od 5,68 zł w Klubie Mola Książkowego
Larisa, the wife of an immigrant, will do anything to keep her family together. When her husband is threatened with deportation, she knows the only solution is to ask her employer for help. Mr. Rodney needs assistance with his MILF crazy son. When she goes through with it, the last thing she expects is for her son to take control! Excerpt: I did not know how long my son had been standing in the entryway between the kitchen and the outside world, but he had been there long enough to see that his mother, me, was being fucked by this White man who was the same age as he was. It was impossible to deny it- Mr. Rick still had his cock buried into my pussy from behind, even if it was starting to shrink up as he had just shot his load inside of me. “Son of a bitch,” Carlos said, “You- you have been fucking my mother!” “Yes,” Rick said, quickly pulling out of me, his hands letting my body go, “I guess- who the fuck are you?” This situation was bad in so many ways- I had cheated, I was caught, my son was seeing me naked, and he was about to get into a fight with my bosses son. Why or how Carlos came here, I do not know, and there was not enough time to figure that out right now. I had to stop this, before my son did something stupid that got him sent back to prison. “I’m Carlos,” Carlos said, looking past me and at Rick, “I’m her son.” “Yes, I get that,” Rick said, “So what the fuck are you doing here?” I did not know the abilities of Rick when it came to physical confrontation. A good lover is not usually a good fighter, and as long as I had known him, he had never mentioned ever being in a fight. I had to not only protect my son from being locked up again, but I had to protect Rick from really getting hurt. “I came here because there is a family emergency,” Carlos said, seeming to calm down- like my father, though, Carlos’ temper can change in an instant, so this meant nothing, “How long have you been fucking him?” This question was directed at me- maybe Carlos was still deciding what he was going to do about Rick, but now he was looking at me in the eyes, demanding an answer. “Just today,” I said, nearly mumbling in embarrassment. Should I try and explain why this had happened? Carlos was thinking- yes, he was choosing which way he was going to go with this information- as he looked between the two of us. I rose from my place on the counter- I was still in my maid outfit, as Rick had simply pulled my thong aside when he shoved himself inside of me, though my hair was now messed up and I felt his cum running down the back of my leg. “I can’t believe you would do this,” Carlos said, “Fuck around like a common ho- what the fuck is wrong with you?” He was choosing to blame me, not Rick- while that was good, as it meant that he was not likely to do something that would get himself in trouble, it was also bad. “I don’t know,” I said, “It just happened…” “Your mom, well, she isn’t to blame,” Rick tried to cut it, “I mean, I am just as guilty.” Rick was trying to defuse the situation, or at least take the blame for it- this is what a man should do. “No, you aren’t,” Carlos said, “She dress like that all the time when she comes to work?” “Yes,” I confessed, “It is my uniform-” “No wonder why you wanted to fuck her,” Carlos said, “Look at that- you can see almost to her pussy with those clothes on! No, man, it isn’t your fault- it’s her fault!”
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Liczba stron: 78
CHAPTER ONE Cleaning Up
CHAPTER TWO Deportation Orders
CHAPTER THREE Exchanging Problems
CHAPTER FOUR For The Families
CHAPTER FIVE Going Imperial
CHAPTER SIX His Slut Mamacita
CHAPTER SEVEN Other Books
Sometimes we can escape who we are, and sometimes we can’t.
I am not a complete believer in fate- all adults make their own decisions in their lives, and the decisions that we make result in the life we have. Take my parents, for example- if my father had decided to stay in Mexico, instead of crossing the desert to the promised land of California, then I would not even exist. He could have very easily remained in the small village in the mountains of Durango, but he decided that it was better to pick almonds in the United States than it was to try and survive at home.
My mother’s parents are the same way- they came from Cuba, and while Cubans do not have the same legal restrictions as most people who choose to come to the United States, nonetheless, they still had to live down the stereotypes that all Hispanic people face. My grandfather was a university professor, but in America, he has never progressed past cleaning floors for a living- his English has never been at the level to allow him to do anything else, and in those days, learning to speak like an American was still required if you wanted to teach. My grandmother actually made more money than him- she was only a maid in Cuba, but she was able to master the language easily, and she retired as a secretary with the benefits of a government pension.
I was born in California, in a neighborhood that may as well have been part of any country south of the border. This didn’t mean that I was accepted, even though my high school was as Latin as a street scene in Havana or Mexico City.
In school, the other girls picked on me- I have always been taller than most women of my ethnicity, topping out at five foot seven, and my hair and skin were always light for a Hispanic woman. My Cuban grandparents claimed that the ancestry on that side was “pure Spaniard,” so even though my father was as brown as the average field worker, I turned out nearly White in complexion. Color in American society is not just something that Black people seem to use against each other, it is also something that the racially conscious believers in “La Raza” use to judge each other- of course, whereas Black people used to want to look as light as possible, the Chicano movement wants to show as much Indian blood as they can now.
No matter how light my complexion is, or how good my English is- yes, it is my first language, as both of my parents wanted to be American- I am still who I am. A woman that is Hispanic, or Latina, or Chicana, depending on who is talking to me- a woman that is still asked if she understands English when a racist cop pulls her over, or is spoken to in rapid fire Spanish when she visits distant relatives in Florida. Some people are trapped between two worlds, I am trapped between three.
As a girl, I dreamed of the American dream- a house with a white picket fence, a dog and a cat, and two or three children. This is a dream that is salable to anyone who decides to come here, and while some people say that they want to recreate the homes of their ancestors here in this country, neither my Mexican father nor my Cuban grandparents ever wanted to return home. Their heritage, my heritage, was good for it’s food, it’s music, and for cheering for soccer teams, but they all considered themselves Americans first.
Reality is different than dreams, not just for me but for most people, and instead of owning a house like that or marrying a rich man, I clean a mansion just as my grandfather cleaned floors. I don’t blame racism for that- there are plenty of whitebread Americans who are in the exact same shoes as I am in, people who are hard workers that simply have not been able to get the money together to move up in the world. Yes, some of those people blame people like us for their situation- they say that the reason is because Mexicans drive down the wages and steal the jobs- and some Hispanic people say that these gringos are too lazy to do the work that we do.
The fact is, when a person is not born into money, the chances are that they will not ever move into money. Everyone loves to play the lotto, or buy scratch offs in the hope that they will win a golden ticket out of a lower class existence, but this is as likely as my grandparent’s home in Cuba being returned to us. In life, most people end up much like their parents, for better or for worse, and that is okay.
I am not angry that I am not wealthy- I have always had enough food to eat, even if my parents had to work three jobs each at times to keep a roof over our heads, and even if I have to clean up after a fat old man who smells like chicaronnes and whose underwear have rich brown streaks in them. I am happy that I live in a neighborhood where sirens aren’t heard every time the sun sets, even if my house is nine hundred square feet and in need of a new coat of paint. My own husband has been promising to take care of that for the last five years, but just like I get tired of cleaning all day, he gets tired of painting and the last thing he wants to do when he gets home is to do what he does all day in the sun.
When I married Gilbert, my father was happy that I was marrying a “pure Mexicano”- again, as if anyone is pure!- but my mother was happier that I was actually tying the knot before I gave birth. I had never told her that I was pregnant, but since she had me and seven other children, she was nobody’s fool that my sudden desire to find a husband was based on more than ethnic values. Gilbert is probably not my oldest son’s father- that would be a man who I met at a club a week before I started dating my husband- but either way, he thinks that Carlos is his son, and Mexican men are always proud of their children. Some secrets are better left unsaid, especially when telling them won’t do anyone any good.
So far, our life has been pretty good.
Gilbert works all he can work, and we do own our house. We are not forced to live with relatives, and better than that, we don’t have to live in the urban nightmare known as East Los Angeles. So what if we both have to spend two hours or more driving to work each way- it is a small price to pay to keep our children away from the crime, the drugs, and the gangs that seem to be a feature of urban Hispanic life.
We have four children, a small family compared to both of our own families, but large enough that I have had to learn how to function on three hours of sleep every night. Wake up at four, get breakfast ready, then clean up, get in my old minivan and make the trip out to Burbank. Come home from work, get changed back into a set of clean clothes, and end whatever argument is going on between the kids. Make dinner, wait for him to get home, go to sleep and do it again the next day.
Hard work may be healthy- my grandfather is still kicking at ninety, and he still works part time- but being healthy doesn’t make it any easier!
Things were going good, if not as well as I expected my life to turn out, but I could not complain.
Then- the new administration got elected.
This did not affect us so much in California- at least not in the part of the state in which we live. Politicians of all types, from dog catchers to the governor, know that enforcing federal laws about immigration is only going to be political suicide. Even Orange County Republicans, who may grumble about illegals when they are in a primary race, have no desire for anyone other than actual criminals to leave the country. Someone is still going to have to clean their floors, make their meals, and wipe the asses of their parents and their children alike. The president, who is married to an immigrant himself, may try to push the state around, but his tweets don’t have any real meaning once you get away from the most isolated parts of the Golden State.
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