Ditz the Babysitter

by Harvey Marcus

Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/ft, Reluctant, .

Desc: Erotica Sex Story: Mr. Marcus gets seduced by Daphne (Ditz), a babysitter recommended by his two bowling buddies

In a sudden delusion caused by two simultaneous synapses crossing each other, I thought, "Gee, wouldn't it be keen to tell the story of how I, Harvey Marcus, got started with all of this screwing around. I mean, it didn't just happen out of nothing. Everything has a cause, a spark, an ignition. So, here's my first Official Retrospective. Appropriately, it is my Origin Episode, how I involuntarily got sucked into a campaign of accidental sex with all of the world's eighteen-year and older females.

Now, it IS a babysitter story, but don't click away to some tale of curious next-door female neighbors or vulnerable nieces. This is a babysitter story like no other you've ever read. Read on, and learn how I, Harvey Marcus, got initiated.


I had two friends I'll call Smith and Jones. Their last names are too distinctive to use in this story. They married before me and had kids, one each. Smith had a girl they named Jaqi. The distinctive spelling was intentional, not while he and his wife were under the influence of drugs, which he sometimes sampled. Jones had a son, John. Harriett and I had Annie a couple of years later and learned one of the rules of parenting: the child comes first. We found it impossible to get away, together. Oh sure, I could go and leave Harriett at home, or she could go out for an evening of cards with her girlfriends, but together? Impossible.

Now, in order for any of this to make sense, you have to understand my condition at that time. My sex life, to be specific. It was lucky that we conceived Annie on our earliest sex after getting married because, after that, and since Annie was born, Harriett has refused me in bed. She says taking my penis inside, a classic definition of sex, is too painful. Now, I'm not huge like those firehose porn stars. Maybe a bit bigger than average, but women stretch to fit, right? Anyway, my right hand, or sometimes my left, is my best friend. I gradually accumulated a small stash of x-rated videotapes and a small stack of foreign adult magazines. Oh yes, and one year's worth of Playboy, which I gifted to myself. Since the first issue came with a gift card from an anonymous buddy, Harriett couldn't put up as big a fuss. So, while Harriett played cards, after Annie went to bed, I played with myself. Not very satisfying, to be sure, but better than cheating on Harriett, something I vowed never to do. Looking at women, however, was just looking. And I looked a lot.

On one of our guys-only outings, Smith and Jones convinced me to go golfing, a sport I think is ridiculous. I mean, if you want the ball in the cup, just walk over and drop it in. That's what they do in basketball and football and soccer. There are no sticks in soccer. Imagine trying to thwack a basketball into the hoop with a paddle. Speaking of sports, Smith and Jones and I used to play pranks on our college's sports teams, since jocks were easy targets. Our favorite was stealing jerseys from the players' lockers. We planned on giving them back during the big Senior Day event, until our prank backfired. One of the football linemen, unable to find his regular jersey for a game, swiped one from a pile of practice outfits. Of course, it had a different number. The team manager was unaware and didn't register the change with the refs at the start of the game. Despite the fact that we had the higher score, their coach noticed the inconsistency, and so our team forfeited. Spoiled a great season. I wonder what happened to all those jerseys we stole?

Sorry for letting my mind wander. Happens too often these days. Back to the sex.

So, one day, at the bowling alley where Smith and Jones and I meet once a week to roll a stupid ball down a narrow path to knock over ten pins - don't get me started - I pour my heart out about how Harriett and I never get any time alone. Hell, we can't even go see a movie or have dinner out. The neighborhood carryout places know us by our caller ID.

Like clockwork, without us placing an order, the bar maid approached with a tray of drinks. Her uniform was consistent on every visit: a ruffled blouse to camouflage her breast size, a short skirt that stuck out like an umbrella, nylons with seams, and spiked heels. As if it were choreographed, Smith dropped his $20 bill and she bent over to pick it up. Smith and Jones both tilted their heads to get a good look up her skirt. How juvenile! I just rolled my eyes and looked the other way. Smith and Jones each tipped her a buck. Big spenders!

After she left, Smith told me he knew a terrific babysitter named Daphne who came cheap. "She's older than the teens who are usually the only ones available and she's more mature and responsible."

"Yeah, mature, says Jones."

Evidently, Jones knew something of her as well.

Smithy continued, "She got along great with Jaqi." And, Smith told me she is exclusive, meaning she only sits for one family at a time. "Gives them her full attention. Evidently she doesn't do it for the money. One of her grandfathers passed away and she inherited a wad." Smith says she does it for the pleasure.

Jones starts giggling, holding his hand over his mouth. I didn't get the joke.

"So you used her and were satisfied?" I asked.

Smith nodded vigorously.

"Yeah," Jones chimed in, "I used her after Smith."

Then they were both laughing, tears running from their eyes. I still didn't see the humor.

"I'll call you with her number," said Smith. Choking on his beer, he added, "You'll love her!"

"Love is right," replied Jones.

With a guffaw, they resume laughing. I knew them too well. This had to be a set-up. Either Daphne was a complete failure and it was my turn to have disaster strike, or they were plotting something else. Damned if I was going to be the butt of one of their jokes!

So I left the job of interviewing Daphne to Harriett, figuring she'd be a better filter on a scam. If it blew up in her face, Smith and Jones wouldn't have the laugh on me. Turned out, Harriett reported that Daphne seemed competent, with excellent references, not only from Smith and Jones, but other families as well. "Odd," Harriett said, "all the letters we written by the fathers."

So we hired Daphne, who insisted on being called Ditz. Now, to me, this was a slur on her mental prowess. But she insisted. She was very cute, hair curved around her face, strong jaw, and nice build. Like I said, I look at women, and Daphne was a woman worth looking at.

Daphne loved Annie, and it was mutual. Annie perked up at the sight of her once-every-two-weeks companion. Then we increased the frequency to once a week. After all, we were Daphne's only customers. Then, a couple of times a week. She came so cheap, Ditz could be Annie's company even if Harriett or I were home. Ditz was like the older sister Annie would never have.

Ditz was around on some of the evenings that Harriett went out. I was losing opportunities for self-satisfaction, but gaining opportunities at Daphne-watching.

I almost didn't notice, but then again, I was constantly on the lookout. At women, I mean, including Daphne. The exposure incidents started small. Daphne letting her skirt slide a bit too high on her thighs, or bending over with a low cut top to show deep cleavage.

On one of our bowling outings, Smith wanted a status report. "How is Ditz working out?"

"Fine. Annie loves her, like you said." I dropped my voice. "Tell me, did you ever notice how Ditz doesn't pay attention to, well, keeping herself covered?"

Smith and Jones looked at each other, eyes wide. "What do you mean?"

I explained the brief flashes and ever-brief clothing.

"Your mind is in the gutter, Marcus," said Smith, "just like your ball.".

"You've always had a fertile imagination," added Jones.

"That never happened with me." Smith elbowed Jones. "Did Ditz expose herself to you?"

Jones shook his head.

Their expressions were like cartoon characters, exaggerated eyes and mouths. Then they clinked beer bottles and burst into laughter.

"Come on, you're up," said Smith.

"Or you will be." Jones doubled over, laughing so hard he seemed to be in pain.

Good thing I was designated driver. These guys were drunk and we were only in the third frame of the first game. Every time Daphne's name was mentioned, the pair would stifle a laugh, and then give up, practically rolling on the floor. Nothing makes Smith and Jones laugh harder than a dirty joke. And they'd tell the most outrageous ones, even when we'd get together with our wives. That's why the three of us were now getting together stag. Could their exaggerated jocularity mean that Ditz had made herself available for sex with them? I'd read the most popular erotic stories on the topic. Child falls asleep while being sat. Wife is away/asleep/still at a party/etc., and the babysitter seduces the husband in a coy way. But Ditz? Maybe she didn't know what she was doing, showing a bit too much leg or chest. Nah. Smith and Jones were teasing me. Those things only happen in stories.

The incidents of exposure accelerated. On a subsequent visit, Ditz wore a halter-top. Evidently no bra, just the piece of material tied at her neck and around back. In her traditional rough housing with Annie, the back tie came undone. I was afraid to say anything, or be so bold as to touch her and retie it. Hell, the truth is I was waiting for a tit shot, a glance at Ditz's chest. And it came, as she leaned over the table. The material fluttered straight down, and I got a clear profile of her breast. Nice teardrop shape, a little bigger than I'd expected from previous glances. I looked away before anyone in the room noticed I'd spied.

.... There is more of this story ...

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Story tagged with:
Ma/ft / Reluctant /