SOCCER—CHAPTER SIX

This is subject to all the usual provisos:
Graphic sex follows.
I'm not responsible for you reading this if you are underage.
The contents are purely fiction and all characters are figments of my imagination.
This story is copyrighted and any reproduction requires the explicit consent of the author; i.e. me.
AIDS/HIV and other STD do not exist in my fiction but do in reality-if you attempt to live the lifestyle depicted please take precautions.

"If you lack the maturity to grasp this disclaimer, then under no circumstances read this story without guidance of someone more mature (to quote Deirdre)."

© 2007: This work may not be reproduced in any format or medium without the permission of the author.

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Zarah was June Evans’ younger daughter. The older one was off a first-year student a uni. They had different fathers according to the rumors I heard. Zarah was all knobs.

What do I mean by that? She was at the awkward age when all her joints seem to have sharp edges but was also developing the curves of pubescence. She was thirteen when I moved into the Evans’ home. Her room was full of stuffed animals but she was already a tease, ‘accidentally’ walking into the bathroom when I was using it or bending over braless so show her tiny nubbing breasts. She was a scrawny kid, already a couple of inches taller than her mother, with longish dirty blonde hair. She usually hung around with her friend Belinda who lived up the street, and they were always giggling—about Scooby Doo one minute and boys the next.

I kidded around with her, kind of like the sister I never had. I always liked goofing around with kids. And that’s how I thought of her—a child.

A couple of mornings each week Zarah would wake me up instead of Mrs. Evans with a steaming cup of tea. She’d sit on the bed and have me teach her American colloquialisms: like truck instead of lorry, or elevator for lift. I started doing that because, being seventeen, I usually woke with a woodie and talking with her gave me a couple of minutes for it to tone down.

I assumed she didn’t notice. I must have been naïve but I really thought her ‘accidents’ were real; maybe I didn’t have the rampant sexual curiosity at that age. Nor her experience. But one morning she woke me up.

“Holden, you’re randy,” she observed.

I didn’t know what that meant and told her so.

“You’re all hard.” She patted the sheets around my morning hard-on.

“Hey, stop it!”

She grip my meat for a second and then put her hands behind her back, smiling.

“See, you are randy.”

“What do you know about it?”

“What do call it if not randy?”

“We shouldn’t be talking like this….”

“It’s not I haven’t seen a hard one before. So what do you call ‘randy’?”

“I guess we say ‘horny’,” I told her.

“Yer want me to fix it for yer?” she asked.

“What!?”

“I said you want me to fix it?”

“I think you better get out here Zarah…. “

She swung her long legs onto the floor and walked to the door. As she closed it behind her she popped her head round the door. “It’s not like I’m virgin or anything.”

* * *

I think that happened after the first time I slept with her mom but right before the second. I still had the hots for June and still didn’t think of her daughter in a sexual way. But after that conversation talking about sex became part of the morning banter. Zarah would tease me about my morning hard-on or ask me Americanism about sex parts and acts. It usually ended with me chasing her out of my room. And it also started to change from merely talking to something more flirtatious.

Probably the other thing that happened was puberty. Hormones were knocking out the little girl and a randy teenager was taking her place. The little bumps on her chest were ripening like apples, and first she started growing and then shaving her underarm hair. Just like spring little Zarah was blooming.

I also started hanging out with her more. Zarah and her best friend Belinda would spend lots of time at the community center a couple of streets away. This was to keep her under some supervision while her mom was working and if I wasn’t around. But the two girls started getting harassed on the way home by neighborhood gangs (this wasn’t a great town to live and there was a lot of racial tension going on) so Mrs. Evans often asked me to pick them up at the center and walk them home.

On one occasion we were walking back along the canal. We were on the embankment side and across the street were some derelict storefronts. From an alley someone whistled and called out the girls’ name. These three kids, boys the same age as the girls, appeared under the street light.

“Holden,” Zarah said, “we’ve got to stop and talk to them.”

“No way,” I replied, “we’re going straight home.”

“Don’t be such a stick-up. It’ll just be a couple of minutes,” she pleaded, “five minutes tops.”

“OK, but I’m going over with you,” I relented.

“No. Stay here.”

The girls skipped across the street and followed the boys behind a bus stop down an alleyway. I sat on the embankment wall and waited. After about five minutes I yelled for them to hurry up. I was losing my patience and was about to go and get them when Zarah came sprinting across the street.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

Zarah didn’t say anything. Instead she leaned up and kissed me on the mouth. Her tongue separated my lips and pushed something gooey into my mouth. Automatically I swallowed it.

“What was that?”

“Spunk. Now you know I know how to give head.”

She started laughing. I felt kind of queasy and was speechless. I spat the gob out into the canal. At that moment Belinda came walking across the street.

“Belinda sucks better. We lost a bet but she blew two of them off in the time it took me to do the other one.” Zarah turned to other girl. “Kiss him too Bee.”

“I spat it out already.” She looked at me doe-eyed. “I don’t swallow like Zair does.”

Belinda was actually a lot cuter than her friend. While Zarah was still gawky, Belinda was much rounder though had just a tad of puppy fat. Her face was much rounder and I think she had a touch of African or Indian blood in her, dark skin, large full lips and these dishes for eyes. She was only about five foot but was more mature than Zarah.

I didn’t know what else to do so we just walked home. I decided not to say anything to June. I was there to protect them if they were attacked and it seemed to me that wasn’t the case. And I didn’t want to get caught up in the sexual mores of mother and daughter so I would just leave it well enough alone.