Baby sitters bad night

[angelcarter2022]

This is a homage to the babysitters stories with my own take

Chapter One


Jessica parked outside the Brenners’ house and cut the engine, giving herself five seconds to become the version of herself adults trusted. At sixteen, she was tidy, disciplined, and alert: blue eyes bright behind understated frames, chestnut hair pulled into a no-nonsense ponytail, her slim build carrying the quiet muscle of after-school sports and early-morning routines. She wore jeans, a fitted tee, and spotless sneakers, an unspoken rejection of the clingy or flashy trends that stalked her classmates. Dating was a nonstarter; Jessica had a college fund to build, and babysitting paid better than any stupid mall job. She checked her ponytail in the mirror, set her jaw, and slung her stuffed tote bag over one shoulder.

The tote weighed more than last time. Jessica always overpacked for jobs at the Brenners’, never trusting what the boys had left in the house from week to week. Tonight it held a hardcover collection of board games for peacekeeping, three protein bars for emergencies, a plastic folder with their parents’ hand-typed instructions, and a zippered pouch containing plasters, tissues, and two allergy EpiPens in colour-coded sleeves. Her phone was zipped inside an inner pocket, screen turned off to avoid distraction. There was also a paperback for after the boys went to bed, not that she expected to have the energy for it. The Brenners were her most challenging babysitting clients, but they paid triple her usual rate, and at sixteen that was good money.

She stepped out and made sure to lock her car, then crossed the Brenners’ brickwork path. The house had no porchlight, only the waning sun reflecting in the sidelights of the door. Jessica pressed the bell and settled into the waiting posture she’d honed over years: spine straight, tote at her side, the arm not carrying the bag tucked against her ribs, shoes lined up perfectly even with the doormat’s edge.

Inside, she heard the ripple of voices—one male, one female—then the quick, clipped approach of adult footsteps. Jessica scanned the nearby lawn for any movement, rehearsing her opening line (“Hope you’re not running late, Mrs Brenner!”), before the door opened and a sudden waft of air conditioning shivered her arms.

“Jessica! Thank you so much for coming,” Mrs Brenner said. She looked precisely as Jessica remembered from last month: ponytail a little askew, neckline stained with the day’s laundry, eyes both warm and slightly desperate. “Come in, come in. Shoes off, please.”

Jessica wiped her soles with an extra flourish and stepped inside, letting her eyes adjust. Mr Brenner was visible past the foyer, wrestling a navy suitcase upright at the foot of the stairs. He wore a pressed collared shirt and khakis that suggested he had come straight from the office, and his face was unreadable except for the restless set of his jaw.

“Thanks again, Jessica,” he called without turning.

Mrs Brenner shifted her weight, holding the door open a little too long. “The boys are—well, you’ll see,” she said, lowering her voice, “but you know how they get on Friday nights. We have that event for Mark’s soccer league, so we’ll be back late. Don’t hesitate to text if there’s any… incident.”

Jessica gave her most businesslike nod. “Not a problem, Mrs Brenner. The schedule’s the same as last time, I assume?”

“Yes, yes, absolutely. Mark’s got math to finish before screens. Tyler...” Mrs Brenner trailed off with a sigh. “Just try to keep him from climbing things, if you can. He’s already broken two picture frames this month.” Her smile was apologetic and practised. “You’re such a lifesaver.”

From the living room, a thud followed by a short, involuntary yelp echoed down the hall.

Jessica’s grip on her tote strap tightened. “I’ll get started,” she said, already angling herself toward the sound.

“Wait, let me just—” Mrs Brenner reached out and caught Jessica’s elbow with two fingers. “Seriously. If it gets out of hand, just call us. I don’t want a repeat of… you know. That whole cat thing.” Her eyes held Jessica’s, entreating.

Jessica let her professionalism settle over her like armour. “It won’t happen again,” she said. “You can count on me.”

As Mrs Brenner finally released her and pivoted toward the staircase, Mr Brenner appeared beside her. “We’re counting on you, Jessica,” he said, his voice low and deliberate. He looked at her directly, and she felt herself stand an inch taller. “No screens after nine. If there’s any backtalk, you have my permission to cut the WiFi. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.” Jessica nodded once, crisp.

“Good.” He shouldered the suitcase and looked past her, gaze sweeping the hallway with a general’s readiness. “Be good,” he called in the direction of the living room.

A mocking, echoing “Be good!” sang back from the hidden depths.

Jessica smiled at the parents in turn, performing her ease and competence with well-practiced choreography. “Have a great night,” she said, then watched as the two of them moved in tandem: Mrs Brenner going up the stairs to grab a forgotten scarf, Mr Brenner stepping out to the driveway. For a moment, Jessica stood in the hush of the entryway, hearing the layered noises of the house—footfalls above, the shudder of the refrigerator, faint video game sounds leaking from the den.

Through the kitchen she glimpsed the two boys: Mark, fourteen, lanky and still growing into his frame, lay half-stretched across the couch with one arm lolling behind his head. His sharp, analytical eyes stayed fixed on the television, his angular face caught between boyishness and something harder. Tyler, thirteen and built like a fireplug, was coiled in the armchair with legs splayed wide, a juice box in each hand and purple ringing his lips. His hair stood in rough tufts from roughhousing, and his restless physicality made him seem always on the verge of springing up. Neither looked up as she entered.

Jessica’s phone vibrated in her tote. She ignored it.

“Hey, guys,” she announced in her ‘babysitter in charge’ voice, striding forward to claim the remote from the coffee table. “Your parents are almost out the door. You know the rules.” She eyed them both, waiting for acknowledgement. Mark flicked his eyes toward her with the weary tolerance of a much older teenager, then back to the screen. Tyler slurped his juice, pointedly making no eye contact.

“We’re not watching anything bad,” Tyler said, voice up-pitched in the whine of plausible deniability. “It’s National Geographic.”

“Documentaries are fine, but not if homework’s not finished.” Jessica clicked the TV off with a surgical motion, then turned to Mark. “How’s your math coming?”

He shrugged, not bothering to sit up. “It’s easy. I did most of it already.”

“I’d like to see it, please.”

He rolled his head to the side and exhaled, but reached to the floor and produced the battered spiral notebook without comment. Jessica glanced at the page, noted the careful handwriting, the answers circled, and let a grudging satisfaction settle. “Good job,” she said, just loud enough for the compliment to register.
Mark looked at her, one eyebrow arching in a challenge. “You want to check my reading, too?”
“If you’re done with the math, yes.” Jessica kept her tone even. “Then you can have screens until dinner. And I mean actual reading, not—”
“We know what you mean,” Tyler cut in, now rocking both juice boxes like hand weights. “Can we have the snack now?”

Jessica suppressed an internal groan. “Dinner’s in ninety minutes. But if you want carrot sticks, you can help yourself.” She crossed to the kitchen and opened the fridge. The Tupperware of cut carrots sat beside a casserole, neatly labelled and covered with foil. She held up the carrots, giving Tyler the option to claim or decline.

He snatched the container and immediately began gnawing on a carrot, eyes darting to Mark, seeking approval. Mark only rolled his eyes, then turned his attention back to his phone, which had materialised from somewhere in the depths of the couch cushions.

“Mark. Screens off until you finish reading.” Jessica held out her hand for the phone, palm up.

Mark looked at her, then at the phone, then back at her again. For a long moment neither moved. Tyler watched, openly entertained.
Jessica held the pose, patience stretched tight. The old frustration threatened to seep through, and the memory of the last babysitting gig pressed under her skin like a sliver beneath a nail: Mark ignoring time-out, texting his friends from the locked bathroom after she’d confiscated all visible electronics; Tyler’s “accidental” orange-juice tsunami claiming two hardcover books, one library copy, and one from the school’s “gifted” shelf. Both incidents had ended in a long, tedious phone call with their parents and a week of the boys being “grounded,” which Jessica suspected had lasted about three days.

But this time she had decided not to lose.

“Hand, please,” she said again. The room stilled. For a second, Jessica imagined herself as her own mother: inflexible, impossible, never backing down. She remembered what it had felt like as a child to press her will against that implacable surface, and the memory made her voice come out even steadier.

Mark broke first. He dropped the phone into her palm with a soft, resigned plunk.

“Thank you,” Jessica said, and she meant it. She tucked the phone into her own pocket, then set about making order of the room: juice box into recycling, TV remote aligned with the edge of the table, the game controller onto its charging base. Tyler watched her with a feral, electric anticipation, as if she was a creature he meant to poke with a stick at the first chance.

She decided to leave nothing to chance. “Here’s the plan,” Jessica said, reeling off the schedule with the measured clarity of someone reading aloud from a contract. “Mark, reading for thirty minutes, then you can have an hour of screens. Tyler, you can do whatever is quiet until dinner. After dinner, free time until nine, then both of you upstairs, in pyjamas. I’ll be checking.” She raised an eyebrow. “Any questions?”

Tyler made a soft, rude noise with his lips, but Mark only said, “Fine,” in a tone drained of all meaning.

Mrs Brenner reappeared at the bottom of the stairs, scarf now looped around her neck, purse in hand. “All set here?” she asked, smiling more to herself than at anyone in the room.

“We’re good,” Jessica replied, the words landing with finality.

“Well. We’ll be back after midnight, probably. There’s money for pizza if you need it for dinner and anything else you might want.” Mrs Brenner’s gaze flicked to the boys, to Jessica, then back to the door. “Good luck.”

Jessica nodded. “Thank you. Have fun tonight.”

Mr Brenner’s car horn beeped, twice, a clipped staccato. Mrs Brenner made a show of air-kissing both boys and then Jessica, who accepted the gesture with practised stillness. The door shut behind her, leaving a hush that was somehow both empty and expectant.

She wondered, briefly, if the Brenners would mention tonight in her college recommendation letter, and whether the battle she’d just won over a smartphone would count as “leadership” or “grit”. She pictured the email her own mother would send if she lost control again: “Jessica, they trust you, that’s why they call.” She exhaled, slow, and tried not to imagine all the ways the next four hours could unravel.

Tyler broke the spell by launching a carrot stick at the kitchen ceiling, where it stuck and slowly rotated. “Cool,” he said.

[mikewozere]

Love a good babysitting story.
Looking forward to part 2.

[justcantgetitup]

Love a good babysitting story.
Looking forward to part 2.

Likewise. I'm quite intrigued to see how this pans out because there is no obvious outnumbering or blackmail to get Jessica naked.

[Debbifan]

Love a good babysitting story.
Looking forward to part 2.

Likewise. I'm quite intrigued to see how this pans out because there is no obvious outnumbering or blackmail to get Jessica naked.

My only quibble is with the ages. 16 year old babysitting a 14 and a 13 year old ? I know the perceived wisdom is that girls mature earlier than boys but another year or two age gap might have made the scenario a bit more likely. But hey, let's see where it goes.

[angelcarter2022]

Chapter two

By seven-thirty, the Brenners’ house had the faintly hollow hush of a place in limbo—parental authority vacuumed out, nothing left but the chill of air conditioning and the sound of cartoons from the other room. Jessica sat at the kitchen island, her back straight, arms folded atop the work surface as she doom-scrolled.

The boys were exactly where she’d left them: Mark curled into the corner of the living room sofa, phone at his chest, eyes half-lidded in what might be contentment or plotting; Tyler sprawled, a collapsed puppet, on the carpet directly in front of the TV, still in his socks and the same juice-stained T-shirt from earlier.

The doorbell hadn’t rung, and her mother had not texted with any impromptu check-ins. By all measures, Jessica should have been at the apex of competence. Instead, her nerves buzzed, some subsonic warning building beneath the quiet.

She set her phone down and made a show of organising the kitchen drawer. Behind her, she heard a burst of laughter from the TV—a cartoon character skidding across the screen with a crash of cymbals, followed by Tyler shouting, “Whoa! Did you see that?” Then something thudded in the living room, hard enough to make the cutlery rattle.

Jessica pressed her lips together and counted to three. Then she raised her voice just enough to carry down the hall: “Mark, is your homework finished?”

A pause. “Yeah,” Mark called back, without inflection. “All of it.”
“Please bring it in for me to check.”

Nothing for a long beat, then the soft shuffle of Mark’s feet against the carpet. He entered the kitchen in a way that looked aimless, but Jessica noted how his eyes flickered to every surface—her phone, the dish in the drying rack—cataloguing them without expression. He handed her the notebook, open to a page of algebraic agony, and waited as she scanned the numbers.
“Looks good,” Jessica said, setting it down. “Nice handwriting.” She didn’t expect a reaction and didn’t get one.
Tyler clomped into the kitchen after his brother. "Are we having Pizza or what?" he whined, flopping against the opposite counter. He held an oversized fast-food cup, beaded with sweat, the straw already mangled by his teeth. Without waiting for an answer, he turned to the refrigerator and yanked the door open.

Jessica watched him unscrew the cap from a two-litre bottle of cola and pour until the liquid meniscus trembled at the rim. He added ice cubes one by one, the plastic cup crackling as it filled past the point of reason. She pressed her lips together, thinking of cavities and sugar crashes and the sheer excess of a child who had never been told no. The cup looked grotesque, swollen and heavy, condensation streaming down its sides.
"Soon," Jessica replied, keeping her voice neutral. "You can set the table if you want."

He made a face, something between a sneer and a grin, then tried to scoop too much ice into the already full cup. The lid slipped loose, the oversized cup tipped against his wrist, and the whole thing lurched forward. Cola surged out in one heavy wave, splashing across the work surface before pouring over Jessica’s top, arms, lap, and legs.

The cold hit her like a slap. She gasped-a sharp, involuntary sound-and jerked upright on the stool, but there was nowhere to go. The soda poured over her, icy and shocking, soaking through her thin cotton top in seconds until it clung transparent to her skin, her bra suddenly visible beneath the fabric. It flooded down into her shorts, saturating the waistband, pooling in her lap and seeping between her thighs until she felt it against her underwear, cold and invasive and horribly intimate. The liquid dripped through the gap between her legs, pattering onto the linoleum below, soaking the seat of the stool until she felt glued to it by the wet cling of fabric.

For a moment she couldn't breathe, couldn't speak-only felt the sugar-burn of carbonation against her skin, the way her shorts suctioned to her thighs, the terrible vulnerability of being drenched and exposed while seated. Her hands hovered uselessly over the mess, trembling, wanting to cover herself and knowing it was futile.

"You-" Her voice came out strangled, higher than she'd ever heard it. She gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles white, and forced herself to meet Tyler's eyes. "That was not an accident."

Tyler’s mouth hung open, the beginning of a smirk dying on his face as he realised the scale of the mess. He looked at Jessica, then at the floor, then back up again, all in a heartbeat.

Jessica unclenched her jaw. “That’s not acceptable,” she said, her voice flat and almost tranquil, the way lake-water is right before a storm.
Tyler immediately launched into a performance of apology—voice stuttering, hands fluttering, face contorted in the exaggerated panic of a silent film star. “Sorry, sorry, oh my god, I didn’t mean—I just—You have to get it out now or it’ll set. My mom says that if you let it set, it’s over.”
Jessica pressed her palms to her thighs. The denim clung to her, heavy and cold. “Go get a towel,” she said. “Now.”
He bolted, eager for the errand.

Mark lingered by the island, his expression careful, the corners of his mouth pulled in. “It’s true,” he said, quieter than before. “Stains like that. It’s worse if you wait.”

Jessica glared at the sticky patch across her midsection, equal parts mortified and furious. “I know how stains work, thank you.” She took a breath and tried to remember the exact wording of the Brenners’ instructions about “modelling composure in times of stress.” She counted to three again, but the anger was still there on the other side.

Tyler returned, triumphant, wielding a thin towel like a banner. He tossed it to Jessica, who caught it with both hands and pressed it awkwardly to her torso, feeling the towel suck up soda but leave her skin no less clammy. Tyler hovered at her elbow, eyes huge, voice lowered to a wheedle.
“I think we’re supposed to, like, put it in the laundry right away.” Tyler gestured toward the laundry room, his fingers flicking nervously, then locked eyes with Mark, who gave an infinitesimal nod.

“It’s right down the hall,” Mark said. “There’s a dryer. You could just throw your stuff in, and—” His tone was reasonable, persuasive, almost adult. “You can use the shower while it runs.”

Jessica’s initial impulse was to dismiss it out of hand. She had been in charge here for less than thirty minutes, and already she was on the verge of being outmanoeuvred by a pair of walking hormone bombs. But she could feel the syrup coating her skin, the way the fabric pinched and constricted around her, the smell already beginning to sour.

She looked at Mark, who watched her with patience that felt both sincere and predatory. She looked at Tyler, who made even his puppy-dog worry look like a dare.
Jessica exhaled through her nose, made a snap decision, and pushed herself off the stool. “Fine,” she said.
Tyler, delighted, led the way. Mark followed, steps silent. Jessica walked behind them, her shirt beginning to stick to her back in cold, adhesive bands. At the end of the hallway, the laundry room revealed itself as a narrow cell with a single flickering fluorescent bulb and the twin machines humming like sentries. A wire shelf held a row of detergent bottles, and a single, slightly faded towel occupied the lone towel bar.
Jessica surveyed the space, her arms folded over her chest, and tried to assemble a plan.

Tyler spoke first, breathless: “Just take it off and throw it in. Seriously, or you’ll be wearing that forever.”

Jessica fixed him with her best withering glare, but Tyler only grinned wider, teeth showing through the soda-stained lips. She turned to Mark, seeking even the tiniest sign that this was all a joke, but his face was a mask of calm, unreadable as a locked diary.
Mark gestured to the washer, almost politely. “I can run it for you, if you want.”

Jessica shook her head, feeling a flush creep up her throat despite the cold. “I can manage.”

She peeled the shirt away from her skin, wincing as it made a faint ripping sound where the cola had glued fabric to her ribs. The jeans were next, sticky and stiff, reluctant to let go. She unbuttoned and unzipped in one motion, stepping out with as much dignity as possible under the gaze of two adolescent boys.

She wore plain white underwear, the most neutral, least interesting pair she owned, and for a moment she felt exposed in a way that went beyond skin.

Behind her, Tyler made an admiring sound, something between a whistle and a gasp, then remembered himself and snapped his mouth shut.
Mark said nothing, but Jessica could sense his attention, undivided and unblinking.

She turned to the boys: “Out. I need to shower.”

Tyler opened his mouth to protest, but Mark touched his shoulder and steered him into the hallway. Mark’s hand lingered a fraction longer than necessary, and Tyler’s face did something complicated before settling into a pout.
Jessica waited until she heard their footsteps recede and then closed the utility room door, which, to her irritation, that it didn’t actually lock. The handle clicked shut with a soft, indecisive thunk, more a suggestion of privacy than the real thing.
She slipped off her panties and bra and bundled her clothes into the washer, set the temperature to hot, and poured in detergent with a steadiness she did not feel.
She stared at herself in the mirror, at the way the blush spread like spilled wine from her collarbones down to the soft swell of her breasts, at the way her nipples had tightened into hard, pink points from the cold. Her hair clung to her neck and shoulders in damp strands, and she could see the faint outline of her ribs, the way her stomach dipped in slightly before flaring out into the curve of her hips. The water beading on her skin caught the light, making her look like something carved from wet marble.
She was furious. But she would handle it, she told herself. That’s what grown-ups do.

She stepped into the spray of the shower, already strategising how to regain the upper hand when she emerged.

She never heard the soft click as the towel disappeared from the other side of the door.

It felt faintly ridiculous, her nakedness in a suburban guest bath, but she squared her shoulders and stepped into the tiny shower stall. The tile was cold, the water colder at first, but she forced herself to stand directly under it and let the soda residue sluice off her skin. She used the “family size” bottle of 3-in-1 to scrub everything, telling herself the faster she finished, the less chance there was for the boys to start round two of their little war.

Jessica finished quickly. She shut off the water, cracked the door, and reached for the towel. Her hand found air.

She blinked, pushed the door wider, and saw: nothing. No towel. Not on the hook, not draped on the edge, not on the floor. Her mouth went dry. She pressed both palms to the glass, then tried the other side, then scanned the little bath mat and the top of the tank for a spare. There was nothing.

She was alone, wet, and now completely, absurdly naked.

Jessica’s first impulse was to curse, but she suppressed it and ran both hands down her arms, shivering as the air dried drops along her skin. She stared at the faint rectangle where the towel had been, as if willing it to reappear. She could hear the washing machine through the wall, its spin cycle a dull, relentless whir. And then—just as her brain registered the sound of hallway footsteps—there was a single, perfunctory knock on the bathroom door.

She scrambled behind the shower’s cloudy glass, tried to sound casual: “What?”

Mark’s voice, patient as ever: “Are you finished? I’m hungry and want Pizza?”

She pressed her back against the shower, water pooling at her feet. “Can you bring me a towel? And push it through the door.” She knew they must have taken it, but Jessica wanted to remain calm and not confront them.

A pause. Then, “Tyler has it.”

“Hey, um, do you want your towel?” Tyler’s voice was pitched high, the barest edge of giggle underneath.
Jessica willed herself to sound bored. “Yes, I’d like my towel, thanks.”

Jessica stood, arms hugging herself, and tried to decide if she could dry off with a handful of toilet paper. It would barely cover anything. She could wrap herself in the shower curtain, but it was clear plastic with little blue whales—useless. She stood motionless, thinking, while her skin prickled with goosebumps and embarrassment.

Then, without warning, the bathroom door swung open.

Jessica jerked, slipping and almost falling in the stall. She caught the edge, but not before the glass swung wide and left her completely exposed to the hallway. Mark stood in the threshold, his phone raised, screen glowing. Beside him, Tyler held her towel in one hand and her phone in the other, the camera app open, the shutter sound clicking in rapid succession.

"Smile," Tyler said, angling her own phone to capture her from a different angle.

Jessica scrambled back against the tile, arms flying to cover herself, but she knew it was too late. She could see the photo preview on Mark's screen-her own face frozen in shock, water dripping from her hair, arms too slow to hide everything. Tyler's thumb moved across her phone, scrolling through her contacts list.
"Nice friends list," Tyler said. "Lots of people to share with."
"Please," Jessica said, voice barely audible. "Just give me the towel. Give me my phone."

Mark lowered his phone, but kept it ready. "We will. But first, listen." His voice was calm, almost conversational. "You know, every time you called our parents? Every time you tattled on us and we got grounded and spanked?"

Jessica felt the words dig in. She pressed harder against the tile, looking anywhere but at the cameras.
"You're going to do what we say tonight," Mark said. "Or these pictures go to everyone on your contact list. Your friends. Your family. Everyone."
Tyler held up her phone, the screen showing the gallery-dozens of photos already, her naked body captured from every humiliating angle. "You should've seen your face," he giggled. "But these are way better."

Jessica bit the inside of her lip, feeling the sting of tears threatening. "Delete them," she whispered. "Please."
Mark shook his head. "You get the towel when you agree. You'll get your phone back when you've done everything we ask. And if you tell anyone about this-if you even think about tattling again-these photos go viral."

"All of it," Tyler echoed, waving her phone tauntingly. "Or everyone sees you like this."
Jessica stared at her phone in Tyler's hand, then at Mark's camera, then at the towel. She could feel the blush crawling up her neck, the heat of her shame mixing with the chill on her skin. Her mind raced through every contact in her phone-her mother, her best friend from college, her supervisor at the tutoring centre.

"Give me my towel," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

"Say you'll do it," Mark said. "Say it."

Jessica's jaw trembled with effort. She couldn't think of a single way out. They had already taken the photos. They had her phone. They had her.
She whispered: "Fine. I'll do it. Just don't send them. Please."

Mark nodded, then turned to Tyler. "Give her the towel. I want her dry ."

Tyler grinned and tossed it to her. It landed on the shower floor, half in a puddle. "Phone stay with us though. Until you've earned it back."

They both backed out, closing the bathroom door with a final, solid click. Jessica heard the shuffle of footsteps fade, then the muffled sound of her phone's notification chime-Tyler testing that he could still access it.

She waited a full sixty seconds, then slid to the shower floor, arms wrapped around her knees, the scratchy towel clutched against her chest. When she finally opened the stall and dried off, her hands shook so badly she could barely manage it.

When she finally opened the stall and grabbed the towel, it was scratchy, barely soft enough to dry the last streaks of water. She tried to smooth her hair into something like order. She picked up the bundle of clothes and walked, slowly, back toward the kitchen, her steps echoing in the empty hallway.

In the living room, the boys sat together on the sofa, not talking, not looking at her. There was a space on the rug, directly in front of them, left open and waiting.

Jessica took her place and waited for their instructions.

She was the adult here; she reminded herself. But the rules had changed.

And she was the only one who hadn’t known.

“Drop the towel and show us what you have?” Tyler said with a look of triumph.

[mikewozere]

Hot.
There are a couple of continuity issues, such as "She dressed in silence", then at the end is only wearing a towel.

[tiger_kitten_2025]

I think this is a great start. I want to see how the boys use their new leverage.

[justcantgetitup]

Would be interesting to see what would happen if the Brenners come home early and catch their 16 yr old female babysitter naked in front of the boys. If they don't come back I'd like to see Jessica really brazen this one out and own it.

[angelcarter2022]

Chapter Three

Jessica stood on the carpet, bare feet prickling with cold and nerves, the towel wrapped tight around her torso. She clutched the fabric at her chest with both hands, knuckles white.
"Drop it," Mark said.

Jessica shook her head, a small, desperate motion. "No. Please. I'll do anything else, but not-"

"Drop it, or we'll send the picture." Tyler's voice cut through her plea, sharp and certain. "Your choice."

She looked at her phone on the table, screen glowing with the threat. Her arms trembled, locked in place by pride and fear. "You wouldn't."

"Try us," Mark said.

The silence stretched. Jessica's throat tightened. She loosened her grip by fractions, then let the towel fall. It dropped in a heap at her heels, its dampness a dull circle around her on the rug. Every instinct screamed at her to cover herself, but her arms were already at her sides, pressed there by force of will and the sound of Mark's voice behind the command: "Hands down. Now."

Jessica looked past the coffee table, across the mess of snack wrappers and stray game controllers, and found both boys watching her. Tyler’s eyes were wide, more hungry than leering, his tongue sneaking out to wet his stained lips. He was so much smaller than she was, in theory, but there was no mistaking who owned the moment. Mark, by contrast, was impassive: elbows on knees, hands folded, watching her with a scientist’s cold interest. The flickering television showed some cartoon, muted; the only noise in the room was the whine of the central air and the slow, ticking heartbeat in her own ears.

She tried to look above them, beyond them, at the cluster of family photos on the wall, at the far end of the living room where the light fell in a warped pattern across the floor. But it didn’t matter. Even with her chin high, she felt every inch of herself on display, felt the goosebumps rising along her ribs and up the insides of her arms. The A/C vent above pumped chilled air directly across her skin, and her nipples, which were already sensitive from the cold shower, stood out, small and sharp. The flush that had started on her neck now painted her chest, branching in raw streaks down to the soft flat of her belly.

“Wow,” said Tyler, breaking the silence. He stretched out his legs, then let his head loll against the sofa, taking her in from head to toe. “She’s, like, actually done it.”

“She doesn’t have a choice,” said Mark, quiet but not whispering. He tapped the side table with a single knuckle. “She knows what happens if she doesn’t.”

Jessica’s eyes went to the table. Her phone, propped between a remote and a half-empty juice box. It was unlocked; the photo gallery app was already open. She caught the thumbnail of herself from earlier, where her face was twisted in shock, arms half-raised, shoulders hunched in a futile gesture of hiding.

She made herself stand taller. The carpet burned under her soles. She’d imagined a thousand scenarios like this, where some disaster like afire alarm, earthquake, prank—forced her into public nakedness, but in all those daydreams she’d been able to wake up or fight back or punch through the embarrassment with brute force. None had felt like this: the slow, paralysing realisation that she could not, even for a moment, take control back.

Tyler kicked at the coffee table, sending a pencil skittering to her feet. “Pick that up,” he said. He wanted to see if she’d bend over.
Mark just watched.

Jessica froze for a heartbeat, then squatted down in the least exposing way she could manage. She kept her knees together, reached for the pencil with a mechanical motion, then stood and placed it gently on the edge of the table.

“That’s not how we asked,” Tyler complained. “You’re supposed to, you know. Bend over.”

Jessica looked at Mark, searching for an out. Mark only reached for her phone, rolled it in his palm, and said: “Do it right, or it gets worse.”
She could see Tyler’s phone on the couch now, too. Both boys had their cameras out, ready, as if they’d rehearsed this in advance.

She turned her back, took a breath, and kept her legs as close together as she could, but it didn’t matter; she was aware of every exposed inch, the lines of her body accentuated by the cold and the tension. She could feel the flush travel down her back, across her ass, into her thighs. The phone camera made a crisp shutter sound.

“Nice,” Tyler said, “can you do it slower?” She didn’t answer, but stayed bent a moment longer, mortified, letting them have their shot. When she straightened, her breath caught in her throat.

Mark held up her phone. He had switched it to video. The screen showed a live image of her, standing awkwardly and vulnerable, her face blotted with stress. He panned down, then up again, not fast or crude but methodical. “Stay still,” he instructed.

Jessica’s jaw locked. She kept her arms at her sides, fists balled so tight that her nails dug in. She tried to find a place in her mind where this was temporary, where every second was one less until she could call her mother, lock herself in her room, and never see these boys again. She thought about what her parents would do if they knew. Would they call the police? Sue? Burn the house down?

She thought about the pictures and how quickly they could go from phone to the entire world. She had seen enough stories online to know that this kind of thing never stayed secret.

The blue glare of the TV flickered over her skin. She felt the sweat bead on her temples, then run down in slow, ticklish rivers that made her want to squirm, but she didn’t dare.

“Can you, like, pose?” Tyler asked. He mimed hands on hips, elbows out. “You know, like a model or something.”

Mark nodded as if the suggestion were reasonable. “Do that.”

She put her hands on her hips, pushing them back so the bones jutted out, and tried to stand as neutrally as possible.

“Turn around,” Mark said.

She turned, stiff, then pivoted again to face them.

“Okay,” Mark said, “now put your hands behind your head.”

Jessica did. Her breasts lifted, flattening against her chest, nipples pointing straight ahead. She looked at the ceiling, jaw set, and waited for them to finish.

“Smile,” Tyler said.

Mark lowered the phone. “You can relax,” he said. “For now.”

Jessica let her arms fall. They felt like dead weight. Her whole body tingled with adrenaline and humiliation. She willed herself not to cry, not even to blink, until the threat of tears had retreated.

“See?” Tyler said, voice giddy. “Told you she’d do it.”

Mark set the phone down and leaned forward, elbows on knees again. “It’s about power,” he said to Tyler, as if Jessica weren’t even present. “If you have it, you don’t need to yell. You just tell people what you want, and they do it. I saw it on YouTube.”

“Yeah, but it’s way more fun if you can take pictures,” Tyler said. He scrolled through his own camera roll, snorting at each image. “You look totally busted,” he said, showing Jessica her own photo, the shame on her face even more obvious than she’d realised.

Mark turned back to Jessica. “Here’s how this works,” he said, his voice even, “we’re going to have some fun tonight, and you’re going to play along. If you do, the photos stay on these phones and nowhere else. If you don’t, they go to everyone. Your friends, your mom, maybe your teachers. Understand?”

She nodded. There was no point in arguing anymore, and yet every time she did something, they filmed more evidence. The pit in her stomach felt deeper,

“Say it,” Mark pressed.

Jessica licked her lips, the words thick in her mouth. “I understand.”
“Good,” Mark said. “Now sit on the floor.”

She did, folding her legs under her and resting her hands on her knees. The rug was rough and scratchy, and she could feel the chill of the air, the slow drip of water down her back, the leftover itch of soap in her hair. She had never felt so aware of her body as a thing, an object, each sensation turned up to maximum.

The boys turned back to the TV, as if her naked presence had become part of the scenery. The show was a cartoon, loud and manic, full of characters running and shouting. It felt obscene, somehow, that this was the backdrop to her humiliation. She stared at a single spot in the rug's pattern, breathing slowly, counting each inhale and exhale to anchor herself.

She waited. Five minutes. Ten.

Tyler got bored first. “Can we do another?” He asked, poking Mark in the ribs. “I want one with her, like, crawling or something.”
“Not yet,” Mark said. He didn’t take his eyes off the screen. “Let her stew.”

Jessica kept her posture, ignoring the way the carpet fibres scratched at her skin. She wondered how long they would make her stay like this. She wondered whether it would end when the parents came home or get worse. She wondered how many more humiliations they had planned.

She wondered, most of all, if she could ever look at herself again and feel like she was in control.

The cartoon ended. The boys turned to each other, whispering, then looked back at her.

“Come here,” Mark said. He pointed to a spot in front of the coffee table.

She got up, legs tingling, and walked to the indicated spot.

“Hands on the table,” Mark said. “Bend right over.”

She put her palms flat, the cold laminate shocking against her skin.

“Right over,” Tyler said, giggling. “Like you’re reaching for something. Bum in the air.”

She bent forward, cheeks flushing hot. The boys took more photos, close-up and from above, Tyler even crouching to get an angle from underneath.
“Perfect,” Mark said, almost to himself.


Jessica heard the phones snap picture after picture; the soft click burned into her memory.
When they were done, she straightened, blinking hard.

“This is enough,” she said, her voice flat. “Give me my clothes. We can forget this happened.”

The silence was heavy, and for a moment Jessica thought maybe, just maybe, they would listen.

Mark shook his head. “You’re not in a position to make deals,” he said. “Not even close.”

Tyler tossed a juice box from hand to hand, his laughter echoing in the room.

Jessica stood, arms crossed, shivering in the AC. She stared at the wall and told herself: just endure, get the clothes back, endure, get the clothes back.

She didn’t dare hope for anything more.

Mark stood, stretching as if waking from a nap, and moved to the back of the couch. He patted the top of the cushion once, then pointed. “Bend over. Hands on the seat. You know how it’s done. You’ve made it so our Dad did it many times.”

The words fell with a dull weight. Jessica’s knees locked; she flinched before she could hide it. In a voice even she barely recognised, she said, “Please, you’ve got enough. I’ll do whatever you want, just… not that. You can keep the pictures, I won’t tell anyone, just—”

Mark waited, letting her words run out and die in the still air.

“Do it,” he said, and Tyler’s giggle made it clear she had no other option.

She walked to the couch, each step like slogging through wet sand. The weave of the upholstery was rough under her palms. She bent at the waist, arms braced, bare stomach pressed to the cool cushion. Her hair fell forward, still wet, strands sticking to her cheeks and neck. She squeezed her eyes shut, but it made the cold of the room and the bareness of her ass even more real. She opened them again and caught her own reflection in the black mirror of the TV.

“Lower,” Mark said, and pressed on her back until she was folded at an impossible angle, buttocks raised and pointed, thighs tensed and trembling. Her face flamed. She knew she was on display, every flaw and imperfection catalogued by two pairs of eager eyes and at least one camera lens.
“Like this?” Tyler said, and slapped the side of her thigh—testing, playful. The sound was sharp and loud, the sting lingering just long enough to make her gasp.

“Don’t,” she started, voice thin. “I’m serious.”

“Just shut up and take it,” Tyler said, and Mark didn’t correct him. “You were quite happy for us to be spanked.”

Mark’s palm landed first: flat, hard, right in the centre of her left cheek. It made a sound like a starter’s pistol, and the shock of it went all the way through her, not just pain but the insult of the act. Jessica’s body jolted; she would have cried out, but her breath left her in a soft whimper instead.
“One,” Mark said, almost to himself, and did the right side to match.

The second hit was worse because she knew it was coming. The third, even more so. By the fourth, her ass was burning, and she realised with horror that she was already close to tears.

Tyler cheered each hit, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Dude, her butt is totally turning red,” he narrated, and pulled out his own phone to take a picture. The screen flash punctuated every smack. “Wait, let me get a good one,” he said, crowding close to line up the perfect shot.
Mark spanked with a rhythm, slow and deliberate, waiting for each handprint to bloom and fade before starting the next. “You could last a lot longer,” he said, as if instructing her on form. “But we’re just getting started.”

Jessica’s hands gripped the cushion so tight her knuckles blanched. She could feel every hit not just on her skin, but somewhere deeper, a humiliation that seemed to radiate from her bones. The pain was manageable, but the shame was not. Her body’s reaction; the shivering, the heat, the dampness of her eyes, felt like a betrayal. She wished she could float out of herself and watch from somewhere else, some safe place where none of this was happening.

After ten, Mark stepped back. He studied her, then said: “Your turn.”

Tyler didn’t hesitate. He threw down his phone, wound up, and delivered a slap that stung so much Jessica yelped, loud and helpless. Tyler whooped, “She’s actually crying, holy shit!” and kept going, wild and off-balance, smacking wherever he could reach. Sometimes he hit the same spot twice in a row, sometimes he grazed her thigh or the small of her back. It was sloppy, chaotic, but somehow worse than Mark’s methodical approach.
She heard herself pleading, “Stop, please, enough—” but the words got lost in Tyler’s laughter and the relentless battery of open-handed smacks. Her bottom felt raw, as if it was on fire, and every blow sent a new flare of pain up her spine. The worst part was knowing they were filming all of it, immortalising her shame for whenever they wanted to relive it. Or worse, share it.
Finally, Tyler tired out. He collapsed onto the couch, panting, face red with excitement. Mark put a hand on her back and pressed down, forcing her to stay bent.

“Hold that,” he said.

Jessica bit her lip, breathing in short, shuddering gasps. She didn’t move. She couldn’t. She focused on the fabric pattern under her nose, the slow, sticky trickle of sweat down her side, anything but the sting in her backside or the certainty that the phones had caught every moment.

Mark crouched beside her, phone in hand, and snapped a close-up of her red, welted ass, on full display. Then another, from the side, to catch her face. He spoke in a low voice, for her ears alone:

“This is what you get for snitching. This happens when you forget your place.”

He stood, motioning for her to straighten.

Jessica pushed herself upright. She wobbled, dizzy, and instinctively covered her breasts with both arms. Her hands left faint sweat marks on the couch.

Mark looked her up and down. “You did fine, for a start,” he said. “But it’s going to take more than that to pay off everything you owe.”
She nodded, mute.

Tyler was already distracted, scrolling through the images on his phone, picking out the ones he liked best. “Dude, send me those,” he said to Mark,
“and I’ll send you mine.” He looked at Jessica, mouth curling into a smirk. “We should make, like, a whole album. You know, for science.”

Mark didn’t smile, but didn’t disagree.

The three of them stood there, the moment suspended. Jessica’s body throbbed with pain, but it was nothing compared to the mortification crawling over her skin, a physical thing that made her want to shrink, to disappear.

“I’m hungry,” Tyler said, flopping on the Sofa.

“Me too,” Mark said. “I’ll order the pizza.”


“You don’t got a credit card.” Jessica said, hoping she might get her phone and a chance of taking control.

“It’s okay.” Mark said as hit the dial button. “They take cash on delivery. I hope you’ve got some.”



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Thanks for the comments and thanks

[MaireadM]

I love the slow and varied torture.
I hope it is a delivery guy.