Teacher's Assistant Part 1

Before we get to the incestuous rabbit sex, let's set the scene.

You live alone in a shitty apartment. Your soul-crushing 9 to 5 at Burger Bastard keeps you off the street, but it only barely covers the essentials. Ever since your landlord upped the rent to cover his new arm candy's taste in wine coolers, you've been looking on Daveslist for some side gigs or part time jobs to prevent you from falling into "ramen for breakfast" territory.

A few jobs have come and gone. There was that roofing job with the burly-ass badger dudes, the night shift security guard with the bats (you fell asleep) and even a daycare job which you almost immediately quit after one of the kids pissed in your cleverly-hidden flask of liquor. You just can't seem to win in this town.

One day, after weeks of searching for something that was neither a pyramid scheme nor physically impossible for you to do, you come upon a want ad for a "Teacher's Assistant."

Reading the listing, you notice a few odd requirements. "Must be male." Okay, yeah, you can kind of understand that. "Must follow directions to the letter." Okay... "Must be able to perform for at least an hour without stopping." Uhhh.

Below the requirements and the phone number is a picture of your potential future employer. An attractive, mature rabbit woman with an arm over her young daughter's shoulder. She's wearing a fancy red dress with a long skirt and a very, very low cut top. Jesus, you could lose yourself in that cleavage. Her daughter appears innocently young. Barely pubescent, if that. There's no evidence of a father in sight.

So a hot, stacked single mom with a daughter, and no man in the situation.

This is an ad for a man-whore.

That's totally what this is, you realize. This is an ad asking for someone to come to this woman's house and plow her until her brains leak out of her ears because raising a daughter alone is enough to turn her grey twenty years early and mama needs some good old fashioned stress relief.

You're totally doing it.

You don't care if it's not actually a paying job. You don't care if being some milf's boy toy will rid you of whatever self respect you still had. You're totally doing it. You can practically see the hunger in this lady's eyes. She wants the D and you just came up with an emergency D-livery okay that was pretty fucking terrible.

You ring up the number.

"Hello, you've reached the The Rabbit residence!"

It's her daughter.

"Uhh, yes, is your mother there?"

"One second." You hear the phone hit a table. "Mooooom! Phone for yooooouuu!"

Another awkward few seconds as you hear a pair of heels walk up on the tile floor.

"Hello there." Jesus Christ, that voice.

"Hi. Is Vanilla there?"

"This is she."

"My name is Anon. I'm calling about the Teacher's Assistant want ad you put up."

"Oh! Very good. I've received several inquiries..." Shit. "...but I obviously can't assess applicants over the phone."

"That's totally understandable." Yes, hit her with the awkward platitudes. Keep that spaghetti in your pockets, dammit. "Just know I'm available any time after five o'clock every day. All day if it's a weekend. Whatever time works for you."

"Hmm, how about we schedule an interview, say, over dinner at Clover's?" Oh, hell. She's going straight for it. Clover's is no Olive Garden, but it's some damn good eating. There's no way you can afford that shit.

"Well, under better circumstances--"

"I'm covering everything."

"Done. What time?"

"Eight p.m. tonight. Don't dress up and try to keep in in your pants."

"M-my wha?"

"Mom, what do you mean keep it in his-"

Click.

You feel... oddly alright with this. As if you had any self-respect to lose after working at Burger Bastard. As a matter of fact, you feel slightly giddy. You have an interview tonight to hopefully be chosen as a smoking hot rabbit mom's friend with benefits. It probably doesn't pay. Hell, why do you care? You don't need money when you're dead from drowning in pussy.

God, you hate your internal monologue sometimes.

8 o'clock rolls around and you decide not to dress up. Clover's is good, but what it's definitely not is fancy. The place is homely and lived-in, a mom and pop place that managed to survive (and in some cases outlive) every fast food joint in existence.

You wear your only polo shirt and some clean (you think) jeans. Vanilla meets you outside in that same low-cut dress. You try not to let your eyes bug out of your head and only succeed about halfway. She laughs, not moving to cover herself or slap you or anything. Oh, yeah, she wants the D bad.

She asks for a table for two and orders something called "Spaghetti Aglio Olio e Peperoncino." The only time you ever ate here you had water and infinite breadsticks so you just decide to parrot her. She orders wine. You order a diet somethingorother because you can't afford the Uber home.

There's no red sauce on the spaghetti. How is it even spaghetti without red sauce? You ask Vanilla this and she laughs. You have to admit, for a sauce with only like three ingredients this stuff's pretty good. You make a mental note to google how to make this Oglio Doglio Pepperoni stuff and then forget to actually do it.

Over dinner, the two of you get to conversing. It's so chock full of innuendo and sneaked peeks at almost-nipple that you're surprised she's not drawing penises in her Spaghettio Goblin Boglin or whatever it's called.

"So, can you work with kids?"

That's kind of off the wall. You thought you were swapping sly references to cock size. At least, if you were interpreting her oblique talk about "cooking with eggplant" correctly.

"Uhh, sure. I'm great with kids... so long as, you know, they're not real young, daycare-age types." You can still taste that Absolut Pikl. Blech. "Not like your daughter. She seemed like a nice enough girl on the phone."

Vanilla giggles to herself, a very noticeable booze blush on her face. "Well, of course. I wouldn't be asking you to help teach her if I didn't think she was capable of... well."

"Behaving herself?" you offer.

Vanilla bursts into another fit of giggles. "Yes. She's a very sweet girl. I think you'll like working with her."

"Well, you know..." This is it, move in for the kill. "...I'm mostly interested in working with you."

"Oh, trust me, honey." Hehehehe, she called you honey. "I'm well aware of how interested you are in me. But before we get to the payment, let's see you do the job first, hmm?"

"So does that mean I'm hired?"

"It means I'm considering you more than most. Currently-" she hiccups. "-I do believe I'm a bit too deep in my cups to make an informed decision tonight."

"That's funny. I was hoping to be deep in your cups tonight too."

By far the worst and most blatant joke you've made yet about her monumental bust. She barks out a guffaw before covering her mouth and glancing around, embarrassed, at the rest of the restaurant.

"I think it's time for me to go," she says, mortified. "I'll call myself a ride. Don't worry about-" she hiccups again. "-oh, dear, me."

Deciding swiftly that, in the end, you didn't really want to be there to help her though the inevitable hangover, you bid Vanilla a good night. Before you leave, she tells you to wait for a call in the next week or so.

For the next four days you're walking on air at Burger Bastard, humming to yourself as you flip patties and scrub plates. All you have to do is wait for a call from Missus The Rabbit, drive over to her place in the nice part of town, play at homeschooling her kid, and once the little one goes to bed, you're in. Life is good.

Finally, just as you get off work Friday afternoon, your cell phone rings. It's Missus The Rabbit.

"Hello?"

"Anon? It's Vanilla. You're on for tonight." Fuck yes. "How soon can you be here?"

"Well, I just got off work, so give me about an hour to get home, shower, and change. Unless you'd like me to shower there, of course." Real smooth, fucko.

"That comes later. I need you to do the job first. Help me with Cream's lesson, and then we'll discuss payment."

You practically blitz through your after-work routine. The steam from your shower hasn't had time to disperse by the time you're in a set of comfortable clothes and out the door.

You arrive at the The Rabbit house -- a nice one-story affair that's nearly identical to the rest of the houses in this suburb, which is a good sign. The freakiest ones always blend in with the crowd.

Vanilla answers the door wearing a bathrobe and absolutely nothing else. This is it. You're in.

"Good evening, Anon. Are you ready to get started?"

You're fucking in it to win it, dude.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good."

She leads you through the house -- which, while spacious and tidy, is oddly empty. Cream is nowhere to be seen. Vanilla opens the door to what appears to be the master bedroom and ushers you in.

"Where's, uh... your daughter? I assumed before we got to this point I'd be helping you teach her with, uh..."

"Oh, don't worry. The lesson is about to start."

Vanilla leaves you sitting on the bed to chew over that cryptic line. You don't have much time to think on it before both Vanilla and Cream appear.

Vanilla, the epitome of mature femininity. Curved in all the right places, enough assets to smother a man to death, and the air of a woman who knows exactly that about herself.

Cream, young and innocent. Barely a woman herself. Slender and understated with a bit of lean muscle. Unsure but open and curious.

Both of them standing in the bedroom doorway stark naked and looking straight at you.

"Cream, this is Mister Anon. He is your first lesson."