Page 11 of Tormented Heir

I sit on the worn chair. My fingers brush over the smoothed wooden edge of the seat. This chair must be very old. I wonder about all the people who have placed their asses on it over the years. Did Anton? Did he screw Bettina on this chair?

My cock starts to swell and a wave of self-loathing crashes over me. What the hell? I hate Anton, and I’m glad he’s dead. As for this creature, she’s nothing but a floury, pasty mess. I can’t stand her white and pink skin, or the way her wispy hair sticks to her forehead. Her overly full mouth makes me feel sick.

Still, these days my cock reacts to almost anything. I need to touch it a lot. For a moment an utterly depraved though hits me. Could I use these letters to make Bettina suck me?

Bettina smiles at me, unsure. I can’t stand her, but I’d still love to know what a woman’s lips feel like wrapped around my cock. I bet she’d do it, if it meant her stupid husband didn’t find out what a slut she is.

But Mamma would be horrified if I did that. It would also make me more like Anton, and haven’t I just vowed never to be like him?

“I’m so sorry about your papa. That must be very hard for you.”

“Not really. He was an asshole.”

She gasps, and her mouth remains in a surprised O.

“Cut the crap; you know exactly what he was like.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Her cheeks grow redder.

“I think you do. You weren’t special, you know. He screwed a lot of women. Mostly servants.”

She flinches but quickly rearranges her features.

I take out the letters and wave them in front of her. “He kept your letters, as a nice little memento. I’ve just seen your husband in the field.” I flick through the letters. “I almost dropped these. That would have been a shame, wouldn’t it?”

Her face tightens, and the redness in her cheeks has faded as if it is draining down her double chin and the creamy column of her throat.

The plan hits me at the last moment. “I’d like a lot of things in life, but you see, my step-bastard didn’t leave us much money. Everyone talks so much around here, and they say your mother left you a lot of precious jewelry when she died.” I’m going to take her jewels. For Mamma.

Her face grows paler still. “Those things are family heirlooms, and Tobia would know if they disappeared. How would I explain it? We were going to use them to pay for our retirement.”

“You have a fucking farm,” I spit. The swear word feels so good against my tongue. A side of me I never felt before roars inside. An angry, scary part. “Land. A house. Equipment. Livestock. Sell that when you retire.”

She shakes her head. “I can’t give you all my mother’s jewels.”

“Did I ask for them all?” I say calmly.

Fire is burning through me, lighting up long-dark areas. It feels good. Powerful. I like this, I realize. I like tormenting her.

She’s scared, and it makes my cock even harder.

“You’re a boy. I could call my husband right now and get him to beat you to a pulp.”

She lunges forward and manages to grab some of the letters, but I scrunch my hand into a fist, saving the rest.

“Doesn’t matter,” I tell her. “I have more at the house. If you don’t do what I want, I will make sure your husband—and the entire community—read those letters.”

Her hand hits the table, palm down, making a loud slapping sound. “What the fuck do you want, you little shit?”

There she is. The real Bettina. She isn’t the pleasant, ruddy-faced, cake-baking, farmer’s wife. She’s the nasty bitch who screwed my step-fucker behind Mamma’s back and wrote awful things about us.

“Enough to be comfortable for a while. Until we get sorted. The bastardo left us nothing.”

She glances at the knife block.

“If you think your reputation will be shredded by these letters, I think it would be worse if a dead kid was found in your kitchen.”

Her piggy eyes narrow to slits. “My husband would help me cover it up.”

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