Miss Ridge, The Babysitter

*** The Arrival ***

"Click, clock. Click, clock," the sharp sound of a pair of high-heeled shoes crossing our living room floor caught my attention. As I was hurriedly changing to go out, I hadn't noticed what was going on at the front door, and I guessed that Mother had let our guest in just before she departed for her business trip.

Mother and I had had a real blow-out. Having just turned 18, I didn't see the need to have someone stay with me just because both my parents were away. It was as if I still had to have a ... a ... well, there was no way of getting around it ... a babysitter. I shuddered at the name.

I offered to stay at my brother's, but we both knew that, with my exams coming up, the constant partying over there made that a disastrous idea. I tried to reason with her up to and, unfortunately, past her limit of tolerance, and then ... "Enough!!" she had bellowed. "Timothy Walker! You are staying here this week! I want to know that the house is in good hands, and my friend Janet has been good enough to do me this favour. All I'm asking from you is to not give her a hard time." Mother's face had gotten quite red, and I could see veins.

"You will do as Janet tells you, and if she informs me when I return that you have been a pain in the ass, then you will have to deal with me! ... Do you understand?"

"Yes," I had replied timidly. It was futile to argue at that point. My mother was strict and abusive, and I knew my limits.

"Do you?!?" she had seethed. "Do you? Because if I hear ..." Fortunately, the doorbell had saved me. She stopped yelling, but before she went to answer it, her eyes had drilled into me and her chest had puffed in and out visibly. I got that queasy, helpless feeling that always accompanied her bouts of discipline. It had churned my gut and tingled my balls.

"Click, clock. Click, clock," the pace of the shoes seemed firm and unhurried. Janet? Janet? I didn't know any of my mother's friends named Janet, but then, I didn't keep track of all her friends. My mother was pretty active with her business, at her church and in her charity work. Most of her friends were in their 50s and varied in looks from frumpy to dumpy, although there were a couple of them who gave me something to think about when I laid in bed at night. Not that I should be choosy. As a glasses-wearing, brainy virgin in a jock-dominated school, I could have definitely benefitted from the seduction of a mature friend of the family.

I threw my worn shirt across the room towards my clothes hamper and searched my closet for something to wear – something non-geekish for my visit with Rebecca tonight. Finding something appropriate was going to be a problem; I didn't want to embarrass myself in front of her.

Rebecca was not my girlfriend – in fact, I had no real girlfriend. There were a few girls who deigned to sit with me in a few of my classes, like Claire and Stephanie, because they knew I could help them get high marks. But unlike Claire and Stephanie, who were hot, Rebecca was at my level of nerdishness and so was, at least, a prospect.

"Click, clock. Click, clock," the steps – I presumed they were Janet's – entered the hallway just outside my door, and I suddenly realized, standing there in just my boxers, that I was indisposed. I looked frantically around the room for my bathrobe and finally noticed it hanging on my door. As I crossed the room to get it, the door opened, swinging the robe away from my grasp and forcing me to jump back and cover myself with my hands.

I looked at the face of my intruder. It was ... It was ... It was Miss Ridge, my History teacher from lower school! ... My gawd, Miss Rigid! ... When I was in the fifth grade, we called her Miss Rigid because of how strict she was, but by eighth grade, we were calling her that because of how she made the boys feel in class. She had a firm, shapely body with a small waist, long legs and a tight, round butt. But her petiteness was offset by large breasts that wobbled sufficiently for one to conclude that they were definitely natural. Her "no nonsense" approach to dealing with students was supported by her thin, angular face, short-cut hair and serious demeanour. As well, her thin glasses always seemed to give the impression that she was glaring at you narrowly.

"Well, well, well ... Mis-ter Walk-er," she recollected me in a "look at who we have here" tone.

Janet Ridge still looked amazing. She must have been in her mid-50s now, but you wouldn't know it to look at her. She was wearing a professional but close-fitting black suit that hinted at an ample, shapely figure. The jacket's neckline was open enough to reveal the curvy cleavage of her shirtless breasts, and the knee-length skirt hugged her shapely, black-stockinged legs over her high-heeled, black shoes. With her short-coiffed hair and thin, gold-rimmed glasses, she looked, on the whole, coolly authoritative.

She cocked an arm and rested it on her hip, "Don't you think it was impolite of you to not welcome me at the front door?"

Was she joking or serious? She was looking at me completely dispassionately. Drat! She had just arrived, and we were already off on the wrong foot. Keeping my hands across my front, I squirmed at the discomfort of the situation. I felt like I was back in grade school again. "No ... I ... No, it's just that I was changing to go out, and I was just ... ah ... getting ready to go out." Boy, that sounded stupid.

Miss Ridge walked slowly over to my shirt on the floor. Pinching its collar between a finger and thumb, she pulled it up off the ground and held it over my clothes hamper. "I see," she said with a slight amount of disgust in her voice and let the shirt drop into the plastic basket. "Mr. Walker," her voice was quiet, but it had a cool edge to it, "Would you please proceed to the living room? I would like to speak with you."

"Yes. Of course ... let me just ..." I stammered as I reached again for my robe.

"Mr. Walker!" she halted me and then strutted slowly over to my side. "I asked you to proceed to the living room. Please do so."

I don't think she realized that I just wanted to throw on my robe, but when I turned to explain myself, I saw a look of controlled irritation. On my mother's face, that look meant, "Don't screw around." My balls began to tingle again; I decided to move obediently into the living room. Crossing over to the couch, I sat down and pulled a pillow onto my lap.

"Click, clock. Click, clock," Miss Ridge followed me into the room with a slow, measured pace. She positioned herself by a winged-back chair. Hooking her hands on her hips, she exhaled in exasperation. "Mr. Walker, do you consider it polite to remain seated when a woman enters the room?"

I wasn't trying to piss her off ... I really wasn't. I jumped up immediately, holding the pillow in front of me. "No ... Sorry," I apologized.

"Would you leave that silly pillow on the sofa and come over here please?" she insisted.

I dropped the pillow back on my seat and hustled over to her side. I respectfully covered myself with my hands again, but when she saw my attempt at modesty, she grabbed my elbows and moved my arms to my sides. "Would you please stop that?! Do you have something down there that you are ashamed of?" she snipped.

"No, it's just that I ..."

"Well, I seem to be having trouble getting your attention, and your fidgetting is not helping. Would you please just focus on our discussion?" Her face moved in front of mine. It was very close; I could feel the heat from her breath. Her eyes looked cold and intense. I felt very uncomfortable being scrutinized in the middle of my living room with just a pair of thin cotton boxers on. It was like I was in trouble with my mother, and the feeling made my stomach flutter and my balls tighten nervously.

Miss Ridge walked around the chair and sat down, crossing her legs. It was quiet for a while, but I felt restrained from talking or moving. She just looked at me impassively and waited. Eventually, she broke the silence, "Timothy, now that I seem to finally have your attention, did I understand you to say that you were intending to leave the house tonight?"

"Uh ... Yes ... I uh ...," I stammered.

"Timothy," she cut me off. Her hand ran soothingly up and down the back of my thigh. "Just relax," she comforted me. Her hand ducked underneath the cuff of my boxers and grazed the bottom of my ass cheek.

"Um ... Well, I promised Rebecca that I would bring her one of my textbooks tonight," I responded nervously.

"You should talk to your elders with respect, Timothy," she corrected me softly, "I have a name."

"Sorry, Miss Ridge," I replied.

"That's better," she cooed. "But Timothy, your mother has requested me to ensure that you commit yourself to studying while she's away." She stopped petting my leg and leaned back in the chair. "So you should resign yourself to staying in the house all week," she announced summarily.

What?!! Was she out of her mind? "But ... but, Miss Ridge," I interjected, stunned, "But I promised Rebecca." I had engineered the loan of the textbook tonight as an ice-breaker, and Miss Ridge was not recognizing the effort and guts it took for me to get that far. Now, my weeks of plotting were going down the drain.

"Well, I'm sure that you will see Rebecca in class tomorrow. You will forgive me if I choose to focus on your scholastic performance instead of your rashly conceived commitments," she explained, standing up. "Now let's get you bathed and settled so that you can get some studying done."

Bathed?!! Settled?!! How old did she think I was? Boy, this was going downhill fast. "But Miss Ridge ..."

"Mr. Walker!!" she raised her voice. Her unexpected irritation jolted my balls and made my cock twitch. Reflexively, I braced in my stance and clenched my jaw. "Am I going to have trouble with you all week?" she asked, her voice becoming more intense.

"No, Miss Ridge," I replied meekly.

"I have your mother's cell phone number," she advised me. "Should I call her to return now before she gets too far out of town?"

"No, Miss Ridge." Gawd, she really had a hair trigger.

"I don't have time for this, Timothy!" She grabbed my earlobe and squeezed it. It was surprising how much that hurt. Slowly, she led me towards the hall by my lobe. "I need you to cooperate with me and not waste my time asking questions!" At the corner of the room, she stopped me so that I was facing the wall. She placed her finger on the wall at about my eye level and drew a small, imaginary circle. "Place your nose there, Timothy," she instructed me.

I leaned forward until the tip of my nose touched the rough texture of the wall. "Higher," she corrected me, and I had to reach up on my tip-toes. I felt a little strained and off-balance.

"Timothy, I'm not trying to be inflexible; I'm just doing what's best for you. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Miss Ridge."

"I don't think you do, Timothy." Her face was now beside my ear. She stared at me without speaking, for effect. I could feel her breath on my cheek and neck. My calf muscles began to quiver with the strain. "I am going to prepare your bath now, and I want you to think about what you need to do to start behaving properly." She strutted out of the room.

*** The Unpacking ***

I was in the corner! I was in the friggin' corner!! As abusive as my parents were, I hadn't been made to stand in the corner since I was eight years old. ... And she just got here! How was I going to last the week like this?

In the distance, I could hear the tub faucet spewing out a jet of bath water. My gut and groin were churning just like the torrent of water next door, and strangely, the feeling of anguish that was pulling on my balls was causing me to get hard. Oh gawd, was she going to take offence to that?!! I was truly screwed.

With the squinch of a closing tap, the sound of rushing water faded and was replaced by the odd plop of water drops falling onto the surface of the bath water. Miss Ridge returned to the room and positioned herself behind me. I hadn't moved, and I tried to show by my rigidity that I was conforming to her direction.

I was braced for another tirade, but to my surprise, I felt her fingertips trace lightly and playfully across my shoulders and then down my back. Both the feeling and the surprise made me shiver. She moved her face in towards my ear and spoke softly, "Timothy," she said gently, "I don't want to be angry at you. I'm just looking out for your best interests. Are you ready to be good now?"

"Yes, Miss Ridge," I replied with great relief.

"Good," she declared happily and took a step back, "Then would you please grab my luggage and bring it into my room for me." I looked over towards the front door and saw a garment bag and valise on the floor. As she clicked her way down the hallway towards the guest room, I retrieved her bags and followed her lead. Hustling down the hall, I was relieved to note that my erection, which had been oddly encouraged by Miss Ridge's brusque treatment, was not obvious underneath my blousy boxers.

When I entered the guest room, I saw Miss Ridge standing at the far side of the bed by the closet with her back to me. With one hand under her jacket, she held the waistband of her skirt, while with her other hand, she drew its zipper down. Bending over, she pulled the skirt down her legs until it slipped onto the floor. Oh ... my ... gawd!! Two round, pale, smooth, beautiful bum cheeks were presented to me, separated by the thinnest of black thongs. I stood at the entrance of the room wide-eyed and slack-jawed.

She stepped out of her skirt and stood up. The thong disappeared coyly between her plump cheeks, which now formed two proud little moons. Just below the pouty curve of her cheeks, the delicate bands of her sheer, black stockings hugged her firm thighs. My eyes traced down the dark outline of her shapely legs to the sharp spikes of her shiny black shoes. In my boxer shorts, my penis began to push against its flimsy covering as if to peek out at what it was missing.

"Here, Timothy," she said as she turned around to grab a hanger from the open closet, "Lay the garment bag on the bed here." She hung her skirt up and casually unbuttoned her jacket. I did as she asked and retreated with my back to her to hide my increasingly evident hard-on.

"Would you be a dear and unpack my valise into the dresser over there?" she asked as she nonchalantly removed her jacket. Underneath, her voluptuous breasts sagged heavily in a lacy, half-cup bra, and as she hung up her jacket, the mounds jiggled and jostled recklessly in the barely confining material.

I averted my eyes quickly ... well, not that quickly ... and zipped open her small bag. Inside, I was confronted with shiny, lacy material – blacks and whites, hot pinks and baby blues. I inserted my hand into the bag and swam it gingerly around the cool, satiny interior. With alarm, I concluded that the contents consisted entirely of lingerie. Slips and babydolls; chemises and camisoles; bras and tanks and teddies and thongs – I knew all too well what they were. Intense catalogue browsing constituted a large proportion of my pathetic sex life.

I looked up guiltily. I shouldn't be touching women's underthings. But when I looked up, I got an eyeful of Miss Ridge, jostling and jiggling under her barely restraining underwear, as she continued to hang up her clothes. I shouldn't be looking at that either. My penis was now on the verge of escape. It pushed strenuously against the overlapping material of my fly, attempting to pry open a small gap.

"Put those away neatly, Timothy," she said off-handedly, "I'll be with you in a minute."

I reached in and pulled on a little spaghetti strap. Out came a sheer lace, baby blue camisole. As I tried to manipulate it, it slipped and slid limply through my fingers, almost falling to the floor. I couldn't fold it, so I just placed it gently in one of the drawers. I next pulled out a mesh, black, V-string thong. There was almost no material to it, and when I folded it over once, it practically disappeared in my hand. I placed it in the same drawer. I had no idea that Miss Ridge had this kind of lifestyle, but regardless, my unpacking job was failing miserably.

I reached in her bag again and pulled out a small pair of white, lacy shorts, which seemed to be more air than material. "Do you like those?" she startled me. She was now standing in front of me. When I looked up, all I could see was soft, pink flesh, outlined here and there by black material. I tried to not stare noticeably at any of her naughty area and got so nervous that I dropped the panties. "Oh, don't get them dirty," she purred as she reached down to pick them up. "See," she said as she held them in front of her hips, "They're called tangas, and they become see-through when I stretch them on."

I tried to look down at what she was attempting to show me, but the first thing I saw was her wonderfully soft and plump breasts. I started to tremble, so I looked away. When she noticed my condition, she smiled and placed a palm softly on my cheek. "Are you nervous, Timothy?"

"Yes, Miss Ridge."

"Haven't you ever seen a woman's body before, Timothy?'

"Um ... No ... Um ... Not in real life, Miss Ridge."

"Really?!!" she sounded very surprised. I guess that, since I was 18, it did sound somewhat surprising. "Well there's nothing for you to be afraid of, Young Man," she said comfortingly as she grasped one of my hands and placed it on her ... WOW ... her breast ... her soft, smushy breast. I still couldn't look down, but it felt great. My erection was now full on.

"There, that's not so bad, is it?'

"No, Miss Ridge."

Glancing down, she caught sight of my bulge, which is probably why she looked. Then glancing back up, she gave me a wry smile and felt around the front of my shorts for the fly, which she spread apart. My hard-on sprang enthusiastically through the opening. She twanged it with a fingertip, causing it to oscillate back and forth.

"Timothy, are you having naughty thoughts?" Her hand batted my wobbly pole about playfully.

"Um ..." I exhaled loudly. "Um ... Yes, I guess so, Miss Ridge ..."

She reached into her bag, extracted a bra and hung the strap over my upward turned shaft. The strap slid down my erection, and the cups swung underneath my balls. "What about?"

"P-p-pardon me?" I stammered.

She withdrew another bra and sent it next down my pole. "What are you having naughty thoughts about, Timothy?" she asked relentlessly.

"I ... oh, uh ... I ... uh ... something ..." I tried to let my hand fall away from her breast, but she caught and replaced it, pressing it on firmly to emphasize my apparent dereliction of duty.

"Something?" She picked a pair of bikini briefs and placed the leg hole over my pole. "Is it about me, Timothy? Are you having naughty thoughts about me?"

"I ... uh ... I ..." Suddenly, a cell phone rang and saved me from my interrogation. Miss Ridge left to answer it and said over her shoulder, "Keep unpacking for me, please, Timothy."

I scrambled to get her lingerie put away. I lifted the items off my hard-on and threw them in a drawer, adjusting my penis back into its cotton sanctuary. Then, I took great handfuls of satin and lace from her bag and shovelled them into the dresser.

Miss Ridge returned to the room with the cell phone at her ear. "All right then, Anne. I will see you and Priscilla at nine," she spoke into the phone, and now with her present, I tried to look assiduous about my handling and folding of her underwear. "Do you need directions?" she continued, "All right then ... All right ... Okay ... Bye."

*** The Bath ***

She closed up her phone and looked over at me. "Okay," she announced, "Let's get cracking. I've got visitors coming, and I need to get you bathed and at your desk before they get here. ... Come along ... Come, come, come!" She hustled off out of the room, and I scurried in along behind.