As I rode my young fuck buddy, each minute we moaned, swore, and profusely sweat more. I had my thighs clamped to his sides while he massaged one of my tits with one hand and tried his best to finger my clit with the other. As his girthy cock reciprocated in my little cunt, made even tighter by the butt plug up my ass, increasingly intense pulses were being sent throughout my entire nervous system. When he came in me it felt like a Roman candle exploding. Just before my euphoria rendered me comatose I heard him moan "You are one great fuck, Justine!"
I was brought up by a doting, though chauvinistic, filthy rich father, George, and a socialite mother, Grace, to believe that marriage was a noble goal. Actually not just "noble," but, for a woman of class, "essential." Of course it had to be to someone that my parents considered in their class – meaning that he had to be from an "established" family with big bucks.
My mother was gorgeous, in part because she had had plastic surgery on her nose when she was a teenager, and because she had had a top-of-the-line boob job. From the pre-enhancement photographs that she had squirreled away, in my mind she was awesome looking even before the cosmetic work. My father was just OK looking, but in their circle that was fine. The husband had the dough, the wife had the looks.
I got some of my mother's best features and few of my father's bad ones so I was always decent looking in my teenage years and young adulthood. However, I did get a less-that-fantastic nose, somewhere between my mother's real one and her plastic surgery one. Most people considered me "cute," with maybe a "nine" body; no one considered me beautiful. "Justine, I don't know why you won't get a nose job. The refined boys would like you so much more," was my mother's monthly refrain starting when I was about twelve.
Growing up I often wondered if George and Grace were my real parents, not because of appearance, but because of their values. I guess that since I was primarily raised by a wonderful nanny, named Hanna Himler, instead of them, that I grew up much less materialistic and more humane than they were. The problem was that my older brother, Kent, was also raised by Hanna and he turned out to be only a little better than my parents.
My parents, especially Grace, treated people that weren't in their social class either like they were invisible, or like shit. I swear that none of George, Grace, or Kent knew Hanna's last name. That was despite the fact that, out of respect, when we were in public I would refer to Hanna as "Mrs. Himler." While that is not the reason I did it there were advantages to it. It let everyone know that I was polite and cared for other people. I was beloved by every nanny that we ever came into contact with, and Hanna would have given up her life for me.
I treated everyone else with dignity too. For example we had a horse farm with two low skill employees named Joe Jacobs and Sam Crown. It was managed by a jerk named John Tipton. As with Hanna, no one else in my family except me knew Joe's and Sam's last names. They were about ten years older than I was and even though I started calling them "Mr. Jacobs" and "Mr. Crown" they insisted that I call them "Joe" and "Sam." I insisted that they call me "Justine," not "Miss Morgenthau."
Again, without trying to endear myself to them, I became someone that they'd give their life for. Although they always liked me one day that "like" turned into devotion.
I was fourteen when on a Thursday afternoon right after school I brought my horse, Barbosa, back to the barn after a ride. I found both Joe and Sam in back of the barn tossing their cookies. They apparently had gotten food poisoning from the lunch that they shared.
Seeing their condition I told them that they should stop work for the day.
"We can't, Justine, because we have to finish our work today," Joe said between gags.
"Yeah," Sam continued, trying to act OK when he obviously wasn't, "If we haven't cooled and brushed Barbosa, fed the other five horses, and shoveled the stalls by the time that Mr. Tipton comes by at seven, we'll have our pay docked."
"I don't have any homework tonight," I said smiling, "you go lie down and I'll take care of it."
"We can't let you do that!" Sam exclaimed with one of the most shocked expressions I'd ever seen.
"You not only can, but will," I said as I gently swatted their butts with my riding crop while saying "shoo, shoo."
They offered a little more resistance but I could tell that they really felt horrible so they left.
By 6:30 I had done about ninety percent of what needed to be done, but I wasn't sure that I could finish in time when both Sam and Joe came back to the barn. They looked a little better.
"Thank you so much, Justine," they said in unison as they surveyed my work. They couldn't believe that I had done as much as I had, but I had really worked hard. Now they were the ones telling me to "shoo," saying that they were well enough to finish. When I saw them the next day they told me that they had finished by the time that Tipton arrived, and I had made two friends for life.
I never liked Tipton because he seemed lazy and didn't treat Sam and Joe nicely. For some reason, though, my father thought that he was great. When I was sixteen I began to hate Tipton because he started to make suggestive remarks and at one point swatted my ass.
I was bowled over when my father didn't believe me when I told him about Tipton's comments and action. "You must have misinterpreted something," George said. "I know that you don't like John Tipton because he makes the lazy staff toe the line, but he's a fine man."
This was long before iPhones with recording apps, the Internet, or readily available high tech bugs. However on my next trip into town, using some of my obscene allowance which I normally mostly gave away, I bought a small tape recorder that had just come out on the market. The next time I was alone with Tipton at the barn I recorded his comments which this time bordered on gross, including a comment about me having a fine ass.
That night I played the recording for my father. He didn't like it but he was still hemming and hawing about what to do. For the first time in my life I blew up at him. "Either you fire that asshole or I take off."
"Now, Justine..." he started to say.
"Fuck you," I screamed.
"You can't talk to me like that," he yelled once he got over the shock, but by then I was out the door. At that particular point I was glad that I was a little rich girl because I hopped into the Mustang that I had gotten for my sixteenth birthday and sped off to my Aunt Claire's house. She was my dad's divorced younger sister, and the only one of my parent's relatives that I could really identify with. She lived about fifteen minutes away and was happy to take me in.
By the next day, a Saturday, my father had figured out where I had gone and when I refused to talk to him on the phone made time in his busy schedule – which he reminded me of the second that he arrived at Aunt Claire's house – to see me.
I shocked him again when my first words to him were "I don't care about your busy schedule. Did you fire that asshole Tipton?"
