Younger Than His Age

Younger Than His Age

[6,910 words]

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This story is intended for ADULTS ONLY. It contains explicit depictions of sexual activity involving minors. If you are not of a legal age in your locality to view such material or if such material does not appeal to you, do not read further, and do not save this story.

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Based on a story idea suggested by an anonymous reader.

When I was 12 I was lucky enough to get a babysitting job that I would keep for years, and that would help me have not just pocket money, but also save for college.

Mom knew Mrs. Murphy from work, and she was the one who had heard what Mrs. Murphy was looking for and recommended me.

So I went with Mom to Mrs. Murphy’s house. I only knew that I was to babysit a boy called Bobby, and I was excited because that would allow me to earn some money and buy things I wanted to buy. At that time my mom gave me some pocket money, but it wasn’t much.

We got to her house and I saw that, even though it was in the same neighborhood, it was bigger and more luxurious than ours.

Mrs. Murphy opened the door herself. She was wearing jeans and a soft-looking sweater. She smiled as she shook Mom’s hand, and then turned to me. "You must be Leah, the young babysitter I’ve heard so much about," she said. She didn’t pat my head or talk down to me, just met my gaze directly, which felt surprisingly adult.

I blushed a bit, because I really did not have much experience babysitting at that point, but just said something polite and professional-sounding about how I hoped she would be satisfied with my work.

Mrs. Murphy led us inside, and my sneakers squeaked softly on the marble floor, a sound I’d never heard in our own linoleum hallway. My eyes were wide as I took everything in. It had more room than our home, and everything was decorated with taste and looked expensive. Mom had to nudged me gently to get me moving.

"Bobby!" Mrs. Murphy called out towards a curving staircase that looked like it belonged in a movie. "Come meet Leah." Footsteps sounded from above. A boy with messy blond hair skidded into view first, wearing faded jeans and a T-shirt bearing some band logo. He looked exactly my age, twelve, maybe thirteen, and stopped dead, his blue eyes widening slightly as they met mine.

Behind him appeared an older girl, maybe sixteen or seventeen, with the same blond hair but swept into a neat ponytail. She leaned casually against the banister, arms crossed, appraising me with a cool, amused expression.

Mrs. Murphy gestured warmly. "Leah, this is Bobby, your future charge." Bobby shuffled forward, cheeks flushing pinker than mine had been earlier. He mumbled a quick "Hi". Then she nodded to the girl. "And this is Ellen, Bobby’s sister." Ellen smiled at us and added her greeting.

Mrs. Murphy turned to me, her tone light but purposeful. "Ellen used to be Bobby’s primary babysitter, and she did a wonderful job." She glanced at Ellen with evident pride. "But she’s joined the high school debate society now, and honestly, her weekends are packed with tournaments and social events." Her gaze returned to me. "We didn’t want Ellen missing out on experiences just to stay home. That’s why we needed someone reliable like you, Leah."

I nodded. "I understand, Mrs. Murphy," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. Inside, my mind was racing. Ellen looked effortlessly sophisticated leaning against that gleaming banister, her eyes assessing me calmly. Meanwhile, Bobby stood awkwardly nearby, staring at his worn sneakers. He looks twelve, I thought, surprised. Twelve, like me. I’d pictured crayons scattered across a carpet, bedtime stories, maybe building block towers with a preschooler. Not standing face-to-face with a boy my own height, shifting his weight like he wished the floor would swallow him.

"I had thought Bobby would be younger, Mrs. Murphy," I admitted, meeting her eyes directly, trying to copy her earlier straightforwardness. "Like maybe five or six?"

Mrs. Murphy chuckled softly. "Well, Bobby sometimes acts like he’s five or six," she replied, gesturing towards him.

He glared at her. "Mom!" he protested, his ears turning crimson. He was kind of cute.

"Hush, Bobby, you know you are quite immature sometimes."

Bobby’s blush deepened to crimson as he pouted at his mother.

"Don’t look at me like that, son," she chuckled. "We have to tell it like it is. If Leah is going to babysit you she is going to find out by herself anyway." Then she looked back at me. "About Bobby’s age," she said, "this is what I wanted to tell you about."

"Mom," Bobby whined, but she ignored him. "You see, Leah, Bobby is not exactly the age he looks like."

I blinked, my gaze flicking between Mrs. Murphy’s earnest expression and Bobby’s deepening blush. "What do you mean?" I asked. I was wondering, was this a ten year old or something that for some freaky reason looked older? My mom shifted beside me, her quiet presence suddenly feeling comforting.

Mrs. Murphy sighed, placing a gentle hand on Bobby’s shoulder. He flinched slightly but didn’t pull away. "Bobby looks like he’s twelve, Leah, but he’s not," she stated plainly. "He’s eighteen. He started his freshman year at State University last month." A cold shock prickled down my arms. Eighteen? This boy, barely taller than me, drowning in his band T-shirt? Impossible. "And he’s Ellen’s older brother," she added softly.

My mother’s inhaled sharply beside me.

"It’s because of a medication," Mrs. Murphy continued. "Puericil. It’s prescribed for male teenage rebelliousness. It keeps Bobby docile and well-behaved, able to concentrate on his studies and not get in trouble. But it also... halts his growth. It temporarily halts puberty while he’s on the medication."

Ellen uncrossed her arms, her cool amusement fading into something like sympathy at my shocked expression.

"Don’t be impressed by his age. It means nothing. Bobby’s just a little brat," the older girl told me.

Bobby shot Ellen a withering look, his crimson ears practically steaming. "I’m a college freshman!" he protested, voice cracking mid-sentence. He kicked at the marble floor, pouting. "I don’t need a babysitter!"

Ellen rolled her eyes skyward, a practiced motion. "Oh, shut it, Bobby," she said. Her gaze shifted to me. "See? Forget about his biological age. He’s got the emotional maturity of a toddler. Puericil keeps him easy to manage," she flicked a glance at Bobby, who scowled deeper, "but the trade-off is this." She gestured vaguely at his entire pouting, tween form. "Physically suspended at twelve. Mentally? Well, he’s smart for studying and things like that, but in terms of maturity he’s even younger than he looks, and that’s how you need to treat him."

Bobby let out a strangled noise, a mix of outrage and helplessness. His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles whitening against his jeans. The crimson flush hadn’t receded; instead, it had spread down his neck.

"Ellen!" he hissed, his voice a furious whisper. "Just... shut UP!" He spun away from his sister, his messy blond hair falling forward to shield his burning face.

"Bobby, do not talk back at your sister," his mother said. "Now hush, and let the grownups speak." She turned towards me and added, "Well, that’s about it. Bobby is eighteen, yes, and in college. He does well at his studies and we are proud of him, but he’s not mature enough to be left completely unsupervised, which is why we need a babysitter. Do not worry, though. He won’t give you any real trouble. You’ll find him docile and manageable. Just treat him like a younger child, which is what he is emotionally. Not just younger than his actual age, but younger than his apparent age."

Bobby didn’t move. He kept his head down, shoulders tense. A faint tremble ran through him, visible even from where I stood. The furious blush had deepened, spreading from his ears down his neck and disappearing beneath the collar of his band T-shirt. He radiated humiliation like heat from a stove.

I felt a bit sorry for him, but also filled with wonder at the whole situation, and even a bit excited at the idea of being in charge of an 18 year old. OK, he did not look like an 18 year old, but he looked about my own age. If you look at it that way, being in charge of a boy my own age was also exciting.

Mrs. Murphy smiled reassuringly at me. "Now, let’s talk practicalities, Leah," she said, gesturing towards the living room. We all sat down, except Bobby, who standing, pouting.

We discussed the babysitting schedule. My core responsibilities involved making sure that Bobby stayed on task, did his studying (no sneaking off to stream videos or play videogames until he was done with his work), and did not get in trouble. I would be able to do my own school work meanwhile.

"And one last thing, Leah," Mrs. Murphy added, her tone shifting slightly. She glanced towards Bobby. "Before you leave each evening, you’ll need to make sure Bobby is bathed and into his pajamas."

Bobby whipped around. "Bathed?" The word was high-pitched. "Mom! That’s... that’s... She doesn’t have to do that! I can do that myself! I’m eighteen!"

"Since when have you ever bathed on your own, Bobby?" Mrs. Murphy asked patiently. "You know I do not trust you to do a proper job unsupervised."

I stared at Bobby’s mortified expression, his flush deepening. My stomach lurched. Bathing him? Like he was a toddler? Bobby wasn’t a little kid; he stood almost eye-to-eye with me, wearing faded jeans and a band shirt. Yet, Mrs. Murphy spoke as if he couldn’t be trusted to wash his own ears.

"But mom!"

"Not a word more, Bobby, if you don’t want a spanking. You know you are not allowed to backtalk when grownups are speaking."

Bobby froze mid-protest, his mouth snapping shut with an audible click. His blush deepened. He stared fixedly at the floor, breathing shallowly through his nose. The thought flashed through my head that Bobby took the idea of getting spanked quite seriously. The threat of a spanking, something usually reserved for toddlers, at eighteen years old, dangled over him like a physical weight.

Ellen watched him with detached amusement, one eyebrow arched. "That always gets him to behave," she grinned.

My mother cleared her throat softly. "Mrs. Murphy, are you... quite certain about this bathing arrangement?"

Mrs. Murphy’s smile remained serene. "Oh, absolutely. It’s part of caring for him. If left to his own devices, Bobby tends to rush and skip the soap, and make a mess in the bathroom. Leah will just supervise and ensure proper hygiene." She leaned forward confidentially. "Puericil makes him wonderfully compliant, but it doesn’t make him any more mature. He’s terribly absent-minded about self-care."

"But," Mom insisted, "do you think it’s appropriate? I mean, Leah is just twelve."

Mrs. Murphy waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, don’t worry. There’s nothing inappropriate. With the medication, Bobby has no... adult impulses. He’s perfectly harmless. Think of him as a little child who needs guidance. Leah will simply take care of him as she would a seven year old boy. Which is what he is, emotionally."

The silence stretched. Bobby stood still, gaze on the floor, the sting of shame radiating off him. He looked as if he was about to start crying. Eighteen, I thought, the word echoing strangely. He looked like any boy from my class, yet here he was, shrinking under the threat of a bath and a spanking.

Something made me talk.

"Don’t worry, Bobby, it will be fine," I spoke, reassuring him as one would reassure a much smaller child. You do not need to be ashamed. I’ll take care of you and it will be fine. You don’t need to be embarrassed. I have babysat boys before."

That was true but a bit misleading, as I had very little experience babysitting and certainly nothing like this. I just took had taken care of a six year old for a few hours several time before. I had never had to bathe a boy or anything like that, but telling Bobby that would not be helpful.

Bobby peeked up at me through his messy blond fringe, eyes red-rimmed and wary.

I stood up and put my hand on his shoulder, caressing it gently.

"It’s OK, really. I’m not going to make fun of you, you know."

"You... you won’t?" he whispered, his voice thick with suppressed tears. His fingers twisted nervously in the hem of his T-shirt. "It’s... it’s just... it’s really embarrassing."

"I know, but it’ll be OK," I said softly, keeping my hand steady on his shoulder. I felt the slight tremble beneath the thin cotton fabric, like a captured bird’s heartbeat. His skin radiated heat through the shirt, still burning from shame. He looked at me in a way that made him seem both vulnerable and embarrassed. Across the room, Ellen snorted softly, but Mrs. Murphy gave me an approving nod.

I kept my tone gentle but firm. "I’ll be helping you get cleaned up so you can relax for the night. Treating you like a little boy doesn’t mean I’m laughing at you." Bobby blinked, with perhaps a flicker of hesitant relief crossing his face. He sniffled quietly.

Mrs. Murphy clapped her hands briskly. "Wonderful! I can see you two will get along well. Leah, Bobby responds well to kindness, but you also need to be firm with him and let him know who is in charge."

I nodded, stealing a glance at Bobby. His blush had faded slightly, but he still looked miserable, fiddling with a loose thread on his jeans. "Yes, Mrs. Murphy," I replied, trying to sound confident despite the flutter in my stomach.

"If he acts up or doesn’t mind you, I expect you to spank him just like you would any other little boy who acted up while you are babysitting."

A startled gasp escaped my mother, echoing my own feelings. "Spank him? But he’s..."

"...physically a child," Mrs. Murphy finished smoothly, cutting her off. "And emotionally even younger. Trust me, Ellen does it regularly when he mouths off or when he sneaks sweets without permission between meals. Nothing special. Pants down, over the knee, and a firm hand, right on his bare bottom. It doesn’t need to be very hard. It makes him have a good cry and settles him instantly." She smiled brightly. "It’s standard for young charges needing discipline. Like I said, Leah, consider him seven. I’m sure you know how to spank a seven year old."

Actually, I did not know how to spank a seven year old. I hadn’t even babysat that much, and the idea of me disciplining my charge had never been suggested. I just told the parents if they misbehaved. I looked at Mom, but she just shrugged and didn’t explain that I had never done something like that. It occurred to me that she may have exaggerated my babysitting experience and didn’t want to contradict herself now.

At the same time, Bobby’s entire body jerked as if shocked. He squeezed his eyes shut, jaw clenched tight. The raw humiliation radiating from him was almost palpable. Eighteen years old, attending university, yet facing the prospect of being stripped and spanked by a twelve-year-old babysitter. I felt queasy myself, a strange mix of pity and a dawning sense of captivating authority.

"It’s all right," I told him, almost as if I were reassuring myself. "I’m sure you’ll behave and that won’t be necessary."

Ellen chuckled from her seat, as if she found the idea amusing. "Don’t count on it," she drawled, uncrossing her arms to gesture lazily at her brother. "He might look like a kicked puppy now, but give him a few hours alone and he’ll push boundaries. Trust me, Leah. He’ll whine about homework, sneak extra screen time, or ‘forget’ to put his toys away." She glanced at her brother. "A spanking always sorts him out fast. You should not be shy about it. It’s going to happen more than once if you are going to babysit him, so you should set the right tone from the beginning. You are the one in charge, and he needs to mind you and behave reasonably."

The comment made Bobby flinch. He kept his gaze glued to the polished marble floor. Mrs. Murphy nodded approvingly at Ellen’s blunt assessment, her smile serene. "Ellen’s quite right, dear. Setting firm boundaries is essential. Bobby is very gregarious, but he needs structure. Once you establish your authority, he’ll hang on your every word."

Bobby’s breathing hitched, like he was fighting back tears. He looks so embarrassed and worried, I thought, staring at the crown of his blond head. Eighteen years old, and scared of me, a twelve year old girl.

The conversation, led by Mrs. Murphy and my mother, got into emergency numbers and snack allowances. I drifted closer to Bobby. Ellen watched us with detached amusement from her seat. "Hey," I whispered, low enough so only Bobby could hear. "Look at me?" He lifted his head slowly, eyes wary. The flush hadn’t faded. "It’s going to be okay," I said firmly, meeting his gaze directly. "I promise I won’t ever laugh at you. And I’ll try to make it not... embarrassing. When it’s bath time, or whatever." My fingers tightened gently on his shoulder. "I know it feels weird. But I’m not your enemy."

He sniffled quietly, twisting his T-shirt hem tighter. "Ellen... makes fun of me. All the time. Says I’m a baby." His voice cracked. "It’s so stupid. I’m in college."

"I know," I whispered back, keeping my eyes locked on his. Across the room, Mrs. Murphy and Mom were discussing my hourly rate. Ellen smirked, watching Bobby’s distress like it was a mildly interesting TV show. I lowered my voice even further. "Ellen’s wrong. Being treated like this doesn’t make you a baby. It’s just... your situation. And I won’t tease you. Promise." I squeezed his shoulder gently, feeling the tense muscle beneath the thin cotton. "Besides," I added, forcing a small, conspiratorial smile, "everyone has stuff they need help with. My mom is always on my case because I’m always forgetting my jacket in the bus, at school... everywhere."

Bobby blinked. He stared at me. The frantic twisting at his T-shirt hem slowed slightly. "You... you forget your jacket?" he mumbled.

"Yeah," I admitted, letting my hand slide off his shoulder but keeping my gaze locked on his. "All the time." I rolled my eyes. "Mom calls me her ‘absent-minded professor.’" A tiny, hesitant smile tugged at the corner of Bobby’s mouth, barely there but real. He sniffed again, swiping clumsily at his nose with the back of his hand.

"I know this situation kind of weird," I murmured, leaning in conspiratorially. "But I won’t make fun of you, Bobby. Not ever." I saw the flicker of hope in his eyes. He glanced nervously towards his mother, then back at me and spoke softly. "You swear? Not... not even when I’m acting..." He trailed off, flushing anew. "...like Mom says?"

"Especially not then," I promised firmly. "Everyone needs help sometimes, and it’s not your fault you have to take that medication... Your situation isn’t funny. It’s just... different." He regarded me and then nodded, hesitantly, but his shoulders relaxed a bit more.

Mrs. Murphy’s voice rose above our whispers. "So, Leah, your first shift will be this Friday evening? I’ll be attending Dean Whitlock’s fundraiser dinner." She smiled warmly. "Ellen will be studying at her friend’s house, and we can’t leave Bobby without supervision."

I nodded, stealing a glance at Bobby. He stood stiffly now, but his breathing had steadied. The panic in his eyes had eased into resignation. "Yes, Mrs. Murphy," I answered.

Mrs. Murphy tapped her chin thoughtfully. "You know, Leah," she began, her tone brightening. "Perhaps a quick demonstration might help ease everyone’s concerns. Bobby hasn’t had his bath yet today, and it’s getting rather late. Why don’t you walk Leah and her mom through the routine, Ellen?" She flashed a reassuring smile towards my mother. "It’s perfectly simple, you’ll see. Nothing inappropriate whatsoever."

Bobby stiffened beside me, a choked gasp escaping him. His eyes darted towards the grand staircase leading upstairs, wide with panic. Ellen sighed dramatically, pushing herself off the sofa. "Seriously, Mom? Now?" She flicked her gaze towards Bobby’s frozen form. "Fine. Come on, brat."

"Come on, Ellen, don’t call him that. He has feelings," I said.

Ellen grinned and locked her brother in a playful headlock, easily manhandling him and ruffling his hair. "It’s just sibling banter, Leah. Bobby knows I loves him, even if he is a little brat."

"Ellen!" Bobby squeaked, struggling against Ellen’s grip, but she was bigger and stronger. His face blushed again as he twisted futilely in her arms. Ellen released him with a shove towards the stairs and a pat on the seat of his jeans. "All right, Bobby, if you don’t want me to call you brat, just behave and do as I say. Don’t make a fuss."

Bobby glared back at her but shuffled reluctantly towards the staircase. Ellen turned to me, an eyebrow raised. "You coming?."

My stomach clenched. A bath demonstration? Was this really going to happen? Were they... were they going to strip Bobby bare in front of mom and me?

I hesitated, glancing at Mom. Her expression was tight, conflicted, but she gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. Mrs. Murphy beamed, gesturing for us to follow. "Let’s all go. It’s best to see the practicalities first hand. It’s all very straightforward."

Ellen seized Bobby’s hand, pulling him firmly towards the stairs. "Come on. Stop dragging your feet." Bobby resisted weakly, eyes darting towards me, his blush deepening. He stumbled with the rug, but Ellen held him and helped him regain his balance. "Seriously, Bobby," she muttered. "Just behave, or Leah will also get a demonstration of how you get spanked."

I followed slowly, my footsteps echoing on the marble floor. The staircase curved upward, and Ellen marched Bobby ahead of us as Mrs. Murphy chatted with my mom about the fundraiser. Bobby’s shoulders hunched defensively. He kept glancing back at me, his expression trapped between pleading and humiliation.

I stepped up ahead and took his free hand. "Let me take him, Ellen," I asked.

Ellen looked at me with amusement. "Sure," she said, releasing Bobby’s other hand.

We followed her, me leading Bobby by his hand. "It’s OK, Bobby," I said. "I meant what I said about not laughing at you."

At the top of the stairs, Ellen gestured towards a door just down the hall. "Bathroom’s here. Leah. Bathing Bobby is easy. I’ll show you." She pushed the door open, revealing a gleaming white-tiled room with a deep tub and fluffy towels stacked neatly on a shelf. A scent of lavender soap hung in the air, sharp and clean. Bobby hesitated on the threshold, shrinking back against me. Mrs. Murphy stood behind us, her voice calm. "Go on, Bobby. Show Leah that you can be a good boy."

I felt the tremor in Bobby’s hand. His knuckles were white where he gripped mine. He stared into the bright bathroom.

Eighteen. The word echoed hollowly in my head. This wasn’t a toddler clinging to his mother’s leg; this was a college student about to be given a bath. Not just in front of his mom and sister, but also in front of a 12-year-old girl he had just met and her mom.

Ellen sighed impatiently. "Bobby, stop being dramatic. Leah’s waiting. Take off your clothes." She nudged his shoulder.

He flinched. His gaze snapped to mine, pleading. My stomach twisted. He looks so scared, I thought. He might be eighteen, but he feels like a kid caught stealing cookies.

I stepped between him and Ellen, shielding him slightly. "Bobby," I said softly, keeping my voice low and calm, like coaxing a stray kitten. "Look at me." His eyes flickered to mine, swimming with tears. "I’m not going to laugh. Not Ellen. Not anyone. Your mom is in charge, so just do as she says. Nothing to freak out about." He hesitated. "You... you swear?" he rasped, his voice cracking. "You won’t... won’t think I’m... a freak?" The shame radiating off him was almost a physical heat.

"Of course not! You’re not a freak, Bobby. You’re stuck in a weird situation, but that’s not your fault." I glanced past his shoulder. Mrs. Murphy was chatting brightly with my mother about bath salts. Ellen leaned against the door frame, arms crossed, watching Bobby and me with detached curiosity. I lowered my voice further. "Listen... I get this feels super embarrassing. But I’m not gonna stare or make faces. Deal?" He swallowed hard, staring at my face like he was gauging my sincerity. Slowly, the tension in his shoulders eased a bit. A tiny nod. "Okay," he breathed.

I saw that, although resigned to obey, he was going to take a long time at the pace he was going, so I decided to take charge. "Okay, Bobby," I said, keeping my voice firm but gentle, like Mrs. Murphy instructed. "Let’s get you ready." Ellen chuckled softly behind us, but I ignored her. Bobby stood frozen, staring at the deep tub filling with warm water Ellen had started. His breath hitched again. He was fumbling clumsily with the hem of his band T-shirt. "I... I can..." he stammered.

"It’s OK, kid, I said," leaning forward and gently kissing his cheek. "I’ll do it for you."

My fingers brushed the worn cotton of his T-shirt. Bobby froze, eyes wide. "Leah?" he whispered, confusion mixing with his lingering embarrassment. Before he could protest further, I grasped the hem firmly and pulled the shirt upwards. He instinctively raised his arms, letting me peel it over his head, revealing pale, slender shoulders and a chest still soft with childhood despite his chronological age. The T-shirt caught briefly on his ears, but then it was off. I folded it and left it on the closed toilet lid. His blush deepened, spreading down his neck as he stood half-naked before me.

"Okay," I murmured, keeping my tone low and practical. My gaze dropped to his dark blue jeans. His fingers trembled near the buckle. "Here," I said softly. Leaning down, I unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans, then gently tugged them down his legs. His breath hitched audibly. His jeans pooled around his ankles, revealing plain white briefs beneath. Bobby stared fixedly at the ceiling tiles.

"Step out," I instructed gently. He obeyed mechanically, lifting one foot then the other. I folded the jeans neatly beside his shirt on the toilet lid. The air in the bathroom felt thick, charged. Behind me, Ellen leaned against the sink, arms crossed. Mrs. Murphy’s voice drifted from the hallway, explaining Bobby’s bath routine to my mother.

Bobby stood frozen in his briefs, arms wrapped tightly around himself. His shoulders hunched defensively. His gaze remained locked on the swirling steam rising from the tub. Water splashed softly as Ellen tested the temperature. "Perfect," she announced. "Leah, help him with the last bit or we’ll never get done."

I hesitated only a second. Kneeling again, I met Bobby’s scared eyes. "Almost done, buddy. It’s OK. Remember, I’m just helping. Nobody’s gonna make fun of you," I murmured.

He tensed as I gently hooked my thumbs into the elastic waistband of the plain white briefs. He flinched when the fabric brushed his hipbones. "Shhh," I soothed, slowly easing them down. "It’s okay." The briefs caught momentarily at his knees before sliding to the tiled floor.

I was trying to be discrete but I couldn’t help looking at his midsection.

His penis wasn’t like a grown man’s, not at all. Small and soft like a boy’s, with smooth skin and no hair anywhere. Exactly what you’d expect from someone frozen at twelve. Bobby’s breath hitched sharply, sounding almost like a sob, and I snapped my gaze back to his face. His eyes were squeezed shut. The shame radiating off him was a physical force. Eighteen, my brain said. His body is like a little boy’s.

"Shhh," I murmured softly, keeping my voice low and calm as I folded his briefs quickly beside the other clothes. "All done." I stood up and gently took his hand. "Come on, the bath’s nice and warm," I coaxed, guiding him towards the tub. He moved stiffly. Ellen watched from near the sink, her expression unreadable.

"Into the tub with you," I instruct. "Careful, don’t slip, I added, holding him for extra support.

Bobby flinched as his bare foot touched the warm water. "Too hot?" I asked quickly, but he shook his head, swallowing hard. "N-no." He lowered himself stiffly into the tub. He hugged his knees tightly to his chest, making himself small.

"See? It’s no big deal."

The warm water lapped gently around Bobby’s pale knees as he curled tighter, making himself small. He kept his gaze fixed intently on the water, avoiding my eyes. His skin felt startlingly soft under my tentative hand resting on his damp shoulder blade, smooth and delicate, untouched by puberty, just like Mrs. Murphy described. Eighteen, I reminded myself again, the dissonance jarring. His body is twelve, though. A tremor ran through him as Ellen leaned closer.

"Don’t act like a blushing maiden, Bobby," she said, not unkindly, ruffling his hair. It’s just your bath, as usual." Looking at me she added. "Okay, I’ll show you how to wash him."

Ellen poured water over him using the detachable showerhead. Then she grabbed the shampoo bottle, squeezing a dollop of creamy liquid into her palm. "His hair first," she instructed. She rubbed the soap gently on Bobby’s head, her fingers massaging his scalp. He winced slightly but stayed obediently still. "Be gentle, but thorough," she added as she worked the suds into his hair. "He tends to squirm if he thinks he can get away with avoiding the thorough bits."

The shampoo dripped down Bobby’s neck. Ellen rinsed her hands quickly and poured some liquid lavender soap on her hand. "Chest and back next," she stated matter-of-factly. She lathered the soap against Bobby’s exposed shoulder blades. He stiffened, his breath catching in short gasps as her hands moved over his skin. The soap smelled faintly floral, mingling with the steam rising from the tub. Bobby kept his arms wrapped tightly around his knees, making it awkward for Ellen to reach his chest. She nudged his elbow impatiently. "Relax, Bobby. Arms down." He hesitated, trembling, before reluctantly lowering one arm. Ellen lathered his chest, the suds spreading white over his pale skin. He looked fragile under her firm touch. "See?" she said to me as she worked. "No fussing. Just be direct."

"Now," Ellen commanded, her voice brisk as she rinsed soap from her own arms. "Stand up, Bobby. We need to wash the rest."

Bobby didn’t move.

"Bobby," Ellen repeated, louder. "Stand. Up. Now."

He shook his head. "N-no," he whispered. "Please."

Ellen sighed heavily. "Don’t make me count, Bobby." She held up three fingers slowly. "Three..." Bobby squeezed his eyes shut. "Two... One..."

"It’s okay," I said quickly, "let me... Come on, Bobby, up you go, no nonsense now. You’re fine. You don’t have anything you need to hide. We have already seen you, and we are not teasing you, are we?"

My fingers tightened gently on his slippery shoulder. Bobby sniffled, trembling. Slowly, reluctantly, he unfolded himself, rising unsteadily on shaking legs. Water sluiced down his narrow chest and stomach, cascading over smooth skin that showed no trace of adolescence. He kept his arms rigidly at his sides, and I could see his whole childish body, the soapy foam on his chest doing little to hide it. His gaze remained fixed on the far wall, his cheeks flushed.

"Bobby, look at me," I said.

His blue eyes snapped to mine. He stood there in the tub, water dripping from his naked body. I kept my gaze on his face, not letting it wander lower. At least not while he was looking at me.

"You’re doing great," I murmured, keeping my voice steady and low. "See? No big deal." His shoulders relaxed a fraction, the tension easing slightly. He’s trusting me, I realized, the weight of it settling heavily. This eighteen year old kid, frozen in childhood, is trusting me, a twelve-year-old babysitter, not to mock him.

"Leah’s right," Ellen said briskly, stepping closer to the tub. She grabbed the washcloth and poured lavender soap directly onto it. "No fussing. Now, Leah, watch closely. Kneeling on the rug makes it easier." Ellen knelt beside the tub, her movements efficient. She started with Bobby’s legs, scrubbing firmly but quickly down his calves and thighs with her soapy hands. Bobby flinched slightly but stayed still. "See?" Ellen glanced up at me. "Fast but thorough." She nudged Bobby’s hip. "Turn around, kiddo."

Bobby hesitated, his eyes darting between Ellen and me. His blush deepened. Slowly, awkwardly, he pivoted in the bathtub, facing away from us. I looked at his bare bottom, boyish and soft. He had no trace of body hair.

Ellen didn’t pause. Her soapy hands moved swiftly over the small curve of his lower back. "Bottom next," she instructed matter-of-factly. Her hand slid lower, fingers spreading soap across his smooth buttocks in firm, circular motions. Bobby gasped softly. The intimacy was breathtaking, the way her hand flattened against his bare skin, the practiced ease. "Always clean properly here," Ellen added, her hand slipping between his bottom cheeks. "He won’t do it right himself."

Bobby jerked forward and a shudder ran through him. Ellen didn’t relent; her fingers worked methodically, parting his legs briefly to ensure better access between them.

"Legs and bottom done," she finally stated. "Now, his peenie." She grabbed his hip and guided him so that he was facing us again. Her wet fingers closed gently but firmly around his soft, childish penis. Bobby froze entirely. Ellen quickly lathered the small organ and the smooth pouch beneath it with practiced, clinical efficiency. "See? Quick. Direct. No nonsense." She rinsed briskly, water splashing. "He hates this part most," she murmured to me, almost conversationally. "But it’s necessary."

Bobby’s face was red. His body jerked as Ellen’s fingers washed the vulnerable folds of skin. The intimacy felt stark, invasive under Ellen’s efficiency. He’s eighteen, the thought hammered in my skull, contrasting with the sight of his small, hairless body flinching under his sister’s brisk touch. The sheer vulnerability of him, standing trembling in the tub, exposed and scrubbed, made my own cheeks burn.

"Okay, all done," Ellen declared, giving him a pat on his bare bottom. "Just need to rinse him," she explained.

I watched as Ellen reached for the detachable showerhead. Bobby stood in the tub, his wet hair plastered to his forehead. He stole a glance at me, and I nodded at him encouragingly. Ellen twisted the knob, holding the showerhead so that it wouldn’t spill water outside the tub. The water washed away the foam.

His eyes were closed, and I watched his naked body, fascinated. His skin was impossibly smooth, like polished porcelain under the streaming water, no hint of the roughness or hair I would expect on an boy.

Bobby stood there, trembling slightly as water sluiced down his soft chest and belly, washing away the last traces of soap. He looked like a marble statue of a child god, flawless, but utterly exposed. The sheer vulnerability of it struck me, the softness of his skin, the childish contours of his hips, the small, undeveloped penis and small testicles nestled between his thighs. There was a strange intimacy to watching him this way, stripped bare not just of clothes but of any pretense.

Ellen turned off the faucet with a decisive clunk, the sudden silence heavy. "Alright, Leah," she said, grabbing a large, fluffy towel draped over a heated rail. "Your turn. Show me you can get him dried and pajama’d."

She thrust the towel towards me. Bobby kept his eyes shut, water dripping from his dark lashes onto cheeks flushed crimson with lingering humiliation. I hesitated only a moment. I unfolded the thick towel, its warmth radiating faintly. Stepping closer to the tub, I draped it gently over Bobby’s front, wrapping it around his shoulders. He gasped softly at the sudden warmth and contact, his eyes snapping open, wide and startled.

"It’s fine, we’re all done," I said. "I’m just going to dry you and get you into your pajamas."

I dried him gently. He was letting me do, suddenly pliable and submissive. Encouraged, I also dried his bottom and penis, careful not to hurt him, and murmuring comforting words.

When I dried his bottom, he flinched minutely but didn’t pull away. "Almost done," I murmured. Kneeling, I lifted one of his small, cold feet, drying between his toes with a corner of the towel. I was still marvelling at how smooth his skin was, unmarked by adolescence. He looked so vulnerable. He stood perfectly still, arms limp at his sides.

"Let’s get you dressed," I said, setting the towel aside and grabbing Bobby’s pajamas.

Standing there, dripping and shivering, Bobby looked impossibly young under the harsh bathroom light. His skin, pink from the warm water, seemed almost translucent. The pajamas Ellen had laid out were soft blue flannel, printed with cartoon spaceships, childish and comforting.

I held the top open like a curtain. "Arms up," I instructed softly, keeping my tone practical. He lifted his arms obediently, and I slipped the soft fabric over his head, guiding his hands through the sleeves. His shoulders felt bony and fragile beneath my fingers as I pulled the shirt down his slender torso. The childish print settled incongruously against his flushed, humiliated face. He kept his gaze fixed on the fluffy bath mat, avoiding my eyes.

Next came the pajama bottoms. I knelt before him, unfolding the soft flannel pants. "Step in," I murmured, holding them open near his feet. He hesitated. "Quickly, Bobby," I urged gently, keeping my voice low. "Feet first. Just like dressing a little kid." The comparison stung, but it seemed to click. He lifted one pale, cold foot, then the other, placing them gingerly into the pant legs. I pulled them swiftly up his calves and thighs, smoothing the soft fabric over his hips until the waistband rested snugly around his narrow waist, hiding his smooth skin beneath the childish print. As I smoothed the fabric over his legs, I felt the tension seep out of him slightly. The flannel provided a barrier, ending the exposure.

We left shortly afterwards, after exchanging some more pleasantries and settling some details about the job.

"Well, that certainly was something," mom told me as we were walking home. "I didn’t think... I didn’t expect... Leah, do you want to take this job? You don’t have to, you know."

I thought about it as we walked. "I feel a bit sorry for Bobby. But, I guess, it’s his mom setting the rules for him, and if someone’s going to babysit him, it might as well be me. At least I’m not going to laugh at him.

Mom’s expression was thoughtful. "It was...intense," she finally said, her voice low. "The bathing demonstration. Watching him stand there like that. So exposed. I mean, he looked like a little boy, but to think he is actually 18...."

The image flashed in my mind: Bobby trembling in the tub, water sluicing down his smooth skin, the childish contours of his hips, the smallness of him laid utterly bare. I focused on the sidewalk cracks beneath our feet. "Yeah," I murmured. "It wasn’t easy for him."

"And for you? Are you comfortable? After all, it’s not like he’s a little child. Not really, even if he looks like one. He’s actually older than you... I’m not sure it’s appropriate."

I thought for a while "Honestly?" I met Mom’s concerned gaze. "I don’t think he feels older, Mom. Not inside. And definitely not outside. When I look at him... I know he’s older, but I just see a little boy." I shrugged. "He needs someone who sees him like that. Someone who treats him gently. Someone who won’t mock him." A small smile touched my lips. "And I think he kinda trusts me already."

As we walked in silence the rest of the way, an unexpected warmth bloomed low in my belly as I remembered Bobby standing naked under the shower spray, water gleaming on his smooth skin. It wasn’t the look of him, soft and boyish, that made my cheeks flush now. It was the knowing. Knowing I was seeing an eighteen-year-old boy’s body intimately, every contour revealed under that harsh bathroom light. Knowing he’d be bare like that again, often, only with me. That I would be touching every part of him. The sheer forbidden intimacy of it sent a thrilling little shiver down my spine. It gave me a certain rush of power, the image of him exposed and vulnerable, knowing he’d be dependent on me, exposed again. It felt... exciting, in a messed up way. Yeah. Kinda weirdly exciting.

Still, I reflected, I’m not going to do anything inappropriate with him. Just what his mom has told me to do. And I won’t tease him or make him feel bad. But that doesn’t mean I can’t secretly enjoy it.

(The End)