Babysitter Auditions Pt 05 Nia

"That's not a problem, Mr. Andrews," Nia assured me. "I don't actually have a boyfriend just now."

Nia Bexley was the oldest applicant I had yet interviewed, a 21-year-old writing major (minoring in history) finishing her junior year. She was a tall, curvy woman, maybe 5'8", with long black hair, a roundish oval face, and warm sepia-toned skin. There was something about her expression that hinted at a taste for mischief—which meant I should have been prepared when she added, "Don't worry, I promise I'll only watch porn when the girls are out, never when they're home."

I was still working my way through my coffee at that point (I'd offered Nia a cup, but she had declined), so I came very close to giving her the classic spit-take. I only avoided it at the cost of snorting coffee into my sinuses, which in retrospect probably wasn't an improvement. I managed to croak some sort of response, but who knows what I said.

"Mr. Andrews!" Nia said, pretending to be shocked. (Her smirk gave her away.) "Do you have a problem with girls watching porn? I hadn't thought you old-fashioned!"

"No . . ." I said, still grappling with the coffee I'd snorted. "I just . . . well, I wasn't

expecting

it," I finished lamely.

"If girls didn't like porn, girls wouldn't

do

porn," she said matter-of-factly. "And when I don't have a boyfriend, I need

something

to get me off—and I need to get off a lot.

"Do you watch porn, Mr. Andrews?" Nia asked ingenuously. "Or read erotica? Do you need it to help you get through the week? I bet a stud like you has a pretty high sex drive too."

"Umm, well, yes, I do," I admitted, wondering how the fuck this conversation had gone this way.

"What kind of porn do you like best? I bet I have an idea," Nia continued suggestively. "I know what

my

top fantasy is; I'll tell you if you tell me yours first."

I was saved by the bell—or, rather, by the ringtone: I heard Yakko, Wakko, and Dot sing out, "School, school, school!" That's my ringtone for Hope's elementary. I apologized to Nia, pulled my phone off my belt, and tapped the green phone symbol. "Hello, this is Rob Andrews."

"Mr. Andrews, this is Mrs. Garcia calling from the nurse's office at Hamilton. Your daughter Hope is down here with an upset stomach and a fever; she's already thrown up once. You need to come get her."

"I'll be there as soon as I can," I assured her. I turned to Nia and said, "I'm sorry, I'm going to have to postpone the rest of your interview."

"I understand, Mr. Andrews," Nia replied. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Well, are you available tomorrow night?" I asked. "I had a friend ask me this morning if he could meet me for drinks; I was going to put him off, but if you're free, I could give you the tour beforehand and finish the interview after I got back."

"Let me check my calendar," she answered. After a few moments, she looked up and said, "That will work, actually. When do you want me here?"

*****

Fortunately for me, Hope's bug went like they usually do—by bedtime, she was feeling more like herself, and by morning she was ravenous. School policy required me to keep her home anyway, so I kept Joy home as well and we had a daddy-daughter day. We played Legos and Thomas for much of it and spent most of the rest at the park.

Nia showed up several minutes early that evening with a smile on her face. I had set the girls up in Hope's room to keep them occupied during the tour, knowing when they saw her they would attach themselves to her like limpets and take over the conversation. Nia was delighted by the tour, and especially by the guest suite. I was a little nervous when I started showing her around, given her comments the day before, but she showed no sign of remembering them; we talked a little about writing, but mostly about the girls.

When we walked into Hope's room, Nia clapped her hands excitedly. Hope looked up and her eyes widened. "You're really pretty," she said.

"Thank you, sweetheart," Nia responded in a soft, happy voice. I introduced her to the girls, and they promptly attached themselves to her and started asking one question after another. I pulled each one off her in turn long enough to give her a hug and kiss, and made my farewells.

*****

I sighed inwardly as I walked into Louie's. Dave Reagor and I have been friends since fifth grade when my family moved here, and I couldn't bring myself to quit him—we'd been through too much together. In fifth grade, I was a shy, nerdy runt, and completely lacking in social skills; Dave and I bonded over shared interests in books and music and a shared position in the social hierarchy (or perhaps I should say

under

it). For a few years, he was the only real friend I had.

But then a couple things happened. One, I discovered temperament theory, Myers-Briggs and cognitive functions, and then the Enneagram, and suddenly I could start making sense of other people. I started teaching myself to read them, reverse-engineering social skills for myself. I gradually stopped putting my foot in my mouth and aggravating my classmates, and they started to see (and enjoy) my sense of humor. I'd never talked a lot—it was just that I usually managed to say the wrong thing when I did—so it wasn't that hard for me to keep my mouth shut until I figured out something

helpful

to say.

Two, over the course of a (painful) summer, I added six inches of height, about that in breadth, and half my weight again of muscle. (Do I exaggerate? Maybe . . . I don't know if I remember the actual numbers, I just remember that's what it

felt

like.) My dad had always said that would happen—he was a minor-league shortstop who reached AAA, and my mom was a champion swimmer at the D-III level; I'd given up on the idea, but he was proved right. I showed up for my freshman year with a very different body, and if

I

was still trying to figure out what to do with it, the coaches had all sorts of ideas. I ended up playing basketball and baseball, as those were the games I had some idea how to play. I may not have been the athlete my parents were, and I certainly wasn't the

motivated

athlete they had been, but I was still a guy who helped my teams win. (Especially in baseball. I'd always been able to put the bat on the ball, I just couldn't hit it hard. Man, had that ever changed.)

Put the two things together, and I was suddenly a lot more popular. I was an athlete and a good teammate, and I was still a good student who was always happy to help out a classmate. I was also a lot more attractive to girls. It took a while for my self-confidence to catch up to that fact, but by the time baseball season started I had a serious girlfriend. Thayla was the only good relationship I had before Lori; I'd bet we'd still be together if her family hadn't abruptly moved away over Christmas our junior year. No one knew why they'd gone, or where—they'd canceled their cell phones and e-mail addresses and hadn't even forwarded their mail. I prayed for months, many times a day, but I never saw or heard from her again.

Thayla didn't much care for Dave, though . . . and I have to say she had reason. In both respects, she was typical of my new friends. I stayed loyal to him as my social standing climbed, but he made it difficult. He was brash where I was generally quiet, and he remained socially tone-deaf. I tried to teach him some of the people skills I was learning, but he rejected them. He didn't believe he needed to learn anything from me. I continued to spend time with him, but the other friends I was developing quickly decided they didn't want him around. I essentially had two friend circles that didn't overlap, and one of them consisted of only one person. Needless to say, I drifted away from Dave fairly quickly, and for most of high school we only got together every once in a while.

Dave went away for college, while I stayed local, but then he moved back. He'd earned his degree in computer game design, and there was a successful indie game developer in our area that snapped him up after graduation. He did well there, and the company did very well; they became a

de facto

subsidiary of EA, but managed to retain both structural independence and the freedom to make the games they wanted to make. I reconnected with Dave when I interviewed him and most of his co-workers for a novel I was writing, and we started getting together once every month or two.

He hadn't really changed much, and there were times he made me grind my teeth. Lori asked me why I kept spending time with him, and the best answer I ever managed to give her was, "For auld lang syne." I guess I just find it very, very hard to let go of people. The one thing that

had

changed was that Dave had somehow become quite adept at reading other people's expressions and body language—as long as they weren't directed toward him. When it came to interactions in which he was involved, he was still hopeless. Unfortunately, he was less aware of that fact than he had ever been. That made his inability to keep his mouth shut more of a problem than it had ever been.

I saw Dave as soon as I walked into the joint—yes, people routinely call Louie's a "joint," don't ask me why—and angled toward him. Normally, when he saw me, he would bounce enthusiastically to his feet, greet me at the top of his lungs, and give me an enthusiastic handshake. This time, when he looked up and saw me, he just nodded grimly. My heart sank and my stomach exploded with butterflies. Anything that could make Dave look like that was not going to be good.

I sat down at the table, ordered a stiff drink, and said, "OK, lay it on me, man. You look like your servers just blew up. What's wrong?"

"Dude, there's no good way to say this, so, yeah," Dave replied. "Sorry, man, but I'm pretty sure your wife is cheating on you, probably with her boss."

I had always assumed the phrase "seeing red" was just a writing cliché that had no basis in reality. I discovered in that moment that I was wrong, as it was like a red filter dropped across my vision. Dave didn't react at all to my sudden rage; he probably assumed it was aimed at Lori, but it was actually all at him. I'm not sure how I managed not to strangle him, or at least deck him, but I did, keeping my hands firmly pressed into the table.

Just as I was regaining my equilibrium, Dave continued, "Sucks to find out about it this way, I know, but better this than being fooled." My vision went bloody again; I closed my eyes, breathed in until I had to stop, and held it. I did my best to put my body into lockdown until I could regain some measure of self-control. If there had been even a hint of smugness or self-satisfaction on Dave's face, I'm sure I couldn't have managed it, but there wasn't. It would have been understandable, given his own lack of success with women, but he'd never taken any satisfaction in bad things happening even to his worst enemies, and that hadn't changed. He wasn't actually helping me, but that's all he was

trying

to do.

When I finally opened my eyes, I must not have had myself as much under control as I had thought, because Dave visibly flinched. It took me a few moments before I was sure I was safe to speak; he slowly paled under my gaze, but staunchly maintained eye contact. Finally, I ground out, "Dave, I already

knew

that."

His eyes went wide and he blurted out, "You did?! But—" Then his mouth snapped shut; I think he'd actually realized just how far he'd shoved his foot into it. I felt another spike of rage, the worst yet, and I might have actually started to push out of my chair for a split-second. As I fought myself hard, my eyes closed again, I heard Dave's voice echoing from far off, "But the husband's always the last to know."

My voice thick and ugly, I said, "Well, of the people

involved

, sure. She and her motherfucking boss knew well before I did. But I'm not a

complete

idiot, Dave. I figured it out, and I hired a PI, who confirmed it."

"Oh." For a few moments I saw Dave as I'd never seen him before: at a loss for words. Then he rallied himself, and my gut clenched. "Well, I guess I don't have to spend all that time convincing you after all. So, dude, you need to start getting yours. I have a couple ideas—"

"Dave," I interrupted, my cold voice cutting across his like a blade, "do you have any idea how stupid that sounds? If I divorce Lori—and it certainly looks that way—I'm holding all the cards: I have proof she's been having a long-term affair, and I'm innocent. If I were to get caught having an affair, too, I lose the advantage. Which means

she

has the advantage, because she's a lawyer and I tell stories for a living."

"Yeah, but they're

great

stories!" Dave protested. He was only diverted for a moment, alas, before plunging back in. "You can be discreet," he informed me.

Gee, thanks for letting me know

, I thought. "I heard about this place, the Wilkerson Institute—"

I burst out laughing, cutting him off. "Come on, Dave, I've read that story too," I told him, once I had my voice back under control. I had to admit, I was grateful for the laugh. "That's all it is, a story."

"No, it's not," he insisted. "I—"

"And besides, Dave, even if it

were

real, so what? I'm not only not in that tax bracket, I'm not even mounted on the same fucking

wall

. What's more, even if I were, how the fuck could I explain spending a week—or two?—away in the Yucatan? I have

children

, Dave—

small

ones. I tuck them in at night. I need to be there for them. If I were gone for a week and came back with a bombshell, do you think anyone would believe she was just an employee? Not on your fucking life!"

"Well, then—" Dave has never been a quitter, and he wasn't going to quit on this scheme of his, either. In his mind, the only things that mattered were that I deserved lots of great sex and Lori deserved to have me fucking someone else. She did it first, so I was justified in doing the same, so if I did, she would still be the only person who had done anything wrong. It took a long time to convince him that no,

really

, the law

wouldn't

see it that way. He never did stop telling me that whether the law agreed with him or not, he was right about what I deserved, and what I needed.

Of course, the funny thing was that in a sense, I was already doing what he was telling me to do, only in a much more effective and discreet way than he could come up with. The irony kept me afloat through our long conversation; I'd managed to keep myself from killing Dave in a blinding rage, but I might well have throttled him out of simple irritation if I hadn't been able to find amusement in the whole situation.

*****

By the time I finally got out of Louie's, I was keyed up, horny, and frustrated out of my mind. I was later than I'd planned, so I texted Nia to tell her I was finally on my way home, then spent most of the drive snarling at the other drivers. I got out of the car, took a deep breath, and did my level best to wrestle my temper into line. I walked into the house and called out, "OK, Nia, I'm back."

The house was dark and quiet.

She obviously got the girls to sleep without any trouble.

I went up to check on Hope and Joy anyway, mostly for the pleasure of it; indeed both of them were hard out.

Hope has a bit of a cold—or maybe she's developing allergies

, I thought, listening to her squeaky little snore.

Suddenly I realized I was hearing another soft sound, one I couldn't place. It drew me toward the guest suite. The door was ajar; light was leaking out through the crack, along with the sounds I was following, which I suddenly realized were soft moans of pleasure.

I shouldn't have done it, but I couldn't help myself: I peeked into the room. The covers were pulled down, and Nia was lying on her back on the bed, naked, legs spread, fucking herself with a large dildo. I stood there entranced, watching it slide in and out of her startlingly hot-pink pussy as her other hand worked one of her massive tits, pulling and twisting its large, rosewood-colored peak.

I suppose I should be mad

, said a distant voice in the back of my brain—but then that voice was silenced forever.

"Fuck me, Mr. Andrews," Nia gasped. A bolt of electricity fired my nerves, and my prick went from growing rapidly to painfully hard in a blink. "Your big fat daddy cock feels so fucking good in your babysitter's hungry little pussy. Do you like feeling that tight, wet babysitter cunt wrapped around your big fucking dick? Do you like watching my big fat titties bounce? Mmmmmm, Mr. Andrews, love my big titties . . . pinch them, squeeze them, kiss them, suck on my nipples . . . you're making me your little babysitter slut—tight little babyslutter—that's so fucking hot!"

I pushed the door open, not sure what to say or do but feeling like I ought to say or do

something

. Nia's eyes opened and fixed on me, but if I was expecting her to react in fear or shame, I was completely mistaken. She gave me a lustful little smile and said coyly, "Ooooooh, Mr. Andrews, you caught me. I put the girls to bed and sat down to wait for you to get home . . . that started me thinking about you, and I couldn't help myself . . ."

I blinked in surprise, and Nia continued breathlessly, "I never got the chance to tell you, Mr. Andrews, what my favorite kind of porn is. It's girls my age getting their tight, fresh pussies hammered by older men. Especially when it's really naughty—students getting fucked by teachers or professors . . . stepdaughters . . .

babysitters

," she purred. "I like it best when they're caught masturbating, knowing you heard me crying out your name . . . knowing you know I was imagining your big daddy dick stretching my little hole . . . filling me to bursting . . . pounding me . . . making me cum over and over and over . . .

"Is that your fantasy too, Mr. Andrews?" Nia asked seductively, spreading her inner lips wide, showing me her slick pink gash thickly coated with her nectar. "I bet it is . . . Why don't you come over here and find out how much better the reality is? This juicy, wet, tight,

horny

little coed cunt is ripe, it's yours for the taking . . . it's

begging

for your cock . . . come and get it, Mr. Andrews . . . come fuck me hard, and fast, and deep . . . fuck me 'til I scream . . . fuck my brains out and fill my hungry cunt with your hot cum . . ."

My eyes fixed on her wet little slit, I stripped off my shirt with economical violence and flung it to the wall. Nia's eyes gleamed in pleasure. I rid myself of my pants in much the same way—I had worn sandals, so no socks—and she held her breath in anticipation. When I shoved my briefs to the floor, letting my raging erection spring loose, she let it out explosively and slowly licked her lips. "That's even nicer than I'd hoped," she purred. "That's the perfect fucking size. You'll fill me so fucking good . . ."

I walked slowly toward the bed, keeping myself under firm control. "Ohhh, yeah, baby, come and take me," Nia moaned. "Come take everything you want. I need this so fucking bad—I haven't gotten good dick in too fucking long . . ." I knew she expected me to unceremoniously stick it in and start thrusting, but I wanted more. I wanted—

hungered

—to taste her first, to bury my face in her dripping quim and devour her hot sex.

I grabbed Nia's thighs near her hips and pushed them up and further apart, smiling to hear her breathe in sharply. I looked down at her for a moment, spread wide open for me, then abruptly bent down and licked her pink from hole to post with a broad, flat tongue. She yowled, no doubt partly in surprise. My mouth was everywhere, licking and sucking her slick, tender skin; I ran my tongue up and down her large inner pussy lips, then pulled them into my mouth and gently chewed on them. She tasted sharp and spicy and sweet, and I loved it.