The Babysitter And The Beast (Shapeshifter Werewolf Breeding And BDSM Erotica)

The Babysitter And The Beast

Ana Meadows

Copyright 2013 by Ana Meadows

Forbidden Fruit Press

(All characters depicted in this story are consenting adults)

***

A taste of things to come:

“Yes,” was all she could breath to him. Now he was gripping her breasts by the sides with his claws, clasping them and digging just enough to arouse a bit of stinging, but nothing unpleasant. He flicked his tongue on her nipples and between her breasts, all the while his cock lay on her clit and rubbed it in little circles in time with his gyrations. “Yes!” she cried. Monica was ready.

Gaelin moved away from her just for a second. Her pussy was starting to throb and she needed him soon or she might explode. He hooked an arm around her knees and lifted them, folding them so that her knees would touch her chest if he pushed any farther. Lifting her ankles to his shoulders, he exposed her drenched hole and rubbed the outside of it so that it dripped. Pushing her legs towards her body, he pushed only the end of his pulsing cock into her and waited for her.

***

Monica dumped the five gallon jug full of change onto the rug in front of her couch and grabbed her last few coin rollers. Sitting cross legged next to the pile she began to sort coins into piles, thinking about where she had gone wrong. At 23, she should have been graduating with her accounting degree at the top of her class, but instead she had dropped out in favor of a career in art and literature. Math was great and Monica was good at it, but she wanted to paint for the rest of her lif
e, not spend it 'getting ahead.' It wasn’t working, because Monica was sitting on her floor counting change when she could easily be crunching numbers or working the mail room as an intern at some accounting firm.

Sighing, she pushed the sorted piles of coins away from her and stood up, pacing the room. She knew there was a better way to make money than to count it out of her art supply fund. Not that it was lasting; this wasn’t the first time she had dipped into the jug, and that money was dwindling as well. Monica knew she needed a second job.

She padded over the coffee table where she had dropped her gym bag when she came home. Monica took pride in the way she looked and worked out twice a week, if she had time between hours at the bookstore she labored and trying to hock her paintings at local galleries. She was diminutive but curvy; her legs were short and her torso was a bit long, with high, firm breasts. Creamy white skin that burned easily matched nicely with her dark hair, and the picture was completed with clear blue eyes framed by long incredible lashes. Digging around her sweaty clothes and running shoes, she reached in her bag and gripped the newspaper that she had brought home earlier that afternoon.

Monica shook the paper out, abandoning the front page scandals for the classifieds. She sighed, scanning the ads. Here was one for dog walking; no, that wouldn’t do, Monica hated dogs. There was another for a live in maid, but she had a sweet lease on her apartment. Female escort wanted? Oh, no. Monica was far too slutty for that, she’d end up a prostitute instead. Then it caught her eye, the ad that would let her buy some meat this week instead of just Ramen noodles. It said:

Sitter wanted: Two nights a week, with potential for continuous work. Visit 252 West Bainbridge Lane for formal interview.              

“Perfect!” Monica said aloud in the apartment, clutching the paper in one hand. In high school, she had had several babysitting jobs, and was used to kids. She liked children, so it wasn’t a problem for her to pick up that one last job. It was either this or go back and finish the most boring degree on the planet only to get the most boring job ever. Gathering the change up and pouring it back into the jug, she tidied up her apartment and made a quick change of clothes into something appropriate for babysitting but classy enough for an interview. Jeans and a nice sweater made her look like a teenager, but it was good enough.

She climbed into her car with the ad in her hand. Bainbridge Lane was off the highway that unfolded across the moor and led into Ferry, where the bookstore was. She knew because Bainbridge intersected at the highway, only visible because it had a stop sign. It was in fact, one of only two roads on the three mile stretch from Essex to Avon. The highway divided the road into east and west, one on each side.  For a moment, she had to remind herself that she was still on the moor. The hills and brushes looked different from the highway; from the view she had as she made the left to get on West Bainbridge Lane, she was among the scrubby bushes and the tall, lanky trees that had somehow managed to spring up the peaty marshland instead of admiring them from afar.

The pavement ended and still she had not seen the first sign of a house or an address. Stopping, Monica looked at the ad again, making sure of the address. Yes, this was West Bainbridge. Driving farther on the dirt road, the first rooftop she had seen finally rose among the trees and suddenly she was on top of a quaint cottage surrounded by fences. The rusted mailbox outside the driveway was marked '252'. Monica looked at the house and smiled, thinking this was a nice place to raise children. The yard was unkempt but not overgrown, as if someone had decided not to tend the lawn just that week. The house was small and modest and had an older design. There did not seem to be any sign of a need for repair.

Monica switched the car off and got out, leaving the keys and the paper in it. Walking up to the gate she spotted a bell, which she rattled to get the parent’s attention. There was no answer. Ringing the bell again, she sighed and thought for a moment that since there were no children outside, the family might not be home. Still, Monica didn’t think that she could leave without trying every avenue possible. A job was a job. She rattled the bell one more time and unlatched the gate waiting for someone to come out. Slowing walking up the path to the cottage, she thought that maybe they were inside somewhere and couldn’t hear the bell. Monica walked up to the door and raised a fist to knock.

“No need, I’m here,” said a voice that came from nowhere. Monica yelped and whirled around looking for her specter that had startled her so. She found herself eye level with the hottest bare chest she had seen in a while. Stepping back, she angled her head for the entire picture. Not only was he good looking but he was half naked, too, looking as though he had been in the garden with his shirt off.

He was tall and muscular, with a spattering of hair across his chest. Broad shoulders tapered into a thick neck and out into wide arms cut with muscle. He had sandy brown hair and eyes that looked like molten gold shining in the sunlight. They were so unique she wondered if this handsome man was vainly wearing contacts to hide some ordinary hue. He looked to be about thirty, although he could have been older. He was wearing no shirt and she could see where the sun had beaten down on his skin to make it a golden brown. The hair on his chest was blonde, lighter than that on his head. The man was wearing jeans and gloves, but no shoes, and, Monica noted for the third time, no shirt, and held a trowel in his hand.

Monica smiled up at him, trying not to give away the attraction.

“Hi, I saw your ad in the paper,” Monica said brightly.

He smiled back at her, stripping off his gloves and thrusting out his hand for a shake.

“Sure,” he said, “come on in and have a look around. I’m Gaelin, and this is where you’ll be doing the sitting.”

Gaelin turned and opened the cottage door, going in. Monica followed him, confused. The cottage really was cute, very rustic. The floors were hard wood and polished to a shine, while the furniture was sparse. A kitchen table and chairs were present in the dining room through the doorway, and there was a loveseat for company, but the main focus of the room was a coffee table and a recliner huddled around a small TV.  There were lots of windows, lending the place a sunny look, but while they were letting the light in, Monica could see that they were strange as well, reflecting Monica in them as though they were two way mirrors. The walls were unadorned except for the mantle above the fireplace, which held a composite bow and a sheaf of arrows. A door off the to the side led to the kitchen, she presumed, and another one on the side of the room led to the bedroom. What she didn’t see, Monica mused, was children’s toys or belongings.

“Where’re the kids’ rooms?” asked Monica.

“Kids?” said Gaelin curiously. “There aren’t any children here. It’s just me.”

“But the ad said –“

“The ad said I needed a sitter. I do. I need one for my house. Is this a job that you think you can handle? I can afford someone else; if you don’t think you’re right for the job.” Gaelin turned away then, leaving Monica to think about it.

“Oh, well no, I mean, yes! Yes, I can take the job. When will I start?

“Right now, if you like. I could use getting a head start on my travels.” Gaelin told her to make herself at home and went into the side room. She looked around, admiring his things. An ornate bookshelf stood against one wall, full of books that were all pristine first editions from the eighteen hundreds. A Persian rug dominated the floor. His tastes were expensive, and the cottage was very nice, a wonderful home for a bachelor, or even a couple. There was still something strange about it she thought, as she looked around. It was a perfectly ordinary place, everything was just old. Monica crossed the floor into kitchen, and it creaked under her feet as if it were ancient. The kitchen was immaculate, for something belonging to a bachelor.

It was clean and white, but strange was the cook stove. It was an old wood burning stove, something right out of the pioneer days. The long black stove pipe climbed up the corner and out to the roof. Cast iron pots and pans hung on the walls and in the opposite corner was the pantry door. She peeked inside, surprised to find it empty.
Didn’t he eat,
she thought. She was just closing the door when he slid up behind her again, this time tapping her on the shoulder as he spoke.

“There are some things in the fridge, and there’s a store not far from here,” Gaelin said casually. Monica jumped out of her skin again and he chuckled. “Jumpy aren’t you?” She poked him in the chest.

“Mister, I don’t know you, but you’d better stop!” Gaelin threw his head back and laughed at her. He was completely bemused by her. Her eyes flashed and she was on the verge of slugging him, but he took a step back and waited for her.

“I’ve got to go,” he said, “I’ll be back in two days. Make yourself at home, I’ve even put clean sheets on the bed. Keys are under the mat if you need to leave.” With that, he strode out and got into his car, cranking up and driving away. Monica fumed. Not only was she in a strange house of a strange man, he hadn’t even offered to discuss paying her.

The rest of the day was uneventful for her as she wandered around the home that she was sitting for. The cottage was nice; it had two rooms a bedroom, bathroom and kitchen, all of it decidedly male. She opened the door to his bedroom, expecting to see a bed, but instead she saw a pile of furs piled in up in the corner next to a fireplace that wasn’t smoldering but recently used. It seemed, there was no heating or air conditioning here, but instead a  number of fireplaces and plenty of windows.

Venturing outside to the backyard, Monica was surprised to see a well kept garden of flowers among an incredibly unkempt yard. Aside the bluebells and roses was his shirt that he had cast aside in the warm sun earlier that day. A cool breeze crossed her shoulders and she shivered, looking at the sky. It was becoming dreary and even though the sun had not gone down, the moon was already visible in the sky and nearly full.  She turned to go back into the house and once again saw her reflection in the glass in the door. It was strange.

Pulling open the door, a wave of fatigue washed over her, and she decided that it was time to take a nap. After all, she had nothing better to do, except sit. Stopping in front of the bookshelf, she perused his selection and found something to her liking: a slightly worn first edition copy of
The Wolfman
. Monica might not like dogs, but she was definitely into the supernatural and it made no difference how new or old, she was into literature that wanted to scare the wits out of you.
The Wolfman
happened to be a favorite. She padded in her socks back across the room and the floor moaned underneath her, as though she were far more heavy than she were. Sitting on the loveseat, she curled her legs underneath her and pulled her hair back into a ponytail and began to read. She never really knew when she fell asleep.