BabySitter's Bathsheet

I had a special sitting assignment with the Richard's that was to last all weekend, with me sleeping over on Friday and Saturday. Apparently the Richard's had a big deal going on at their factory all weekend and they had no idea when they'd be home and could expect to be called back to the factory at a moment's notice.

I quite like sitting for the Richard's. Mel and Barry were nice and the kids weren't too much trouble. Typical pre-teens, they could get up to mischief if you just happened to look the wrong way for a moment too long, but amenable to discipline. Not like some little shits I've had to sit.

Another advantage of sitting for the Richard's and staying overnight meant that I got to shower there and use their towels. They're not actually towels, but what they call bath-sheets. They're enormous. And the softest fluffiest towels I've ever come across. When I get married, one of the things on my wedding-present list is going to be this type of towel. They are fantastic.

Anyway, come Friday evening I'm around there, leaning on the kids to go to bed, which they did. I then lent on them to go back to bed, which they did. After that I made threatening noises about what would happen if they didn't go to bed and stay in bed, and they finally went and stayed. I switched their lights off, switched them off again and explained that I didn't believe in lights that turned themselves on. After a while, peace reigned.

I was still up when Mel and Barry arrived home, and they both looked buggered. They simply acknowledged my presence and said they were going to bed, as they had to be up early. They vanished and after a while I decided that I should seriously consider going to bed myself.

First things first, and I wanted a shower. I headed for the bathroom and had one, wrapping myself in one of the bath-sheets afterwards. Those things were a serious luxury item. My nightwear is somewhat on the skimpy side, so I didn't intend to wear it wandering around the house. Instead I wrapped one of those bath-sheets around me and headed back to the guest room.

For some reason, Barry was up. He came down the hall, dressed in his pyjamas, just as I was heading up it. I blushed, not expecting to be caught just wearing a towel, and darted past him and into my room.

I was walking over to the bed, already unwinding the bath sheet, when I heard the door bang closed behind me. I didn't think anything of it for a moment, and then it occurred to me that the door had taken its own sweet time closing.

I turned around, just idly curious, and by this time I'd unwrapped the bath sheet and was holding it wide with both hands, in the process of getting rid of it. The result was that when I found that Barry had followed me into the room I was standing there naked, holding the towel open, as if I was deliberately flashing him.

I blushed and took a step or two backwards, or tried to, anyway. The first step backwards brought me right to the edge of the bed and the second step meant that the bed caught me behind my knees and sent me toppling backwards, finishing up flat on my back with my arms wide and the towel under me.

What was worse was that Barry followed me, moving closer to the bed as I went backwards, and he was now standing at the edge of the bed, between my unfortunately parted legs. Talk about putting myself on full display.

I let out a little squeak and my hands automatically tried to cover me. Barry gave me this frown and held up a finger in warning, effectively freezing me on the spot. I'd love to know how he managed that. It'd be so useful against some of the kids I sit.

I'm lying there looking up at him, face burning with mortification, and he's looking down at me with what I could only guess to be sincere appreciation. It was flattering to be looked at like that, but still.

I hate to have to admit it, but it was also exciting. I was naked on a bed and an older man was looking at me, admiring me. I could feel a touch of heat low down and I fervently hoped that he didn't notice my nipples were reacting to him.

I should've guessed he would. He just reached down and touched each one. All he did was flick a fingertip over them and they both practically waved to him. And I could feel that light touch all the way down to my groin and that growing pool of heat.

Now, seriously, I expected that Barry would leave, probably with an apology. I assumed that he'd followed me into the bedroom because he wanted to tell me something. Catching me naked was just an accident. (A bonus from his point of view, I guess.)

What he actually did was teach me something about men's clothing. Did you know men's pyjamas often have what is known as an open fly? This means that there are no buttons or zips used to close the thing. Permanently open, is what it is, and if your erection wants to pop out there is nothing to stop it. Barry's wanted to pop out.

Things had moved from bad to worse. Not only was I naked and laid out before him like a Christmas gift, but his cock was standing up, right next to my pussy. All Barry had to do was push. Which he did. He just put one hand down to direct his cock and gave a gentle push and the next thing I know I've got a cock sliding into me.

I couldn't fucking believe it. One moment I'm snuggled up in a luxury bath-sheet, the next I'm flat on my back with a cock making itself at home. I must have been even more excited than I thought, because he had no problems just sliding all the way in.

Now I'm nearly nineteen. I'm not a virgin. I know what men do to women and I don't mind it being done to me. With my consent, of course. One thing I've noticed is that men always seem to be in a hurry when they do it. Apparently that was my inexperience speaking.

Barry just started sliding in and out, keeping up a nice steady pace. He wasn't all, ah, ah, ah, gotta fuck, gotta fuck, gotta fuck. He just slid into me and withdrew, in again and out again. A 'let's just see what happens, shall we', sort of approach.

I'm staring at him stunned, horrified that he was doing this and mortified that I wasn't protesting. I just couldn't seem to help it. It was happening and protesting at this stage would have been just a little late, don't you think?

The trouble, I soon found, was that it was going to keep on happening. Barry didn't slow down his stroke play, but neither did he increase it. He just went on and on at the same boring pace.

I'll be honest with you. At the start it did seem a little boring. Yes, he had his cock in me and was fucking me, but it wasn't a case where you could say he was busy fucking me. He just seemed to be doing it as something to fill in time.

Time passed and Barry fucked, and slowly I started to get excited. Obviously I'd been a little aroused at the start to allow him such easy access, but he'd done little to increase that arousal. Or so I initially thought. That continuous sliding in and out was getting to me, slowly heating me up, making me acutely conscious of my pussy and what it was for.

There followed a period where things were exciting. Barry was taking me (albeit slowly), and I was now aroused and enjoying it. I was looking forward to an exciting finale. Then I entered a period where I was expecting the finale and not getting it. I was getting restless. I was gasping and making funny noises, trying to get across a sense of urgency.

I didn't succeed. Barry just kept on taking me in his own fashion. Instead of driving me to a climax, he was driving me out of my mind. I wanted to scream at him to, "hurry it up, damn it," but I couldn't. Not really. I mean, technically, I'm pretty sure it was rape, and I'm absolutely sure that you're not supposed to give a rapist instructions on what to do. If they didn't know what to do, they shouldn't be raping people.

That didn't help me at all. Barry was still taking me. Was he going to go all night? I was starting to see myself being found in the morning, a gibbering wreck, with Barry still plying his trade.

I finally felt the signs of a climax approaching. My body had had enough and was going to let rip regardless. I was starting to gasp loudly, letting out a soft cry of need, and then Barry suddenly banged hard into me. I lost it. I shuddered and climaxed, and I was too wound up even to scream. I just got swept away, feeling him having his own climax, but that was the merest incidental compared to what was happening to me.

I passed out completely. When I came out of it I was lying on the bath-sheet, on the bed. Barry was gone. I was also quite dry, not even sweaty, as though I'd been carefully wiped down and patted dry. I was exhausted. I just crept under the blankets and slept.

I woke in the morning, refreshed and bounced out of bed. Then I remembered what had happened. It all seemed so dreamlike now. Had that really happened? Barry just walking up to me and raping me and me just lying there, not resisting? It all seemed so surreal. It had to have been a bad dream. Well, remembering parts of it, a dream, anyway. That sort of thing just didn't happen. Trying to fasten my mind upon it I found I couldn't remember a single word being spoken. Definitely a surreal episode.

I dressed quickly and headed for the kitchen for breakfast. Mel and Barry were there, scoffing down some cereal and drinking coffee. They both nodded at me as I came in, but that was all the attention I got. There was absolutely no indication from Barry that he'd jumped me the night before. Not even a blink out of place. I shook my head. It had to have been a dream, but it had seemed so real.

Then Mel and Barry were gone and I was busy organising breakfast for the kids, after first prying them out of their beds. Kids eternally complain that they have to go to bed when they don't want to and they have to get up when they don't want to.

The rest of the day passed quite calmly. I didn't have to watch the kids every minute of the day. I just had to be there if needed and ensure they touched bases with me if they went to a friend's place or the park. And feed them at regular intervals, which goes without saying.

That night I fed the brutes, ensured that they had showers and managed to nail them to their beds long enough for them to fall asleep. Then I was free to watch TV and idle my time away.

It was quite late when the Mel and Barry returned, and they looked easily as tired as the day before. Looking at the way they were drooping it was even easier to think that I'd just had a rather erotic dream. The way Barry looked he wouldn't have been able to even get it up, let alone use it. He was done.

They shot through to bed and I settled down to finish watching my show. After that it was a shower and bed for me. Coming out of the bathroom I couldn't help myself. I checked to make sure that the hallway was clear before I darted down to my room. Once safely in my room I took off the bath-sheet and tossed it onto the bed.

Then I let out a startled squeak as a hand covered my bottom and started urging me over to the bed. Twisting my head I could see Barry there, smiling blandly as he hustled me over to the bed. I was damned if I was just going to spread myself out on the bed the way I remembered from the previous night, and as soon as I reached the bed I scrambled up onto it.

It seems that that was what Barry had wanted. He followed me onto the bed, catching one leg to hold me still, then taking hold of my hips and hoisting my bottom up into the air. Just like that I was on all fours, bottom high, and guess what was pressing against my pussy.

I think that, by law, all men's pyjamas should have flies that are welded shut. Those open flies just let too many things escape unhindered.

I was totally unprepared for what was happening, but did that worry Barry? Not in the slightest. His cock just leaned confidently against my pussy, right where my lips would flower and open, and waited.

I could feel him there, just holding a slight pressure against me, apparently assuming that my body would yield and admit him. And it did, damn his eyes. Not straight away, but my awareness of what was touching me, and my knowledge of what he wanted, acted on me to stir my pussy into a slightly aroused state.

That slight arousal was all he required. As soon as my pussy started reacting to his cock's presence he started pushing forward. It was a vicious cycle. My pussy aroused slightly and he pushed forward. My pussy then said, "well, hullo, big boy," and got even more aroused, which let him push forward a bit more. And so it went on until I was neatly impaled.

The worst part of the whole thing was that I knew what he was going to do. Or perhaps I should say, what he wasn't going to do. He wasn't going to hurry, I just knew it. He was going to repeat the previous night's experience, an experience that most certainly wasn't a dream, and one that would seem to stretch on for hours.

Right from that first stroke I knew I was right. He moved almost lethargically, as though the whole thing was almost too much effort. In which case, damn it, why was he doing it? If a man wants to have sex he should at least have the decency to get right down to doing the job. It wasn't as though I'd asked him to, heaven knows.

There was one difference this time around, apart from the position. Or because of the position. Because I was on all fours, with him behind me, my breasts were dangling below me. Barry reached around and gathered then up and proceeded to torment them, slowly, as per his screwing.

He teased and tantalised, gently massaging, rubbing my nipples, drawing his fingertips across my breasts in a feather-light caress that made then want to curl up. Have you ever had someone just lightly draw their fingernails across your tummy, and it feels as though they're doing it inside you. That's what it felt like when he brushed my breasts, oh, so very lightly.

And all those little touches were generating beads of heat and excitement that travelled straight to my groin, joining the insidious excitement his cock was stirring up.

And he would not stop. He just kept on and on, rapidly reducing me to a writhing mass of screaming nerves, absolutely quivering with need, desperate for relief.

Which he wouldn't give me. I think I was almost crying towards the end, I was that needy. When I finally felt my climax coming, despite anything he could do to stop it, I almost cheered. I would have cheered, but I had no voice. I just let out a shuddering groan and collapsed, knowing that at the very end he had accelerated, quite willing to have his own climax. It was just mine he had seemed reluctant to give.

When I recovered I was alone again and just managed to crawl into bed. But the next morning would be different. He'd see. Oddly, the thought came to me as I drifted off, that the whole thing had been silent again, except for any sound I might have made. Barry hadn't said a word.

In the morning I dressed and headed to the kitchen for breakfast and a showdown. Mel and Barry were already there, relaxed and cheerful. I started the conversation carefully.

"You seem very relaxed this morning," I observed.

Mel smiled, happy as Larry.

"Uh-huh. Everything at the factory is done and it all went perfectly. It's such a tremendous relief. Barry will finally be able to get a proper night's sleep, and so will I."

"Um, Barry not been sleeping at night," I asked pointedly, giving him a look.

"Oh, he's been sleeping," said Mel, "but he's also been sleepwalking. When we go to bed we never know where he's going to be the next morning. He just rises in the middle of the night and wanders off. One night I found him playing games at two in the morning. Children's games, on the internet, of all things. I just steered him back to bed and he never even knew until I told him about it."

So what did I say to that? "Barry's been coming into my room and bonking me in the middle of the night?" Wouldn't that go down a treat? I guess sleepwalking would also explain his total silence. He probably thought he was dreaming.

I bit my lips. There wasn't anything I could do really. And it wasn't as if I'd be sleeping here again now that the factory stuff was sorted out. I looked over at where Barry was sitting back, relaxed and smiling with his coffee in his hand.

He just looked back at me, smiling blandly, the lying swine. He knew what he'd been doing. He damn well knew, and there was no way I would be able to prove it was deliberate. If I accused him he would be so remorseful and apologetic, and Mel would be horrified. And if I tried to say he did it deliberately I'd look like a nasty conniving bitch.

I smiled at him, letting him know he was a rotten swine, and his smile just got broader, promising erotic torture if he ever got the chance. What was worse, when he looked at me like that I could feel the fires starting to burn. Oh, boy. Definitely time for me to be heading home.