Bent Over for Uncle Jessie
- 3 years ago
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Curse You Uncle Jessie Ch. 01 free porn video
He’d always been my favorite uncle, however right now I was glad he wasn’t here or I’d strangle his scrawny neck. (Damn it Uncle Jessie, how could you?)
George Bennett, Esq. droned on, reading the will. It was no secret I was Uncle Jessie’s favorite nephew, most knew I’d be mentioned and receive a portion of the estate.
The family was listening and this made it worse, they knew, word would spread. No one was smiling, at least outwardly, but I suspected inside they were working to suppress their amusement.
(Curse you, Uncle Jessie. I wish you weren’t dead.)
This state of affairs took me back to last spring when Uncle Jessie and I’d been fishing…
‘Well, my boy how’s school?’
‘Okay, finals are next month and I gotta do some serious studying.’
‘You’re not having problems, are you?’
‘No, I want to maintain a cushion because my scholarship requires a minimum GPA.’
Uncle Jessie chuckled. ‘You don’t do things with half measures, never have.’
He skillfully snapped the line and dropped the lure under the branch overhanging the opposite bank. That’s where he figured the best fish hung out and he and I were stalking ‘Old Soldier’. My stringer held four Rainbows, each 15 inches. But we wanted the one which had eluded us all last summer. We’d seen him a couple times down by the rapids, 23 inches long, and named him the ‘Old Soldier’ because of the battle scars in his tail.
I was working the old tree stump, further down river. The water was deeper and my guess was he hung out here, making forays up and downstream. I expertly toyed with the line as my fly danced along, skimming the surface.
Each spring the two of us would compete and the one with the most catches by July 4th would treat the other to a full course meal at a restaurant of their choice. Last year he had to pay off, but it was the first time. Uncle Jessie was ‘tops’ with a fly rod and I’d beat him on a fluke. A turtle had eaten his stringer and five beauties had gotten away. It was the first and only time I ever heard him cuss.
‘I’m putting you in my will.’
‘You know I don’t want anything. I’m content. I’d rather you give your money to the Women’s Pregnancy Center. Besides you’ve a lot of years left to lay back and fish.’
‘You never give up campaigning for them. Okay, I promise to help them out too, when the time comes. You have a soft heart for that place, you’d give them the shirt off your back.’
He flicked his line and then continued. ‘I plan on visiting lawyer Bennett next week and have my will changed.’
‘And?’ I ask.
‘You’ll get the house and all the land, including this stream.’
We’d been over this before, so I knew the details. The rest of the family understood our close relationship, and agreed to this arrangement. He was 61 and healthy as an old bull, so it would be years before the will would be implemented.
My attention focused on the water because I saw movement near the lure.
‘Matt, has some girl got her hooks in you yet?’
My arm flinched and I jerked the line. The movement in the water slipped away.
‘You know how to ruin a good thing, don’t you Uncle Jessie? Besides, who’s campaigning now?’
‘I want you to get married. It’s a good institution, your Aunt Mary and I had a good life together. Before a man’s married, he’s not complete.’
‘And after he’s married, he’s finished. I’ve heard you say that before.’
‘Or, marriage isn’t a ‘word’, it’s a ‘sentence.’ But with Mary, it was a sentence of love. My life wasn’t fulfilled till I met her. She was the cream at the top, the best thing in my life. That’s why I want you to find the right girl and settle down.’
‘It ain’t gonna happen and you know it. I’m not ready to marry and I’m not interested in any girl. Maybe a couple years after I graduate next spring. But right now, no.’
‘Want to make a bet?’
Whenever this subject was brought up, I might as well forget about fishing, so I reeled in my line and waded to the bank. ‘You don’t give up do you? It’s not going to happen, and you know it.’
‘Well, do you?’
‘No. I don’t’
‘You chicken or something? Never knew you to back away from a good wager with your Uncle.’
I eyed him as I inspected the trout on my stringer. ‘Not about this, no I won’t do it.’
‘Suit yourself.’
That was the last time we went fishing together. I went back to the University and finished out the year, Uncle Jessie entered the hospital. His body was riddled with cancer. He knew it, but never told anyone.
The chemo treatments eroded what strength he had left and he became a stick on a slender frame. He lost his hair, wore a ball cap and by the end of July he was in a wheelchair, a nurse pushing him everywhere. I visited often. We planned strategies for catching ‘Old Soldier’, but none of them were ever implemented.
He passed away late in October, the funeral was the same week and we placed him beside Aunt Mary. Two days later, I wished he were alive so I could strangle him.
Uncle Jessie’s line had hooked me. The lure had done its work, now he was reeling me in, and doing it from his grave. I could almost hear his chuckle.
My reverie was interrupted by the lawyer. ‘Matt, do you understand the provisions of this will?’
Bennett’s voice matched the rhythmic ‘tick’ of the grandfather clock standing in the corner. I was looking for a way out of this trap and it had been laid well.
I shook my head to clear it and Bennett figured I’d said ‘no’.
‘He left you the house, all the surrounding property and a trust fund to maintain the place. In addition you’ll receive 5% of the voting stock from his company and $850,000 cash. All totaled, this equals about $3.2 Million.’
This I understood. Uncle Jessie had shared it with me earlier that summer. It’s the other part I wished weren’t included.
He discussed some other provisions before returning to my downfall.
‘$26 Million has been set aside, and to be kept secure. The funds will be distributed after Matt has graduated from University, or next June, which ever comes first, and the final determination of their dispersal depends upon Matt’s marital status. Should he have a wife at that time, the funds will be given to the Women’s Pregnancy Center. Otherwise the Women’s Abortion Clinic will be their recipient.’
(Curse you Uncle Jessie. I wish you weren’t dead.)
—-
The first sign of trouble came two weeks later. The phone rang.
‘Matthew Jensen?’
‘Yes. To whom am I speaking?’
‘Jean Clark. I’m a reporter from the Daily Chronicle. We’re doing a series of articles on local personalities and want to include your biography. Could we meet over lunch tomorrow?’
‘Sure.’ I was flattered.
—-
‘I’ll have the catfish and a side salad.’
The waitress took our order while we talked.
‘You grew up around here?’
‘Yes. I’m an only child…’
I talked for an hour, with her asking an occasional question.
‘What about hobbies?’
‘The only hobby I had was Uncle Jessie teaching me how to fly fish.’
‘Your Uncle?’
‘Yes, Jessie Hancock.’
‘THE Jessie Hancock? He was your Uncle?’
‘Um hum. He and mom are brother and sister. I’d spend weekends at his house and he’d teach me how to cast a fly into a gallon can from 75 feet. I could never match his ability, though.’
I should have been aware something was up, but the recent funeral dulled my radar. It was good to relive fond memories of my time with Uncle Jessie and Aunt Mary.
I talked too much.
In the morning I was packing to return to University when the phone rang.
‘Matt Jensen?’ a female voice spoke.
‘Yes. To whom and I speaking?’
‘I’m Angie Jordon. You remember me. We used to go to school together.’
‘Okay. In
our senior class, you sat across from me in English Lit.’
‘Yeah, that’s me. Anyway, I’m wondering if you’d like to go out together?’
Warning bells were going off in my head. ‘I’m headed back to University, so I don’t think it will be possible.’
‘Could I take you out to lunch, then? I’d really like to get to know you again.’
‘Thanks anyway, Angie. I appreciate you asking. But I have to focus on my school. Maybe some other time? Bye.’
I hung up and returned to my packing. (That was a weird conversation.)
The phone rang again. ‘Hello, is this Matt Jensen?’
‘Yes. Who may I ask is calling?’
I’m Carol Whitecotton. You don’t know me, but I was wondering if you’d like to have a date with me?’
‘Ma’am. I don’t think so. Like you said, I don’t know you, so my answer is ‘No’.’
The phone rang immediately after I’d replaced the handset. ‘Hello, Matt?’
‘Yes.’
‘You don’t know me, but I want…’
I slammed the receiver down on her and the phone rang again. This time I didn’t answer. (What in the world is going on?)
The phone continued to ring and I ignored it. Best let the answering machine screen my calls. (What’s causing these women to call me?) The message kicked in, giving my number and saying I couldn’t come to the phone right. Please leave a message. (You know the one.)
‘Matt, I’m Lorraine Slaton. I’d really like to get to know you. Give me a call back at 555-1363? Could we go out for dinner together?’
Next one. ‘Matt Jensen? I’m Adrienne Paulsen, Manager of Baker Photography. We’re looking for a new male model and your name was presented to us as a potential applicant. Could we set up a luncheon and talk terms? I’m certain we could come to a mutual agreement. Give me a call at 555-3276. I’ll be waiting.’
Next. ‘Matt Jensen?’ in a husky sexy voice. ‘This is Kitty Jones. Want to come over and have some fun? I’m sure we could find each other’s company quite invigorating. My schedule is free today. Call me back and we’ll …’
I turned the answering machine’s volume down. (The whole world’s going crazy. What’s gotten into them?)
That’s when a knock sounded on my door. Habit kicked in and I opened the door. I should have known better.
‘Matt Jensen. It’s good to see you again. I’m Cheryl Stephens, we took history together in school. You remember? Mrs. Ramsey’s class? I sat in front of you.’
As she spoke, she stepped inside, closing the door and stood in the entryway, a newspaper in her hand.
‘Cheryl, what is it you want?’
She handed me the newspaper and walked into the main room. ‘This is a really nice place. I could like it here.’
The front page answered the big question. My photo was centered on page one and the headlines read, ‘LOCAL BOY INHERITS MILLIONS. MUST WED BEFORE GRADUATION.’ My bio followed.
(Curse you Uncle Jessie. I wish you weren’t dead.)
—-
University wasn’t safe either, because my notoriety followed, albeit a few days later. Girls I never knew would ask me for a date. Ones in class would try to sit next to me, pass me notes, others would call me at all hours of the day, AND night.
I had no peace, I was harassed by girls. Women would proposition me for sex, ask for dates, offer me a job, and ask to marry me.
Cursing Uncle Jessie was a regular occurrence. It almost became natural.
My situation quickly caught the attention of the University administration and I was summoned to the Dean’s office.
‘Matt, welcome. Please take a seat.’
(I don’t like his tone. This isn’t going to be good.)
‘We’ve received reports, frankly, what we’re hearing is troubling.’
‘What is that, sir?’
‘Professors have told us how classes are being disrupted because women are not paying attention, and the PBX can’t handle the calls to your phone, it appears to be stuck at your number.’
‘Sir, I’m sorry. This isn’t my fault. I received an inheritance and …’
‘So the women want your attention? Hoping you’ll share?’
‘It’s more than that. The ‘will’ states a large sum is to be distributed, conditional upon my marital status.’ I whispered.
‘Well, pick one, Lad. But we can’t have this. It’s very disruptive. You’ll have to get this straightened out soon, or the administration will be forced to step in. Do I make myself clear?’
He did, and I left. Unfortunately, things got worse.
The University Magazine got wind of the story and placed their piece on Page 2. I quit answering my phone and took to wearing disguises.
The next week, one of the Frat houses, as a joke, bought a full page Ad. It was a Marriage application, inviting single women to apply. One lucky girl would be selected as my bride. This wasn’t a laughing matter, but everyone else was.
My email account was filled with love notes, propositions, requests for marriage, late night trysts, sexual encounters, and God knows what else. I almost missed the one from the Dean’s office requesting, no that’s wrong, demanding a meeting the following morning.
At 9 am I walked in, said ‘Hello’ and he said ‘Good Bye.’
By afternoon, I’d packed, ready do leave and a Postal truck pulled up.
‘Are you Matt Jensen?’ he asked.
‘Unfortunately.’
‘Are you leaving University?’
‘Afraid so. The Dean’s not too pleased with the attention I’m getting.’
‘I’ve a box. Where do you want it?’
It was 18′ x 12′ x 12′, the same size as a case of copy paper. He tossed it into my trunk before driving away. The strings were quickly cut and the box opened. I read the note.
‘Here are 2000 Marriage applications. Have FUN.’
(Curse you Uncle Jessie. I wish you weren’t dead.)
India
- 23.09.2021
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