Rosalita Ch 01

Here is a story that is a wee bit different for me in some ways and in other ways is very typical...you can be the judge. I'm sure I'll take hits for listing it as an Incest story rather than in the Mature category, but the incestuous tone of the story and what will subsequently occur made my choice for me. Please read the author's afterword for more on this decision. Oh, and forgive any errors in my use of Spanish - a lovely language which I wish I'd studied harder on in college.

As always, this is a work of fiction and any character's resemblance to anyone living or dead is pure coincidence -- all characters exist only within the story and the confines of my very crowded head. Please offer up comments, both positive or negative -- they do serve to inspire me. Enjoy!

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For most of the time that I've known her, Rosalita was one of the saddest people I ever met. And it seems like I've known her forever. She was one of the invisible people that we interact with everyday and yet never really know. I met Rosalita when I was a kid in grade school. Rosalita was one of our school janitors, cleaning and mopping up after us no matter what mess we students made.

I can remember watching her in our cafeteria when I was maybe six years old. I was sitting at a table with some buddies eating our bologna sandwiches and chips and our little cartons of milk and I looked up as she passed by, stopping at the next table to wipe it down. She glanced over at us and noticed me watching her. She gave me the sweetest and saddest smile. It nearly made me cry as I sensed even then, great love and great loss.

A few minutes later, some older kids made a stupid scene by pretending to accidentally spill their food trays into the floor next to the trash cans. They walked away laughing and saying "Whoops!" in exaggerated voices. Rosalita sighed and trudged over to the mess and began cleaning it up.

I don't know why, but I got up and after disposing of my tray, bent over next to her and began picking things up. Rosalita glanced over surprised and then smiled again. A mother's smile full of love that reminded me of how Mom would look when I'd done something that pleased her.

"Thank you, hijo," said Rosalita, picking up the last of the garbage. "You're a good boy." She stepped over and tousled my hair. "Go on, hijo, go play."

I looked at her for a moment, basking in the glow of her smile and asked with a child's curiosity, "What does hijo mean?"

Rosalita blushed, bright spots of red on her brown cheeks. "Um, it means son, young man, um, it's Johnny, right?" Her eyes grew watery, tears on the verge of falling down her cheeks.

"Yes, ma'am," I replied.

She smiled that smile at me again, "Such a good boy. I think you make your mama proud." Rosalita smiled and continued, "I am Rosalita, Johnny. Thank you for helping me. Now go play!"

And I did. I always remembered that moment though. And I remembered her mopping up the rest of the other kids' mess, pausing to wipe tears from her eyes. I felt a connection to her even then, even if I didn't understand it. She was just the nice, but sad lady who ever after always had a nice smile for me. I made a point of helping her whenever I saw a chance. Picking up a heavy wastebasket for her or pushing her cleaning cart up the incline between the main school building and the gymnasium. She always seemed pleased by that and always said, "Thank you, my little hijo." We rarely spoke more than hello and goodbye and thank you.

That Christmas, I brought her a little glass angel identical to the one I gave my teacher, Mrs. Parsons. I made her cry and she hugged me and sobbed, "Gracias, mi amado hijo!" I was a little confused and thought I had upset her, but she saw the gathering storm clouds in my face and knelt down and hugged me again. "I love it, Johnny. You've made me very happy." That made me feel better and I hugged her back one last time and wished her a Merry Christmas before running off.

Things changed after that. She smiled a little more -- even if it was still tinged with sadness and she always seemed happy to see me. I'm sure it's safe to say I had a little boy's crush on her. But, the years passed and as they did, I would move on and up in school as we all do. I lost track of Rosalita after I went to middle school and then in sixth grade, we up and moved across the state. For years, I rarely, if ever, thought of the sad eyed woman I had befriended. It was a bit of surprise to meet up with her again when my family moved back to town just before school started for my senior year.

I was hanging out in the cafeteria on the first day, getting reacquainted with old friends when one of them nudged me with his elbow and said, "Hey, Johnny, there's your old girlfriend." Even before I looked to where Mick was pointing, I heard an old familiar voice scolding a group of juniors. I turned around to see several young men scurrying to clean up their mess while Rosalita shook her finger at them and called them little pigs.

My heart gave a lurch as I saw my old friend who still looked so sad and to whom I now had a different reaction. See, I was eighteen and I had already figured out that I had a thing for older women. Don't ask me why -- I'm not sure myself. Maybe it was a Mom fixation. I have fantasized about my mother for years. From there, my fantasies have spread outward to include most of Mom's friends, a few good looking teachers and my supervisor at the grocery story where I had worked as a bag boy until we moved back here. Mature women just turn me on.

Now I found myself looking at my sad Rosalita in a new light as well. I had always liked her, but now post puberty, I was surprised that I hadn't remembered her as the beautiful woman she was. Rosalita's skin was the color of cinnamon and her high cheek bones gave her a noble look. Her hair was jet black and tied into a bun on top of her head. I let my gaze roam appreciatively over her lush body -- I freely admit that like most teenager boys, I am fascinated with large breasts and her bosom although completely covered by her work clothes (a blue jumpsuit), was obviously huge. She was a little stockier than I remembered, standing maybe five and half feet tall, but her jumpsuit clung enticingly to her shapely butt. I felt my cock stir in general interest.

"See you guys later," I said, getting up from the table. I heard Mick snicker, but ignored him. He was a doofus way back when and he was a doofus now. I strolled over to Rosalita and said, "Hi, Miss Rosalita. Do you remember me?"

She turned around and looked me up and down with her big, dark eyes. After studying me for a second, she started to shake her head and then she stopped and her hand flew to her mouth and she said softly, "My little Johnny? Is that you, mi hijo?"

I grinned and nodded. "Oh my god, you're all grown up!" she exclaimed and then surprised me by rushing up and giving me a big hug. Her arms pulled me tight against her and I was able to confirm my suspicions about her large bosom as I could feel her meaty breasts pillow against my chest -- even through her bra.

"Look at you!" she exclaimed, stepping back and giving me another once over. "My sweet little Johnny has become a man!" She had a broad grin on her face and I felt not only aroused by this lovely mature woman, but happy that I could take that sad look off her face.

We chatted for several minutes and then the bell rang for my next class. Rosalita sighed and gave me another hug and said, "It is so good to see you, Johnny!" before letting me go.

"You too, Ms. Rosalita," I murmured, feeling my face blush. I wasn't embarrassed as much as pleased that she seemed so happy to seem me again.

Senior year passed quickly -- I had most of my required classes completed and what was left, I skated through. Mostly I concentrated on girls (my interests were not exclusively with mature women), fixing up my old Ford, and baseball (I was the starting first basemen on the school team). I saw Rosalita around often and would stop and chat with her, still helping her out when I could, which earned me an occasional hug or maybe just a touch on the arm. Just being around the lovely Mexican-American woman could get me hard -- her touch guaranteed an erection.

I fantasized a lot about making a move on Rosalita, but like my fantasies about Mom or her friends, I didn't have a clue about how to approach her. My sexual experiences were limited to a few sweaty moments with a cheerleader named Denise who gave sloppy, but enthusiastic blowjobs, but wouldn't go all the way.

I always figured that my fantasies would remain just that, my fantasies, but things wound up being very different because I didn't run out that pop-up against our school's biggest rivals.

It was one of our home games in late April and West Riverside was kicking our asses and we were behind 9-1. In the bottom of the ninth, I was at bat with one out and I popped it up behind second base and their shortstop was there and took it in and I half-assed it up the baseline and had turned to the dugout before the ball was in his glove.

Coach Munson had a fit over my laziness and instead of showering up and getting out of there, I was running laps around the ball field for the next thirty minutes and then I had to collect and store all our equipment. By the time I had showered and dressed, I was alone at the ball field. I trudged back to the high school parking lot just after the sun had set and everything was in that dim time of twilight. I was having a good pity party for myself and not paying attention to anything, tossing a baseball I'd kept, up and down.

I was shocked out of my daze by a shrill scream and I spun around and at the far end of the lot where teachers and staff parked, I could see a commotion. "ROSALITA!" I screamed as I broke into a run.

Rosalita was struggling with two guys who were trying to take her purse and she was hanging on to it for dear life. As I approached, I recognized them as a couple of lowlife thugs who were in and out of school all the time. They were intent on Rosalita's purse and not aware of my approach. One of them struck Rosalita on the jaw and she went to her knees, hands still wrapped tight around the strap to her bag.

"MOTHERFUCKER!" I yelled, throwing the ball in my hand at the guy who punched her and nailing him in the back of his head. His knees went out from under him and he was on the ground next to Rosalita and as his buddy looked up to see what was going on, I slammed into him, throwing him against Rosalita's car. He stumbled to the right, tossing a wild haymaker that just clipped my chin and made me go off balance.

By the time, I got my footing, he had his pal up and they were running off. In the heat of my anger, I started after them, but drew up short when Rosalita sobbed, "No! Let them go, hijo!"

My anger bled away in an instant as I turned and hurried to Rosalita and knelt beside her. "Are you okay?" I gasped, reaching out and touching her arm.

Rosalita nodded and tried to speak and then just burst into tears and flung her face against my chest and cried for a minute or two. I just put my arms around her and tried to say something to calm her.

By the time she was able to talk; the Principal and a school board member had emerged from the school and rushed up. They called the police who took statements from Rosalita and me. I identified the assholes who had tried to mug her and the police assured her that they were not strangers to them and they'd have no trouble rounding them up. Rosalita was very quiet saying very little and staying close to me.

While Principal Brown and the police were discussing things, she leaned into me and said, "Thank you, Johnny. You're a brave young man." She took my hand in hers and squeezed it affectionately.

I blushed down to the roots of my hair and tried to be modest. "I didn't do anything brave. It doesn't take much to stand up to a couple of assholes who'd pick on a woman like that."

Rosalita smiled at me and said, "No -- it was a brave thing to do."

The police left and Principal Brown patted me on the back and told me how proud he was. Then he looked to Rosalita and said, "Will you be alright, Mrs. Sanchez? Do you need someone to drive you home? I'm in a meeting, but I'll be free in fifteen minutes or so."

Before she could answer, I jumped in and said, "I'd be glad to drive Ms. Rosalita home, sir."

We both looked at Rosalita and she nodded and said, "That would be nice, Johnny." I told Principal Brown that I would hike back to my car later and he beamed and called me a good young man and wished us both a nice weekend.

I helped Rosalita into her car and suddenly realized I was seeing her for the first time in something different than her work clothes. As she sat down and swung her legs in, it hit me as I realized I was admiring her shapely calves! Rosalita was wearing a skirt -- a knee length denim skirt. I couldn't help but smile as my eyes roamed up her body -- Rosalita was wearing a pretty checkered blouse that just gave a hint of her no doubt impressive cleavage. I continued my survey and met her eyes. I blushed as she smiled back at me, no doubt knowing exactly what I had been doing. Just as I began to close the door, she said softly, "Thank you, mi hijo."

The drive home was silent, Rosalita speaking only to tell me where to turn. She lived maybe three miles away -- we came to a stop in front of small house on a quiet, residential street. Her front yard was immaculate with beautifully crafted flower beds. "Your house is lovely. Did you do all those flowerbeds yourself?" I asked.

Rosalita looked out at her home and nodded. "Yes, I love working with flowers. After cleaning up after you kids..." She stopped, grinned and resumed, "Cleaning up after those other kids -- it's nice to work on something pretty." She reached over and squeezed my hand. "Sorry -- I didn't mean to lump you in with everyone else. You're special -- you've always treated me like a person instead of a janitor."

I shrugged and replied, "You are a person, Rosalita -- and you're the one who's special. Most of us are too stupid or blind to see that." She beamed back at me. I felt embarrassed -- not sure what else to say, so I opened the car door. "I'll walk you to your door, Rosalita."

I helped her out of the car and realized as I again stared at her legs. "Rosalita, you're bleeding!"

She looked down and sighed. "Si. I skinned my knees when that punk hit me. I don't know what will be more sore tomorrow -- my knees or my chin. She tilted her head and even in the dim light of a nearby streetlamp I could tell there was a small discoloration of her otherwise reddish-coppery skin.

Rosalita took my offered arm and I walked her to the door. She unlocked the door and turned and we looked at each other with uncertainty. I wanted to kiss her so badly; I was almost shaking with the effort of restraining myself.

"Johnny?" she said, her voice low and unsure. "Would you mind coming in for a little bit -- at least until I feel a little more, I don't know, settled?

"Um, sure," I replied. "I'd be happy to."

Inside, she turned on the lights. It was a lovely little place, neat as a pin. A small living room, adjoining kitchen and breakfast nook and a hall that I assumed led to one or more bedrooms. The walls were covered with family photographs and a few paintings.

Rosalita picked up a TV remote and handed it to me. "Why don't you make yourself comfortable? I'm going to take a quick shower and clean up this mess," she said, gesturing at her bloodied knees. "You can watch TV if you like and there is soda in the refrigerator."

I felt a stirring in my loins -- my cock beginning its all too short rise towards erection. In my head, I saw a million directions that this could go and worried that I would manage to have a million and one ways to screw things up. "Okay," I said meekly. My cock continued to swell as I realized that in a few minutes, this woman I had lusted after all year long would be naked just a few feet away from me.

She smiled at me and started to move towards the hallway. Rosalita stopped and turned back. "I feel silly saying 'thank you,' over and over again, but Johnny, thank you for what you did." She closed the distance between us and then rose on tip-toe to kiss the corner of my mouth, her body moving firmly against mine. "Mi beloved hijo," she whispered. She stepped back, her cinnamon skin turning darker as she blushed and then hurried from the room.

I watched her go and then stood there looking around the room. I idly turned on the television, but didn't sit down for long. Instead, I wandered about the room, looking at the various photographs. I assumed they were family pictures. I recognized a much younger Rosalita in a sundress, next to an older couple and then one of her in a graduation cap and gown between the same two people who I guessed were her parents. Other pictures showed her and various other young people of differing ages -- her parents in some of these pictures as well, so I assumed that they were her siblings. She looked so happy in those pictures.

She looked even happier in other pictures with a young Hispanic man in a military uniform. Then there was a wedding photo, Rosalita looking absolutely radiant next to her young man in Army dress uniform. I lingered on this one, feeling a little guilty as I ogled the deep cut of her dress, exposing the tops of her magnificent breasts. Then came pictures of a pregnant Rosalita, her belly swollen and looking as happy as anyone ever could. I was amazed to find myself as hard as I have ever been, looking at her, maybe seven or eight months pregnant, belly big and breasts under a maternity top, looking almost impossibly huge.

As I walked, I came to a little alcove. It looked like a shrine or tiny altar. There were candles in the front and behind them, pictures of her husband holding an infant and another of a young boy, maybe five years old. Suddenly, cold exploded in the pit of my stomach and all my horniness evaporated in a heartbeat. I suddenly comprehended Rosalita's sadness.

"His name was Hernando. I fell in love with him the first moment I saw him," Rosalita said from behind me. I turned to see her standing there in a thick, plush robe, belted tight. She was staring at the photo intently. "He is holding our son, Juan." She smiled that sad smile of hers. "Little Juan loved his daddy so much. Even at six months, he loved to go everywhere with his father."

Rosalita reached out and took my hand. My mouth felt as dry as a desert as I whispered, "What happened, Rosalita?"

She didn't say anything for a long, drawn out minute and I couldn't bring myself to breathe. Finally, Rosalita let out a long, soulful sigh that ended in a tremulous voice, "Hernando took Juan to a ballgame, they were both such baseball fans. They were on their way back and another car ran into them. They were gone by the time the ambulance came. The other driver, she died too. Wasn't drunk or a heart attack -- just ran into my husband and my little boy." She reached out and touched the framed photograph. "Mi tiamo."

She stared a moment longer then turned to me. "Come on, Johnny, come sit with me." She took my hand and led me to the couch. We sat down and faced each other, Rosalita curling her legs underneath her, giving me a flash of one lovely leg before it disappeared beneath the plush robe.

"I'm sorry. I never knew why you were so sad and I never thought to ask," I said, embarrassed even as I admitted it.

"You were a boy then and wouldn't know how to," Rosalita said. "But you cared, didn't you? You were kind to me and helpful and such a wonderful boy." She leaned over and stroked my cheek. "My Juan would be almost your age if things had turned out different. I like to think he'd be a lot like you."