Sex Lives of the Super Wealthy by doll1

Sex Lives of the Super WealthyBy Greg

I first met Ryan during our junior year of college. We had been introduced by mutual friends. Ryan was a nice-looking guy and very well-mannered. I could tell right off that he had been raised with some class. Most of the guys I had dated up until then were immature; of course, they were interested in just one thing. Ryan was different; he was driven, and he had goals. He was a business major who was really into making good grades and developing the right connections.

My name is Brooke. I was a fashion design student. From early on, I’ve always loved clothing and have been fascinated by the many different styles. Someday, I planned to run my own couture firm. I am tall, five-ten, and wear my auburn hair long; I think it looks more professional that way. My friends think I should be a model, but that would be a short-lived career. Building my own company, influencing the styles, and producing them are where the long-term successes are at.

Ryan and I hit it off right from the start. He was the perfect gentleman, and we dated regularly. Shortly after we met, we became intimate and started seeing each other almost every day. I loved to just sit and talk. We would share our daily struggles and our future dreams. Ryan seldom offered much information about his childhood or upbringing. I was originally from the Midwest. His East Coast style and culture were exactly why I had come to this area. I did find out that his parents were only a couple of hours’ drive away. Mine were still back in my home state, where they would always stay.

I learned that Ryan was an only child. At first, I thought it was sort of cute how he would refer to his parents. He never used warm references to his mother and father, such as “pop,” ”dad,” or anything personal. Eventually, I got it out of him that his father’s name was Simon and his mother’s name was Laura. I sort of got the impression that the father-son relationship might have some competitive issues.

We had been exclusive for almost six months when my parents came to visit. They had come up east and spent a long weekend visiting. Both approved of Ryan. My dad was impressed with his drive to one day run his own business. My mom thought he was handsome and a good match for me.

Shortly afterwards, I began pestering Ryan about meeting his parents. He seemed to keep avoiding the issue to the point where I began to think something was wrong. We were serious about each other at this point, and I really wanted to get to meet the people who could potentially be a part of my future. Almost a month had passed before Ryan finally agreed to drive up to see them. The weekend weather was supposed to be beautiful.

Ryan was a very cautious driver, and it seemed like it took an eternity to get there. We drove through some of the most gorgeous countryside and soon entered what seemed like a very exclusive area. The driveways all had gated entrances, and most homes sat back some distance from the main road.

We had just passed a cluster of stately-looking mansions when Ryan started slowing down. On the right was a small turnoff. He slowed, coming to a stop in front of a huge, black wrought-iron gate. Massive stone walls at least eight feet high adorned the edges. The walls trailed off into the woods along each side. Ryan honked twice, and instantly the gate jolted to life and began opening. I was searching for a first glimpse of the house but saw nothing.

We started down a curving drive that wound through what looked like a golf course. The grass was perfectly manicured, and the vegetation was lush. We must have driven at least half a mile, crossed a small stream, and turned sharply to the right before entering a clearing. The view ahead stunned me. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I remember a chill going through me and goosebumps popping up on my arms. My eyes locked in on a structure maybe another half mile ahead. It was nestled on the flattened crest of the next hill. It wasn’t a house or a mansion; it was a full-on English-style castle.

“Stop the car, Ryan!” I pleaded.

“What’s wrong?” Ryan asked, slowing the car to a crawl.

“Wait, please stop!” I repeated.

Okay, I must have stared at that view for a full minute. Ryan finally touched my arm and asked if I was alright.

I turned to him in disbelief. Ryan: “You said they were well off, but you never said anything about this!”

This was beyond my wildest imagination.

“Are you telling me this is your home?” I asked, staring at him.

Rather sheepishly, he admitted, “Yes.”

Ryan was acting almost embarrassed by the grandiose display in front of us. The car started moving again. I remember thinking over and over the phrase, “the one percent.” This was the super-wealthy, the one percent that everyone talks bad about at parties. I was petrified, and I wanted to just turn around and go back.

“They live in a goddamn castle,” I kept thinking to myself, over and over.

Ryan just blew this all off and said, “You’ll do just fine.”

As the car approached a stone courtyard out front, an “honest-to-god” butler appeared at the front door. He greeted us both and then led us through the most magnificent foyer to an adjoining room. Ryan’s parents were there, awaiting our arrival. His mother put down a book and stood as we entered. She warmly received a hug from him. I walked over nervously and received the same.

To this day, I can vividly recall my first impression of Simon. Ryan’s father was standing right in the column of a brilliant beam of sunlight pouring through a series of two-story glass windows. The stiff and proper posture he held reminded me of some ancient nobleman receiving visitors. He extended his right hand politely and greeted Ryan like a guest instead of his son.

I stood frozen in awe. Simon was wearing an impeccably tailored Armani suit, which probably cost at least ten to twenty thousand dollars. His Forzieri Italian leather shoes were spot-on in the latest style. The cuff links, tie, and silk pocket square perfectly complemented the ensemble. His watch, of course, was a stunning Rolex. All told, he was probably wearing two hundred thousand dollars’ worth of fashion, and yes, he was probably the most distinguished man I had ever laid eyes on. He was maybe fifty, with just a touch of gray at the temples. I felt like he was sizing me up. Was I pretty enough? Was I refined enough? Was I in love with his son because of all of “this?” I was a total nervous wreck.

Simon shattered all my expectations by walking right up to me. His steel-blue eyes locked on me and disarmed all of my defenses. He gave me the warmest embrace. His arms enveloped me like a warm blanket. I felt like a small child in their favorite place.

Within two years, Ryan and I were married. Our wedding was the envy of all of our friends. “Father” spared no expense. His son’s wedding was not to be outdone. We had a full orchestra and caterers jumping to everyone’s slightest whim. Our honeymoon in San Tropez was the stuff of dreams.

It was maybe a year into our new marriage when passions began to cool. What I thought was so important about Ryan at first now seems to be our biggest problem. His work occupied all his waking time. He was so driven to have his business succeed that he would come home exhausted. Our love life also suffered. What used to be romantic was now just a routine. He’d jump on me missionary style, every time, ride me, grunt a little, roll off, and be snoring within a couple minutes. Hell, I was still in my twenties; I wanted more than that.

I was still working out of our home, mostly refining my own designs. I seemed to run into closed doors or dismissive attitudes at each of my interviews. I was frustrated both professionally and sexually.

It was on one of our visits to his parents that I first began to seriously look at Simon. He was the absolute alpha male. His manners, his poise, his style—this man was both able to amass great wealth, and yet he would spend extravagantly on his desires.

Ryan’s mother seemed to have few interests other than reading her books. I’m sure that she had her social circle, but otherwise, she had grown somewhat pudgy for lack of any real purpose. She was always warm and friendly to me, yet seemed generally disinterested in things. Maybe she had been born into all of this and just took it all for granted.

Ryan and I got invited to go along with them on a trip to Italy. I had never planned on anything like this because we were still struggling to get our careers going. Ryan always poured all of our resources and all of his energy into his business. He had flatly refused Father’s assistance, preferring to succeed on his own. I finally convinced Ryan that we needed a break from work and would do well to get away for a while.

I was like a little kid on a Disney trip. We were flown by helicopter to meet up with a yacht already at sea. Yes, of course, they had a helicopter. For some reason, they always referred to it as the MD, for short. It was always parked in a little clearing just behind the main house. That is how Simon got to and from his offices. Simon didn’t actually fly it, although I’ll bet he probably could have.

There was a man who was always around, Mr. Keeven. Along with being the pilot, I think he was some sort of bodyguard or personal assistant. He was a buff, former-military type who was always present when Simon went somewhere.

We caught up with the yacht in the Atlantic somewhere off the coast of Rhode Island. Landing on a yacht, what a thrill! Talk about an entrance! The yacht was magnificent. It had to be at least a hundred feet long. Ryan never said it belonged directly to them. Things were always referred to as belonging to the firm. They just had exclusive access whenever they wished. It was a complete luxury. Everything was constantly attended to by the staff—meals, drinks, anything you could wish for. The attention to detail was incredible, right down to the fresh flowers placed in our stateroom each morning. Mr. Keeven and the helicopter stayed on board and made the trip with us. How cool was that?