Cheating with the Babysitter

C

The doorbell rang at precisely 7am, signaling the arrival of Meghan Stewart, our babysitter. She lived across the street and two doors down and had been watching our kids on a semi-regular basis for the past three years, since she was fifteen. Cathy and I didn’t need babysitting very often, since Cathy, my wife, was a stay-at-home mom, but whenever we did wish to go out for a night on the town or whenever there was a meeting or some other function that Cathy needed to attend while I was at work, Meghan was a godsend. Since she had never really been much of the outgoing type, she was almost always available in the evenings. In addition, she was reliable, sweet, and our two kids loved her to death. We’d always considered her trustworthy as well, at least until the last babysitting episode two weeks before.

That had been when Cathy and I had tried to spend an enjoyable evening by visiting the restaurant where I’d proposed to her ten years before. But, unfortunately, we’d ended up fighting about the same old stupid things. Why was I wasting my time at the District Attorney’s office instead of going into corporate law, which paid better? Why was she spending our money like I had gone into corporate law? Round and round we’d gone, making our marital problems worse instead of better, until we’d come home thoroughly pissed at each other, me bracing to spend the night on the couch again, her trying to goad me into resuming the argument by making nasty remarks towards me in Meghan’s presence. The discovery I made in the couch cushions while making up my bed for the night only served to add icing to that particularly bitter cake.

I hadn’t told Cathy about what I’d found in the couch, nor did I intend to. She would have simply demanded that we never allow Meghan into our house again. Cathy, apart from being a frustrated social climber, was insanely jealous as well. She had always been somewhat cool towards Meghan, who, though she wasn’t really gorgeous or anything, was cute and young, two things that threatened my wife’s sense of safety more than anything. Nor had I mentioned it to Meghan yet. We hadn’t needed a babysitter since then, and the discovery had occurred after she’d gone home that night. But I needed to mention it to her now, not to embarrass her or chastise her, but just to make sure that what apparently happened in my house that night would not happen again.

I opened the door and there she was on the front porch. She was eighteen, tall, her face cute, her body just on the border of what was considered chunky but still firmly on the right side of that particular line. She was full-figured, almost Amazonian, a body that seemed custom-made for playing softball or volleyball (both of which she had done in high school). Her hair was a dark, honey blonde. Currently it was pulled up in a loose ponytail. She was wearing a pair of baggy sweats and a long tee shirt. She looked sleepy.

“Hey, Steve,” she greeted me, stifling a yawn. “I made it on time.”

“Good morning, Meghan,” I responded. I was dressed in my usual suit and tie, preparatory to heading in to the office. “Thanks for coming over so early. It really is a pain when they make me actually go to court.”

And this was true. As a robbery and burglary specialist, it was rare indeed that I actually had to take someone to trial. Burglars and robbers were usually busted after being tied to multiple offenses and, when they were caught and charged, the evidence against them was usually overwhelming. Many were facing the prospect of doing some hard time, possibly even that dreaded third strike. As such, they were usually happy to take whatever plea bargain I offered. In this particular case, however, the young man I was prosecuting had a public defender that was almost as dumb as he was. Despite video evidence of him sticking up three convenience stores and two fast food establishments, and despite being caught with the gun that had been used in his possession and with his fingerprints all over it, they had elected to plead innocent and fight it out in court. Thus I had to go in early to prepare for jury selection, which was taking place that morning, and would have to stay late prepping for the actual trial, which would start first thing the next morning. Cathy was out of town attending a Mother’s Against Drunk Driving conference in Seattle (MADD was but one of several organizations she volunteered with as a way of getting out of the house), so Meghan had agreed to come over 7am, get the kids off to school, and then come back that afternoon and watch them until I came home.

“What time will you be in?” she asked me. A standard question, of course, and one she certainly had a right to know, but I detected a little hint of something in her eyes.

“Hopefully by 9:30,” I said. “Most certainly by ten.”

She nodded, the little something beginning to look more and more like an actual gleam. “No problem,” she told me. “I’ll be able to get some reading done once I put them to bed.”

Reading, my ass, I thought. Yes, I was definitely going to have to have this discussion with her. I took a deep breath. “Uh… Meghan?”

“Yeah?”

I wasn’t quite sure how to begin. “Well… listen. You’ve been babysitting for us a long time now and you’ve always done a very good job and all and you’ve always been very respectful of our house.”

“Well… thanks,” she said, her gleam fading a little at my tone.

“You’re welcome. But the reason I bring this up is because… well… after the last time you babysat for us… when we went out to dinner… uh… I found a… uh… a condom wrapper in the couch cushions.”

The gleam dissolved like sugar in hot tea. Her face instantly flushed bright red. “A… a… a condom wrapper?” she stammered.

“Yeah,” I said. “Trojan lubricated with reservoir tip, to be exact.”

“I don’t know how something like that could have happened,” she blurted, her eyes looking everywhere but my face. “I mean… couldn’t it be one of yours?”

“I had a vasectomy,” I said. “And even before that, Cathy was on the pill. I haven’t used a condom in more than ten years.”

“But maybe… I mean isn’t it possible that Cathy… you know…”

“Meghan, please,” I said, holding up my hand. “Let’s not go there. Cathy and I haven’t been getting along terribly well lately, but I’m pretty sure she didn’t have sex with someone on the couch and then leave the condom wrapper behind. You, on the other hand, have been dating that one boy… what’s his name?”

“Carl,” she said.

“And I know you told me your parents don’t like him very much and won’t let him come over to your house. Now none of that is any of my business and I’m not trying to make it my business, but I really have to insist that you don’t allow your friends into my house, okay?”

She seemed near tears as she slowly nodded. “Okay,” she said softly. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” I told her. “Just promise me you won’t bring people into my house anymore, okay? For any reason.”

“I promise,” she mumbled.

“Good,” I said, giving her a smile. “Then on that note, I’ll be heading out. I left the coffee on for you.”

She bid me an embarrassed goodbye and a moment later I was out the door.


The day went by. We picked our jury in less than two hours since I didn’t bother using any of my strikes — after all, even the most moronic or pre-conceived juror would have a tough time justifying an acquittal vote in this case. Once the jury was formed, the tedium began. I went back to the office and began going over every last detail of my case, piece by piece. I wasn’t afraid of losing but I certainly didn’t want to forget something vital or make a mistake that would cause me to look like an amateur. As I’d suspected, it took me until nearly nine that night to cover everything.

I drove home somewhat frazzled, tired but too keyed up to feel like getting some sleep just yet. A phone call from Cathy earlier in the day certainly hadn’t helped my state of mind much. She had called my office long distance for no other reason than to pick a fight. She’d started in about leaving the kids with “that girl” for so long, which, of course, soon worked its way into the ever popular, “if you worked for a law firm instead of the county we’d be able to afford a real nanny”.

I rode the argument out. If I had hung up on her she would have called back. If I’d refused to answer she would’ve called my secretary and harassed her instead, embarrassing me, herself, and my poor secretary in the process. She had done it before.

So it is not surprising that as I walked in my front door at 9:25, my brain was fixated on one thing and one thing only. I needed a drink.

Meghan was sitting on the couch when I came in, watching music videos on my plasma television. Thoughts of a drink were temporarily shoved to the side as I got a look at her. She was dressed in a pair of tight cotton shorts and a midriff-baring tee shirt. Her stomach was smooth and unlined, with a gold stud threaded through her belly button. Her shoes had been kicked off, leaving her feet bare, and she was sitting Indian-style, a position that allowed her shorts to creep upwards, revealing an enticing amount of upper thigh.

God, she’s cute, I thought, feeling a wave of lust sweep over me as I took in her form. This was certainly not the first time I’d had such a feeling about her. On the contrary, I’d always enjoyed looking at her, particularly in the last year or so when she’d truly blossomed into a young woman. I had never been the least bit flirtatious with her, however. Despite my marital problems I was basically an honest, decent guy. I was far from lecherous, at least in the overt sense of the word.

She gave me a weak smile as the door closed behind me and I set my briefcase down.

“Kids go to bed okay?” I asked her.

She nodded. “Yeah. I read them a story and they went right to sleep at nine. They were good.”

“Perfect,” I said. “Thanks again for hanging out so long.”

She nodded again, her face somewhat sour. It was obvious that something was wrong with her. Was it just embarrassment over having been caught fornicating on my couch? Or was there something else there? Perhaps she was mad that getting caught had ruined the chance for another encounter on this evening. Whatever it was, it really wasn’t my business. I took one last look at her sexy bare legs and that even sexier expanse of upper thigh revealed by the way she was sitting and then my mind returned to the main task at hand. That drink.

“Six hours tonight, right?” I asked Meghan.

She nodded.

“I’ll write you a check in just a second,” I told her. “But first, I really need to pour myself a little something. It’s been… you know… one of those days.”

She let out a little laugh, a sharp, cynical laugh. “Oh yes,” she said. “I know.”

“You too, huh?”

“You have no idea,” she said.

I left it at that and walked over to the wet bar in the corner of the family room. I took off my suit jacket, draping it over one of the bar stools and then took off my tie, draping it over the suit jacket. I unbuttoned the top button on my dress shirt and then took down a bottle of imported Russian vodka and a martini shaker. I poured a triple shot of the vodka in, added some ice and some vermouth, and then began shaking. As I was straining my concoction it into a martini glass Meghan walked over to watch.

“Breaking out the big guns tonight, huh?” she asked.

“You know it,” I replied, opening the small refrigerator and pulling out a jar of green olives. I used my finger to swipe one out and dropped it into my drink.

“So… that’s like a martini?” she asked.

“Well, a purist would say that a true martini contains gin instead of vodka, but basically, yes.”

She chewed her lip nervously for a second. “Do you think that… you know… maybe I could have one too?”

I looked at her pointedly. “You just turned eighteen, right?”

“Two months ago,” she said. “It’s not like I haven’t drank before.”

I sighed. “And if I do make you a martini,” I said, “you’re not going to be coming over here every day asking me to buy booze for you, are you?”

“No,” she said. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“And you’re not going to go home and tell your parents that Steve, the respected deputy district attorney with the ninety-seven percent conviction and/or plea rate got you drunk?”

That got a little giggle out of her. “No,” she said. “I swear.”

I shrugged, knowing that I was treading on slightly dangerous ground here, but figuring, what the hell? At the very least I might get another look up her shorts. Maybe I’d even get to see what color panties she was wearing. “Okay,” I told her. “You talked me into it. But why don’t you taste mine first before I make you one. I have a feeling you might not like it too much.”

She picked up my glass, smelled it, and then took a drink. Her face contorted instantly into a grimace of disgust. “Ewww,” she said, breathing through her mouth to try to flush the aftertaste. “That tastes like gasoline.”

“I warned you,” I told her, amused. “Martinis, like fine wines, are an acquired taste.” I reached down into the bar and pulled out a bottle of apple schnapps. “Let me make you something that’s probably a little more to your taste.”

“Please,” she said.

I poured a double shot of the vodka into the shaker, added a shot of the apple schnapps, and then put in some more ice. I shook it and then strained it into a martini glass for her. The resulting mixture was a pale emerald color. I handed it over to her. “Try this,” I said.

“What is it?” she asked, giving another careful sniff.

“An apple martini, also known as an appletini, although no self-respecting male would ever be heard saying that term. It’s supposed to have an apple slice in it for garnish but I’m fresh out of apples at the moment.”

She took a small sip and her eyes lit up. “Hey, that’s good,” she said. She took a bigger drink. “It’s really good.”

“And it keeps the doctor away,” I said. “Shall we go grab a seat?”

“Sure,” she said, seeming to cheer up the smallest bit.

She turned and walked back to the couch. As she did so I had opportunity to get a good look at her ass. Her cotton shorts were of the kind that had a word printed across the butt. That word was: ANGEL. Protruding from the bottom of her angel shorts, the barest beginning of the swelling of her buttocks was plainly visible.

“Wow,” I mumbled to myself, as I watched said buttocks rise and fall with her movements. I wondered how angelic she really was and then cursed myself for having such a thought.

We sat on the sectional couch, her on one side, me around the L from her, about four feet separating us. She took another drink of her appletini, a much larger one this time.

“I think I found myself a new drink,” she announced.

“Just be careful with them,” I warned. “They pack quite a punch.”

She giggled. “That’s just what I look for in a drink.”

We talked of easy things as we sat there — her part-time job at the local pet store, her plans to go to college “some day”, after she secured a job that allowed her to move out of her parent’s home, the “overprotective” nature of her parents. Gradually, as the drinks went into our stomachs, the awkwardness as a result of the condom wrapper discussion faded away, allowing its emergence as a topic.

“I’m so embarrassed, Steve,” she told me. “About everything. You finding the wrapper, having Carl in your house, trying to lie to you about it.” She shook her head in disgust at herself. “Will you ever trust me again?”

“I trusted you today, didn’t I?” I asked.

“Well… yeah, but you still must’ve been wondering and worrying the whole time about me having him over again.” She hefted her now-empty glass. “Can I have another one?”

My own glass was empty by this point and I could already feel the warmth in my empty stomach, the swimming in my head, as the triple shot coursed through my system. My better judgment, which was usually quite sound, had taken a hit as well, since serving her another drink didn’t seem like a bad idea at all. “Sure,” I told her, standing up and grabbing both glasses. “Another round, coming up.”

I began to mix up a couple of fresh ones. “Anyway,” I told her as I poured free hand instead of measuring, “I was pretty confident that you wouldn’t have your boyfriend over tonight.”

“Were you?”

“Uh huh,” I said. “Mostly because you’re a good kid and I know you wouldn’t blatantly defy me.”

“That’s true.”

“But also because there wouldn’t have been too much time for you to do anything. I mean, the kids go to bed at nine and I told you I could be home as early as 9:30. That doesn’t leave a lot of time for indiscretions on the couch, does it?”

She laughed. “With Carl it does,” she said. “He could’ve gone twice and still had time to smoke a cigarette between rounds.”

I looked over at her and saw that she was blushing again. “Oh really?” I said.

“Oh my God,” she said. “I can’t believe I said that out loud. Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” I assured her, amused. I finished up her drink and strained it into her glass. I then quickly constructed a new drink for myself. When they were done, I carried both back to the couch. “Here you go, my lady,” I said, handing her hers.

“Thanks,” she said, still blushing. She immediately took a large drink of it.

“Anyway,” I said, resuming my seat. “I wouldn’t be too hard on Carl if I were you. He’s still young. What is he, nineteen?”

“Twenty,” she said.

I nodded. “Twenty year old guys don’t really know how to… uh… you know… control themselves too well yet. Sex is something that takes a long time to perfect.”

“So it does get better?” she asked.

“Well… it depends on the guy of course. I mean, some guys never learn how to do it right. But, for the most part, the older and more experienced a guy is, the better he will be at making love.”

“Hmmm,” she said thoughtfully, a slight gleam returning to her eyes, a gleam that seemed to be directed at me this time. “Very interesting.”

Now it was me who was embarrassed as it occurred to me that she might’ve taken my words of advice the wrong way. “In any case,” I said, “I was reasonably sure you wouldn’t try to bring anyone over tonight and that you won’t do it in the future.”

“I won’t,” she said. “Besides, I’m not sure that Carl and I are going to be going out too much anymore.”

“Oh?”

She took another large drink of her appletini. “We had a big fight tonight — on the phone that is.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.

She shrugged. “It ain’t no big. I mean, it wasn’t really working out with him anyway. The only reason he wanted to be with me was to… you know… have sex with me. That’s what we fought about. That’s all we ever fight about.”

“About sex?”

She nodded. “He… well… he was going to try to come over tonight.” She cast her eyes down. “I’m sorry, but that was before I knew you knew about… you know… the last time.”

“I understand,” I told her. “Believe me, I’m not offended by what you did. Believe it or not, I was a teenager once too and I did it more than once in someone else’s house while my girlfriend was babysitting. My concern was not about you having sex — after all, you’re a big girl now — but about having people I don’t know in my house. And at least I know you’re using protection, right?”

She giggled a little. “That’s a big part of what the fight was about,” she said. “Those damn rubbers.”

“You fought about rubbers?”

“Well, that was part of it anyway. When I told him that you knew what we had done the last time and that you made it… you know… clear that he wasn’t supposed to come over, he asked me how you’d known. So I told him that he’d left his freakin’ condom wrapper in the couch.”

“Which is better than leaving the actual condom in the couch, I will admit,” I told her.

She laughed. “That would just be gross,” she said. “Anyway, when I told him that, he blamed it all on me.”

“On you? Because he left a condom wrapper in the couch? How’s that?”

“Because I make him use the condoms,” she said. “He told me if I’d just do it like everyone else and get on the pill or use that whole timing thing, none of this would’ve happened.”

“He sounds like a real prince all right,” I said, and then blurted out something I wouldn’t have had I not had a drink and a half in my system. “Why do you use the condoms anyway? Shouldn’t you get on the pill if you’re going to be sexually active?”

She was unoffended. “I’m not that sexually active,” she said. “Carl is only the third guy I’ve ever done it with and he’s only the second one I’ve done it with more than once. If I got on the pill my parents would find out about it and would think I was a total slut.”

She shook her head. “No, I’m not ready for that yet. Maybe when I get a real boyfriend, one who likes me for me and not just so he can screw me, maybe then I’ll think about getting on the pill, but I don’t think that’s gonna be happening anytime soon.”

“No?”

“No,” she fumed. “I’m starting to think that maybe the lesbians have it right. Guys are a bunch of assholes — excuse my language.”

“You’re excused,” I said. “And you’re right. A lot of us are assholes — present company excepted.”

Another laugh. “No, you’re not an asshole at all. In fact, you’re very sweet. When I finally find the right guy, I think he’s gonna be someone just like you.”

“A married deputy DA with two kids?”

She slapped at my arm. “No, silly, just a nice guy. A guy who knows how to listen.” She downed the rest of her drink. “One more?” she asked.

“Okay,” I told her, taking her glass. “But that’s it. You drink any more after that and you’ll be smashed. I don’t really want to explain to your parents how you got smashed at my house.”

“One more,” she agreed. “And I promise I won’t rat you out.”

I made her a fresh drink and, even though my own was still half full, I refreshed it as well. When I sat down on the couch I saw that Meghan had turned towards me a little more, which served to open up the view of the hem of her shorts again. It was even higher than it had been before, not quite high enough to get a peek at her panties, but up there. The crotch had also pulled tight, outlining the swelling of her mons and giving more than a hint of the split just beneath. I had to tear my eyes away from the sight to keep from springing an erection.

“Thank you,” Meghan said as she took her latest drink. “These really are good.”

“I’m glad you like them,” I said.

She took a thoughtful sip and then slapped at my arm again. “Did you know that I used to have the biggest crush on you?” she asked.

Actually, I did know that. When we’d first employed her as a babysitter — back when she’d been a tomboyish fifteen year old — her puppy love for me had been obvious. But I played dumb. “No,” I told her. “I didn’t know that.”

“It’s true,” she said whimsically. “I used to dream that I was married to you, that you would take me to my prom dates, that you’d pick me up from school and drive me home.” She shook her head. “Silly little girl dreams, I know.”

“I’m very flattered,” I said. “I trust you’re over that now?”

She gave me a saucy look. “Maybe,” she said.

Now it was my turn to flush. For the first time, the inappropriateness of what was going on here tried to worm its way into my brain. I opened my mouth to tell her that maybe I should go get my checkbook and pay her so she could go home. But before I could do that, she blindsided me.

“Did you ever feel that way about me?” she asked.

Now it was my eyes that were having difficulty meeting hers. “Uh… well…” I stammered, unsure what to say.

“It’s okay,” she said, a slight frown touching her face. “You don’t have to answer. I’m just a fat little girl. Someone like you would never be interested in me. Forget I asked.”

“You’re not fat, Meghan,” I told her. “Not even a little.”

“You don’t have to make me feel better,” she said. “I mean, look at me. They’re never going to ask me to model bras in the newspaper.”

“Maybe not, but those models are all emaciated freaks. You’re a very beautiful young woman.”

“You’re just saying that,” she said.

“Not at all,” I assured her. “You’re very cute, very nicely proportioned, and, if you don’t mind my saying so, I think you’re sexy as hell.”

“Really?” she asked, beaming, scooting just a tad closer. In the process, her shorts rode up just a little bit more, finally exposing a hint of the panties beneath. My eyes dropped involuntarily down, seeing that they were pale pink in color.

“Really,” I said, swallowing nervously and putting my eyes back on her face. “If I were your age and single, you’d had to fight me off.”

She smiled. “You’re sweet,” she said. “And I wouldn’t fight you very hard, either.”

“That’s uh… good to know,” I mumbled, stealing another quick peek at her exposed panties. I just couldn’t help myself.

“So… so… are you saying you have thought of me that way?” she asked me.

“Yes, Meghan,” I admitted. “I have thought of you that way.”

She let her legs fall apart just a little more, widening the view of her panties. I could now see a stretch more than half an inch wide, more than three inches long, including the elastic portion along the edge. The combination of the conversation we were engaged in and my fleeting views between her legs caused my cock to begin the normal biological reaction.

“Are you thinking of me that way right now?” she asked softly.

“I’m uh… going to have to take the fifth on that one,” I replied.

She swallowed a little more of her drink. “You are, aren’t you?” she asked, leaning a little closer. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“Uh… sure.”

She gave a nervous giggle. “The first time I ever… you know… had an orgasm, I was thinking of you.”

I quite literally didn’t know what to say to this. My mouth dropped open as a surge of adrenaline went shooting through me and the rational part of my mind tried to activate the warning system that things were getting out of hand here.

“I shocked you,” Meghan said, seeming far from upset by this. “I’m sorry. The booze is making me say things I shouldn’t.”

“That’s uh… okay. Once again, I’m uh… flattered, but…”

“I was fifteen,” she said, before I could finish.

“Fifteen?”

“The first time I came,” she said. “I was lying in my bed and I started… you know… playing with myself. I’d done that before, of course, but never to… you know… completion. But I was really horny that night, the horniest I’d ever been before.”

“Really?” I said, knowing I should make her stop but unable. The vision of her lying in bed and playing with herself was powerfully erotic.

“Uh huh,” she confirmed. “And that was when my crush on you was the strongest. God I was so hot for you. I would’ve done anything for you. So there I was, my hand in my panties, my fingers going crazy, and it started to feel better and better. And then I started imagining it was your hand down there. And then I started to imagine you were kissing me and touching my boobs. I got hotter and hotter and really, really wet. And then I imagined you… you know… taking out your… your thing and putting it inside of me.” She shook her head and sighed. “That did it. I exploded right there on my bed. I moaned so loud my mom asked me if I was all right.”

My cock was now a solid ramrod in my pants. I had had many women talk nasty to me over the years — on the phone, in person, in text messages, in email — but never had mere talk aroused me as much as what Meghan had just said. It wasn’t so much her words, it was the matter-of-fact, almost naïve way she’d told the story, the way she blushed as the words came out of her mouth, the way her eyes sparkled with a mixture of embarrassment and arousal.

Her eyes dropped down to the crotch of my pants where a prominent and obvious bulge had formed. “That turned you on, didn’t it?” she asked, not with teasing, but with something like awe.

“Yeah,” I had to answer. “Very much.”

“Wow,” she whispered. “It turned me on too. It always turns me on to think about that.”

End this conversation right now! a part of my mind screamed at me. This is leading nowhere good. I didn’t listen. Perhaps I would have if not for the fact that it had been almost four weeks since Cathy and I had last had sex, that it had more than a week since I’d even whacked off. I had a major back-up of testosterone going on and sitting before me was an attractive young girl telling me that she had masturbated to my image, that my image had in fact been responsible for her very first orgasm. And her legs had come a little farther apart as well, showing more of her pink panties to me, more of her smooth inner thigh.

“I still think of you when I play with myself,” Meghan told me, pounding a few more nails in the coffin.

“Do you?” I asked her.

“Yes,” she whispered. “God, Steve, I’m so wet right now.”

Meghan, you really need to leave. I meant to say that. I opened my mouth to say that, I swear before all that is holy and sacred. But that’s not what came out of my mouth. “Are you?” I asked instead.

She nodded. “Very,” she said, her hand dropping down to her upper thigh. “Would you think I was sick if I…” She took a deep breath. “If I were to… touch myself right now?”

I nearly choked. “You mean… right here?” I asked.

“I feel like I’m going to explode if I don’t,” she said, her fingers creeping a little further up her thigh.

“Meghan,” I said, my voice shaky, my hands trembling, “this is a really bad idea.”

“Please?” she pleaded, her fingers now touching the elastic edge of the panties, one fingertip stroking along it, one manicured nail scratching on it. “I’d really love to look at you while I play with myself, Steve. To see your face as I make myself come.”

My tremors grew worse, my eyes now unabashedly staring between her legs.

“You could do it too,” she said. “We could watch each other. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?”

There was, of course, a whole lot wrong with that, but her logic combined with the alcohol and my horniness refused to allow my brain to acknowledge that. She was offering to show her pussy to me! To play with it in front of me! To allow me to play with my cock while I watched her do this! And it wasn’t really cheating. Not in the strict and legal sense of the word. It was just visual stimulation. Nothing more, really, than looking at a pornographic video, right? “No,” I said. “I guess there really isn’t.”

She smiled nervously and licked her lips. Her left hand came down and slid into the edge of her panties. Slowly, she pulled them to the side, dragging the crotch of her shorts there with them, revealing her bare pussy to my gaze. It was beautiful, exquisite, everything an eighteen-year-old pussy should be. The area surrounding the lips was shaved smooth. The lips themselves were pink and slightly swollen, glistening with moisture.

“This is so hot,” she whispered as she leaned back into the corner of the couch and spread her legs a little wider. While her left hand continued to hold her shorts and panties to the side, her right began to play, the fingers sliding up and down between her lips, delving a few millimeters between them.

“Jesus,” I whispered, enthralled, my cock now begging for release.

“Take it out,” Meghan told me, pleading. “I want to watch you do it too.”

I reached down, opening my belt and unbuttoning my pants, doing it entirely by feel, not moving my eyes from her pussy for even a second. I unzipped and then raised my hips up a little. Doubt tried to push its way into my brain again — you’re not really going to take your cock out in front of Meghan, are you? — but I pushed it right back. This was just visual stimulation. Nothing wrong with it. It wasn’t like I was going to fuck her or anything.

I pushed my pants and underwear down to mid-thigh, allowing my rigid cock to spring out. Meghan’s eyes locked onto it as it hit the air. Her breathing took on a heavier tone and her fingers began to move faster in her slit, to slide further inside of her body between strokes.

“Play with it, Steve,” she told me. “I’ve never seen a guy do that. Play with it.”

I started playing with it, taking myself in hand as I’d done a thousand times before. I slid my hand slowly up and down, knowing that if I went after myself aggressively I wouldn’t last thirty seconds. Through it all I kept my eyes glued to Meghan, drinking in the sight of her masturbating for me, watching as her lips grew wetter and more swollen, as her clit popped out of its hood, begging for attention of its own.

“Oh… Steve,” she moaned. “This is so hot, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” I breathed, my strokes going a little faster now as she started playing with her clit.

“Do you like my pussy?” she asked. “I just shaved it this morning.”

“Yes,” I said. “It’s beautiful.”

“Mmmm,” she moaned, flicking at her clit a little more. “Ohhhh, oh, Steve. Your cock is so nice. So big and hard. Will you put it in me?”

I swallowed nervously. Hadn’t I known that she would ask that at some point? I tried to maintain my willpower. “I can’t, Meghan. Let’s just keep doing what we’re doing, okay?”

“Oh please, Steve,” she moaned. “Just for a second? I’ve never had one inside me without a rubber on it. I just want to know how it feels to go bareback.”

“Meghan…”

“Please,” she begged. “Just put it in once and then you can take it out. Just let me feel what it’s like?” She stopped diddling herself and spread her lips open instead. “Just once?”

I found myself standing up. My pants and underwear fell down around my ankles. It wouldn’t really hurt to put it in her just once, would it? I mean, the poor girl just wanted to experience the bareback sensation. You couldn’t blame her for that, could you? And it wasn’t really cheating if I just put it in and pulled it back out. Not really. It was more like an education thing, right?

“Just once,” I told her. “Just once.”

“Yesss,” she moaned. “Just once.”

Her legs opened wider as I stepped forward. I put my knees on the couch between them and leaned forward. Her left hand stayed in her crotch, continuing to hold her shorts and panties to the side. Her right hand came up to my face and stroked it. I leaned forward, supporting myself with my right arm by putting it behind her head. With my left, I took my cock in hand and aimed it between her wet, slippery lips. The head made contact and I slid it up and down a few times, prepping it for its one (and only one) trip into Meghan’s body.

“Do it,” Meghan panted, her hand sliding down onto my neck. “Put it in. Let me feel it.”

I pushed forward with my hips. My cock met a little bit of friction for the barest of seconds and then slid slowly and smoothly inside of her. She was hot and wet and tight. We both moaned as I bottomed out, as my balls came to rest against her ass.

“That feels soooo good,” Meghan said in my ear.

“Yesss,” I whispered, just sitting there, unwilling to pull it out just yet.

“Just a couple of strokes in me?” she asked. “Just for a few seconds?”

I didn’t even bother trying to rationalize this one. I just nodded and allowed my hips to start moving. I gave her a grind and then pulled back until my cock was just about free of her. I slid back in, bottoming out once more and giving another, longer grind. Meghan moaned loudly in obvious approval so I did it again. And then again. And then I did it even more, starting to move a little faster within her, to push a little harder against her.

“Lay on top of me, Steve,” she said. “Lay on me while you fuck me.”

I leaned forward, allowing my chest to press against hers, feeling the softness of her breasts beneath her shirt. She pulled my head down to hers and kissed me, her tongue sliding into my mouth. I kissed her back enthusiastically, swirling my tongue with hers, sucking on it. She tasted strongly of apples.

We kissed and rutted against each other. I could feel her juices wetting my balls now, could smell the sexy aroma of her musk permeating the air around us. Her free hand slid down to my ass and began to stroke it, to squeeze it. My free hand slid under her shirt, worming its way upward, probing beneath her bra, until I was cupping her bare tit.

Meghan broke the kiss. She was panting like a dog, sweat breaking out on her flushed face. “You’re gonna make me… make me… I’m gonna come, Steve! Don’t stop. Don’t stop!”

I didn’t stop. In fact, I began to fuck her harder, almost slamming her with each stroke, angling my hips upward in order to stimulate her clitoral nerves. Her hips began to rise and fall against me in response. Our mouths came back together and we kissed hotly, wetly, obscenely, as her orgasm overtook her, as her body shook and shuddered against mine.

It took her almost a minute to work her way through the spasms. As it faded she broke the kiss and locked eyes with me. “Come in me,” she whispered. “Come in my pussy, Steve. No one has ever been able to do that before. I want to feel it. I want to know what its like.”

“Yes,” I said. “Oh yes.”

“Ohhh, do it,” she moaned. “Give it to me!”

I gave it to her. It was a simple matter of moving my thrusts into overdrive, of squeezing her tit a little harder, of kissing her sweet mouth and sucking her tongue. The pressure built upward and the waves of pleasure began to spread. She felt the tightness of my body and began to moan against me, saying, “do it, do it, do it” between kisses. The peak built up rapidly but with a power I’d not felt in years. I began to shake and shudder. My breath tore in and out of my lungs. Meghan stuck her tongue as far down my throat as she could, her pelvis thrust back at me, matching my erratic strokes. And then the peak arrived and I exploded, blasting the inside of her body with solid jets of hot come.

“Yesssss!” Meghan screamed out, the sensation apparently sending her into another orgasm of her own. “Yes, yes, yessssssss!”

And finally, it was over. I collapsed atop her, my wilting cock still buried within her body. She removed her hand from between her legs so she could put both of them around my back and pull me tighter against her. We shared another long, luxuriant kiss, this one sexy and sweet instead of lustful.

When the kiss broke at last we looked at each other, both of us unsure what to say, what to do next.

“That was incredible,” Meghan finally whispered. “I never knew it could be like that. So… so… hot and sexy.”

“Yes,” I said, feeling guilt and doubt wanting to work its way into my consciousness but keeping them barred for the moment. “That was extremely erotic, Meghan. You are very sexy.”

She smiled, leaning up to give me an almost chaste kiss. “Thank you,” she said.

We lay like that for quite some time, not talking, not thinking, just holding each other and sharing the occasional kiss. We knew that when we let each other go, the time for thinking would begin. And that would lead to the time for talking about what had just happened. I think both of us wanted to delay that moment as long as we could. Neither one of us were ready to wonder about what would happen tomorrow.

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George B. J. Martin

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