Mr Clark

This gave me my first real look at my boss. His body beading with water, his bare chest was covered in chest hair regrowth and wrapped around his waist was the brightest yellow towel I had ever seen. A towel the colour of Big Bird...and under that towel (that seemed to be barely hanging around him) was the biggest, fattest bulge I had ever seen. His large member was bent behind the towel, creating one half of the golden arches. It looked as if his dick was ready to sling shot the towel off of his body and it took all of my will power to not stare at it directly. The thought raced through my head, was Mr Clark a show-er or a grower? Did it have the capability of growing even bigger? What if his towel was propeled off his body by the power of his dick? This is the first part of a series of true stories of my sexual encounters and escapades



I was a complete nerd and tomboy in highschool, short blonde hair and a little socially awkward. The fact that I was a poor kid on a scholarship at an all girls private high school didn't help when it came down to fitting in with other girls my age. While all my classmates were hanging out together at the mall, discussing the latest episode of friends, I was by myself alternating between kayaking, reading and masturbating...a lot of masturbating....mostly masturbating.  

This was my routine until the summer after I turned 16 when my mom insisted (forced) me to get out of the house and do something with myself (get a job). At this point the only work experience I had was babysitting, so I hand drew a bunch of flyers- exhaggerating my skills as a babysitter / art instructor-  with pull off tabs at the bottom with my phone number.  I took my bike and posted the flyers at the obvious places, grocery stores, hardware stores, coffee shops, not really expecting any response. 

By the time I got back home it was my mother who relayed the message that I already recieved my first call from a potential client.   I called the number back and the man that picked up on the other end introduced himself as Mr Clark. A divorced father of 3 children, 2 boys aged 10 & 3 and a daughter aged 9.  He sounded somewhat desperate for a babysitter and asked if I could swing by his house for an interview. 

Less than 30 minutes later I showed up and knocked on his door.  I wasn't prepared for what faced me when the door opened.  This couldn't be him, he didn't look some father dude, he was hot. Hot in that business man way, nothing like the socks in sandals type I was expecting.  He took his hand out to shake mine, it was a big hand with a tight grip that swallowed up my little hand, a hand so big that  I imagined those school yard stories of how a boys hand spread was a direct exact mesaument of their penis. 

He was just as taken aback as I was, stammering out loud,
"I..I..I thought you were older.."

I wasn't sure how to respond, and he continued for me,

"Your ad made you seem, um, more mature.  Our last nanny was an older Philipeno lady...she quit, couldn't handle the kids.  They're a bit of handful..look..I really need someone.  Can you start tomorrow morning 8:30? I'll pay you $5 each kid per hour"

I wasn't really in the position to weigh my options since this was the only one on the table so I agreed.



I showed up the next morning promptly after my morning kayaking practice, Mr Clark answered the door, dressed in that perfectly tailored business suite, a little bit flustered and in a rush.  He quickly introduced me to his offspring and directed me to a list he had written waiting for me at the kitchen table, and before I knew it he was out the door without another word.  

The note was a list of chores and demands written in point form, ranging from laundry to dishes and everything in between.  Signed at the bottom was Mr Clark and his title of President with the phone number where he worked.  I felt deep down that this was a test, almost as if Mr Clark was setting me up for failure...To me this was the greatest motivator, I thrived on challenges and wasn't going to let myself fail.  That day not only did I have his kids complete all the chores on his list, I taught them make brownies...from scratch.  


Mr Clark walked through the door, with an air of defiancy, as if he was expecting to return to a home in disarray full of clutter.  Instead, he was greeted by a pristine kitchen and his 3 children smiling, holding out the tray of freshly baked brownies. 
The boasted in unison,

"We made you brownies!"

His reactive response was
"We don't have brownie mix..."

"They made them from scratch" I firmly asserted.

The reaction from his face was of a man defeated.  This was someone who was used to being right.  Used to winning. Used to being in control.  Here I was, standing there, gloating in my pride of winning.  I wasn't sure yet what I had won, but I knew I had just proven a grown man wrong...


The next morning was very different than the first.  I showed up at 8:30 on the dot, only  this time instead of being greated by a well suited man, Mr Clark opened the door wrapped up in a towel, fresh out of the shower.  This gave me my first real look at my boss.  His body beading with water, his bare chest was covered in chest hair regrowth and wrapped around his waist was the brightest yellow towel I had ever seen.  A towel the colour of Big Bird...and under that towel (that seemed to be barely hanging around him) was the biggest, fattest bulge I had ever seen.  His large member was bent behind the towel, creating one half of the golden arches.  It looked as if his dick was ready to sling shot the towel off of his body and it took all of my will power to not stare at it directly.  The thought raced through my head, was Mr Clark a show-er or a grower?  Did it have the capability of growing even bigger? What if his towel was propeled off his body by the power of his dick? 

I followed him into the kitchen, where he decided to casually lean back, propping the back of his elbows onto the kitchen island, thrusting his hips outward. Thank god for my excellent peripheral vision, as I was somehow able to maintain eye contact throughout our conversation, all the while still spying on his package.  Looking back now in retrospect, I must have had the same effect on him.  The tomboy in me refused to wear bras, seeing them as a sign of female repression, instead opting for vintage cotton tees, naive to the fact that these shirts gave full view of the status of my nipples.  
Nipples that were hard from bike riding early in the morning.
Nipples that were still slightly damp from kayaking practice.
Nipples that Mr Clark undoubtably noticed...


to be continued...