I met Cassie at one of those parents’ events at our local high school. I don’t remember what was going on, but she was sitting one row below me on the bleachers. She was wearing shorts and flip-flops and I never made out what the vice-principal was blathering about because my attention was fixated solely on the series of alluring colors and elegant curves that defined her lower body: her perfectly pedicured pink toes, her high arches, her supple brown calves, and her smooth thighs. Looking bored as hell but just as hot.
It happened that we had kids in the same class and were assigned to a subcommittee tasked with planning a fall fundraiser. I got to her house just after eight to help paint giant cardboard pumpkins. Despite several group message promises, no one else showed.
We ate pizza and drank a couple of beers, then started slathering shiny coats of green, orange, and black on the smiling oversized gourds. Cassie painted with her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her soft cotton tee shirt revealed that she wore no bra, and her frayed jeans proudly hugged the shape of her cute, little ass.