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TWO
Cash
One Month Ago…
“Mmm.”
Stella, my so-called father’s girlfriend, moans around my dick. I thread my fingers through the hair at the back of her head and squeeze, pressing my shaft deeper down her throat. The bitch digs her fingernails into my hips, and I hiss at the added sensation but that doesn’t stop me. Not that I think she wants me to.
She’s a fucking wreck. Her soft, blonde hair is disheveled, mascara running down her face, lipstick smeared all over me.
Hot. Fucking. Mess.
Dad doesn’t know how often I ruin what’s his, how often I take his girl right in his own bed, my cum staining his sheets. I do it because I want to get off, but mostly, I do it to get back at him.
For being an unreasonable asshole.
For making me feel like I was never worth fucking anything. As if I had a say in who my real dad was. It’s not my fucking fault, yet he treats me like a low-life criminal instead of the son I’ve tried so hard to be.
So I fuck his girl, hoping one day soon, he’ll walk in on us and see me with my dick disappearing inside one of her holes as payback. Serves him right, dating a girl not even four years older than me. Hell, we went to high school together. She was a senior when I was a freshman. How exactly did he think this was going to go? She basically throws herself at me, wearing skimpy nighties or see-through shirts with no bra in sight, nipples pressed obscenely against the thin material. What man wouldn’t want to bang a hot piece of ass like Stella?
I’ve heard my dad and her together more than once, sometimes jacking off to the sound of her moans and cries as they travel down the hallway from his bedroom to mine. My dad—or Brian as I like to refer to him most of the time—doesn’t realize she’s faking it, because I know how she really sounds when her cunt clamps down on my dick and she paints my cock with her cum.
It’s a show, a means to an end. We have money, and she doesn’t. But she has a pretty face, a huge pair of fake tits, and a tight vagina—all a man like my dad needs. He doesn’t want a woman’s opinion. He wants her body—he wants to control her. All my life, he’s told me that women are worthless, made to serve a man. Each time he says that shit, it enrages me. How could he even imply that, knowing who my mother was?
Because he’s a cruel fucking asshat, that’s how.
I’m ashamed to admit it, but his disregard for others has influenced me over the years. It’s a learned behavior that I struggle to unteach myself. But like he says, it might be too late for a man like me.
Stella reaches under me and fondles my balls, my dick surging harder. I thrust my hips faster, sweat glistening on my skin, my orgasm threatening.
I tighten my grip on her hair, and she moans again, the noise vibrating my cock. “You like it when I fuck your mouth, don’t you, whore?”
Stella gazes up at me with heated desire, eyes hungry for more of me, for a piece of Cashel O’Conner. And I give it to her.
With a groan of my own, I bust my nut inside her hot mouth. She attempts to push away but I hold her firm, shoving my cock down her tight little throat, her gagging and choking fueling my release. Only when my balls have emptied do I slip out and tap the head on her lips. “Lick it clean, then go take a shower. You look disgusting.”
Stella doesn’t bristle at my own cruelty, now used to it from both dad and me. Instead of wallowing, she obediently drags her tongue over my shaft, licking every last drop of my cum before I step away and turn my back on her. I slip my jeans back on and grab my t-shirt off dad’s bed.
When I turn back, I find her still on her knees, lips swollen from sucking my dick. Raising my arm, I point at my dad’s en suite. “I thought I told you to take a shower?”
Stella scrambles when I raise my voice, half crawling, half walking as she stumbles into the bathroom. “Now there’s a good lass,” I praise before she shuts the door behind her. I know what will come next. After I fuck her mouth and abruptly dismiss her, Stella always masturbates with the shower wand. Sometimes I watch if I think I can come a second time.
The rush of shower water sounds, and I consider staying until my iWatch buzzes in alarm, warning me of the motion sensor I placed inside the garage going off.
Dad’s home.
Throwing my t-shirt over my shoulder, I shove my hands inside my front pockets and casually walk out of his room and into mine, closing and locking the door behind me. Just the sight of his face pisses me off. I’m still coming down from the high of my orgasm and refuse to let him ruin that for me.
Throwing open the French doors that lead out onto a second-story balcony, I step outside and rest my arms along the top of the glass railing. Gazing out along the acres of green grass, I inhale deeply and puff out my breath through my lips. It’s late August here in Cork, and I’ve still not decided what the fuck I’m going to do with my life.
Precedence would have me taking over Mum’s business before Dad gets his grimy claws on it. I know that’s his plan, to send me away and undermine my right to the company. More than once, he’s tried to off me. There’ve been too many occasions when a stray bullet has whizzed by my head, or I’ve noticed my food tastes a bit off before declining a meal.
He wants me gone, there’s no doubting that.
But the thing about O'Connors is we’re hard to kill.
Well, at least the men are. My eyes shift to the bright blue sky, thinking about Mum. I’ll never stop missing her. Even six years later, the ache in my chest hurts just as badly as the day I lost her. If there’s one thing I hate more than my dear old pop, it’s cancer.
