Sitting the Sitter

Usually it works out, the company sends me out to make these presentations to a roomful of old people, we buy them dinner and a glass of wine, I schmooze and charm them, scare them a little bit about losing their nest-eggs, show them a sure way to live out their years without worry, and we line up a few prospects. I've got the Powerpoint, the jokes, I used to hate these gigs but you learn.

My wife was out of town so I had to get a babysitter. Lately we had been using Margie, from three blocks over. Earlier this summer she had invited us to her eighteenth birthday party, but of course we didn't go -- let the young ones do their thing, they don't need a bunch of old people hanging around. Margie was not a kid any more, of course she had blossomed, don't they all? I am not a pervert dad, I am just a regular dad and I try to be a nice guy. I don't say creepy things, I don't stare at her, I pick her up and drive her home and pay her and it is fine. The kids loved Margie and she kept them under control, and we were always happy to hire her to watch them.

It was late in the summer and I guess everybody was on vacation or something, I don't know what happened but I went to the Apple Orchard restaurant, went upstairs to the banquet room with my laptop, and there was nobody there. Not a single person showed up. That had never happened before. The company had booked the room, there were a couple of waiters standing around, napkins and silverware, and nobody.

This was a weird feeling for me, this sudden release of responsibility. The kids were taken care of, my wife was out of town, everybody thought I was busy, but I was simply free. I could do whatever I wanted. I could go sit on a bench, I could watch a movie, I could park and jerk off in the car, whatever. My head sort of spun with a feeling I had not had since before we were married, before this whole "grown-up" thing swept us up. Nowadays every minute was accounted for, somebody always needed something. And suddenly, nothing for a few hours. I looked around the empty room and took a deep breath.

I went down to the bar. I had not sat at a bar for ages, but it comes back to you. I ordered bourbon and the bartender seemed like a kid but he brought my drink and I turned and looked around. Man, nothing changes. There was a lame jazz band in the corner, not what I would call a real jazz band but a jazz band for atmosphere. People who don't know anything about music can sit there thinking they are Hugh Hefner or something, but actually the music sucked, some college kids reading sheet music.

I sipped my drink and realized I felt entirely out of place. Two seats down there were two very nice-looking ladies in tight jeans and tops that hung off the shoulder, made up nice and pretty. It would have been easy to scoot over and strike up a conversation. Hey, great band, huh? But I wasn't really interested. Just because my wife is out of town doesn't mean I have a need for strange stuff. They were nice-looking ladies and if fate had thrown us right next to each other I would have been talking to them, but the effort of moving down the bar was not justified. I finished my drink, tipped the kid, and split.

The sidewalk was crowded and it was kind of fun being out, free. All around me, flocks of people wandered, caught up in the their lives, erratically following their in-group, their feelings, their insecurities tugging them here and there. It was a show, a circus, a parade, and I suppose I was in it, too, a clown or a trained animal or a float rolling down the sidewalk. There is a sound and a kind of atmosphere and I enjoyed it like some yokel at the county fair.

Honestly, I was bored, and the best thing I could think of was sitting on my own couch watching my own television. I felt old all of a sudden. Maybe I'd make myself another drink, in fact I was pretty sure I would. Maybe a couple, fuck it, the kids were asleep. I got my car out of the parking lot and headed for home.

I shouldn't have been surprised when there was a car parked in front of my house. I was pretty sure my babysitter had company. She was a cute thing, and I figured her company was probably a boy. I hoped they had not gotten into the popcorn, there was only one pack left and I wanted it for later. I was not surprised to see the TV light flickering on the curtains as I approached the house.

The door was unlocked. I came in from the entry hall to the living room and dropped my key on the coffee table. The TV was on but nobody was watching it. The house was silent. I checked on the kids, they were sleeping like little angels.

I walked through the house, wondering where Margie had gone. This was actually not cool, if the kids needed her where was she? I thought I saw movement out back, by the pool. There were no lights but I know when something is out of place. I decided to go out the side door and take a look, quietly.

The lights were out but the moon was full behind a haze of high-altitude clouds. I crept along the side of the house to the corner and looked. My ears found them first, the muffled creaking of pool furniture, and then I saw them. Our once-innocent Margie was bare-ass naked on her knees on a chaise lounge with her ass up in the air, and some equally naked, skinny young man with a beard and a strange earring was standing behind her, fucking her like there was no tomorrow. He gripped her waist with his hands and pulled her back against him, rhythmically, fucking her deep and hard. Her own fingers were wrapped around the aluminum frame of the chaise. Her eyes were closed, her body flexing from the waist to meet the boy's movements, taking him deeply. They were quiet but I could hear the unmistakable sounds of a young woman enjoying a good fucking, a kind of gargling sound in her throat. Margie gave out nearly inaudible moans as their thrusts rocked like a dance and the chaise frame creaked.

It pissed me off. Of course I was young once, I couldn't blame either of them, but I was paying this girl, I was counting on her to watch my children and keep them safe. Also it pissed me off that this snot-nose neighborhood hipster was getting more than he deserved. He was in over his head and could not possibly appreciate the goddess who was offering herself to him.

I stepped out from the shadows. "What is going on here?"

Margie scooted forward as her eyes popped open. "Mister Andrews!" As she jerked forward the kid's dick was left suspended in mid-air, useless, incriminating. He looked at me with an expression of terror, his life passing before his eyes. This could be a mistake that sent his life into a tailspin for the next sixty years. And all in one move, as his cock came out of Margie's pussy he turned toward the back fence and began running. He ran like a track star to the gate, knocked the latch free with one hand, and I heard his bare feet crunching in the gravel of the alley, fading into the distance.

I looked at Margie. She had fallen face down on the chaise lounge and now was lying on her side looking over at me. "Are you going to cover up?" I asked her. She said, "Mister Andrews, I am too busted for that. This is bad."

There were two little piles of clothes on the ground, disorderly and impromptu looking, where somebody had stepped out of them or tossed them. There were wet footprints indicating that the two of them had been swimming.

Margie, naked, was a dream. What can you say? I had not seen tits that hard for a long time. Her body curved in at the waist and jutted out at the hips. In the hazy suburban moonlight I could see the V of her pussy, the shadows of her nipples. She was as beautiful as a young woman can be, and her body was vibrant with the excitement of her recent indulgence.

"What if something had happened to the kids?" I asked.

"We checked on them every few minutes," she said. "I wouldn't let anything happen to them." I didn't know if this was true but it was the right answer. I had seen that the kids were okay, so the what-if question was moot anyway.

Margie was clearly afraid. Her parents could find out, they would be disappointed and worried, my wife and I might never trust her again. For a babysitter, this is a situation you avoid. Still, there was an aura of calm around her, alertness, confidence I guess. I don't think her emotions had quite turned the corner from lust to panic.

"What are you going to do?" she asked me.

I looked at her, taking in her whole body, that aura, her wet hair, her big eyes, those tits. "I don't know what I'm going to do," I said. "Who was that?" It seemed like a dumb question. What does it matter who it is, it is some punk kid I never saw before, probably her boyfriend. I honestly didn't care who it was. But I asked, trying to make conversation, trying to moderate the craziness of the moment.

"He's just a guy I know," Margie said. "His name is Sully, at least they call him that."

"He took off pretty fast," I said.

"Yes," Margie said. "He did."

"And what should I do now?" I asked her. I realized I was speaking to her as an equal.

"I don't know," she said. "I suppose the normal thing is to tell my parents." She also sounded like an adult.

"Yes, I suppose." I had a hard-on.

There are sounds at night, even in the suburbs, bugs and frogs and birds that sing at night. There are some stars that shine through the city light, and occasionally bats, especially when you have a pool. And time: time at night can go very slowly. Your heart beating can sound like an elephant walking, its big tree-stump feet falling left, right, left, right, as it crushes through the jungle. Time can be brutal when you know the next instant is about to drop on you like a surprise asteroid.

"He left too soon," she said.

I knew what she meant but could not really believe she was changing the subject like this. "Too soon for what?"

"You know," she said. "Too soon."

"I caught you in the middle of it," I said.

"Yeah," she said, "More like the start."

"I see."

"Mister Andrews," she said, and time expanded toward infinity. I have had dreams where there was something terrible, a monster, but I could not run because my body was paralyzed. It was like that, like a car was coming at me, headlights, motor roaring, and I could only watch it kill me.

She continued. "I know you are married and are older than me and everything, but maybe, you know, I can make it up to you kind of, and you can finish what was already started." There was a week of silence. "I promise this will never happen again, but as long as it has happened, and as long as we are here..." She bent her leg. I'm sure she was just getting comfortable. She laughed lightly. "Honestly, Mister Andrews, I need to finish." She lay there in the dark looking at me, and after about thirty seconds her hand moved between her legs. I could not see her fingers moving but it was there.

"Margie, I am old enough to be your father."

"Yes," she said, easily brushing aside whatever logic I had meant to imply.

She patted the chaise lounge. "Come here, Mister Andrews, just come sit here. Just this once. I won't tell anybody. I need it." She patted again. "And I don't think you will mind."

My feet shifted on their own, like magnetism. I had been standing ten feet from her, and then eight, and then four, and then I found my body sinking to sit on the chaise beside her. She was behind me and I could feel those hard tits against my back. I could smell her sweet breath; she was panting lightly, as excited as I was.

Her hand came up around me and unbuttoned the top button of my shirt, then the next. She reached under it and stroked my chest, then got the rest of the buttons. She sat up and pulled my shirt off and started a third pile. "Lie down," she said.

I did it. I lay on the chaise, looking up at some stars through the suburban haze. She sat beside me and ran her hands over my chest and belly, both hands moving independently. She stroked to my belt and then below it, moving her hands over my hard cock. She giggled quietly, and that was the last straw. I was helpless. Wherever the cosmic force of female eroticism comes from, it had arrived and I could not resist it or comprehend it.

She had my belt loose in a second, and my shoes and socks and my slacks and my underwear joined the third pile on the pool deck. She sat looking at my body, running her hands over it. Sparks were flying up from her fingers. She began to stroke my cock and pull at it. Her hands were exquisite, artful, she stroked my balls and tickled them lightly.

I needed to touch those tits. I turned my head and took one between my lips, sucking the nipple. She gave that throaty moan that I had heard earlier. I moved my hand between her legs and she spread wider for my touch, her body flowing like liquid with my movements. Her pussy was steaming hot and very wet, her clitoris swollen. I pressed on it for a second and then took it between my thumb and finger and rolled it back and forth. This is too much for some women.

I saw her eyes open and she looked at me and then she fell back and spread her legs and I worked her clitoris with my fingers until she let out a kind of bark and half sat up and began laughing quietly, like laughing and crying at the same time. Her orgasm eventually passed, and she slumped back again.

I worked my mouth down from her breast over her tummy to her pussy. I kneeled at the foot of the chaise and put my mouth up against her pussy and licked. It crossed my mind that some other guy had been fucking her a few minutes earlier, but it didn't matter. I did not consider that bearded boy to be a real person, it would like if a local cover band opened for the Rolling Stones. Sully, or whatever his name was, was a lame warm-up act. It hadn't been a real dick in her pussy, it simply didn't matter. I licked forward to that swollen clitoris, and when I took it between my lips and sucked it she erupted again. I stayed with her hip-thrusts like a bronc rider until she collapsed.

Margie did not seem to mind this turn of events. She lay there, limp as a dishrag, and let me do whatever I thought of doing. Her pussy had a sweet odor to it, natural but very subtle and light. I lapped at her outer labia for a minute, as she moaned softly, and then I used the tip of my tongue to slap and spank the head of her clit. She grabbed my head and pulled me into her and came with a gale of soft laughter.

This went on, and she came several more times, and finally she said, "Mister Andrews, I need a break." Honestly, I liked the sound of the "Mister Andrews" thing; I had no urge to say, "You can call me Gary." I lifted my head and she held open her arms and I climbed up to hold her as we lay side by side on the plastic webbing.

My cock was poking her, and she reached down and stroked it a few times. "Fuck me," she said.

"Do you use birth control?"

"Yes, of course," she said. She shifted her body, spreading her legs and somehow maneuvering so that she was under me. "Fuck me," she said again.

What you gonna do? I rolled on top of her. My cock was as hard as it has ever been, explosively hard, like the skin could split from the pressure. I would not have been surprised if I shot my load before I got it into her. She reached down and guided me with her hand and I gave a thrust and I was in. The head of my cock pushed progressively deeper into her, parting her tender tissues. Her vagina gripped my shaft as I pushed into her.

Margie made that moaning sound and closed her eyes. I gave a few experimental thrusts.

As a fair-minded and kind man, I have made it a point not to dwell too much on how tight a pussy is. It just doesn't seem nice, and it is never the most important part of sex -- a cold fish with a tight pussy is still a cold fish. In my life, there is a balance between tightness and, well, experience, and generally experience wins. But Margie reminded me, tight is good too. Her vagina gripped me like silk as I began stroking in and out of her. She lifted her legs up over my back and I went deeper, thrusting with my full length. After a few pumps I honestly didn't fucking care if she had another orgasm or not -- I was in it for me now. I fucked her in any way that increased my own sensation, going deep and hard, sometimes fucking her with the tip just barely dipping into her, sometimes doing that mid-length stroke that feels so good. She worked her hips expertly, maximizing my pleasure and also, from the sound of it, her own. She came again during the mid-stroke maneuver, her hips convulsing against mine, our rhythm fractured as she went out of her head for a minute. Her orgasm pulled some kind of trigger inside me and I began pumping deep and hard, pulling her legs up higher over my shoulders until her feet were in front of my face, and I rammed into her and she made those moaning sounds and I erupted in a half-dozen gushing shots.

I tried not to collapse on her but there was no place to fall. I lay on her, sweating and panting, and she stroked my hair. "Thank you," she said. "I did, I needed that."

We lay there for a long time with bugs and bats and birds and stars behind the haze. Finally she said, "I should check on the kids." I rolled off her and she stood up, her majestic body shimmering in the glow of the city reflected off the haze and the muted light of the moon. She stepped into a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, leaving her underwear and shoes and things on the cement deck, and she trotted into the house.

In a few seconds she came back out. "Perfect," she said. "Out like a light."

I was sitting up now. "Good," I said. "Well, you know, I can't tell your parents. I can't tell my wife."

"Yeah," she said. "And I promise, this will never happen again."

I felt like crying. "Never?"

"Mister Andrews, I'm your babysitter. You are a married man."

"Yes, you're right."

"And anyway, I'll be going away in a few weeks."

"Where?"

"To Delaware, to college."

"Wow," I said.

"But I will come back. Holidays, summer."

"Oh good," I said. This somehow made it all easier, like keeping the cookie jar on a high shelf.

"Will you still let me babysit when I'm back?" she asked.

"Yes," I said. "But no guys over, okay?" And of course we both realized that this could, in fact, happen again.

We put on our clothes and went into the house and I scooped out some ice cream for us and we chatted in the kitchen like everything was normal. Usually when I drive Margie home my wife is there with the kids. I didn't know how to work the logistics but we decided they would be okay for the two minutes it would take to swing her home. I paid her before we left; I felt funny about it but gave her an extra ten bucks, and she did not mind -- she was too young and innocent to think of feeling insulted. Sully's clothes were still in a pile beside the pool and his car was still parked out front when I left, and I rushed Marge to her home and she hurried in. By the time I got back, both the car and the pile were gone. The kids were sound asleep. I poured myself a shot of bourbon and sat in front of the TV.