The Special Babysitter: Chapter 2

The Special Babysitter

By Natsu-Kashi

Chapter 2: Orientation and Frolics

         It's late morning of the following day when I return to the Julia house. This time, instead of parking on the street, I slide my red Toyota next to the family's white Lexus. The driveway is more than wide enough to accept both cars. I look around the neighborhood and the only visible people are a woman in a sundress and wide-brimmed hat who is watering her flower garden with a hose, and a trio of tween boys having a shootout with foam dart guns. It's almost eerie how still and silent the street is overall. I wonder for a moment where the rest of the people are or what they are doing, but then decide it's not as important as the house which I am currently parked at.

         I glance in the rear-view mirror and look myself over. My eyes don't look as sleep-deprived as I feel, I'm glad to notice. Last night was spent mostly lying awake in bed trying and failing to make sense of my situation and my own feelings as well. The closest I came to real sleep was probably a weak doze, haunted by realities that were troublesome to believe.

         While carrying my duffel bag, the hesitation from yesterday is absent when I walk up to the front door and ring the doorbell. Once again, Mrs. Julia promptly answers. Her hair is in a bun again, but I notice it's different- fancier somehow- but my ignorance in the ways of fashion keeps me from discerning what makes it so.

         "Hello, Damian," she greets cheerfully.

         "Hello, Missus Julia," comes my respectful answer.

         "Come into the dining room, so we can talk more. You can leave your bag here for now." She ushers me inside and closes the door behind me. There's a spring of excitement in everything she does, and she appears more comfortable around me today, even though just yesterday she maintained distance and caution. As we walk, I can see and hear the TV in the den play a colorful, childish cartoon I don't recognize, and although I can't see her, I assume Madison is sitting on the sofa watching it.

         In facsimile of our previous meeting, Mr. Julia sits at the dining table as his wife leads me over. However, this time he doesn't stand to greet me with a handshake, but lets me take my seat directly. Mrs. Julia does not join the two of us, but walks a few yards over to the kitchen to work on preparing lunch. Similar to his wife's overnight change in demeanor, he begins with a casual question of "Sleep okay?"

         "Not perfect," I answer in polite understatement.

         "I'm not surprised." His response leads me to the thought that I doubt I will ever see Mr. Julia surprised on any meaningful level. In a way I'm jealous of his calculating intelligence.

         "We'll be leaving for the airport in a few hours, and Madison will be in your care starting then. Now that you have had some time to process the general idea of this arrangement, I think I should explain some more details."

         I nod slightly, ready for him to go on. He plucks a half-size envelope from the breast pocket of his dress shirt and pushes it across the table to me. It isn't sealed, and I open it to reveal a thick stack of cash and a credit/debit card. I stop counting the bills once I reach two thousand dollars.

         "The cash is the first half of your babysitter's fee," he explains. "You can keep it all. The card is for job-related expenses."

         "Job-related expenses? Like what?" I ask.

         "Like whatever Maddie wants," he says, a smirk teasing the corner of his lips. "Your job is to keep her happy and entertained, restricted only by the limits of safety. You should remember that not only will I be watching your purchases with that card, but Madison will keep in contact with us and give updates on your performance, and she can have you sent home if she finds you dissatisfying."

         I'm perturbed by the idea of the child being in charge of the sitter, but even without considering my unusual feelings for this child in particular, this amount of money should make the extra hassle worthwhile. My financial situation urges me to hold my tongue from protesting.

         "Except for our room, there's nothing in the house that you must keep your hands off of. Feel free to use any of the appliances and anything in the pantry. If something runs out, use the card. If something breaks, please let me know." Mr. Julia had been writing on a memo pad as he spoke, and passes the page to me, where I can see the PIN for the card, his phone number, email address, and instant messenger profile. I put it in the envelope with the cash and card. "We have a guest bedroom set up for you, but you aren't required to sleep there." I'm a bit puzzled by that statement until he continues.

         "And also remember," Mr. Julia explains, "there's a reason we've hired you this time and not our usual babysitter; there's something that only you can do for our daughter that no one else can. Keep your wits about you, and don't back down when the time comes." I notice that he had said "when" and not "if," and wonder if it was a deliberate point made to me, or a casual assumption of his.

         "Yes sir," I say, trying not to distract myself at the moment by thinking too hard about it. "What's she like?" I inquire of him, having realized long ago while lying in my bed that I know next to nothing about this child I'm to be spending a week living with and taking care of.

         He gives an archetypically fatherly smile upon remembering his daughter. "She's a good kid," he's proud to announce. "Cheerful, empathetic, friendly." He chortles under his breath. "And more than a bit greedy. Maddie is precocious in more than a few ways. She's good at knowing if something she wants is something she can realistically have, and is prone to getting upset if such a thing is denied to her. She's more likely to become dejected than scornful, but if you do your job right then you shouldn't have to deal with either."

         With the restrictions of maintaining real discipline removed, she will hopefully be easy enough to please. She is still just a child after all. As long as I can keep her entertained, I should avoid any harsh feelings. However, I'm still made anxious by my self-imposed lack of experience with children. What would be entertaining to a six-year-old is mostly guesswork in my mind; I will have to rely on reading and adapting to situations as they come.
That part of "adapting as they come" coupled with Mr. Julia's implications renews my anxiety. I know why I am here, but I am neither brave nor resolved about it. The latter half of my life has been spent fighting and repressing certain immoral thoughts, or banishing them to the realm of unspeakable fantasy. Less than twenty-four hours ago, the Julias have requested I turn this staple of my life one-hundred-and-eighty degrees around, and it has left me thoroughly disoriented. So far, I have a poor record of adapting.

         It's far too late now to turn back (in fact, with the evidence Mr. Julia supposedly has, it was too late to turn back from the very start) so I put on what I hope is a reasonable smile and tell him, "I'll do my best." He nods, satisfied, and I am relieved.

         The two of us take some time for small talk as Mrs. Julia finishes preparing lunch, but it's a little odd since Mr. Julia has essentially cyber-stalked me and knows most everything already, and doesn't seem interested in talking about himself either. Yes, I just graduated college a few months ago. No, I haven't found a job yet. Yes, I live alone. Yes, I've had a girlfriend, but it was years ago. No, I haven't told my family about my special perversions. No, I've never been in trouble because of them.

         I'm becoming apprehensive about the direction this conversation is heading when I'm saved by Mrs. Julia's announcement that lunch is ready. Her voice carries through the first floor, and the indistinct murmur of the television suddenly ceases three seconds later, and instead I can hear the thumping of heavy feet approaching which heralds Madison's arrival into the dining room.
         As vivid as her image had been burned into my memory from yesterday's brief meeting, it does not compare to the brilliance of seeing her in the flesh once again. The sight of her gay smile and minutely excited green eyes shatter the breath in my lungs until I start to choke, and I must force myself to breathe again as well as check my heartbeat. Looking once again upon the shape of her body is like seeing a colorized version of an antique sepia photograph. Her black, truncated yoga pants might be the exact same overly-snug ones I witnessed yesterday, but the T-shirt is different: this one is lavender with a six-leaved violet flower pattern spread across it, and appears to fit her better than the previous one in the sense that it actually reaches the waistband of her bottoms and doesn't squeeze at the chest.

         In her passive, childish ignorance, and in encore of yesterday's encounter, she appears to not notice me immediately as she waddles heavily on her bloated, fat legs to her seat across the table from me. She hoists herself up on the high seat with a grunt and wiggles her body to settle her cushioned butt comfortably on the wooden chair. The thick mass of her backside serves to raise up the rest of her body a couple inches, bringing the table to slightly below the height of her chest. Only now does she see past her blinding anticipation for the meal and notice me. She renews her innocent smile and gently calls out, "Hi... Damian," taking a moment to remember my name.

         "Hi, Maddie," I return, putting on a smile of my own, which surely lost by a mile when compared to hers. I had taken a gamble by calling her by that friendly nickname her parents used, but she seems not to mind and doesn't complain, verbally or otherwise.

         Us three seated bodies focus our attention on Mrs. Julia as she sets our lunch on the table. It's not quite like anything I had seen before, and in my limited vocabulary would classify as a pasta bake. There are flat noodles baked in cheese with pieces of chicken, shrimp, cauliflower, tomatoes, carrots and peas, and topped with spinach and ground herbs. On the side there are steaming baked potatoes with butter and sour cream, buttered green beans and sweet corn that both looks much too fresh to be from a can. It all smells delicious and Madison's response is to fidget her hands and practically vibrate her body as she waits for her mother to serve her.

         Her parents remember their manners and serve their guest first, and Madison is forced to play with her cutlery for a few precious seconds as a generous helping of everything plopped onto my plate. I'm momentarily regretful for stealing what appears to be Madison's prized privilege, but mentally shake off the feeling as I notice the silly irrationality of it. Mrs. Julia is quick to rectify her calculated "mistake" and plants a portion of everything equal to mine upon Madison's plate, as well as a (possibly apologetic, possibly customary) kiss upon the top of her dear daughter's head.

         I'm certain the young girl finds her mother's cooking as enchanting as I do, but instead of savoring each bite like myself, demonstrates it as such by eagerly wolfing it down. I count that it takes no more than three seconds for her to bring a forkful to her mouth, put it between her lips, chew, and swallow. When closed, her mouth appears rather small and petite, with shapely salmon lips, but opens wide like a hungry snake when her fork is placed in front of it. I'm distracted from my own food as I continuously expect her to choke, but she never does.

         By the time Madison cleans her plate, her parents are only half-done with their meal, and I even less. She lets out a short, percussive burp, and retroactively brings her palm up to cover it. "More please," she asks of her mother. Mrs. Julia dutifully stacks her daughter's plate with a second helping equal to the first. The woman's face remains passive, and I get the feeling that this is a typical occurrence. Given her obese body, I shouldn't be surprised at Madison's massive appetite, (she had to get so big somehow,) yet watching a girl at the borderline of being called a toddler out-eating her parents bewilders me inside.

         The hungry young lady's second plate is cleared more slowly than the first. Madison routinely stops to take some deep breaths. Perhaps the fullness in her belly is catching up to her. Yet even if it is a pain for her to eat, it's evident to me from her sighing eyes and curling corners of her lips that she is enjoying each bite and tasting the flavor of her mother's work. Us three adults finish soon after she does. My own stomach is happily tight from the meal and I must make an effort to suck it in to preserve its usual flat profile. Madison's hands rest atop her belly, underneath the table and hidden from view. Her eyes close as she works on digesting. She really did eat twice as much as I, or anyone else at the table.

         Remembering my manners, I compliment the cook. "That was delicious," I say to Mrs. Julia.

         She gives a single chuckle and a lingering smile. "It's too bad that I won't stay to cook for you again anytime soon."

         Her husband interjects in. "Ah, yes. I believe it's time we were heading out." He stands up and takes his plate. I pick up my own and load it into the dishwasher, countering their gentle insistencies that a host should be doing such chores for their guest. In just a few minutes I won't be a guest anymore, and will have to do these things for myself.

         The table is cleared in minutes, (an accomplishment made easy since Madison made sure no leftovers remained) and sometime outside of my notice, Mr. and Mrs. Julia had retrieved their packed luggage and were ready to depart. Madison noticed the bags and clearly knew it was time to say goodbye. She dropped herself down from her dining seat and waddled herself over to the foyer. It was there that I could see what effect the meal had on her body.

         I did not think her obese middle could become any rounder, but it has proven my assumption wrong as her childlike stomach has swelled up and pushed her belly fat farther outwards. Her lavender shirt did stretch tighter over her belly but its bottom hem still managed to meet (if only by an atom's breadth) the black waistband of her further-stretched yoga pants through means unknown and incomprehensible to me. Her walk is slower now and each step even more deliberate as she avoids aggravating her overfilled stomach.

         Her parents wait patiently by the door for her arrival with their bags placed next to where mine still lay. I watch from the edge of the kitchen as they each bend down to closely embrace their rotund daughter and whisper in her ear how much they loved her and would miss her. A pair of goodbye kisses is the last affection given before they both turn from the door and load their baggage into the trunk of the parked luxury sedan. It is only now that I walk forward to stand behind my new charge and watch her family's departure. Young Madison raises a fluffy pillow of an arm over her head and waves broadly to her parents. This movement finally pulls the hem of her shirt up past her waistband and exposes a few inches of her bloated tummy. They both wave back as they pull out of the driveway. Madison's arm does not drop until the car disappears around the corner and out of sight.

         The two of us stand in the doorway in a silence that I cannot tell if it is awkward or not. Madison turns to gaze up at me after some seconds that feel much longer than they are. Her aventurine eyes lock into mine and it seems that for the first time both the front and back of her mind have started to agree that her mother and father will be gone for a while and that I, a stranger, will be guarding her instead.

         This time, the silence and staring is definitely uncomfortable to me, but I do not think it is for her. I shut the heavy wooden door as an excuse to look away. "Dad says you're the new babysitter," she tells me as I'm about to look back to her, in her appropriately childish voice. I stop my head in its travel, her face framed by dark brown hair on the edge of my vison. I nod. "He also says you're weird." She states this in the same voice with which one might say that ants are insects.

         "I guess I am," I admit with a slighter nod than previously. It's much harder for me to keep my voice stable than it is for her. My nerves are returning. Just how much did her father tell her since my last visit?
         "Why?" she asks. I guess it wasn't too much then. I could imagine him sitting the child down and trying to explain as generally as possible that strange things might happen between the two of us and her understanding very little without the concrete examples he was unprepared to give. Yes, with me he spoke very directly and precisely, but from the brief interactions with his daughter I predict that she received a different privilege.

         "Well... that's because... I..." I first hesitate, then stop. How can I tell her? How can I tell her that I was invited her for largely sexual reasons- that I was tasked with taking this young girl's virginity, and that she was expected to comply. How can I tell her that I was "weird" because the deepest part of my heart wants to? I decide that I can't- at the very least not yet. "Because I love tickles!" I exclaim with a grin and pounce forward with my hands.

         She squeals before I even touch her, becoming sensitive to merely the word "tickles." She bats away at my darting hands, but cannot stop their teasing pokes and prods to her torso. Though I touch all over her sides, I cannot definitively feel her ribs past the fatty padding that covers them. She shakes and jiggles all over in her giggling glee as she tries to twist away and retreat a few steps into the sitting room. In a short while she falls to the floor. I'm momentarily paralyzed by the heavy thud of her fall, thinking she injured herself, (even though the floor of the sitting room is carpeted,) but she points her butt towards me and attempts to crawl away, her titters continuing. Internally relieved that my gambit is working, I continue my attack: I swoop down upon her.

         Now that she's been tickled once, her body is sensitized to it, and I can provoke her laughter from a greater variety of targets. Her thighs, covered by stretched black yoga pants that fit more like leggings, squish like memory foam under my grasp. My hands work upwards, sinking into her expansive and bulging buttocks like they're gelatin. Never before have I seen such a pronounced bubble butt on anyone (except for photos on the internet), adult or not. Her sides present an easier target this time than before, and I find that she's more sensitive below the ribs, on her protruding love handles. Here my fingers dance and flutter across as well as well as squish her ample, pale flesh. The house echoes with her ecstatic laughter and I think I see tears in the corners of her eyes, but I'm not finished yet. A grin which to some might think looks evil spreads across my face as my hands descend onto the most obvious part of her body: her belly. She squeals once more when my hands grip two handfuls of her thick fat. I shake them up and down, forward and back, side to side, together and apart, bouncing her round, heavy ball of a middle in every direction I can think of, and a few which surprise me. This is too much for her to bear and she collapses from her hands and knees down onto her padded chest and surrenders to my touch. Her backside remains pointed high into the air as her weight rests on her knees and squished belly.

         It's not as fun and engaging to furiously attack with tickles someone who isn't resisting at least a little bit, so I slow my hands and show I'm not merciless. Her shaking laughter devolves into shaking breaths, almost like shivers as she recomposes herself in the respite I've given her. I realize now just how tightly I've pressed myself into her bulbous rear in the final stages of my playful assault. I pull back with anxious haste and notice the stiffness of my pleased sexuality. It's likely Madison didn't notice, and I seriously hope she didn't.

         It takes a minute or so for Madison to expel the last of her lingering giggles and come back to her senses. She flops over onto her back and looks up to me. The thin lavender T-shirt has ridden up to the top curve of her belly, covering scarcely more than the bulges that signaled the early start of her breasts. Similarly, the waistband of her stretchy black pants hugged underneath the bottom curve. Even though she lay on her back with the weight of her tubby middle pressing down on itself, her belly retains its dome-like shape. "Tickles aren't weird," she says, to answer my question from the distant past, perhaps with some matter-of-fact attitude in her voice. She takes a moment to pant, still winded from the excessive laughter. Her rotund gut and plush chest visibly swell and heave with each breath. "The last one liked to tickle too."

         I presume that "the last one" refers to a previous babysitter. "What were they like?" I ask.

         "She was sixteen, I think," Madison answers. "She didn't do too much. She liked to watch movies with me." A thought visibly occurs to her. "Are you weird because you're a boy?"

         "Yeah, that's it," I tell her with some confidence. "I'm a boy, and I'm also guessing I'm older than your other babysitters, right?" She nods without having to ask for my age. It was easy for me to tell her that much, and I wasn't exactly lying either. An important part of why this situation was weird (at least to me) relied on my being a man, and an adult.

         "Come on," I urge in a voice that tries to be playful, and put my hands under her armpits and attempt to hoist her to her feet. I'm forced to rethink my balance and take a wider stance with one leg extended far forward to keep from falling over or even herniating myself. It's my first time feeling her weight, and my brain is in confused dichotomy of "no one this short should be so heavy," and "of course she's this heavy; just look at her!"

         The combination of my strength and a little of her own effortfully pulls her up to standing. I rub my hands together as if brushing off dust from a difficult, manual project. Once standing, Madison's stomach emits a tight gurgle loud enough for me to hear. She responds by putting both hands over its bare, exposed surface and squeezing in slightly with her fingers. "I wanna lay down," she announces. A bead of worry and guilt spreads spherically from my gut. I hope I didn't aggravate her full stomach with intense activity so soon after her huge meal. In hindsight I should have known better and been more aware. Thankfully she doesn't look to be in pain.

         Because I don't immediately refuse, (and why would I?) the young child toddles over to the living room and lies down on the sofa. There's a thick pillow against each armrest and she rests her head on one and extends her legs out to the center. I follow behind her and after she settles into her position, take a seat of my own on the other side. She tugs her T-shirt down with chubby fingers but because she's laying on the back side of it, it only moves as far to cover half of her navel. I watch her as she lies taking steady breaths. My thoughts of wondering if she will fall into a food-induced nap are cancelled by her suggestion of, "Let's play a game."

         "What kind of game?" I ask. I'm embarrassed by my mechanical speech.

         "Pirates," she says and points a finger from her thick fist to the game console under the TV. This is the wall-mounted television I had seen previously, and its width is so great that it would be a very dangerous chore to lift and carry by myself, since my arms would barely reach around to its sides. I turn it and the game console on and am greeted by a crew of grinning cartoon buccaneers.

         "Yarrrr! We be pirates!" bellows a deep, gravelly voice laughably incongruous to the bright and cheery graphics. I pick up the two controllers and bring one to Madison (who has shown no inclination of moving) and sit down with the other one in my previous spot.

         From what little I can see from the menus Madison flies though, the game looks to be composed of strategic, themed puzzles. The one she selects for the two of us has our rival pirate crews searching for treasure by firing cannonballs at an island mountainside. I quickly learn that there is a decent amount of strategy involved. By blowing open the collapsed, gold-filled caves, the debris produced falls on largely-predictable mountain ledges. The accumulated stones and boulders can either eventually crush the ledges with their weight and reveal more treasure, or be a nuisance that you must spend an extra shot to destroy.

         The learning curve engages me, and I'm thoroughly entertained by this child-targeted game. My straight, focused posture is at odds with Madison's lazy reclination. She doesn't need to give as much thought to the game as I do, and her mastery shows with ten solid victories in thirty minutes. For the next thirty minutes her margin of victory narrows as I learn the rules and strategies of the Isle of Fortune. She doesn't sit up from her lounging pose, but when I look over to her I see an extra effort in her eyes. On the twentieth game I line up a shot that sends boulders cascading down the slopes and releasing more of their kind in a complex chain. Riches explode from the rocks into my cheering crew's hands. "Yes!" I hiss in excitement. That outcome was as much skill of preparation as it was luck, for I had overlooked some of the important landslide routes that became most useful then. I look to the scoreboard at the top of the screen and learn that I have won.

         "Noooo," Madison whines, "how could you beat me?" Her frustration reaches only her voice and does not quiver her clearly-exposed midriff. Perhaps she thought it a bit unfair that I beat her at her favorite game with only an hour of practice. Logically though, I am much older with a more developed brain, and my college education has taught me the importance of quickly learning and adapting to new strategy. Her lips are pursed, and now look even smaller than normal on her fat-cheeked face.

         "Hey now," I attempt to placate her, "you made that really hard for me, and I got lucky at the end too." I don't have to lie at all, and that gives me some confidence. "How about we play another round?" I suggest.
         "Okay," she agrees, and presses the button to restart the puzzle. I tell myself I'll deliberately lose this round so that she can end on a proud note. That choice becomes unnecessary, however, because I lack the lucky break I had seized previously, and her well-proven memorization of the landslide patterns awards her victory as usual. "Hah! Got you there!" she gloats.

         The grin on her face bids me to smile back as well. "You sure did," I reassure her. "What should we play next?"

         She pushes her heavyset torso upright with her thick, squishy arms. Apparently the fullness in her belly has died down. "Let's go up to my room."
I follow her back to the foyer and up the staircase. The house frame looks to be not too antiquated, but still I can hear a faint creak from each step she takes up the stair, which is absent from mine. I'm entranced by her bulging, bouncing booty in front of me, covered with pants so tight I can see the shape of her panties underneath. It's size and shape should be grossly inappropriate on a six-year-old, yet it firmly arouses my masculine instincts and I deliberately keep myself out of arms reach of her lest I be tempted to grab it with my hands.

         The first door on the upstairs hallway leads to her room. The walls are a cozy lavender color like her current shirt (which she did manage to pull down after standing up). Fairies and unicorns dance through sunny green meadows on a strip of wallpaper bordering the top. The sheets on the double-size bed are pink and adorned with butterflies and roses. Its unreasonable size for a lone child, four white corner posts, and gauze canopy look fit for a princess in my opinion, and attests to the spoiled nature of the Julias' only daughter. The saccharine appearance of the bedroom should sap the masculinity out of any adult man, yet because it seems to fit Madison well, I feel shielded from it by her presence here with me.
Unlike myself, she doesn't stop upon entering and walks straight to a column of white plastic toy drawers. She pulls two of the drawers from their rails and sets them on the open, carpeted floor between us. One contains a series of Barbie-like fashion dolls, and the other is filled with boyish vehicles like monster trucks and fighter jets.

         Her imaginative mind comes up with silly stories and situations to use both categories of toys in conjunction, and teaches me to play with them. I find myself grinning often as we trade melodramatic dialogue in grotesquely feminine voices about the slender women in their truck-surfing competition. I do my best to follow her lead since I lack the no-holds-barred creativity of a young child, and from the grins and giggles she returns to me I might be doing an acceptable job.

         She quickly decides that sitting upright with crossed legs is not conducive to this sort of play. For me too in this position, there is not much floor space in arms reach, and Madison has the added handicap of having to reach over or around her bulbous belly. After only a few minutes she reclines onto her side for better reach, and lets her paunch rest on the comfortable carpeted floor. Throughout the game, she alternates this pose with lying flat upon her front and squishing her belly out to the sides under the weight of the rest of her body.

         Her pleased, excited smile no longer impales my heart like Cupid's arrow as it did when we first met yesterday. Instead it leaves me with something like an ache in my chest- but that can't be right because an ache hurts and this does not. I remember my urge to make her cheer in fulfilment of her wants, and from her gleeful amusement at our shared antics; perhaps I am starting to achieve that fulfilment of my own. I break down my feelings as simply as I can: I am making her happy, and right now, that is all I want or need.

         Our play session is interrupted by a low, extended gurgle from Madison's belly. I believe its echoing character came from the open emptiness of her stomach instead of the walls of the room. With one fist still clutching the legs of a doll, her other hand moves to her shirt-covered middle and squeezes it inwards with her palm. "I'm hungry," she tells me rather unnecessarily.

         I momentarily pull my phone from my pocket to check the time. It sure had flown during our fantastic diversion, and was now almost six 'o clock. Luckily, in the moments when I wasn't required to be completely engaged by the amusingly unreasonable plot of this story, I had given some thought to tonight's dinner plans. "How about I order some Galaxy Pizza?" I suggest.

         Her eyes shine like polished gemstones. "Yeah!" she exclaims. I feel like I had earned a good number of babysitter points with that response.
I connect to the house Wi-Fi and look at their online menu. The memory of Madison's activity at lunch bids me to ask a question: "How big of one do you usually get?"

         "Uhh," she starts, looking away distractedly in thought. Perhaps she
was trying and failing to remember its size in inches, or the specific names given to each size. "The biggest one," she announces gleefully as she looks back up at me. "With chicken, and beef, and bacon, and lots of cheese." She's grinning at me now as I dial the number and prepare to deliver her information. The largest size turns out to be a 16-inch "Malin," named after the largest pizza-shaped galaxy. I order it exactly as she describes, price being no deterrent as I read off the information on the card supplied by her father.

         I tap the screen of my phone to hang up and address her beaming face, "It'll be here in twenty-five minutes."

         "Yay!" she cheers, and similarly to how she did yesterday, her lazy body remains at peace opposed to her excited, stretched smile. I realize that I am not nearly as nervous as I was a few hours ago. The sharing of a video game, an imaginative play session, and the promise of a delivery pizza was all it took to please my charge so far. "I'mma go downstairs," she tells me and promptly wobbles out of the bedroom with her empty belly jiggling in front and her ass behind.

         I exhale heavily after she leaves. So far I've been alternating between feeling like a responsible babysitter and a pervert, the trigger being when attention is called to her obese body. I know I've been ordered by the Julia parents to act on these desires I've been carefully selected for, but still there is a time and a place for them and I must hold out for now.

         Lazily gazing about Madison's bedroom I realize that I still don't know what mine is like. I step out into the hallway and try each of the other doors. The first is a spacious open bathroom with a shower and tub, the second is a closet of household tools and cleaning supplies, the third is obviously the master bedroom, and the fourth, from its simple, inoffensive adornments, looks to be the guest room. The gray quilt on the twin bed looks too warm for the current summer nights, and I proactively pull it off and set it in a heap at the foot of the bed. There's a lamp, nightstand, empty dresser, desk and chair, and armchair all in complimentary shades of white and gray. Pleased with my examination, I retrieve my duffel bag from downstairs and start to unpack. This doesn't take too long since I brought little more than my laptop (my only computer), a week's worth of clothes, and some hygiene supplies. Now as settled in as I think I could be, I head back down the steps to see what Madison is up to.

         She sits in front of the television again watching a movie from the DVD player. It's Shrek 2, I believe. It's a movie older than her, I realize with a smirk, but still not one I ever got around to watching. She sits slouched against the back cushion taking up the middle of the couch, and I seat myself to one side leaning on the armrest. There's a gap between us while we both enjoy watching the movie and each laugh at different jokes. I however take some vicarious amusement at listening to her giggles at the moments of childish humor, so in a way I might be enjoying it more than she.

         The mellow echo of the doorbell calls us both to upright attention, and after a brief, reflexive moment of eye contact with Madison I greet the teenage delivery boy at the door. He trades the hot cardboard pizza box for a few dollars' tip from my own wallet (gladly given after Mr. Julia's generous signing bonus).

         There's a coffee table made of black-enameled wood which I set the pizza on and slide to close reach to the sofa. I rummage through the kitchen and find a pair of plates and glasses in the cupboards and two liters of Coca-Cola in the refrigerator. I set all of these on the living-room table and pour the girl a glass. An image comes to mind of her spilling the sticky drink all over herself, the sofa, and the carpet, so I return to the kitchen and after some more searching, find a plastic straw for her cup.

         By the time of my return she has already piled two slices of the massive pizza on her plate, the corners hanging distinctly over the edge. Now that I see the cut circle in its open box I'm reminded that a 16-inch pizza is appropriate for four to six people, not two. Still, I remember that this was Madison's answer for "the usual size." I watch her belly as she lifts one of the pieces to her mouth and takes a hefty bite of the meaty, cheesy mess. Yes, her belly is big and round, but it's that way because it's padded and stuffed with fat, and not because it's an empty, rigid container. She did eat an impressive amount at lunch, but if she planned to finish this (as I suspected she did from the emptied serving platters at lunch), she would have to far surpass that.

         The movie takes second priority to the rich pizza before her. I barely pay attention to it too as I focus more on watching Madison stuff the wide slices in her face. With the voracity of her eating, I might have expected she would make a mess of red sauce on her face and shirt. However, it seems she has some "skill" and efficiency at eating and all of the sauce settles on her lips where her tongue can lick it up and put it in its rightful place inside her mouth.

         My body remembers the filling lunch I had eaten today, and I struggle to finish my second slice. I drink some big gulps of the carbonated cola in hopes that the extra acid will help dissolve the meat, cheese, and bread sitting heavily in my gut. Only two of the eight pieces remain in the box, and none on Madison's plate, which means she has already eaten twice as much as I.

         She takes those last two pieces and puts them on her plate, but she looks to be struggling with her fullness just as much as I am. I wonder if leaving no leftovers is a habit taught to her by her parents, or a habit she has developed for herself. "Hey, it's okay if you can't finish it all," I tell her.

         "No, I can do it," she answers. She follows through with this statement by taking several consecutive bites from a slice and effectively fitting half of it in her mouth. Some part of me wants to giggle at how much the fat, stuffed cheeks make her look like a pet hamster, but I'm much too impressed by the display to do more than keep my jaw from dropping.

         With the help of some drinks from her fizzy cola, my young charge finishes the slice. She's panting. This may be from the exertion of eating when already full or from actual pain in her stomach, and I decide it's probably both. She lets out a sigh that also sounds suspiciously like a groan. Thick fingers lift up the hem of her T-shirt and then proceed to rub the round, fleshy belly and cover it with a thin coat of pizza grease. Evidently this makes her feel better, and with this constant rubbing she can bring herself to eat the last, final piece once bite at a time.

         She leans against the back of the couch and raises her face towards the ceiling with eyes closed and mouth slacked open. I can tell she's forcing herself to breathe deeply to keep from hyperventilating. She definitely looks uncomfortable, but for some reason I don't get the feeling that she's regretful of eating so much.

         "Hey, are you feeling okay?" I ask

         "Yeah, I'm fine," she answers, still taking deep breaths while she holds her middle. "Just really full." She hasn't told me anything I didn't already expect, and it feels good to be reassured in my assumptions.

         Her bare belly is as exposed as it's ever been, and as large as I've ever seen it. Her hands and fingers rub across its surface and squeeze the soft padding in an attempt to relieve the pressure underneath. I notice a sharp increase in my own breathing as I watch this and subsequently quell it. I need to keep my head cool- but still- as long as she sits there like that, how long can I? I will probably give in to my desires sooner or later so I might as well do it while I still have some control.

         I shuffle my seat close to her until I am pressed tight to her cushion of a thigh. My hand reaches out between hers and covers the center of her bulging, bloated belly. She sighs at my touch and doesn't seem to disapprove. She's so soft! I almost panic at the sensation. Her top layer of fat feels like putty, or a marshmallow, or some alien substance I have not yet felt before. It takes significant pressure from my hand before I can feel the swollen, over-exerted stomach that lies underneath. This sort of touch appears to relieve instead of upset her, but I can't help but be shocked at how well the thick layers of fat disguise her stuffed nature.

         I continue for several minutes rubbing her middle with my one hand. The soreness in my eyes reminds me that I need to blink- otherwise I might forget entirely. Madison's own eyes suffer exactly the opposite issue: they can barely open more than slits as she dozed in comfort. After a significant while of this, my bubbling emotion is sated through this largely-innocent outlet, and drops to manageable levels. I halt my hand and fingers, and slowly return them to my lap and avoid further eye contact with my babysitting charge.

         Contact like this- rubbing Madison's overfilled and sore belly- although rare, is surely innocent enough, right? Why doesn't it feel that way to me? Why does it feel like I had copped a feel of a much more intimate place? No, that isn't right: I had done far more extreme deeds with my ex-girlfriend, yet the calm fires that had flooded my mind for the past few minutes could not compare to them. Quickly I come to the conclusion that my perversions are even more real than I had realized. This brings to me a sinking feeling when I remember the rest of the week I am to spend with Madison, but underneath there exists a hot spark- like fingers numb from cold swelling painfully when they are warmed too fast, and yet even through the pain there is still relief- when I remember once again that Mr. Julia expected- no, wanted me to be a pervert for his daughter.

         Pervert and pedophile as I am, I still have a conscience. Perhaps if society would view the Julia parents as mad then I should too, and therefore protect their daughter from their machinations as best as I can. A better question to ask is "what does Maddie want?" I look over to her finally, and see her eyes opening after my hand released her a few seconds ago.

         "Do your parents rub your tummy?" I ask. It was the first thing that came to mind, but it was nonetheless an important question for understanding the girl, I had thought.

         "Mmm, they did, but..." she begins, "I asked them to stop. It got... I don't know." She seems pensive, and also unsatisfied with the unclear answer she had given me. "I- liked it better when you did it," she finally says.

         A new question floods my head now: why did she stop? Was this something that had become too sensual for her to enjoy with her parents? Mr. Julia had mentioned that Madison had matured alarmingly fast (as the T-shirt covering her somehow-shallow, somehow-bulging chest was quick to remind me,) and it was all-too possible that having a young man touch her in such a way was more "appropriate." I squeeze my eyes shut and give my head a rapid vibration of a shake. There were no tracks for this bullet train of thought; I might as well be openly fantasizing as I please while I overanalyzed this petty fact.

         A yawn from my own face interrupts my thoughts, which in turn is followed by one from Madison. It's not even seven o' clock, and I'm already exhausted. This doesn't surprise me since I got little-to-no sleep last night. I hope Madison doesn't consider this too early of a bedtime when I turn to ask her, "Ready for bed?"

         "Yeah," she exhales. "All that pizza made me sleepy."

         I nod. "Alright, let's go up then." I rise to my feet, and then decide to turn to Madison and offer my hands to her. The tubby six-year-old takes both of them and allows me to assist in hoisting her onto her feet. I walk very slowly as I match the pace of the obese child following me up the staircase.

         Her steps are noticeably clumsier than unusual, being weighed down with a tightly-stretched stomach heavier than the one with which I had watched her previously ascend with.

         It's a full minute before she reaches the top and she continues on to the bathroom panting with exertion. I remember that I don't have my toothbrush unpacked yet, so I excuse myself to my own room and spend and embarrassingly long time looking through my scant possessions searching for it. By the time I return, Madison is back in her own room and I brush my teeth alone. My toothbrush finds its home in the cup with hers (I am going to stay here for a while, after all,) and walk into her bedroom.

         I can see that she had started to settle herself into bed. The ceiling light had been turned off, and the lamp on her white nightstand dimly lit the room in its place. Even though this girl is much wider than normal, her bed is expansive enough that another her size could sleep beside her and comfortably roll over with no contact. Her feet too extended only halfway down to the other end. I realize that this means that four could share this bed- each without disturbing the other. This thought gives me a short chuckle instead of a "negative" response.

         "Damian," she calls meekly to me, peering up from the dim, "could you tuck me in please?"

         With a calm smile I pull the covers over her shoulders. They're rather heavy for summer, and I notice she is still wearing her T-shirt as well. "Don't you get hot?" I ask.

         "I like being warm," she answers. I nod in agreement with a hum. After an intense mental debate that left me practically paralyzed for several seconds, I lean forward and leave a kiss upon her forehead. I open my eyes without realizing that I had closed them and see her gently smiling back at me. This sight should leave me feeling relived, but for some reason it does not. At least I know I haven't created a worse situation.

         "Night night, Maddie," I manage to say without stammering while looking at her.

         "Night night, Damian," she chimes back.

         I flick off the lamp and leave her bedroom. Alone in the bathroom I brush my teeth without thinking about them, and still distracted I make my way to my own new bedroom. Doing simple tasks with little to no thought is a practiced skill of mine and I continue using it as I undress down to my underwear and slide under the thin, smooth sheets.

         I stay awake for a long while, but due to the compounded exhaustion from last night's failed attempt, I can pass out eventually and get some real sleep.