The Peanut Butter Babysitter
Copyright© 2004 by MarkStory
Chapter 10
Romantic Sex Story: Chapter 10 - Jim and Aimee have a chance meeting over a jar of peanut butter. In the beginning, he's a married father, she's a college student. That chance meeting in a grocery store, and the coincidence that follows, will change their lives (and others' lives)! I brought this story back to life in late 2025, more than 20 years after I first started writing it.
Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Consensual Romantic Lesbian Heterosexual Fiction Cheating Polygamy/Polyamory Masturbation Oral Sex Babysitter Slow
Over the next few days, I kept telling myself the house wasn’t different.
That we were the same three adults bumping around the same hallways, raising the same two kids, juggling the same routines.
But it was different. God, the house was vibrating with tension.
Some days it felt like the walls had picked up a frequency only the three of us could hear.
Aimee would pass behind me in the kitchen, fingers tickling at the small of my back -- light, accidental to anyone else. But it wasn’t accidental. Not anymore. Not after the laundry room. Not after the hug. Not after the way she whispered “I want you” into my collarbone.
And then Beth -- fuck. She’d touch my arm while stirring pasta sauce, slip her hand into my back pocket when she passed me in the hall, lean in for a kiss that lingered just a fraction longer than it had for months. Not clingy. Not needy. More like she’d woken up overnight and remembered she had a body that wanted -- needed -- things too.
I swear, when I was home I walked around the house in a constant state of arousal, my pants always tighter than they should be. By unspoken agreement, Beth and I reached for each other when we got into bed on Sunday night. The sex was lustful, quick, quiet -- it sated the desire, but only a little.
Monday morning, I stood at the counter packing lunches. Aimee reached for the bread at the same time I did, her fingers grazing mine. She looked up, pupils wide like someone who’d just stepped into a warm room from the cold.
“Sorry,” she said.
She wasn’t sorry.
“Don’t be,” I murmured before I could stop myself.
Beth watched from across the kitchen -- not glaring, not frowning, just ... watching. Measuring something. Maybe herself. Maybe me. Maybe the thrum between all three of us.
Later that evening, Beth and I brushed shoulders at the sink. She leaned into the contact, slow and intentional, letting her temple rest against my cheek for a second as the water ran.
“Last night was fun,” she said quietly.
I turned. Her mouth was right there.
We kissed like we were twenty again. Like kissing was brand-new and neither of us had learned restraint yet. It wasn’t about Aimee. It wasn’t jealousy or fear. It was that whatever was happening in the house was heightening everything -- amplifying it.
We broke apart, and I looked up to see Aimee leaning against the kitchen doorway, gorgeous and comfortable and unashamed in her thermal pajamas. She was smiling as she watched us, arms crossed below her breasts, pushing them up, the bumps of her nipples visible under the thin cotton.
Beth drew a sharp breath beside me -- tiny, involuntary -- and that was how I knew her eyes had landed in the same place mine did.
Desire wasn’t picking sides. It was enveloping all three of us.
Wednesday night, Jim was at the office late. Not an emergency this time -- just a project deadline meeting that had to get done that night. The boys were asleep early after a meltdown over bath toys, and the house settled into its soft nighttime quiet.
Aimee was in the kitchen rinsing berry bowls. Beth leaned on the counter, sipping a glass of the cheap red wine she always swore she wouldn’t buy again and always did.
“You want some?” she asked.
Aimee nodded, pushing damp hair behind her ear. “Yeah. Just a little.”
Beth poured. Aimee’s fingers brushed hers when she took the glass. That tiny touch hit Beth with a jolt she still didn’t know how to hide.
They talked first about harmless things -- one of the boys’ Valentine cards, Aimee’s midterm paper, some ridiculous TikTok she showed Beth that made her snort wine up her nose. The laughter loosened something between them.
Then the conversation drifted -- easily, naturally -- toward the last few weeks. The house. The kids. What it meant for Aimee to be here.
“You can’t understand how much you’ve changed things,” Beth said, her voice softer than she expected. “I don’t think I realized how lonely this house felt until you filled it.”
Aimee leaned against the counter, hair loose, cheeks warm from wine. Beth stepped closer without thinking, brushing a thumb along the corner of Aimee’s mouth.
“You had glitter on your face at the program,” Beth murmured.
Aimee laughed -- breathless, already leaning in. “Probably still do.”
Beth touched her jaw. Their noses brushed. And then they were kissing again -- slow at first, then hungry, a week’s worth of tension unleashed.
Aimee’s hands slid under the hem of Beth’s sweater, fingertips skating over the warm skin of her ribcage. Beth shivered, pulled her closer, and her own hand slipped under Aimee’s t-shirt, tracing up her spine until Aimee gasped into her mouth.
“Beth...” Aimee whispered, like a confession.
Beth kissed her again, deeper, and the sound Aimee made -- soft, needy -- nearly undid them both.
The dishwasher kicked into a louder cycle, a low roar that filled the kitchen.
Aimee didn’t hear the front door open.
She didn’t hear the soft thud of boots on the mat.
But Beth ... Beth almost did. A faint shift in the air behind them. The prickle of cold seeping in from the foyer. The distant jingle of keys.
She could’ve pulled away. She could’ve straightened her sweater, stepped back, created space.
Instead she kissed her again -- deliberately -- her hand sliding around to the front of Aimee’s body, lightly caressing one gloriously soft breast, one impossibly hard nipple, until Aimee’s head tipped back, a quiet moan slipping out of her.
The moan covered the sound of the door clicking shut.
And maybe that was why Beth didn’t hush her.
Maybe that was why she pressed Aimee gently against the counter, moving to her throat, voice low and rough: “So good.”
Aimee moaned in agreement.
She didn’t hear Jim’s footsteps until Beth finally, slowly, lifted her head -- eyes wide, cheeks flushed, pulse hammering -- and looked over Aimee’s shoulder.
A beat of silence.
Beth didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Didn’t pull her hand off Aimee’s breast.
Aimee froze only when she felt Beth’s breath change against her skin.
Then she turned her head -- and saw Jim standing in the doorway.
Her whole body jolted, hands still under Beth’s sweater, caught between instinct and desire, terror and want.
Beth exhaled, the smallest smile flickering at the corner of her mouth -- like she’d been waiting for this moment without letting herself name it.
I wasn’t expecting anything except a quiet kitchen and maybe some reheated leftovers. I wasn’t even thinking, really -- just tired, loosening my coat, already playing the routine in my head.
What I saw when I walked in wasn’t routine. At least not in my life.
I froze in the kitchen doorway.
Beth had Aimee pinned gently against the counter, her hand under Aimee’s shirt -- not resting, not accidental. Touching, caressing, holding. Beth’s lips were pink and swollen from kissing and Aimee’s hands were under Beth’s sweater, clutching her waist.
Aimee didn’t see me -- not at first. Beth did. Something flickered across her face, a shock followed by ... understanding. Acceptance. Maybe even welcome.
Then Aimee felt Beth’s body go still and twisted around, fast -- hair bouncing down onto her forehead. She turned fully toward me, chest rising too quickly, and when Beth’s hand slipped out from under her shirt, the fabric shifted enough that I saw -- unmistakably -- the hard peaks beneath the cotton.
Christ.
Aimee’s hands flew up to cover her chest, then her face, then fluttering at her sides -- trembling, useless. “Jim -- oh my God, I’m so sorry -- I didn’t -- we didn’t -- it’s not -- I mean, the wine, and we weren’t really--”
Her voice cracked. She looked like she was going to bolt from the house, never to return.
Beth didn’t move, didn’t speak.
She just stood there, lips parted, her face flushed with pleasure, and looked at me with a small, startled, deeply knowing smile. A smile that said: So. We finally got here. A smile that I felt ripple through my entire body.
We locked eyes, and something passed between us -- quiet, electric, married-couple telegraphy -- and my body answered before my brain did. Not anger. Not jealousy. Something far more dangerous.
Relief.
I stepped farther into the kitchen, softening my voice so it would land where Aimee needed it. “Hey. Hey, it’s okay.”
Aimee shook her head, trembling. “No, it’s not. I didn’t mean to-- I didn’t expect-- I would never try to mess up your marriage, I swear, Beth just-- we were just--”
“Aimee.” I said her name gently, the way you do when someone’s about to run into traffic. “Look at me.”
She did, eyes huge.
“I’m not mad.”
Her throat bobbed. “You’re not.”
“No.” I shook my head slowly. “Not even close.”
Behind her, Beth exhaled -- a sound that was half relief, half something darker. She stepped closer, sliding her hands over Aimee’s shoulder blades for a second in this automatic, protective gesture that warmed my heart.
“Jim...” Beth murmured. “We would have told you. Just ... not like this.”
Her eyes glimmered -- not with fear. With recognition. With maybe the tiniest spark of victory, of finally stepping into something she hadn’t let herself want.
I almost smiled. Fuck, I almost winked! Yeah. I know.
But then--
A sharp cry from upstairs. Jake. Loud and sudden.
Beth’s head snapped toward the stairs. “I’ll go,” she said, steady as a heartbeat. She pressed a quick kiss to Aimee’s temple on her way past, then brushed her hand along my chest in the faintest, most grounding touch.
She paused on the first step, looked back once -- at me, then at Aimee --
“Don’t leave,” she said, in a low, raspy voice equally aimed at both of us.
Then she disappeared up the stairs, leaving the two of us alone in the warm, dim kitchen, the dishwasher humming too loudly, the air thick enough to swallow.
Aimee swallowed hard. “Jim ... I’m scared. Scared that I ruined everything.”
I stepped closer, slow and careful, like approaching a wild animal that trusts you but isn’t sure it should, running one hand along her arm.
“You don’t ever need to be scared,” I said softly. “Not with me. Not with Beth. And you haven’t ruined anything.”
Her breath hitched, as Beth’s footsteps faded into the boys’ room. Aimee stood frozen in the kitchen like a deer on the highway deciding which 18-wheeler was going to hit her first.
“Aimee,” I said gently, nodding toward the living room. “C’mon. Let’s sit. Wait for Beth.”
She hesitated like the floor might collapse under her, but she followed. We sat on the couch -- not far, but not close. A few inches of cushion pretending to be a chaperone.
Her hands were knotted in her lap, her eyes still wide.
“I’m really not mad,” I said quietly. “I swear to you.”
Her head snapped up. “Jim ... you have to be. You walked in on me-- on us-- me and your wife--kissing and touching and -- I mean, I didn’t mean--I don’t think we would have done --”
“Aimee.” I leaned in a little. “Look at me.”
It took a beat, but she did. Big, terrified eyes, pupils blown wide. She looked so much younger like this, like a teenager caught in the back seat of a car. Fragile, innocent. Frightened of losing what she most needed.
“I see you and Beth,” I said. “I’ve been seeing it for weeks. The way she lights up around you. The way you soften around her. None of this is out of nowhere. I wouldn’t have said I was expecting this, not out loud. But maybe I was.”
Aimee’s breath caught. She shook her head, almost angry at the comfort.
“But I didn’t mean for this to happen,” she whispered. “I wasn’t trying to steal her or-- or mess anything up. I didn’t want to hurt you--”
“I know,” I said. “If I thought you were trying to hurt her, or me, or the boys ... then I would be upset.”
She blinked fast, like tears threatened. “I just-- I can’t believe you’re sitting here talking to me like-- like this isn’t a disaster.”
I let out a slow breath. “Do I look mad?”
“No, but I mean maybe you’re just pretending, being brave, just covering up--”
Instead of answering, I reached out, took her hand, and gently guided it to my lap. Right to where the truth was unmistakably hard.
She blinked, twice. A small, shocked sound escaped her throat.
“Does this,” I murmured, keeping my voice low, steady, warm, “feel like I’m mad?”
Her lips parted, eyes still on my lap. She jerked her hand back like she’d touched a live wire, cheeks flaming.
“Jim--” she started, breathless, “this is-- I mean-- does Beth know about--”
I knew exactly where she was going. I shook my head before she could say the word Portsmouth.
“Tonight is ... new,” I said quietly. “All three of us walked through a door we can’t pretend isn’t there anymore. Whatever happened before tonight doesn’t matter, and won’t help anyone.”
She swallowed hard. “But--”
“I’m not saying we lie,” I said. “I’m saying we don’t take something fragile and smash it on the first night it exists. We don’t break Beth’s heart.”
Aimee looked down, fingers trembling against the couch cushion. “I don’t want to lose any of you.”
My chest tightened. “You’re not going to.”
A floorboard creaked upstairs. Both our heads lifted.
A moment later Beth appeared at the top of the stairs, smoothing her hair back, breathing a little unevenly from calming Jake.
Aimee stiffened beside me. I didn’t touch her -- didn’t need to. Something had already shifted in the air between all three of us.
Beth stepped fully into view on the landing. Her eyes flicked from Aimee to me and back again.
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