Date: Tue, 26 Nov 2013 03:25:26 +0000
From: Marcus DaCosta <marcusdacosta@hotmail.co.uk>
Subject: Curtis-Seduces: chapter 8 (gay-adult/youth)

CURTIS SEDUCES.

This is the story of a teenage boy on his journey of self-discovery as he
engages on sexual experiences with various adult males. If this is not your
thing, or is illegal to read where you are, please click the exit button.
Otherwise enjoy. I appreciate your comments, instructions and participation
as the journey progresses. My contact details at the bottom. All usual
nifty pre-ambles and legal bits apply.

-----------------------------------------

RECAP:

Mind you, tomorrow is gonna be a whole new day. The weather forecast was
good, mild and dry, and I was looking forward to getting back in my lycra
running shorts and showing off at the athletics track...

-----------------------------------------

CHAPTER 8: Athletics Coach

The next morning, I woke up bright and breezy. As it was Saturday I had set
my alarm to wake me up at seven o clock because I had to be at the
athletics ground in Bristol by 9am for my training session, and I had to
catch two buses to get there. I have trained at Bristol and West Athletics
Club in a suburb of Bristol for just over two years, and, without wishing
to blow my own trumpet, I have become the rising star of the club, having a
personal best of 11.65 for the 100m sprint. I had fallen in love with
athletics at a young age, the love-affair beginning in 2008 when I watched
the Olympics on the TV with my mum.  By half past Seven, I had showered and
dressed into my thigh length running skins and lycra vest, with my black
tracksuit on top and packed my running spikes and foam roller into my
Adidas bag. I picked up an empty water bottle from the floor of my bedroom,
rinsed it out and filled it with water from the kitchen tap, threw it into
my bag, and threw my bag over my shoulder.  I opened the fridge to retrieve
something to eat for breakfast. There was nothing there but a few leftovers
from last nights meal, I opened the cupboard to grab some cereal, looking
at my phone to see if I really had enough time to woof down a bowl of
Weetabix, but there was nothing to eat there either. I kissed my teeth,
blaming my father who had stolen all of the house-keeping money, I ran back
upstairs to quickly check on mum, knocking on her bedroom door, but there
was no reply. I opened her door and walked into the room. The bedroom light
was on, the radio was playing quietly, and her bed was neatly made. I
didn't know whether it had not been slept in, or if she had already got up
and made it, which would be totally out of character. I thought back to the
previous evening, remembering that I had left her sleeping on the couch,
but she was not there either. I phoned her mobile, the ring-tone sounded
from beneath a cushion on the couch. `Where are you ma, I don't have time
for this shit', I thought to myself, kissed my teeth and ran out into the
back garden finally locating her lying face down in her nighty on the mud.

"Ma, what are you doing out here?" I asked her lovingly, but hiding my
impatience.

"They haven't grown yet, baby". She looked up at me; she was wearing a
miserable expression on her face and her eyes were red and puffy.  I
imagined that she had been crying all night.

"Yes they have mum", I thought I'd try... "And I have already harvested
them and sown them back on my shirts, come inside and I'll show you".  I
lead her inside by the hand, she responded like a corpse, or like a zombie,
almost entirely lifeless. I dragged her up to her bedroom and ordered her
into her bed. I ran to my room, picked up the three new shirts that I had
stolen from the Supermarket yesterday, and presented them to her. "See, I
told you ma".

She seemed convinced. "Where are you going baby with your bag on your back?
Are you leaving me to like your father?" She scowled.

"No ma", I insisted, "It is Saturday, I'm going to Bristol to train, you
know I do that every Saturday morning, and Wednesday after school, remember
ma?

"You ARE leaving me you lying bastard", she started to get angry.  From
experience I knew that the best thing to do was just to leave, much as my
heart wanted to try and convince her that everything was OK, and that I was
not leaving her, when she was like this, she became almost `rabid' and
would not have believed, or even listened to a single word of
reason. Experience had also taught me, that when I return later that
evening, she would not even remember having shouted at me and would
probably be sitting at the table having cooked another cordon-blue
masterpiece, grinning like a Cheshire cat; that is, if there was anything
in the house to cook. I turned and left her room, I hid my shirts on top of
my wardrobe in case she decided to plant a new crop of buttons, and I ran
down the stairs to a torrent of abuse. "That's right, run off like your
fucking father you black bastard". She continued, rising up from the
bed. "I should have listened to my conscience and got rid of you before I
poisoned this world with you". Her volume increased as she stood at the top
of the stairs, leaning down them and shouting, "Don't you fucking dare step
your nigger feet back inside my house". I shut the door behind me and said
a prayer to a God that I was not sure if I believed in or not, pleading
with Him to `do something' about my mothers worsening mental health.

To make matters worse, as I reached the end of my road, I saw the Bristol
bus in the distance. I had missed it. `Fuck it', I thought to myself, as I
slowed my pace, eventually slumping down at the bus stop, ready for a 20
minute wait for the next bus. I sat there lost in my thoughts. I had sixty
pound to my name, courtesy of Henry's wallet. Normally to a fourteen year
old, £60 would seem like a dream, but to me it was as useful as a hole
in a pocket. There was no food in the house, and almost no electricity or
gas on the pre-pay meters. I was aware that the money would run out before
the weekend did, and mum was not going to get her benefit money for nearly
another fortnight. I realised that I was going to have to step up and find
a way of getting some regular income coming so that I could take care of
mum and the house. As I sat there racking my brains, a van pulled up in the
bus stop, the window wound down and Vince spoke up "Hello Curtis, fancy
seeing you here, are you going to Bristol?" It was the van driver that I
shared my first gay experience with, six days ago. Yes, It was NUMBER ONE.

"Hello Victor" I pretended to have forgotten his name. "Yeah bro, I'm going
to athletics training, but I just missed the bus".

"You teenagers and your tardiness" He replied, having no idea of my
stressful morning, "And close, but it is Vince, not Victor, anyway champ,
do you want a lift?"

"That would be great bro, you don't need to take me all the way tho, I'll
hop on the bus when we overtake it".

"Fine with me, dude". He replied. I jumped up into the van. "By the way",
Vince went on, "My wife said to say thank you", he laughed, "Well, she
didn't, but she would have done if she knew that you were the reason that I
gave her such a banging last Sunday night".

"I don't think she would fam", I replied, laughing and using such informal
slang forgetting for a moment that he was not a youth.  "So what were you
doing in Keynsham again bro?" I asked.

"Well Curtis, I was actually just dropping off a pram and a cot. My
daughter by my first wife has got herself pregnant, so I am doing my
`bit'."

"How does someone get themselves pregnant?" I mocked, wondering if Vince
might co-incidentally be the father of the one of the girls that might be
pregnant by me. Vince laughed at my joke. "What's her name bro?" I asked.

Vince almost blurted it out, but paused, and thought for a minute before
saying matter-of-factly, as though 'reading lines', "For now, it is a
secret, until the family have come to terms with the unplanned teenage
pregnancy". He then continued in his own words... "Basically, you might be
in the same school as her, bro, and at the moment, it is not common
knowledge, so don't be offended, but I cannot tell you her name".

"Shouldn't be too hard to work out bro, I doubt there are too many girls in
School with a dad called Victor who drives a white van". I joked,
intentionally getting his name wrong again.

This amazing revelation did mean however that IF, as I suspected from her
reaction in the Kebab shop, that Tabita is one of the pregnant girls, I can
then cross Fiona Cox off of the list, because she, like me is mixed race,
there is no way that she has a white dad. So it must be either Amelia
Sanderson or Jade Duckett. I plotted to find out, subtly.

"If the offer is still open, can I take your number bro", I said
innocently. "I don't mean that I want you to suck my dick again, but I
might need some help moving some things in your van soon", I lied. Vince
dictated his phone number and I saved it in my phone. "What's your surname"
I asked, cleverly.

Again, Vince nearly blurted it out, but just in time, clocked my plan "Very
clever Curtis". He said, impressed with my scheming. If only he knew how
fucking scheming I was.

We overtook the Bristol bus, and I suggested to Vince that I might as well
get out and jump on the bus.

"For old times sake, let me see that fucking monster again real quick,
please", he asked. I winked at him, lifted my ass of the seat and pulled my
tracksuit bottoms and skins down to my knees. Vince slowed to take a look,
reached his hand over and took my soft dick in his hand for a few
seconds. "Damn" he said, as though seeing it for the first time.  I pulled
up my clothes, as Vince slowed to a standstill in the next bus-stop. We
shook hands again, and I jumped out, not looking back, but quickly hailing
the bus that was only about 100 metres up the road.

Back on track, I rode the bus to the centre of Bristol and then boarded
another bus, that takes me to the athletics club, thankfully I arrived in
good time, I hate being late to athletics.

"Hello Curtis, good to see you on time as usual bro". Mark Strange hollered
as he noticed me arrive. "Do your warm-up exercises and I'll see u
shortly". Mark is my coach.

I put my bag down on the grass by the side of the track, took a swig from
my water bottle and began doing my stretching exercises. When I am on the
track I become a different person, no longer am I sociable, jokey, or
cocky, here, I am focussed and single-minded. There is nothing I want more
in life that to succeed at athletics. I do not want the puny under-15's
trophy in my bedroom to be the highlight of my 'career', no fucking way. I
am sowing enthusiasm and devotion with the actual aim of reaping an Olympic
medal one day, maybe in 2020, or 2024. Not as a pipe-dream, I actaully CAN
do this. In fact I would go so far as to suggest that the only reason that
I give a fuck about my education, and actually bother to hand my school
work in on time, and of a good standard is because my athletics coach
insists that all of the boys he coaches are `doing well' in school. If my
grades slip, he will not train me. Fortunately, as I am a quick learner,
and I think I have a high IQ, although I have never done a test, It is not
often that I find any school work challenging.

Anyway, with my stretching exercises out of the way, I put on my spikes,
and began to practice starting off the blocks with a few of the other boys
that I train with. A few minutes later, Coach called us over to start the
intense training session. He is a former athlete, but is a shadow of his
former self, now 44, he is slightly overweight and walks with a limp due to
an injury that he had had when he was at the peak of his game. This stood
as a constant warning to all of `his boys', and we all made sure we warmed
up and cooled down properly before every training session and every race.

Coach Mark's hair always looked like it could do with a trim or some
Brylcream at least, and was a bit of an `in joke' around the track, not
that I joined in with the jokes much, I was too single-minded, and wore a
serious, concentrating expression from the minute I entered the gates.

I removed my tracksuit, to train in my skins. If this was any other setting
I would have relished the fact that my large thick dick looked stunning in
my lycra running clothes, and would have used that to full advantage,
however, here it was different.  For the next two hours, Coach trained us
hard, doing various exercises, we dragged a tyre tied around our waist to
build endurance, ran up a short hill over and over again to build up
stamina and our calf muscles, we ran in and out of cones, practised blocks,
and of course ran 60m, 100m and 200m a few times. As the training session
ended and I sat there `stretching' and using my foam roller. I noticed a
slight pain in my groin. I rubbed it `therapeutically'. Coach spotted me
doing this, and questioned it. "Are you ok there, son? Do you have any
pain?"

"It is not bad, Coach", I replied, "But it feels weird".

"Finish your stretching and go and wait in my office, son", Coach
ordered. I knew that he was going to massage my injury. Many people would
be a little concerned about grown men offering young boys such treatment,
but in the world of athletics, it is perfectly normal and expected as
common practice. I had been massaged by Mike many times before over the
last couple of years, and had never found it to be a sexual experience,
although I feared that today the tables were going to turn, this, being my
first training session since my journey started with Vince the previous
weekend. However, I was not going to treat Coach like Henry, Gary, Antonio,
Mr. Wilde or even like Dave, Vince or Kemal. I had the utmost respect for
Coach Mark, and would do nothing to destroy the close rapport that we
had. So it was more of a `hope' that I had, and less of a `plan' with Mark
becoming NUMBER EIGHT.

I picked up my bag, tracksuit and trainers, and walked into Marks office,
removing my spikes and sitting on the massage bench waiting for him to
arrive. He took his time, waving off the other boys, and speaking to a few
`mums' who had come to collect their sons, but eventually he joined me in
his office. "Still hurting?" He asked.

"Sir, I mean coach", I corrected myself, "I don't wanna exaggerate it, it
is not really hurting, it is more of a `twinge'". I said.

"Well a twinge can easily become an injury and destroy your career son, lay
back". I obeyed, laying back on the padded bench, raising the knee of my
injured leg, and resting the flat of my foot on the bench. Coach put his
two hands on around the mid-section of my thigh. "Where is the twinge?" He
asked me.

I indicated by placing my hand on the area, right at the very top of my
thigh, in the groin. Without flinching, Coach moved my hand out of the way,
and placed his hands around the very top of my leg and began massaging my
groin. His fingers occasionally sweeping against the bottom of my scrotum,
which was nicely tucked away in its lycra nest.  He continued massaging me
more precisely as he located the exact epicentre of the problem as directed
by my `noises'.  I closed my eyes to daydream. For some reason began
thinking about Dwayne's sexy fat back-off. I was surprised at myself, and
slightly concerned, because up until now, as I had explained to Dwayne, the
whole journey had been about taking control and exerting authority, and was
not about my sexual preference, which was still girls, Dwayne's sister
Gamucharai to be precise. But as I lay there being caressed by the skilful
hands of my coach, I couldn't help but wish it was Dwayne touching me. In
about two minutes, I had day-dreamed a million miles away...

"This is not like you, Curtis," Coach chuckled. "In fact up until today,
your pretty much the only one who hasn't reacted like this".

I looked down at my skins, My dick was standing up to attention, held close
to my body by the lycra, but making a deliberate effort to break free at
the waist line. "Sorry Coach", I said, not really giving a fuck about
having a boner in front of him, because he had professionally made light of
it. "I didn't have time for a wank this morning before I came out, coach".

"I did not need to know that, son". Coach chuckled louder. "It's a bit
swollen son, your injury I mean" He added jovially, "Have you checked to
see it if is bruised?".

"No coach, I haven't checked" I responded.

"Well Curtis, if you could slide your hand inside your skins and cover your
privates, and then I will take your shorts down and have a look".

I did the instructions, but as I am not embarrassed about nudity, not even
in the erect state I was in at that moment, I went by my own rules. I
lifted my bum off the bench, and slid my skins down to just above my knees,
placing my bum back on the bench. I then took hold of the tip of my 8-inch
dick to `hold it out of the way' of Coach, but made not attempt to hide it.
Coach raised his eyebrows in disbelief at my openness, and slid his hands
back up to my groin to examine the offending area. He found that it was not
bruised as such, but was slightly reddish around the swollen area. He left
the bench and retrieved an ice-pack from the mini freezer in his office,
and held it firmly to my groin. Part of it touched my balls, it felt cold
as hell, but kinda sexy. As he held it in place, I let go of my dick
allowing it to spring up and make contact with the back of his hand. Coach
said nothing. I folded my arms behind my head and closed my eyes, giving
permission for him to explore if he wanted to, if he clocked the granted
permission that is.

"Well Curtis, I knew you had a massive dick, because obviously I've seen
you in tight clothing, but this is ridiculous".

I did not respond. We stayed like that in silence for a good few minutes,
but my erection did not subside at all. Eventually, Coach removed the
ice-pack, and placed it back inside the freezer. He returned to the bench
and asked. "Would you like me to continue massaging you, son?".

"What do you think, coach", I replied, licking my lips as a sign.  Coach
returned his hands to the swollen area of my groin, pontificating. "Not
there, Coach, the pain has moved to here now". I took his hand and placed
it around my rock hard dick, I `folded' his fingers around the shaft and
squeezed his hand around it, hoping that he would pick up the baton and run
from here. He did. He began to gently masturbate me, before rushing over to
his door, locking it, and returning to pay close attention to his risen
star. His hand felt cold on my dick, as it had been holding the ice-pack,
but on a hot day, that was a great feeling, and I relaxed into his
touch. "Go on coach, it's all yours, take it to the ribbon".

Coach used both of his hands to bring the most amazing pleasure to my
dick. He used his massaging oil, and his skills, to slide his hands up and
down my meat then pressing it to my body, as though massaging the
underneath of it, before eventually wanking me off at sprint-pace, a pace
that he intended to keep up until I came. I opened my legs to increase the
intensity of the pleasure. The feeling shot through my entire body as he
continued rapidly masturbating his star-runner. I am not gonna lie, it felt
incredible.

"You have a lot of stamina" Coach commented.

"Compared to who, coach?". I teased. "Do you wank off ALL the boys?"

"No, Curtis, I've never done this before, and I have no idea why this is
happening, I swear you have hypnotised me with this massive pendulum". He
jested, still wanking me harder and faster.

"A dick this big is just asking to be touched, isn't it coach?". I jested,
"And believe me coach, your hands are fucking magic, this feels amazing".

He seemed to be 'moved' by my compliment, as though he had been affirmed in
some way, strange really considering that the praise I was giving him was
in relation to his hand-job expertise. However strange, it seemed to
provide him with the motivation to turn his 'skills' up a notch as he
poured a plethora of massage oil over my dick and pumped hard as though
drilling for oil, holding my dick with a firm grip.

"Sit up". He ordered, as he jumped on the bench to sit behind me, mounting
it like a horse. I was now sitting between his legs, and his right arm
reached round and lay held of its prize again as he continued wanking me
off. His other hand slid up inside my vest caressing my nipples and my abs,
and I was pretty sure that his own boner was poking me.

We lay back, my back resting on his chest as he brought me eventually to
climax. I gave him no warning, except for the throbbing that his hand must
have felt as my hot jizz shot out of my dick, up into the air, and landed
on his forearm, several more shots followed out, and the last drops oozed
out onto his hand. He used his other thumb to wipe my piss slit dry, and
the two of us stood up and cleaned ourselves up.

"Curtis, son" he sounded guilty. "I should not have done that" he echoed
"this should never have happened".

"The fuck it shouldn't, coach". I calmed his fears. "This has been the best
training session ever, see you on Wednesday, coach". And that said, I left
him to deal with his conscience alone. NUMBER 8 was fantastic. A man I
truly respected, and still do.

I rode the first bus back to central bristol and then waited to get the
Keynsham bus back home.

Ten minutes later the single decker bus pulled up at the stop, as I
boarded, while presenting my day ticket to the driver, I was greeted with
the sound of an excited raised voice declaring "Oh my, It's the boy I was
just telling you about, Doris".

To which the reply came. "It can't be Ivy, because this is the boy that I
was telling YOU about".

I was in shock, I half recognised both of them, but it took me a while to
remember where I had seen them before. They seemed happy to see me, so I
approached them and playfully said, with a massive smile on my
face. "Ladies, ladies, one at a time please, I've had girls fighting over
me for a few years now" I exaggerated, slightly, "But never have I been the
fought over by such stunningly edible cougars as yourselves".

"Do you remember us?" Ivy asked me.

"Of course I do" I replied, "YOU are the lady who works in the corner-shop
on High Street". I answered. "I handed in someone's wallet to you
yesterday".

"Correct". She beamed. Ivy was in her mid-sixties, she was plump, but not
obese, with grey permed hair, and a little make-up on her friendly but
ageing face. "He came back for it early this morning, kid, claiming that
£80 had been stolen from it." She explained. "Mind you, he looked like
he'd been in a fight, his face was badly cut and bruised, and he was
walking with a limp."

"Oh dear". I pretended. "Poor guy".

"You shouldn't give that bastard any sympathy". Ivy continued. "The
horrible things he was saying about you and your little brother, when you
were in the shop together. He is a racist".

Ivy had assumed that Dwayne was my little brother, an error that I didn't
correct, because I loved the idea of it.

"By the way". Ivy added. "I don't just 'work' in that shop, it is MY
shop. I own it, and I live there too, upstairs in the flat above, we both
live there" she said looking over at Doris. "This is my sister,
Doris". Doris was older, perhaps in her early to mid 70's, she was thinner
and taller than her sister, with shorter hair that was dyed brown. Her face
was also wrinkly, but full of love. She looked affable, approachable, but
deep down she was a tough resilient woman, the widow of a docker.

"And I met you in the pool on Wednesday" I said to Doris "Your the one that
said 'if only I was 50 years younger'." I laughed as Ivy gave Doris a
disapproving look. They were both lovely, but it was clear that Doris was
much more liberal than Ivy.

"What?" Doris justified herself to her sister. "You weren't there, you
didn't see it!" She corrected herself "I mean him, you didn't see HIM".

"My sister has been talking about your 'swimming shorts accident' all
week". Ivy explained.

"Perhaps I reminded her of her husband" I guessed.

"His LEG maybe, God rest his soul" she mocked, comparing my dick to her
late husbands leg.

"I saw your friend Nora yesterday" I said to Doris, changing the subject to
another unwise one.

"Oh yes young man" she beamed "I have heard all about that, too".

"I don't think I want to know" Ivy chuckled. "So, young man, what's YOUR
name?"

"Curtis". I answered. "Curtis Denton"

"Curtis, you are a lovely young man" Doris stated, softly. "Anytime you
want to come and 'jam' with two old-and-past-it 'bitches' you know where to
find us". We all laughed, though none as hard as Doris.

"Do you have any job vacancies?" I asked Ivy.

"Not at the moment, Curtis, but as soon as I do, the job is yours".

It felt incredible to be trusted and admired. Doris and Ivy made me want to
be a better person, without knowing it, they had even made me feel a little
remorseful for going quite so far with Henry. I realised that Henry got the
brunt of the anger that should have been directed at one Mr. Marques
Denton, my bastard of a father, Henry had just been an easier target to
take it out on, and because it was not totally undeserved, after all Henry
is a racist prick, I had justified it to myself, but perhaps I had gone
further than I should have.

Doris and Ivy were interested in my life, they asked me about my athletics
training, and about how I was doing in school. They asked me if I had a
girlfriend, and I told them that I was working on. Dating Dwayne's sister,
Gamu. They asked me about my family, and I was able to open up and confide
in them about my dad's ineptitude and my mothers bi-polar and alcoholism. I
shared with them many stories of having to bath my mother, clean up her
vomit, how I had to cook and clean, and basically provide for myself as
well as for her. Nobody has ever paid me this much attention before. It
felt... um, warm.

"How many bedrooms have you got in your house?". Ivy asked.

"Three" I replied, "mine, mums and the spare room".

"Why don't you rent the spare room out?" She suggested. "Rooms are going
for about £75 a week, that would bring in enough to feed you and pay the
gas and electric".

I stepped over to their chair and kissed her. "Thank you". I almost cried
in relief. "That is a perfect suggestion".

Doris and Ivy stood up, to alight from the bus, and I followed them,
actually I should have got off two stops ago, but I had just wanted to draw
out the time with these two elderly angels. The bus stopped, and we got
off. I kissed them both on their cheeks again and thanked them for their
ear.

"If you need a break from your situations", Ivy said, diplomatically "you
know where we are, we have a big comfy couch that you can sleep on any time
you need it".

I jogged home, thankful and elated. As I approached my street, I began to
wonder what the reception would be like. Is mum gonna have calmed down?

She was not home.

I took of my tracksuit, socks and skins and threw them in the
washing-machine, checking it for crockery first, of course. I rushed to my
room and peeled the cover off my duvet, which certainly needed a wash after
all the action it had seen lately. On my way back down I grabbed a towel
from the bathroom and tied it around my waist, intending to shower once the
washing-machine was running. Jingle bells suddenly resounded through the
house. 'I need to change that fucking doorbell setting' I thought on my way
to answering the door.

It was PC Dave. I panicked. Hold on, he was not in uniform. Panic
over. Dave was wearing a grey flannel Nike tracksuit and some grey
Huarachis. "I've come for that chat" he announced in a patronising voice.

"Look" I started. "We have nothing to discuss fam, I seduced you, and I
lied to you about my age, so YOU are off the hook, OK, its cool bruv, aint
gonna be no repercussions".

"It can never happen again, bro". He stated as though 'on record'.

'Who the fuck does he think he is?' I thought. "Don't flatter yourself
officer". I taunted him, pissed off at his condescending tone. "It was
aight, the way you sucked my fourteen-year-old dick," I stressed. "but your
not all that, fam. I have got better head from twelve-year-old girls
before".

"That is not the sort of thing you should say to a police officer, Curtis".
I could land you in serious trouble.

"Seriously, I don't think that there is anything" I emphasised "A-NAY-THANG
that I cannot say to an officer of whom I have a video, clearly showing him
sucking my under-age dick". I screwfaced. "I can admit to anything to you
fam, and there is nothing you are gonna do about it, because I can destroy
you" I carried on, testing the theory. "I smoke weed sometimes fam, in
fact, I have weed upstairs in my bedroom right now, I have fucked about ten
underage girls and I set one of them up to be fucked by an eleven year old
boy yesterday and I stood by and filmed it. Fam, A teacher in my school is
sucking my dick, what are you gonna do about that? And I steal breakfast
from Patel's Mini-Market every morning, shall I go on?" I diverted from the
truth. "I killed Princess fucking Diana fam, and Doody fucking Fayed or
whatever his fucking name is. I shot Biggie, I spiked Amy fucking
Winehouses drink on my way to drowing Whitney Houston in a bath. I have
Madeline McCann locked in the under stairs cupboard, I run Keynsham's Al
Qaida terror cell and I am plotting to blow up the clock-tower and there's
not a muthafucking thing you can do about it because like Illuminati
fam... I OWN YOUR ASS." My temper flared. "You came here on the pretence of
being concerned about me, because my mother is mentally ill. Fam, my mother
was mentally ill when I was SIX and I survived. I am taking care of my
business fam and I don't need your fake concern when really all you came
here for was to check that I aint gonna snake you because u sucked THIS
DICK", I opened my towel, flashing at him.  "You Pussyole.  Well keep one
eye over your shoulder nigga, or apply for a transfer, because you have
fucked up OFFICER. Now get the fuck out of my house."

PC Dave turned around and left without saying a word. 'Prick' I muttered
under my breath. 'And I was in a good mood, too before you came'.

I went to my room, fired up my laptop and opened gumtree. I scribed an
advert, making sure I was slightly undercutting all the competition for a
'quick sale'.

'Small double room to let in Keynsham, 20min from Bristol, clean and tidy
non-smoking house, £70 per week including bills, No DSS'. I uploaded a
photo of the room and sent the ad live, including my mobile phone
number. "God bless Ivy" I said to myself.

My phone pinged, it was a bbm invite from 'Gamu'. I accepted and sent her
'about time, princess'.

She replied 'Not all africans think they are princesses, u know'.

'Not all africans could carry the title' I flirted.

'Mummy always tells me to be wary of a boy with smooth flattering words'.

'Would she rather I called you 'bitch',' I replied.

'Looooool'.

'How's my kid brother, Dwayne?' I asked.

'Yhn wat's with you hanging round with a primary school boy?' She asked
apparently sarcastically.

'I ain't got a brother, so I borrowed yours' I stated.

'Your welcome to him' she mocked.

'I wanna hear you play the violin' I said, trying to appear as genuinely
interested as I am.

'That could be arranged' she replied.

'By the way' I changed the subject, 'we are gonna have beautiful kids'.

'Loooooooool, are we now?'.

'Its in Gods hands' I said, remembering her parents were religious. She
responded with the 'hug' smilie, and with that our first conversation drew
to a halt. I didn't wanna appear over-keen, so I decided to wait for HER to
talk to ME next time.

My phone rang. It was Kemal. "Bro, I hope you don't mind me phoning, but,
its just that your mum is here in the shop, and she has been sitting here
since 11am this morning. She doesn't look well, mate."

"Thanks fam, I'm on my way". I replied, I looked at my phone to check the
time. It was 15:08. She had been sitting there for four hours. I threw my
grey shorts and a blue string vest on, and put my trainers on and putting
the door on the latch, I ran down the road to the Kebab shop, as I entered
the shop Kemal and I bumped fists, I mouthed 'sorry, fam', and I went and
sat by my mum.

"Are you real?" She said, looking totally lost.

"Yes ma, I'm real" I took her hands in mine.

She burst into tears, "Thank Jesus, I thought I'd imagined you". She said,
as though her words were rational. "I thought I'd aborted you, baby".

"I'm here ma, let's go home".

"Ok baby" she conformed. "Is your father at home?" She asked.

"No ma," I explained, ready to make up a lie, to lighten to blow. "He has
gone to visit nana Florence in Jamaica, he'll be back by christmas".

"I do miss him" she said, following me out of the shop and across the
road. "He is a good man, your father".

I got mum safely inside and sat her on the couch, she was still wearing her
mud-stained nighty and a pair of slippers. I went to the kitchen and warmed
up yesterdays leftovers, the only thing in the house there was to eat, and
we sat watching re-runs of 'You've Been Framed' all afternoon in eerie
silence, no-one laughed, and hardly a word was spoken. Mum drifted off to
sleep, I woke her, only to assist her up to her room. I rooted around in
her drawer for a clean nighty. She lifted the soiled one over her head,
revealing to me afresh the back that paid a constant reminder of Marques'
brutality. Her back was covered in cigarette burn marks and scars. How I
hate him.  I vowed again to 'take him out'. Mum dressed in her clean nighty
and climbed under her covers. I had become the parent, and she, the child.

I read to her from a card that nana Florence had sent some years ago, with
a poem on it called 'Footprints'. As I closed, she fell soundly asleep,
like a baby, soothed by the purring of a car engine.

I went to the kitchen and cleared up our very late lunch, hung my washing
on the line, and then jumped on my bike and rode to the shops. I put £10
on the electricity key and £10 on the gas card, I bought £30 worth of
food, searching through the 'reduced' section and being very resourceful
with my limited funds. I had spent £5 on my bus fare today, and I had
£5 left to get to training on Wednesday. That left me with nothing. A
lesser person would have felt vulnerable, but I was feeling empowered.

Today had been a challenging day, I had become more acquainted with my
weaknesses and I did not like it. I was becoming unexplainedly infatuated
with Dwayne, I had poured my heart out to two old ladies I barely knew and
I had held back tears today, in dealing with my mum. But as I walked back
home with four bags of shopping, pushing my bike, regretting bringing it, I
vowed to man-up. Although freshly acquainted with my weaknesses, I had also
proven to myself that I am tough and ready to face my battles. I had put
Henry in his place, and PC Dave for that matter, I was 'geared up' to
tackle my father and I was certainly 'taking care of business at home'. The
weight on my shoulders was heavy, but I was realising just how
broad-shouldered I could be.

I reached home, loaded the gas and electric, unpacked the shopping and
checked on mum who was still soundly sleeping. I retired to my room, took
out the piece of paper and wrote by Amelia 'Vince's daughter?', and by Jade
'Vince's daughter?' The field was narrowing slightly. It could be BOTH of
those two white girls, but it could not be BOTH Tabita AND Fiona as one of
the pregnant girls has a white-white-van-driving dad.

Jingle Bells sounded again. 'Who the fuck is it now' I thought. I looked
out of my window and saw two police officers and a woman in plain
clothes. 'Fuck' I thought. I wasn't sure if they had come about PC Dave, or
about Henry, or maybe about shoplifting. I weighed up whether to run or
not. 'If I run, they'll know I'm guilty'. I decided to answer the door and
face the music.

"Are you Curtis Denton?".

"What's up officers? I said, avoiding the question.

"Curtis, where were you between the hours of 8pm and 9pm last night?"

"I was here". I lied.

One of the police officers introduced the lady in plain clothes, she was
from the Youth Offenders Team. He then proceeded with, "Curtis, you are
going to have to come with us to be questioned at the Station, are your
parents home?".

"No" I lied. "Dad is in Jamaica and mum is visiting a friend, she will be
back later".

"Then Mrs. Price from YOT will act as your appropriate adult". The officer
explained.

"You cannot make me go with you". I hoped.

"Yes I can Curtis". The officer confirmed. "Curtis Denton, I am arresting
you on suspicion of GBH, you do not have to say anything, but anything you
do say may be taken down and used in evidence against you". And with that,
they hand-cuffed me, and lead me into the back of the police car, which
sped off to the police station.

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If you have enjoyed this chapter please email me at
marcusdacosta@hotmail.co.uk quoting 'curtis seduces'. I will write chapter
9 if I know people are still reading.

Please donate to keep nifty alive!
http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html

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