I was sitting for Mr and Mrs Grange one night. That's a hard gig, let me tell you. They've got four kids under the age of five. You try keeping up with that lot when they decide to start running around. Mrs Grange's brother, Brian, picked the adults up. Apparently he was going to the same do as they were.
Brian has the ability to rub me the wrong way. He treats me as though I was one of the kids. He's polite, but somewhat condescending, not deliberately being insulting but apparently not realising that I have grown over the past few years. I wouldn't have been surprised if he'd patted me on the head on the way out and told me to be a good girl.
Once the Grange's and Brian had departed the kids did their best to run me ragged. A real handful, they were. The big problem came at bedtime. I put them down and then one got up for some stupid reason. Then one of the others got up to see why the first was up. By the time I put those two back to bed a third one would be there, wanting to know what was going on. And on it went until they were all finally in bed and asleep and I was wrung out like an old wash cloth.
After that it was a real relief to be able to sit back and watch TV without being disturbed, and that's what I did until the Grange's arrived home.
Now I'm not saying that the Grange's were tanked when they got home. Let's just say that they were feeling no pain. Brian, on the other hand, was as sober as a judge. He'd been the designated driver and the Grange's had taken full advantage of that fact.
I would have been quite happy to just collect my pay and go home, but Beth was having none of that. She insisted I joined them for coffee while they discussed the night. OK, I didn't really mind doing that. What I found increasingly uncomfortable was the fact that the Grange's were feeling amorous.
It started off with a few suggestive remarks between them, but after a while there was a little bit of surreptitious touching which escalated into not so surreptitious touching. My comfort level wasn't enhanced by several comments that Brian made, apparently on the assumption that I would be too young to understand them. Just because you don't play the game it doesn't mean that you don't know the rules.
I was quite relieved when the Grange's started making noises about retiring. Then they were up and heading for their bedroom, telling me that Brian would see me out. I could hear them giggling and carrying on as they headed down the hall.
Brian gave me a superior looking smirk.
"Don't let it worry you," he said, nodding in the direction the Grange's had gone. "Your turn will come. You'll understand that sort of thing a lot better when you've done some more growing up."
Condescending bastard. He could really get up my nose the way he belittled me.
"Actually, Brian," I said, in as cutting a voice as I could manage, "I understand the whole thing quite well. I am eighteen and of age and I could participate in that sort of thing right now if I so choose. But if I did so choose, I wouldn't do it in such a manner as to make a public spectacle of myself."
Brian looked me over and I had to admit that I looked younger than my years. I was dressed for baby-sitting, not a night on the town. Where the Grange household was concerned, with four small children who could let out copious loads of smelly liquids and semi-solids from both ends, that meant I was wearing loose tracky dacks and a sloppy joe top. They may have swum on me, and made me look younger, but they were ideal for dealing with small kids.
"Yeah, right," Brian said, scoffing lightly at my claim. "You don't look a day over fifteen in that outfit."
"Your poor eyesight doesn't change my age. If you think I'd wear good clothes while baby-sitting, you're mad," I told him. "These things are cheap and easy to wash. The idea is to earn money, not have to spend it trying to get good clothes cleaned."
I'd finished my coffee and on that note I rose to leave, confident that I'd had the last word. I'd just stepped past Brian when he took hold of the sides of my tracky dacks and gave a firm tug. Like I said, they were real loose, and that fact wasn't helped by the fact that they were only held up by an elastic waist band. When Brian gave them a firm tug they just popped over my bottom and were loose enough and heavy enough to just go slithering down my legs.
"You're right. Those legs are quite something. Definitely not the legs of a child," said Brian with appreciation.
While I felt mildly flattered that he liked my legs I felt a lot more irritation that my trousers were down around my ankles. I was also thanking god that I had on nice undies. I'd have died if he'd caught me wearing granny pants.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" I snapped at him. I couldn't even bend down to pull my trousers up because he was holding my arm while he looked me over.
"Admiring your legs and wondering if the top half is as nice under that mountain of material you have on," he said.
It turns out that a loose floppy top has distinct disadvantages when you want to keep it on and someone else wants to take it off. It was just too loose for me to be able to jam my arms into the sleeves to hold it on or anything. Brian just grabbed and lifted and if came off as neat as you please, leaving me standing there in my undies, hopping mad.
"Very nice," said Brian slowly. "Very nice indeed."
Which was nicely flattering, but I'd sooner have had my clothes on.
"Let me go or I will scream," I said, enunciating the words slowly and clearly so that even a moron like Brian would hear and understand them. "If I scream the Grange's will come running to see what the problem is and I'm sure you don't want that."
"Ah, I think you'll find that if you screamed, nothing would happen," Brian said, smiling kindly. "Beth and her playmate both imbibed quite freely tonight. Despite their lustful intentions, I'd be willing to wager that they both fell asleep as soon as they hit the bed. And what's the problem, anyway? I'm just admiring a very nice figure. A lot nicer than I expected I'm quite willing to admit."
I gave him a nasty look, smiled, showing a lot of bare teeth, and sweetly said, "Brian, why don't you go and get fucked?"
The definition of a mistake - telling a horny man to get fucked while alone with him and only wearing your undies.
I'd barely finished speaking when the kitchen seemed to whirl around me. I found myself lying across Brian's lap, one of his hands pulling down my panties while the other one was undoing my bra. It seems a man can multi-task when he sets his mind to it. In nothing flat I was naked with Brian's hands running over me.
I was squirming and trying to wriggle off his lap, but I was somewhat distracted by a couple of fingers trying to intrude in a place where they had no right intruding.
"What do you think you're doing?" I demanded. That was the second time in quick succession that I'd asked that question. Why I bothered I don't know. It was pretty obvious what he was doing. Stripping and molesting me. He, of course, had an alternative answer.