NannyDiary
The toy truck had been squeaking across the hardwood for the better part of an hour—a relentless, high-pitched whine that made his teeth ache—but it wasn’t until the nanny bent to retrieve it that the sound vanished from his awareness entirely. She wore that skirt again, the navy one that rode up when she moved, and as she crouched, her fingers brushing the floor, the fabric slid higher. Just an inch. Maybe two. Enough to make his breath catch.
He didn’t mean to say her name. It slipped out—low, rough—and she froze, toy still clutched in her hand. Slowly, she turned her head, eyes wide. "Sir?" The word was soft, uncertain. He gestured her closer with two fingers, and she obeyed, stepping into the space between his knees. The air smelled like lemons—her shampoo, maybe—and something warmer underneath.
Her skirt brushed his knuckles as he reached up, sliding his palm along the inside of her thigh. The fabric was thinner than he expected. He could feel the heat of her through it. Her breath hitched when his thumb found the seam of her underwear, damp already. "You’ve been thinking about this," he murmured, not a question. Her knees trembled against his legs.
She didn’t deny it. Instead, her fingers curled into his shoulders, nails biting through his shirt. The toy truck clattered to the floor again, forgotten. He traced the lace edge of her panties, slow, deliberate, letting the pad of his finger catch on the wetness seeping through. She made a small, choked sound—half protest, half plea—and he smiled. "You’re not wearing these for the kids, are you?"
The nursery monitor glowed softly on the coffee table, the rhythmic breathing of sleeping occupants punctuating the silence. He stood abruptly, lifting her by the waist as if she weighed nothing, her legs instinctively wrapping around him. She gasped—surprise or arousal, he couldn’t tell—but her arms locked around his neck. The hallway was dark, the only light spilling from the living room’s dimmed lamp, casting long shadows as he carried her toward the couch.
He laid her down gently, the leather cool against her bare thighs where her skirt had ridden up entirely. His fingers hooked into the lace at her hips, dragging it down just enough to expose her, the fabric damp and warm against his knuckles. “Tell me,” he murmured, spreading her thighs wider with his knee, his thumb circling her clit with deliberate pressure. “Has anyone ever fucked you properly?”
She shook her head, her breath coming in shallow gasps, her fingers twisting in the couch cushions. “No,” she admitted, voice cracking. “Not—not like this.” He exhaled sharply, his fingertip gliding through her slick folds, teasing her entrance before pressing in—slow, torturous—just the tip at first. Her hips jerked, a choked moan escaping her as she tried to push down onto him, but he held her steady with his other hand splayed across her stomach. “Easy,” he murmured. “Let me feel you.”
Her thighs trembled around his wrist, the soft thatch of hair above her clit damp with sweat. He crooked his finger inside her, just slightly, and she whimpered, her back arching off the leather. “God,” she breathed, her nails digging into his forearm. “I didn’t—I didn’t think it would feel like this.” He chuckled darkly, adding a second finger, stretching her gently, watching her face twist in pleasure. “You’re tight,” he observed, his thumb circling her clit in time with the shallow thrusts of his fingers. “But you take it so well.”
She gasped when he pressed deeper, the thin barrier of her hymen resisting for just a moment before yielding under his relentless pressure. A sharp, breathless cry tore from her throat—pain and pleasure tangled together—and her hips jerked, seeking more. “Please,” she begged, her voice raw, her legs splayed wider. “Don’t stop.” He obliged, sinking his fingers deeper, feeling her clench around him, hot and slick. Her breath hitched, her body tensing, and then—release, sudden and overwhelming, her thighs clamping around his hand as she came with a shuddering moan.
He withdrew his fingers slowly, watching her chest rise and fall with ragged breaths. Her skin was flushed, her lips parted, her eyelids heavy with spent pleasure. He reached for the waistband of his trousers, unfastening them with practiced ease, his cock already hard and aching. “Look at me,” he commanded, and her eyes fluttered open, glazed with satisfaction. He stroked himself once, twice, his thumb brushing over the slick head, smearing precum down his length.
She whimpered when he pressed the tip against her entrance, the heat of her almost unbearable. He pushed in just slightly—enough to make her gasp, her nails digging into his thighs—but held himself still, savoring the tight clench of her walls around him. “Easy,” he murmured, though he wasn’t sure if he was speaking to her or himself. Her breath hitched as he sank deeper, inch by agonizing inch, her body yielding reluctantly at first, then eagerly, greedily.
Her legs trembled around his waist, her toes curling against his back as he bottomed out inside her. He exhaled sharply, his hands gripping her hips to still her instinctive squirming. “Fuck,” he gritted out, the sensation almost too much—hot, tight, perfect. She arched beneath him, her head tipping back, her throat working around a silent moan. He could feel every flutter of her muscles, every pulse of her heartbeat around him.
He moved slowly at first, shallow thrusts that made her whimper, her fingers clutching at his shoulders. But the restraint was short-lived. The moment she gasped his name—desperate, pleading—his control snapped. He pulled back almost entirely, just the tip of him still inside her, and then slammed back in, hard enough to make her cry out. Her nails raked down his back, her legs tightening around him, pulling him deeper still.
Her second orgasm hit suddenly, violently—her entire body arched off the couch, her thighs clamping around his waist as she came with a strangled sob. He could feel her pulsing around him, hot and relentless, and it was too much. With a ragged groan, he pulled out abruptly, his cock slick and glistening. The first spurt of cum landed on her clit, the second streaking across her entrance, thick and pearly white against her flushed skin.
She barely had time to register the sensation before he was dragging his thumb through the mess, smearing it over her oversensitive folds. She whimpered, her legs jerking weakly, but he held her steady with one hand splayed across her trembling stomach. "Good girl," he murmured, tracing idle circles through the cooling slickness. "Cleaning you up properly."
His fingers lingered longer than necessary—not quite teasing, just possessive—as he wiped her thighs clean with the hem of her skirt The air smelled like sex and leather, her own arousal mixed with the sharp musk of him. She watched, dazed, as he tucked himself back into his trousers with practiced ease, his fingers lingering at the waistband like he was considering another round already.
“You take direction well,” he remarked, his thumb brushing the inside of her knee. “That’s good.” The compliment landed somewhere between praise and warning, his voice roughened by exertion. He didn’t move to let her up, instead palming the curve of her hip, holding her in place against the couch. The nursery monitor flickered—a soft, staticky sigh from the other oom—but neither of them glanced at it.
She shivered when he dragged a fingertip along her inner thigh, collecting the cooling mess he’d left behind. “Still sensitive?” he murmured, watching her eyelids flutter. She nodded, swallowing hard, her breath still uneven. He smirked, wiping his hand absently on the leather beside her. “Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it.”
He didn’t mean to say her name. It slipped out—low, rough—and she froze, toy still clutched in her hand. Slowly, she turned her head, eyes wide. "Sir?" The word was soft, uncertain. He gestured her closer with two fingers, and she obeyed, stepping into the space between his knees. The air smelled like lemons—her shampoo, maybe—and something warmer underneath.
Her skirt brushed his knuckles as he reached up, sliding his palm along the inside of her thigh. The fabric was thinner than he expected. He could feel the heat of her through it. Her breath hitched when his thumb found the seam of her underwear, damp already. "You’ve been thinking about this," he murmured, not a question. Her knees trembled against his legs.
She didn’t deny it. Instead, her fingers curled into his shoulders, nails biting through his shirt. The toy truck clattered to the floor again, forgotten. He traced the lace edge of her panties, slow, deliberate, letting the pad of his finger catch on the wetness seeping through. She made a small, choked sound—half protest, half plea—and he smiled. "You’re not wearing these for the kids, are you?"
The nursery monitor glowed softly on the coffee table, the rhythmic breathing of sleeping occupants punctuating the silence. He stood abruptly, lifting her by the waist as if she weighed nothing, her legs instinctively wrapping around him. She gasped—surprise or arousal, he couldn’t tell—but her arms locked around his neck. The hallway was dark, the only light spilling from the living room’s dimmed lamp, casting long shadows as he carried her toward the couch.
He laid her down gently, the leather cool against her bare thighs where her skirt had ridden up entirely. His fingers hooked into the lace at her hips, dragging it down just enough to expose her, the fabric damp and warm against his knuckles. “Tell me,” he murmured, spreading her thighs wider with his knee, his thumb circling her clit with deliberate pressure. “Has anyone ever fucked you properly?”
She shook her head, her breath coming in shallow gasps, her fingers twisting in the couch cushions. “No,” she admitted, voice cracking. “Not—not like this.” He exhaled sharply, his fingertip gliding through her slick folds, teasing her entrance before pressing in—slow, torturous—just the tip at first. Her hips jerked, a choked moan escaping her as she tried to push down onto him, but he held her steady with his other hand splayed across her stomach. “Easy,” he murmured. “Let me feel you.”
Her thighs trembled around his wrist, the soft thatch of hair above her clit damp with sweat. He crooked his finger inside her, just slightly, and she whimpered, her back arching off the leather. “God,” she breathed, her nails digging into his forearm. “I didn’t—I didn’t think it would feel like this.” He chuckled darkly, adding a second finger, stretching her gently, watching her face twist in pleasure. “You’re tight,” he observed, his thumb circling her clit in time with the shallow thrusts of his fingers. “But you take it so well.”
She gasped when he pressed deeper, the thin barrier of her hymen resisting for just a moment before yielding under his relentless pressure. A sharp, breathless cry tore from her throat—pain and pleasure tangled together—and her hips jerked, seeking more. “Please,” she begged, her voice raw, her legs splayed wider. “Don’t stop.” He obliged, sinking his fingers deeper, feeling her clench around him, hot and slick. Her breath hitched, her body tensing, and then—release, sudden and overwhelming, her thighs clamping around his hand as she came with a shuddering moan.
He withdrew his fingers slowly, watching her chest rise and fall with ragged breaths. Her skin was flushed, her lips parted, her eyelids heavy with spent pleasure. He reached for the waistband of his trousers, unfastening them with practiced ease, his cock already hard and aching. “Look at me,” he commanded, and her eyes fluttered open, glazed with satisfaction. He stroked himself once, twice, his thumb brushing over the slick head, smearing precum down his length.
She whimpered when he pressed the tip against her entrance, the heat of her almost unbearable. He pushed in just slightly—enough to make her gasp, her nails digging into his thighs—but held himself still, savoring the tight clench of her walls around him. “Easy,” he murmured, though he wasn’t sure if he was speaking to her or himself. Her breath hitched as he sank deeper, inch by agonizing inch, her body yielding reluctantly at first, then eagerly, greedily.
Her legs trembled around his waist, her toes curling against his back as he bottomed out inside her. He exhaled sharply, his hands gripping her hips to still her instinctive squirming. “Fuck,” he gritted out, the sensation almost too much—hot, tight, perfect. She arched beneath him, her head tipping back, her throat working around a silent moan. He could feel every flutter of her muscles, every pulse of her heartbeat around him.
He moved slowly at first, shallow thrusts that made her whimper, her fingers clutching at his shoulders. But the restraint was short-lived. The moment she gasped his name—desperate, pleading—his control snapped. He pulled back almost entirely, just the tip of him still inside her, and then slammed back in, hard enough to make her cry out. Her nails raked down his back, her legs tightening around him, pulling him deeper still.
Her second orgasm hit suddenly, violently—her entire body arched off the couch, her thighs clamping around his waist as she came with a strangled sob. He could feel her pulsing around him, hot and relentless, and it was too much. With a ragged groan, he pulled out abruptly, his cock slick and glistening. The first spurt of cum landed on her clit, the second streaking across her entrance, thick and pearly white against her flushed skin.
She barely had time to register the sensation before he was dragging his thumb through the mess, smearing it over her oversensitive folds. She whimpered, her legs jerking weakly, but he held her steady with one hand splayed across her trembling stomach. "Good girl," he murmured, tracing idle circles through the cooling slickness. "Cleaning you up properly."
His fingers lingered longer than necessary—not quite teasing, just possessive—as he wiped her thighs clean with the hem of her skirt The air smelled like sex and leather, her own arousal mixed with the sharp musk of him. She watched, dazed, as he tucked himself back into his trousers with practiced ease, his fingers lingering at the waistband like he was considering another round already.
“You take direction well,” he remarked, his thumb brushing the inside of her knee. “That’s good.” The compliment landed somewhere between praise and warning, his voice roughened by exertion. He didn’t move to let her up, instead palming the curve of her hip, holding her in place against the couch. The nursery monitor flickered—a soft, staticky sigh from the other oom—but neither of them glanced at it.
She shivered when he dragged a fingertip along her inner thigh, collecting the cooling mess he’d left behind. “Still sensitive?” he murmured, watching her eyelids flutter. She nodded, swallowing hard, her breath still uneven. He smirked, wiping his hand absently on the leather beside her. “Don’t worry. You’ll get used to it.”
1 month ago
