Bree the Boyless Wonder: The Babysitters, Part 7

by handheld

Brenda is caught unprepared for Bree's revelation.

Bree lay on her stomach on their long couch and stared raptly as Miley Cyrus sassed her way across the large, wall-mounted television. She'd changed into a long pink t-shirt, but lying on the couch it rode up naturally and so the hem stayed most of the time crumpled just below where her ass plunged down into her thighs. Every now and then she'd rock side-to-side a little, rearranging her weight, and Brenda could catch glimpses of plain white panties. Bree's long bare feet often rose into the air, crossing and re-crossing, kicking slightly at nothing, her hamstrings bunching delicately.

It was driving Brenda slightly crazy, but she'd busied herself with her laptop at a nicely oblique angle at the kitchen counter, surfing the Internet aimlessly, just trying to hide the fact that she was constantly sneaking peeks.

Alicia couldn't even stay in the room.

Brenda was sure her lover was deep into some seriously good porn on her own laptop, wearing out her favorite orange vibe. She'd emerged to greet Bree and to eat the beans and rice that Brenda had prepared, but all throughout the meal she'd stared in agony at Bree's ass and long legs. Alicia could barely even finish her food. She mumbled, "Sorry," and grabbed a corkscrew and a bottle of Chiraz from the cabinet. Then she was gone down the hall, groin-first.

And Brenda soon discovered she really couldn't deal with the ridiculous sitcom. It made her want to throw things. Despite the sexily-prostrate ten year-old on her couch, Brenda finally had to evacuate. She'd changed into her workout clothes, anyway, so she headed to the garage and climbed on the stationary bike.

Two stations later, covered in a cleansing sheen of sweat, Brenda was fully in the zone. It was a cardio day, so she took full advantage and threw herself into it with extra intensity. Nothing better to burn the edge off her smoldering libido than to ramp up and up and up, with those sweet light intervals in between. She was bent into the rowing machine with zen-like concentration when Bree wandered into the garage, so she didn't notice the little girl's presence until she stepped around in front of her, waving cheerfully.

"I'm going to bed now, Ben!" she chirped. "Thanks again for the TV!"

Brenda slowed, then stopped her rowing, grabbing at her nearby towel. From her position nearly on the floor, she could see right up the front of Bree's t-shirt. The girl's crotch strained against her panties, as if they were a little too small for her. The fabric was stretched tightly, splitting her vulva apart, the lips separated and fat-looking. Brenda knew she was staring. She grabbed at her water bottle and sent her eyes up to the ceiling, swallowing, swallowing.

"Did you like the new episodes?" Brenda managed to say, finally lowering her eyes and studying her own knees intently.

"Oh, yeah, totally!" Bree sang. "I have, like, five posters of her in my room. And a big old pillow."

She did a little bounce up onto her toes, then rocked back to her heels. She did that several times, then her hands reached down hesitantly for the hem of her t-shirt. She pulled it lower and out to the sides, twirling the edges around her index fingers. Brenda risked a glance up. Bree was looking right at her.

"Ben? Can I ask you something?" She wore a little frown, and her deep blue eyes bore down on Brenda with an unsettling intensity.

"Um, sure, Bree. What?"

Bree squatted. She put her knees together, pulling her t-shirt forward to cover herself all the way down to her toes. It was like she popped inside a pink t-shirt shell. Her hair wasn't in pigtails anymore. It hung loose all around her face. A strand was caught in the corner of her mouth. In the harsh florescent light of the garage, the girl's freckles stood out on her pale face even more.

"Why is your name Ben?" she whispered.

A long silence passed between them. A car passed by on the street beyond the closed garage door. The florescent lights hummed coldly above them. Brenda's voice strangled, caught in her throat. Her heart hammered.

Bree went on. "I mean, you're not really a Ben, are you?"

Brenda could only stare.

"You're a woman," Bree said simply. "A woman who just looks a lot like a man. And you build up your muscles and stuff to... to hide your soft things."

"Bree, listen..." Brenda croaked, but she didn't have the words. She stopped.

Bree stood then, smiling more brightly than ever. "You smelled so... so much, earlier. Down there." She widened her eyes excitedly and pointed at her own crotch.

"That's what made me, like, totally sure about it."

Brenda groaned inwardly. Of course, the smelly lezzie's stinky cunt.

"But first it was your nipples," Bree declared. "They are so lady nipples. You know? Made for babies to suck on. And Alicia."

She giggled and in an instant pulled her t-shirt up over her head and off completely. The harsh light washed her belly out in a white flatness, but that only served to emphasize the contrast of flesh to be found above: Bree's naked, budding breasts. Hard little shadows stretched down from the bumps on her chest, making them appear cone-like, as if just released from a suction pump. Her areolae were engorged, her nipples were almost red. They were utterly, stonily erect.

Bree raised the fingertips of one hand and stroked them softly while she spoke.

"I'll have fat nippies soon, too, just like you... but I bet my tits get a lot bigger! I mean, you've seen my Momma, right?!"

With that, she laughed and tossed her t-shirt into Brenda's lap, skipping past her and out of the garage. "Good night, Ben!" she called out tauntingly over her shoulder. "I'm going to bed now!"

After Brenda was sure she could walk, she staggered into the master bedroom, clutching the sweetly-fragrant t-shirt in her hands, panicked and desperate to tell Alicia about what just happened. She knew she was caught. Her whole life was probably only days away from bursting apart in some thick, sticky mess of a scandal. Brenda felt nauseated, barely able to walk the last few steps down the hall to their door. She fought back her panic, the bile that wanted to rise.

She'd admitted nothing, but did it matter? The kid had figured it out! She was just too damn smart, and Brenda was too fucking stupid.

And, Brenda had to admit, Bree was too damn sexy. Even in the middle of her silent hallway meltdown, Brenda felt the heat in her crotch, the wanting that kept riding through her frame like chest-high waves, lifting her up, making her float. She needed release. From the sudden and insane stress of Bree's intrepid sleuthing. From the steady and unrelenting allure of Bree's delectable body. God! Those little titties! That pussy in those tight panties!

But when Brenda finally made it to the master bedroom, it was too late. Alicia was unconscious, totally passed-out drunk.

The bottle of Chiraz sat empty on the night stand beside her. The laptop was open but tipped sideways off the pillow she had propped it on. Brenda turned her head to see the screen, but the battery had run out. It was off. The orange vibrator was off, too, but still halfway lodged in Alicia's sticky pussy.

Brenda could see reddened pinch-marks all over Alicia's breasts and belly and inner thighs, from where Alicia liked to squeeze sharply at her own flesh when she worked her dildo really hard. Her legs were sprawled, and Brenda reached between them. A slender butt plug was fully-seated in Alicia's ass. Brenda jerked back suddenly as Alicia loudly snored, snorted, and kept snoring.

Brenda sighed. She sniffed deeply at the t-shirt in her hands one more time, then walked across the house to Bree's closed bedroom door. She hung it on the door knob and stood for nearly a full minute, listening intently. There was nothing. She wondered if Bree was naked again, on top of her sheets.

Then she sighed and trudged back her own bedroom and the shower. There was still one more orgasm to go, it seemed.

Brenda doubted she'd sleep at all that night.