Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Hapless Son

   It's a difficult situation to be smarter than your legal guardian
(mother, in my own case) and powerless to persuade said guardian.  My mom
is a type-A reactionary scatterbrain, and she's got it tough.  Dad left us
before I even knew who he was - I was only two - and she was all of twenty
years old, having to provide food, clothing, and shelter for both of us on
a waitress' salary.  When I reached school age she took a second job, and
I'm sure such responsibility only sharpened her personality over the years.
She became fanatically protective of me.  Sure she's proud of my scholastic
achivements, but she seems to think I'm made of eggshell.  She changed
schools on me twice because I accidentally got a black eye (the first time)
and a sprained wrist (the second time) playing soccer at recess.  I wasn't
getting in fights, no one was picking on me - but mom just thought I was in
danger.  I liked playing soccer - I'm sure I still would - but I just
stopped because I was tired of mom making such a big deal every time
something happened.  It reached the point where mom cut back to one job so
as to be home more often to "protect" me.

   Besides normal parental concern and mom's innate paranoia, there's
something else at work: my size.  I should say, my lack of it.  I'll always
be mom's little boy, and the fact that I almost literally look like a
little boy just keeps that fresh in her head.  And no, puberty won't be
saving me - been there, done that.  At my last check-up a month ago, doctor
said it's all behind me now, and that I'd be lucky to reach five foot two.
And what's more, none of what I eat sticks to me.  If I push the scale past
110, it's only because I'm wearing work boots.  (Not that I work - mom has
forbidden that, too)

   Mom is nothing like me.  Not in terms of intellect, nor in terms of
temprament, nor in terms of body type.  She is an enormous woman, towering
more than a foot above me at six foot two.  She must weigh...I don't know -
270, 280?  And she's very round and plump, but she's got plenty of muscle
in there too.  Whenever we clean the apartment, I'm always astounded by the
way she just moves big heavy stuff around like it's nothing.  Beds,
dressers, chests-of-drawers, you name it.  I'm not any help in that way, so
she usually has me doing detail-type work, like dusting or glass cleaning.
But I digress - the point is, you factor in my delicate physique plus mom's
superhuman strength plus mom's superhuman tendency to frighten and
overreact, then you could understand, to an extent, why she would feel so
protective.

   Most of the time, I can deal with it.  Since I was twelve, I could
forecast her upcoming bouts of protective parenting.  What I noticed was
that when I watched the news, periodically a child kidnapping (and/or rape
and/or murder, or some combination of all three) would become a national
story.  Mom would hear that story and immediately decide that I was in
danger.  (Never mind that the overall statistics for all three of those
crimes have been in decline - if one telegenic kid in Florida was in
danger, then so was I) And she'd act accordingly - for her.  Sometimes,
she'd place our heaviest furniture in front of all potential points of
entry at night for weeks at a time.  Other times, she'd put me to bed
early. (How this was supposed to protect me from kidnappers was probably
only clear to mom) Since I was twelve, she has sometimes decided that I was
safest in her bed.  I had been in my own room for good since age seven, but
there were, until recently, four separate occasions when I was made to
share her bed (by now I've lost count, but that's jumping ahead).  This
decision was...baffling?  Unfortunate?  Yeah, I'll go with unfortunate. 
Anyway, mom sharing her bed to keep me safe was the most unfortunate choice
she could have made.

   For starters, just what would be accomplished if a
killer/kidnapper/rapist came into our room while we were asleep?  If he
came for me, first he'd kill her as she slept, then he'd have me.  If she
heard a noise and checked to investigate, then I'd be in the room alone -
which would have been the case anyway if I had been in my room in the first
place.

   Next, consider basic biology.  Now, let me make myself absolutely clear:
I am not sexually attracted to my mother.  Period.  But I don't care who
you are and who else is involved, certain types of body contact can and
very often will arouse.  At least it does for me.  I hit puberty early -
for all the good that did - and my hormones have raged for many years. 
Hell, I can even remember having erections as a young child.  To put my
situation in a familiar context, I have a low threshold for sexual arousal.

   Well, fast forward to mother's shared bed protection scheme.  Not only
do I sleep in only my underwear, but as it turns out, so does she.  Just a
bra and panties for mother.  The first time she had me stay with her, I
tried shorts and a t-shirt - not a chance.  Way too hot and the clothes
were bunching up in ways that kept me wide awake.  What's more, mom sleeps
on a not so aptly-named double bed.  It might fit two people my size, but
mom takes up most of it.  And of course, the cheap mattress just sinks
right down where she lays and I tumble in the hole more often than not.  So
basically we lay down in direct contact.  Mom doesn't bat an eye at any of
this and she's usually asleep within five minutes.  When I have to spend
the night with her, sometimes it's one or two in the morning before I'm
asleep.  And that's if I can even stay asleep.  Mom will often snore me
awake in the middle of the night.  Or sometimes I'll inadvertently touch
her butt or a breast, and that jolts me awake.  (And with an instant
erection, I'm sad to report.) We usually fall asleep in a sort of spoon
position, with me on the inside.  Sleeping alone I almost always rub one
out before I fall asleep; I can't even consider it in this situation.  Too
much risk involved.  It's hard to sleep through blue balls.

   But while I've always looked forward to leaving home for good, recent
events have turned my wishes into outright yearning.  And it all started
with a bowl of cereal.

   Mom was out of the house on an off day (she never thinks I'd be a crime
statistic during the day, oddly enough) when I woke up about 10:00, hungry
as usual.  Thankfully, we had Peanut Butter Crunch in the house and plenty
of milk.  My mouth was watering the second I thought of it.  (Love those
sugary breakfast cereals!) I walked into the kitchen and opened the
cabinet. Frustratingly, I couldn't see a single bowl in there.  I checked
the drawers around and below the oven - did I really want to eat out of a
pan?  Besides, I knew those pans had been there awhile and were probably
dirty; most of the time we microwaved our food.

   As I pondered the question of how I would consume my cereal, I noticed a
medium-sized mixing bowl at the very top shelf in the cabinet.  There was a
clean bowl after all!  However, it was a very long way up to get to it. 
The countertop offered me not a single foothold - it was strewn about with
all sorts of small appliances.  There was a ladder available, but it was
outside on the terrace.  Big pain in the ass just for a bowl.  No, I
decided, one of the kitchen chairs will suffice.

   I steadied myself while standing on the chair with a much easier reach
for the bowl.  What started out as a difficult problem was proving much
easier.  Unfortunately, I never heard mom open the door.

   "Are you awake!?" She shouted, not knowing I was in the kitchen.  She
had yet to turn the corner.  Well, the surprise of her booming, perpetually
angry-sounding voice startled me, and I could feel myself begin to topple.
Instinctively, I reached for the cabinet to steady myself - with both
hands. To do that, I had to let go of the frosted-glass bowl, which
predictably looked a lot less like a bowl after my quick reaction.

   If you were an overreactive, overprotective, type-A mother, and you
turned the corner just as a glass bowl shattered right in front of you, and
your woefully undersized sixteen year old son was standing on top a chair
in his tighty-whities, the obvious culprit in the destruction of said bowl,
wouldn't you basically just freak out to an overly exaggerated degree?  In
loud hysterical fashion?

   If you answered no, haven't you been reading?  Pay attention.

   I could relate the wailing, dramatic admonishments and declarations of
my Wagnerian mother, but it would take up way too much space, just as she
herself does.  Suffice it to say that a couple of minutes passed as I
continued to stand on a chair, unable to walk across the glass shards
minefield in my bare feet.

   "Come here, you," mom said after her angry/frightened tirade, holding
her arms out to me.

   I didn't want her to carry me - she still does it occasionally and it
burns me up every time - but I didn't think it was best to object right
now. Mom's a powder keg and I don't want to set her off.  I haven't been
spanked in some time, but that option seems to be on the table for her
right now.

   She grabbed hold of me and placed me on her right hip, her huge hand
blanketing my bottom.  Walking toward the bedrooms, she set me down after
apparently getting clear of the broken glass.

   "Just wait in the bedroom while I clean up out here.  Go get dressed and
put on some shoes too - I don't want you cutting your feet if I miss
anything.  After I clear the floor, you and I are going to have a talk."

   A talk!  Damn.  I'd almost rather have the spanking.

   ***

   I walked toward the kitchen with obvious trepidation.  She had just
bellowed my name to summon me, and her voice still had an angry charge in
it.  This wasn't going to be good.

   As I turned the corner, I saw mom sitting on the same chair I had just
stood on, legs slightly apart.  My legs wobbled a little - I thought I was
going to get that spanking after all.

   "Come - sit down," said mom, her left arm extended.  I was supposed to
sit in her lap now.

   Good news out of the way - there was no spanking.  That was the only bit
of good news I received.  The rest of the news was less welcome.

   "Daniel, you know I worry about you," she began with one of the great
understatements of our time, "and I try to be here for you.  I really do.
I'm sure it costs us money for me to do so, but today just proves that even
when I'm off, you're not safe.  Well, I've figured out a way to keep you
safer and for us to have more money coming in."

   Uh oh.  I had no idea what was coming but I knew I wouldn't like it.  I
began to protest but she cut me off quickly.

   "You hush.  My mind is made up.  What's going to happen is that things
are going to stay just as they are until I can find you a babysitter."

   A babysitter?!?

   "When I do find one, I'll take a nighttime waitressing job and we'll
have more money coming in, plus you'll be supervised all the time.  Won't
that be better for us both?"

   If being a mite-sized teenage boy without a job, friends, or a driver's
license and sitting in the lap of a giant, super-strong, paranoid mother
wasn't the definition of hitting rock bottom, it's only because being that
same boy with a babysitter was a step further down.  And I just found out
that I would be in that very position soon enough.

   ***

   The rest of that day (and in fact the intervening two weeks) were OK. 
Granted, I didn't win any more privileges, and because I was assaulted by a
flying bowl the moment she turned her head, I was forced to sleep in her
bed every night since.  But I didn't have my babysitter yet, and mom was
nice enough to take me to the city pool on her off days.  I love being
outside and swimming laps whenever I can, plus there's always cute girls
from the other schools hanging out.  None of them are looking at me,
naturally - most of them are bigger than I am and I swim in powder blue
Speedos.  Of course mom would buy me the most humiliating swimwear possible
- she couldn't be bothered to spend ten more dollars on the knee-length
suit.  All in all, though, my trips to the city pool made my summer more
bearable.

   Then one Sunday afternoon, my summer went from worse to really, really,
really worse.

   Mom and I were at the city pool again and I was having my usual decent
time - my swimming was improving, my skin was a healthy shade of less pale,
and there was a trio of hispanic girls that were knocking my figurative
socks off.  One in particular seemed, dare I say it, attracted to me.  (I
don't think she saw me out of the water yet.)

   I was relaxing after a few hard laps, treading water with the pool's
edge behind me when I heard mom.  Actually, with the sudden shadow behind
me I figured somebody big walked up and thought it could be mom.  Then she
spoke, removing all doubt.

   "Hey, little D." Mom said affectionately but clueless as always.  Here
she had thought up this term of endearment, and in reality it's a
none-too-veiled insult about a male's endowment.  Typically, she never
considered that.

   "Hey mom."

   "Were you going to swim some more laps?  Because I'd like for you to
meet someone."

   Oh no.  Something bad was going to happen.  Basically, any time mom did
anything outside our established routine, it was bad news for me.  But what
could I do?  I was the lab animal in this relationship.

   "Uh, n-no," I said nervously while turning around to look up at her.

   "Good," she replied, reaching down toward me, hands aiming for my
armpits.  I felt a sudden stab of panic - mom was going to pick me up out
of the water!

   "Mom!  No!" When mom upset me, I often got rather shrill and whiny
which, for all reasons obvious, reinforced mom's idea that I was still a
little boy.

   "Daniel, son, come here!" she hissed, crouching lower to get a better
hold of me.

   I couldn't help losing my temper once she had me in her grip.  Oh, if
only I could have.

   "GodDAMN it, mom!  Stop!!"

   Hoo boy.  That did it.  Whenever mom was provoked, heaven help you.  She
was always a bit on edge, but my petulant outburst turned her into a bull
in a china shop.  She yanked me from the water at all speed and marched
angrily toward our belongings, swatting my bottom twice in the process.  It
stung, to be sure, but the acute embarrassment was far, far worse.  I
probably mouth off to Mom once every two years on the average - like an
idiot, I did it in a public place this time.

   Mom didn't show the slightest interest in letting me down to walk.  She
was rather upset with my show of defiance and this humiliation was the best
way for her to pay me back.  There were grade schoolers running around free
- and I was the one being hauled around like a sack of groceries.  Putting
the cherry on top of this foul-tasting sundae, I glimpsed the three
hispanic girls from before as I dared to look up from mom's endless
shoulder.  They were highly amused - tickled, even - by my plight.  To be
sure, I was now convinced that if the one girl found me attractive before,
this display had to have put her off.  She had a good laugh though, and I
guess I'll take credit for it, even if it came at my expense.

   As we approached the table holding our towels and things, there were two
women seated there I hadn't seen before.  When mom sat down (placing me on
her lap, naturally), I saw that the two women were, in fact, woman and
girl. On the left sat the woman, looking thirty-some years old, a rather
exceptionally attractive woman in fact.  Her dark brown hair was pulled
back into a comfortable ponytail, her cheeks sweetly brushed by sunlight
with just a smidgeon of freckling.  She had that sexy, sparse freckling,
not the bizarre, rampant blotching that some women have.  Two huge,
smoldering Persian eyes were intense, but not at all penetrating or
intimidating.  They were inviting eyes, the kind that suggest a smile even
when the bearer of those eyes wore a neutral expression.  She had the sort
of cheeks that were tastefully plump though never in danger of looking like
too much face.  Her nose was more or less proportional to the rest of her
face, her mouth was wonderfully shaped even if her lips were a bit on the
thin side.  What I guess I'm trying to say is that I was instantly
attracted, but of course even if she and I were about the same age, I have
so many strikes against me that it wouldn't matter.  In the first place,
there's the size thing.  This woman is sitting down, but it seems likely
that she's in mom's neighborhood, heightwise.

   For that matter, so was the girl.  I deduced that the girl was the
daughter of that beautiful woman, though there wasn't a whole lot of
resemblance between the two.  Their faces had the same kind of look to
them, the kind of thing that only happens among families.  In the same
vein, I have often caught myself passing along some expression or other
which originated from mom.  This galled me.  How could I ever sink so low
as to using the sort of expressions mom favors?  It flies in the face of
the intelligent discourse I aspire to.  But I digress.

   The girl was less beautiful than her mom, but hardly unattractive, and
to be fair, she wasn't a finished product.  She had to be around fifteen, I
reckoned, but she was a young fifteen.  Her face was rounder than her
mom's, kind of moon-faced, with some age-appropriate pimples.  (Nothing too
unsightly, but noticeable) She had shortish, dark dirty-blonde hair, fairly
narrow eyes (I couldn't tell the color, but they seemed lighter than her
mom's), an unnaturally thin nose, and a narrow mouth with two rather
impressive lips.  The mom had her well and truly beat in most departments,
but the girl had a real top-notch set of lips, no denying it.  Well, I
guess the girl had her in bodyweight too.  The girl was wider and rounder
than her mom.  (It was easy to see that the mom, while not model-thin, kept
a lot less flesh on her than my mom does.)

   "I'm sorry that took so long," mom began, sounding more in control of
her emotions than I knew she wasn't right now, "but little Daniel here was
being a pill."

   Yep, this is making a great impression.

   "Anyway, this is...Daniel, stop being rude." I was so embarrassed by
what was happening, I just couldn't face these two.  I didn't know what we
were doing here, talking to the woman and her daughter, but I just wanted
to crawl in a hole and die.  A painful squeeze of mom's hand around my
upper arm gave me the focus she needed.  "Daniel, this is Dana Winters and
her daughter Natalie.  Ladies, this is my son, Daniel."

   Dana stuck her hand out first.  "Hi Daniel.  Nice to meet you!  I'm
Dana." To my humiliation, her tone of voice suggested she either assumed I
was under ten or that I was some sort of mental case.  Neither scenario did
me credit, but I hoped it was the former.  It's hard to relate exactly how
patronizing and overly enthusiastic her tone was.  I've said hello to
kindergartners in much the same way.  Oh, and I should add that I only
shook part of her hand.  Seriously, this was the biggest mitt I'd ever seen
- noticeably bigger than mom's, which dwarfed mine.

   I then pressed the flesh with Natalie, who was much more sober and
respectful than the mom.  Almost a peer-to-peer sort of regard.  (Almost,
let me be clear) That earned her points in my book.  And this hand, though
naturally not so large as her mom's, was enormous also.  Maybe a touch
smaller than my mom's, maybe about the same.  I only relate these details
because 1) I'm size conscious to start with and 2) it then dawned on me
that Dana was going to be my babysitter and of course, mom would have to
hire someone naturally equipped to make me feel like an insect.

   By the end of the meeting, I longed for the times I felt like an insect.

   "Dana and I have been working together for over a year, and I told her
about you.  Wouldn't you know, Natalie is a babysitter and she's been
looking for work recently.  So we just put two and two together, and bam!
Natalie is your new babysitter," mom said to me with rare gusto.

   Oh.  So....wait.  What?  But I thought that Dana"Honey, you're lucky,
getting to watch such a little cutie!" said the sexy, patronizing Dana to
Natalie.  My erection, always on high alert while at the pool, was now at
DefCon 5.  Hearing this gorgeous woman compliment me so dismissively was
arousing as hell.  All this while seated in the vast lap of my mother - you
don't know what an immense turn-on humiliation can be.  I can't stand it,
but there it is.

   "Uh, well, uh-" I said thoughtfully.

   "Daniel, what school do you go to?" Natalie asked me, with a slight
maternal tone.  She seemed to be abandoning the idea that she and I are
equals in any way.

   "Mort Levinson high."

   "Ooh, a high schooler!" Dana exclaimed with genuine surprise.  She
didn't lose the patronizing tone, however.

   "Didn't I tell you, Dana?" asked mom.

   "No.  The way you talked about him, I thought he was eight or nine."

   Big surprise.  It's how she treats me.

   "Then when I saw you carrying him over here, I thought he might even be
younger.  But then when he spoke and he sounded much older, I was
surprised."

   Yes, my voice did change a couple of years back, but not by much.  All
puberty did for it was to take most of the feminine edge off - it's
actually still kind of high pitched.

   "Levinson high - mom, that's where I'll be going after next year!"

   Let's just say I tuned out the rest of the conversation.  This big
galoot of a girl, my new babysitter, just finished seventh grade! 
Seventh!! I just finished my goddamn sophomore year and the girl my mother
brings in to supervise me is in junior high!  I could feel, if not actually
hear, my face turning red.  Meanwhile, mom and the Winters ladies carried
on the conversation without me.  To punctuate my lowly status in the
quartet, mom conversed with the Winters while idily towel-drying and
putting my t-shirt on me, like I was just the sort of toddler one could
tend to while multitasking.  I offered no resistance - I had much bigger
worries now.

   In a fog, I stood up with mom and the Winters, feeling a bit like a
turtle in the Redwood Forest.  Mom was the tallest of this bunch, but it
was a close contest among the three.  I was dimly aware that proceedings
were wrapping up, my mind more preoccupied with the reality of my
ever-diminishing status.  It didn't help that the three ladies carried on
as though I wasn't there.  (Maybe it was like the roller coaster rides:
"You must be this tall to be in the conversation.") As the chatter
continued, I grew impatient with the situation and started for the car. 
One step in, and my legs wobbled.  Maybe it was the swimming, the sun, my
not having eaten in quite some time, or the constant DefCon 5 erection, but
I buckled and headed for a fall.  Mom was all over it, grabbing my upper
arm and to stop me from a spill.  I looked up at her plaintively.  That's
how bad it got.  I was so completely beaten, I wanted her to carry me back
to the car.

   As she is only capable of merciful acts which serve to take me down a
peg or two, mom complied.  Scooping me up onto her hip, her huge hand
blanketing my bottom, mom bid farewell to the Winters.  "We'd better go. 
He's had a long day."

   ***

   You know, for most people, it's really a bad situation when you look
forward to school.  Everybody hates school.  You get up early and you have
to sit through boring material no one ever needs to know.  That's supposed
to be what school is; it's been portrayed that way in movies and TV shows
for ages.

   I've always been against the grain in that way.  I like school.  I like
learning and making good grades and expanding my mind.  I like being in
demand when tests come around.  I like spotting errors on tests or in
lectures, thereby demonstrating that my store of knowledge is greater than
that of the person trying to teach me.  But school is even better than that
for me.  In school, I'm a real person.  I don't have to share a bed with
Mother Sumo at school.  I don't have to have a babysitter at school
(please, no ironic comments about the role played by teachers in
present-day schools, thanks).  No one at school thinks I'm perpetually
endangered by sexual predators and serial killers.

   School starts on September third.  Today is June 28th.  June 28th also
happens to be the same day mom starts her second job.  And in turn, this
marks perhaps the first time in recorded history a thirteen year-old girl
babysits a sixteen year-old boy.

   I was sitting still on the couch, doing absolutely nothing.  I didn't
know what to do.  I couldn't relax.  I couldn't read, mess around online,
work on my models, nothing.  The figurative date with the electric chair
was approaching and no one was calling with a pardon.  Natalie was coming
at around 4:30, which was just five minutes away.  In the background, the
hair dryer roared constantly as mom got herself together for her first
shift at Chez Nuevo.  With all due respect, I didn't think someone of Mom's
dimensions would ever have a shot at a high-class place like Chez Nuevo. 
But mom is a great waitress, no question, and people take notice.  You can
have a less-than-ideal look if you can keep people coming back, and mom
does.

   I'm not kidding, the doorbell rang just a beat after mom switched off
the hair dryer.  "Daniel, answer the door, that should be Natalie."

   Boy, did that make the legs quiver.

   I answered the door.  Natalie certainly filled a doorway, that's for
sure.

   "Hi, Danny," she said sweetly, in the way that I hate.  I don't care for
"Danny", either.  It's "Daniel".  Even mom remembers that.

   Even so, I should allow it.  The more cooperative I was with her
hopefully meant that I would be rid of her sooner.  "Hello, Miss Winters."

   Oh, didn't I mention?  Mom thought it was important that because she
entrusted my care into Natalie's hands, I should show her all due respect
by calling her "Miss Winters" or "Ma'am" at all times.  I strongly
objected, but when mom threatened to put me over her knee, I could see the
wisdom in it.

   "How are you?" she asked, tousling my hair while saying so.  Clearly,
mom's display of power at the pool combined with her new position of
authority convinced Natalie that I was, for all practical purposes, a
child.

   "Fine, thank you, ma'am," I replied.  She rumbled by, calling for mom.
Mom called back, and Natalie followed her voice into the bathroom.

   I studied Natalie, who was holding a purse in her right hand and a gym
bag slung over the left shoulder, as she walked.  I hated to admit it, but
I was developing an attraction for her.  Maybe it was insatiable lust -
since summer began, I have found nearly every female sexually desirable. 
One thing I enjoyed about her was her appalling fashion sense.  She's got a
very round shape - broad round shoulders, large round arms, full, plump
breasts, big belly, titanic legs, enormous butt - yet she came in wearing
some kind of purple sport polo with black athletic shorts, with both parts
of the ensemble clinging closely to the skin.  The outfit looked so bad, it
looked sexy.  But hell, I don't discriminate - to me, all girls can be
attractive with the good face - large, small, or anywhere in between. 
Natalie had the good face, and the boldness of her outfit suggested
confidence.  It was hard for me to think of her as thirteen, because 1) she
was very mature physically, 2) she had authority over me, and 3) she could
probably beat me up while doing her homework.

   Mom and Natalie returned from the restroom into the living room.  I felt
an irrational spike of fear, as though the two of them were coming to do
something bad to me.  I know I'd hate to wander into some back alley with
the two of them standing there, that's for damn sure.

   "Daniel," mom said, stepping forward, stooping to get face to face with
me, "I have to go.  I know you're a good boy - stay a good boy for Miss
Winters.  She's going to take care of you and protect you, so make things
easy on her."

   Amazing.  It was phrased like a threat, but it sounded sweet.  "I will."

   "You'll be asleep when I get back, so I'll see you in the morning," Mom
said, kissing me on the cheek.

   Rising to full height, mom reached into her purse and produced a folded
paper from her purse.  "Natalie, I've written down some things here, some
ground rules.  When I leave, you and Daniel can read it together.  I gotta
go, wish me luck!"

   I know I did, and I guess Natalie did, but together our well-wishes made
a weird, garbled noise as mom walked out the door.  I wonder if mom took
that as a bad omen?

   No sooner did the door shut when Natalie said, "C'mon Danny, let's read
this."

   I nodded, following Natalie to the kitchen table.  She took her seat
while unfolding the letter and setting it down.  I set a chair next to hers
at an angle - sitting next to mom, you have to know how to get the proper
angle in order to read next to a wide person, and through practice I've got
it down.  What I saw on the page was horrific, but considering the way
things have been going lately, completely unsurprising:

   "Natalie - always remember that you are the one in charge here and that
you are to be obeyed at all times.  Now my Daniel's a good boy, but you
have to be firm if he doesn't obey you.  If you think he needs a stern
lecture, then lecture him.  If you think he needs to go to bed early, then
send him to bed early.  And if you think he needs a spanking, then spank
him good.  I'm behind you."

   What?  I mean, what!?  I was quivering, my heart was rising in my
throat. This is bullshit!  She's going to drum up any excuse at all to
spank me, I just know it!

   "I don't want you to be uncomfortable, but if it's okay with you, I'd
prefer Daniel wear only his underwear once he's had his evening shower.  We
don't have a lot of money and it's costly for us to wash clothes too often.
If the two of you have to go somewhere, get him dressed, of course - but I
don't want him getting clothes dirty for no reason."

   I don't believe this!  It's true that for the last couple of weeks, mom
reasoned that because I always sleep in my underwear, money could be saved
by washing clothes less often.  Therefore, once I showered, it was just me
in my tighty-whities until the next day, assuming I left the house.  I
actually had a couple of days where I didn't wear anything else, since I
was home all day (thank God I'm dressed now!).  But this arrangement in
front of Natalie?  Why does mom always forget that what goes on among
family doesn't always work elsewhere?  Because she's Queen Oblivious,
that's why!

   "I usually let Daniel stay up 'til about 11, but if you want to or need
to put him to bed sooner you can.  He sleeps with me in my bed, so when you
put him down for the night, take him to my room.  Call me if you have any
questions, Chez Nuevo is in the phonebook.  - Angela"

   Oh, jeez.  This is hard to swallow.

   "Don't worry, Danny," Natalie said, seemingly reading my mind, "Trust
me, I don't want to embarrass you.  I know you're older than me, and that
sucks."

   Wow.  She's considerate.  I didn't think large women in charge of me
could be, frankly.  "Thank you, Miss Winters.  Mom...makes it hard
sometimes."

   "Well, just - I don't know, do what you do, you know?  If you want to
watch TV, go ahead.  If you want to get on the computer - do what you want.
Me and my friends will just be texting each other anyway.  You have nothing
to worry about.  God, you're sixteen!  This is the easiest babysitting
money anyone could make."

   Hey, whattaya know?  This may work out after all.

   ***

   I wish I could report that everything went smoothly, that Natalie and I
got along fine, as though we were good friends, but unfortunately that
wasn't the case.  As I have mentioned many times, my libido seems to grow
by the hour, and it led me down a road which erased every last trace of
respect Natalie showed me after mom left.

   What happened was this: I was really tired - I had woken up at seven
o'clock that morning and never did fall back asleep.  So right around nine,
I decided to take my shower and hit the sack.  I shut the door behind me,
but couldn't lock it - it was the only bathroom in the apartment and
Natalie may have had a need to use the toilet while I showered.  It's
happened many times that way with mom and me.

   I closed the door, started the hot water (it needed time to get hot),
and undressed.  As I dropped my shirt to the floor, I noticed Natalie's gym
bag.  I mean, it was there the whole time, but it seemed to appear out of
nowhere.  I looked at it a while, my curiosity about its contents growing
rapidly.  I crouched and poked at the bag, trying to discern by feel what
was inside.  It was soft, likely clothes.  Workout clothes, by chance?  I
stood up and checked the water - lukewarm, but not yet hot enough.  I
returned to the bag, pulling the zipper back a little to reach inside.  I
probed around, feeling damp spandex.  Definitely workout clothes.  I
flashed back to Natalie's volleyball shorts and my erection was raging yet
again.  By now there was steam coming from the shower; who knows how long
I'd been in here already, but I absolutely had to see what was inside the
bag.  It was killing me.

   I pulled the zipper all the way back and rummaged.  There was a black
sports bra, which strangely enough didn't interest me much, dirty socks
(ewww), sweaty panties (eeeeewww), and a pair of light grey spandex shorts
similar to the ones Natalie wore at the moment, save the color.  I felt
ready to pass out, I was so turned on.  If you're like me, you know what a
difference color makes on a woman's butt.  When a woman wears black, you
really can't see a whole lot, but this light grey business - wow!  I pulled
them out and examined them at arm's length, imagining these same shorts on
a hot volleyball player I saw on ESPN the other day.  She looked like a
six-foot five Katherine McPhee, with an amazingly proportional physique. 
It was the same kind of physique a swimsuit model has, only at seven inches
taller (the exception being in those sexy, powerful legs volleyball players
have).  Her thick butt stuck out like a domed stadium on a skyline, but of
course she was wearing black shorts.  Most volleyball teams wear black
shorts nowadays.  Holding these shorts and thinking back, it was easy to
change the color of her shorts in my mind's eye.  I gripped the shorts with
my left hand and went to work in my right, thinking about the volleyball
player and me in a hot tub...

   In retrospect, I should have known that this would tempt fate into
pressuring Natalie's bladder.  That's just how it works.  The door swung
open with me standing there holding my manhood in one hand and Natalie's
workout shorts in the other, her gym bag wide open at my feet.  With
unbelievable quickness, I threw the shorts down and leapt into the shower,
but there was no reasonable doubt about what I had just been doing.

   A silent moment passed, and in that moment I thought that maybe Natalie
would just dismiss this under the "I didn't see anything, let's just forget
this awkward episode ever happened" social precedent.

   Natalie preferred to explore the issue.  "WHAT are you doing?!?" she
bellowed.

   Now me, I hate that question.  It happens all the time on sitcoms when
one person is caught doing something stupid, and the person doing the
catching asks that question "What are you doing?".  I mean, why ask when
it's so bloody obvious?  I'll grant you, there was a bit of ambiguity
there. Was I masturbating to the damp shorts?  Was it to Natalie herself?
But I don't guess that this is what she meant, and I wasn't about to
literally answer the question.  That just pisses off the offended party
even more.  So I spat out stuttered incomprehensible syllables in answer to
her question.

   "Who said you could get in my things!?!?"

   Again, one of those questions with an obvious answer that the person
asking would rather not hear.  So, bereft of any better ideas, my answer
this time was pretty much the same as my last answer.

   She paused a while.  "You just take your shower.  When you're done, you
come see me.  And you better be finished in ten minutes or I'm coming in
after you."

   Yikes.

   ***

   It was, best guess, about a seven minute shower.  I toweled off, brushed
the hair and the teeth, and pulled my tighty-whities into place.  I took
one long last grim look at myself - my God, I'm a paperweight, she could
kill me with her bare hands!  - in the mirror before taking the slow,
reluctant walk back to the kitchen area.  My legs trembled with each step.

   I turned the corner from the hall and saw Natalie sitting there, looking
as pissed off as anyone can look.  She shifted her feet a short distance
apart and gestured toward her left leg as I approached.

   When I got to her, I started to assume the position, but she stopped me.
Rising to her full height at point blank range, all I could do was look at
her purple shirt.  Looking her in the eye right now was completely out of
the question.

   "You know, I've had to do some spanking before.  Usually, though, the
kids I spank are half your age at best!  Even some of them aren't as filthy
and naughty as you!"

   When she puts it that way, I suppose dirty sweaty shorts are kind of
disgusting.  But in light grey!  Oh no, I'm getting hard again.

   "I guess your mom knew what she was doing getting you a babysitter.  And
when I tell her what happened here, you're going to be seeing a lot more of
me from now on."

   With that, she sat back down, seemingly as tall sitting down as I was
standing up.  And damn my rotten luck, she noticed something.

   "Oh, Jesus, Danny!  You've got an erection!?  Even now??  Well, I'll fix
that and then some!"

   And that's when the roller coaster started up the hill.  She directed my
lower legs underneath her right thigh and my forearms underneath her left
thigh.  I have no idea where she learned this technique, but she was now
free to spank away without any squirming resistance from me.  I could
barely move, stuck under so much mass and weight.  Mom never did this to me
before; I hope she and Natalie don't compare notes.

   My last shred of hope came down with my underwear.  With a slow,
dramatic motion, Natalie stuck her fingers under the waistband, where the
tag was sewn into the fabric, and pulled down, exposing my buttocks for the
assault.

   Oh, why can't I be in school right now?

   "You will NOT do any FILTHY things when I'M here AGAIN!  You will NOT
break into MY stuff and be a PERVERT around ME!  And if I HAVE to, I'll
SPANK you as many TIMES as it takes 'til you LEARN!!"

   You've probably figured out that Natalie was swatting my bottom during
that scolding.  Me, I'm not sure how I managed to hear every word of it,
with all of my crying and wailing.  Hell, maybe I missed something, what do
I know.  I do know I could barely see anything through all of my tears.  I
was completely worn out from the beating combined with bucking and
thrashing around while trapped under her mass.  I just wept and wept some
more.

   Graciously, she let me sob into her leg for a while, even restoring a
tiny mite of dignity to me by pulling my underwear back into position.  Of
course, that didn't feel so good on my stinging bottom, but naked or
covered by butt was on fire.

   When she pulled up her legs (first her right to free my legs, then her
left to free my arms), I couldn't help myself.  I reached up to hold on to
her.  I needed to stay in her lap.  I was still bawling.  My ass hurt and I
was an emotional mess, fully aware of what a child-like life I now lived.
Natalie again was sympathetic, wrapping her left arm around my back and her
right arm under my legs.  She rocked me back and forth.

   "Shhhhhhh...it's okay...it's okay.  You need to go to sleep."

   I hated her.  Hated hated hated her.  And yet I was never more fond of
her than right now.  It felt so good to be engulfed in her powerful arms,
to be comforted.  And yet, she was the reason I needed the comforting.  I'm
so confused.

   "Shhhhh...it's okay...let's put you down, okay?"

   Then she stood up, still holding me, and carried me down the hall to
mom's room.  Sadly, as bizarre as it felt to get spanked to tears by a
thirteen year-old girl, in one very convincing sense this felt familiar. 
Sure, mom is probably much stronger than Natalie, but it all feels the same
to me - I just got spanked and I'm about to get put to bed before ten. 
It's like mom's still here, which is the precise effect mom wanted when she
found me a babysitter.  After all, if mom had walked in on me holding her
sweaty shorts during masturbation, she would have reacted just the same way
Natalie did.  (Although mom would have been more dramatic about it, to be
sure)

   Natalie lowered me down gently and very deliberately tucked me in, a
maneuver I found insanely arousing.  I could tell that this was just
something she does by rote when she babysits - there was no malice, or even
much awareness behind the act - and that was really what had me back at
DefCon 5.  With this action, she made it clear that she considered me no
different than the six, seven, or eight year olds she normally watches. 
Like I said before, humiliation is more arousing, much more so, than anyone
can imagine.

   When she left mom's room, I pulled my underwear down and lay on my side
to take the pressure off my stinging bottom.  I was too close to the
depression left in the bed by mom and I fell right in.  This confirmed it -
it's as though mom's still here.