The last thing I remembered was sitting on our leather couch, wearing my pretty pink bathrobe, batting my extra-long (false) eyelashes at my gorgeous husband, and starting to feel drowsy. Ugh! What a day...
I vaguely remembered wrapping my nice, warm bathrobe around my body because I was cold - and the only thing I was wearing beneath it was my (double-padded) Wonderbra and skimpy red panties with the sexy silk fringes. My husband, Carl, likes to make fun of me for wearing bras all the time, even when it's just the two of us lounging around the house - and even during sex - but what can I say? A lady MUST maintain her appearance... and even after three years of marriage, I'd rather Carl think of me as the curvy, top-heavy vixen he fell in love with... instead of, you know... as a girl who's not, uh, particularly well endowed.
"Here. Drink this before you doze off, angel," Carl told me, handing me a glass of water and two of my pain pills.
"Okay... thank you, sweetie..."
Soon I was fast asleep.
One day earlier, I had been riding my horse at the Prairie Mountain Country Club - the most exclusive private club in town. I LOVED horseback riding! But my outing came to an abrupt halt when I was thrown from Buttercup, my beautiful coal-black Arabian stallion, while riding along the old Indian trail. I landed with a sick thud in the dirt, and the end-result was six bruised ribs, a hyperextended knee and a concussion.
When I awoke several hours later, Carl was carrying his suitcase to the front door.
"Carl...? Carl! What... what's going on?"
He walked to the couch and kissed me on the forehead.
"Oh, you're up. Hope you're feeling better, babe. Bad news: Old Man Peterson called me half-an-hour ago. He needs me to fly up to Chicago, ASAP. The client isn't happy and our biggest account is threatening to cancel their contract. Can you believe it?"
"What? You... you're leaving? But - but I need you, sweetie! I can barely walk!"
"I'm so sorry, babe. Believe me, I'd rather stay with you. But this isn't optional, and you know how Old Man Peterson gets when a client threatens to walk. ...You sure you're okay?"
I shook my head, trying to clear the cobwebs. Tears were beginning to swell in my eyes.
"Carl! You can't leave me now! I - I can't even get off the couch without your help!"
"Don't worry, babe: I called someone to help. And it won't just be her: She has two others helping her take care of you."
"Oh? ...Who?"
Two 20-year-old boys walked into the room with sheepish grins, along with a 20-year-old bleached-blonde girl in thigh-high leather boots.
My heart sank!
These weren't professional nurses. These were two stoner-boys from the neighborhood - plus their skanky girlfriend!
The McNally twins, Roger and Hank. And Deborah Jones, the neighborhood slut.
I knew the McNally twins VERY well. Too well: When they were younger, I was their babysitter. I looked after them from ages 11 to 18. But I quit watching them when their "interest" in me got out of hand.
Mrs. McNally tried to dismiss my concerns: "Don't be silly, Charlotte! They're adolescent boys. It's only natural that they'd be attracted to a pretty woman like you. It's just a harmless crush! They're only 18 and very inexperienced."
But it was more than a harmless crush, and I'm not so sure how "inexperienced" they really were. Believe me, those kids were weird and creepy! They were constantly trying to peek down my blouse, and every time I walked by, they had their hands down their pants!
The last straw was when I went to the bathroom to pee after sending them to bed. I know for a FACT that I locked the door shut - but somehow, it swung wide open - and both of those little pervs were standing in the doorway, gaping at me.
There I was, sitting on the toilet, with my jeans and panties around my ankles.
"GET OUT!!" I screamed.
But they just stood there, staring at me with their jaws wide open.
"Ooh, I see her underpants!" said one of the cretins, pointing.
I wrapped my arms around my waist and leaned all the way over so the twins couldn't see my pussy.
"I SAID, GET OUT!!"
"Uh, do you need help wiping, Charlotte?" asked Roger. "Heh, heh!"
"Yeah!" giggled Hank. "Spread your legs wide and we'll... heh, heh... wipe you real good! It'll be our little secret!"
My face turned bright red. I grabbed my shoe and threw it at their stupid faces!
"Get the fuck out of here! NOW!!"
Laughing like lunatics, they got the message and shut the door. (I could hear them arguing in the hallway about whether or not they "saw bush.")
That was two years ago. It was the last time I ever babysat them. Noooo thank you! Frankly, I thought it was ridiculous that 18-year-old boys would need a babysitter anyway - but I no longer felt safe around them. Because in addition to being a pair of socially-awkward pervs, they were both really, REALLY big. I'm guessing six-foot, six-inches, 300-pounds each - the size of NFL linemen.
And I'm really petite. I mean, really, REALLY petite.
Sigh... Not only am I NOT naturally well-endowed when it comes to my breasts, I'm also short and skinny. My true height is only four-foot, 11 inches, not that I'd ever admit it (Thank God for high heels!). I'm almost 29, but without my padded bra, heels and makeup, I still get carded when buying a ticket to an R-rated movie! (And once on a camping trip, someone actually thought I was Carl's daughter! Can you believe that? The grumpy-old ranger wouldn't let me leave the campsite until my "daddy" showed up. I tried to stomp away, but he grabbed me by the waistband of my shorts and panties - and as I ran back to my tent, they were accidentally yanked to my knees! I fell face-first into the mud with my ass in the air... and when I looked up, my shorts and panties in the ranger's hand! It was the single most humiliating moment of my life.)
That's why I ALWAYS wear makeup and a "special" bra before I leave the house, or when I'm alone with my husband. It's why - when Carl turned his back and left me on the couch after my recent visit to the emergency room - I quickly grabbed my pocketbook and applied my makeup.
It's SO frustrating being an adult - and still looking like a little kid!
Anyway, after the bathroom incident, I refused to babysit the McNally twins. I tried to avoid them at all costs, but they still lived in the neighborhood and they always seemed to be lurking around. And they were constantly making stupid, immature "jokes" about my body, talking about how much fun it would be to fuck me... like, AS IF!
Now they were here - in my house?!
Their girlfriend, Deborah Jones, was even worse: She was a chain-smoking, pill-popping, dick-hopping super-slut who was notorious for getting drunk and making such a terrible racket, someone would invariably call the cops.
That someone was usually me.
"What's yourrrr problem, Chhharlotte?" she slurred at me last week, after I notified the police that an underage, 20-year-old girl was drinking vodka and blasting music at 3 in the morning.
"Just go home and sleep it off, Deborah," I retorted. "And while you're at it, go take a bath! You reek of cigarettes and sperm! Eww!"
"You think you'rrrre so much better than me, don't ya?!" she slurred. "Just 'cause you have them... them expensive clothes and - and fancy-shmancy makeup, ya think you'rrre the Queen of the whole neighborhood! Well, I gots newwzz forrr ya, Charlotte! *Hiccup!* One of these days, I'm gonna take you down a peg! And I'm gonna show everyone EXACTLY what yerrrr really like!"
"Take me down a peg?" I laughed. "The only thing you take down is your panties! Now get your skanky ass out of here or I'll call the cops again!"
That only made her angrier: "You... you BITCH! Without them rrrrich-girl clothes, you're nothin'! You act sooo smart and - hiccup! - sophisticated, but I see how badly ya want Hank and Roger to ffffuck you good! *Hiccup!* You - you WANT their cock! DON'T YOU, ya little midget!"
"Sorry, dear!" I sniggered, "but Freud calls your theory 'projecting.' Now go home, you pathetic cum-bucket! In life, there are winners and there are losers. You dear, are an ugly, unattractive LOSER. Now GO!"
