quiet strength, her appearance humble but put-together. Somewhere in her early-to-mid forties--though you couldn't pinpoint the exact number--she carries herself with the calm assurance of someone who's managed both chaos and calm with equal grace.
Her face is soft and kind, with gentle lines forming around her eyes from years of smiling, frowning, and managing life's daily surprises. Her brown hair is neatly kept, shoulder-length with a few silver strands that catch the light. Her figure is average, neither slim nor heavy--just real and lived-in, the way a woman who gets things done tends to be, but honestly not a woman that attract attention to a young man like me, but I was desperate.
Dressed for her role as a house manager, she wore a tidy button-up blouse tucked into practical slacks. Sensible shoes. Nothing flashy, but always clean, coordinated, and ready for movement--whether she was organizing staff, taking inventory, or handling a last-minute issue with steady efficiency. A watch on her wrist, a pen always nearby, and a voice that was firm but never harsh.
There was no drama in how she looked--just a grounded presence, the kind that made a household run smoothly and gave people around her a sense of calm.
"Afternoon, Chris. How can I help you?" she asked as I entered the kitchen. It was just the two of us.
"I was wondering if I could have an orange juice before dinner," I said, trying to sound casual. My throat was dry, and my heart raced.
She gave me a curious look, then nodded.
"Of course, Chris. I'll have Lilly bring it to you in five minutes."
I nodded, turned to leave, then hesitated. I looked back at her.
"Mrs. Monica... have I ever thanked you for taking care of us all these years?"
Her expression softened. She blinked once, and her cheeks flushed a light pink.
"It's my job, Chris."
I stepped closer and offered a small, sincere smile.
"And you do it perfectly. Thank you."
She looked at me--just for a moment--then turned away, busying herself at the counter.
