Joseph
There are a lot of things that I can put on hold for thirty-nine days, but some things are out of the question. This includes the weekly phone call from my grandfather, Joseph. I’m not only named after him, but also turned out to be the son he never had, considering that my father grew to be the biggest disappointment to him imaginable.
I don’t know where I would be if it wasn’t for this man, so I’d never reject a call from him or my grandmother. They practically raised me, even before the untimely death of my parents. I was twelve when it happened, a boy about to start junior high school, when my father drove the car into a ravine, killing both him and my mother. They were both drunk at the time. They had been out on another binge, leaving me home alone. I was used to it, even at that young age. I didn’t even notice that my parents didn’t return that night, because I was already fast asleep. When the police woke me up at five in the morning by ringing the doorbell and banging on the door, I was too scared to open the door for them. It wasn’t the first time that police had paid an early morning visit to our house, but this time I was afraid. I knew right away that something must have happened, and I knew right away that it must be something really bad, because they took of their hats when I finally answered the door for them. When they asked if my babysitter was home, I didn’t even understand the question, and when I told them that I was by myself, they exchanged a knowing look.
It’s funny how people always talk about life being unfair, about kids having unequal chances at life, about how privileged those born into rich families are. While all of that may be true, parents like mine often get overlooked. My father was privileged, sent off to the country’s best business college to learn how to run the family’s real estate empire built by my grandfather. But the responsibility and lack of choice that comes from being one of the privileged overwhelmed him from the beginning. He was more than just a rebel, he was angry, violent, and he hated his parents for inflicting this pressure on him. He vowed to never do it to his own son, and I can give him that. He never put any pressure on me, but that was mostly because he barely acknowledged my existence. He and my mother got married because he knocked her up when they were both still in college, and both their families pressured them to do the right thing and get married. At least they had something to connect over - a joint hate for their families, and a joint love for drugs and alcohol.
My grandparents sought legal custody of me several times, but they never succeeded.
Until my parents died.
It was as if they’d gotten another chance at raising the son they always wanted. They cared for me, they fostered me, they nurtured me, and they poured all their hopes and dreams into me.
And I didn’t mind. On the contrary, I drank it all in as if I’d been dying of thirst for years. The love, the hope, the pressure, all of it was new for me, and I loved most of it.
But I was still my father’s son. I’ve inherited some of his most loathsome traits. I’m cursed with the same rage, the same inability to control my anger when it overcomes me. Despite everything my grandparents did for me, I remained a trouble maker. Though that word may be a little too cute to describe myself.
Just like most retired elderly people, my grandparents have a pretty set schedule. They’re the most predictable people I know, the only constant in my life that never changes. They call every Sunday, right after lunch, which is around 1 p.m. I don’t know why they decided to make this their time to call, but that’s what it is. I’ve not only grown accustomed to it, but made it an integral part of my week. No matter if there’s a girl in the house or not, I’ll be sitting in my office early Sunday afternoon, ready to pick up the phone.
It’s usually my grandfather who calls as the classic patriarch of the family. But today, I hear my grandmother’s voice when I answer the phone after letting it ring just one time.
“Joseph,” she greets me with glee. The smile is palpable in her voice, I can practically see her face beaming in front of me. “How are you? Is it as cold up there as they say on the news?”
“It’s gotten pretty chilly,” I tell her. “I bet you guys don’t have to worry about that down there, do you?”
“Oh, no, no,” my grandmother replies. “Been more worried about the gators lately - Grandpa swears he saw one in the backyard this week!”
I laugh at her excited voice. I’m pretty sure that they don’t actually have to worry about alligators in their wealthy gated community, but my grandparents like to create adventure where there’s none.
I engage in a little chit-chat with her, getting reassured that both of them are doing fine, something that cannot be taken for granted at their age.
After a while, she hands the phone over to my grandfather, thus shifting the conversation to an entirely different topic. My grandparents are not afraid to be the perfect stereotype when it comes to certain things, and while my grandmother prefers to talk about the weather, my health, and random gossip about people that I don’t even know, my grandfather is all about the business.
“Things going good?” he asks as soon as he’s handed the phone, and I know he’s not talking about me or my health, but about the business he left me in charge of.
“Yes, everything is running smoothly,” I assure him. “Flipped the Lincoln properties last week, so those are finally off our hands.”
“Good, good,” my grandfather agrees. “Anything new on the horizon?”
“Not right now,” I tell him. “I’ll pick up some negotiations with those law firms in town. They have been back and forth with us for months now, and I wanted to give them some time to think things over and come up with a good proposal before I sit down with them again.”
“In Boston?” he asks.
“Yes, in Boston,” I say.
“Good, always good to be close to the client,” he concludes.
“I know, you’ve taught me that,” I remark.
My grandfather has taught me a lot of things, most of them business-related, of course. But even though he doesn’t know it, he also taught me quite a lot about human psychology.
Years ago, that day when I went too far, when my fists destroyed lives, that was when he realized how dangerous I’d become, both to myself and others. That was the day he sat me down and told me I had to do something about it, I had to change something in my life.
“You need an outlet, son,” he told me. “A hobby, sports, martial arts. Anything that will keep both your mind and your body focused. Something that captivates and controls you, something that channels all that violent energy into something less harmful, even useful.”
Of course, he had no idea where I would go with his advice. I tried different things, I tried Tae kwon do, Jiu Jitsu, boxing. It helped my physique, but none of it could tame my mind.
Nothing worked as well as this.
I found my outlet in women, not in their embrace, but in their terror. They may only play a role for me, but their faces, painted with both agony and bliss are what keeps me sane.
And so far, none of them have done the job as well as Ruby.
Now as I look at her on one of the screens in my office, I can’t help but feel a warm wave of gratefulness flooding my entire being.
She’s tied to her bed, her naked body hidden under that red fur coat, the one thing she needs to protect herself from me. It’s been two days, and I still haven’t fucked her. I’ve never waited this long, because no one has ever made me wait this long. Ruby makes me want to take my time with her, she makes me want different things. I’ve spanked her, tied her down, and I’ve made her come again and again, and not only to gain her trust so it’ll be easier to control her.
No, it’s not just that.
I just enjoy watching her. I can’t get enough of her beautiful face, her enticing body, her expressive reactions.
I can’t get enough of her.