Work parties are not my cup of tea. I’m not sure
they’re anyone’s, so sometimes I wonder why they even
exist. I don’t really want to know any of the people I
work with any better. As much as I’d like to be, I’m
not a teenager anymore and neither are they. I already
have friends, friends who never blow payroll
deadlines. Maybe it’s just me, but irritation is not
the greatest foundation for friendship.

“This was great Jamie.” Carl worked in the office next
to mine. “I can’t believe it, fun on the fifth floor!”

Carl apparently didn’t feel the same way I did, or he
was drunk enough to forget it. He was right though,
who would’ve thought that so much laughter could ring
through the halls of a human resource office. I told
Carl that it was, indeed great, and grabbed my jacket
to leave.

My daughter, Jordan, was at home with the sitter. It
looked like I would be early, but I’m sure she would
be asleep anyway. At least I wouldn’t have to pay Amy,
the sitter, to watch anymore television. It certainly
wasn’t like she needed the money. I had a suspicion
that her parents were paying her something on top of
what I gave her. I think they wanted to do the right
thing by forcing her to be responsible. Amy was
already a dependable, if somewhat spoiled, young lady.
But, hey, I’m sure I’ll be doing the same thing as
mine grows up.

Sure enough, when I opened the door I could see the
faint glow of the TV from the back room. I shut the
door quietly. I didn’t want to wake the kid. I walked
down the hallway, and the screen slowly came into view
on which music videos were playing. The back of Amy’s
head was leaning against the couch, and her hair was
draped over the back of it, like she might be asleep.
But it looked like her right shoulder was moving up
and down, too, and for a moment I thought she might
actually be frigging herself.

“She’s got cable, what’s she doing?” was the actual
first thing that I thought, even though I wasn’t even
sure what was going on. I completely doubted my
initial impression. Still, it was enough for me to
hold my tongue and walk a little more quietly.

I haven’t written much since my second, and last, year
of college. Still, whenever I’m trying to work
something out, writing it down helps, most of the
time, anyway, unless it gets too weird, which may be
the case here and I think I’m rambling.

I’d met Amy when she answered a neighborhood flyer I’d
put on the community mailbox. I paid her to spend a
night with me and Jordan just so I could see if she
would be alright. We talked for a while about baby
bottles and Disney videos, but the rest of the time we
talked about high school and music. She was a cool
girl who reminded me a little of myself ten years ago.
After that, we always talked for half an hour or so
after I got home, which had been about ten times
before that night.

I had moved up to about five feet behind her. She had
slipped down the couch a little bit, which was why I
could see her jeans, totally undone. They had been
pushed down a few inches from her waist, revealing her
panties, the edges of which she was tracing with her
fingers.

I was flabbergasted and for some reason fixated on the
yellow daisy print on the white of her underwear, the
white of her underwear against her skin. It was almost
romantic, the way she ran the tips of her fingers
along the elastic. I spotted the faint line of her
vulva when the cotton was drawn taut by her treatment.
Worse, I actually dallied on it.

As she began to massage the top of her panties with
her palm, her legs stretched the waist of her pants.
The last few teeth of the zipper came apart, making a
soft click, which I could hear, for some reason, much
better than the TV. It broke the tiny daze of mine,
and my first inclination was to back away slowly and
slam the front door and yell as a loudly as I could,
“Amy, I’m home!”

What I was seeing was too much and I didn’t want to
embarrass her, even though, I will admit now, I was
amazed and even curious to find out just how far Amy
would take herself.

I began to retreat at the exact moment, of course,
that the TV went silent and I made a floorboard
squeak. Amy flipped around and clumsily pulled up her
jeans over her bottom.

“I’m sorry, Amy, I just came home, how’s Jordan?” I
stumbled.

She was as flustered as I was and turned off the TV,
rearranged some pillows, and picked up a schoolbook
that was on the floor. She looked at the floor, “I’m
sorry, Jaime, I was just watching TV. Jordan’s
sleeping, I better go home.” She shuffled down the
hallway and I told her to wait, I needed to pay her.

In all the time we had talked, only a few times did
our conversation turn to sex. She’d had it with a few
of boys and it shocked me that someone only seventeen
had done it even once. Amy had asked me a couple of
questions, mainly about getting as much as you’re were
giving, I guess you could say. It had felt awkward at
first, as if I was betraying her parents, even though
I’d only talked to them on the phone. Would they
really want me giving their daughter tips? I
eventually gave her some pointers which, in turn, she
could point out to her boyfriend. It had been awhile
since she’d approached the subject.

In the kitchen, as I groped my purse for cash, Amy
stood there nervously. I could tell she was still
feeling a little aroused. I was a little hot, too,
because I’d never seen someone else do that. It had
been a while since I’d seen anything remotely sexual
at all. Eventually, I pulled some money from my bag,
and handed it to her. She was still breathing heavily.
Part of me was just amused, and I imagined what would
happen if I grabbed her hand and pulled her towards
me. It was a funny thought, but also one a pervert
might have.

After she put the money in her pocket, she kept
standing there, quite still. It was here, I think,
that things took a real turn. All of a sudden, I
realized that the only thing she could’ve been
indicating was that she didn’t want to leave and if
she didn’t want to leave she wanted something else.
Maybe she wanted to talk. That’s what I told myself.
Anything else would’ve been too odd, probably wrong, a
lot more wrong than it seemed at the time. “Look Amy,
it’s alright, everybody does it.” That sounded
extremely lame.

“I’m sorry, I was just trying to…” she mumbled. I
wondered what she was going to end the sentence with.
Clean her clothes? Figure out her calculus homework.
“It’s alright, I understand,” I repeated. The heavy
atmosphere had lifted a bit, and it all seemed a
little silly. It made me feel better, which was
unfortunate, because I also felt more intrigued. She
continued to stand there.

I moved toward her and took her by the soldiers to
reassure her. My hands fell down her arms. Honestly, I
was just trying to be playful. “It doesn’t matter, we
all do it.” I fingered the top of her jeans, running
my finger from her belly button down and back again,
smiling comfortingly, attempting to make a joke out of
it.

Okay, okay, maybe this is the point where things took
a turn. I hoped maybe she would laugh and walk home.
It’s totally crazy, but I also wasn’t opposed to her
not, though I’m not sure what I was anticipating
otherwise. She did begin walking, but not out the
door. She went back towards the living room.

I took a moment to follow her. What the hell was going
on? I was a mother. But a mother who hadn’t felt like
this since I could remember. It wasn’t just the
physical heat, but the whole taboo situation. A young
girl, for god sakes. I knew she was a little
experienced, anything out of the ordinary that could
happen would be more just a memory for her than a
long-lasting emotional scar.

But I couldn’t believe I’d seen proper Amy do this in
the first place. And I could appreciate feminine
beauty as much as the next woman, but nothing physical
had ever happened with another girl. I followed her.
For some reason, I thought about the party I was just
at, which seemed like a month ago, now. My head was
swimming.

She was sitting on the couch again. I moved around and
leaned against the wall right next to the television.
I started to say “Don’t be embarrassed, it’s alright,”
as if we were at the door and I was waving her home.
But I caught myself when Amy began to unbutton her
pants. She kept looking down, refusing to make eye
contact, her blond hair covering her face. Her jeans
were pulled down around her ankles, where she let them
sit.

With her hand she began to replay what I had seen
earlier. She was going to finish what she started with
me watching. I’m not sure why, maybe she wanted some
advice, but I think the voyeuristic aspect of it all
was turning her one as much as it was me. Touching
yourself, alone, to some rock music was fine, but I
think she recognized when she was in the kitchen how
much more stimulating it might be if she was being
watched, and hell, she already had been for few slight
moments. I have to give it her for appreciating this,
much less actually acting on it. I would never have
done it, my legs were shaky enough as it was.

The whole thing was very surreal. Everything was quiet
except for her breath, slow and deep from behind her
the mask of her hair, and my own breath, which was
interrupted frequently by swallowing. My mouth was
very dry. My stomach was tight.

I was gazing at her with new eyes. She was still
rubbing the outside of her underwear with her palm,
the daisies rumpling slightly and smoothing again. She
had the kind of perfect skin only a teenager could
have. Her thighs were just a touch whiter than the
rest of her body. They were striking. Her thighs were
leisurely swinging in and out.

Her breasts, average size for her age, were covered by
a purple T-shirt but I could see the contour of her
nipples through the fabric. Amy was genuinely turned
on. I was noticing her chest when I made my way back
below. Her underwear was getting a workout now,
stretched and scrunched up faster and faster. I was
getting glimpses of her lips. They already looked a
little swollen, once and briefly swallowing a strip of
cotton between them before it appeared again.

I saw her pubic hair, which I don’t think had fully
grown in yet, but was a light color of brown and
blonde. This may not sound particularly kinky or
anything to many people, but to me, the perfect word
is nasty. I was looking at Amy’s… pussy, and I liked
it, and it was nasty. She eventually gave up with her
panties and pushed them halfway down her thighs,
rubbing her vagina with an increasing pace, her pubic
hair budding from between her fingers as she pressed
her clitoris.

It was all happening so fast on one hand, but on the
other, it was all happening in slow motion. Every
detail lucid. Until then I was basically standing
there. When Amy had first pulled down her pants, I had
crossed my legs. Without thinking, I had been flexing
my thigh muscles ever since, vaguely aware of my
wetness.

When she… relocated her underwear, I pulled my
jacket closed with one hand and stuffed the other in.
I’m not sure why I bothered holding it shut. I think I
was still trying to give off an air of maturity by
hiding my actions, trying not to give my explicit
consent to this whole scene. Please, though- as if I
weren’t just by standing there, watching this girl, my
babysitter, go at it.

Nonetheless, I slipped my hand under my blouse and
under my bra to touch myself. If she had looked then,
I’m sure she could tell what was going on, and soon,
she would. The nipple I had reached for was already
hard. I rolled it in between two fingers while
kneading my entire breast. Damn. I started inhaling
louder. Amy had begun to make a few noises, too, with
each exhalation, a short sigh from the back of her
throat. My amplified breathing, though, had caught her
attention.

She shook the hair from the front of her face. I could
see her open mouth, her upper lip, her eyes, which
still refused to look in mine. This was fine, it might
have broken the spell. So maybe not in my eyes, but
she was definitely looking at me. I don’t know what
she’d been picturing, if anything, until then, but I
think it was clear what she was picturing now. She
didn’t look away.

I knew that she knew what I was doing. I let go of my
jacket and it fell open, and she could see me grabbing
my… to say this nasty, tit. I was playing with my
tit, and forcefully. I’m sure I had a larger chest
than she’d ever seen, at least bare, before. The left
one was sprung from the cup, though to a degree, still
covered by the thin film of silk of my shirt.

I looked down for a second and saw the redness of my
areola through it. Pushing the material aside, I freed
it, squeezing it and pinching the nipple. I was
getting extremely hot. I looked up, still nervously,
to see that Amy was, too. I could barely even consider
this whole thing as real, as if it were a movie.

I’m not sure I’d ever seen anything so hot. She was
staring at me as I pulled intermittently and hard at
my nipple, which I started doing because she was going
so hard on herself. Amy had propped herself up a bit
with her left arm, pushing her back against the couch,
lifting her bottom up a little.

I think I was pushing against the wall for my own
support as I had been sliding down it progressively
for a while. It had pushed my skirt up some, and I’m
sure she could see the end of my stockings. Maybe she
found lingerie as sexy as most men. She was rubbing
her, at this point the only thing I can call it, cunt.
Tough. Quick.

Her clitoris was large and red from the speed she was
polishing it with. Often, when her hand reached the
top of its motion, near her belly button, her clitoris
was pulled up and free, almost to a standing position.
Wow. I had never been aroused by the thought of this
particular body part, but I truly couldn’t resist the
sight. Areas of her crotch were becoming slick with
dampness she spread with her palm. Her hips bobbed
slightly up and down from the couch.

Her gaze was locked on mine, my jaws were clenched,
and my nostrils had probably flared. She was breathing
quicker, too. I had moved on to my other breast, not
bothering to release it from clothing, but rubbing it
through the patterned nylon of my bra. It felt as good
as, maybe better, than no clothing at all.

Amy had slipped her middle finger inside herself a
couple of times. She was moving so reckless, it looked
almost as if by accident. But she definitely loved it.
Every time it dipped in, she released a tiny whine.
Her breath had gotten ragged, and I’m sure for a
reason.

The arm that was keeping her lifted was straining. Her
belly was taught for a second, then relaxed, then
again. Amy was on her way up, about to orgasm if she
hadn’t already begun to. I was watching a teenage girl
climax herself on my couch. Horrible. Incredible. My
eyes were wide open. Amy was about to peak. I was
rolling both of my nipples in each hand.

What a bizarre, unwholesome sight this would be to a
third party- an adult woman hanging out of her dress,
aggressively molesting her own tits and a young girl
with her pants around her ankles finger-fucking
herself as they stared at each other. How else could
you put it? How did this ever happen again? It was
insane.

When Amy’s body tightened, she grunted for a split
second and clenched her hand down on her pussy. I
watched her slip a final finger in, gripping. She had
already let herself down entirely onto the couch when
she came. After that she withdrew her arm from between
her legs and leaned over her knees. A fine time to be
self-conscious. Maybe she was just tired. I couldn’t
believe the energy she had put into it.

Halfway through, it was like something snapped inside
her, perhaps encouraged by my endorsement, and she had
made sure she was going to get all that she could out
of it.

Now, though, she was just sitting there, breathing
slowly, head down. All of a sudden I became a little
concerned, maybe this whole situation was too out
there for her. I began to feel guilty. Amy could
really be freaked out or something. I knew I was
having my own second-thoughts about it as I pulled my
skirt down and loaded the rest of myself into my bra,
adjusting my blouse.

I stood there, as well, not sure what to do either.
Amy eventually pulled up her panties, and she lifted
her rump up to do it. She had a beautiful bottom- man,
I was still tingling. I couldn’t think like that
anymore, what if she told somebody? I knew Amy and,
rationally, I knew she wouldn’t, but I still began to
feel panicky.

Amy stood up and bent over to reach her pants. I slid
over because I had to do something, and pushed away
her hands as she was about to zip up. I did it for
her, adjusted the waist and buttoned them. My eyes
lingered on her navel and that smooth path heading
down towards the patch of hair I was peering at just
moments earlier… but other than that, the motion
could be described as quite motherly.

In my haste, I figured if I was in her position, well,
I’d probably be home in bed by now, but all things
considered at this point, I might be looking for some
comfort. When she finally looked up, I understood that
I was right. Her eyes looked a little glossy, but they
were thankful.

I hugged her, acutely aware that she might be able to
feel the stiff tips of my chest, still rigid. I began
to wish I would calm down. If she did feel them,
though, maybe she’d be getting a message that I
wouldn’t mind her knowing but certainly didn’t want to
say, “Gee Amy, thanks for doing that, you really made
an old lady happy. I haven’t gotten any in months, and
while I usually go for a man in a bed, watching a
teenage chick in my living room… well, thanks
again.” No, I didn’t want to say that.

We walked down the hallway, and we still hadn’t spoken
yet. In the kitchen, though, Amy said, “Well, I’ve got
school in the morning. Thanks a lot Jaime. Um… call
me when you need me, again.” Her tone was perfectly
ordinary and it remarkably dissipated any awkward mood
that may have remained.

“Great, Amy. I better go check on Jordan. Have a good
night.”

***

At the time I’m writing this, I haven’t seen Amy
again, but only because I haven’t been out. I’m still
don’t like office parties, but I’m glad I went to that
one because I had to come home. The process of hashing
this little adventure out has let me comprehend one
thing, which is that I enjoyed it. No, I fucking dug
it.

Sure, I still feel weird about it, but it’s not like I
don’t have that naughty side. It’s just that I hadn’t
seen it for a while. And I don’t remember it ever
being ‘that’ naughty. Doggy style in my parent’s
bedroom with my boyfriend… a distant memory and an
average one, I think, compared to this.

What I caught Amy did that night, I did to myself a
for few nights afterward. It was a really nice
afterglow. But lusting after some hot piece of
schoolgirl tail, that’s the farthest thing from
something I would ever do.

I have a daughter of my own! I hope the next time Amy
babysits for me, if she ever does, I’ll come home and
we’ll just have a nice little chat about what an
asshole her English teacher is. I guess we’ll see.