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The Nurse and the Nanny

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To the real life Merri: this story is dedicated to you. Your encouragement to write this story down, and your kind words about the rest of what I’ve written mean more to me than you’ll ever understand.

To everyone else: this is a different sort of story for me.

It’s something I’ve been working for a long time, going back several years.

It’s about sexual emotion as much as actual sex, so be patient.

It’s a flashback story, that takes place in 1996. Writing it that way was important to me because there are several elements to this story that are based on actual events in my life.

As with most things that I write this story takes place in a happy alternate reality where people don’t worry about std’s or the need for birth control.


Merri: A twenty-nine year old nurse who hires me as a nanny.

Sabrina: a fictionalized version of myself at age twenty, where I really was an awkward dork who worried about her sexual interests, orientation, and identity.

As always I enjoy your comments and private messages here on Literotica, but my emotions about this relationship are very real, so please be nice if you can.

If you’re reading this in September of 2021 check my profile for a chance to submit kink ideas for a future Emily/Natalie story (part of the Friday Night Delight/Natalie’s House series if you’re interested).




I’m Sabrina. Let me tell you the beginning of a story.

It was the fall of 1996. I had just spent the past two years attending community college after graduating from high school.

I was twenty years old and I still lived at home, with my mother and father. Even though most kids my age loathed living at home, I didn’t mind it for the most part.

My parents never imposed a curfew or asked a lot of questions about what I was doing or who I was with. I’d discovered that as long as I had a job, was working my ass off with a full course load and wasn’t being a selfish slob around the house that they were pretty easy to get along with.

The only area of my life where I yearned for more privacy was my masturbation life.

At that point it wasn’t a sex life. Other than masturbation, I had no sex life. I was socially awkward, and much more into horror movies, science fiction and writing poetry than I was anything else.

As a result, I hadn’t had many dates, and the guys who had asked me out had given me the impression they were much more interested in their own orgasms than mine.

I hadn’t yet discovered that there are plenty of guys and girls who find dorks to be quite attractive, so I was very much a sexually inexperienced and frustrated wallflower.

So my sex life consisted entirely of masturbation. I had my own room of course, and my parents always knocked before entering and very much respected my privacy.

But I had to learn to orgasm quietly, and I really didn’t have a place good enough to hide anything good, like a sex toy.

I’d discovered masturbation when I was eighteen, and by the time I turned nineteen I was an aficionada of self-pleasure.

I used my fingers, the handle of two different hairbrushes, my showerhead, an electric toothbrush when no one was home to hear it, and any other phallic shaped item I could find.

I also spent hours with my legs wrapped around a body pillow, simultaneously humping it, clutching it in ecstasy, and biting it to keep from screaming through orgasm after orgasm.

I even discovered an affinity for some kink, and explored that as frequently and as carefully as I could.

But as I happily fantasized about kinky sex and a variety of partners and experiences, I also struggled with extreme shyness, and extreme shame.

I didn’t have anyone to talk to about that stuff, and I secretly feared that some of the stuff I was interested in was abnormal.

And I even feared that I was abnormally fascinated with the kinky things that would be considered normal by the people I knew.

So I kept my sexual interests to myself, and focused on my classes. And on reading. And on using our primitive dial up internet connection to explore my sexuality in private.

In the fall of 1996 right after my twentieth birthday, one of our old neighbors from down the block came to see me about a babysitting job.

She and her husband had lived next door to us for a few years, but they’d divorced, and she’d sold that house and moved about five miles away into a small split-level house. Her former babysitter had just left for college out of state, and she looked me up.

Her name was Meredith and at twenty-nine she was nine years older than me, but we reconnected quickly and were immediately comfortable with each other. She worked as a nurse in at the local hospital and was gone from late afternoon until after midnight most nights, so she needed someone to make the kids dinner and get them to bed.

I accepted the job and would get to her house a few minutes after the kids got off the school kocaeli escort bayan bus every afternoon.

As soon as they said goodbye to their mom, I’d get dinner started, find something around the house that needed done like laundry, vacuuming, or dusting, and then feed the kids, help them with homework, play games with them, watch tv, and then chase them to bed.

After two weeks Meredith insisted that I begin to call her Merri. She explained that she’d always spelled it that way to be different from all the other ‘Mary’s’ that she knew.

She gave me a key to her house and announced that she was changing my job title from ‘babysitter’ to ‘part-time nanny’ because of my insistence on helping with cleaning and other household stuff.

Since she worked until well after midnight, I would often sleep for a few hours on her sofa, and then she’d wake me up when she got home so I could drive back to my parents’ house and my own bed.

On one particularly rainy night she woke me up and gave me an extra blanket, insisting that I just stay on the sofa until morning. After that staying the night on the sofa and then heading home early in the morning became the norm for a few weeks.

And then one Monday when I got there, she told me that she’d moved her bedroom downstairs to what had been a game room off the family room. The previous owners had put some money into it, putting in a full bathroom and hot tub down there.

So she christened that the new ‘master’ bedroom, and splurged on herself and purchased a new waterbed and all new bedroom furniture.

She offered me her old bedroom upstairs as a place I could stay whenever I wanted an uninterrupted night of sleep, or the weather wasn’t cooperative.

She let me keep a change of clothes in the closet, and since her old bedroom was the old master bedroom, it had its own bathroom I could use if I needed to shower while I was there.

We fell into a very comfortable routine. Having my own space upstairs made it easier to fall asleep after the kids were in bed, and I got in the habit of staying over a few nights a week.

The worse the weather, the more likely I was to just plan on staying the night, and with the ability to bring a change of clothes and shower there in the morning, I could leave for classes right from there.

My parents didn’t mind this arrangement at all, if I let them know in advance when I would be staying over so they didn’t worry.

Merri seemed like a complete grownup to me, and I often had to remind myself that she was closer to my age than to my mom’s age.

As time went on, I got more and more comfortable with her, and came to regard her more as an almost older sister than anything else. She would ask me about the social aspects of college, and about my dating life (which was nearly non-existent), and she gave me pointers on makeup and clothes.

If I didn’t have class the next day, or if she had the next day off, I’d sometimes be awake when she got home, and we’d sit up and talk for an hour or more.

Occasionally if she’d worked overtime, she’d get home on Friday evening just after nine p.m. and those nights were often like a slumber party, with the two of us sitting in her dark living room and talking and giggling until almost dawn.

I found I could use her as a sounding board, asking questions about dating and boys.

“You know you can ask me anything.” She’d said one night, as we sat on opposite ends of her couch sipping hot tea in the light of a flickering candle.

“I guess so.” I’d replied.

“I mean it.” She said. “When I was your age, I had no one to talk to about dating, or guys, or sex or orgasms or kissing or anything like that. So, if you ever have something you want to talk about, or ask about, no matter what it is, just let me know.”

That exchange stuck with me for weeks, largely because I was so worried about my sexual interests.

While the internet in those days wasn’t what it would soon become, I used it to read all about the things I was interested in.

I read all about oral sex, both giving and receiving. I spent hours touching my swollen clit and wondering what a tongue would feel like flicking over it.

I licked my fingers after touching myself and wondered what it would be like to taste my own arousal on a hard cock after it had been inside me. I wondered if another woman’s aroused clit would taste different than my own did on my fingers.

I read all about giving blow jobs. I wondered endlessly what a male’s cum would taste like, and what it would feel like to have a hard penis ejaculate in my mouth.

I wondered if another woman would really be able to lick my cunt better than a man could.

I would masturbate with the handle one hairbrush in my cunt and the other in my mouth, pretending two different cocks were feeling pleasure from my body at once.

I learned that I wasn’t alone in my sexual interests. But I worried about the intensity of my masturbation sessions.

I sometimes would izmit escort bayan make myself orgasm two different times in one night, and I’d do so while using a variety of fantasies and imagined scenarios involving both real people and made-up strangers.

And those fantasies also included an entire menu of kinky sex acts that I was sure most people my age had never even considered or heard of.

I worried that I was masturbating too much.

I worried that I was putting too much imagination into it, and that somehow, I should be putting that energy into real sex, and if I couldn’t find real sex I should wait in frustration until I could.

I would sometimes hike into the woods by myself in the summer so I could be undressed and masturbate in the warm summer sun, choosing my locations carefully so I wouldn’t be caught.

In those moments of pure lust I would pretend that I was masturbating in front of a partner.

Or a stranger.

Or a crowd.

I worried that I was somehow sexually broken because I not only enjoyed those things but needed to do them. And I worried about the fact that every time I swore that I would quit I’d end up right back in the middle of my fantasies, sweaty in my bed grunting and grinding my way towards ‘just one more’ orgasm.

Other girls my age were giggling about sex with their boyfriends, or about how to end a blowjob before getting cum in their mouth, and about how much of a mess an aborted blowjob or a handjob could cause.

I listened and laughed along, but desired more than quick sex just to make a guy happy. I wanted to feel a guy cum inside me.

Hell, some nights I felt like I needed to feel a guy cum inside me.

I didn’t want to give a handjob in a dark car. I wanted to do it somewhere that would let me watch every throb and spurt.

I desperately fantasized about male cum. I wanted it in me. I wanted it on me. I wanted to taste it, to smell it, to feel the texture of it on my fingers and skin.

I tried not to dwell on thoughts about females, but my subconscious knew what my body wanted, and at night I would often have feverish dreams about female orgasms.

As much as I struggled to admit it to myself, I craved an opportunity to lick a stiff clitoris, or to kiss and suck on a pair of female breasts and nipples.

I didn’t want a partner to merely touch my breasts. I wanted someone to suck and bite my nipples while I orgasmed. And even though I often started my fantasies with male sexual partners, at the moment of my masturbatory orgasms it was just as likely to be the image of a women using her mouth on me as a man.

I worried that I was desiring things that made me some sort of a pervert or sexual lunatic. I had so many questions that I asked myself repeatedly.

Did girls really want these things?

And if they did, were they things they thought about as frequently as I did?

Did they fantasize about them as vividly as I did?

Did they orgasm while imagining them?

So when Merri offered to answer any questions I might have, I began to wonder how exactly I could bring some of these things up. I didn’t want her to think that I was weird. But I couldn’t go on like I’d been, and I somehow trusted that her responses might be both honest and helpful.

If only I could summon the courage to talk about my thoughts.

In the weeks to come we continued our late-night conversations, sometimes veering towards the subject of dating, but I could never find the right way to move the conversation towards my desired topics.

One night she came in just after midnight and I was still up reading a book about stress management for a paper I was writing. We started talking about the various tensions in each of our lives, and what sort of things we did to manage those feelings.

Eventually she asked me how I coped with the stress in my life.

“Oh the usual ways I guess.” I told her.

“Like what specifically?” she asked.

We were talking quietly, sitting in the downstairs family room.

“Well I try to take a walk in the woods a few times a week when the weather cooperates.” I told her. “And I read a lot.”

“I need to exercise more.” She said. “Maybe sometime that you’re headed out into the woods I could join you.”

“That would be fun.” I said.

“So what else do you do?” she asked. “You don’t really seem to have any hobbies that I’ve noticed. Except for the pile of books you’ve always got with you.”

“I guess reading is my biggest hobby.” I admitted. “And the only other thing in my life that I have that relieves stress is taking a long hot shower.”

“Oh yeah?” she said with a grin. “Just to get clean, or do you have a detachable showerhead?”

“I, uh, well, I, uh…….” I stammered, feeling my face flush with embarrassment.

I groped for an answer, not wanting to admit that I often orgasmed with my showerhead pulsing against my clit, but somehow sensing that an immediate and total denial would be seen gebze escort as an admission of my dirty habit.

Everyone knew about showerheads being used for personal sexual pleasure, right? Feigning total ignorance would really be suspicious.

And as these thoughts were racing through my head I made eye contact with her and knew that my hesitation had already answered her question.

My face got even hotter and I felt totally speechless. I blinked rapidly several times, afraid that I might even start crying I felt so ashamed.

“Hey, hey, hey,” she said, “it’s alright Sabrina.”

She reached out and took my hand, squeezing it tight.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed.” She continued. “Just about everyone masturbates once in a while.”

“Everyone?” I whispered, my heart pounding.

“Oh hell yes.” She said. “Everyone.”

She squeezed my hand until I looked up and made eye contact.

“Including me.” She whispered.

“You do?” I asked.

Merri was a full-fledged adult in my eyes, and the fact that she would need to relieve lust in that way hadn’t occurred to me. I’d just assumed that most people eventually got a grip on those desires and once they’d had ‘real’ sex they wouldn’t go back to masturbation, even when they weren’t having regular sex.

“Of course.” She said. “Probably more often than you ever do.”

“Really?” I asked, dumbfounded and doubtful.

I wanted to press her for details, to see if maybe she was even a little like me, but I had no idea how to steer the conversation that way.

“Oh yes.” She assured me. “All the time.”

“How……like when…..how much?” I whispered, moving my eyes down to stare at the coffee table.

“Sabrina there’s no limit on how much is normal if that’s what you’re worried about.” She said, squeezing my hand again. “I don’t do it every night, but I do it most nights. Sometimes more than once. It’s been an important part of my life for years.”

I looked up and we made eye contact again.

“It’s something I really enjoy.” She said. “And it’s about the best stress relief there is.”

I couldn’t help but grin, relief mixing in with my embarrassment as I came to terms with this new information. Maybe I wasn’t as weird as I thought I might be.

“Me too.” I confessed. “It’s just about the most relaxing thing I’ve ever done.”

“It’s one of the things that has gotten me through the last two years.” She giggled. “Without being able to make myself cum I’d have gone out of my mind.”

“I didn’t……I guess I never thought that…….” I stammered, still trying to process this information.

“I guess most women try it at some point.” She said. “But college is probably where most of us really discover the difference between quick orgasms and the ones with a long, slow build up that really count.”

“That’s how it’s worked for me.” I said.

“Can I ask you a really personal question Sabrina?” she asked.

“Sure.” I said, wondering why I suddenly felt an erotic flush spread through me.

“Is it just a shower thing for you?” she asked. “Or have you discovered some of the even better ways?”

“I’ve done a lot of different ways.” I said. “I first tried the showerhead because I was curious, and then just did that once in a while for a couple months. And then….well something happened that helped.”

“What was it?” she asked softly.

“I found a paperback book. In a pile of donated books in the college library.” I told her. “It was a novel, but it was all about sex. I was reading it in bed, and it was really pretty graphic. Suddenly I realized that I was responding to it.”

“I get that.” She said. “I love to read erotica. The right story can make me so deliciously horny.”

I giggled to hear her use the word ‘horny’.

“That’s what happened to me.” I said. “I tried to keep reading and just ignore it, but I figured out that knowing I was turned on made the story even better, and the story made me even more turned on.”

“I may want to borrow that book.” She teased.

“I got embarrassed after what happened and I threw it away.” I told her.

“After what happened?” she asked. “What happened to embarrass you?”

“While I was reading I put a pillow between my legs to sort of….just to kind of…..” I wasn’t even sure how to explain it.

Fortunately she understood.

“Because when you’re getting turned on it feels good to have something to push against Sabrina.” She whispered. “That’s natural.”

“Well I just kept reading and the pillow was there, and the more I read the more intense everything felt.” I told her. “I turned off the lights and was reading with a flashlight, and suddenly I just lost control, and it was like the showerhead only a thousand times better.”

“And that embarrassed you?” she asked me.

“I thought I was a pervert.” I told her. “So I got rid of the book and vowed to never do it again.”

“How long did you wait?” she asked. “Before you tried it again?”

“About four days.” I said softly.

“That sounds so much like my story.” She said with a smile. “I watched a video in my dorm room that turned me on, and I realized that the showerhead was nothing. Afterwards I was really embarrassed, but before long I was doing it every chance I got.”

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