Markus Najbreit — the Estranged Son of a Billionaire (bobbobbobthethir)

Hello, friends, and welcome to this little branch of a very neat story. It’s just gotten started, but I’ve got big things planned for it: Money, sex, power, and plenty more sex… we’re going to have fun exploring it together, so a note on what you’re in for: Lots of . Maybe a smattering of some other things (group sex? the kind of debauchery that occurs at a wild bachelor party?), but nothing too unusual.

While the billionaire and his friends party on the yacht deck above, I’m down below in his luxurious cabin, fucking the living brains out of his daughter. Splayed across those pristine white sheets with her bikini bottom pulled off to the side and my cock six inches deep inside, she is hot, tight, and everything a man could ask for…

But wait, let me take a step back. You want to know the how and the why, not just the what. And for that, we’ll need to get into a little bit of history.

Up until recently, my name was Markus Najbreit, and I was the son of Warren Najbreit, the billionaire above deck. Twenty years ago, I was disowned and written out of his will, because of events better left unsaid. I was a sophomore at Princeton then, but I wasn’t going to be for much longer. With thirty-grand in unpaid tuition waiting for me, and without father’s checkbook to grease the way, I was to drop out and find my own way in life.

I learned a lot of things in that first year. I went from smashing Grey Goose and Absolut on the daily to hoping my water wouldn’t be cut when I was late on my bills. Private jet trips across the Atlantic for a bite to eat became subway rides and more rice and beans than I could stomach. I learned how to use a washing machine.

I must have worked a dozen jobs across my first few years. It wasn’t that I had no work ethic—as the first son in the family, there had been expectations —but rather, I just had no concept of how a regular, real-world job worked, or how to do manual labour, for that matter. The fact that I was still learning to control my temper didn’t help. And so, I floated from job to job, working for whoever would take me, picking up this and that from all sorts of trades.

Father had instructed the rest of the family (including all the staff) to cut off contact with me, and father’s word was God, so my pleas fell on deaf ears. The media, which had covered the incident in gory detail, soon lost interest in me, and heavens knew they weren’t about to send me a care package. I was all alone. And so, more often than not, I would find myself drowning in cheap beer, retching my guts out on the side of the street, praying for my shithole of a life to be over.

Across those years, I had never forgotten, could never forget, what my father had done to me. I was a billionaire’s scion, I was promised the world, and he took that away from me in one moment. He, Warren Najbreit, had fucked over his firstborn son, and in that moment, I swore that I would fuck him over too.

Little did I know just how much fucking that would involve.

(Editors Note: bob’s Freshman 15 was the first story I favorited here. Now I get to fix his spelling and grammar errors without having to comment to him about it. Let’s see where this goes. ~W)