Where There's A Will: The Final Chapter

Fasten yourselves in for the final chapter! 

Chapter Sixteen

Charlie hung from the chains, his sculpted chest rising and falling in slow, deliberate breaths. His muscles, every perfect ridge of them, gleamed under the last remnants of the spotlight’s glow, streaked in crimson. Beads of sweat mixed with the blood splattered across his smooth, bronzed skin, each droplet tracing the deep grooves of his abs before falling to the floor in slow, echoing drips. His biceps, once taut with struggle, now hung limply above him, the residual ache of restraint still thrumming through his arms. He flexed his fingers, testing their movement, before exhaling sharply through his nose.

Samson was dead.

Or rather, what was left of him was dead.

Charlie cast a sidelong glance toward the wreckage of the once-great brute, the colossal slab of muscle that had been Samson now nothing more than a shredded, dripping ruin on the tracks. The air still carried the sharp, metallic tang of freshly spilled blood, the scent clinging to the walls, saturating the very stone around them. A puddle of viscera spread outward like some grotesque inkblot, thick and glistening under the dim light. Something unrecognizable—maybe part of a rib, maybe a chunk of bicep—had landed near his feet, twitching slightly in the aftermath of its violent separation from the rest of the body. 

Charlie wrinkled his nose and turned away, a wince tightening his features before he sighed dramatically. 

“Can you get me a towel and let me down now, please?” 

His voice carried the barest edge of irritation, as though he had merely been inconvenienced rather than drenched in the remains of a man who, moments ago, had been his lover.

The spotlight overhead cut out, plunging the chamber into a murky half-darkness. From the shadows, the rhythmic squelch of heavy footsteps announced the arrival of Gibson. The man moved with the weary sluggishness of someone who had long since grown accustomed to slaughter, his massive gut swaying slightly with each step. His jowls glistened with sweat, his greasy, thinning hair plastered against his forehead in limp strands. In one hand, he carried a crumpled towel, in the other, a set of tarnished keys that jingled faintly as he moved. 

He came to a stop beside Charlie, licking his cracked lips as he peered up at the suspended, blood-streaked man. “Tsk,” he muttered under his breath as he fumbled with the manacle locks, the scent of his sour breath wafting up with every exhale. The metal clicked, and the chains holding Charlie aloft loosened with a slow, mechanical groan. Charlie dropped to the ground in a smooth motion, landing with an effortless grace that belied the brutality of what he had just witnessed. He rolled his shoulders, stretching out the soreness, then immediately reached for the towel Gibson offered.

“That was fucking disgusting,” Charlie muttered, his tone flat as he began wiping the warm, wet filth from his chiseled torso. The once-white towel quickly became soaked in deep reds and browns, smearing rather than truly cleaning. He wiped a stray glob of something unidentifiable from his collarbone with a grimace, his lip curling in distaste. “Fucking vile.”

Gibson gave a lazy shrug, scratching at the patchy stubble covering his sagging chin. “That’s Arnold for you,” he said, his voice thick with amusement. “You should’ve seen what happened to the rest of them.”

Charlie scoffed, running the towel over his arms, down his sculpted thighs, before shaking loose the gore clinging to his fingers. “Frankly, I don’t want to know.” He grimaced as he reached up and plucked a tooth from his damp, blood-matted hair, examining it briefly before flicking it aside. It landed somewhere in the mess that had once been Samson with a soft, wet plop.

Gibson chuckled, his bloated form shifting slightly as he took a step closer, the yellow of his teeth flashing in the dim light. His eyes, small and piggish, raked over Charlie’s body with something between admiration and predation. “Now,” he said, voice smooth with an almost rehearsed delight, “why don’t we get you cleaned up and then get down to this ‘treasure’ business, hmm?” His grin widened, revealing gums that had receded far too much for a man his age. 

Charlie smirked, wiping the last streak of red from his jaw before stepping forward, closing the space between them in a deliberate, slow movement. His hands, still slick with drying blood, came up to rest on Gibson’s chest, fingers pressing lightly against the thick, sweat-damp fabric of his shirt. His lips curled in a knowing smile, his eyes flickering with something dangerous, something playful.

“Sounds like a plan,” he murmured, and then, with an ease that suggested it was not the first time, he leaned in and pressed a quick, teasing kiss to Gibson’s lips.

The old man hummed in satisfaction, his meaty hands twitching at his sides.

Charlie pulled back, his smirk widening. "Let’s get to it, then."

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An hour had passed since the last scream echoed through the manor’s cold stone halls, since the whir of the saws had faded into silence. The storm had moved on, leaving the world damp and heavy with the scent of rain, but the estate had never felt more still. A hush lay over it, the kind of eerie quiet that settles after something terrible has happened, when the walls themselves seem reluctant to speak of the horrors they have witnessed. 

Charlie led the way, his bare torso still glistening with sweat, his muscles shifting beneath smooth, bronzed skin as he strode into the mausoleum. His gray sweatpants hung low on his hips, the fabric clinging to him in all the right places, the waistband slung just beneath the deep cut of his V-lines. A toolbelt, heavy with a hammer, screwdriver and chisel, dangled lazily from one hand before he set it down with a solid thud atop the marble crypt in the center of the room.

The space smelled of dust and damp stone, the mausoleum’s grand, looming walls hiding the secrets of the dead. The air was thick with the scent of old roses, their petals long since crumbled, mixed with the sharp tang of wet earth seeping in from the outside. Ornate iron sconces, rusted with age, lined the chamber’s walls, their wax-dripped torches long extinguished. The only light came from the soft, creeping glow of pre-dawn filtering through the high, arched window, casting long, skeletal shadows across the room.

Behind him, Gibson followed, a stark contrast in his silk robe and slippers, the fabric pooling over his bloated form like a decadent afterthought. His thinning hair was slick with sweat, his lips curling into something lazy and satisfied as he watched Charlie survey the chamber. His eyes lingered on the younger man’s body, tracing the long planes of muscle, the sharp ridges of his abs, the way his sweatpants clung just a little too tightly. 

Charlie ran a hand over the crypt with a slow, contemplative motion. His eyes flickered with thought as he scanned the chamber, gaze tracing the carved reliefs along the walls, the statues standing sentinel in the corners. Somewhere beneath all this stone, somewhere in this temple to the dead, Arnold’s true fortune was waiting.

"You think Arnold suspected us?" Charlie asked, his voice smooth, casual, as if he were merely making conversation over breakfast and not discussing the night’s brutal betrayals.

Gibson let out a chuckle, the sound deep and indulgent, as he stepped closer, his silk robe shifting with the movement. "Doubtful," he said, his voice thick with satisfaction. "Arnold always thought he was the smartest man in the room. That was his weakness—believing no one could ever be playing the same game he was." He smirked, reaching out to idly trace a finger down Charlie’s spine, watching with amusement as the younger man’s huge muscles tensed under his touch. "Splitting the estate in half was the insurance policy, but if we find what’s buried here..." His fingers curled slightly, nails scraping just enough to make Charlie shiver. "We won’t have to share a damn thing. It was a smart move.”

Charlie turned to him, his smirk slow, dangerous. "So we take it all," he said, his voice quiet but firm, full of promise. "Everything. Together."

Gibson's grin widened, his yellowed teeth flashing in the dim light. Yes. That was the way it was always meant to be.

The tension shifted between them in an instant. One moment, they were conspirators, their minds sharp and plotting, and the next, the charge in the air was thick with hunger—a hunger that had nothing to do with wealth or power.

Charlie barely had time to react before Gibson was on him, grabbing him by the waist, pulling him in, crushing their mouths together in a fierce, claiming kiss. Their bodies collided, Gibson’s soft bulk pressing against Charlie’s sculpted form, the silk of his robe slipping open as he moved, exposing his rock hard cock beneath, poking upwards from a nest of pubic hair below his fat belly. Charlie moaned into the kiss, his hands gripping Gibson’s fleshy sides, his fingers digging into the old man’s softness, possessive.

Gibson pushed him back, hard enough that Charlie’s spine hit the cool marble of the crypt behind him. The impact sent a thrill down his spine, the cold stone a contrast to the heat building between them. Gibson didn't hesitate—his hands were already on Charlie’s sweatpants, fingers curling under the waistband, yanking them down in one deliberate, teasing pull, leaving Charlie bare, exposed, and utterly at his mercy.

Gibson’s silk robe slipped from his shoulders, pooling at his feet, revealing his corpulent form. His chest heaved as he ran a hand down Charlie’s rippling, muscular thigh, gripping, kneading, claiming, before he lifted him up, pressing him back against the marble with a growl of pure possession.

Charlie smirked as he hooked his legs around Gibson’s waist, pulling him in, welcoming the heat, the weight, the raw, unfiltered lust between them. He reached up, fingers tangling in the back of Gibson’s thinning hair, pulling him into another brutal, hungry kiss.

Gibson groaned into his mouth, grinding against him, feeling him, owning him.

"To the victor go the spoils," Gibson growled against Charlie’s lips, his voice thick with greedy, wicked satisfaction.

Gibson's thick fingers dug into the firm globes of Charlie's ass, kneading and spreading them apart as he grinded his hairy, beer-bellied torso against the ripped muscles of Charlie's abdominals. The contrast of their bodies, one soft and slovenly, the other hard and honed, only added to the perverse thrill of the moment.

"Been dreaming of this for a long time," Gibson panted, licking a trail of sweat from Charlie's neck up to his ear. "And now you're all mine, boy."

He punctuated his words by gripping Charlie's throat, squeezing just hard enough to make breathing a conscious effort. His other hand fumbled between their grinding hips, thick fingers wrapping around Charlie's stiff, leaking cock, the 12” shaft slick with pre-cum, throbbing under his touch. Charlie groaned.

"Look at this fucking thing," Gibson growled, stroking him with rough, demanding pumps. "Bet you've been dreaming of this too, haven't you? Dreaming of my cock splitting you open, ruining you for anyone else."

Charlie could only whimper in response, his eyes fluttering shut as Gibson worked his shaft with brutal efficiency. The cold marble against his back and the oppressive heat radiating off Gibson's body had him drowning in sensation.

Gibson's hips surged forward, the bulbous head of his cock pushing past the tight ring of muscle guarding Charlie's entrance. Charlie gasped, back arching off the marble as he was penetrated, impaled on the thick slab of Gibson's manhood.

“Oh FUCK YEAH! You fucking killer,” Charlie grunted as Gibson set the pace, starting to jackhammer his beer-can thick cockshaft into Charlie’s hot hole. The handsome muscleboy gripped his own cock, jerking it hard, as Gibson pushed forward. The fat slob gripped both of Charlie’s legs and pushed them upwards, into a V shape, as he plowed into him.

Gibson's girthy cock stretched Charlie's hole obscenely with each powerful thrust, the thick shaft pulsing and throbbing inside the tight, gripping heat. Sweat dripped down Gibson's doughy chest and belly, splattering onto Charlie's ripped abs as he rutted into him like a man possessed.

"Fuck, this cunt was made for my cock," Gibson panted, drool flying from his lips as he grunted and groaned. "Gonna reshape this hole to fit only me. No one else will ever satisfy you, slut."

Charlie could only moan whorishly in response, his own cock jerking in his grip as he felt every ridge and vein of Gibson's thick meat plowing into him. The marble beneath him was cold and unforgiving, a stark contrast to the scorching heat of Gibson's body blanketing him.

"Yeah, fucking ruin me, you fat bastard," Charlie growled, clenching down hard on Gibson's pistoning cock. "Wreck my fucking hole. Make it yours."

Gibson snarled in response, gripping Charlie's thighs hard enough to bruise as he slammed into him with brutal force. The wet, obscene sound of flesh slapping against flesh echoed through the crypt as Gibson used Charlie with wild abandon.

Charlie's hand flew over his own cock as he was fucked stupid, the thick footlong member pulsing and leaking in his grip. His back arched sharply as Gibson's cockhead kissed his prostate dead-on, sending a jolt of electric pleasure shooting up his spine. "OH FUCK!" the tanned musclehunk roared, fingers scrabbling at the marble, leaving faint scratches on the stone.

Gibson just grunted, a wicked grin spreading across his flushed, sweaty face as he felt Charlie clench and quiver around his plundering cock. He doubled his efforts, hips slamming into Charlie's ass with punishing force, the meaty slap of flesh on flesh ringing out like gunshots in the confines of the crypt.

"Gonna... fuck... gonna cum..." Gibson gasped out, his face scrunching and his body tensing as as he teetered on the brink of orgasm. 

Suddenly, Gibson let out a guttural, animalistic roar as his orgasm crashed over him like a tidal wave. His hips stuttered and jerked erratically, slamming into Charlie with a final, brutal thrust as his thick cock pulsed and throbbed inside the tight, gripping heat of Charlie's hole.

"TAKE MY FUCKING LOAD MUSCLEBOY!" Gibson bellowed, his voice echoing off the crypt walls. Thick, hot ropes of cum erupted from his cock, painting Charlie's inner walls with Gibson's seed. Jet after jet of jizz flooded Charlie's guts as Gibson emptied his nuts deep inside him.

The sound of flesh on flesh, of ragged breaths and desperate hunger, filled the mausoleum’s cold, silent depths. Gibson groaned, his large, gluttonous body pressing the younger man against the cool, unyielding marble. Charlie grinned, drinking in the control he had, the power he wielded over this old fool who thought himself the mastermind.

Then—a sharp whistle of air, followed by a sickening, meaty CRACK.

Gibson barely had time to gasp before he lurched forward, his body convulsing as a brutal impact struck the back of his skull. His groan of pleasure turned to a shocked, gurgling yelp, a spray of blood misting from his lips. He writhed for a moment, grunting, wheezing, his hands clawing weakly at his head as if trying to make sense of what had just happened.

Charlie merely blinked.

A second blow fell.

The shovel came down hard, its rusted metal edge caving in the side of Gibson’s fat, bloated skull like a rotten melon. Bone split, flesh ruptured, blood splattered onto the floor. A violent, gurgling shudder ran through Gibson’s body before the remaining half of his face twitched—once, twice—and then went completely still.

The air was thick with the scent of iron, the sound of slow, heavy breathing filling the void Gibson left behind.

Charlie barely reacted, barely flinched. His face was unreadable as Gibson’s cock left his hole with a wet pop, his bulk keeling over and slamming into the floor with a crash.

But when a pale, skeletal hand suddenly reached out to him, Charlie grinned. 

The hunky muscleboy took it without hesitation, gripping the bony fingers in his own, and pulled himself upright, stepping forward to face the figure in the dim, pre-dawn light.

Beckman.

The butler stood there, unbothered, unshaken, as if murdering Gibson was just another menial chore to complete before sunrise. His gaunt face, hollowed and sharp, was marked with deep lines of age, but his sunken eyes still carried the cold intelligence of a man who had seen far too much in his time. He wore his usual black suit, pristine despite the massacre of the night, his gloved hands still gripping the bloodied shovel as though it were an extension of himself.

Charlie ran a hand through his messy hair, shaking out the remnants of sweat and blood before exhaling through his nose. “About time someone put that greedy old pig down,” he said, nudging Gibson’s slack body with his toe. The ruined man didn’t respond, half of his face crushed beyond recognition. Charlie scoffed. "He always thought he was the one pulling the strings."

Beckman nodded, his voice a rasping, measured drawl. “He was always a liability. And now... he is nothing.” He cast a slow, deliberate glance around the mausoleum, taking in the utter silence. Then, he met Charlie’s eyes, a glimmer of dark satisfaction in his expression. “With Gibson and all the others dead, you now have legal grounds to contest the will. By tomorrow, the entire estate will be yours.” 

Charlie exhaled slowly, letting the words settle over him like warm silk. His perfect lips curled into a smirk, his eyes glinting with sheer, selfish delight. His sculpted chest rose and fell, the night’s exertions finally settling into something deliciously victorious. He rolled his shoulders, shaking off the remnants of sweat and blood, as though he were casting away the burdens of the past and stepping fully into his future.

"That means," he murmured, his voice smooth as dark honey, "the entire fortune will belong to me… and me alone."

He turned to Beckman fully then, his smirk widening, his expression both cruel and indulgent. His eyes roamed over the skeletal old man, the last servant standing, the one who had known exactly when to shift allegiances.

“And that means you, old man, get a new master for the household.” 

Beckman did not hesitate. His thin lips curled into a small, knowing smile—reverent, expectant. There was no resistance, no uncertainty, only the same cold pragmatism that had allowed him to survive decades in a house that had devoured so many before him.

“It would be my pleasure to serve you, sir,” he said, inclining his head just slightly.

Charlie inhaled deeply, taking in the moment, letting it sink into his bones. This was power. This was victory.

"You already have," he murmured, voice low, satisfied. His hand drifted lazily to Beckman’s shoulder, squeezing it, owning it. “Helping move the casket. Delivering the tapes. Handling Julian in the garage with me. Distracting Gibson. Keeping an eye on the others.” He let out a soft, amused exhale before his fingers tightened. “And most of all—murdering that fucking fruitcake Arnold.”

Charlie grinned, delighted with how the night had played out, his perfect teeth flashing in the soft light. Beckman mirrored his amusement, his pale, withered face momentarily lightening with a rare flicker of mirth. 

“If I may ask,” Charlie mused, his fingers idly trailing down the older man’s arm, “how did you kill Arnold?”

Beckman gave a small shrug, his bony shoulders lifting slightly beneath his crisp, unwrinkled uniform. “It was as simple as mixing a bit of poison into his morning tea.”

Charlie let out a laugh, a soft, pleased sound, before tilting his head. “Do you think he knew?”

Beckman’s smirk deepened, his lips curling with the satisfaction of a well-played game. “I think he suspected Gibson was more inclined to murder him first. Unfortunately for him, he forgot the oldest rule of all…” His grin widened, a sharp, knowing thing. “It’s always the butler who did it.”

Charlie let out another laugh, rich, indulgent, in love with the sheer irony of it all. His fingers tightened on Beckman’s shoulder, his grip firm, possessive. He had spent the night watching others fall, playing the game, maneuvering his way to the top. Now, it was his time to reign.

A wet, sickly gurgle came from Gibson’s ruined corpse, his body twitching one last time before finally, mercifully, going still. Beckman sighed, a sound that carried equal parts relief and disgust, his gaze drifting downward at the pathetic heap of blood and crushed skull.

“I was dreading serving under that lecherous pig,” he murmured, distaste curling his lips. His expression remained impassive, but there was no mistaking the relief in his voice. 

Charlie’s smirk turned predatory. His fingers pressed harder against Beckman’s shoulder, and then, with a slow, deliberate push, he guided the old man downward.

The message was clear.

“Then why don’t we have you start serving under someone better?” Charlie murmured, watching as Beckman descended before him, his frail knees pressing against the cold marble floor.

Beckman’s hands rested lightly on Charlie’s thighs, his bony fingers smoothing over the younger man’s warm, muscular flesh. He looked up, his expression one of pure, unwavering submission. There was no hesitation. No reluctance. Only duty.

“With pleasure, sir,” Beckman replied, his voice even, expectant.

Charlie tilted his head, considering him for a moment, before his grin deepened into something truly wicked. 

“No,” he corrected, his voice low, commanding. “Not sir.”

His eyes darkened as he stared down at the skeletal butler, his lips parting in a cruel, knowing whisper.

"Call me Master."

Beckman felt a shudder run through his frail body at Charlie's dominant command. He could feel the heat radiating off the young man's muscular thighs under his fingertips, the firm yet pliant flesh a stark contrast to his own papery skin and brittle bones. Beckman's heart raced, a mix of fear and twisted excitement coursing through his veins.

"Yes, Master," Beckman breathed, the title falling from his lips like a prayer. He leaned in closer, his bony nose brushing against the thick, tanned shaft mere inches from his face. The musky, heady scent of Charlie's arousal filled his nostrils, making Beckman's head swim.

With a sense of reverence, Beckman wrapped his thin, aged lips around the swollen, purplish head of Charlie's cock. He could only manage to fit the tip into his mouth at first, his jaw creaking and popping as he stretched it wide. Beckman's tongue swirled around the sensitive flesh, lapping at the bead of precum that had formed at the slit.

"Mmmm," Beckman hummed around Charlie's cock, the vibrations traveling up the long, thick length. He began to bob his head, taking more of that glorious dick into his mouth with each pass. Inch after inch disappeared between his weathered lips as Beckman worshipped Charlie's manhood with single-minded fervor. 

Beckman's tongue undulated along the underside of Charlie's shaft as he took it deeper, feeling it pulse and throb against his palate. He could taste the salt of Charlie's skin, the musk of his arousal, the promise of his impending release. It spurred Beckman on, making him want to serve his new Master even more thoroughly.

"Mmmmph!" Beckman moaned around the thick meat filling his mouth, sending more intense vibrations along Charlie's cock. His lips stretched taut as he forced himself to take even more, until the bulbous head nudged the back of his throat. Beckman gagged slightly but pushed through it, determined to please Charlie.

Slimy strands of saliva dripped down the shaft as Beckman began to bob his head faster, slurping and suckling with wet, obscene sounds. His bony fingers dug into the firm muscle of Charlie's thighs, gripping them for support as he worked. Beckman's own withered body shook with the effort and exertion, but he didn't stop. He couldn't stop. Not until he had brought his Master to the pinnacle of ecstasy.

Beckman's eyes fluttered shut as he lost himself in the act of worshipping Charlie's magnificent cock. The taste, the scent, the feel of it dominating his mouth and throat - it was everything Beckman had ever wanted. He existed only to serve, to please, to be used for Charlie's gratification. 

Charlie's sculpted abs clenched and flexed as he watched Beckman worship his cock with such fervent devotion. The defined lines of his eight-pack rippled beneath his tanned, glistening skin, each muscle group taut and pronounced. A light sheen of sweat made his torso gleam in the dim light of the maseoleum, highlighting the raw, masculine beauty of his physique.

As Beckman bobbed his head faster, Charlie couldn't resist the urge to thrust his hips forward, burying his cock deeper into that hot, eager mouth. He gripped Beckman's head with both hands, fingers tangling in the wispy, silver hair as he began to fuck the butler's face with long, powerful strokes.

Despite the grotesque sight of Beckman's skeletal frame and wrinkled, liver-spotted skin, Charlie found himself growing more aroused by the second. The depravity of the situation only heightened his lust, the taboo nature of it sending jolts of electricity through his muscular body. He should have been repulsed, but instead, he was consumed by a dark, dominating desire.

Charlie's grip on Beckman's head tightened as he began to thrust faster, his hips rocking back and forth. His massive cock plunged in and out of that tight, wrinkled throat, stretching it obscenely around his thick girth. He could feel the butler's Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed around him, trying to accommodate the brutal face-fucking.

"Fuck, you're loving this, aren't you?" Charlie growled, his voice rough with arousal. "Getting your throat wrecked by a STUD. I bet you've fantasized about one of Arnold’s dumb musclefucks ruining your holes for years."

Beckman could only gurgle in response, drool leaking from the corners of his mouth and dripping down his chin. His bony fingers wrapped around the base of Charlie's shaft, pumping in time with the young man's thrusts. The butler's own withered cock twitched in his pants as he reveled in the degradation, his body responding to the stimulation despite its ancient state.

Charlie's thrusts grew more erratic as he neared his peak, his hips slamming forward with brutal force. The obscene sound of flesh slapping against flesh echoed through the room as he used Beckman's mouth like a fuck toy, chasing his own pleasure. With a load building, Charlie shuddered and began to unleash into the aged old butler.

The hunky muscleboy let out a guttural groan, his back arching as he slammed forward one last time. His cock pulsed and throbbed as he began to unload, shooting thick ropes of hot, sticky cum directly down Beckman's waiting throat. Jet after jet of potent, virile seed pumped into the butler's mouth and slid down his gullet, filling his stomach with Charlie's essence.

"Fuck, fuck, FUCK!" Charlie roared, his muscular body shuddering. His eyes squeezed shut as the intense pleasure cresting inside him reached a fever pitch. His heart hammered wildly in his heaving chest, each beat pounding with the force of a drum. The young stud's sculpted abs clenched and rippled, a sheen of sweat glistening on every carved line and valley. His thick cock throbbed and jerked, pulsing powerfully as it erupted like a geyser deep in Beckman's eagerly swallowing throat.

"Ohhh fuuuuck!" Charlie groaned, his voice a deep, guttural rumble. "Take it all, you fucking old pervert! Swallow every last fucking drop!"

Beckman's eyes rolled back in their sockets, fluttering shut as he felt the first hot, thick spurts of Charlie's seed gushing down his gullet. His ancient body shuddered and convulsed, his own pathetic cocklet twitching weakly in his pants. The butler gulped and swallowed, trying desperately to keep up with the flood of cum pouring into his mouth and sliding directly into his stomach.

Charlie's hips jerked and bucked erratically as he rode out the intense waves of his climax. His fingers tangled almost painfully in Beckman's thin, silver hair, holding the old man's head in place as he emptied his massive, churning balls. Jet after jet of potent, virile jizz pumped into that waiting, eager mouth and slid down the butler's throat.

Beckman’s eyes were rolled into the back of his head, cum spurting out the sides of his mouth as the English hunk unloaded into his throat. Recomposing himself, Charlie quickly focused on the task at hand as Beckman moaned on his footlong cock.

Charlie exhaled slowly, watching the butler’s face, taking in the final moments of the old man’s existence before his usefulness ran out. Beckman was an asset, yes, but he was also a witness. And Charlie had spent the entire night ensuring no one would be left alive, regardless if they were useful or subservient. He had no intention of sharing what he had taken, no desire to let another vulture circle around his fortune, no matter how loyal they pretended to be.

He moved his right hand off of Beckman’s head. His fingers moved with practiced ease, reaching behind him in a slow, casual motion, as if adjusting his stance. His hand found the rough leather of the toolbelt, fingertips grazing over cold steel. He didn’t rush. Beckman was oblivious, lost in his submission, unaware that his last moments were ticking down with each breath. Charlie’s fingers curled around the smooth handle of the screwdriver, feeling the weight of it, testing its balance. The sharpened tip glinted faintly in the dim light as he eased it from its loop.

His grip tightened.

And then—he struck.

In one sudden, violent movement, Charlie drove the screwdriver into Beckman’s ear, the sharp tip piercing through cartilage and bone, sinking deep into the old man’s skull with a wet, sickening crunch. Beckman’s entire body jerked violently, his skeletal hands twitching as his mouth opened in a silent gasp, Charlie’s cock popping out wetly. His sunken eyes bulged, his fingers scrabbling at Charlie’s thighs, at the empty air, but no sound came. There was only a deep, visceral shudder as his limbs spasmed for an instant, his body caught in a final, pitiful moment of struggle before the screwdriver found its target—his brainstem—and silence swallowed him whole.

Charlie watched with detached curiosity, tilting his head slightly as Beckman’s life simply... left him. The butler collapsed sideways, his frail body hitting the marble floor with an unceremonious thud, his long, bony fingers curling inward like a dead spider. His thin lips, still slightly parted from his last breath, twitched once before going completely slack. His body remained still, save for the slow seep of dark blood pooling beneath his skull, the screwdriver still lodged deep in his head, protruding at an obscene angle.

Charlie sighed, rolling his shoulders, stretching as if the act of killing had been just another task to check off the list. He nudged Beckman’s body with his foot, watching as it rocked slightly before settling, before the blood spread wider across the cold stone. It was done.

No witnesses.

No loose ends.

Just him.

Just his fortune.

Charlie exhaled, running a hand through his damp, sweat-matted hair before stepping over the fresh corpse. He didn't spare Beckman another glance as started to examine the walls of the mausoleum, looking for clues. Somewhere beneath all this rotting history, beneath the bones of the men who had come before him, was the final prize. And now, finally, he had no one left to share it with.

The mausoleum stood in hushed reverence, the silence now thick and absolute. Charlie’s sharp gaze swept the room, taking in its newfound stillness, absorbing the weight of the moment. The air smelled of old stone, mildew, and the faint metallic tang of blood lingering from his recent work. His pulse, still thrumming with the rush of his latest betrayal, began to steady as his eyes landed on a row of crypt doors on the opposite wall, each an unassuming three-foot square, just large enough to cradle a coffin in its cold, eternal embrace.

But one of them was different.

Its door hung slightly ajar, revealing a sliver of darkness beyond. His lips curled into a smirk as he moved toward it, his bare feet padding lightly across the dust-covered floor. He ran his fingers along the cool, timeworn stone, tracing the names of the long-dead inscribed along the row, until he reached the one that mattered. 

Arnold Mortimer.

The lettering was freshly painted, pristine against the dust and decay of his ancestors. The name sat bold and unyielding, a final mockery from a man who had always believed himself untouchable.

Charlie chuckled under his breath. "I found it, you old fuck," he muttered, voice low, intimate, like he was whispering into a lover’s ear. He ran his palm over the smooth inscription, shaking his head. "Side-by-side with your ancestors, hmm?" His tone was mocking, satisfied.

With a slow, deliberate motion, he gripped the door and swung it open.

A yawning void of blackness greeted him.

A normal man might have hesitated. A normal man might have felt the instinctive clench of dread in his gut at the idea of crawling into a tomb. But Charlie? Charlie was already past hesitation. He crouched down, his sweat-slicked, naked, muscular body pressing against the cold, narrow entrance as he slid inside, his skin scraping against the rough stone floor. The space was tight, claustrophobic, the air thick with undisturbed age, but he barely noticed.

His hands skimmed along the interior, searching.

He found it almost immediately—a small, recessed button near the rear wall. His fingers pressed into the groove, and with a soft click, something shifted.

A low whoosh cut through the silence.

The wall at the far end of the crypt suddenly lifted, revealing a hidden chamber beyond.

A laugh bubbled up in Charlie’s throat. He crawled forward eagerly, anticipation thrumming through his veins, his pulse pounding not with fear, but with triumph. He scooted inside, the space opening up around him, large enough now for him to stand. His fingers fumbled along the rough stone until they found another switch, and with a flick, a single weak lightbulb overhead buzzed to life, bathing the chamber in an eerie, amber glow.

And then—he saw it.

Stacks of gold bullion, barrels overflowing with gleaming coins, chests brimming with jewels, bundles of aged cash, ledgers filled with hidden bank accounts and deposit boxes, priceless antiques standing silent in the dim light.

A fortune. Not just money, but legacy. Power.

Charlie couldn’t contain himself.

He strode forward and reached into one of the barrels, his fingers plunging into the cold weight of gold, pulling up a handful of coins. He turned his palm, watching as they cascaded down, the sound of metal clinking against metal filling the chamber like a melody of victory.

"It’s mine," he whispered, voice trembling with awe, greed, hunger.

Then, louder, laughing now, almost manic with glee—"IT’S MINE!"

And then—that sound.

The sudden, sharp crackle of static, the familiar pop of a speaker coming to life. Charlie froze. A voice spilled from the unseen speaker, warm, jubilant, mocking.

"Charlie—my dear Charlie!"

Arnold.

Charlie’s breath caught in his throat, his body going rigid.

"Congratulations, Charlie. If you’re hearing this, that means you’ve done everything I asked of you, and disposed of all those who so covetously, so greedily aimed to take everything I had for their own."

Charlie’s mouth twisted into a slow grin. He let out a breathy, exuberant laugh, his eyes reflecting the golden glow around him. "Yes, uncle," he breathed. "I did exactly as you said!"

Arnold chuckled—warm, indulgent, approving. 

"I know you aren’t a relation of mine by blood—but I cannot think of someone more deserving of my obscene riches. You’ve proven yourself to be my kin, Charlie. This is all for you now."

Charlie let out a breathless cry of triumph, stumbling toward a chest filled with glistening jewels, running his hands over the sparkling stones, pressing them against his skin, drunk on his own victory. His footlong cock hardening at the feel, his golden muscles illuminated in the light. Billions richer. The achingly hot muscleboy was overjoyed beyond comprehension.

And then—the whoosh.

A sharp flicker of air against his brow.

His stomach dropped.

His eyes snapped toward the entrance—just in time to see the crypt door sliding shut.

"W-wait." His voice came out small, uncertain, a child realizing too late that he had stepped into a trap.

"Wait. No. Open it up." He dropped the jewels, his cock swinging as he lumbered forward, panic flooding his limbs, his hands slamming against the door.

Arnold’s voice continued, smooth, smug.

"Now you have what you’ve always wanted: my vast fortune, at your fingertips, for as long as you shall live… forever."

"NO!" Charlie’s breath hitched, his fists pounding against the unyielding stone. His muscles straining at the effort.

"NO! ARNOLD! THIS WASN’T PART OF THE DEAL!" He screamed, sweat beading on his forehead. There was no response. Just that static, the speaker garbling Arnold’s voice into a mocking loop.

"...Forever—forever—forever..."

The lightbulb overhead flickered. Then—it went out. Darkness. Charlie’s screams filled the void. His body slammed against the door, his fingers clawing at the cracks, ripping at the stone, his voice raw, feral, desperate.

"NO! LET ME OUT! YOU SICK BASTARD! LET ME THE FUCK OUT!" He raged, uselessly, his massive muscles helpless at the cold unyielding of the tomb.

And then—he felt it.

A slow, deliberate nibble at his heel.

He froze, his breath hitching.

Then, another bite.

Something hungry. Rats.

Charlie screamed. A raw, ragged howl of horror, one that might have shaken the walls if they were not so thick, so solid, so uncaring. His voice bounced off the vault, caught within its cold, merciless embrace, swallowed before it could ever reach the world beyond.

Outside, beyond the crypt, beyond the mausoleum, beyond the cruelty of man-made fate, the sun at last began its slow ascent. A golden light kissed the stately manor, painting its proud façade in hues of amber and rose. Beads of water clung to its ornate friezes, slipping from the eaves in soft, rhythmic drips, remnants of the storm now forgotten, washed away.

A cool mist curled over the manicured grounds, thick and languid, unfurling across the estate like a burial shroud.

And with it came the settling of silence—deep, absolute. 

Final.

THE END