Confessions of a Wicked Babysitter, Part 1

by Paperback Writer

As always, this is a work of pure fiction, fantasy, and imagination. Reader comments are most welcome.

I am the person parents most fear. I come into your home not carrying a knife or a gun, but cloaked instead in the disguise of caring, warmth, and guardianship. I am, in fact, a predator hungering for that most delicious of morsels, your innocent daughter.

My name is Susan. I live in San Francisco. I am not young, being divorced with one 18-year-old son; but neither am I old, having foolishly been married at 16 due to a momentary indiscretion after a high school dance that led to my son being born on my 17th birthday. I am tall, 5'10", and would be considered attractive by most men's standards. I am often told I resemble a young Sigourney Weaver.

I prefer young girls aged 4 to 9, so sweet, trusting, innocent and open. Girls younger than that to my tastes are akin to embryos, not old enough to have developed a full rational-thinking female personality yet. Girls older than that are usually ruined for my purposes, having developed the distrust, cynicism and hard edge that society thrusts upon them at far too early of an age. (Oddly enough, I didn't develop my tastes for young girls until after my son had moved out, followed shortly thereafter the divorce from my useless husband. I think it was a delayed reaction caused by too much testosterone in the house.)

Like a vampire, I will not enter your home unless I am invited. I am introduced only by word-of-mouth, usually recommended by a previous client, best friend or other parent. This and the fact that I have a grown child of my own give me a great deal of credibility, much more so than an un-tested high-schooler. I take my responsibilities very seriously, and have been certified in basic first aid, CPR and poison control - the things every parent wants in a responsible babysitter.

Tonight I am in urban female camouflage mode, dressed so plainly that a straight man would not look at me twice. (A gay man, on the other hand, would want to immediately give me a makeover.) Your husband's eyes don't even look at me; they're all on you in your gorgeous low-cut black evening gown and your hot black "fuck-me" extra-high heels. If the erection in his dress slacks is any clue, it's obvious he's thinking about what he wants to do to you when he gets you alone. I suspect with the fucking you'll get tonight, tomorrow it may be difficult for you to walk.

When I arrive, I am wearing a modest button-down dress with a mid-thigh skirt, no makeup or jewelry, and sensible flat shoes. My medium length natural brown hair (no gray yet!) is usually tied back in a nondescript fashion. I always wear my favorite plain red button down bulky cardigan sweater ($16.99 at ShopSmart) and not just because it's chilly all year around in San Francisco. I also use it to hide the fact I'm not wearing a bra.

This is not the first time I've had the chance to babysit for you. When you need a sitter, you always call me first, and I always just happen to be available. This is, in fact, by design. I have never turned you down, as I have been planning this for months. In the same manner of when people are dating, they seldom make a serious move on the first date, usually it happens on the second or third, I have been extraordinarily patient - this is the sixth time I've sat for you, so your trust in me is very well-established by now.

You invite me in, tell me where you'll be and when, and I tell you not to worry about a thing. You tell me you'll be home tomorrow by around 11am. It's your 10th anniversary, and you'll be spending the night at the trendy and romantic Luminescence Hotel up on top of Nob Hill, looking out over the San Francisco Bay and the Golden Gate Bridge. Looking anxious to be alone, your husband hurries you out the door for a night of married passion. This gives me 18 hours of uninterrupted time alone with your daughter. Perfect. I take my shoes off, hang my sweater in the closet, and walk into the living room of your three-million-dollar condo.

Clara is a little doll, of course. She's 5 years old, with long black hair, blue eyes, pale skin and freckles, and as precocious as they come. She's wearing a yellow top with string straps, a picture of a kitten on the front. Her pants are sexy little tight blue jeans that hug her bottom - I immediately want to strip them off of her and ravage that little body. However, I must control myself. In order to do this correctly, the little sprite must be led into it willingly and of her own accord, never forced or coerced.

I feed her dinner, and clean up the kitchen, then we decide to play a little game. She's been going to kindergarten in an exclusive private school, so I tell her to dress up in her uniform and we'll play teacher. She quickly runs to her room and puts on her school clothes while I set up a pretend classroom in her playroom, with a little chair and a tiny chalkboard.

Wearing her black-and-green plaid skirt and plain white blouse with nothing underneath it, her nipples plainly visible she goes first, and I sit scrunched up on the tiny chair as teaches me the alphabet. (I'm so horny now I could explode)

Doggone it; no matter how hard I try, I just can't seem to get it right. I keep mixing up the end, Y-W-Z-X. She corrects me and has me do it again. I still can't get it right. "Please teacher, I'm really trying. I hope you don't spank me," I tell her. I try it again, and still mess up.

"Now, Susan, you're being very bad," she scolds, one hand on her hip and wagging a precious little finger. "I'm going to have to spank you." I theatrically sniffle as if I'm upset and going to cry. "I'm sorry, Miss Clara, I'm really trying," I whine. I give her a ruler that I just happen to have in my hand, get on all fours and lift my skirt up, exposing my cheeks. "Please don't spank me too hard."

She takes a swing and the ruler hits my bottom. I can barely feel it, but it makes a definite slapping noise. I cry out in pretended agony, "Owww, Miss Clara, owww, I'm sorry. Please don't spank me too much more." Of course, that is exactly what I want.

Clara spanks me again, another butterfly tap that makes more noise than anything. Again I cry in mock pain, "Ahhhh, Miss Clara, please I'm sorry. Please don't spank me too much more."

She notices I am wearing no panties, and my shaved labia are beginning to protrude from excitement. "Why Susan, you don't have any panties on! You are very naughty!" She smacks me again. It's glorious.

"I'm sorry Miss Clara, I had a wet accident earlier and didn't have any more dry ones! I know you'll have to spank me for that, too, but I'll try not to have an accident tomorrow." She smacks me again, 3 more times. I sniff as if I'm crying and in pain. I crawl over to her, and hug her ankles. "I'm sorry I was bad, Miss Clara. I want to be good for you. What can I do to make you not mad at me?"

Clara, my 3' tall benevolent little mistress, looks down on me and says, "I forgive you, Susan, but you must say your alphabet right for me not to be mad at you." I do it correctly, and she praises me.

"Oh, thank you, Miss Clara, you're the best teacher in the world. I love you!" On my knees in front of her, my head is level with her face. I put my arms around her, and kiss her cheek, her forehead, her other cheek. I desperately want to put my lips on her sweet mouth, but now is not the time.

"I love you too, Susan," she tells me, puts her arms around me and kisses me the same way, cheek, forehead, other cheek. So close, so close, but I must be patient. "Now it's your turn to be teacher" she declares, "but first I have to go potty!" She ran out of the room, returning seconds later. It must have been a world-speed record for peeing!

I take the ruler, and have her sit in the chair. I write on the board, "2 + 2 = ?"

"Clara, what is two plus two," I ask, my lips pursed primly.

"Miss Susan, I don't know that." She answers. I draw 2 sticks on the board, then two more.

"Look closely, Clara. How many sticks on the board?" I demand to know in an authoritative voice.

"Tooty two?" she guesses, smiling at her own incorrect answer.

"Clara, you're not trying very hard. I'm beginning to get cross with you. What is the answer?" I demand.

"Teacher, I think it's eleventy," she replies, a coy smile on her face.

I stomp my foot in indignation, hands on my hips. "Clara, I don't believe you are trying! You must answer correctly!"

She uses my own words to respond. "Please teacher, I'm really trying. I hope you don't spank me," she says, her smile even bigger now. "I think it might be a hunnert."

I growl in frustration. "That's it, Clara! You're going to get spanked!"

She quickly gets down on all fours, and raises her plaid skirt in the same manner as I did. I see now that she went out of the room to take her panties off to mimic me. Moving her knees a little farther apart, her little bald pussy is fully exposed before me. Taking the ruler, I give her a light tap on her left cheek, and she cries out in mock pain. "Ooooh, Miss Susan! I'm sorry I've been bad. Please don't spank me again!"

I strike again, a little more firm this time. It makes a loud snap, and leaves a light red mark. "Aaaah! I'm sorry Miss Susan! Please stop!" She is still playing, but I hear a little fear coming in to her voice.

I reach down and softly run my hand over her exposed labia. She shivers. "And I see, Clara, that you don't have any underwear on! You are being quite a naughty girl! That's three more swats!" I delivered the first one, gentle again.

"Please Miss Susan, no more! I'll do anything," she begs, fear in her voice now gone.

"I will only do one more, and will forget the last one if you say you're sorry and tell me you're a naughty little stinker for not knowing your lessons." I swing again, just a little harder. A light red mark on her other cheek. The first one has almost faded. She gasps, but knows it's over. I bend down and run my hand between her spreads legs, lightly caressing her hairless cunny and then her soft ass cheeks before straightening up, my little finger trailing lightly across her little pink anus. She draws a breath involuntarily.

In the same manner I did, she now crawls over to me and wraps herself around my ankles. Her skirt is still up around her waist, her little white cheeks exposed to the air. She apologizes. "Miss Susan, I am so sorry. I am a stinker for not knowing my 'rithmatic and for losing my panties."

I kneel on the floor next to her. "For losing your panties, the punishment will be that you must go without them until tomorrow at breakfast. Bring them to me, and I will forgive you and not be mad at you."

She gets up and runs out of the room, and brings them back to me immediately, then throws her arms around me in a big hug. I take a quick sniff, inhaling her sweet body perfume, then praise her.

"Oh, Miss Susan, you're the prettiest and best teacher ever. I love you!" She kisses my cheek, my forehead, my other cheek. I do the same to her, and then plant a soft kiss on her lips. My left hand wanders south and caresses her soft bottom.

She looks at me with a happy but puzzled look. "Clara, Mommy and Daddy kiss like that because they love each other, right? I kissed you on the mouth because I love you. But if you don't want me to do it again, I won't ever."

Clara's eyes grow wide. She looks horrified, and throws her arms around me. "Oh, no, Susan, please, I love you, please don't ever stop loving me!" She begins to cry a little. I take her in my arms and pick her up, gently rocking her.

I tell her, "Oh, shhhh, Clara darling, shhh, please stop crying – I can't bear it." Her sniffling subsides, and I carry her to the bathroom, and hold her in my lap as I turn the tap on to run her bath. As I rock her in my lap I say, "I won't ever stop loving you, Clara, I promise." And at that moment, I realize I mean it. I may be caught in a trap of my own making.