CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Teresa
The clucking from my aunt was annoying but harmless.
“Bambino!” exclaimed my Aunt Rosita. “You took a car home? You know we can’t afford cabs,” she said.
I cringed a bit. Matt had insisted in sending me home in his private vehicle and I knew the shiny black sedan had been noticed in our working class neighborhood. Most of our friends drove beat-up Datsuns and the like, so seeing anything with less than fifty thousand miles was a novelty.
“I know, but don’t tell Mami okay? The bus wouldn’t come and it’s been such a long day.” That wasn’t a lie. I was tired, but not from cleaning Matt’s house. Instead, my employer had fucked me repeatedly and I was sore in all the right places, my body sated and deliciously used. I swear, I felt a limp coming on, he’d pounded my pussy so hard.
But it’d felt wonderful. Nasty, deep, dirty … and oh so satisfying. Matt was an amazing male animal, built in all the right ways, broad shoulders, a deep chest, and thick, heavy thighs. His cock had been so enormous that I’d been nervous at first. My eyes had grown wide at the sight of the pole punching out from his hips, the deep purple member veiny and pulsing with vitality, the crown massive with a flaring head.
I’d tried to hide my apprehension, reminding myself that I’d agreed to this, that the potential payoff was worth it. Seventy-five thousand if Matt won the election … I could manage right? Three months of work for two years of salary. I could focus on my studies, get good grades, and hopefully find a good job as an accountant after graduation.
But in the meantime, there was still the man himself. Matt was predatory, his expectations immediate. I knew I needed to find that velvet dress from the back of my closet asap because he expected me to hit the ground running, moving into his townhouse and taking on the role of girlfriend.
So I started digging around in my closet, throwing things I wanted to pack on the bed. Aunt Rosita followed me to my room, clucking at mess I was making.
“Teresita!” she exclaimed. “What’s going on? What’s that suitcase for?”
I sighed over the battered brown trunk. The fact was that I didn’t have much, so I’d be done in minutes, but I was going to have to think up some excuse to explain my three-month absence. I toyed with the thought of telling the truth. Seventy-five thousand dollars was a windfall to my family, and they would understand. Wouldn’t they? But I decided the truth was just too difficult, it was … too real, you know? Cold hard cash in exchange for services rendered.
So I fibbed.
“Auntie Rosita, it’s been so tough lately,” I said limply. “Between work and school, I’ve been exhausted. I’ve found a new job at a coffee shop close to campus and my friend Carmen has offered me a place to live for a few months. Not forever, but just so I can get really focus on studying for my CPA license.”
Some of that was true. I did plan on taking the CPA exam at some point, just not within the next six months. And Carmen was well-off, she lived in a two-bedroom and could conceivably take me in. I figured my friend would cover for me if my family investigated.
Aunt Rosita shook her head again, clucking. “But why you want to be an accountant? You’re not happy with Krystal Kleaning?”
I sighed. I didn’t mean to denigrate my aunt, but wasn’t it obvious that being a maid wasn’t my goal in life? I mean, fifty dollars a pop isn’t a lot, and it was back-breaking work, job after job. Didn’t she see the calluses on her hands, feel the way the chemicals made her eyes sting? But I understood where Rosita was coming from. Compared to the Honduras, Krystal Kleaning was a dream come true, something she hoped the next generation would preserve. I just wasn’t that right person to do it.
“It’s not that I don’t like being a part of your business, Auntie Rosita,” I said carefully. “It’s just not for me, you know? I’m good with numbers, I’m good with planning, I can find a regular job.”
“You can be our business manager,” she retorted in Spanish. “We need someone to manage Krystal’s books.”
I sighed again. “No, I’m sorry, I’m looking for something different, Tia Rosita. I love you and Mami, but I can’t work with you guys forever. I’m looking … I dunno, Tia Rosita, for something maybe … I don’t know,” I concluded lamely.
“Teresita,” she said, sitting on the bed and taking my hand in hers. “We know the adjustment’s been hard for you. We know your mom rushed you out of the Honduras because of what was happening. And baby, if we’d known sooner,” she paused to wipe a tear away, “your Mami never would have left you in the countryside.”
“But you have a chance for a new life now, so be careful, okay? You’re still an illegal. Things are different for you, you don’t have the freedoms that the gringos have, not even someone with a green card. Don’t attract attention to yourself because you’ll never be like them. If the police find out … ” her voice trailed off.
I nodded my head slowly. I’d heard this speech a thousand times, and I knew she was right, even if it made me sad. I wasn’t supposed to be in this country. I was supposed to be in the Honduras, married off at eighteen, my virginity given to some man who would be responsible for my safety then.
But Mami had come unexpectedly to the countryside one night. She’d appeared in a cloud of dust on the back of some local boy’s motorbike who’d agreed to give a ride to a poor housewife who hadn’t seen her daughter in a year.
“Mami,” I’d cried from the dining room table. Aunt Blanca had hurried outdoors immediately, exclaiming, “Lena, what are you doing here? Why have you come?”
By now, the abuse had been going on for three years. I was thirteen and oddly used to it. I no longer sat on my uncle’s lap after dinner, instead he’d come to me in the dark of the night, sucking on my pussy, lapping up my juices as I writhed in bed.
Because that was the horrible part of what had happened. I was a slut and had learned to love the oral, coming over and over again as my pussy was tantalized. It never hurt, my uncle never asked me to reciprocate, and I was actually a virgin still. It’s just that … I don’t know, there must be something deep, dark and twisted in me, something that made a thirteen year-old girl lap up the attention, my juices starting to run the minute my uncle set foot in my darkened bedroom. We never spoke about it, and I was ashamed … ashamed at my sexuality, ashamed that I was in this position, ashamed at being me.
So when my mom appeared, I was careful. Sure, this would have been a perfect time to blurt out the abuse, but instead, I said nothing. I ran outside after my aunt, happily smiling and throwing my arms around Mami.
“Teresita, have you been good?” she asked fondly, stroking my hair. “My, how beautiful you’ve become! Taller, and so …” she paused, looking at my newly-developed curves. “Like a woman,” she concluded.
It was true. Those three years had seen me blossom and now as a thirteen year-old, I was considered ripe, my boobs and hips luscious, my waist tiny, with a seductive smile that girls learn only too early where I come from.
“Come on,” said my mom fondly. “Let’s go in and get some dinner my precious girl, it’s been too long.”
And it was wonderful to see my mother again, this woman who’d done the best she could even if it meant sending me away. After a prosaic evening of light conversation with my aunt and uncle, Mami and I got ready for bed. It was obvious that Uncle Gordo wasn’t going to make his usual midnight run because my aunt’s house is small and Mami and I would be sharing my narrow mattress, there was nowhere else for her to sleep.
So I waited until my mom’s breathing deepened and slowed next to me, her arm carelessly thrown around my waist. When I heard the clock strike midnight, I carefully repositioned her arm and crawled out of bed, making sure that the blankets were tight around her form, warding off any cold air.
On tiptoes, I crept out the front door, hesitating only when the latch squeaked a bit. Outside, the warm summer air caressed my skin, blowing gently through the soft cotton of my nightgown. I made my way to the clearing at the edge of the farm, where a small grove of eucalyptus trees stood.
And there was my Uncle Gordo, waiting. He was still gross, don’t get me wrong. Shaped like a walrus, his big belly protruding under a wife beater, still greasy and disgusting, smelling of cigarette smoke. But when you’ve been molested as a child you don’t know what’s right and wrong, you can even develop a certain affection and affiliation with your captors … Stockholm syndrome, I’ve since learned it’s called.
Gordo said nothing when he caught a glimpse of me, gesturing for me to follow him even further into the grove. And reader, I did as I was told. I was so far gone by now that my pussy had already started running in anticipation of the pleasure to come. When he stopped, I stopped, and I pulled up my nightgown wordlessly, baring my teenage pussy for his nightly suckling. And Gordo didn’t hesitate. He dropped to his knees, this lecherous uncle of mine, and began lapping at my slit, that pink half shell quivering and dripping with desire.
I loved it. I loved every second of it, and must have started whimpering with pleasure, my knees weak, a man’s tongue deep inside my snatch. I was trembling, trying to maintain my balance even as Gordo continued his assault on my little twat, tasting the sweet cream, rubbing one out as he drank my girl juice.
It was only when we heard a scream that we realized we’d been discovered. Mami stood there in the moonlight, watching us, her dumpy figure swathed in a shapeless housedress. She screamed again, a bloodcurling howl, before launching herself at us, knocking Gordo aside and me to the ground.
“How can this be happening?” she jabbered in Spanish. “What’s going on? What are you doing?” she shrieked in a mixture of fury and fear.
By now, we were rolling on the ground, my mom and I a struggling mass, me trying to explain something, anything, while my mom pulled my hair, her hand scrabbling at my night gown, crying and howling all at once.
And the truth is, there was no explanation.
“Mami, stop!” I gasped. “Stop, stop!”
“Aieeee! Teresa, what has become of you? What has happened? Aieeee!” came her primal howls, the wails mixed with tears as she assaulted me, our bodies twisted together as we rolled around on the forest floor.
It was finally Gordo who pulled her off of me, her plump form like a cannonball as she was heaved to the side. She landed with a thunk and grew still, harsh sobs the only sound, tears streaming down her cheeks.
My heart cracked, the sight of my mother broken and sobbing in the Honduran countryside, the worst turn of events possible. Because she had believed that there was safety here, hoping to protect me from growing up too fast in a dangerous world. And instead, her plan had completely backfired. I’d become a slut in my three years away, having sex with my uncle at a too-young age, even enjoying it, losing myself in the experience, sneaking out at night so that I could indulge.
“Mami,” I panted breathlessly. “Please! Please,” I gasped, not knowing what to say.
Because again, there was nothing to be said. I knelt on the ground next to her, crying myself, trying to stroke her hair, stroke her hand, somehow express my sorrow and regret, confusion outlined in the girl-woman body which had betrayed me.
“Mami,” I cried, my heart breaking under the Honduran moonlight.
But my mom’s a tough cookie, she’s lived a long life and I hadn’t given her credit for her backbone and resolve. She got up and grabbed a handful of my hair, forcing me to stand as well. She frog-marched me back to the house, my Uncle Gordo trailing behind wordlessly, and threw me into my bedroom, the force of her actions bringing me to my knees.
“Pack!” she barked, her voice tight and angry, tears still evident in her eyes. Then, as now, I didn’t have much and the packing was done in a few minutes flat. She threw me my coat and we left the house, walking on a country back road.
“Mami, where are we going?” I asked plaintively, almost afraid to hear the answer. “There’s no one around here, no cabs, no people, this is the hinterlands, remember? It’s one in the morning, where are we going?”
Mami didn’t answer, her gaze resolute, refusing to meet my eyes. She marched ahead, her shoulders ramrod straight, proud even in her shabby nightclothes. I gave up and we walked and walked and walked, for hours at least, until the sun came up the next morning.
A mini-bus drove up the dirt road and my mom flagged it down.
“Where are you going?” the driver leered. Honduran men leer at every woman, even weary housewives like my mom.
“North,” she replied curtly. “I have money, I’ll pay you to get us to Tecohitas,” she said, naming the closest city. “For me and my daughter,” she clarified, nodding at me.
And so we were off. I didn’t realize how apt the word “North” was for things to come. Because, reader, as you’ve probably deduced, my mother had decided that fateful night to smuggle us into the United States, come hell or high water. There was no way we could stay in the Honduras. Her attempts to protect me had utterly failed, and the City wasn’t safe.
All that mattered was going north … to safety.