I Was a Teenaged Metahuman Ch. 02

She panted like an animal and begged him to stop, to not stop, to go harder, to never ever stop ever again. She soaked his chin with moisture over and over as her whole body writhed. Guided by some instinct, he moved down and licked her soaked opening, and her fingers smacked her nubbin and mashed it in circles frantically, pummeling his nose as he licked, and her thighs slammed around his head and lifted him as her body straightened to utter rigidity.

With an almighty shout, she went limp.

Max sat back to catch his breath and return to himself. That was insane! He'd just... His life was over anyway, once Lydia talked. This was just a deeper grave he'd be put in, is all. He was satisfied with his work here and glad he'd avoided going all the way, but terrified at the potential repercussions. The idea that he'd just lost control was unsettling as well. But oh man, was it wild!

He had a skateboard when he was younger. He'd ridden around the neighborhood and, taking a turn downhill, suddenly found himself accelerating beyond his ability to manage. He couldn't slow it down and he couldn't get off without leaving patches of skin behind. He couldn't use an obstacle to stop himself because that would just launch him forward without the board. All he could do was hang on until the bottom of the hill.

This was just like it, except instead of scraping his hands and elbows raw, he was going to be run out of town or simply dragged behind a pickup truck until dead. He was remarkably resigned to this fate. This must be what male spiders felt like after mating, just before being eaten.

He may as well get the full experience while he was alive to enjoy it. Valerie looked unconscious, but at the sound of him unbuttoning his shorts, she chortled naughtily.

Hands shaking, hating his weakling self, he lowered the zipper of his sodden shorts and pushed them down to mid-thigh. His erection was twitching as if it was looking for her. He took a deep breath and hooked his fingers into the waistband of his boxers. He knew she was watching him through slitted eyes.

The front door slammed.

Valerie's head snapped up. Her eyes were wild with alarm.

Max grabbed his shirt and sprinted out of the room. He made a hard left down the hall and cannoned through the back door, nearly falling. He pulled at his shirt, at his shorts. He stumbled. The shorts were too wet, he couldn't pull them up fast enough! He gave a mighty heave, hearing stitches pop, and got them buttoned.

He pulled the shirt on inside-out, then hastily whipped it off and reversed it. He checked everything. The sodden shirt material hid his bulging erection well. His clothes were on well enough, he hoped. No socks and shoes but that wasn't unforgivable. He breathed a sigh of relief.

Oh no, his face. His face! It reeked of Valerie! If Felice got within ten feet of him she would know!

In a panic, he looked around for a solution.

He heard footsteps on the other side of the back door and, turning, hurled himself at the nearest wet patch of ground. He heard the doorknob turning as he lowered his face and motorboated a mud puddle.

He rolled onto his back and wiped mud out of his eyes with his shirt.

Felice said, "Max? Oh, no, are you okay?"

"I'm good. Just trying to cool off." He gulped in air, feeling like he'd just run a mile.

How could he be noticing how pretty she was, after he'd just defiled her mother like that? She was radiant. Her perfect skin positively glowed, and her bare legs made him ache with desire. His tumescence having mercifully faded for the time being, he desperately tried not to think about doing with her what he'd just done with her mom.

Oh, God. He was doomed. He'd burn in Hell forever for this. They'd put him in jail before that, surely. His mother wouldn't speak in his defense. If anything, she'd convict him. He deserved no less!

"You sure you're okay?" Felice asked, bemused.

"Long day," he gasped by way of explanation. It was an evasion, but at least he didn't burden his soul with another lie.

He tried to pull off his shirt but it became momentarily stuck inside out. With his other senses thus muffled, she came into sharp focus on his mind. She was enjoying the view. She liked him better than the other guy, that was sure. His odd behavior had her mystified, though.

At last, the shirt popped off his head. "How was your date?" he asked.

"Wha—I wasn't on a date!"

He opened his eyes and directed a surprisingly stern look at her from his mud puddle. "You don't have to hide it. I understand that we're done."

"Then what are you doing at my house?" she asked, confused once more.

He waved a hand vaguely at the pavers and the fountain. "Your mom had a project. She pays well."

Felice went in the house and returned with a can of cola and a dry towel, and once he struggled to his feet, she got the hose and sprayed him off, enjoying herself immensely. He dried himself quickly and efficiently. The last thing he needed to be doing was some sensuous, shirtless display for the girl who'd dated him and found him lacking.

He turned toward her and jumped, seeing her standing close. She handed him the can and when he tipped his head back to drink, he knew she was again taking advantage of his momentary blindness to please herself with the sight of him.

He drank it in one pull and swished the last bit in his mouth. "Thank you, Felice."

"You look worn out," she observed with a smile. "Poor baby."

Her eyes widened slightly and she moved forward, taking the towel from his hands.

"Let me get that," she said softly, and plied his chest with the towel. It took a heroic effort on his part not to whimper. She moved up to dry the side of his face and her glistening lips parted oh so slightly as she wiped the remaining specks of mud and dirt away.

"There," she smiled, and then they were kissing. So warm and soft.

He pulled away in alarm. "I thought we weren't dating!"

She pursued, flipping the towel over his neck and pulling him in for another kiss. She battered at his defenses and now he did whimper, and her insidious tongue slipped in and he thanked every deity ever imagined for the coke he'd just washed Valerie's taste down with. He was going to the Hell that people who misbehaved in Hell went to. Demons were going to wear his scrotum as a party hat.

"You're just... yummy," she beamed.

The back door opened, and (thank his new satanic overlords) Felice took a step away from him.

Valerie said, "There you are, Max. Before you go, don't forget the socks and shoes you left in my bathroom."

"See you later, Felice," he said.

"Don't be a stranger," purred the younger woman, and pinched his butt as he passed.

Valerie lassoed him with a stern look and dragged him into the house. When he got inside she demanded, "What were you doing?"

"Trying to fend her off, I swear."

Valerie searched his eyes and, satisfied he was telling it straight, wrapped her arms around him and kissed him deeply for a solid minute. "You sure know how to show a lady a good time," she purred. God, she sounded just like Felice. She ran a finger playfully down his chest and added, "Next time, it'll be my turn to taste you." The expression on her face alone would have made him rigid with excitement if her kiss hadn't already accomplished that. With a pat on his butt, she sent him wobbling dizzily away.

*

Vayden and Lynwood

For a wonder, Vayden and Lynwood's girlfriends were busy during a mid-week lunch, one researching a school project and the other volunteering with the concession stand.

"It's been forever since we talked, dude," said Vayden.

"We were getting concerned about you," amplified Lynwood.

"That's rich coming from you two," Max replied. "You disappeared as soon as you got girlfriends. But let's not even have that conversation because lunch will be over in like five minutes and then it's back to business as usual."

"I thought you'd be happy for us," said Vayden, running his fingers anxiously through his brush of dark hair.

Lynwood's Adam's apple bounced up and down. Unhappily, he said, "He's right, Vaydar."

"Stop calling me that, Lynn."

"You stop calling me that!"

"Guys," Max said. "Please. Can we just agree that you're both imbeciles?"

They simultaneously punched him in either shoulder, and he threw jabs back at them for form's sake.

Lynwood said, "Why don't you just get a girlfriend? Then you won't have to be the fifth wheel."

"Whatever happened to that exchange student?" asked Vayden.

Lynwood glared at him. "She's not a fucking exchange student, she's from another town."

"Can I just say," Max put in, "Can I just say that I understand how... engrossing... the relationships can be, but give your buddies a little time now and then. That's it."

Vayden narrowed his eyes. "I thought we weren't going to talk about this."

"Sorry, I just wanted to say the one thing. Do you have any one things to say? In fairness?"

"You are sweaty and have a C minus dick."

Max blinked. "Very well. I did ask. Lynweed?"

"Lynwood. You're not turning into a pothead, are you? No, of course not. Your mom would literally crucify you."

"I bought a sack of weed the other day," Max replied offhandedly. They both gaped at him.

"You cannot do that," warned Vayden. "Lynn was right—"

"Dick," interrupted Lynwood.

"—if your mother finds out you've been doing that, she'll send you to some kinda Jesus camp and you'll come out spouting scripture and crying when you spank it." Vayden tapped his temple knowingly.

"They'll kill me anyway. I made out with three different women on Saturday."

The bell rang, and Max chuckled at the expressions on their face as he raced away to class.

*

Coming out of English class, Max found himself jacked up against a locker by his two friends. "Details!" demanded Vayden.

"I don't even want to think about it," he said, "much less describe it. I've got to... I don't know, rededicate myself to being an unpopular dweeb? It'll take the rest of my life to balance these scales."

"Just say a Hail Mary and all is forgiven?" suggested Lynwood.

When he was a wee one, Max had suggested something similar to his mother once. She had launched into a spontaneous, hours-long dissertation on the subject of sin and its insidious danger to a vulnerable human soul, and after making him write a lengthy essay on the subject, she'd made him revise it several times until he got it perfect, then memorize it. Periodically she'd have him recite it and punish him if he missed anything. He was pretty sure she didn't remember it very well, but got around that by punishing him any time he seemed uncertain of his lines. He shuddered violently.

Vayden's brow furrowed. "I don't get it. It makes you happy, it makes all three of them happy (ahem!), and nobody's getting hurt. What's the fuckin' problem?"

"If you went to church, you'd see where she was coming from," mumbled Max dejectedly.

His friend dragged his fingers through his hair in frustration. "Masturbation too, right? Hell?" Max nodded. Now Vayden bored into him with his gaze, clutching his shoulders. "Understand this, Jesus Boy. If you go to Hell for premarital sex or polishing the porpoise, Hell is populated by everyone who ever lived to adulthood. And Heaven? Nothing but kids. No parents, just kids. And every time they look down over the edge of their kindergarten paradise, they'll see Mommy and Daddy screaming as they burn for fucking ever."

"He's got a point," amplified Vayden. "The Christian world-building is utter bullshit."

Max had no response for that. They then began to quote Napoleon Dynamite at him, and they acted out a couple of scenes spontaneously. It was good hanging out with the guys again.

It was while they were fooling around that they quieted up and focused on someone standing behind him.

It was Felice. But she was so much more.

She wore a short, pleated skirt and a thin white blouse that had been unbuttoned to a point just below a bright red strapless bra. Her face was striking and just a little exotic with the makeup she wore, and her hair looked like it'd just been blow-dried to perfection.

Vayden and Lynwood, Max's dear friends and bosom buddies in all the world, evaporated without another word.

Wow, she was excited. Having her this close made him a little excited as well.

"You look amazing," he said, and this pleased her to no end.

She gave him a very special smile and a quick, very appreciative scan, and said, "You look good enough to eat."

Max did not think he was accurately reading the signs. How could he? So many of the things that high school girls did were actually incomprehensible, which is to say there were reasons but they were so complex, tortured and tangled that not even the girl herself knew why she did things half the time. Felice might be dressing sexily because she'd read some great beauty tips, or because someone in the band room sniffed haughtily at her outfit yesterday, and she might be saying sexy things to Max just to practice, or because one of her girlfriends dared her she couldn't, or any one of a number of reasons.

He did what any guy in his position would do. He winged it and hoped for the best.

He said, "It would be a privilege to be eaten by such a beautiful lady."

Oh heck, he wasn't very good at this. His eyes widened when he realized the full implications of what he'd said, but rather than be offended Felice was encouraged. "I've been thinking about you," she said in an excitingly low voice.

"I think about you all the time," he said. "Even when you were mad at me for hanging out with your mom."

"I was being weird," she said contritely. "Let me make it up to you?"

"What about your boyfriend?"

"What? Oh, he's not a boyfriend, he's just a guy I've been seeing." She paused to gauge his reaction, but his hurt feelings over the whole thing had faded for reasons he didn't even let himself think about, at least in public. "So what do you say?" she asked.

"What did you have in mind?"

She caught her fingertip between her teeth and giggled. Glancing around to ensure they were unheard in the clamorously busy hallway, she leaned forward. Her perfume and the underlying Felice-smell combined to make his head spin. Her voice in his ear made him shiver as she said, "I want to suck your dick."

Max's eyes flew to maximum wideness, his jaw dropped, and there was a ten-car pileup inside his head. He was unable to make noises or otherwise move his body. He'd never been so shocked in his life and his member veritably leaped to hardness. He whimpered, feeling her fingers briefly tease its length.

She undressed him with her eyes. "Saturday night?"

His traitorous neck, without instructions of any kind from the rest of him, nodded his head. Felice smiled and departed in a swirl of perfume.

"Eh? Eh?" Lynwood asked. He hadn't gone far. "How'd it go?"

Max's high-order brain functions were on vacation for the time being.

"She killed him," accused Vayden. "He's got brain damage."

The bell rang. Max stood as still as a statue.

Lynwood took his shoulders and turned him. "Fourth door on the right." He gave him a little shove, and Max blindly stumbled forward.

When his brain rebooted halfway through the next period he gave such a start that a nearby student yelped in surprise. He'd already made another date with Lydia, and Valerie had made it abundantly clear that she expected him Saturday while Felice was at Band. Except she was blowing off Band so she could...

He said a brief, fervent prayer. Then another apologizing for praying that the Lord in His mercy would deliver such a lewd thing.

He didn't know how he was going to pull this off. Hopefully he wouldn't have to do too much for his mother.

*

Assisted

"How was school?" asked his mother.

"Fine," Max replied, and accepted a kiss and a hug. She remained in his personal space, gazing up at him expectantly.

"What?" he asked.

"You don't have a kiss for your mother?"

"C'mon, Mother..." Why did she always insist on this? His new sense of people stopped well short of the old lady—she was as inevitable and inexplicable as ever. She did scowl at his use of the term 'mother', which like most of the things that irritated her had been his sister's idea.

"Kiss my cheek, Max."

He leaned down and kissed her cheek.

Satisfied, she turned away and said, "I called Earthscape and told them to give you Saturday off. Mrs. Sherman is moving, and I promised you'd help."

"Do I have a choice?"

"No, you don't."

He hated this so much. He was eighteen years old, but being manhandled by his mother made him feel like he was five. "Why don't I have a choice?" he asked.

"She needs help," his mother said sternly.

"Why couldn't you ask? Maybe I don't want to feel like a slave."

She put a hand on her hip. "Will you help Mrs. Sherman on Saturday?"

"No, I've got work."

"Max Garland!"

"What? If I can't say no, your asking isn't real."

Her eyes blazed with righteousness. "You will."

"No, I won't!" his guts twisted with an old, familiar dread.

"Max, promise to help Mrs. Sherman move this Saturday."

"I promise I'll help Mrs. Sherman move this Saturday."

She reached to pat his cheek but he twisted away. He wanted to throw up. For the millionth time, he wished he could get away from this house and that woman's influence. A small voice of dread in the back of his mind whispered that he never would.

He'd have to make calls. Send text messages by the dozen. Rearrange plans and refabricate cover stories. Maybe he'd miss a date. Frankly, that would be a relief, but he had no doubt another date would be lined up right behind it. He had no idea that women were so pushy behind closed doors!

Well.

Women besides his mother.

*

Teacup

After the Wednesday church service, the Garlands stayed to tidy up the common spaces and count the offerings before they departed.

Outside, a slate-gray Porsche Twilight waited. It was one of the newer models meant to keep well-heeled folks safe and comfy in these tumultuous times. The driver, a tall, grim man in a suit and sunglasses despite the lack of sunlight, got out to hold open a door for them.

"Grandfather," Max muttered, not unhappily. Anyone who bossed his mother around had to be a friend, right?

Inside the Italian place, Grandfather waited, but he looked like he hadn't been here long. Absent was the usual assortment of teacups, books, tchotchkes, and small plates that usually surrounded him at times like these.

In his honeyed-sandpaper voice, Grandfather welcomed them and snapped his fingers for service. The people here put up with him doing that, but Max had no idea why.

"What can we do for you, Dad?" asked his mother. "Is something wrong?"

"Nonsense," replied the old man coolly. "You're my family, and I'm checking up on you."

"You could—" his mother began, but quieted the instant Grandfather began talking.

"You know I don't do telephones." He leaned back and lifted a delicate porcelain teacup in one long-nailed hand. "Now. How has my family been?"

Max let his mind wander while the state of the family report was delivered. It didn't take long before they got to him, and hearing his name, he tried to focus.

"And you, Young Max?" asked Grandfather, his eyes locking Max's gaze and not letting it go. They were an arresting orangish-hazel, Grandfather's eyes. Max had never noticed that.

"I'm doing okay, Grandfather. Working. Going to school."

"How are the ladies treating you, eh?"

Max thought about how the ladies were treating him. Aggressively. Wonderfully. Sinfully. His Saturday was so screwed, now that he'd foolishly agreed to help Mrs. Sherman. Why in the heck had he agreed to that? He was such a loser he couldn't even say no an old woman. She didn't even have to threaten him, he just fell in line like a chump. Sometimes he hated himself for that.