The Baker's Dozen Ch. 02

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.

At a little under six feet, Auxiliadora Antuña was positively statuesque compared to her teammates. The square-shouldered Mexican was the only girl on the field Gregorio didn't expect to fuck at some stage this semester. Her sensible plait, plain red gloves, and the obvious sports bra beneath her white polo shirt all felt indicative of someone serious about playing for a scholarship.

At scarcely an inch over five feet, Paz Pakarati's lack of verticality wouldn't have been half as striking if she wasn't a textbook example of petite. As it was, the diminutive Easter Islander (that any family would choose San Toribio over Hanga Roa was a subject of enduring fascination in the teachers' lounge) looked more like Auxiliadora's little sister than teammate. Her neon gloves and loose pigtails didn't help matters.

Auxiliadora won their game of rock-paper-scissors and took her place in the goalmouth. Gregorio blew his whistle. Libertad kicked the ball. Auxiliadora's plait streamed out behind her as she dived left and caught the ball. Libertad shook her head good-naturedly and sauntered out of the penalty box, bound for the locker rooms.

The leggy black striker was one of those girls whom adolescence had endowed with breasts she would still be growing into at forty. They jutted out like an usherette tray, almost halfway down her torso. Even from thirty yards away, Gregorio couldn't help noticing a certain asymmetry in how they were moved.

The players that filed past after Libertad exhibited a similar lack of chest support. Where the red shorts were tight enough, he saw no panty lines either. Just how much of a hold did Marisela have on these girls?

Meanwhile, Rutilia was preparing to take the last kick of the shootout. Paz was in the goalmouth, staring down her sweaty teammate. At the whistle, Rutilia gritted her teeth and toe-poked the ball. Paz jumped high, arms outstretched. The ball grazed her fingertips as it slipped in under the crossbar.

The Easter Islander seemed to take this stark reminder of her physical limitations — she was evidently too short for the adult-sized goalposts — in stride, merrily fishing the ball out of the net for her own kick against Auxiliadora. The lanky Mexican duly saved it.

Before she could return fire, Gregorio came running over to shoo the goalies off to the locker room block. Once he'd returned the soccer balls and assorted paraphernalia to the equipment store, Gregorio headed there himself.

En route, he passed a patch of grass behind the bleachers where two players, Leocadia Lozada and Horacia Hernandez, were practicing the steps of a dance routine. Gregorio was about to blow his whistle when he registered both girls were already back in uniform. Either they'd skipped showering or this underwearlessness business was a serious timesaver.

"Hey, coach," said Marisela.

Gregorio turned to find the busty Salvadoran loitering outside the locker room block's girls' entrance. She too was already back in uniform, including the too-small polo shirt he'd lent her last week. Her nipples were embossed in the stretched sky-blue cotton.

"Miss Mejia?" he said warily.

She wasn't wearing that sly smile of hers, but she'd forfeited her right to the benefit of any doubt.

"Paz is inside," she said.

"Could you go hurry her up?" asked Gregorio, twirling a set of keys on a finger. "I need to lock up."

Cometh the hour, cometh the sly smile.

"I think she'd prefer to see you, coach," said Marisela.

"Miss Mejia, do you have any idea what time it is?"

Marisela smirked, shooting a glance at Leocadia and Horacia as they collapsed in a giggling heap. Gregorio looked round in time for Leocadia's bare buttocks to wink at him from beneath her skirt.

"Get real, coach. We know all how late the gates stay open. The TikTok Twins will be there for hours. Longer than it'll take you to do Paz, anyway."

With that, she grabbed her backpack and sashayed away. Gregorio briefly watched her go. Alas, she was one of the girls to have mastered the art of rolling her skirt in such a way that exposed the maximum amount of thigh without flashing one micrometer of ass. Just his luck.

Oddly unenthused about the prospect a second fuck inside an hour, Gregorio lingered outside the door marked 'Girls Entrance' for a spell. He watched Leocadia and Horacia set up a cellphone to film their routine. The first take was aborted when one of them unwittingly flashed the camera.

Crossing himself, Gregorio stepped inside. The hallway leading to the locker rooms proper was painted with a mural of the school's crest: two red sheep standing either side of a red crucifix. Zumárraga Prep's girls' teams were nicknamed 'The Red Ewes' in its honor.

Some shepherd he was turning out to be.

Arriving at Locker Room No.1, he found the door slightly ajar. Peering through the crack, he spied Paz standing in front of a floor-length mirror, raking a hairbrush through her long dark-brown hair. She was in uniform, shoes and all. Gregorio grimaced. Did this mean he had another drive ahead of him?

"Going somewhere, Miss Pakarati?" he said as he slipped inside.

"Coach?" she said, fumbling her hairbrush in surprise. She span to face him. "Going somewhere? What do you mean?"

Gregorio looked the petite Polynesian up and down. He nodded, satisfied with his assumption. Her sky-blue polo was tucked in, two out of three buttons fastened; white socks pulled up; black T-bar shoes buckled. The only thing left to do was shorten her knee-length skirt.

"You look just about ready to leave, Miss Pakarati."

Paz looked down at herself.

"Oh, right, no, I, uh...just changed my mind."

"About?"

"It," she said meekly. "This. You."

Gregorio kicked the locker room door shut, pulled the keys from his slacks, and locked them in. Meanwhile, Paz took a seat on the slatted wood bench that ran down the middle of the locker room.

"Why, Miss Pakarati?" he said, walking up behind her to place his hands on her insubstantial shoulders. "Why now?"

"Because it'll already be too late if I waited."

"Too late? What for?"

Paz tilted her head back to gaze up at him.

"I want to start the first game."

Seeing his eyebrows arch, an elfin smile crossed her gloss-embalmed pink lips.

"Be serious, Miss Pak—"

"I am serious, coach," the schoolgirl snapped. "I know you weren't really watching out there, but I bet you saw enough. I know Auxi's bigger and better than me, but I should get to play too."

Gregorio firmed up his grip on her shoulders, lest he be tempted to throttle the eighteen-year-old.

"That's not for you to decide, Miss Pakarati."

Paz pouted, narrowing her brown eyes.

"Why not?"

"In spite of what Miss Mejia appears to have convinced you all of, the function of this team is to get as many of you noticed by colleges as possible. That might be difficult if I don't field my strongest possible team every gameday, especially ones where Vice Principal Tancredo will be watching."

The sports-mad vice principal had a propensity for replacing underperforming school teams' coaches. To Gregorio's surprise, his words were met with another elfin smile from Paz.

"Marisela will back me up," she said. "Count on it."

"You sound awfully sure of that, Miss Pakarati."

"Well, yeah, we're family."

"How so?" he asked, not a little skeptically.

"Her little daughter Feliciana's my half-sister," said Paz flatly.

A little too flatly for Gregorio's liking. His hands shifted on her shoulders.

"How?" he said. He found it was all he could say.

"How do you think?" she said, just as frankly. "Feliciana's daddy is my daddy."

Gregorio held her gaze in steady silence as his imagination ran wild. The temptation to think 'well that explains everything!' was almost irresistible. There was just the small matter of his own experiences of Marisela. The benefit of the doubt was nigh impossible to give.

"And you're still friends?" he said eventually.

Paz knitted her meticulously plucked brow.

"What're you saying? Do you think she came onto him?"

"Did she?"

Paz abruptly looked away.

"I...don't know. Everyone else thinks Daddy forced her. Mari says he didn't."

"And you don't believe her?"

"It's not important!" snapped the schoolgirl. "When Daddy ran off, Mari stayed here. She chose me, not him. That's what matters."

"And that's why you're willing to have a child to help her kickstart a soccer school?"

"Hey! Coaching sounds way cooler than working in my family's garage," said Paz. "Besides, without Auxi there, I get to be goalkeeping coach."

Gregorio felt the warmth of her ensuing smile on his face.

"I hope it's everything you ever dreamt of, Miss Pakarati. Now, lie here."

He withdrew his hands and pointed to a patch of tiled floor at his feet. Paz cringed.

"Can't we use the bench?"

"Maybe if my knees were fifteen years younger. On your back, please."

Curling her lip, the Easter Islander slowly got up and sat down in the designated spot. Meanwhile, Gregorio pulled down his slacks and underwear. He stepped out of them, standing over Paz in just his shoes and black coach's polo. When her brown eyes saw his erection, they goggled.

"Lie down, Miss Pakarati."

Eyes still fixed on his rigid six inches, she grudgingly leaned back on elbows and spread her slender legs. Gregorio crouched down to lift the front of her blue-and-black plaid skirt. Nodding approvingly at her unshaved pudenda, he grabbed her skinny ankles and stood up.

A look of unease came over Paz's face as her hindquarters left the ground. It became one of abject terror as she found herself being folded like a taco. She spread her arms wide, trying to take some weight off her neck.

"Coach?" she squeaked as her plaid skirt turned inside-out and her upturned groin came within touching distance of his.

Letting go of one of her ankles, Gregorio felt between her legs, drawing a tremulous whimper from below. She was moister than he'd expected. Seizing her dangling ankle, he adjusted his footing, closing the distance between their pelvises. Then, he bent his knees.

An anguished yowl came from below as he pushed his way between her slick yet unyielding walls. Easing himself in and out, he soon found his stance was preventing complete immersion. Amid mewls of protest, Gregorio elevated Paz's groin until his exposed inches were fully enveloped.

Pausing to savor the sensation, he set about pumping in earnest, driving as deep as he could with every bend of his knees. A carnal fog soon engulfed his senses, deafening him to the chorus of plaintive whines and whimpers. As he plowed on, that pitiful soundtrack was supplanted by soft sobbing.

That tell-tale twinge wasn't long in coming. As it did, Gregorio hunched forward over the folded schoolgirl, catching his first glimpse of her snotty, tear-streaked face. All the same, the slap-slap-slap of their colliding flesh echoed around the locker room as he dispensed his milky payload.

As the tide of endorphins receded, the cramps in Gregorio's legs and shoulders made themselves known. He promptly unfurled the blubbing Paz and went on to pull on his slacks.

"Okay, Miss Pakarati, that'll do," he said, buckling his belt. "Up you get."

"I can't," she managed between sobs. "I...don't think I can move."

Furrowing his brow, Gregorio looked down at the petite Polynesian, in search of some reason to doubt her claim. None were forthcoming. She literally hadn't moved a muscle.

Rubbing his chin, he grimaced. God wasn't usually this swift with His retribution.

"Wait here, Miss Pakarati," he said, without meaning to sound glib.

Gregorio covered Paz's groin with her skirt and went to unlock the door. He walked briskly down the painted hallway, murmuring prayers that Marisela hadn't been exaggerating about the TikTok Twins.

Sure enough, as he stepped outside, there Leocadia and Horacia were, sitting on the same scrubby patch of grass in the shadow of the sports field's bleachers.

"Miss Lozada, Miss Hernandez, can you spare a minute?" he called over.

Leocadia was up and running in an instant. Horacia followed as quickly as she could, carrying both of their backpacks and the slinky Costa Rican's loafers.

"What's up, coach?" asked the barefooted schoolgirl, stopping abruptly at the edge of the grass.

"Nothing serious, hopefully."

Nine months later...

Graduation Day in San Toribio.

That annual May event occasion when every twelfth grader in town donned their school uniform for what they hoped would be the last time. Nineteen-year-old Paz Pakarati was more hopeful than most in that regard. This polo shirt was an absolute bitch to breastfeed in.