Nanny or obsession

I’ve been buried in interviews for a week now, sifting through a parade of nannies who all seemed more interested in the paycheck than my little princess. My granddaughter, barely three years old and full of that wild, unfiltered joy, deserves someone who sees her as more than a job. After my wife died in that goddamn car wreck three years back—right after we got custody when she was just a squirming infant—I've been solo parenting, juggling my real estate gigs and her endless energy. The apartment building I own downtown keeps the bills paid, but the loneliness? That's a different beast. Finally, only one candidate left: Chyenne, who showed up right on time, knocking with a soft rap that didn't demand attention.

We sit in the living room, sunlight slanting through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my suburban house, the kind with a yard big enough for her to chase butterflies without a care. She's got this warmth about her, not the fake smile crap from the others—it's in her eyes, soft brown and steady, like she's already picturing bedtime stories. Her dark hair's pulled back in a loose ponytail, and her sundress hugs her figure just enough to notice without trying. I fire off the questions: experience with special needs kids (she's got it, worked with toddlers on the spectrum), availability (full-time, live-in), references (solid). But unlike the rest, I bring her to meet my princess in the playroom.

You watch them from the doorway as she kneels down, her voice dropping to this gentle lilt. "Hi there, sweetie. I'm Chyenne. What's your favorite toy?" Your granddaughter giggles, shoving a stuffed tyedye octopus into her hands, and just like that, they're chatting like old friends. It's the way she listens, really listens, nodding with that radiant smile. A pang hits you—reminds you so much of your late wife, the way she'd scoop her up and make the world feel safe. A tear slips down your cheek before you can stop it, and you turn away, but Chyenne notices.

"Mr. Doster? Is everything okay?" Her voice is concerned, soft, as she straightens up, still holding the elephant.

You wipe your face quick, forcing a half-smile. "Yeah, just... happy and sad at the same time. Seeing her like that—it brings back memories. But she's all that matters to me. Sadness can wait." You pause, looking at them both. "When can you start? Job's yours if you want it."

Her face lights up, genuine relief and excitement. "I'd love to. I can grab a bag from my place and start tonight."

"Take your time," you say, standing. "I've got the day off, but tomorrow's packed with work I've been dodging. You'll be in charge here—house, her, everything."

"No worries, Mr. Doster. I'll treat her like my own and handle the place like it's mine."

"Great. As of now, consider this your home. We'll try a week—if it goes well, I'll pay to ship your stuff here, store the rest. And if you ever want out, I've got apartments downtown I own. Keep a few empty for situations like this."

She thanks you profusely, eyes shining, then heads out to pack. As she walks away, you can't help staring—her hips sway with this natural rhythm, the dress clinging to the curve of her ass like it's painted on. What the hell am I doing? You think, shaking it off. Haven't eyed anyone like that since the accident. Must be the loneliness creeping in. Work tomorrow will bury it—no time for bullshit feelings.

Two hours later, she's back with a small duffel. "Is that all?" you ask, eyebrow raised.

"Oh no, I've got a couple more in my truck. I'll grab them."

You insist on helping, popping the tailgate on her beat-up pickup. One bag slips from your grip, unzipping on impact, spilling its guts across the trunk bed—silky bras, lace panties, a few thongs in reds and blacks, all tangled with stockings. Your hands fumble to stuff it back, but your mind's already racing, picturing her sliding into them, the fabric hugging her skin. Your cock twitches hard, the first real stir in years, blood rushing south as you imagine her curves filled out in that lace. You smack your forehead lightly—get a grip, man—and haul the bags inside without a word.

Upstairs, she's already tucking your granddaughter into bed, humming a lullaby. You lean in, kiss the little one's forehead. "Night, princess." To Chyenne: "I'm heading to my office if you need anything. Text me—don't want to be disturbed unless it's important. Make yourself at home. Your room's got a half-bath, but it connects to the master bath with jacuzzi tub and walk-in shower. the shower's got multiple heads. Any questions on it, just ask."

She nods, smiling. "Got it. Goodnight, Mr. Doster."

You settle into your office, firing up emails about the downtown properties, but your focus is shot. That bag keeps flashing in your head—her in those panties, the way they'd ride up her ass. Fuck, you're half-hard already, shifting in your chair. To distract, you pull up the home security app on your laptop. Every room's got hidden cams—installed after the custody mess for safety, but now? You click to the nursery feed first. She's checking on princess, adjusting a blanket, then heads to the kitchen, wiping counters with efficient swipes.

You shouldn't, but you follow her on the cams—living room, hallway, her bedroom door. She unpacks the duffel, folding clothes into drawers. Then she holds up a black lace bra, turning it in the light, and your dick strains against your pants. She sets it aside, unpacking more: a red thong, sheer enough to see through, a matching garter set. Each piece she unfolds makes you harder, visions of her trying them on flooding your brain. She finishes, grabs a bathroom bag, and steps into the shared bath, the door clicking shut but the cam catching it all—discreet angle from the vanity.

The tub fills with steaming water, bubbles foaming up as she pours in some scented shit. She slips off her dress, letting it pool at her feet, revealing smooth, radiant skin. No bra underneath—just full, heavy tits with dark nipples already perking in the cool air. Her panties slide down next, exposing perfect pussy, lips plump and inviting. You zoom in, breath catching, as she steps into the tub, sinking in with a sigh. The water laps at her curves, bubbles clinging to her breasts as she leans back, eyes closed, one hand trailing down her stomach.

Your hand's on your zipper before you think, pulling out your cock—thick, veined, throbbing from neglect. You stroke slow, watching her soap up, lathering her tits, pinching a nipple absently. She rinses, stands, water cascading down her ass, round and firm. Toweling off, she slips into a silky nightgown, the fabric sheer enough to show her silhouette. But she doesn't stop—grabs that black lace bra from earlier, trying it on in the mirror. It cups her tits perfectly, pushing them up, and she adjusts the straps, turning to check her side profile. Then the matching panties, sliding them up her legs, the lace hugging her hips. She spins, bending slightly, ass cheeks peeking out. Your strokes speed up, pre-cum slicking your palm, imagining bending her over right there.

She tries a red set next—thong pulling tight between her cheeks, bra barely containing her. Posing, she runs hands over herself, like she's admiring, or maybe teasing the mirror. Fuck, is she? No way she knows about the cams. Your balls tighten, but you hold off, mesmerized as she swaps to a white lace babydoll, the hem flirting with her thighs. She packs it away, slips back into the nightgown, and kills the light. You're left panting, cock in hand, but the night's young. You text her goodnight, casual, then try to work. Fail miserably.

Later, past midnight, you hear footsteps—soft, padding down the hall. The cam in the kitchen shows her grabbing water, nightgown riding up her thighs. She pauses, glancing toward your office door, then knocks lightly. "Mr. Doster? You still up?"

"Come in," you call, shoving your dick back in your pants, heart pounding.

She pushes the door open, leaning against the frame, the silk clinging to her curves in the low light from your desk lamp. "Couldn't sleep. The house is so quiet. Mind if I sit?"

You nod, gesturing to the chair. Up close, she's even better—scent of bubbles and something floral hitting you. "Everything okay with the room? Kiddo settle?"

"Perfect. She's out like a light. And the bath? Heaven. Those shower heads sound amazing—might try them tomorrow." Her eyes meet yours, lingering a beat too long.

The air thickens. You swallow, the image of her naked in the tub burning fresh. "Glad you like it. Listen, call me DJ. Mr. Doster makes me feel old."

She smiles, crossing her legs, the nightgown hiking up to show thigh. "DJ it is. You look beat. Long day ahead?"

"Always. But... seeing you with her today, it was a relief. Haven't had that since..." You trail off.

She reaches over, touches your hand lightly. "I get it. Loss like that doesn't fade. But you're doing good by her." Her fingers linger, warm.

The touch sparks something—loneliness cracking open. You turn your hand, lacing fingers with hers. "Chyenne, I... fuck, I shouldn't say this on day one."

"Say it," she whispers, leaning closer, her tits pressing against the silk.

"I watched you. On the cams. Couldn't help it. The bath, the lingerie... you're fucking gorgeous."

Her eyes widen, but not in anger—heat flares there. "The hidden cameras? Sneaky. But... I kinda hoped you might." She stands, rounding the desk, perching on the edge. "What'd you see that got you so worked up?"

You pull her onto your lap, hands on her hips, feeling the heat through the gown. "You stripping, soaping those tits. Trying on that black lace—ass like that, I nearly came right there."

She grinds down, feeling your hardness. "Pervert. But I like it." Her lips crash into yours, tongue hot and eager, tasting sweet. You groan, hands sliding under the gown, cupping her bare ass—no panties. She moans into your mouth, rocking against your bulge.

You stand, lifting her onto the desk, papers scattering. "Want you," you growl, yanking the gown over her head. Her tits bounce free, nipples hard peaks. You suck one into your mouth, tongue flicking, while your hand dives between her legs—pussy already wet, lips slick. She gasps, fingers in your hair. "DJ, yes—finger me."

Two fingers slide in easy, curling against her walls, thumb on her clit. She bucks, soaking your hand, her breaths coming fast. "Fuck, you're tight. Been a while?"

"Too long," she pants. "Make me cum."

You pump harder, sucking her other nipple, biting gently. Her thighs quake, pussy clenching as she cums—first orgasm ripping through her, juices dripping down your wrist. "Oh shit, DJ—yes!"

She slides off, dropping to her knees, tugging your pants down. Your cock springs out, thick and veined, head glistening. "My turn." Her mouth engulfs you, hot and wet, tongue swirling the tip before taking you deep. She bobs, hollowing cheeks, one hand stroking the base, the other cupping your balls. Saliva drips down your shaft as she gags lightly, eyes watering but locked on yours. "Fuck your mouth feels good," you groan, thrusting shallow.

She pulls off, strings of spit connecting her lips to your dick. "Ride you now." You clear the desk more, lying back as she straddles, guiding your cock to her entrance. She sinks down slow, pussy stretching around you, inch by inch. "God, you're big—filling me up." She starts riding, tits bouncing, hands on your chest for leverage. You grab her ass, thrusting up to meet her, the slap of skin echoing.

Her pace builds, grinding her clit against you. "DJ, I'm close again—fuck me harder." You do, pounding up, her walls fluttering. Second orgasm hits her like a wave, back arching, a low scream as she soaks your cock. You flip her onto her back, legs over your shoulders, driving deep. "Not done. Want that 69."

You reposition, her on top now, pussy hovering over your face. You dive in, tongue lapping her folds, tasting her cum as she swallows your dick again. She grinds on your mouth, moaning around your shaft, vibrations shooting through you. Your tongue flicks her clit, fingers spreading her ass—teasing her hole lightly, making her shudder. She cums third time on your face, squirting a little, drenching your chin. "Holy fuck, DJ—don't stop."

You can't hold—pull her up, bending her over the desk doggy-style. Her ass up, pussy glistening. You slam in, gripping her hips, balls slapping her clit. "Take this dick, Chyenne—your pussy's gripping me so tight." She pushes back, begging, "Harder—make me cum again!" You reach around, rubbing her clit, pounding relentlessly. Fourth orgasm crashes her, body shaking, screams muffled into her arm.

You're close—pull out, flipping her to face you. "On your knees—want to cum on you." She kneels eager, mouth open, tongue out, hands cupping her tits. You stroke fast, groaning as ropes shoot—first on her face, streaking her cheek, then her tits, painting the curves, last spurt hitting her tongue. She swallows, licking lips, rubbing the cum into her skin. "Mmm, all for me."

You both collapse, panting, her head on your chest. "That was... intense," you murmur, kissing her forehead.

She grins up. "Best first night on the job."

The week flies—her magic with your princess is real, house runs smooth. But every night, after tucking in, you fire up the cams. She's addictive. Monday, bath as usual: strips slow, fingers tracing her pussy before bubbles hide it. Tries on a blue teddy—see-through, nipples poking through—posing, touching herself lightly. You stroke in the office, cumming to the sight.

Tuesday, she experiments—lingerie from another bag, purple bra and crotchless panties. In the mirror, she bends, spreading cheeks, a finger teasing her ass. Your dick's rock-hard, imagining joining. She adds a vibrator, buzzing against her clit in the tub, cumming with soft moans you wish you could hear.

Wednesday, red corset cinching her waist, tits spilling over. She tries thigh-highs, strutting the room like a show. In the shower after, multiple heads pounding her body—she soaps her ass, slipping a finger in, moaning. You edge yourself twice before blowing your load.

By Friday, it's a ritual. She knows now—winks at the cam sometimes, like a secret game. Green lace tonight, garters snapping as she adjusts. Tries three outfits: slutty maid getup, then a sheer babydoll, finally nothing but heels, fingering herself on the bed edge. Your infatuation grows, despite the voice in your head screaming you won't fall again. But watching her cum, night after night, you're hooked—lonely no more, just obsessed with the woman turning your house into her stage.

One night, she texts mid-show: "Caught you watching again? Come join next time." You smile, cock twitching. Who knows—maybe you will. For now, the cams are enough, keeping the fire stoked, one explicit reveal at a time.