Babysitting The Brat

Veronica sits on her couch, glass of wine gone warm, nothing on TV. She dials a babysitting service, smiles when the voice asks what age the child is. "Little girl, maybe twenty-three, thirty if she’s lucky," she says. "Extremely bratty. Needs someone who won’t blink." She hangs up, already wet. Emma arrives in a cardigan and white sneakers, file of background checks under one arm. No crib in sight. Just Veronica, barefoot in a tank top and pajama shorts, holding a typed page heavy with rules. Emma stares. Veronica hands it over, last rule in red marker: "NO LESBIANISM. Penalty: spanking." Emma wants that five-star review. She reads the rules out loud, tells Veronica to stand straight when spoken to. First rule broken ten minutes later—chips on the couch. Emma drags her over one knee and slaps hard enough to echo. Veronica smiles into the cushion, counts out loud. Second infraction comes quick: backtalk. Third is the clincher—Emma catches her trying to grind against the arm of the sofa, deliberate, eyes daring her. The handprint on Veronica’s ass already shows pink. Emma’s palm stings; Veronica’s breath hitches every time the hand lands. On the fourth strike she whispers she can be good between her teeth, but her hips keep pushing. Emma finally pins her on her stomach, knees the shorts down, lands smack after smack till the skin flares and Veronica is soaking the cotton. When the punishment stops, the quiet is thick. Emma’s fingers slip between Veronica’s thighs, two knuckles deep before she even thinks twice. Veronica laughs, pushes back, tells her the list had one more rule—no orgasms without permission. Emma curls her fingers anyway, voice low: "Earn it."