Princess and the Chocolate Factory

by Archibael

Tags: #cw:noncon #f/m #princess #solo #stockings #au_pair #cunnlingus #seduction
See spoiler tags : #dom:female #f/f

Au pair dresses like movie princesses to seduce her employer

Since my return to writing in 2013, I'd spent some time revamping my stories for paid-publication with my new wife's assistance.  Let's make no bones about it: the revisions were minor at best, mostly involving typos and other minor mistakes.  I was not expecting to make a huge amount of cash from the stories, just get them out there further than a couple of fetish websites; any cash obtained would go into Belle's stocking and lingerie budget.  (Spoiler warning: I did, in fact, not make a huge amount of cash from the stories, as was prophesied!)

Once I'd put out several of my more popular tales in ebook format, I caught the bug for creating something new.  This was a story I had partially developed about seven or eight years prior through conversations with MichelleLovesTo, and it had sat untouched on my hard drive since.  I found that I still enjoyed its ideas, and finally finished it off-- my longest story yet.  A couple of days with GIMP and the Creative Commons photo collection gave me a cover, and this became my first story that was published exclusively for profit, though I never intended that to be a permanent condition. 

In fact, at one point I experimented by "mirroring" it (before I was told Amazon frowned upon the practice) by renaming it Bimbo Princess and the Chocolate Factory and giving it my wife's nom de plume in the author field... and, amusingly, it did sell a bit better.  Marketing gimmicks FTW!

That trial over, I removed the alternative "bimbo" one from publication and kept the original title.  It never did sell exceptionally well but, again, it was an experiment.  After a year's time I published it for free to the usual places and now I'm bringing it here.  I hope you get a kick out of it!

1. Golden (Blonde) Ticket

I don’t know when the shift occurred, but the nanny stopped acting as a passive target of my well-mannered lechery and instead started flirting shamelessly with me. I guessed maybe she escalated because she was frustrated with not getting the puppy dog reactions from me that she got from her various fans at gas stations, playgrounds, restaurants, or basically anywhere there were males with a body somewhere above room temperature.

Or females, to be fair, because I’m extremely liberal-minded about such things; perhaps also because, while most women’s reactions to the Swedish au pair dressing like a slutty princess were scornful and vile, a couple of her girlfriends thought it was great fun to tease and molest her body even in the company of others. I’ve never masturbated about any other concept as fervently and often as I did over the faux-lesbian imagery of Kendra from South Africa (she probably had a last name) sliding her hands over the satiny ass of Sleeping Beauty’s daring pink miniskirt. Sometimes the mini was blue, not pink; given the looks on Kendra’s face, I suspected that sometimes the playing was earnest, not “faux”. Certainly it seemed real when I stroked myself off about it in the restroom at work.

But I’m getting way ahead of myself. Let’s back up…

My engineering firm has a code of conduct that can generally be summed up as, “Don’t just avoid conflict of interest. Avoid even the appearance of conflict of interest.” A good policy, and I applied it to the au pair process.

I made sure Lucille had all the power of selection, though in order to prove I wasn’t completely disinterested in the well-being of my children I demanded final veto. I wanted to make sure I could stop anything stupid from happening, but I thought it was definitely the better part of valor to keep accusations of “You chose her because she was pretty!” to a minimum.

Especially when it turned out she was.

She was, in fact, not just pretty, but disturbingly hot. I’ve clearly not been twenty in a long time, but did the girls of my generation wear their skirts that short back then? I’m not complaining, mind you; anyone who knows me more than casually is aware that I’m a leg-man. I just don’t remember this much eye-candy being commonplace when I was a boy. She was a platinum blonde and I prefer brunettes, so at least I had that going for me, but still... Glad I had nothing to do with hiring her. “Conflict of interest” ought to be stamped across her chest.

Though that would, of course, ruin the view.

The kids loved her from the moment they met her, and it’s not hard to see why. Her English was heavily accented with Swedish cadences, but the words she uttered were sweet as pie to them. To the point where I wondered whether she was going to be able to discipline them effectively, actually. However, I need not have worried: Viveka was unyielding when necessary, and all the Brussels sprouts got eaten in a timely fashion. She was a good fit for our family.

Lucille worked from home as a database administrator for small businesses; there were a lot of companies out there that didn’t have the expertise to maintain the systems they needed, but couldn’t afford to keep a DBA on staff full time. She filled that gap for them and made a decent living doing so. Best of all, she got a pleasant commute that extended from her bed to the home office twelve feet away—sometimes with a side trip to the coffee maker downstairs.

All of which had worked out great for about seven years, but as she got busier with work she sometimes had a rough time dedicating her full attention to the kids. My job allowed some flexibility, but it was still mostly a traditional 9 to 5, and I could, therefore offer little in the way of assisting her. It became difficult to strike a balance, and as she grew more and more frazzled I knew we needed a solution.

Hence, the au pair program. For a nominal finders’ fee to the recruiting agency and a couple hundred bucks “allowance” a month for incidentals, a nubile hottie young, bright girl from another nation, eager to sample life in the States, would trade residence in our spare room for forty hours of child care per week. The rest of her time was her own, and she seemed to spend it sampling the party atmosphere of the college town nearby. It was win-win for everyone. Welcome to the family, Viveka Skoglund!

Lucille had originally wanted it to be a surprise for the kids, God knows why, so when discussing her imminent arrival in front of them she referred to the au pair as “VS”. I insisted on expanding that out to “Victoria’s Secret” until she shushed me, then chose “Veruca Salt” which she still frowned at but apparently found less offensive. Slightly. The kids were oblivious, though my eldest had read Roald Dahl and looked puzzled at our discussions.

All of this changed in the final days, when we waited outside the airport terminal with flowers and a box of gift cards for local stores, and the kids, now privy to their new “older sister’s” arrival, greeted her with a big hug. Viveka looked surprised and happy as she leaned down to return the affection. She wore a knee-length red, flowing skirt and blouse, black belt, and strappy wedge shoes; aside from the footwear, which had fairly high heels, this must have been carefully calculated to give a demure first impression, as nothing in the rest of her wardrobe matched this outfit in terms of modesty. (But more on that later. Much more.)

Lucille gave her a lady’s kiss on the cheek and assured her how happy we were to have her here, and I gave her the hand-shaking appropriate for a new employee, albeit a warm one as the relationship was to be fairly close. She smiled broadly at both my wife and I, and assured us that she was excited to be here.

Just how excited was something I had yet to discover.

2. Ausome Pair

We quickly settled into a routine, and I wondered aloud on a call home the first week whether things were meeting Lucille’s expectations.

“How’s Veruca working out so far?”

Viveka is great. She watched the kids today while I got the household finances done, and then took them to the park while I took a bath. Do you know how long it’s been since I got to take a bath? In the daytime? We’re totally keeping her. She’s way better than a husband.”

“Ouch.”

“Oh, you have your uses. Don’t worry, I’m keeping you, too. For now.”

“Be still my heart.”

“And don’t let her hear you make fun of her name. Last thing I need is for her to decide we’re big meanies and flit off back to Sweden. I’m holding you personally responsible, if that happens.”

“I’ll watch my step.”

“You’d better, mister!” she said between chuckles. “When are you coming home tonight?”

“Not too late. Five-thirty meeting, shouldn’t go more than half an hour.”

“Clearly your definition of ‘not too late’ is out of sync with the rest of mankind’s, but you can’t possibly rain on my parade today, so I will accept your tarditude with dignity and await your return, dear.”

“Tarditude?”

“Good bye, dear.”

She was definitely in a good mood if she was inventing words.

I was in a good mood lately, too. The au pair’s arrival had relaxed Lucille sufficiently that the nookie was more forthcoming than usual, and she was even taking the initiative from time to time. Three days in I came home to her dressed improbably fancy for the home office, in a pencil skirt and glasses—she knew what the hot businesswoman look did to me—with innuendo dripping from every comment. She followed through on her delightful teasing, too; once the nanny-girl had taken care of the kids’ nighttime routine and gone into her room to Instägråm or Fåssbök or whatever it is that young Swedes away from home do on the internet, Lucille grabbed me by my loosened tie and dragged me into the living room.

She pushed me at the sofa with a snarl and then crawled up me with her shoes still on. I smelled her lip gloss and her shampoo as she kissed me hard and pressed herself against the outline of my cock in my slacks. “Mmmm,” she commented, “someone’s happy to see me.”

“Always,” I murmured, “Especially when you dress up so sexy.”

She giggled. “Why, sir, I don’t know what you mean. These are my normal work clothes. Entirely appropriate for the office, don’t cha know.”

“You have an awesome pair of legs, baby. Come here,” I insisted, flipping her over onto her back and hiking her skirt up to her hips. “Ha. I thought so.”

“Hmmm?” All innocence.

“You forgot your panties.”

“Darn. That happens sometimes, you know.”

“Very bad. Unprofessional.”

“You cad! Are you implying I’m a ‘professional’?”

“You’re certainly skilled enough to be. Let me see if I have any cash on me…” She grabbed the hand that was mockingly on its way to my wallet and re-routed it under her skirt. “Hmmm… Feels professional. I’ll have to taste to be sure.”

“Oh, if you mus—grrrrrrrr…”

She couldn’t keep up her end of the conversation once I started doing that to her, and obviously my mouth was too busy to continue. It was just as well: when I eat pussy, it takes me to another place where higher thought processes just don’t exist. There’s nothing like using my tongue to make a lady lose control, and Lucille tended to let filthy language loose when I did so. Tonight was no exception. Her flavor coated the inside of my mouth as I plunged my tongue deep into her as a tease; she hissed something about “your fucking tongue” and, gently but firmly, guided the back of my head toward where she wanted me, needed me. I surrounded her clit with my lips, and she pressed her cunt against my upper jaw, trying to keep the little button sealed and warm in my mouth. She panted and squirmed as I used the back of my tongue to lightly dance back and forth across her most sensitive nerve, contrasting with the ever increasing pressure she was exerting with her hands and mound, crushing my head to her pussy like she wanted me all the way inside her. With all the forces at play, something had to give, and that something was the wall separating her from orgasm. She emitted a cry that sounded to me like, “My cunt… my fucking cunt!” and then lapsed into sobbing and frantic hip-motions that kept me challenged to stay attached. I knew from experience that if I didn’t let up she’d climax a few times more, so I pressed her thighs down with all of my upper body strength and forced her to come again for me.

Her breath hitched as she came down from the high and she flinched away from me when I lathered around her pussy with slow, even strokes. Too sensitive, now, I could tell, so I kissed her nether lips farewell and brought myself up her body to kiss the others.

She tasted herself on me and lazily drawled, “My brain is gone now. You’re not allowed to do that to me any time I am supposed to think in, like, the next day and a half. Except on Sundays.”

“I’m sure.”

“No, really. I wouldn’t joke about—”

I had already removed my pants and boxers, and now cut her off with a tender yet insistent thrust into her.

“Shhhhh…” I admonished. “Just lie back and take it. Take me.”

She did. Her thighs raised at right angles to the couch, she accepted me with a low moan. I’m not overly huge, but the angle and my over-excitement ensured that my hard length exceeded her depth by a bit. “Oh, God,” she whispered. “So deep.” She locked her high-heeled pumps around my waist at the ankles as I took care of my cock’s needs by pounding into her repeatedly. Something inside me knew I should be gentler, that she was spent and would be sore if I didn’t hold back somewhat, but that something wasn’t in charge right now, and the smell of her on my upper lips and chin killed any restraint I might have offered. For her part, she grinned up at me, enjoying my loss of control, and if I was crashing uncontrollably up against the limits within her when I came to my own orgasm, she bore it and even reveled in it, pulling me into her by the flex of her legs. I kissed her once more, then collapsed atop her.

“Wow.”

“Yeah. Wow.”

“Au pairs rule.”

“If I would have known this was the reward, I’d have hired two.”

She laughed. “I definitely have more energy, now, for… other things.”

“Good. Because you’re wearing that again. Or something just like it.”

“Oh? The outfit worked for you?”

“You knew it would.”

“Mmmaybe. Any other outfits you’d like me to wear?”

“More like that. Maybe with stockings.”

“I’ll make a mental note. Any other orders?”

“Nothing that isn’t fucked up, no.”

“You have stuff that’s fucked up that you’ve never shared with me? I’m hurt.”

“I saw no need to alienate you with my disturbing fantasy life.”

“Ha. I ain’t a-skeered o’ you. Whatcha got?”

I was reluctant to share, now. “It’s stupid.”

“I’m sure. Spill.”

“Okay. Um… princesses.”

“You mean like Kate Middleton?”

“Not… really.” Sigh. Here goes. “Like… fairy tale.”

An awkward silence ensued. “Fairy tale princesses?”

“I told you it was messed up.”

“It’s not messed up... exactly.”

“No, it is, and I fully acknowledge this. Don’t worry, sweetie. I won’t ask you to dress up like Ariel.”

“Good, because I don’t fill clamshells very well.”

I thought she’d do all right. “Jasmine, maybe.”

“Oh... Jasmine... Why her? Dare I ask?”

“The way she says ‘twisted’ just screams, ‘Don’t cha wish your princess was wrong like me?’”

“That’s not the lyric.”

“It could be.”

“I see.”

“You can tell she’s a total minx. Like Aladdin ends up tied up with silk scarves all the time, and maybe scratched up by tigers—”

“Okay! I get it! I don’t think I want to hear any more.”

“But I haven’t even gotten started on Belle and that naughty librarian thing she’s got going on!”

“Aaaand I’m cancelling the plans I was making for Disneyland next year.”

“What? No, you don’t have to—”

“Kidding. Let’s get up and go to bed, dear.”

“Oh, all right.” I pushed off her and collected my pants, then held my hand down to her so she could use me as leverage. Her skirt had apparently prevented us from leaving a wet spot on the sofa, but at great cost to itself. Laundry would be necessary to avoid staining, I suspected, smirking. As her heels hit the hardwood floor, I heard the latching of the guest room door.

The guest room that was no longer a guest room. “Oh, shit,” I whispered. “Do you think…?”

“Oops.”

“You were kind of loud.”

“Hey, mister, that was your fault. You know how I get when you do that to me.”

“You could have stopped me.”

“Right. Pull the other one.” She shrugged and headed for the stairs. “Ih. So she heard us fucking. She’s European. They’re all open-minded and stuff. I’ve seen movies.”

“Veruca’s just a kid.”

“She’s twenty. I’m pretty sure I’d seen porn by then. And perhaps starred in it, too.”

“Do tell.”

“Another time. I want to get this outfit in the laundry.”

And that was the end of the incident. I wondered a lot later, however, exactly what and how much our new “family member” had heard.

3. Insult to Injury

It went along like that for quite a while. Viveka was not perfect—she came home a little later than I liked, often drunk, and from time to time she’d make comments about how we shouldn’t use freaking ibuprofen, for God’s sake. But you could forgive a lot in a pretty, young girl—even the fender-bender of the two-year old minivan—when you were getting extremely regular and extremely hot wife-sex.

In the winter, however, tragedy struck. A ski-trip to the Sierra Nevadas with the rest of the Hot Au Pair Coven (as Lucille had christened them) resulted in an injury to the innards of her shoulder, and the necessary surgery put her down completely for about a week, with restricted activity for the next week as well. It was an insanely busy time of year for both myself and Lucille, but we had to make time to nurse the nanny back to health. While it was a pain in the ass, I certainly didn’t resent her for it—though when Lucille finally surrendered to necessity and called her mother in from Indianapolis I struggled to maintain that Zen attitude.

Martha was my least favorite in-law. Even if you ignored the fact that she was passive-aggressive and needed more babying from own her daughter than my kids did, it was hard to ignore her other idiocies. She was always on some fad diet, and in spite of medical evidence to the contrary insisted that she was both celiac and a victim of hypothyroidism (among other things) based on the vast expertise she had gained from reading the internet and watching TV medical shows. She then attempted to convince my kids that they were sensitive to various substances, and that these sensitivities could be alleviated by her doctor, a quack who diagnosed and cured allergies with a fucking voltmeter and a magnet. I thought she should instead have been taken to my wife’s friend Maya, a psychotherapist, and said as much, but Lucille was too grateful for the assistance to complain about the style in which it was offered. Martha was a stupid, stupid cunt, but sometimes you made accommodations for stupid, stupid cunts when they happened to be your mother-in-law and you actually wanted a pleasant marriage, and when you needed her to keep the kids from burning down the house while the nanny slept off a bad mogul experience.

Lucille’s mother had another title, however, and it was “Master of the Fucking Obvious”. She didn’t deal with silences very well and when she didn’t have anything of value to fill them with (which was often) she would provide a commentary track for the visually impaired who happened to be listening in on the cinematic events of her life. The number of times she informed anyone who was listening that Veruca… Viveka… was “sure a pretty girl” was rivaled only by the number of times she commented on how many trucks were on the road of “various sorts and sizes” or how hot it was outside in July. Needless to say, I am an ungrateful son-in-law, but I couldn’t wait for the bitch to leave.

For Lucille’s part, she gave Veruca so much attention that it seemed to me she was the fourth child we’d never had. My wife washed her, tended the surgical wound, and gave the girl deep tissue massages during the recovery period. I might even have been jealous of our au pair had Lucille not been uncharacteristically horny during this time period for some reason; when she’d come to bed each night after nursing the nanny back to health she would grab my cock and start stroking it. Needless to say I took full advantage of whatever Florence Nightingale weirdness was running through her psyche. She never admitted there was any connection, but the frequency of hand jobs I received told the tale as accurately as an Excel spreadsheet.

Eventually Mrs. Fucking Obvious and the Invalid Nanny both departed and things returned to normalcy, to some extent. Until the costume party a month later, that is: then shit got weird.

4. I Love Little Fishes, Don’t You?

Why the au pair agency, in its infinite wisdom, had decided to throw a costume party in February rather than, say, near Halloween was anybody’s guess, but that was apparently the plan. As Veruca-Viveka debated on what to wear, Lucille gave her opinions. She seemed about to settle on Minnie Mouse.

“Disney, huh?” Lucille responded, deliberately not looking my way. “If you’re gonna go that route, go with one of the princesses.” Now she acknowledged my presence. “Don’t you think so, Charles?”

“Huh? I, uh—”

“Princesses are hot, right, dear?” She turned back to the nanny. “Don’t let him fool you. He goes crazy for ‘em. Go as a sexy princess. Like Belle or Cinderella or Tinkerbell.”

“Tinkerbell wasn’t a princess.”

“She will seriously mess you up for saying that, darling. Don’t accept any fairy dust from her anytime soon if you know what’s good for you.”

After three more minutes of discussion, they decided on the Little Mermaid—clamshells and all. Lucille smiled at me, blinking, the very picture of innocence. I narrowed my eyes at her in response.

Lucille had a red wig from her own Halloween experience years ago as Julia Roberts from Pretty Woman (yes, it was delicious, why do you ask?), and she provided it to Veruca as the start of the costume. I didn’t pay much attention to the progress, but finally, on the night of the party as I was cleaning up the leftovers after dinner, the nanny emerged from her room to the applause of the kids and my wife.

The shells were a bit too small for her, covering her nipples but leaving much of the rest of her tits exposed. I had caught glimpses of cleavage in her six months here, of course, so I had some idea of the size and shape of her bosom but there’s nothing quite like seeing the full shape of the breast (sans areolae). On the small side of medium, with the perkiness of youth, they were hard to look away from. She wore a pink nylon wrap over her upper body which covered everything but concealed nothing, though I could see that it was likely two beers away from being missing altogether. Below the waist was a tight green, scaly skirt which went to about three inches over the knee, though its slit went a couple inches higher. Her legs weren’t similarly covered in scales, but their shapely expanse, from thigh to faux-alligator pumps, was coated in bright green seamed hose. I’d seen her in some skimpy outfits this year, but this was the best… er, the worst so far.

“How do you find it?” she asked in that not-quite-getting-the-idiom way she had.

“I find it lovely, don’t you think, Charles?”

“I’m not sure it’s appropriate for the kids to see,” I said under my breath. “It’s nice enough. Won’t you be cold, though?” Not that I was imagining the effect on her nipples under the clamshells, mind you. Not at all.

“Oh, no, I feel great.” She collected her purse and waved goodbye to us as she went out through the garage door. “I will see you later!” With that she was gone for the night, but my hard-on lingered after she’d left.

I spent the next half hour making it go away by fucking Lucille from behind… her face in the pillow stifling her cries. I’m sure she was aware of the source of my ardor—she always was, and I loved that she knew me so well—and she was entirely bratty with me about it before I grabbed a fistful of her hair and dragged her to the bed, yanking down her yoga pants so I could have at her pussy. She was already well-lubricated in anticipation and I was able to shove into her without effort, eliciting a muffled moan as she propped herself up on her knees while keeping her forearms and breasts in direct contact with the mattress. The angle felt great for me, and if the way she pressed back at me was any indication it was working for her too.

I generally spend effort making sure my lady comes at least once, but tonight I was in no mood for giving, just taking. I think she did come, but I was too engrossed in the feeling of my palms on her upper thighs while I yanked her back at me repetitively to be sure. Certainly I heard no complaints from her. She fell forward when I drew out of her, and smiled dreamily at me when I kissed her cheek and tucked her in.

I had some work to do in the office downstairs, so I reluctantly left her there instead of joining her in slumber. Two or three hours passed rapidly as I lost track of time in the midst of data crunching for a yield problem at work, but eventually I heard a car pull up, pause a moment, and then leave. The rattle of a key in the front door heralded the return of Veru—Viveka; dear God, was it one o’clock already?

She was tipsy, as was not uncommon for her following these outings. She wasn’t supposed to drink while she was in the States until she turned twenty-one, but given my own early start with vodka-and-tonics before I was officially legal I couldn’t bring myself to play the hypocrite. Hell, she’d been allowed to drink in her own country for going on three years now; just because America was prudish didn’t mean I needed to enforce the prudery.

And a prude she clearly was not, given the state of her outfit. Her nylon wrap was completely gone, as was prophesied, leaving her entire upper body bare, the clamshells barely covering her nipples. The skirt had hiked up significantly as a result of whatever she had been engaged in, and… those were actual stockings? The garter straps and the welt were clearly visible, now; I’d thought she had been wearing tights, before, since my default assumption is “no candy for Charles”. I instantly stiffened, despite my recent rigorous activities with Lucille. She stumbled a bit in the heels toward the couch in the front room and I was about to offer her some help when she sprawled onto the sofa, legs askew and head leaned back across the padded armrest. I couldn’t help but look up her skirt; the lighting was horrible—the display of my notebook computer reflected off the walls—but I didn’t see anything except flesh in the region between her two stocking tops. If she’d been wearing panties tonight, they had gone the way of her top. It occurred to me then that depending on how drunk she actually was, she might not even know I was there.

Her next actions reinforced that suggestion. Her eyes still closed, she mumbled something in Swedish and slid her hands between her thighs. My jaw alternately dropped, then tightened. Was the half-naked au pair really masturbating right in front of me?

The answer, as I observed over the ensuing moments, was fuck yes. Her hands obscured the details of her fingerings, but I could see the gross activity and my libido had no problems with interpolation. She started with slow, vertical stroking along both upper thighs and then moved her hands in a circular motion I could only assume was around her clitoris. Her moans were fairly quiet, but her panting grew louder and louder. She released one hand from its duties in her pussy; it slid up and popped off the straps holding the shells to her breasts. The roaming hand found a home cupping her left breast across the nipple… stroking, caressing, and delicately squeezing in time to the other hand’s rapidly accelerating spirals. I was enthralled watching her pleasuring herself and pressed my cock against the underside of my desk through my boxers.

She suddenly froze in mid-breath, her hands pausing all movement, and leaned back, mouth open. Her nether hand twitched rapidly left-right, once, twice, three times, and her hips told the rest of the story as she grunted a release. Her orgasm’s rapid onset caught me by surprise and I didn’t come all over the inside of my underwear, but I was pulsing strongly and I knew from the feeling that I was slippery with pre-come. I wouldn’t last much longer.

She lay there breathing heavily for a moment, then propped her heels up clumsily back on the floor and pushed off, almost falling again in her unbalanced fatigue. Her breasts were still bare, her skirt akimbo, and as she passed the door to my office she finally paused to stare inside. The look in her eyes as she met mine was not startled at all, and she said in a low voice in that fucked-up accent, “It’s better down where it’s wetter.”

Then she stumbled off to her bedroom and shut the door.

I sat in shock in my leather chair for at least three minutes before I stomped off upstairs to wake and aggressively fuck the hell out of my wife.

Apart from an inquisitive moan as I re-moistened her with my fingers, she didn’t seem to mind.

5. Home From Work I Go

It only got worse in the days following her bout as a mermaid.

She went back to somewhat normal clothes for the remainder of the weekend, but on Tuesday afternoon when I got home from work she was Snow White, wearing a short black wig (where the fuck did she get this stuff?), skin powdered pale and almost-garish blush adorning her cheekbones. Her blouse was lower cut than any decent prince would tolerate, and her skirt was so short no dwarf could help but see her panties. If she was even wearing any.

The kids loved it, but I was afraid to stand up for fear of revealing the huge bulge in my pants. I put my novel in my lap and thought about nuns and dead kittens while the girl dressed up the kids in preparation for taking them to the park before dinner, but the unappetizing imagery was crowded out of my mind when I glanced over and saw her bending at the waist to pick a coat up off the floor. In this case, you didn’t even need to be a dwarf.

She bent a little further so she could peer at me upside down between her legs and smiled knowingly. She winked and wiggled her backside back and forth, causing the small piece of fabric wedged in the crack of her ass to dance in sympathy, then abruptly switched to a more professional position as she heard Lucille start descending the stairway. She bade the kids come with her out the front door, leaving me motionless and feeling guilty for looking at her charms while my wife was just a floor away.

“Hi,” Lucille said, smiling and giving me a kiss as she carried the quilt she’d been working on over to her sewing table. “How long have you been home?”

“About ten minutes.”

“And didn’t even come upstairs to say hello. Hmph. I see how I rate.”

“Sorry. I—uh… was reading.” I held the book up in front of my groin in order to ward off evil. “Say, what the fuck’s up with Veruca’s weird outfit? The costume party’s over.”

Viveka, you cretin,” she laughed. “Yeah, I asked the same thing. Seems the mermaid the other night inspired her—she said she got great reactions from everyone and is having fun keeping the kids entertained. At least that’s what I think she said. I suspect it was a poorly translated idiom from the Swedish.”

“It’s a bit… revealing.”

“She’s leggy. She’s not heavy up-top and knows her strengths.”

She never begs / She knows how to choose them?”

“Exactly.”

“Let’s go upstairs.”

“Aw, did the nanny turn you on? It’s the Snow White thing, isn’t it?”

“Shut up.”

“I have to sew this.”

“Later.”

“Okay, okay. Hey, wait, maybe I need to check the pasta sauce. It—ow!”

“There’s another spanking for you if you don’t go upstairs now.”

“Promise?”

6. Bibbidi Bobbidi Boobs

Snow White did not reappear (for a while, at least), but a blue dress and an up-do of Veruca’s blond locks heralded the arrival of Cinderella a week later. There’s really no excuse for why I didn’t immediately recognize the look she was going for purely from the hairstyle, but even in my cluelessness I was able to put two and two together when I saw the Lucite stripper-caliber platform heels she was wearing. Glass slippers indeed.

Not that the rest of her dress was long, flowing, sparkling, or otherwise presentable at a ball. It was an extremely tight number which pushed up her breasts, highlighted her hips and waist, and otherwise made her a vision of fuckable youthful flesh. The few parts of me which weren’t lusting after her were wondering how the hell she was going to kneel to pick up a four year-old in that thing without tearing it, but it had an ample slit to mid-thigh which apparently provided just enough freedom of movement. When I saw this in action in the garage I was aroused and a more than a little impressed. It didn’t hurt that the dress slipped downward a little during the maneuver, but I was at an angle and didn’t see any nip-slippage before she readjusted a second later. She caught me looking at her, then I swear she deliberately struck a pose—tits pushed out, leg extended through the slit in mid-stride, wide smile. Pert ass.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Lucille chanted in my ear. “Nickel for the rest of you.”

Busted. Quick, deflect! “What the fuck is she doing?”

“Putting Amber in the carseat. Why?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Come on. The outfits? They’re completely inappropriate.”

“To whom?”

“To anyone with a pulse. Tell me you haven’t noticed. Tell me you’re okay with this.”

“How often have you been a young girl?”

“Thank you for the weird non sequitur.”

“No, really,” Lucille came back. “You’re not a girl. I was one. I have lots of regrets about outfits I wore when I was that age. I’m very thankful there was no Facebook back then, as my wardrobe malfunctions are on Kodak only. But God help the man who would have told me to dial it back. Or woman. My poor mother…”

“Got whatever she deserved.”

“Hush. Yes, she’s doing this for attention, and yes, that’s probably not really a healthy reason to exude sexuality… but who the hell are you to judge?”

“Her employer. Did you just use the word ‘exude’?”

“Her co-employer. And shut up— I can be eloquent!”

“‘Eloquent’? See, all this vocabulary is getting me hot.”

“You’re deflecting.” Bitch knows me too well. “At any rate, she’s just figuring herself out, she’s enjoying the effects… leave it alone.”

“But... it’s very distracting.” Which came out way whinier than I intended, honestly.

“Oh, so you’re distracted. Whose fault is that?”

“Hers.”

“No, yours. Get a grip on your libido and stop trying to slut-shame the nanny.”

“Is it slut-shaming if she’s actually a slut?”

“Especially so. But she’s not, though she has plenty of opportunities, I’ll tell you that. You should have seen the security guards at the mall follow her around. You’d think she had ‘shoplifter’ tattooed on her ass.”

“Thank you for that imagery. It’s not helping.”

“Tough.”

I wrestled momentarily with the absurdity of me asserting that the attractive young girl living in my house needed to show me less of her body when that was precisely the opposite of what I actually wanted. Why was I trying to win this argument, again? “And you’re okay with this?”

“Am I in danger of you leaving me to start screwing the babysitter? Be careful how you answer, Mr. Not-a-Hollywood-Actor-with-Unlimited-Legal-Resources.”

“No!” Maybe just a lit— no!

“Then just enjoy the show and shut up about it.”

“Fine.”

“Good. Now let’s go back inside and have sex.”

“What?”

“You’ve been hard as a rock since you saw Svenderella’s thighs through that slit. Do you think I’m blind, or just stupid?”

“That’s—not true. It was the eloquence. Which you exude.”

“Grrrr… Just for that, no blow job! But you’re still going to fuck me. You don’t have to be at work until, what, ten?”

“Eight.”

“Well, we’d better get started, then.”

7. The Crack of Dawn

So it continued. I’m sure it garnered her the attention she craved; the parade of men who picked her up on weekends and evenings was absurd, and I wondered how many of them she was actually sleeping with. There wasn’t a repeat performance of the mermaid masturbation session on the couch, but Lucille and I were up late a few nights on her return and judging by the disheveled state of her attire she definitely was having a good time on her outings.

Sexy Snow White and the Slutty Mermaid had many repeat performances, but sometimes she shifted away from the good old standards and headed into the obscure characters. For instance, who the hell even watched The Hunchback of Notre Dame, let alone considered some gypsy-costumed harlot a “princess”? I certainly hadn’t, and the mystified look I gave Lucille required a follow-up explanation as to who this “Esmerelda” was. Not that I had any complaints about the outfit, mind you. I’m a sucker for a good belly-dancing costume, and Veruca’s stomach was flat and trim.

Soon, though, the element of danger manifested as she started targeting me directly.

At first there was plausible deniability. Maybe she really was having trouble putting on the Cinderella shoes. They were freaking huge and her dress didn’t allow radical movements. I could see that. So asking me to help her was no evidence of malign intent. Now, one could make the argument that sighing and spreading her legs several inches apart while I held her nylon-covered foot in my hand and applied the ridiculous footwear… crossed the line somewhat. I’m not denying that. Likewise, her comment about how she thought it was “the perfect fit” as she looked deliberately at my crotch and I tried and failed to not look deliberately at hers, shaven and exposed as it was through her sheer panties. One could read this as merely the dirty mind of an employer projecting his own fantasies onto her behavior.

Certainly, we all masturbate. I’m a modern man; there’s nothing shameful about it. So when Lucille had taken the kids to church early on Sunday morning and in between bites of breakfast cereal I caught glimpses through the open guest room door of Veruca doing things to herself on her bed… Well, should I have stopped her? Can you imagine her embarrassment?

She was still in the Aurora skirt from last night, and didn’t even appear to be awake, really (which was entirely appropriate, when you stopped to think about it). Her movements weren’t frenzied at all; she was gentle and slow and deliberate and my Cheerios were a blob of mush by the time I had teased my erection into a full blown orgasm on the breakfast nook tile. She probably didn’t moan, “Kendra!” when she climaxed, though I thought she might have. That was likely just my hormones talking as they urged my balls to empty, however.

I froze as, moments later while I cleaned up the floor, I heard her come through the door. I’ve been at this since I was twelve, so I knew I could pass my puddle of semen off as spilled milk. “Hi,” I said, cheerfully over my shoulder. “Made a little mess.”

“I’m sure it was my fault.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“I hope I was not too loud.”

“Oh, you don’t snore. Not that I’ve ever noticed.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Having my head at her thigh level was not conducive to maintaining my sanity during this conversation, even though she was barefoot this morning and not possessed of the three-inch fuck-me pumps with the straps that wrapped all the way up above the knee. I could still see the crease of her sex through the bottom of her skirt. My heart raced as I stood up, narrowly missing cracking my head on the bottom of the table.

“Oh, you mean when you came in last night?”

“When I came, yes.” I think my jaw dropped a little. “You have a little milk on your lips,” she continued, and dabbed the nonexistent fluid off, replacing it with her own, from her fingers. The smell hit me and I panicked.

“Well, thanks for… that. I need to shower and get ready. There’s a… thing. It’s soon. I’ll see you later.”

She giggled as I retreated, and I know she said something else—something no doubt clever and filled with innuendo if you were a tart whose grasp of translating Swedish idiom into English was imperfect at best—but I didn’t hear any of it, as I was taking the steps two at a time to get to my bedroom.

I’m almost sure I didn’t jerk myself off again just smelling the residual juices from the nanny’s fingers. I wouldn’t have. Really. But if, maybe, I did… then what of it?

I’m a modern man. There’s nothing shameful about it.

That wasn’t the last time she “over-shared”, either. Days later, before dawn, as I put out the garbage before heading back upstairs to wake up the kids for the morning school routine, I saw the light on under her bathroom door. Moans accompanied the illumination. Two voices in harmony. I won’t even pretend I resisted moving closer to eavesdrop. No one would believe that.

I held my breath while I listened to their coupling. There were no words that I could understand, though perhaps my lack of comprehension of both Swedish and Afrikaans made me miss something. The cooing sounded like Veruc—Viveka, but the other voice, muffled, belonged to the friend she’d been out with last night, Kendra. I could only imagine what was going on beyond that door, and why her voice sounded like her mouth was busy. It went on for a few minutes more and I tried desperately not to come on the carpet in front of the bathroom; I succeeded, but only through herculean efforts. When the au pair orgasms had finished (and I had not), Kendra’s voice said, “I really have to go.”

I jumped back as silently as I could manage, sprinting down the hall and back to the kitchen, where I opened a box of trash bags and pretended to replace the ones I’d taken out to the curb. The girls had shyly emerged from their cloister, looking all the worse for wear. Kendra was in short, green cutoff shorts and a matching t-shirt, while our nanny was still Tinkerbell from last night. Her hair was sweaty, in dishabille; her clothes and the skin she was exposing were a glittery mess. As was Kendra. Her mouth had a barely perceptible ring of glitter around it. The wand was glistening, but with dampness, not tiny mica sparkles.

“Kendra spent the night last night,” Veruca explained. “I’m sorry, it was late. I know I should have asked first.”

“That’s… okay. I’m fine with it. She can stay here any time she likes. Really.”

“Thank you,” Kendra replied, then waved and headed for the front door. Our au pair accompanied her, then hugged her. I think she would have done more, but Kendra cast a furtive glance in my direction and bailed. I made my way back to the staircase, smiling (not leering) at Veruca. She grinned back and flicked her wand at me. There wasn’t enough “fairy dust” on there to qualify as “drops”, but a light spray of vapor hit the side of my cheek and my nose left no doubt as to the source.

Well, some doubt: it could have been either one of them.

The kids had to wait another ten minutes. Fifteen minutes, tops. I woke Lucille up the best way I knew how—with happy thoughts.

8. Beauty and the Breasts

The shameless flirtation didn’t seem to let up significantly even when Lucille was a room away, but at least Veruca showed some discretion in her actions when my wife was around. I began to simultaneously anticipate and dread the times I was home alone with the au pair. On the one hand, she was fodder for nasty fantasies that I took care of either with Rosie Palm and her Five Sisters or with Lucille’s pussy. On the other, I didn’t know what I was going to do if her teasing moved into overt seduction. I wanted to bang her in the worst way, but I truly had a great marriage and I didn’t want it ruined by my stupidity. The nanny was a pretty young thing, but she was neither as smart nor, truly, as sexy as the woman I’d married.

One Thursday, I’d thought to get home early and pick up the kids for swim lessons. Usually Lucille did it, and when I’d get back from work the nanny would be lounging around as whatever fairy tale whore took her fancy that day. I was feeling especially horny today and didn’t need the temptation.

It was not to be, however.

She sat on my chair in the office, my grandmother’s ancient reading glasses perched on her nose and her skirt hiked up far enough to reveal the tops of the black hosiery, though not the pantiless expanse adjacent. Not yet, at least. She was paging, frustrated, through the big hardcover dictionary, apparently not finding what she was looking for.

“What does ‘cuntlicker’ mean?”

“Uh… hello to you, too.”

“It is a good thing, right?”

“Yes—I mean, no! I mean, yes! It… depends on the context.” What context? “Where are Lucille and the kids?”

“Dorian’s feet have outgrown her flippers, again. They went to get new ones before class today.”

“Right. Okay. Well, if you have any more questions—” ask someone else “—I’ll be around.”

“English is so strange,” she went on, ignoring my statement. “You have many words for everything. It took me weeks here before I realized that my cunt was also my pussy. My twat, my slit, my…”

“Um… you go right ahead with that list. I have to use the rest room right now.”

“That’s not necessary,” she replied, as if knowing what I planned to do there, damn her. “Please, sit, I have more… questions.”

“Okay.” I sat down on what I liked to call the “guest chair”. It was cloth rather than leather and minimally adjustable; it was, to put it bluntly, Not My Chair. She was in that, the bitch. “What did you want to ask about?”

“Lesbians.”

“Excuse me?”

“You seem fascinated with them. At least, you have a lot of pictures of them.”

“Where… oh, you shouldn’t be looking at that, Ver—Viveka. That’s my work computer.” Which should have been password protected, dammit. Did I forget to lock it?

“It looks like you get a lot of ‘work’ done here. You really like stockings a lot, too, don’t you?”

“Yes, I—wait, never mind that. Is this what you wanted to ask about, my… ahem… picture collection?”

“No, that was just something I enjoyed. Did you see Kendra kiss me the other night when she left?”

How the hell had I missed that? “No, I didn’t. I meant to talk to you about that. I just wanted you to know that I am fully in support of alternate, you know, sexualities, and think it’s great that you found yourself this early in life. A lot of people—”

“I’m not a lesbian.”

“Oh. Um…”

“I am… what do you call it… bisexual?”

“Ah, some do call it that, yes.”

“But mostly I like men.” She stood up, her dress falling about her upper thighs, concealing them and the stocking welts from view. Thankfully.

“Congratulations?”

“I like you.” Whoa. Not where I thought this was going.

“I like you, too. You’re a great member of the family.” She kneeled down in front of me next to the chair. Her blouse was pulled down by the shift of her position. There may have been a hint of areole—not that I was looking. My cock had, as so often happens when I’m wearing dress slacks, pressed itself into a rigid staff whose head peeped out of my boxers above the beltline and under my shirt. The friction against the glans was uncomfortable to say the least. Which made it all the more disturbing when Veruca untucked my shirt. She seemed about to go for the top button of my pants when she noticed I was… exposed.

“Mmmmm. I do not think we’re using that word the same way. Where is the theosaurus?”

“Thesaurus.” That was the shock talking. It had a lot to say as she unzipped me and kissed her way down my boxers, stroking the head of my cock between her tits.

“Whatever. I think ‘like’ is the wrong word in English.” My hard-on pulsed as withdrew her bosom, replacing one tantalizing sensation with another as she applied her red lips to my balls.

I stood up. The whole me, not just the stand-y parts. “Veruca, stop.”

“That’s not my name.” She came for me again, crouching, trying to rub me with her tits again.

“No, right,” I pulled my pants closed, but didn’t dare attempt the zipper right now. “Viveka, don’t. I know I may have given you the wrong impression, and for that I’m sorry.”

“‘Impression’? I don’t understand. You ‘like’ me, right? Or is it ‘desire’? So many words for the same things.”

“No, it’s definitely not that.”

“I think you aren’t telling me the truth.” She glanced down.

“Oh, that old thing? It does that, from time to time. Pay no attention to him.”

“‘Him’? I didn’t think English had gendered nouns. I feel sure we learned that in our school. Mmmmm… is that the Beast?”

“No! Look, can we stop with the grammar lesson, please? I’m trying to tell you that I didn’t mean to lead you on.”

“Oh, you didn’t. My complaint is that you have been ignoring my body English.”

“You play pinball?”

“What?”

“Body English. It’s what you do when you move the machine so the ball is nudged in the direction you want it to… that’s not what you meant, is it?”

“No. It’s not. What is ‘pinball’? I need the theosaurus again.”

Fucking kids today. Of course she’d never heard of pinball. I’m so old. It dawned on me what she meant, though. “Body language?”

“Yes! You have been ignoring it of mine.”

I was picking it up loud and clear right now. “Look, I have some stuff to do, now. Important stuff. I should—” not work in the library, not with her in there... “—get the tires rotated. And the wiper blades replaced. I always need a new air filter.”

“I’ll come with you.”

No doubt. “No, this is something I think I should do myself. But I’ll see you later.”

I didn’t run. It was a kind of casual jog, made more challenging by the fact that my pants weren’t buttoned and he was bobbing up and down in a manner I’m sure looked quite comical from outside of my frame of reference.

It was bobbing. No gendered nouns. Fuck.

9. My Lady is a Tramp

It was time to tell Lucille about this escalation. I’d mentioned the Kendra incident to her (though I’d neglected the part about the wand) and she’d smirked and said, “Good for her! I’m sure she needs a little action. At least she won’t get knocked up.” Always classy, ladies and gentlemen: my wife.

This had been, however, something else entirely. I had steeled myself for the conversation all afternoon, and then when the kids had been put to bed and the au pair had left with Kendra to go to a party or a bar or to get it on in the back seat of a car… okay, this wasn’t the time to get into that. When we were alone, reading in bed, I brought it up.

“Honey,” I began, tentatively. “With that big project ending for me at work, I can probably get my organization to let me work from home a day or so a week.”

“That’s awesome!” she replied, not even looking up from her novel. “The kids will love having you here more. Oh, and me too.”

“Cool. I’ll ask on Monday. But I was wondering… at that point, we don’t really need an au pair, right? I mean, we did okay when you were working from home and taking care of the kids, and with me taking on more of the burden, you could still—”

“Wait, what? You’re talking about getting rid of Viveka?”

“No, not ‘getting rid of’… Back when we started, the agency said they could re-place her with another family if needed.”

“That’s true, but she’s only got five months left out of her year. That’s not really a good amount of time to… Where is this coming from, anyway?”

“I told you, I can get one day a week—”

“You always could have, probably. Why are you trying to deprive me of au pair-y goodness? I love my daily baths.”

“It’s just…” Here it went. “Lucille, she’s started coming on to me.”

Lucille laughed. “Oh, really?”

I reddened. “Yes, really. I’m not that old, you know.” And I sure play a mean pinball. “Some women find me attractive.”

“Certainly I’ll agree with that. I do, for one. But a little party girl like that? Sweetie, I think you’re sexy as hell, especially with that distinguished touch of gray at the edge of your beard…”

“Blond!”

“… but I think you’re mistaking mild flirtation for attempted seduction.”

Mild flirtation? She almost gave me a titty-fuck the other day.”

“She what?!”

“There was an unabridged dictionary, and she was wearing these glasses, and… There were tits, and attempted fuckage.”

“‘Splain, please.”

I gave her the edited version—the one which included neither the subsequent masturbation nor the vigorous testicle-washing to remove the lipstick residue.

“So… she rubbed up against you while you were sitting in the library.”

“If by ‘rubbing’ you mean damned near climbing into my lap and trying to lose my cock in her cleavage, yes.”

“Dear, I know your ego gets a terrific boost from wanting to believe that, but I’m struggling to. Please don’t be offended.”

“You don’t believe me? What do I need, a photo?”

“That might help.” She tittered.

So many women had paranoia about their men screwing another woman. I was here telling her that the nanny was trying to seduce me, and she was in complete disbelief. I didn’t know whether to be insulted or disturbed by her naïveté. “You’re not taking me seriously.”

“No, I’m really, really not.”

“Dammit, Lucille, she’s trying to fuck me. I’m not imagining things.”

“Okay, fine.” She bit the insides of her cheeks in a failed attempt to keep from smiling. “Tell you what, Charles, I’ll have a talk with her about her behavior around you. I’ll ask about the incident you mentioned and make it clear that she should be more careful in her provocative actions, out of respect for me and… for the Beast.” All attempts at prevention of laughter were abandoned, now.

“Fuck! Lucille!”

“No, I will talk to her, honest.”

“Do you think she’ll admit it? To you?”

“You never know. We have a very close relationship. You should hear the things she’s told me about her sex life.”

“That’s absolute bullsh— wait, what kinds of things?”

“Hey, nice try at derailing me, as usual.”

Dammit. “Fine. Talk to her, for all the good it’s going to do. I’ll start carrying around a fucking tape recorder like an FBI informant. Then you’ll believe me.”

“I believe you, now. I just think your cock is playing tricks on your brain.”

“My cock’s influence on my brain is… neither here nor there.”

“Nonsense. It’s right there.” She slid her hands under the covers to begin stroking me, then used her other hand to begin touching herself. “Even though it should be right here.”

“Lucille, now is not the time.”

“Charles, if you’re so horny that you’re fantasizing about being seduced by the nanny, now is definitely the time.”

“It wasn’t ‘fantasizing’. It was totally—”

“Shhhhh… Look, if you’re that obsessed with breasts right now, I have a nice pair right here. Well used, but still functional.”

“They’re very nice.”

“Nice? Boy, you sure know how to sweep a girl back onto her feet.”

“I meant,” I said, lowering my head to one nipple, “that I like them a lot.”

“Better.”

“Yes, I like them better.”

“No, that’s not what I meant. Jesus, shut up about the fucking nanny’s tits, okay?”

“Mmmmmkay,” I replied around a mouthful of mammary flesh.

“You’re forgiven, but you need to use your mouth for something other than talking, now, all right?”

I couldn’t resist an opening like that. Or, less metaphorically, an opening about two feet lower, under the covers. Lucille put her damp fingers in my mouth, then pushed my head down to where they’d come from.

She moaned as my tongue entered her, and she was God-awful wet. Wetter than the few moments’ fingering she’d self-administered should have warranted. I think I need to read whatever she was reading. I was immersed in her and loved it, and the mewling she let out implied she enjoyed it nearly as much. She always insisted I couldn’t enjoy eating her out as much as she enjoyed it, but she was wrong. Had to be. Because I was close to coming just from licking her, and when she insisted on moving into a sixty-nine position so she could have my cock in her mouth when she came, she barely even got a chance at one stroke before her taste pushed me over the edge and I erupted down her throat. It must not have upset her too much, though, since she responded by thrusting up against my chin and holding there... pausing, grinding, then repeating until she emitted a squeal and thrust her clit against my lips over and over until I lost track of how many times she came.

We relaxed, and I crawled back up to the pillow end of the bed. She panted, kissed me, then dropped her head onto my chest. A contented “Night-night!” was to be her final statement of the evening, evidently.

“What kinds of things?” I asked again, in a whisper, as she snuggled into the crook of my arm.

“A lady never tells.”

“You’re no lady.”

“You’re right. But still none o’ yo’ bidness. Sleep, dear.”

I growled and closed my eyes.

10. Entangled

I woke the following Wednesday night to find the room illuminated only by the residual LED lights from the DVD player and the blessed silence of a household at three a.m. I must have fallen asleep while we had watched Netflix and Lucille had left me on the couch when she went to bed. I couldn’t tell what had awakened me, though the weight on my hips was a good guess. “What…?”

“Shhhh…” came the reply from above me as a finger descended to cross my lips. That was not Lucille’s light mix of lotions and hair products I smelled. I tried to sit up.

“Tried” because my hands were restrained by something and wouldn’t allow me to move. My ankles were similarly bound, and the au pair’s mass on my torso completed my semi-immobilization. I could have tried to shake her off by pushing hard with my ass muscles, but… that might have been exactly what she wanted. “Hey! I—”

The rest of my exclamation was cut off as the girl moved her body up mine, to straddle my head and plant a wet, juicy slit on my mouth. I could breathe through my nose, though just barely, but my mouth was otherwise incapacitated. My cock was not. Extremely not.

“It’s okay,” she reassured me, softly. “I’ll let you go when I’m done with you.”

I shook my head and “mmmmphed” at the top of my lungs. She apparently took this as an invitation to continue.

“Come on, my prince, lick me. I know you want to.” She leaned back and grabbed my cock through my pajama pants, simultaneously thrusting herself forward onto my lips, between them. And, ye gods and little fishes, I did want to, more than anything. I was steadfast, though, no matter how much Little Charles demanded I take her up on her offer.

“No? Why not?” She gyrated her hips, circling my mouth with her pussy, using my chin and lips and nose like a sex toy. Her smell and whatever taste was slipping inside my mouth was driving me crazy. I knew I had to escape or I would violate every marital vow I’d ever held sacred. “You’re helpless. You have to do what I want.”

My erection wasn’t arguing with her, nor with her gentle stroking of it, but I really, really couldn’t be in this predicament. Especially without a tape recorder. I yanked hard against my restraints and heard the tremendous clamor of the coffee table thudding over at the end of my arms.

“Shit!” she hissed, and jumped off me. “You’ve ruined everything!”

Says the girl who just coated my face in her cunt. I heard footsteps upstairs in the vicinity of my bedroom, and saw Veruca retreat to her own. My hands had slack now, and I started pulling myself free from their binding as the bedroom door opened and Lucille came to the head of the stair.

“Honey?” her sleepy voice called softly. “Are you all right?”

“Sorta.”

“I heard a noise.”

“Yeah, I knocked over the coffee table. I’m cleaning it up now.”

“What? Come to bed.”

“I will.”

“Soon.”

“Just a couple of minutes.”

“Mmmkay. I’ll be waiting.”

I’d managed to extricate my hands and was now working on my ankles. Thankfully the fucking seductress-bitch was staying in her room, but I didn’t want to test my luck. As soon as I got free I hit the light switch and started cleaning up. There had been a copper urn of potpourri or rose petals or some other chic décor on the table and it needed re-assembly once I righted the end-table. As I kneeled to clean it up, I saw the ties that had bound me to the table on the one side and the underside of the couch on the other. Long and blond, the wigs had been wound into passable twine before being knotted around my extremities. Rapunzel. I get it. You psychotic freaking slut.

I didn’t want to have this discussion with a half-coherent Lucille tonight, but tomorrow morning I was resolved to get rid of the au pair. She knew me well, and my penchant for cunnilingus, and I wasn’t sure her unwillingness to believe Veruca was trying to get me in her panties would extend to me smelling like used whore. My marriage was very healthy, and I didn’t need the stress applied to it; I pride myself in having a lot of willpower, but sooner or later, God help me, I was going to slip and ravish the hell out of Mary Fucking Swedish Poppins in one of her guises. She had to go.

And I had to wash. If I went to bed with my face smelling like this all of my protests to the contrary would fall on deaf ears. Unfortunately, with her hot aroma permeating my nose I couldn’t tell whether the bathroom sink’s mild soap had completely eradicated her from my three-days’ beard. There was only one way to be certain not to get busted, and it lie upstairs in the bedroom…

“Oh, good, you came to bed,” my wife giggled dreamily. “Hey, what are you do—ohhh…”

I tongued her until she grabbed my head and lost herself.

Lucille has an uncanny sense of smell, but I had to bet even she couldn’t distinguish the bouquet of twenty-year-old slut from one with a thirty-seven year vintage. Not when they’re mixed together on my face.

So I had covered my tracks. Or Veruca’s tracks. So to speak.

11. Arabian Afternoons

By far the most dangerous moment, though, was when I came home from a golf outing on Sunday to find a note on the kitchen table: Lucille had taken the kids to the movies and would be home in a couple of hours. I headed upstairs to the shower to wash off the sweat from the back nine.

A half-hour later, poised in front of the mirror with a “17-microblade” Gillette and some Barbasol, I heard the squeaking of the mattress springs and wandered out of the bathroom to greet my wife’s return… only to find something else entirely.

Sprawled across the bed, in diaphanous aqua harem pajamas which went significantly beyond translucent, was Veruca. She propped her head against her hand, on one elbow, with one knee raised in an inverse-V and the other leg extended. A classic pinup pose, and the sunlight of the room made it painfully obvious that the thin veil of her outfit was not supplemented by anything underneath. Her light patch of pubic hair was as obvious as her golden-bangle nipple piercings through the material, and she was stroking herself almost absently through the fabric while she awaited my arrival.

I still had the shaving cream can and the razor in my hands when I stopped, dumb, and stared her down. Or stared her up and down, which was likely more accurate.

“Oh, no,” she drawled, “don’t shave the beard. It’s so… twisted.” So she had been listening in on our post-coital discussion that night; this couldn’t be coincidence. “And it feels so good right here.” She clamped her thighs shut around her fingers and began to squeeze.

Don’t remind me, I thought, trying unsuccessfully to forget the Rapunzel night. “Listen, Ver—Viveka, we need to talk.”

“Talking is bullshit. We need to fuck.”

Oh, God, did we. But not each other. Dammit. “I’m married.”

“I’m not.” Logic.

“Yes, well… my marriage matters to me. More than a quick blow job from an extremely hot—from a very treasured member of the family.” Jesus, Charles, encourage her much?

“She’ll never know.”

“I’ll know.” I was entranced by the motions of her hands on her pussy, which were making a smeary mess of the pajama bottoms. “Look, could you stop doing that? Just for a minute, so we can have this conversation? It’s… distracting.”

“No.”

Sigh. “You’re a lovely young lady,” I started, knowing I was treading on a path already stomped all to hell, “but I’m just not interested.”

“That’s not true,” she replied, staring at my towel. “I think you are very interested.”

And the tent made a liar out of me. Betrayed by wraparound terrycloth. Fuck.

“Nevertheless,” I continued, blithely ignoring her statement as only the obviously guilty can, “we can’t, and won’t. Now, if you’ll kindly consent to fucking yourself in your own bed rather than mine…”

“I don’t think so.”

“Lucille will be home any minute.”

“Then she can join us. I’m not choosy.”

Ouch. You’re not really a stud; she’s just a nympho. Suddenly this was all a lot less of an ego boost. I knew I should have shaved yesterday.

“As flattering as that point is, I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist.”

She grabbed a pillow and placed it under her loins, rubbing her tainted hands on the fabric and thrusting against it. I made a mental note to swap pillows with Lucille before bed tonight. Just for self-protection, of course; it wasn’t like I was going to smell it while I masturbated or something. (Honest. Two or three times, at most.)

Nonetheless, she wasn’t moving. I didn’t have a lot of options here. No, dear, I didn’t want her on our bed. She just showed up and wouldn’t leave. Would you like custody of the kids 50/50, or do I only get them every other weekend? It was time for force.

She was medium-height but trim. I thought I could probably take her. I scooped her up and tried to put her over my shoulder like a recalcitrant three year-old, then gasped as I realized how light twenty year-olds weren’t. The attempt didn’t succeed. I now had a hundred and some-odd pounds of squirming girl in my arms, but I couldn’t get her off the bed without causing myself a hernia or a slipped disc or whatever it was chiropractors were paid to fix with their hoodoo magic. “Come… on, now. I don’t want to… have to… get rough about this.”

“I do!” She had stopped using her hands on herself and was now using my hold on her to press her delightfully supple fleshy bits up against me rhythmically. I could feel the heated dampness on my side as she coiled her silk-covered legs around me. I made one final effort to stand up and by some kind of miracle I ended up unhurt on the bed while she finished the maneuver sprawled on the floor at my feet. As I panted I felt the light touch of her hands invading my towel and responded with, “Gahhhhhh!”

It was then that Lucille came home.

I heard the garage door opening and knew for certain I was done for. There was no way to get this Scandinavian harlot downstairs and across the kitchen and living room to her own bedroom in the amount of time it would take for my wife to get in and see the whole thing. Fine. Fuck her if she wanted to get caught in my bed. Maybe Lucille would take my concerns seriously, now. I couldn’t move her, but I could move me.

I ran into the bathroom, locked the door, and hit the shower. My haste made it impossible to adjust the temperature before getting in, and I alternately scalded myself then scrunched my balls into tiny pea-sized orbs with the cold before finding my balance. By that time, Lucille was in the room. She didn’t say anything, at first, just cleared her throat. Loudly.

“Honey, we have to talk.”

“Oh?” I stopped the water, then tried my best to pretend to dry off with the completely saturated towel I had accidentally worn into the shower stall.

“I really don’t think it would be appropriate for the kids to find this.”

Oh, shit. Was she still on the bed? Or else what had that bitch left? Underwear? She hadn’t been wearing any.

“Hmmmm…?” I walked into the room squeaky clean, and with absolutely no evidence of an erection whatsoever.

“They could make a real mess with the shaving cream, but it’s the razor I’m most worried about. Seventeen microblades, after all.”

Oh. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry, Lucille. That was very careless of me. I’ll be much more careful next time.”

“Mmmmmm… naked clean man!” She came closer and hugged me to her body, putting her nose in my neck and smelling me. Then she whistled the Irish Spring jingle. Before she had gotten to the wolf-whistle at the end, she had grasped my cock and was well on the way to undoing what the shower had accomplished. She kneeled in front of me and began to kiss my balls on her way up.

“Hey! Hey… uh, I have no real objection, but what about the kids?”

“We met Maya and her kids at the movies. We flipped a coin and she lost; ours went home with her. We can pick them up after dinner.”

“And still you bitched at me about the razor.”

“Hey, they could have been home. Where’s Viveka?”

God only knew. Please ignore the pulse of my cock as you bring her up. “She’s… around, I guess. Didn’t you see her when you came in?”

“Nope. Hold on. Let me get this top off.”

“Shouldn’t we close the door?”

“Nah. She’s seen us fucking before, right?”

“Lucille!”

She didn’t bother to try answering, as I was tonsils-deep in her mouth at that time. She looked up at me and winked as she imitated fucking motions with her head and neck. I was standing in the doorway of the bathroom and my wife was facing away from the bedroom, which was why she didn’t see Veruca slither out from under the bed skirt and come to her feet. My eyes widened, I’m sure, which probably just made Lucille think she was doing a really good job (which, in fairness, she was). The crazy chick just leaned against the bed and watched my wife give me head, and when she started playing with her nipple-rings through the fabric I went over the edge of deliciousness and started fucking Lucille’s throat in earnest. She swallowed everything I offered, and the nanny licked her lips while she watched me come, then turned her ass to me and slunk away out of the room while I recovered and Lucille stripped off the rest of her outfit.

Or most of it anyway. “Hey, you didn’t tell me you were wearing stockings under that schoolmarm dress!”

“Schoolmarm? It’s conservative, but hardly that bad.”

“My grandmother had one just like it.”

“I bet she wore panties under it, though.”

“Why, Granny, what nice thighs you have.”

“The better for you to eat me with, my dear.”

“Sounds delightful. Here, let me move that pillow out of your way. Put it over on my side of the bed.”

12. The Princess and the Chocolate Factory

So she’d escaped again. Or I had. I had trouble keeping track. I still didn’t know what the hell I was going to do. It was only by the grace of Jesus, God, and Baby Jesus that I hadn’t been caught and wrongfully accused already. I started researching nymphomania, then new au pair services, then got sidetracked back on nymphos again… then there were sites which covered both search terms that I probably shouldn’t click on at work. Avoid even the appearance… I’m not sure what any of it got me except alternately aroused and terrified. Lucille was headed to her mother’s for the weekend, taking the kids, and despite my recommendation to take Viveka with her “to help mind the children, and to let her see Indiana”, she’d claimed airfare costs were too high to justify dragging another person along. I knew there was going to be hell to pay to either Snow White or Jasmine or possibly even Poca-fucking-hontas. Monday was a public holiday, too, so most of my friends from work were taking the long weekend out of town.

Alone. With nanny-slut. I dreaded it, but only because, being honest with myself, I knew that my patience and stamina had run out. No matter how many shopping trips or hikes I went on, I would come home to sleep, that the au(ful) pair was going to end up in my bed, and I wasn’t going to stop her. There was only so much a man could take. I figured I should just raise the white flag and buy condoms.

I headed home that Tuesday somewhat in a funk. If the guys at work knew I was bummed because I would likely be banging a twenty-year old Scandinavian blonde this weekend, they would have immediately revoked my Man Card. “First World problems,” they’d say. Fuck them.

The kids were at gymnastics and cheer practice, I recalled, so it would be a late dinner tonight.

“Honey, I’m home. I— my God!”

Generally speaking, I went straight from the garage to the bedroom after I got home from work. This allowed me to change clothes and to greet my wife, who was often in her sewing room constructing some new outfits for the kids. Today, as I entered the bedroom, the thick aroma of sex hit me like a wall.

“You’ve won!”

“What the hell are you talking about, Lucille?” And why the fuck is the nanny’s head between your legs?

I was too stunned to say anything more as I examined the tableau laid out before me. The blonde was in her Beauty and the Beast dress and wig again, but this time it was hiked up to reveal the underlying blue satiny girdle and the black seamed stocking tops attached to it with metal clasps and six wide straps. She was on her knees pleasuring my wife, who was seated naked on the love seat, cradling the girl’s head into her lap with both hands in a manner I was accustomed to feeling for myself rather than seeing from afar. Lucille looked aroused and thrilled, though her eyes were glazed a little in distraction as she tried to continue our chat. The au pair’s renewed head motions implied the source of the distraction, and her own hands busily running up the open bottom of the girdle implied that Lucille wasn’t the only one getting off on this.

“You get the Chocolate Factory! The whole shebang! With Oompa Loompas and glass elevators and garter-belts and stuff!” My wife thrust up into Ver— Viv— oh, hell... Veruca’s mouth.

“Lucille!”

“You’ve been such a good boy, Charlie, in resisting temptation that you get to have everything. My gift to you... wait a second... I need to come on her face again... grrrrrrrr... ugh... mmmmm...” My wife’s fuck-noises degenerated into giggling as the au pair’s mouth cleaned her up. “As I was saying before I was so wonderfully interrupted, I’ve been impressed! You’ve managed to resist everything I got her to throw at you!”

You got her to...?”

“Well, every woman wants to know how faithful her husband really is, or would be under the worst possible circumstances. So I created some. And you weren’t naughty! Not once. And I got some great sex out of the deal. You were soooooo forceful after she’d tease you, it drove me crazy. Sometimes I’d make her clean me out afterward, when you went to work, ‘cause even after you finished me I was still incredibly horny.”

“This was all a test to see if I could be faithful?!”

“Now you’re getting it. Veruca, dear, I don’t need you to eat me out any more for a while, okay? You can go do the kids’ laundry, instead.” The nanny got up, hiked her skirt back down, and left the room, giving me a glazed but somehow still coquettish look as she passed. “Wow. Fine piece of ass, isn’t she? Tongue like you wouldn’t believe.”

“I notice the possibility of you being faithful was untested.”

“What? Oh, with her? Ha!” She slithered off the bed and grabbed me by the cock through my slacks. “I don’t think, judging by this, that you’d want me to be faithful if it meant missing out on hot lesbian sex with our au pair, now, would you?”

“That’s... er... beside the point.”

“Uh huh. Let me see if I can spot the point.”

I paused her hand before it could undo my zipper. “Wait a minute. So you somehow got her to tease me to the point of insanity—”

“Hypnosis.”

“What?”

“That’s how I got her to tease you. Remember the massages I was giving her when she had that skiing injury?”

“Yeah.”

“I took the opportunity to hypnotize her and got her to dress in naughty princess outfits for you. I’ve watched Maya do it a million times. Clever, no?”

“Maya dresses in naughty princess outfits?”

“No, you idiot, she hypnotizes people. As part of her practice. It’s not that difficult, it just involves patience. At first I just relaxed Swedish chickie, but eventually it worked and she went under.”

This was too much to take in all at once, and I was momentarily speechless. I tried to trace the conversation back to before it had deviated from sanity and couldn’t find a good spot. Perhaps if I went back to, “Honey, I’m home...” I gave up and went with, “All right. She teased me, I resisted... I ‘won’. What the hell exactly did I win? Aside from being able to keep my balls and not be divorced?”

She started the unzipping again as soon as she heard me say “balls”, and rapidly enough had my stiff cock in her hands, gently stroking it up and down. “Oh, but don’t you understand? You get everything!”

“What the hell does that even mean?”

“You get me, and her! Whenever you want!”

“Wha— Hey, stop doing that if you want me to be coherent during this conversation. It’s very distracting.”

“I don’t care. It’s mine.”

“Yeah, well, you still got some ‘splaining to do. What do you mean ‘you and her’? I can have sex with both of you?”

“Well, me first. And last. And several times in between... and right now, actually. Sit down. Mmmmm... I like that... but yeah, whenever you want. Although I insist she eats my pussy while you’re fucking her. It’s only fair. And I made her like it. A lot. She practices on Kendra.”

“I am skeptical of the ethics of this arrangement.”

“Fuck it.”

“Er... okay. Doesn’t this situation contradict the whole ‘not being unfaithful’ concept?”

“Mmmmmm... no, that was just to see how much you loved me... I don’t mind you fucking the nanny as long as I’m first on the list, and she’s under my control. Our control. And as long as I’m still the real princess. And get to fuck her mouth, too.”

“I think that is the sickest, most fucked-up thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Says the guy who wants to bone Ariel and Jasmine.”

“No, this is worse. More fucked up.”

“Then why are you... aaaugh... pounding me so hard with that cock of yours?”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t fucked-up, too. I just never suspected you were.”

“Didn’t you ever suspect me of wanting to have hot lesbo sex with the hired help? Ow, omigod! Ow. Ohhhhh... do that again!”

“Never. To the uh... suspicions, not to the doing that again....”

“Oh God, I’m gonna come.”

“Good, because there’s no way I can stop now.”

“Oh, fuck me, Charlie. Fuck your wife and think of all the fun we’re going to have doing the nanny nasty.”

Charles had better manners than to refuse to oblige a princess.

Feedback is my ambrosia and nectar.  If you like my writing and want to see more of it, please comment and let me know!

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