Bastian: A Secret Baby Romance

* * *

I
don't have too
many memories of my father — he died when I was only three years old. My mother, Amanda, didn't fall apart like a lot of the other wives I've heard of, whose husbands suddenly left their lives. Mom was actually really smart, with a Master's degree in Finance that allowed her to get back into the workplace. She found a job with a major healthcare provider and made pretty good money.

Her weakness was her love of the finer things in life, however. Growing up, I took it for granted that beds came with Egyptian cotton sheets, your lunchbox should contain organically raised free-range pheasant, and that going to a private school was just what was needed. While the other kids in my neighborhood wore stuff from Wal-Mart, my jeans and t-shirts came from Nordstrom. When I went through my hip-hop phase, Mom made sure that I was wearing real Timberlands and Sean John, not the knockoffs other kids got down at the Saturday flea market. You get the picture.

What I didn't know was how quickly she was burning through the money behind our back. Dad had been relatively well-off, and his tragic death after being struck by a drunk driver gave us a windfall of over five million dollars, four to Mom, one for me to hold in trust until I turned twenty-five. You'd think that four million dollars, even after taxes, would be more than enough with Mom's work to fund our lifestyle, but you don't know my Mother.

The changes were subtle at first. The Mercedes went from the SL class to the E class, and we kept it three years instead of just one. Our vacations moved closer and closer to home. When I was five, we took a week in Europe. By the time I was ten, we were doing three days at Disneyland. I honestly didn't notice too much, as I found Disneyland more fun than Europe anyway.

I think the first time it really hit me how much money she was blowing through happened when I was thirteen. It was my last year of junior high school, and Mom moved me from Freeport Academy, where I had been going since kindergarten, to Wildwood Junior High, a public school near our house. Suddenly, I was surrounded by a lot of kids that got free lunch. Nothing wrong with that, but it was something I wasn’t accustomed to.

On the positive side, my new school was much livelier than Freeport, which had been embarrassingly white one-percent. I mean, I was the outsider, with my Dad's half Greek, half Latin blood giving me curly dark hair and a dark tan in summer. At Wildwood, I found myself surrounded by classmates from the entire spread of the racial makeup of my town. It was the first time I’d actually had a conversation with someone who was Asian besides being at a Chinese restaurant. Luckily, most of the kids were willing to let a few social blunders pass, and I made friends all right.

The move, however, shook Mom. I didn't know it at the time — she never talked about Grandma and Grandpa, and they died before I was born. But growing up, she was poor. I mean, sugar sandwich and Salvation Army clothes poor. Seeing me at Wildwood really rocked her, and she decided to go man-hunting. I didn't say anything. I mean, she's my Mom, but Mom suddenly started working out a bit more, getting herself back into the knockout shape she’d been in some of the old family photos I saw in the albums. She also started dressing sexier, showing a bit more cleavage, making her skirts a bit tighter. When the cute waiter at the steakhouse remarked that it was nice for sisters to spend so much time together, I almost crawled under the table in embarrassment. I mean, I was a teenager for God sakes! Of course, he was probably just looking for a nice tip, but still.

After about six months of this, fortune literally dropped into her lap. As part of her work, she was responsible for hosting the events for new donors to the hospital chain, and when Donald Witherspoon came around, it was like the stars aligned. Donald was older than Mom, maybe in his mid-fifties by then, and his name was everywhere in the papers. His wife — a former Playboy model — had left him for a newer, younger guy, some country music star or such. But before doing so, she'd also taken Donald to the cleaners, to the tune of over a hundred million dollars in the final divorce settlement.

Not that it mattered to Donald Witherspoon much. He was old money, and I mean Rothschild old. On the surface, he was into oil, owning a lot of the oil resources in both the Gulf and Alaska, but in reality, he had corporate interests in just about everything, including healthcare. When the muckrakers started turning their attention from his now ex-wife to him, Donald figured it was time to whip up some positive press. Donating a children's ICU wing to a city hospital was just what the PR rep ordered. As luck would have it, Mom was the one tasked with the job of setting up the hospital's end of things.

It only took one meeting for Mom to set her mind on Donald Witherspoon. She even took the time to actually learn how to ski, of all things, because Donald was famous for being a ski buff. Laying the charm on as thick as she could, she went after him. Much to my surprise, it worked, and within a year, about two months after I turned fifteen, Donald popped the question. A week before my sweet sixteen party, which Donald totally paid for, Mom officially became Amanda Witherspoon and our family had done pretty well since.

I've droned on and on about Mom and Donald, and I realize I've left out anything about me. I'm Cassie, or Cassandra as my mother insists on calling me, and last week I turned twenty-one. I'm in the second semester of my sophomore year at university.

I'm a little shorter than my Mom, whose Germanic-Russian blood gave her the tall, leggy build that I know turned heads and most likely helped with her getting both of her husbands. From my Dad, though, I got the darker skin, curvier figure of my Mediterranean roots, although through some weird trick of genetics, I ended up with my Mom's blue eyes and a little bit of the leanness that she has. It's been a pretty good combination for me, and I've never been lacking in boyfriends.

Which brings me to the biggest problem in my life, my stepbrother Sebastian. He's two years older than me, a senior waiting on his way to law school, which was pretty much guaranteed with Donald's money. Now, I'm not saying Sebastian isn't smart, he's actually getting better grades than me, but he's not summa cum laude.

There's something about Sebastian though that makes him special. It's not just me that notices it, either. I guess you could call it his Alpha-ness, or maybe just his magnetic personality, but Sebastian is the sort of guy who just gets people to go along with whatever he wants. About the only person who can resist him is Donald, who does command Sebastian's respect unconditionally.

Everyone else, though, is pure putty in Sebastian's hands. Especially women, which makes it difficult for me. You see, while Donald has a stupid amount of money, his mansion was built in the days when children were to be seen and not just heard, and that even the children of the rich should feel a bit of supposed hardship. Because of that, while Sebastian and I both had large rooms, we actually shared a bathroom, with a door on each side. We also shared a heating duct, which meant that a tremendous amount of sound went from one bedroom to the other.

Starting when he was still in high school, Sebastian's bedroom routinely became the setting for scenes that would have made the writers of the Kama Sutra blush. While some girls learned of the birds and the bees through videos or books, I learned as Sebastian's parade of beautiful girls loudly and repeatedly begged for him to make them come — in just about every way you can think of.

And come they did. Whether it was with his mouth, his cock, his hands, or with the collection of toys he kept somewhere in his room, Sebastian left each and every one of his lovers satisfied, with most declaring they'd never had better.

It was about the only redeeming quality of his love life. I don't think he ever had the same girl more than twice, and as for respecting the boundaries of other relationships, that never entered his mind. You can imagine the feeling I had when I came out of my bedroom one morning and seeing my French teacher — a pretty woman in her thirties, two kids, and a husband — come out of his bedroom at two in the morning. She took one look at me and knew I’d been able to hear as Sebastian, as he put it, three-holed her. We didn't say anything, but I could see it in her eyes. She was ashamed, horrified at what she’d done. Well, it was probably more of that I heard the whole shebang . . . but she was totally addicted to Sebastian, and I had no doubt she would do it again in a heartbeat.

That was life with Sebastian. I was a teenage girl growing up next to a sex god. It could have been tolerable — or even kind of fun — if it hadn't been that he was always a total asshole to me. It wasn't that he ignored me, far from it. But when I bought a new dress, it was Sebastian who would always have that backhanded comment, something along the lines of "That dress would look nice on the right woman," with an emphasis being the
right woman
that made me know I wasn't the right woman in his eyes. When I joined the soccer team and made all-conference, it was Sebastian who pointed out that my conference was the weakest in the state, and that nobody from the conference made the all-state team like he did in wrestling his senior year of high school.

At first, I felt put off by him. I mean, as a little girl I dreamed about having a big brother, someone who would protect me and take me under his wing, showing me all the things big brothers were supposed to show their little sisters. I guess you could say it was a little bit Brady Bunch, but it was my dream. Later on, as the taunting continued, it just pissed me off, and drove me to work harder, hoping just once to see that smug smirk wiped off of his face when I did something special.

After high school though, my efforts took on a new edge to them. It was then that I realized that listening to all of those women, I had come to fantasize about Sebastian myself. I would watch him as he used the mansion's gym, lifting weights or working the heavy bag. After getting second place in the state for wrestling in the 181-pound division, Sebastian kept up with his fighting sports, although he didn't try out for wrestling in college. I don't think he liked the idea of cutting weight too much, especially as his last growth spurts hit him and he grew to a lean 225 pounds, perfectly distributed over his six-foot-four-inch frame to partner with his auburn hair and dark, almost black eyes. He wasn't pro wrestler big by any means, but Sebastian could stare down members of the football team if he wanted. None of those big boys wanted to mess with him.

It didn't help my attraction that he insisted on working out wearing just a pair of lycra shorts, regardless of what he was doing. He would lift the barbell, and it was like watching a moving anatomy lesson, as every perfect curve of muscle and sinew would contract and relax in total harmony. Working out was perhaps the only place where I heard him ever fully let himself go, and watching the smarmy mask drop off his face was fun to see. But most of all, I loved watching his cock strain against the tight fabric of his shorts.

Whether it was the constant sounds from his bedroom, the taunting, or the sight of his body, by the time I started college, I knew I wanted him. Maybe even more than my poor French teacher did. My efforts changed from trying to one-up Sebastian to trying to impress him — to gain his attention and approval.

Not that it seemed to matter to him. He was just as much of an asshole to me as ever. If anything, he was a louder asshole, his epic sexcapades in his room punctuated with more grunts, cries of passion, and cocky laughs from him. The breaking point for me came when he took two twin sisters. It was their first time according to what they told him. From the sounds that came from his room, I'm pretty sure that was a lie. For the next four hours and seventeen minutes — yes, I was timing it — he fucked each of the girls in every way possible.

I was in my bed, my soaked panties the only thing left on me under the sheets, pretending to keep my eyes closed in case anyone came in. I could only assume it was Helena, one of the twins that said "Cassie loves it."

The name startled me, and my eyes flew open. Cassie? Holy fuck, my hot stepbrother had his ten inch — yes, I’d estimated it from seeing it through the lycra shorts — cock buried inside a girl with the same name as me?

It was too much to bear. As Sebastian fucked her, my fingers slipped underneath the waistband of my panties, my fingers finding the soaked tunnel of my pussy and filling it. I pumped three fingers in and out in tune with the slapping sounds of his hips against the girl's ass, his words seeping deeper and deeper into my brain until I could almost feel him in there with me.

"Yeah Cassie, you like that, don't you?" Sebastian taunted, the girl's moans mixing with my own. "You're never going to have a cock like this again in your life. You know that, right?"

"I know," I whispered into my empty bedroom, my eyes closed as I imagined Sebastian above me, that smarmy look on his face only slightly disturbed by the effort of his thrusts in and out of me. "But I don't care."

"You'd do anything I ask for it, wouldn’t you?"

"Yes. Anything."

I bit my lip as I started coming around my fingers, the other Cassie's cries coming just a moment later. It was without a single twinge of guilt that I knew I wanted to be one of those girls, to feel his massive cock pummeling me.

Thankfully, after that, I was able to drop off into a thin sleep, but Sebastian followed me even there.