Secret Porn Star Babysitter: Taboo Single Dad Scorching Affair

By Suzy Bright

Becca’s life is a double-edged fantasy. By day, she’s the playful, reliable babysitter for single dad David and his son Jake. By night, she’s a rising star in the adult film industry—a secret she guards fiercely. But when David’s rugged charm and quiet intensity ignite desires she can’t ignore, the line between her worlds begins to blur...

David, still reeling from his divorce, is determined to rebuild stability for Jake. Yet Becca’s bold confidence awakens something primal in him—a hunger he struggles to suppress. Everything changes one fateful night when he returns home early and discovers Becca draped in his bathrobe, her own explicit film glowing on his laptop screen. Instead of outrage, curiosity takes hold. “Teach me,” he murmurs, unleashing a torrent of sizzling tension neither can resist.

What follows is a crash course in passion. Becca, thrilled by David’s willingness to learn, guides him through her deepest fantasies—from adrenaline-fueled trysts in his backyard to reckless car encounters where every touch borders on madness. David, shedding his reserved shell, embraces a side of himself he never knew existed. But as their liaisons grow riskier—sneaking moments while Jake sleeps, pushing boundaries in every corner of the house—Becca’s fears mount. Could this secret cost her the family she’s come to adore?

Their escape to a secluded cabin becomes a turning point. Amidst moonlit woods and crackling fireplaces, raw desire gives way to vulnerability. David confesses he wants more than stolen nights; he wants her. Becca, torn between her chaotic double life and the warmth of David’s devotion, faces a choice: flee to protect them all... or risk everything for a love that could redefine her world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Suzy Bright
• Release date: Apr 5, 2025

Suzy Bright

Suzy Bright is a provocateur with a pen, crafting stories that peel back the velvet curtain on desire, power, and the messy magic of human connection. With a wink and a whip-smart voice, she explores the intersections of lust and liberation, giving readers permission to indulge their darkest curiosities—no judgment, just juice.

Book preview

Chapter one

Becca tugs at the hem of her skirt—just short enough to catch attention, just long enough to suggest professionalism—as she stands on the porch of the two-story suburban home. The doorbell's chime echoes inside, and her heart matches its rhythm, a staccato of nerves and anticipation. She's played many roles before—the innocent schoolgirl, the demanding boss, the insatiable neighbor—but responsible babysitter feels strangely more exposing than any scene she's filmed.

Footsteps approach, heavy and deliberate. The door swings open, and Becca's practiced smile freezes on her face. David Anderson is nothing like the balding, middle-aged dad she'd pictured from their phone conversation. He stands in the doorframe like he owns more than just the house—like he owns the very air around him. His jawline could cut glass, shadowed with just enough stubble to make her fingers itch to feel its roughness. His shoulders stretch the fabric of his button-down shirt in ways that make her think of other things stretching, filling, pressing against tight spaces.

Becca, right? His voice is deep, the kind that resonates in places polite conversation shouldn't reach. Come on in.

Yes, that's me. Her voice emerges steadier than she feels. Thank you for considering me for the position.

The double entendre slips into her mind unbidden, and she bites the inside of her cheek to keep from smirking. Professional, she reminds herself. You're here to be professional.

The living room is tastefully furnished—leather couch, abstract art, a few toys tucked away in a corner basket. A home in transition, still finding its identity after the departure of a woman's touch. Becca wonders absently how long he's been divorced, whether he's been with anyone since.

Can I get you something to drink? Water? Coffee? David gestures toward the kitchen.

Water would be great, thanks.

As he turns, Becca allows herself a quick, appreciative glance at the way his jeans hug his ass. A familiar warmth blooms between her thighs. She crosses her legs, pressing them together, the slight pressure a teasing reminder of needs temporarily shelved.

So, he says, returning with two glasses, you mentioned you have experience with children?

Yes, I've been babysitting since I was sixteen. This, at least, is true. Before she found her way into more lucrative employment, she'd built quite the reputation as the neighborhood's favorite sitter. I'm great with all ages, but especially six to ten. That's Jake's age, right? Eight?

David smiles, the expression softening the sharp edges of his face, making him somehow even more attractive. He'll be nine next month. Good memory.

It's important to remember the details. Becca takes a sip of water, letting the glass linger against her lower lip a moment longer than necessary. Children notice when adults actually listen to them.

And what about your other job? You mentioned you're working through college?

The question is innocent enough, but Becca feels her pulse quicken. Digital media consulting, she says, the rehearsed line flowing smoothly. Mostly freelance work I can do from my laptop during downtime. Nothing that would interfere with watching Jake.

Nothing, that is, except the occasional video shoot where she's bent over various furniture pieces, moaning for the camera as men with bodies like David's—though rarely faces as handsome—fill her with mechanical precision.

That sounds flexible, David nods. I work long hours sometimes. Investment banking. The divorce has... complicated things. His gaze drops briefly, vulnerability flickering across his features before the confident mask slips back into place. Jake's mother moved across the country. It's just us now.

That must be tough. Becca leans forward, genuine sympathy mixing with the desire to close the distance between them. For both of you.

Dad? A small voice interrupts from the staircase. Is she the new babysitter?

Jake stands halfway down the stairs, a robot toy clutched in one hand, curiosity written across his face. His hair is the same dark brown as his father's, his eyes holding the same intensity, though softened by childhood innocence.

Come down and meet Ms. Becca, David says, his voice gentling in a way that makes Becca's chest tighten with an unfamiliar ache.

Jake approaches with the cautious dignity of a child trying to appear grown-up. Hi, he says, extending his hand with adorable formality. I'm Jake. I'm in third grade and I know all the planets, even the dwarf ones.

Becca shakes his hand, charmed despite herself. That's very impressive, Jake. I'd love to hear about them sometime. Maybe you could teach me?

His face brightens. Really? Dad bought me this telescope but he doesn't know how to use it right.

David laughs, the sound rich and warm. I'm learning, he defends himself. Just not as quickly as this budding astronomer would like.

Something shifts in the room, the air charging with possibilities. Becca can picture it now: evenings spent helping Jake with homework at the kitchen table, the brush of David's hand as he passes her on his way to the refrigerator, loaded glances over the head of a child oblivious to the current passing between adults.

Do you like macaroni and cheese? Jake asks, his expression serious. Because that's my favorite, but Ms. Sharon always made it wrong. Too mushy.

I make excellent macaroni and cheese, Becca assures him. Perfectly al dente with extra cheese.

What's al den-tay?

It means not mushy, she explains with a conspiratorial wink.

Dad, can she be our babysitter? Please? Jake looks up at his father, eyes wide with hope.

David's gaze meets Becca's, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Well, I think that's a yes from the most important critic. The job is yours if you want it, Becca. Three afternoons a week and occasional evenings? We can discuss the schedule in more detail.

I'd love that. Her response comes perhaps too quickly, too eagerly, but she doesn't care. The prospect of spending time in this house, with these two males—one she wants to nurture, one she wants to devour—fills her with anticipation.

They discuss salary and emergency contacts, allergies and bedtime routines. All the while, Becca is hyper-aware of David's presence—the way he gestures when explaining something important, the slight crease between his brows when he concentrates, the veins visible on his forearms when he rolls up his sleeves.

I think that covers everything, David says finally. Can you start Monday?

Absolutely.

Jake has wandered back upstairs, leaving them alone again. David walks her to the door, his hand hovering near the small of her back, not quite touching but close enough that Becca imagines she can feel the heat of his palm through her blouse.

Thank you for this opportunity, she says at the threshold, the words carrying more meaning than they should.

I think we're the lucky ones, he replies, his eyes dropping briefly to her lips before meeting her gaze again. Jake already likes you, and that's not easy these days.

Becca nods, backing away before she does something stupid like press her body against his in the doorway. Monday, then.

The weekend crawls by, each hour stretching into eternity as Becca finds herself thinking about David at the most inappropriate moments—like during a video call with her agent about an upcoming film opportunity, or while shopping for groceries, or especially late at night when her hand slips between her legs and she imagines different fingers, larger and rougher, exploring her wetness.

Monday afternoon finds her standing on the same porch, this time with a backpack containing her laptop (for actual schoolwork, though she has other files hidden in encrypted folders), some books she thought Jake might enjoy, and a change of clothes in case of spills or impromptu science experiments.

David opens the door, dressed in a charcoal suit that makes Becca's mouth go dry. His tie is navy blue with subtle silver threading, and she imagines using it to pull him down to her level, to wrap it around her wrists as he—

Right on time, he says approvingly, stepping back to let her in. Jake's just getting home from school. The bus drops him at the corner in about five minutes.

Perfect timing then. She follows him inside, her eyes tracking the strong line of his back, the way the suit jacket defines his shoulders. You look nice, she adds, immediately regretting the comment. Too personal, too obvious.

But David just smiles, adjusting his cufflinks—steel and onyx, she notices, elegant against his tanned skin. Thank you. Big client meeting. I should be back around seven, if that works for you?

Of course, she says. Take your time.

He shows her around quickly—where snacks are kept, Jake's homework station, emergency numbers on the fridge. The tour ends in the kitchen, where David gathers his keys and briefcase.

Jake knows the rules. No sugar after six, homework before TV, bed by eight-thirty. He'll try to negotiate, but don't let those puppy eyes fool you.

Becca laughs. I'm immune to puppy eyes. Professional hazard.

With babysitting, she means, though her mind flashes to the pleading looks of men on set, begging for her attention between takes, their eager eyes following her every move.

The front door opens with a bang, and Jake's voice calls out: Dad! Ms. Becca! I saw a hawk on the way home and it was carrying something in its claws!

David shoots her an amused look. And so it begins. Sure you're ready for this?

Becca smiles, confidence settling over her like a second skin. More than ready.

The afternoon passes in a blur of homework help, snack preparation, and detailed explanations of planetary movements. Jake is bright and curious, and Becca finds herself genuinely enjoying his company. By the time she's serving him dinner—chicken nuggets shaped like dinosaurs, because why not—she's almost forgotten the inappropriate thoughts she'd been harboring about his father.

Almost.

As she loads the dishwasher, her mind wanders to the master bedroom upstairs. What does David's bed look like? Is it made with military precision, or rumpled from a hasty departure this morning? Does he sleep naked, the sheets sliding against his skin? Does he touch himself at night, thinking of faceless women, or perhaps specific ones?

Would he think of her?

Becca shivers, closing the dishwasher with more force than necessary. These thoughts won't lead anywhere good. David is her employer, a single father looking for reliable childcare, not a potential conquest.

But as she helps Jake brush his teeth and reads him a chapter from his current favorite book, as she tucks him in with his collection of stuffed planets arranged in proper solar system order, as she moves through the quiet house straightening pillows and wiping counters, her mind continues its dangerous wandering.

In the living room, she notices a framed photo of David and Jake at what appears to be a baseball game. David's arm is around his son, his smile wide and genuine, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that makes Becca's chest tighten. It's those little details—the humanity behind the fantasy—that make him dangerous. She doesn't just want to fuck David Anderson; she wants to know him, to see that smile directed at her, to feel those arms around her for reasons that go beyond the physical.

The sound of keys in the lock startles her from her reverie.