Babysitter Posey and the Cheating Husband Who Came Home Early
The babysitter job was supposed to be easy money and a quiet house. Brats down. TV on low. I was still in those tiny shorts I wear when I want the air on my thighs when the cheating husband came through the door an hour early. He froze. I didn’t. Babysitter fantasies only work if somebody is already wet, and I had been thinking about his mouth since I put the little ones to bed.
“You’re early,” I whispered, like the hallway could tattle. He set his keys down too careful. Cheating husband energy is always that careful. I stood up and the shorts rode higher. Phone sex is how I tell this now. That night I had the real couch, the real risk, and his hand already on my hip like he had been rehearsing the drive home.
“If you’re gonna stare at the babysitter like that, you better do something before she gets home.”
He kissed me like he was starving and sorry at the same time. I pulled his shirt and pushed him onto the same cushions the brats use for cartoons. Affair-fast. No tour of the house. I straddled him and ground down until I felt him hard through his slacks. A babysitter who plans to be good does not grind. I planned to be filthy and get away with it.
I got his cock out and spit on it because we did not have time for romance. I sat on it in one drop and clapped a hand over my own mouth. Tight. Wet. The cheating husband made a sound I will replay on phone sex until the end of time. I rode him mean and pretty, bows in my hair bouncing, shorts shoved to one side, watching the front window like it was a timer.
He flipped me. Face in the throw pillow. He fucked me from behind like he had been thinking about the babysitter at work. Homewrecker pace. Taboo. Quick and deep. I told him not to come inside me and then I clenched anyway because I am a liar when I am close. Supporting heat: sneaking, almost-caught, the kind of dirty talk you only do in somebody else’s living room.
Headlights hit the curtain. We both froze with him still buried. I shoved him back, yanked the shorts into place, and sat on the far end of the couch with my pulse in my throat. The cheating husband zipped so hard I thought the metal would sing. Mom walked in with grocery bags and a smile. I said the brats were angels. My thighs were shining under the hem.
She thanked the babysitter. He thanked me without looking at my mouth. I went to the bathroom and came on my own fingers with the fan on, replaying the stretch and the almost. That is the part I put on the line. Phone sex lets me walk a caller through the door opening early, the couch, the headlights, the fake-polite goodbye. If you want to be the cheating husband who couldn’t wait, or the girl who stayed wet through the small talk, you know where to find me.
xoxo Posey
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