by Paul Blades
In a sense, everything he had had been given to him. Someday the old man would be past his prime, some said he already was, and it would be time for him to take over. If his men did not have el miedo del Dios, the fear of God, of him, there would be a war, or at least a palace coup. He would have to fight mano y diente, hand and tooth, for his rights. The men would look to see how he handled el gringo terrible as a measure of how well he would lead them. For they would know that if he was not a strong leader, un hombre de acero, a man of steel, the other gangs would quickly eat them up.
He looked next to him at his amigo, Manuel. He was guiding the mouth of the dainty little whore slowly up and down his rather thick and long cock. When they were drunk and the mood was light, the men sometimes referred to him as El Burro, for the resemblance in size and girth of his manly protuberance. Manuel really didn’t like it, but when his pinga was buried deep in the culo of one of their whores, Manuel’s preferred path to pleasure, he didn’t mind, especially if the mujer desalinada was squawking and wailing with unhappiness.
And so the future would require delicateness and thought for Lorenzo. His father was apparently enamored of the hombre pelo negro. He portended to be a big money maker, something that counted a lot to the cabron viejo egoista, the greedy old goat. Sometimes Lorenzo thought that the old man would sell even him if the price was right.
So he couldn’t challenge the powerful biker directly. He would have to force him into doing something foolish, something that, in his father’s eyes, would justify Lorenzo putting him down harshly, even killing him. And he realized that he had just the thing. He had seen how the biker had virtually blanched when his father had come up with the $25,000. He didn’t really want to sell the girl. There was something between them. But he could not afford to appear weak. So he sold her despite his fierce desire for her.
Yes, the girl would be the bait that would spark an outburst from the black haired man. Then he would have Manuel put a bullet in him. First in his kneecaps. Then they would tie his ankles to the back of a pickup truck and drive him around in the desert for a while. That’s what pinche bastardos like him deserved!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The man with the electric prod did not come back. Carly had settled herself into a dull forlornness. The other girls too were mostly quiet. What was the sense, after all, of wailing and sobbing? It wouldn’t change anything. She was trying to put aside her fears for now. Somehow she would get through it. Somehow she would escape.
Her thoughts turned to the man who had kidnapped her. Jack. Blackjack. She had a burning hatred for him and all that he had done to her. Selling her to these cruel Mexicans was the worst, but the rest of it, keeping her tied and blinded, using her roughly and rudely, making her bow to him, her forehead to the floor. And she cursed herself for the pleasure she had allowed him to give her, not that she had had much choice about it, or any at all.
At one time, not too long ago, although in emotional time it was eons and eons ago, she had felt attuned to her body, at one with it. She worked out, ate right, maintained herself in a kind of spiritual union with it. And it had served her well. With Randy, her boyfriend, her body had seemed to reach an apotheosis of joy. Coming with him inside her had brought her a wondrous delight. She had loved him so much!
But what the man had done to her was to drive her body way, way past what she thought it was ever capable of. A vast gulf now separated her mind and corpus. Her body was like a separate entity that had its own agenda, its own life, and she had lost all control over it.
When her captor had made her come, it was like a tornado arose inside her. The world seemed to spin away. And when she felt it coming, growing nearer and nearer with each thrust of his remorseless cock, she began to hunger for it like a beast in heat. Would the Mexican man drive her to such dizzying heights? He would have to be a superior cocksman to be better than Blackjack Jackson!
He was a force of nature. Animalistic, callous, with a rabid need for pleasure. He exercised power as if possessed of some supernatural talent for it. And what that power had done to her was to release in her a fearsome demon that had taken control of her, magnifying her lusts, causing her to revel in her abasement, forcing her to crave possession by the man, transforming his cock into a totem of desire. When he was in her mouth, her whole body swooned and the demon inside her, the one that he had injected into her that very first night, craved his come as a vampire for blood, a craving that was veracious and which, as his meat moved over her lips, filled her cavity with its heat, its taste, its bulk, she strove mightily to satisfy.
Would it be the same way with the Mexican? Had she been ruined? Once the demon had been unleashed, could it ever be restrained? Would she learn to crave her new master’s cum as she had craved his? Had she been transformed into a cock hungry slut who would cream and boil at any man’s touch?
What had happened with Ike, the callous, cruel leader of the local Rogues chapter, when he fucked her, was strong, undeniable evidence that it had. He had made her scream with pleasure! The recollection of it made her cringe with shame and remorse. It made her stomach queasy and a vast abyss open in the depths of her being. Blackjack Jackson had transformed her into a ravenous whore. She would carry that shame all of her life. And anyone who possessed her, used her, ordered her to her knees and to open her mouth, to bend over and spread her thighs, would trigger her hunger, awaken the demon, make her deviant pussy erupt in heat.
She bit down hard on the thick protuberance in her mouth. She pulled at her bound wrists. She experienced the touch of the raw steel all around her brushing up against her shoulders, her thighs and the top of her head, in front of her blinded face. She was bent over into almost the tiniest configuration her body could make, abjectly helpless and totally and irremediably in the men’s power.
“I don’t want to be a whore! I don’t want to be a whore! I don’t want to be a whore!” she thought madly. The men would use her, his amigos, the Mexican’s amigos. He had said that they would. And her nakedness would be for them all to see, to enjoy. They would revel in the cruelties they would inflict on her, driving her to deeper and deeper humiliation and shame. They would bind her and whip her and fuck her and cage her, as she was bound and naked and caged even now. How would she ever stand it? How would she ever survive? “Oh, please, oh, please, oh please don’t let it be true! Please! Please! Please!” she prayed desperately.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a change in the motion of the plane. It seemed to slow as if it had hit a thick, gel filled cloud. And then the left wing seemed to dip. The plane was turning! It was slowing and turning. She felt the drop of altitude in her belly. The plane was landing! Wherever it was they were taking her, they were here. In an hour, two, at the most three, she would be alone with her new master and he would be preparing to visit his cruelties on her. She would be deep in Mexico, two thousand miles from home, hundreds of miles from the border, a helpless slave owned by merciless men. A chill went through her. “It can’t be happening! It can’t be happening! It can’t be happening!” she begged and pleaded again and again and again. “Please don’t let it be true! Please!”
The plane gave a heavy jolt as it touched down, shaking its occupants. It didn’t take long to roll to a stop. All the women in the cargo compartment, seven in all, experienced the same tightening in their bellies, the same cold, shiver of fear, the same trauma of hopelessness. It would be short moments now before they would be thrust into their new reality. Several of them issued long, muffled, anguished whines. Carly twisted and pulled at her confines knowing that it was futile, but out of some deep need to be doing something, anything, to create the illusion that all was not lost, that somehow she could forestall her fate.
The cargo door gave out a loud, ‘Clang!’ as it opened. The plane’s engines were idling and the floor of the compartment was vibrating. Loud, male, amused, Mexican voices came inside. Each of the women released unhappy sounds as she was pulled from her cage and dragged to the cargo door.
Strong hands lifted them and dropped them to the rough tarmac. It felt good to be free of the strict confinements of their cages, but each one of them was conscious of dozens of hostile eyes scouring their flesh, eyes of men who would soon feel free to use their bodies for their pleasure.
Lorenzo stood by his father as the naked women were drawn from the plane and marched towards the awaiting van. Their nakedness and helplessness was lust inspiring. They had landed at a small airstrip a mile or so outside of town. It was not a private airport. Even as they assembled their human booty on the tarmac, a shiny, white Learjet was taxiing down the runway preparing for takeoff. The whine of its engines could be heard as a strange background to the chattering, amused voices of the men as they took in the loveliness of their prizes.
The sky was clear, except for a smattering of puffy, gray clouds illuminated by the bright Mexican moon which had finally emerged from behind the surrounding hills. The flood lights from the runway shone down on the pale skin of the unhappy women, making their Anglo skin seem even paler. It was almost as if they were on stage, a warm welcome having been prepared for them. All that was missing was the mariachi band and the crowd of well-wishers, newsmen and photographers.
The four young girls were brought out first. Lorenzo had only gotten a brief look at them when they had been delivered to them at the Rogues’ hideout, and he made a vow to get better acquainted with them before their fates were decided. Within the next week or so, one or more of them would be sent to the whorehouse reserved for their crew. The madam who ran their local, first class whorehouse in town, the one reserved for the cream of local society, the police chiefs, the senators, the judges, the generals, who all happily received a slice of their pie, would get a chance to make a selection. The others would be sold to one or more of their regular customers or gifted out to one of the other cartels they did business with as a token of good will. His father would make those decisions.
When the four, shapely, alluring young girls were loaded into the van, the older ladies, the FBI agent and Mrs. Ramirez were next. Their more mature bodies were alluring too as they both had taken especial efforts in their prior lives to maintain themselves at a peak of fitness, in the case of the FBI agent, or desirability, in the case of Mrs. Ramirez. Finally, there emerged her prized, new redheaded fuckdog. A swell of lust filled him. Her heavy breasts bobbed and swayed as she was lifted to the ground and she issued a little muffled squeal as her feet met the tarmac.
The senior Morales gave instructions that the FBI lady be loaded into the van with the four girls, but that she should remain untouched for now. Mrs. Ramirez and the redheaded girl were led to the big, black Mercedes limousine that was waiting there for him and his son. The two men watched as first one, Mrs. Ramirez, and then the redheaded whore, were tumbled in and strapped down to prevent unnecessary movements. The valise full of the Rogues’ cash had never left Mr. Morales’ side during their brief voyage and he had it with him now as he and Lorenzo slid into the back seat of the limo. When their doors were closed, the limo slid smoothly away. The van took its place behind them.
The Morales gang enclave lay about 30 miles north of the city of Monterrey, just outside a small town called Mina. It was the town of Seňor Morales’ birth, and that of his son, Lorenzo. The Morales gang controlled about 70% of the cocaine and heroin trade in the State of Monterrey, the other 30% divided between several other gangs. The gangs lived an uneasy truce between each other, each entity jealously guarding their territory. Most of Morales’ key men were recruited from Mina, all well known to each other, making the gang virtually impervious to infiltration. They had a loose confederation with the more well-known and murderous Zetas, acting as their local agents and able to call on them for muscle in the event of the outbreak of hostilities. The Zetas provided the Morales operations with a steady supply of product and were able to guarantee freedom from interference from the Federal Government in Mexico City. All local protection was handled by Morales directly.
The trade with the Rogues and other gringo outfits was really a small part of their operations, useful mostly for the purposes obtaining American dollars and a steady stream of unfortunate gringas who were in high demand in the higher class bordellos. The upper echelon of the civic powers in the city were happy to make the 60 minute drive to Mina for the occasional consultation, the receipt of their weekly or monthly gratuities and to idle away a few hours in Morales’ special, premier house of delight where you could rub shoulders with the senior Morales lieutenants and do to the girls whatever you liked.
The Morales enclave sat 10 miles west of Mina. It was a large ranchero complete with cattle and horses and vaqueros. The 10,000 acres was surrounded by high barbed wire fences frequently patrolled and monitored by a state of the art video surveillance system. Seňor Morales lived in a sprawling, luxurious hacienda. Lorenzo had his own house, just as luxurious, but on a smaller scale. Smaller casas provided homes to several of the senior members of the gang, with a few being reserved for special guests. There were tennis courts, an Olympic sized pool, a bowling alley, a large stable which housed Morales’s prized thoroughbred stallion and his other fine horses. A large bunkhouse served the many attendants and was complete with an annex which housed the whores that kept the men happy in their work and provided entertainment to the guests.
All during the ride to her, as yet, unknown destination, Carly kept up her unhappy prayers. The trunk of the limo was hot and stuffy and she was crammed up against another woman. She thought that she recognized the moans and sobs as the same woman she had shared a trunk with on the final leg of her trip to the Rogues’ hideout. But she couldn’t be sure. She just wished the woman could keep quiet. Things were bad enough without having to listen to her complaints.
Before, when the man, Blackjack, as they called him, had placed her in the trunk of his car, she had been able to squirm and move to some extent, giving her some semblance of freedom. But Lorenzo’s men had, after placing her on her side and affixing her ankles to her wrists, strapped her neck and thighs to the bottom of the enclosure. The straps were tight and she could barely move a muscle. It was yet another sign that her servitude to the Mexican gangsters portended to be so much more harsh, so much more complete than before.
She had always had the sense that her captor, although the regimen he imposed on her was harsh and strict, still saw her as a person, a woman, an individual, a human being. To the men who owned her now, and who would determine her future for perhaps the rest of her dismal, unhappy life, she was just an animal that you could play with and torture and fuck without regard to any injury you might inflict. She bit down hard on her gag and fought back her tears. “Please don’t let this happen! Please! Please! Please!” she thought again and again.
Sr. Morales and Lorenzo had little to say to each other on the drive to Mina. Both were more than occupied with their interior thoughts. Sr. Morales was thinking about the gauntlet he had laid down for his son. It would be a big test for him on how he dealt with the black haired Americano. The senior Morales knew that, at 60, he had about 10 good years left. He needed to be sure that his son would be up to taking up the mantle of command for their criminal empire. If he handed over the reins to Lorenzo and he was not ready, he would spend his sunset years watching his life’s work crumble. And he had made many enemies in his day. He would need a successor who was able to protect him, otherwise, men would come by some night, yank him out of his aged bed and visit obscene tortures on him before they finally let him expire.
So if Lorenzo did not have what it took, he would have to look for someone else. His chief lieutenant, Acero Gonzalez, the Mechanic, el Mecánico, they called him for the mechanical manor in which he dispatched his master’s foes, was a good candidate, although a trifle old himself now. And there were a couple of others, perhaps Lorenzo’s associate, Manual, El Burro, if he could be trusted. Whoever it was would need all of the 10 years before he was put out to pasture to assume control and stamp out any rivals. It was bet
ter to know now what Lorenzo was made of, rather than later.
Lorenzo spent most of his time in a reverie about what he was going to do with his new toy. That and how he was ever going to get the old man to retire. The old man was past his prime, at least as far as running a criminal enterprise in the rough and tumble urban jungles of Mexico. You had to have a keen edge, something his father had lost.
Just last week his father had conceded a few blocks of territory and all of the associated businesses to one of the up and coming gangs in Monterrey. If it had been up to him, he would have squashed them like bugs. And it was time that the Morales clan take full possession of the city anyway. All the other gangs were growing and they were shrinking. If they were not careful, in the years to come, they might find themselves at the mercy of one of the other gangs, begging to make a deal that would allow them to keep a small slice of the pie. No, he needed to move fast and, if the old man would not step out of the way, he would have to be removed.
The limo took about an hour and a half to reach the hacienda. Neither father nor son spoke the whole way there. The sleek car pulled up to the well-lit, manned gate and slowed to a stop. The men at the gate recognized the limo, of course, but they were under strict instructions to check every vehicle before letting it in. A bomb sniffing, devilish black Doberman was walked around the car. The interior lights were turned on to give the men a better view of who was inside. The trunk was opened and the men uttered amused comments at the delectable contents.
Carly thought, when the lid opened, that she had reached the end of her journey, and steeled herself to meet her future, but realized, when the lid shut down again, that she had been wrong.
The car drove up the long driveway and reached the main compound in about 5 minutes. The first stop was at Sr. Morales’ hacienda. One of the guards opened the door of the car for him and he emerged. He stood and watched as the Ramirez woman was unstrapped from the trunk and removed. A retainer attached a leash to her collar and removed the chain between her ankles, they were hardly necessary at this point, and followed his master inside, hauling the unhappy, sobbing woman behind him.