My Teenage Babysitter

I never expected that hiring a babysitter would completely upend my entire existence, turning my mundane suburban life into a relentless fever dream of lust and forbidden desire. My name is David Carrington, I'm forty-two years old, married to Jennifer for fifteen years, and father to our six-year-old daughter Madison. I work as a financial consultant in the city, commute an hour each way, and until six months ago, I thought I had life figured out. Then Emily walked through my front door, and nothing was ever the same again.

It started innocently enough. Jennifer's sister was getting married in Napa Valley, and we were invited to the wedding weekend. We needed someone to watch Madison, and our usual sitter had graduated college and moved to Seattle. Jennifer asked around her book club, and one of the women recommended her neighbor's daughter—a nineteen-year-old college sophomore named Emily who was home for the summer and looking to make some extra money before returning to State in the fall.

"She's very responsible," Claire had said, passing me Emily's number while we were at a neighborhood barbecue. "She's been babysitting since she was fourteen, and she's wonderful with children. Madison will love her."

I didn't think much of it at the time. I was more concerned with whether I could get Friday off work to drive up to wine country early. I called Emily that evening, arranged for her to come over the following Thursday so we could meet her before the weekend trip, and hung up thinking nothing of it. Her voice had been soft and sweet on the phone, polite and professional. I expected a wholesome, slightly awkward teenager who would keep my daughter safe and fed.

What I got was a walking wet dream that would haunt my every waking moment for months to come.

The doorbell rang at exactly six o'clock on Thursday evening. Jennifer was finishing getting ready for our dinner reservations, and Madison was playing with her dolls in the living room. I walked to the front door, straightening my tie from work, and pulled it open.

There stood Emily Rose Patterson, and the first thought that crashed through my mind was that I was far too old to be having the kind of thoughts that immediately flooded my brain. She was wearing a simple white sundress that hugged curves I had no business noticing, the fabric thin enough that I could see the outline of her bra underneath. Her hair was honey-blonde, falling in loose waves past her shoulders, and her eyes were the brightest shade of green I'd ever seen—like fresh spring grass after rain. She was biting her lower lip nervously, and I watched that soft pink flesh indent under her teeth with a fascination that made my trousers suddenly feel too tight.

"Mr. Carrington?" she asked, her voice even sweeter in person than it had been on the phone. "I'm Emily. I'm here for the babysitting interview?"

I realized I'd been staring, my eyes traveling down her tanned legs to the strappy sandals that showed off delicate feet with painted toenails. I cleared my throat and forced myself to make eye contact, which was somehow even more dangerous—those green eyes were wide and innocent, framed by thick dark lashes, and they looked at me with a trust that made my stomach tighten with guilt over where my mind had just gone.

"Yes, Emily, please come in," I said, stepping aside and gesturing into the foyer. "Thank you for coming over. My wife Jennifer will be down in a moment, but let me introduce you to Madison first."

Emily stepped across the threshold, and I caught the faint scent of vanilla and something floral—jasmine maybe—as she passed me. Her shoulder brushed against my chest accidentally, and I felt the heat of her skin through that thin dress like a brand. She was shorter than me by nearly a foot, petite but with curves that defied her small frame, the kind of body that made men lose their minds throughout history.

"Madison, honey," I called into the living room, my voice slightly rougher than intended. "Come meet Emily."

My daughter came running in, her dark hair bouncing, and immediately attached herself to Emily's leg. "Are you going to be my new babysitter?"

Emily laughed, a musical sound that made my heart stutter, and crouched down to Madison's level. The back of her dress rode up slightly, and I forced myself to look away from the glimpse of smooth thigh, focusing instead on the family photos on the wall like a man trying to survive a desert by staring at a mirage.

"I am!" Emily said, taking Madison's hand. "I'm Emily, and I love playing with dolls. Do you have any tea sets? I make excellent pretend tea."

Madison squealed with delight and dragged Emily toward her playroom, chattering a mile a minute. I watched them go, Emily's hips swaying gently as she walked, and I felt the unmistakable stir of arousal in my groin. I was forty-two years old, for Christ's sake. I had a beautiful wife, a successful career, a mortgage, and responsibilities. I shouldn't be getting hard watching a nineteen-year-old girl walk away from me in a sundress.

But I was.

Jennifer came downstairs then, looking elegant in her cocktail dress, and I quickly adjusted myself before she could notice my predicament. We followed the sound of giggling to the playroom, where Emily was already sitting cross-legged on the floor, holding a plastic teacup with her pinky extended while Madison poured invisible tea from a pink pot.

"She's perfect," Jennifer whispered to me, squeezing my arm. "And so pretty. Madison already loves her."

I couldn't argue with either assessment.

The interview lasted twenty minutes. Emily answered all of Jennifer's questions with intelligence and warmth, explaining her experience with children, her CPR certification, and her availability. She was studying early childhood education at State, she told us, which was why she loved babysitting so much—it was practical experience for her future career.

"You're hired," Jennifer said, beaming. "We'll see you Thursday morning? We're leaving around nine, and we'll be back Sunday evening."

"Absolutely, Mrs. Carrington," Emily said, standing and smoothing down her dress. "I'm looking forward to it. Madison and I are going to have so much fun."

She shook Jennifer's hand, then turned to me. I took her small hand in mine, feeling how soft her skin was, how delicate her fingers were. I held on perhaps a second too long, and when I looked up from our joined hands, I found her green eyes fixed on mine with an expression I couldn't quite read—something between curiosity and awareness.

"Thank you for the opportunity, Mr. Carrington," she said softly, her thumb brushing against my palm before she pulled away.

I stood at the door and watched her walk to her car—a sensible Honda Civic that suggested responsible parents and a middle-class upbringing. She waved before getting in, and I raised my hand in return, watching her drive away until Jennifer's voice calling from the kitchen snapped me out of my trance.

"David, we're going to be late for our reservation!"

The weekend in Napa was beautiful. Jennifer enjoyed reconnecting with her sister, I managed to secure a new client at the rehearsal dinner who owned three vineyards, and the wedding itself was lovely. But my mind kept wandering back to a honey-blonde girl in a white sundress, and I found myself checking my phone constantly for updates from the house camera system we'd installed for peace of mind.

The cameras were Jennifer's idea—she was protective of Madison and liked being able to check in. I had the app on my phone, and late Friday night, while Jennifer was at the bachelorette party, I found myself scrolling through the day's footage instead of preparing my toast for the wedding.

There was Emily, making breakfast for Madison. There she was, playing in the backyard with the sprinkler. There she was, sunbathing on the deck while Madison napped, wearing a bikini that made me choke on my scotch.

I couldn't look away. The bikini was modest by beach standards—navy blue with white polka dots—but on Emily's body, it might as well have been lingerie. She was lying on her stomach, her legs slightly parted, the curve of her ass visible in those tiny bottoms. She had undone the back of her bikini top, and I could see the sides of her breasts pressing against the lounge chair. She looked like every forbidden fantasy I'd ever suppressed, every inappropriate thought I'd trained myself not to have.

I watched her for far too long, my cock hard in my dress pants, until I forced myself to close the app and take a cold shower. I was a married man. A father. A respected member of my community. I couldn't be lusting after my daughter's babysitter like some pathetic middle-aged cliché.

But the damage was done. Emily had lodged herself in my brain, and no amount of cold water or mental discipline could dislodge her.

We returned home Sunday evening to find the house spotless, Madison asleep in her bed, and Emily curled up on the sofa reading a textbook. She looked up when we entered, her face lighting with a smile that made my chest ache.

"Welcome home! Everything went perfectly," she said, standing and smoothing her clothes. She was wearing denim shorts today, cutoffs that showed off even more of her legs than the sundress had, and a loose tank top that kept slipping off one shoulder. "Madison was an angel. We went to the zoo yesterday, and she was so tired she went to bed an hour early tonight."

Jennifer hugged her and went upstairs to check on Madison, leaving me alone with Emily in the living room. The house felt different with her in it—smaller, warmer, charged with an electricity that hadn't existed before.

"Thank you for everything," I said, reaching for my wallet to pay her. "You really went above and beyond."

"It was my pleasure, Mr. Carrington," she said, taking the cash from my hand. Her fingers lingered on mine, and I felt that same jolt of connection I'd experienced when we shook hands. "I love spending time with Madison. She's such a sweet girl."

She was standing close—too close—and I could smell that vanilla-jasmine scent again. She looked up at me through her lashes, and there was definitely something in her expression now, something knowing and deliberate that hadn't been there before the weekend.

"Will you need me again?" she asked, her voice dropping slightly. "I mean, for babysitting?"

"Yes," I said immediately, too quickly. "Yes, we will. Jennifer and I have several events coming up this summer. I'll talk to her about scheduling."

"Good," Emily said, and she smiled—a slow, secret smile that did terrible things to my blood pressure. "I'd like that. I really enjoyed being here. It feels... comfortable. Safe."

The word "safe" hung in the air between us, heavy with unspoken meaning. I should have stepped back, should have reminded us both of the boundaries that existed between a married man and a teenager in his employ. Instead, I found myself saying, "Let me drive you home. It's late, and I don't want you taking the bus."

She didn't argue, just gathered her bag and textbook, calling out a goodbye to Jennifer upstairs. I grabbed my keys, and we walked out into the warm summer night together.

My car was a luxury sedan, black leather interior, the kind of vehicle that signified success and stability. Emily slid into the passenger seat, and I watched her legs extend, her shorts riding up as she settled in. I forced my eyes to the road as I started the engine.

"So," I said, trying for normal conversation as we pulled out of the driveway, "early childhood education? That's admirable. Not many nineteen-year-olds have such clear career goals."

"I've always loved children," Emily said, turning to look at me. The dashboard lights illuminated her profile—small nose, full lips, that cascade of blonde hair. "But I'm also interested in... other things. Adult things. I'm not as innocent as I look, Mr. Carrington."

My grip tightened on the steering wheel. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I'm nineteen, not twelve," she said, and I could hear the smile in her voice. "I have... experience. Desires. Curiosities. Sometimes older men interest me. Men who know what they're doing. Men who can teach me things."

My mouth went dry. I glanced over at her, and she was watching me, her green eyes dark in the dim light, her lips slightly parted. This was dangerous territory—so dangerous that I could feel my marriage, my reputation, my entire life hanging in the balance.

"Emily," I said, my voice rough. "You're very... you're a beautiful young woman. But I'm married. I'm your employer. There are lines that shouldn't be crossed."

"Lines," she repeated, as if tasting the word. "Yes, I suppose there are. But Mr. Carrington, have you ever noticed how the most exciting things happen when someone crosses a line? When they step over into the forbidden?"

She reached out then, her hand landing on my thigh. I nearly swerved off the road. Her fingers were warm through my trousers, and she didn't move them, just let them rest there, possessive and promising.

"Emily," I groaned, and it was half protest, half plea.

"You're hard," she observed, her hand sliding upward, finding the ridge of my erection straining against my zipper. "You've been hard since I got in the car, haven't you? Since you watched me on those cameras all weekend?"

I felt the blood drain from my face. "You know about the cameras?"

"I saw you checking your phone," she said, her fingers tracing the outline of my cock through the fabric. "Friday night, during the toast you gave at the wedding. You weren't looking at work emails, Mr. Carrington. You were watching me sunbathe. I made sure to give you a good show."

I should have stopped the car. Should have demanded she get out, should have called her parents, should have done anything except what I did—which was to keep driving, my breath coming in harsh pants, my cock throbbing under her teasing touch.

"Pull over," she whispered, her hand pressing more firmly against my erection. "There's a park coming up. Pull over there."

I didn't even think about refusing. I turned into the empty parking lot of a community park, the playground equipment casting long shadows in the moonlight. I drove to the far corner, behind a stand of trees, and killed the engine. The only light came from a distant streetlamp, casting everything in amber and shadow.

"Emily," I tried again, but my voice lacked conviction. "We can't. This is wrong."

"Is it?" she asked, and then she was unbuckling her seatbelt, leaning across the console, and her mouth was on mine.

She tasted like mint and temptation, her lips soft and insistent. I groaned against her mouth, my hands coming up to cup her face, and then I was kissing her back—kissing her with fifteen years of pent-up desire, of routine sex and forgotten passion, of middle-aged longing for youth and vitality and the kind of uncomplicated lust that had faded from my marriage long ago.

Her tongue slipped into my mouth, and I sucked on it greedily, pulling her closer. She climbed over the console, awkward but determined, and suddenly she was in my lap, straddling me, her denim-clad pussy grinding against my trapped cock.

"Fuck," I gasped, breaking the kiss to look at her. Her hair was mussed, her lips swollen, her eyes bright with arousal. She was so young, so eager, so absolutely certain of what she wanted.

"I want to feel you," she whispered, her hands working at my belt. "I want to touch your cock, Mr. Carrington. I've been thinking about it since I first saw you. You're so much bigger than the boys at college. So much... more."

I should have stopped her. I knew I should have. But when her small hand wrapped around my shaft, pulling it free from my boxers, all rational thought fled. She stroked me slowly, her fingers exploring every vein, every ridge, the sensitive spot under the head that made me jerk and gasp.

"You're beautiful," she murmured, looking down at my cock with something like reverence. "So thick. I bet you would fill me up completely. I bet you would stretch me wide."

"Christ, Emily," I groaned, my hips bucking into her hand. "You can't say things like that."

"Why not?" she asked, her thumb circling the precum leaking from my tip. "It's true. I've been touching myself every night since I met you, thinking about you fucking me. Thinking about this married cock sliding into my tight little pussy while your wife sleeps upstairs."

The image she painted was so depraved, so absolutely wrong, that I felt my orgasm building already. She was jerking me faster now, her hand slick with my precum, her other hand cupping my balls.

"Are you going to cum for me, Mr. Carrington?" she whispered, her lips against my ear. "Are you going to shoot your load all over my hand while I tell you how much I want you inside me?"

"Yes," I hissed, my eyes squeezing shut. "Yes, fuck, Emily, I'm close—"

"Good," she purred. "Cum for me. Mark me. Show me what I've done to you."

I exploded with a strangled cry, my hips jerking upward as stream after stream of hot cum spurted from my cock. Emily aimed it onto her hand, her arm, her bare thigh where her shorts had ridden up. She watched with fascination as I covered her in my seed, her fingers still milking me, drawing out every drop until I was trembling and oversensitive.

"Oh my god," I panted, my head falling back against the headrest. "Oh my god, what did we just do?"

Emily lifted her hand to her mouth and licked my cum from her fingers, her eyes locked on mine. "We just started something," she said. "Something that's going to be very, very fun."

She climbed off me, found some tissues in the glove compartment, and cleaned herself up while I tried to remember how to breathe. My cock was still out, softening against my stomach, and I felt the weight of what had just happened crashing down on me.

"This can't happen again," I said, tucking myself back into my pants with shaking hands. "Emily, I'm serious. I'm married. I have a daughter. You're—this is—"

"Shh," she said, pressing a finger to my lips. "Don't ruin it with guilt yet. We haven't even done the really fun stuff."

She kissed me again, soft and sweet, and then buckled herself back into the passenger seat. "You should drive me home now, Mr. Carrington. My parents will be wondering where I am."

I drove her home in a daze, my mind replaying every moment of the last twenty minutes. At her house, she leaned over and kissed my cheek, her hand brushing my thigh one last time.

"Call me when you need a babysitter," she whispered. "I'll be waiting."

I watched her walk to her door, her hips swaying, and I knew—I absolutely knew—that I was going to call her. That this was only the beginning of something that would consume me entirely.

I didn't sleep that night. I lay next to Jennifer, my wife of fifteen years, smelling her familiar perfume and feeling like the worst kind of traitor. But even as guilt gnawed at me, my cock stirred at the memory of Emily's hand, her mouth, her words. I was addicted already, hooked on the rush of forbidden desire, and I knew I wouldn't be able to stop.

The next three weeks were torture. Jennifer and I had no social obligations that required a babysitter, and I found myself inventing reasons to be out of the house when I knew Emily was watching Madison. I took long lunches, came home early, found excuses to be in the neighborhood when she was scheduled. I told myself I was just checking on my daughter, but I knew the truth—I was hoping for another encounter, another touch, another taste of what Emily offered.

It happened on a Thursday afternoon in late July. Jennifer had a dentist appointment and had asked Emily to come watch Madison for a few hours. I "coincidentally" had a conference call that ended early, and I found myself pulling into my driveway at three in the afternoon, my heart hammering against my ribs.

The house was quiet when I entered. I found Madison in the backyard, playing in her sandbox, and Emily sitting on the deck with her textbook, wearing another of those tiny bikinis—this one red, even more revealing than the navy one.

"Mr. Carrington," she said, looking up with a smile that told me she'd been expecting me. "You're home early."

"I finished my call," I said, my voice sounding strangled. "Where's Madison?"

"Right behind you," Emily said, and I turned to see my daughter running toward me with a mud pie.

"Daddy! Look what I made!"

I spent twenty minutes playing with Madison, all the while acutely aware of Emily's eyes on me, of her body stretched out on the lounge chair like an offering. When Madison asked for a snack, I carried her inside and settled her at the kitchen table with apple slices and peanut butter.

"Emily," I called out, my voice steady despite the trembling in my hands. "Can you come help me with something in the study?"

I heard her footsteps, light and deliberate, and then she was in the doorway, leaning against the frame. "Yes, Mr. Carrington?"

I crossed the room in three strides, grabbed her wrist, and pulled her inside, shutting the door behind us. She gasped, her eyes wide, but she didn't resist as I pushed her against the door and kissed her—hard, desperate, all the weeks of pent-up longing pouring out of me.

"I can't stop thinking about you," I growled against her mouth, my hands roaming her body, sliding under her bikini top to cup her breasts. She was perfect—firm and soft, her nipples hardening under my thumbs. "I can't sleep. I can't work. You're destroying me."

"Good," she whispered, arching into my touch. "I want you destroyed. I want you obsessed. I want you to need me more than you've ever needed anyone."

I spun her around and bent her over my desk, shoving her bikini bottoms down her legs. She was already wet—I could see the glistening evidence of her arousal, smell the musky scent of her desire. I unzipped my trousers and freed my cock, harder than I'd ever been in my life.

"Tell me you want this," I demanded, positioning myself at her entrance. "Tell me you want this married cock inside you. Tell me you don't care that I have a wife."

"I want it," she moaned, pushing back against me. "I want your cock, Mr. Carrington. I want you to fuck me. I want you to cheat on your wife with my tight little pussy. Please—"