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?"
"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."
"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?"
"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.
.... There is more of this story ...