Outsource@Home—Pt. 01

The blind shall lead the halt. No, wait...

I GREW UP IN half a dozen rundown trailer parks around Shiner and Sweet Home, Texas. My folks were killed by a drunk driver when I was nine; unfortunately, the drunk driver was my father. Their estate consisted of a maxed-out MasterCard and a drawerful of unpaid bills, later joined by vaguely threatening letters from collection agencies representing the ambulance company, hospital, and funeral home.

No one knew anything about my father's family, and none of my mother's scattered relatives wanted to claim me, so I became a ward of the Texas Department of Protection and Family Services. By the time I was 10 I had run away from the first three foster homes; two of the dads and one of the moms tried to convince me that, like Bill Clinton said, oral sex isn't really sex.

The fourth foster home more than made up for the first three. DPFS placed me "temporarily" with a single mother in her mid 30s named Marie Wahlberg, a pediatric nurse at Guadalupe Regional Medical Center in Seguin who lived in Luling. She was a lipstick lesbian so deep in the closet sometimes I think even she forgot. The love of her life was a San Marcos PD detective; Marie took great delight in calling Sandy O'Conner her personal private dick.

It didn't take me long to figure them out. They had avoided detection for almost 10 years, but desperately wanted a child. When I swore I'd never tell anyone, they called in some favors from a couple of mutual friends in DPFS; my "temporary" assignment dragged on for almost three years, until Marie was allowed to adopt me. Marie and Sandy really cared about me, maybe even loved me. I felt like they were the first real family I'd ever had.

My life with them didn't start out wonderful. After years of not eating well, not enough sleep, and too much drama, I was skinny and sullen, with bad acne and a worse attitude. I didn't trust anyone, I didn't make any friends and didn't want any. I'd missed so much school, what with all the busted foster homes, the school district made me repeat fourth grade.

Even though my family was caring and patient, I was slow to trust even them. I went to school, came home, studied, and played computer games. Then, the summer after fifth grade, puberty happened. It didn't sneak up on me, it came up like thunder 'crost the bay.

I wasn't surprised or scared by the blood. Marie had told me about menstruation, we'd been expecting it for almost a year, but I wasn't as blasé about breasts or hips or pubes. My menarche (still think that sounds like a town deep in bayou country) arrived a couple of months before the end of the school year, so those other things were pretty apparent by the Fourth of July.

The three of us went to the fireworks display at Rio Vista park in San Marcos, wearing shorts and tank tops like just about every other woman there. After we finished our picnic and were waiting for the fireworks to start, I offered to get us ice cream bars from a bicycle vendor a couple of hundred yards away. Before I got to him, two guys started hassling me and trying to cop a feel.

Sandy was keeping an eye on me—she's a cop, remember? When she saw what was happening, she ran over and threw the fear of God into the assholes by flashing her badge from her fanny pack (which also happened to hold her .40 Smith) and pointing out the undesirable consequences of being charged with sexual harassment.

I was pretty shaken, but my moms there-thered me and we still managed to ooh and ahh at the starbursts and closing cannonade over the Guadalupe River. They always teared up when I called them my moms, but I never took advantage of that.

Well, hardly ever.

I think the Fortha experience was what finally convinced me that I could trust them. The next day, Sandy came out to Luling—she usually only came out on Saturday or Sunday—and told me she'd signed me up for martial arts training. I'd never heard of Krav Maga, but I loved it from the beginning.

We met at the San Marcos YWCA Monday and Thursday evenings. Marie would drive me in; we'd grab a quick dinner at Burger King, then she and Sandy would watch while I learned about golden targets and eye gouging and screaming. The most important lesson, though, was to stop thinking like a victim and start thinking like a warrior. After while, I did.

Okay, a warrior princess, maybe, but still a warrior.

In August I moved up to intermediate Krav Maga, and learned another important lesson: mental preparedness is just as important as martial arts skills and physical fitness. Marie put a weight bench and elliptical trainer on our screened-in back porch, and I discovered that I really liked working out. And running.

Thanks to my non-existent social life, incessant studying, and voracious reading, I had done really well in school that past year. Just before classes started, the district tested me out of sixth grade so that fall I entered seventh grade at Alfred G. Packer Junior High School.

Heather Fields sat in front of me in home room; for some reason she decided that the social princess and the warrior princess should be friends. Heather and I didn't have a whole lot in common: her folks were landed gentry, I was a single mom's foster child. She was Luling's version of a debutante, I was recycled trailer trash. Her daddy was in the oil bidness, my father had been an alcoholic who couldn't hold a job.

Her folks also owned an exotic game farm that sold giraffe and zebra hunting permits for really big bucks to pencil-dicked lawyers from Austin and San Antonio. I never could figure out why anyone would want to shoot such peaceful, beautiful critters, and thought it was pretty shitty of her Daddy and Mama to enable it, but they were always pretty nice to me so I didn't say anything.

I was dubious about Heather for weeks, but she was funny and honest and persistent. She had plenty of money and stylish clothes, but never commented about my fashion choices—I always wore tatty jeans and T-shirts and a thick bra, adding a hoodie if it cooled down in winter. She never tried to impress me by flashing her money, appreciated my sarcastic humor, stood up for me when some of her stuck-up friends tried to put me down, and didn't give a shit what people thought about her hanging out with me.

Her persistence finally wore down my defenses. We declared ourselves BFF before the end of that school year.

—————

A COUPLE OF YEARS LATER the self-defense lessons paid off. We were close enough to Austin that soccer was an acceptable high school sport, and thanks to Title IX we girls had a team. My running and working out paid off: I'd played some soccer in junior high PE, and because there wasn't a huge turnout of aspiring niñas futbolistas, the coach couldn't be too picky. My ball control left a lot to be desired, but I was quick, had great reflexes, and could throw the ball farther than most of the others could kick it. In short order, I was the starting goalie.

One late August afternoon just after I started my sophomore year, soccer practice was cut short because 103 was too damn hot even for conditioning drills. The football team was in two-a-days, but that afternoon they didn't suit up, just ran half-speed through plays in T-shirts and shorts.

I showered and was walking out to where Marie would pick me up, my backpack slung over my left shoulder. As I approached the gate to the football practice field (we practiced on the grass overflow parking lot), John Thompson jogged up to me. He was a senior, the starting quarterback, and knew for a fact that he was really hot shit.

"Well, look who's grown a nice set of little titties." He grinned at two of his buds and thumbed my left breast. "How about a quick blow job? It'll make all your little friends jealous as fuck." While he and his leering friends cracked up at his incredible savoir faire, I pasted what I hoped was a sweet smile on my face and reached down to his crotch.

"Y'all mean this big boy here?" He had on a jock, but it wasn't going to do him much good. Part of my workout included grip strengthening; I grabbed his nuts and squeezed hard.

His shit-eating grin turned into an O. He yelped and started to grab my arm, but I squeezed harder and ground his cojones against each other. His yelp went up at least an octave and he dropped his threatening arm. "What the fuck are you doing?" His two minions started toward me. I squeezed even harder.

"If your goons don't back off, I'll turn these into pico de gallo." He groaned and his eyes bugged out; they backed off.

"I'm trying to teach you a lesson, dickhead. You might be tall, dark, and handsome, you might be a football star, you might even be hung like a donkey, but that doesn't give you the right to sexually assault me or anyone else. Understand? Nod if you do." I gave him another couple of degrees of squeeze. He nodded.

"Here's what's gonna happen: I'll let go of your family jewels, then you and Tweedledum and Tweedledumber will walk back to the locker room, probably slower than usual. You might want to skip taking a shower so you won't have to explain how come your nuts are so swollen and such pretty colors, but that's up to you.

"I'm gonna keep walking and won't file a complaint—hell, I won't say anything to anybody—unless you try this shit again. You wouldn't stand a snowball's chance in hell of getting an athletic scholarship with sexual harassment on your record." I upped the squeeze another notch. God I love a strong grip! "Nod if you understand." He nodded.

I gave them one last really hard squeeze and ground them together again. When I let go he dropped to his knees and I continued down the sidewalk. I never looked back, but the adrenaline was fading fast. As soon as I was out of sight I ran into the landscape bushes and started shaking so bad I thought I would pass out. I threw up breakfast and lunch, then considered checking the offal for toenails.

I never told Marie or Sandy about it because I didn't want them to worry. Apparently one or both of dickhead's minions talked, though, because I didn't have any problems for the rest of high school. I focused on studies and soccer and Krav Maga. And WoW.

Heather heard some rumors, but when she asked I just told her it was an unpleasant experience that I didn't want to talk about. She shook her head. "You went all ball-busting over just a blow job?" I was a bit surprised that she seemed to think his demand was trivial, but later I learned that she thought about sex the same way I thought about soccer: A pleasant, if occasionally strenuous, physical activity that could lead to one or more satisfying endorphin releases.

I was surprised and pleased when dickhead's younger brother Jeff, who was in my grade, came up to me after school one day and apologized for his older brother. He even grinned and said he was glad I did what I did, that John deserved it, then walked away before I could respond.

I kept my grades up; wasn't valedictorian or salutatorian, but finished in scholarship territory. The soccer team was fun and did reasonably well; we didn't win any championships, but finished over .500 and won some respect. I didn't get a black belt in Krav Maga, but I was proud of my green belt (P-5), the best of all the girls and most of the boys in my class. I hardly ever got asked for a date, but that was fine with me; I didn't have the time or inclination to add groping to my resumé.

Jeff was always polite and friendly, but he surprised me again when he asked me to the senior prom. I must have looked at him like he just told me he was the heir to the throne of Zuul, because he quickly held up both his hands and shook his head.

"No, no, this isn't a joke or a setup, Kat. I know you don't date or go to dances, but you're really pretty and this is my last chance and I've always liked you. I would love to walk into the ballroom with you by my side."

It took me a while to digest that. I finally decided he was serious, but I wanted nothing to do with dating or dancing. "No thanks. You're sweet, Jeff, but I've had more than my share of shitty experiences with high school boys."

His face fell. "I was afraid you'd feel that way. I really wish I could have shown you that we aren't all asshats...like my brother." He looked at me for a minute, then started to turn and walk away.

I couldn't believe it, but I actually felt a twinge of guilt; Jeff had always been nice to me, why was I punishing him? What the fuck, it's not like he asked you to go steady. I reached out and grabbed his hand. "I'm sorry, Jeff, I know you're not a dickhead like your brother. Yes, I would very much like to go to the prom with you." All I have to do is buy a dress and learn how to put on makeup, learn how to do my hair, and learn how to dance. Piece of cake.

If his disappointment had made me feel guilty, his I-just-won-the-lottery look made me ashamed for leading him on. I managed to smile, then rushed off before I could change my mind.

Marie couldn't believe it. "Don't tell me you've decided to be a girly girl after all." She had the good grace to grin when she said it. I told her no, I figured it was just a great way to do something nice for a good kid. Blowing everybody else's mind has nothing to do with it, of course. Heather, no surprise, said I had to be fucking kidding, and when I assured her I was serious she just walked off shaking her head.

Marie helped me buy a prom dress (at St. Vincent de Paul, gently used, so it didn't cost the earth), gave me a couple of quick lessons in makeup, actually succeeded in teaching me how not to embarrass myself on the dance floor, then all but dragged me kicking and screaming into a hair salon and told them to "do something about the mop."

When we heard Jeff drive up, Marie hugged me without messing up my makeup or hair, and whispered, "Try to enjoy tonight." I told her I would do my best, but didn't think it was very likely.

Sandy had stayed out of the preparations for my debut, but she also hugged and whispered while she palmed something into my hand. "It's always better to have 'em and not need 'em than need 'em and not have 'em." Them was a pack of three condoms. When I started to protest, she just smiled and closed my fingers over the pack. I shrugged and put it in my clutch just as Jeff rang the doorbell.

He wasn't in a limo, he was driving his beat-up Chevy Nova. He wasn't wearing a tux, but he looked pretty good in his dark blue suit, carrying a wrist corsage. He didn't take me to dinner at Chez Panisse (neither one of us had a visa for the Peoples' Republic of Berkserkley), but we didn't go to Mickey D's, either; we had a very nice steak and lobster at the Pump Jack, an Outback wannabe in Luling.

I was almost dreading the dance, but amazed myself by having a good time. Jeff was a good dancer, good enough to make it look like I knew what I was doing. He was attentive, funny, and actually listened to what I said. By the time the dance was almost over, I had turned down half a dozen requests to dance with other guys and decided that Jeff was more than just a sweet fella, he was sort of a hunk. I revised my plans to go straight home afterwards. Then I thought about the Trojan trio in my purse and decided maybe it was time I found out what all the fuss about sex was about.

He asked if I was ready to leave; I nodded and we left. When we got to his car, he opened the door for me, then paused before going around to the driver's door. It was almost as if he could read my mind. "I don't much feel like going to one of those parties, and I don't think you do, either, Kat. Should I take you home now?"

Now that question was pregnant (well, maybe better to say "fraught") with deeper meaning. I smiled and shook my head. "No, not yet, Jeff, it's still early. Why don't you drive out to Zedler Mill?"

I might as well have said "Let's go somewhere and get naked." Zedler Mill was a park along the San Marcos River south of town. Most girls knew that most boys called it the Finger Bowl. Jeff got another of his I-can't-fucking-believe-this looks, then tried to be cool as he blundered out the door and ran around the truck. I don't think his feet touched the ground twice.

When he got behind the wheel, I slid across the seat and put my arm around his shoulders, pressing my left boob against his chest. He gulped, fired up the truck, and tried to stay within shouting distance of the speed limit while he got there. He failed, but his luck held and he made it without getting busted.

He pulled into a gap between a couple of trees close to the river. By the time he had turned the key off I had reached my right hand to his cheek and turned his head toward me. "I think it's time you kissed me, Jeff."

He didn't need any more encouragement. It may not quite have been Princess Bride quality ("Since the invention of the kiss, there have been five kisses..."), but it was good enough to squirt some endorphins into a couple of hormonal teenagers. The next few kisses involved tongues. Pretty soon we lurched past kissy-face to rubbie-bod and the endorphins were being delivered by the hogshead.

We were both panting as if we'd run a fast quarter-mile, when Jeff pulled back. After catching his breath, he took my shoulders (gently) and looked straight into my eyes.

"Kat, you wouldn't be doing this if my brother hadn't—"

I didn't let him finish. I shrugged his hands off my shoulders, grabbed his crotch, and leaned in to him nose-to-nose. "Listen to me, Jeff Thompson. I'm not doing anything to piss off your dickhead brother. You lit my fire and now I'm gonna give you the best blow job you've ever had!"

Between pants he managed a rueful chuckle. "Won't be a challenge, I've never had one." I managed to stifle my sigh of relief; I'd never given one, either, so we were the blind leading the halt.

Flashing him an evil grin, without looking down I loosened his belt, unsnapped and unzipped his pants, and yanked out his Johnson bar. It had been hard to begin with, but twitched like a spooked snake when I grabbed it. I'd read and watched enough porn to know to keep my teeth off it; diving down, I wrapped my lips around it and started slurping and sucking like mad.

What I lacked in technique I apparently made up in enthusiasm: he lasted almost 10 seconds. I did my best to swallow it all, but it was his first orgasm at someone else's hands...err, oral ministrations. There was just too damn much for a first-time fellatrix to swallow, so some trickled out around the edge of his pulsing pecker, but I kept sucking until he stopped spurting.

Neither one of us said anything for a few minutes, we just lay there and marveled at what just happened. Then he managed to push the bench seat back as far as it would go and got on his knees on the floor in front of me (thank God he didn't have a floor shift) and started to push my knees apart. I knew where he was headed (to coin a phrase) and I wasn't expecting a quid pro quo.

"Forget that. Jeff. I've got a cherry that's more than ready for you to pick." I reached down and, teenage hormones be praised, he was once again up to the task. I coaxed him up (by tugging his rejuvenated staff of life), and scooted down so my now-dripping pussy was on the edge of the seat. I dug in my purse for the pack of condoms and, ignoring his wondering eyes, peeled one out of its foil and rolled it down his rampant rod. When I guided his protected pecker to my twitching twat, he paused, looked at me, and drew breath to say something. I didn't give him a chance.

"Fuck now, talk later!" I shoved my tongue in his mouth again, reached around to grab his ass, then thrust my crotch forward and yanked him into me. Between my secretions and his precum, things were so slick he plunged in balls to the wall and bounced his dick off my cervix. I probably hadn't had a hymen since my first Krav Maga lesson. We both shouted something distantly related to human language and came with enough force to set off car alarms a mile away.