Erotic Beginnings
Published in

Erotic Beginnings

Punishing Alice

The first chapter from my kinky spanking babysitter book

I prefer sweaters to halters, boots to heels, and corduroys to long dresses. Got it? I listen to more Rachmaninoff than Katy Perry and I read Calvino rather than Danielle Steel. It’s not that complicated. And yet, somehow, they still manage to call me a slut and whore right along with nerd and loser. Now explain that one to me.

I’d like to say that I come from an aristocratic family, but the truth is we’re more Bohemian than anything else. I learned to play the violin at eight, speak French at twelve, and I edited my school newspaper for the last two years and eight months. I make half of my own clothes and my parents believe hammocks are the greatest invention since fire. My dad read me poetry before bed when I was growing up, and my mom’s been wearing her “this is what a feminist looks like” shirt since as long as I can remember.

So what’s the point? I don’t know. Maybe I’m trying to give Mr. Richards some excuses, and maybe I’m trying to defend who I am, but at the end of the day, the story is the story. There are no excuses, there are no should haves or could haves, and that’s just the way it is. It was unexpected, wonderful, transforming, and messy. I suppose that’s the way all things are: never quite what we expect. What else is there to do but keep going?

During my sophomore and junior years of high school, I worked for the Richards as a nanny. They just called me Alice and treated me like part of the family, but the truth is I was their babysitter and there’s no use saying otherwise.

Now speaking of the aristocracy, they were the real deal. They used to joke that their money was so old they spent it all a hundred years ago. Growing up they were poor. Mom and dad were poor. Their grandparents were poor. The chauffeur was poor and so were the gardener, the butler, and all the maids. Get it? It’s funny.

For a poor rich family, they lived a life I could only imagine. They ate organic food, went to the opera, summered in France, and they had a library. Can you believe that? They had a full on library in their house. Sometimes when I was watching Tasha I would sit for hours just reading the titles of their books. Most of them I had never heard of.

I had a crush on Mr. Richards since the day they first interviewed me, and it never got smaller as time went by. He was handsome, smart, and funny, and everything just came easily to him. He was a good father, a patient husband, and he never once treated me like a kid. He also scared the hell out of me sometimes. I never heard him raise his voice, but he didn’t need to. When he asked for something, it was done, and his calm presence and firm voice never wavered.

He talked to me like an adult, expected me to behave like one, and gave me all the responsibility and freedom I needed to live like one. For a while, I spent more time at their house than mine, and even though I was working, I sometimes pretended it was home.

During the summer I swam in their pool, in the winter I sat in front of the fire, and on Friday nights when they were out on a date, I put Tasha to sleep and sat in front of the huge screen TV and watched softcore vampire movies. Hey, I didn’t say I only liked the smart stuff. I mean come on.

My crush never got too creepy, but every once in a while I’d realize that I could smell him when I picked his bathrobe up off the chair. I sometimes finished his coffee after he left for work in the morning, and part of me thought it was the sexiest thing in the world. His lips touched the cup. He drank from it, and so did I. It was a simple thing, but there it was. He’d often drive me home in the evenings (before I got my license) and whenever I saw a Mercedes drive by I thought of him.

Okay, so maybe it was a little creepy, but it wasn’t like I was going through his closets or masturbating in his bed. I didn’t even think about doing those things. Well, at least not very often. And to my credit, his bed was amazing. It was giant and soft, and the dark wood felt rich and luscious beneath my fingers. The sheets were thick and the pillows were unlike anything I had ever felt before, so yeah, there was some temptation.

It wasn’t until the summer before college that it happened.

For most of June, things were slightly off in a truly wonderful way. Mrs. Richards was away a lot, and I would go over to help. I would take the little one outside and play on the lawn while Mr. Richards worked, and he’d cook me dinner on the grill after we put Tasha to bed. We talked during nap time and he made me tea in the afternoons. He watched the kid sometimes so I could swim, and I lived in a strange fantasy world all month long.

One Saturday afternoon in early July I was sitting in the hot tub drinking an ice tea as he was putting the little pumpkin down for a nap. I was taking my time, relaxing after my swim, and possibly thinking about Mr. Richard’s butt. Not in a super dirty way, just in a huh, he has a really tight butt. I wonder how much he works out kind of way.

He came back down and pulled a chair up next to me on the patio. I smiled and moved over towards him. The hot tub was giant and round, and when I stood up I could rest my arms on the wooden edge. I asked how Tasha was, he asked how I was, and everything was perfectly normal.

Until he turned on the jets. Without even asking he leaned over and flipped the switch; suddenly there was hot water coming at me from all directions. The only direction that mattered though was the one right in front of me. The jet shot right below my belly, and when I stood up on my toes for a second I almost screamed. The water pounded into me, and despite the thin fabric of my bathing suit, the pressure was overwhelming. I had to take a deep breath and lean back down as I figured out what was going on.

“Isn’t that better? My wife sits in there for hours when it gets cool out. I love how the water feels on my feet.”

He smiled at me with white teeth and innocence, and I tried to do the same.

“I’ll have to try that,” I said as I pulled myself up again. I moved slightly to one side and let the water batter my thigh as I slowly shifted my weight.

“Have you been reading the new DeLillo novel?” he asked me. He always asked me about books and films. Never movies or TV. Never school or friends and never anything remotely girly.I was still used to talking about skirts and Youtube videos with my classmates whether I liked it or not, but with Mr. Richards, there was no bullshit. Just his lovely mind that seemed to never stop working.

“I just started it,” I said as I felt the water between my thighs. It was just an inch too high, and when I pushed up onto my toes I had to shut my eyes for a second. I opened my legs just enough, and I arched my back as I looked up at him, but the whole time I could feel the jet against my clit, and it was driving me crazy. It was rhythmic as it pulsed out of the nozzle, and I swayed gently from side to side as I tried to hide my excitement.

“I don’t know what I think of it yet. Sometimes he gets all weird on me, and I don’t know if I like it. I like his emotions and his relationships, but some of the other stuff doesn’t work as well.”

“Have you ever read Tom Robbins?” he asked.

“What, am I fourteen?” I said, sticking my tongue out. Tom Robbins was a year-long phase in ninth grade, but he was long gone with Ayn Rand and Nabokov.

“Never underestimate the power of re-reading something,” he said, just as the pressure began to build inside me. “I’ve read The Name of the Rose six times, and I always find something new in it: something I didn’t see the first time or something that meant something else when I was younger. I see something new in you every time you come over too. One day you’re wistful and wise and the next you’re overcome with excitement.”

“You really notice that?” I asked as I moved my hips closer to the jet. It was almost too intense, but there was no way I could stop. He couldn’t see me below the water from where he was sitting, and the thought of talking to him and coming at the same time was almost enough to set me off on its own.

“Come on Alice. Everyone is changing all the time. Even Tasha changes constantly. She’s a different person every day. When I was in college I used to read the Three Musketeers every year…”

He kept going, but guess what? I don’t know what he was saying. It was right around then that in spite of my better judgment, I reached down with one hand and pulled the bottom of my bikini to the side. It was just a slip, but suddenly the water was on me and around me and there was no going back. I heard his voice, and I smiled and nodded, but my toes clenched and I bit my lip trying not to scream. I started to shake as my orgasm rolled through me, and I never once looked away from his perfect blue eyes.

For a brief second, I imagined it was him between my legs and that was it. He kept talking and I kept moving exactly the right way for the water to hit me where I needed. I came harder than I ever did before. I didn’t scream and I didn’t yell out, but my body tensed, my knuckles turned white and every ounce of tension in my body came out at once. I could feel waves of pleasure surge up and down my legs, through my spine, and around my thighs until I almost couldn’t see.

All the while he kept on talking, and I pretended to listen as I lost myself in the perfect moment.

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Chapter one for each of Guy New York's erotic books. Enjoy the stories on their own, or find a new dirty book you might love.

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Guy New York

Guy New York

Writer and publisher of dirty books. With more than 70 titles, my books have been widely read and occasionally burned. Read more at www.guynewyork.com

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