Teen Babysitter Phonesex – Slutty Sitter For Hire – Part 1
“Is everything okay?” I ask you.
You sigh as you stumble in through the front door, shut it behind you, and make your way into the living room where your teen babysitter is seated. You tell me in a low, bitter tone that you had a rough day.
Talk about an understatement.
Your boss chewed you out in front of several of your coworkers for a small mistake that had a simple fix. As a result, he embarrassed you over something so trivial, and you can’t help but feel as if he singled you out for a reason.
At the same time, you checked your messages and found that your wife was spending the weekend at her mother’s–at least, that’s what her text said, but you suspected that your “better half” was bar-hopping with her whore friends and hooking up with strange men. This was a regular occurrence, so the only thing that caught you off guard was that she hadn’t given you a day’s notice. That’s when the realization set in: she had left the burden of your children on you.
Then you called me, the teen babysitter.
You asked me to pick up your kids and watch them for the evening, and even offered to pay extra for the inconvenience. I assured you at the time that it was no problem–after all, what are neighbors for?
So when you trudged in after midnight, reeking of a dive bar, I knew that something was up.
“Is there anything that you want to talk about?” I offer with a half-shrug. “I’ve been told I’m a great listener.”
Your vision is blurry, your mind is a cloud, your words are slurred, and you’re slowly swaying from side to side as you ignore the question and study me. I’m curled up on your comfortable black sofa with my cute bare feet tucked beneath my round ass. Your favorite teen sitter is wearing pink leggings and a white tie-dye crop top with alternating waves of pink, blue, and lilac. My blonde hair is pulled back and expertly twisted into two impressive French braids, both of which fall past my shoulders. I have a young adult fantasy novel in my hands, and as I close the book and set it aside, you stumble over and ask if the kids are already asleep, completely oblivious to the late hour.
I smile.
“Of course! I checked on them, like, fifteen minutes ago. They’re knocked out cold.”
Good, you think to yourself. You plop down onto the center of the sofa, and one of your hands rests amicably on my thigh. You always seem to feel relaxed when your babysitter is around.
Consequently, you blurt out that your boss is a ruthless prick and your wife is a selfish bitch.
I place one of my hands over yours. You stare at our hands, loving the contrast in size and texture; something inside you stirs as the smaller, softer hand of your babysitter gently squeezes your larger one. “I’m sorry. It must feel like you can’t go anywhere without being made to feel bad over something or other.”
You nod and vent about your life.
You get shit at home from the missus, then you go to work and get shit there from your boss, and then you return home just to get shit again. It just isn’t fair.
I don’t respond. You know there isn’t much that I can say, but you’re grateful that I let you continue your rant.
Between your home life and your dead-end job, you feel as if you’re under attack from all sides. However, you know that if you quit, then you can’t provide for your family, so you’re bullied into putting up with your boss’s dickish behavior. And when you try to have a reasonable discussion with your wife about your marital issues–or even mention couple’s therapy–then she runs off to her mother’s or her sister’s, or to one of her single friend’s. You admit aloud that you feel stuck, like you’re caught in some sort of infinite loop of your own personal hell, and you have no idea what you should do.
My hand pulls away from yours. You glance over in time to watch me stand from my spot, plant myself before you, and lift my short top over my head. My small, perky tits look gorgeous in the dim light of your living room, and you can’t help but stare at them, mesmerized. The sitter you hired is undressing right in front of you!
You ask what I’m doing, only for me to cut you off.
“I want to make you feel better,”
I whisper, my words dripping with lust. My hands travel up and down my taut body; a barely audible mew escapes my pouty lips.
Your eyes widen as they pass over my teen body, drinking me in. Soft skin, sun-kissed from running drills with my cheer squad in the afternoon. Silky hair, a natural, blushing shade of coral pink.
My teen breasts in your face, perky and free.
You mutter absentmindedly–something to the effect of how we shouldn’t be doing this. However, your body is telling me a different story. Your hands find their way to my slender waist. Your fingers relax as they make contact with my smooth skin. Sliding up my petite abdomen, cupping my tits.
“No one has to know,” I promise. My hands are on yours, trapping them against my supple skin. My eyes, half-lidded and glazed over, compel you to take me up on my desires. You freeze–is this the right thing to do? Will you cheat on your wife with your teen babysitter?
Thanks for checking out Part 1 of my babysitter phone sex blog! Part 2 will be available later this week, or if you can’t wait, you can buy the audio version here.
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