Chapter 3

Thirteen years earlier, Rainy sits in her first grade classroom at a small school in South Texas.

The teacher snatched the coloring assignment from my desk. Scowling, she put her hands on her hips and tapped her foot. "And what do you think you're doing?" she screamed like a barking dog with red lipstick.

I breathed deeply, smelling too much perfume and foul breath. Gathering all of my six-year-old courage, I said bravely and too loud, "But I like coloring out of the lines."

The teacher's face turned red, and she looked like a clown with makeup. A vein in her forehead threatened to burst. "No one colors out of the lines!" Miss Dogface screamed.

All the children looked at me and snickered. They whispered, "She did it again. She's crazy. She's different. She can't read. She's stupid."

I put my head on my desk and cried, feeling queer and learning to hide the strangeness inside of me.

Back at the RV.

With light drifting through my window, I awoke to a knock on the door of my RV. I shook my head to wake up and bumped into a dildo on my pillow. The dildo still glistened with salvia, as if I sucked it like a tit half of the night; the damn thing had my teeth marks on it.

Standing naked, I cringed at the soreness in my pussy and ass, coughing a couple of times due to rawness in my throat. Because of intoxication, I remembered little of the self-abuse of my body, but obviously, I caused some small injuries. Nonetheless, my system had the ability to repair injury in little time for some odd reason even doctors couldn't explain.

Someone knocked on the door again, and instinctually, I knew the Cuban waited for me at the other side. "Gimme a few," I said roughly, coughing and clearing my throat. I washed my mouth out quickly, pulling an over-sized t-shirt on my small frame and then peeking out the window. The lips of the Cuban smiled from a few feet away, her eyes still decorated like the night before. Coughing once more, I opened the door.

"Coffee?" the Cuban asked, peering into my RV. The light and my pounding head made me pause, and then my stomach felt awful with the world turning dark gray, "Be right back." I shut the door and ran to the sink to vomit.

She knocked again, "You okay?"

"Yeah," I managed, heaving nothing but spittle a final time. I went to my small solar fridge and opened some bottled water, popping two pills to settle my stomach and stop the pounding in my head. Within seconds, my head quit hurting and the queasiness in my stomach ended, my neurons helped along by the illegal narcotic know as Absorb. Cleaning the sink, I washed my face, putting water in my mouth and spitting out several times to remove the taste of rotting flesh. She knocked again. I moved back to the door, took several deep breaths, and opened to view beauty.

The warm morning sun touched my hardened face, causing me to soften at the brilliance of a lovely day. But the true splendor of being alive stood underneath the sun in a short dress. In my haze of the night before and the rush of our meeting a few seconds ago, I had forgotten about the intrigue and innate charm of the dark-skinned woman waiting impatiently with one leg slightly in front of the other. In sandals with hands on hips, she tapped a dainty foot with pink nails decorated with sparkles. A muscled leg ran up to meet a body covered by a short floral print dress. Bubbly skin stretched out over a strong medium sized frame. Muscular, but not butch, her body hinted at many long hours in a gym, and her breasts stood out like regal blossoms. She caused my heart to pound, and being jumpy without Mary Jane or coffee, I fidgeted like a hyperactive schoolchild.

"What happened?" she asked, concern ringing from her tone, "I heard you puking."

I nodded, and then admitted weakness, "I drank too much last night."

"Not good," she replied, her face scrunching up in disgust. She nervously twirled a finger in her hair and then relaxed the muscles in her cheeks, eventually asking, "Can I get you a coffee? You look like shit."

Stretching, I scratched my ass, yawned, and nodded. We peered into each other's eyes, seeming to connect in a strange fashion. Shaking my head to stir from my reverie, I said in a raspy voice, "Need to pee," which was about the stupidest thing I had ever said. She broke out laughing.

"By all means, don't want you dripping on the floor," she let loose with a few suppressed chuckles.

"I ... I mean in a minute—how did ya know where to find me?" Feeling flustered, I started picking at the cuticle of my thumbnail.

Her forehead wrinkled as a worried look crossed her face. "You don't even remember giving me your address last night, do you?" She flicked her hand in the general direction of the fireworks display from the night before.

I thought about her question, realizing her assertion rang true. "I remember you were beautiful, and that's confirmed right now. The rest—yes—a little fuzzy, sorry to say." She stood quietly for a few seconds, as if wondering if she should be somewhere else.

"Look, I feel pretty stupid doing this. I mean, I can go ... just ... just thought we could talk a bit. Charlotte is a bit possessive and doesn't like me making new friends." Her tongue touched her top lip.

"Charlotte?"

"You don't remember her?"

"The Whitey?" I asked. She nodded. I felt foolish.

I cleared my throat and tried to make a comeback, "Well, I don't blame her ... and no, uhm, don't leave. I'd really like to drink that cup of coffee ... and I'm the one who feels stupid. I have a beautiful woman at my door, and, and ... well, I get sick." A sweetened look flashed across the Cuban's face as her dimples gently kissed her chubby cheeks. She tilted her head while chewing on a pouty lip, looking like a demure little girl.

In a voice sounding like mine, someone said, "You are the most beautiful woman I have ever met." Then I shook my head, realizing the words came from my mouth.

She flushed rosy pink, and smiled with embarrassment. Her smile moved right through me, piercing my heart. I stared lustfully at her luscious parts, her smile, her pink flush; all combining, pushing, and twisting. Her parts fit together like the pieces of an intoxicating puzzle to create the perfect female.

She looked away for a few seconds, self-conscious by my obvious ogling. "Sorry," I told her.

Glancing up, her eyes peering through the bangs covering her forehead, she whispered, "It's actually very flattering. Where can I meet you?"

Still a little awed of having a chance at this gal, I stumbled through my words, "Gimme a sec to get dressed, use the restroom, and, uhm, clean up some. I'll pick up a couple of coffees and some munchies, and a hundred yards in that direction is a covered picnic table with the best view of the beach for miles."

"Hurry, but yes, use that restroom first," she said with a small titter, "I'm at work in an hour." She paused, taking a deep breath as if gathering courage, and then she spoke music, "I can't stop thinking about you."

The Cuban abruptly turned away, walking toward the beach. My eyes followed her as she walked off, my mouth wide open, realizing new and exciting sensations were running through me. My brow dripped sweat profusely and my fingers were shaking.

About twenty yards away, she turned back to me, the sea breeze blowing her long hair. She winked and waved, causing my sore pussy to want her kisses.

Entering my RV, the first thing I did was take care of nature, which stung like Hades. I tended my sore private spots with a dab of cooling lotion, and then washed my hands with antibacterial foam. Walking to my sparse closet, I viewed my small assortment of clothing. Funny, I wanted to look good for her and owned very few clothes. After mulling it over for a minute or two, I selected a pair of pink polka dotted panties, black short-shorts, and pink t-shirt, laying them on my bed. I rarely wore pink! My choices in footwear were not too exciting—flip-flops, combat boots, or lime-green high top sneakers. Laughing at my silly smitten self, I slipped into the flip-flops.

Removing my t-shirt, I washed myself up quickly in my little sink, brushing my teeth and taking a swift sponge bath, paying gentle attention to my privates. I even put a dab of perfume on my neck and breasts, adding some lip-gloss to help accent my smile. Standing in front of my little mirror checking myself out, I still looked like a hung-over woman with the multiple piercings in my nose, ears, and lips twinkling in the dim light of the mirror; but, at least Absorb worked pretty good, and a little color had returned to my face. Giggling again at my pitiful self, I realized I was nervous, actually feeling like a girl on her first date, which come to think of it, this was a date, sort of.

I breathed deeply, pinching my cheeks to make them rosy pink and trying to gather my cool chick attitude. Damn, it was useless—this sweetie had me in the palm of her hand!

I spotted her on my bench. Sticking her pink tongue out of one side of her mouth, she danced steady fingers across the keys of a small glass slate laptop. Contemplating on her writing for a few seconds, I felt strangely fascinated by her thick curly hair and muscular frame, wondering what drove her to take a chance on a girl like me.

She stopped typing and twirled a finger in her hair, occasionally glancing up at a mother and child frolicking nude in the surf. She stopped typing after becoming a little flustered, and the slate laptop automatically folded up to the size of a small compact. After a few minutes of staring, I joined her, sitting on the other side of the table. I pushed a coffee and apple fritter her way, and asked, "So Cubana, what are you workin on?"