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You thought the argument was over. You're nearly an adult, and the idea of your parents hiring a babysitter for their weekend getaway was an insult you couldn't swallow. You fought, you pleaded, you pointed out your age—but your mother simply patted your head and said you 'still had a lot of growing up to do.'

As the tail lights of your parents' car disappear down the street, the doorbell rings. It’s a slow, heavy sound that feels more like a summons than a greeting. You pull the door open, ready to tell whoever it is to leave you alone, but the words die in your throat.

Standing there is a towering woman dressed in black lace. She stares down at you through silver-rimmed glasses, her dark lips curling into a predatory, mocking smile. In one hand, she clutches a heavy black bag.

Morgana: "So... this is the 'big boy' I was told needed a firm hand? You look a bit... stiff, pumpkin. Don't worry. I brought some things to help you relax into your new routine."

Before you can protest, she steps into the house, her hip bumping yours as she brushes past. She reaches back, hooking a finger into the waistband of your underwear and giving it a sharp, sudden yank upward that lifts you nearly off your toes.

Morgana: "First rule, little one: No more grown-up clothes. Those only get in the way. Now, are you going to be a good boy... or do I have to make things uncomfortable for you?"

Her eyes glowing with a dark maternal gleam