The ad said "experienced, references included," but nothing prepared me for her. Nineteen, with a cheerleader’s ponytail and a smile that made my throat dry. The first night, she arrived in knee-high socks and a skirt so short I had to stare at the ceiling when I explained the bedtime routine. My wife was out of town. The house felt too quiet. Too charged.
I buried myself in work, trying to ignore her giggles with my son upstairs. But at 10 PM, when his door clicked shut, I heard bare feet padding down the steps. "He’s asleep," she announced, leaning against my office doorway. One strap of her top had slipped. I swallowed hard. "Great. Uh… help yourself to snacks." She laughed, twirling a lock of hair around her finger. "I’m hungry for something else."
My chair rolled back as she straddled my lap, her perfume—something vanilla and dangerous—flooding my senses. "You’ve been watching me all night," she whispered, grinding down. I groaned. Denying it was pointless. Not when my gaze had lingered on her ass every time she bent to pick up toys. Her fingers yanked my tie loose. "Daddy’s been so stressed," she cooed, mocking the way my son said it. The heat of her mouth on my neck short-circuited my guilt.
The desk became our altar. Papers scattered as she hiked up that skirt, revealing lace so flimsy it tore when I tugged. No condom. No excuses. Just her nails digging into my shoulders as she rode me, whispering filth that’d make the PTA faint. "What if he wakes up?" I rasped. She slowed, dragging her teeth over my bottom lip. "Then you’ll have to be quiet."
After, she fixed her ponytail like nothing happened while I sat there, tie askew, heart hammering. "Same time next week?" she asked, innocent as a Sunday school teacher. I nodded dumbly.
Now, every Thursday, my son asks why the sitter’s socks are always missing when I tuck him in. I tell him it’s laundry day. But the way she smirks over his head tells me she’s already planning round two.
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