Mi Vida
Chapter 1

Copyright© 2015 by oyster50

Romantic Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Many things can be found in the dry ranges of South Texas. One of them is work. Good work. Sometimes, though, going through the motions of the job, one doesn't know what manner of strangeness can come into one's life, turning routine into a little bit of an adventure. Meet Dave and what he finds hidden behind the seat of his work truck, a Guatemalan waif. She's looking for her aunt. Or something.

Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Ma/ft   ft/ft   Fa/ft   Mult   Consensual   Romantic   Lesbian   BiSexual   Heterosexual   Incest   Brother   Sister   Group Sex   Polygamy/Polyamory   White Male   Hispanic Female   First   Masturbation   Oral Sex   Petting   Slow   Geeks  

"Look, there's a gas station on the west side of the road about fifteen miles down the road from the hotel you're gonna stay at. Meet me there at around eight."

That was one of our technicians. He takes care of the equipment that measures what's flowing through our pipeline. His job takes him out into the middle of nowhere all the time because the sites where his equipment is located are on or near the right of way of a pipeline that starts way down in Texas and goes all the way to the land of Yankees up north, billions and billions of BTUs for heating and electricity and factories.

Somebody has to make these things work. That's us. My part of the pie is that I'm the electrical guru. Something wrong with electricity? I'm the guy you call.

I got called because this particular site has had a lot of equipment failures during spring storms – lightning, the tech says. I figure it's worth a visit, so a mere five-hour drive, and overnight in yet another hotel, and then meet with the tech, let him lead me to his site, and I'll take a look.

The next morning I'm in the appointed parking lot. We meet, shake hands, I refresh my coffee, and then I follow him out to the site. I love these things. The instructions to the site include the dreaded term "then turn off the paved road". We unlock and lock a series of gates as we travel across private land, finally arriving at the little building in the middle of the endless miles of caliche clay and limestone and cactus and mesquite and other flora and fauna of the semi-arid land.

There's a chain-link fence around the building, but the gate's off the hinges. We pulled through the gate. I parked my truck outside the yard and exited, leaving the door open. Out in the middle of nowhere, right? I opened the back door of the crew cab and grabbed my camera. Left that door open, too.

I looked at the mess, the result of too many weeks on the road, and I promised myself that I'd clean the thing out. After all, it's spring, and the layers of winter clothing were a couple of feet deep, the things that had served me well in the dead of winter.

"Dunno what they're looking for," Duncan said. "No water. It's a long way to come to strip the place for copper. But every time I come here, the gate's off and the door's open."

I nodded. I kicked a bundle of clothes rolled haphazardly together, stashed against the side of the building. I saw evidence that this place had been a stop for a lot of people.

"Yeah," he said about the sad bundle of clothing. "The right of way's a common path for illegal immigrants. The coyotes dump 'em on this side of the Rio Grande. Some of 'em come this way, headed for Houston, or at least closer than they were..."

"Must be tough," I said.

"Yeah. I can imagine. This place in July ... I hate it."

We went about the business at hand. He opened up enclosures filled with equipment, I peered inside, we chatted.

I made recommendations, sketched a few things on a pad. "I'll put all this together in an email and send it to you, and copy our bosses," I said. "They have to justify paying me the medium bucks."

"Yeah, I know," he commiserated. "You think your ideas are gonna work?"

"I give 'em about a 90% chance. This is just doing the housekeeping" I said. "We should've put this stuff in on the original installation, but people didn't know back then. If this doesn't work, then the next steps are more expensive."

"Oh."

"It's worked everywhere we've tried it, but lightning is a strange thing. Does crazy stuff."

We secured the cabinets, did our best job of repairing the door lock and re-installing the gate, and then I followed him back through the scrub and onto the highway. I turned north. He turned south, headed to other sites.

I was on the long road, driving through the countryside. Wasn't even a main highway, but it was a pretty good road. I punched up some good music on the sound system. My music. Miles by Mozart, my preferred travel mode.

I was engaged in the arpeggios of a piano sonata when I thought the back of my seat moved. I shrugged it off as an irregularity in the road that I'd failed to notice. A little later, it was a definite push, and I was thinking about hitting the shoulder for a look when a dark-haired head popped up.

"Señor, tiene agua?"

It is to my great credit that I didn't exercise any of several options, among them crapping my pants, driving off the road, or screaming. I also credit myself with my terribly measured response. "Huh?"

The rounded face, crowned and framed with short, dark, shiny and disheveled hair, with a pair of dark expressive eyes, looked thoughtful, then said, "Do you have water?"

Okay. Time to use my expansive Spanish vocabulary. "Si." That was about it. On the front seat beside me, a concession to what I know about working in South Texas, sat a little ice chest. I reached over, opened it. Extracted a bottle.

"Gracias. Thank you."

Okay, I do know a little more Spanish. I just as well try it. First, the face in the back seat sucking down that water looked young. Early to mid-teen, but I'm used to judging white kids, so I could be wrong. Second, if there was mayhem on his mind, he had me dead to rights.

'His'. I could be wrong about that. Let me try. "¿Cómo se llama?" I think I remember that was something like "What's your name?" I added another ten percent of my entire Spanish vocabulary, "Por favor?"

"Carlos Ortiz," the kid said, then kept talking, dumping a string of Spanish on me that made as much sense to me as Sanskrit does to a turtle.

So okay, the remainder of my Spanish: "No habla."

The face knit again, a little struggle evident, then "I am sor-ry. I learn Eengleesh. Not use it."

"Better than my Spanish, Carlos," I said. I started pulling the truck onto the shoulder, slowing down.

"Thank you for the water. I will go away now," the kid said sadly.

I spoke slowly. "I am not going to make you get out. I – you may sit in the front seat."

A smile. "Gracias! Thank you!"

The truck stopped. The kid popped open the door, ran around the front, opened the front passenger-side door and got in. I tugged my seatbelt, indicating that he should buckle in. Got a questioning look.

"Seatbelt. For safety," I said. I unbuckled mine, crawled over the console, tugged on his, pulling it across the slight torso... ??? Something's not right here. The accommodations don't match my definition of a 'Carlos'.

I kept my thoughts to myself and pushed the belt's tab into the receiver, snapping it.

'Carlos' must've sensed something in my motion because the smile waned a bit.

I motioned to the little ice chest, now on the passenger side floor. "More water? Coca-cola?" I flipped the lid up on the console. Inside was my little stash of snacks for the road. "Food?"

The kids snagged a granola bar, peeled back the wrapper, and devoured it.

Okay. Now I have to ask. "Carlos? Or Carlita?"

The dark eyes flashed and the face turned downward.

"Carlita."

"Okay," I said. "I am Dave."

"Hello, Dave," she said. I noted that a little less accent was used.

"How old are you, Carlita?"

"Catorce años ... uh, fourteen years[PtC1]."

She looked it, I guess. The disguise transformed her into an asexual waif who could be anywhere from ten to eighteen.

"Where are you from?" I asked.

"Guatemala. Near Guatemala City."

"Do you know where you're going?"

A sigh. A headshake.

"Do you ... you want me to take you to an immigrant shelter?"

"They would keep me. I do not want to be kept."

"Your English seems to have gotten better."

"I was raised in an orphanage since I was six years. It was run by American missionaries. They taught us English."

"Why did you not stay there?"

"Narcotraficantes," she said. "The police did not stop them. We were robbed, then forced away. My tia, my uh, aunt, she came to America to start a business. She was going to send for me when she could."

"Your aunt. And you said you lived in an orphanage," I said.

"She was not really my aunt, just a friend of my mother. She worked in the orphanage, she is an educated woman."

"Do you know where she went?"

"Not Houston. New Orleans, I think. The last letter was a year ago."

I'm thinking 'lost child'. I don't know what I would do in the same circumstances.

"What is your plan?" I asked. I had to know if there WAS a plan.

"The group I was with, we were going to go to Houston and then I was going to try to ride with somebody to New Orleans."

"How were you going to live?"

"Churches. They tell me that churches will feed us. I have some money also."

"Money? How much?"

She looked around the truck, I guess to gauge how likely I was to rob her. "I have fifty-one dollars."

"Carlita, that's not much money. And is Carlita your real name?"

"Yes. It is nice to be called by my name again. I have been Carlos for weeks."

"You travelled as a boy?"

"Yes. I have heard stories about what happens to girls."

I'd suspected as much myself, but I said nothing.

"Nobody knew. Until you. I hid it well. Even my ... monthlies?"

"Okay. Period is a more common word, Carlita. I'm surprised you succeeded."

"There were so many. I did not let myself stand out. I was not loud, I was never the first or the last in line."

"Very wise."

"Until you fastened my belt, nobody knew."

I smiled. "I'm sorry. I will tell nobody. Now, when is the last time you've had a good meal?"

She looked at me with sad eyes. "Days."

"Do you have clothes besides the ones you are wearing?"

"I have a pair of pants and a shirt and under ... undergarments. They are not clean."

'Damn!' I told myself. I couldn't just dump Carlita off somewhere. I guess I was raised wrong. Dad was one of the world's worst about taking in stray dogs. It must've rubbed off.

"Carlita, do you want help? I can help you. We can get you some new clothes, wash what you have, have a good meal or two, then see what we can do about locating your tia..."

She looked at me. I know what she's thinking.

"No, I am not trading you those things for something else."

"Why would you do this?"

"I solve problems for a living. You have a problem. Maybe I can help."

"Why?"

"Because a man should take care of those who need help."

"I have no money to pay you."

"I'm not doing this for money. I make enough money already. Helping you will not hurt my money."

"You do not know me."

"Okay," I said, "Tell me about yourself. Then I will know you."

She sounded almost as if she was doing a classroom presentation. "My name is Carlita Ortiz, daughter of Maria Guerrera and Pablo Ortiz. My parents were killed when I was five. I was raised in an orphanage run by the good people of an American church. They saw that we had a clean safe place to live and that we received education. One of the people who worked at the orphanage was a lady named Estella Hernandez. She treated me like her own daughter who was my age. They lived in a small house at the orphanage.

"In the last year, the narcotraficantes started visiting, demanding that they be given things and that they use our buildings. The police were told, but they did nothing. Tia Estella said that many people were travelling to America to start new lives, and that if I could hang on, she would go there and then call for me. She and her daughter left. I used to get letters. From New Orleans."

New Orleans. As much as I hated the place, it was one of our major headquarters. I did not work out of that office, not actually IN New Orleans, but one of the field offices in another town.

"The narcos became more vicious," Carlita said. "They beat up the old man who ran the orphanage. He was in the hospital, then he left to go back to America. His wife went with him. I knew things would not get better, so I started this journey. It has not been easy. I have been in America eight days. Two days ago I was afraid that they discovered I was a girl, so I ran away. I found that small building yesterday. I knew that if something did not happen, I would die there, but you came up." She turned her head towards me. "I prayed."

"I always wanted to be the answer to somebody's prayer," I said.

I caught the eyes flashing. There IS life in there.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"The town where I was staying has a couple of big stores. We need to get you some clothes, and you get to pick out a place to eat..."

"Any place. I am hungry..."

"Open the console. Get you something..."

"Thank you. I did not want to ask..."

"Carlita, you get to ask. I may so 'no' or 'later', but you get to ask."

"I ask you if we can find el baño ... a restroom."

"See? That was easy. Next stop."

The 'next stop' was one of those gas station/everything else stores that populate the highways these days. I accompanied her inside, mainly because I didn't want the staff to think she was some homeless waif. Actually, she WAS a homeless waif, but I wasn't going to let her be mistreated for it.

When she came out of the restroom, her face was still wet, short hair brushed back from her face. She straightened her back, smiled. Yes, the clothes she was wearing easily camouflaged any indication that she was female.

I saw her eye the hot food counter. "Would you like to get something here? We can do this, then after we get you a change of clothes, we can do a better choice for dinner."

"I would like this for now," she said.

"Then let's tell them what we want."

I worried about the impact of fried foods on a stomach that might've been on short rations recently. Carlita held no reservations on the subject.

The next stop was the department store. South Texas. Plenty of chances for me to ask a Latino staffer to help Carlita choose some clothes. She kept looking for me and I kept nodding assent. Jeans. T-shirt tops. A nice blouse. Some better shoes than she had. We loaded up the basket.

"Do you need other things?" I asked.

"What sort of things?"

"The sort of things that young ladies might need that men do not ever understand."

"Yes."

Detour through another section of the store.

"Now, something to carry your things when you travel," I said.

"I have that small backpack."

I'd seen it by now. "If you want another backpack, that's fine. Yours has seen better days."

"You are spending too much money, Mister Dave."

"I'm not. These are things you need."

"I am not yours to take care of, Mister Dave."

"No, I suppose you're right, Carlita. You're somebody who needs help. I am in a position to help."

She looked a bit sad when she thought about it. We headed to the checkout lines, I paid the bill with a piece of plastic, and we loaded up the truck.

"Now, Carlita, I have a hotel room..."

Her face fell.

"No, that's NOT what you think. I stay in a lot of hotels. This room has two beds and it has a shower in that room, too. And laundry facilities. You can get cleaned up and feel a lot better. And then we can go eat and then start trying to find your tia."

"I am sorry, Dave. I hear the coyotes telling some young girls that they can make a lot of money as putas. I cannot be a puta."

"I am not trying to make you a puta, Carlita. I am trying to help you find your tia." I had some trepidation as we arrived at the hotel. I worried that going to my room with a teenager, boy or girl, and make no mistake, Carlita was still carrying off the 'boy' thing well, would get me in trouble. I don't think anybody noticed. Or cared.

Carlita's head, however, was on a swivel through the lobby, into the elevator, up the hall, and then when I opened the door.

"This is your room, Dave? Are you wealthy?"

"No," I said. "Not wealthy." We distributed the shopping bags.

"Okay, get yourself a change of clothes. The shower is waiting on you."

"Oh, very much so," she said with a hint of a smile. Still scared.

"Take your time. I will be in here on the computer."

Carlita went into the bathroom, closing the door behind herself. I heard the shower running. I opened up my laptop on the room's desk and started searching for whatever organizations might keep track of illegal immigrants.

I was poking around when I noted that the water stopped, then several more minutes passed and this adorable waif came out of the bathroom.

I turned.

"Dave, this is the first time I feel clean in two months."

"It suits you well, Lita."

She smiled broadly. "You call me 'Lita'. My family called me Lita."

"If you wish, I will not call you that," I said.

"No, please. It makes me feel almost like good things again." Her hand went to her short dark hair. "Now I can be a girl again."

"Yes you can," I said. "Do you want to wash your other clothes?"

"If we could. They are worth keeping, I think."

"Then let's do that," I said. We gathered up the grimy bundle along with the other clothes in her scruffy backpack, went up the hall, and started a load of laundry.

"I have never been in a place like this, Dave." Those big eyes regarded me. "I am sorry. Perhaps I should call you Mister Dave."

"You can call me Dave, little friend," I said. "That works just fine." I looked at my watch, then the washer, did a quick calculation, then, "We can go back to the room and work while these wash."

"Sí ... okay." Lita was constantly shifting her language. Her English was surprisingly good, but when she didn't take the time to make a conscious effort, the first words were Spanish. Okay, I can stand to learn a little Spanish.

Back in the room, she stared at the computer. "I have never used one."

I'm now trying to think of any fourteen year old American kid I know who could honestly say that.

"It's mostly easy," I said. "These have become part of life now. I'm looking for organizations that might have information on people like your Tia ... I need her name."

"Estella Hernandez."

"That may help." I looked at her. She was right at my side. Okay, I did an assessment that I'd not done before, really. Five feet two, maybe three. Hundred pounds or so. Dark hair, now cleaned and pushed behind her ears. Eyes were brown, of course, but a lively brown, rounded, situated perfectly on a rounded face. The kind of eyelashes that women spend too much of their lives trying to achieve, eyebrows just perfect.

The actually HER size girl clothes made her a cutie in that timeless way that young girls seem to achieve.

I started clicking links and sending email inquiries about 'Estella Hernandez'. "Best I can do," I said. "I've never tried doing anything like this before."

"Nor I," she said.

"It may be easier now," I told her. "Undocumented immigrants do not have to hide like they once did."

"I am undocumented," she said.

"You're young. Nobody will look at you."

"I could be your niece." She paused, "When people see us together."

'Oh, yeah, ' I thought. That's the archetypical thing – dirty old man and his 'niece'.

"That might work," I told her. "We almost look alike."

First giggle. There HAD to be a first giggle. This was it. She giggled. "You look too Anglo. I look like every Guatemalan girl you'll ever see."

"You're the only Guatemalan girl I've ever seen. Do they all call themselves Carlos and dress like boys?"

"No. Of course not!" and a giggle and a flash of eyes.

I smiled.

"You. You like to joke."

"We have plenty of time to be serious. It's good to laugh in the middle of it."

"It is."

I finished tapping out the last email and turned to her. "You have the TV tonight. Here's the control."

"Show me. I did not get to touch the TV at the orphanage."

That's another hiccup in my mind. I took these little bits of technology as givens. EVERYBODY knows how to use them, right?

"Okay. This one is the 'on-off' button."

"Why does it not say that?"

"Some may say 'power', but this little symbol is more or less universal. That's a zero for 'off' and a one for 'on'."

"Okay."

The hotel's cable selections included a few stations in Spanish. She paused on them. "These are not shows I wish to see. Nor do you speak enough Spanish to understand them. It would be selfish of me."

We were in separate beds, naturally. She laid back, wiggled like a cat stretching.

"Never. I have never had a bed like this. So BIG. Clean. I had clean bed at the orphanage, but small. One person. At the end, two of us slept in it. Since I left, I have not slept in a bed." She spun to face me. "Dave, this is wonderful."

"Glad you like it."

"But I do like it. I did not expect it. I heard stories of people like me in shelters. Crowded. Some not nice people. This is nice."

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