Babysitter’s Boy Toy part Three
Then she went to the hallway closet And got two towels, a watermelon designed one for herself in a green and red grape, the designed one for him, before leading him towards her front door.
She opened the door and immediately locked in behind her. Looking at the time on her watch, Becky saw that it was 3:30 and said, “Perfect.” Orion didn’t understand why Becky was so happy until she explained that all the beach goers would’ve already gone home by now. Orion felt his cheeks heat up at the implication—just the two of them alone on the beach—and Becky giggled at his reaction before leading him to her car.
Becky’s car was painted gold—except for the silver jaguar emblem on the hood—which matched the gold door in her house. Orion climbed into the passenger seat, wincing as his sore backside made contact with the leather. Becky smirked at his discomfort before starting the engine and peeling out of the driveway.
Their first stop was a surf shop where Becky let Orion pick out his own swim trunks. He chose a pair with a desert-themed Gila monster design, the vibrant oranges and yellows standing out against the black fabric. Becky paid for them without hesitation, ruffling Orion’s hair as they left the store. As they walked away, Orion overheard whispers from other customers—both men and women—saying, “That’s one lucky boy.”
The beach bathrooms were concrete bunkers baked white by the sun, their door hinges squealing like startled birds as Orion pushed his way inside. He changed quickly, the Gila monster swim trunks clinging awkwardly to his still-throbbing backside. When he stepped back into the blinding light, Becky was leaning against the opposite bathroom’s wall—and his brain short-circuited.
Her bikini defied physics. The top clung to the barest peaks of her breasts like two violet postage stamps, leaving the sides completely bare. The plunging center cleavage dipped so low he could see the shadow between her pectorals. The bottoms were worse—just two narrow triangles of fabric that barely grazed the crests of her cheeks, leaving the rest exposed down to where thigh met hipbone. She arched her back, hands laced behind her platinum hair, and Orion’s mouth went dryer than the sand.
“Like what you see, honey?” she purred.
Orion made a sound like a stepped-on accordion. Becky laughed—full-bodied and unashamed—before straightening.
"Wait right here,” she ordered, vanishing back into the bathroom. She returned with towels slung over one shoulder and a bottle of sunscreen dangling from her fingers.
“Forgot these,” she admitted, snagging his wrist with her free hand. Her skin was already warm from the sun.
They picked a spot where the sand sloped gently toward the water. Orion watched, hypnotized, as Becky shook out the towels with sharp snaps that made her chest bounce dangerously. She picked up the sunscreen and pointed at his towel, saying, “Lie down cutie pie.”
Orion’s heart hammered against his ribs as Becky squeezed a dollop of sunscreen into her palm—the scent of pineapple and coconut flooding his senses before her violet-tipped fingers even touched him. The lotion was warmer than he expected, her palms gliding over his shoulders with deliberate slowness.
"Relax, honey," she murmured, kneading the tension from his muscles as she worked the sunscreen down his arms. Her thumbs circled his elbows, pressing into the tender hollows until he shuddered. Every stroke was methodical—down to his wrists, between his fingers, even under his nails—leaving no patch of skin unprotected.
When her hands slid to his chest, Orion’s breath hitched. Becky’s palms flattened over his pectorals, her fingers splaying wide as she rubbed slow, concentric circles. The sunscreen made her touch slippery, intimate—her thumbs brushing his nipples just enough to make him squirm.
“Ticklish?" she teased, leaning closer until her breath ghosted over his collarbone. Orion nodded mutely, his throat tight as her hands drifted lower, skimming his ribs and the soft dip of his belly. She avoided the waistband of his swim trunks with practiced ease, her fingers dancing along the hem but never dipping beneath. By the time she reached his thighs, the scent of pineapple had gone cloying, thick in the back of his throat.
Becky's fingers slid down to his ankles with the same meticulous attention she'd given every other part of him, but when her thumbs pressed into the arch of his foot, Orion's entire body jerked like a marionette with its strings cut.
“Oh-ho!" she crowed, her turquoise eyes lighting up with predatory delight as her fingers immediately zeroed in on the spot that made him convulse. "Someone's got ticklish tootsies!" Her violet nails skated along the sensitive ridge beneath his toes, and Orion's laughter burst out in desperate, hiccuping gasps—his knees slamming together as he instinctively tried to curl into a protective ball.
"P-please—Becky—*stop*!" he wheezed, thrashing against the towel as she mercilessly worked her thumbs into the thick pads of his feet. Every nerve ending fired at once when she deliberately dragged a single fingernail between his toes, the sensation so unexpectedly intense that Orion actually arched off the sand, his swim trunks riding up dangerously. Becky's answering laugh was pure wickedness, her fingers never relenting as she murmured, "Such *thick* little feet for such a skinny boy—like a puppy who hasn't grown into his paws yet."
The humiliation burned hotter than the sun when she lifted his foot to her lips and blew a raspberry against the sole, sending him into convulsions of breathless giggles.
By the time she finished—sunscreen gleaming between each of his toes—Orion lay gasping like a stranded fish, his chest heaving. Becky capped the lotion with a satisfied *click*, then dropped it onto his towel with deliberate casualness.
"Your turn, Littlejohn," she purred, stretching out on her stomach beside him. The strings of her bikini top dug into her shoulder blades as she arched her back, presenting herself like a sunbathing cat.
"Start with my shoulders," she commanded, resting her chin on crossed arms. Orion's hands trembled as he squeezed a dollop of sunscreen onto his palm, thinking of himself *I hope I can get through this without fainting.*
Orion's fingers hovered over Becky's back like a hummingbird unsure where to land. The sunscreen pooled in his palm, warm and slick, as he tried to map out a safe path across her skin—shoulders first, then down the ridges of her spine, anywhere but the swell of her bikini bottoms or the tempting dip where her waist flared into hips. His first touch was featherlight, barely skimming the surface, but Becky's contented sigh sent his pulse skittering.
"You're missing spots," she murmured into her folded arms, voice thick with amusement. Her turquoise eyes peeked over one shoulder as she deliberately arched her back, making the strings of her bikini dig deeper into her skin.
"Be thorough, baby."
The second pass was firmer, his palms sliding over the sunscreen-slick planes of her shoulders with deliberate precision. Orion focused on the topography of her muscles—the way her trapezius tensed under his thumbs, the shallow divot at the base of her neck—anything to avoid the dangerous proximity of her breasts pressed against the towel.
She opened the door and immediately locked in behind her. Looking at the time on her watch, Becky saw that it was 3:30 and said, “Perfect.” Orion didn’t understand why Becky was so happy until she explained that all the beach goers would’ve already gone home by now. Orion felt his cheeks heat up at the implication—just the two of them alone on the beach—and Becky giggled at his reaction before leading him to her car.
Becky’s car was painted gold—except for the silver jaguar emblem on the hood—which matched the gold door in her house. Orion climbed into the passenger seat, wincing as his sore backside made contact with the leather. Becky smirked at his discomfort before starting the engine and peeling out of the driveway.
Their first stop was a surf shop where Becky let Orion pick out his own swim trunks. He chose a pair with a desert-themed Gila monster design, the vibrant oranges and yellows standing out against the black fabric. Becky paid for them without hesitation, ruffling Orion’s hair as they left the store. As they walked away, Orion overheard whispers from other customers—both men and women—saying, “That’s one lucky boy.”
The beach bathrooms were concrete bunkers baked white by the sun, their door hinges squealing like startled birds as Orion pushed his way inside. He changed quickly, the Gila monster swim trunks clinging awkwardly to his still-throbbing backside. When he stepped back into the blinding light, Becky was leaning against the opposite bathroom’s wall—and his brain short-circuited.
Her bikini defied physics. The top clung to the barest peaks of her breasts like two violet postage stamps, leaving the sides completely bare. The plunging center cleavage dipped so low he could see the shadow between her pectorals. The bottoms were worse—just two narrow triangles of fabric that barely grazed the crests of her cheeks, leaving the rest exposed down to where thigh met hipbone. She arched her back, hands laced behind her platinum hair, and Orion’s mouth went dryer than the sand.
“Like what you see, honey?” she purred.
Orion made a sound like a stepped-on accordion. Becky laughed—full-bodied and unashamed—before straightening.
"Wait right here,” she ordered, vanishing back into the bathroom. She returned with towels slung over one shoulder and a bottle of sunscreen dangling from her fingers.
“Forgot these,” she admitted, snagging his wrist with her free hand. Her skin was already warm from the sun.
They picked a spot where the sand sloped gently toward the water. Orion watched, hypnotized, as Becky shook out the towels with sharp snaps that made her chest bounce dangerously. She picked up the sunscreen and pointed at his towel, saying, “Lie down cutie pie.”
Orion’s heart hammered against his ribs as Becky squeezed a dollop of sunscreen into her palm—the scent of pineapple and coconut flooding his senses before her violet-tipped fingers even touched him. The lotion was warmer than he expected, her palms gliding over his shoulders with deliberate slowness.
"Relax, honey," she murmured, kneading the tension from his muscles as she worked the sunscreen down his arms. Her thumbs circled his elbows, pressing into the tender hollows until he shuddered. Every stroke was methodical—down to his wrists, between his fingers, even under his nails—leaving no patch of skin unprotected.
When her hands slid to his chest, Orion’s breath hitched. Becky’s palms flattened over his pectorals, her fingers splaying wide as she rubbed slow, concentric circles. The sunscreen made her touch slippery, intimate—her thumbs brushing his nipples just enough to make him squirm.
“Ticklish?" she teased, leaning closer until her breath ghosted over his collarbone. Orion nodded mutely, his throat tight as her hands drifted lower, skimming his ribs and the soft dip of his belly. She avoided the waistband of his swim trunks with practiced ease, her fingers dancing along the hem but never dipping beneath. By the time she reached his thighs, the scent of pineapple had gone cloying, thick in the back of his throat.
Becky's fingers slid down to his ankles with the same meticulous attention she'd given every other part of him, but when her thumbs pressed into the arch of his foot, Orion's entire body jerked like a marionette with its strings cut.
“Oh-ho!" she crowed, her turquoise eyes lighting up with predatory delight as her fingers immediately zeroed in on the spot that made him convulse. "Someone's got ticklish tootsies!" Her violet nails skated along the sensitive ridge beneath his toes, and Orion's laughter burst out in desperate, hiccuping gasps—his knees slamming together as he instinctively tried to curl into a protective ball.
"P-please—Becky—*stop*!" he wheezed, thrashing against the towel as she mercilessly worked her thumbs into the thick pads of his feet. Every nerve ending fired at once when she deliberately dragged a single fingernail between his toes, the sensation so unexpectedly intense that Orion actually arched off the sand, his swim trunks riding up dangerously. Becky's answering laugh was pure wickedness, her fingers never relenting as she murmured, "Such *thick* little feet for such a skinny boy—like a puppy who hasn't grown into his paws yet."
The humiliation burned hotter than the sun when she lifted his foot to her lips and blew a raspberry against the sole, sending him into convulsions of breathless giggles.
By the time she finished—sunscreen gleaming between each of his toes—Orion lay gasping like a stranded fish, his chest heaving. Becky capped the lotion with a satisfied *click*, then dropped it onto his towel with deliberate casualness.
"Your turn, Littlejohn," she purred, stretching out on her stomach beside him. The strings of her bikini top dug into her shoulder blades as she arched her back, presenting herself like a sunbathing cat.
"Start with my shoulders," she commanded, resting her chin on crossed arms. Orion's hands trembled as he squeezed a dollop of sunscreen onto his palm, thinking of himself *I hope I can get through this without fainting.*
Orion's fingers hovered over Becky's back like a hummingbird unsure where to land. The sunscreen pooled in his palm, warm and slick, as he tried to map out a safe path across her skin—shoulders first, then down the ridges of her spine, anywhere but the swell of her bikini bottoms or the tempting dip where her waist flared into hips. His first touch was featherlight, barely skimming the surface, but Becky's contented sigh sent his pulse skittering.
"You're missing spots," she murmured into her folded arms, voice thick with amusement. Her turquoise eyes peeked over one shoulder as she deliberately arched her back, making the strings of her bikini dig deeper into her skin.
"Be thorough, baby."
The second pass was firmer, his palms sliding over the sunscreen-slick planes of her shoulders with deliberate precision. Orion focused on the topography of her muscles—the way her trapezius tensed under his thumbs, the shallow divot at the base of her neck—anything to avoid the dangerous proximity of her breasts pressed against the towel.
31-35, M