Date: Tue, 30 Dec 2008 09:29:21 -0800 (PST)
From: Matt Surname <darkhorsestalking@yahoo.ca>
Subject: Sheila the Babysitter 01

Warning:
    If you are not of legal age (dependant on your region, most often 18
years or older), then please respect the law and do not read this story.
Laws may often seem unfair, but more often than not, there's a valid and
sound reason behind them. Thank you.
    The following story includes pedophilia, as well as possibly in later
chapters adult-minor sex and incest, among other sexually-related themes.
If any of these things disturb or offend you, this story is not for you.
Disclaimers:
    All characters in this story are completely fictional, and are solely
the offspring of my own imagination.
    For the record, I neither encourage, suggest, or practice pedophilia or
incest.
    In my stories I might end up misrepresenting, and occasionally even
slightly bending, various facts. If this offends the die-hard
statistics-rules-lawyers out there, sorry, but if fiction was meant to
adhere to exact statistics and situations, then it would not be called
fiction, would it?  Copyright Information:
    This story is solely the property of the author. It may be viewed and
downloaded for personal enjoyment, or sent to a friend. However, if it is
desired to be re-posted on a personal website, or the characters used in
another author's stories, then please first contact the author for
permission.
    Copyright 2008 Dark Horse. All rights reserved.

Story Codes:  Gg,  GF,  Gb,  bi,  ped,  exhib,  toys,  con

Whew! That's a lot of legalities to cover! Now, onto the story, and I hope
you enjoy!


Sheila the Babysitter 01
by Dark Horse


    It's hard enough being a beautiful, sixteen-year-old girl, without
living in an orphanage, dealing with the pressures of high school, and
running your own babysitting service. Add to it one very healthy libido,
which often has me wondering if I'm a borderline nymphomaniac, and it's not
hard imagining how trying my life can be at times.

    All I can say is thank god for nature's stress-relief; sex.

    With a very rare Friday afternoon free, I was spending it in bed with
my orphanage roommate and eight-year-old best friend, Melody. Though the
petite girl with an auburn pageboy was half my age, she had a real talent
for eating cunt. It's a surprise, as what she wishes for more than anything
else in the world, aside from being adopted of course, is a boyfriend.

    Getting home from school, Melody went to town on my pussy, which I keep
shaved bare but for a small, naturally-blonde triangle above it. As usual,
she brought me numerous orgasms, the last one which sprayed the pretty
redhead's face with a geyser of girl-cum. After helping lick my own sweet
juices off her nose and cheeks, I returned the favour going down on her
bald, prepubescent cunt. A screamer, she used her teddy bear to muffle her
lustful cries, as my tongue and mouth gave her a steady chain of spasming
climaxes. For most girls that would've been enough, but I know my best
friend. Like myself, she needs that last, final big one to truly bring her
satisfaction.

    Melody whimpered when I lifted my mouth from her swollen cunt. Shifting
so our naked bodies lay on our sides facing each other, I held her by her
lovely bottom curled against my much taller, athletically-slender teenage
body. The little redhead began suckling like a baby on a hard, puffy pink
nipple, which swelled from my petite, smallish tits. Grabbing my purple
vibrator, still slimy from when she'd fucked me with it earlier, I reached
behind her. Keeping it turned off, I used it like a normal dildo pushing
under her cute derriere. As it eased up between her drenched inner thighs,
she moaned around the thick cone of my nipple. Angling the six inch,
artificial boner so it would rub along the cleft of her soaked pussy, soon
my preteen roommate was quivering in rapture, and I still hadn't turned on
the vibrator.

    Then on the nightstand, my cell phone's Bluetooth headset began beeping
softly.

    So typical.

    Being use to calls interrupting us, neither of us so much as
flinched. Still stroking the fake phallus along the dripping lips of
Melody's cunt, I reached over to clip the small headset on an ear, brushing
aside my long blonde hair. From long practice, I willed my voice to sound
casual.

    "Accept call," I voice-activated the Bluetooth. "Sheila Donnelly's
Babysitting Service."

    "Hello. This is Carol Langdon, Billy's mom you'll be sitting for at six
o'clock. Am I calling at an inconvenient time?"

    Despite that Carol was a new customer, her rich voice was as easy to
recognize as her elegant figure and sultry, raven-haired looks were. The
thirty-four-year-old divorcee also had the brains to match her beauty,
having already become a junior partner in one of Toronto's most prestigious
law firms.

    "No, it's alright, Mrs. Langdon. I'm helping out a friend at the
moment, but I'm okay to talk," I explained, still working the sex toy on
the little girl's hairless pussy. Being far from the first time a call had
come during sex, it was why I'd gotten this particular Bluetooth
model. Although expensive, its superior noise dampeners and jawbone
microphone were indispensable. "Is there a problem?"

    "No, no problem." Carol's subtle hesitation told me something troubled
her. "I was wondering, though, if you'd be available to arrive early,
perhaps around five-thirty? There's a . . . matter with Billy I'd like to
discuss with you before he arrives."

    Glancing at my alarm clock, I continued teasing Melody's weeping
pussy. Thankful being able to multi-task, I did some fast calculations. If
I factored in time to finish off Melody, get showered and dressed, and add
forty-five minutes for downtown rush hour traffic to get to the elitist
Rosedale neighborhood . . . .

    "Sure," I replied a moment later. "Five-thirty's doable."

    "That's great," she sighed with relief. "When you get here, let
yourself in, as I'll likely be still getting prepared for the firm's formal
gala. Of all the nights they chose for the stupid thing, of course it would
be at the start of my custody weekend."

    "Don't worry, Mrs. Langdon. When you're the boss of the firm, you can
banish these galas if you want."

    "What, and deprive my soon-to-be underlings of the same cruel fate? No
way! Rank hath its privileges, and one of them is sweet, sweet revenge,"
she laughed a little maliciously, before finishing with a satisfied
sigh. "Oh dear god, how I needed that. Thank you, Sheila. So, I'll see you
five-thirtyish I hope?"

    "Count on it."

    Ending the call, I turned my complete attention back to Melody. By her
trembling body, and the muffled whimpers against the swells of my
puffy-nippled tits, she was hovering at the edge of her big one. Moving my
hand cradling her soft rump down further, I eased a delicate finger into
her tight pussy from behind, mindful of her still-intact
hymen. Finger-fucking her while stroking the plastic cock on her wet cunt
lips, the eight-year-old pitifully mewled in bliss. Her naked body shook
now from the intensity of her brimming orgasm, which I knew how I'd release
to its full potential.

    Besides my babysitter's intuition and observational skills, part of how
learning my roommate and best friend so intimately, was because she often
talks in her sleep. Even the deepest of secrets can escape, when their
guard is asleep.

    I lowered my lips to an ear partly hidden by her auburn pageboy.

    "I think Mommy's little girl needs to cum, doesn't she?" I whispered
naughtily, wrapping a long leg behind her curled knees in
preparation. "Does my angel's little cunny want her Mommy's special touch?"

    Whimpering even more desperately, Melody nodded against my small,
thick-nippled boobs.

    "Tell Mommy what you want, sweetie."

    "Make me cum, Mommy," she pleaded, turning lust-blinded pale blue eyes
up to my own deep blue ones. "Rub my cunny again! Please, Mommy!"

    "Anything for you, my most precious daughter," I tenderly
whispered. "Mommy loves you, baby, always and forever."

    Kissing her deeply on the lips, I pressed the vibrator's rigid shaft
tight against her parted cunt and tiny clit, before my pinky finger at last
activated the purple-pussy-pleaser.

    Melody's scream was snared by my lips. As hot wetness gushed from her
prepubescent baby-hole, further soaking the clenching thighs trapping my
hand and buzzing vibrator, her body violently writhed with the explosive
force of raw, unleashed ecstasy. If not for desperately holding onto her,
her uncontrollable thrashing would've thrown her off the bed. Despite being
twice her age, it still took a bit to prevent the petite, orgasming
eight-year-old from unintentionally breaking free.

    Only after a small eternity did my little tigress finally go limp,
passing out from sensory-overload.

    Looking down at Melody's blissfully-content face, affectionately
brushing damp auburn hair from her cheek, my heart swelled. I don't love
her so much as my lover, as I love her as the baby sister I never had.

    Carefully untangling myself from the now-sleeping girl, I climbing out
of bed and placed her worn teddy bear in her arms. As she unconsciously
clutched her dearest possession to her naked chest, I kissed her forehead
softly and tucked the sheets up around her shoulders. Grabbing an outfit
from the closet, I hit the shower.

    Being a Friday afternoon, the other girls living at the orphanage were
out doing whatever. It meant I didn't have to worry about some stupid bitch
flushing a toilet, and turning me into a screaming lobster. Finally I've
got a chance to luxuriate under the hot water, especially after Melody's
earlier ministrations had, at least temporarily, sated my needy libido.

    However, my mind kept gnawing over Carol Langdon's request to come
early.

    It's a given she wanted to give me advanced warning about
Billy. However, whatever her eight-year-old son's behavioural troubles are,
I'm sure I've already encountered them with similar kids. I wouldn't be
babysitting him if he didn't have some attitude problem or another.

    As I only sit for kids other sitters can't handle, or won't touch for
any fee, it's makes me the most unique and sought-after babysitter in
Toronto. Because of that, I could totally hose my clients, but I don't. My
fee's half-again the going rate, period. Even so, spending most of my free
time babysitting over the past four years, I've accumulated a considerable
sum, while adding more every day. I could easily leave the orphanage being
sixteen now, and rent my own apartment. However, I wouldn't be able to
bring Melody with me, so I stay here with her. Besides, it allows me to
further build up my savings, for both when I move out, and for college
tuition.

    The thing is, I didn't become a babysitter for profit. Babysitting's
been my passion, since I can first remember practicing with dolls. It's the
twerps who I find most rewarding to look after, and ironically, trying to
help with their troubles. Surprising, most of the kids I've babysat have
actually improved enough, that other sitters have taken them back now. I
never have, nor will I ever, claim I can cure kids of their problems. It
doesn't work like that. I try to help them if I can, but they've got to be
willing to accept that, and help themselves at the same time. Most take a
while to get that. No matter how I try stressing that point to clients,
somehow I've still ended up with a reputation for being a brat-whisperer,
whatever the heck that means.

    Finishing washing my long blonde hair, I dried and got dressed. Being a
comfortable night for early June, my pick of outfits went naturally for
less than more. The red midriff tank top, cut-off denim shorts, and runners
nicely showed off my willowy, athletic physique. I despise socks, and bras
are my bane. My petite, firm boobs don't need the support, and I hate how
bras rub my puffy nipples raw, especially as they're always getting hard. I
decided to wear my favourite thong, a spotted leopard silk one.

    Returning to the bedroom, I gently woke Melody. I hate doing it, but a
longer nap could throw her off getting to sleep later. She already has
enough trouble getting to sleep as it is. Giving my sleepy-eyed best friend
a fond hug and kiss, I aimed her in the direction of the bathroom, and sent
the naked girl on her way with an affectionate pat to her adorable bum.

    On my way out, I grabbed my babysitting kit. It's simply a knapsack
with some clothes and personal items, homework, my behaviour sciences
correspondence class work, and my favourite book of Edgar Allen Poe's
collected tales. Donning a pink motorcycle helmet and hopping on my
scooter, I merged with the congested, downtown Toronto rush hour traffic.

    I bought the scooter turning sixteen back in February. It's not only
inexpensive and practical, but extremely reliable. As well, it's also the
most noticeable scooter in the city, too. The boy who owned it before had
painted a menacing shark's mouth and eyes on the bike's long snout. Keeping
it, I added my touch with a bright, Barbie neon pink paint job. As a
scooter is so tiny among the legions of cars, trucks, and delivery vans on
the streets, you want to be as visible as possible. My scooter does that to
say the least, as well as never fails to get double-takes, and the
occasional tourist snapping a picture or ten.

    For Friday afternoon rush hour, the traffic flowed unnaturally smooth
and quick. I not only flipped off just two assholes, definitely an all-time
record, but made it to the snobbish Rosedale neighborhood in less than
fifteen minutes, not the forty-five I'd given myself. I'd been to Carol's
mansion once, three days ago when she interviewed me for sitting, while I'd
interviewed her about Billy, to see if he fit my bad kid requirement. It
took nearly a half a minute to drive up the long driveway, winding through
the small forest that surrounded and isolated the place from the
neighboring near-mansions. Though seeing it once before, as the old mansion
came into view, I was no less impressed.

    The brick and stone mansion was huge. I know, as Carol had given me a
full tour. It had an outdoor pool, as well as an indoor sauna and a massive
jacuzzi. Its modern kitchen was larger than a classroom. The living room
alone, with its big silk pillow-lined sunken pit, and giant flatscreen
television and entertainment system, would have shamed the Playboy mansion
in my opinion. The place had nearly every feature and luxury
imaginable. Well, at least to a girl born in a small, northern Ontario town
like myself. And to think, Carol had taken the mansion from her ex-husband
in the divorce settlement.

    Way to go, girl!

    I was relieved seeing a brand new, black Porsche roadster parked before
the mansion, meaning Mrs. Langdon was home. Going to the front doors after
locking up the scooter, I used the security code and key she'd given
me. Once inside, I rearmed the alarm system. Calling out Carol's name as I
took off my runners and knapsack in the foyer, there was no reply. I hoped
being a full half hour early wasn't going to end up a problem. Repeatedly I
called out as I padded barefoot deeper into the mansion, beginning to feel
less like an invited employee, and more and more like an intruder. Soon I'd
worked my way back to the bedroom wing, where my knocks on the closed doors
lining the hallway went unanswered. Coming to the final door at the very
end of the hallway, likely belonging to the mansion's master suite, I noted
it was partly open. Again getting no reply to my calls, I gently
knocked. The hinges were well oiled, as my light rapping caused the door to
swing open fully.

    Revealing a naked Mrs. Langdon dancing to the beat from an iPod.

    I'm not sure what stunned me more. Seeing my latest employer
bare-assed, and shaking it like a teenager half her thirty-four years. Or
that Carol's naked body was even hotter than the fantasy of her I
masturbated to after our interview.

    It was kind of like watching a high-end stripper dancing at a
rave. Maybe I thought that because of the firm, proud tits, or her graceful
hourglass-figure, or how her long raven hair swayed across her
seductively-elegant feature. Like it was surreal enough, watching a
stunning lady kick it naked in her luxurious bedroom, without being aware
she was also an ace lawyer.

    Then Carol noticed me standing in the doorway. She gasped with a hand
flying to her chesty breastbone.

    "Oh god, Sheila! You scared the Charles Dickens out of me," she
exclaimed, before tittering a bit girlishly and tugging out the iPod's
earplugs. "If I was a cat, I'd be a furry puffball stuck upside down to the
ceiling."

    "S-sorry, Mrs. Langdon," I stammered, dropping my eyes to the bedroom's
plush carpeting. It's rare I feel defensive, but right now I felt like a
four-year-old who'd walked in on her mother naked. I couldn't get the image
of Carol's shapely ass and tight, hairless pussy out of my mind. "I didn't
mean to stare, I mean scare you. I kept calling out for you, but I
shouldn't have left the foyer without permission. Please forgive me."

    "Nonsense, dear. When you're here, consider my home as much your home,
too. And please, call me Carol when we're alone. I get enough formalities
with work as it is. Oh my!" My eyes shot up to see Carol looking down at
her naked body a little sheepishly. "I completely forgot about still being
in my birthday suit, silly me. Let me grab a robe."

    "You don't have to," I blurted before catching myself. "I mean, this is
your house and, ah, it doesn't bother me at all."

    The hardening, puffy nipples poking at my red midriff tank top said
otherwise.

    "Really? I'm glad," Carol put away the iPod. "I wasn't one for going
around in the buff, until a girlfriend recently suggested it. I never
imagined how liberating being naked can be. However, I should be getting
ready, seeing it's a quarter after five. It's a good thing you came extra
early, or I would've stayed lost to the tunes."

    "No problem. Should I wait in the living room or something?"

    "Actually," she smiled, stepping into a tiny black thong, "if you
wouldn't mind, could I ask your help? It's been a while since I last
squeezed into a cocktail dress. At the same time, I can fill you in on
Billy's . . . well, troubles. I hope not fully disclosing them earlier
won't pose a problem for you."

    "Nah. Usually clients are too nervous to tell me before hand, fearing I
might decline if I knew the details. Most don't even know the extent of
their children's troubles. Over the years, though, there's few behaviours I
haven't had to deal with."

    Visibly relieved, Carol disappeared into a walk-in closet, to emerge
holding the skimpiest of black dresses. Finally I stepped into the huge
bedroom with its four-poster canopy bed. Helping Carol struggle into the
clinging dress, in the process getting to unintentionally feel her full
breasts and toned butt, she explained her son's problems. Most I already
knew from our interview, so it was more learning some of the extremes of
the boy's behaviour.

    Basically it sounded like eight-year-old Billy had been a good
kid. Though the nasty divorce three years ago was hard on him, he'd been a
real trooper through it all. Then a few months ago, he began changing
almost overnight. Gone was cheerful son she'd known, replaced by a moody
boy, who'd erupt in angry outbursts for no apparent reason. Recently his
rages were increasing in both frequency and intensity. It had become enough
that even her ex-husband, who thought it simply a boy thing, was now
becoming concerned, and babysitters refused the moment they heard his
name. Trying to get him to open up about it had been met with hostile
silence. Every attempt to seek professional help for their son, had only
further deepened the boy's anger and moodiness. With no options left, they
had no choice but to hope it was merely a phase, and pray it would soon
pass.

    Of course I couldn't be certain until meeting Billy face-to-face, but I
had an idea what might be behind his abrupt change. If it's what I think it
is, then I've dealt with it a few times before. I didn't mention this to
his mother, though, as right now it's just a hunch, albeit quite a strong
one.

    Carol finally managed, with my assistance, to get the little black
dress perfect. If not for its skinny spaghetti straps, I'd fear her full
breasts would've popped free of the straining, satiny fabric. With the
wealth of creamy cleavage she was displaying, along with how the dress
accented her slinky figure and long legs, a thought came to mind that
caused me to hiccup a small laugh. Sitting at the vanity finishing her
make-up, she raised an inquiring slender eyebrow at me.

    "Sorry," I couldn't keep from grinning girlishly. "I had an image of
you walking into the gala, with a red hourglass on your abdomen."

    She chuckled at the thought. "Walk in a junior partner, and walk out a
senior partner. Like us lawyers don't weave tangled enough webs. You
shouldn't be giving me ideas, Sheila, especially such good ones."

    Turning back to the mirror, Carol sighed flicking a lock of raven
hair. "It's a shame my hairdresser couldn't fit me in today. It would've
been nice doing something with my hair."

    Hoping I wasn't risking a mistake, I replied, "Um, I might be able to
help with that."

    "Oh?"

    "After four years of babysitting, you get a lot of practice styling
girls' hair for them. I'm far from a professional, of course, but I'm told
I'm pretty good."

    "Please, by all means," she beamed. "The thought of arriving with the
same 'do, just gives me the shudders."

    Explaining the style I was thinking, she eagerly agreed. Standing over
her as I worked, it was hard not stealing glances at her nearly-exposed
tits. It was harder still struggling to hold at bay my libido, which
strained like a starving wolf on a leash, with a succulent, juicy steak
being waved right under her nose.

    Pulling the right side of her falling hair back toward her left
shoulder, it bared the right half of her beautiful face and elegant
neck. Sweeping it across her left eye and shoulder to come around her
breastbone like a talon, the sharp tapering curl drew the eye to the jade
pendant necklace above that matched her eyes, and highlighted the ample
cleavage beneath. With careful application of styling mousse and hairspray,
it remained flexible where needed, and held secure everywhere else.

    "I love it," Carol gushed, gazing at her new 'do in the vanity.

    Turning, she gripped me by the shoulders, and kissed me on the lips!

    I could've put doing that down to simple enthusiasm, but for one little
thing. She held the kiss just a bit longer than would be expected. Along
with "forgetting" about being naked in front of me earlier, naturally I
couldn't help wondered if she might be subtly testing the waters. No, I
can't let myself entertain that notion. Unfortunately, thoughts like that
could get me into very hot water if I'm mistaken.

    God, sometimes I hate being so rational!

    Releasing me, Carol slipped on her high heels and went to pose before
the bedroom's antique standing tri-mirror, studying her trio of separate
reflections. Meanwhile, I half-sat and half-fell in the vanity's vacated
chair, surprised my shaky knees allowed that much grace. A familiar heat
flushed through my loins, and my puffy nipples throbbed so hard, it felt as
if they were going to fly off like tiny rockets. My mind warring between
desire and self-control, I couldn't begin fathoming how her ex-husband had
even thought of cheating on her.

    I have no trouble grasping boys, whether they're prepubescent,
adolescent, or teenagers. Grown men on the other hand, at least when it
comes to their reasoning abilities, are a whole other matter. Then again,
I've met more than a few women who are no better, and in some case far
worse. Yeah, it's puzzling how as a species we've managed to survive this
long.

    With a few minutes until it was six on the dot, Carol grabbed her
string purse as we departed the bedroom, asking if I had any questions
before she left. I had a ton of them, but nothing related to
babysitting. Arriving at the living room, we were greeted by the giant
flatscreen television blaring a cartoon show. I love cartoons myself, and
I'll proudly admit I'm a total anime freak, but not when they're loud
enough to wake my parents in their graves. Obviously Mr. Langdon had
already dropped off Billy for the weekend.

    "Billy," Carol ordered, her voice cutting through the noise like a
knife. "Turn it down!"

    Staring in annoyance at his mother, the eight-year-old boy on the huge
couch dialed the volume down to a normal level. Then he went back to
slumping with arms crossed defiantly on his chest, bare feet propped up on
the large coffee table.

    His neat black hair and green eyes were from his mother, but his cute
face had to be closer to I'm guessing his father. In dark track pants and a
blue t-shirt, it wasn't hard to tell he played sports. By his leanness, and
being the current rage, my bet was on soccer.

    "Thank you," Carol said to her son. "Billy, this is Sheila, your new
babysitter. She's in charge, and I'm expecting you to be a responsible
young man tonight, alright?"

    Only Billy's eyes moved to look at me. Or rather, glare daggers at
me. The resentment in his hostile stare said a lot, and reinforced my
earlier hunch.

    "Be good, Billy, and I'll see you in the morning." She gave her son a
good-bye kiss. He didn't seem to react at all, though I knew the act was
because I was standing there.

    Once Carol had left, I wordlessly joined Billy on the sofa to watch The
Fairly OddParents cartoon. Throughout it, I kept catching Billy's fleeting
glances, no doubt curious why I wasn't acting like his previous sitters. If
he thought he had babysitters figured out, then tonight was going to be
more fun than I thought.

    When the show finished, I rose and stretched fully. I could practically
feel his gawking eyes on my lithe figure, being skimpily clad in just the
red midriff tank top and denim cut-offs. I asked what he'd like for supper.

    "It's not going to work," Billy stated bluntly, staring at the
television.

    "Excuse me?"

    He turned his face to glare at me directly. "I know what you're up
to. You're going to pretend like you're my friend, and try to get me to be
good. You think 'cause you're a girl, you can manip--- Manipulus---"

    "Manipulate?"

    "Yeah, manipulate us boys into doing whatever you want. It ain't going
to work on me, so up yours."

    I shrugged nonchalantly. "No problem. So, do you prefer strained
carrots or peas for supper?"

    "What?"

    Heading for the kitchen, I tapped a finger on my chin. "I guess your
mom hides your diapers in your room."

    "What? I am not a baby!"

    Stopping halfway across the living room, I looked back over a shoulder
at him standing on the couch facing me, and raised a blonde eyebrow. "So
far you haven't proved that to me in the least."

    Seeing frustration and embarrassment reddening his face, I knew how
he'd react even before he did. It was a fact I was counting on.

    Billy sputtered for a moment, then smirked maliciously. "Okay, I'll
prove I'm not a baby. See!"

    He hooked his thumbs in the front of his track pants and underwear, and
pulled down enough to expose his semi-limp, hairless foreskinned cock and
balls. They were about average for an eight-year-old, as I've seen both
larger and smaller boy penises over the years.

    "Big deal," I turned fully around, then yanked up my midriff tank top,
baring my shallow tits and puffy pink nipples. The boy was so shocked, he
forgot he was still exposing his cock, which instantly jerked up to a
straining, three inch boner.

    His erect little boyhood had a pretty good girth to it. It's
now-exposed head could be a bit thicker, though. Overall, it wasn't too
shabby at all. I'd give it an eight-point-five.

    Waiting until his eyes nearly popped from their sockets, I tugged the
tank top back down.

    "So," I asked, resuming my trek for the kitchen, "if we've got them,
cheeseburgers and fries sound good to you?" I didn't expect a response, at
least not until his seized-up, prepubescent brain unstuck itself. The tits
get them every time.

    Rummaging through the mansion's massive kitchen, I found the fixings
for homemade burgers and store-bought fries. With a silent thanks to my
father for teaching me how to cook, among the many things he taught me, I
started preparing our supper. I had the raw patties made by the time Billy
finally slinked into the kitchen, looking like a puppy with his tail
between his legs. He took one of the tall stools on the other side of the
island counter, sitting across from where I stood. For a while the only
sounds heard were the sizzling burgers in the frying pans, and my knife
chopping toppings. At last I decided he'd suffered long enough.

    "Still wondering why I flashed my tits at you?"

    I didn't need to look up from slicing a tomato, to know he was blushing
from the fresh memory. Then he actually threw my expectations a slight
curve ball.

    "Um, Sheila? I'm . . . I'm sorry I . . . you know."

    "That you told me to up mine?"

    "That too, yeah. And . . . ."

    "If I can say tits, then you can say the other word. It's alright. It
starts with a cee, and ends with a kay. It has four letters. All males have
it. Ringing any bells?"

    "I'm sorry for flashing my . . . cock at you."

    "Apology accepted. And thank you for having the courage to
apologize. In the future, you might want to remember that unlike me, most
girls aren't fond of boys waving their wieners at them. That's the first
rule with girls; show them respect, and most times they'll return it in
kind."

    "Some are just cruel," Billy muttered, the pain in his voice coming
from the heart.

    "That's why I said most girls, not all." I started chopping an
onion. "Everyone's different, Billy, boys and girls alike. Just because one
girl hurt you, doesn't mean every girl will, though I'm sure it feels that
way to you right now."

    "H-how'd you know about that?"

    Halting the knife, I gave him a gentle smile. "One-third woman's
intuition. Another third knowing a number of boys around your age, who've
gone through what you are. And the last third, is that I've been there
myself. The thing is, kiddo, it happens. It'll probably happen again
someday down the road. But if you don't get past the hurt now, you're never
going to find yourself another girlfriend. Trust me on that."

    Billy was silent as I finished with the toppings, periodically tending
to the cooking patties. Obviously he was thinking about what I'd said, and
I secretly smiled at that. His mother is a feared lawyer, so it wasn't
surprising he inherited her intellect, but it was still nice to see
nonetheless. It wasn't until he'd grabbed us plates and condiments from the
fridge, that he spoke again.

    "Sheila? How do I . . . get past it?"

    "The hurt?" I flipped a patty on the sizzling frying pan. "There's no
real set way. I mean, everyone's different, and deals with life their own
way. I can offer suggestions, but mostly it's finding what way works for
you. More importantly, you have to want to do it, or you might as well not
even try."

    He was silent for a moment. "I think I understand, but the problem's
. . . well . . . ."

    "Whatever it is," I looked him straight in the eye, "know that I won't
laugh, I won't tell another soul, and I won't judge you. I've been there,
and remember all too well how hard it is. You don't have to tell me either,
if you think it's solely a guy thing."

    "It is, you know, a guy thing," he admitted, "but I think only girls
really know how to fix it. And you're a girl."

    I took a peek down the neck of my tank top. "Well, what do you know. I
am a girl. Alright, all kidding aside, I think I see where you're going
with this. It's a guy thing, but it's directly related to girls. Which
means, a guy's advice might not be the best thing for dealing with it,
right? I thought so. I'll help in any way I can. Seeing as supper's just
about ready, though, how about we save it for after we eat. I've always
found a good meal does wonders for a working mind."

    As we were about to chow down, Billy finally asked, in a
bashfully-hesitant way, why I had flashed my tits in return.

    I arced a blonde eyebrow. "Did doing so make you stop and think?"

    "Of course. Oh, I get it now. That's really smart!"

    "Thank you."

    "Sheila? Would you ever . . . you know, let me see them again?"

    Looking at him from the corner of an eye, I allowed a half-grin. "We'll
see. Now eat, before your food gets cold."

    Most other boys would've pressed their luck, seeking a more definitive
answer. Billy instead began eating without another word. He was a smart
one, and cute to boot. Add to that the possibility his mother . . . .

    Sometimes it's amazing how serendipity works. Here I might be on the
trail of a possible solution, to something that until now I hadn't fully
realized I had been seeking to solve. It wasn't a certainty, that's for
sure, but maybe . . . just maybe . . . .

    Of course, only time would tell.