Chapter 3: Luz

"I missed my period." Before my parents could even absorb those words, I added the kicker. "It's been two months now."

Did you ever see the photograph taken at the White House during the raid which ended with the death of Usama bin Ladin? Hillary Clinton is shown with her hand covering her mouth. Whether shock, concern, cough, it doesn't matter. When I saw it, it reminded me of Mother's reaction when I had uttered those words. Her hand covered her mouth and she was unable to speak. Father's face on the other hand was more like that of then-Defense Secretary Gates, stern, angry. He leaned across the kitchen table and slapped me as hard as he could.

"Slut!"

Despite the stinging pain from Father's hand, despite the venom I could hear in his voice as he spat out that one single word, I understood his emotions.

My grandparents (I'm talking about my Father's parents in this story; my Mother's parents are still living happily ever after in Puerto Rico) migrated from Puerto Rico to Seattle when Father was about ten years old. I use the word 'migrated' delicately, meaning from a place with a different language. As many of us know, people born in Puerto Rico are U.S Citizens by birth, and since Abuela was a citizen by birth, Father became a citizen instantly. For bi-partisan confirmation, see Democratic President Obama or potential presidential candidate Republican Senator Cruz, political opponents who were (allegedly?) born in foreign countries. My grandparents were unusual for natives of Puerto Rico; they were Protestants, not Catholics.

Grandpa (enough of the Spanish language words) was a hard-working ferry captain, and a hard-drinking one after the last passengers were disembarked. He often went out with the crew after hours, and I ultimately became convinced that when he wasn't drinking, he was whoring around. Grandma was a genteel woman, cultured, keeping house for Grandpa and for Father. At Grandma's steady knee, Father got religion, studied at Divinity School and became a Minister. In his first posting, in Seattle, he met Mother and they later married. My luck was that Father was not Catholic, for then he would have become a Priest and remained celibate, presumably, and there would not have been a Luz to tell this story.

Long story short, Father had an opportunity to serve a larger Church and we moved to Ithaca, in New York, leaving my grandparents back in Seattle. Father, always a quiet one, and fearful of being branded as an 'outsider' due to his accent, struggled to blend into the mostly Anglo congregation in Ithaca. Thus, when I announced my pregnancy, his reaction was concern that his parishioners would say something like, 'what do you expect, her father's one of them'.

So his slap on my face was understandable as was his and Mother's decision to send me back to my grandparents in Seattle to hide my pregnancy from the people they dealt with day after day. I had no objection; I hated the boy who had impregnated me.

As the old expression goes, and I admit to having no idea where it came from, the move to Seattle seemed like a good idea at the time.

Grandma welcomed me with open arms. Grandpa welcomed me with an open zipper. Though it really took a bit longer than that. But not that much.

I may have been a virgin before that lying sack of shit (excuse my cursing) Michael Beasley ('don't worry, Luz baby, I'll pull out before I cum') knocked me up, but I did know when man or boy was drooling over my tits and wanted to shove his cock into one of my holes. And by my third day in Seattle, I overheard Grandma telling Grandpa to stop drooling over my tits and I heard him reply that if she didn't shut up, he'd break her ass and put her in the hospital the way he did it last time she commented on his fucking around.

So it didn't surprise me in the least when later that night he tiptoed into my room. I felt his presence rather than heard him. I woke up, opened my eyes and saw a hard, naked cock a foot away from my face. I screamed.

"Grandma!"

The only sound was that of Grandma's bare feet running down the hall toward my room.

"What do you think you're doing, Jose?" Leave her alone!"

Grandpa took one step toward the door and gave Grandma one swipe with the back of his hand. She fell to the floor, crying.

"Shut the fuck up, Rosa." His words were slurred. "Go back to bed or sit there and watch me fuck your granddaughter's face. I don't care which."

Without waiting for any response, he swung one leg over my face and sat on my breasts. Leaning forward, he brought his cock toward my mouth. The only cock I had ever seen previously had been attached to the groin of Michael Beasley. In comparison, Grandpa's seemed to be twice as long – though in retrospect I know it wasn't – and twice as fat around – which I still think it was.

"Suck it, you little slut, and if you bite me, I'll knock out every one of your fucking teeth."

I had never sucked a cock. The very idea disgusted me; I didn't know what a boy's cum tasted like. Shit, if I had been willing to suck Michael's cock when he asked me to, actually begged me to, I wouldn't have had to let him fuck me, and I would still be living in Ithaca, far, far away from Grandpa. Still, I knew instinctively that if I refused to take Grandpa's cock into my mouth, he'd slap me silly, just as he did with Grandma. And he might just harm the baby growing inside me. I looked across the room. Grandma was still on the floor, still sobbing, her head against the wall, her eyes closed. I wanted a signal from her, some help, but I couldn't get any.

I hesitated for just a moment, and in that moment Grandpa's hand crossed in front of my eyes as he prepared to backhand my face, just as he had done to Grandma. I opened my mouth just in time. His hands grasped the back of my head and he slammed his cock into my open mouth, the crown hitting against the back of my throat. I gagged; I coughed.

"Suck it, bitch. Show your Grandpa that you know how to do it properly. Otherwise, you'll be wearing false teeth the rest of your life, just like that frigid bitch grandmother of yours."

I wondered, did Father and Mother know what kind of animal they were sending me back to in Seattle, a place I'd never been? Terrified, I sucked carefully, curling my lips between my teeth to prevent accidental scraping. Happily, he didn't take long. I heard his grunt, felt the throbbing, tasted the disgusting cream as it hit my tongue. When he pulled out, I was about to spit out his cum until he held one hand tightly over my mouth.

"Swallow it, cunt. Every drop."

I had no choice. But luckily for this girl who would one day become a street-walking whore, it really didn't taste as bad as I had feared.

Then he looked at Grandma. "Come back to bed now, you old prune."

When he left for work the next day, I sat down with Grandma. It seems that Grandpa had been that way ever since he had driven Father away from the home due to Father's genteel carriage. Grandma was terrified of her husband, who beat her regularly. I too was terrified of him but I always had Mother to rely on in a pinch. With some effort, I convinced Grandma to run away with me to a new apartment – someplace.

Money was not a problem. My parents were sending Grandma enough money to take care of me during my pregnancy. We found a new place to hide but it wouldn't be available for over a month. In the meantime, Grandpa continued to shove his cock in my mouth, to fuck me straight up – he was very earnest in his attempt to convince me that his cum was good for the baby – and, when he was drunk enough, to fuck me in the ass. When he was in a good mood, he would take me to one of his favorite bars and fill me with ginger ale. Then he would pimp me out to his friends at the bar, giving me a pittance of his collections and keeping the balance for himself. Jeez, those old drunks were really turned on by the idea of fucking a teenage girl with a baby inside her.

It was with his friends that I learned how to be a good whore, a successful one. And once Grandma and I had successfully escaped, and Maria Teresa had been delivered, I went back on the streets to supplement the funds that my parents, mostly Mother, sent for my support.

Actually of course, when I just said a good whore, a successful one, I was talking about how to get a guy to empty his pipes as quickly as possible and how to flatter him so that he would ask for me when his balls were full. What I didn't learn from Grandpa's bastard friends was how to make real money spreading my legs and how to keep myself safe. For those things I had to turn to the other girls on the street, my "cooperating competitors" as they are known in the real estate sales business, so to speak.

The first thing they taught me was to collect in advance. That doesn't sound very profound, since a working girl can only make that mistake once and she'll never forget it again. They gave me tips on how to recognize undercover vice cops. I worked around that by telling the first uniformed cop I saw that any cop, uniformed or undercover, could have a free blow job without the need for fake arrests, extortion or paperwork. Sure, it cost me some money but an experience whore's mouth can handle an infinite number of cocks. The goodwill it generated saved me many a night in lockup, only to be sentenced to time served, and it also kept wannabe pimps from pressing too hard on my turf.

I learned to trust my intuition and to turn down a man whose face I didn't like, no matter how much money he offered or how fancy a car he drove. I learned to carry a flashlight so that I could look into the back seat of any car to make sure that there was no one else hiding there. They taught me to carry mace, to carry a sharp knife and just in case, to carry a small gun. Of course they're illegal but as the old saying goes, better to be judged by twelve (jurors) than to be carried by six (pall bearers, that is.)

Of equal importance, I learned how to charge, how to negotiate, how to bluff if all the other girls were busy. And how to hide my money (in my boots) between johns. And which slummy hot sheet hotels would give me a commission for bringing business (other than blow jobs, for which a back seat or a dark alley was usually sufficient.)

Whoring is not a pleasant profession. If all a girl wanted to do was to cum, she could walk into any bar and plenty of guys would be glad to fuck her. But if she wants to make money out of her pussy, she has to work all sorts of hours, in all sorts of weather, taking cocks in every opening from guys who didn't know what a shower was or when to take one. Whew, the smells!

And despite a girl's best preparations, there are guys who like to beat up a whore, it proves their manliness, or fuck her and then take back their money, or pay for a blow job and then force the cock up her ass, or pick her up in a vacant car and drive around the corner for a blow job, where there may be three or four other guys waiting to use her for a gang bang.

And leaving a young girl with her grandmother while she works the streets and then trying to explain why Momma works in the middle of the night while all the other kids have mothers who work days, nine to five.

Once in a while, a girl gets lucky. Sometimes she gets to go to a decent hotel, with a married man who has a white collar job. Sometimes there's a convention in town and business improves, together with the fees from guys on expense accounts. Once in a blue moon she's invited to spend a weekend in Las Vegas, fucking day and night but eating in nice restaurants and sleeping on high thread count sheets. And then there are guys like Bobby's dad, who treat a whore like a lady, and Bobby himself, who invited me into his house without any conditions when I was beaten up by a john.

One day Bobby announced that his Mom (Dotty) was going to be flying up from San Diego for a visit, without her husband. I just assumed, for Bobby had told me all about their affairs, that she needed a good fucking. Also I was looking forward to meeting the woman who had made my lover into such a fantastic lover. When he brought her into the house and introduced us, we hugged, as would a young woman meeting her future mother-in-law – not that Bobby and I had ever discussed marriage. Grandma and Maria Teresa, who was then about ten, got the same greeting, and the four of we women chatted like a bunch of magpies.

Then Dotty asked the other two if she and I could have some alone time. We sat next to each other on a couch in the den, feet up on a glass table, a fire crackling and warming the room. We sipped wine, she red, I white.

"Luz, your daughter is a beautiful young child. You must be very proud of her."

I smiled and thanked her. Then her next words hit me between the eyes.

"Was my husband in love with you?"

I gasped. My eyes opened like saucers. "I never met your husband, Dotty."

"Please don't try to bullshit me. Luz. When he was home on leave, I could taste pussy on his cock at least once a week. I knew when he took Bobby out to get him laid for the first time, and I saw your initials on the panties that Bobby used to jerk off into when he was a kid."

There was nothing to be gained by denying the past. "I was a whore, thanks to my Grandpa. I walked the streets and I fucked anyone with money. I had a baby to support. Your husband was nothing but a john to me. A nice guy, sure, treated me like a lady. But love? Fuck no. The only man I ever loved is Bobby, and that wasn't until after he moved us into this home. As far as the panties were concerned, I gave a pair to every youngster whose father brought him to me for his first piece of ass. They're not expensive and believe it or not, when those kids start to visit the neighborhood without Daddy, most of the time they ask for me."