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I lead Jack through the lobby to the elevators. I am excited. I need his tongue.
Chapter Forty-One
Sunday I put Jack on the treadmill, working him many miles. I need to think.
With the estate in the low nine digits, as Lips Louie suggested, that’s at least one hundred million dollars. That’s a lot of money and offers incentive for a lot of shenanigans.
Was Mrs. Lipton aware of the questionable nature of her Mexican divorce? Is that why she insisted Jack be completely cut out of the will, to be neither an alternative nor a minor heir to a vast fortune?
She did not like Jack, never enjoyed his company, essentially giving me carte blanche over his upbringing... and his body for that matter. No questions asked, not a second opinion requested when I recommended circumcision. And my bed wetting ruse, again upon disclosure, nothing but disdain. Though false, her haughtiness did not permit her to address the issue and become involved as a mother. Even a step mother should react in concern.
Yes, forcing Mr. Lipton to completely cut Jack out of the will was probably an emotional issue.
In negotiating Jack’s meager trust, discussions continuing after Mrs. Lipton moved to Palm Beach, I have her contact information. I also make a note to obtain from Lips Louie the name of the con artist, who many years ago inveigled marriage, offering Las Vegas wedding vows for a cheap night with a show girl. So abhorrent, such typical male skullduggery.
I hear the treadmill beeping, indicating Jack has finished a brisk five mile run. I return to the exercise room and demand twenty miles on the stationary bicycle. He must be kept physically attractive. With his high testosterone levels he shapes wondrously.
Chapter Forty-Two
I find an email address for Ms. Judith Lipton, wealthy widow of Jack’s father. I send a brief note providing my cell phone number and suggesting that we need to talk. Since our relationship became rather testy when I had Jack’s attorney initially question his father’s will, I decide that it may be best to spice up my otherwise polite note. So I add a postscript, questioning if she, Ms. Lipton, has been to Ciudad Juarez recently. That should gain her attention!
In hitting send I notice that in my inbox I have a reply from my recent Craig’s List posting offering Jack’s nakedness for CFNM parties.
How cute! A woman, rather bold and liberated, inquires whether Jack will perform at an 18th birthday party. Seems she wants her daughter to be more familiar with the male anatomy, ingrain more assertiveness when interacting with boys.
I respond affirmatively, with the proviso that all in attendance be of age. A follow up email confirms that the attendees will be age 18 or older. We set a date for the forthcoming Saturday afternoon.
The communication gives rise to thought. Perhaps I should post a separate Craig’s Listing offering Jack as a boy who will jump out of a cake at ribald parties for women!
Yes, he’ll be locked up... and the honored guest will be presented with his key, the decision hers as to whether or not Jack will display himself erect. Clever stuff.
In scrolling through other emails, I find it tedious in deleting the number of crackpot replies. How is it people have so much time to be so insincere? In thought, perhaps there are alternatives to Craig’s List in terms of finding outlets for Jack’s need, his craving for exhibition.
Ah, why not have a little teaser? A Sunday afternoon tea party. I’ll not only invite all of Jack’s cleaning customers but suggest they bring friends, women of our ilk who either need their bathrooms clean or simply want to be entertained.
I begin composing a list beginning with Theresa, Mrs. Rivers, Iorio, and MacConnell. And Alice! With her clandestine kinky dress making she is sure to know women with exotic tastes in being entertained. In completing, the list is extensive with all the toilets Jack cleans.
The hum of the bicycle ends.
“Run some water, Jack. Bath time.”
Chapter Forty-Three
Jack kneels in soapy warmth. After the extensive exercise I have demanded he’s somewhat lethargic but grateful for my controlling touch, the ritual of many years of embarrassing cleansings becoming psychologically acceptable.
He has never washed himself as an adult. I’ve soaked and shaved him daily.
“So did you enjoy performing for Louis, Jack?”
He’s chagrined. When I feel his muscles stiffen I know his homophobia still somewhat seethes.
“I really didn’t do anything. My hands... my hands...”
“Yes, I had you secured... to make sure you were polite and receptive. But he sucked your penis, didn’t he?”
Jack knows that I insist on full answers no matter how bothersome the question.
“Yes, ma’am.”
