Confront Frannie

While the idea of your sweet babysitter dancing around worriedly in a crop tee and thong on the lighted stoop of your front porchstep is a great visual stimulus, you find it the perfect opportunity to take advantage of the neighborhood nympho.

As you continue to hear Sarah's frantic pounds and wails at the front door, you redress, in an attempt to make yourself presentable. You take the few steps forward to the place where the giggling Frannie Fuhrberger is leaning against the door, enjoying her chem lab partner's predicament.

You can't help but notice the bleached blonde's mammoth jugs as they juggle braless below a tight black tee shirt. The black low-rise jeans she wears are slicked to her curvy frame, the worn-white thighs making her look the part of an easy lay.

"Uh, Miss Fuhrberger?" you quietly address the overly madeup girl.

The bleached blonde eighteen-year old turns to the sound of your voice. She looks like she's seen a ghost, her legs buckling, dropping her to the carpet.

"Mister.." the schoolgirl stumbles for words, not knowing what to say, with your babysitter half-naked out on the doorstep. "I thought you were out," she manages.

"I just got back. Came home early," you lie. "And it's a damn good thing, it appears!" you say sternly.