Babysitter and the Author

I don't often have to sit for Mr Anders. He's a single father who works from home. He says he's an author and has shown me some of the books he's had published. All I can say is that some people will publish anything. Still, he seems to do OK.

He gave me a call the other day wanting a sitter for Saturday evening. He had to do some research. When I asked where he had to go to do his research on a Saturday night he laughed and said he'd be visiting nightclubs, of all places. Sounded like an excuse to get out of the house for a while if you asked me.

I fronted up Saturday as requested and Mr Anders was all dolled up for his little excursion to the hot spots. I must admit that he comes up well with a scrub. He's quite a handsome man when he puts some effort into it. Until I met him I always had this idea in the back of my mind that authors are weedy little men. Not him. Fit with a lot of muscles. I've no idea how he gets them but he's got 'em.

He kissed the kid goodnight, waved to me and shot through. The little menace promptly started testing my limits and we had a bit of a go-around for a few minutes until she found that yes, I did mean what I said. After that things went reasonably smoothly.

It was about midnight when Mr Anders arrived home. He came waltzing in, whistling and apparently in a good mood. If he'd been out boozing it sure didn't seem to have had any effect on him. Dead sober, he was, although I did wonder about that later.

He insisted that I have a cup of coffee with him before I toddled off, as he had some questions he wanted to ask me, if I didn't mind.

So we're sitting down and having our coffee and he starts on me. One of the characters in the story he was writing was a young woman of about my age.

"You are early twenties, aren't you?" he asked.

"Eighteen, actually," I told him, unsure if I'd just been flattered or insulted.

"Close enough," he says. "Tell me, have you ever been raped?"

Not backward about asking potentially hurtful questions, was he?

"Ah, no," I answered.

"Pity," he said.

Say, what? A pity? Gee, maybe I should have gone out and found the local neighbourhood rapist?

"Sorry I can't oblige," I said, and I was surprised that icicles didn't tinkle in the air, my voice was so cold.

"No, that's OK," he said, my sarcasm passing him without stopping. "It would have helped if you'd had the experience, but it's not essential.

Tell me, if you were going to be raped would you fight or would you just collapse and let it happen?"

"I like to think that I'd fight," I snapped, "but it all depends on circumstances, now doesn't it. I'd be silly to fight if my assailant had a knife or something."

"Good point," he said, and seemed to be considering it. He shook his head. "No. It's supposed to be a spur of the moment assault. The guy wouldn't have a weapon, so Maria will probably fight."

"Who's Maria?" I asked.

"She's the young woman who's going to be raped by her neighbour," I was told. "She's also going to be the main suspect when the neighbour turns up dead. The rape will be her motive."

He was, it dawned on me, putting together one of his trashy novels.

"How long would you fight for?"

"I'm sorry?" I asked, bewildered.

"When you get jumped, how long would you fight? Right through until the end or just to the point where the rapist takes you? In other words, once he nails you would you continue fighting or would you just relax and let it happen?"

That was actually a good question. How long would I resist? It seemed to me that it would be silly to continue fighting one I've been shafted. Once things have reached that point I'd just hurt myself if I kept fighting. Better to relax and co-operate. Co-operate hard enough and I could probably make him pop his cork in nothing flat.

"I think I'd stop fighting at the point where he actually takes me," I decided.

"Would that still apply if you were a virgin?"

How the hell would he know I wasn't still a virgin? Rather insulting I thought that, even though I wasn't.

"What difference would it make?"

"Oh, a virgin doesn't really know what is going to happen, whereas a non-virgin has a pretty good idea. I'm just wondering if it would make a difference when she was struggling."

I considered the question from that point of view.

"It seems to me," I said, "that a virgin, not knowing what was going to happen, would probably be less likely to fight in the first place or, at least, not until it's too late."

Mr Anders considered the point, nodding to himself. Then he focussed back on me.

"Clothes," he said. "Wear clothes that facilitate a rape or not? You're wearing jeans right now. How easily do they come off?"

I shrugged. "It depends on the jeans," I pointed out. "Some of my jeans are so tight it takes me ten minutes to take them off. If your Maria is wearing tight jeans she's probably safe. The rapist will die of frustration trying to peel them off her. Give the girl yoga pants. They peel off a lot more easily."

Mr Anders seemed to consider this and then made up his mind about something.

He twisted his chair away from the table.

"Come around here," he told me, and I obediently got up and walked around and stood in front of him, idiot that I am.

"Jeans are nice," he said. "They suit a girl's legs."

Next thing I know he reaches for the button in the front, flicked it open, dropped the zip and pulled them down. I wasn't wearing a pair of my tight jeans. I never do when I'm minding kids. They can slow you down and kids can move fast. So when Mr Anders tugged at my jeans they were down round my knees just like that.

"You said it takes time to pull these down," he said frowning. "These came off pretty easily."

I was trying to protest that these weren't tight jeans and that he shouldn't have pulled them down anyway when I found my panties had joined my jeans.

"What the hell do you think you're doing," I demanded, trying to push him away from me while I scrabbled for my panties and jeans at the same time.

"Just seeing how easy it is," he told me, and then his hands went around my waist and just like that he picked me up and sat me on the table. I think I mentioned that he had muscles. He picked me up as easily as though I'd been a child. As soon as my bum hit the table the rotten swine had hold of my jeans again and just peeled them right off. My panties went with them. All I was wearing was some socks, my shoes having slipped off and were now inside the legs of my jeans.

"You can't do things like that," I protested.

I was about to say a lot more but I noticed that he was sliding his own trousers down and he was sticking right out. I was just staring down at him when he took a step closer and his erection was pressing against my pussy.

"Stop that," I squealed, really shocked now. "What the hell?"

"You're not fighting at all," Mr Anders said, and I could feel his cock pushing past my lips and into me. "Too late to start now, I guess."

Fight? If I'd known what he'd intended I would have, but I was butt naked and his cock was knocking on the door before it even occurred to me that he was actually going to have sex with me.

"But I didn't know what you were doing," I pointed out. "You took me by surprise. If you'd pointed out that you were going to jump me I'd have had a chance to fight. This just wasn't fair."

"Maybe, but I'm still not fully in you," Mr Anders pointed out, "and you're still not fighting. Just talking."

I felt like a fool. He was right. Here he was in the act of raping me and all I was doing was whining that it wasn't fair because he'd taken me by surprise. I was trying to decide what I could do to fight when I felt him coming further in. Eyes swivelling downstairs again, I could see that he was at least halfway in. Even as I looked I saw and felt him sinking deeper in.

I was still watching and protesting and explaining why he shouldn't be doing this when he gave that last push and he was right inside me. I just sat on the table, feeling him in me. God, he felt big. And just what was I supposed to do now?

"Well, you might as well relax now," Mr Anders told me, "but I can't say you put up a fight. Hold your arms up. I want to take the rest of your things off."

Like an automaton I just raised my arms and he calmly peeled my jumper off, followed by my bra. He didn't even bother to undo that. Just peeled it up over my breasts and then off. Satisfied, he took hold of my breasts, taking a good feel of them, nodding his head in apparent approval.

"Nice," he said. "Very nice indeed."

Damn it. The man was raping me. His cock was in me. Why did it give me this little pleased thrill to find that he liked my breasts?

"Now let's see how co-operative you're going to be now that I have you," he said softly.

With that he started on me. I could feel him gently withdrawing, stroking my breasts while he did so. Then he stopped and was coming back in, a lot faster than he'd pulled back, and his hands tightened on my breasts as he did so.

I gasped and he was withdrawing again. A few rounds of that and I could feel myself starting to move with him. I knew how far he would pull back and when he started back into me I was ready and pushing forward to meet him. Tentatively at first, but as things progressed I became a lot more certain with what I was doing.

Co-operate enough to make him pop his load early? Ha. In my dreams. It dawned on me that I didn't have the faintest notion of how to make him come fast. All I could do was wait until he was ready and hope it wouldn't take too long.

We came together, thrust and counter-thrust, his cock neatly sheathing itself while his hands drew music from my breasts. After five minutes I was thinking, "OK. Time's up. You can finish now." After ten minutes I was thinking, "OK. I can handle this. I guess you can keep going for a bit longer."

Somewhere after that I lost track of such silly concepts as time. He was just taking me and I was going along. I'd said I'd co-operate and I did. And I kept on co-operating, meeting his every thrust, whimpering when he slowed down, giving little squeaks of excitement when he sped up. Stroke by stroke, that man was driving me insane.

As far as I was concerned the only thing of any interest was this man who was ravishing my body and my senses. He seemed to just keep right on going. How the hell he managed to last as long as he did was beyond me. I was a squirming wreck by the time he seemed ready to finish. He had deliberately prevented me from climaxing earlier, I was sure of it. Rotten swine. Now he turned on the heat.

Mr Anders hit me with a couple of hard fast strokes and I screamed and lost it. I could feel him bucking hard, hitting me hard and fast as he had his own climax, but it was of little interest to me. I was gone into screaming oblivion, totally out of it.

When I was one with the world again I took a couple of moments to take stock. As far as I could tell I was stark naked (excluding a pair of socks) and sitting on Mr Anders' lap. He was holding me lightly, one hand cupping a breast and idly playing with the nipple. I must have made a noise because he promptly focused his attention on me.

"You were saying that I took you by surprise and it wasn't fair," he said. "Would you care to expand on that a little?"

It took me a few moments to backtrack through our conversation. Then I got it.

"Before you can fight you need to know that there is a reason to fight," I pointed out. "One moment we were just talking and then you pulled my pants down and jumped me. I had no idea that was going to happen. How could I? I didn't know you were a raving nut."

"Good point. I suppose I'll have to have the neighbour warn Maria about what he's going to do. That'll give her a chance to fight."

"Why bother," I asked. "Just have him do what you did. Whip off her panties and bonk. Too bad for Maria if she doesn't get a chance to fight."

"Mmm. An idea," he muttered. "You sound a little disgruntled. Is something wrong?"

"Oh, no," I said with a laugh. "What could be wrong? I enjoy getting raped."

Mr Anders nodded. "Yes. I could see that. You were quite an enthusiastic victim, weren't you."

He was smiling in satisfaction. I sighed. If I was writing the damn book, Maria would definitely be the killer.