Kingpin’s Nanny: a Spicy Age Gap Grumpy-Sunshine Romance
Kingpin’s Nanny: Chapter 2

The previous evening

I fucking hate Christmas. As if it weren’t bad enough that I lost my sister five years ago at this time of year, I have to give the love of my life permission to stay away from me. Apparently, it’s unreasonable to expect a nanny to not have Christmas Eve and Christmas Day off.

The mouse I’m clicking around with on some shitty website that’s full of useless ads and orange banners that mean nothing cracks as I clench my fist over it.

Fuck. Another thing to buy from this hellhole site.

I bash “computer mouse” into the keyboard so hard that when the search offers me a keyboard and mouse combination, I hesitate. Maybe I should get that. Bella is causing high levels of frustration, so more breakages are almost certain. I sort by price and buy the top result without looking.

Being a billionaire has some advantages, although not ones that allow me to have what I really want: my niece’s nanny in my bed. That’s filthy. Forbidden. Wrong.

If only it didn’t feel so right. If only my cock didn’t think she’s the only exciting thing in the world. If only she weren’t objectively the most beautiful woman in the world, and far too young for my shit.

I’m tempted to just buy the expensive thing for Ivy’s present and get it done quickly, but instead I painstakingly check the reviews and ratings to replace the best e-reader for a six-year-old child. As I try to figure out the contradictory comments, I wish passionately that Bella was sitting in my lap, arm around my shoulders, and telling me the right thing to get for the baby I brought up.

In the end, I get the highest priced one. A tablet, with a pretty pink cover. I note the advice that I need to set up some sort of internet monitoring, so my niece doesn’t stumble into something age inappropriate. Like my whole bloody job.

The software automatically flags recent websites that will be banned for a child user, and I glance at the list. Yes, I do think arms dealers are better off not being accessible to Ivy. She’s dangerous enough with crayons. Then a website URL stops me dead.

OnlySantas.

What the fuck in my worst nightmares is that? Why has it been flagged? It sounds like an innocent, happy-clappy Christmas hell-hole from some dystopian mind-fuck. Nauseatingly cute.

I click the link, and my brows descend to below the floorboards. There’s an age check.

Not so innocent then.

I put in my date of birth, and it’s another reminder that I am twenty years older than the woman I should only want to protect, but actually want to own and fuck until she screams with pleasure and comes on my cock four times a night. The only way I prevent myself from doing that is ignoring when she’s sweet and funny, and restricting myself most days to five minutes in her presence while accompanied by my niece. She’s an excellent reminder of why I mustn’t touch Bella.

The website shows profiles of popular content makers, and I scroll down. It’s all wholesome and filthy. Santas doing all sorts of twisted things with fake snow, and snowmen. Men with white beards railing elf assistants. I have to admit, it’s fun, even if I absolutely do not want Ivy seeing this. This would be just right for…

Oh shit. My chirpy, sunshiney nanny.

Has she been watching a Santa Daddy do depraved things to Mother Christmas? I rub my palm down my face. No. I can’t dress up in a Santa costume. I can’t.

Can I?

It’s torturing myself, but I return to the website tracker and check which profiles she has been looking at. But no. The OnlySantas URLs all end with things like “profile set up” and “upload photo.jpg”. Then I see it. NannyBella.

That’s my girl. She’s mine. She cannot do this.

My heart in my throat, I click the link.

There’s a picture of her from the side and leaning back, face slightly obscured, dark hair falling over her naked shoulders. It’s the perfect combination of alluring and teasing.

No details about what she’ll do, or videos. I scan down the page, then I’m caught. A lot of people have already signed up for the free part of her show.

The red I’m seeing isn’t the cheerful seasonal colour of the website. It’s absolute rage.

I skim past the paltry amounts to be able to message her, or make a request, or whatever, and smash the button saying, “Buy Exclusive Time”, and thank fuck. For an amount of money that might seem a lot to most people I can have her whole evening. Just to myself.

I don’t even think. I have my credit card details in there and I book it before anyone else can. It’s only once I have confirmation that there will be no public show, and that I have the only link that she’ll stream to that I can breathe again.

Sweeping my hair back, I stare. I just spent enough to buy a small house on a sex show that I cannot watch.