It was almost obscene, really, how wealthy Mr. Kirstein was.
The kind of rich, successful adult you had only ever seen represented in television shows and shitty movies, where some poor small-town girl falls in love with a handsome millionaire who has no qualms about paying for everything. It was sickening, really, that the girls in the films were so dependent on this guy, not even retaining any dignity before they just handed over their life to him.
You weren't like that, though. When you had heard from your friend, the one that babysat in the summer for a slew of wealthy families, that one of their rich friends was looking for a summer-long sitter, you had wondered how bad it could really be.
You knew the families would pay well, on account of their kids being spoiled brats most of the time, and what's giving up one summer in order to stockpile your savings account?
Yeah, the parents were probably assholes who couldn't be bothered to spend five minutes with their child, and yeah, your life would be a noisy, sticky hell for three hot months that could be better spent at the beach.
But then you thought about how good it would feel to not search for an on-campus job in September, how you'd be able to focus on your studies and maybe even splurge a little, or finally invest in that tablet you wanted so badly.
Before you know it, you're writing down the Kirstein family's number and dialing it when you get back home. It rings twice, before the butler picks up (geez, how rich are these people?) and puts you on hold for a moment. Your heart's pounding a little, which you dismiss as anxiety about talking to a stranger, but it's almost a premonition.
When a deep, handsome voice (can a voice be handsome? you wonder) comes through on the line, you nearly jump from your seat. For some reason, you had been expecting Mrs. Kirstein to pick up.
"Hi, this is Jean, how can I help you?" the voice asks, and you're at a loss for words for moments before it registers that you have to say something back.
"Uh, h-hi, this is, um, it's Pieck's friend, she told me you needed a babysitter, and I-I wanted to call about that." Jesus.
If this were you on the other line, you would have hung up the call already. What kind of a babysitter can't even talk on the phone? Mr. Kirstein's deep, rumbly laugh on the other line jolts you away from your thoughts.
"Well, hi there. That was fast, I thought it'd take forever to find someone."
You don't know what he looks like, and you hadn't thought to ask Pieck about it despite how the Arlerts and the Yeagers, the other two families Pieck babysat for, had incredibly handsome dads that would make babysitting all the more difficult.
"Oh, well, she just told me- and I thought it would be better to call right away, but, uh, I have lots of experience. W-with babysitting," you clarify quickly, positive you're sounding like an idiot now.
"Well that's good to know. Can I ask you something, how come you're not working for the other families this summer, the ones that gave you all that experience?" On your end, you blink rapidly, and on Jean's end, he's smiling.
"Well, they moved away last year, I-I watched them for a few years, on and off. They were in the same neighborhood as you, I think, the Brauns."
"Oh yeah. Well, I guess their loss is my gain. Can you come over tomorrow, so we can work out some of the details?"
And that's how this whole thing started. You hadn't thought a simple summer babysitting job could really be anything noteworthy, but Mr. Kirstein was quick to prove you wrong.
You had been correct in your guess that he was handsome—almost devastatingly so, with pretty, light brown eyes and matching hair that fell onto his face in a way that made him seem like he was your age, and not a decade and a half older.
But it wasn't just his youthful handsomeness, or his muscles that were seemingly always on display in the tight-fitting polos he wore, but just something else about him. It was a combination of a bunch of things, like his laughter and the way he put you at ease rather than alert whenever he came into the room.
The same could not be said about his wife, however. You'd like to think she was a bad person, but you couldn't really tell since you'd only interacted with her once or twice since you were hired. You could easily label her as a bad mother, though, since she only bothered to check in on you and her two children—five year old Marcella and toddler Constance, who went by Connie—once or twice a day, sometimes less.
It wouldn't be concerning to you if she was working a job, preoccupied at the office on or calls all day like Mr. Kirstein was in his study upstairs, but she wasn't. She was the epitome of the silly movies you disliked, preferring to spend all her time at spin class and out with friends, spending her husband's money freely rather than with spending time with her own kids.
And you thought maybe her lack of interaction had something to do with the kids, maybe they were the spoiled brats you'd imagined them to be, hellish creatures walking around making every day a living nightmare, or something. But they weren't.
Marcy and Connie were perfectly fine, perfectly normal kids. Connie was close to a menace sometimes, but it had less to do with her personality and more to do with the age she was at, and her behavior was perfectly justifiable. She was just a hyper, energetic kid who liked to run around and play games and keep every moment occupied.
Her sister was quite the opposite, a quiet, shy girl who liked to hide behind her father's legs when you had been introduced to her for the first time, shortly after your interview. When he wasn't around, she liked to stay close to the maids, who you figured were some sort of substitute care-takers for her, but it didn't take long at all for her to warm up to you. You encouraged her affection slowly, and by the time May was over and June had begun, she was at your side like glue, talking about her favorite books and toys and the events of the day excitedly.
So it was just strange, really, why this picture-perfect family had such a detached mother. You had to remind yourself that it wasn't your job to pry, or try to figure anything out, just to watch the kids during the day, clean up after them now and then and make their lunches, despite how much the maid insisted you didn't have to.
It was kind of nice, though, playing house like this. It came to you easier than you'd like to admit, with the way you reflexively knew how to get the girls to stop fighting, what time to take them outside and keep them occupied with ice cream while Mr. Kirstein had an important call, all of it.
You certainly recognized how easy, how natural it became to bring lunch to Mr. Kirstein in his study, twelve-thirty on the dot, while Connie was napping and Marcy was watching her show in the playroom.
Twelve-thirty was your favorite time of the day, because you knew he had just gotten off a call minutes before, and he'd be rubbing his temples and stretching his tense shoulders and loosening his tie, thinking about how he was getting hungry and waiting for your arrival—and there you were.
You, in denim cut-offs or simple linen shorts, long enough that no one would doubt your choices on a hot summer day, but just a breath too short to be considered modest. It was the same way with your shirts and dresses, acceptable because of the weather but bending over just a little too much would cause your breasts or ass to come into full view.
And as fun as teasing Mr. Kirstein was, you knew he was at his limit somewhere around July. The weather was hotter, almost unbearably so, and as a result your clothing choices were getting more and more revealing, tops that clung to your skin inappropriately, shorts and skirts that rode up. It was getting harder and harder not to stare when he came down to greet you at breakfast, getting harder not to touch when you'd come by with his lunch, just like a good little wife would.
If Jean had to pick a specific moment though, when he'd had just about enough, it was the hour after his call had ended with someone important. One of those calls where you'd take the girls outside and eat ice cream to avoid any noise in the house interrupting him, something else he was grateful to you for.
It was then that his kids were sleeping off their sugar rush, that the maid had left to go pick up the groceries, that his wife had checked into the salon for the day.
That was when you'd shed off your sandals and grabbed a popsicle—cherry, your favorite—and made your way to the pool deck after checking that the girls were sound asleep. You were sitting by the cool water, feet submerged and kicking around, making small splashing noises as you worked on finishing the icy treat.
And Jean's been thinking about it long enough, practically every day since the one after that shy, stuttering phone call with you, when he saw you in person and was just as surprised at your beauty as you'd been with his.
He's certainly been waiting long enough too, despite how difficult it's been to keep up with your incessant teasing and the lovely way you are with his kids, the way you almost know more about them than their own mother does, at this point.
It's all becoming too much to handle when he sees you by the pool, almost glowing in the sunlight and lips stained red with the juice from the popsicle, looking like something else that he'd like to put between your lips.
You heard the footsteps behind you, and despite how you knew who it was, you didn't turn around to face him. You let Mr. Kirstein come sit beside you, rolling up his pants and dipping his own feet into the water, as you hummed around your popsicle contentedly.
"You know, it's not very nice to not share your ice cream, especially on a hot day like this." Oh, so he was going to make this easy, huh?
You finally turn your head to look at him, teasing eyes widening in false surprise, as though you didn't know you weren't being nice.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Kirstein," you say, before taking one more loud, lewd suck on the cherry-red lolly. You pull it out of your mouth, a line of spit hanging obscenely between your lips and the treat, before moving your hand closer to him. "You want some?"
Jean takes it out of your hand, using his tongue to lick a long stripe along the side of it, before wrapping his own lips around it. When he finally pulls away, you lock eyes with him.
"Mmh. It's good, but I think there's something else I'd like to eat."
You take the popsicle back, brushing your hand against Jeans for the briefest of seconds. Licking another stripe just where his tongue had been, you bat your eyes up at him.
"Yeah? What's that, Mr. Kirstein?" you ask, despite how you know his answer. Jean's honey-brown eyes narrow, his hand making its way to your thigh and gripping firmly.
"You."
Your mouth falls open a little, shocked at the word even though you knew it was coming, almost like realizing suddenly that this was really happening, the thing you'd been thinking about all summer.
You let the popsicle fall on the pool deck, sticky hands reaching to wrap themselves around Mr. Kirstein's neck, as you pull him into a kiss and let your lips crash onto each other's.
You're not even sure when you found your way onto his lap, ingrained in such a deep kiss that you're going dizzy. Jean's hands feel hot and firm on your hips, holding you to him tightly as you try your best to grind against his hard cock. He won't let you though, hands stilling your movements as you moan desperately into his mouth, entirely unsatisfied at the lack of contact.
A loud, stinging slap to your ass stills you immediately.
"Bad girl. You can't do that out here, in the open, where anyone could see, okay?" he says, mouth finally detaching from yours and settling on your jaw, as he places little kisses on the exposed skin.
More, you want to scream, but your thoughts are drowned out when Jean's lips find yours again, and he jerks his hips up just a little bit, just to give you a taste of what you're asking for, and it feels so good that your head feels empty.
You're also not exactly sure how you got back to his bedroom, the one he shares with that wife you dislike so much. Any other day, you might have stopped to consider the weight of your actions, what it would mean for you to fuck Mr. Kirstein on the bed where his wife sleeps, but you just can't bring yourself to care.
Not when his hands feel they're burning into your skin, every touch along your thigh and squeeze of your ass making you whimper wantonly. Not when he's telling you to be patient, but you're seeing stars when he finally gets you out of the flimsy top that was covering your bare, pebbled nipples and latches his mouth onto one while his fingers roll the other.
No, that has you almost screaming with pleasure, your hand finding its way to cover your mouth and stop the obscene noises from leaving, with the all-too-real possibility that someone in the house could hear.
"You like that, baby?" he murmurs from his position on your chest, letting go of one sore nipple to tease the other with his tongue. "I wanna hear you, baby, so just be quieter, hm?"
You're nodding your head stupidly, wanting more of whatever he'll give you, eager to please him and show that you'll be a good girl for him.
"That's a good girl," he praises, and before you can process the shifting of his body, he's between your legs, spreading them wide after easily pulling off your thin shorts. There's just one thing between him and where you want him to be, a simple pair of cotton panties, and your own fingers go to take them off when his hand grabs your wrist, making you freeze.
"Now, did I tell you that you could do that? You don't wanna be a bad girl, right?"
"N-no! No, Mr. Kirstein, I'm sorry-" but it's too late. He's grabbed your other wrist too, pinning them above your head and shrugging off the loosened tie from around his neck. He undoes it quickly, using the soft material to bind your wrists together and loop one piece around the headboard, securing your arms above your head.
"Now be a good girl and let me have my little treat."
He moves back down, your face burning with heat as you realize how exposed you are, naked and tied up as Jean looks between your legs like a man starved.
You have no way of keeping yourself quiet now, biting down hard on the inside of your cheek when he finally applies pressure to your clothed clit with his fingers. He's going so slow but giving you nothing, just barely grazing your sensitive spot when you wish he'd just fuck you stupid already.
But you know better than to misbehave, the sting on your ass from earlier reminding you to stay quiet and take what he gives you.
Your hips are bucking up desperately with every one of Jean's feeble touches, and you know your panties must be soaking through by now, but Jean seems more interested in teasing you like this.
In fact, he just wants to take his time. Why should he rush, when he's finally got you exactly how he wants you, the way he's wanted you all summer? His wife gone, kids asleep, staff preoccupied—-he's been waiting for this chance.
"Baby, are you really that worked up from just a little teasing? How long has it been since someone's fucked you how you deserve, huh?" he says, laughing as he notices you twitch as he licks along the lenght of your clothed slit.
"So- so long, Mr. Kirstein! Please, please, I want you so badly-" you're trying your hardest to stay quiet, but it's still much louder than you can risk being. You just can't help it, his teasing and the hot weather and the sugary sweetness of the popsicle and the taste of Jean's lips still lingering in your mouth. It's all entirely too much, making you feel dizzy again when you feel his hands finally yanking off your panties.
He has them in his hand when he comes back to hover over you, lips meeting hotly again as his tongue swirls in your mouth for what seems like forever, before he pulls away.
"Baby, I need you to be quiet," Mr. Kirstein says. as he shoves your ruined panties into your mouth, making you cry out, the sound muffled. "We don't want the kids to wake up, do we?"
You shake your head in compliance as Jean makes his way back down to between your legs. Finally free of the last barrier, you let out obscene, quieted moans at how his mouth feels, licking hot strips up and down your wetness, before finally your clit and flicking his tongue.
The sensation has your entire body tense, wrists struggling against your ties as he overstimulates your helpless nub, slipping in two of his slender fingers and feeling the way you clamp down against them.
He's saying something else to you, talking against your core, but you can't pay attention, not when you're so close, and your thighs instinctively tighten around Jean's head, forcing him to stop talking and continue.
You're almost there, the coil in your stomach just about ready to unwind, when you feel Jean's other hand come up to play with your aching nipples, and that's when it snaps. You let out a scream against your panties, sound getting drowned out as Jean works you through your orgasm, not letting up. His fingers are thrusting in and out, tongue on your clit, as your entire body spasms uncontrollably.
Even after your shaking has stopped, when you're trying to catch your breath and keep your eyes open, he doesn't stop, letting out a laugh at your small twitches.
"Oh, baby, you haven't cum properly in a while, huh? Look what a mess you made."
And you want to care about how you've just come in rivulets over sheets that his wife picked, sheets that she sleeps on besides him, sheets that you've just ruined, but you just don't. All you can think about is how if Jean isn't inside you in the next few minutes, you're going to lose your mind.
You whimper against the cotton in your mouth, unable to say anything except look at Jean with those big, doe eyes you know he can't resist, all watery and teary as a result of your intense orgasm. It's when a fat tear rolls down your cheek, eyes blinking up at him, that he finally decides he's had enough teasing.
"You want my cock so badly, don't you, baby?" he asks, your head moving up and down quickly as you moan again. Jean unzips his pants, not even taking off any of his clothes as he takes his hard, throbbing dick out and runs it along your sensitive slit a few times, collecting your wetness.
It's big, bigger than you've ever had any experience with and so pink and veiny that it makes your mouth water. Your body shakes at the contact, cunt clenching hard on nothing at all, as he continues his motion.
"You're such a dirty girl, aren't you? Teasing me all these months, wanting me to fuck the babysitter like some kind of cliche? Huh?" and all you can do is nod, gasps getting caught in your throat as you feel his cockhead prod against your tight hole.
"It's okay, baby, I'll fuck you how you want, I'll make you mine," and with that he pushes his dick into your soaking cunt, making you scream out and causing him to let out a beautiful groan.
"Oh, fuck-" Mr. Kirstein says, bottoming out and holding still for a minute, letting you get used to the stretch before continuing. "God, you feel that? How you're sucking me in, god-!"
His thrusts are shallow at first, making you move your own body to get more, when he suddenly stops.
"Such a greedy little slut, aren't you? My baby's so greedy, it's okay though, I'll give you what you want-"
And suddenly his hips are slamming against yours, each thrust bringing his hip bone to yours crushingly fast, the whole room filled with the obscene noise of pants and squelching.
You're not even sure what to think anymore, because every thought in your head is gone and all you can focus on is how good it feels, despite how wrong it is. Your limbs already feel limp and boneless from your first orgasm, but Jean isn't giving any signs of letting up. Each thrust is more powerful than the last, making you see stars as he hits that sensitive spot inside you over and over again.
You know you won't be able to hold out much longer, cunt clenching against his thick cock as his fingers find your oversensitive clit and nimbly rub circles on it.
It's getting to be too much, you think you might black out from the intense pleasure you're feeling, when finally, you feel the cotton being yanked from your mouth and fresh air in your lungs.
"Tell me how much of a little slut you are, baby, I wanna- oh- I wanna hear it-" Jean grunts between rough thrusts.
"I-I'm your slut! I'm yours, I'm yours-!" you cry out over and over again, getting closer and closer to your orgasm as Jean's fingers don't let up.
"Yeah, my little slut? You want my cum? You want me to fill you up and make you my wife, hm? Is that what you want?" The very thought of that—of you being his and only his, living with him and taking his cum—is enough to tip him over the edge, but he wants to feel you cum on his cock first.
"Yes! Yes! Yes, Mr. Kirstein, I want it, I want your cum, I wanna be your new wife-Oh!" You cum hard, just as the last sentence leaves your mouth, as Jean's fingers increased their pace and his thrusts became all too much to handle.
Without the panties muffling your nosies anymore, you squeal loudly, moaning Mr. Kirstein and crying out, as Jean's hips increase their pace and fuck into your harder than before. Every thrust has a squeal leaving your lips, and the way your cunt flutters around his cock while cumming has him just on the edge, almost there, when you speak again.
"Please give it to me, Mr. Kirstein, I wanna be yours," you moan against the pillow, completely fucked out. Jean cums hard at his tipping point, groaning in your ear and emptying himself into you, hot cum filling your cunt. You stay like that for a moment, catching your breath before you find his lips again, desperate to latch on and never let go, if you can help it.
You feel Jean pull out of you and you let out a whine, feeling the mixture of both your cum leaking out of you, staining the sheets.
You're a mess, entire body shaky, limbs so tired you're not sure you'll be able to stand up on your own, lips puffy and swollen. Your cunt is even worse, sore and aching, covered in wetness.
Jean's not much better, his once clean and crisp dress shirt wrinkled and ruined, pants stained with fluids.
"Oh," he says, finally reaching to undo his tie and let your wrists free, "Sorry, baby."
"It's okay," you breath, hesitant to meet Mr. Kirstein's eyes. All the words you both said fly through your head, unsure of what was real and what was just said in the heat of the moment.
You want to ask, but you're so exhausted and limp-bodied, throat sore and head feeling so light you don't think you can string together the sentence.
Jean's hands are warm on your skin, rubbing your back soothingly as you let your eyes flutter shut. Maybe if you sleep for a few moments, you'll feel better, and you'll be able to tell him how you feel.
"Listen, baby-" Jean says, and you open your eyes to meet his warm, brown ones. You know it's so terribly wrong to want this, to want a whole life with a married man, but you do, and you don't think you can help it.
You think he wants it too, with the soft way he's looking at you now, the way he's been glancing when he thinks you're not paying attention, when you're with the girls or tidying up.
You think he's about to say it too, when he's cut off by the sound of the front door closing loudly.
"Honey? Kids? I'm home," comes the voice of his wife downstairs, footsteps getting louder as they approach the staircase and make their way to the bedroom.
