Aunty Pat and Anita called to collect me for the return drive home around 7pm. Ebony had been true to her word and had "fucked my brains out" after lunch, with the occasional visit to her torture chamber for some punishment games. So I was pretty exhausted by the time the car arrived to pick me up!
Luckily, so was aunty! She and Anita had spent a hectic day satisfying the general's demands, so Aunty Pat only demanded one relaxing bout of cunnilingus from me on the drive home.
The next morning, after breakfast, I put on sox and a pair of Nike trainers for my pony boy session, which was carried out this time by Anita, who enjoyed three orgasms on our way round the route.
She allowed me to enjoy a relaxing plunge in the pool when we returned, and was standing by in a shiny little PVC bikini ready to hand me my towel when I emerged naked from the water.
As I dried, Anita informed me: "Report to your aunt's bedroom, she wants to talk to you."
I knocked on aunty's door and entered. Aunty Pat was sitting on the side of the bed wearing her stunning PVC playsuit, with its open front for her breasts and crotch. It was her favourite outfit for punishment games.
Aunty looked at me and patted the bed beside her. "Sit here, darling," she said, in a low voice. I did so.
Then she turned and looked intently into my eyes before kissing me gently on the cheek. "I'm afraid I've got some very bad news, Rick, very bad indeed," she told me.
I was only 20 at the time, but I wasn't stupid. I knew immediately it concerned my father. "What's happened to my father, Pat?" I asked.
"I'm afraid he's dead, darling," she replied. "I've just had a call from your stepmom, something about a yellow sports car and a truck on the M4, is it?"
I nodded dumbly. The yellow sports car would be the Lamborghini, which father always drove too fast for his expertise. Then the tears began to flood down my cheeks.
Aunty Pat leaned against me, patted me on the head, soothingly, and I pressed my face against her lovely big boobs, my tears cascading over them.
Then, to my surprise, I felt myself licking and kissing at aunty's big breasts. My tears were still flowing, but for some reason I needed to obtain comfort from her lovely 40-inch mammaries. I licked and sucked and soon her nipples were hard to my touch.
I pushed aunty back onto the bed, then climbed aboard, amazed at how, in such a moment of grief, my cock could stand up to rigid attention. Aunty sighed as I plunged into her and then she resumed stroking my head, comforting me with small words, as I pumped and pumped my way to a pulsating ejaculation.
The next day, I was packed and Anita, dressed once more in her sharp little chauffeur's outfit, and Aunty Pat, dressed in very formal black, took me all the way to Los Angeles for a night flight to London.
I was met at Heathrow by Johnson, father's faithful retainer, in the Rolls - why couldn't father have been driving the Rolls on the M4? - and we drove to the Mayfair apartments, where my stepmother was waiting.
Karla, a stunningly-attractive 35-year-old brunette, was dressed in a simple, stark little black dress which did nothing to hide her fine figure. Her big brown eyes were red and rimmed with tears and exhaustion. She gave me a tender hug, the first time she had ever showed me any outward emotion.
On the table in the lounge newspapers were scattered, The Times, the Guardian, the Daily Telegraph and the tabloids, all with large stories about father.
The heavier papers carried obituaries on him, and the Telegraph even had a mention for me. "The dashing 20-year-old Rick, like his father a devotee of fast cars and fast women on the night club circuit, is destined to take over his father's empire," it raved. Stupid fucking obituary writers!
The funeral was, thank goodness, a quiet affair, although several members of Fleet Street's finest managed to snap picture of my poor stepmother in all her grief, the bastards!
About a week after the funeral, Mr Snipcock arrived at our Mayfair apartments. My father's trusted solicitor was ushered into the apartments by Johnson and received by my stepmother and myself in what had been father's office.
Mr Snipcock read the will, and quite honestly it was all way above my head. I was trained in engineering, not legalese, so at the end of his dreary recitation, I asked: "Now, Mr Snipcock, could you please translate into simple English for me and, I assume, my mother."
The doddery old solicitor smiled indulgently and nodded: "Of course, Master Rick. It will be my pleasure.
"Your father has left his homes in Paris, Wentworth, Manhattan and Sydney, Australia, along with these rooms in Mayfair to your mother, plus an annuity of 10 million pounds. "He has left the residue of the estate, his industrial empire, his fleet of cars - er, minus the Lamborghini, of course - to you. You will receive an annuity of 20,000 pounds a year until you are 30 years of age.
"In that time, you will be under the care of your mother, who will administer the expenditure of your annuity. You are, in effect, to be her ward until you reach 30. Then the estate devolves to you, except the properties, of course."
My stepmother stood and smoothed her dress over her lovely thighs and bum. "I think it's all very straight forward, Mr Snipcock," she said in her slight American drawl. "Thank you for coming, Johnson will show you out."
