Erotic Fiction: Undressing the Au Pair
The lock of the front door slid into place, the sound reaching the nursery where I laid the baby to sleep in her crib. As I switched on the monitor and quietly slipped out of the room, M. Bisset climbed the creaky staircase to the second floor.
“Amy,” he acknowledged briskly with a nod.
“Have a good night, Monsieur Bisset.” He went directly to his room and shut the door with a soft thud.
His wife was out of town for the week, making me a bit nervous about spending the time taking care of their daughter. The husband seemed cold and uninterested, never offering to lend a hand with diaper changes or bottle feedings. Then again, the girl’s own mother did little more than come into her nursery in the morning to coo over her briefly before heading out to see friends and shop for the rest of the day.
That’s what an au pair is for, I guess. Besides, I couldn’t complain; for the most part, I had a day to myself each week to explore Marseille, living like a local and practicing my French. At the Bisset House, I spoke in English to the parents and child, engraining the language in the baby’s impressionable mind and helping the adults improve their conversational skills whenever they spoke to me.
I entered my room and shut the door, flicking on the baby monitor I kept on the bedside table before beginning to strip down to my underwear. As I bent over to pick up my pants from the ground, M. Bisset opened the door and waltzed into the bedroom without knocking, startling me into an upright position. Instinctively, I held the jeans over the front of my body, attempting to shield as much of my exposed skin as possible.
“Excuse me.” His eyes were trained on mine. Goosebumps immediately crawled across my skin, incited by the shock and embarrassment. “I was wondering if you would…”
My own gaze darted around the room, confused and nervous. It was undeniable that Bisset was handsome, but for someone who never paid much attention to me, finding him in my bedroom while I was near naked was intimidating. It became increasingly apparent what he was suggesting, indirectly asking for, and I felt guilty that I started to consider it.
Fuck it, his wife wasn’t home. Besides, I hadn’t had sex since I first came to France over six months ago. And it seemed like the Bissets didn’t even like each other all that much, anyway. They hardly spent any time together and never showed each other affection. Okay, Amy, you’re trying to negate your guilty conscience.
“If I would what, Monsieur Bisset?” Say it. He stood in the door frame, his usually cool and collected demeanour beginning to slip into being somewhat awkward. His eyes dropped to where my pants covered my bra, the legs half-obscuring my pink lace thong. I let them go, and they fell to the carpet in a weighty sigh.
He took a step closer towards me, slowly, as if assessing my reaction. I took a step towards him. On his second advancement, I reached out and slipped my hands under the loose grey pyjama shirt. I slid it over his head in an easy motion, exposing the skin of his belly and chest, a smattering of hair covering them. We stood there for a moment, observing each other carefully.
“Tourner autour,” he instructed, and I obeyed, turning around so that my back faced him, straightening in expectation. He unhooked my bra, my nipples instantly hardening at the exposure to the cool air circulating the room. Then he curved his thumbs against my hips, moving between my skin and the panties before unhurriedly dragging them down my legs. My heart was beating wildly. Half a year sexless, and I could feel the wetness between my thighs start to drip slowly. There was guilt that I was turned on by a married man, but I reminded myself that he wouldn’t have come here if he didn’t want me, if he was in love with his wife.
I walked over to the bed and laid back over the edge, my legs dangling over the side, so that my feet touched the floor. He pulled down his cotton pants, exposing a massive, angry-looking dick. I could feel my pussy clench, equally in expectation and concern. The veins swelled around it, and as he took it in his hand and stroked it, it grew ever so slightly.
In a moment, he was spreading my thighs, lifting my legs up into the air and onto either of his shoulders as he ploughed into me. I cried out in pain, feeling like my insides were being split in half. He put his hand over my mouth and hushed me, motioning slightly to the baby monitor with his head. I bit down on my lip, digging my fingers into the comforter as he moved in and out of me in a rhythmic motion. It was as if every inch of my vagina was filled, the tip of his dick slamming into my cervix and making my eyes roll back.
“Don’t cum in me,” I mumbled. By now, my ankles were clenched tightly in his hands to adjust the angle of entry. “Don’t go inside of me.”
Bisset was grunting now, low animalistic noises ripping through his throat. In and out, in and out. He muttered something under his breath in French — something I couldn’t understand — and then pulled out in an instant. His hands gripped me by the waist and pulled me lower until I was practically hanging off the bed. He took his dick in his hand and stroked it once, twice, the cum shooting out in a single spurt that lined my face. The second and third shots coated my tits. He took the tip and wiped it on my belly, stepping back and inserting two fingers deep inside of me before pulling them out and licking them slowly.
I watched, wide-eyed, as he picked up his pyjamas from the floor and exited the room.
**Want to rewrite this story and make it your own? Download our fill-in-the-blank adventure and create your own sexual escapade… whether it’s super steamy or wildly hilarious.**
