Princess and the Chocolate Factory

After three more minutes of discussion, they decided on the Little Mermaid—clamshells and all. Lucille smiled at me, blinking, the very picture of innocence. I narrowed my eyes at her in response.

Lucille had a red wig from her own Halloween experience years ago as Julia Roberts from Pretty Woman (yes, it was delicious, why do you ask?), and she provided it to Veruca as the start of the costume. I didn't pay much attention to the progress, but finally, on the night of the party as I was cleaning up the leftovers after dinner, the nanny emerged from her room to the applause of the kids and my wife.

The shells were a bit too small for her, covering her nipples but leaving much of the rest of her tits exposed. I had caught glimpses of cleavage in her six months here, of course, so I had some idea of the size and shape of her bosom but there's nothing quite like seeing the full shape of the breast (sans areolae). On the small side of medium, with the perkiness of youth, they were hard to look away from. She wore a pink nylon wrap over her upper body which covered everything but concealed nothing, though I could see that it was likely two beers away from being missing altogether. Below the waist was a tight green, scaly skirt which went to about three inches over the knee, though its slit went a couple inches higher. Her legs weren't similarly covered in scales, but their shapely expanse, from thigh to faux-alligator pumps, was coated in bright green seamed hose. I'd seen her in some skimpy outfits this year, but this was the best... er, the worst so far.

"How do you find it?" she asked in that not-quite-getting-the-idiom way she had.

"I find it lovely, don't you think, Charles?"

"I'm not sure it's appropriate for the kids to see," I said under my breath. "It's nice enough. Won't you be cold, though?" Not that I was imagining the effect on her nipples under the clamshells, mind you. Not at all.

"Oh, no, I feel great." She collected her purse and waved goodbye to us as she went out through the garage door. "I will see you later!" With that she was gone for the night, but my hard-on lingered after she'd left.

I spent the next half hour making it go away by fucking Lucille from behind... her face in the pillow stifling her cries. I'm sure she was aware of the source of my ardor—she always was, and I loved that she knew me so well—and she was entirely bratty with me about it before I grabbed a fistful of her hair and dragged her to the bed, yanking down her yoga pants so I could have at her pussy. She was already well-lubricated in anticipation and I was able to shove into her without effort, eliciting a muffled moan as she propped herself up on her knees while keeping her forearms and breasts in direct contact with the mattress. The angle felt great for me, and if the way she pressed back at me was any indication it was working for her too.

I generally spend effort making sure my lady comes at least once, but tonight I was in no mood for giving, just taking. I think she did come, but I was too engrossed in the feeling of my palms on her upper thighs while I yanked her back at me repetitively to be sure. Certainly I heard no complaints from her. She fell forward when I drew out of her, and smiled dreamily at me when I kissed her cheek and tucked her in.

I had some work to do in the office downstairs, so I reluctantly left her there instead of joining her in slumber. Two or three hours passed rapidly as I lost track of time in the midst of data crunching for a yield problem at work, but eventually I heard a car pull up, pause a moment, and then leave. The rattle of a key in the front door heralded the return of Veru—Viveka; dear God, was it one o'clock already?

She was tipsy, as was not uncommon for her following these outings. She wasn't supposed to drink while she was in the States until she turned twenty-one, but given my own early start with vodka-and-tonics before I was officially legal I couldn't bring myself to play the hypocrite. Hell, she'd been allowed to drink in her own country for going on three years now; just because America was prudish didn't mean I needed to enforce the prudery.

And a prude she clearly was not, given the state of her outfit. Her nylon wrap was completely gone, as was prophesied, leaving her entire upper body bare, the clamshells barely covering her nipples. The skirt had hiked up significantly as a result of whatever she had been engaged in, and... those were actual stockings? The garter straps and the welt were clearly visible, now; I'd thought she had been wearing tights, before, since my default assumption is "no candy for Charles". I instantly stiffened, despite my recent rigorous activities with Lucille. She stumbled a bit in the heels toward the couch in the front room and I was about to offer her some help when she sprawled onto the sofa, legs askew and head leaned back across the padded armrest. I couldn't help but look up her skirt; the lighting was horrible—the display of my notebook computer reflected off the walls—but I didn't see anything except flesh in the region between her two stocking tops. If she'd been wearing panties tonight, they had gone the way of her top. It occurred to me then that depending on how drunk she actually was, she might not even know I was there.

Her next actions reinforced that suggestion. Her eyes still closed, she mumbled something in Swedish and slid her hands between her thighs. My jaw alternately dropped, then tightened. Was the half-naked au pair really masturbating right in front of me?

The answer, as I observed over the ensuing moments, was fuck yes. Her hands obscured the details of her fingerings, but I could see the gross activity and my libido had no problems with interpolation. She started with slow, vertical stroking along both upper thighs and then moved her hands in a circular motion I could only assume was around her clitoris. Her moans were fairly quiet, but her panting grew louder and louder. She released one hand from its duties in her pussy; it slid up and popped off the straps holding the shells to her breasts. The roaming hand found a home cupping her left breast across the nipple... stroking, caressing, and delicately squeezing in time to the other hand's rapidly accelerating spirals. I was enthralled watching her pleasuring herself and pressed my cock against the underside of my desk through my boxers.

She suddenly froze in mid-breath, her hands pausing all movement, and leaned back, mouth open. Her nether hand twitched rapidly left-right, once, twice, three times, and her hips told the rest of the story as she grunted a release. Her orgasm's rapid onset caught me by surprise and I didn't come all over the inside of my underwear, but I was pulsing strongly and I knew from the feeling that I was slippery with pre-come. I wouldn't last much longer.

She lay there breathing heavily for a moment, then propped her heels up clumsily back on the floor and pushed off, almost falling again in her unbalanced fatigue. Her breasts were still bare, her skirt akimbo, and as she passed the door to my office she finally paused to stare inside. The look in her eyes as she met mine was not startled at all, and she said in a low voice in that fucked-up accent, "It's better down where it's wetter."

Then she stumbled off to her bedroom and shut the door.

I sat in shock in my leather chair for at least three minutes before I stomped off upstairs to wake and aggressively fuck the hell out of my wife.

Apart from an inquisitive moan as I re-moistened her with my fingers, she didn't seem to mind.

5. Home From Work I Go

It only got worse in the days following her bout as a mermaid.

She went back to somewhat normal clothes for the remainder of the weekend, but on Tuesday afternoon when I got home from work she was Snow White, wearing a short black wig (where the fuck did she get this stuff?), skin powdered pale and almost-garish blush adorning her cheekbones. Her blouse was lower cut than any decent prince would tolerate, and her skirt was so short no dwarf could help but see her panties. If she was even wearing any.

The kids loved it, but I was afraid to stand up for fear of revealing the huge bulge in my pants. I put my novel in my lap and thought about nuns and dead kittens while the girl dressed up the kids in preparation for taking them to the park before dinner, but the unappetizing imagery was crowded out of my mind when I glanced over and saw her bending at the waist to pick a coat up off the floor. In this case, you didn't even need to be a dwarf.

She bent a little further so she could peer at me upside down between her legs and smiled knowingly. She winked and wiggled her backside back and forth, causing the small piece of fabric wedged in the crack of her ass to dance in sympathy, then abruptly switched to a more professional position as she heard Lucille start descending the stairway. She bade the kids come with her out the front door, leaving me motionless and feeling guilty for looking at her charms while my wife was just a floor away.

"Hi," Lucille said, smiling and giving me a kiss as she carried the quilt she'd been working on over to her sewing table. "How long have you been home?"

"About ten minutes."

"And didn't even come upstairs to say hello. Hmph. I see how I rate."

"Sorry. I—uh... was reading." I held the book up in front of my groin in order to ward off evil. "Say, what the fuck's up with Veruca's weird outfit? The costume party's over."

"Viveka, you cretin," she laughed. "Yeah, I asked the same thing. Seems the mermaid the other night inspired her—she said she got great reactions from everyone and is having fun keeping the kids entertained. At least that's what I think she said. I suspect it was a poorly translated idiom from the Swedish."

"It's a bit... revealing."

"She's leggy. She's not heavy up-top and knows her strengths."

"She never begs / She knows how to choose them?"

"Exactly."

"Let's go upstairs."

"Aw, did the nanny turn you on? It's the Snow White thing, isn't it?"

"Shut up."

"I have to sew this."

"Later."

"Okay, okay. Hey, wait, maybe I need to check the pasta sauce. It—ow!"

"There's another spanking for you if you don't go upstairs now."

"Promise?"

6. Bibbidi Bobbidi Boobs

Snow White did not reappear (for a while, at least), but a blue dress and an up-do of Veruca's blond locks heralded the arrival of Cinderella a week later. There's really no excuse for why I didn't immediately recognize the look she was going for purely from the hairstyle, but even in my cluelessness I was able to put two and two together when I saw the Lucite stripper-caliber platform heels she was wearing. Glass slippers indeed.

Not that the rest of her dress was long, flowing, sparkling, or otherwise presentable at a ball. It was an extremely tight number which pushed up her breasts, highlighted her hips and waist, and otherwise made her a vision of fuckable youthful flesh. The few parts of me which weren't lusting after her were wondering how the hell she was going to kneel to pick up a four year-old in that thing without tearing it, but it had an ample slit to mid-thigh which apparently provided just enough freedom of movement. When I saw this in action in the garage I was aroused and a more than a little impressed. It didn't hurt that the dress slipped downward a little during the maneuver, but I was at an angle and didn't see any nip-slippage before she readjusted a second later. She caught me looking at her, then I swear she deliberately struck a pose—tits pushed out, leg extended through the slit in mid-stride, wide smile. Pert ass.

"Penny for your thoughts," Lucille chanted in my ear. "Nickel for the rest of you."

Busted. Quick, deflect! "What the fuck is she doing?"

"Putting Amber in the carseat. Why?"

"You know what I mean."

"Enlighten me."

"Come on. The outfits? They're completely inappropriate."

"To whom?"

"To anyone with a pulse. Tell me you haven't noticed. Tell me you're okay with this."

"How often have you been a young girl?"

"Thank you for the weird non sequitur."

"No, really," Lucille came back. "You're not a girl. I was one. I have lots of regrets about outfits I wore when I was that age. I'm very thankful there was no Facebook back then, as my wardrobe malfunctions are on Kodak only. But God help the man who would have told me to dial it back. Or woman. My poor mother..."

"Got whatever she deserved."

"Hush. Yes, she's doing this for attention, and yes, that's probably not really a healthy reason to exude sexuality... but who the hell are you to judge?"

"Her employer. Did you just use the word 'exude'?"

"Her co-employer. And shut up— I can be eloquent!"

"'Eloquent'? See, all this vocabulary is getting me hot."

"You're deflecting." Bitch knows me too well. "At any rate, she's just figuring herself out, she's enjoying the effects... leave it alone."

"But... it's very distracting." Which came out way whinier than I intended, honestly.

"Oh, so you're distracted. Whose fault is that?"

"Hers."

"No, yours. Get a grip on your libido and stop trying to slut-shame the nanny."

"Is it slut-shaming if she's actually a slut?"

"Especially so. But she's not, though she has plenty of opportunities, I'll tell you that. You should have seen the security guards at the mall follow her around. You'd think she had 'shoplifter' tattooed on her ass."

"Thank you for that imagery. It's not helping."

"Tough."

I wrestled momentarily with the absurdity of me asserting that the attractive young girl living in my house needed to show me less of her body when that was precisely the opposite of what I actually wanted. Why was I trying to win this argument, again? "And you're okay with this?"

"Am I in danger of you leaving me to start screwing the babysitter? Be careful how you answer, Mr. Not-a-Hollywood-Actor-with-Unlimited-Legal-Resources."

"No!" Maybe just a lit— no!

"Then just enjoy the show and shut up about it."

"Fine."

"Good. Now let's go back inside and have sex."

"What?"

"You've been hard as a rock since you saw Svenderella's thighs through that slit. Do you think I'm blind, or just stupid?"

"That's—not true. It was the eloquence. Which you exude."

"Grrrr... Just for that, no blow job! But you're still going to fuck me. You don't have to be at work until, what, ten?"

"Eight."

"Well, we'd better get started, then."

7. The Crack of Dawn

So it continued. I'm sure it garnered her the attention she craved; the parade of men who picked her up on weekends and evenings was absurd, and I wondered how many of them she was actually sleeping with. There wasn't a repeat performance of the mermaid masturbation session on the couch, but Lucille and I were up late a few nights on her return and judging by the disheveled state of her attire she definitely was having a good time on her outings.

Sexy Snow White and the Slutty Mermaid had many repeat performances, but sometimes she shifted away from the good old standards and headed into the obscure characters. For instance, who the hell even watched The Hunchback of Notre Dame, let alone considered some gypsy-costumed harlot a "princess"? I certainly hadn't, and the mystified look I gave Lucille required a follow-up explanation as to who this "Esmerelda" was. Not that I had any complaints about the outfit, mind you. I'm a sucker for a good belly-dancing costume, and Veruca's stomach was flat and trim.

Soon, though, the element of danger manifested as she started targeting me directly.

At first there was plausible deniability. Maybe she really was having trouble putting on the Cinderella shoes. They were freaking huge and her dress didn't allow radical movements. I could see that. So asking me to help her was no evidence of malign intent. Now, one could make the argument that sighing and spreading her legs several inches apart while I held her nylon-covered foot in my hand and applied the ridiculous footwear... crossed the line somewhat. I'm not denying that. Likewise, her comment about how she thought it was "the perfect fit" as she looked deliberately at my crotch and I tried and failed to not look deliberately at hers, shaven and exposed as it was through her sheer panties. One could read this as merely the dirty mind of an employer projecting his own fantasies onto her behavior.

Certainly, we all masturbate. I'm a modern man; there's nothing shameful about it. So when Lucille had taken the kids to church early on Sunday morning and in between bites of breakfast cereal I caught glimpses through the open guest room door of Veruca doing things to herself on her bed... Well, should I have stopped her? Can you imagine her embarrassment?

She was still in the Aurora skirt from last night, and didn't even appear to be awake, really (which was entirely appropriate, when you stopped to think about it). Her movements weren't frenzied at all; she was gentle and slow and deliberate and my Cheerios were a blob of mush by the time I had teased my erection into a full blown orgasm on the breakfast nook tile. She probably didn't moan, "Kendra!" when she climaxed, though I thought she might have. That was likely just my hormones talking as they urged my balls to empty, however.

I froze as, moments later while I cleaned up the floor, I heard her come through the door. I've been at this since I was twelve, so I knew I could pass my puddle of semen off as spilled milk. "Hi," I said, cheerfully over my shoulder. "Made a little mess."

"I'm sure it was my fault."

"Don't be silly."

"I hope I was not too loud."

"Oh, you don't snore. Not that I've ever noticed."

"That's not what I meant."

Having my head at her thigh level was not conducive to maintaining my sanity during this conversation, even though she was barefoot this morning and not possessed of the three-inch fuck-me pumps with the straps that wrapped all the way up above the knee. I could still see the crease of her sex through the bottom of her skirt. My heart raced as I stood up, narrowly missing cracking my head on the bottom of the table.

"Oh, you mean when you came in last night?"

"When I came, yes." I think my jaw dropped a little. "You have a little milk on your lips," she continued, and dabbed the nonexistent fluid off, replacing it with her own, from her fingers. The smell hit me and I panicked.

"Well, thanks for... that. I need to shower and get ready. There's a... thing. It's soon. I'll see you later."

She giggled as I retreated, and I know she said something else—something no doubt clever and filled with innuendo if you were a tart whose grasp of translating Swedish idiom into English was imperfect at best—but I didn't hear any of it, as I was taking the steps two at a time to get to my bedroom.

I'm almost sure I didn't jerk myself off again just smelling the residual juices from the nanny's fingers. I wouldn't have. Really. But if, maybe, I did... then what of it?

I'm a modern man. There's nothing shameful about it.

That wasn't the last time she "over-shared", either. Days later, before dawn, as I put out the garbage before heading back upstairs to wake up the kids for the morning school routine, I saw the light on under her bathroom door. Moans accompanied the illumination. Two voices in harmony. I won't even pretend I resisted moving closer to eavesdrop. No one would believe that.

I held my breath while I listened to their coupling. There were no words that I could understand, though perhaps my lack of comprehension of both Swedish and Afrikaans made me miss something. The cooing sounded like Veruc—Viveka, but the other voice, muffled, belonged to the friend she'd been out with last night, Kendra. I could only imagine what was going on beyond that door, and why her voice sounded like her mouth was busy. It went on for a few minutes more and I tried desperately not to come on the carpet in front of the bathroom; I succeeded, but only through herculean efforts. When the au pair orgasms had finished (and I had not), Kendra's voice said, "I really have to go."