I have always hated hiring help for the house.  Were it not for
the grace of God and a lot of luck, I know that I'd be the one
applying for the position of the housekeeper or the gardener
instead of doing the hiring. I could just as easily be a maid as
a "made woman" and I never wanted to forget that.  The idea that
I'd hire a nanny to take care of my own kids while I am away
pursuing a profession furthered my humbleness.

Because of this, I always try to treat applicants with respect
and compassion even on those occasions when the person sitting
across from me is obviously not ideal for the position I have
available. I try to take my role seriously though - and try for
both our comfort to formalize the proceedings by at least acting
and looking like a professional while working also to be
friendly.   It's what I'd want from a prospective employer and
I'd feel better about it regardless of whether I got the job or
not. It would mean a lot if I knew the person I'd met with saw
this as a professional relationship and treated me with respect.

I usually don't wear formal attire at home - frankly I usually
don't wear much at all unless it's cold - but this day I chose a
sensible white silk blouse, simple skirt and heels with my
favorite pearl necklace I got years ago on my first trip to Hong
Kong.

Each interview started with a brief overview of my own goals - I
was looking for a person who would fit in comfortably, treat my
kids well, and understand that my husband and I have demanding
jobs but still work hard to be good parents.  The person that I
was to hire would not be replacing me as a mother, but I was
looking for someone that could treat my family as their own.  A
delicate balancing act to be sure - requiring a person which
strong personal warmth and also an understanding of her position.

Throughout the morning, I hosted a parade of either young
airheaded young college coeds or elder prudish disciplinarians. 
It was both sobering and frustrating - frankly I wouldn't let
most take care of my daughter's pet turtles.  But I did my best
to be enthusiastic and give people the opportunity to convince me
that they were right for the job.  I asked questions on a variety
of topics and found myself frustrated that most answers were
pre-thought out evasions of my questions.  No one was "real" or
worth risking my family's happiness on.

I was most way through the day when the girl my daughters came to
know as "Ms. Shelly" took a seat across from me. From the moment
our eyes met, I knew there was more to her than I would be able
to put my fingers on immediately. It was like we had met before
in a prior part of my life of which the less that is said the
better.

She was perhaps as much as a decade younger than me, and though
conservatively dressed, I sensed that she had a devil in her that
I found both alarming and attractive.  I found her answers to my
questions both honest and disarming.  I liked that she admitted
her past indiscretions so honestly even when they might normally
have raised red flags.

Physically, she was smaller than me - with a figure that was not
boyish, but less curvy than my own. She had the manners and
speech of someone who had travelled and a good upbringing - which
made me that much more intrigued.

She wore a very conservative ensemble and white hosiery which are
hardly the style here in the Northwest.  As she fiddled and
fidgeted under my barrage of questions, I realized that her skirt
was slowly inching up to reveal that she was wearing garters not
pantyhose - and this ignited in me a different kind of interest
entirely.

The revelation of her unique undergarments also brought
realization that she was wearing a push-up bra beneath her thin
blouse -and its lack of padding revealed that her nipples were
pronounced and looked sharp enough to cut diamonds with.  I found
myself a bit flustered by this realization and put off of my role
of being the stern employer. (I was also shocked by the sudden
realization that my own breasts were feeling rather full - though
I dismissed this as some late milk from my past pregnancy.)

Despite knowing better, I quickly changed my demeanor form
inquisitive potential employer to one of gentle discussion as if
with an old friend - even if the discussion included tasks that
were more about housework and chores than about culture and
happier things. I was surprised at the end of our time together
to hear myself reward her with the position.  It was not
something I had thought about - it was just what I did.


From the start, she worked beyond the call of duty and with a
kind of enthusiasm that bordered on obsession.  It started with
little things.  Lemon slices in my water glass, the care of which
she cleaned my grooming area in our bathroom - even the first
time she took my hand and did my nails as I was speaking to my
husband on the phone.

Before I knew it, she was helping me change from my work attire
to my evening lounge wear and even drawing me a bath at the end
of the days when traffic and office politics had me on edge.  She
was a delight to have around - so attentive - but at the same
time also so caring of the children.

We gave her some time off when it was time for our annual
pilgrimage to Cabo San Lucas to visit the sun that had failed to
show up in Seattle for months.  We actually debated bringing her
with us, but decided she might value the time off, so we left
giving her paid leave. I found myself thinking about her
attentions when I lay by the pool and more than once imagined her
face amongst the bikini clad young women I watched frolicking in
the surf.

On return to Seattle I was stressed about my return to the office
- the staff always reacts to my long times away with a kind of
jealousy. I do get away with SO much and they know it.   (I have
the boss and my clients wrapped around my finger.)

To relieve some stress of the day I had done something I often do
as a game - under my long tight pencil skirt I had worn exactly
nothing that day to the office.  My legs were very tan so no hose
were required and my silhouette in he skirt looked better without
panty lines. It did wonders for my attitude and confidence to
know that every man in the place would have loved to get a
glimpse under that skirt.

On the way up the driveway, I was so ready to be free of my
office attire that I had taken down the zipper on the side of my
skirt and also unbuttoned my blouse completely.  We live without
neighbors - and my kids have grown used to loose attire long ago-
so I didn't think twice when I entered our home from the garage.
I hadn't seen our dear nanny for days except for the briefest
moments when she arrived as I was leaving for work, and I was
actually taken by surprise when I saw her.

It was at this moment that I realized the small infatuation that
I had for this pretty young girl might be mutual.  Her eyes were
drawn to my bare hip and the tan line that had been formed by my
bikini bottom.  I found myself gently aroused by this.

She was in no hurry to leave for home, and sensing my
frustrations with the day she immediately rushed off to fill the
bath.  I undressed in front of her as I always had since our
ritual began - realizing that I might not be the only one
admiring the deep tan lines I was admiring on myself in the
mirror.  (I have heard it said that tan lines are the most
exciting thing a girl can wear - and after 10 days of careful
tanning, mine were simply stunning.)

Shortly after I entered the bath, Nanny excused herself
retreating to a bathroom where she spent an unusually long amount
of time, arriving back looking flustered and red faced. I
detected a hint of sex about her - making me wonder briefly if
she had been pleasuring herself in the confines of the bathroom.
I brushed this from my mind as a silly little fantasy and sat
down on the small leather stool that divides our grooming area
and walk in closets.

I was nearly naked as always when I finish my bath, my robe loose
as I prefer to air dry when I can to promote healthy skin. Nanny
began brushing my hair as she often does.

(I have this thing about the hair brushing. It secretly drives me
very crazy. My husband learned long ago that having me kneel in
front of him so that he can brush my hair is a sure ticket to a
really great night in bed.)

I was admiring myself in the mirror - yes I am that conceited as
I work hard to keep my figure after two children - and noticed
that in the weeks since my preparation for bikini season my
bikini line had gone a bit out of control.

Nanny noticed it too - and immediately offered to help me - which
I found simultaneously both embarrassing and arousing. She
quickly ran for the small clippers and a comb before I could
object, and I fast found her kneeling between my legs, her
beautiful sparkling eyes looking first up at me, then to the V
below my waist, and then back again.

Without a word, she began to service my most intimate of areas,
combing the small locks with the comb and also her fingers, a
gentle trim here and then there.  I find myself moving with her
touch and once even reached to move her head towards my sex
before quickly coming to my senses.  I moved my hand away with an
embarrassment I hope she will id notice.  Instead, I broke the
tension with a small intimate question to show kinship with her -
Does she think I still have it down there? Even after two kids?

She giggled or gasped in reply, I could not tell which, and then
found her breath long enough to tell me I am beautiful.

Soon enough, she is breaking out the hot wax and small strips of
cloth that usually make me want to scream, but unlike the
torturous young bitch who performs this service for me at the
overpriced salon, I find myself actually shivering in
anticipation of the next application of the wax, and the next
sharp tug that provides a moment of added sensitivity to this
most sensitive of areas.

Slowly she works - moving my body around to make her task easier
and gaining access to my private areas.  At times her touch is so
gentle that I look to see that it is in fact her hand doing it
all, and not sometimes also her tongue, or her nose.  The air
slowly fills with that unmistakable aroma of sex, and I take a
moment to wonder if the smell is coming from between her legs as
well as my own.

As an encore to this delicious pampering, when the waxing is done
she begins to apply the soft lotion that cools the sting from my
skin.  She is not bashful in her application - moving her fingers
aggressively to rub the soothing oil into my skin. Again I catch
myself reaching for her hand to move it to the places where I
want her to touch me, and again I pray that she has not seen my
weakness.

When the deed it done, I make my excuses and move away from her
to my dressing area. I am grateful that she does not follow for I
need to catch my breath and gain my sanity - though she still
sits there below that small sofa on her knees as if in a daze.  
I slide on a pair of soft satin panties and a silk nightgown. 
The touch of the soft panel of the panty is electric on my skin
as it goes into place between my legs  - which I can make excuses
for as the waxing has made me quite sensitive.  The sensitivity
of my nipples under the thin gown is another matter entirely, and
I have to admit to myself this has more to do with the company
than with the cold.

Nanny stays on for the rest of the evening, helping with dinner
and dishes and tucking the kids away for their evenings slumbers.
 My husband away, I find myself suddenly lonely and offer her a
glass of wine as an enticement to keep me company.  We chat about
everything and nothing, and at some point I touch you hands while
making some point.  I look up and see what appear to be tears in
her eyes.  In closeness and in comfort, I reach to cup this
lovely face with my hands and gently kiss her on the lips.

What I intend as a small comfort becomes something else entirely,
lips become tongues and the hand on her face is quickly joined by
one on her small firm breast.  We move closer - embracing - hands
slide to the gentle slopes of our hips at first innocently, and
soon hungrily I find my own hands on her hot little ass, cupping
it and squeezing it.

At some point, I come to my senses - realizing we are in the
living room of my home and that my children often make midnight
runs to the bathroom or to the kitchen for a water glass. I open
my mouth intending to express my embarrassment and apologies, but
instead find my mouth asking her to join me in my bedroom. As we
dash for the door, the clothes are flying off her body and I
remember not whether is was me or she that was removing them. I
do remember that first pull of her nipple between my thumb and
finger - that first lick of her pert young nipple. And then I
remember her mouth moving down my body.
Again for the second time this evening, I see her sweet young
face between my legs and this time the wetness comes not from
applied wax, but from within me. Over and over again she deeply
kisses me there with her tongue - licking and probing with a
luscious abandon. It is at times soft and others as if she is
devouring me.

After a quite and shocked orgasm or maybe a few, I finally pull
her back to me and taste myself on her lips.  I push her onto her
back and move above her, my breasts swinging freely over her
mouth.  I let her suckle me and we kiss more, cuddling and
caressing as we grind into each other.  Finally I gather my nerve
and move myself down to her waist and below, and for much of the
rest of the night I worship her with my mouth.

The morning brings another chapter to our lives together that
brings us closer, but that is a tale for another time.