Blind Lust: Further Adventures of a Wicked Babysitter

by Paperback Writer

"There are none so blind as they who will not see." – Anonymous

This is a work of fiction, fantasy, and imagination, and a love story dedicated to my visually impaired friends.

My name is Susan Wesley. I am a 38-year-old professional babysitter living in San Francisco, and I make a good living at it. Most of my clients are well-to-do parents who live in the Pacific Heights neighborhood, where the average person can't get out of bed in the morning without a million dollars at their fingertips. The credit cards people carry in this neighborhood have no limit. When my clients travel by air, they can't even spell the word "coach". You get my point.

I don't bother with clients in the city districts like Glen Park or West Portal, where I'd probably earn $12 per hour and have to compete with snotty high school girls. I charge a minimum $30 an hour, $45 an hour for anything over 8 hours – but I'm a parent with a grown son, certified in first aid and CPR, and I am very good at what I do. I never, ever have to seek out work. My clients love me so much that they provide me new business solely by word of mouth. And since wealthy people have very busy social calendars, I am always booked on weekends and at least 3 nights a week.

What my clients do not know is that I am also a cold-hearted predator. My prey is their daughters. If I show up at a job and find a girl that I decide to make mine, I begin a slow and subtle process of seduction. As I said, I am very good at what I do – this includes capturing the hearts of young girls.

It's a sunny day in September, a month of beautiful weather in a city where 10 months out of the year fog is a constant companion. I am lying out on a lounge chair on the roof deck of my apartment building in the trendy Noe Valley district, getting some sun. I am also daydreaming of Clara, the little 5-year-old nymph who nearly stole my heart on my last job. I reach up through my shorts and begin to rub my pussy, thinking of how delicious she is, the smooth skin on her bottom, and the feel of her mouth on my nipples. Damn, I can't get her off of my mind. I must be getting soft - being wicked and heartless is starting to be much more difficult these days. My business cell phone rings and breaks my reverie. I groan at the interruption, reluctantly answering.

It's a woman I haven't met, Mrs. Laurie Knutson, looking for a babysitter for her eleven-year-old daughter Aggie for the Labor Day weekend when she and her husband are flying to Ireland to attend the annual Oyster Festival in Dublin. I tell her that's a little older than I usually like to sit for. (Kids that age have usually become very independent, and if I should choose to pursue their tender flesh, they are much more resistant and difficult to entrap.)

I am about to turn the job down, but the woman then mentions that while she understands this, her daughter has special needs, and she only wants the best childcare she can get. She has been told by her friends in the San Francisco Opera Guild that I am the best, and it simply must be me, it simply must! Who am I to argue?

My curiosity is piqued. I ask her to continue. She tells me her daughter is blind, and while she functions very independently and would require very little actual care, she needs someone there in case an emergency situation happens in the night. This now intrigues me with the many possibilities. My best friend in high school was blind, so I am very comfortable with visually impaired people. She names a dollar amount that's more than twice my usual rate. Jackpot! After I catch my breath, I agree to the job, and she gives me the address. They live in the Sea Cliff District. Double jackpot!

Pacific Heights is a very expensive district, high on top of a hill with incredible views of the Pacific Ocean and Golden Gate Bridge. Venture capitalists and city politicians and socialites live there. In the Sea Cliff district, however, when you look out your back door you only need to look down to see the ocean, and up to see the bridge. This is the neighborhood where residents of Pacific Heights aspire to move some day. Nationally-known politicians, retired billionaire CEOs, actors, and philanthropists who have museums named after them live there. These people don't fly commercial airlines because they don't need to - they have private jets. The Knutsons are definitely a step up in my client base.

I arrive Friday around 9:00am, as the parents are catching a noon flight. As usual, I am dressed so casually no one would ever take a second look at me – just jeans, a light pullover hoodie, and sensible flat shoes. Except for my navel ring, jewelry is absent. I wear no makeup. Laurie greets me at the door. She appears to be a 30-something trophy wife, all flash and little substance, dressed in a very stylish multi-layer casual designer outfit, ostentatious jewelry, ready for travel. Physically, she is a stunner. Her face looks fantastic, and I'm thinking it's natural, too, no plastic surgery involved. Her hair is done up in the latest trendy style that must have set her back at least $200.

She gushes effusively, thanking me repeatedly, telling me that I can find Aggy in the music room practicing her cello. She presses a wad of bills in my hand "just in case Aggy wants a pizza or to go shopping or something". It must be about $500 or so. I jam it into my pocket.

Laurie's husband Bjorn comes down the stairs and introduces himself. He's the CEO of a large Swedish-based conglomerate whose HQ has just moved to San Francisco, looks about 25 years older than his wife and is without a doubt a very handsome man, looking like a big blond Norse god. He shakes my hand, then gives me their itinerary and contact numbers and informs me that the household staff has been given the Labor Day weekend off, so it will just be Aggy and I until Tuesday and I should make myself entirely at home. I assure him I will. And I mean it more sincerely than he can imagine.

As they are walking out the door, Laurie turns to me. "One last little thing, Susan," she says in a low voice. "At night, Aggy prefers taking showers to baths. I don't approve, but the dear girl insists, and you know how insistent they can get at this age. As a safety factor, when she's in the shower, can you just quietly step in and watch her? Since she's blind, she won't even know you're there. I'm so afraid she might fall and hurt herself."

Of course I agree to this, but I am not so foolish to presume Aggy won't know I'm there. Sighted people are so focused on using their eyes; they ignore 90% of their other senses. Blind people don't have this handicap. (No pun here – I'm totally serious.) Their other senses are cranked up to maximum perception.

I walk down the long halls, and the sound of cello music leads me to a large room with a grand piano, special musician's chairs, and music stands. Through the glass of the French doors, a small blonde girl is sitting with her back to me, her long hair shining in the sun. The cello she's playing so masterfully is almost as big as she is. I slowly open one of the doors, and quietly step inside. The sounds coming out of the cello are breathtaking.

The girl stops playing immediately. "Please don't stop," I ask her. "You play so beautifully."

Without turning around she replies, "I would certainly hope so. I play first chair cello with the San Francisco Junior Symphony Orchestra. The piece is Bach's Cello Suite 1 in G major. It's my favorite. Are you the babysitter?" The way she says that last word with such disdain it makes me sound like a kind of poisonous snake. Some people I have known might agree with that assessment, actually.

"Hello, I'm Susan Wesley," I tell her. "Since we'll be together for 3 days, I'm hoping we can become friends." (And a lot more, if I have my way.) She puts the instrument aside, stands, and turns to face me. I draw in my breath. You can see the family resemblance to her father - she is stunningly beautiful.

She's on the small side for an 11-year-old, about 4 feet tall, and maybe 70 pounds soaking wet. She is slim, with very small bumps where her breasts are beginning to emerge. (I later learn that while her breasts may be developing, her yummy nipples are already there!) Her long blonde hair is held back by a blue stretch band, and she's wearing a yellow silk halter dress with blue accents. On her feet are matching yellow Mary Jane-style shoes. While pretty, it's the sort of outfit a younger child would wear.

"How do you do, Mrs. Wesley?" she asks formally. Although sightless, she has the bluest eyes I've ever seen, so pool-like I could almost swim in them. She extends her hand into the space in front of her. I shake it - it's soft and warm and moist from the cello playing. "I'm so very pleased to meet you. I am Agnetha Knutson. You may call me Aggy, if you wish." She does not smile at all. "My step-mother has told me all about you, and how experienced you are at babysitting." She says the word 'babysitting' like it's dog poop that she just stepped in. "I'll have you know that despite what she tells you, I am quite capable of taking care of myself. Just because I'm blind…"

I see where this is heading and peremptorily cut her off, adopting her cold and formal approach. "Miss Knutsen, let assure you I am very aware of what you are capable of. My best friend in high school Stephanie was blind, so I am exceedingly familiar with the specifics of your condition. I know full well that you are not an invalid. While you may require a little assistance from me here and there, I will not ever presuppose when it may be required. You will tell me if you need me. That's what I'm here for. Nothing more." I pause for effect, draw a breath, and continue.

"However, in spite of what your mother thinks, or stepmother as the case may be, I will NOT follow you around as if you were a toddler. This includes sneaking in and watching while you shower, which I view as an incredibly humiliating invasion of your privacy. Also, you have my solemn promise I will not leave things like my purse or my shoes laying about that you might trip over. Do we have an understanding, young lady?"

Agnetha takes a minute to absorb my words. The emotional expressions roll across her face quickly, like a series of spring thunderstorms blowing through the Midwest. Anger, happiness, frustration, and sorrow and loneliness, all are reflected within a few short seconds. Rapidly regaining her composure, she recovers, straightens herself up and responds in a very dignified manner. "I understand your meaning completely, Mrs. Wesley, thank you. If you will excuse me, practicing has made me weary. I shall retire to my room now." She walks out the door with a rapid gait that surprises even me. Besides being alluring as hell, this classy kid is made of tough stuff for an 11-year-old, I'll give her that. Damn!

I stare after her, admiring the way the curve of her ass shows even in the swaying sundress. Her legs appear strong and well-defined. I do not chase after her, as she would hear me following and resent it. After a few minutes have passed, I walk upstairs and find her room. It's not hard at all. There's a little sign on it decorated with disgustingly cute kittens that says "Aggy's Room." It was obviously put here by Laurie, who if she would have had any clue would have at least had a Braille translation on it as well.

I stop outside the door, and listen. I hear Aggy crying quietly. I knock, but don't enter out of respect for the girl's privacy. "Come in," I hear her teary voice respond. I enter, and see her laying face down on the bed. I sit down on the side of her bed and put my hand on the small of her back. I am sorely tempted to run it further down and caress her beautiful ass, but I have learned not to rush these things.

"Aggy," I say softly, "I'm so sorry I upset you. I just wanted you to know that I know you're not helpless, and I do take you very seriously." Suddenly, she is up and in my arms, still crying. I say nothing; I just savor her warmth and the lemony scent of her shampoo. Her arms tighten around me as she cries, her slim torso pressed into my breasts. My senses are responding to the sudden contact – my pussy begins to tingle. It's all I can do at this moment not to lay her back and kiss away her tears. I manage to restrain myself to a single motherly kiss on her tear-stained cheek as I hold her close. My heart aches for her, and as I comfort her I'm wondering, whatever happened to the cold and callused bitch I used to be?

"You didn't upset me," she says, regaining her composure. "It's just that outside of my teachers at my School for the Blind, you're the first person I've talked to in a long time who doesn't treat me like a toddler. My stepmom acts like I'm 5. She even dresses me like a little kid. I hate my clothes – the other kids in the orchestra make fun of them. They think because I'm blind I don't hear them whisper, but there's nothing wrong with my hearing. And I can't BELIEVE she told you about the shower thing. You're right, it's totally humiliating when I hear her or the maid come in and watch me.

I love my Daddy, but he's always traveling so it's mostly Laurie and I in the house and she and her friends drive me crazy! When one of them wants to ask me a question they always turn to Laurie and say: 'Can she?' or 'Does she?' as if I was retarded or deaf, or like I'm not even there."

Aggy was calmer now, continuing her story. "My real mom was killed by a drunk driver that hit us when I was 2; the impact of the crash drove my car seat into the window, hitting my head. That's how I ended up blind. Four years later, my Dad married Laurie. She really tries hard to be a mom to me, but she just isn't very good at it. She's always wanted me to call her 'Mom' but I just can't bring myself to do it."

Her story told, Aggy now sat quietly. The stretch band holding her hair back had come loose. I reach up and brush some golden strands away from her perfect forehead, and give her another kiss there. Ahh, heaven. Fingering the wad of bills in my pocket, a thought hits me. What makes it even better, it was actually Laurie's idea! "Aggy," I tell her, "I know just the thing to make you feel better. Let's grab a cab and head to Union Square – we're going shopping!"

Within 20 minutes, we are in a women's dressing room of an ultra-expensive department store with several hangars full of trendy outfits. Anna stands there, bare except for the new lace thong that covers her beautiful mound but exposes her young buns. (Yes, she's a natural blond everywhere, including that soft fuzz just starting to cover her vaginal area.) She shivers from excitement.

She cannot see me, but internally I shiver with sexual anticipation, as I begin to dress her in something much more fashionable. It's like I'm dressing a 4' tall adorable living doll! Rising out of puffy pink aureoles, her tempting nipples are surprisingly long, turgid from exposure to the air. I cannot wait to get them in my mouth, but as is always the case, patience is a virtue. Nonetheless, I hear myself whisper, "My gawd, Aggy. You're not a cute little girl. You're an amazingly beautiful young woman."

For a second, she stands stock still and does not respond. Her lower lips trembles just a bit, then she whispers, "Thank you."

The unicorn-print panties she had on now are discarded, wadded up in a nearby trash bin. I've re-stocked her with a variety of sexy women's panties, none of which has any kid-cute patterns on them. Her Mary Jane shoes are gone, and nobody cares where the hell they went. They've been replaced by some black open-toed flat pumps that show off her sweet little toes. (Memo to self – need to paint those toenails for her!) We've also picked up some black-and-silver walking trainers with velcro-style straps for casual wear. The yellow little-girl sun dress lies crumpled in the corner – we'll take it home and hide it in a closet somewhere after we're done.

I face her, my eyes filled with her sylph-like beauty and my hands on her wonderfully smooth bare shoulders. I ask her softly, "Aggy, I have to ask one question before you do this. We're about to give you a big girl makeover. Do you trust me?"

Tears form in her eyes. "Yes," she responds. "I've been waiting so long for something like this." Leaning forward so our bodies don't touch, I give her a chaste sisterly kiss on the lips. It will not be the last kiss before the day is over, however. To quote Sherlock Holmes, 'The game is afoot!'...