A sickness wrapped around Charity as Alejandra carried her from the cramped bedroom. The thin walls of the dingy apartment now felt like an impenetrable fortress. Only with Alejandra could she cross the threshold. As she closed her eyes, it grew harder to remember the things she once took for granted. Simple things, like the way lilacs made the house smell when they bloomed. Now, that memory was replaced by the ever-present earthy scent of weed, clinging faintly to everything Alejandra owned.
It wasn’t overpowering, barely noticeable, she suspected, to someone not Little. But to her, it was everywhere. Ingrained into the fabrics, the wood, the worn cushions of the chairs… even herself. Her clothes, her skin, they smelled of it.
Charity’s mind had absorbed it as part of Alejandra’s scent. It clung to her because it owned her. It was a brand, an invisible mark that bound her tighter to the woman who carried her.
As they entered the living room, her eyes settled on the Mexican flag hung proudly on the wall. It wasn’t decoration anymore. It was an emblem of power, of law. Mexican law. The very law that now defined her.
She was registered. Claimed. Classified under a foreign system that didn’t see her as a person. She existed only as Mexican property. And no matter what happened, no matter who tried to help or what legislation passed back home, there was no way back.
“Patrona, you’re quiet,” Alejandra said, sinking down onto her worn sofa.
Charity remembered a time she would’ve turned her nose up at such a thing. That couch had once represented everything she despised, threadbare, stained, hopeless. She wouldn’t have let her clothes touch something so disgraceful.
Yet now… it was a throne. It was the altar at which Alejandra sat. A seat of power. From the floor, Charity couldn’t even reach the underside of it.
“Please, Alejandra. You don’t want me. What good am I to you?” Charity’s voice came out weak, warped, her malformed vocal cords rendering every word soft, pitiful. She could only be heard if Alejandra chose to hear her. Even trivial noises could drown her out. Her once-commanding voice had fully submitted.
Alejandra leaned back into the couch, one leg tucked beneath her, the other stretched lazily along the cushion. The fabric squeaked faintly as she shifted, her arm draped along the backrest with casual authority, over the apartment, over the moment, over the Little in front of her.
Patrona stood on the scratched-up coffee table, barely five and a half inches tall, framed by half-eaten takeout containers and a chipped ceramic ashtray. Slivers of gold light filtered in through the blinds, striping her tiny frame in bands of warmth and shadow.
Alejandra’s gaze settled on her, calm, deliberate.
“Patrona, you’re my Little Mexican Little now,” she said with a quiet finality, the kind that didn’t leave space for protest. “Tú me perteneces. You belong to me.”
She leaned forward and brushed her fingers against the ID tag at Charity’s collar. It jingled softly, a delicate sound that somehow made the silence more complete.
“You’re registered under Mexican law. That means you’ll live the rest of your life as Mexican property, mi propiedad.”
She exhaled through her nose, slow and assured, sinking further into her seat as her voice softened, but never lost its weight.
“And that? That can’t be undone. No lawyers. No rich girl tantrums. No last name full of prestige. Nada.”
Charity didn’t answer. She couldn’t. The words settled in her stomach like stones.
Alejandra watched her with narrowed eyes.
“You’ll be taught, Patrona, the customs, the obedience. How a proper Mexican Little carries herself.”
She let the sentence linger, savoring the quiet.
Then, with a playful curl to her voice:
“Don’t worry. We’ll get you there. I’m patient.”
She nudged one of the takeout boxes aside with her foot, clearing a space in front of her.
“Come here, Patrona. Sit. This is home now. Welcome to your real life.”
Charity watched as Alejandra lifted her leg and rested it on the coffee table. From her pocket, she pulled a joint and a lighter, lit it, and leaned her head back. The smoke spiraled upward, filling the air with that same pungent scent, comfort and control all in one.
“Te dije que vinieras, Patrona.” Alejandra’s voice sharpened slightly. Her fingers drummed once against her thigh.
“When a Little is called by her dueña, she comes, does she not?”
She tilted her head, a slow smile spreading across her lips.
“Or are you forgetting your manners again?”
Desperately, Charity wanted to close her eyes and wake up in her own bed. Not here. Not like this, trapped beneath the gaze of the undocumented girl who had claimed her and shackled her in Mexican law. Every last American right, stripped away. The news could break tomorrow that the U.S. had granted Littles full rights… and it wouldn’t matter. Not for her. She wasn’t American anymore, not legally, not socially, not in any sense that counted.
Littles were governed solely by the laws of where they were first registered. And hers would forever be Mexican.
She stepped forward, reaching out to Alejandra’s foot. Her fingers sank into the old cotton weave of the sock, the giant gaps in the fabric now large enough to climb through. The smell of detergent mixed with weed, sweat, and dust from the short walk across the apartment clung to every inch.
The filth wrapped around her as she climbed, each step an admission of who she now was. She ascended Alejandra’s foot, then shifted sideways across the leg, using the same stretched fabric for footholds. Alejandra’s leg, from this view, looked as wide as a bridge. She crossed it with little effort and finally sat down in Alejandra’s lap, leaning into the warmth of her guardian.
“Good girl, Patrona,” Alejandra murmured, reaching for the remote. She flipped on the TV, inhaled deeply from the joint, and let the moment stretch.
She sat like a queen. Her Little was perched in her lap, obedient and silent. The leash, though not visible, was ever-present. It was her hand that fed now.
“The American dream,” Alejandra whispered, more to herself than anyone else.
Charity heard it. And understood.
Is Alejandra training chirty to be pet now ?
That’s still the mystery lol what exactly does a little from mexico look like? i have no clue what to expect, but Al has been pretty gentle all things considered (though i know people probably disagree with me there haha). She could be much, much worse and we just don’t know it cause she’s the only person we’ve met from Mexico that now has a little.
For all we know she’s closer to the USA’s ideas of owning a little than anyone else from Mexico and her treatment of Charity is what that looks like, however hard it is for us as readers to accept.
Socks? Boooo!
I don’t know a lot of girls that wear big white socks lol. most are bare or ankle highs
Not much sadder then a drunk or bake head
Remember the Alamo, please save her Sara lol.
Not sure I’d trust someone on drugs to own a Little.
Nor would I.
Next page please.
1) “It wasn’t overpowering, barely noticeable, she suspected, to someone not Little. But to her, it was everywhere. Ingrained into the fabrics, the wood, the worn cushions of the chairs… even herself. Her clothes, her skin, they smelled of it.” I wonder if Littles could be used in drug detection.
2) “Please, Alejandra. You don’t want me. What good am I to you?” What good are you to anyone? What good have you ever been to anyone?
3) “Tú me perteneces. You belong to me.” thank you for translating.
4) “You’re registered under Mexican law. That means you’ll live the rest of your life as Mexican property, mi propiedad.” not aqctually that different to how it works in America.
5) “And that? That can’t be undone. No lawyers. No rich girl tantrums. No last name full of prestige. Nada.” Oh, I’m srue there’d be a way, legal ot otherwise, I doubt
It’ll happen, but it would exist.
6) “You’ll be taught, Patrona, the customs, the obedience. How a proper Mexican Little carries herself. Don’t worry. We’ll get you there. I’m patient.” Ale’s dominance is in full swing.
7) “Her fingers sank into the old cotton weave of the sock,” when did she put socks on? She was barefoot a second ago.
8) “ She ascended Alejandra’s foot, then shifted sideways across the leg, using the same stretched fabric for footholds. Alejandra’s leg, from this view, looked as wide as a bridge. She crossed it with little effort and finally sat down in Alejandra’s lap.” that actually sounds really fun, if you ignore the context surrounding it.
9) “The American dream,” Lol, that line was gold.
1) I think every cop should have a little partner so they can know what’s going on in a car or sniff out a crime seen, our track down missing people. Like a little crime dog in a pocket lol
2) Well as a Mexican little you could be a breeder or a service little or lots of other scarier little jobs.
3) She is owned by the illegal help, and has a collar to be paraded around for all to see.
4) She is in for outfit changes, bonding time & singing lessons.
5) Rich people don’t have rules. I bet Chole and Sara could find lots of ways to own charity from Mal.
6) Al is using her giant presence for a slow bond and control.
7) White socks a fashion disaster lol.
8) It dose sound fun. Charity sucking up to the Giant is a smart move.
9) I’m not sure on that but its someone’s dream lol.
1) That sounds incredibly unsafe.
4) That’d be entertaining.
5) Mal doesn’t have Charity, Ale does.
6) Indeed
7) lol
8) I don’t think that’s what she’s doing