The Sitter
"She used to babysit him when he was ten. He's twenty-five now. She's fifty. And she remembers everything."
I recognize her immediately.
She's standing in line at the coffee shop, fifteen years older but unmistakable. Same dark hair, now streaked with gray. Same warm brown skin. Same curves that my ten-year-old brain didn't understand but my ten-year-old body definitely responded to.
Mrs. Patricia Okonkwo.
My babysitter.
She used to watch me when my parents went out.
Every Friday night, from when I was eight until I was twelve. She'd make me dinner, help with homework, let me stay up past my bedtime if I promised not to tell.
She was thirty-five then. Married, though I never met her husband. She'd show up in soft dresses that clung to her body—a body I didn't have words for except more. More than my mother. More than the women in magazines. Just more.
I had dreams about her.
Confusing, heated dreams I didn't understand. Dreams where she'd lean over me to say goodnight, and her breasts would brush my face, and I'd wake up with my heart pounding and a strange ache I couldn't name.
Then I turned twelve, and my parents decided I was old enough to stay alone.
I never saw her again.
Until now.
"Patricia?"
She turns. Studies my face.
"I'm sorry, do I—" She stops. Her eyes widen. "Marcus? Little Marcus Chen?"
"Not so little anymore."
"My God." She laughs—that same warm laugh I remember. "Look at you. You're all grown up."
"It happens."
"It certainly does." She looks me up and down in a way that doesn't feel maternal. "How old are you now?"
"Twenty-five."
"Twenty-five." She shakes her head. "I remember when you were ten, begging me to let you watch one more episode."
"And you always caved."
"I was a soft touch." She smiles. "Still am."
We get coffee together.
Sit at a corner table while she tells me about her life. Divorced now—the husband I never met turned out to be a waste of time. Kids grown and gone. She's retired from her office job, living alone, filling her days with hobbies that don't quite fill the emptiness.
"And you?" she asks. "What are you doing with yourself?"
"Software engineer. Living downtown. Single."
"Single?" She tilts her head. "A handsome boy like you?"
"Haven't found the right person."
"Maybe you're looking in the wrong places."
Something in her voice makes my pulse stutter.
"Maybe," I say.
She holds my gaze.
Neither of us looks away.
"Can I confess something?"
We've been talking for an hour. The coffee shop is emptying. Neither of us has made a move to leave.
"Of course," she says.
"When I was a kid—when you used to watch me—I had a crush on you."
She laughs. "Marcus—"
"A serious one. I used to dream about you. I didn't understand what I was feeling, but I know now." I lean forward. "I was attracted to you. Even then."
"You were ten."
"I know. And it confused the hell out of me. But I remember the way you made me feel. The way I'd count down the days until Friday." I pause. "The way I'd pretend to fall asleep so you'd carry me to bed."
Something shifts in her expression.
"I remember that," she says quietly. "Carrying you. You were heavier than you looked."
"Did you know? That I was pretending?"
"I suspected." She takes a breath. "And I... I told myself I was imagining things. That a ten-year-old couldn't possibly... But the way you looked at me sometimes—"
"You knew."
"I didn't want to know." She looks at her hands. "It made me feel things I shouldn't have felt."
"What kind of things?"
She's quiet for a long moment.
"I was thirty-five," she says. "Married to a man who'd stopped touching me. Stopped seeing me. And there was this boy who looked at me like I was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen."
"Because you were."
"I'm not—"
"You were. You still are." I reach across the table, touch her hand. "Every woman I've dated—I've been looking for you. For how you made me feel."
"Marcus, this is—"
"Crazy? Maybe. But it's true." I squeeze her fingers. "I've been thinking about you for fifteen years. And now you're here. And you're not my babysitter anymore."
She looks at our hands.
At me.
"No," she says slowly. "I'm not."
Her apartment is ten minutes away.
Neither of us speaks during the drive. The tension in the car is thick enough to choke on.
She unlocks her door. Steps inside.
Turns to face me.
"I've thought about this," she says. "More than I should have. Wondering what it would be like if you came back. If you found me. If you were grown up and you still—"
"I still do."
"You don't know me. Not really. Not as an adult."
"Then let me know you." I step closer. "All of you. The way I've been wanting to since before I knew what wanting was."
She exhales.
"You're sure?"
"I've never been more sure of anything."
She reaches for my face.
Pulls me into a kiss.
She tastes like coffee and memories.
Her mouth is soft, eager, making up for fifteen years of waiting. I pull her against me and finally—finally—feel what I've been dreaming about since I was ten years old.
Her body is everything I remembered, magnified. Fuller. Softer. More curves than I can map with two hands. Her breasts press against my chest. Her belly is warm against mine. Her hips overflow my grip.
"Bedroom," she breathes. "Now."
She leads me down the hall. Into a room with a big bed and soft lighting and the faint smell of lavender.
"Undress me," she says. "I've waited long enough."
I peel away her clothes like unwrapping a gift I've been waiting fifteen years to open.
Her blouse falls away. Her bra unclasps. Her breasts spill free—massive, dark-nippled, hanging heavy against her chest.
"I used to dream about these," I admit.
"You were ten."
"I didn't understand what I was dreaming. I just knew I wanted to touch them." I cup them, feel their weight. "I still do."
I lower my mouth to her nipple.
She moans—loud, shameless.
"Marcus—God—"
I worship her breasts while I push down her skirt. Her panties. Until she's naked before me, fifty years old and more beautiful than any woman I've ever seen.
"Your turn," she says.
I strip. Her eyes go to my cock—hard, aching, pointing at her like a compass.
"That's definitely not how I remember you," she murmurs.
"Fifteen years of changes."
"Good changes." She wraps her hand around me. "Very good changes."
She lies back on the bed.
Spreads her legs. Shows me everything—her wet pussy, her thick thighs, her soft belly rising and falling with heavy breaths.
"Come here," she says. "Come finish what you started fifteen years ago."
I climb over her. Position myself at her entrance.
"I've wanted this since I was ten years old," I say.
"Then take it."
I push inside.
She's tight.
Hot. Gripping me like she's been waiting for this exact moment. Her moan vibrates through both of us.
"Yes," she gasps. "Oh God—yes—"
I move slowly at first, savoring her. The way her body cushions me. The way she wraps around me. The way her face transforms with pleasure.
"Faster," she demands. "Don't be gentle. I've waited too long for gentle."
I give her faster. Harder. The bed slams against the wall.
"That's it—that's it—"
I'm fucking my babysitter. The woman who used to tuck me in at night. Who used to let me stay up late. Who I've been dreaming about since before I knew what sex was.
And it's better than every dream combined.
"I'm gonna come," she gasps. "You're gonna make me come—"
"Come for me, Patricia. Let me give you what I couldn't give you then."
She shatters.
Her body convulses around me, her moan filling the room. I follow her over—explode inside the woman I've wanted since childhood while she shakes through her orgasm.
We collapse together.
Panting. Trembling.
"Well," she breathes. "That was worth the wait."
We lie in the dark.
Her head on my chest, her soft body pressed against mine.
"I should feel guilty," she says. "I used to babysit you."
"And now?"
"Now you're a grown man. And I'm a lonely woman. And somehow this feels more right than anything I've done in years."
I pull her closer.
"Stay with me," she whispers. "Tonight. Tomorrow. However long you want."
"I've been wanting to stay with you since I was ten."
She laughs—warm, surprised.
"Then stay."
I stay.
That night. The next morning. Every night after.
Some crushes last forever.
Mine did.