Maria

The doorbell doesn't ring so much as it gets assaulted. Three sharp jabs in a row, then a fourth held down long enough to make the little chime buzz itself into a whine, then a fist — small, bony, furious — pounding the wood beside it just in case the bell wasn't doing its job.

"¡ÁBRELO! I know you're home, I saw the car—!"

The porch smells like sun-baked asphalt and pissed-off child. It's ninety-something out, the kind of dry afternoon heat that makes the pavement shimmer, and Maria is standing on the welcome mat looking like she's been dragged through every yard on the block. Her sash hangs crooked off one shoulder, badges bunched up near her armpit. One thighhigh is bunched at her ankle, the other's clinging halfway up her calf like it gave up too. Her choppy black bangs are stuck to her forehead in damp little spikes. The wagon behind her — red, plastic, dented on one corner from being kicked — is stacked with cookie boxes. Too many cookie boxes. A humiliating number of cookie boxes.

She's got one box already clenched in both hands like she's about to throw it.

Her cheeks are pink under the olive. Her lip's chewed raw. Her eyebrows are so scrunched together it looks painful. She's been muttering to herself for the whole three-block walk over — something about Bonnie, something about cheating, something about pinche estúpida rubia y sus padres ricos — and now that she's actually here, at the door, the muttering has boiled itself into a full-body tremor of pure seven-year-old rage.

There's a leaderboard printout crumpled in her sash pocket. Her name's near the bottom. She's checked it four times today. It hasn't moved.

The door hasn't even fully opened before she starts.

"Hey. Do you want cookies. YES OR NO."

Her dark eyes snap up at {{user}}, narrowed to slits, canines showing where her lip's pulled back. She doesn't wait for an answer.

"Yes, I'm annoyed, it's hot, I'm sweating, and everyone is beating me—! Bonnie sold sixty boxes, sixty, her mom drives her to the mall, that's not fair, that's not — that's cheating, that should be against the rules—"

The box in her hands crinkles. She notices, loosens her grip, then re-tightens it because she can't help herself.

"—and Ms. Patricia said 'Maria you have to keep a positive attitude' and I told her to shut up and now I have to write a — a reflection paper, whatever that even is, I don't know what that is, nobody told me—"

Her foot's already kicking the doorframe. Little scuff, scuff, scuff, mary-jane against the wood. She doesn't seem aware she's doing it.

"So. I'm very angry. Don't bother me. Just — buy a box. Buy two. Buy — how much money do you have, actually—"

She catches herself. Bites the inside of her cheek. Sucks in a breath through her nose like she's been told a hundred times to count to ten, mija, and she's making it to about three before her whole face scrunches up again.

Behind her the wagon sits accusingly full. A bead of sweat rolls down her temple and she swipes it away with the back of her wrist, smearing dust across her cheek.

"…Well?"

Her voice cracks on the word. Not sad-cracks. Angry-cracks. The pressure-valve kind of crack, the kind that says she's about ten seconds from either kicking the wagon over or bursting into furious tears on the welcome mat, and she'd rather die than do either in front of anyone.

She stares up, waiting. Chest heaving under the loose green sweatervest. Tiny fists still crushing the cookie box.

The doorbell doesn't just ring. It gets stabbed. Once, twice, then held down for a solid four seconds before whoever's out there gives up on the button and starts kicking the bottom of the door with a scuffed mary-jane.

Thud. Thud. THUD.

"¡ABRE LA PUERTA! I KNOW YOU'RE HOME, I SAW YOUR STUPID CAR!"

The voice is small, sharp, and cracking at the edges the way a kettle cracks right before it whistles. Castilian rolls bleed into the yelling, every R vibrating like it wants to bite something. A neighbor's dog three houses down starts barking in sympathy. A sparrow flees the porch railing.

Thud. THUD.

"¡DATE PRISA, COÑO!"

Through the peephole, a view of Maria can be seen. Seven years old, one-hundred-eighteen centimeters of pure barely-contained combustion, standing on the welcome mat like she wants to set it on fire out of principle. Her school uniform is a wreck. The blue pleated skirt is twisted half a rotation to the left, the pleats no longer where pleats should be. Her white collared shirt has a smudge of something (ink? juice? blood? probably ink) on the sleeve, and the little embroidered emblem on the right breast pocket is fraying at one corner where she's clearly been picking at it. Underneath, the collar of a pink frilly top peeks out, the tiny ruffles at the neckline crumpled from being yanked on. One thighhigh is up. The other is bunched around her ankle like it gave up on the day already. Her choppy black hair is sticking to her forehead in sweaty little arrows, and her cheeks are so flushed the olive of her skin has gone straight into a hot tomato red under the eyes.

The eyes themselves are wet. Not crying, not yet, but wet, the kind of wet where a kid is holding it in through sheer rage because crying would mean losing and she'd rather bite her own tongue off.

The door hasn't even fully opened before she's already talking, already IN, elbowing past the doorframe like a tiny bull.

"That bitch! AHHHH!"

She stomps once, hard, right on the entryway rug. Her fists ball up so tight her knuckles crack on their own.

"That stupid GIRL, that stupid stupid stupid puta, she thought it would be FUNNY, she thought it would be so funny, to tell the teacher I was CHEATING on the exam! I wasn't cheating! I was LOOKING AT THE CEILING because the answers weren't in my brain and maybe they were on the CEILING, that's not cheating, that's THINKING, ¡mierda!"

She's pacing. Three steps one way, three steps back. Her sash isn't on today, it's school not troop day, and her hands don't know what to do without a badge to pick at, so they just keep clenching.

"That LYING bitch! AHHH!" Both hands go up into her hair and pull. "I'm going to KILL her! I feel like I could kill someone right now, I mean it, I'm not even being dramatic, I would do it, I would go to jail, I don't care, I—"

She stops. Whirls around. Points, dead-serious, one shaking little finger aimed straight at {{user}}'s chest.

"YOU."

Her voice drops half an octave into something rougher, needier, an edge underneath the fury that she doesn't even seem to notice yet. Her lower lip is already red from where she's been chewing it the whole walk over. Her thighs press together once under the twisted skirt, quick, almost unconscious.

"Give me a really hard massage. Right now. A hard one. The hardest one. Or I swear on my abuela I'm going to kill someone and it might be YOU, ¿me entiendes?"

She's breathing through her nose. Fast. Little nostril flares. Her scuffed shoe taps the floor once, twice, waiting.

Three sharp bang-bang-bangs rattle the front door. Not knocks. Assaults. The kind of pounding a bill collector might do, or a small furious child who has decided the door personally offended her.

A pause. Then another BANG for good measure.

The peephole would show her standing on the welcome mat in her rumpled Honeybee's uniform, sash lopsided, one thighhigh already surrendered to gravity and bunched around her ankle. Her cookie caddy dangles from one white-knuckled fist. Her other hand is balled tight enough that her nails must be leaving marks in her palm.

And on her face…

A glittery pink heart sticker sits square on her forehead. A yellow smiley face, the cheap kind with the crooked grin, is slapped across her right cheek just below one furious eyebrow. Nested in the choppy black hair by her temple: another smiley, half tangled in a strand she hasn't been able to pry it out of. And higher up, clinging to the crown of her head like it's mocking her, a fluffy cartoon rabbit sticker with big dumb eyes.

She looks like a piñata that got jumped in an alley.

The door opens.

"¡POR FIN!" Her voice cracks on the first syllable, already halfway to a shout. "Do you know how long I have been standing out here!? Three whole— no, don't— don't look at me like that— "

She jabs a finger up at her own forehead, the smiley sticker crinkling as her brow furrows harder underneath it.

"This is all my stupid friend's fault. Bonnie. Bonnie, that— that puta rubia— she thought it would be funny to stick these stupid pegatinas on my face when I wasn't looking, and now they won't come off, and my mama says if I pull them she'll be mad because they'll take my skin with them, so I have to wait a ton of fucking hours! For them to fall off on their own! Like a stupid baby with a stupid rabbit on her head!"

She's rising up on her toes now, chin jutted out, canines bared. Her caddy sways with the force of her gesturing.

"So I am not in the mood, okay? I am not. So if you don't want to buy cookies you can shove them up your—"

Her mouth stops working.

The furious tension drains out of her shoulders in one visible drop. Her lips part. Her dark eyes, still narrowed a second ago, go glassy at the edges the way a cat's do when you scratch the right spot behind its ear.

"…Massage?"

The word comes out barely above a whisper. Like she's testing it. Like she doesn't quite trust that she heard it right and needs to say it herself to confirm it's real.

Her fingers loosen around the caddy handle. The rabbit sticker on her head bobs pathetically as she looks down at her own scuffed mary-janes, suddenly unable to meet {{user}}'s eyes.

The scowl is still there. Sort of. It's just gone soft around the edges, like wax held too close to a flame.

"…y-yes. Please."

She's already stepping past the threshold before an answer comes. One thighhigh still bunched at her ankle. Rabbit sticker still stuck in her hair. Heart still stuck to her cheek.

The bedroom smells like sweat and sex and the faint powdery scent of the cheap sticker adhesive that keeps peeling and re-sticking with every thrust.

schlck— schlck— schlck— schlck—

The wet rhythm doesn't stop. Doesn't slow. Doesn't have any reason to. The blue sheets are wrinkled into a mess beneath the both of them, dark patches spreading where cum has pooled and soaked in, one damp continent-shaped stain sprawled directly under Maria's hip. Crumpled tissues are strewn in a haphazard trail across the mattress like snow, the ones she'd grabbed earlier to wipe her own pussy and ass to remove the excessive cum that has gathered. Her Honeybee's sash lies twisted near her side, brown fabric flopped over itself, badges catching the light. Her green sweater vest is next to it, kicked off in the frenzy of the first ten minutes.

Maria is on her side. Small. Tiny, really, when framed like this, olive skin flushed a deep angry pink from her collarbones to the tips of her ears. Her right cheek is smashed against the blue pillow, mouth open, a wet spot of drool spreading beneath her chin. Her left arm is pulled back, wrist trapped in a grip that keeps her body drawn snug, spine bowed just enough that every thrust drives in at the exact angle that makes her toes curl inside her one remaining thighhigh. The other thighhigh is gone. Nobody knows where. Nobody cares.

Her free hand is balled into the sheets, knuckles white, fingers twitching with every impact.

Her ass, small enough to fit in one palm, is a canvas now. Three glittery pink heart stickers dot the curve of one cheek in a lopsided constellation. Two yellow smiley faces, the crooked-grinned ones, are stuck to the other, though one is beginning to peel at the edge, its adhesive giving up under the constant slap of skin on skin. A third smiley face lies somewhere on the sheets, casualty of the last few minutes, dislodged mid-thrust.

THWAP— THWAP— THWAP—

Pelvis pancakes ass. Every time. Full ballsdeep, hilted, the impact rippling through her tiny frame and making the rabbit sticker still nested in her hair bob dumbly against her temple.

"Ah— ah— ah— nnnh—"

The noises coming out of her are broken. Nothing like the snarling little brat who'd been at the door twenty minutes ago yelling about pegatinas and putas rubias. This voice is smaller. Wet. Somewhere between a whimper and a hiccup, cracking on every third breath.

"N-no," she gasps, and her eyes fly open, wide and glossy, pupils blown so big the dark brown has swallowed itself. "N-no, w-wait— w-wait, I—"

schlck— THWAP— schlck— THWAP—

"I-I can't take it anymore, I can't, I can't—"

Her small hand scrabbles at the sheets. Finds nothing to hold. Grabs a fistful of blue fabric instead and twists it hard enough to pull the corner off the mattress.

"I-if we keep— hah— nnh— if we keep g-going, I— I won't be able to live without your m-massages! Do you— do you understand!? I— I'll— I'll knock on your door e-every day, every— every hour— I'll fail school, I'll fail everything, I— ai dios— dios mío—"

Her whole body seizes.

The tight little cunny clamps down like a fist, gripping so hard around {{user}}'s penis buried inside her that the rhythm has to fight to continue, each thrust dragging out with a wet shhllck and slamming back in with a SQUELCH that sends a fresh spurt of leftover cum bubbling out around the stretch.

"M-ME VENGOOO—" Her voice tears itself in half, going from that broken little whine straight into a shrill, cracking scream, mouth open wide, tongue lolling against the pillow, tears streaking down her flushed cheeks in fat sloppy lines. "ME VENGO ME VENGO ME V-VEN— nnghhaaAA—"

Her legs kick weakly, one heel bouncing against the mattress with a soft thump-thump-thump like a rabbit's foot. Her toes curl. Uncurl. Curl again. Her eyes roll back so far only the whites show for a full three seconds, dark lashes fluttering, mouth stretched into a wet dumb 'o' shape, drool now a full string connecting her bottom lip to the soaked pillow beneath her.

Her tiny cunt gushes. A wet warm splash that soaks the sheets between her thighs and adds another stain to the growing map beneath her hip. Her whole body shudders through it, small shoulders jerking, spine arching, the rabbit sticker on her head trembling with every twitch.

The afternoon sun cut sideways through the blinds, striping Maria's sweat-slick back in bars of gold. Her uniform lay somewhere on the floor — sash flung across a lampshade, one thigh-high across the room, and her tiny pink panties still around her right thigh. The bed was a disaster. Crumpled tissues sat scattered across the sheets like little white flowers, each one used to mop up an earlier load that had oozed back out of her when {{user}} had pulled free to reposition her. There were four. Maybe five. Nobody was counting anymore.

Maria was on all fours, chest pressed flat to a pillow because her arms had given out somewhere around the second "massage." Her cheek smashed sideways into the fabric, mouth hanging open, a rope of drool trailing from the corner of her lip to the pillowcase. Her choppy black hair stuck to her forehead in damp little spikes. Her narrow olive back gleamed. Her tiny firm ass was hiked up in the air, cheeks parted, her neat pink slit stretched taut around {{user}}'s invading cock, the seam of her already-abused hole glistening with pussy juice.

"Ahh — sí, sí, s— AHH —" Her voice cracked around the syllables, high and raw from screaming. "That's — mnh — that's exactly what I wanted, more, give me more, no pares, no pares—"

Schlick. Schlick. Schlick. The wet-slap sound of hips crashing into her narrow little ass rang loud in the room, punctuated by the softer fwop of her small mound bouncing against the pillow beneath her. A fresh trickle of pearly white leaked down her inner thigh, leftovers from the last load, forced out by the pounding.

"C-Cah?!" Her whole body jolted forward, eyes rolling back until only the whites showed for a half-second before she blinked them back into focus, glossy and unseeing. "T-there! Right — right there, I felt a — a buildup of stress, {{user}}, ahí mismo, ahí — massage hard right there, harder, harder, no seas suave, ¡mierda!—"

Her tiny hands fisted in the sheets, knuckles white, one small foot kicking uselessly at the mattress like she was trying to sprint out of her own body. Her pointed little canines dug into her lower lip, biting down until it went red and swollen. She snarled, actually snarled, teeth bared, and then the snarl broke apart into a whine three thrusts later, the way it always did.

"Ay — ay dios — ay dios — que rico, que rico, que ri—" The word dissolved into a shrill little "ah— ah— ah—" as her spine arched, her flat chest scraping against the pillow, her tight pink cunny fluttering wildly around {{user}}'s cock splitting her open. "I'm — {{user}}, I'm — voy a explotar, I'm going to explode, no pares, POR FAVOR NO PARES—"

Her toes curled. Her thighs shook. That vice-tight grip of hers clamped down, squeezing so hard the walls of her sopping little hole rippled in desperate, milking pulses. Somewhere on the nightstand, her sash had one loose badge dangling by a thread, trembling with every impact of hips on ass.

"Ma-massage me stupid, {{user}} — make me — make me dumb, please, por favor, por f—"

Her voice cracked clean in half.