Malleable

"Absolutely. One more kiss?"

"Better not. Who knows where that might lead and, well, I think the trout are already traumatized."

Instead of being miffed at his rejection she giggled. "Clever boy."

"Gorgeous, delightful, intoxicating woman."

She tilted her head to one side, hands going to the swell of her hips. "Intoxicating, huh? Who's the one offering intoxicating substances to poor, innocent nerd-jock girls?"

His laugh was sweet, more free-flowing than earlier. It was powerful yet soothing, like a rising brook nearing its bank's top, fed by spring rains.

She walked for a dozen steps, raising knees with each, before starting to jog. She glanced back before the trail rounded a bend. Tony waved, still standing where she had left him. She thought, liked to think, she saw a grin.

———

Tosha gasped, momentarily confused. Why was she parked here? She had been lost in a memory. No. More than a simple recollection. This had been a vision. She could feel the sensations, smell the smells. She had been that younger Tosha, felt what she felt. She had certainly felt that shocking orgasm, something she had never experienced since. And somehow it did not seem entirely crazy that, only hours ago, she would have had no memories of the experience, sworn that such a thing had never happened.

The car's clock showed that it could only have been a moment since the heavy door closed, since Coco and McAlister -- No! That was Tony Garcia! -- disappeared into the dark house, no sign of any lights on behind any of the mullioned windows. Had she imagined the cloying swirl of smoke, disappearing as the two had met in a deep kiss just before the door swung shut?

She started the engine. She suddenly knew that she didn't want to be here when Coco left. She didn't want the girl to see her here and she didn't want to meet Tony -- who apparently went as 'McAlister' now -- with her lurking outside his home like a clumsy spy.

She put the car in reverse, backing up from the hedge until she was sure no one in the Mansion could see her pull a slow u-turn. Cheryl Mueller was a royal bitch, and Tosha had been intimidated by her since a summer internship at the bank during her high school years. But her daughter was getting caught up in...something and as a mother she deserved to know.

The bank was open late on Fridays and Cheryl would not be one to leave work early. The secretary, carrying a load of files remembered Tosha, offered her a warm one-armed hug. "Of course Ms. Mueller is here, sweetie. She's not in a meeting or anything, just wrapping up for the weekend. Knock. She'll be happy to see you, I'm sure."

The imperious voice stopped Tosha's knuckles an inch from the heavy wood door. "Just do it, Burr. All you need to know is it's legal and it's what he wants done."

Burr? Police Chief Burr? Cheryl had a lot of sway in the community but it was still surprising to hear her ordering the Chief around with that tone.

"I say. That's who. Do you want to check with Tony...Mr. McAlister for a second opinion? I didn't think so."

Tosha waited for further conversation, heard only silence. She sucked in another slow breath before knocking. The door was yanked inward before her knuckles made contact, startling her.

"Tosha! Our town's newest and no doubt finest teacher."

What the hey? Tosha's next breath was a short, sharp inhale of surprise, and not from the unexpected opening of the door.

Cheryl Mueller, the stuffy middle-aged banker...she glowed.

Tosha had never been attracted, sexually, to women. But this was the second woman today who had left her flushed and -- there was no denying it -- aroused.

The tall, intimidating banker was striking, statuesque, always. But too stern, stiff, serious to be conventionally sexy. And that was years ago. She had griped to her young intern about aging, youth lost, skin and curves losing elasticity skin growing crepey, breasts drooping.

Tosha had been shocked by the almost vulgar complaints the first time. She had walked into this same office with a stack of files, caught Mueller hiking up her dress and what could only be some kind of support undergarment.

"Have you ever blown up a balloon?" The pause had begun and ended too quickly for a stupefied Tosha to answer. Long fingers, accented by a single, simple but large oval diamond, had squeezed an invisible balloon between them. "Firm. Nice, fleshly stretched rubber. It gives when you squeeze it, but resists. Pops right back to its original shape when you let go."

Balloons? Tosha was bright, confident for her teen-years, but had been bewildered, almost scared. What was this woman talking about?

"You drop the thing and it almost ignores gravity. Now. Picture that same balloon batted around the room until it ends up forgotten, behind the couch."

This pause, Tosha had managed a nod.

"Three days later, maybe four, you find said balloon. It's sad: half the air is gone and most of youthful elasticity vanished with it. You squeeze it and it just gives. All the resistance of an eider down pillow. Whatever 'eider' means."

"It's a kind of goose." Finally, intern Tosha had found something familiar: a question, a word puzzle to solve.

The banker had looked at the young girl for an instance, fixedly, as if reappraising her new summer-help, adding a note to a mental dossier.

"Back to our balloons. One firm, springing back when released, buoyant. The other deflated, sadly unresisting, flaccid. One a joy, the effortless life of the party; the other a shameful disappointment, a slack sort of unpleasantness."

Reaching high under each armpit, she had tugged once more, shimmying hips and shoulders. "Ya know what I mean?"

Another simple question. It would never have occurred to the teen to lie. "No."

Cheryl stopped mid-shimmy.

"I mean I know you're talking about balloons, but you're really talking about something else, right?"

The silence had seemed like eternity. The banker's laugh had echoed, out of the office and down the corridor. She'd shaken her head, pushed the same heavy wood door shut.

She'd towered over Tosha. "Boobs.

"We're talking about boobs, my innocent intern. Tits. Bazungas. The firm ones that defy gravity, hefty and solidly full but somehow floating weightlessly. And the saggy knee-bangers as limp and flaccid as our friend Saggy the couch balloon.

"Look at you: you've got nice little handfuls just coming into their own. You've got years before you need to worry about much sag. But remember: it's all downhill from here. Boobs never sag less."

She had slapped her stomach with both hands. "And trust in Spanx."

"I know! Right?" Older again. The banker's voice had lost its sharp edge.

Tosha's eyes jerked up to meet Cheryl's grin, away from the woman's chest. "Have you ever seen a perkier set of tits?"

Tosha had indeed been staring at the taller woman's chest, recalling the unbusinesslike exchange from years ago. There was no sign of a bra now or other support and there was definitely no need for either. Neither was there any sign of cosmetic surgery and its tell-tale over-filled shapes.

And it wasn't just her breasts. Wrinkles and lines? None. Zero. The banker's skin was smooth, flawless, even at the bend of the arms, the corners of mouth and eyes. She didn't look young, exactly, but she looked like the most amazingly air-brushed photo of a mature woman at the very peak of her beauty.

Smooth hands hefted twin globes, eyes bright, excited. "They're like they were when I was...No. Correction. They were never this firm. This full."

She shrugged. "It must be that new moisturizer. The shit's expensive enough. But you'd think they'd advertise the hell out of it if it always did this."

"You, uh, look great." Tosha had been intimidated coming here, and this start to the conversation hadn't helped. Neither had the glow. First Coco and now Cheryl, both left her physically, psychically attracted, almost magnetic how they drew her in. And deep physical, sexual attraction was not something Tosha had much experience with.

A friend in college she had confessed to suggested she might be on the 'asexual spectrum.' It's not like sex or making out was unpleasant, but there's always been a feeling that something vital was missing, that it could be, should be not only better, but so much more intense. The time by the creek with Tony had been the one solo time in her life when sexual passions, urges dominated. And that time was only newly recalled.

———

It seemed like only a minute or two and Tosha's shoes beat a frustrated path across the bank's parking lot.

What the hell had just happened?

It wasn't just Cheryl's skin and body: her hair seemed fuller, richer, her eyes brighter. And her...manner, her confidence. The way she'd ordered Chief Burr around. She had payed closer when Tosha mentioned Sara going to McAlister's, but not at all concerned. Almost enthused about it. Approving.

At least the banker had confirmed one thing: Anthony McAlister was indeed Tony Garcia.

"He used his father's name when he was younger." She'd given a big shrug.

"Now he's wised up and left that side of his family behind. So what? The 'real' McAlisters didn't exactly offer a warm welcome when he showed up back when you knew him. These days, old Margaret's the only one left and she's not much good for anything except filling the drool cup. Funny how he showed up again so soon before her big stroke."

The tired old Saturn she turned over on the second try. She frowned. It was the lack of concern for Sara, for her only child, that seemed the most off.

Cheryl Mueller was well-known around town for her controlling streak and school employees knew well her application of that trait to her daughter's education. Cheryl did not confront a teacher about a perceived slight or teaching decision she didn't approve of. No, she went directly to the principal, the superintendent, or member of the school board.

But Cheryl's immediate dismissal of Tosha's concerns about Sara, had seemed abrupt, condescending, even for the notoriously prickly banker. Especially since she usually reacted by being overly protective of her only child.

Tosha knew her concerns were based on gut and instinct: Sara suddenly being friendly with a new and seemingly worldly continuation student who might be involved with an older man who in turn was someone who had seemed mysterious to a high school girl years before. It had sounded ever weaker as Tosha had tried to explain her concern. Then Cheryl had made it clear the meeting was over with a wave towards her office door.

It was a short drive back to the States from the bank. Seeing Cheryl Mueller had reminded Tosha of the deep, persistent economic and social divide in town. Happy Valley High versus the decaying community school; Avenues versus the States.

One neighborhood had uncracked sidewalks, street lights, mowed and landscaped front yards, nice cars parked neatly in driveways. The one Tosha now navigated through had no curbs or sidewalks. Some streets in the States were difficult to tell if they were paved or dirt, and thick-skulled dogs protected front yards behind old chain link fences. People who lived in The States usually only visited The Avenues during the daylight hours, wearing matching neon green T-shirts emblazoned with the name of a landscape company, and people like Cheryl Mueller liked it staying that way. The exception would be the residents of older, larger houses mainly on Colorado and Wisconsin. These once proud Victorians were chopped up into rentable rooms years ago, now filled with University students, seeking the cheapest rents available. A properly groomed student might look like they belonged in either the States or the Avenues.

Tosha was surprised to see Chief Burr's thick figure easing into his police cruiser, pulling away as she rounded the final corner, off of pavement and onto dirt, three blocks from her destination. The States were the County Sheriff's jurisdiction even though they were largely within the City's boundary. City Police usually only came here in emergency situations, letting the Sheriff's office handle routine matters.

But here was the Chief of Police. And right after Tosha had overheard him being commanded to 'just do it.' Do something Anthony McAlister was involved in.

She parked in the spot the Chief had vacated, half off the dirt road, close against the white-painted chain link fence. The pit bull watching her approach the gate was silent, tongue out, eyes more bored than suspicious. A fat bitch with large, distended nipples from multiple litters of pups.

An ancient-looking woman sat on a rocker on the small house's front porch. A tattered upholstered couch, currently empty, filled most of the rest of the covered area. A brightly colored sheet of paper flapped next to the screen door at a random, uncaring angle.

Even if Tosha couldn't quite read the bold heading from here, it screamed 'Eviction Notice' and looked freshly posted. Why would Tony be involved in having the Chief leave that here? Why would the banker order him here, in county land outside his jurisdiction?

"Mrs. Garcia?"

The old woman, in silence, waved Tosha to enter.

Working the simple latch, neatly repaired at some point with bailing wire, Tosha swung open the metal gate. The bitch sniffed the back of her legs as she closed the gate, followed her at a waddle up the narrow brick walkway. Up close, she was assailed by a conflicting mixture of earthy, herbal smells, pungent and sweet, no doubt from the many overflowing planters and pots dotting the porch and hanging from the eaves.

"What can I do for you?" The voice was male, unaccented, and came from behind the screen door.

"Mr. Garcia?"

"Yes."

"My name is Tosha Drexler. I'm a teacher in town. I wanted to ask you about your son, Tony."

The old woman sighed, seeming to shrink a little into her chair, then turned and spoke to the man. Tosha wasn't sure if it was Spanish or not. The door swung open. Mr. Garcia waited until he was seated at the woman's feet, with his own legs hanging over the edge of the porch, before he spoke.

"She's been expecting you." Tosha was most startled by her own reaction to this, not surprise, but as though she knew she would be expected here now.

The old woman fixed dark, moist eyes, eyes with no hint of whites showing, on the visitor. Her grandson - somehow Tosha was positive that he was both her grandson and Tony's father - interpreted what was said. Or told the story, taking over the thread from the older woman.

"The boy should never have been born. We are a family of Brujas, of...healers. Every second generation, or most, for as long as there is memory, there had only been girls born, those with the gift. Only girls until my son."

Tosha knew the word 'bruja,' thought it translated at least as close to 'witch' as 'healer.' And she'd grown up hearing the name of a 'healer/witch' -- Granny Garcia -- who lived on this particular out of the way, curbless, sidewalk-free dirt street. It was not anywhere her family would have gone, but she had friends who had brothers or cousins with a rash that wouldn't heal, or a stutter, or a garden that everything died in. If the doctor couldn't fix it, or the hardware and feed store, Granny Garcia might have an answer. Tosha certainly hoped she would this time.

"He was a quiet boy. We thought it was respect until it was too late. He would sit and watch his grandma mixing herbs, listened to the words she would say over them and the people who would come to her for help.

"He was learning. Absorbing it all.

"It was all my fault. I knew our blood was special, but I broke my oath. I gardened for Mrs. McAlister, did repairs on her rental properties, to pay my way through the university. She was a mean bitch, but...beautiful. In her own cold way.

"She'd tempt me, tease me, flashing leg and...cleavage." His mother chuckled behind him. "One time she called me to her house, late. She'd been drunk, in her bathrobe, berating me for some little, insignificant thing. She slapped me, hard. In anger I grabbed her arms, I shook her."

Granny Garcia muttered a few words, rubbed dried leaves from a small satchel between her wrinkled palms, tossed them on the coals glowing in a tiny chiminea Tosha hadn't noticed before. Mr. Garcia's, voice went on, but Tosha no longer heard the words. She was there, a silent witness to the long-ago events.

As a younger Mr. Garcia was about to yell at her, to tell her to never touch him again, he saw the look on her face. Lips parted, eyes dilating wide. She liked it, was turned on. He shoved her down onto a couch, her robe falling open. One breast fell out, not big but round, proud, pale. The nipple was crinkled hard.

She saw his look and smirked. Her hand came up but didn't pull her robe closed. Instead, she caught the nipple near the web at the base of her thumb, stretching her breast out as she pulled it hard away from her.

"You like that don't you, Miguel?"

Her eyes were wild, bright. They dropped to his crotch, saw the growing bulge there. She laughed, a dry joyless cackle. "You'd like to fuck me with your dirty beaner cock, wouldn't you?"

She shoved herself upright, popping off the couch like a jack in the box, poked a finger hard into his chest. "Wouldn't you?"

A trace of spittle landed on his cheek as she barked out the question. Her robe hung further open.

Poke. "I've seen how you look at me. Trying to see up my skirt. Wishing you could suck on these with your nasty wetback mouth."

She grabbed both her bare tits, pushing them together in front of him, soft white flesh squeezing out between her fingers.

Tosha knew his feelings, felt his rage at her words, his disgust at her lewd display. But, stronger, she felt his shame. Shame because she was right. He was sworn to marry a lovely girl, a girl he loved, they were to marry as soon as he graduated from the university, but he lusted for this older, mean gringa bitch.

How dare the bitch be right, how dare she know his shame? He grabbed her robe, saw her eyes flash bright and that nasty, knowing grin. He tugged the robe closed instead of tearing it off of her as they both wanted. He spun her around, to shove her again onto the couch and away from him, to flee, but she stumbled and caught at him, dragging him down with her. He fell forward, off balance, landing on top of her back on the soft velvet cushions.

She pushed up against him, her ass against his crotch, Tosha feeling his hardness -- a cock she'd never had - slip deep into the crack there. The bitch laughed. "Yes! Yes, you do. You want to fuck me. Don't you, Miguel?"

She ground back on him, a whore's lascivious offer. A bitch in heat.

"The boy wanted to be born."

Granny Garcia spoke in Tosha's head, her few words a body-less narration, without interrupting the flow of the drama Tosha was somehow experiencing. It didn't occur to her until much later that the words had been in clear, slightly accented English.

Miguel's face and his heart were twisted in rage and lust. Roughly, his hand found the inside of one bare, smooth thigh, pushing the hem of the robe up and out of the way. His groping found her, soaking wet and open. She growled like an animal, head down, as the fingers slid inside.

He was aware of no awkward, frantic fumbling with pants or belt, but he was exposed, stiff, aching, and ready. There was no need to aim. He grabbed her slim pale hips and yanked her back, impaling her as the growl rose to a throaty scream. "Yes! Fuck it! Fill it up!"

His hands grabbed handfuls of robe, pulling her back onto him as he thrust deep again and again. When the robe slipped down, baring her shoulders and back he reached further, grasping the soft tits that she had offered him so wantonly. Fingers twisted hard nipples and dug into her white flesh as he plunged deep. She would be sore tomorrow, and bruised for days afterward.