Man—the way that girl smiles at Jenny like she’s her whole goddamned world. The nanny makes it look so easy. She’s so good with my baby girl. Half the time, she seems like a kid herself, getting lost in their playtime.
I think back to the silly made-up song the two of them were singing together as they cleared the dinner table. I feel a smile start taking form on my mouth. Because even I can admit it was kind of…cute.
Shaking my head, I fight the feeling off. I make a deliberate decision to shut it down.
I don’t like ‘cute’.
‘Cute’ is manipulation’s most effective mask. The memory of my ex-wife sours my tongue. I already fell victim to ‘cute’ once. I won’t let it happen again.
Still, I can’t get the thought of Jenny out of my head.
The woman is a human exclamation point. Like if the punctuation mark ever came to life, it would be her. She’s got all this damn energy. Always skipping around, enthusiastic over nothing at all. And her smile is sickly-sweet. Like that apple-scented dish soap my mom used to use when we were kids. The girl is annoying as fuck.
But damn is she beautiful.
The long, dark hair. The cartoonishly wide eyes. Her dainty little nose with the freckled bridge and the upturned tip. The face of an angel with a mouth that looks like it was designed for doing filthy things. Perfect legs. Perfect ass. Perfect tits.
The second I start growing hard, I want to kick myself.
I really do need to get laid because I shouldn’t be thinking about the nanny this way. I used to make fun of the cliché of those fresh-from-jail assholes who’d fall head-over-hangnails for the first woman they saw. Now, look at me. I’m no better than them.
I know nothing about this Jenny-person. My parents boxed me into a corner. Having her move in with me was my only choice. But I still haven’t even decided if I trust her. In my house. With my kid.
Yes, I need to get laid but the nanny definitely isn’t an option.
In a desperate attempt to get the situation in my pants under control, I reach up and flip on the dim lamp near my head. I stretch under the old couch and pull out the thin cardboard box I brought home with me when I was released. I remove the lid and toss it aside.
Underneath all the cash is the small box of letters. For some reason, my letters from Monica feel more private and forbidden than this secret money. Still, I need to come up with a better hiding spot for all of it, since I can’t use Callie’s bedroom vent anymore.
Taking the envelope at the top, I unfold the creased paper. A few words into the letter and I’ve already pulled out my cock.
Every time I close my eyes, I imagine us together. I imagine you, with your hands on me, with your dick inside me.
As I slowly reread Monica’s sexy, teasing words, I squeeze my fingers into a tight fist, pulling up and down on my erection. Struggling with my breath. Resenting myself the whole time.
I know you’d be rough. I know you wouldn’t be able to take your time. I can’t blame you, baby. After all, you’ve waited so long for me. But I don’t want you to take it slow. I don’t want you to be gentle.
It’s strange picturing a woman I’ve never met. I wish I had a real face to go with her name. To go with all the naughty things she’s written to me. Each time I jerk off to her letters, I find myself trying out a different look for her.
Maybe Monica is curvy and voluptuous, with soft, lush thighs and auburn hair.
Maybe Monica is tall and thin with mahogany skin and tight black curls.
Or…maybe Monica is a petite little thing with dark brown hair that flows down to her waist. Large brown doe eyes that would make a better fit on a cartoon princess. Soft, bouncy tits and creamy pale skin.
I stroke myself harder.
Bite me. Squeeze me. Own me like every inch of my body is your territory. Plant your cock inside me like a flag and take complete possession.
My mind replicates a perfect image of the nanny’s sweet face and banging body seconds before I ejaculate all over the top of my sweatpants.
The letter flutters to the floor and my head falls back against the hard couch arm. I emit a loud groan.
This is getting ridiculous. What kind of pathetic loser fantasizes about his kid’s caretaker?
I go into the bathroom and clean myself up with a towel I pull off of the rickety linen shelf.
Dammit—I still have so much hammering and ‘screw-driving’ and repairs ahead of me. And here I am, lusting over the nanny, like I don’t have a care in the world. I have way too much responsibility on my plate to allow myself distractions.
I change into a fresh pair of sweats and exit the bathroom. But as I’m heading back toward the couch, I hear the creak of the upstairs floorboards.
Fuck—did I wake Callie? Did I make too much noise?
I need to go check out the disturbance. Just in case it’s my daughter wandering around alone in the dark on her first night in unfamiliar surroundings.
With a hand on the railing, I quietly climb the stairs. The squeaky sounds lead me all the way into the kitchen.
A flood of light pours into the room where the nanny is bent over with her head inside the fridge, wearing nothing but bright yellow sleep shorts that peek out at the hem of her stretchy white tank top. Her thighs are toned and pale. Her feet are pretty and small. I get a quick mental
