The Nanny

by Lana Ferguson

I mean, good tits should really earn their keep. I think Margaret Thatcher said that once.

I realize this thought process makes little sense, but all I know is I am five seven with tits worth paying for, an ass built on squats and an emotional connection with bread, and this man makes me feel tiny.

His eyes are a clash of one brown and one green, the colors not bright but subtle, like warm tea and seawater that are hard to look away from.

I should stop staring at his hands, in any case. Even if they are large enough to make a girl mentally calculate when her last date was.

“First of all, you assume any fault to be had is with the man. You have good tits and a better brain, and that means you are automatically hands above the rest.”

“Shh,” he soothes, his hand reaching to cup my jaw as his thumb presses against my lips. “Be good, Cassie. You have to be good so I can fuck you.”