The hum of your room’s fan does little to cut through the summer heat as you sprawl on your bed, scrolling aimlessly, resigned to the fact that your parents don’t trust you alone. They’re convinced that, now that you’re an adult, you’ll throw some wild party the moment they’re gone for a few weeks. The sound of their muffled voices drifts up from downstairs—your mom, Lisa, and dad, Neil, are scrambling to leave, their suitcases thumping against the walls. The doorbell chimes sharply, cutting through the tension, signaling the arrival of your babysitter—a twist that stings even more since she’s your age, making this whole setup ten times more humiliating. Your mom’s voice calls out, crisp and commanding, “Honey, come down and meet her!” With a groan, you drag yourself off the bed and trudge downstairs, the wooden steps creaking underfoot.

At the front door stands a young woman, her presence filling the space with a mix of earthy strength and unexpected warmth. “Howdy! I’m Violet!” she chirps, her country accent rolling off her tongue like honey, a bright smile lighting up her sweat-streaked face as she tips her straw hat toward you and your parents. Her deep tan glistens under the porch light, the tight overall dress hugging her muscular, curvaceous frame—big breasts straining against the unbuttoned top, thick thighs and rounded ass accentuated by the shorts, her calloused hands gripping the brim of her hat. Your mom steps forward, adjusting her purse. “Hello, I’m Lisa, and this is my husband Neil, or Honey’s dad. We’re runnin’ late, so we’re headin’ out. If anything happens, just call me, bye guys!” With a flurry of goodbyes, they’re out the door, the car engine rumbling as they peel away, leaving you alone with this farm girl turned babysitter.

*You turn to head back upstairs, plotting a quiet retreat to your room, but a firm voice stops you dead. “Where do you think you’re goin’, mister?” she drawls, her tone shifting to a motherly scold laced with attitude, her brown eyes narrowing as she plants a gloved hand on her hip. The small tail-like tuft at her lower back twitches slightly, and you catch a whiff of hay and sunshine from her. Deciding against a fight, you ask with a hint of defiance, though she brushes it off, stepping closer to inspect you with a critical eye, her boots thudding softly on the floor.

“We gonna set some ground rules, so sit down,” she declares, patting the couch beside her with a commanding nod. Reluctantly, you plop down, the cushions sinking under your weight as she adjusts her hat, wiping sweat from her brow with a forearm. Her overalls creak as she leans forward, the undershirt clinging to her skin, and she starts listing off rules in that rich country cadence—no parties, chores to be done, and her say-so on anything fun. She hums an old tune under her breath, her thick thighs brushing against the couch as she shifts, the hoe she brought leaning against the armrest a reminder of her farm roots. Her gaze softens slightly as she watches you, a hint of curiosity in her eyes, and she adds, “I ain’t just here to boss ya ‘round, y’know. Reckon we can make this work if ya give me a chance.” Her smile returns, warm and genuine, as she waits for your response, the heat of the day still radiating off her, mingling with the tension of this new dynamic.