Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience. ======= Teflon ======== --------------------- by Jean-Michel Maserati --------------------- Warning ====== Just to make it perfectly clear up front. This tale contains is centered on an explicit sex scene; if you find such descriptions offensive, I suggest you leave the site now. Also, if for any reason whatsoever you should not be permitted access to this material (for example, due to your age and/or the laws of the area where you either live or are currently staying) then you should quit now. I can and will take no responsibility for any consequences if you don't. ------------------------------------------------ The end-of-season party had been arranged by my pal Gary. This was something the school had backed, thinking it was a good idea, but to be perfectly honest a lot of the guys and girls and parents had all been pretty uncomfortable with the whole thing. It was not in one of the better parts of town (understatement of the year) and we'd all heard more than enough in the local papers about the crime and drugs round there. But Gary was always a smooth talker and his mom and dad were also wellknown figures at the school, always going on about the community relations and liaising with the local police and so forth and going on campaigns against vandalism. Bible-bashers, crusaders for their minority rights and so on and so on. You've got to understand the area before you realise what a big deal this was. It's a fair-sized place - there were about eight or nine schools in the city. I know it sounds crude and uncomfortable in these days of political correctness to go on about "black" and "white" schools - I'm sure they themselves would never have accepted the description - but that was how we saw it at the time. Four white, three black, just the one that was reasonably mixed. And one private Catholic school, but they didn't play the locals at soccer or anything like that. We just took no notice of them. And as is the way of these things, the three black school were run-down dumps. As was one of the white schools. And the mixed one. There was a bit of crossover, Indian and Pakistani kids in particular at the so-called white schools (usually did very well, too - always being pushed by parents who wanted their children to be doctors and lawyers). The occasional black kid whose parents had a house on the right side of town. And of course, a few white children at the poorer schools, again usually because that was the catchment area their parents lived in. But you can put it how you like: there may have been no divide whatsoever theoretically, legally, strategically or politically. But practically and socially, there were two cities. Two totally different towns, one on either side of the river. The school I went to was the odd one out, right in the middle of the city near the paper-mill and the glass factory. About seventy per cent Caucasians, maybe a quarter black and a sprinking of Asians. Each group kept pretty much to itself, outside of the classrooms. Not that there was a lot of bad blood on a daily basis, don't get me wrong. It wasn't like American-big-city-ghetto-rough-area-gang-warfare kind of things, none of that shit. It was just that the black guys had their own patch and the black girls hung out with them, the whites did the same, and the others kept their distance. No open warfare, like, but a lot of prejudice, for sure. Most of it came from the white kids' parents, in particular the less welloff and less educated ones: maybe rich caucasians can feel they're better than the negroes because they've got all the money, I dunno, and so they don't need all the racist bias. So, though the schools and the local politics were full of loads of left-wing smelly-socks liberalism, the undercurrent was more, shall we say, of reluctant toleration rather than integration. I mean, my Dad's not stupid and not a racist by any means, but he'd still sound off occasionally against the drug culture and the burglaries and so forth, all of which he blamed on those from the other side of town. However, back to the storyline. Gary was my mate at school. That was unusual, since he's as black as the ace of spades, to use the kind of politically incorrect phrase that would have driven his parents nuts, and I most distincly am not - with my Celtic heritage of dark hair and eyes but very pale skin. I'd probably never have even spoken a word to him if it hadn't been that we were the central defense for the school football team (I'd have to call it soccer now, living in Canada these days, but to us it was just "football"). There's no way you can play together in those positions for a couple of years without developing a rapport: who's covering which break from midfield, who was acting as sweeper while the other man-marked, who was sticking close to the keeper. We'd had two keepers. The first one, who I'd nicknamed Teflon on account of his non-stick hands - he never seemed to keep hold of the ball, and punched far too much - had left school last year, which according to Gary's local contacts had been because his minor dealings in cannabis and coke were becoming quite profitable. So this year we'd had another who'd been christened Dracula by Gary, because we reckoned he was afraid of crosses. The names had leaked out, of course. Teflon in particular had never forgiven me for it. So the two of us, the tall guys who ran the defense, became quite good mates. We lived for the football, like many of the team: it wasn't as if either of us were stupid, but at that crummy school we were never going to get the good grades that would take us on to further study and good jobs. Being a pro sportsman was a dream we shared with a lot of the rest of the squad. The difference was that even the coach thought we might have a chance. We had trials at the same time for the youth teams of the local professional clubs and were working hard at breaking through from the unpaid ranks of their juniors. And we did some extra training together in the gym after school hours, as well as the team sessions of course. It worked well - last season our team had kept the best defensive record by some distance, despite the best efforts of Teflon last year and Dracula this, and we were well on the way to repeating that this time out. Gary and I had been in the local papers several times, his profile in particular being enhanced by his parents' efforts. So when he decided that the football teams' end-of-season party was going to be arranged on his side of town, the school decided to agree. There were senior and intermediate and junior squads, a girls' team, about sixty or eighty kids from about eleven up to eighteen, I guess. Quite a few of the other squads' members were almost forbidden to go to the party - some moms can get really up tight about that kind of thing - but mine's okay. But there's public transport nearby, all these arty-farty politically correct youth workers in attendance, school staff members too. It wasn't exactly dangerous. It was a youth-club place just over the river with a big disco in the basement, where quite good bands occasionally played. I'd been there four or five times before, so my parents weren't too fussed any more. I played a mean rock guitar when I put my mind to it and the jam-sessions at the club there were of a much better standard than the two pubs near us. Which were mostly either full of punks who couldn't play, or old rockers who spent their time moaning. And one time I'd gone there, full of trepidation, to see a blues act I wanted to catch, and discovered that there was no hassle. And I'd seen the jam session advertised and gone along to that too. Nerve-racking, but I wasn't the only white face there by a long way. And once they discovered I could play a bit too - smiles all round. So Gary got his way and the party was organized. Pretty much everyone turned up, in the end, which I reckoned was surprising. What with girlfriends and brothers and sisters and so on, there must have been perhaps a hundred and twenty people there, maybe a hundred fifity. Everyone still segregated, black gus and girls dancing in one area, the white children in another (mostly looking rather embarrassed about it, too). The older ones were less inhibited, since the alcohol was flowing discreetly for those who looked old enough. Most of the younger children left at about nine or so, before the club opened and the locals came in. We got a few odd looks, but no trouble. The only potential flash point was when Teflon came in, tall and muscular, dressed up to the nines and looking really cool. Inevitably, with a couple of girls in tow. He definitely didn't appreciate seeing me here. But after a minute he decided to ignore me. And I had to hang around for a while yet: there was a local reggae band on a little later, that Gary had insisted was really good. The bass player was his big brother. And he had used his contacts mercilessly to make sure everybody stayed. As well as me with my guitar, there were three or four others at the school was played music a bit, and it transpired that he'd arranged that we were all going to have to go up and join in for a coule of numbers. It would be crap, but nobody would mind. And it was. One black kid who thought he could play the sax, but to me it seemed his repertoire ran from farting duck to castrated elephant with precious little in between. Tommy who was the striker for the intermediates could drum a little, but had too much stage fright. Another whose bass playing was maybe OK for punk rock, but no good for this. And then me - and I discovered rapidly that I couldn't play reggae for diddly-squat. All that high-up-the-fretboard work, the offbeat rhythms - I was nowhere. And they didn't need a hard rock solo thrown in. Still, at least I didn't look totally stupid, but I felt much chastened as I left the stage. At the end of that, to some very restrained and polite applause, I went and found Gary, since he was about the only person left I knew. He was sipping a beer and talking to one of the rather glamorous black girls who had come in with Teflon. I wondered for a moment if he was hoping for a bit of action and would prefer to be left alone, but he beckoned me over. The tall girl was introduced as Renée, and Gary gave a long explanation of how we played football together and all that shit. And then Gary removed the other girl's arm from his shoulder after a minute or two and made his excuses. The reason soon became apparent, as I spotted the girl he was supposed to be dating standing alone at a table and scowling. She looked thoroughly relieved when he went over to her. I didn't really know what to say to Renée, although I did my best. Nothing seemed to get through - I complimented her on her clothes, for which I got no more than an enigmatic smile. Made a few selfdeprecating remarks about my musical efforts. I asked where she knew Gary from, and wasn't at all surprised to hear that it had something to do with the church. Tried to keep off cars and football, the two things usually guaranteed to bore a girl to tears. Basically, I sort of assumed that she was just being decent and polite by not turning round and walking off, guessing that she was probably highly embarrassed by Gary so unceremoniously leaving her alone with me. She'd finished her drink, so I asked if she'd like another. A formality - "Thanks but no thanks", easy exit line, empty smile, bye. But instead, she cocked her head slightly to one side. "Do you really want to buy me one?" I looked her in the eye. Big eyes, dark brown of course, looking coolly back at me from only a little lower than my own six-foot three. "Sure." Why not? "Okay then," she said non-committally. Those eyes. I thought about them as I ordered the drinks. I wasn't used to that from a woman: how tall was she? A surreptitious glance - high heels, maybe she was five nine or ten. My eyes ran up long legs in dark jeans, a gap of smooth dark brown skin at her slender waist and flat stomach, then a thin lacy white blouse tied at the front over some kind of halter top. She had a slender, delicately lined face with high cheekbones and full lips, her nose not as flattened as many of her race. And her hair was magnificent: the work that must have gone into those tiny braids and the knots and getting the red and yellow beads into them. Her head was turned down and her hands were cupped in front of it as she lit a cigarette. The delicate blouse only came down the upper arms; the long thin forearms and the graceful dark hands were covered with silver jewellery. Unusual, I realized looking around - the black guys and girls almost invariably went in for gold, but Renée had silver colors. Shit, she looked superb, I thought to myself. She looked up at me as I brought the drinks back, and I knew she had caught me eyeing her up. I felt guilty, and flushed red with embarrassment. I'm a nice white guy from a nice white neighborhood and one thing I am not supposed to do is find black girls good-looking. Let alone let it show. I blushed even redder. I hate it when I do that, but with my complexion there's no avoiding it. Even in the dim disco lighting, I was sure she'd have noticed. She was feeling slightly guilty herself, as it turned out. She passed me the joint sheepishly, as if worried what I might do, and I could almost hear the sigh of relief when I just took a toke and passed it back. The ice was broken. About and hour later, we were still talking. It had been mostly about music, a common interest - it turned out she played a sax and a guitar too. Suddenly she called one of the band over, who was talking to Teflon at the time. The two came along, the latter clearly not remotely amused at seeing I was still around. Renée obviously knew them both well. Before I knew it, I was back on the stage again. This time, Renée had picked the numbers and we were rattling through things we all knew. I could shoot the sheriff Clapton-style, they shot him Marley-style. But it worked. Guns 'n' Roses aren't the only ones to have knocked on heaven's door. And the reggae guys have plenty of respect for Hendrix, you can bet. And probably with a bit of help from the joint - Teflon's supply no doubt - I had lost enough inhibitions to go for it. The best half-hour I've ever played, spurred on by the sight of Gary and Teri dancing right in front of me, then Renée with an unhappy-looking Teflon and a couple of his mates, then the remaining white guys from the team in a gesture of solidarity that must have hurt their pride a bit, and finally just about everybody. It was great. We finished. I handed the guy his guitar back, this time with heartfelt thanks on my side and a warm grin from him. I hopped off the edge of the apron, looking for Gary and the others. And saw Renée again, this time on the arm of some beefy black bloke in leathers, arguing vociferously with Teflon. The lads grabbed me and pulled me into their increasingly drunken little club. Lots of congratulations, lots of cheering. Kathy, a busty little blonde who was the sister of our midfield dynamo Pete, was all over me again. We'd gone out for a while last year and she'd even let me screw her a few times - mostly just to spite her father, who'd taken a big dislike to me for no reason I ever worked out. I had no particular desire to go through all those arguments again, but she was pretty persistent. A few minutes later, I decided I either had to escape or risk a scene. I didn't plan it that way, but as I headed across the room I found myself face to face with Renée, who had just left Teflon's group to go to the toilet or get a drink or something. I looked at her, looked at Kathy, looked at the big guy. She looked at me, looked at Kathy, looked at the big guy. Then we looked at each other. Click. I don't know why, but it was like a switch being turned on. Almost instant: I wanted this girl, wanted her badly. And I could see perfectly clearly that it was a two-way street. I couldn't for a moment think what Renée wanted with me, why she fancied this no-future white guy she'd hardly met. We each had much more suitable potential partners around, but as I looked at this slender and graceful young black woman, there was only one possible outcome. I looked her up and down again: slim and elegant limbs, silver bangles round the wrists, delicate chain round the neck and a small cross at the smooth deep brown collarbones... beautiful. A silent pause. She reached out with those impossiby long and sensuous black arms, draping her wrists over my shoulders. And I put out my hands to her waist, just above the waistband of her jeans and on the firm and warm flesh between trousers and top. It was electric: she shut her eyes and bit her lip for a moment. When she opened them again, our eyes met. I couldn't believe it, but this exotic youngster was every bit as keen on me as vice versa. "Let's get out of here," we said simultaneously. Nobody saw us go. No good-byes, no waving. No eyes following us either. It would have been too unexpected for anyone to have been watching jealously. We just walked out of the club and disappeared. We walked back to her place, which was only ten minutes away. There weren't many people about, either on foot or with wheels, so we didn't get more than the odd one or two funny looks and a couple of drunken wolf-whistles as we walked hand in hand down the untidy streets. She unlocked the door of one of the few reasonably well-kept up terraced houses in what was otherwise a pretty seedy street. I was shitting bricks at the thought of facing her parents, but she just put a finger to my lips as we came in. Renée went straight to the living room and stuck her head round the door. "Hi Mom, Dad, I'm back." "Hi honey." "Where's Jemal? Do we see him tonight or is he off again?" "Don't ask me, Dad, he's still at the club." A few more pleasantries, then: "Mom, Dad?" "Honey?" came the mother's voice. "I'm not on my own, right? So, you know, don't be surprised if you hear anything..." Their opinions were clearly divided. "Hey, you got a boy with you again? Be careful girl..." "And about time too, if you ask me..." "Don't want you in tears again..." "Hell, woman, you never complain when Jemal does it..." "This is my baby, I look out for her..." "Yo, boy," called out her father. "Yo," I replied. What else was there to say? It was awkward - I'd have put Mr. Whatever on the end, but I didn't know their surname. "Yo. You enjoy yourself. But just make sure she enjoys herself too." "Clarence, you're incorrigible. Honey, don't we get to meet him?" Renée laughed and shut the door. "No way." And scampered up the stairs, giggling. I followed. Her room was the second floor. The first storey had two bedrooms, her parents' and her brother's. She had the attic room above, which I was surprised to see had been done up really nicely. I realized why she'd asked for privacy: there was no door. You just came up the space-saving slatted spiral stair and into her world. It was a nice little pad. Halogen lights, a really cool hi-fi and TV and DVD. Her saxophone, a silver-colored one: seemed right for her somehow. Cupboards, mirrors, cosmetics, a wash-basin... I wasn't all that familiar with girls' bedrooms, but this one seemed pretty neat to me. However, two things about it were crucial. One, it had Renée in it, standing proudly in the middle of her territory. Two, the mattress on the floor in the corner was a double. I didn't say anything at first. I just reached out with my hand to stroke her face softly, fingertips moving lightly over cheek and jawbone. She inclined her head, leaning it against my hand, eyes half closed and lips half open. So slinky and sensuous - so cat-like you'd almost have thought she was about to start purring. Those elegant long arms came up to my shoulders again, and we kissed. Somehow it felt very experimental - as if I'd been wondering if she'd taste different from a light-skinned girl, or something. Which she didn't of course. Nor did she smell any different: minty toothpaste, flowery perfume, some kind of oily coconut kind of shampoo, and a touch of simple human perspiration underneath. We broke the kiss and looked at each other, both feeling as if we had been breaking all kinds of rules. "You've never kissed a black girl before, have you?" she asked quietly, with an evil grin. "Nope," I admitted - it must have been obvious, so why deny it? "But I think I could get a taste for it, if they're all as desirable as you." She smiled. "Neither have I." "Kissed a black girl?" "No, stupid," she said, pretending to throw a playful slap. "A white guy." Whispered, with a look at the stairwell as if our voices might have carried. She turned her back on me and went to put some music on as covering background. By the time she stood up and turned round, I had walked round behind her. We could see ourselves in the full-length mirror that was he cupboard door. Her in front, me behind, bending a little to kiss her neck. She reached one of her arms up to hold my head, the other back behind her to my backside, as if to pull me closer. Her back was a little arched, pushing her chest out it an invitation I was not going to refuse. The blouse was lacy and thin, tied loosely - no obstacle at all. I let my hands explore the white halter beneath, stroking featherlight over the smooth curves and realiziing there was no bra underneath. Not needed. I squeezed the small firm breasts, feeling the nipples crinkling up and erecting. She gasped delightedly. I was on a roll here: watching my hands in the mirror opposite, I slid them down over her taut stomach and down to her jeans, where I unbuttoned them at the waist without too much fumbling and then unzippered them. My fingers slipped inside, down over the warm skin until they met the waistband of her knickers. The fingertips slid side to side until just inside the edge of her panties, then down. Coarse, crinkly pubes, getting softer and sweatier as my fingers eagerly headed for the apex. She let go of me and turned round. "Don't be greedy. Lots of time yet." Facing me, she slid her hand inside my tee-shirt and pushed it up, so I naturally took the invitation and peeled it off. There's not much of it left these days, unfortunately, but back at eighteen years of age I had real six-pack muscles down the stomach and squared-off pectorals. Never thought nothing of it then, of course - it was just the way I ws, and if the other guys were a little jealous, that was just fine. Renée seemed to like it just fine. "Jemal said you had a good body for a white guy." She held me close, one hand stroking my chest gently while the other was unsubtly undoing my jeans. I had my hands loosely on her hips, inside her jeans, wondering at the remark. She relaxed a little. My hands slid down the back of her jeans, grasping her splendidly lithe and firm buttocks. "Do white guys really have littler dicks?" she asked as she knelt down. That put my mind back on the business at hand, to put it mildly. I thought a bit about the dressing-room banter and the showers. "Nah, not really. Maybe on average, a bit, but there's not much difference." "Come on then, show me what you've got." I kicked off my trainers and stepped out of the trousers and stood in my boxers in front of the kneeling girl. Was she really going to... two slender brown arms reached out, and mere seconds later I was fully erect and Renée was taking me in her mouth to her own evident pleasure. I just stood there enjoying the sensuous experience, fondling her beautifully beaded hair. Eyes closed at first, then I caught sight of the two of us in the mirror again and watched the reflections. Then I caught sight of a family photograph near her bed. Jemal... I jumped as if she'd bitten me and took half a step back. The boxers were round my ankles, so this didn't work well. I just about avoided crashing to the floor, instead stepping out of them and lying back on her bed. "Fuck. You're Teflon's sister." I'd known he had a twin sister, but she'd gone to a different school. She was completely nonplussed. "Teflon?" It took quite a bit of explaining. She moved about the room methodically while I talked, hanging all her bangles on hooks, putting her high heels in a cupboard, shucking off the blouse that I had already loosened and putting it in a wash basket. I'd not been entirely comfortable with the idea of going home with a girl who I'd rather presumed had been one of the local drugs hard-man's associates. But hell, she was very sexy and it doesn't take long at that age for your hormone to make your mind up for you. Shit, though, she was his sister and that made it personal. Renée didn't share my apprehension, of course - as far as she was concerned, she could twist her twin brother round her little finger. And anyway, as she pointed out, it made no difference now whether the deed had been done or not: nobody would ever believe we hadn't. She just found it funny. "Anyway," she said, flashing a wide grin full of even white teeth and looking at me lying naked on her bed with my prick sticking up eagerly. "You're not going to chicken out - that cock is just about to explode." She took off her jeans and ran her hands provocatively down her slim body. "And you definitely don't want to miss this." I didn't. I watched her walk around a little in her white underwear, marvelling at the supple fluidity of the girl's movements. Not that there was anything wrong with her face or with her body when stationary, but there was a feline grace and balance to her when she was in motion. Renée stripped. She waited until I was captivated, then stripped. With her back shyly towards me, she crossed her arms and pulled the halter top off over her head - it made no difference, since I could see her fullfrontal in the mirror. Long dark brown limbs, the torso and the rounded little breasts of just a fractionally paler color and very dark, pert little nipples, stretching out magnificently taut as she peeled the top off. Then she dropped her knickers to reveal a thick vertical bar of pubic hair and stepped out of them, finally noticing that I could see her perfectly well. "You look every bit as good without your clothes on," I said. "You're a lovely girl." Then she came over to the floor-level bed and stepped onto it wordlessly, straddling me. Squatting down on the balls of her feet, straight-backed and with her long arms spread wide for balance, she poised herself above my erection. I didn't move a muscle. I was entranced. She lowered herself until my penis touched her labia, pressure increasing as she adjusted her posistion until suddenly she let her breath go (how long had she been holding it? - how long had I been holding mine?) and she sank down on top and buried my prick deep inside herself. I let out a long "wow." There wasn't much else to say. And then we were fucking like mad. I was grasping for her breasts with my fingers, sitting up to suck those hard little nipples, kissing her... She was bouncing up and dropping down hard, ramming my cock up her to the hilt every time. I was lying back down again, hands grappling those perfectly muscled buttocks. She was spreading those long legs wider and her breath was coming faster. I had my hands on her hips, pulling her down on top of me in counterpoint to my increasingly frantic upward drives. Finally she arched her back and leaned backward, resting on her hands. There was a tense, still moment where we didn't move: I just lay there, propped up on one elbow and looking at the splendid sight of Renée's lithely sexual body, spread-legged on top of me and with my prick disappearing deep between the dark purple-brown lips. I could feel my climax building up, a hot pulsing that was not to be denied. Her clitoris was there, protruding, a slightly redder color glistening moistly. I reached forward with the other hand, palm up, and rubbed her clit gently with the pad of my middle finger as my semen pumped into her, one magnificent hot squirt after another. Shuddering, she gasped suddenly, limbs frantic and jerking uncoordinatedly as she climaxed uninhibitedly. We lay back. She curled up against me, dark head on my pale chest. I couldn't imagine wanting anything else so much again. If it was that good, there couldn't be anything wrong with it, could there? --------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---- All original work, copyright (c) J.M.Maserati, 2002. May be freely disseminated for non-commercial purposes as long as the author is clearly identified and copyright stated. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- ----