Baby-sitting is a boring job. I mean, it is totally Dullsville. You get to the house and help tuck the little ones into bed, and they're so cute and cuddly. They go to sleep and the parents go out, hitting the town and having a fine time.
You? You're stuck in the house, watching children sleep. After five minutes of that you're ready to move on and do something else. What? You're not allowed to have friends over. You can't go outside. You can sit in the kitchen and eat, assuming that the parents have left you something that you consider edible, or you can watch TV.
I suppose you could read a book, but really, who want to spend a Saturday night curled up with a good book? Not me. I want to be out and about, being escorted to restaurants and night clubs, seeing shows and dancing with my boyfriend.
And where am I? Sitting on a couch watching a cooking show. Life is so unfair. I didn't accept the baby-sitting job. Neither did I come down with the mumps and find myself unable to keep my commitment. It was my little sister, Marie who did those things. All I did wrong was to have Marie as a sister. Mum said that I should act as an emergency baby-sitter for her, because she's covered for me in the past. I pointed out that I've grown past the baby-sitting stage and that I had a date. There was no way I could fill in.
Mother's don't accept the word no, so here I was, stuck sitting on a couch, watching stupid TV shows. What is it with some of these chefs? If they spoke to me the way they speak to some of the contestants I'd hang one on them. There are laws regarding work place bullying, and some of those guys are in for a nasty shock if someone complains.
You watch some of these shows simply to wait for it to finish so something decent can come on. The sheer inanity of the show drills into your brain, trying to convert you to a zombie. The credits come on and you think, yea, something decent will now start.
You're fooling yourself. What comes on is even worse, drilling hole through your skull, and you can feel your melted brains dripping out your ears, and still you watch. At least, there was a movie after this.
The late-night movie came on. A real he-man type of thriller with some Super-cop trying to prove that everyone but him is wrong, all the evidence is a clever fake, and the obvious suspects are being falsely accused. Skilled assassins hunt him and die, as he fights the Mafia, the CIA, and an evil corporation, all intent on bringing about the end of the world. What they were going to replace it with wasn't clear.
I went to the kitchen and had some coffee. The film? I was quite sure I could pick up the plot when I returned. It was the sort of standard pap of mindless violence that means you can skip half and still follow the logic.
I came back after my coffee and the obligatory sex scene was taking place. If one of these action men ever goes through a movie without dragging someone to bed the movie industry would go into meltdown from the shock. That reminds me. Why do they invariably show full frontals of the woman but not the men? Would it be because the man's sexual arousal is so semaphoric that it would be hard to hide his lack of interest?
I have to admit that the hero had nice buns. I was watching him get it off, half of me saying, go for it man, and the other half saying, run, she's an assassin who's trying to weaken you.
Maybe he was trying to weaken her. She sure seemed to be succumbing easily enough. I suspect that she must have had rubber knees, the way they seemed to buckle and drop her onto a convenient bed.
I stood there watching the hero make time, not really registering that I was rubbing myself in time to the way his buns bounced. It did suddenly register when I heard a mocking laugh.
Looking up I saw Barry, the kid's uncle standing there. I remembered as soon as I saw him that the Damasks had said he might drop by and if I had any problems just let him know.
It occurred to me that I did have a problem and that problem was Barry. He was looking at me, smiling, and I saw his eyes drop down to where my hand was. I hastily snatched it away from there, blushing. Then as cool as you please he unzipped himself and took out his cock.
Took out his erect cock. If you wanted an example of a semaphoric reaction to a sexual impulse his cock was it. It was huge. I mean, from where I stood the thing looked as big as my forearm with my clenched fist. Bigger even. I'll swear that my eyes popped wide when I saw it.
He started walking towards me. Not moving fast, just idly getting closer, confident that I wasn't going anywhere.
I just looked at him, starting to back away, saying, "Wh-what?"
How stupid is that. I say 'what', when I should be saying something like, "Excuse me but just what are your intentions and I'd appreciate it if you would put your little penis back in its box." The really silly part is I didn't need to ask what his intentions were. When a man is stalking you, cock on display, a woman knows damn well what his intentions are.
I kept on backing up until I bumped into the wall behind me, then with great presence of mind I managed to say, "b-but."
That was the abbreviated version. The message I meant to get across was along the lines of, "But I'm just the baby-sitter, and an emergency baby-sitter, at that. You don't really want me. Why don't you go and play with someone else?"
I was standing plastered against the wall and he stopped in front of me. I'm just looking at him, not saying a word. Well, in my defence, I was thinking a lot of words but the part of him that I was looking at sort of left me unable to express them.
Barry didn't say anything, either. He simply reached over, undid the catch on my slacks and proceeded to pull them down. With my panties. He collected them on the way past. After that he stood back up and nudges my ankle with his toe, wanting my legs further apart. I'm looking down at myself and I can see him easing forward, sliding his erection between my legs, letting it press up against the cleft between my lips.
I stuttered something along the lines of, "Uh, um, you, I, what" which was as clear as mud to him and not much clearer to me. I think I was trying to say thank you, but no thank you, but the words just didn't come out right.
My next few words did. I distinctly said, "Aahh, oh my goooood," as he pressed forward and I could see his erection pushing up between my legs.
The seeing part was scary. Even scarier was the feeling part. His cock was pressing into me and boy, I could sure feel it. He was stretching my passage, stretching it so far I suspected that it would never recover. I was going to be walking bowlegged for the rest of my life because of this man.
Irritatingly, he had no problems entering me. It was a tight fit but I was all wet, and that was my own damn fault for rubbing myself while the guy in the film was getting it on. Little sins come back to haunt you.
