The forbidden caregiver
I live in a place where caregiver help me with my daily routine. Most of them kept things professional, friendly, and distant. But then there was her.
She was young, maybe twenty-three, twenty-four, with a brightness in her voice and a spark in her eyes. Every time she came to help me, I could feel it the way she lingered when we talked, the way her laugh carried just a little longer than it needed to. I told myself not to think too much of it, especially since she had mentioned being engaged. She even joked once, calling her fiancé cock her “lollipop.”
One night, though, everything shifted. I couldn’t sleep and needed help turning in bed, so I called her. She came quickly, her smile as soft as the light spilling into the room. She adjusted me onto my back, and when she finished, instead of leaving right away, she paused.
“You having trouble sleeping?” she asked gently.
I nodded. She hesitated, then said, “I’ve got a little time before I check on the others. Want me to stay with you for a bit?”
When she lay down on the edge of the bed beside me, the air seemed to change. We talked, quietly, almost in whispers, for a few minutes. Then our eyes met and held, and everything between us went still.
Her voice dropped, barely audible. “You can kiss me if you want.”
My heart pounded. I leaned in, our lips meeting softly at first, then again, slower, deeper. In seconds it grew into something hungrier, a tangle of heat and breath and want. I whispered, half-teasing, half-nervous, if she wanted to kiss my “lollipop”. She smiled, biting her lip, then slipped away from my room for a moment.
I worried she’d changed her mind, but when she returned, she quietly said that she went to locked the door. The look in her eyes said everything. She leaned down, kissed me again, and the world outside ceased to exist.
The kiss deepened, turning into a desperate makeout, her hands roaming up and down while sucking my hard cock. It was reckless, impossible, forbidden — and that only made it more intoxicating. Every sound, every sigh, every brush of her body against mine felt like fire, a secret moment no one else could ever know. I bursted in euphemism and she swallowed every last drop like if it was her property.
It didn’t end that night. It happened a couple more times, always in stolen moments, always carrying that same heat and danger. But then, one day, she was gone. Fired. No warning, no goodbye. Just gone.
Sometimes, late at night, I think back to those moments, the way she looked at me, the fire in her kisses, the thrill of doing what we both knew we shouldn’t. And I can’t help but fantasize about it happening again. I tried to recreate those moments with a couple of SP, but it wasn't the same. With her it felt like I was really in a porn movie.
