Hidden Under the Hand Towels

For Sandra; I hope you have long since found your forever cleanup hitter

I grew up in a middle-class suburb outside of New York, a town of split-level houses, fathers heading off to work with briefcases, small businesses on Main Street, and decent schools. Growing up, we were all expected to work if we wanted money in our pockets.

Throughout high school I shoveled snow, raked leaves, helped clean basements, delivered newspapers, and even did a few babysitting jobs now and then, mostly for the neighbors next door - Sandra and Henry T - watching their young boys when they went out on weekends. They had a long Italian name with a lot of vowels, and told everyone to call them "Mr. and Mrs. T."

It turned out that Mr. and Mrs. T weren't a good fit for each other.

He was a stockbroker on Wall Street, and she taught fourth grade.

He was up early every day to catch the train to Manhattan, constantly working late, and played golf on weekends. She worked all day teaching her class, and was busy on weekends with PTA meetings and classroom prep. They were living together but in different worlds.

They got divorced when I was away at college Freshmen year, and I learned about it when I came home for summer break. I had planned to spend the summer living at home and working to fund some of my college expenses, and found a restaurant job washing dishes.

Henry had moved out, and the adults in our small Irish-and-Italian Catholic town were all whispering about them, spreading rumors about Henry and his secretary. Despite the pearl clutching it was unlikely that anyone was truly surprised.

It was early July when my mother stopped me as I was heading off to the restaurant. "Mrs. T called. She was wondering if you could babysit this Friday night."

"Friday night? Like I used to, for their date nights? I thought she and Mr. T were divorced?"

My mother pursed her lips and knitted her eyebrows, expressing her silent disapproval. "Yes, they are, and she's dating already. She's not letting any grass grow under her feet, certainly not, not that one."

Meow.

I had been working double shifts at the restaurant so could get Friday off - this would be tax-free cash, and easy money. Their kids were well-behaved, and always went to bed early. Once they were tucked in I could raid the fridge, watch TV with my feet on the good furniture, and get paid for doing basically nothing.

And so that Friday night I found myself on their couch with a bowl of ice cream and a bag of potato chips, watching HBO while the kids slept soundly upstairs in their bedrooms.

Mrs. T returned from her date close to midnight. "How were they?" she asked as she came through the door.

"Great, as always. We played a couple of games, I let them run around a bit, and they seemed tired and dropped right off to sleep."

"They always have a good time when you sit for me. I'll be right down." She dropped her keys into the bowl by the door and went upstairs to check on the kids. I stood awkwardly in the hallway, waiting for her to come down and pay me.

"They're sleeping like angels" she said as she came down the steps. "I'm so glad you could do this on such short notice." She didn't mention that I was cheaper than her other sitters - a favor since we were neighbors.

"Give me a sec, and I'll pay you." She ducked into the guest bathroom, just off the entrance hallway, and I waited. I heard the flush, the water running, the bathroom cabinet doors close with a thud, and waited as she took care of her business.

The door opened, but she didn't come out. "Bobby, can you come here?" That was weird, I thought, but OK.

I walked over to the bathroom door, a bit tentatively.

"Come in here" she said again, in a flat voice.

I walked into the bathroom - and saw the basket of hand towels on the sink. The bathroom suddenly seemed small and warm even though it wasn't, and I knew I was in trouble.

"Why were you going through my things?" she asked as she stared at me, her hands on her hips.

"Going through your things? No, I wasn't. I mean I didn't. No." I felt my face burning red, because I was lying.

Of course I went through her things.

I was 19, curious, and had been left alone for hours in the house of a divorcee.

Of course I had opened her medicine cabinet - just human nature, you know - to see what was in it. Nothing very interesting.

And then, of course, I looked in the cabinet underneath the sink.

Don't judge me - I had a lot of time to kill, had eaten my fill of ice cream, polished off most of the potato chips, watched the movie I wanted to see... and was bored.

That's where I hit the jackpot.

Under the sink there was a basket with hand towels, and when I pushed them aside I saw a stack of magazines. The couple of issues on top were something called "Viva."

The publisher's note inside the second page said that they were published by Bob Guccione - the guy who published Penthouse. Each issue was full of articles - explicit - about women and sex, written for women, like how to give a good blowjob, and lots of pictures of naked hunky guys. It was like Penthouse Magazine, but for women.

Underneath the issues of Viva was a stack of Playgirl magazines - same type of thing.

I thumbed through the magazines, speed-read a couple of articles, and put the stack back in the basket, the hand towels on top of the magazines, and then put the basket back in the cabinet, exactly where it was.

"Don't lie to me" she said.

"First, your face is so red I'm worried your head might burst into flames at this very moment, so yes, you are lying. Second, I am very particular - I always put my Playgirls underneath the copies of Viva, and they are out of order, which I noticed when I got a fresh hand towel just now. And third, if you lie to me one more time, I will tell your mother you were going through my most personal things."

I just looked at her, feeling myself starting to sweat.

"Besides Bobby, I bet you have a stack of your own magazines, don't you? Don't lie to me. Or do you prefer to look at pictures of naked men?"

"No! I mean, yes, - umm - no, I prefer my own magazines, with girls. Women." Like every guy my age at that time I had a stack of old, crusty Penthouse magazines that we all passed around.

"And where do you keep yours so they are - let's say, handy?" She seemed to be smirking as she said that. "Let me guess, someplace original, like under your mattress?"

I felt my face burn again. "Yes, under the mattress."

She laughed. "Ha, of course, so you can get to them whenever you want and play with yourself, right?"

She was right, and the weird thing was I was getting turned on even as she was scaring. In the confined space of the bathroom I could smell her perfume, mingled with the scent of the red wine on her breath.

I was getting turned on even though Mrs. T wasn't a fantasy MILF - she was kind of mousy, with practical, short brown hair, petite, a little pudgy, not overly endowed, and pale - maybe from the chalk dust in the classroom.

And yet, at that moment I was very aware that she had chosen a dress for her date that emphasized her modest curves and showed her legs and some of her chest.

I shrugged and nodded - admitting that I jerked off over my old magazines.

"Of course you do" she said. "How old are you? 19? All raging hormones - I remember dating when I was 19. The boys were desperate to get laid, every single one of them, probably just like you are. Like starving dogs."

My erection was growing as she openly looked me up and down. "You know what?" she said. "Women have hormones too. Ever since that jerk of a husband left me, I've been missing it. My hormones are not making me happy. So yes, just like you, I have my little collection of magazines to keep my imagination going. Shocking, right? It shouldn't be. And you know what else?"

I shook my head no, but said nothing. She was clearly on some kind of tear and I didn't want to make things worse.

"Since you are so nosy and so rude, you might be interested in the rest. You missed my box of toys. Behind the basket. Close and lock the bathroom door Bobby and sit down. I'll show you. Sit right there."

Across from the toilet there was a hassock, one of those wicker things that people keep extra bath towels and stuff in. I closed and locked the door and sat down, a bit carefully given my raging hardon, and wondered what she was talking about.

As she bent over to reach under the cabinet her ass was nearly in my face. I could see the outline of her panties through the thin material, inches away. She removed a metal box from the cabinet, a cheap one with a flimsy combination lock, which she placed on the sink. She took a magazine from the basket, fluttered the pages, found what she was looking for, and showed it to me.

"He's one of my favorites. It says his name is Brad Stone. I don't think that's his real name, but who cares - what a specimen of perfect manhood. I like to look at him." He was chiseled, blonde, tanned - and naked, his semi-soft cock hanging against his thigh as he looked off into the distance, posing for the photographer. She put the magazine next to the metal box.

She sat on the lid of the toilet, and then turned to the metal box. She twirled the numbers on the lock, her red-painted nails clicking on the metal as the tumblers moved, flipped open the latch, and opened the box. I couldn't see inside from where I was sitting.

"My ex-husband, the jerk, loved baseball more than he loved me. We were having a fight one night, and I told him - 'Henry, dammit, maybe if I fucked some of your favorite New York Yankees I'd get the attention you are giving your slut secretary!' Really ticked him off. 'You can fuck them all' he yelled back, 'see if I care.' What an absolute jerk."

"And so, meet my designated hitter. I call him Don, as in Don Bayler, but 'Don' will do. He goes nicely with the magazines."

She took from the box a small, round plastic object, pushed a button, and it started to buzz. "He always gets me on base" she said with a smirk.

She parted her legs and put the buzzing toy on her crotch, over the top of her dress. "Like this." She closed her eyes for a moment, and sharply breathed in. "Just... like... this... the better... to appreciate... Brad Stone..."

My cock was so hard it was uncomfortable, and without thinking I reached down and pressed it against my leg. Mrs. T opened her eyes at that very point, saw me, and broke into a wicked smile before switching off the toy.

"And then there is my utility infielder. Jose. Just Jose."

She put the small toy back in the box and took out a six-inch-long vibrator, long with a round head, but otherwise just a tube with some nubs on it.

"Like all good utility infielders, Jose can play any position." She seemed to love her own jokes - and clearly thought that was funny.

She rotated a knob on the bottom and "Jose" started vibrating, more quietly than the small white toy. She put one leg up on the tub, her dress falling between her legs, and looked at me as she dragged the vibrator along the inside of her thigh, then put it up under her dress, where I couldn't see.

"He can play first base... second... and if there is a sacrifice bunt, he can run close to..." and her voice dropped..."home base." By the way her arm was moving she seemed to be rubbing the tip of the vibrator up and down her labia, over her panties.

My cock was throbbing.

Aching.

My balls felt tight.

I can't remember for sure, but seem to recall that my mouth was open as I watched her.

She continued just like that, at times closing her eyes, biting her lower lip, at times moving her legs, spreading them then closing them a bit, as she worked the vibrator up and down under her dress - until she pulled it out and turned it off. I could see her nipples poking through the top of her dress - she was certainly "on base."

"What's next Bobby?" she asked as she looked at me. "Who does the coach send in next?"

"I don't know" I eked out, in little more than a whisper.

"Not a baseball fan, I guess?"

"Not really Mrs. T."

"I think at this point you can call me Sandra, Bobby."

"OK Mrs. T. Sandra, I mean."

"Now it's time send in the cleanup hitter. And to take the tarp off the field."

With that she reached up under her dress, raised her butt off the toilet seat, and pulled down her panties, throwing them in the tub. I watched as they landed and could see a wet spot on them. "Your turn Bobby. Take off your pants. I want to see it."

I just stared at her.

"You do know how to undress yourself Bobby?"

"Yes, yes." I stood up, unbuttoned my jeans, and pushed them down and off my feet, standing in front of her in my boxers, my cock pressing against them, tenting them ferociously.

"Go on" she said.

I pushed my boxers down to the floor, freeing my aching, throbbing penis, which bobbed free.

"You have a nice one" she said with a smile. I wrapped my hand around my cock, as much to still the ache as a reflexive desire to jerk off.

"Don't get ahead of me yet - we need to wait for the cleanup hitter" she said. She reached into her box - and took out a giant, realistic rubber cock. It must have been ten inches long, sculpted like the real thing, and was pink and thick and fat. It was complete with a flared mushroom head, veins along the shaft molded into the rubber, and a pair of balls at the bottom complete with wrinkles, like an erotic handle.

"My cleanup hitter looks like a bit like Brad Stone's thing, don't you think?" She pointed with the rubber cock to the magazine picture, as if the cock were a pointer in a classroom. I had no idea if the rubber cock looked like Brad Stone's cock, but would have agreed to anything.

"Yes, Sandra, it does."

"I think so too, which is why it is so perfect, and after a couple of kids, it's just the right size." She spread her legs wider and pulled up her dress - and now I could see her bush and her pussy, glistening in the bathroom light. "I always get a home run with this guy" she said as she rubbed the fat head up and down her pussy lips. Then she spread her pussy lips with one hand, the bright red nails on her fingertips like neon signs, and put the rubber cock inside herself a bit, between her swollen, fleshy lips.

I was mesmerized watching the rubber cock disappear into her pussy. She moaned as it went in, and then with her free hand she reached up and pinched her hard nipple through her dress and moaned again.

I couldn't help myself - I started stroking my cock as I watched her, even though I was afraid I was going to cum and make a mess. She opened her eyes and saw me stroking - "Wait for me... don't do that... not yet." I let go of my cock and watched, fascinated, my cock bouncing up and down when I released it.

She picked up speed as she fucked herself.

I could hear how wet she was, the rubber cock making squishing sounds in her pussy as she moved it in and out, and then she began to move her hips, squirming as if she was trying to push the giant rubber dick deeper into her cunt.

Her soft moans grew, and at one point I moaned with her, or maybe whimpered - out of frustration. My cock was bobbing as it pointed up towards her face, throbbing, and I was ready to beg her for release - and then she came, so quickly that she startled me - she gasped and moaned, and slapped her legs together over and over, as if she were playing the cymbals while she kept the rubber dick buried in her pussy.

I reached up to grab my cock and that was all it took - one touch and my jizz was spurting in the air, on my leg, onto the little bathroom shag rug, on her feet, over and over, while I grunted and squeezed my cock to wring out every drop.

I was speechless - and for a moment she was too.

She broke the silence. "I have to admit" she said, between gulps of air, "that's more exciting than doing it by myself. How about for you?" That half smirk was back on her face.

"FUCK YEAH" were the only words I could think of - but I changed that to "Oh my gosh yes Sandra" before the words came out of my mouth.

"Put that thing away" she said, nodding in my general direction, "and you can go home now. I'll need you back here next week - I have another date Friday, and I'll pay you for both weeks. And if you whisper a word of this - to anyone - I will tell your mother you did horrible things while you were here. You understand me?"

"Yes Sandra, I won't tell anyone, I promise." I stood up - my legs were shaking - pulled my boxers back on, did my best to tuck my still dripping, plump dick into place, and shucked into my jeans.

"And save some for me for next week - don't get carried away with your magazines" she said as I walked out the front door.

I barely slept that night. I kept thinking about Mrs. T - her nipples, the way the toy was swallowed up by her pussy, the sounds she made, her bright red fingernails as she spread open her labia, and how she moved when her orgasm swept through her body. I finally jerked off again around 4 a. m. and that helped me fall asleep for a couple of hours in the goopy sheets.

Next Friday I was back at her front door, waiting to be let in so I could babysit.

She seemed extra sexy when she answered the door - ready for her date in heels and a red dress, with her bangs hanging down across her eyes, her perfume evident, and a plunging dress that went lower than I had ever seen before.

"You know the drill" she said as she left "and I won't be too late" - again with a hint of that smirk that I saw the week before.

I horsed around with the kids for a couple of hours and tucked them in, checked out the freezer, channel surfed - but couldn't stop thinking about her, or the erection in my pants.

She came home earlier than usual - a little before 11 p. m.

"How were they?" she asked, just like last week. She went upstairs to check on them, and then came down, minus the heels.

"I'll leave your money on the side table here, so I don't forget to pay you. Can you join me in the guest bathroom, Bobby?" Without waiting for an answer she turned and walked into the bathroom. I followed, watching her ass go back and forth as she led the way.

Instead of turning on the lights she lit a couple of candles, scented things that you put in bathrooms. "Close the door and lock it."

I complied.

"Were you snooping again tonight?" she asked, as she bent over to take her toy box out from under the vanity, along with a magazine.

"No Sandra, I wasn't. I promise."

She laughed. "I guess not." She put the magazine and toy box on the counter, opened the magazine, twirled the combination lock on the box, propped open the lid, and took out the utility infielder. Jose.

"I'm going to start with Jose tonight. You should take off those jeans, and your shorts" she said as she sat on the toilet seat lid. "No need to be shy anymore."

She turned on the vibrator and I pulled down my pants and boxers and sat on the hassock. My cock was already hard and pointing at her. "Have you been thinking about me Bobby?" she asked, as she looked at my cock.

"Yes Sandra, I have."

"I'm glad. I was thinking about our time together and decided to dress up a bit. I thought you might like this."

With that she spread her legs - she put one leg up on the side of the tub, and the other she managed to get up on the vanity. She was wearing black lace thigh high stockings, a garter belt, and a pair of black lace panties that had more holes in the lace than there were holes in a spaghetti colander.

"My date tonight was soooo boring, like they all have been. But I didn't really care this time - I knew I'd be coming back and you'd be here Bobby, and I'd get some of what I need, just like this." And as she spoke she rubbed the vibrator up and down the lips of her pussy, outside the thin, sheer fabric of her panties.

"I was a bit mean to you last time - you can stroke yourself this time as you watch - but only if you want. Do you want to stroke your cock as I play with my toys?" Again, that smirk.

"Oh yes Sandra, god yes." My hand flew to my cock; I wrapped my fingers around it firmly and slowly stroked as she diddled herself.

"But don't cum until I tell you. Understand? I go first, always. My ex could never get that in his head, and once he was done he'd always fall asleep like Rip Van Winkle and leave me high and dry. Well, maybe not dry." She laughed again.

"Yes Sandra."

"This feels good Bobby" she said as she continued with the vibrator. "Does your hand feel good on your cock?"

"Yes Sandra."

"Did you think about me all week Bobby? Did you masturbate thinking about me?" I felt some color in my face but wasn't sure she could see it in the candlelight.

"Yes Sandra, I did. You are beautiful and very sexy."

"I like hearing that. After my ex left me for that slut secretary, he made me feel like crap."

"He's a jerk" I said. Actually, I had no idea if he was a jerk, but she needed to hear that. "He didn't appreciate you" I added. I wasn't even sure what that meant, but it seemed like the right thing to say - and she responded.

"You are so right. I'm not going to need Jose for long tonight. I think I can go to my cleanup hitter now. Top of the ninth!"

She dropped the vibrator in the box and picked up the big rubber cock.

"Here's my big boy." As she looked at me, she put the head of the rubber cock in her mouth, moving it in and out as if she were blowing it, and licking it as she took it out the final time and lowered it to her crotch.

She pushed her lace panties aside, rubbed the cock up and down her pussy lips, and as I slowly stroked my cock and watched I could see it starting to shine as it grew wet from her juices.

"Don't rush it, Bobby. Me first. I know it's hard." She laughed at her own joke and then started to put the rubber cock in her vagina, shuddering and moaning. "Oh yeah, that's it, right there..." as if she were talking to the rubber cock, or the guy in the magazine, or me - or all three of us.

For some reason I didn't understand her lingerie made it all even hotter - the stockings, the garter belt, the black lace against her skin.

Maybe the anticipation had affected her, as well, but it didn't take long - not as long as last time. Almost immediately she started thrusting the rubber cock into her pussy, hard and fast, and unlike last time she was more vocal, "yes, fuck me, yeah, that's good..." At times her eyes were closed, at times she looked right at my cock, and at times she glanced down at her magazine, and at times she looked at my face as I watched her, mesmerized.

I was ready to blow my load again - I had been all night - but was waiting, like she told me, at times squeezing my cock to hold back. I didn't have to wait long.

Like last time I could hear her pussy squishing each time she pushed the rubber cock in and pulled it out, and she seemed to be thrusting it harder with each shove until she came in a shuddering, moaning spasm, making sounds as if she were gasping for air, her eyes locked on mine.

I looked at her, wide-eyed and in awe, returning her gaze, holding my dick tightly in my hand, waiting.

"You follow instructions well" she said between gasps, as she caught her breath. "I should reward you. I'll do that for you - trust me, you'll like my hand better than yours."

She sat up, reached over, and took my hand off my dick - replacing it with hers. She was right - her hand was soft, firm - and electric.

"Let me..." she said as she looked at me, and then down at my dick. "You are so nice and hard... my ex drank too much... half the time he was mushy... who wants that..."

I could hear her words, but they seemed far away - I could only focus on my dick. "Do you like my stockings, Bobby?"

"Yes Sandra."

"Do you like watching me fuck myself with that big toy?"

"God yes."

"I think you might like my toys, too." She reached to the counter, picked up the vibrator, turned it on, and put it under my balls.

And that was all it took - I came in spurts as she stroked me and pushed the vibe against my scrotum, cum flying everywhere, groaning, thrusting my hips.

She laughed. "I guess that means yes, you naughty boy."

And just like that she was done with me, once again.

I had barely finished shooting when she told me to put my pants on. I tucked everything back in place, got dressed, collected my babysitting money, and went home.

Her parting words as she closed the door behind me, once again, were the same - "remember - not a WORD to anyone or else - and I'll see you next Friday."

That's how the rest of the summer passed.

I gave up my Friday shifts at the restaurant and committed to babysitting those nights. Each Friday seemed hotter than the one before - maybe because we got more comfortable as the weeks went by. True to her word that's as far as it went - she never fucked me, no oral sex.

"I could never look at your mother again if we did" she said, "and besides, I'm not going to rob the cradle. Find a cheerleader to take your virginity. Some blonde with big tits and a tight sweater." It was always quick, always to the point - and I wondered sometimes if I was, in a way, just like her toys and magazines, but I didn't care one bit.

I went back to college at the end of the summer, and by the following year she had sold the house and moved to another state.

There was no internet at the time, no way to easily track people down back then - and besides, to what end? I couldn't very well travel halfway across the country, show up on her doorstep, and ask for a handjob. But I jerked off all through college and grad school thinking about her, holding the memory of her close, stroking my cock with my eyes closed, seeing her red nails, that big pink dildo, and her glistening pussy.

I got married after I finished college and grad school. A few years into our marriage I bought a couple of toys for the bedroom - yeah, thinking about Sandra, I will admit.

When I showed them to my wife she was truly shocked - "what are THOSE things" she said, as if I were a cat bringing home a pair of dead birds. When I asked her a couple of weeks later if she would masturbate for me with the toys she said "Ewwww, NOOOO, gross" with a wrinkled nose, as if I had just farted.

And so just like that, one of the hottest things I had ever seen - one of the most incredibly sensual, sexy, stimulating experiences of my life - was filed away as history.

Come to think of it, my wife - now ex-wife - is history, too, so there's a chance that maybe - just perhaps - I'll find someone else with an impish smirk who would be willing to recreate those sizzling moments in Mrs. T's guest bathroom.

God, I hope so.

If that might be you, write to me, and we'll both be very glad you did.