The Au Pair - Pt. 01

Author's note: I'm new to Literotica and just finding my feet. I'm doing that by reworking common themes and tropes in my own way. If you like it, please review and vote as it lets me know if you want a sequel. If you don't like it, you don't have to downvote or say anything negative, we're all just trying our best.

The Au Pair - Pt. 01

The house was quiet in that way it only ever was mid-morning. Sophie was at school, Elise at work, and the stillness had settled in. Through the half-open blinds of the study a pale light spilled in, catching the edge of a paperweight, the reflection of glass where the photo frame stood - Elise and Sophie smiling on a beach two summers ago, hair whipped sideways by the wind.

The cursor blinked on my laptop screen. An unanswered email open, dozens more waiting. I wasn't reading them.

Somewhere outside a lawnmower started up, the background noise of middle-class suburbia. The clock ticked and the chair creaked beneath me. I'd been sitting too long.

Then I heard her.

Footsteps light against the hardwood. No urgency. A slow, even approach - and then the door opened without a knock. She stepped inside as if the room was hers.

Madison.

Barefoot, in that worn oversized white T-shirt she often wore around the house, the one that slipped too far down one shoulder, the sleeves rolled loosely at her upper arms. The hem grazed the very top of her thighs. Her skin was glowing faintly, her legs bare, long, calves marked faintly with the imprints of bedsheets. Her hair was pulled into a lazy knot, strands loose at her temples, the kind of effortless disarray only the young wear so naturally. No makeup, no expression but that soft, resting calm she always carried with her.

She didn't say good morning.

She stood in the doorway for a moment, fingers toying with the hem of her shirt, then tilted her head slightly, "How'd you sleep, Mr. Jones?" she asked, voice low and easy, no lift at the end, just a quiet delivery like the answer wasn't that important.

I blinked.

"Fine," I said, or thought I did. My voice sounded strange to me - dry and strangled.

She nodded once. Then walked across the room.

She moved neither slow or fast, just steady. Her bare feet brushed the rug without a sound. She didn't ask another question. Didn't look around. Just stepped to the side of the desk, hands resting lightly on the edge.

And then, without ceremony, she lowered herself.

One smooth motion. Knees folding, her palms sliding down my thighs as she sank to the floor in front of me.

The chair creaked again beneath me, but I didn't move. Didn't speak.

She looked up once, her hazel eyes warm and clear - and then reached for the waistband of my joggers. For the very briefest moment what a fucking cliché I must be. The middle-aged man and the au pair. Daughter at school, wife at work, I've already got the Porsche and now it's the 20-year-old help. I should stop this!

I did nothing. I just watched her and let it happen.

Her fingers curled beneath the elastic and without pause, she pulled them down.

She moved onto my boxers next. Again, her hands moved with quiet certainty, fingers curling around the waistband, tugging the fabric down past my hips, past my thighs, until my cock sprang free - hard already, twitching slightly in the air between us.

She looked at it. Not with shock, just a steady, deliberate gaze as if confirming something she already knew.

This was my last chance to say something - to stop this. To be the good father, the good husband, but looking down at her that idea went out of my head as quickly as it arrived.

Then she leaned in.

Her lips brushed the base first - just a kiss, soft and slow, right above my balls - then a second, higher up along the shaft. The heat of her mouth lingered where her lips had been, and the barest touch of her breath followed. I let out a sound I barely recognised.

She opened her mouth.

Her tongue pressed flat to the underside and dragged upward - one long, deliberate stroke - until the tip flicked lightly over the ridge. Then she wrapped her lips around the head and drew me into her mouth. Wet, warm, welcome.

She didn't rush. She let her tongue move in lazy, circling motions beneath the crown, lips sealed tight, creating that subtle suction that drew the final thoughts of any protest out of mind. Her cheeks hollowed slightly. She moved her hand to the root of my cock and held it there, just enough pressure, her thumb running over the exposed vein at the underside like she was learning to read me by touch.

Her hair slipped loose from the knot and fell around her face. I pushed it back instinctively, tucking it behind her ear, noticing the freckles scattered across her cheekbone, dusted across her nose and temples. Her skin was flushed now, glowing faintly, her brows drawn in quiet focus.

Her eyes flicked up. And stayed there.

She began to move.

Slow at first - shallow bobs, just enough to feel the glide of her lips along the shaft, the tightness of her seal, the way each motion built on the last. Her free hand slid up my thigh, fingers curling lightly into the muscle. She moaned, barely audible, the vibration travelling through me.

Then she went deeper.

She opened her throat gradually, breathing through her nose, pushing further with each stroke until the head nudged the back of her mouth. I felt her swallow. Once. Then again. A small gag broke the rhythm, her eyes fluttering closed for a second but then she recovered, pulling back with a slick sound that made me twitch in her hand.

Spit clung from her lip to the head of my cock, stretching like silk before breaking.

She wiped it with the back of her hand, caught her breath, and smiled - my stomach flipped. Then she lowered again, deeper this time, more confident now, her mouth gliding down as far as she could go.

I groaned. My thighs tensed.

She found her rhythm, her mouth gliding down in steady strokes, hand twisting at the base, spit coating every inch of me. Each time she bobbed, her body shifted subtly with it - lifting slightly on her heels, like her whole frame had given itself to the motion. There was something almost graceful in it, like she was riding each movement with purpose, with quiet, eager control. Her thighs flexed gently with each rise, her breath deepening through her nose. The rhythm was fluid, determined, and wanting. And her eyes - they never left mine.

Her pace built gradually, each stroke longer and wetter. The she stopped. At first I thought she was tired or out of breath. But then she gave me a smile - a smirk. She might be the one on her knees, I might be her 40-year-old boss but here, she was in control. She was toying with me. I didn't know what to do - what to say. It felt like an eternity.

Then she bowed her head slightly as if giving me permission.

My hands hovered above her for a moment - unsure and suspended - then I settled them in her hair again. Her mouth took me in. Again and again. The sound of it rising, thick and relentless, her breath catching as her lips pressed to the base and her throat flexed to take it. She was moaning softly around me now, like she needed it just as much as I did, the rhythm was no longer controlled - she was racing towards the inevitable with unrestrained enthusiasm.

I looked into her eyes as my stomach clenched. My legs shook. My voice broke with a low, desperate sound, and she felt it. She knew.

She pulled back just far enough to keep the head on her tongue, her lips sealed tight, hand pumping in short, fast strokes as she worked me with perfect pressure.

I came hard.

The first pulse hit her tongue. She stayed with it, mouth closed, hand firm, drawing every spasm from me, swallowing each hot surge without blinking. Her eyes held mine. She didn't flinch. She just waited.

And when the last of it left me, her lips slipped from the head with a pop, a small smear of spit glistening on her lower lip.

She wiped it away with her thumb.

Then looked up at me and asked, clear and quiet:

"Does your wife still do that?"

Then the world stopped.

The roar of water hit my ears, hot spray pounding my back. My eyes opened. Tile. Glass. The blurred outline of the soap bottle. The bathroom.

I stood beneath the shower spray, braced against the wall, the weight of water pounding down my back. My jaw was clenched, cock in hand, cum circling the drain.

I wondered where Madison was - probably still asleep upstairs.