The Special Babysitter: Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Blackmail and Irony

         The repeated pressure from hours of heavy heartbeats has left an ache in my chest, brought on by the perpetual thought that there was no way this situation could end well. The drive to this destination wasn't particularly long: just from one side of the city to the next, but I had already spent more than reasonable time staring at my computer screen, rereading the email, lying on my bed, and performing one of the rarest actions of my life: pacing. The email was too thoroughly descriptive to be sent by mistake, and too demanding to be ignored.
And so I find myself parked outside of an address in the suburbs, lest I face the very real risk of my life crashing down around my ears. For the first time in my life I wish I was a smoker, thinking that the habitual action of lighting a cigarette would give me something to focus on other than my personal dread.
         My last-decade Toyota looks rather out of place in this neighborhood. These aren't classically American cookie-cutter ranch houses like you would see in a typical suburb. Most of them have two stories, brick exteriors, three-car garages, and complex roofs. These houses are decidedly more upper-class than anything I was used to. While this is an unlikely place for someone to set up a simple robbery, the worries I have about the threats presented in the email seem a bit more real.
         I take an extended exhale and pretend I'm blowing out tobacco smoke, before opening the car door and walking toward the designated house. I don't want to take this walk and I don't want to be here, but I separate the thinking and movement sections of my brain which allows me to continue ahead despite my reservations.
         I ring the doorbell and after only a few seconds, the door opens and I'm greeted by a woman. She looks to be in her early thirties, with fair skin and medium brown hair tied into a bun. "Damian Lyons?" she asks. It's only half of a question; she expected me.
         "Missus Julia?" I reply with the same emphasis.
         She gives me a small smile, but it looks like it might be genuine. "Come in," she says. She closes the door behind me and leads me out of the foyer.
         The interior looks just as richly fashionable as the exterior. Most of the floors are fine hardwood, and I feel a bit guilty as my worn sneakers tread on them. Appliances like lights, security panels, and the thermostat look sleek and modern. However, furnishings like chairs, end tables, and the molding on the walls appear new, but old-fashioned, carved from wood in elegant designs. As I look into another room, I can see carpet that looks soft and plush. I can also hear the sound of a television coming from that direction. I look through one room into another and catch a glimpse of the massive flat screen, much too wide to fit on my dining table at home. With my imperfect viewing angle, I can see the edge of a couch, but not anyone who would be sitting on it.
         Mrs. Julia leads me to the dining room and to a man seated at a table too large for even a family of eight. "Hon, Damian is here," she announces quite unnecessarily, since he clearly had been waiting since hearing the bell.
         He stands up to greet me with an outstretched hand. "Hello Mister Lyons."
I take his hand and politely shake it, pretending my nerves aren't vibrating through my whole body. "Hello Mister Julia." He's about as tall as I am, but slightly more muscular- not a difficult feat since I'm rather wiry. He wears a crisp sky-blue shirt and black pants. His clean-shaven face lacks the reckless cut on the chin that I have on mine, rushed and panicked as I was to look presentable.
         "As much as I'd like to be on a first name basis, I don't think we're quite ready for that yet," he says with an air that strikes a balance between casual and professional.
         "Look," I say, feeling anxiety-fueled impatience bubbling up through my gut, "can you please just tell me why I'm here?"
         The Julias look to one another briefly. "Fine," says Mr. Julia. "Have a seat." I sit on one side of the expansive dining table while they sit on the other, with long empty wings stretching to either side of us.
         "You're here because we want to make you an offer," he continues. "We know some very important things about you, and think you're the right man for this." I stare into his eyes, my face tightening slightly. I'd like him to get to the point, and I think he realizes. "The problem is our daughter, Madison. She's six years old and already growing into her sexuality." I'm lucky he doesn't expect me to respond, because I would be near speechless. This was contrary to him, who said such an unbelievable statement with virtually no hesitation. "We'd like to give her what she wants, but obviously we can't do it ourselves."
         "More than that, it's getting out of hand," breaks in Mrs. Julia. "She tried to molest a boy at school a month ago. Poor thing didn't know what was going on, and neither did the teacher. Lucky for all of us, the school year ended before anything else could happen. But this goes to show that we can't sit and do nothing. Knowing Madison, teaching discipline isn't going to work; her feelings are just going to build up and explode into something drastic."
         Mr. Julia takes over once more. "In light of this, we decided we needed someone to... give catharsis." His hesitation appears to be solely from carefully choosing his words, and not at all from embarrassment. "When you have a young child, it's not suspicious to ask a private investigator to look for pedophiles in the area who aren't on state registry, and to give brief descriptions of their interests. For how delicate the situation actually is, it was remarkably easy to find a candidate- well, to find you."
         I'm shocked almost beyond comprehension at how the pair of them could form this radical plan in the face of such taboo. Before today, I've never met a mother who would even entertain for a moment the thought of allowing any man at all to be sexual with their young daughter. More than that, the thought that such a person was possible had never knowingly crossed my mind due to its alien nature.
         Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Julia speak for several seconds. I think they're waiting on me. I haven't fully collected myself, but I start to respond anyway. "So you want me to... 'satisfy' your daughter?" I try to use the words I think Mr. Julia wants to hear. He smiles in answer, more like a smirk. "I could go to prison," I protest.
         "We won't tell," his wife answers. "To everyone else, you'll just be the babysitter while we're away." I notice that she hadn't mentioned she and her husband could go to prison too.
         "Besides, we know enough secrets about you to keep you from refusing. I'm sure I don't want to know how, but that PI got a glimpse of your hard drive, browser history, and some other incriminating evidence."
         I harden my eyes and purse my lips. "I don't have anything illegal," I tell him with some defiance and slow, careful words.
         "Maybe you don't," he says dismissively, "but those are all still things you don't want made public in a courtroom. Employers tend to care about things like that, and with a degree like yours, I'm sure it's hard enough to find a job as it is." The remark about my college degree gives an unpleasant sting, but admittedly he is right about it. "You should also know that a jury, should you face one, won't be as rational as a judge. They hear the word 'pedophile' and it's just like a witch hunt. So if you choose to say no, you still might go to prison." I can't tell if he's bluffing about the jury or not, but having my secrets exposed in public like that is something I never want to face, or to have my family face.
         This is blackmail, with no room for mistaking it. The email was the same: "We know your secrets, so come visit us at this address or we expose them all in court." The email was, of course, written in many more words, and in Mr. Julia's horrifyingly descriptive detail.
         "You shouldn't be worrying about that," Mrs. Julia picks up, "we know you won't say no."
         "Why?" I respond without thinking.
         "Because this is a once in a lifetime- no, once in the world chance for you to fulfill your fantasies." She's right about that, something like this would never happen again, but only because this married couple is so insane that it could never be repeated anywhere else.
         From how I can see it, my options are to act like a pedophile and enjoy it, or be exposed to the world as a pedophile. A twisted part of me wants to giggle out loud at the irony, but a more rational part crushes it in distress. Any joy I also would have felt for imagining my fantasies becoming real is crippled by anxiety. This situation is too dangerous. It would only take one suspicious neighbor to have me locked away in prison. I should just say no, their threats be damned. I'll face them in court, reveal their email and their plans to have their daughter molested. I should get off easy with the evidence and testimony I can present.
         "Mommy, can I have some cookies?" This childish voice from behind breaks me from my introversion. I turn to look at its owner, and the air in my lungs turns to iron and leaves me unable to gasp. The girl stands a few inches shorter than four feet tall, but her obesity is on a level I wasn't certain was possible. She must be at least one hundred seventy pounds, but probably closer to two hundred- certainly more than I weigh. The bloated mass of her belly sticks out several inches over the waistband of her pants, and the youthful tautness of her skin keeps it smooth and round instead of sagging. Her sides bulge out as well, making a base for the ball-like belly to hang from and her hands to rest on when relaxed. The width of her body increases even more down at her hips, but this is caused solely by an abundant layer of fat and not by a womanly bone structure. Her pastel yellow T-shirt with a sunflower print on the front looks like it was sized for an adult, and later cut short by a skilled seamstress: the sleeves which were meant to be short fell to her elbows. Even so, it is too small in multiple dimensions, evident by the tight fit over her belly and failure to cover below her navel. It also partially reveals the outline of a pair of fatty bulges on her prepubescent chest. The fat on her gut, sides, hips, and ribs blends seamlessly together with minimal rolls or folds. Green hazel eyes look out from an expectant face with comically plump chipmunk cheeks which are tickled by strands of straight brown hair flowing from her crown.
         "Yes Maddie, there's some in the cookie jar," her mother answers with a hint of sweetness.
         With no further ado, the daughter turns away from us toward the kitchen. She waddles, more than walks to get there, since it is apparently difficult to slide her tightly-squished thighs fully past one another. Her pondering footsteps make heavy sounds on the hardwood and tiled floors, and I'm surprised my previous distraction was enough to prevent me from hearing her approach. In similar fashion to her shirt, her black yoga pants appear to have been designed for an adult, and cropped at the legs. Continuing this analogy, they are likewise too small, as the black fabric is stretched to partial transparency across her protruding buttocks, each one of which is too large for both of my hands to cover. The outline of her panties is visible, and they look to be not only actively squeezing her butt, but also not covering as much of it as they should be.
         The ceramic jar of cookies is close to the edge of the countertop, and in easy reach of her swollen, plush arms. She picks it up and sets it on top of her bulging belly, only needing one hand to keep it in place. The lid is removed and set back where the jar once was, and a thick chocolate chip cookie is drawn from the full jar and stuffed wholly in her mouth. Her cheeks swell and billow as she chews. and then begin to wobble as she waddles her way back to the living room with her jar full of rich cookies.
         She stops, however, when she notices me staring at her from the table. The cookie in her mouth is swallowed. "Who's that?" she asks of both of her parents.
         "This is Damian, baby," her mother answers. "We're asking him to be your new babysitter while we're away."
         "Are you going away tomorrow?" she asks further.
         "That is entirely up to him," Mrs. Julia says. I break my gawking from the tubby child to match her gaze. Does she want me to answer now? Her and her husband's faces are serious and unexpressive, focused on me and my response.
         I look again to their daughter, her muted green eyes completely transfixed on me, and mouth slightly agape. The stark expectation of her upturned face distorts my perception, as if I'm looking through green-tinted glasses. What does she want me to say? When I find myself asking that question- caring about what this toddler unknown to me wants- I can no longer deny that I know my answer.
         "Yeah," I tell her, just as I'm telling myself and her parents. "Starting tomorrow, I'll be taking care of you."
         "Yay!" she cheers. She doesn't scream, jump, or wave her arms, making the exclamation appear rather modest for a child of her age. Even so, there's a smile on her face when she heavily toddles back to the living room with the cookie jar against her chest and her body wobbling around her.
         When she turns the corner out of sight, my breath returns in rapid, shallow pants. I don't understand how I was able to speak so fluently when immediately before and after, my breath felt caught in my throat like a solid tumor. Now that I've relaxed a minor amount, I can take notice of some of my other feelings.
         Physically, I feel an electric sensation in my chest, in my hands, and in my loins. Emotionally, I am dominated by a broad, unfocused sense of desire directed towards Madison, carnal and otherwise. Specific goals and fantasies do not come to mind, but melt into each other in a messy pool. I want to get my hands on her and then... I would... I don't know. I guess I would have to wait until the time actually came.
         My more innocent feelings are not to be ignored either. I feel an urge to give her things she wants, make her cheer happily again just like she had, and to stare into those green hazel eyes for hours. Perhaps this is what a schoolboy crush feels like, but since it is my first time experiencing these feelings, I have nothing to compare it to and can only guess. I briefly consider if it's pitiful that I'm only now at the age of twenty-three finding my first crush, and potentially my first love, but if this works out well for me, it will certainly be worth the wait.
         I look up to the Julia couple, forgetting that I have a distracted grin on my face, and get a sense of mild approval from their expressions. Just a few seconds of fluttering heartbeats leaves an electric tingle in my chest, brought on by the thought that this situation is as good as a dream come true.