The Peanut Butter Babysitter
Copyright© 2004 by MarkStory
Chapter 3
Romantic Sex Story: Chapter 3 - 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
Monday morning at work, I was useless. Every time the phone rang, I felt that jolt -- like maybe it would be her. It never was. Spreadsheets, budget questions, a request for updated culvert plans. Ordinary life, refusing to bend around what I’d done.
By 11:50, I’d almost convinced myself that the rest of the day would pass without hearing from her. That I could pretend Friday never happened.
Then my desk phone chimed -- internal line. The caller ID read 001, which meant reception.
“This is Jim,” I said, trying to sound normal.
Della’s voice filled the speaker. “You’ve got a visitor in the lobby. Your niece, here to take you to lunch.”
For a moment, the office went silent around me. I didn’t have a niece. Beth didn’t have a niece. There was only one possibility, and my pulse leapt straight into my throat.
“Jim? You there?” she asked, irritation creeping in.
“Yeah. Sorry. I’ll head up front.”
I grabbed my jacket and walked the long aisle to the lobby. And there she was.
Aimee stood at the counter, chatting with Della, her hair tucked behind one ear, wearing a deep green sweater that made her eyes -- God, those eyes -- look impossibly bright. I noticed the sweater first, not what it revealed. That mattered to me in a way I didn’t have time to unpack.
Della actually smiled at me, which might have been a first.
“Your niece is adorable,” she said. “Didn’t know Beth’s brother had a daughter.”
I froze, but Aimee didn’t.
“Oh, I’m not technically his niece,” she said, leaning in conspiratorially. “Second cousin once removed. I’ve just called him Uncle Jim since I was little. Family habit.”
She delivered it with such smooth confidence that I almost believed it myself.
Della’s phone rang again. “Go on, you two. Enjoy lunch.”
The November sun hit us as soon as we stepped outside. Light wind, that faint smell of old leaves and cold pavement. I walked beside her toward the parking lot, trying to look like a man whose life wasn’t knitting itself into a shape he didn’t recognize.
When I was sure no one could overhear, I stopped.
“Aimee,” I said quietly, “what are you doing here?”
For the first time, uncertainty flickered across her face. “You said call. I wanted to explain. And then texting felt ... not enough.” She looked down at her boots, then back up. “If showing up was too forward, I’m sorry.”
“It’s not that,” I said. “It just has to be careful. These people know Beth. They know my kids. And if something looks off --”
“I get it,” she said, and I could see that she really did.
She didn’t know the rules of this world, and God help me, I wanted to be the one who taught her. Right now I wanted that more than anything else.
For a moment, neither of us spoke. The air between us felt charged in that way I was getting used to -- something like a storm that hadn’t decided whether it would break.
“Okay,” I said finally. “We eat first. Talking is easier on a full stomach.”
She exhaled, relieved. “Lunch, then.”
We headed for my car, and with every step I could feel it: the unmistakable sense that there was no turning back, even if we hadn’t said a single reckless word yet.
We ended up at a Mexican place a few blocks from my office, the kind of spot with worn leather booths and salsa that came in plastic squeeze bottles. The hostess led us to a high-backed booth in the back. I was embarrassingly grateful for the privacy.
The waiter brought Cokes and a basket of chips, still warm. We each took one, broke it, didn’t eat it.
Aimee was the first to speak.
“When you texted me Friday,” she said, twisting the napkin in her lap, “and said what you said about Portsmouth ... were you asking me to come with you?”
My pulse jumped. My conscience flinched. Both answers lived in me at once.
I let out a breath I hadn’t noticed I was holding. “I don’t know,” I said. “I mean -- yes. And also no. I keep trying to talk myself out of ... whatever this is. But every time I do, it feels like I’m lying.”
Aimee nodded slowly, eyes fixed on mine. “I’ve been doing the same thing. Telling myself this is harmless. That we’re just -- friendly.” She swallowed. “But that’s not what it feels like, Jim. Not to me.”
I reached across the table and she let me take her hand. Her fingers were cold from the soda glass.
“I love Beth,” I said, voice low. “That’s still true. Even if we’re lost right now. And feeling something for you doesn’t erase any of that. But I can’t pretend I’m not pulled toward you. I didn’t even realize I was disappearing in my own life until you showed up again in my house.”
Her thumb brushed my palm, a small, startled movement. “I never saw myself as someone who could fall for a married man,” she whispered. “And now I’m ... terrified of how quickly I’m falling anyway.”
Before I could answer, the waiter arrived with steaming plates -- quesadillas for me, chimichanga for her. I let go of her hand. We thanked him like everything was normal and waited for him to leave.
Neither of us touched our food.
I stared into her blue eyes -- blue in a way that felt like a choice I was making, not an accident -- and said the truth out loud.
“Yes, Aimee. I want you to come with me.”
Beth folded laundry at the foot of the bed, matching tiny pairs of socks that always ended up scattered under couches and car seats. Jim moved around the room packing for tomorrow’s departure, the soft, efficient sounds of zippers and fabric -- like he’d done this a hundred times.
She tried to imagine him in a hotel room: TV remote on one side of the bed, takeout containers on the desk, the quiet that never really existed in this house anymore. Maybe it would be good for him. Maybe he’d come back less ... armored.
“You got everything?” she asked, smoothing a shirt that didn’t really need smoothing.
“Think so,” he said, not looking up.
She wanted to tell him she missed him. Not in a dramatic, sweeping way -- just in the small, ordinary ways. The way he used to reach for her waist when they brushed past each other in the kitchen. The way they used to laugh in the same moment without saying anything at all.
Instead she said, “Drive safe tomorrow,” like that covered everything.
He kissed her -- quick, distracted -- and she tried to memorize the shape of it anyway.
Later, when the lights were off and he’d already fallen asleep beside her, she stared at the ceiling and wondered if maybe the distance between them wasn’t measured in miles at all.
The week after our lunch date, I was sitting on the bed inside Room 308 of a Marriott hotel in Portsmouth. It was nearly 6:00 on a Tuesday evening, two days before Thanksgiving, and I was as nervous as -- maybe more nervous than -- before my first date.
Why? Because Aimee was due to arrive any second.
I’d been in Portsmouth since Monday morning, finishing end-of-season project reviews on the I-95 bridge rehab where New Hampshire meets Maine. Two days of joint-agency meetings, frost-depth forecasts, and construction timelines that would sleep under tarps until spring. Necessary work. Work I was good at. And yet I could barely remember a thing from the afternoon session.
Aimee and I had settled on a plan. She still had classes Monday and Tuesday, and Beth was counting on her to watch the boys. She would leave our house after babysitting, tell Beth she was starting her drive to her parents’ place in Portland for Thanksgiving, then point her car south instead of north. A wrong turn on purpose.
Beth wasn’t expecting me home until Wednesday. I’d told her we might have spillover meetings. Not a lie, exactly. Just something that could have been true.
Last night, I called home from the hotel. Told the boys I loved them. Told Beth Portsmouth was cold, that the meetings were long, that I missed them. All true, none of it the whole truth.
I wasn’t supposed to call tonight. Beth had taken the boys to dinner at the Thompsons’ -- a plan we’d talked about before I ever packed my suitcase. Tomorrow I’d be home, stirring mashed potatoes and pretending I had spent these two nights thinking exclusively about bridge joints and winter curing compounds.
Still, when I got back to my room after the final session, I almost called anyway. I unzipped my suitcase to grab my phone charger and found something rolled into the corner pocket -- a black hair tie, stretched, probably stolen from Beth’s wrist without thinking. The kind she snapped against her skin while concentrating.
I held it for a moment, thumb on the frayed edge. I could have called. Just to ask how dinner was going. Just to say I couldn’t wait to see them tomorrow. But I knew that was dangerous. Beth would have heard something in my voice. I knew it the way I knew load limits and asphalt temps -- fact, not feeling.
So I set the hair tie on the nightstand next to the stiff hotel lamp and put my phone face down. Screen dark. Conscience darker.
Everyone on the project team had rushed home, eager to start their long weekends, get back to their families. Everyone except me.
And now Aimee was on her way. She would be driving here straight from my house -- from Beth and my children -- to me.
I knew what this was. Not an accident, not a misunderstanding, not a moment we could laugh about later. A choice.
A knock at the door made me jump.
I raced to the entry and swung the door open, my heart trying to leap from my ribcage.
Aimee stood on the other side of the threshold, biting her bottom lip. She had a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, and was wearing a tight pair of jeans, and a long-sleeve shirt with a leather jacket over it. Her cheeks were rosy and flushed from the cool weather.
“Come -- come in,” I stammered, reaching to take her bag off her shoulder. “How was the drive?” I asked, closing the door behind her.
“Fine,” she said. “Your directions were perfect. Which I suppose is good, considering you’re a transportation engineer.” She gave a nervous little laugh. I matched it.
We sat in silence for a minute or two -- her on the edge of the king bed, me in the room’s single chair. It felt like the booth at the Mexican restaurant all over again: both of us staring at the shape of a choice neither of us had language for.
“So,” I managed. “Do you want to get some dinner?”
Aimee looked at me for a few seconds, eyes lowered, as if some vote was happening behind them. Then she nodded once, small, private.
“Sure. But do you mind if I take a quick shower first? I feel kind of ... grubby.”
“Of course,” I said. I tried to picture myself waiting in the lobby like a gentleman and couldn’t quite make it stick. “I could wait downstairs if you want.”
She smiled at me like I was being sweetly absurd, the way I’d seen her do at Ethan and Jake. “Jim, I don’t think we’re protecting much modesty at this point. Just ... maybe close your eyes while I change. For symbolism.”
“Right,” I said. “I can do symbolism.”
Aimee gathered some clothes and disappeared into the bathroom. A moment later, the shower came on. She was singing -- light, unguarded. I couldn’t make out the song, just the softness of it. I tried to remember the last time someone had sung near me without self-consciousness. I couldn’t.
I stretched out on the bed, flipping aimlessly through the TV channels, imagining what she looked like behind the wall, naked and wet and soapy -- then trying not to imagine it, and failing. I closed my eyes, because I could manage that. Fidelity, restraint, common sense -- less luck with those.
The water shut off. A few minutes later:
“Jim?” she called. “Be a good engineer and close your eyes, okay?”
“Okay,” I said. “They’re closed.”
They were. And I didn’t peek. For half a second, I almost said her name the way you say it when you’re about to stop someone -- not because you want to, but because you can see the ground dropping away beneath both of you. But the word never reached my mouth.
With my eyes shut, every other sense sharpened. I heard her towel hit the floor. I smelled her shampoo -- something faintly floral and clean. The mattress dipped.
Somewhere, miles away, my sons were probably eating dinner with friends, Beth reminding them to chew, to sit still, to please use napkins. The thought pushed at me. I pushed back.
Then a warm, naked body eased onto mine -- slow, careful, like we were crossing a threshold we could never step back from.
My cock leapt to full erection in milliseconds, and I snapped my eyes open.
I found myself staring directly into Aimee’s face, scant inches from my own. Her deep blue eyes sparkled with laughter, and her mouth was quirked up at the corners into a wry smile.
“Surprise,” she said, lowering her mouth to my own for our first kiss.
Her lips were soft and hot, and I instinctively wrapped my arms around her back. I could feel her torso press against mine, and my hands roamed over her back, feeling the drops of water there.
Her tongue snaked out and pressed against my lips, and she moaned when one of my hands dipped lower, passing over the curve of her ass. She moaned and pressed her naked pelvis harder against my fully clothed crotch.
I was in sensory overload as we kissed, so many unexpected sensations at once. Aimee’s nipples were like two marbles pressing into my chest, easily felt through the two layers of clothing I was wearing. I had an ass cheek firmly grasped in each hand, kneading and caressing that warm flesh. Her hips were gyrating, rubbing that hot patch between her legs all over my hardness.
And her lips, my God, she was an amazing kisser, just like I knew she would be, her lips dancing all over mine, constantly varying the pressure and angle, literally taking my breath away. Her tongue was dancing out, sliding over my lips and teeth, wrestling with my own tongue in quick encounters, then slipping back out of reach.
Finally, she broke for air, gasping as she raised her face from mine, her breasts dangling invitingly over my chest. I released my grip on her ass and slid my hands between our chests, tweaking and rolling her hard nipples between my fingers.
“Ohhhhhh,” she said, pressing her pussy harder on my cock, rolling it from side to side. “Oh oh oh oh,” she said, making me think she was rubbing her clit directly on my still-clothed cock.
I flexed my cock and thrust it up at her, rubbing it along her warm and (I assumed) damp mound. I pinched her nipples harder, thrusting my cock along her slit.
“Yessss, Jim, oh God yes, just like that,” she said, her hips thrusting to meet my own.
“What about like this?” I asked, lifting my head to capture one of her nipples between my lips. I suckled and nibbled at her nipple, my hand still massaging the other.
“Ohhhh yesssss,” she said, her thrusts coming harder and faster now. “I’m going to...”
“What,” I said, surprised at her pressing need, but urging her on with some dirty talk. “You’re going to come for me? My hot little sexy babysitter, are you going to come all over my pants? Go ahead baby, my sexy little Aimee, come all over my cock. Come for me,” I said, moving one hand back to her ass, urging her to dry hump me faster and faster and faster.
“Ahhhhh ahhh ahhh,” she shrieked, reaching the peak. Her thrusts got erratic, her pussy spasming on top of my cock, her heat now noticeable even through my clothes. Her ass clenched as she continued rubbing along my shaft, saying “Jim Jim oh God Jim...”
Her orgasm finally dissipated with a few weaker spasms, and her hips slowed. I released her nipple from my mouth, and she allowed her head to collapse on my shoulder, her pelvis still making occasional lazy circles on top of my own, Aimee still moaning softly.
I rubbed her back while she recovered her senses, my cock an iron bar resting beneath the furnace of her pussy. My hand drifted gently across her lower back, down her buttocks, and over as much of her legs as I could reach from this position.
After a little while, Aimee raised her head and looked at me, a smile on her impish face. “Well, now, that was something, huh?”
“No shit, Aimee, no shit,” I said. “Did that feel as good as it sounded?”
She blushed, her eyes flickering away for a second before returning to focus on my own. “More than you know, Jim. I guess I was a little worked up ... I’d already done a little ‘warming up’ in the shower, if you know what I mean.”
My cock throbbed in my pants at the mental picture of Aimee touching herself, and she felt the movement.
“Hmmm ... guess you’re the one who’s worked up now, my sexy engineer,” she said, sliding her body off mine onto the bed. “You’re also entirely overdressed,” she said, tugging at my shirt, pulling it from my waistband.
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