The Peanut Butter Babysitter
Copyright© 2004 by MarkStory
Chapter 13
Romantic Sex Story: Chapter 13 - 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
Three or four weeks slid by before I even noticed the calendar had flipped. Spring crept in slowly this year -- warm one day, cold the next -- but something in the house had softened anyway. Like the walls had decided to unclench right along with the three of us.
Life didn’t magically get easier. Kids still woke up too early, dishes still piled up, laundry still avalanched out of baskets like it had a personal vendetta. But all of it felt ... lighter. Or maybe I did.
On a random Thursday morning, I came down the stairs to the small sound of Aimee humming off-key in the kitchen. She was making the boys’ lunches, sleeves of her oversized sweatshirt bunched around her elbows, hair in the kind of loose mess that told me she’d rolled out of bed approximately six minutes earlier. Jake bounced on the stool in constant, random motion, and Aimee absent-mindedly steadied him with one hand whenever he got close to falling off.
She looked up when she heard me. Not startled -- just soft. Like seeing me was built into her day now.
“Coffee’s ready,” she said, sliding a mug toward me with her elbow. She didn’t have a free hand.
Beth wandered in next, still rubbing one eye, hair damp from her shower. She kissed me first, then kissed Aimee on the cheek -- a habit so natural now that none of us thought twice about it. Jake didn’t even blink. Ethan barely looked up from the dinosaur book he was pretending to read while actually watching the clock for cartoons.
The house had found a rhythm. Our rhythm.
Later that afternoon, Aimee texted us a photo of the boys in the backyard -- Ethan proudly holding up a worm the size of a noodle, Jake wearing a bike helmet for no discernible reason. Her caption was: “They’re feral but happy.”
Beth replied with: “That’s perfect.”
And I caught myself smiling at my phone like an idiot in the middle of the office.
Nights were the same in their own way -- some evenings all three of us piled onto the couch, Aimee tucked against my side, Beth stretched across both our legs like a cat claiming her spot. Other nights Beth headed upstairs early to shower and unwind after a long day, leaving me and Aimee downstairs with our books and whatever show was humming in the background. There was no hesitation in it anymore -- no checking over her shoulder, no second-guessing. She trusted us. I trusted them. All three of us moved through the house with this quiet certainty now, like we finally knew which way gravity pulled.
No fireworks. No complications. Just ordinary days that felt a little less ordinary because we were living them together.
It wasn’t perfect. But it was stable. Warm. Real.
And by the time April finally decided to act like April, I could feel it: whatever we were building ... it wasn’t a phase.
It had roots.
The three of them had settled into the couch without thinking about it -- the kind of arrangement that happened now with a kind of instinctive ease. Aimee lay across the two of them, her legs draped across Jim’s lap, her head on Beth’s.
Beth had one hand in Aimee’s hair, absently combing through the soft strands the way she did when one of the boys got overwhelmed. It worked the same on Aimee -- her breathing had slowed, her shoulders dropping inch by inch as Jim rubbed gentle circles into the arch of her foot.
It was late April, cool breeze slipping through the cracked kitchen window, and the house felt settled in a way it hadn’t in years.
Aimee spoke without lifting her head. “My mom called again today.”
Beth’s fingers paused for just a heartbeat before she kept going. She and Jim exchanged a small look -- one of those quick, wordless glances that traveled an entire conversation in half a second.
“What’d she want, honey?” Beth asked.
Aimee sighed. “Hinting. Again. About me coming home in May. Or them coming here in June. Or whenever they can pin me down.”
“And what did you tell her?” Jim asked.
“That you guys need me here. That the boys would fall apart without me.” She tried to say it lightly, but Beth could hear the thread of strain.
Beth shifted so she could see her face better. Aimee’s eyes were on the far wall -- distant, conflicted.
“You don’t have to hide behind us,” Beth murmured.
Aimee swallowed. “I don’t want to leave. Even for a weekend. And if they come here, they’ll ask questions. I don’t have any answers I can give that won’t sound insane.”
Beth’s hand drifted from her hair to her shoulder, squeezing gently. “Then you don’t go until you’re ready. And when you are, we’ll help you figure out what to say.”
Aimee nodded, but her jaw worked like she was chewing on another worry.
“There’s ... something else,” she said finally.
Beth felt Jim shift beside her, giving Aimee his full attention. That alone steadied her.
“A guy in my history class asked me out today.”
Beth didn’t flinch. Didn’t stiffen. But something inside her -- something old and protective -- sat up straighter. Jim felt it too; she saw it in the subtle lift of his shoulders.
Aimee rushed ahead. “I said no. Immediately. Before he even finished the sentence.” A flush crept along her neck. “I just ... didn’t want to. At all.”
Beth didn’t smile, but something warm flickered in her chest.
“I didn’t even consider it,” Aimee added softly. “And afterward I realized ... I can’t really explain why I’m not dating right now. Which felt weird.”
Beth moved her hand back to Aimee’s hair, brushing a lock behind her ear. “You’re not doing anything wrong.”
“I know,” Aimee whispered. “It just made me think ... if I were outside this house, none of this would make sense.”
Beth felt a small ache at that -- truth wrapped in tenderness.
“And I don’t want outside,” Aimee said, voice cracking on the honesty. “I want here. I want you two. The boys. All of it.”
Jim’s hand had stilled on her foot. Beth watched the way he softened -- not possessive, not guilty. Just ... moved.
Beth slid her arm fully around Aimee’s shoulders, pulling her into a gentle, anchored hold. “Then that’s what we do,” she said quietly. “We make it work.”
Aimee let out a breath so shaky it broke something inside Beth -- some last hinge she’d been keeping to herself. Aimee sank into her, head on Beth’s shoulder, one hand reaching blindly for Jim’s knee.
Beth felt him cover Aimee’s knuckles with his palm.
The three of them just breathed together for a while -- the kind of silence that wasn’t awkward or heavy. Just full.
And somewhere in that warmth, Beth felt it again -- that new rhythm they’d built without ever mapping it out.
Not chaos. Not guessing. Just choosing.
Choosing each other. Every day a little more.
Beth had taken the boys to the grocery store and then to pick up a birthday gift for one of Jake’s friends. Saturday afternoon light settled warm across the living room, the kind that made the house feel slower, quieter, softer.
Aimee and I ended up in my bedroom without really meaning to. I’d gone upstairs to fold laundry; she’d followed to ask about dinner plans, then flopped onto the bed with a sigh that sounded like it came from somewhere in her bones. I finished putting my clothes away and joined her on the bed.
It wasn’t sexual. Just ... comfortable. Warm. Familiar in the way weeks of trust can make two people fit together without thinking about it.
She rolled onto her side, facing me, her hair half-pillowed over her cheek.
For a minute we just lay there like that -- me sitting against the headboard, her curled near my hip, the late-afternoon light slanting across the comforter. The quiet was easy.
Then she said, without preamble, “So ... you know that guy asked me out.”
I huffed a laugh. “I was sitting right there when you told us.”
She groaned and covered her face with both hands. “God. I cannot believe I had to turn down some extremely nice guy because my life situation is ... whatever the hell this is.”
I nudged her knee with my foot. “He was never a threat.”
“That’s not the point,” she mumbled through her fingers. “He asked me out. I didn’t even think about it. I said no before he got to the punctuation.”
“And now you feel guilty?” I asked.
She peeked out between her fingers. “A little. Shouldn’t I still be ... open to dating?”
“If you wanted to be,” I said. “But you don’t.”
Her hands dropped, cheeks pink. “No. Not even remotely.”
She looked so earnest it almost hurt -- this young woman trying to negotiate adult guilt over a decision her heart made before her brain caught up.
And it hit me again, the thing I kept circling: She was choosing us -- me and Beth -- even if choosing us didn’t fit any category she’d been trained to name.
The admission hung between us -- warm, heavy, real.
Aimee shifted then, pushing herself up so she could sit cross-legged facing me. Her hair fell forward, a little tangled from the lazy-day softness of the afternoon.
“Can I ask you something?” she said.
“Yeah.”
She searched my face. “Are we ... doing anything wrong?”
Her voice didn’t crack, but it wavered just enough that I felt it in my chest.
And I knew exactly where she was going. I sat up, mimicking her position, and took her hands in mine.
“Because of the secrets?” I asked softly.
Aimee’s jaw tightened. “Because of Portsmouth. And Black Friday. And the laundry room. And the fact that Beth still doesn’t know any of it.”
I exhaled slowly. “Yeah. I’ve thought about it too.”
“Every day?” she asked.
“Pretty much,” I admitted.
She curled her fingers into the blanket between us. “Do you think we should tell her?”
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. “No. Not now.”
Aimee swallowed, waiting.
“Telling her wouldn’t protect her,” I said. “It would just hurt her. It doesn’t change who we are to her now. Or what this is. But I honestly don’t know what would happen if we told her now.”
Aimee nodded -- a small, defeated little motion -- then whispered, “But someday?”
“If someday she needs that level of honesty,” I said slowly, “then yeah. We’ll tell her. Together. But we don’t hand her a match and point it at the foundation when things are finally ... good.”
She breathed out, shaky but relieved.
“I hate lying to her,” she murmured.
“I know,” I said. “So do I.”
Her eyes lifted, searching mine. “But you don’t regret it.”
“The secrecy?” I paused, let the sting of it sit between us. “I regret that. But the feelings? No. Not for a second.”
Aimee looked like that undid her -- the good kind of undoing. She leaned forward until her forehead rested against my shoulder. I wrapped an arm around her and held her close.
There was a long, quiet moment. The kind where truth starts pressing against your ribs.
“Can I tell you something else?” she said, voice muffled against my shirt.
“Yeah,” I murmured.
She hesitated -- not out of fear, but out of the weight of the thought.
“I think...” She swallowed. “I think the thing between us ... the attraction ... it didn’t just happen in a vacuum.”
I didn’t speak. I let her finish.
“I think it cracked something open in the house. Not in a bad way -- just ... it made space. Space I didn’t even know was there. Space Beth didn’t, either.”
My throat tightened. Because I’d been circling that same uncomfortable truth for weeks.
“We crossed a line first,” I said quietly. “I’m not proud of that. But--”
“It changed the air,” she whispered. “Like once it was real between us, it somehow made room for her to feel something too. Like it gave her permission to ... notice me.”
I exhaled slowly, the honesty thick between us.
“Yeah. I’ve felt that too. Like she could also see you the way I saw you -- see the attraction. It doesn’t make what we did right,” I said. “But it doesn’t make the outcome wrong either.”
Aimee nodded against me, small and slow. “I feel that.”
“And whatever this is now,” I added, brushing a hand down her back, “it’s not because of a mistake. It’s because all three of us want it. Really want it.”
She let out a trembling breath -- relief, guilt, longing, all tangled.
Aimee raised her face up from my shoulder and we kissed, softly, warmly. Not starting anything further, just acknowledging the feelings between us.
“I’m not scared of choosing you and Beth,” she whispered when we broke the kiss. “I just don’t want to ruin anything -- it’s all so good.”
“You’re not going to ruin anything,” I said. “We’re all choosing this. And no one’s going anywhere.”
She sniffed a laugh. “You sound so sure.”
“I am,” I said. “Beth is, too.”
Aimee pulled back, wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand. “You really think so?”
“She asked if she could spend the night with you last week,” I reminded her. “She encouraged me to spend the night in your room the weekend before. She trusts us. We all trust each other. Completely.”
Aimee blushed at that -- pink all the way up to her hairline -- but she was smiling.
By the time Beth’s car pulled into the driveway, we were downstairs on the couch, Aimee tucked against my side again, calmer now.
She glanced up at me. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For talking about the hard parts,” she said. “For not pretending this is simple.”
I pressed a kiss to the top of her head -- small, soft, nothing anyone could misread -- and murmured, “Nothing about this is simple. But it’s ours.”
She let out a soft, contented breath.
And when Beth walked in and saw us on the couch, both of us smiling at her like she was coming home to something worth coming home to, the whole house felt steady again.
Steady in a way I hadn’t realized I’d been missing for years.
Beth felt a swirl of emotions when she walked into the house, glancing into the family room. She set the grocery bags on the counter. As the boys tussled over getting their shoes off in the mudroom, Beth stepped into the family room, returning the bright smiles from Aimee and Jim.
“You two look cozy,” she said, her voice soft and warm. Seeing them cuddled up like that warmed her heart and sparked heat low in her belly.
“We were,” Aimee said. “But we’ll come get the other bags out of the car. C’mon, lazy bones,” she said, patting Jim on the upper thigh -- the very upper thigh, which Beth absolutely noticed.
Jim and Aimee slipped outside to get the other groceries while Beth started putting things away. A minute or two later, Jim pushed back through the front door, loaded down with bags like a pack mule.
Aimee came in behind him, cheeks pink from the wind. The moment Beth looked up, they both smiled at her again -- not coordinated, not conscious, just this shared warmth she felt hit her like sunlight.
“Let me help,” Aimee said, already reaching for the produce. Her shoulder brushed Beth’s as she passed, and instead of pulling back, she stayed close, their hips bumping gently when they reached for the same carton of berries.
Beth didn’t move away. Didn’t need to.
Jim slid in on her other side, crowding the small kitchen space in that easy, domestic way he always used to in the early years. His hand brushed the small of her back as he set down a bag. Aimee saw it and smiled -- not self-conscious, not jealous, just ... included. She leaned in and kissed Beth’s cheek lightly before reaching into the next bag.
It wasn’t a secret anymore. Touch wasn’t something to hide. The boys darted between them, oblivious, arguing about who would get their yogurt first, and the three adults simply moved around each other in this gentle choreography that had become their new normal.
Beth stole a glance at the two of them -- Aimee laughing as Jim dangled a loaf of bread out of her reach, Jim’s hand steady on Aimee’s hip as she swatted him with a dish towel. Something warm tugged at Beth’s ribs. Not envy. Not fear.
Belonging.
She kept waiting for the pang -- the sharp edge of old insecurities -- but it didn’t come. Instead there was this quiet recognition settling into her bones: this felt right. The three of them in her kitchen, the three of them parenting, teasing, touching lightly as though the house itself had finally learned the shape of them.
Ethan tugged her sleeve. “Mom, can we have the yogurt now?”
Beth handed him the blue one, Jake the pink one without missing a beat, her gaze flicking back to the adults across the counter. Aimee had stepped close to Jim again, brushing flour off his shirt from a leaky bag. He turned his head and kissed her temple -- gentle, quick, so natural Beth couldn’t believe she’d ever feared it.
She found herself smiling. Really smiling.
They were doing this. All of them. And somehow it wasn’t fragile or chaotic or temporary. It felt sustainable. It felt like something that could stretch forward without snapping.
Beth reached out and touched the back of Aimee’s arm -- light, grounding -- and Aimee leaned into it immediately, like her body recognized the cue before her mind did.
For a flicker of a moment, Beth wondered how any of this looked from the outside. If someday someone would stare too long at the easy affection in her kitchen and put the pieces together. But the fear passed as quickly as it came.
Because this wasn’t something she needed to defend. Or explain. Or hide within herself.
She loved this house. She loved these people. All of them.
And as the three of them stood there unpacking groceries with the boys underfoot, Beth felt it settle with the kind of certainty you only get when your heart stops arguing with itself:
Whatever came next, whatever conversations or complications or surprises the future held -- they were already a family.
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