His primary, secondary and tertiary monitors had fallen asleep as the silent morning turned into a silent afternoon. While he pretended to re-organize a filling cabinet, his phone vibrated, interrupting his fake work. To his surprise, he had received a text from the babysitter herself:
>Don't take too long getting home, he's still sleeping ;)
His eyes widened when he read. He knew the message was innocent, but he was happy to entertain all scenarios.
Oh you want some one-on-one time?
He allowed the thought to develop then re-opened the beach album. His imagination ran and his hand gravitated back underneath his desk. A minute passed, and his hand now well past gravitation, slid side to side on his inner thigh.
As the touching intensified, his phone buzzed again. Having received no response, the babysitter was attempting to get things moving:
>Can you leave soon?? I'd LOVE for you to get here before he wakes up ;)
The object of his fantasy, an ever-bored teenage girl, was simply itching to leave the suburbs. His hormone-clouded brain, on the other hand, began to question her messages' innocence. He had seen this scenario play out several times in the "Babysitter" section of certain websites he frequented. Perhaps this was real. And why not? She was a little slut, after all ;)
I...I think she wants it.
She did not want it, she just wanted to leave the sad suburban home. Her parents had made her get a summer job, and babysitting seemed not lame enough. Plus, no dress code.
After sending a few hopeful texts, she left the toddler asleep in the den and walked upstairs toward the bathroom. During her climb, she surveyed the chronologically-hung portraits on the wall. Each year, the couple (now family) had paid a photographer to depict them in a positive light. The more stairs she climbed, the more forced the smiles became. And in that moment, nothing repulsed her more than the thought of having a family of her own. That was until the very next moment.
She went into the bathroom to find a very not-dead cockroach scampering in her direction. Now truly repulsed, she shrieked, jumped into the shower, and slammed the sliding glass door shut. The cries of a rudely-awoken child echoed from downstairs. From the safety of the shower, she took a picture of the roach as it stood guard next to the toilet, blocking her escape. She sent the picture alongside a defiant message:
>I'm in the shower and not moving until you get here.
The message was received. The picture was not. Failure to heed the phone company's warnings resulted in limited service, and the roach's revival remained unknown. In his cubicle, the message was followed by an elevated heart rate and a fresh rush of blood to his crotch. He froze in disbelief. Then came another desperate text:
>OMGGGGGG please get over here!
His decision to go home was an easy one; a second thought was not had. He grabbed his keys, tucked himself into his belt, and made his way toward the exit. But as he neared the door, a pleasant ache shot up from his groin. He was edging closer and closer to completion with each step.
I'm going to cum in my pants before I get anywhere near that shower.
In a light panic, he diverted course to the bathroom.
He bounded inside, entered the first stall, and made quick work of the situation. With heavy breathing and a muffled grunt, the threat was alleviated. His phone vibrated again.
>Have you left yet???
With a reinforced calmness, he assured her:
>On the way, don't you move ;)
He flushed the emissive evidence and left the stall to re-group at a sink. In the mirror, he saw red cheeks and beads of sweat dotting his brow. Without really washing his hands, he splashed cold water on his face and dried it with an overkill of paper towels. He looked back into the mirror.
"Daddy's going to fuck the babysitter."
He fist-bumped his grinning reflection, and as he did, another toilet flushed. He looked over and saw feet occupying the second stall. The grin vanished. He then re-employed a belt tuck, and exited the bathroom on a direct line toward the parking lot.
