Fresh Teen Armpits

Your cousin Scootaloo stares at you with a combative smirk. A bead of sweat drips off the tip of her nose. Your body is tense and your ears are filled with the bouncing tump, tump, tump of the basketball on the concrete.

You break left. The ball is in your hands as you lift your shoulders for the pump fake.

You twist right.

With a quick step forward, you break past her defense and go for the layup –

“Rejected!”

The ping of the ball rings through the back yard as her smack sends it flying into the grass.

She stands under the net with a grin, looking down on you with her hands on her hips as she prepares to gloat – as always. “What's the score again, short-stuff? Twenty to twelve? I've been in the lead for so long I think I stopped counting.”

Yeah, she's feeling pretty full of herself, just because she's won a couple of games of one-on-one. Now, already on your fourth game of the day, you're running on pure stubbornness. The late afternoon sun is at your back, low in the sky but still blazing on Scootaloo's long concrete driveway while any shade cast by the squat form of her house falls on the unmowed lawn of her backyard.

“Feh!” You grumble under your breath, both at the score and at her insult. “Yeah, 'counting.' I figured you'd have trouble with that part.” Where does she get off calling you short, anyway? She's only … slightly taller than you. Very slightly. Probably less than an inch even.

She laughs. “Ooh, that was a good one! I think you talk trash about as well as you shoot.”

Scoots likes to pretend the game's been a cakewalk, but both of you are clearly exhausted and drenched in sweat from the summer heat. Her breath is still heaving as she stands there in her cutoff shorts and baggy tee shirt, the orange color fading rapidly into wet patches under her arms and all down her chest – darker orange from her collar to the billowy cloth sitting loosely on her breasts, her nipples standing out in perky little peaks of fabric. Scootaloo refuses to wear a bra, and she'd simply left her unbound chest to bounce with her steps and jiggle just slightly whenever she took a shot.

Not that you've been looking or anything, because she's your cousin and that would be messed up. And plus, she's a complete ass.

You tell her as much as she lifts the bottom of her shirt to wipe her forehead, carelessly exposing the bronze skin of her flat, athletic tummy shimmering with sweat that trickles down and pools in her shallow belly button. “Just get the ball, ass.”

“Hey now! Little kids shouldn't be using that kinda language,” she says, moving to the edge of the drive where the ball sits in a tuft of high grass just under the fence that separates Scootaloo's yard from the neighbor's. “It's not nice to call people names. You wouldn't want me calling you a retarded little wiener-baby who totally sucks at basketball or something, right?”

See, now she's just asking for it.

You're determined to figure out a perfect way to get her back for that one, and you watch, deeply in thought, as she bends to retrieve the ball. As her hands reach down, her loose shirt rises off her hips to expose the bare skin of her back and the elastic waistband of her panties.

Sometimes the problems of life have a way of working themselves out.

Your hand darts forward, the backs of your knuckles softly grazing the slick cheeks of her rear end, your middle finger sitting for just a moment in the sweaty valley of her crack before you clutch her panties in your fist. Scootaloo jerks upright, but with the ball in her hands, there's nothing she can do to defend herself.

“Wah!”

She gives a startled yelp as you give her sweat dampened panties a hard tug, nearly lifting her off the ground as you leave them wedged painfully between her clenched cheeks.

Not exactly the mature thing to do, but it sure is effective.

You quickly back away into the grass, your laughter filling the yard as you watch her hobble about, stiff legged and pigeon toed, angrily picking at the back of her shorts.

“Agh! You stupid little dork!” She gives her hips a quick wiggle and a shallow squat as she finally manages to work the underwear out of her crevices. “What do you think you're doing, anyway? You can't just do that kinda thing to a girl!”

You're still doubled over as she stomps in your direction. “Yeah, sure. What? Did I hurt your balls there, Dude-aloo?” Oh yeah, she's pretty mad now, but what's she gonna do about it?

Your laughter cuts off abruptly.

Her arm suddenly wraps about your throat in a rough chokehold, and you quickly bring up your hands to pull at her wrists. “Hey! Let go!”

It's no use; she must be stronger than you'd thought because her arm is not budging. The moist cloth of her shirt is soaked in her cold summer sweat and pressed hard against your neck. And as you stand there, stuck under her arm, the harsh and slightly spicy smell of her body alerts you to just how sweaty she is. “Holy … Do you ever take a shower!?”

“Not on weekends I don't.” You could actually hear her grin when she said that.

“You want me to seriously die or something, skank? It stinks under here!”

“Tough noogies, dorkus,” she says. “Hey, speaking of which ….”

You cry out as her knuckles begin to grind harshly into your scalp. As her fist twists painfully in your hair, your manly brawling instincts begin to take over. With a sudden burst of force, you wrap your arms around her knees and lift her into the air.

The awkward move pulls you off balance and sends you both falling into the shady grass of the yard. Her grip on your neck loosens for just a moment as you turn about, but she recovers quickly, and she catches your head in a two-armed clutch, crushing your face against her body. What's more, she's managed to clasp her legs around your back too. For all your effort, you're in an even worse situation than before.

“Ha! Nice try,” she says, “but you'll have to do better than that!”

Her hips press into your belly, held against you by her long, athletic legs, and your hands push against the ground on either side of her body as you try to support the weight of the two of you at once. Scootaloo's sleeve lies against your eyes in a damp bunch, leaving you all but blind as she squeezes your face into the pit of her arm. Her upper arm on one side of your cheek and the cold wetness of her shirt on the other, you can feel the skin of her underarm pressed hard against your nose and the slick feel of her sweat as it drizzles down her body. The light wisps of her armpit hair tickle your face – soft, unshaven, violet hairs, wet with tiny, salty droplets. They sit on your lips and paint wet, tickling touches on your cheek, at times even brushing against your tongue as you gasp for air.

The two of you are still breathing heavily from the struggle. With every breath she takes, you feel her chest rising and falling against the side of your face. And with every breath that you take, you inhale the hot, humid smell of her sweat. There's a slight but unmistakable bitter bite in the scent. She'd said she hadn't showered, and you definitely can tell. Her body is thick with the heavy odor of her perspiration, left to sit unwashed from her active teenage body, mixing with the sharp perfume of week-old deodorant.

You're in a tight spot for sure. No matter how much you struggle, you can't seem to break free of her hold. You merely manage to grind your face even more deeply into the hot crevice of her pit, your nose and lips and cheeks sliding against her dripping skin as you fruitlessly wiggle about, your exertions forcing you to breathe even more of her moist, musty scent. You need to break free, and you know you can't just punch her in the stomach or something. What you need is another cunning solution.

Scootaloo giggles above you. “Hey, stop wriggling! Just give it up already.”

Suddenly, the answer dawns on you in a flash of inspiration.

You lift a hand from the ground and bring it to the edge of her belly beneath the folds of her shirt. Acting quickly, you slide your fingers up along her skin, over her belly up her ribs, and with a final push, you jam your fingertips into the ticklish underside of her armpit.

Immediately, she switches to defense and releases you from her grip as she twists with peals of laughter. Her arm clamps down on your hand in her panic. She tries to roll away and push against you, but her strength is stolen by your wiggling fingers. Now that you're free, you could probably just let her go and back off ….

Or you could get some revenge.

Darting forward as she turns and tries to crawl free, you swiftly throw your other arm about her middle and pull her against you, her back against your chest and your arms wrapped about her front, one on her bare belly and the other still furiously tickling under her arm.

Her abs flex under your hands as she shakes with her laughter and struggles in your arms, constantly trying to pull away, still kicking out and hoping to push you off, all to no avail.

“Haha! Stah – aha – stop it!” she laughs into your ear as you lean over her shoulder.

You hold her tightly – tightly enough to keep her held in place and feel every breath that leaks from her spasming chest. Both of your hands sit inside your cousin's shirt, beneath the cottony cloth and against the naked skin of her body, still hot from your fighting and playing. The pit of her arm continues to grip your fingers as they poke and slide against the sweltering, hairy, feminine flesh that carries the heavy scent of her summer activity, and every so often you feel the bottom of her breast, slick with her sweat and soft against your wrist as she twists and struggles.

The wavy locks of her hair flip droplets of wetness on your forehead. She laughs and shouts your name, and her elbows flail short, pitiful blows against you. “Let go jerk!”

Suddenly a voice calls out from the window of the house.

“Are you two roughhousing out there?”

The two of you immediately shove each other away and plop down to sit calmly in the grass.

“No, mom!” Scootaloo answers.

And technically, she isn't lying.

You wait silently for a response. When none comes, Scootaloo relaxes with a sigh and then kicks you in the leg.

“Butthole.”

Finally worn out from the heat and wrestling, you don't even bother with a reprisal.

The shade feels almost cold compared to the summer sunshine. You and Scoots sit there together on the cool grass and catch your breath as your sweat slowly dries and your damp clothes begin to feel icy and uncomfortable on your skin.

After a moment, she stands and dusts the grass from her shorts. “Let's just finish that game tomorrow or something. I'm going inside for a Coke.”

“Hey, make sure you save one for me,” you call out as she walks to the door.

“Oh, I totally will,” she says in the most sarcastic voice she can manage and just grins at you as she steps inside, leaving you alone and probably Coke-less.

You scoff and lean your elbows on your uplifted knees, too tired to think anymore and too content in the feeling of the shade and the summer breeze to care. Before you realize it, your fingertips are rubbing together. You absently bring your hand to your nose and softly breathe the strange, familiar scent of Scootaloo's sweaty underarm still lingering on your fingers.

It really sucks that a girl like that is your cousin.

“Skank.”