Finally it was summer. Not just any summer. The summer after my senior year in high school. The summer I, Cassandra Marie Wiles, would be eighteen and start the rest of my life.

Graduation was two days in the past. Michelle Curran, my absolutely best friend in the world, and I spent the day together, reminiscing about what our life had been and dreaming of what was to come. I slept over at her house that night, but she got sick, running a fever and throwing up in the middle of the night, so I decided to go home. Dad was out of town on business and Mom was home alone. At least, that's what I believed until I drove in our driveway about five A.M. on the morning of Saturday, June 1, 2002.

A Mercedes I didn't recognize was parked in our driveway. It had to belong to Mom's lover. Yes, I knew she was having an affair. So did Dad. I knew because I overheard them discussing it about six months ago. If Mom's affair bothered Dad, he didn't show it. If anything, he seemed more attuned and caring toward her, and happier when he was at home. And she was definitely more positive toward both of us and more eager to please him. I'm sure they didn't know I knew, and I certainly didn't tell them. But my knowledge informed my observation and I saw things I might not have noticed otherwise.

That early June morning, I considered driving off but, maybe, I wanted them to know I knew about the affair. Maybe, it was simple curiosity. Whichever, I turned off my car and, as quietly as I could, unlocked the door and slipped into the utility room. A faint light came the kitchen. I waited for a few moments listening for sounds. I heard nothing.

I walked into the kitchen. A man was casually leaning against the counter sipping coffee. He was naked except for a gold Rolex around his left wrist.

"Good morning, Cassie," he said.

"Mr. Johnson?" I whispered.

He made no effort to cover himself. He stood there naked and proud, with a knowing twinkle in his eye and a half-smile on his face. "You're home early. Something wrong?" he asked.

The question hardly registered. My mind was flooded by the sight of him in all his glory.

Mr. Johnson wasn't a big man-maybe only five-nine or so, and probably no more than one hundred fifty pounds. His face was square-jawed, chiseled, and lean, with light blonde, almost white, hair, and bright, piercing light blue eyes. Sky blue. The color that seems translucent and almost unreal. Those eyes always seemed... well, cool. Perhaps detached is a better word, and in control. Yes, in control.

He wore expensive, hand-tailored shirts and suits and Italian loafers-the top of the line in everything. I had seen him a few times in his boxer swim trunks, and admired his body. Like his face, it was lean and chiseled-all sinew and muscle with a six-pack stomach.

But I'd never seen him naked. It was quite a shock. His ass was hard and hollowed-the best ass on a man I'd ever seen. I tried not to look at his cock, but I couldn't help it. Once I looked, I couldn't look away. As I stared at it, his cock twitched and began to rise. I had seen cocks before. I managed to hang on to my virginity until I was sixteen but, since then, I had shared the joys of sex with four different guys. And, curiosity being what it is, I had surfed the Internet and found some wild pictures.

Mr. Johnson was well endowed indeed. His cock was long and thick, and it dangled between his muscled legs in front of a drooping, large ball sac. As I stared unabashedly, his cock rose until it was long and hard with a big purple head that pointed directly at my mouth. I took one small step toward him, then forced myself to stop. That cock was pulling me toward him like a magnet moving steel.

I needed air. I was gasping audibly to fill my lungs to capacity. I looked up to meet his eyes. His face was almost void of emotion, with only a faint hint of a twinkle in them. He acted unaware that he was erect and naked in front of me. I couldn't break eye contact, as if some force made me look him directly in the eyes.

"I asked you a question, Cassie," he said. There was no edge to his voice.

"Michelle got sick," I replied.

"Well, it's good you're here. Did you know your mother was having an affair?"

"Yes, sir. I overheard them talking," I said. I wished his cock would go down, because its awful presence was dominating my mind.

"But you didn't know it was me?"

"No, sir."

"Your mother is a delightful woman, Cassie. I enjoy fucking her. I don't want you to hold that against her, and I don't want you to think less of your father for accepting it."

"I don't, Mr. Johnson," I said.

"Most importantly, I do not want it to interfere with our plans."

"You don't ever need to worry about that," I replied sincerely.

"You're going to be eighteen on the eleventh. That's only ten days."

I didn't reply, for no reply was necessary. I simply looked at him, waiting to hear what I knew he was going to say. I had thought of him and my eighteenth birthday every day for a year.

"I'll pick you up on Thursday the thirteenth about five. You'll be gone until Sunday the twenty-third, at least. In the meantime, we need to order you some clothes and things."

"Yes, sir."

"Are you looking forward to going?" he asked.

"You know I am."

"I knew, but it's nice to hear," he said with a warm smile.

"Yes, Mr. Johnson. I've been hot for you since the moment I saw you. If I had my way, we would've had sex two years ago."

He smiled, took a sip of his coffee, and said, "You were sixteen. I do adult things with adults."

"I was doing it with other guys," I said, challenging him.

He changed the subject. "Have you heard of bondage and discipline?"

"Yes, sir," I replied.

"Have you done it?"

"No, sir."

"Good. I want to be the first to enjoy you that way. Your mother and I do it a lot, and your father joins us sometimes. Right now, your mother is in the basement, tightly bound in what is called Japanese rope bondage. She's been that way for..." He looked at his watch, breaking eye contact, but I didn't look away. "... forty-six minutes. I'm going down stairs to enjoy her now. We'll be up shortly."

He walked to the basement door and opened it. When he closed the door behind him, my knees wobbled and gave out. I collapsed with a thud on the kitchen floor. I unzipped my shorts, jammed my hand down them, and thought of Mr. Johnson.

Two years previously, in the spring of 2000, Mom and Dad were in a tizzy because a headhunter had approached Dad about changing jobs. Dad wasn't happy where he was, so he was ecstatic about a possible change. Mom felt the same way. I understood it was great for them and for the family financially, but it required a move and I didn't want to leave my friends. Mainly, I didn't want to leave Paul, my boyfriend. He's taken my virginity at Christmas, and we had been fucking regularly since then.

One Monday, Dad called a family conference, which lasted for an hour. He said the purpose of the meeting was to discuss whether he should take the job. I knew the real purpose was to convince me to accept the move without complaint.

That's when I first heard the name Adam Johnson. Clearly both of them were in awe of him. He was a self-made almost-billionaire whiz kid, and only twenty-eight-years-old. Dad was forty-four at the time, and Mom was only thirty-four. Working for a man young enough to be his son didn't bother Dad at all. Their eagerness to join Mr. Johnson and his successful company silenced any complaints I might have had.

The next Friday, Mr. Johnson was coming to our house for dinner. He had requested we all dress casually and that I be there. As I would learn, Mr. Johnson's requests were commands.

Dressing casual has different meanings to different people. There is casual sexy and casual sloppy, casual business and casual knock-around-on-Saturday. Mom said she was dressing casual sexy and I should do the same. She wore a micro-mini skirt, a sweater top with a plunging neckline, and sling-back pumps with four-inch heels. Mom has a great body and huge boobs, so anything tight is sexy on her. I wore a black silk cami top, my low-ride blue jeans, leaving my midriff bare, and sandals. At Mom's suggestion, a gold choker was my only jewelry. My hair is long, and I wear it down.

When the doorbell rang, I yelled, "I'll get it." When I opened the door, Mr. Johnson was there. He was magnificent. His sheer physical impact overwhelmed me, leaving me standing mute as his eyes devoured me, mentally ripping off my clothes and fucking me. My need for him to fuck me was wild and compelling-a need that made my pussy gush and my legs literally part until I stood with my legs spread, my panties damp, and my eagerness obvious. I wanted it right there, on the entry hall floor with the door wide open, with Dad and Mom and anyone else around watching.

I wanted him to say, "Take off your jeans and get on your back."

He knew that, but what he said was, "You must be Cassie. You're every bit as beautiful as you father said you were. It's a pleasure to meet you."

By the time of my seventeenth birthday, I was hopelessly in lust, or heat, or maybe even love with Adam Johnson. The guys in school that I fucked or sucked were just sex, a form of masturbation as I thought of Mr. Johnson.

I saw Mr. Johnson regularly because he came to the house for dinner at least once a month, and we three went to his house with about the same frequency.

That was enough time together for me to know what kind of man he was. Mr. Johnson was an alpha male. I saw that in his relationships with my parents, who both obviously deferred to him. I saw it in others on those occasions, such as his Christmas party, when others were around. I saw other women, older and more experienced women, some married and some single, drool over him as I did. No doubt he would take advantage of their unspoken offers even as he spurned mine.

Except for some penetrating gazes that left me weak in the knees, he wasn't sexual with me. He was polite and funny, or cool and commanding, and never demeaning as some adults are to teenagers. But he only touched me when it was appropriate, like a handshake.

There was only one exception to his benign behavior with me. Just after my seventeenth birthday, I was puttering around in the kitchen with Mom about two in the afternoon when there was a knock on the door. It was Mr. Johnson. I wish I'd known he was coming. I was dressed only in an old T-shirt and shirts. My hair was a mess and I didn't have on my makeup.

He told Mom he wanted to speak to me alone. Barefooted, I followed him down the hall to my parent's bedroom, where he closed the door behind us. "I know you want me," he said. His blue eyes were controlling, but hot. As in sexually hot. "I want you, too. I want you more than you know. Turn around."

I turned around with my back to him. His hands slid down my arms, pulled my wrists behind me, and crossed them. He bound them with cord. He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled me between his knees facing him. With his hands on my waist, he guided me to the floor where I knelt before him. He didn't speak for the longest time. I knew it would be wrong for me to speak first, so I waited there kneeling between his legs with my hands bound behind me. Being bound kept my hands from touching him, but not my mouth. I leaned forward to kiss the bulge in his slacks, but he stopped me with his hand in my hair. He smiled and his hand ran down my cheek to cup my chin. I though he was going to kiss me, but he didn't. He held my head and stared into my eyes.

That's when my capture was cemented. Not the first time I saw him. Not the times since then, when I preened for him. Not later, when he finally took me. But then.

Finally, he spoke. "On your eighteenth birthday, I'm going to take you, Cassie. You will be mine for as long as I want."

"Yes, sir," I said.

Nothing more needed to be said. Oh, I could have said how deliriously happy that made me or how much I wanted it, or even begged him to take me then and there because I was ever ready for him, but nothing more was needed. He hadn't asked if he could take me. He hadn't asked me if I wanted him. He told me he would. He was the male-the alpha male. I was the female he wanted. It was only natural that he would expect my complete submission. I liked it that way.

He stood, pulled me to my feet, unbound my wrists, and left without speaking another word. I followed him through the kitchen and watched as he drove away.

Mother saw me rubbing my wrists, and saw the tiny indentations left by his binding cord. "Are you all right?" she asked with great love and compassion.

"Oh, I've never been better," I replied.

"Did you have sex with him?" she asked.

"He didn't even kiss me, but he said... he said, on my eighteenth birthday, he would take me."

"I'm sure he will," Mother said so softly I barely heard.

When I heard footsteps on the basement stairs that June morning, I quickly jerked my hand out of my shorts and refastened them. I sat down in a kitchen chair the moment before the basement door opened.

Mr. Johnson appeared, fully dressed again. Mother, dressed in a simple dress, was behind him. A leash in Mr. Johnson's hand led to the collar around her neck. Mother stopped, staring at me with frightened, beseeching eyes. He tugged on the leash and she took the last step out of the basement. He pulled a chair out at the table, turned it to face me, and guided Mother to sit. He dropped the leash and its metal click-clacked against the wooden chair.

"On the thirteenth, Cassie is going away with me for an indefinite period," he said to Mother.

"Yes, Mr. Johnson," she replied submissively.

"Between now and then, you will prepare her for me as I instruct. There will be clothes to buy and, of course, I want her pussy shaved and smooth, just like yours. You do want your daughter to be well prepared when I take her, don't you?" he said.

"Yes, Mr. Johnson," she replied.

"Do you want to show her your shaved pussy so she can she what its like?" he asked.

"If you want me to," Mother murmured.

"I do, but you can do it later. I need to go," he said.

He kissed her hard and his hand dropped to her leg. She quickly spread her legs and his hand disappeared beneath her dress. Her hips lifted slightly to accept his finger. When his kiss was through he gave me a wink, and left us sitting there. Two women. Mother and daughter. One his collared slave. The other desperately wanting to be.

"Cassie," Mother said in a frightened whisper, "Please don't hate me but..."

"I don't hate you, Mom. I envy you. I can't wait until he has me," I blurted out.

That opened the floodgates. We talked without stopping, leaving the table only to eat and pee. She told me more than any child has the right to know about her relationship with Dad and Mr. Johnson and how the three of them fitted together. She told me of her subjugation by Mr. Johnson and the joy-and the pain-it brought her, and how Dad was becoming more demanding since he now saw what she held deep in her heart.

When Dad arrived home that night, we were still there. Mother was still collared and the leash was still attached. He looked at the two of us with raw lust in his eyes.

"Cassie knows everything," she said.

"Good. We won't need to hide it," he replied. He took Mom's leash and led her upstairs.

Over the twelve short days before the fateful Thursday when Mr. Johnson would come for me, Mom and I spent a great deal of time together. We talked and cried, and sometimes just sat in the quiet, holding each other.

We shopped, both at stores and over the Internet. I had plenty of clothes, including a couple of outfits I'd call slutty. But Mother bought me exactly what Mr. Johnson wanted for me. Things like the three corsets. One of them was particularly severe and had a chain rather than cord to tighten it. The chain locked to leave me in the corset's fierce embrace. And the hobble dress, which allowed me to take only mincing steps. Boots and shoes in all the sexy, bondage styles, some with heels so high I could only take a few steps. Open crotch panties. Bras to maximize my breasts and display them for the world to see. A couple of wild dresses beyond "hot slut" and into the ozone of raunchiness.

Twice, Mr. Johnson appeared at our door. The first time he didn't speak to me at all, only to mother. He had her strip me naked and redress me as if I were a manikin to show a few things we had acquired for his pleasure.

The second time, he commanded me to sit in a chair by our kitchen table and to neither move nor speak. He ordered mother to strip and lay face down over the table with her head toward me. He fucked her there, pulling out when he came to shoot ropes of his hot semen on her back. I will admit just watching the pleasure he took from mother made me orgasm.

When he left us there, I washed my mother's back with a warm wet washcloth. Then we talked some more. She told me what to expect, although I would learn such things can never be told. They must be lived.

I am not naive. I realized my relationship with this brilliant, commanding, and archetypically sexy man would not be out of June Cleaver's brides' book. Remember-the first personal touch he gave me was to bind my hands and make me kneel between his legs. A woman would be foolhardy beyond belief if she didn't realize bondage and discipline was to be a keystone of the relationship. I wanted that. I wanted him to demand my unconditional surrender.

I always knew women flocked to him, so I never assumed he would be satisfied with only one. When Mom told me Mr. Johnson brought another woman into their games and insisted Mother pleasure her, I knew he would do the same with me. I just hoped he would have one primary woman who he'd keep her entire life, and that I would be that woman. After all, I did have an occasional fantasy of living with him happily ever after, of children and grandchildren and growing old together. But even those fantasies had me collared and other women living with us, in all that term implies.

I didn't often look that far into the future. I wanted today. I wanted now. I wanted him as he wanted me. I wanted to submit as much as he wanted to dominate.

On the thirteenth when Mr. Johnson would arrive for me, I helped Dad load my possessions in his car before saying goodbye to him. He would deliver them to Mr. Johnson's house on his way to work.

Mother had her final orders from Mr. Johnson about how he wanted me. She began by dyeing my hair the specific color of blonde he wanted, a honey blonde only a little different from my natural hair color. She did my finger and toe nails, painting them a bright red.

I lay back on my parents' bed as Mother carefully shaved my bush and used tweezers to pull the stray hairs, leaving me smooth and bald down there. As I watched her between my legs, I had a strong desire to pull her mouth to my lower lips and have her kiss me there, but I did not. It wasn't because making it with a woman bothered me. I'd done that. It was because she belonged to Mr. Johnson and I didn't have his permission.

She bathed me in the big tub in the master bathroom and carefully dried me before rubbing my body in a fine sesame oil. She started dressing me with pulling my crotchless panties into place and pulling my labia through the crotch hole. The elastic pressure made me tingle. I wore a ribbed satin tank top that came only a few inches below my breasts, a skirt so short I couldn't sit down without flashing my pussy, and ankle high boots with five-inch heels and a locking strap around my leg.

I knew how much Mom had hated and loved the humiliation of preparing her only child to become the slave of her own lover. Mom got off on humiliation. I'd bet she masturbated after we said goodbye and she went back into her bedroom to leave me alone with my thoughts.

When Mr. Johnson drove into the driveway, I picked up my bag and went out to join him. He tried to be nonchalant as he greeted me, took my bag, and put it in the trunk, but he was almost vibrating with energy. He guided me to the passenger's door and opened it, but stopped me before I got in.

He put a black, patent-leather collar around my neck as I stood in the bright sunlight of a June afternoon in my parent's driveway. Mother watched from the window. I wondered if anyone else saw me so willingly accept his sign of ownership.

I sat in the car, fastened the seat belt, and waited without speaking as he sat beside me and backed down the driveway. I was leaving my parents' world and going out to become part of Adam Johnson's world-a world of sexual submission.

We didn't speak as he drove the short distance to his house, parked in the garage, and he opened the car door for me. There he attached a leash to my collar. He led me inside and down the stairs into his basement. The room was small with a high ceiling, and contained only exercise equipment and a television set. He went to another door, unlocked it with a key from his pocket, and led me inside.

It was his dungeon. There were several devices for restraining a woman. Ropes and chains dangled from hooks in the walls or coiled on the floor. A hoist with a straight bar was centered over a gymnast's mat. When I saw each of them, I wondered how they felt. I knew I would soon know for certain.

He led me to a table like a doctor's examination table complete with stirrups for my feet. "Stay," he commanded. It was the first word he'd spoken since he picked me up.

Quickly, he attached leather restraint bracelets around my wrists. The bracelets were a thick but supple leather, about four inches wide with a series of buckles and a ring. He lifted me on the table, unlocked and removed my boots, and put identical bracelets around my ankles. He pushed me back to lie on the table. He pulled my wrists over my head. A quick click of the snaps and my wrists and neck were attached to the table. He guided my feet into the stirrups and attached them with the anklets before binding my feet to the stirrups with leather straps.

Mr. Johnson had been overeager since he picked me up, with a brittle, bright, sexual need, a desire to hurry like he was afraid I'd fly away. I was elated he was on the edge of losing control for it showed how much he wanted me. Now that I was bound, he stepped back to look at me. I saw the brittleness pass and a calmness overtake him. He ran a hand over my leg and under my skirt to stroke my pussy. He smiled when he felt how wet I was.

"You can struggle if you like, but you can't get away," he said.

"I'd like to struggle, but I never want to get away," I replied.

His eyes twinkled. "That's not a problem," he said. "Now, let's do something about your clothes." That something was a pair of sewing shears to cut through the heavy material of my skirt, and a pair of surgeon's shears to cut away the rest, all of which was done swiftly, leaving me naked on the table.

I expected him to focus on my breasts first because that's what attracts most men, but he surprised me. She stood between my spread legs and gently stroked my obediently-bare pubis. I tried to raise my head to look at him but I couldn't. I did feel his hand slide lightly over my most private parts. His lips captured my clitoris and his tongue flicked against it. My legs trembled. His tongue flicked faster.

Mr. Johnson had found my secret-a prominent and highly sensitive clitoris. Any man who touches my clit has me. I am putty in his hands. Paul, my first boyfriend, discovered it, but he wasn't sensitive enough to understand what power it gave him. Thank goodness for that, or else I would have been the plaything of every boy in high school.

I groaned and thrust my hips against Mr. Johnson's face. My bondage was ideal. My wrists and hands were bound in a way that kept my head and shoulders pinned to the table. My legs were spread in a way to keep me from closing them or turning my hips to avoid a man's thrust. But my hips were free. Free to respond to a man's lips or his cock.

I pulled hard against my restraints, letting them multiply that wonderful feeling of being helpless. Those who do not enjoy their own sexuality, or who are afraid of it, won't understand what I mean when I say it was liberating to be tied to a table by a man and made to do what he wanted. Totally liberating. And completely delicious.

Mr. Johnson felt me tighten. He sucked hard on my clit.

"I'm coming. Coming so good," I moaned as my orgasm washed over me.

I opened my eyes to see him peering down at me with a self-satisfied smugness and a sexual twinkle. "Firecracker clit," he said. I smiled wanly. "Are you a slut, Cassie?"

"No, sir, but I'll be one if that's what you want," I said. Wow, my voice sounded husky and sexy and submissive. His cock head nudged my slit and lodged there. He pushed slowly, feeding me only an inch or so. "More. Please. I need you in me, all the way in me. Please, oh please, Mr. Johnson," I begged.

I'd never even asked a guy for anything sexual, and certainly I'd never begged a man, but it seemed so right with him. It was part of my complete submission. Mom had told me to beg because he liked hearing it. I suspect all men do. But I was begging because I liked it.

My cunt had never experienced a cock like was in it now. My cunt expanded and spasmed as his cock inched back and forth, sending small electric orgasms pulsing through me with each additional thrust until I lay sweaty, happy, and weak from multiple releases with his cock fully in me.

Braced on his arms, he stared down at me. Slowly he withdrew, making my cunt feel void and lonely. But I knew he wasn't leaving. I knew my fucking was just beginning. "Please fuck me, Mr. Johnson. Please fuck me hard and long," I whispered.

And he did, pounding me long and hard and deep, with a force that left my crotch bruised and tender. His hands mauled my legs and ass and tits. That's something else to like about bondage. I like the man holding me down. If I'm bound, he's holding me in a way, but his hands are free to stimulate me.

I don't know how long he was in me before he groaned like a dying beast as he pumped me full of hot spunk. I don't know how many times I'd orgasmed before he did. I do know I had begged him for more and promised I'd be his whore and his slut and his slave forever. When he came, and his cock expanded to plug my cunt and keep his sperm in me, I had the longest and strongest orgasm of my life.

I was limp, almost comatose and, while I was aware of what he was doing, action and speech were beyond me. He released me from the table. When I stood, his come ran down my leg. He carried me upstairs to his bed, lay me down, and attached my collar to the headboard with a chain. He lay down beside me and covered us over with a blanket. I cuddled against his side and we slept.

I awakened not knowing where I was, momentarily lost and afraid. There was a man spooned against me and his hard cock was resting between my thighs. I moved and the chain attaching me to the bed rustled against the pillow. Then I remembered. Happiness flooded over me, causing a few random tears to form.

Mr. Johnson awakened with a slight moan and rolled on his back. He unsnapped the clip attaching the chain to my collar. "Got to pee," he mumbled as he stumbled out of bed.

I suddenly realized while I had wild and crazy fantasies of our first time, and idealized, hazy fantasies of the latter parts of our relationship, I hadn't thought about day-to-day. Nobody could fuck all the time. People had to eat and sleep and talk and poop. I heard Mr. Johnson brushing his teeth. I slipped out of bed and into the bathroom. He winked at me and gave me a foaming Colgate smile.

We were on a honeymoon of sorts. He took off from work, so we spent every moment talking and learning and enjoying each other. Like any honeymoon, there was abundant sex. He had me every way he wanted in any room he wanted. I enjoyed it all.

There were differences from a "typical" honeymoon. On the first day, he told me I could wear only what he said I could, and that I was to kneel by his feet and not sit on the furniture until I had permission. I learned kneeling would quickly bring a pat on the couch, indicating I should sit by him.

In those times I knelt before him, he asked me countless, in-depth questions, including intense interviews about my sex life. I held nothing back, not even my fantasies of fucking my father and dominating my mother. Yes, dominating. A vision of her eating my bald pussy popped into mind, planting a kernel to grow somewhere deep in my mind.

He learned I had sex with four men and one woman before him.

"Who was the woman?" he asked.

"Michelle Curran," I replied.

I could tell Mr. Johnson liked that both because I'd done it and because it was Michelle.

Michelle was my best friend and had been since junior high. She was a flirty, sexy, brunette with a cute face, twinkling brown eyes, and a great smile. She also had a great body with C-cup breasts and a great ass.