The Girl from Lima Ch. 03

"You're not the one who'd have to put this back on," she replied, pinching the clingy sky-blue cotton after peeling off her white knee socks.

She methodically climbed onto the couch on her knees, initially straddling his ankles before shuffling forwards towards his pelvis. Watching her approach, Gregorio couldn't help feeling almost suspicious of how self-assured the girl was in what was ostensibly her second ever sexual encounter. Was there more to that 'cute little Indian girl' remark than he thought?

Such musings fell by the wayside the moment the teacher felt his student begin to lower herself onto him with a tantalizing lack of haste. His view of his enveloped self was soon obscured by a combination of her uterine overhang and his anything-but-washboard abs. The schoolgirl let out a quivering whimper once she was fully impaled.

Scarred by a childhood of telenovelas showing narratively-convenient miscarriages being just a powerful sneeze away, Gregorio was oddly apprehensive to assert himself, even now he was fully ensconced in her slick embrace. Xiomara took the initiative, slowly moving up and down his slippery pole. Gregorio tried tentatively thrusting, timing his strokes to coincide with her descents. Alas, the sharp gasps these efforts elicited didn't sound unanimously positive.

Feeling somewhat disenfranchised, despite the eighteen-year-old girl riding him, the Honduran took matters into his own hands. The next time Xiomara threw her head back, Gregorio reached up and deftly unbuttoned her polo. The placket, which extended midway between her breasts, drooped open like a V-neck.

Hooking his fingers in the side with the buttonholes, he stretched the wet but pliable fabric until it formed a hammock of sorts beneath her left breast. Marveling at the magic impending motherhood had worked on her mammary, Gregorio propped himself up on one elbow to ensure the best possible grip.

Kneading with his fingertips, grazing the moist skin with his thumb, Xiomara's breathing grew steadily more labored as he essentially fondled her like a stress ball. He only eased off, albeit briefly, when a droplet of clear liquid suddenly dribbled out of her puckered hickory nipple.

Momentarily freed of earthly concerns like the fact Xiomara had nothing else wear home to change in to, Gregorio's left hand pulled at the polo's other flap until her full bust was on display. After a second bout of thorough manipulation, it too begat colostrum.

He resisted the fleeting impulse to sit up and have a taste: there were certain indelible images of himself he didn't want to leave Xiomara with. In spite of her increasingly breathless protestations, he kept clawing at her tender flesh, teasing more and more out until he felt an inevitable twinge between his legs. Three-and-a-half hard bucks of hips later, they were finished.

Gregorio's arms dropped down by his sides as muscles slackened. Seizing the moment, Xiomara moved to rebutton her polo. She hesitated when she saw the state of her breasts, streaked with syrupy rivulets of colostrum that'd to congeal. For her teacher, her resulting pout was satisfactory compensation for the one-sidedness of what threatened to be their last time together.

The Peruvian hardly said another word to him. Awkwardly dismounting with her breasts still on full display, he watched her skulk off the kitchen, drinking in the view of her taut rosy-brown buttocks. The seed dribbling down the inside of one of her thighs was an added bonus.

Gregorio was on the verge of nodding off when the bottomless schoolgirl returned, grumbling and stumbling about as she slid her soggy underwear and skirt back on. Mumbling something along the lines of seeing him tomorrow, she didn't wait for a reply before she made her exit.

Gregorio did indeed see her the next day, and rather more of her than he'd anticipated. Either emboldened by Zumárraga Prep's laissez-faire attitude towards underwearless students (the legacy of a neighboring's school vain attempt to impose 'modesty shorts') or forced by irreparable damage he'd caused to her preferred shirt, Xiomara spent her last weeks of school with her nipples permanently embossed in the stretched fabric of an undersized polo.

It was the closest Gregorio would come to seeing her breasts again. Before he knew it, he was sat in some bleachers behind a temporary stage on Zumárraga Prep's soccer field, blithely applauding as the principal read off a list of graduating students. He only clapped with conviction when Xiomara was announced and the Peruvian waddled onstage, draped in a red polyester gown.

When he caught up to her after the ceremony, she was sitting on a bench in the company of her foster-sister Lucia. Having already handed her gown in, both were in uniform. Although it was a Saturday (and the Peruvian was technically no longer a student), the rigidity of the dress code meant they would've needed written permission to step onto campus wearing anything else.

When Gregorio enquired as to the whereabouts of Lucia's parents, their daughter's answer was dripping with scorn. Apparently Mr. Vivanco had decided their obligations as Xiomara's guardians didn't extend beyond San Toribio's town limits. Basically, he didn't want to chauffeur the girl to Phoenix. Ever the sucker for schoolgirls in distress, Gregorio volunteered.

It had been half-an-hour since they'd waved goodbye to Lucia. At present, the Honduran's truck was parked at a lookout point in the foothills of the Sierra Soldado, the chain of summits that dominated San Toribio's northern skyline. Gregorio was standing on the truck's bed, leaning against the cab's back window, taking in the vista of the town and the Sonoran Desert beyond.

As much to his own surprise as anyone's, he hadn't instigated this pitstop. Being an aviation novice, Xiomara had admitted to miscalculating her flight's check-in deadline by two hours or more. Gregorio wasn't going to complain, certainly not now the former schoolgirl was on her knees fellating him.

Naturally, he would've preferred to see himself between a different pair of lips. Alas, Xiomara had posed several counterarguments, some (she didn't have a change of clothes and didn't want to be leaking on the plane) more compelling than others (she didn't want to risk triggering premature labor). As a compromise, she'd offered to try something she'd lacked the stomach for in October.

They could hardly have picked a better day for it. Graduation Day was a town-wide affair in San Toribio. The minimal risk of curious onlookers driving by permitted Gregorio to relax while Xiomara sucked, licked, fondled, tugged, and tickled away. After one particularly sustained bout of sucking, she glanced up at him.

"How is it?" she asked quietly, idly pulling his foreskin back and forth.

Frowning at the lack of a reply, she learned the reason why when he exploded in her face. Xiomara emitted a startled squeak as ribbons of his milky seed lashed her nose, forehead and cheeks. She stuck out her tongue, desperate to stop a globule on the tip of her nose from dripping onto her belly. The attempt failed.

Giving a resigned sigh, Xiomara shifted from her knees to her backside, yanked the front of her polo free of her skirt's waistband and wiped her face on its front. Gregorio looked on, feeling both sheepish and aroused as she licked the worst of the residue off the sky-blue garment.

"Want to stop somewhere on the way?" he asked, reluctantly putting himself away. Caught mid-lap with a mouthful of seed, his passenger shook her head aggressively.

Three hours later, Gregorio last saw Xiomara through his truck's windshield as she walked towards Phoenix Sky Harbor's main terminal. With her baby bump invisible from this angle, her backpack hanging off her left shoulder, and her skirt and white knee socks still conspiring to conceal her legs, she looked almost as she had on that fateful afternoon in October.

The only discrepancies were the black cardigan tied around her waist belly, strategically draped to cover certain 'yogurt' stains, and a crumpled $100 bill in her right hand. It was a parting gift from him, just in case she wanted clean underwear if the payload he'd deposited inside her a few minutes ago leaked too much.

After that, it was as if Xiomara Qinallata never existed. All summer long, there wasn't a single unsolicited message to his social media (or Holler) accounts, no letters through the door postmarked Serpost, and no surprise visits from Lucia relaying messages. Once August came, Gregorio was all too happy to be steering his truck into the faculty parking lot.

The interminable summer vacation hadn't been so uneventful for everyone. One of Zumárraga Prep's most tenured biology teachers had landed himself on a one-way flight back to Paraguay for giving a student an overzealous anatomy lesson. The vice-principal had offered his vacant office to Gregorio, on condition that he also take over coaching the school's overage girls' soccer team.

Strolling into his new office with a boxful of obligatory clutter under one arm, Gregorio set it aside when he saw a large brown envelope sitting on the otherwise empty desk. Too curious to bother groping it, he ripped open one of the narrow edges and tipped it up.

A folded sky-blue Zumárraga Prep polo shirt flopped silently onto the desktop. Nestled between the folds, he found a polaroid of a newborn baby with a rosy brown complexion and an improbably thick head of black hair. In the white border beneath the picture, something was written in black marker pen: Nusta.

Wiping something out of one of his tear ducts, Gregorio crossed himself and kissed the photograph. Then, he placed the polaroid in his shirt's left breast pocket and went back to unpacking his box.