Apologies To The Sitter

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*****

It all began when I happened to be out of town on business. While out with colleagues for the obligatory cocktail after a long day of mindless seminars, I received a text from my wife, Cynthia, that I should call her as soon as I was alone.

I knew that she, being a high powered attorney in her own right, had had a function that night with some clients that she had desperately wanted me to attend. The client was very wealthy, and apparently a bit handsy, but there was little she could say about it if she wanted to keep the account. Of course I would have given her permission to fuck him, if she had wanted to, but he was too old and too creepy and she wanted nothing to do with him.

When I explained that I was unable to play knight in shining armor, I advised her to explain the situation to a colleague, and let him run interference. I figured the text was signaling her desire to tell me about the evening. IF it had been urgent, she wouldn't have implied for me to wait until I was alone. I wondered if her colleague had tried something, I knew Cynthia had a crush on him, but I made it a policy to not allow her to play with men she worked with. It gets complicated if you mix your relationships.

What no one would likely guess is that Cynthia, behind the six figure job and the austere business dress, was completely and utterly submissive to me sexually. We had come to a point, after 10 years of marriage, that she was not allowed to masturbate herself to orgasm unless I was present and had given her permission to do so. Before the birth of our only child, it was not uncommon for Cynthia to spend the entire weekend in nothing but a corset and heels, ready to be used in whatever way I had imagined.

On a few occasions I had introduced her to clients as a prepaid whore for their pleasure. They never guessed she was my wife, or if they did they were too busy fucking her perfect frame to care. She was taller, about 5'9" with light brown hair that hung straight, just past her shoulders. When we met she was playing tennis in college, but after having a child, her athletic figure gave way to a bit softer curves, and now she sported C cup breasts with hips that gave her a bit of an hourglass shape.

With a kid we had toned it down a bit. But after bedtime, out came the submissive in Cynthia. This weekend I had instructed her that she was supposed to touch herself every night for no more than 10 minutes, but under no circumstance was she allowed to cum. If she came while I was away, there would be consequences.

I finished my drink and politely said goodnight to my colleagues, as I stepped off the elevator on my room's floor, I called her. "Hey Cyn, what's going on?"

"Oh John," she began, "I've been bad, I tried to obey, but I just... couldn't... help myself."

I smirked as I imagined the possibilities. With her event tonight, being out, drinking, there's no telling what had happened. I remained stoic as I said, "Go on."

"It's all Maggie's fault." She said.

Now back in my hotel room, I thought to myself, "Now that is interesting." Maggie was our sitter. She lived next door and was just a kid when we moved in. In the time we've been there she blossomed into quite a young woman. I wouldn't say beautiful, exactly, though you could. A better word would be cute. Even at 18 she was only 5'2" and couldn't be more than 100 lbs. She had inherited her mother's classic Irish features, curly red hair, clear blue eyes, and a near button for a nose that scrunched up in a darling way when she was angry. Of course she had also inherited a bit of a temper, and in younger days often found herself taking refuge at our house after a fight with her parents.

Maggie had just graduated from high school and saving up to college in the fall, so we always asked her to sit for us. Our boy loved her, and who wouldn't? But aside from a stray thought here or there, we never thought of her as much more than the kid next door.

That changed when my wife explained how "it" was all "Maggie's fault."

Cynthia's client meeting had been uneventful, mostly because the client wasn't feeling well, which ended the evening early. Instead of arriving home well after eleven as she had informed Maggie to expect, Cynthia found herself returning home a little after nine.

Finding the living room deserted, Cynthia crept upstairs expecting Maggie to be dealing with a fussy toddler. But no, the toddler was sound asleep. Not wanting to wake our child, Cynthia continued quietly back downstairs expecting Maggie to be finishing in the bathroom.

When she returned downstairs, however, the bathroom door was open and dark. Just as Cynthia began to worry that something had happened, she heard a a noise down the hallway and noticed the light to the master bedroom was on.

Still being quiet out of habit for no other reason, Cynthia called out in a hushed voice, "Maggie? Is that..?" but the sight in front her struck Cynthia dumb.

There on our bed was our babysitter, Maggie, lying flat on her back, knees up, pleated skirt fallen back on her waist. Her thighs were splayed wide, revealing both her cotton panties and the fact that her right hand was buried inside of them, furiously rubbing her young cunt.

Her head was pressed back into our pillows, blue eyes shut tight, soft pink mouth open and panting. If she hadn't heard Cynthia, it was because she was speaking aloud to her imagined lover, "Fuck me, fuck this tight young cunt. Much tighter than your slut wife's. Come on give it to me, Mr. Richards."

Of course, I am likely the "Mr. Richards" in questions, and the revelation that little Maggie fantasized about me fucking her had my cock hard.

My wife described this scene and then told me, "John, you should have seen her. Oh God John, she was so soft and sweet, but those things coming out of her mouth." she paused, "they were so... filthy."

"Indeed," I smiled, "It seems our Maggie is all grown up. So what did you do?"

"Well I couldn't help it," Cynthia started again, "When I heard her say your name I just cried out 'Maggie!' in a bit of shock. She immediately shot up, her eyes went wide, and she looked terrified. I tried to gather my thoughts and say something, but watching her and made my throat go dry."

"She must have been terrified," I added. "Were you able to speak to her?"

"She jumped up and out of the room so quickly, I almost had to run to follow her to the front door," my wife explained. "All I could say was something like, 'Were you talking about me and John?' but I'm afraid she just collapsed into herself, grabbed her bag and said, 'I'm sorry, I should go.' And before I could stop her, she was gone."

"Poor girl," I added sympathetically. It really is terrifying to be caught masturbating, but in someone else's house, thinking about them, that would be shattering.

I suddenly remembered how my wife had started the conversation. "So what exactly was Maggie's fault?"

"Well," my wife began, "A little shell shocked by the speed of the situation, I went back to our bedroom and sat on the bed. I noticed that it wasn't just that she was getting off on our bed while thinking of you. She discovered our trunk."

Our trunk. The place where we kept all of our sexual devices and BDSM accoutrements. Maggie had apparently been snooping in our room and found our stash of vibrators, handcuffs, riding crops, whips, and paddles. Apparently one of the crops was laying on the bed as if Maggie had been using it on herself.

"I know you told me not to cum while you were away," Cynthia continued, "but when I found the crop on the bed, my mind went back to Maggie's milky white thighs stretched wide, and how intently her hand moved under her panties."

Cynthia sighed into the phone as I began to stroke my cock.

"John, I just couldn't help thinking about how she had used one of our toys, maybe more, on her tight little body. And as I touched myself I began to imagine what it would look like for your thick cock to stretch her tight cunt as she said all those filthy things."

My wife was whining again into the phone, obviously rubbing her clit as my own cock swelled from my attention. She continued, "I imagined you making me watch as you fucked her. You do want to fuck her don't you, sir?"

My wife had slipped into her submissive role, and I was eager to answer, "Who I fuck is my business, slut."

"Yes sir," whined, "Of course sir, but she's so small compared to me. I bet what she says is true. I bet her cunt would be so tight on your cock that it would perverse to watch you fill her."

My own hand was moving quickly now, breathing becoming heavy as I tried to imagine what my wife had witnessed. Cynthia said, "As I thought all these things, I just had to cum, sir. I just had to. And I'm going to again." Her breathing became sharp and she let out several high pitched squeals as she came into the phone. The sound of her breaking the rules, the image of our sitter Maggie on our bed, and thoughts of things to come were too much for me and I released my cum right along with her.

"Cynthia, sweetheart," I said softly into the phone. "You will need to be punished for violating my rules."

"Yes sir, I know." She said still panting heavily from her orgasm.

"And I certainly hope you didn't ruin our relationship with Maggie by chasing her off."

"I know sir," she said, "Should I do anything?"

"No, not yet," I told her. "I'll be home tomorrow afternoon, and I hope I can take care of it. I think part of your punishment will necessarily be making a proper apology to young Maggie."

"Yes sir," she agreed, "Whatever you think is best sir."

When my plane landed the next day, I sent a text to Maggie. I figured a phone call may be a bit too aggressive and I didn't mean to scare her off. A text allows for a kind of distance, the recipient can take time to consider it, muster words and confidence, before responding. A phone call under such circumstances might come off as intimidating, and what I wanted was to be inviting.

My text read, "Spoke with Cynthia last night. Don't worry, but I think we should have a talk. Come by the house at 9 tonight."

Notice that I didn't ask if she would come, but I told her to come. While not everyone is a true submissive, most people are eager to do what they're told. If you ask a question, however, like "Can you come over?" then you open yourself to the wrong answer.

Sure enough, Maggie texted back after about 10 minutes. "Okay, I'll come."

When I arrived home, I told Cynthia what I had planned, and what I expected of her. There was, as I expected, some resistance.

"Oh John, please don't make me do that." We were alone in our bedroom. I remained silently holding her gaze. As with Maggie's invitation, I hadn't asked, I had ordered. Cynthia hesitated searching my face for a sign of weakness.

She continued, "But she's just a kid really, you can't know how she'll react. I mean, what if she freaks out and tells the whole neighborhood?" I remained silently intent.

Finally, "Okay, John, I'll be a good girl. I'll do as I'm told."

I smiled and kissed her forehead. "That's my girl. As soon as the little guy is down, I expect you to get changed. Stay in the bedroom until I call for you."

Around 10 minutes to 9, I poured myself a scotch and took a seat in our living room. I decided a certain air of authority was necessary for the evening so I had dressed in slacks and a dress shirt. I was wearing a grey sports coat, but no tie. A tie would have been too restricting, too unwelcoming, too severe.

I could guess Maggie's mind based on how long I would have to wait. If she arrives early, that would make her eager to see me, late and it meant she was fearful and dreading the encounter. If she turned up right on time, then I knew she was trying to impress with punctuality, overly conscious of details.

No sooner had the grandfather clock in our foyer began to chime the hour did the doorbell ring. I smiled to myself. Control is about paying attention to details. I was beginning to form a picture of Maggie's personality. Of course I had known her for years, but I had never considered what she was to be trained as a Dom or a sub, I had never considered her that way at all.

I opened the door and she stood in front of me. For the evening she had chosen a flowered sundress that fit her frame well. It was nice, but not overly formal. I was glad she had chosen not to where jeans and a t shirt. Her legs and arm were bare, her red curls hung down to her shoulders. She bit her lower lip apprehensively.

"Ahh, Maggie, welcome," I stood aside and motioned her in. "I'm so glad you could come by, let's have a seat in the living room."

She glanced around as she moved to the sofa. Taking a seat on the edge of the cushion, she sat demurely, her bare knees held together as her dress rode up, but she crossed her ankles and folded her hands in her lap.

I followed her in, held up my glass of scotch and rattled the ice ever so slightly. "Can I get you a drink?"

"I'm only 18," she replied shyly.

"Yes," I nodded, "but I think we're all adults here. Don't you?"

She nodded, "I'll just have water, though."

"Suit yourself." I refreshed my drink and noticed her glancing around.

"Is Mrs. Richards here?" She asked trying to peer down the long hall to our bedroom.

I smiled softly, "Yes, she'll join us in a moment." I took a sip of my scotch as her eyes looked everywhere but at me.

"I hear you two had quite the encounter the other day," I said.

"Oh god," she buried her face in her hands, "I'm so sorry, please don't tell my parents."

"What?" I acted surprised, "No, not at all. In fact it's Cynthia who should be apologizing to you." She looked at me confused. "You were in the middle of a private moment, Maggie, she had no right to disturb you like that."

"But I was in your bedroom," she sounded shocked, making the case against herself.

"We've never told you not to go in there," I paused, "I'm pretty sure we told you to make yourself at home."

"But I..." her voice trailed to a whisper, "I was looking through your... your..."

"Our trunk?" I chuckled at her discomfort. "Yes, I suppose I might be upset by that, but truth is I'm proud of your curiosity. When we first had you sit for us a couple of years ago, Cynthia and I would laugh about all the horrible secrets you might find snooping around our house when we were gone."

She was trying to process this, so I continued, "When I was young and left alone in my house, of course I snooped. What I learned from the back of my father's closet was quite eye opening. Such curiosity is..." I trailed off looking for the right words, "A rite of passage. Curiosity is how we learn. Curiosity is how we grow."

By now she was staring at me intently, she had begun chewing on her fingernail as she studied me and the conversation.

"Maggie," I started again, "I called you over because I wanted to let you know that everything was alright." She relaxed a little. "But I also called you over because I was curious."

She tensed again, she almost whispered, "About what?"

"Well Cynthia told me that the only item removed from the trunk was a single paddle. She found it lying in the middle of the bed. I wanted to know why you chose that item."

"Um," she hesitated, "I don't know."

"Yes you do," I countered. "Was it because you liked the idea of having it used on you?"

"No!" She blurted out despite herself. "I think I should go."

I sat back, "You can leave if you like, but it seems only fair that since you know so much about us, that we might know something about you."

"Oh," was her reply. She fidgeted in her seat. I wondered about the internal struggle between embarrassment and curiosity, between horror and desire. She stayed seated, so I could guess which was winning.

"Well," she said nervously, "I like the paddle because I like the idea of it."

"Which idea?" I asked, "Having it used on you, or you using it on someone else."

She blushed, "Um, no. I like the idea of you using it on Mrs. Richards."

I'll admit, that surprised me a little, it must have showed in y face because Maggie turned an even deeper shade of red. I smiled and asked, "Why is that?"

"I don't know," she began as teenagers often begin, but I calmly sipped my drink knowing the rest would come to fill the uncomfortable silence of waiting. "She seems so cold sometimes, so bossy, I hear her on the phone, the way she talks to people." She paused a moment, "I mean, she's always nice to me, but sometimes she seems like such a bitch."

I laughed, "Sometimes I suppose she is."

She immediately backtracked, "I mean I like her and all. She's always nice to me, but she's not always nice to you." She trailed off, "She should be nicer to you."

I smiled warmly, "Maggie, not all relationships are as they appear." I stood up and held my hand out to her. "Come, I want to show you something."

She took my hand and I guided her down the hall toward our bedroom. When she saw where we were going she hesitated a moment.

"Don't worry, Maggie," I said, "We're going to see Mrs. Richards. She has something she'd like to say to you, and then you are free to leave."

I opened the door to the bedroom and there, on her knees with head bowed, was Cynthia. She was dressed in a black leather corset with a garter belt and stockings. Around her neck has a cherry red choker. Her lips were painted to match.

Maggie dropped my hand and stood stunned, taking in the sight. I walked over to Cynthia and stood beside her, rested my hand on her shoulder and explained, "You see, Maggie, Cynthia's powerful persona is just a façade. In reality she is an eager little submissive slut, aching for instruction. Isn't that right, slut?"

Cynthia kept her head down but spoke softly, "Yes sir."

Maggie moved forward in awe of the sight. She leaned over a little, trying to catch Cynthia's downward turned eyes. Maggie asked, "And she'll do whatever you tell her to do?"

"Mostly," I replied, "and when she disobeys, she gets punished. Right now she has something to say to you."

On cue, Cynthia spoke, "I'm sorry for interrupting you the other day, Maggie. It was very rude of me."

Maggie smiled at me, it was a smile reminiscent of a kid who had just opened a wondrous toy at Christmas but couldn't believe it was actually theirs. Ignoring Cynthia's apology, Maggie asked, "And she'll stay like that until you tell her otherwise?"

"She should," I replied, "But it is more fun to make her move."

Maggie stepped toward Cynthia and almost circled her, surveying her. More hesitantly Maggie asked, "Has she been punished for interrupting me?"

"Not yet," I said flatly, "Do you think she should be?" I felt Cynthia's shoulder tense under my touch. But she kept her eyes down like a well-trained slut.

"Oh yes," Maggie said, almost licking her lips. "And I want to watch."

Instantly I said, "On your feet slut, assume the position."

Obediently, Cynthia stood and moved to the foot of the bed. She bent at the waist, clutching the oaken footboard of our marital bed with her hands. She slightly parted her legs. Cynthia knew just how to present herself for punishment, allowing a slight dip in her back in order to best accentuate the round fullness of her bare ass.

I could see from her exposed shaven cunt that Cynthia, despite her trepidations was already wet. I walked behind her and roughly cupped her sex, forcing my palm into her. Immediately she began grinding herself against my hand.

"You're quite wet slut, does the thought of young Maggie watching you be punished turn you on?" Maggie stood to the side, eagerly waiting for an answer. I knew Cynthia would be honest, and I knew the answer would serve her humiliation.