My Babysitter, Part 5

666Katherine 

The affair didn't slow down after that weekend—it accelerated, like a car with the brakes cut. Emily had tasted victory in Sarah's bed, and she wanted more. She started coming over even on days when she wasn't scheduled, claiming "the kids asked for me" or "I left my charger here." Sarah's absences—more frequent now, longer "errands" or "girls' nights" that stretched into overnights—gave us the run of the house. We'd fuck in every room we hadn't claimed yet: the dining table with the kids' coloring books pushed aside, the kids' playroom on the beanbag chair while they napped upstairs, even the garage with the door cracked just enough for the thrill of possible discovery.

Emily grew bolder with her provocations. She'd wear low-cut tops that showed the tops of her lace bras, bending over in front of Sarah to pick up toys, letting the fabric strain and reveal just a hint of cleavage. Sarah's comments turned from snide to outright hostile. "Do you ever dress appropriately for a job?" she'd snap when Emily arrived in a cropped tank and tiny shorts. Emily would just smile sweetly, murmuring, "I like to be comfortable, Mrs. Thompson," while shooting me a look that said *she's cracking*.

Sarah's suspicions hardened into something sharper, more desperate. She began checking things obsessively—my phone when I showered, the mileage on my car, even the laundry hamper for unfamiliar scents. One evening she confronted me in the bedroom after Emily had left, holding up one of my shirts. "This smells like her perfume. Again. Explain." I lied smoothly, blaming it on Emily helping with the kids' laundry earlier, but Sarah's eyes were wild. "You're lying, David. I can feel it." She started sleeping in the guest room some nights, claiming she needed "space to think."

Emily loved every second of it. "She's unraveling," she'd whisper while riding me in the office chair, her massive breasts bouncing in my face. "Soon she'll break, and then it'll just be us." The thought made me harder than ever, and I'd fuck her with a ferocity that left bruises on her hips.

Then came the bra incident.

It was a Tuesday afternoon. Sarah had taken the kids to after-school activities, and Emily was over "to help with homework." We barely made it to the laundry room before I had her bent over the washing machine, her shorts yanked down, my cock buried deep inside her from behind. She moaned my name, loud enough that the hum of the dryer couldn't cover it, her ass jiggling with every thrust. When we finished, she straightened up, cheeks flushed, and reached into her bag. She pulled out a black lace bra—her favorite, the one with the front clasp that barely contained her F-cups—and dangled it from her finger.

"Watch this," she said with a wicked grin.

She opened the dryer, tossed the bra inside on top of a load of Sarah's clothes that had just finished, and closed the door. "She always folds the laundry right after it dries. She'll find it when she sorts everything." Emily kissed me deeply, tasting herself on my lips. "Let her see what she's up against."

I should have stopped her. I didn't.

That evening, Sarah was in the laundry room folding clothes while I pretended to read in the living room. I heard the soft clink of hangers, then silence. Then a small, broken sound—like a sob caught in her throat.

I walked in quietly. Sarah was standing there, holding the black lace bra in trembling hands. The tag was visible, the size clear: 34F. She stared at it like it was a venomous thing. Her own chest—small, AA at best—had always been a quiet insecurity, one she'd joked about in the early days of our marriage, but now it looked like a wound.

She didn't see me at first. She pressed the bra to her chest, comparing it silently, then let it drop to the folded pile. Tears welled up, spilling over. She covered her mouth with her hand, shoulders shaking as quiet sobs escaped. "God, David," she whispered to herself. "How can I compete with... this?"

The sight hit me hard—guilt, yes, but also a dark, twisted arousal. Emily had orchestrated this perfectly. Sarah looked small, fragile, defeated. I stepped in, feigning concern. "Sarah? What's wrong?"

She turned, eyes red, clutching the bra like evidence. "This isn't mine." Her voice cracked. "It's hers. F-cup. F-cup, David. Look at me." She gestured to her own chest, flat under her t-shirt. "I can't... I can't give you this. I never could."

I moved closer, trying to comfort her, but my mind was on Emily—on how she'd planned this, how she'd known exactly where to strike. "It's probably just a mix-up," I said weakly. "She must've left it in the dryer last time."

Sarah laughed bitterly through tears. "A mix-up? In my dryer? With my husband's shirts? Don't insult me." She dropped the bra on the counter like it burned her. "You've been fucking her, haven't you? Tell me the truth."

I hesitated too long. That pause was confession enough.

She crumpled, sliding down to sit on the laundry room floor, crying openly now. "I knew it. I knew it, but I didn't want to believe it. The kids love her more than me. You look at her like... like she's everything I'm not." She wiped her eyes angrily. "And now this. This fucking bra. She wanted me to find it. She wanted me to see."

I knelt beside her, guilt warring with the sick thrill still pulsing through me. "Sarah, I—"

"Don't." She pushed my hand away. "Just... don't. I can't even look at you right now."

She stood, wiping her face, and left the room. I heard her footsteps go upstairs, the bedroom door close softly. The house felt heavier, quieter.

Later that night, after the kids were in bed, Emily texted me: "Did she find it? 😈"

I replied: "Yeah. She cried."

A few minutes later: "Good. She needed to see. Now she knows her place."

I stared at the screen, cock twitching despite—or because of—the wreckage I'd helped create.

The next few days were tense. Sarah barely spoke to me. She was polite with the kids, mechanical with Emily, but the fire in her eyes had dimmed to something hollow. Emily, sensing victory, pushed harder. She started staying later, "helping" with dinner, sitting at the table like she belonged. Sarah would excuse herself early, retreating to the guest room.

One night, after Sarah had gone to bed, Emily slipped into our bedroom—my bedroom now, really—while I was brushing my teeth. She was naked under a silk robe, her F-cups spilling out as she pressed against my back. "She's sleeping in the other room again," she whispered, hand sliding down to stroke me through my boxers. "Let me sleep here tonight. In her spot."

I should have said no. Instead, I carried her to the bed, laid her on Sarah's pillow, and fucked her slowly, deeply, while Sarah slept down the hall. Emily moaned my name louder than necessary, her breasts heaving, her nails digging into my shoulders. When I came inside her, she whispered, "This is ours now."

The next morning, Sarah found us asleep together—Emily curled against me, robe half-open. She stood in the doorway, silent, tears streaming down her face again. She didn't yell. She just turned and walked away.

That was the beginning of the end.

Emily moved in a week later, "temporarily," she said, to "help with the kids" while Sarah "took some time away." Sarah packed a bag and went to her sister's, telling the kids it was a visit. They barely noticed; Emily was there, after all.

The house was ours. Emily fucked me in every room, on every surface, claiming it all. She wore Sarah's lingerie, cooked in Sarah's kitchen, slept in Sarah's bed. And every time I looked at her—those green eyes, that body, that devious smile—I knew I'd traded everything for this.

And God help me, I didn't regret it. Not even a little.