The Baker’s Dozen Ch. 02

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Note: This takes place after the events of The Girl From Lima. Familiarity with that is helpful but far from essential.

No good deed goes unpunished.

Those were the words Dr Gregorio Aquino wished he could say were true of him right now. Alas, he had to concede anyone who found themselves stooped over a vaulting horse in a high school gymnasium’s storage area, up to the hilt inside an eighteen-year-old Indian girl they’d never met probably deserved whatever they had coming. Annoyingly, he couldn’t even blame this one on Marisela Mejia.

Gregorio was assured the makeshift blindfold Magdu — the girl whose legs he was between — was wearing, fashioned from the burgundy-and-gold striped necktie of her school uniform, was entirely voluntary. Similar reassurances were given about her wrists, currently tied behind her back with the panties from beneath her upturned burgundy skirt. Consequently, the schoolgirl was lying on the vaulting horse with her back slightly arched, regardless of whether she was actually enjoying herself.

His next outstroke elicited a whimper from Magdu, provoking a stir of murmurs from across the room. Gregorio looked over to where five more brown-skinned girls in blue shirts and burgundy skirts sat lined up on a bench. They too were blindfolded with wrists bound, nervously awaiting their own turn on the vaulting horse. At the one end of the bench stood a dumpily-framed young woman in a teal shalwar-kameez, overseeing the surreal scene she’d curated.

Catching Serafina Concessao’s eye, Gregorio scowled. For a woman who’d graduated high school at the bottom of her class, she looked almightily pleased with herself. Indeed, from the look of quiet satisfaction on her face, you’d be forgiven for thinking she was watching almost seven years of careful plotting coming together. In truth, it was more like the fallout of a chain reaction set in motion by a hook-up app and a schoolgirl forgetting to take her damned morning-after pill on time.

Then again, maybe smugness was just the default setting for the offspring of shipping magnates. Her daddy’s millions had certainly softened Serafina’s landing when she’d flown home from New York to Mormugao without a college degree in her carry-on. They’d also ensured the baby boy she’d been carrying was well-tended to while she attended a prestigious local college, where a certain Mr. Concessao just so happened to sit on the board of trustees.

From there, she’d walked into a job at a Catholic high school famed as a recruiting hotbed for local convents and seminaries. There, a group of rudderless Class 12 girls had been dazzled by the sight of a real-life unmarried working mother in their midst. Quite how she’d leveraged that hero worship into this insemination ritual, Gregorio didn’t know. He’d only flown to Goa to prevent some steamy footage, captured by a paranoid chauffeur’s hidden camera one Easter Sunday in the back of a limo in Brooklyn, finding its way to Zumárraga Prep’s inbox.

Starved of eye contact by the damned necktie, Gregorio studied what he could see of Magdu’s slightly pudgy features for any signs of enjoyment. With every thrust, she alternated between anguished gasps and heavy breaths which sounded like they had the potential to become full-fledged moans, if only she’d let them. Murmuring a few words in broken Konkani (he’d had to do something on the forty-hour journey here), the Honduran leant forward with a view to lifting the blindfold.

Gasping in alarm, Magdu wriggled and writhed, straining her neck back to elude his fingers. Sighing I resignation, Gregorio straightened up. Resolved to get this whole bizarre ordeal over with as quickly as his balls would allow, he started pounding the schoolgirl like he was paying customer. If her first taste of sex didn’t live up to whatever rosy vision of procreation Serafina had sold her, maybe it would inspire her to rethink her choice of role model.

Six years ago…

Dr Gregorio Aquino placed the silver whistle dangling around his neck between his lips and blew. On cue, twelve of the fourteen girls on Zumárraga Prep’s girls’ overage soccer team, all dressed in white polos and black shorts, congregated at one end of the school’s soccer field, forming two lines outside the penalty box. Meanwhile, one of the two girls who’d been using the goalposts there for goalkeeping drills ran off to the side, leaving the other to face a penalty kick from Marisela Mejia.

The goalie, a 5’8″ Panamanian girl named Auxiliadora, dived left, long black plait flowing behind her as she caught the team captain’s shot in her gloved hands. Tossing the ball to the next kicker, she swapped places with her erstwhile training buddy, Horacia. Watching the two goalkeepers walk past each other, Gregorio couldn’t help but sigh to himself.

Horacia was a full head shorter than Auxiliadora. Catlike reflexes had made her a perfectly adequate goalkeeper growing up, but now, even with arms and fingers outstretched, she couldn’t quite jump high enough to reach the crossbar of the adult-sized goals the overage team used. Kültür Escort The outcome of the ensuing penalty was made all the more certain by the identity of the girl now towering over the ball: Ambrosia, the team’s Belizean goal-getter.

With nary a run-up, the leggy black striker neatly chipped the ball over Horacia’s head. The diminutive keeper jumped valiantly, her fingertips grazing the underside of the garish yellow sphere as it slipped underneath the crossbar. To her credit, she seemed to take this stark reminder of her physical limitations in stride, promptly fishing the ball out of the net before she made way for Auxiliadora.

The shootout went on until both goalies had faced kicks from every other player, including each other. The final tallies on Gregorio’s clipboard told a familiar tale. Auxiliadora had conceded eight to Horacia’s eleven, and one of those ‘saves’ had been struck so hard over the crossbar, it’d almost cleared the bleachers behind the goal.

With another blow of the whistle, the girls started to drift towards the locker rooms. Not Marisela, however, who Gregorio noticed was suddenly heading straight for him. Without saying a word, she slapped the clipboard out of his hands and sauntered off. His teacherly reprimand didn’t make it past his lips as he picked up the clipboard and found a yellow Post-It note had appeared on top of his notes. Scrawled in Spanish, it read: ‘She’ll be in the locker room’.

After Marisela had presented him with the list of signatories to her pregnancy pact a couple of weeks ago, he’d resisted the urge to shred the hand-drawn calendar. However, nice as it was in theory to know where his next bit of action was coming from, Gregorio had found he lacked the requisite cojones to stick it on his refrigerator door. As such, apart from Auxiliadora, whose name was the only one missing from the calendar, he couldn’t remember who ‘she’ was supposed to be.

The locker rooms were housed in their own block about a hundred meters away from soccer field, and further than that from the main school buildings. Gregorio seated himself on a bench just outside the girls’ entrance to the redbrick cuboid of a building. In due course, freshly-showered schoolgirls started to emerge, athleticwear replaced by school uniforms. Feigning interest in his clipboard, their coach surreptitiously noted down each girl’s name as they exited.

Some had dared to leave their sky-blue polo shirts untucked. Though he was contractually obliged to call out any such egregious dress code violations, Gregorio found himself watching in fascination. captivated. Combined with the rolled-up skirts — a practice so ubiquitous among Zumárraga Prep students, it was practically in the uniform policy — some girls’ polos looked more like mini-dresses with extravagant blue-and-black plaid fringes. One girl unaffected by this was Marisela.

Two weeks on from their alfresco rendezvous in the Sierra Soldado foothills, where he’d shredded her polo, the busty Salvadoran was still squeezing into the undersized spare he’d provided. Gregorio wasn’t sure if the girl’s sudden embrace of bralessness was a lifestyle choice, a concession for the sake of comfort or straight-up exhibitionism. Whatever the case, his inner adolescent was determined to withhold a better-fitting replacement until she begged (or threatened) him.

It was only when the captain’s gently jiggling chest had left his field of vision that Gregorio realized there was only one name left to write down. The fire code prevented him from locking the door behind him as he stepped inside the block. Practically tiptoeing down the short hallway to the actual locker rooms, Gregorio had to wrestle with thirty-odd years of conditioning about the sanctity of the female pictogram on the door before he eventually reached for the handle.

The locker room itself was a stark reminder that, despite its showy name and the saintly statuary dotted around its campus, Archbishop Juan de Zumárraga Catholic Preparatory School only looked like a private school. The rectangular room was covered from floor to ceiling in off-white porcelain tiles. Many seams of grout were blackened with mold, and the damp smell hanging in the air couldn’t be blamed entirely on the adjoining showers.

The wall furthest from the door was essentially one big mirror, while rows of bright red lockers lined the other three. In the middle of the room stood a single slatted wooden bench, upon which sat Horacia Fuentes. Judging by the look of her auburn hair and the white polo she was still wearing, she was yet to shower. The schoolgirl didn’t look up as he entered, continuing to stare off into space, looking more she like was waiting for a bus than to lose her virginity.

“Miss Fuentes?” said Gregorio tentatively, his keys jangling as he locked the door behind him.

“Oh…hey coach,” muttered Horacia, still not looking up.

“Something wrong, Miss Fuentes?” he asked, keeping his distance for now.

“Just nervous, I guess,” she replied noncommittally, pinching the top Escort Kültür red button of her polo.

“Having second thoughts?”

This time, Horacia did look up. She shot him a look that was equal parts shock and disgust.

“Why? Are you?”

“That’s not a luxury I have, Miss Fuentes,” replied Gregorio flatly.

She broke out in an elfin smile, “Oh yeah. Mari got you good, huh?”

“That’s one point of view,” he said, eyeing the folded bra sitting beside her on the bench, “Did she get you, too?”

Horacia hurriedly grabbed the undergarment and stuffed it into the backpack at her feet.

“S-she just suggested I should try it out.”

“Suggested or ordered?”

“She’s not a bully, y’know.”

Gregorio chose not to contest the point as he finally approached the bench, perching at one end.

“In that case, maybe you can help me understand how she got so many of you to agree to this…thing.”

“It’s not something we really talked about,” replied Horacia guardedly.

“Come on, Miss Fuentes. You must know why you signed up, at least.”

As it happened, she did. In a faltering half-mumble, the schoolgirl explained that like Marisela, she was also Salvadoran, and that’d been one of the things they’d bonded over when they met first in eighth grade. Apparently, word had gotten out about the Fuentes clan’s reasons for heading north — rather than fleeing gangsters, they were escaping neighbors who’d gotten wind of a gang-affiliated uncle — which had turned most of the Salvi kids against her. Not Marisela, though.

Gregorio had to bite his tongue as she went on talking about her team captain in hagiographic terms. It didn’t seem to matter to the girl that while they had both been repeating eighth grade, it’d already taken the fifteen-year-old Marisela two tries to get through seventh grade. Quite how making it through eleventh grade while pregnant without flunking made her worthy of worship eluded him.

At length, Horacia essentially admitted she’d signed up in part to prove to Marisela she could do the same. Gregorio had to stop himself asking what made her so sure her unhinged friend would even care. Instead, he stood and approached the diminutive eighteen-year-old from behind, placing his hands on her shoulders.

“So, Miss Fuentes, where-“

“Actually, there was one other thing,” she cut in, tilting her head back to look up at him, “I want to start the next game.”

Looking long and hard into her unblinking brown eyes, Gregorio frowned. She undoubtedly meant the overage team’s home opener next Wednesday afternoon. He waited a few seconds for any hint that she was joking. None was forthcoming.

“Miss Fuentes, that wasn’t part of any-“

He stopped as she flashed another mischievous elfin smile.

“Marisela said you’d say something like that. She also said to tell you to act like it was her asking you.”

“And what do I tell Auxiliadora?”

Horacia shrugged.

“Make something up. I just want my grandad to see me start one game before I graduate.”

Gregorio swiftly removed his hands from her shoulders, feeling every last drop of compassion he had for the girl evaporate. Turning his mind back to the reason he was standing in a girls’ locker room, he glanced around for suitable surface on which to the deed. He’d naively hoped she or Marisela might’ve given that some forethought.

“You’d best lie down here, Miss Fuentes,” he said, pointing to a mold-free patch of floor beside the bench.

“Uh, okay,” said Horacia, caught unawares by his sudden business-like tone.

Standing up, she hooked her thumbs in the waistband of her black shorts and gingerly pulled them down along with her orange panties. Stepping out of them, she went to position her powder-blue backpack as a makeshift cushion.

“Trust me, you won’t need that,” interjected Gregorio.

Eyeing him warily, Horacia nevertheless slid the backpack back under the bench with a sneakered foot and lay down on her back, her long auburn hair fanning out on the off-white porcelain tiles. Meanwhile, her coach stripped from the waist down. Under normal circumstances, he would’ve settled for leaving his pants around his ankles, but this would require maximum freedom of movement.

As he moved into position, Gregorio caught a glimpse himself in the wall-length mirror. The sight of his erection peeping out from between his shirt tails like a chary terrapin was enough to make him reconsider the Vice Principal’s offer of an ‘official’ coach’s polo. Horacia didn’t seem to mind. She gazed up in apparent awe at his uncircumcised self as it loomed overhead.

The wonderment in her eyes turned to uncertainty when, instead of kneeling, Gregorio bent down and lifted her hindquarters off the floor. Forced to spread her arms to take as much weight as she could off her neck and shoulders, she watched helplessly as her pelvis ascended further. Soon enough, her polo flopped down, revealing a pair of near-conical breasts proportionate with her petite frame.

Holding the girl by the Kültür Escort Bayan ankles, Gregorio spread his legs until his groin was comfortably within touching distance of her unshaven pudenda. Then, following a quick glance down to check their alignment, he took the plunge. Mercifully, she wasn’t nearly as dry as he’d feared. Maybe playing her joker over next week’s game like that had been a turn-on.

Gregorio tried his best not to overanalyze the string of squeaks, moans and assorted other noises emanating from below. He liked to think the fact he was driving as deep as possible with each bend of his knees meant there was some enjoyment mixed in there. Then, a thought struck him, and he upped his steady tempo to something roughly approximating a jackhammer.

He quickly became lost in a carnal fog brought on by the uptick in pelvic momentum. Even when the soundtrack beneath him became dominated by soft, plaintive sobbing, Gregorio ploughed on. Despite what she’d said about treating her demand like they were Marisela’s own, he was willing to bet there were limits to how far the busty Salvadoran would go to enforce such edicts.

Feeling a tell-tale twinge, Gregorio hunched forward over the contoured schoolgirl, affording him his first glimpse of Horacia’s tear-streaked face. He was unmoved by the look of betrayal she fixed him with. It gave him no pleasure — well, not in the long term at any rate — to risk putting one of his players in a neck brace. However, while these girls were to free as birds to fuck him at will, they wouldn’t be allowed to fuck with his gameplans.

Twelve years later…

Prizing the back off his school-issued cellphone, Dr Gregorio Aquino fumbled a memory card that’d arrived in the post that morning into the always-too-small slot. The device, one of the many perks of his recent elevation to the pinnacle of Zumárraga Prep’s English department hierarchy, was perfectly expendable. If needed, replacing it would cost him less than a day’s pay on his new salary.

Turning the phone on, he tapped through the various screens until he found the memory card contained a single file, a video entitled ‘PLAY_ME_DOC’. With nothing more than a $100 cellphone at stake, he thumbed the play button. At first, the screen went blank. Once the videographer took their finger off the camera lens, Gregorio was treated to shaky footage of a nondescript sandy beach, complete with palm trees and a brochure-ready azure sea.

It slowly and shakily panned round to a group of six brown-skinned children, playing some variation of volleyball on the sand amid much shouting and squealing, none of it in Spanish. The game (such as it was) was refereed by a preteen boy about twice the players’ size, who seemed to spend more time collecting the ball than the kids did playing with it.

After a couple minutes of this, the unseen videographer shouted something the ambient noise on the recording prevented Gregorio from hearing clearly. Whatever it was they’d said, it prompted the seven children to abandon their game in a heartbeat and line up von Trapp-style in front of the camera.

“We love you, daddy!” they shouted in chorus before collapsing in a writhing mass of giggles. Seconds later, the cellphone clattered onto the desk as Gregorio shifted bodily in his seat.

“Good video, huh?” muttered a deadpan voice from under the desk.

Wheeling back his chair, Gregorio looked down at a brown-haired schoolgirl, grimacing up at him from the desk’s kneehole, “Not like you might expect, Miss Caceres.”

“Still did the trick though, huh?”

The English teacher cracked a sheepish smile as the eighteen-year-old emerged with streaks of his milky seed slowly dribbling down the rectangular lenses of her glasses. In addition, there were not-inconsiderable blobs on her forehead and further down her face. Without a second thought, she took off her spectacles and wiped them on the hem of her untucked sky-blue polo. The resulting smears were anything but discrete.

“I trust you’ve got something else to wear?” asked Gregorio, watching with clenched buttocks as she casually she wiped away the worst of what was on her face with her sleeve.

Diega cocked a matted black eyebrow, nodding towards a drawstring bag by the office door with a lacrosse stick protruding from it, “Who was that even from?”

“Just an…uh, old friend,” said Gregorio, stumbling midsentence as the girl pulled off her soiled polo, letting her unbridled swooping breasts bounce free. He thanked God for frosted glass windows and his office door’s recently-fitted new lock as he belatedly put his soft self away.

“Many of your friends call you daddy?” asked Diega as she crossed the room and bent over to get at the drawstring bag. The hem of her blue-and-black skirt rode up just enough to expose the lower reaches of her pantyless backside. Gregorio felt a fresh stirring in his pants, but alas, there wasn’t time.

For all its perks, his promotion had finally forced him out as coach of Zumárraga Prep’s girls’ overage soccer team. Handily, the school wasn’t short on sports teams in need of faculty coaches and he’d had the pick of the bunch. He wished he could say altruism alone had steered him towards the girls’ lacrosse team, which had been faced with disbandment at the time, but Diega Caceres had been influential to say the least.

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