Sins of the Sitter

Chapter 3: Bathed and Enslaved-1

Chapter 3: Bathed and Enslaved

What she meant, of course, was to remind me of the consequences of literally getting dirty, rather than figuratively. And really, what little boy can help but get dirty? It’s their very nature.

In our later years, I was always getting dirty. Whether from streaming rivers of sweat during my fiery execution or rolling around bound on a dirty basement floor, I was rarely in a condition to be slipped between clean sheets at the end of the day. But that very first brush with dirt came about in an almost-entirely innocent fashion.

It was shortly after that first most-momentous spanking, perhaps a couple weeks later. It was after dinner but a few hours before my bedtime, and I wanted to play cops and kidnappers. Jen, however, had math homework to do. Of course, she could have just tied me up and left me, but she hadn’t yet conceived of that expedient. Instead, she ordered me to go play outside but to make sure I didn’t get dirty.

Again I’d been denied my fix. Piqued at Jennifer for refusing to play with me, and secretly hoping to get spanked again, I made sure to get dirty in spite of her orders. I went straight to the sandbox and started digging. Before long, I’d dug through the sand and down into the dirt underneath. I drew a bucket of water from the spigot, and just like that, I had all the ingredients necessary for a first-rate batch of mud-pies.

In short order, I resembled a mud-pie myself. And by the time Jen came outside to collect me, I was absolutely filthy. I can still hear her outraged shriek.

“How DARE you!”

So far so good. It was the same thing she’d yelled before spanking me; indeed, the same thing she screamed whenever I crossed her. And although I’d purposely brought this scene about, I couldn’t help but be terrified by the sight of my big bad babysitter seething with rage and bearing down on me.

“Didn’t I tell you not to get dirty? Didn’t I? Look at you! You’re mud and sand from head to toe! I know your parents never pay attention to you, but there’s no way I can put you to bed like this! Oh, you are a very, very, VERY bad boy! You are definitely in for it now! Get in here!”

Again Jen grabbed me by the ear, hauled me to my feet, and dragged me squealing inside. First, she took me to the utility room and the washing machine.

“Strip, you filthy little s**t! Right down to your grubby, ugly skin. Now I have to wash your clothes too!”

What choice did I have? Soon I was not just bottom-less before this icon but utterly nude. Flushed a deep, humiliating red, I stood there and fidgeted while Jen bundled my clothes into the washer, added soap, and started the cycle. Then she hauled me after her to the bathroom and ordered me into the tub.

“Get in there, iel!”

“But…but aren’t you going to fill it?”

“Just so you can turn the water to mud? No way, boy – not yet. And don’t you dare question me. I’ve had it up to here with you already. From now on, you keep your mouth shut unless I ask you a question. Now get in that f*****g tub!”

That particular expletive was still a novelty to me, and its use, more than anything else, cowed me. Humbly I climbed into the tub. Then Jen turned on the water, tuned it to hot, and switched it to shoot through the hand-held showerhead in a needling spray.

Starting at the top of my head, she directed this at me full force, sluicing the mud and sand off my body. This was quite painful for me, particularly when directed at my face or other sensitive areas. But then finally she sprayed out the tub, rinsing the last bit of muck down the drain, and put in the stopper. Only then did she draw a proper piping-hot bath and order me to sink down into it.

What followed was yet another inexplicably exciting pre-pubescent experience.

I’d been bathed before, of course. My parents had employed a wet nurse from the time of my birth, and even now, they had old Mrs. Hanson come in every morning to get me washed and dressed and up for the day. But this was very different.

Vera Hanson was elderly and barely sapient. Jennifer Johnson was thirteen, beautiful, and with breasts that already strained the fabric of her T-shirts. Add in the fact that this particular T-shirt was already quite wet from the showerhead’s back-splatter, and my seven year-old mind was seriously bamboozled. The sight of those heaving globes and protuberant n*****s only barely concealed by filmy wet fabric was yet another amazingly powerful, prepubescent, way-too-early erotic stimulus for me to handle. Then she soaped up a washcloth and started roughly scrubbing away at every square inch of me.

This was beyond just pleasurable. It was a little bit painful and incredibly shameful as well. But being bathed by Jen pushed yet another whole series of irresistible buttons inside of my childish psyche. Yet, like the spankings – and oh boy, did my wet, naked ass get a fierce one after that – this first bath would only set a precedent that would be repeated endlessly for the next five years, ineradicably inculcating in me a need that only she could relieve. Jen bathed me and beat me more times than I can count throughout my childhood. And despite the pain and shame, I quickly came to crave both, compelled by hormonal impulses I couldn’t come close to understanding – and which I would be forever helpless to resist.

***

Suddenly, I wake up, surprised to find I’ve slept at all.

It’s one-oh-five in the afternoon. My last memories are of poorly remembered dreams of my childhood. And is it any wonder that I awake with an erection? I groan and roll off the pillow I still straddle, freeing my hard-on to pulse with renewed urgency. Then more recent memories rush back to occupy my head, and I groan again.

Apparently, I’m back on the merry-go-round.

All the uncontrollable emotions and undeniably arousing sensations of my childhood have returned to reclaim me in the form of my now enormous and irrefusable next-door neighbor. And as nostalgic and exciting as all this is, I can’t help but feel that morning-after remorse of an alcoholic just crawling out of the gutter after falling off the wagon. Even worse is the feeling of rattling my handcuffs and knowing that I have no recourse but to plunge headlong back into that oh-so arousing, oh-so compelling, oh-so fearsome and degrading and yet paradoxically fulfilling nightmare.

I wrestle thus with my past, near-certain future, and my bonds for nearly fifteen minutes. Oh how my shoulders ache! But finally other bodily needs take precedence; and, with a huge sigh, I struggle my way out of bed.

I make it to the bathroom where I’m forced to pee sitting down. Then I get in the shower and clumsily manage to turn on the water. Soaping myself or washing my hair is impossible with my hands still cuffed behind me, but I can at least stand under the blast for awhile. After that I shake and drip dry and make my naked way downstairs to the kitchen.

There I find two bowls Jen left out for me. One is full of water and the other holds a pile of snack crackers, a dozen or so thick slices of cheddar cheese and a large bunch of grapes. Gratified at this thoughtfulness, I sit down and use my nose to push off the sheet of plastic wrap covering the food. Then I stick my face in the bowls like a dog and wolf it all down.

After that there’s not much I can do but wander naked around the house, yearning for Jen’s return, and trying to ignore the ever-growing ache in my shoulders. It’s not until late in the afternoon, four-thirty or so, when she finally makes her way across the street and barges uninvited back through my front door.

She is dressed identically to last night: all shiny silver and steel and intimidating black leather. She looms high over me just as before; and, just as before, I’m rendered weak in the knees by her towering beauty and incredibly arousing proximity. Gone in a microsecond are my doubts about the wisdom of resuming our relationship. Immediately I’m as captivated by her as ever before. In fact, I’m suddenly compelled to abase myself even further, and I drop painfully to my knees at her feet. Then I look up at her, towering above me practically to the heavens.

“Thank you so much for coming back to me, Jen. Every second of your absence is a torture to me now.”

Her smile in response if wide and genuine – if a trifle wicked.

“You’re welcome, iel.” She places a subtle extra stress on the second syllable, almost turning my name into the feminine version. But then she brushes past this.

“Did you have a nice night?”

“Yes and no, Ma’am,” I reply. “I couldn’t forget the feel of your mouth on my p***s, and I was incredibly, sexually frustrated – especially once I obeyed your orders and recalled all the times you bathed me. I really enjoyed recalling those days. But I’ve been squirming-mad horny even worse for the effort. In any event, I’m absolutely ecstatic to see you again. Will you please free me now and allow me to put on some clothes?”

“Yes and no,” she replies, mimicking my response. “Yes, I will free you now. You can’t make dinner for me all cuffed up. But you may not get dressed. I like seeing your wimpy body naked, and your shrimpy little c**k sticking up so outrageously hard. And besides, after dinner, I’m going to bathe you, just like the old days. Clothes will just get in the way. Now take me to the dining room, break out your best bottle of wine, and start making dinner for us! I’m f*****g hungry!”

With that, she pulls a key from her scanty leather bra, yanks me to my feet, and spins me around. She unlocks the cuffs, removes them, and then tucks them into her belt.

Freed at last, I swing my aching arms around in wide circles. I’m glad indeed to be able to work some life back into overstressed muscles, joints, and ligaments as I lead the way back into the kitchen. When we reach the dining room, I indicate the appropriate chair at the head of the table.

“Sit please, Jennifer. I’ll get you some wine. Then I’ll put on some music and get started on dinner. I’m incredibly honored to serve you.”

“Yes, you are,” she agrees, taking the indicated seat. Then she opens her handbag and produces a fat home-rolled cigarette which, as she lights up, is revealed to be high-quality m*******a. Not that I bother to confirm this of course – already I’m scuttling off to the wine cellar for the best bottle of red in the house.

I return, open the bottle, and pour two glasses. I program the stereo to randomly flip through the tracks of my four favorite Traffic albums – perfect accompaniment for any dinner. Then, while Jen drinks and smokes and watches me, appreciatively, I set the table, light a pair of candles, and broil strip steaks medium-rare. With sautéed onions and mushrooms, French-fried potatoes and a steamed mix of broccoli and cauliflower for the vegetable, I surely can’t fail. And, of course, I don’t. I’ve always been gifted in the kitchen. The food is excellent (if I say so myself) and the wine exquisite. Jen smiles benignly at me afterwards and then smokes again. And this time she actually shares the reefer with me. Soon we’re both most pleasantly blitzed. Then Jen gives me an eager, evil grin and makes my day – not to mention the rest of my life.

“Okay, ny. Let’s get you in the tub, you dirty little boy. I’m going to lovingly scrub every inch of you. I’m going to build your s****l arousal until you can’t f*****g stand it. Then I’m going abandon you all handcuffed and horny again. And tomorrow, I’m going to finally take your virginity. Twenty-four hours from now, you’re going to get the absolute s**t f****d out of you for the first time ever.”

Oh my lord, can this even be happening?

You’re damn right it can!

Jen pulls me to the bathroom by my p***s. Only this time, it’s the lavish bath off the master bedroom. And this time, I have no doubt about why my c**k is so remarkably hard. And then it gets harder still as Jen ushers me into the tub and removes her bra and fingerless gloves.