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I sat in a brown, leather dining-room chair in my new house’s large, formal dining-room. I had come into a vast sum of money in the recent past and decided to purchase the eight-bedroom, ten-bathroom, eleven-thousand square foot house with a tremendous pastoral view. The ten-acre plot even has a small stream running through it. The combination is all I can ask for.
I fancy myself a newly-minted duke and play up the new title with the purchase of the house and several cars; one from Germany and several old muscle cars that I have always wanted, the most coveted of the lot being a red 1967 Corvette. I probably overpaid for the vehicle but can, so I foolishly did.
My wife died eleven months ago after a knock-down drag out fight with metastatic breast cancer. Her fight was nothing short of heroic, but three years, five months and two days after the diagnosis, cancer finally won the battle and ended the life of a very fine woman. She died before I came into the money so she never got to enjoy it with me. I often wonder if my new-found wealth would have given her a better chance at defeating her killer, but I don’t think so. She received great healthcare. Cancer is simply too tenacious and cheats at every turn.
No longer married, I went on several dates with several women, all of whom were deranged, self-absorbed and entitled or still hung up on old flames. I struck out multiple times until I met Diana. Petite, brunette and fun to be around, I fell for her the moment I saw her.
I met Diana while standing in line at a Starbucks as I waited for my usual; a grande Americano with four sugars. Lactose intolerant, I don’t go for any lattes or anything else with dairy products. Just give me a large cup of Joe and I’m golden. But that’s when Diana complimented me on my shoes of all things. Flattered by the attention of such a beauty, I immediately fell in love and concluded that she filled all the requirements of a duchess. I paid for our drinks and asked her to join me at a nearby table. To my amazement, she took me up on my offer and sat in a chair across from me.
My wife and I met in the military twenty-five years prior to that fateful day and married a year later. We finished up our enlistments and returned home to Washington State where I grew up. We both got hired on with the State, bought a house and had two wonderful daughters. Then cancer struck and put an end to our marriage.
Throughout our marriage, however, we fixed up our modest house, redid the landscaping and assumed the American dream. We had everything we needed and a little extra but lived a modest lifestyle so we could invest for the future, completely unaware that I would one day be worth over a hundred million dollars from something called Bitcoin. A friend did it all for me and I am eternally grateful for his help. Without his wizardry with money, I was going to lose the house and be forced to join the legions of renters in my own grubby, little apartment that my modest, governmental salary could afford.
By that time, our two daughters were out of the house and on their two separate paths. But I would no longer be able to help them when times got rough, something that really took the wind out of my sails. My life would have come to a screeching halt without the help from my good friend. Fast forward ten months and I sat gazing into the beautiful, brown eyes of my future duchess.
To hide my true wealth, I have kept the house my wife and I bought so as not to give potential suitors any indication that they could be on the cusp of marrying into great largesse. To state the obvious, I want women to see me and not my money; a fear I harbor every time I go on a date. I want women to see an eighteen-hundred square foot me rather than an eleven-thousand square foot me.
My new master-bedroom is four of my old bedrooms. I even have what the real-estate agent described as a chef’s kitchen. I’m not sure what that entails but it has acres of granite, high-end appliances and enough stainless steel to build whatever requires a lot of stainless steel. Before Diana, however, there was Karen; an attractive, tallish blond who was also fun to be around, smart and, seemingly, without baggage. We met in the library of all places, dated several times, then entered into what most would describe as a typical relationship.
To hide my wealth, we usually met up at my smaller house where we spent pleasurable bağcılar escort evenings and weekends enjoying each other’s company both in and out of bed. Karen wasn’t the most adventurous lover, but was generous with her love making. I could count on sex most nights she spent at my small house or I spent in her small apartment. By all accounts, Karen seemed destined to be a duchess. That is until I introduced her to my more affluent life and all the trappings it offered.
At first, she was overwhelmed with my secretive lifestyle. She especially enjoyed traveling first-class or on chartered flights. She took to my life like a duck to water then went all kinds of fucked up.
Earlier in my life, right up until I graduated college, I had many good friends; those from high-school, a few from junior college then a few from my university. Over time, however, most of my friends gradually faded from my life then disappeared all together. That is except for the day-trading friend who said he could make me rich. Fortunately, I have kept in contact with him since college.
The matter of investing in Bitcoin came up over a dinner of chimichangas and beers one night several weeks after my wife died. Though she had some life insurance, it wasn’t enough to pay off the house. Eventually, I was going to lose it, I told my friend four beers into our dinner and proceeded to feel sorry for myself and my situation.
“Not to worry,” boasted my friend. He knew of a way to create both of us tremendous wealth. I only needed to give him twenty-five thousand dollars and he would turn it into millions. Little did either of us know that he would turn our investments into hundreds of millions.
Initially, I was skeptical. Twenty-five thousand dollars was a lot of money to a government worker, especially a government worker who just lost his wife and didn’t know how he was going to pay off the mortgage. But my friend was persistent and eventually convinced me to loosen my tightly-knotted purse strings. Not long after that, this crazy investment my friend was so high on went from mere thousandths of pennies a share to sixty-five thousand dollars a share and I went from middle class to very wealthy.
To say I am appreciative is an understatement. My friend solved all of my money issues and I still have no idea how he did it. But he did it and that’s all that matters. I paid off my house, eventually got comfortable with my wealth and bought my new estate with the stream running through it. The cars were next, followed closely by traveling in first class. All I needed was a duchess. Then Karen entered my life.
Initially, she didn’t believe the house and cars were mine. Then I surprised her with a lavish, all-expense paid vacation to Italy for us and a new car for her. As mentioned above, she took to my new life with gusto. Not long after that, she was throwing lavish dinner parties for all her friends in my new house. But the Karen I first met turned slowly into a YouTube-style Karen and didn’t look back.
Her entitlement started slowly at first, picked up steam then went parabolic as my friend like to say about our new wealth. She started to treat poorly the Mexican maid I hired to help me clean my large house then started to countermand my instructions to the landscapers, to my maid, Sylvia, and to a personnel assistant I hired. The young lady attends the local community college and handles my extra administrative work quite well.
Soon, Karen had virtually taken over my household, moved on to treating restaurant staff poorly then pretty much everybody else we ran into over the course of our lives. The issue came to a head during a dinner party she threw on a warm Saturday night at what she liked to claim was “our” estate.
Up until then, and against her objection to working any longer, I insisted that she keep her job as a receptionist for a large accounting firm in town. I wanted to be sure she was duchess material before I gave her the go-ahead to quit her job and move in. I’m not good with confrontation and wanted to avoid an ugly breakup if at all possible. Looking back, that was one of the better decisions I’ve ever made in my life.
I hired personal chefs for the gatherings since I didn’t want to cook and Karen couldn’t. French food was on the menu for dinner that night, a dinner the table of ten bahçelievler escort seemed to enjoy greatly. Since all of the guests were Karen’s friends, I sat quietly at the head of the table while Karen played hostess to her friends at the other end of the large, cherry slab.
We had more or less finished eating when a shortish, plump friend of Karen’s with curly, brown hair, well-lubed from some wine or another the chef said paired well with the meal, spoke up and asked Karen how her work husband was. Oblivious to my sudden interest in the question, Karen went into how funny and smart her work husband was. Already on thin ice for countermanding my instructions, as well as, not picking up after herself, my entitled girlfriend poked the bear one time too many.
“He’s so funny,” said my new ex-girlfriend, referring to the man who turned out to be her boss. “The other day, I almost wet myself he was so funny,” she continued, having drunk too much for her own good. “And did I mention how good he looks now that he’s lost weight?”
Seemingly aware that my drunk ex-girlfriend might have gone too far, several guests glanced at me from the corner of their eyes to gauge my reaction.
Fucking work husband, I said to myself as Karen went into another story about her fucking work husband. This one went too far and the guests started to squirm in their seats.
Another guest I’ll call Katie, because that might have been her name, sensed my unease with the conversation regarding my girlfriend’s work husband and changed the subject by asking Karen if she had any new vacations planned. But the hostess wasn’t done yet and went into another story about her obvious work crush, Bob.
“And did I tell you that he bought a new Mercedes?” my ex-girlfriend gushed, completely unaware that she was now down one sugar daddy. Suddenly no longer interested in my ex-girlfriend, I couldn’t help but throw gasoline onto the fire and asked her how long she’d had a crush on Bob.
“I don’t have a crush on him, silly,” she slurred, slowly aware that she might have gone too far in her praise.
“No, really,” I replied, just to make sure. “Please tell us another story about Bob. I would love to hear one.”
Finally aware that she had indeed gone too far, my ex-girlfriend turned red in the face and dropped her gaze. Not long after that, all of our guests claimed to have early plans for the next morning and made a hasty retreat from my castle.
“That went well,” I said to Karen out in the circular driveway as the last pair of guests drove away in their Uber.
“Listen,” she started but I had heard enough for one evening.
“I think you should go,” I replied, suddenly feeling cruel.
“What do you mean?” Karen slurred and listed to one side, not at all aware of how offended I was. There was no way a girlfriend of mine was going to have a work-husband.
“What I mean is: you need to collect up all of your shit, call an Uber and get the hell out,” I said, feeling even more cruel.
“No. No. No,” Karen stammered as the gravity of the situation slowly worked its way through her inebriated thoughts.
“Yes. Yes. Yes,” I replied, enjoying the moment a little too much, suddenly over the woman I thought was duchess material.
“But I didn’t…” said Karen, not sure how to proceed.
“But, unfortunately, you did,” I continued. “Maybe you can get a ride in Bob’s new Mercedes,” I added for good measure. “Hopefully, he’ll pay you to fly first class, otherwise, you’re flying coach.”
“Mike,” slurred Karen, finally aware of how thin the ice had grown under her feet.
“Karen,” I replied, continuing the joust. “You need to leave or I’ll call the police.” To make a long story short, I had to call the police to escort my drunk ex-girlfriend off the premises. Full of steam, I collected up all of her belongings, crammed them into the Lexus I bought her and called a tow truck to haul everything away. In one fell swoop, I excised a growing annoyance from my life.
Strewing her shit all over my house was one thing. Countermanding my instructions to the hired help was another. Being rude to waitresses and receptionists was also another but having a work husband was one bail of straw too many. And like that, I once again found myself single. Then Diana entered my life a few weeks later and I immediately şirinevler escort fell in love.
Much like Karen, things started out well then took a sudden turn for the worse and I never saw it coming. This is where I need to mention my fetish. To say that I crave ass play is to suggest that Lex Luther is a petty criminal. I live for ass play. I crave ass play the way a junky craves smack. However, I never got to the point in my relationship with Karen where I found the right time to bring up the subject. I like to take my time with the topic and make sure we’re in a good place before I pose the question.
Unfortunately, I never reached that point with Karen and broke up before I could ask. Rejection sucks, after all, and creates a strain on a relationship.
Pretty early on, I felt rather certain that Karen thought her ass was a national treasure and that ass play was strictly off limits. I still feel that way today but wish I’d brought up the subject, regardless. She might have surprised me and given me the green light to pound that little ass. Who knows? Crazier things have happened. Now I’ll never know. Then Diana entered my life and gave me hope that she was the one who would say yes and end my search for the perfect duchess.
Right from the start, our relationship got off on the right foot. Sex was good and we seemed to truly enjoy each other’s company. Of course, I didn’t suggest that she quit her job until the big question was answered. Namely, was she amenable to me sticking my weiner in her butt? My spidey sense suggested that she was but women are fickle when it comes to their asses. I couldn’t seem to find the right time to pop the question so the topic lingered. All the while, the raging inferno that was my fetish continued to grow.
You had to see Diana’s ass. Small and round, my whole life began to revolve around that little booty.
I don’t understand that big, fat-ass thing guys seem so enamored with these days. What does a guy do with an ass like Kim Kardashian’s? There is so much of it. Where does one start? Small and round is the only way to go. And thin legs are a given. It’s not politically correct to mention thigh gaps these days but I like thigh gaps. In fact, I love thigh gaps and Diana had one. I fell hard for that ass and, finally, after several months of dithering, unintentionally made my move.
As mentioned at the outset of this screed, I was sitting in a leather chair in my spacious dining-room when Diana walked by in a pair of capris and a light blouse. She looked irresistible in the outfit and I couldn’t take my eyes off her ass. Then before I knew what I was doing, I grabbed her around the waist and sat her in my lap. Already chubbed up, I quickly grew hard as I mashed my groin into her ass. The response was instant and furious.
Diana leapt up from my lap and spun a one-eighty. “What are you doing?” she demanded to know.
My erection pretty much gave me away. “I just wanted you to sit on my lap,” I said weakly.
Diana placed her hands on her narrow hips. “I thought I knew what you wanted and it will never happen.”
“What?” I asked, pretending not to have any idea what she meant.
“You know what I mean.”
Cat out of the bag, I decided to throw the dice to see if I found my duchess or not. “I want to cum in your ass,” I said with as much courage as I could muster.
“Let me say this one time and one time only,” Diana snapped, brows furrowed and chin jutted out. “You will never cum in my ass. There is no way it will ever happen. I thought you were different but I guess I was wrong. It’s filthy and it will never happen.”
“So you’re completely non-negotiable on the subject?” I asked just to make sure.
“It is non-negotiable,” spat my new ex-girlfriend. “It’s disgusting and I’m disgusted with you that you even asked.”
“For the record, I didn’t ask but we have reached an impasse none-the-less,” I replied calmly.
“Call it whatever you want but it will never happen.”
“Then as the saying goes,” I said with a shrug, once again feeling cruel, “you don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”
Diana’s features softened as her hands fell from her hips. She knew where I was headed and didn’t seem to enjoy the prospect of flying coach again after the taste of first class. “You’re not serious?” she asked me softly, now completely deflated.
“I’m afraid I am,” I replied with another shrug, feeling more cruel by the second. “Leave or I call the police,” I finished, not relishing the thought of the same police officer escorting another failed duchess off my property.
But after some crying and pleading, Diana left willingly and that, my friend, is how I once again find myself a duke without a duchess.
The End
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