Date: Wed, 28 Apr 2021 00:09:00 +0000 From: Simon Mohr Subject: Rejoining Schuyler - Chapter 7 Jack Jr.'s Near-Brush with Publicity REJOINING SCHUYLER - Chapter 7 Jack Jr.'s Near-Brush with Publicity Gay Erotic Fiction by Simon Mohr Nothing intended to resemble any person, living or otherwise, exists in this work of fiction. It is for adults. If this material is illegal where you live or you are a minor, please do not read it. All Rights Reserved. Please donate to the Nifty Archive using the donor information on this site. My close call with publicity started promptly at ten a.m. on Tuesday. An attorney, the one who confidently walked into my office just ahead of Eric had a little rim of surprisingly unkempt hair around his mostly bald head. In that way, the lawyer looked like a medieval monk out of uniform. His eyes, beady and bright, seemed to memorize every detail of the room. He darted to the chair in front of my desk, sitting heavily on the Louis Quinze antique. I might have winced a little at the lack of grace he exhibited but said nothing. It seemed as if he was expecting the walls to spout streams of gold coins. Eric didn't seem to see anything but the carpet pattern. He wasn't looking at his attorney, and he certainly wouldn't look me in the eye . . . which is when I began to worry a little. Although he and I hadn't interacted much over Joe and Raf and our new son, he hadn't sent distress signals before today, no sadness, no anger, nothing. "Do you want me to begin?" the attorney asked Eric. "Yes, please," Eric replied in a soft, odd voice, sounding a little choked up. His hands gave a slight jerk, and his chin jerked to the left, a stressed Eric. I had not seen him like this before and braced myself for something. "My name is Zachariah Otis, Attorney for Eric Boles. He has asked me to represent him in the upcoming series in 'Manhattan Bits of Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow' blog as it relates to his participation last month in an interview that will appear in an exposé of the Schuyler Trust." "The interview will include the organization's mismanagement of an enormous public trust with national security implications and its ongoing involvement with a secret laboratory in Ireland which clones human children for evil profit." Eric's left hand shot up to his neck and wiped it with slow force in one direction as if to wipe off a wasp that had just stung him. "Also, Mr. Boles will provide the details about raising the child in an environment essentially devoid of female influence with three fathers. This shocking repudiation of Christian belief reveals your plan to raise this child among a gay trio of extremely wealthy men who will stop at nothing to have their wicked way." "That does sound serious, Mr. Otis, if true. Will you allow me to record this session today so we may work toward the resolution of a problem of this magnitude?" Mr. Otis had no idea that everything in my office got recorded, every sound along with a high-definition video. That first bit before everyone gave their consent might not have been admissible in court, but it provided a record for our attorneys to catch Mr. Otis's opening act and perhaps inform our defense. I depressed a button on the bracelet on my left wrist and held it down. I wanted to activate it three times to cause Security to bust in and remove Mr. Otis but thought that could play out badly. I expected that security would follow through with the agreed protocol for a long push on that button. A light appeared on a small screen on my desk, telling me that the feed was now universal, playing out loud throughout the museum. "OK, I thought, "we will play this with that in mind." I knew Sam would also be listening and acting with me behind this sordid scene. I went on, my throat more than a little dry. "I will naturally provide you with a copy of the tape so our exchange will be accurate and admissible in court." Eric nodded. "No, Eric, you must give your verbal approval to tape this session if you wish it taped." I wasn't an attorney, but even I knew inaudible responses were difficult to hear on audio and worthless in court. "It is OK to tape this session," said Eric. "For the record," I continued, "today is Tuesday, March 16, 2021. Three persons are here in the office of Mr. Jack Darnell-Schuyler, Jr." "Eric Boles and his attorney, Mr. Zachariah Otis, have arrived to present a matter to me, Jack Darnell-Schuyler, Jr." "Eric has given his verbal consent to recording this session and receiving a taped copy of the audio and video, if any, under Condition 12, broadcast throughout the museum." Neither Eric nor Mr. Otis caught this or asked about what Condition 12 might mean. I decided that Mr. Otis, emboldened by the prospect of bagging a lion and what he might get for the carcass, wasn't the brightest bulb to have ever passed the bar if indeed he had ever done. "Mr. Otis, before we go further, I must ask you for your qualifications." "Why, uh . . ." his voice trailed off, his mind now fully engaged, wondering where this was going. "I trained at, uh, Portland Christian Legal Studies Center . . ." I've been in practice representing the religious rights of faithful Christians for 17 years in various places, most recently, uh, Manhattan, here." The screen on the desk flashed once. A note appeared from Sam on it: "no such school as Portland Christian Legal Studies Center, Jack." "Before we move on, Mr. Otis, you referred to the Schuyler Trust as a 'public' trust a few moments ago in your opening statement to me before this taped session began. Can you tell me more about that?" "Well, er, everybody out there knows about the Schuyler Trust, so it's public." "Oh," I replied. "Legally, the Schuyler Trust is a privately-owned trust registered in Pennsylvania. I own it. No one else owns shares." That may or may not have soaked in. I began to doubt Zachariah's capacity to give sound legal advice to a hamster. "Mr. Otis, I must ask you, have you passed the bar in New York?" "How dare you ask such a question?" "A simple yes or no would suffice, Mr. Otis. I need to know what your credentials are to represent my friend and former lover, Eric Boles. Can you tell me how you met Eric?" "No, that's confidential under attorney-client privilege." "I had to ask. Some attorneys go out after business, having received information that business is available." "I'm not an ambulance chaser." "Of course, you aren't. No one but you has mentioned that today." Mr. Otis flushed; Eric's eyes flickered up to see my eyes looking into his, my eyebrows lifted a bit, a question on my face. The office was still for a moment. A strangling silence suffused the room. Bulletproof windows overlooking the park prevented the sound of birds and wind from reaching inside. I could see children playing on the swings and slides in the park outside. Rays of warm sunshine warmed the carpet in the office and bounced off the visible parts of shiny hardwood floors. "The conditions of residence in the Museum, both implied and explicit, state as follows: "those persons given a suite now in writing do agree to, sign, and document their agreement to maintain absolute privacy about the Schuyler Trust, its business, money, private lives, holdings, and its policies. Failure to comply is a zero-tolerant offense, and the offender must immediately vacate the museum in that event and pay for all legal action taken to recover civil damages. The suite-holder does not pay rent and is not subject to the rental laws of the state of New York, the city of New York, or the borough of Manhattan." "Mr. Otis," I continued, "You should know that if Eric approached you and divulged any private Schuyler Trust business to you, whether privileged or not, we will bring our considerable legal resources to focus on that civil suit. More than likely, Eric will lose his fortune." "All of it." Eric's eyes jumped to his tightly clenched hands. "That will reduce his obligation to pay your legal fees. The Schuyler Trust never pays legal fees. Ever. If Eric must leave the museum, he won't have an income. He won't be welcome here. He won't have access to our fortune, our transportation, our security." "With all that in mind, I doubt he approached you. I'm wondering, Mr. Otis, if you didn't learn about some aspect of our business from someone inside of our organization, a tip that led you to find someone to manipulate into an untenable position." "Perhaps," I told him, "the interview, (which we already knew about and are prepared to defend vigorously) was intended solely for your monetary gain, not for any supposed injustice." "There has been no damage to you, civil or criminal." "My position is that people like you cast shame on the legal profession. Before the week is out, we will know your connection here." "Prepare to lose a defamation suit with appropriate damages, possibly a libel suit as well, and perhaps impersonating an attorney, let's not forget extortion, perhaps practicing law without a license, a criminal offense in the state of New York. Riker's Island is not a friendly place to attorney inmates or people who pretend to be attorneys." Mr. Otis, pale by this time, rose. His mean and twisted facial expression wasn't a good look for him. Frustrated, he motioned Eric to rise and leave with him. Eric didn't budge. "Mr. Boles, I advise you to say nothing further, and this conference is over." Eric still didn't budge. Mr. Otis left. Eric and I broke out laughing. "Great performance, Eric! I think we've got him now." Mr. Otis rushed from the office past Sam and nearly reached the museum's front door in time to meet a particular process server. A burly man, aged thirty, the process server gave Mr. Otis a summons to appear in court in the matter of a civil suit alleging defamation and conspiracy along with a criminal complaint alleging conspiracy to defraud and a few other charges. Eric had been approached by Mr. Otis after one of our security staff had contacted Mr. Otis and his related organizations about RJS and his 'conception.' The security staffer belonged to a far-right organization opposed to 'improving' on 'God's way of life.' The secretary at the law firm recognized a crock of manure when she smelled one, had promised our staffer to contact someone who could help out, and had telephoned our security chief. The chief and I discussed how best to deal with the employee and his pretend attorney without suborning perjury or any other legal problem for ourselves. Eric volunteered to take counsel from the 'legal advisor,' and we set up a fake interview never to be published. The secretary at the law firm found the man, previously convicted for practicing law without a license, and dangled the prospects of millions in front of him along with a chance, one Eric Boles, 'reputed to be a wealthy man.' The rest was now history. Mr. Otis wasn't adept at recognizing trouble. He stepped right into his own cow pie. Eric and I began our relationship as close roommates at college. After this drama, we worked that out. Bluntly put, Joe, Rafael, and I didn't ordinarily ask Eric and his partner to play. Besides the awkward nature of my relationship with Joe and his twin, there was incest to consider. I had no objection, but Joe and Eric hadn't yet come to be comfortable sharing me or each other. That night, in my primary suite, all six of us held a celebration, an orgy for the first time in a while. Joe, Rafael, Eric, Raul, Julio, and I slept naked in my big bed. After our communal shower, we poured into a loving group of guys all over each other and sideways, bareback loving that lasted until dawn, when the last guy closed his eyes, exhausted, in sleep. The maids must have had to wear clothespins on their noses the next day while changing the bedding, at least. Perhaps just double masks. I didn't ask for fear of finding out. I have to say that all six of us created a memory of closeness and pleasure that will linger forever. The sounds, the pure physical maelstrom of touch, the knowledge that everyone on that bed wanted to invade or be invaded for pleasure, to touch and stroke, or to just kiss, lick, and suck . . . the warm, intimate pleasures were as close to heaven as we could imagine. Raul got up from time to time and replenished the tray of warm, wet washcloths by the bed and the tray of bottled water, Coke, and coffee. Some might have preferred alcohol, but I asked them to do this sober, fully awake, and aware, intentionally letting their emotional guards down, offering their strengths and fears to the group for energetic healing. All of us knew the tremendous power of the words 'I want you,' 'are you up for this?' and the phrases in response 'OK, take me' and 'sure, let's do it.' That night we practiced making perfect. Most of us ate breakfast around ten a.m. the next day sitting on the carpet. I asked footmen to set up a buffet in my suite. The six of us filled a plate from the buffet and sat in a circle drinking peach mimosas (yes, we finally got to drink alcohol). The footmen served scrambled eggs with hot sauce, chocolate croissants, fabulous almond-filled pastries, southwestern hash browns, a decadent potato casserole of baked, sliced potatoes, butter, cream, etc., coffee, tea. A few of us had a little more of each other, amusing the others, inspiring others, and by noon we were showering and snapping towels. We were dressed and dry, fully packed by one a.m. the following day, piling into the helicopter bound for JFK. Our luggage and other traveling necessities went in a small truck to JFK ahead of us. For some reason, the 787 might as well have been an Airbus 380 at Teterboro, for all the worry, fuss, and delay, not to mention extra charges for air traffic controller supervisors and minute, sometimes lengthy haggling over flight plans and crew. Sometime during the night, someone had floated the notion of taking the 787 to Paris the next day from JFK airport instead of flying on Apricot out of Teterboro. It might have been me, possibly. On a trip down the hall to stretch my legs on a brief break during the night, I had found myself inspired to call the night duty officer at Schuyler Air to see if taking the Boeing 787 to Paris the next day could happen. He said they would prepare Apricot and also try their best to get the 787 flight-ready by three p.m. I reminded the officer that we'd get into Paris before midnight in that case, not a great time to arrive. "Let's leave JFK on the 787 at three a.m. for Paris Orly instead. We'll leave Apricot at Teterboro this trip. Can we leave JFK in twenty-four hours on the 787?" The officer was reasonably confident that time frame would work but said he would know for sure by eight a.m., a few hours later, and would call the travel office if the Boeing 787 had any mothball-related issues they could not solve in time. He told me that fueling wasn't an issue. All maintenance was checked off on his computer screen as 'performed.' There was a pilot roster on call for the 787. "The issues will be provisioning, food and fresh linens, the flight plan to file, opening the Schuyler Hangar at Orly, those things. We'll need to check the on-call list for flight attendants and ramp attendants and security . . ." The duty officer went from trying to stay awake to 'full blast: a major trip to plan quickly' mode. He began talking to himself. "I'll look to see when the last hydraulics and lubrication systems got checked and if they passed." I thanked him for his work, silently wondered if we were preparing to have sex again or fly to Paris, given all the hydraulics and lubrication talk! I left him to it. We had a larger project, however. Once the 787 left JFK and we were somewhere near 43,000 feet (8.1 miles up in the air), I asked Joe and Eric to come to my suite in the rear. They looked mildly puzzled. "I wonder if these minutes together might help all three of us work out our relationship," I told them. "As you already know, this guy here (I had my arm around Eric's waist and was holding him tight) were lovers at college. At the time, neither of us knew Eric had a brother, let alone the splendid guy he turned out to be (I looked at Joe intently)." "Eric, you became overwhelmed by circumstances you couldn't control during and after the attack on us, and since I wasn't there to explain or comfort you that night, you did what seemed to be the safe thing and got out of there. You couldn't have done anything differently, didn't have all the facts, and felt you had to make a rapid choice with little evidence to the contrary." "I came back to the room that night and found it empty. I was devastated and looked for you with every resource I could put together, which took time. You did a great job of disappearing, and Joe helped me figure it out." "Joe and I immediately liked each other. Joe filled the void right then, Eric. He still fills me with pleasure and is my lover, just as you and I. He did what you would have done in his place had you had all the facts." "Eric," I went on, "you have a Cuban lover-partner who is important to you. Joe and I are pretty tight. The problem is that we three haven't had a 'come to Jesus' moment to thrash out just how the three of us can heal, just us. Eric, I've missed you, and I want to be close, physically intimate again with you, take you in my arms when I see you, to have your lips again, and I want Joe to feel like he can love you too." "Would you guys mind if we practice, say for an hour or so, maybe longer, to see how that might work? Joe, do you have reservations about being close to Eric that way?" "There was a time when it seemed kind of icky or something, Jack, but after last night watching Eric giving and taking, I couldn't resist. I hugged Eric and told him that I loved him. He looked so surprised, I kissed him, and he kissed me. We didn't take it any farther than that last night." Eric jumped in, "That was the hottest kiss of the night. I thought I'd come just from his mouth on mine." He smiled wearily. "Jack, what do you mean 'practice?'" Joe asked. "There is a big shower in this suite. Can the three of us talk about it there?" My heart was racing. We got naked and found a water temp we liked in the rainmaker. "Show me how you feel about each other, guys." Joe and Eric embraced, their dangling cocks coming to horizontal, growing tight to their bellies straight up and rigid over the next few minutes. It was Joe who first knelt. I reached under Joe's ass and ran a finger lightly across his crack and his hole. He wiggled his ass back and forth. Joe gently turned Eric against the shower wall, Eric's hands up against the warm tile. Remaining on his knees, Joe began to swipe his tongue across Eric's hole . . . and Eric lit up like a firecracker. "Joe . . . what are you?" After a few minutes of that, Eric turned slightly, reached back, and lifted Joe by his hair. "Do me now, Joe, please." "Are you sure, man?" "I think I'd know if I wasn't sure, Joe. Please . . . please!" Joe, still behind his brother, hugged him. "Hey, Eric, it's me. Calm down. I want to and I will. I guess I thought you wouldn't want to." "For a while, I didn't," Eric replied. "I was angry that you and Jack, well . . .but now I know you both love me, and I want both of you." I grinned to myself. Joe looked at me, and I nodded. In a flash, my cock nudged Eric's ass. "Push back gently and push out, Eric. Let your hole take my hard cock, and I'll fill you up." Eric gave a little cry and did just that as I watched my cock sink slowly into his ass and saw Joe kissing the front of Eric's neck as I pumped into Eric, then withdrew. Joe's cock did not wilt as Eric took his turn to caress Joe. A sense of relief and anticipation----my cock fully hard and erect, I had a flash of memory in my head of my dad in the shower at the White House. I wondered if I was feeling what he felt for his friends right then. If so, I must have seen him at an important moment in his life. At their peak now, Joe painted his brother's chest white. I plunged my cock into Eric's ass again and listened to Eric's cries of pleasure, felt his eager expression of joy when I brushed his prostate and helped Joe support Eric's trembling legs. When I pulled out, Eric sank to the floor, now watching my cock now digging deep into his brother Joe, our lips in triumphant threesome joy. "I love both of you, Eric and Joe, and I always will. Eric, you introduced me to your wonderful family. Joe, you were my rock when I thought I had lost your brother. To love you together is everything for me. Can we, just the three of us, take some time each week without footmen or anyone else and celebrate us?" Both Joe and Eric nodded. I just saw the back of Joe's head nod, behind him with my cock whipping in and out of his world-class ass. He couldn't have said anything at that point. He was on the verge of cumming so hard that he stopped breathing for a few seconds. Eric stood up in the shower, and I knelt to lick their cum while they kissed above me. The other guys had to have noticed our freshly fucked look when we trooped back into the main cabin. Raul spoke for all of them. "¿Lo resolviste?" "We did, Raul." I winked at him to lighten the moment, and I'm pretty sure he understood that a healing had taken place in our group. Raul didn't wink back, and I noticed he looked tired despite the hours of sleep on the 787. For that matter, Julio didn't look so hot either. Both of them had lost their tan color. Noticeably. They had already begun to bleed inside. Orly airport was sunny and the air mild. The Travel Office had resurrected our Schuyler vehicles from storage in a warehouse near the airport. The shiny, black over-powered SUVs with bulletproof glass had solid rubber tires, nearly immune to gunfire. I wanted our group to see the Traders' office, a considerable part of Schuyler's history in Paris. Three SUVs with our mixture of French and American guards dropped by the Place des Vosges. Our group walked to the office, marked with a single door at whose side was a small gold plate: "Schuyler Traders - Place des Vosges - Paris." We knocked, and the latest footman, a tall, burly, proper, hunk of man, assessed our group, saw my face, reached to his lapel, and must have pushed a button. He became effusively friendly, welcoming us as old friends, whisking us upstairs or, if we wished, up a tiny elevator built for just two at a time, cramped. I noticed, a little concerned now, that Raul and Julio took the elevator. Julio stumbled and grabbed Raul's arm. The current manager greeted us near the trading floor where hundreds of millions of euros appeared and disappeared each hour. Vast sums of cash from Africa and Europe traded here. Asian traders used our Hong Kong office for the proximity to the SEHK market in Hong Kong, the largest capitalized market in the world. Years ago, successful trading involved choices of which stock to purchase and sell and the timing of those transactions. None of it depended on a fast personal computer years ago. Buying equities that were to increase in value and avoiding those on their spiral down (or nearing that path) pointed the road to success. That was still a good plan in this century. Access didn't hurt, and getting one's order to the market first was a big part of access. Proximity to the market was necessary since the days of messengers on bicycles bearing messages were now past. The equivalent now was the guy at home with the fastest computer together with the quickest millisecond access to a 'broker.' Most investors could climb the 'fast computer' mountain; some managed to get better access shaving off a fraction of a millisecond's time to place buy and sell orders to a broker. Successful institutional investors commanded the fastest lines. The real insiders had a trader on the market floor; some of those traders were for show. Some only handled huge transactions between fund managers; many traders only bought shares on behalf of a select corporation who had purchased a seat on the exchange, buying only a small group of companies whose stock traded in a narrow range. These traders rarely sold anything. They bought when their assigned stocks were low enough, and if their companies bins, their 'silos' of stocks to sell were running on 'low.' A supercomputer sold those pooled equities, always at a profit in the Schuyler Traders' case. In New York, trading for the North and South American investors, the Schuyler Traders had their investors on the floor, giving second place with slightly lower priorities to their clients. Someone had to be first, on top of the mountain, and that took money, position, knowledge, and experience, not just fast machines and software, although the latter two were part of being successful. Eric was unaware that Schuyler computers sold chunks of any one particular stock faster at current market price free of any actual trades on that market. Customers simply were sold a piece of what Schuyler Traders already owned. The only essential items traded were digits on a supercomputer changed instantly for the new owner's name on a particular order of digital stocks. Like so many other modern traders in modern markets, we had gotten way past an actual purchase of paper stock certificates, past a customer selling his or her shares to another person. Most all broker buying was to replenish tightly controlled amounts of digital stocks on a computer for resale. The bulk of purchases from individuals was from those digital silos filled with stocks. The supercomputers kept track of the 'stock certificate number,' its history of owners, its last sale price, the stocks gain or loss per unit time, its intended next sell price, how many siblings like it were in its 'silo,' and a host of other identifying data. No traders stood on a floor somewhere waving their hands to sell equities anymore. Schuyler's customers knew they wouldn't get the same spot on the totem pole as the Schuylers themselves; they also knew that the returns would diminish with anything or anyone else. The old rule that 'money makes money' wasn't a secret. Investing for many large corporations, royal families, and governments joined a part of that group whose money made 'the most' money. An 11% return per year, compared to a 10% yield, on ten dollars is one thing. The same 1% difference of gain on $50 billion is quite another. I figured that I was the sole member of the group with a dog in this particular hunt, so I probably had a primary interest. I decided to listen to my group's conversation, and surprisingly, Eric and Joe asked the most intelligent questions and displayed much interest. A few of their questions approached the limit of proprietary Schuyler secrets, and I noted that the manager would dart a glance over to me before he answered. Each time, I would raise my right index finger in assent. He began to look down at my finger instead of my face when this happened. I knew Eric had his $50 million to manage. I did not know how active he had or had not been in investing those funds. Joe, on the other hand, hadn't access to a considerable fortune yet asked questions and displayed technical understanding to which I enjoyed listening. A seat on a bourse, a regional exchange, was merely a license to be rich. Precious few stocks get sold to small customers without another customer paying more for their purchase to offset the 'loss' from the first transaction. Large corporations and funds aren't in the business of losing money. They do, on occasion, fail for numerous reasons, including stupidity, crime, reputation change, poor customer service, neglect, Acts of God, and generational management change, among others. We slept on the 787 at Orly. It was easy to secure, everyone had a bedroom to themselves if they wished it, the food was excellent (though several steps below the Georges Cinq kitchens) and available around the clock. Oddly enough, everyone slept well in an otherwise noisy airport Except for Raul and Julio. Their trouble approached gradually as the night hours progressed as their internal bleeding progressed slowly and silently.