Hot Babysitter: Velvet Hours

Hot Babysitter: Velvet Hours

I enjoyed being the hot babysitter when I was younger, but never thought that I would be back at it after college. When I took the job, I told myself it was temporary, just a few evenings a week, something quiet to balance out my chaotic days. The ad was simple. The pay was generous. I didn’t ask too many questions. Yet, the moment I stepped into that house and glimpsed the gilded edges, velvet drapes, and ceilings that seemed to vanish into shadow… I felt something shift. It wasn’t just the grandeur. It was the air itself, thick with silence and secrets.

Initially, I came only for the daughter. She was gentle and bright, always with a book in her lap and a hundred questions in her eyes. Her father, Mr. Delacroix, was rarely present at first, though I could sense his influence in every inch of the space was controlled, elegant, exacting. No place for a hot babysitter.

Alas, I was the stereotypical hot babysitter anyway.

However, over time, he began to appear more often. Just at the edges… emerging from his study with his tie loosened, or descending the staircase with his sleeves rolled to his forearms. Each time, I felt my breath catch. At first, I dismissed it as nerves. But gradually, I realized: he was watching me, and I liked it. He enjoyed the new addition of a hot babysitter.

Soon, our interactions stretched longer. At first, they were brief… nods across the kitchen, a polite offer of tea. Later, his questions became personal: what I studied, where I came from, what made me happy. There was something in his voice… smooth, low, threaded with quiet intensity… that made me lean in closer, instinctively. One evening, as twilight melted through the tall windows and the child was already tucked into bed, he offered me a glass of wine. I hesitated, but curiosity betrayed me. I stayed.

One bottle of wine had me really playing the hot babysitter.

The wine was dark and rich, like the firelight that danced across his features. We sat opposite each other on the velvet sofa, yet the space between us felt charged. As we spoke, his gaze rarely left mine. Eventually, he reached forward, tracing a fingertip along the edge of my lips. His touch was featherlight, but it ignited something deep within me. From that moment, I stopped pretending. I was his hot babysitter. His hands cradle my face with the reverence of something sacred. When he kisses me, it’s slow. Achingly slow… as though he’s savoring every inch of restraint before it’s gone.

Piece by piece, he undresses me, his touch firm, reverent, deliberate. My breath catches, but I don’t stop him. I welcome his hand as it pushed in between my legs and made me squirm for him. We sink into the cushions together.  His mouth explores my skin like a language, like a vow spoken without sound. So different from the hot gym bros I had grown used to.  Each kiss lands lower, each movement drawing me further into him. My hands roam across his back, down his sides, pushing me lower. We move in rhythm… first tentative, then consumed, until there is nothing left between us but breath and heat and soft, stuttering gasps.

Did I let him take me the hot babysitter, while his wife slept upstairs? Did we get caught? Call me to find out.

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