Sins of the Sitter

Chapter 2: Déjà Vu-1

Chapter 2: Déjà Vu

As I’ve indicated, I was six years old when my parents and Jen’s came to the agreement that she would be the one to babysit me. And she lost no time at all in establishing her authority.

First, my parents explained in no uncertain terms that Jennifer was to be in charge while they were out. I was to do whatever she said, and she was authorized to punish any disobedience however she deemed fit. This could range from a denial of privileges to being forced to stand quietly in a corner to even spanking. And yet before punishment ever entered the picture, I was already enraptured by her.

Even at twelve, Jen was a big, strong girl, well on the way to developing her eventual impressive bulk and breasts. I was tiny by comparison. And even though I was utterly asexual at that stage, chemical precursors were surely at work in me. In my just-cohering psyche, this big, beautiful older girl quickly swelled to fill the dominating female role that my own uninterested mother and barely-remembered wet nurses had left vacant.

Within a week, she became the most potent personality in my life. She came into my listless, lonely existence and immediately became its overriding focus. And despite the incredible strictness of her supervision, the quick severity of her punishments, and the eventual sadistic zeal she betrayed in inflicting them, I always remained hopelessly attached to her. In the shortest of intervals, I willingly ceded every iota of control to her.

She determined what we would watch on TV, what and when we would eat, and what games we would play. Right away, she denied me the cartoons I liked, deriding them as ‘baby TV’. Instead we watched soap operas which bored and mystified me yet held her endlessly rapt. No matter. This quickly led to our first instances of discipline. I found myself standing at attention facing into a corner for the duration of every show during which my fidgeting and complaining distracted her.

We had much better luck with nature and animal documentaries, with Westerns and cops-and-robbers dramas: standard TV fare since the media’s inception. After all, what young boy doesn’t love lions and tigers and bears, not to mention gigantic roaring dinosaurs? And all these scenes of vicious animal aggression fired Jen up too, inspiring the first of an increasingly portentous series of games between us.

This was ‘predator and prey’ naturally, and I’m sure I don’t need to tell you who was the lion and who the gazelle, who the wolf and who the sheep, or who the tyrannosaur and who the bleating, defenseless duckbill. Jennifer would give me a head start and then stalk me through the house, both of us on our hands and knees, in a game of hide-and-seek in which no hiding was allowed. Eventually, she would either chase me down or pounce on me from ambush and wrestle me to the ground. Then with much snarling and growling, she would maul me, claw me with her nails, and even playfully bite me here and there. Eventually, she was reduced to just tickling me mercilessly until I was gasping and hiccupping and begging for her to stop.

That was fun enough, in an anxious, submissive kind of way for me and an excitingly dominant one for her. But it only lasted a year or so. Then it was the other two genres that really put us on the path to the future. Soon we were playing – among similar games – first cops and kidnappers and then cowboys and Indians almost every time we were alone together. And, of course, I was always the banker kidnapped by the villain, or the cowboy captured and tortured by the Indians.

The bad guy – or in this case, girl – would surprise me, overpower me, and drag me back to her hideout. There she’d tie me to a chair and threaten much more than just my life as she bargained with and then shot it out with the imaginary surrounding cops. Finally, she would fall, mortally wounded; and, with her last act, crawl across the floor, rear up and shoot me dead where I sat: helplessly bound and gagged and pleading for mercy with my terrified eyes.

This game stirred something new and inexplicably exciting in me. Almost from the minute I was abducted and bound to the chair, my prepubescent p***s became and remained remarkably hard. I had no idea why this happened or what it meant; only that it churned my innards in a most exhilarating fashion. And when my captor finally feigned giving me the coup de grace, shooting me in the forehead at point-blank range with a dart-mounted rubber suction cup, I always suffered an involuntary shudder and strange inner twang like the earliest precursor of orgasm.

I didn’t understand this feeling either. But I immediately loved it and quickly came to crave this ultimate experience with an addict’s intensity. And yet as strangely compelling as this wonderful new game was, even it was eventually superseded by cowboys and Indians.

This best game yet was like a combination of all the others that had gone before and then some. To start with, we each had costumes for this one. The past Christmas I had asked for and received a cowboy hat and boots, a sheriff’s star, and gun-belt complete with cap pistols. A red-patterned bandana knotted about my neck then made me a fairly convincing little cowboy.

Better yet, Jen had a feathered headdress left over from an old Halloween costume, and some southwestern-style beads she’d picked up on a recent vacation to the . Then, unbelievable to you as it may seem (remember, we were always wholly unsupervised during these years), all she would wear other than these accessories were moccasins, an old, threadbare and outgrown camo-patterned bikini top, and a makeshift loincloth fashioned from a length of rope and a wide strip of dark green fabric. Add in some alternating stripes of red and pink lipstick on her cheeks to simulate war paint, and she made the most beautiful and fearsome Indian ever.

While she was getting ready, I would sit at my imaginary lonely campfire. Constantly looking over my shoulders in breathless anxiety and anticipation, I listened fearfully for the slightest betraying rustle. And yet, despite my absolutely paranoid vigilance, this cruel, nearly naked Indian brave (or bravette) would invariable catch me unawares. Sneaking up and leaping startlingly upon me from behind, she’d knock my hat off, wrestle me down, and quickly overpower me. Taking away my guns, she’d hogtie me up ankles-to-wrists on the spot. Then she would gag me with my own bandana and gloat over me for a while, tickling me mercilessly and pinching me all over my body before dragging me to one of the big living room’s central supporting pillars – the one with the heating grate at its base.

There she would release me only to quickly tie me up even tighter than before. Standing me upright against that simulated wooden stake and right atop the heating grate, she would bind my hands behind it and then wrap long ropes redundantly about me, securing me to that foot-thick pillar at the ankles, knees, waist, and throat. After that she would twist my ears, pull my hair, and slap my face repeatedly. Garbling through my gag, I would beg her piteously for mercy, and for the cavalry to arrive and rescue me, but as in all of our games, the bad guy (girl) would always win. Jen would torment me endlessly like this before finally closing every heating grate in that part of the house except the one just beneath me. Piling firewood all around my feet, she’d pretend to burn me at the stake then by turning the thermostat all the way up.

Ever hotter air rose around me until I was absolutely baking: pouring out rivers of sweat and gasping for breath. Yet, despite this torture, I would always revel in my constant, incomprehensible erections from start to finish. And my physiological arousal always built and built and built and finally peaked as I struggled with my bonds and writhed in pain at my very real torment, and then in only half-imagined unsurpassed agony, as I was slowly sacrificed to my pitiless captor’s heathen gods.

Watching through a wavering heat-haze as Jen would shake her fists and whoop with triumph, shoot my guns in the air, prance and dance around me in an endless circle, clap her hand rhythmically over her mouth, and ululate wildly in celebration as I was being cruelly cooked alive was an even more compelling prepubescent apotheosis for me than being shot in the head by my villainous kidnapper. Eventually, I was begging her to play this game with me every day, despite the slaps, ear-twists, cruelly tight ropes, and ever more torturous heat.

For a year or two, she was only too happy to oblige, and we even developed several other similar games. But then as more time passed, we gradually did away with all of these fantasy trappings and, eventually, all of our various games became distilled down into one elemental one: the tie-up game.

This was much better for both of us. Jen was getting older, a freshman in high school, and no longer much interested in childish fantasies. Not only that, but she wanted to be relieved of her responsibilities as much as possible in order to watch her soaps, do her homework, or gossip with her friends on the phone. And as I approached puberty, the erotic signals my body sent me at being put into bondage continually grew stronger. I no longer needed make-believe scenarios to get excited about being tied up. After a while, as soon as my parents were five minutes out the door, Jen would pull a bunch of ropes and belts and a heavy cloth gag and blindfold out of her book-bag. She would drag me to the most distant basement closet and order me to assume whatever ridiculously submissive position she currently happened to fancy.

I was only too willing to comply. Then she would bind me up so tightly that not even an entire afternoon and/or evening of wild struggling could loosen my bonds in the slightest. After that, she would torment me for as long as this held her interest then lock me in, wedge a chair under the doorknob, turn off the lights, and leave me helpless there for the duration of her shift. That left her free to earn her easy pay undisturbed while I writhed like mad and rolled around on the cold concrete floor in the dark, crushing my urgent, inexplicable erection underneath me and wallowing in those complex, endlessly compelling sensations that my young brain couldn’t begin to comprehend, yet my developing body couldn’t help but send.

All this was portentous and instrumental enough in shaping the future me. But, simultaneously, Jen was also quickly developing an additionally greedy taste for physically disciplining me.

Perhaps it was the sadistic nature of the Indian game that truly fed this. But, in any case, within a year of becoming my babysitter, she discarded the unsatisfying expedient of making me stand ashamed in the corner when bad. Spanking me was to prove a much more rewarding form of punishment, a fact that became obvious the first time she chose to implement it.

***

This occasion arose ironically – or perhaps predictably – enough during one of our early cops and kidnappers games. I was bound to the chair and gagged, struggling deliciously, while Jen sat straddling me, breathing into my ear all the terrible things she was going to do to me if the ransom wasn’t met.

“First, I’ll cut off all your fingers and toes, your ears and nose. I’ll cut out your tongue and gouge out your eyes. I’ll break your arms and legs. I’ll pour boiling oil and acid on you. I’ll…”

Suddenly the telephone rang. I prayed that Jen would ignore it; but, instead, she jerked me rudely out of our oh-so exciting fantasy.

“That must be Trisha! She said she had a date tonight with Rodney Cooper, that incredibly hot high school guy. I told her to call me here and tell me all about it as soon as she got home.”