The Peanut Butter Babysitter
Copyright© 2004 by MarkStory
Chapter 19
Romantic Sex Story: Chapter 19 - 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
Weekday mornings settled into a rhythm that somehow felt choreographed even when it was objectively chaotic. By seven-thirty, we’d already packed lunches, hunted down mittens, smoothed cowlicks, and tried to talk Jake out of wearing dinosaur pajamas beneath his clothes “for luck.” Aimee drifted into the kitchen around then, coffee in one hand and a manila folder full of student notes in the other. The room always felt like a transit station -- people, backpacks, spilled cereal, deadlines -- all moving in different directions.
Aimee started her full-time job as the K–2 behavioral specialist two weeks before the kids went back to school. The district carved out the position because early emotional regulation had become a serious priority, and the principal knew exactly who he wanted. The job was strangely perfect for her: working with students who struggled with transitions, impulse control, peer conflict, or sensory overload; coaching teachers on early de-escalation; creating calm-down plans for families. She had a small office with a window, soft lighting, coloring bins, beanbags, and a desk that had been reclaimed from the middle school attic. Every time I visited, I noticed new crayon portraits taped to her cabinets.
Her first week came with a few frantic calls during my lunch break -- not about student behavior, but paper jams, wifi mysteries, and whether she was allowed to requisition fidget tools for a child who needed them. She sounded like someone testing the boundaries of adulthood: “Am I allowed to do this? Does this count as school property? How many stickers is too many?”
Most mornings, she and Ethan walked to school together, hand in hand. He loved that Aimee was there, and waved at her down the hall like she’d just been announced over the loudspeaker. To him, she wasn’t just part of the household -- she was part of his ecosystem at school. He told everyone proudly that she helped kids who were “having big feelings,” and all of his friends were big fans of “Miss Aimee.”
On rainy afternoons, I often snuck out early to pick up Ethan at the main entrance and drove around to the staff lot to collect Aimee. It felt illicit and domestic at the same time -- like we were sneaking her home after a long day of being the emotional lifeline of 300 small humans.
Evenings settled into the comfortable kind of ordinary: dinner, backpacks emptied, bath time, dishes, and then the three of us folding laundry at the dining table while trading stories. Aimee recounted playground blowups turned into breakthroughs; Beth talked about a dental patient who confessed she flossed only twice a year; I had my own collection of office anecdotes. None of it was dramatic -- just the chatter that makes domestic life feel like a single long conversation.
Once or twice a month, we hired a babysitter and went out, all three of us. Other times, just Beth and I would go out, rediscovering what companionship felt like without a toddler climbing over the booth. Sometimes Aimee and Beth wandered downtown in sweaters and boots, window-shopping and returning home smelling like candles and bookstores. Occasionally, Aimee and I would grab lunch in the midst of weekend errands. We didn’t try to force equality -- the rhythm found us on its own.
Weekends were now louder and looser. Aimee shouted from the sidelines at Jake’s soccer scrimmages like a parent without the official title, celebrating every accidental kick as if it were a championship. Ethan treated soccer like a geological survey, gathering smooth rocks between plays. Sundays were puzzles and cartoons and errands; three adults moving around the house without bumping elbows.
What struck me most was how unremarkable everything looked from outside. Our neighbors saw a stable household with reliable schedules and shared childcare. We weren’t hiding anything -- there just wasn’t an angle to scrutinize. Three adults living together and raising kids looked like resilience, not anomaly.
Inside the house, the romance had stopped feeling like a secret adventure and started feeling like structure. A family with a slightly unconventional architecture, where affection, responsibility, and daily routine braided together without ceremony. Aimee wasn’t an appendage. She was part of the team -- morning, noon, bedtime, repeat.
Looking back, those first months after her graduation were steady in a way that surprised me. Not perfect -- steady. We carried the normal burdens of adulthood: jobs, carpools, laundry piles, forgotten permission slips, mismatched socks, meal planning, PTA emails, and bedtime checks when one boy had a fever. Nothing operatic. Just life.
And for the first time in years, I didn’t feel like Beth and I were holding our marriage in a defensive crouch. The house was shared -- emotionally, practically -- and the shape of that sharing made everything easier to breathe.
Beth watched Aimee step into her professional identity with something close to astonishment. The job suited her so precisely that Beth kept catching herself smiling at passing conversations -- a teacher describing how Aimee helped a student transition back to the classroom after a meltdown, or a parent mentioning that their child felt “safe” with her when big feelings took over. Aimee wasn’t merely competent; she was instinctively fluent.
Beth admired the physical details, too. Aimee’s office wasn’t institutional: soft lighting, beanbags, sensory bins, laminated emotion cards, a shelf of board books, colored sand timers, stickers for victories big and small. Beth saw the space once and thought: Oh. This is the room she was born for. Calm without being passive, playful without losing boundaries.
From Beth’s vantage point, the job changed the texture of the household more than she expected. Aimee came home tired, but not depleted -- full of stories about triumphs that looked tiny on paper but felt monumental to the six-year-olds who lived them. The house absorbed those stories the same way it absorbed laundry piles, grocery receipts, and Lego underfoot.
Night routines shifted as if the walls had agreed to absorb them. Beth still carried part of the domestic mental load, but she didn’t carry it alone. Trash cans emptied themselves. Wet winter gear migrated to the dryer without prompting. Grocery lists refreshed in shared notes without anyone claiming authorship. No one was treating household labor as a scoreboard. It was an ecology.
From the outside, the household looked like a practical family: two parents, a young relative with childcare skills, and two busy kids. Inside, the truth operated with more intimacy -- emotional, domestic, romantic -- but it no longer felt like improvisation. It felt like conversational fluency, learned slowly, then lived unconsciously.
Most nights after the boys fell asleep, Beth sat with a cup of tea or a glass of wine and watched Jim and Aimee tidy up worksheets or argue about whether glitter was an educational tool or a war crime. She found herself laughing, not because the jokes were extraordinary, but because the entire room felt grounded and cooperative. Three adults powering a home is materially easier than two -- she wished she’d known that even five years earlier.
Beth still had moments when the unusualness of it flickered into view -- three adults sharing their bodies in the bedroom, trading off date nights, building a home economy that required no formal labels. But absurdity had softened into comfort. The household functioned. The love didn’t need explaining.
Standing at the sink rinsing three coffee mugs, she turned off the kitchen light and paused at the bottom of the stairs. Upstairs, Aimee hummed as she brushed her teeth. Jim turned the page of a book with that soft, papery sound. No performance, no staging -- just domestic gravity.
Beth thought: This is adulthood. Cooperative, messy, rooted, and strangely soothing.
And she walked upstairs feeling steady.
Halloween was the first school event where Aimee’s two identities collided in public: household member and school staff. Ethan dressed as Sponge-Bob, Jake as a cardboard robot that shed bolts everywhere, and Aimee wore a soft cape and sparkly star stickers because “behavioral specialists are allowed to be whimsical.” She ran the calm-down station at the Fall Festival, offering coloring pages and cups of cider to overstimulated kids.
At one point, Ethan tugged on my sleeve and whispered, “Some kids get overwhelmed at parties. Aimee helps sad kids, and sometimes shy kids, and sometimes angry kids if they throw shoes.” The sentence was delivered with the same reverence most kids reserved for superheroes.
I watched dozens of children wander over just to sit near her beanbags -- not melting down, just needing the warm gravity she carried so effortlessly. A few parents thanked her without even knowing why. She had become part of the school weather system in a matter of weeks.
After bedtime, the three of us divided the boys’ candy into the “reasonable,” the “unreasonable,” and the “purely decorative.” Beth stole three peanut butter cups and denied everything. I didn’t argue. Aimee traded Twizzlers for sour gummies with the shrewdness of a commodities broker.
Nothing about Halloween felt dramatic, but the ordinariness had a sweetness I kept noticing -- Aimee belonged to us and to the school, and the two worlds overlapped without friction.
We had our first real snow day before Thanksgiving. The boys woke up giddy, faces glued to the window, narrating the flakes like it was national news. Aimee brewed cocoa, Beth dug out mismatched mittens, and I fired up the snowblower with the solemnity of a minor holiday ritual.
Ethan insisted that Aimee join him for the first snow fort of the season. She stayed outside with him for almost an hour, helping pack snow into plastic storage bins to make block walls. Jake wandered between them with his toy dump truck, transporting “construction materials.”
Inside the house, the dryer worked overtime, every coat shedding puddles onto the kitchen floor. Aimee and Beth worked side-by-side baking muffins, arguing gently over whether nutmeg was “perfect” or “trying too hard.” Snow days made the house feel more like a shared studio than a domestic checkpoint -- hot drinks, damp socks, music humming in the background, no one rushing anywhere.
That night, the boys were exhausted from a day playing in the snow, and were out within minutes of leaving their baths. I headed upstairs to take a shower and try and warm myself up. I was pleasantly unsurprised when two very naked women joined me a few minutes later.
Our shower at home wasn’t huge, but it was bigger than the tiny one at the Cape house, big enough that a triple shower was possible. If the three in question were friendly.
We were very friendly. I slipped my cock into Beth from behind as she pressed her front against Aimee, the two of them kissing and touching each other. When Beth came before I did, Aimee giddily exclaimed “my turn!”
We rearranged, Aimee putting one foot on the soap dish at the edge of the tub, opening her center to me. Beth stood behind her and helped keep her upright, one arm around her waist, the other hand fondling her nipples. I drove my cock in and out of her, all three of us moaning under the warm spray. When my thrusts got erratic and it looked like I was a little ahead of Aimee, Beth reached down and started tweaking Aimee’s clit between her fingers.
That set her off, which set me off, and I exploded inside her.
When I had slipped out of her, and Aimee relaxed her leg to the floor, we all stood in the warm steam, holding and caressing each other.
“I love snow days,” Beth murmured quietly, and Aimee and I readily agreed.
We hosted Thanksgiving that year for Beth’s parents, who drove up for the long weekend. They’d met Aimee several times by then, mostly through their birthday visits, but this was the first holiday where our domestic rhythm was fully visible. We didn’t explain anything. We didn’t choreograph anything. We just lived the way we lived.
Susan was curious, but polite. She seemed relieved that the house ran smoothly, the boys were thriving, and no one appeared overburdened. She watched Aimee with Jake in the living room -- reading a picture book and regulating a tantrum with the grace of a seasoned teacher -- and the whole idea of “live-in nanny” seemed suddenly inadequate. She didn’t question it aloud.
Gregory bonded with me over Boston sports. Later, he helped me carve turkey and told Aimee he admired her patience with “the little tempests.” She just smiled and said she’d had good teachers at home.
Thanksgiving dinner was crowded and warm. Beth and Aimee moved around each other in the kitchen like co-conductors, trading spoons, handing spices, saving gravy from disaster. The boys hid beneath the dining table and ate rolls like woodland creatures. After dessert, Beth’s parents quietly complimented the harmony -- not the structure, not the intimacy, just the obvious fact that three adults running a household could look calm rather than chaotic.
No one demanded explanations. No one pried. Sometimes silence is a form of grace.
Ethan came home from school waving a drawing of three stick adults and two small children, captioned: “My Family.” In bright green marker, he’d written: MOM + DAD + AIMEE + ETHAN + JAKE.
Aimee sat at the dining table grading student notes while Beth chopped carrots for soup. Ethan handed her the drawing with the ceremonial seriousness of a state gift. Aimee’s face flushed, and she hugged him tightly without speaking. Then she taped it to the fridge next to the grocery list.
Later that night, after the boys were asleep, she stared at the drawing the way some people stare at wedding photos -- not sentimental exactly, just stunned by the tangible proof of belonging.
December brought cold mornings and early sunsets and a different kind of domestic rhythm. Aimee woke at six to prep materials for her behavior groups, Beth packed lunches while Jim made coffee, and the hallway had that charged feeling of three adults heading into three different workdays without stepping on each other.
Beth noticed the way the school began to rely on Aimee -- teachers dropped by her office not to outsource discipline but to ask for insight. Parents requested meetings with her as if she were a counselor as much as a specialist. When a child who had struggled all fall finally managed a smooth transition into circle time, a teacher sent Beth a text praising Aimee’s “kind authority.”
Beth smiled at that phrase: kind authority. It was the thing she’d sensed in Aimee from the beginning -- not softness, not permissiveness, but a way of seeing emotional storms without fear.
At home, the calendar felt full but not frantic. Snow boots by the door, library bags on the bench, a rotating cast of mittens drying near the heater vent. The house never stayed clean for more than an hour, but the mess was shared and no one pointed any fingers.
Beth found herself settling into a quiet certainty: this wasn’t an interim arrangement or a romantic experiment that would inevitably collapse under logistics. It was working -- in the kitchen, at school, on holidays, in every corner that makes family life feel stitched rather than improvised.
When she lifted the boys’ artwork from their backpacks and saw Aimee’s name tucked into family portraits without hesitation, Beth felt something unclench in her chest.
Aimee didn’t have to earn her place anymore.
She already had one.
Christmas morning looked like joyful bedlam: wrapping paper flying, cocoa spilling, trains circling the tree, stockings emptied with reverent astonishment. The boys got sleds, new pajamas, and a set of walkie-talkies that guaranteed chaos for weeks.
Aimee opened a simple box from Beth -- a bracelet in soft silver, not fancy, just elegant enough to feel intentional. Beth whispered something only Aimee heard, and Aimee’s eyes softened, almost shy. Gifts weren’t about romance; they were about recognition.
Beth’s parents visited for Christmas Eve, but Christmas Day belonged to us alone. We cooked brunch in our pajamas while the boys built Lego skyscrapers in the living room. No one rushed anywhere. No one performed anything. Aimee napped on the couch with Jake curled against her hip, his new T. Rex tucked under her arm.
That night, after cleanup and bedtime and the last sweep of stray wrapping paper, the three of us sat on the floor in front of the tree, lights dim, music barely audible. Beth leaned against my shoulder, Aimee against hers. I remember thinking: In a house full of presents, the best gifts were not objects at all.
Beth started her online master’s program in early January, slipping into academic life the way some people slip into a winter coat -- unfamiliar for a moment, then suddenly obvious and necessary. The program met twice a week on Zoom, with discussion boards, late-night papers, and the kind of collaborative group work she hadn’t done in more than a decade. The boys were usually asleep when class started, but she still felt self-conscious the first time she unmuted herself in front of twenty strangers. It took exactly ten minutes for her brain to remember that she loved learning.
She converted Aimee’s unused bedroom into a study space. Technically, Aimee still called it “my room,” but she hadn’t slept there five times in the past year. The desk fit perfectly beneath the window; Beth added a lamp, a stack of textbooks, and a bulletin board dotted with reminders, color-coded tabs, and a calendar with too many arrows. The room felt like a signal: this is mine, and I’m not apologizing for needing space.
Most nights after the boys fell asleep, Beth slipped into the study, headphones on, coffee cooling beside her, the house settling into its late-evening rhythm. Aimee folded laundry in front of the TV in the living room, Jim paid bills or returned work emails, and Beth vanished into literature reviews, case studies, and digital lectures about patient psychology, ethics, and dental practice management.
Domestic life reorganized around her schoolwork without fanfare. Aimee took responsibility for grocery lists and meal prep. Jim handled soccer practices, bedtime routines, and permission slips. No one framed it as sacrifice; the entire household seemed happy to make room for Beth’s ambition.
Beth still carved out dedicated time for the boys. Saturday afternoons became puzzle time, baking time, or library time -- thirty minutes uninterrupted, sometimes ninety, the kind of hours that felt like a luxury when her world was stretched thin. One Saturday, Beth sat on the floor under a blanket next to Aimee, helping the boys build elaborate marble tracks, and thought: I don’t feel guilty for resting. Schoolwork can wait. Real life comes first.
Aimee and Jim protected that time fiercely: no errands, no chores, no distractions. Beth would come downstairs after class and find the laundry folded, the dishwasher humming, the fridge stocked, as if domestic life had grown invisible hands.
Sometimes Beth worried she was missing too much -- that she’d blink and the boys would be older -- but every week she felt herself sharpen. Professional confidence she’d lost somewhere inside motherhood and routine began returning: she could manage her current workload, her coursework, and still feel present with the kids without living on the edge of collapse. She didn’t feel like she was proving anything. She just felt like someone whose life had finally widened rather than contracted.
By mid-February, her class presentations gained fluency. She wasn’t tentative anymore -- she had opinions, she defended them, she earned the respect of faculty she’d never meet in person. One professor pulled her into a breakout room to ask if she’d ever considered teaching part-time at a community dental hygiene program after she graduated. Beth didn’t say yes, but she also didn’t say no. The idea startled her in a pleasant way: not ambition as escape, but ambition as evolution.
What surprised her was how much the boys seemed to understand. Ethan once padded into the study in footie pajamas at ten o’clock, rubbing his eyes, and whispered, “I’ll go back to bed, but don’t forget to finish your homework.” She kissed his forehead and told him she would.
Jake made her a bookmark covered in glitter glue and crayon spirals. Beth used it every single night, tapping it against the keyboard whenever a sentence refused to come together.
The household felt deeply collaborative. When Beth was exhausted from lectures and case write-ups, Aimee scooped up domestic overflow without commentary. When Aimee needed Sunday afternoon to decompress after an intense week at school, Beth took the boys sledding alone and came home with rosy cheeks and snow in her eyelashes. The roles were fluid, respectful, and adaptive -- not transactional.
Beth sometimes fell asleep on the couch late at night, laptop open, one paper still half-written. Aimee would tiptoe in, gently slide the laptop aside, drape a blanket over Beth’s legs, and dim the lamp before heading to bed. Beth would wake up hours later confused, warm, and weirdly cherished.
On nights when she made it upstairs under her own steam, Jim and Aimee would often be asleep, cuddled together. She would slide in behind Aimee, and neither of them scolded her for overworking, or for waking them. They just pressed tight until her pulse slowed. This was the part Beth hadn’t expected: success did not isolate her -- it braided her more tightly into the household.
One evening in early spring, Beth came downstairs after class, starving and mentally spent. She expected the usual late-night scramble -- dishes in the sink, backpacks unzipped -- but the kitchen sparkled and a plate of reheated lasagna waited under foil with her name written in Sharpie. A Post-it note on the fridge read: Eat first, dishes later. We’ve got things covered. --xoxo, A+J
Beth stood in the kitchen and laughed until her exhaustion softened into relief. The house was growing around her ambition instead of competing with it. She didn’t have to choose between adulthood and education. She was allowed to have both.
The biggest change wasn’t Beth’s workload -- it was her confidence.
She carried herself differently at the dinner table, talking about research with the same excitement she used to have when describing a difficult root canal that went beautifully. The boys noticed. I noticed. Aimee noticed more than any of us.
On evenings when Beth disappeared into her study, the house settled into a new gear, like a machine that could operate without strain. I bathed the boys, Aimee made lunches and labeled them with silly drawings, and domestic life kept humming without ever needing Beth to pause her own aspirations.
Every now and then, I’d peek into the study and see Beth lit by the glow of her monitor, brow furrowed, completely immersed, looking more like the young woman I met fifteen years ago than the tired adult our marriage had almost reduced her into before Aimee arrived.
Watching her rise made something inside me unclench.
Not because I was proud of her -- though I was -- but because I finally understood that love isn’t only about intimacy and comfort. Sometimes it’s about clearing the runway so someone else can take off, without tugging them back to earth. And the three of us were getting pretty good at that.
I didn’t see the first crack when it formed. Not because anything was wrong -- just because perfect rhythm can make you forget that every rhythm has tension under it. Beth was thriving, Aimee was flourishing, the boys were unstoppable, and the house was running smoother than ever.
It never occurred to me that so much ease could quietly hide so much strain -- the kind that doesn’t announce itself until one small revelation pulls the thread.
But at the time, all I could feel was pride and relief. The horizon looked calm.I just didn’t know a storm can take its time.
By late spring, life in the house felt efficient and oddly frictionless. We had routines that worked, the boys were thriving, Beth was doing well in her master’s program, and Aimee was a steady gravitational field in every corner of our lives. Nothing felt fragile. If anything, the house felt more structurally sound than any version of it that came before.
Which is why I didn’t notice the pressure building.
It arrived sideways -- not through conflict in our house, but through someone else’s. Aimee came home from school one afternoon unusually quiet. Report cards were due, schedules were packed, the behavioral office was a revolving door of meltdowns and breakthroughs; that part was normal. The silence wasn’t.
We were making dinner together, waiting for Beth to get home, the kids playing in the family room. I asked what was wrong.
She told me a colleague, a second-grade teacher, had spent her lunch hour sobbing on Aimee’s shoulder. She’d discovered that her husband had cheated on her years before -- not recently, not ongoing, but finally revealed. The teacher said the betrayal wasn’t the sex so much as the decade of silence. The lie lived larger than the act.
Aimee opened and closed the fridge door for the fifth time, empty-handed. “She said she could survive the cheating, but she couldn’t survive the secret.”
I nodded, assuming we were having a sympathetic conversation about other people’s marriages.
But Aimee didn’t move on.
Later that night, when the boys were in bed and Beth was upstairs behind the glass square of her Zoom window, Aimee and I sat at the dining table with decaf tea and half-finished homework piles. She tapped her finger against her mug, restless.
“It keeps bothering me,” she said quietly. “How secrets can destroy happiness.”
I didn’t know this was the beginning of anything. I just agreed.
We were halfway into the silence when she said it: “You know about our secrets. Yours and mine. But Beth and I have secrets too.”
The words came out like a slip, but her expression said they weren’t accidental.
Her eyes lifted to mine, and I felt a small cold ripple somewhere under my sternum.
“What secrets?” I asked, gently.
Aimee hesitated, then looked down. “Not mine to tell yet.”
Which was both honest and entirely unhelpful.
The next few days were busy -- school concerts, soccer games, Beth juggling papers -- and the comment drifted into the background like a balloon that refused to pop. I tried to convince myself it was nothing more than a stray emotional metaphor. I didn’t push.
But I couldn’t forget.
Aimee carried a quiet agitation. Not depression, not regret -- agitation, like a conscience that wouldn’t leave her alone. She had spent the past year operating as a stabilizing force for dozens of children, and she’d watched firsthand what happens when emotional truth is buried under habit.
Her agitation turned inward.
On a warm Thursday evening, Beth was in class again, and I was in the kitchen rinsing dishes while Aimee graded behavior notes. The boys were asleep early -- too much playground energy -- and the house had gone still.
Without looking up, she said:
“I think I should tell Beth everything.”
I turned off the faucet.
“Everything?” I repeated quietly, though I knew.
She nodded. “How we met. What happened before she really knew me. The Portsmouth trip. The flirting. The sexy phone calls. All of it.”
For a long moment, the only sound in the room was water dripping from a baking sheet.
“Aimee...” I said carefully, “Beth and I have admitted that our marriage was in trouble back then. She knows we weren’t doing well. She knows we made mistakes on the way here.”
“That’s not the same as transparency,” Aimee said. “She’s living in a house based on a story that isn’t completely true.”
I leaned on the counter, hands flat. My heartbeat felt unreasonably loud.
“She might hate me. Or us,” I whispered.
Aimee’s voice softened. “She won’t hate us forever.”
“She might leave.”
Aimee shook her head. “Beth doesn’t want a different life.”
“I know that. You know that. But shock is different from love.”
Aimee held my gaze. “I’m not doing this to punish you. And I’m not trying to reopen an old wound. I just don’t want the rest of our lives to sit on something we’ve hidden.”
I understood her. I did. But understanding and bravery aren’t the same thing.
“What if I told Beth first?” I asked. “I was the one who broke a vow, not you.”
Aimee thought for a moment, then said gently, “That sounds like you trying to protect me from her reaction. And that’s kind, but this isn’t just about blame. This is about honesty. I want us to tell her together.”
I swallowed. “I’m terrified.”
“So am I.”
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