My Son's Sitter

As they go lower and lower, his breathing intensifies. His fingers clasp into my hair eagerly at where I’m heading. All kissing, all feeling, all roads lead to his dick.

If Clayton thinks I’m heading there, and my lips think they’re heading there, then what exactly am I doing if not heading there? Why not make his hottest fantasy come true?

Once I reach the very base of his torso, where his jeans block me from further skin access, I strike a look up.

Clayton’s whole face is more mesmerized than I’ve ever seen it. His lower lip is drooped and his blue eyes are half-lidded. That is a look of one thing — complete and utter desire.

In my hair, his hand pats my head.

“Yeah?” My sultry voice purrs, “you’d like that?”

His breath grows even more ragged as he undoes his jeans.

Through his blue and black briefs, the bulge of his boner is pressing insistently to get out.

When I finally pull down the briefs, his whole body slumps a little as if he’s been waiting this whole day for me to do just this. His thick cock rises to meet me.

I dip my head to it, open my mouth, and freeze.

I close my eyes, trying to remember the Internet article I read years ago about how you’re actually supposed to perform a blow job. Main thing is you’re supposed to put your mouth over it, right? And something about the tongue. No teeth, that much I’m pretty sure about.

I aim another glance up, to see that Clayton is reaching for my face.

Wrenching myself away and onto the couch, I say “I’m sorry. But I can’t.”

Several horrible beats of silence. Then, the sound of Clayton doing up his jeans.

“I understand,” he finally says in a strained voice, “I shouldn’t have let things get this far. As I’ve drunk a fair bit of wine, I can’t drive you home at the moment. But come morning, I’ll get you home straightaway. And you don’t have to worry, I’ll leave you a good review.”

He says all this in a voice completely void of emotion, like he’s reading off a script. Is he really giving up that easily?

When I turn to him, I see the effect my mere look has on him. He licks his lips and bites down as if to physically stop himself from lunging for what he wants.

I get up and step toward him, and his determined scowl droops.

“Stevie…” He says in a tormented voice that tells me I’ve won already.

My lips are about to hit his when I turn away.

“No,” I say in a low voice of my own now, “you don’t understand.”

I flop back onto the couch, my gaze on my black socked feet. Don’t tell him, my mind urges me. But if my mouth doesn’t tell him now, my body will surely give it away later. I have to.

I tilt my head up partway, so I look at him out of lowered eyes.

“I’m a virgin.”

Chapter 3: Clayton

A what? No fucking way, tell me I heard that wrong.

My eyes trace her for a telltale twinkle in her eye or a naughty half smirk. But the more I look at her, the more it makes sense. The heedless almost girlish way she flirted with me. The bashful way she couldn’t quite throw herself into it. And even just now, gaping at my dick as if it were some kind of strange apparatus she didn’t know the first thing about actually operating.

It must be true. Worse than that, is the fact of who the woman I’m about to fuck is. My son’s nanny. How screwed up is that?

I turn away from her, my jaw clenching so much it feels like I’m going to grind my teeth into powder. I’m no better than my dad, just a horny bastard who only thinks of himself. Right now, I was about to do the unthinkable with the girl who’s a virgin on top of everything. Some girls would be absolutely brutalized by the experience, especially when things end how they always end.

I’ve been single these past few years not from a lack of meeting eligible women. Pretty, kind, caring — I’ve met them all. I’m just not the kind of guy who does relationships. I’m not the good, caring type. And truthfully, as obviously eligible as some of these women were, they usually reached their expiration date right around the end of our first date or two together, if that.

“I should go then?”

Her icy voice disrupts my reverie. All I can do is manage a half-conscious nod.

What am I going to do now? That she can’t keep being Winston’s nanny is obvious. But I can’t bear to fire her at this exact moment after everything that happened. The poor girl is probably reeling.

The spot on my leather couch where Stevie was sitting is now empty.