Son Of The Slob Romane & Geschichten

He fell on his knees, and his dad, Lord Lucifer, grabbed his face. "You are Vincenzo West Pecaminoso… Son of Sin. You will only act like your father. You are my puppet. I gave you life; I made you. I could have let your mom abort you, but I didn’t. So you will act like me, do what I want you to do. I heard you when you said you would never hurt a woman. I won’t let you be a simp. You will kill your mom with a gun." He whispered.

He forced himself to suggest, "Dad, didn't S-stefan help your company last time? K-why don't ... don't ... just ask him for help?" Hearing stupid suggestions from his son, Bobby became even more angry, "What the hell are you, Robert?!" Bobby snapped in a high tone. His eyeballs were rounded wide. His mouth gaped. "You don't need to bring up that rubbish! Have you forgotten, son, that Stefan is your only competition for grandpa's inheritance? Remember that!" Robert looked down and pondered, then stomped out of the living room and into his room. Not wanting to be yelled at by her father, Luchy slowly waddled into her room.

My mother salvaged the situation, "I'm sure the president is different; he looks responsible, and his mother should be proud of him. Too bad he's an orphan." "Lena, I tell you, everything isn't about appearance; I lived that life enough to know it isn't all that it seems." My mother returned to stirring, "You aren't accusing your son-in-law of being part of the dirt of the society, are you?" My father scoffed, "Little boy isn't hard enough to be a part of the dirt of society," "Are we contradicting ourselves again? Choose one, is he a dirtbag, or is he not?"

“You see, your stubbornness will cost you this time. Trust me. Well, gentleman, before you defend my son, you should know that he's not really a man, but I just refer to him as a son to save my face.” “So, what are you trying to say in essence?” Turstin asked with hands folded on his chest. “Like I said, he's not a son. He's someone whose sexuality alone is an abomination.” The moment the words left his lips, I shut my eyes. How could he say that to Turstin without batting an eye? “Are you saying your son is special?” My dad chuckled heartily this time.

Unlike most people would think, I, Dorian Hayes, wasn't ashamed of my childhood, no matter how wretched it was. Thinking he has the upper hand, Easton stepped closer, his eyes the same shade as Noah but way colder like a winter storm raked over me with disgust. "I just can't for the life of me imagine why my son would be involved with a thing like you. Your mother is a strung out junkie, shooting up whatever she can get her hands on. Your father didn't even stick around long enough to see you born. Raised in a trusted out trailer park, scraping by on handouts and pity. You're nothing. Less than nothing."

"Whine to Father until he changes his senile old mind?" Blaine rounded furiously on his brother's relaxed form. "As if you even give a damn whether Tristan steals your goddamned birthright!" Blaine burst out bitterly, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. "You're too drunk off Father's money 24/7 to be bothered fighting for what should be ours." At the accusation, Brady surged up out of the leather armchair, face reddening as he met Blaine's contemptuous stare head on. The empty tumbler fell forgotten from his fingers, bouncing soundlessly on the thick carpet.

When he was broke, he would shamelessly ask his mother for money, all while trying to look important, but he was really just full of hot air. The more someone like him talked, the more they boasted. Spittle flying, he boasted, "Just look at Drake Hughes, the boss of the Sunshine Grand Hotel, the most famous big shot in Brownsville. He's a good friend of mine. We've shared drinks at the same table, and he treats me like a brother. None of you can say you've had that honor." Madam Faust doted on her youngest son endlessly. Even though he was a disappointment, he was still her darling boy. She happily handed over her entire pension for him to squander on his pleasures, always coddling him.

“What do you want?” “What every father wants,” the man said. “To see what my son has built from the ashes.” “You destroyed everything.” Carson’s voice trembled. “You ruined lives. You used Sloane. You used me.” “I shaped you,” his father corrected smoothly. “Sloane was the hammer. You were the blade.” Justina grabbed Carson’s hand, grounding him. “And yet,” his father continued, “you threw it all away for a woman who doesn’t know what you truly are.”

"You need to come home. Your father is dying." He should have said no, and ended the call, or thrown the phone across his pathetic studio apartment, and pretended he had never heard those words. Five years ago, Patriarch Michael Thorne had stood in the grand hall of the family estate and declared his eldest son dead to the Holy Order, dead to God, and dead to the bloodline that stretched back twelve generations of exorcists. Gabriel had been seventeen, broken, and desperate for understanding that never came.

The mischievous son pulled his cock out of the momma's mouth and quickly moved around the table to get behind the momma and get sloppy seconds. "Oh God yes" moaned the momma as the mischievous son pushed his hard cock into the momma's still hungry pussy. The friendly neighbor felt a tap on his shoulder and he turned to see the beautiful daughter standing there naked as the day she was born. The beautiful daughter pointed at the friendly neighbor's limp dick and said, "That's a very nice looking cock, but it would look even better if it was hard." "Perhaps you could encourage it to become hard again," said the friendly neighbor.