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My innocent girlfriend always wore not-so-innocent outfits when babysitting the bane of my existence, the snot-nosed, misbehaved, hung shota brat from down the street named Dara. I borderline bullied him for years because of how much of a little shit he was, even kicking him in the balls not long ago, but no action of mine could dissuade him from getting out of my life. I tried my best to get her to reconsider her options, but there was nothing I could say without sounding like a paranoid, overprotective loser worried about an obnoxious kid less than half my age fiddling up my girlfriend. Each time she came home I would notice some orange-dust marks staining her exposed cleavage, surely it was just a coincidence and not related to the fact that Dara's favorite snack was Doritos. I was absolutely fuming.
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