Member-only story
Baby Sitting 1:How the Dad Next Door Finally Tasted Me
I was nineteen and pocketing weekend money by watching the Thompsons’ two kids. The gig was easy: frozen pizza, Disney+, lights out by eight. After that, I’d sprawl on their massive sectional — leggings, tank top, no bra — and scroll my phone until the parents came home.
When He Caught Me
One Saturday, both kids were asleep and the house felt too quiet. A spicy audio post looped in my earbuds; my hand drifted under my waistband. I thought I was alone, hips rolling slow against my fingers, breath fogging the tablet screen. Then a floorboard creaked.
Mr. Thompson — Mark — stood in the hallway, sport coat over his arm, eyes huge. I gasped, yanked my hand free. He mumbled “Sorry,” disappeared into the bedroom, and that was it… or so I thought.
The Weeks of Staring
After that night he couldn’t stop looking. While I set out snacks, his gaze clung to the V of my tank. When I bent to pick up toys, I felt the burn of his eyes on my leggings. The heat between us got so thick I’d go home soaked just from his silent watching.
Turning the Tease Up
I leaned into it — shorter shorts, occasional “accidental” stretches that hiked my top. Each flirt made me wetter, braver. I’d catch his reflection in the microwave door, biting his lip as my breasts shifted under thin cotton.
