First TimeBabysitter Auditions Pt. 08: Michele
Back to a shorter one this time, just a single character introduction.With this, all the pieces are on the board for the endgame.
"I'd be perfectly willing to have threesomes . . . even a permanent threesome with the right girl."
Megan's words hadn't stopped echoing in my head since I fucked her. Whether it was something about that fuck or it had just taken a few days for them to germinate, I didn't know, but the idea of at least keeping two of these girls instead of one had taken root in my mind and was growing like a weed. I'd never even had one threesome—though I'd had the occasional fantasy. I'd certainly never imagined an ongoing one. Could there be a way to make it work? If so, what girls would agree to it? It seemed likely that Carolina and Isabella would get on board with that; would either be open to that sort of arrangement with Megan? Would any of the other girls be willing to be part of such a situation? It was nowhere in my experience—but then, quite a bit had happened of late that had been nowhere in my experience. There are more things in heaven and earth, Andrews, than are dreamt of in your philosophy . . .
Good thing I have a king-size bed.
I couldn't help sitting a while mixing and matching in my head. It was hard to imagine Melody being game for this—and Megan would freak her out!—but I thought Nia probably would be, as long as I was paying both girls the same. I paused to think about that for a moment. No reason not to; I have plenty of money for it.—As long as Lori never finds out, anyway . . .So, Nia.What about Kylie or Autumn? I tried to convince myself both were possibilities, and quickly remembered Kylie's plea: "Promise me you'll keep fucking me whether I get the job or not." If she'd meant that, then obviously she'd be up for sharing. As for Autumn, it didn't take much longer to realize I didn't know enough to say. And of course, thoughts of threesomes were mostly speculation, and speculation of the sort that was far more likely to lead me astray than to aid me in making wise decisions. With a mental sigh, I heaved myself to my feet and decided to take a walk to clear my head(s).
I ambled around the neighborhood for a while at no particular pace, enjoying the nice weather and letting my mind float. When I drew close to my house, my thoughts were pulled back into sharp focus by an unfamiliar car in the driveway. My feet sped up of their own accord, hoping this wasn't a bad sign. I realized someone was standing at the door—a woman—she turned and saw me—
—And her face lit up with astonished delight. "Mr. Andrews!" she cried out joyously.
It was the voice more than the face that registered as everything fell into place with a loud clank. "Michele?" I asked in disbelief. She came running to me and threw her arms around me, resting her head on my shoulder. I embraced her fiercely and heard myself say, "You've gotten taller, girl."
She burst out laughing. "That's the first thing you say?" she asked, her voice unsteady and muffled somewhat by my neck.
"This is completely unexpected," I said, feeling off-balance. "My brain's still catching up, so my mouth is on its own, and you know that's never good."
Michele clung to me, giggling helplessly; I held her tight and softly kissed her hair. When the fit of giggles passed, I said, "Come on, let's go in the house."
Michele Peters had lived a couple houses away from ours from the day Lori and I moved in; she was the first neighbor to come visit us that day. I watched her grow up from the fearless little tomboy who rode her bike up to introduce herself to a disquietingly stunning—but unaccountably shy—high schooler.
And then, partway through her senior year—a year, year and a half ago—Michele was gone: without warning, her family moved away, no one knew where (or why). I was sad to see her go, because talking with her had always brightened my day; but at the same time, it had become quite hard to keep myself from fantasizing about her, and her departure did at least remove that source of guilt.
To have Michele come back made me happy. To have her come back with an extra three inches of height and more than that around the bust line (I estimated), even with all the other sex I'd been getting, made me horny. You're a big boy, I told myself. You'll live.
Once we were ensconced on the sofa with our drinks—she wanted ginger ale, so I had the same—I told her, "It's really good to see you. How have you been doing?"
Michele looked down into her glass and swirled the ice around. "Mr. Andrews," she began slowly.
"Please, Michele, call me Rob," I interjected. "You've known me a long time, and you're old enough, there's no reason to be formal."
She looked up at me for a moment with a soft smile, then back down. "Rob," she said, "it's been rough. I don't know what happened, but our family blew up. My parents' financial situation, their marriage—everything was fine, and then suddenly we were in big trouble, and almost immediately after that my dad filed for divorce. I'd already been accepted to the university here, but Mom wanted me to go someplace more prestigious . . . all of a sudden, even paying to go here was too much. I got the financial aid worked out eventually, but I ended up having to delay my enrollment a semester. Dad won't speak to Mom, and she won't talk to me, and I don't know why—I still don't even know what happened!"
The frustration and pain in Michele's voice broke my heart. I put down my glass and pulled her close; she snuggled into me and trembled in my arms. "Sssshhhh," I soothed her, stroking her hair. "I'm here for you, Michele, and I'm glad you're here." Gradually her trembling eased. She murmured her thanks into my shirt.
"I imagine you've been swamped, starting in the middle of the year like that," I observed softly. "It's no wonder you haven't visited before now; actually, the more I think about it, I'm surprised you were able to even this soon."
"Well, yeah," Michele replied. "I wanted to as soon as I got back here, but . . . well . . . there was a lot of stuff."
"Have you declared a major?" I asked.
She nodded. "Communication. I haven't decided if I want my emphasis in relational communication or organizational communication and leadership."
"Huh," I said musingly. "Given the absolutely horrendous job many—if not most—large organizations do of communicating their principles, priorities, and goals to their employees or members, there's a real need there."
"Yeah," Michele agreed. "But there's something that really draws me about focusing on communication within relationships, too. So . . . I haven't made up my mind."
"Would it be possible to do both of them?" I wondered.
That thought surprised her, and she paused. "Maybe . . ." she replied slowly. "It would be sort of a double major in the same subject—though not really, because there would be overlap in the electives. I'll have to think about that." Then she looked up at me. "Rob?"
I looked down into her eyes. "Yeah?"
Michele looked up at me. "Rob, I saw you were looking for a long-term babysitter—why didn't you just say 'nanny'?" she interrupted herself, curious.
"I don't like the word," I informed her, my brows lowering a little. "It's irrational, but I'm allowed to indulge myself."
"I was just wondering," Michele continued. "But—Rob, have you hired someone yet?"
I blinked at her, surprised. It should have occurred to me that Michele might have heard about that, but it hadn't. She'd never been our primary babysitter—that had been Renée, another girl in the neighborhood who was a few years older than Michele. In fact, Renée had gone to the university and lived at home, so she had filled that role up until the previous year when she had graduated, married, and moved away with her new husband. Michele had been our backup on the occasions when Renée was unavailable, however, and the girls had liked her.
"No, I haven't," I told her. "I've finished all my scheduled interviews, but I haven't made a decision. Would you like to apply?"
"Yes," Michele answered, sounding as heartfelt as I have ever heard from anyone.
"Well, I don't think I need to give you the grand tour, since you've been in the house once or twice before," I chuckled. She giggled back at me. "And I don't think I need to interview you—I've known you since you were eight. I'd be one of your references, for crying out loud!" She sighed in contentment against my chest.
"I do need to give you the unhappy part of the talk, though," I said somberly. "Michele . . . you were here when Lori started traveling during the week, and you're a smart young woman, I'm sure you'd noticed her attitude toward me had . . . changed." She looked up at me and nodded, her eyes sad. "Well, it's only gotten worse." She winced. "I—she—ugh . . . It's really hard to admit this to you, because you've been a part of our lives—but I've told all the other candidates—they deserve to know before deciding if they're interested in the position, and you do too. Lori's been having an affair with her boss for three years now."
"Oh, Rob," Michele cried out. She pressed herself into me, and I could feel tears wetting my shirt. "That's so . . . how do you live with that?"
"I'm just trying to keep things together for the girls. There's going to have to be a divorce; I can't see any way to avoid that." I could feel Michele's nod against my chest. "That's why I finally decided to go ahead and hire someone to live in and care for Hope and Joy, even though Lori fought me on it: it's the best I can do to provide them some stability once the fighting starts." She shuddered a little. "Both my parents and Lori's have been helping as much as they can, but they're burning out. I'll need someone to watch them and take care of them, but as much as anything, I'll need someone to love them."
"I can do that," Michele murmured fiercely. I stroked her hair.
"I know," I sighed. "Now, the other half of the unhappy part—Michele, I have to ask, do you have a boyfriend?"
"No," she replied softly.
"OK," I said, "that simplifies things. I need someone to take at least a full share of the responsibility of being the primary adult in the house. Obviously you'll have your classes, but I would be asking you to spend most of the rest of your time here. Not that you can't go out at all, but you would need to schedule that with me to make sure we didn't have any conflicts, and the rule will have to be no boyfriends in the house. I realize this would all put a real crimp in your dating life, but I'm sure you understand."
"I do," Michele agreed. "I know Hope and Joy have to come first for you; they would come first for me, too."
"I suppose," I said with another sigh, "I should ask you at least one typical interview-type question. What would you say sets you apart from the other candidates I've interviewed?"
"I know the girls, and I've always adored them, and they know me," Michele answered softly. "At least, I'm sure Hope remembers me."
"Joy's young enough that I don't know what she actually remembers for herself," I told her, "but she certainly knows your name and remembers who you are, because we've talked about you. We've wondered where you were and how you've been doing. I wish it had been better."
"Me, too," Michele continued in a subdued voice. "When we moved away last year, leaving them was one of the saddest things for me. I'd love to be able to take care of them all the time. And . . . I know what you said about your wife, but she was pretty bad to you the last time I saw her, and she still liked me, so I think I could deal with her better than anyone else could."
"You might be right about that," I said thoughtfully. "It makes sense, anyway."
Michele couldn't stay long, but I invited her to come back that evening to say hello to the girls. I brought her into the family room where Hope and Joy were playing and said, "Girls, guess who's moved back?"
Hope looked toward us, and then her face lit up. "Miss Michele!" she cried out, launching herself to her feet and sprinting over to tackle her. "Are you back in your house?" Hope asked excitedly.
Michele stroked her hair. "No, little one," she said tenderly, "because it's not my parents, it's just me. I'm living in a dorm."
"Oh," Hope replied, processing that. "Will you come see us sometimes?"
"I'm here now, aren't I?" Michele answered with a grin.
"Miss Michele?" Joy asked, looking up at her happily but uncertainly.
"Yes, sweetheart," Michele replied. "Do you remember me?" Joy nodded gravely. Michele wrapped an arm around her. "What are you playing?" Joy's face lit up at that, and she and Hope led our former neighbor back to join in their game.
Michele tucked the girls into bed, at their insistence. I didn't object; I've always loved that daddy-daughter time, but I could afford to share. I sat down in the living room with a glass of pinot gris and let my mind unspool. I couldn't tell you how long I sat there before she recalled me to myself, or what I had been thinking about. "Rob?" she asked softly, sitting down on another chair.
I blinked her into focus. "Hey," I said.
"Thank you for letting me spend time with them," Michele said. "It's good to have something good in my life."
"Is life really that bleak for you?" I asked. "Surely that's not the only good thing."
"No," she admitted, "but—" She broke off, then asked timidly, "If I say something, will you get mad at me?"
"How could I ever get mad at you, Mickey?" I asked in return. She smiled a little at my old nickname for her. I'd stopped calling her that (and "little mouse") a year or so before she left, but the reminder of how long I'd known her seemed to ease her anxiety somewhat.
"Rob—Mr. Andrews," Michele said hesitantly, "um—you'll probably think I'm a silly girl, but—well—I've always had a crush on you, ever since I first started thinking about boys." My eyes widened in surprise. "The first time I ever—you know—touched myself, I was imagining it was you. And the most recent time—and most of the others. And—well—it wouldn't really be cheating, would it, if your wife is cheating on you? For you to—take my virginity? Make me a woman? I've always hoped somehow it could be you, and—umm—I don't think your wife would have any right to object, now. Would you—be at all—interested? I've wanted you so badly, for so long . . ."
I stood up, drew Michele to her feet, and took her in my arms. "Dear, sweet Michele," I said. I slid a hand down her back to her perfect bubble butt, cupped it, and squeezed gently. She jumped a little with a tiny squeak, then suddenly melted into me. "Dear, sweet, sexy Michele." She looked into my eyes; I gave her a long, slow kiss, her eyes closed, and she sighed into my mouth. "I had to try very hard not to fantasize about you, because you weren't legal."
"You—you did?" Michele asked, sounding both surprised and hopeful.
"I did," I said, stroking her hair with the hand that wasn't groping her ass. "And now you are legal, and you aren't just a fantasy, and I will be very happy to make you a woman and teach you how much pleasure your beautiful body can bring both of us."
"You think I'm beautiful?" she asked in delighted disbelief.
"I do, and by the time I'm done with you, you'll believe it."
As I shut my bedroom door behind us, Michele said, "Rob? I just want you to know—you don't have to be—careful with me, or use a condom or anything. I'm on the pill."
I turned around, surprised. "Why?" I asked.
"Because—" She blushed, then admitted, "Because I was fantasizing about you. Because I couldn't help hoping I'd get a chance at you, somehow—and if I did, I didn't want anything between us, and I wanted to be able to feel you cum inside me. It wasn't rational, but—it worked out, and I'm glad."
I looked at her and said admiringly, "You're just a little sex kitten, aren't you?" Michele blushed furiously at that. "Did you even know it? Did anyone? I wouldn't have guessed."
"Well—" she began. She took a deep breath and continued, "A couple of my girlfriends . . . we . . . played around . . . I'm not bi or anything, but I do like eating pussy, and I came pretty hard when they ate me."
I grinned. "So you're only a virgin with guys, huh?"
"I suppose . . ." Michele murmured. "But I never really had a hymen, so—I don't know . . ."
I pulled her in and embraced her. I kissed her hair and murmured back, "I'm sorry, Michele. I shouldn't be teasing you."
She turned her head and captured my lips with hers, kissing me fiercely. "Don't apologize," she said firmly. "It's one of the ways I know you care about me."
I smiled and kissed her again, then told her, "By the time I'm done with you, you'll have a few more on the list." Michele's eyes went wide and dark, and she moaned softly in arousal. I took her hand and led her to the bed. I perched on the edge, spread my legs wide, and pulled her to me with both arms. I drew her head down to mine and kissed her tenderly. Her lips parted; I slipped my tongue between them, slowly caressing them, as I let my hands play over her body. One caressed her hair and face while the other roamed leisurely up and down her back and sides, taking time whenever it reached her ass to give her tight little cheeks special attention. I felt her hands clutching at my shoulders like she wasn't sure what to do with them.
I dropped both my hands to the hem of Michele's shirt and began pulling it up her torso. It took a bit of work to get it over her juicy melons by feel alone, but I didn't mind. Judging by her moans, she didn't mind either. "Now, kitten, arms up," I instructed her. She put them up and I pulled her shirt over her head, then brought them down across my shoulders. She giggled and worked it the rest of the way off as I kissed her jawline and under her ear. I kissed her neck, her collarbone, and the upper slopes of her breasts, enjoying her response as her giggles faded into soft mewling sounds.
I tasted mouthfuls of Michele's supple titflesh, licking and sucking and grazing her skin with my teeth. "Oh, Rob," she groaned. "That feels . . . so good . . ."
I leaned back and looked up at her; she whimpered in disappointment at the loss of contact. "You know," I said, "I can't say for sure because I was really trying hard not to look, but I don't think you were stacked like this the last time I saw you."
"No," Michele responded breathlessly, pulling my head back to her chest with both hands. I dipped my tongue under the fabric of her utilitarian pink bra and traced the edge of the cup. "I had a growth spurt last fall—ohhhh . . . I went from 5'4" to 5'7" and a 28C bra to a 32F . . . my waist didn't change—still 27 inches—but my hips went from a 30 to a 34 . . . I've gotten a lot more attention from boys since then . . ."
"I just bet you have," I growled. I reached around her to undo her bra. "Now I want to see."
"I've actually never—you're the first—" Michele gasped.
"The first man ever to see your naked titties?" I asked, pulling the bra down, baring them to my eyes.
"Yes . . ."
I took them in my hands. Michele had small, pert nipples centered on large round areolae; they were a pale dogwood pink that was barely a shade darker than the rest of her skin. I cupped her tits in my fingers and lifted them to feel their weight, enjoying her silken skin. I let my hands drift up and around to the sides of her heavy mounds, watching them bounce and jiggle as they slid off my fingers, then gently brushed my thumbs over their little pink tips. Her breath caught in her throat, and she put her palms flat on my chest. I gasped softly as her fingers touched my nipples, which startled her. After a moment, she began teasing them with her fingertips through my shirt, smiling to feel them harden under her touch.
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