Chapter 1

One of the happiest days of my life was followed immediately by the saddest, most tragic day of my life. My parents drove up to see me graduate from college. My magical four years was over. They watched me cross the stage with my classmates and then we had a nice dinner in a great restaurant in town. I loved my parents deeply. They were my best friends and always had been. I was an only child and there had never been any question I was loved.

I attended a college in the northern part of the state. My parents lived four hours away in the southern tip of the state. I tried to get them to stay over that night, spend the night in a motel and drive home in the morning. But they were anxious to get home. The owner of the company dad worked for was on an extended business trip in China and he had left dad in charge. So they left right after dinner.

I had some packing to finish up and I was going to drive down the next day. After my parents left I went to a couple of parties long enough to say goodbye to some people I had gotten close to over the last four years. Then I went back to my small apartment and finished packing.

I was twenty years old and my life was almost perfect. I was going to take a little time off and live with my parents for a few months before I went back and got my Master’s Degree.

Early the next morning I threw the last of my things in the back of my Volvo station wagon and got a cup of coffee at McDonald’s. I got on the Interstate and headed for home. I didn’t have any immediate plans. My parents offered to pay for a trip to Europe or a cruise as a graduation present. I planned to see what all my options were before deciding.

I got to my parent’s house just before lunch time. They weren’t home so I went in and had a sandwich and tried calling them on their cell phones to find out where they were and when they were coming home.

I saw the light blinking on the answering machine but I didn’t expect any calls here so I ignored it. It wasn’t until the phone rang an hour later that I found out my parents were not coming home. They had been killed by a drunk driver on the way home yesterday evening.

I didn’t faint. I just went into shock. I remember dropping the phone and having to sit down. I had suddenly become aware of how quickly the world was spinning and I no longer had anyone to hold onto.

When I finally picked the phone back up off the floor the policeman on the phone apologized for giving me the news over the phone. He had been trying to get in touch with me since shortly after the accident and patrol cars had been driving by every few hours to see if anyone was home. He told me someone would come right over to see me.

I hung up the phone and at first I didn’t even cry. I just knew there had to be a mistake. My parents could not be dead. My parents were young and vital and healthy. They loved life and they lived it fully.

They were only thirty-six years old. Mom had gotten pregnant when they were both sixteen and they had gotten married immediately. They finished school and then my mom stayed home and took care of me while my dad went to work during the day and went to college at night. They had made a good life for me and for themselves and there’s no way it could be over.

I don’t even remember any time passing before the police chaplain showed up at my parent’s door. He came in and sat with me. I’m not religious but it was nice to have someone to talk to and help me get through that long afternoon.

He didn’t know very much about the accident. He was more interested in making sure I was okay. He tried to find out if I had any relatives or close friends nearby but I don’t.

I have some distant cousins out of state somewhere but I don’t even know where. My parents sold the house I grew up in when I went away to college. They purchased this smaller house in a swank, upscale neighborhood in a town about an hour away from where I grew up. I don’t really know anyone here.

The chaplain seemed uncomfortable leaving me alone when he finally left. But for the next couple of days the only thing I needed to do was cry and I didn’t need any help with that.

On the third day after the accident, if you want to call what happened that day an accident, my parent’s lawyer, Mr. Davis, came to the house. I had never met him but he turned out to be a lifesaver. He had been a friend of my parents as well as their attorney and he stepped in and took over, handling all the legal matters about which I was clueless. All of those things which have to be taken care of at a time like that. He saw to it my parent’s estate went through probate and he referred me to a lawyer to sue the company that owned the company car and provided it to the son of a bitch who was driving drunk with no license and a history of drunk driving.

I would have been lost without Mr. Davis. He even did his best to gently pull me up by the scruff of my neck and get me back on my feet and get me going again.

My parents had 1.5 million in life insurance between them and I quickly settled with the large oil company that owned the car the drunk was driving for ten million more. I accepted their first offer. They were anxious to avoid a trial and I was anxious to put it all behind me. My lawyer was disappointed, he wanted to jerk them around some more. But it was all over in a week from the time I hired him.

My parent’s house had already been paid for so there was no mortgage to worry about. In fact, my parents had no debts and considerable savings. When the estate was all settled I was very well off, even after the lawyers were paid.

Now I just have to start getting on with my life again. I can’t just lie around crying forever.

From the time I got home I had been living in just two rooms of my parent’s house, the guest bedroom and the kitchen. I couldn’t bring myself to do anything with their belongings. I hadn’t even gone into their bedroom since the day I drove home from college.

Now I had to force myself to do what has to be done around the house. I went out and got some boxes and brought them home to pack up my parents things in. I figured the place to start was in their bedroom. I planned on packing up their clothes and donating them to charity. That’s when I started to learn I didn’t know my parents quite as well as I thought I did.

The first surprise was a relatively mild one. I packed the clothes hanging in dad’s closet in a few boxes and put them by the front door. Then I started putting my mother’s clothes in a box. Halfway through folding the clothes in her closet I started coming across clothing that I didn’t think she would ever have worn, not even at gunpoint. I started finding incredibly short skirts and dresses as well as sheer tops and dresses cut so low in front and back that if they were actually street legal it was just barely.

My mother and I were the same size so out of curiosity I tried on one of the more outrageous dresses I found. When I had it on I stood in front of her mirror. I could not believe it was even remotely possible my mother would wear something like this, not even alone in her bedroom! The bodice of the dress dipped down exposing me all the way to my navel! The inner curves of my breasts were exposed almost to my nipples. With nearly every move I made at least one of my nipples peeked out!

I turned around to see what the little bit there was of the back of the dress looked like. It’s cut so low that the top two inches of my bikini panties were visible. I slid my panties lower on my hips and I could see a lot of cleavage back there!

It isn’t just cut low either. It’s so short I would have been afraid to sit down in a public place while wearing it. I simply could not believe my mother would wear this! I doubt a lot of prostitutes would have the nerve to wear it!!

I took the dress off, put my clothes back on and started looking at the rest of the clothes in her closet. All the clothing from the surprisingly large section of her closet from which I took the dress I just tried on were, I hate to say it, just plain slutty! I certainly can’t give this stuff to Goodwill!

I finished folding mom’s normal clothing, leaving the slut clothes for later when I had time to figure out what to do with them. I boxed up her normal clothes and started going through the dresser drawers. The surprises just kept on coming. There were a couple of normal bras and panties. But there were dozens of the sexiest, sluttiest female undergarments you ever saw in your life. I’m starting to wonder if my mother had a split personality! I had certainly never seen her in any of this stuff. I had never been given the impression she was the kind of person who would wear this stuff. I have a pretty good imagine but I can’t imagine my mother in nearly half her wardrobe!

I sat on the bed and stared at the things I’ve uncovered. I can’t make sense of this. I decided to stop and go to my dad’s chest of drawers and empty that instead. I have to think about this stuff for a while.

I opened a large trash bag and started filling it with my father’s underwear. It was mostly the standard stuff, jockey shorts and plain white t-shirts. But there were a couple of surprises in there, too. If anyone had told me my dad owned thongs, including a couple of leather ones, I would have laughed in their face. But damned if he didn’t!

I tried not to read too much into it, though. I struggled to avoid thinking of the possible implications at all. I threw his underwear and his socks in the bag. Things were moving right along again, until I came to the third drawer. The third drawer changed everything. I opened it up and was all prepared to reach in and pull out a bunch of old sweaters or sweatpants or something. Instead it was full of paperback books.

I dropped the trash bag and picked up a few of the books at random. There must have been a couple hundred of them, maybe more. They were all the most disgusting pornographic novels I had ever seen. I never even imagined things like this existed! These weren’t magazines, like Playboy or Penthouse or even Hustler.

These are all novels. I only browsed briefly through the top two or three layers of books, just scratching the surface. They all seem to be from the same publisher. They’re all about women being raped and tortured and forced to do the most awful things. There was a woman, or women, or a young girl, on the cover of each book, usually in extreme bondage and surrounded by leering men. She was usually being, or just about to be, raped or beaten or abused in some manner. There were nearly obscene photographs on the covers of some of the books. But mostly the girls on the covers were portrayed in exaggerated but amazingly lifelike color drawings.

It was enough to make me wonder if I knew my parents at all! Those books, my mother’s clothes, what kind of people were they?!! And how could I not have known about this side of them?!!

I closed the book drawer and stared at the next drawer. I wasn’t sure I had the nerve to explore any further into my parents’ lives. But then, I certainly can’t ask anyone else to come in here and dispose of this stuff!

I slowly opened the fourth drawer. I wasn’t sure what I had found. I’m not sure I want to know. The drawer is full of DVDs. The only thing on them to identify them is a number. There are no labels on the disks. Other than the number written on each one with a marker there’s no label on the jewel cases they’re in, no way of telling what they contain. There appear to be hundreds of them.

I closed the drawer and pulled out the last drawer just enough to peek inside. It doesn’t contain clothing either. It appears to be photograph albums. I pushed it shut, stood up and went out to the kitchen. I headed straight to the fridge and grabbed a beer. I need alcohol.

I need to think, but first I need alcohol. That may sound counterintuitive, but I’m pretty sure you would have felt the same way if you were in my position. I just found out my parents were perverts!

I sat down at the kitchen table. I wasn’t doing much thinking, though. I sat there with the images from the covers of those books flashing through my mind trying hard not to imagine my mother wearing the clothes I found in her closet or the underwear in her dresser drawer.

I’m learning things about my parents I’m not sure my mind can handle. No, that isn’t right. I’m not learning much about my parents. I’m just coming up with a wheelbarrow full of questions about their lives. I don’t get it. They have always been so ... I don’t know. Normal I guess. This isn’t a case of my dad having a secret stash of porn in the back of his closet. That stuff wasn’t stashed and my mother’s slutty outfits left no doubt she was not the typical housewife I thought she was.

I drank my beer quickly and got another. I stood staring down the hallway at the door to my parent’s bedroom. It eventually occurred to me I’m not going to find the answers to any of my questions sitting here drinking beer. I could sit and drink beer all day and get comfortably numb. But I wouldn’t resolve anything. I have far too many questions and no answers. The problem is, I’m not sure I want my questions answered.

The thought of what I might learn when I start digging deeper is scary as hell. But I’m still left with the same challenge I ran into earlier. I don’t want to know too much about my parent’s apparently kinky sex life, but there’s no fucking way I can hire a stranger to come in and clean that shit out of there. And besides, the more I think about it the more curious I’m getting.

I took my beer, went back into their bedroom and sat down on the bed. I opened my father’s nightstand drawer and the thing I dreaded finding most was right there. It’s full of bondage gear. There are ropes and leather cuffs and all kinds of things I can’t even identify.

I closed the drawer. I know now that I have no choice. Well, no, that isn’t true. I do have a choice. I asked myself, do I want to start with the photo albums or the DVDs?

Reluctantly I opened the bottom drawer with all the photo albums and pulled out several of them. Each of the very heavy photo albums is about four inches thick. The covers have dates on them, the time periods spanned by the pictures inside. I pulled out all the albums without opening them. I don’t have the nerve just yet. When I had laid them out in chronological order I picked up the earliest one and carried it back out to the kitchen.

I dropped it on the kitchen table and got another beer. Then I sat down and tried to convince myself that when I opened it I was just going to find a typical collection of old family photos. That was unlikely, though. The dates on the cover spanned a period that roughly corresponded to my first year of high school.

My parents had not been camera bugs. As I thought back I could not remember either one of them ever taking a picture of me. At least, not since I was little. Someone had damn sure taken a lot of pictures of something though.

I sat staring at that photo album until I couldn’t stand the suspense any longer. I reached out my hand, closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I opened the album cover and slowly opened my eyes.

I did the math as I looked at the first picture. It must have been taken when my mother was twenty-seven or twenty-eight. She had been really beautiful. She still was. Or at least she had been up until a month ago. They would have been married about ten or eleven years then. The only picture on the first page was an 8X10 of my mother in a perfectly normal little black dress. It was a little shorter than anything I’ve ever seen her wear. But there was nothing wrong with it. She looked damn good in it. She was beautiful. She had a perfect figure, long blonde hair and a smile that could melt your heart. People tell me I look just like her when she was my age. I have always taken that as a great compliment.

She was smiling that sweet smile in the picture, though she looks a little nervous. Still, it was a perfectly normal photograph, except for the caption.

Under the photograph it said, “Erin, ready to serve her Master for the first time. September 5, 1997.”

Her Master?! My mother had a Master?!

I wasn’t sure I wanted to know any more than that. In fact, I was pretty sure I didn’t. But I turned the page anyway.

There are four photos on each page. The first was of a very handsome dark haired man with a stern face. I would guess he was about ten or fifteen years older than my parents. Underneath the picture, in very neat, very precise block letters was the caption. It said, “Master Jon.”

Looking at the picture I have the definite impression I’ve met Master Jon somewhere. But for the life of me I cannot remember where or when.

In the following three pictures on the page my mother was on her knees with her hands behind her back and Jon was standing in front of her, looking down at her with disdain, or walking around her with an arrogant look on his face.

On the opposite page are four more pictures of the two of them. In the bottom two my mother was bent over kissing the shoes of the strange man in front of her. That was hard to look at. But what was even harder to see was the look of excitement on her face. She was getting off on that! Damn! She didn’t just wear the slut clothes I found in her closet. My mother really was a pervert! But damn! She certainly was a beautiful pervert.

I thought the picture of my mother kissing some man’s shoes should have offended me, so I was astonished when I came to realize I thought the picture was extremely erotic. I couldn’t have said why I had that impression even if I were being tortured. I’ve certainly never imagined doing something like that. I don’t know. Maybe it’s the sexy smile on her face and the shocking realization she’s aroused by what she’s doing.

My mother was bent over kissing a strange man’s feet and she was getting turned on! I assumed my father was taking the pictures. Was he getting turned on, too?

I turned the page and learned I had been wrong. My father was not taking the pictures. In the first picture on this page the man, Jon, was seated in a big leather chair and my mother was standing in front of him. My father was standing behind my mother and he was in the process of unzipping the back of mom’s dress. So who the hell was taking the pictures?!

In the next picture my mother was standing in front of Jon in just a pair of bikini panties and thigh high black stockings. Jon was apparently watching as casually as if he were watching the news on television as my father undressed my mother for his amusement.

The third picture on that page showed my father handing my mother’s underwear to Jon and in the last picture he was sniffing them and smiling as he stared at my mother’s naked body.

I gulped down the rest of my beer and got up, a little bit shakily. I thought about getting another beer. I’m not much of a drinker but I don’t know if I can handle these pictures of my mother and her “Master” while I’m sober.

I reluctantly decided I’d already had enough to drink. Besides, until I turn twenty-one it’s a pain in the ass to get more. I have a fake ID but using it always makes me nervous. I’m always afraid the person selling me the alcohol will see how nervous I am and call the cops. Luckily, I don’t drink very much. I stood in front of the fridge staring at the album on the table. I suddenly realized that as shocked as I am, I’m also getting turned on!

I’m not a virgin and I have not been one for a long time. I lost my virginity a couple of months before those pictures were taken. Well, I didn’t lose it. I know where it went and I gave it away gladly.

I think I’m pretty open minded. I like sex and I love being sexy. It could be better. The sex I mean. But I’m hoping that with time I’ll get better at it and my partners will improve their technique. I love the kissing and the touching anyway. The actual fucking often leaves a lot to be desired, like an orgasm for instance. I almost never have an orgasm from fucking. Now that I think of it, I can’t remember ever having an orgasm from fucking. But even so it can be very stimulating and I usually get off one way or another. I’m not shy about telling my sex partners what I need. Well, maybe a little, but I’m getting better about that.