The ABDL Babysitter's Revenge

The key turned in the lock behind me and I heard it catch.

I told myself that meant nothing. Margot always locked the door when she came in, a habit from the years she spent watching other people’s houses, other people’s kids, other people’s lives while I sat in my corner office signing the checks that paid her and never once learned how she took her coffee. The lock was just a lock.

My hands were already damp.

She set her bag on the counter the way she set everything down, slow, deliberate, like the surface should be grateful. I stood in my own kitchen in a suit that cost more than she used to make in a month and I could not make my mouth work. Two weeks ago I had laughed at her across this same counter. Told Dana, told my wife, that the babysitter had ideas above her station. Margot had been standing right there. She had smiled.

“You’re early,” she said now. Not a question. Margot did not ask things.

“Dana’s gone to her sister’s.” My voice came out thin. I hated it. “She said you’d be.”

“She said I’d be handling you while she’s away. Yes.” Margot pulled off her coat and folded it once over the chair, and underneath she wore something plain and dark and buttoned to the throat, and my body did a thing I had no permission for. A pull, low, hot, fast. Before I had decided anything. Before I even understood the room.

No, I thought. Not her. Not this woman who emptied my trash and never met my eyes.

She met my eyes now.

“Take off the jacket,” she said.

I laughed. It was supposed to sound like the laugh from two weeks ago, the one with money in it, the one that put people in their place. It came out cracked down the middle. My fingers were already at the button.

That was the part that scared me. Not her. Me. The way my hands moved on ahead of my pride like they had been waiting years for a reason. I shrugged the jacket off and stood there in my shirt with the sweat going cold under my arms and I could not stop looking at her hands.

“Dana told me everything,” Margot said. She came around the counter. She was not tall. She did not have to be. “How you can’t sleep. How you wake up crying and won’t say why. How you go so hard all day that you fall apart the second nobody’s watching.” She stopped close enough that I could smell her, clean, plain, soap and something warm underneath. “She’s tired, sweetheart. She asked me to fix what she can’t.”

“There’s nothing to fix.” My pulse was in my throat. “I run a company.”

“I know you do, baby.” Her hand came up. I should have stepped back. I did not step back. She laid her palm flat against my chest, over the pounding, and the gentleness of it took my knees out from under me worse than a slap would have. “And look how it’s eating you alive.”

Something behind my eyes went hot and stinging and I clenched my jaw against it so hard it ached.

“You don’t get to come apart in front of the men you boss around,” she went on, soft, like she was reading it off my skin. “You don’t get to need anything. So it all goes nowhere. And you sit up at three in the morning hating yourself.” Her thumb moved once across my sternum. “I’m going to take all of it. You don’t have to carry one more day of it. You just have to do what Margot says.”

Stop her, the proud part of me said, the part with the office and the checks and the laugh. Stop her right now or you will never get to be that man again.

I opened my mouth to throw her out of my house.

“Good boys say yes,” she murmured.

“Yes,” I said.

The shame of it landed a full second after the word, a drench of heat up my neck and into my face, and underneath the shame, fused to it, impossible to pull apart from it, my cock was already hard against the front of my own expensive trousers and she had not even touched me there. She glanced down. She saw it. She did not laugh, which was worse, so much worse, because the not-laughing meant she had expected it.

“There he is,” she said. Fond. Like I had done something sweet.

She took my wrist. Her grip was not rough. That undid me more than rough would have. She led me out of the kitchen and down the hall toward the guest room Dana never used, and somewhere in me a voice was still shouting that I was a grown man being walked through my own house by the woman who used to scrub my floors, and the voice was getting quieter with every step, and I let it.

The guest room had changed.

I stood in the doorway and could not make the pieces fit. The bed was stripped down and re-made low and wide. There was a wide padded table along one wall with a folded stack of thick white cloth at one end. There were straps. There was a tall cabinet, closed, and I did not want to know what was in it and I wanted to know what was in it so badly my mouth went dry.

“You did this,” I said. “When?”

“While you were at work being important.” Margot shut the door. The little click of it went straight through me. “Dana gave me a key weeks ago, baby. You’ve been mine longer than you knew.”

Weeks. She had been building this room two doors down from where I slept and I had walked past it every morning straightening my tie. The violation of it should have made me furious. Instead my breath was coming short and shallow and my hands had started to shake and not from anger, never from anger, my body had figured out what was happening long before I would let myself.

“Come here,” she said, and patted the low table.

I did not move. The last of him, the office man, made his stand. “This is insane. I’m not. I’m not a.” I could not even say it. “I’m not doing this.”

Margot crossed the room. She did not raise her voice. She took my chin in her hand and tipped my face down to hers and held it there until I had to look at her.

“You’re going to lie down on that table,” she said, even and certain, no question anywhere in it, “and I’m going to take these silly grown-up clothes off you, and I’m going to clean you up and put you in something that fits what you actually are right now. And you’re going to cry, because you’ve needed to cry for about ten years. And then Margot’s going to make it all feel good. Because that’s the deal. You be honest about how small you are, and I take care of every inch of you.” Her thumb brushed my lower lip. “Doesn’t that sound better than three in the morning?”

My eyes spilled over. Just like that. One hot line down each cheek before I could stop it, and the humiliation of crying in front of her cracked something open in my chest, and into that crack went a flood of relief so enormous and so wrong that I made a sound I had never made before.

“There it is,” she breathed. “Good boy. That’s my good boy.”

The praise hit somewhere below thought. My whole body leaned toward it like a plant toward a window. I hated that. I hated that I would have crawled to get more of it. And I was already moving, already letting her steer me back until the edge of the padded table met my legs and I sat, then lay, the cloth cool under me, the ceiling above me, her face leaning into view.

She undressed me the way you undress something precious and helpless. Tie first, drawn slow from my collar. Buttons, one at a time, her knuckles grazing my bare chest as she went, and every brush of her fingers made my hips shift without my say-so. She peeled the shirt back off my shoulders. She unbuckled my belt and I lifted for her, lifted, helped her strip the trousers down my legs like I could not get out of them fast enough, and the want and the shame had melted into one single unbearable thing that throbbed in time with my heart.

Then I was naked on her table in the locked room and my cock stood up flushed and aching against my belly and she looked at all of it, unhurried, the way you take stock of something you own.

“So hard already,” Margot said softly, “and Mommy hasn’t even started.” She reached for the folded white stack at the end of the table and shook one out, thick and soft, and laid it open across her lap where I could see it. “First we get you out of that grown-up state of mind. First we make you safe and small. Then.” She slid one cool hand up the inside of my thigh, light, just to the crease, not where I was screaming for her, and stopped. “Then Mommy decides how hard her baby gets to come tonight. And how many times. And whether you’ve earned it.”

My hips rolled up off the table toward her hand and she clicked her tongue and took the hand away, and I heard myself whimper, actually whimper, the man who ran the company, and the cabinet against the wall stood there full of everything she had not opened yet.

She reached for the strap that would go across my waist.

“Hold still for Mommy,” she said. “We’re only just beginning.”