Babysitter Auditions Pt. 06: Isabella

This one's quite a bit longer—over twice as long as the shortest one I've written so far—but that's because it's composed of more elements; there are some different things going on this time. Isabella's name is on the story because it's her introduction, but she's only one of the threads.

*****

When I realized I'd rewritten the same sentence six times, I flung up my hands in surrender and abandoned my laptop. Time to get some lunch. I opened the refrigerator to evaluate the options and found a meal neatly assembled for me with a note resting on top:

Mr. Andrews, I cooked for you last night so you would have something different for lunch. I let Hope and Joy help some before I put them to bed; I asked them to be very careful not to spoil my surprise, and I hope they managed it. It's nothing fancy, just a taco bowl—you'll need to microwave the meat and add it in, but everything else is there for you. The rest of the meat is in a separate container, and should give you all another meal or two. I hope you like it . . . it's my grandma's recipe. Thank you for letting me come tonight.

Nia

Below that, in a different pen and a wobblier hand, was this:

Nice trick this morning, stud. I loved it, but don't think it will work twice. You'll have to work harder next time. ♥

*****

I'll have to remember to thank Nia for making me lunch, I thought as I climbed into the car. I had actually managed to get some work done before it was time to pick up the girls. I drove down to the bus stop as I usually did; once Hope was safely ensconced in the car, we continued on to pick up Joy. "You're going to have another new babysitter tonight, girls," I told them. "Do you remember Mr. Ray Curtis?"

"Yes, Daddy!" Hope said delightedly. "He gave us badges!" Which he had; they were stick-on plastic things, but the girls had loved them while they lasted.

"Is he going to be our babysitter?" Joy wanted to know.

I managed to swallow a laugh. "No, bright heart," I told her. "I'm going with him to a dinner. Your babysitter will be Miss Kylie."

"Is she pretty?" Joy asked.

"She loves to smile and laugh," I said, hoping to dodge the question.

"Oh, good," Joy responded with deep satisfaction.

*****

Kylie showed up a little early carrying a couple bags. One was a canvas bag that I recognized immediately—we had a couple of its littermates floating around from the previous year's summer reading program at the public library. It was full of books. The other was a paper bag with handles of the sort you would get from an upscale store. "Did you go shopping on your way?" I asked, momentarily diverted.

"What—?" Kylie asked. "Oh, right, the bag. Yeah, when I grabbed the other one, I got this one too. No biggie. Did you pick up the spices?"

"I did," I told her, turning toward the kitchen as she divested herself of her load. "Girls, Miss Kylie is going to make dinner for you, and if you're really good, she said you could help."

"Oh, goody!" Hope exulted. "Just like we helped Miss Nia cook last night!" Then she looked up at me anxiously. "Did I keep the surprise long enough, Daddy?"

"Yes, sweetheart, you did," I told her, pulling her close. "I've eaten my lunch already."

"Oh, good," Hope repeated happily. Over her head, Kylie gave me a curious look.

"Another candidate," I told her. "She babysat last night after I finished her interview; while I was out, she cooked up something for me for lunch."

"I see I have something to live up to," Kylie responded confidently. She gathered Hope and Joy with her hands and ushered them into the kitchen. I could hear her explaining her plans to them as I turned to get ready for my own dinner. Suddenly, I heard her call my name. I looked over my shoulder to see her doing the same at me. With a small smirk, she said, "I'll be sure to make enough for leftovers."

*****

"Ray, this is a political fundraiser?" I asked in disbelief. "Since when does your foundation get into that game? I thought you were all about supporting the arts!"

"Not exactly," Ray answered, fighting hard to hold back his deep, booming laugh. "I mean, sort of, but . . . not exactly. Just—you'll see."

"Your grandfather would be spinning in his grave if he could see this," I muttered.

"My grandfather would be spinning in his grave if he could see the state of American politics," Ray retorted, his humor abruptly gone. "I think he'd approve. And you know how careful I try to be."

"I do," I conceded with a sigh.

Ray's grandfather, Clark Curtis, was the sort of success story that people say mostly doesn't happen anymore. A polymath, he was largely self-taught, but in the days before credentialing became all in all, he managed to talk the manager of Corning's research lab into hiring him for a low-level position, then worked his way up. He ended up with his name on several patents before he was through.

Clark Curtis was never truly rich, but he had enough that he could have left a sizeable nest egg to his two sons and their families. He didn't want to do that, however, being convinced that inheritances were bad for one's work ethic and moral fiber. Instead, he created a family foundation with his sons as the trustees. He judged that they understood his decision and shared his principles. Fortunately for his vision, he was right (though the fact that neither of them needed the money no doubt helped; in fact, not only did they manage it according to his wishes, but both added significant donations of their own over the years.

Ray's uncle only had one child, a son who died young, so Ray and his younger sister are now the only trustees. His sister participates, but it's Ray's baby. Support for the arts had been part of his grandfather's vision for the foundation, but Ray's interests had led it to focus almost entirely in that direction. Apparently something had changed.

"Still, you haven't quite answered me," I told him. "How did you get connected with this?"

"Oh, I was ranting about the two-party system a while ago," he admitted. I nodded, having heard him do that once or twice myself. "My partner had read something about this organization, so I looked into it, and—"

"R. J. Andrews?" a voice beside me asked, sounding amazed. I looked up to see a short olive-skinned man with coal-black hair and beard looking at me wide-eyed.

"Yes, sir, I am, but I fear you have me at a disadvantage," I replied.

"I love your books!" he exclaimed. I raised an eyebrow at him and he shook himself. "I'm sorry, that doesn't help." He held out his hand. "Jackson Abreu at your service."

It was my turn to startle, because this was the night's speaker. I took it and said, "I'm pleased to meet you."

"Forgive me," Abreu continued, "but I wouldn't have thought you were a supporter of ours."

Puzzled, I answered, "I don't know that I am. I haven't heard you speak yet. Ray Curtis is a friend of mine—I'm a replacement for his wife, who's home sick."

"But your wife—" Abreu visibly caught himself. "But perhaps I infer falsely from too little information. A failing of mine if I am not careful. I hope we may speak further after the dinner." He took himself off to greet someone at another table. I looked at Ray, feeling confused and unsettled. He looked confused as well, but there was a glimmer of worry in his eye.

"Do you have any idea where that came from?" I asked him.

"No," he said, far too quickly. "At least—no. No." Somehow he sounded as if he were trying to convince himself.

The meal was the standard rubber-chicken special, but the speech made up for it. Abreu wasted little time getting into the meat of his message.

"Whichever party you support, I think we can all agree that American political culture is neither in a good place nor trending in a good direction. I don't want to say that all politicians are corrupt, or purely self-interested, or anything of the sort, because I know many whose integrity and motives are basically solid; and more, because demonizing others and impugning their motives is part of what got us into this situation in the first place. But do our major political parties have integrity? That's a far different question.

"If you're familiar with my speaking and writing, you know I have been heavily influenced by the work of Rabbi Edwin Friedman." I jumped at that. "In a book published after his death in 1996, Rabbi Friedman spoke of the emotional regression of American culture, and in the years since we have only seen that regression continue as our politicians more and more strive to win election by stoking anxiety. Even those who speak of hope spend most of their time and effort teaching us fear. We're divided along lines of race, and class, and gender, and on and on, and our major parties have every incentive to deepen those divisions and increase the anxiety associated with them. Helping us find unity across our divisions would be good for the nation, but not a great way to win elections.

"This building anxiety in our nation is worsened by the fact that most people in this nation are completely disconnected from the levers of power. We are a nation of over three hundred million people spread across six time zones, and as power and money are increasingly concentrated upwards, the ability of individuals to exercise any sort of meaningful influence on matters of import wanes. The more you concentrate power and money in one place, the more incentive those who are already rich and powerful have to try to manipulate that place, and the easier it is for them to do. Where there is blood, the bloodsuckers gather. Where there is wealth . . ." As he said that, Abreu was looking thoughtfully at me. Given his mention of Lori before dinner, his gaze made me deeply uneasy.

He continued, "We have concentrated power on the national level in the name of concerns like racial equality and having the same laws and standards apply to everyone. This is important. At the same time, in doing so we have removed the levers of power so far from almost everyone in America that we have politically disempowered them. We haven't disenfranchised anyone, but we have left most citizens with little but the franchise—which is a recipe for populist anger, and ultimately, left unchecked, populist revolt.

"We of the Roger Sherman Institute for Public Policy believe America needs a new way forward. Our goal is a government in which, domestically, the national government effectively levels the playing field so that all people—regardless of race, class, gender, or any other consideration—have the same access to opportunity and are able to compete as equals, and in which political power is re-localized as much as possible so that all people—regardless of race, class, gender, or any other consideration—have meaningful access to political influence. Our goal is a government that hears the poor as clearly as the rich, women as clearly as men, and all ethnic, racial, and cultural groups with full and serious concern, and that diffuses so widely and thoroughly the money which drives our politics that the cashier at the corner gas station can stand in true equality next to the CEO of Amazon and be treated by the government as equally important.

"Pipe dream? Well, it's definitely a big hairy audacious goal. Do I expect to see it realized? Not in full. But I believe it's what we should be shooting for, and the star by which we should steer. To all our supporters, we thank you for standing with us as we strive to make our case to the American public and look for ways to move our nation toward this goal. We commit ourselves to be worthy of your support."

*****

There was a Q&A time after the speech; after that, I did get another chance to talk to Abreu. We spent a few minutes discussing my books, and then I asked, "What were you saying about my wife?"

"I'm sorry," he responded, backpedaling so fast it was a wonder he didn't trip and hit his head. "I should not have spoken out of turn."

"When you talked about the bloodsuckers gathering," I pressed, "you were looking at me, like you knew something I didn't. If you know something I need to know, please do not keep me in ignorance."

"I don't know anything," Abreu began. I gave him a fulminating look, and he stopped in his tracks. "All I can say," he continued slowly, "is that your wife works closely with Dick Wood, and there are some troubling rumors going around about him—all very indirect, very hush-hush, nobody willing to say anything straight."

"It's a business consulting firm, not the Special Activities Division!" I exclaimed in exasperation.

"It all depends what sort of consulting they're doing," Abreu responded quietly. "And that's all I can say because, again, I don't know anything. I'm not saying they're doing anything illegal, even, though that says more about the law than about what I'm hearing they might be up to. But it's troubling, and the most troubling thing is that there's nothing you or I can do about it. Given everything I talked about tonight, there's not even any way for us to find out what's actually going on. Now if you'll excuse me, Mr. Andrews, it was a pleasure to meet you, but I must be moving on."

I walked away from him thinking, You might not have any way to find out, but I might. I know people I could ask . . . but . . . do I really want to launch a private corruption investigation? Let it be someone else's problem . . . I just want to be done with all this and move on with my life.

*****

Once again, I came home to a dark, quiet house. I made my way upstairs to find a low, flickering light shining out of my bedroom. I checked on the girls and kissed their foreheads, then went to my room. It was lit only by candles, the covers had been pulled down, and Kylie was standing there waiting for me. She was wearing a deep-red corset with black trim that cupped her huge tits with red and black mesh. It laced up the front, and the laces didn't pull the sides all the way together but left a strip of her visible all the way down. The corset had black garter straps which held up sheer black stockings; she had pulled the matching red-and-black panties on over the straps, which made me smile. Her feet were in matching red heels.

I couldn't help growling deep in my throat, which made Kylie blush. She raised her arms and slowly turned her back to me, then bent over, waggling her magnificent bare ass and showing me where the fabric disappeared into her sweet slit. She stood back up and finished her turn with a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Do you make a habit of wearing things like that under your clothes?" I asked in a low, hungry voice.

"No," Kylie purred. "I bought it for a special occasion." Her eyes flicked to one side for just a moment; I followed that fragmentary glance and saw the shopping bag on the floor, now empty.

"You bought it this afternoon, didn't you," I said.

She blushed, and her eyes dropped. "Yes," she admitted.

"You have no idea how hot that is," I told her. Kylie looked back up at me with a smile that blazed like the sun. I walked over to her, gently turned her around, and reached under her arms to grab her huge tits. She purred and ground her ass into the raging bulge in my pants, then gave me a long, sensual kiss over her shoulder. "Tell me what you want, baby," I murmured. "Tell me how you want it."

"Last time," Kylie murmured back, "you fucked me like your little cockslut—you owned my little pussy and made me your fucktoy—and I loved it. This time, I want you to make love to me. I want to be your baby; I want to be your lover, at least for tonight."

I caressed and fondled Kylie's fat, heavy melons through the mesh of the corset. I traced the edge of her earlobe with my tongue, then breathed, "Gladly." I could feel her melt into me. I kissed under her ear and down the smooth column of her neck, finding a spot where it met her shoulder that made her shiver and moan. I managed to pop one tit out of the corset, then the other; I lifted them in my palms, squeezing gently, and teased their stiff, eager points with the tips of my middle fingers.

"Oh, Mr. Andrews . . ." Kylie moaned.

"Tonight, call me Rob," I told her.

"Ohhhhhh, Rob . . ." Kylie turned in my arms and slid down my body until she was kneeling before me. She quickly got my pants and boxers down—I kicked them aside—then wrapped one slim hand around my shaft and planted a tiny kiss right on the tip. I shivered. "Baby, I love your cock," she breathed. She gradually took me deep in her mouth, painting my rod all over with her tongue, then just as gradually pulled back off. She pumped me slowly with one hand while the other caressed my balls; her lips caressed my knob, feathering soft, teasing kisses all over it. She took it in her mouth and sucked on it gently, swirling her tongue around it, then brushing it tip to tip. She rotated her head all around it, then turned and kissed her way down to the root before shifting so she could take my balls in her mouth. She stroked them with her lips, bathed them with her tongue, and tugged on them very lightly, then kissed back up my shaft and sucked on my knob again.

"Baby," I said huskily, "that feels amazing, but I don't want to cum this way—I want to spend as much time as I can in that perfect little pussy." I drew Kylie to her feet, then wrapped my hands around her firm round ass and pulled her hard into me. I kneaded her ass cheeks and she ground herself against me as we made out. When I broke off the kiss, I said, "Lie down. I need to taste that pretty little pink slit."

"Ooooh, yes, baby, yes yes yes," Kylie moaned. She lay down and bridged her hips off the bed to pull her panties off, then spread herself wide for me. I got down on my knees and gave her a long, slow lick back to front, savoring her spicy, tangy nectar. I pierced her sex with two fingers and went to work slowly pleasuring her G-spot. I kissed and licked my way up and down her slit, sucking on her inner lips, before finally twirling my tongue around her pearl. I reached up with my other hand to wrap it around a fat, juicy melon, kneading its supple flesh and gently rolling its stiff pink tip.

Kylie cupped my head with one hand, running her fingers through my hair; the other seized her unoccupied tit, squeezing it and pulling on the nipple. "Eat me, baby, eat me, eat that wet little pussy, so fucking good, you eat me so fucking good . . . that feels in-fucking—credible . . . your mouth is better than any other man's cock . . . lick my clit—just like that just like that just like fucking that—ohfuckyeah suck on it—more—more—more—more—harder—harder—harder—harder—yeah, baby, suck on my clit, suck on my clit, suck—suck—suck—just like—just like—oh—baby—ROB!" She screamed at the top of her lungs and came hard, bucking her hips into my face, her tight honeypot clenching and unclenching around my fingers.

As soon as her orgasm passed, Kylie grabbed my head with both hands and pulled me up. She gave me a long, hungry kiss, then said, "Cock—inside me—now." I kissed her back, my tongue fencing lightly with hers, and pressed myself to her waiting hole. I pushed inside, feeling her tight, wet heat distend around my knob, welcoming the invasion. I brushed my lips across her face and down her neck to her big, heavy mounds as I slowly thrust into her, savoring her body—mouthfuls of juicy titflesh; the satiny softness of her skin on my lips and tongue; the rubbery hardness of her erect nipples; and above all the sensation of silky elastic stretching around my prick, hugging it tight, as I patiently plowed open her snug little tunnel. "Oh fuck I love your cock, baby," she moaned, arching her back, thrusting her breasts into my face. "I want it filling my pussy always . . ."