If you’re under the legal age in your country to read erotic material, do not continue.  If you’re not legally allowed to read such material, do not continue. 

The following story was written in an evening, and it hasn’t been properly proofread.  Expect continuity mistakes and other errors.  It happens.  Permission is granted for you to make one copy for your own uses, reposting of this story is strictly prohibited except for the archives of asstr.org or where written permission has been granted.

I retain full rights to this story.  (c) February 2004 by FastCat

**>

Powwow Dreams

It was a hot summer afternoon, one vaguely mitigated by being high in the hills north of Santa Barbara.  The dust was choking, the wind a strange memory from days bygone.  In the center of the arena, a drum was surrounded by singers and their calls echoed off of the hillsides.  Around them danced the women in beaded outfits of leather and cloth.  Around them danced the men.  Sometimes the men would break off and get into the Indian version of break dance fighting, each trying to outdo the other in fancy footwork.

And throughout it all, the beat of the drum, the heartbeat of the powwow, rang strong and true.

I had gotten dragged out to this particular powwow, five hours outside of where I usually hang in LA, because my aunt thought that I wasn’t dating the right kind of person.  To her, that pretty much meant that I wasn’t dating an Indian woman, and therefore, there must be something wrong.  So she harangued me until I gave in, and here I was, desperately wishing I had a beer in my hand, baking in the stifling heat, choking on the never ending dust, and without a prospect.

I used to date an Indian woman, until I caught her sleeping around.  Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, that type of thing would just be the end of that.  She was one of those ‘out of a hundred’ type cases.  Rather than admit to her ‘other’ guy that she was sleeping around with me, she decided to let it be known that I had tried to rape her, again.

Oh, yes, why just lie about one time?  Why not just make it seem like I was stalking her.  The moccasin telegraph spread her story so fast that there were messages on my answering machine before I returned from my trip… Horrible messages, people who were threatening to kill me.  You get the idea.

I was sort of lucky that the news didn’t jump state lines too quickly; I had met a nice gal on the trip - one of those rebound things, and I had been looking forward to a repeat performance when she called.  It was short, nasty and very much to the point.  She had a bowie knife with my name on it and she was going to use it to shave off my balls if I so much as looked at her again.  When an Apache woman tells you something like that, you can take it to the bank.

Yeah, why bother with what she knew of me; much easier to believe some friend-told-a-friend’s-friend story than to believe me.

So here I was, my aunt pointing out various women, all armed, and all ready to slice me up if I talked to them.  I swear, my aunt had to be the only one at the entire powwow who didn’t know the story; or if she heard it, she just dismissed it as useless gossip.  And I was about ready to go up to one of those women, so they could put me out of my misery.

The day left, rather abruptly, as it is like to do when you’re up in the hills, and people broke off to attend the various forty-nines that were planned after the powwow.  Think of those as hook up parties, something that any single guy passed puberty wouldn’t miss on a bet.  I wasn’t figuring on being able to attend any of them, especially after the headman dancer stopped by to personally let me look at his new Glock 10mm. I almost brought up that no weapons were allowed at the powwow, but that would be as close to useless as to bring up the fact that the booze that was stashed away in various places was also against the rules.

So, everyone picked up some of their things, and being without much to do, I started helping to clean up the trash that most people couldn’t be bothered to put into one of the many trash cans.  That Italian guy, uhh, Iron Eyes, would have cried at the scene.  

Being that this was one of those casino powwows, the clean up crew of course didn’t include any Indians.  Mostly Hispanic folks, though a couple white girls were on the crew.  At first, a couple worried gals told me not to worry about it, to leave it to them, but they seemed to calm down after no one came to yell at them.  And there was a mass of trash, more than enough to keep everyone busy for a good hour.

Well, that was one hour down, and another eleven to go before the powwow started again, and…  And what?  I could hear the 49’s going in the distance.  A couple of them sounded like they were really going strong, a few sounded really half hearted.  There were still cars pulling out - mostly the day visitors who came out to see Indian’s do their thing.  A couple cars full of ‘skins were heading towards the casino - you could see it in their eyes, hungry for the card tables where they’d lose their money from last weekend.

Really, there wasn’t much to do.  If I went out with any group of the guys, my aunt would probably geld me, or worse, use those five hours in the drive back home to chew me out.  That was enough of a threat to keep me on the straight and narrow.  Going to the 49’s was also out, for already explained reasons.  I had already set up camp, so there goes that excuse for spending time.  I didn’t even have a book to sit and read.

So it was with a sigh that I figured that my only chance to end boredom for the second was to go take a shower.  I wasn’t looking forward to it.  The women had already taken their showers before the powwow ended, in anticipation of the 49’s, the men did theirs right after the powwow ended, usually because the women demanded it, so the chance of there being hot water was next to nothing.  To top it off, the heat of the day all disappeared by now, the rocks having decided to be rather meager with sharing.

Well, it was something to do.  Maybe I’d freeze to death right after the water hit me and my aunt could have a Popsicle to take home.  I stopped by the tent, picked up the suds stuff, and a nice towel, and headed off to see what the facilities were like.

Ugh.  I should have expected it, after seeing what the arena was like.  The shower setup wasn’t anything to write home about to begin with, being an open topped affair on a concrete slab, but the floor was muddy, toilet paper was strewn everywhere, and the kids must have spent most of the day clogging up everything.  Some of those toilets had the perfume of having been cooked all day long.

The single valve on the spigot didn’t enthuse either -- this was going to be hell.

No call but to make the best of what was offered, I figured, and I put my mocs into a plastic bag, tossed my socks over on top of the wooden wall.  My shirt and hat shared a rusted nail, my pants joined my socks.  Boxers went on top of everything.  And then I turned, slipped on the slimy floor and landed on the corner of my ass.  Fuck!

Bruised, more dirty than when I entered the place, and only cold water in the offering - I was a sorry sight from head to toe and my ‘tude wasn’t much better.  So when the Hispanic lady walked in with her cleaning supplies, I didn’t much care to be modest.  "Occupied," I snapped towards her and I carefully made my way to the valve.

"But sir," said the lady, "I have to clean up in here..  You wait until I done, have clean shower."

I just looked at her, silently wondering how the shower could get much cleaner, when the few bare bulbs decided to turn off all at the same time.  Holy crap, could this day get any worse, I wondered?  I heard some rustling, then a click, and a small beam of light was centered on my mid-section.  "Oh. Sorry," she said, aiming the light more towards the floor.  Great, I’m in the spotlight now.  I decided that life was trying to send me a message, so I went back to where I had hung my clothes, stopping just before the wall, stepping onto my underwear.

Her small torch flashed around the room, onto the wall in front of me, back onto the floor where my soggy boxers were, back onto the wall.  "Where are your clothes?" she asked.

That was a really, really, really good question.  And I really wished she’d stop flashing that light around and hold..  Oh, well, there are the lights again.  Yup, indeed, my pants and socks were gone.  So too was my towel.  I guess a rusty nail saved my hat and shirt.  And I had mocs, nice and safe in their bag.  Everything else was gone.

I fished around in my shirt pocket, pulled out a half crushed pack of cigarettes and asked the cleaning lady if she had any matches.  She repeated her earlier question about my pants.  I said I didn’t know, I think they have been stolen, and I could really use a cigarette right now.  She fished into her apron and pulled out a lighter.  I leaned over to get the light, and I dragged on it heavily.  And then started choking.

I hadn’t smoked in two years; the crumbled pack was mostly there to give to elders as tobacco gifts.  Holy shit, I think the pack had been open for nearly a year itself.  The woman offered her sage advice, "Smoking is bad for you."  Laughing while your choking is a piss poor choice, let me tell you.

I tossed the smoke onto the floor where it immediately hissed and went out and I sighed.  "I guess you’d better clean," I observed as I went over to get my shirt.  Thank the Creator that I chose to wear a long sleeve snaggin’ wool deal from Pendleton.  The tails would help to cover myself, and I guess the hat would do for anything that slipped below that.  I decided to leave my mocs in the bag - who knew what all was in the water on the floor, and I didn’t relish the thought of putting that crap into my beaded shoes.

I was heading towards the door when the cleaning lady offered yet another observation, "You’re naked!"  

Thanks for the news flash.  "I’ll go get some pants from my tent..  How long before the showers are clean," I asked.  It was sort of a stupid question - anything short of a nuclear detonation wouldn’t leave the place truly clean.

"Uhh," she mumbled, looking around.  "An hour?" she suggested, dubiously.

"See you in an hour," I responded, heading for the door.

"You can’t go out that way!" she yelled towards me.  Like I had much of a choice.  I ignored her sensibilities and walked out the door anyway, tripping right over her mop bucket that was helpfully preventing anyone else from wandering in while she was cleaning.  And, as if things could possibly get any worse, and I was seriously considering never thinking that ever again, out of the other side came a young girl.  Mind, being pants less, my spread configuration didn’t hide much of anything, biologically speaking, but I tried mightily to do so with my hands.

Her mother followed her out.  And she screamed.  And they ran away.  About that moment, I discovered that my elbow had been seriously scrapped up - the heavy wool shirt helped pad it a bit, but a rusty nail from the haphazard construction of the showers/bathrooms had raggedly sliced through, doing the same to the skin underneath.

Fuck.

I hightailed it out of there, scooping up my mocs, forgetting my hat, and literally flew across the campground to my nylon abode.  I dove into my home away from home, flopped back on my sleeping bag and just.. breathed.  Once I found that I had a heartbeat again, I dug around for my spare boxers and another pair of pants.  I then looked at my watch - or tried to.  My bare wrist was the clue that it had been in my pants.  Along with my wallet.  Shit.

I slipped into the boxers, tossed on the pants, and pulled out a pair of shit kickers to put on my feet.  The scraping of my heal reminded me that boots without socks is a piss poor idea, and I rummaged around for them.  Once my feet with sheathed, I put on the boots and then went out to try to figure out which group of young ruffians had stolen my pants.

I was just considering if I would string them up by their balls, or I would just do the Indian thing and force them to eat commods when the brilliant spotlight came on.  Aimed right at me.  And a bright red light, just in case I was unsure of the situation.  A high pitched "That’s him!" completed the picture rather well, I thought.  It was really unnecessary for her to add, "Except he has pants on now."

Remember what I said about the moccasin telegraph?  Trust me, reservation police - AKA public safety officers, took such gossip like a fish to water.  And man, I gotta say, they grow their officers mighty short in this neck of the woods.  And rude too, he didn’t even bother to say much of anything before slamming me face down on his hood.

I didn’t bother with the usual denial of I didn’t do anything - like I would be believed anyway.  He had two witnesses of a known rapist exposing himself to an underage girl at the bathrooms.  Heck, he might even have the cleaning woman’s statement as well.  I pretty much figured my ass would be Bubba’s by sunrise when his partner helpfully crunched my dirty hat onto my scalp.

Patted with a helpful squeeze to the little Indian, cuffed, and unceremoniously thrown into the back of the car, the officers spent a good twenty minutes taking the statements of the women (and giving a good chance for the community to see who they had locked up in back.)  Finally, one of them came back, opened up the door, put their foot on the sill, and blinded me with a Mag Light.  "What do you have to say, pervert?"

I said about the only thing I could say.  "Talk to the cleaning woman in the men’s showers.  The lights went out, my pants were stolen.  When I tried to run back towards my tent, I didn’t listen to her, and I tripped over mop that she had blocking the doorway."  Yeah, that was convincing.  I could just see him ready to take those cuffs off right now and let me go…walk off a cliff.  He hmphed and slammed the door shut, and I had a good half hour to consider just how many doorways I would accidentally walk into - that is if I wasn’t shot trying to escape first.

I mean, hell, I likely should have spent that time praying.  Not that it had helped in the past.

The door opened once again, accompanied by the blinding light and I heard the Hispanic woman speaking.  "Yeah, that’s him," she said.  "He was in the bathroom when I went to clean.  A good boy, though he shouldn’t smoke.  It’s bad for him."  The door slammed once again, and I idly considered just how bad that puff of a cigarette had been.  Huh.  What do ya know?  She was pretty much right - had I left instead of trying to smoke, I wouldn’t have spilled in front of that girl.  ‘course, the way things have been going lately, I likely would have spilled in front of a group of boys instead.

It’s hard not to contemplate how short one’s life is going to be when faced with these types of challenges, so I really wasn’t going to feel guilty doing it, instead of listening to the mumbled yelling from outside of the car.  Finally, the door opened once again, and hands reached in to haul my ass out.  I was again shoved over the car, but I wasn’t about to complain because someone was fishing to unlock those cuffs.  "You’re lucky, pig," muttered the public safety officer.  "I hope she was one hell of a fuck, because she just saved your ass."

You know, there is just something that is too wrong having an officer call a was-prisoner a pig.  I was more concerned with rubbing my wrists though.  Those cuffs were put on tight!  "Did you find my pants," I asked.  "My wallet and my watch were in them."

He just gave me a friendly shove that nearly knocked me over and muttered that if I wanted to, I could hike to the station and file a report.  The rocks didn’t hurt much at all when he and his partner gassed the car in the dirt.

"Why a girl so young," asked the cleaning woman over my shoulder.  I turned to glare at her. I practiced that glare.  That was the ‘Mean Ticked off Indian who’s Ancestors had their Land Stolen by Your Ancestors’ look.  It worked really well, too.  "You should choose women instead," was her reply.

"I tripped on your stuff," I replied, rather wounded that the glare didn‘t work.  "After my pants had been stolen after you walked in while I was starting the shower after one shitty day."

She threw down my soaked boxers that were in the bathroom, evidently the piece of evidence that the cops accepted as proof that I wasn’t going around exposing myself on purpose and stalked away.  Pissy woman.  I left it there in the dust now mud and stalked back towards the tent.  I figured that the only way life was going to stop kicking me in the balls was if I started hiding from it better.

*>

Sometime later, I don’t know how long, since I had fallen asleep, and it was certainly before morning since it was still dark outside, someone was knocking on my tent.  And as any camper will tell you, that’s a pretty damn good trick.  "Yeah!" I called.

"I have your pants," returned a voice that was either a boy or a girl, either way, something that likely would get me another visit from Public Safety, especially since I slept in the nude.

"Just leave them out there, I’ll get them in a few minutes," I called back, and I fished around for some clothes.  Damn, they were freezing.  I fought my way into them as I thought I heard whomever it was outside walking away.  Finally decent, I zipped open the flap, expecting to just reach out an arm to fish back in my missing pants.  Only they weren’t on the ground.  There was a girl there, holding them.  "Thanks," I said curtly, holding out my hand.

"Momma," said the girl in a Hispanic accent, "she said I had to make sure they were yours."

I looked at them.  They looked like mine.  Except more dirty since the last time I saw them.  "They’re mine," I replied, still holding out my hand.

"She said to make sure," insisted the girl.

"I didn’t write my name in them, if that’s what you mean," I replied, bemused, though starting to freeze.  "I don’t suppose my wallet or watch are in them?"

"No," she replied, and I guessed her age to be maybe fourteen, or as we on the trail like to say, ten to twenty, depending upon behavior.

"Well," I said, wondering what to do, "how am I supposed to prove that they’re mine?"

Evidently Mommasita had given instructions on this.  "She said that if they were yours, they’d fit."

Well, there’s some pretty good reasoning there.  "Ok, I’ll put them on, and you can see that they fit, ok?"

She nodded and then bent down, heading for the entrance where I was crouched.  What the hell?  I grabbed onto the leg of the pants, she held onto the middle, and my tug to pull them out of her hands only succeeded in pulling her into the tent with them.  Ahh…  Ahh…  You know, maybe it’s this cursing that is giving me the run of bad luck.  I bit my tongue, hoping that the Spirits would take pity.  I scooted to the side so that she wouldn’t land on me, and my hat gallantly leapt forward to cushion her fall.  Brave hat, giving it’s life to protect a young one.  I would miss it greatly.  Fuck the damn Spirits!

I stripped off my pants and held my hand out for the other pair, figuring to get this over with as soon as possible.  The girl, however, was distracted staring into my lap.  My white t-shirt didn’t do a whole hell of a lot of good to cover the only inheritance I’d get from my deadbeat dad.  "The pants," I snapped.

She handed them over dumbly and I leaned back, tossing my feet into them and arching my back to pull them up, cringing as the teeth of the zipper cut into my balls.  And probably putting on a pretty damn good show for the girl.  But at this point, I really didn’t give a damn.  I knew in an hour I would be arrested for exposing myself to her anyway, since that was how the weekend was going.  I zipped up, adjusted myself, buttoned and spread my arms.  "They’re my pants," I said.

Her brown eyes looked over the jeans then up to me and she smiled, "Momma thought they were, when she found them in the dumpster."

Wow, in the dumpster.  Maybe that is where that smell is coming from, and why they’re colder than..  I really felt like crying, because if my guess was right, I had lard, beans and Creator only knows what else all over me, transferring from the soaked pants.  "Thoughtful of her to see them returned," was my creative comment, and if you don’t think a guy has willpower, just think of me still wearing those pants while talking.

"Momma said that if you want to, she could clean them, and you could use our shower while they dry, but you couldn’t wear them in the car."

"Can I wear other pants in the car?" I asked, just a bit sarcastically.

She shrugged, "She just said you couldn’t wear those.  Why, your other pants are dirty too?"

"No," I replied, pealing out of the pants and decided to sacrifice my sweat pants instead of dirtying another pair of jeans with whatever was stuck to my legs.  I shivered and tossed on my wool shirt with bloodstains, since being a proper Californian Indian, I didn’t use a jacket unless it rained.  Some socks went onto the feet, and the feet into boots and I was ready.  The girl had been quiet while I was changing - she had been quite observant while I changed again.

"Let’s go," I said.  She nodded, and slipped out of the tent, and I followed.  Momma had helpfully pulled up the car while I was changing a few times in front of her daughter.  It was a late 70’s Ford Granada, and with one headlight burned out, I really felt like I needed a drum, a beer, and..  Just forget it, it’s an Indian thing, you wouldn’t understand.  Instead, just say I got into the car.  Backseat, of course.  My pants had the honor of the front seat.  Any guesses where the girl ended up?

Our chauffeur, Momma, the Cleaning Woman who had Batman’s Apron, chatted while she drove.  She drove really casually.  Lines on the road were just, well, suggestions where other drivers were supposed to go.  She kept up a good line of chatter while her daughter and I slid back and forth on the seatbelt less naga-hide seats.  She asked what tribe I was from, if the tribe had a casino, that sort of thing.

Truth be told, I embellished the facts quite a bit.  Our reservation was close to a mile square, with a few other squares in the distance that others were squatting on.  The BIA keeps telling us they’ll eventually take care of them - a story we’d heard year after year for going on fifty of them.  Our casino was about the size of those portable classrooms they use at schools these days.  Twenty-eight gleaming, light and sound encrusted bandits.

On a good month, the profits cover the fees for the machines, the money to the management company, salaries of those who work there, and the electric bill.  Funny thing is, you’d expect by now that Indians would be doubtful about any piece of paper a white man offers.  We never learn.  On poor months, the management company patiently explains, again, that the contract guarantees only payment to them, not profits.

Our best month began with a couple who holed their oil pan going down the dirt path we paid big bucks to have signs put along, leading to our ‘casino.’  It took three days to get the parts in (no one bothered to think it was less than two hours to the nearest parts place) and the couple spent almost all of that time trying to win back the costs of the parts on our machines.  We really should have put a plaque in, to honor their contributions to our tribal welfare.

Don’t get me wrong - the jobs at the so called casino have been the only steady income on the reservation since the government first set aside the worst piece of land in the county for the tribe to move to.  And it really has been a change, once we guilted other tribes into paying for phone lines and electricity.  Without those, I’d never make a living - or do what I’m doing, which is essentially taking a vacation after a strong Christmas season on an auction site.  I’m one of those auction whores who keeps the post office afloat, selling near absolute crap.  I buy junk in Los Angeles, return home, auction it off, go to our post office (the second enterprise to actually pay people on the old Rez) ship it out and repeat.  Only the tribal council members have a better house than mine..  Huh.  Come to think about it, their jobs aren’t supposed to pay anything…

Anyway, I was pretty happy when we pulled up to a double wide trailer.  My bruised hip was happier.  I crawled out of the back, helped her daughter crawl out after and Momma rescued my pants.  Brave woman.  Unlocked door, enter into a rather neatly kept place.  Sure, the furnishings likely were all purchased used, but up in these hills, garage sales and consignment stores could hold some real gems for cheap prices.

Momma suggested that I should go take a shower while she put my pants in the washer, and the idea sounded good to me.  I went into the bath and stripped, turning on the shower and was so happy when steam announced it was ready.  Washing up with soap and water, well..  It was a nice experience.

I was washing my hair when the door to the bathroom opened and a motherly voice called out she was leaving a fresh towel.  Ok, that was it, I was actually going to have to thank her when I got out.

Rinse, drip, pull back curtain, grab big fluffy towel, start drying.  Sweatpants gone.  Shirt gone.  Boots gone.  Is there something about washing in this county that required a Lojack on clothes?  A robe was hanging on the back of the door, and I wrapped up my hair in the towel.  Slipping on the robe, I thought that this was really, really starting to get to the point of insanity.  It was short.  Really short.  If I sat down while wearing this, I’d best make sure I don’t sit on leather, or I’m going to stick like packing tape.

I got out of the shower and daughter yelled to momma to start the wash.  Really considerate that.  I asked where my clothes were, and the daughter told me that they were in the wash.  Where else would my clothes be, I silently asked myself.

Momma called us to the kitchen and I walked into a very familiar odor.  Frybread.  A basket full of it, fresh, no lard congealing yet.  If you’ve never had it, you’ll never understand why us Indians are so addicted to it.  Go to a powwow.  Try it out.  Think of the best pizza crust you’ve ever had, make it a bit softer, and you get some of the idea of what it is.

"Anita made it," said the mother proudly.  "She is a good cook.  Try it!"  She pushed the basket towards me, and Anita blushed.  I picked out a piece, bit into it, and it just melted in my mouth.

"Mmmm," I said in salute to the cook.  "This is wonderful."  Anita blushed a deeper shade of red.

Momma went on to explain that Anita keeps the house, since her mother works all day and a good part of the night.  Anita apparently also cares for children in the sort of trailer park, cooks all the best food, and made all the curtains and cushions, plus the dress her mother was wearing and the one Anita was wearing.  I nodded politely as Anita’s virtues were outlined, munching down on the incredible frybread.

I took a good look at Anita.  Long black hair, straight and shiny.  An oval face, a nose slightly squashed and flared.  Doe like brown eyes just slightly too big for her face, small lips, puffy that led to a wide mouth with pretty white teeth.  Sure, she’d never make a magazine cover, but her face would certainly not turn boys away at school.

Her shoulders had the slight divots that indicated hidden muscles from hard work.  Breasts were nicely framed by the squared drop of the front of the dress - call them half oranges.  The ruffled elastic across her chest would cover any hint of nipples - a proper dress for any young woman of modesty.  Enough to show she was woman, but not enough to advertise that she wanted to prove it.  Ties around the middle tucked in the dress at the tummy and flared it nicely over the hips.  Shapely legs poked out the bottom, her feet were encased in the flat slippers of a working girl.

All told, she might tip the scales at 120, height was a fair 5’ 9".  She might be able to pull off being Indian if someone didn’t know what they were looking at, or to a half-blood to anyone who did.  Which likely meant that her father was an Indian from Mexico.

Anita had best stay close to her mother, or the boys are going to get her, I thought.  To her mother, I just said that she was a rather pretty little girl.

Momma wouldn’t have any of that, though.  "She’s a woman."  She rather pointedly continued, "Not a girl. A girl doesn’t know how to work, doesn’t know how to cook, doesn’t know how to care for babies."  She walked over to Anita and patted her daughter’s hips.  "Wide enough for children, narrow enough for her husband.  A good woman."

Uhh..  Ok, yes, time to change the conversation, because the barely covered parts of my body wanted to put in their two cents, and I doubted the robe was ready to cover that type of thing.  "Indeed.  I wanted to thank you for helping me, earlier.  The accident at the bathroom was embarrassing."

Momma smiled and nodded, "You looked like a good man having a bad day.  I see that, over at the casino, someone has a bad day, things go wrong, but then I see them later, and things are better.  You’re going to have a better day."

I really wished I could be sure she was right.  In fact, I quietly knocked on the fake wood counter behind me, thinking that was a close as I could get to knocking on wood at the moment.  "Yes..  By the way, where are my sweat pants?"

Momma frowned.  "In the wash. Didn’t Anita tell you?"

Anita bit her lip and I took her off the hook, because, well, she did tell me.  "Oh, yes, I forgot.  This, umm, robe is rather short."

The woman shrugged and pointed out the obvious that the house just had two women.  Yeah, like Momma would be caught dead in such a short piece of cloth.

I was about to ask for another towel or something to cover my lower half when Momma took the now empty basket from my hands.  "Anita," she called, walking away.  "You be a good hostess, get him a beer.  Ask him if he wants to watch television."

Anita asked me if I wanted to watch television and if I wanted a beer.  I said sure to both, and off went Anita to get a beer.  Two X’s on the bottle - at least they drank passable beer around here.  Anita led me to where the television was - in a small room with a daybed in it.  I hopped up onto the bed, tucked dangly parts between my legs and crossed them so as not to expose too much.  Anita was busy turning on the television at the time, thank Creator.

"I’ll be back soon," she noted in her quiet voice and she swept out of the room.  Television consisted of the late-late show, due to the time of night..  Out here, it also might be the sole channel that was in my language.

I was hitting through the beer pretty quickly.  Which is bad, especially for someone who couldn’t hold his liquor even if it was in a bottle.  Fine, fine, laugh as I fill a stereotype, but, well, there’s a reason why these things start in the first place.  The television did a good job covering up the quiet argument in the other room too, which being in Spanish, wasn’t one I could follow anyway.

When Anita returned with a fresh beer, I was pretty much ready for another one, and silently hoping that there wouldn’t be a third.  She left, more arguing, and the television went to an infomercial, which was just fine with me.  The guy was funny, hawking whatever useless trash he was selling, and his straight man did a good job looking amazed every few minutes.

I feel asleep soon afterwards.  I had a pretty good dream, reenacting one of the better moments with that slut whore who backstabbed me so horribly.  My imagination was pretty good, even with a horribly good flash at the end that was like lightning.

I woke up when the TV went to annoying morning cartoon sounds, the sky was still dark outside.  I was still a bit dizzy with booze, and I scooted down the robe that had flopped up and I went to answer the call of nature.

Momma confronted me when I got out of the bathroom, holding a Polaroid in her hand.  My balls decided to crawl up into me, meeting up with my quickly sinking stomach.  "What do I have to do," I asked, sensing the blackmail that was to come.

She flipped the picture to show me.  I looked, mostly to figure out which body part Anita had used to get me off.  I was slightly relieved to see her cum covered hand.  She was keeping me in the dark, though, and that was starting to annoy me.

"Look, I figured out what the picture was going to say, ok?  What do I have to do?"

The angry Momma façade slipped away with that.  This was supposed to be a confrontation, and here I was, already accepting the inevitable.  Not like I had much of a choice; I’m sure she knew just which officers to go show that picture to.  I didn’t even look drunk in the picture, I looked like I guy who was enjoying shooting off after being jacked off by a kid.

"Marry her," replied the mom finally.  My soon to be mother-in-law, I suppose.  "Make her a legal."

"Isn’t she a bit young?" I asked.  She shook her head and showed me a birth certificate in Spanish.  Yup, she’s 17, according to the forgery.  "Yeah, that’s nice, would the folks down at the county office buy that?"

"Her uncle works there, he’s the one who said she should get married to an American," she replied.  "His brother-in-law is a priest."

"I’m only here for the weekend," I said, giving the only lame defense I had.

"The office opens at 9am for a few hours," she replied.

Ugh.  Umm..  "We’ll have to get my aunt from the powwow, she’d kill me if I got married and she wasn’t there," I shot back.  Come on, guy, you can fancy foot yourself out of this.

"No," she replied.  "She’d be a problem.  A new family doesn’t need a problem on their wedding day."

Ahh shit.  Well, I could likely get the thing annulled somewhere along the line, and there would be plenty of time to convince the Department of Immigration and Citizen Bullshit that I was drugged and conned into this…  I tried one last method of shocking momma out of this wild plan.  "Well, I guess I’d best go wake my bride and see if we can pass a couple hours in bed."

Momma frowned at that, and her empty hand balled up into a fist, and I thought for a moment I was about to win my freedom.  And then her shoulders slumped and she breathed out.  "No," she said.  "You’ll wait until you’re married, and you’ll treat her nice.  You’re a nice boy, I can tell, who has just had a bad day."

Fuck.  The trouble was, she was right.  Just..  Huh, there’s an interesting problem.  "My wallet was stolen, I don’t have an ID for the county office."  Would uncle ignore that requirement?

She got a worried look on her face, and I really, really thought that I was suddenly off the hook.  "You won’t get mad at me?" she asked, which just about shocked the shit out of me.  After this frame up, I’m supposed to forgive whatever the hell she did?  I nodded my head, not trusting my voice at the moment.

"Anita took your pants, after we saw you walk into the shower.  We walked the powwow, she picked out who she liked."

I blinked.

"I didn’t agree," she continued, "until after the powwow.  Everyone else left a mess, you were there cleaning it up.  They were partying, you were making things the way they should be."

And it was then, in my semi-inebriated state, that I decided, well, what the fuck.  I’ll do it, get married, play house with Anita so she can be a citizen.  Because, well, I was angry as shit at the idea that Momma might have been trying to make Anita get married.  That this was some plan to determine Anita’s future for her.  But if Anita picked me out..  Well, truth be told, if she had been back ‘home’, she likely would be getting married right now anyway.  Right?  "How old is she really," I asked, filling in data for my mind.

"Thirteen," she replied with a touch of sadness.  "She’s advanced for her age," was added on with a bit of defense.  "Besides, if she doesn’t get married now, she’ll just get into trouble, be a mother without a father anyway.  The boys around here.."  She spat onto the ground, the universal sign everywhere for trash.

Hey, I’m not too ashamed to admit it, I was a virgin until after I turned 18.  But how does one.. Err..  I suddenly really wished I had read more of those dirty magazines rather than just looking at pictures.  Civilization had been doing it for thousands of years; it’ll all work out in the end, but, well, I really suddenly was worried about making Anita’s first time feel good.  Knowing that a response was required here, and that fact finally penetrating my brain, I dumbly nodded.

She smiled half heartedly and reached forward, taking me into a hug.  "You’ll make me proud," she said into my shoulder, increasing her squeeze, "or I’ll tell her cousins to come find you and bring me back your balls."  She let me go and started up into my face.  "Treat her ok..  You don’t need to baby her, don’t need to treat her like a.. a.. A princess! Just treat her ok, and you’ll both be happy.  Make her work, keep the house good.."  She frowned, and added, "You do have a house, right?"

I nodded, adding on, "with two bedrooms."  I don’t know why I said it, there’s something that just sticks in your mind about making sure someone’s virtue was protected when talking to their mother.

Momma was having none of that, and she poked me hard in the shoulder.  "A second bedroom, for the babies.  She’ll be happy once she has babies.  Good babies, dark hair, brown skin like working people.  You give her lots of babies and work to do, she’ll grow up to be a good mother.  Promise me!"

"I promise," I replied.  She nodded, tucked the photo into her utility apron just in case, and went hustling off.  I heard her pick up the telephone and start talking in rapid fire Spanish.  I suppose she was arranging a wedding.

How the hell was I going to explain this to my aunt, I wondered.  I was still standing in the hallway, trying to figure that out, when a small hand touched my arm.  Oh, it’s my wife.  I smiled a bit nervously.  She brought up her hands and tugged on my wrist, pulling me towards her room.  Uhh…

"Shh," she said.  "I want to talk, about all of this.  Come."

I followed and entered into her bedroom and I was taken aback by all the frills everywhere.  Lacy curtains, ruffles on the blanket and pillows and pink everywhere.  It was so much a little girl’s room that if her intention was to test out her husband to be, she was the hell out of luck.

Instead, it turned out she wanted to talk.

"I’m sorry," she said.  "That was the last bad thing I’ll do to you, ever.  I swear it, on the cross."

I was honestly clueless as to what she was talking about, but decided to reassure her none the less.  "It’s ok," I said.  Maybe it was the pants she was apologizing for.  "You really want to do this?" I asked.

She smiled and nodded.  "Yes..  As soon as these," and she cupped her breasts, "started to grow, the wrong type of boys started commenting.  You must understand, they’re gangsters.  They kill people and all the police do is drive them down to the border so that they can return and kill more.  So long as they kill brown skins, no one cares.  Rape?  That’s nothing to them.  The police, if I gave a stink, would quietly tell immigration about me, so I don’t have an anchor baby."  She finished with some anger.

And really, I didn’t know what to say.  Because even I knew, being so far away from the city, how things were.  "And even if things went ok.."

She nodded.  "I still likely get pregnant, being Catholic, and maybe I get a nice husband.  Maybe we get lucky, and he doesn’t get deported and finds a good job.  Nothing much changes, yes?"

"I’m not rich," I replied.  "Our lands aren’t like these," I said, waving a hand towards the brightly lit casino on the horizon.  "No big casino.  I make my money selling stuff by mail."

She laughed.  "Oh, I knew that..  Your jeans, they told me that.  Your watch was good, a gift yes?"  I nodded.  "The wallet, it was cheap.  Some money, but no hundreds.  No fancy ID card, no wad of platinum cards.  But it was the wallet of a man who could go somewhere, give my babies a chance to live better than me.  And that is good enough.  But don’t tell Momma.  She thinks you got a big casino, lots of money."

Holy shit, here’s my out.  I could tell Momma the truth, she would toss me out, and I would, I guess, have to start walking back to the powwow.  Maybe I could get back by noon or so…

Oh, Spirits, what would I tell my aunt?  There was no way in hell I could bring this young thing back to the powwow; we would have to go hide at home, introduce her to the family when she has a baby in her arms, when she was older, and looked older because of the children.

"We need to get back to LA, so I can pick up my car, and we can drive home.  It’s a long drive," I noted.

She shrugged, "Long roads, short roads - how are they different if they both lead to a better place?"

Well, there’s a good question.  Somehow, we’d figure out how to handle this.  I just knew that I had to get her far enough from my aunt’s arms to make this work.

*>

Events went rather quickly that day.  Someone went up to the powwow site, folded up my tent nicely, and fetched back whatever stuff I had left there.  I called my aunt, told her I would be going back home, and listened to her yell at me for a bit.  Thankfully, her cell phone battery died.  We went to the county building, then to the priest, then back to the county building.  We were driven back down to LA to my car, and then I drove her a few hours in my car.  We pulled into a dime motel to sleep, and the nosey owners wouldn’t let a room to us until I showed them our marriage certificate.  And we just slept; we were both dog tired after the events of the night and day before.

We breakfasted early, and piled back into the car once again.  Near sunset, we pulled onto the track to home, and she had her nose up against the window, point out excitedly at different things.  The rutted road wasn’t really that much to look at for me, but I did feel a bit of pride she liked our corner of the world.  She snickered with me at the joke of a casino, and we talked to the chairman for a while, who toasted our marriage, signed her tribal card with a wink and even had time to ask me were I picked up the kid.

We have a pretty laid back tribe, and the applause was more than scattered when I broke his nose.

We then drove to where my house was and it took a few trips to unload her stuff and mine into the place.  She fixed dinner from what we had on hand, which I admit, wasn’t that much to impress, being that I’m a single, or was.  But she made a nice meal, some good fry bread, and we ate well enough.  And, after spending some time unwinding together on the couch watching the satellite for a bit, she suggested it was time for bed.

I hit the shower, washed the teeth, blew out the hair and combed it carefully.  I reached the bedroom just as she finished tidying up the place to her tastes.  Some pillows had lace now, the quilt from her bedroom was on the bed.  She made it her home, which was a nice touch, I suppose.  Just like a woman to change things as soon as she got the chance, I thought with a grin.

She was gone for a couple minutes, and then returned in a short night gown, white, lacy.  It complimented her well without being slutty.

I was pretty much prepared to let things go for a while, mostly from my own nervousness, but she was having none of that.  She hopped up onto the bed, tucking her feet under her.  "Take off the robe," she ordered.  "I wanna see my husband."

I was the shy one in all of this, which was really funny, all things considered.  I exposed myself, and well, I always was self conscious at having the lack of chest hair.  Yeah, yeah, I know it’s a genetic trait, but still - I had chest hair envy.  So I was blushing when I took off my robe, even though my cock had different ideas on the matter.  After all, the little Indian already knew this girl could make it feel good.

She smiled and bit her lip.  "You know," she said, moving herself closer.  "I really felt bad that I couldn’t wake you and make it feel better, but Momma wouldn’t have any of that.  She said this was all disgusting to begin with, and she almost refused to take the picture when the time came."  Her small hand wrapped around my member.  "Had I done this," she added, leaning forward to lick my smaller head, her hand moving smoothly up and down my shaft, "she likely would have refused to go along with my plan."

I blinked.  I knew she had picked me out, but I didn’t know..  "You planned all of it?" I asked, with a bit of a squeak.

She nodded, forestalling any verbal response by sliding my cock into her mouth, sucking loudly.  I winced at the scratching of her teeth.  She pulled off after a few bobs up and down, smiling up at me.  "I’m Catholic," she added to her confirmation.  "Can’t have sex outside of marriage.  One of the boys, he got me so hot, I really wanted to.  But I didn’t want to go to hell, like the priests said."

Her hand was about all that was keeping me from going soft.  Her words weren’t exciting me at all.  "So, you decided to get married, so you could fuck," I replied, using the vulgar term explicitly, since that seemed to be her intention.  She nodded and again sucked me into her mouth, moving her head side to side, her teeth not rubbing this time, and her tongue adding to the pleasure of her hand by slurping in the right places.  She pulled me out of her mouth with a pop and again grinned up at me.  "Making love can come later.  I like you now, you like me now.  By the time the baby comes, we can deal with what comes in between."

I stared at her, pondering her words, as her hand kept pumping up and down my now slick shaft.  My balls were tightening up, not from disgust, but from the good feelings she was giving me physically.  Emotionally, I felt sort of sick.  And then, it was like a mental clicking, a changing of channels.  One moment, I felt like someone who had been duped.  The next, I had adjusted to this new reality.  "You know," I said, a bit of lust seeping into my voice, "you’re not getting much pleasure out of this..  And I’d like to show you what a mouth on a sensitive girl’s body can do."

She grinned broadly.  "Ooh, I can hardly wait, but first, I want to get you off.  My friends, they say that get a guy off quick, first, and he can recover while making your toes curl.  Strikes me, that’s a good idea."  And with that, she again sucked me into her mouth, her hand pumping strong and steady, her tongue washing, tickling, dancing around the sensitive bottom of my head.  And I groaned in pleasure, encouraging her to go on.  It was so new to me, this idea of coming while standing.  My knees were going weak just about the same time as I felt the familiar peak approaching.  "Best pull off," I hissed out, my hips adding to her movements without any conscious effort of mine.  "I’m going to shoot," I said.

And she redoubled her efforts with her tongue, her sucking became loud, sloppy.  Her hand was actually bringing a little froth to the coating of saliva on my cock, her other hand reaching to cup my balls, a finger reaching behind to tickle the few hairs hiding between the sack and my anus.  She hummed a uh-huh and that was the edge for me, I shoved my hips forward, the first spurt coming harder than it has in years.  My knees nearly gave way there, I have no idea how I remained standing unloading my balls into her mouth.

She didn’t bother trying to keep up with my ejaculation, instead concentrating on using her tongue to tease out more spurts, her fingers being more gentle, but still insistent, and a buzzing Mmmm of a job well done.  I opened my eyes, warning her it was getting too sensitive, and I spurted again looking at the cum dripping out the edges of her mouth, pooling on top of my cock, the puddle on the carpet below.  The sight of cum before never was erotic to me, but at that moment, it sent shivers down my entire body.

She finally released her liplock on my cock, using her tongue to clean up what it could on her face, while her hand wiped up her chin.  I collapsed onto the bed, creating the first wetspot by a guy on her quilt.  "Oh God," I moaned, an aftershock rolling through me remembering what I had just experienced.  And she smiled at me.

She prodded her crotch and laughed, "My panties are so wet, one would think I just pissed them."  I reached out a finger, and trailed out the outline of her outer lips, bringing a hiss of pleasure from her.  They were indeed soaked through.  I reached up my wet finger to her neck and pulled her back on the bed, to give her a deep kiss.  Our first, since our wedding kiss was rather nervously chaste.  You know, it was funny - as I guy, I’ve constantly had this erotic vision of a woman swallowing my load, yet I’ve always been too chicken to taste it myself?

I tasted the dregs off what she had taken, and the counterpoint of the sweetness of her mouth, and that kiss lasted a long time.  The tongue duel went on until my jaw started getting sore, my tongue almost hurting from being extended so long.  I turned her head, kissing along her jaw line, as my hand wandered across her chest, then down to her crotch, getting hung up for a second in the flared lace of her gown.  I finally reached the dual destinations of her earlobe and crotch at the same time.  I started nipping at the ear, kissing the back of her jaw line, while dancing my fingers across her crotch.

She went from moaning to legs clenched in seconds, trapping my hand, her whole body clenched in the impending orgasm, and I pressed my fingers into the fabric of her panties, trying to force my way into her, and onto the clit at the same time as I sucked her earlobe into my mouth, letting the tongue play with the end, bouncing it against my teeth.  I had heard about those who cum hard, the near uncontrollable body shakes, but it was incredibly sexy to see that in person.  My fingers must have been turning white from the lack of blood by the time she finally started to relax, and I relented on my attack to give her a chance to breathe.

Again, she kissed me, but this time with a more urgent intensity than before.  Her tongue was the aggressor, ready to chase mine down to my tonsils.  Her hands weren’t idle either, stripping off clothing as quickly as possible, exposing more treasures for my fingers to play with.  A cupped breast was played with when she, in frustration, just pulled down her top.  Her panties were tossed wetly against the wall, the frilly sheer coat tossed aside with a moan of frustration.

Her eyes got animalistic as she pushed me onto my back and climbed atop me, and my concern finally broke through my lust.  "Are you sure," I asked, and she bit her lip and nodded as she grabbed me and aimed me at her snatch.  She pushed down on me, and it was a bit of a struggle, the ample lubricants from both of us making her slippery, my cock kept slipping forward to hit her clit, or tried to slide backward to her asshole.

I tried to reach down, to help, and she hissed out, "Rub my breasts, pinch my nipples, please!"  And it was hard to argue with her.  My fingers started tweaking both, little fingers teasing underneath, ring fingers running along the sides, thumb and forefinger trying to pinch them into submission.  She let out a gasp and lined me up again, forcing herself down onto me, and my hips thrust up at the same time.  I plunged fully into her, ripping past her maidenhood, and her body shook.  A groan escaped her lips as her clit extended and rubbed up against my pubic hair.

I held still to give her a chance to adapt to me, and to prevent me from cumming instantly.  Her body wasn’t having any of that, her hips started grinding us together, her muscles inside massaging my cock.  I erupted with a scream, echoed by hers as I pumped her full of cum.  I never had seconds before, not even close to so soon - a morning after fuck was a rare thing indeed, and if I thought I had an orgasm before, it was nothing like this one.

Her body was acting on it’s own, clamping down on me, shivering, shaking.  Her arms collapsed, and she fell forward, her knees bending uncontrollable as her body fucked away on my still shooting cock.  Even though it was pumping nothing, not anymore, not after having the balls drained so soon before, her body was seeking every last drop.  I was so sensitive, and she was just uttering mindless grunts, her hard nipples grinding into my chest.

I felt a building at the base of my balls and it literally hurt as I felt a second wave rack my body, my asshole clenching down, triggered by the prostrate that put in it’s opinion of how a cum should be.  I swear, I must have had another quart of blood try to fill my cock, I could feel it stretching to the bursting point and my vision started getting blurry as my groin ordered all my blood to keep going.  I was panting as much as she was, her quivering not stopping.

Finally, it was a relief as the groin released it’s grip on my body, my lungs gasping for air, the blood slowly retreating from my cock, allowing my vision to clear from the random spots I had been seeing.  Anita was just quietly crying into my chest, tears dripping, sobs shaking her.  I brushed her hair lightly with my fingers which were curiously sensitive, feeling each hair.  The softness of her hair.  Red eyed, she looked up into my eyes, and slid forward, causing a pop as my now deflated dick slipped out of her body.  We kissed as our fluids dripped onto my belly, filling the button, my tongue holding hers, as my arms held her tight against me.

And in the back of my mind, a snide voice inside said, "It ain’t love, but at least that’s one hell of a beginning."
