Our Game
Babysitter Edition
Sandra and I met our freshman year in college. We were both collegiate athletes — track and field — so we were always circling the same spaces, the same early mornings, the same sore muscles and recovery meals. She was 5′10″, all lean lines and long dark hair, the kind of body that gets earned rather than given. A 34B bust, a tight, sculpted ass, and abs you could see when she stretched after a workout. I’m 6′1″, a pole vaulter — solid through the shoulders and chest, legs built for explosive speed. We noticed each other from the start. We just didn’t do anything about it until senior year.
By then, we’d both quietly accepted that track wasn’t going to pay the bills. We were focused on our degrees, on what came next, and somehow in that shared pragmatism we found each other. It was a good year. We kept things easy on purpose, assuming we’d scatter to different cities after graduation and that would be that.
And then, of course, we ended up at competing firms in the same city.
She went into technology consulting. I went into ing. Our social circles kept colliding and we kept finding each other at the same parties, the same bars, the same mutual friends’ dinner tables. We fell back into something off-and-on for another year, both of us traveling constantly, neither of us putting a name to it.
The thing that finally settled us was geography. We both landed long-term projects in the same city at the same time. Six months in, we stopped pretending it was temporary. Eighteen months after that, we were married.
By then we were established enough that the travel had slowed, and we started thinking about a family. That’s when things got hard.
The first pregnancy we announced early. We were so happy we couldn’t contain it, and we broke the cardinal rule — told everyone before the twelve-week mark. Almost twenty percent of pregnancies end in miscarriage. We didn’t know that until we were part of the statistic. We were more careful the second time. It didn’t matter.
The third time worked. Amy arrived, and she was everything: healthy, funny, a good sleeper, endlessly curious. We felt like we’d been handed something we didn’t deserve after what we’d been through.
We tried three more times after Amy. We couldn’t get there. Eventually I got a vasectomy and we made peace with it — or tried to. Amy would be our one, and she was more than enough.
Sandra’s way through the grief was hypnosis. She’d started with self-hypnosis as a coping tool and went deep into it — reading, practicing, and connecting with researchers and practitioners in the field. She got genuinely skilled. Along the way she picked up the party-trick side of it too: the kind of thing that makes people go quiet at dinner parties when they realize she’s not faking.
Amy is ten now, and every summer she disappears to Florida for a few weeks to be thoroughly spoiled by her grandparents. Sandra and I have learned to make the most of those weeks.
Our sex life has always been good, but with the house to ourselves it gets a little more creative. One thing Sandra had always been gifted at — even before the hypnosis work — was mimicry. Accents, cadence, vocal : she could slide into almost any voice with uncanny precision. Early on she’d sometimes speak to me in a different voice while we were in bed together, just for fun, just to see the effect it had. It always had an effect.
On a whim, sometime during this period, I agreed to let her hypnotize me.
Turns out I was a natural subject. I already trusted her completely, and I had no particular anxiety about losing control — at least, not in her hands. She told me afterward that she’d left a few trigger phrases in place. I didn’t think much of it.
Here’s how it works. She’ll say, “Time for an audit” and I go blank for a few seconds. When I come back, I’m in our bedroom, stripped down, blindfold on, lying on top of the covers. My arms feel pinned to the mattress — not by anything physical, I know that, but knowing it doesn’t change anything. I cannot move them. And on top of that, any question that was asked, I had to answer honestly. I think she added that last bit to be able to check up on me, but I was always honest with her, anyway.
The second trigger phrase, “Funds are released” lets my hands free while keeping me in place. “The books are balanced” brings me all the way back, fully present and functional. She’s an ant’s wife — she thought the trigger phrases were funny. I’ve never argued.
The game itself evolved a little after that, and I’m honestly not sure whether I agreed to the next part or whether she just put me under and told me I had. I can’t prove either way. What I can describe is the effect.
When I first come out my glaze, whatever voice I hear first, I believe. Deep down, I know it’s Sandra. It was important to both of us that I know I’m not cheating. But consciously — I mean I believe it the way you believe the ground beneath your feet. Completely and without question. Sandra figured out how to do that, and she started doing it.
The game goes like this: she’ll trigger me during an ordinary afternoon, and I’ll move to the bedroom, undress, put on the blindfold, and lie back. For the purposes of the game, she leaves the house. She told me she usually uses the time to run to the grocery store, but, whatever. Fifteen, twenty minutes later, she returns — but she speaks her first words as someone else entirely.
One of her best was our housecleaner, Gabriella. Thirty years old, petite, dark hair in a practical bun, a quick oval face and a trim body kept fit by a six-day workweek of physical labor. Sandra would come home, run the vacuum cleaner downstairs just long enough to be convincing, then come up to “collect the towels.”
The moment she’d gasp in the doorway — that sharp, startled intake of breath, followed by “Oh, Senor” — the whole scene would click into place for me. I’d hear it and know, with absolute certainty, that it was Gabriella standing there. Not Sandra. Gabriella. And the conversation that followed would feel genuinely, stomach-droppingly real.
I’d try to talk her out of the room, mortified, my voice low and urgent. She’d answer in Gabriella’s accent — unhurried, a little amused. And eventually whatever Sandra had built into the scenario would unfold, and it would be extraordinary.
It would always start with me doing one of my favorite things: eating her pussy. Usually it would end with me buried deep in her—I never knew where it would go, though.
Over the years she’s done the Karen-ish neighbor from two doors down who “noticed the front door open.” She was a realtor we both knew who was supposedly there to prep for a showing. She has a gift for picking the scenario that will unsettle me in exactly the right way.
I never know what’s coming. That’s half the point.
This particular Thursday was unremarkable until it wasn’t. Mid-afternoon, slow, both of us working from home. The kind of day where time softens a little. Amy was in Florida with my parents for annual trip; the house had that different quality it gets when it’s just us.
Sandra appeared in my office doorway. Tennis dress, sneakers, dark hair pulled back, a smile that I recognized immediately as trouble.
“Hey, babe. Since Amy’s in Florida with your folks, I think it might be...” She paused just long enough for effect. “Time for an audit.”
I had a few seconds — enough to take her in, the way she was leaning against the doorframe, the warmth in her eyes — and then the phrase landed and I went somewhere else for a while.
When the world comes back after a trigger, it comes back slowly. Sound first, then awareness of the body. I was on top of the covers, blindfold in place, arms flat and immovable at my sides. The house had that specific afternoon quiet. I waited.
The front door opened and closed. Footsteps downstairs — purposeful, unhurried, moving room to room. Someone checking whether anyone was home. My chest did something complicated.
I ran through Sandra’s cata my head. Gabriella was at her sister’s this week, I was fairly sure. The realtor scenario she’d done recently. The neighbor —
And then I heard the voice.
It came from the bottom of the stairs.
“Hello? Anyone home? It’s Belle. I’m here to pick up Amy.”
The bottom dropped out of my stomach.
Belle. Annabelle. Our babysitter. Twenty years old, studying at the community college, the kind of dependable, good-natured young woman who actually shows up on time and engages with Amy rather than just watching her phone. She’s 5′6″, curvy, unpretentious, with a wide smile and a laugh that fills a room. In the last few years, the boys had definitely noticed her. Frankly, I’d noticed her, too.
I knew — the way I always know, somewhere underneath — that this had to be Sandra. I knew it. And it did not matter at all. The voice had already done its work. The certainty had already taken hold, warm and absolute and completely irrational.
Belle was in my house. And I was naked and pinned to the bed.
“Um. Belle, don’t come upstairs. Amy’s away right now, and Sandra’s out.”
Footsteps on the stairs.
“Oh really? I’d forgotten. When will she be back, again?”
The footsteps continued up.
“Seriously, Belle, there’s no reason to — ”
She appeared in the doorway.
I couldn’t see her. I knew she was there because the quality of the air in the room changed, that subtle shift when another person enters a space. The silence changed too, took on a different texture.
“Oh. Wow. Mr. Hansen.”
Her voice. Belle’s voice. The warm, slightly amused quality of it, the way her inflection rose just slightly at the end. My heart was hammering.
“Belle, it’s not what you think. Sandra and I have a — it’s a game, it’s something we do together. If you can just go back downstairs, I promise I’ll explain — ”
“Yeah.” A short, thoughtful pause. “Explain. Sure.”
I heard her take a few slow steps into the room. Her feet on the floor. She was moving closer.
“Not gonna lie, Mr. H. You look really good. Like — I don’t mean to be weird, but the boys at school don’t look like you.”
God help me.
“Belle. Sweetheart. Please.”
Another step. She’d reached the side of the bed. I could feel her presence at the edge of it, that specific warmth of someone standing very close. I tried to move my arms and got nothing. She could see me trying.
“You’re stuck.” Not really a question. “I’d heard Mrs. H could do that to people.”
Her voice had gone quieter, more focused.
“I know I should probably go back downstairs.” A beat. “I’m not going to, though.”
And then — she didn’t say anything for what felt like a long time. Just looked. I was acutely aware of myself: the blindfold, the stillness of my arms, the fact that I was fully exposed and completely unable to do anything about any of it. And equally aware that some part of me didn’t want to.
“A few weeks ago, I was picking Amy up and I overheard Mrs. H on the phone,” Belle said. Her voice had found a new — unhurried, deliberate. “She was talking about you. She said you have a very...talented tongue.”
My whole body responded to that.
“I’ve been thinking about it since.”
“Mr H. Would you like to use that talented tongue on me?”
Oh god. She’s asked a question…and I have to answer honestly.
“Belle, I love eating pussy.”
“Oh Mr H., I have a pussy and it needs to be eaten.”
I heard the soft sound of fabric. A zipper, maybe. Then something lighter — cotton, landing on the floor.
“I know you can’t see,” she said, and there was a smile in it now. “But trust me. I think you’ll like what you find. It’s not shaved, but it is trimmed.”
The bed shifted as she climbed on. The specific give of the mattress as her weight settled, the warmth of her moving up toward me, the scent of her — something light and clean with an undertone of something warmer underneath. I turned my face toward her without thinking, the way a plant turns toward light.
And then there was nothing in the world but her, and the blindfold, and my own pulse.
She was generous. That was the word that kept arriving — generous — the way she gave herself to it, the sounds she made, unguarded and genuine, the way her thighs trembled slightly against me as she got closer and pressed herself to me.
I worked with everything I had. This is something I’ve always loved, the intimacy of it, the way you can learn a person in this particular way, how responsive they are, what makes them catch their breath.
Every time she said “Mr. H” — that specific, slightly scandalized whisper of it — I felt it like a physical thing.
She came hard. I felt it before I heard it, the sudden tension through her whole body, the way she pressed down and went still for a moment before the sound broke out of her. Her pussy flooded my mouth. She shook for a long time afterward, longer than I expected, and I stayed with her through all of it.
When she finally came back, she slid down my body. She reached behind and found my cock. She inched back and slowly lowered herself on to it. I was way too turned on to last long. She pumped slowly, then faster, and then I was exploding into her warm, tight pussy. After a few more pumps, she stopped and lay on my chest.
When she finally climbed off, we were both still breathing like we’d run a race. It was one of the best scenarios that Sandra had ever given us.
She was quiet for a moment. Then I heard her retrieve something from the floor and felt the soft drag of fabric against my skin — she was cleaning us both up, her movements unhurried and oddly tender. She leaned over me and I felt her hair fall forward and touch my face and neck, that small intimacy. Then she kissed me.
“I wish I could come back another time,” she said, almost to herself.
One final kiss. Then she straightened, and I heard her footsteps cross the room, and the door, and then the stairs, and then the front door closing behind her.
I lay there in the silence of the house and tried to how to breathe normally.
Longer than usual ed.
I’d started to wonder if something was wrong — if the game had shifted in some way I hadn’t ed for. Why hadn’t Sandra used the second or third phrase? I was still pinned to the bed. I finally heard the front door again. Sandra came up the stairs quickly, slightly breathless, and came straight into the bedroom.
“The books are balanced.”
The world snapped back into clarity. I pulled off the mask.
She looked — not quite right. Something was off in her expression. Flustered, yes, but underneath that, something more careful.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, words coming fast. “I got a flat, I couldn’t believe it, I was about to call a tow truck and Tom Wilson drove by — you know Tom, from down the street — and he had one of those inflate-a-tire kits in his trunk, so he got me going and I came straight home. I saw Belle pulling out when I turned onto the block and I panicked, but she rolled down her window and said you’d told her Amy was gone, so — " She paused to breathe. “We’ll have to finish this up later.”
She leaned down and kissed me. Then stopped. Looked at me for a moment with an expression I couldn’t quite decode.
Kissed me again. Slower this time.
“I think we need to wash the mask or get some new ones.”
Then she straightened, turned, and walked back downstairs without another word.
I got dressed slowly. Drank a glass of water. Stood in the bathroom looking at myself in the mirror for longer than made sense.
Sandra had been stuck on the side of the road. She’d said so. Tom Wilson, the inflate-a-tire kit, the whole story.
But, “Belle” had been here. The voice had been perfect. It had been exactly Belle’s voice, down to the particular warmth of it, the way she said “Mr. H.” Sandra was extraordinary at this — I knew that, had always known it. She could do anyone.
In my mind, I’m thinking, “Sandra really went all in on this one. She’d shaved everything but a landing strip. And something a little different about the taste and the smell. Maybe a lotion or something… Right? She had done that.”
I went downstairs. Sandra was in the kitchen, her back to me, making coffee, very focused on the task.
Is it possible she’s just really playing this game? Damn she’s committed.
I turned the question over. Sandra stuck on the road. Belle pulling away. That second kiss, and what was in it.
The thing about the game is: I’m not supposed to know unless she lets me. That’s the whole point. The blindfold, the trigger, the absolute conviction that arrives with the voice — it only works because I can’t anything on my own. And I’ve always loved that about it. The not-knowing is part of the game.
But this was different. This was the not-knowing pressed up against something real.
Sandra poured two cups of coffee and turned around. She held one out to me with a perfectly neutral expression.
I took it.
Neither of us said anything for a moment.
“How was your afternoon? Mine was kind of a mess.” she said with a goofy smile.
I looked at her. My wife. Twelve years of marriage, multiple miscarriages survived, one beautiful daughter, a blindfold and a set of trigger phrases built entirely on trust.
“Mine was a mixed bag, too” I said.
She smiled. Sipped her coffee. Looked out the window.
I was going to have to figure out whether I actually wanted to know the answer. And whether, if I asked, she would tell me the truth. And whether the truth — in either direction — would change anything at all.
I was pretty sure it wouldn’t.
Which might be the strangest part of the whole afternoon.