Beads of sweat flicked off Dr Gregorio Aquino's brow as his groin slammed into Rutilia Ruiz's. The supine schoolgirl's braless breasts wobbled inside her sky-blue polo. Perspiration had turned patches of the shirt as dark as cobalt. She looked as hot and sticky on the outside as she felt on the inside.
Not that Gregorio could take credit. Being locked inside a metal box in full glare of the Arizonan sun would do that to a girl's body, even without his six inches inside her. This venue — a shipping container repurposed as a sports equipment store — hadn't been his choice.
Marisela Mejia had walked him here and all but pushed him inside. He'd found Rutilia as she was now, lying atop a heap of football tackle shields, blue-and-black plaid skirt up around her abdomen, and her hands tied behind her back. All he'd done was remove the vibrator he'd been buzzing between her legs.
Much as it pained him, Gregorio had to give Marisela credit for that last touch. This was by far the smoothest deflowering he'd ever been party to.
"Final call...Miss...Ruiz," he breathed, pushing the eighteen-year-old's splayed knees even further apart.
It felt only right giving her one last chance not to throw her twenties away. Rutilia answered with a shake of the head, followed by a halting gasp as Gregorio's hips picked up speed. Her slick walls offered no resistance. Owing to the sweat, their pounding pelvises collided with more of a squelch than slap.
The arch in the schoolgirl's back, already curved from lying on her hands, steepened further amid the onslaught. Gregorio found himself captivated by Rutilia's chest. By now, her polo was stuck to her thrashing breasts. He could see every ripple of bounding flesh through the sky-blue cotton.
Suddenly determined to maximize the amount of jiggle, he upped his tempo, eliciting tremulous moans of anguished approval. So consumed did he become, even the nagging sensation of his own polo clinging to his back went away. Before he knew it, he was spraying Rutilia's insides with adolescent abandon.
Wary of leakage after such a heavy load, Gregorio lingered inside the schoolgirl once his bucking subsided. He kept his eyes on her heaving chest while they caught their respective breaths. Eventually, he craned his neck to see over the knollish bust. There was no look of postcoital contentment on Rutilia's glistening brown features. She looked pissed.
"Can I get up now?" asked the Guatemalan, voice thick with annoyance.
Gregorio obligingly extracted himself and stepped back to fix his slacks. Meanwhile, Rutilia wriggled about on the squishy bed for tackle shields until she'd freed her hands. Sitting upright, she used her erstwhile bonds (were those panties?) mop up the excess cum. Then, she untucked her polo.
"What're you doing, Miss Ruiz?" asked Gregorio, sensing a dress code violation in progress.
"Changing. Duh."
Gregorio made a show of looking her up and down. "That is your uniform, no?"
"But look at it!"
Rutilia stretched out the front of her polo and wrung it out. Watching sweat ooze out of the cotton, her coach grimaced.
"Sorry, Miss Ruiz, but had an opportunity to put your gym—"
"No, I didn't!" Rutilia cut in. "Marisela walked me straight here."
"Well...that's for you to take up with Miss Mejia," said Gregorio, buckling the belt.
Rutilia pouted as she tucked her damp polo back into her skirt's waistband. She pulled the fabric excessively taut, revealing every last contour and detail of her knollish breasts, down to the shallow creases in her nipples. Her oily black braids didn't come close to covering them.
"I am sorry, Miss Ruiz, but perhaps somewhere a little airier would've been advisable," said her coach as gave her a hand up. Her buttocks audibly peeled off the tackle shields.
"I didn't have time. I had to do this today."
She held her hands out in front of her waist, as if hugging an invisible baby bump.
"If I'm not, like, this big by graduation, I might not get my own place."
"Your own place?" said Gregorio, arching his eyebrows. "Are you that certain your parents won't approve?"
"My parents?" said Rutilia quizzically. "My parents stayed in Cuchumatán."
"Oh."
"My foster family couldn't keep me if they wanted to. Unless I can get a place in the Elephants, well..."
Gregorio nodded as she trailed off.
Amid the Vatican-funded building boom that'd transformed San Toribio from a shanty town to a quasi-planned community, one developer had conveniently overestimated the heavily familied population's demand for poky apartments in ten-storey-high towers. Vastly so.
To try and fill some of these towers — nicknamed the White Elephants on account of their white-stuccoed exteriors — the mayor's office had started offering cheap rents to high school grads who'd fallen foul of the town's contraception ban, with the understanding that the teen tenants wouldn't bolt for Tucson or Phoenix at the earliest opportunity.
Would all Rutilia's teammates' motives be as rational? He was skeptical.
"After you, Miss Ruiz," said Gregorio, motioning towards the equipment store's door.
96-degree heat had seldom felt so refreshing. Gregorio was almost tempted to collapse on the scrubby grass surrounding the converted container, but then his ears pricked. Somewhere nearby, someone was blowing a whistle like an overexcited sambista.
He took off down the path, too fired-up to even glance back at Rutilia's chest as she followed. Passing between two stands of bleachers, they emerged onto the athletics track that encircled Zumárraga Prep's sports field. There, they found Marisela Mejia pacing the sideline, mane of black curls bouncing in time with her near-spherical breasts, a silver whistle between her lips.
She was dressed in a white polo shirt and red shorts. The lower garment looked like it might have her fit perfectly in ninth grade. On her nineteen-year-old body, the polyester shorts were a treading a fine line between boyshorts and hotpants. The central seam cut deep between her buttocks.
"Miss Mejia!" yelled Gregorio, unintentionally bringing the passing drill on the field to a standstill.
Marisela span to face the Honduran marching towards her. Keeping the whistle held between her lips, she smiled slyly.
"You're the captain, not coach, Miss Mejia," snapped Gregorio, plucking the whistle from her mouth, snapping the cord in the process.
The busty Salvadoran shrugged.
"Someone had to play coach," she said.
"That's the last one of...those we're doing during practice," he hissed quietly, gesturing vaguely at Rutilia. Then, he blew his whistle. "Okay, girls. Same as last week. Let's finish with a shootout."
He pointed at the goal where the overage soccer team's two goalkeepers were practicing their dives.
"That means you, Miss Mejia. And you, Miss Ruiz."
"Huh?" Rutilia piped up. "But my shoes."
Gregorio looked over his shoulder. The Guatemalan was thrusting a finger towards the black ballet flats on her feet.
"You don't need cleats to take a penalty kick, Miss Ruiz. Off you go."
Rutilia dejectedly dropped her backpack and trudged over to Marisela. The overage team captain put an arm around the freshly inseminated schoolgirl as they started across the turf. Gregorio's attention soon shifted from Marisela's wobbly buttocks to the pair of goalkeepers half a field away. They were a duo of contrasts.
