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Babysitter

The last day of Bardia’s first visit he begs begs me to do drugs and so I act as babysitter for him on LSD. It doesn’t occur to me how traumatic a student immigrant’s life might be, and how deep the fear of Iran goes in Iranians, nor does it occur to me that it could be the beginning of a babysitter fantasy.

It’s a challenging sit. A good 40 minutes of it has him in tremors. I am grateful for having experienced a wealth of healing modalities and having facility with Tension Releasing Exercises and the Neurogenic Tremor Response. I coach him through it. Bardia says he feels better for it, having offloaded a lot of stress.

But that night he wants to see me naked, wants to look at me, and when I am shy because of his vulnerability and his presence in that state – he leans into it. He becomes the investigator. He finds all the traces of body image lies, all the shame of childhood obesity, all the ways that I have ever absorbed that I am anything other than beautiful. And he is baffled by them. 

“But you’re one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen.” he says. “Really, and not all women are beautiful. I mean, they are, but not, like, aesthetically beautiful. But you are extraordinarily, absolutely, incredibly beautiful. How could you possibly not know?”

And I explain, coming from the role of a teacher, about women, and commodity, and value, and worth, and how every woman knows there is a more beautiful woman that gets more of what she wants, and, and, and… It terrifies him. I realize that teacher wasn’t where I needed to be. Babysitter fantasy wasn’t where I needed to be. I needed to be a lover.

And then he is sad for all the beautiful women in the world that don’t know that they are beautiful.

He leaves the next morning, kissing me on the forehead. He’s terse for a while, one line responses to texts or calls, but then wants to see me again.

Two weeks later I fly Bardia back to Boulder from Georgia for a long weekend. It’s fraught with stress by the overhang of his medical appointment for his visa that he cannot miss, scheduled for the day after his return. I swear to him that he will make it, and then, lo and behold, his return flight is cancelled by the airline. I pay for a new ticket to fulfill the promise. He makes it.

He is greedy for sex and drug experiences, and through repetition of his requests and their demands on my time I find him obnoxiously self-centered. I have a friend drop him at the airport for his return flight.

But before that…

…he plays endlessly with my pussy, learning everything he can about the topography of my vulva… but, he doesn’t want to look at it. He looks, in rapture, at my face. Turns it this way and that. Stares at it from every angle.

“You should cut your hair.” he says.

“Thanks for your feedback.” I retort. His brazen orders to do things he thinks would make me more hot annoy me, but they also flatter me and turn me on. There’s something snotty and undeserving in his stance, it’s as if he knows better than I how beautiful I am, and therefore is annoyed I am not paying every service to it. But we all have our tastes, and Bardia’s version of beauty is shaped in part by repression, and that’s something I have no interest in taking on. 

He wants to dress me up. He wants me to wear a tight shirt and a short skirt, and he wants me to let him look at me. Bardia looks through my closet, frustrated.

“Why don’t you have anything in here?!” he asks incredulously. 

“Because I don’t live here. Everything I own fits in a suitcase. I have no need for anything I can’t use regularly.” I explain.

“Cousin.” he takes me by the shoulders. “You should have more regular use for sexy clothing.” He pecks me on the lips.

He’s right. 

Eventually he settles on a towel, wrapping it around me tightly as though it’s a minidress. He ties it tightly and runs his hands over my breasts and body held beneath it.

“That’s nice”. He says. He gets naked, peeling off a white, crew neck, long-sleeve shirt and a pair of scuffed greyish-brown slacks. I can tell he’s shaped his body hair, he has stubble. His slightly long, slightly lean cock is meaty, half-hard. He strokes it while stroking me. “Sit down.” he orders, pointing to the bed. I do as I’m told. My pussy is tingling, dripping. I’m wearing no underwear under the towel. I’m getting annoyed at being an object.

“It’s too tight for me to spread my legs or have any stimulation.” I complain.

“I know.” His dominance shocks me. “You’re going to sit there and let me come on your dress.”

He stands next to me on the bed and stares down at me, silently. With one hand, he positions my face. I notice it’s slightly different. He’s branching out. He’s looking at a different facet of me. He spits on his hand and jerks himself fast and hard, in silence until he groans as he pushes his body into me while he comes, wetness spreading out through the fibers of the towel between my breasts. None of it touches my skin. 

“Now play with yourself.” he commands, whipping off the towel and wiping himself with it. 

I do as I’m told. He leaves the room with the towel wrapped around him. I hear him washing up. It’s not sexy. I lose interest in playing with myself. He comes back in.

“Someday you’re going to make a girl cry by running to the bathroom all the time.” I say. He breaks character. He’s easily offended.

“What, why?” he asks, eyes wide, concerned.

“Because she’ll think she’s dirty and that you want to wash her off.” I reply. His face falls. 

“Thank you for teaching me…” he says, lying down and taking my hand off my clit and replacing it with his. “…cousin.” he whispers in my ear. Then he starts to speak Persian. I have no idea what he’s saying. I gasp in surprise and it hits me somewhere I don’t understand in ways deeper than I’ve known and I come in an instant. 

The next day I massage Bardia. His back gets a full treatment first. I love the texture, it’s unique. It’s young, spongy, underused. His long frame sprawled out across three towels on the bed. I have him flip over. I’m using oil I made myself, and he is smiling. 

“Do you know about the ethnicities of Iran?” he asks. I do not. 

He tells me about his people, the Basseri tribe. He tells me they were shepherds and musicians.

“And we were nomads, like you.” he says, booping me on the nose with his finger. “And perhaps we may be again, because many times the Basseri came to the cities and villages to get work, when things did not go well with the nomad life.

“Like gypsies.”

“Not quite, but maybe. I don’t know much about gypsies. We would stay in the cities and villages for a while, but have for many reasons and many times, decamped and became wanderers again. It is a cycle. After all, we were not always nomadic. We have a long and complicated history. Thousands of years ago, some of us ruled the Southern cities of Iran.”

“Mmmmm King Khashayar” I say, oiling his cock. It thickens. “How may I take care of you today.” 

At the sound of my words blood pumps into his cock and he props himself up on his arms to look at me in awe.

I stroke him slowly with one hand, going up and over the head of his cock lightly, gripping harder as my strokes get shorter, the oil squelching between my fingers and turning his man hairs gleaming and soft. 

“Talk.” he asks. 

“I don’t know what to say.” I admit.

“Anything. But I like it when you take care of me.” he glances at my hands on his cock and is drawn in for a moment, but his real interest is my face. He stares at me like he has a crush on his babysitter. And it hits me.

Babysitter Fantasy

Babysitter fantasy.

“Your parents are going to be back soon, I better take care of you quickly.” I say. His cock swells at my words. My hands slither over his cock, fingers interlaced.

“Talk.” is all he can say. His cheeks are red, I love the way it shows through his golden complexion.

“You’re so handsome, and you’ve been so good to your babysitter today. This is what you deserve.” I say, slowly, stroking him fast and steady. His back is arching but he’s still staring at my face. In his eyes I see that he knows I’m his babysitter fantasy.

“Talk!” he begs me. I turn and tilt my head slightly, finding the angle that today it makes him come just to see.

“I love stroking your perfect cock, I know exactly what you need. So sad that no one else gives it to you. If they knew you like I did, they would.”

He explodes into a series of spurts, warm, thin jets over my hand, his chest, and the towels beneath him.

He looks up at me with awe for a moment and says

“You are the best babysitter ever.”

Before his head drops back to the pillow. 

He is obsessed with the babysitter role for the rest of the visit, and it’s the same scene with different caretaking roles. He loves being taken care of, and loves that he had no idea that he loved it until discovering it with me.

And so do I.


This babysitter fantasy is #2 of 4 dedicated to Bardia:

How we met: Young Persian Lover

Meeting in Boston: Hot Cougar Roleplay

Meeting in Cambridge: The Persian Lovers: Bardia at Cambridge

Like stories about Persians? Read about other Persian Lovers.

Like stories about age differences? Here’s more:

1: Becoming a cougar: Becoming a Cougar

2. Israeli at Burning Man: The Israeli Lovers: Nisim

3. Persian stripper at Burning Man: Persian Stripper

4. Indian lover in Muscat: The Indian Lovers: Ramadan

5. Flashback to when I was 19 (this one is about a younger woman/older man): The European Lovers: Amsterdam (Live Sex Shows)


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