Leonard was a cherubic kid with bright-red cheeks and a springy little body that catapulted along and presented itself for hugs and kisses at unexpected moments. His dad, Max, was a big guy, tall, sort of a younger, nerdy Liam Neeson, with a head full of unruly dark hair. He was a civil engineer; he designed, built and maintained water- and waste-treatment facilities. I’m Delia, 26 years old, nearly finished with my master’s degree in history, and babysitting Leonard was the perfect gig. He’s an easygoing kid so it wasn’t hard work and I had plenty of time to study.
Every morning Max would walk Leonard to preschool and then he’d take the subway to work. He worked all hours and I was charged with picking Leonard up from school and seeing that he was fed, feted, bathed and amused until bedtime. If his dad had to work late and hadn’t made it home in time, I tucked Leonard in for the night. There was no mother. No name, no photos, no floral tablecloths and pink napkins, no brushes with long strands abandoned in the bathroom, no lone glove with skinny fingers lost on the floor of the hall closet. There was no sign that a woman had ever shared this space. It was as though she had never existed, as though there had always been only Leonard and Max.
Max was a good dad and he paid me well. When he got home in time, he always ate with Leonard, no matter what I’d prepared. Smiling-faced eggs and cheese were greeted with gusto and eaten with the same relish as beans and dogs. He sat in front of the television and watched SpongeBob, laughing and debating the antics of the various sea creatures. At bedtime, he read Leonard chapters from Mark Twain and Robert Louis Stevenson, insisting that I keep the story going when he had to work late.
Leonard was a happy kid, always had a good appetite and usually fell asleep after I’d read him his chapter. I’d hug him, tuck his warm little body in snugly, pulling the covers up to his chin, and he’d turn to his side and present his cheek for a good night kiss. He would be asleep by 7.30 and I’d have my books splayed across the chrome and Formica kitchen table by 7.45.
Sometimes Max didn’t get home until midnight, but usually he was home by nine. After peeking in on Leonard, he’d rummage through the refrigerator for sandwich fixings that he prepared on the counter top. Then, plate in hand, he’d grunt a goodnight in my direction as he headed to his bedroom.
Since the first time he’d come in and found me bent over his kitchen table with my books, notes and timelines, he’d insisted that I shouldn’t let his entrance disturb me, that I should continue my work. Sometimes I’d stay over, especially if he got home really late. There was a tiny room in the back behind the kitchen. It was used mostly for storage, but it must have been used to house the maid when the building was built back in the 1920s. It had a comfortable daybed wedged into a corner amidst a dozen or so boxes and a dusty Nautilus.
Max had offered to make the position live-in, saying that he would clear the room out and store his things elsewhere, but I liked having my own apartment. He complained that he didn’t like to see me leave so late at night. He worried that I might be accosted going to or from my car. If anything happened to me, he said that he’d feel at fault. As an incentive, he said it wouldn’t affect my pay, and that I could just save the rent money. But he stopped pushing when I stayed firm and explained that I liked the thought of him and Max spending their mornings together, just the two of them, and that I liked having my own place, a place of solitude that I could return to. After a very embarrassing incident that occurred a few weeks later, I was really glad I’d chosen not to live in.
It was nearly three in the morning. Max had worked late so I’d slept over and had fallen asleep on the daybed, textbook in hand. My full bladder awakened me and I stumbled down the hall to the bathroom, half-asleep. Since it was the middle of the night and this was supposed to be a quick trip, I saw no problem in making the dash in my camisole and panties.
Refreshed after relieving my bladder, I padded back down the hall. But, as I passed Max’s room, I heard a groan. It sounded like someone was in pain so I stopped to listen. The groan came again.
‘Max,’ I said standing in his doorway. The room was dark, but he always kept the door open in case Leonard needed him.
‘Max,’ I whispered. ‘Are you OK?’
The groan came again accompanied by a slippery sound.
It took a minute or so for my eyes to adjust to the darkness of the room.
The hallway was always lit by a small night-light, again in case Leonard got up. But Max’s room was lit only by the grey light of the moon that seeped through the curtains at the window on the far side of his bed.
When my eyes finally began to adjust, I could see Max sitting on the edge of the bed. He wore no pajama top, but that wasn’t surprising.
‘Max, are you OK? I thought I heard …’ I whispered, moving closer and leaning in so he could hear me, but by then I saw that he had no PJs on at all, or at least the bottoms were open and shoved down around his hips and his hand was gripping his large, engorged penis.
I was so stunned I couldn’t think what to say and I forgot to move. Like a doe blinded by headlights, I stood frozen as he continued to tug at his penis. His fisted hand was tight, jerking the skin upward in rapid succession; his breath was harsh and rasping and his eyes were on me. Then, with his other hand, he reached up and touched me. His large fingers were tentative at first, but when I didn’t move they were suddenly splayed over my right breast, fondling it, his thumb teasing the nipple through the silk of my camisole. And still I stood there, a slow wet heat pooling between my legs and dampening my panties as I watched Max, one hand fisted around his penis and the other stroking my breast. I just stood there letting him touch me, his eyes on mine locking me in place. My nipples were tight, straining against the fabric. I shivered as I felt a lazy trickle of pleasure between my legs. I wanted his fingers down there, but instead they eased the thin strap of my camisole off my shoulder, freeing my right breast.
I knew it was job suicide to fraternise with an employer like this, but the heat in my panties had become a hunger. I wanted to touch him, to feel that solid flesh sliding into me. Hell, I could get another job. Maybe not as nice as this one, but I didn’t care any more. All I could think about was pulling off my camisole and pressing my naked breasts against that wide expanse of rock-hard chest while I impaled myself on that beautifully stiff penis.
I lifted a hand to trail a finger across the broad shoulder nearest me, but he flinched and moved back an inch, one hand suspended, caught in the silky cloth of my top, the other frozen in mid-stroke.
‘Don’t touch me,’ he whispered in a voice that was both angry and frightened. ‘I don’t like to be touched.’
Yet he continued to touch me, his hand stroking my naked breast, a finger toying with the aching nipples that seemed to tighten more with each pass of his finger tip, with each pluck as he squeezed and pulled them. Then his large hand trailed down to my stomach, flattened, palm against my navel, heat to heat. I stood still, hands at my side, waiting as his fingers dipped into the waistband of my panties, grazing the hair there as they tugged at the elastic. Two large fingers slid down between my nether lips, luxuriating in the wetness there, rasping my swollen clitoris, and then he was coming, with a groan like the one that had lured me here, but louder, a painful wrenching followed by an eruption, some of which splashed onto my hip and down my thigh.
After a second or three, I turned and ran back to the safety of the storage room. He didn’t follow me, but I locked the door anyway. I lay there wide awake watching as the sun slowly brightened the room, the light going from grey to yellow. I didn’t leave the room until I was sure Leonard and Max had dressed and left for school and work. I could hear Leonard telling his dad that he should wake me up. I’d left my books stacked on one of the kitchen chairs so he knew I was still there. Max told him that I probably needed my sleep, adding, ‘We should let Delia get her rest because she works really hard caring for us.’ I imagined Leonard nodded to that as he chomped on cinnamon-sugared toast and drank his milk.
Max called me on my cell later that afternoon. He wanted to be sure that I was going to pick Leonard up from school. He’d never done that before. I knew it was because he was nervous about the night before. After several pauses, he said he was sorry and that he hoped he hadn’t frightened me too much. He sounded miserable, embarrassed and worried. So I told him it was OK, that we should just forget about ‘last night’. He apologised again and said that he’d like to offer some compensation, and that he really wanted to make it up to me, that he didn’t want me to think badly of him. I listened and eventually told him the truth of how I felt, that he was a good father, a good employer, and from what I’d seen a good man. I tried to explain that he hadn’t hurt me and that I didn’t want anything from him. I just wanted to forget about it.
What I didn’t add was that I felt sorry for him because he seemed lonely and that I could see how it might be difficult to find someone with whom he could be physical. He was raising a four-year-old and working all the time. He didn’t really date; he didn’t have time. And that not-liking-to-be-touched thing, that was a whole other obstacle, one I didn’t want to think about, let alone discuss.
That night we pretended to forget about it. Max ate cheese broccoli and French fries with Leonard, and I left after loading the dishwasher. The rest of the week I went home as soon as I could get away. Max was home every night in time to put Leonard to bed and, whenever he spoke to me, his eyes were hooded or he had his back to me as if he was afraid to look at me, afraid he might see condemnation. At the end of the week, my pay envelope had an extra $300 in it. I didn’t try to return it. I didn’t say anything about it because I didn’t want to make him any more uncomfortable than he already was.
After a month or so, we’d gotten back to our normal routine. Max could look at me when he spoke and we could laugh together at Leonard’s antics. I imagined he even looked at me with a new warmth, as if we’d grown closer because I had kept my word and his secret. He knew he could trust me.
About a week later, I’d fallen asleep in the storage room because Max had worked late again. I woke up when I heard his key in the lock, but I was too tired to leave so I just dumped my books on the floor, shed the confinement of my jeans, shirt and bra and slipped under the comforter.
I don’t know how much time passed, but I woke out of a deep sleep because I heard the rustling of papers and the slide and thump of books. When I opened my eyes the dark mop of Max’s tousled hair bobbed in my line of vision as he squatted, feet bare, gathering my books and papers and stacking them in a neat pile near one of the file boxes.
Surprised by the intrusion, I sat up, forgetting that I was sans bra.
‘Max?’ I rubbed the sleep from my eyes.
The sound of my voice seemed to startle him. He fell back and landed on his backside, just a foot or so from the bed. He wore a burgundy terrycloth robe belted loosely at the waist, and it appeared he wore nothing under it. It gaped open, revealing the thick dark hair of his chest, as well as the sparser hair on thigh and leg. Thankfully, the parts that mattered remained shielded as he shifted to get up, balancing on one knee, until he was kneeling in front of me.
‘I’ve been thinking about you a great deal,’ he began as though I hadn’t been sleeping, as though the conversation had begun even before he’d acquired a listener. ‘About that night.’
I was awake now, and fully aware of my near-naked state so I pulled the comforter up to my chin.
‘I was hoping,’ he was saying to the carpet, ‘that you would let me touch you again.’
He waited, but when I didn’t say anything he added, ‘You said I didn’t hurt you … and I would compensate you.’
I frowned, but said nothing.
He rushed on, ‘It’s just that you already know about … and … you don’t seem bothered by it. I just want to touch you. It’s not really sex, I mean I wouldn’t breach … I won’t penetrate. I just want to touch you, to feel your skin … your body …’
He stopped, looked at the carpet, then back at me, and then even more awkwardly he said, ‘There’s no one else.’
I looked at him a long time. He waited patiently, letting me take stock, consider the situation and the man before me.
He looked sad, eager, needy and kind of hot with that dark lock of hair nearly covering one eye. Max had a good body, tight abs and arms, not that I’d be able to touch any of it. But he was a good guy; I liked him, and it wasn’t as though I was seeing anyone else. Although I wasn’t a virgin, I didn’t have much experience and I had to admit that I was curious as to how this would work. Besides, I’d liked it when he touched me the last time. How could it hurt to play his little game again? In for a penny, in for a pound, I thought. ‘OK,’ I said. He nodded and stood up; I was still sitting on the bed. He towered over me as he began to pull the belt from the loops of his robe saying, ‘I have to tie you up.’
I instantly scooted back, away from him, finally bumping against the wall and on the verge of changing my mind when he knelt in front of me and whispered in a voice redolent with need, ‘I would never hurt you, Delia.’ When my eyebrows rose, he hurriedly added, ‘I’m just going to tie your hands. I can’t let you touch me.’
He gently tugged the comforter down and took one of my breasts into the heated vortex of his mouth, licking and sucking gently at the nipple and the flesh around it. It felt good, really good. Every time he sucked, it was as though he was strumming something deep inside my sex. I wanted to touch it, I wanted to touch him, and the need, the intensity grew because I knew I couldn’t touch him. Something deep inside me trembled and vibrated. I pressed my palms into the mattress to keep from touching his hair, but I let my lips graze the thick locks on top of his bowed head.
Then he was stroking my hip and coaxing me to straighten out on the bed. When he had me where he wanted me, he raised my hands over my head, bound them together with the belt and secured it to the end rail of the daybed. It was tight, but I didn’t object; I was curious and it felt kind of sexy.
The action served to pull my back up in an arch that caused my breasts to rise and pool, serving them up for the man who knelt over me. They looked like nicely plump tarts with cherries on top and he eyed them longingly, like a hungry boy uncertain whether the few coins in his pocket would be enough. I liked the way he looked at me.
He touched a peak with the tip of his finger, and then he was stroking and cupping the soft mounds. His mouth followed, wet and hot, sucking and pulling on the already distended nipples, his teeth tugging and rasping gently at the ever-tightening buds. A hand trailed the length of my torso and stopped to press and grip and massage the tight skin of my belly before slipping down to grip my sex, the heat burning through the thin silky cloth of my panties.
Briefly, he got up to close the door gently. Cold air claimed the places he had heated. The dark-red robe slipped to the floor before he slid onto the bed next to me, his long body warming me as he fitted himself along my side, his chest to my ribs, his groin to my thigh, his hands everywhere stroking and teasing, causing me to tremble as moans slipped between my compressed lips. I so wanted to touch him too. His penis was hot, full and hard as it pressed against my hip. Cock, I thought. It was a long hard cock and I wanted to pull it into my mouth, to feel its hood nudging the roof of my mouth. I opened my mouth, imagining its feel and taste. Then his tongue was there, dipping into my mouth, filling the void, flitting over my lips and teeth until I tried to capture it, intending to suck it, but he drew away and buried his face in my neck as he slid the thick, hard length of his cock between my legs, its probing head grazing my sopping panties. I gasped as he pressed forward. His mouth was again on mine, his teeth nipping at my lips as he lifted and guided my haunches up until they rested high on his hips, and then he pressed forward, his hardness all but piercing the silky cloth that covered my gateway.
His fingers gripped my buttocks as the thick knob of his cock pressed into my centre, straining against the flimsy cloth, the determined head relentlessly denting the fragile barrier as both slipped and rasped against the sensitive lips of my sex. My pussy – the word seemed right just then because I was wet and slippery, juicy with welcome. Its steamy walls contracted as though trying to clamp onto something that was not there, the muscles tensing and flexing in a way that was somewhere between pain and pleasure. I could feel our sweat and natural lubricants pooling between my thighs. I wanted to hold him close, to feel his damp chest and its slight, bristly hair pressed against my breasts and belly. Then I wanted to reach down, slide my panties to the side and guide him into me. I wanted to grab his ass and press him deeper, but my hands were tied. So I squirmed, trying to get closer. I tried to grip him with my thighs, but his hands tightened around first one thigh and then the other, loosening their grip and lifting them higher.
Although I felt somewhat cowed, I continued to move against him, my torso and my pussy straining towards him, seeking relief from this ever-growing need. I could feel the heat and hardness of him between my thighs and he slid forward, ramming into me, the head of his sex slamming into my swollen labia, butting against my engorged clitoris again and again until a wave shook me, and my whole body clenched as the wetness grew between my legs. I closed my eyes and gave in to the quakes. When I opened them, Max was gripping my thighs, his head buried in my neck. I opened my legs to him, caressing him with my thighs as his body writhed against mine. He groaned like a felled tree, a long cracking sound from the back of his throat, and his hands found my arms. He clung to them for support as his hot slippery penis slid along my thigh, spurting semen as it continued to surge forward, drenching my panties, stomach and thighs.
Spent, he sank onto my body and lay there heavily for a minute or so until he remembered himself and pulled away quickly, but carefully trying to avoid crushing anything he hadn’t already crushed. Then he was up, picking his robe off the floor and pulling it on. For a moment he stood over me, sadly surveying my body and the aftermath of his folly. We were both coated with sweat and semen, and I was still tied to the bed, helpless.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said and then untied my hands. Before I could respond to my newly freed state, he said, ‘I’ll take care of these,’ and he slipped my soiled panties over my hips, down my legs and into the pocket of his robe. Then he was gone.
The next morning as we ate cereal and drank juice at the kitchen table he whispered, ‘Thank you,’ so sincerely that I was a little embarrassed. I simply nodded. As we all prepared to leave, he pressed my pay envelope into my hand. But his smile was different, self-satisfied, so I knew that he’d padded it. Leonard was staring up at us so I slipped the unopened envelope into my purse without question or comment. It contained an extra five $100 bills.
It was a Friday and Max came home early, less than an hour after we’d gotten home. So it must have been around four. He had bought pizza so I wouldn’t have to cook for Leonard. He tried to convince me to stay, saying he’d ordered my favourite, spinach and feta, but I gathered my books and left before he could get his coat off. I’d put the extra bills on his dresser with a note that said, ‘I am not a whore.’ I didn’t want a confrontation or, worse yet, to deal with his hurt pride. I figured I wouldn’t have to see him for a couple of days since it was the weekend. So he’d have time to get over it.
* * *
How surprised was I when he showed up on my doorstep the next morning. He’d apparently arranged for Leonard to spend the day with his grandmother.
He’d never been to my apartment and I didn’t know how I felt about this breach of employer–employee etiquette, but I let him in. I handed him a cup of coffee and pointed to the bistro table in my tiny kitchen, then I went to shed the oversized Obama shirt I used as a nightgown and put on the more appropriate jeans and college T-shirt. When I returned, he’d taken off his coat and was standing wide-legged, looking out of the back-door window at the shaky wooden porch and littered alleyway, sipping what appeared to be a second cup of coffee. I lifted the pot, shook it and gauged how much I could pour without getting a cupful of grounds.
‘You know I didn’t mean it like that,’ he said, again without preamble, as though he and I had been engaged in this conversation all along.
‘I’m not so sure about that,’ I said honestly, having refrained from saying the ‘I know’ he wanted to hear.
He finished his coffee, sat his cup in the sink and joined me at the table.
‘I didn’t mean to treat you with disrespect. It’s just that you seem to understand what I need and I value that …’ He stopped short.
‘Service,’ I finished for him. ‘It wasn’t a service, Max. It was a kindness, and I have to admit, I was curious. You needed something that I was willing to give. But it’s done now, OK?’ I was asking for his agreement.
‘I don’t want to stop,’ he admitted.
‘Hence the payment,’ I said, shaking my head with realisation.
‘You’ve got rent, tuition and books. You could use the money.’
‘That’s why I work. I have a job. Remember? One that I used to enjoy.’
He didn’t say anything for a while. I could almost hear the wheels churning as he tried out various plots, possibilities, appropriate things to say.
‘You enjoyed the other night,’ he said somewhere between sure and hopeful.
I didn’t say anything, unwilling to commit one way or the other. I wasn’t sure whether I did or not. And although I’d had an orgasm, I wasn’t sure whether it was enough for me.
‘I could make it even better for you,’ he said.
I didn’t respond.
‘You surprised me the other night. I didn’t know how you would respond,’ he added.
I sat my cup down on the table. ‘Max, maybe I should just find another job.’
‘No!’ He looked almost like he wanted to cry. ‘Leonard loves you. I couldn’t bear it if my selfishness caused him to lose you.’
He stood up. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll go. I just thought …’ He sat down again, his face crumpled, a tuft of thick dark hair swaying back and forth across an eye as he shook his head like he was trying to erase all that had gone on before. ‘Look, we fit. Leonard, you and me. You’re there when he needs you, when I need you to be. It’s good and I don’t want to mess it up. I just thought that since you didn’t seem to be seeing anyone … and you know me. You know I’d never hurt you. You said so yourself. That maybe … but if it’s too much, if it’s repellent, if I’m …’ His eyes, large, dark and round, searched mine. He must not have found what he feared because he looked away, ashamed. God, this man could rip your heart out with a look.
Then he was headed to the door, coat in hand.
‘Max,’ I called after him.
He stopped, his forehead pressed against the closed door.
Warming my hands on my coffee mug, I thought about what I wanted to say.
He waited patiently, but said nothing and didn’t turn back to look at me.
‘I’ll think about it,’ I said finally.
‘And you won’t abandon Leonard?’ he asked.
‘I won’t abandon Leonard,’ I confirmed.
He nodded at the door before opening it. Then just as he was about to step over the threshold he said quite distinctly, ‘Thank you, Delia.’