CHARLES' Point of view.
I once believed my life was defined by misery, a perception that shifted dramatically when I forged a new path. I seized my future, fought for it with unwavering determination, and embraced the life before me. It was then that I began to see an unexpected beauty in what I had previously perceived as my own monstrous nature.
At forty-two, the driving force behind my present self is the ambition my uncle instilled in me during my adolescence. I was fifteen when he first shared his grand vision.
"I will become a billionaire," he declared, "through the strength of my sons and my own intellect."
"What do you mean, Uncle?" I asked, intrigued.
"Young, vibrant, energetic, and willing," he explained, "they will be the instruments of my primary plan. I will train them, mold them, and together we will secure the resources needed to reach the pinnacle of success. All I require are male heirs – about six should be okay."
My uncle was a man of his word, a man who consistently transformed his plans into reality. He kept this particular ambition close, sharing its intricacies only with me. This privileged insight allowed me to understand it intimately. Our private conversations often revolved around this future, and our recent discussions indicated its imminent commencement. I was eager to witness its unfolding, especially considering his childless state.
Then, an unexpected force disrupted everything. A religious zealot entered his life, preaching of a heavenly paradise and a fiery hell. My uncle, once consumed by earthly ambition, now spends his days at the preacher's gatherings, fervently praying for the arrival of heaven.
I had always been captivated by his original plan. Why wouldn't I be? It was a magnificent vision. Before this religious influence took hold, I had thoroughly questioned him about it during our private moments, and he had always answered with unwavering conviction. I had even harbored a secret desire to pursue that plan myself. Now, thankfully, my uncle's focus has shifted. He will surely no longer be going after it.
It took me three years to take the first concrete step towards realizing that ambition. On my eighteenth birthday, I made Milan, my girlfriend, pregnant.
Milan was a beautiful and supportive woman, with a slender sexy body she had maintained since childhood, despite a hearty appetite. I loved her deeply, her physique, her caring nature – everything about her.
Since we first met, she had often hinted at a particular gift she desired from me. In the weeks leading up to her seventeenth birthday, her reminders became more frequent. On the night of her birthday, after all the well-wishers had departed, and even her aunt, with whom she lived, was at work, we found ourselves alone at home late into the night.
She was wearing a short, sleeveless rose-pink dress that perfectly fit her slim body. The gentle curves of her hips and the inviting shape of her buttocks were subtly emphasized by the fabric, just like she was born with the dress. The memory of her appearance that night still vividly excites me. Her beauty could ignite desire in any man from afar.
A surge of possessiveness, anger, and primal instinct overwhelmed me when I saw other boys approach her that evening. I fought them, nearly overshadowing her special day with my actions. If not for her understanding nature, I might have ruined it entirely. But it wasn't truly the fault of those boys; they were simply drawn to her undeniable beauty, the kind of special beauty any boy would want.
Later, alone in the quiet of the room, she reminded me that I still hadn't given her the promised gift. She stood before the mirror, her back to me, having just removed her earrings and bending to take off her high heels. Me seated on a chair behind her, my gaze was drawn to the fresh expanse of her thighs, and desire began to stir within me.
As she bent further, the white fabric of her underwear beneath the short dress became visible, momentarily revealing her most intimate parts. My arousal was immediate and intense.
I don't recall the precise movement – whether I flew, jumped, or simply walked – but in an instant, I was beside her. I reached out, my hands gripping her waist from behind, pressing my already hard private part against her buttocks.
She straightened slightly, bracing her hands on the mirror, subtly presenting her soft buttocks for my touch. Her eyes met mine in the standing mirror, filled with a confident allure.
I kissed the nape of her neck, my hands moving to cup her breasts, my hardness rubbing against her. Milan possessed a unique accent, a blend of her Italian mother's tongue and her American father's, shaped by her formative years spent in Italy. It was this distinctive voice, combined with her beauty, that had initially captivated me.
As I continued to caress her, the sound of her voice echoed in my mind, and before I knew it, our lips were locked in a passionate kiss. Pulled back from my reverie, I swiftly lifted her into my arms, carrying her from the mirror to the bed. Gently, I laid her down.
I raised the hem of her dress and slipped off her underwear. It was then, as my hands traced the curve of her hips, that their true sensuality became apparent. That night marked the end of her virginity. While not my first sexual encounter, it was undeniably the most profound. Love, I realized, infused the act with an unparalleled sweetness. Driven by my desire for her to bear my son, the heir to my adapted ambition, I used no protection and intentionally released my semen inside her.
Afterward, she lay beside me, exhausted from her first experience, her head resting on my chest. The gentle rise and fall of her breasts against my ribs, dictated by her breathing, reignited my desire. She sensed my renewed arousal and placed her hand on my hardening private part.
Driven by the fervent wish for my child, my future, to come from the woman I loved, I wanted to ensure conception with this opportunity. We were about to begin again when her aunt unexpectedly entered the room, discovering us entwined on the bed.