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.