Excerpt CHAPTER ONE
Special Agent Linda Kramer, her FBI training still fully at work, was listening carefully to the men behind her. She recognized the
voices easily. The spicy tenor was her owner, Sr. Morales. She had come to know his voice well over the past few months. She had heard it
virtually every day since she had become his property. Its sound made a chill go down her spine since she associated it with the vile, cruel
abuse she had been receiving at his hands, or if not at his hands, at his direction or with his consent.
The other voice she knew too. It was that man, Ike, the leader of the Alamogordo Rogues. The memory of the royal fucking he had given her
when she was a prisoner at the Rogues’ hideout in New Mexico was still very fresh in her mind. He had been cruel and insistent and demanding
and brutal.
It was a horrid experience, something that her FBI training had left her totally unprepared for. For, to her eternal dismay, she had
found that her pussy had responded to his assault like it had never responded before in her life. She had screamed with pleasure as she came
again and again as his cock ravaged her canal. He had bound her into cruel immobility and had debauched her through three or four orgasms.
She thought it was four, but there was hardly any space between three and four so she really didn’t know if she should count them as one or
two. The inability to move virtually a muscle in her body while wave after wave of disabling convulsions emanated from her quim had pushed
her to the outer limits of sanity.
He had ravaged her rear passage, a travail that she had never expected to have to endure. But even that had produced a radiation of
passion inducing sensations that flowed all through her. And he had used her mouth like a cunt, kneeling over her and plunging his cock down
her throat. When he came, he jetted his copious spume all over her face.
A shudder went through her body at the thought that he might use her again. Her belly turned sour. Sr. Morales was bad enough. And she
had to fuck his men too. But none of them fucked like Ike and she never wanted to go through that again.
Although the two men were maybe, at most, 30 or 40 feet away from her, she couldn’t see them. She couldn’t see anything except for what
her peripheral vision could pull in since she couldn’t move her head, only her eyes. It was where she spent many hours of her days, when Sr.
Morales was not using her, or when he hadn’t loaned her out to one of his friends.
She was in the spacious receiving room of Sr. Morales’ luxurious hacienda. It was just opposite the main entrance to the house. She was
mounted on her knees to a steel frame that held her virtually motionless. Her knees were spread and strapped in. Her hands were bound and
tied off to the base of the frame by straps that held her arms straight out behind her. Her back was up against an adjustable padded frame
that pressed into her and forced her plentiful breasts out, proffering them to passersby. The ring in the back of the golden metal collar
that she wore was locked into a little slot that kept her stretched out tall on her knees. A padded metal framework extended out to either
side of her face, just at the jaw line. It was adjustable and every day, when she was placed in it, the jaws of the device were screwed
tight against her cheeks. There was only so much play in it as she could slide her face left and right maybe an inch or two each way.
They adorned her with a well-polished, brown leather gag with a long, thick prong that kept her jaws separated and her tongue sickeningly
depressed. On the front shield there was burned in and then painted and varnished, like a brand, the coat of arms of the Casa de Morales.
Its traditional historic Spanish counterpart had been adapted for local use. At its top, set against a background of curving, flowing, grey
and slate blue flourishes, was a silver Conquistador’s helmet facing right. Beneath that was a shield. The top of the shield was divided
into four quadrants. The upper right and lower left contained the colors of the Mexican flag, green, white and red set horizontally. In the
opposite quadrants, instead of the traditional green trees, were silver mailed fists set on a yellow background. Beneath the shield was a
blood red banner with the words muerte a enimigos inscriptive, black letters, “death to enemies”.
The Morales’ adopted coat of arms could be seen everywhere on the Morales’ estate. It was on the elegant dinnerware used for formal
parties. It was mounted over the main doorway to the house. Sr. Morales wore a large, diamond studded signet ring with the coat of arms in
the middle. A large, 10’ by 30’ flag flew on a flagpole outside the house with the coat of arms mounted on a field of yellow. It was on
virtually everything that he owned. And, to Linda’s dismay, it had been tattooed onto her lower belly, just above her crevasse.
That would not have been too bad, if that was all there was, since, once she won her freedom, it would be usually out of sight. Linda had
not yet given up on the idea of freedom. In fact, it was something she was holding onto with all of her being, as slim as that possibility
seemed. No, there was more.
On her chest, extending over her sizable breasts were engraved two large, old fashioned revolvers pointed in opposite directions
diagonally, up towards her shoulders. Their handles abutted each other just at the point of her cleavage. They were finely etched and very
detailed, down to the gun sights on the end of the barrels and reddish brown wooden grips. Underneath the barrels and extending onto the
tops of her breasts, covering her lower chest, were jumbles of dark green cocoa leaves. Between the pistols, above them, was a large, dark
red rose, its petals in full bloom, sharp, pointed, bloody thorns on its stem, which distended down between her breasts down just below her
sternum. Written in scriptive black on a three part banner over the large rose were the words, “Esclava de la Casa de Morales”, Slave of the
House of Morales. Underneath the jumbled together cocoa leaves, running up over the tops of her breasts, arching over her nipples, were the
words, in 2” script, “Mi Deber Es” on her right breast and, on her left, “Su Placer”. My duty is your pleasure.
Now that would be hard to hide in a bathing suit, never mind what some future lover might think of it.
Sr. Morales was very proud of the work done by his resident artist and always showed her off to new visitors. He had given the artist
carte blanche with the rest of her body and he had, so far, filled up both her arms with colorful eagles and jaguars, rattlesnakes and other
strange, mythical animals and weird hieroglyphic-like Aztec icons all amidst verdant lines of multicolored leafy growth. He had started work
on her legs and had traced out, but not yet filled in, the faces and bodies of two luxuriant, naked women, one on the inside of each thigh,
facing each other. Linda had seen the drawing the wiry, phlegmatic, tubercular old man was working off. The women had long, full tresses,
the one on the left with hair as black as coal, and on the right with fiery red locks that would make any Irishwoman proud. Their lips were
pursed and all of their anatomical parts were displayed. Their hands were in their pussies. The way the design was laid out, when the
artistry was completed, the women would give each other a passionate kiss just under her pudenda every time she put her thighs together.
That was another one that would be hard to disguise at the beach.
He had already completed her back, although she had never seen it and didn’t know what was there. All she knew was that the men were
always very impressed with it and often laughed when it was shown to them.
But it was what he had done to her face that, naturally, bothered her the most. He had shaved back her beautiful blond tresses about six
inches. Starting narrow and pointed at her chin with a small gap between them, two curving swaths of blood red ink covered her cheeks,
running just above her jaw line, up and over her eyes. They met at a thin point just above her nose, forming the outline of a large heart.
Her eyebrows had been shaved off the better to accommodate it. In the middle of her cheeks, extending in the middle of her upper lip, the
swath of red jutted out on each side to a graceful point forming an incomplete outline of her mouth.
Extending past what used to be her hair line, he had tattooed two thick curving lines of dark blue emanating from just above her ears and
meeting like a sharp widow’s peak in the middle of her forehead. A permanent dye had been used to outline her eyes, kohl-like, making them
seem dark and brooding, and her lips had been injected with Botox and then etched with a bright red ink that left them permanently gleaming
and sensual. Below each eye in bright blue the man had drawn a large teardrop. Just enough of her silky, light golden hair had been
preserved so that it could be pulled behind her head into a thick, two foot long braid, a convenient handhold when Sr. Morales was fucking
her mouth.
All in all, she was a grotesque mess and with every little pin prick of the tattoo needle her hopes of restoration to a normal life ebbed
away. She had resisted of course, twisted and turned and screeched and wailed, in the beginning, each time she was strapped into the tattoo
artist’s frame. But he made short work of that, having worked on quite a number of Sr. Morales’ sluts. Once she had been strapped in, he
slipped a lubricated torpedo like metal prong into her crevasse. It was connected to a wire that led to a switch by his foot. Whenever Linda
had gotten the notion to struggle and frustrate his intents, all he had to do was to tap on the switch with his toe and the torpedo would
send an excruciating pulse of electricity into her cavern, making her jump and howl with pain. She quickly learned to lay still and let him
have his way with her.
When he was done with her for the day, he would free her from the frame, order her to her knees and collect her oral obeisance, making
her work him slow and easy for a half hour or more before he let himself discharge within her.
An increasingly debilitating despondency grew within her. Nonetheless, with the slim hope that she would find freedom and that some scrap
of conversation, some unguarded statement, might disclose some secret that would help her bring this whole evil empire down, she kept her
ears sharp and, to the extent possible, her mind alert.
The big guy was doing most of the talking. Their conversation seemed a little heated. Like most men prone to conspiracy, their tone was
low. Every once in a while she discerned a word or phrase. “Slut” was one of them. “Fucking FBI” was another. There were several phases in
Spanish that she didn’t know. They were talking about some deal they were thinking of making with someone big, someone powerful and they
were trying to decide what their price would be.
They just seemed to be getting to the heart of the matter when one of the ubiquitous, dark brown skinned serving girls came by. She, like
the others, was young and attractive. Like the others, she had long, thick, loose black hair that framed a smooth, well featured face.
She was wearing the uniform of the house, a low cut bright red pullover blouse that revealed her well sized breasts down to the tops of
her areolas, and a long, loose black skirt that gathered at her waist and ran down to her ankles. It was split in half in the front and the
back so it could be moved aside to grant access to the treasures that were hidden within, just as the bodice of the stretchy top could be
pulled down to reveal, in toto, the girl’s naked breasts. The girls were often ordered to present themselves with their breasts exposed in
this way when in other than polite company. Her face was skillfully painted, her eyes darkly accented, her lips decorated to match her
blouse. Her fingernails, while kept uniformly short to prevent scratching and clawing when she was used or being tied to a whipping post,
were painted as well, as were the nails on her toes. She wore no shoes.
Every three hours or so during the day, without fail, wherever she was, unless in actual use, Señora Imelda, the monster-like, brutish
ruler of all domestic affairs in the household, would send out one of the young, pretty maids to find her. Her task, to which Linda, who
they now called Lupe, was ordered upon pain of harsh punishment to submit, was to bring the colorfully decorated slave girl to orgasm, so
that she could have a constant reminder of her now primary function and to keep her attuned to the need to be ever sexually ready and
available.
It was an ordeal to which Lupe was loath to endure. Rather, as one might think, than satiate her natural sexual drive, one tempered by
the continuous rude use she was prone to, the practice had the effect of magnifying her sexual needs to the point where, by now, they were
ever laying just beneath the surface. An hour or two would pass, and Linda, cum Lupe, would sense a gnawing feeling emerging from her
loins.
If she were mounted, as she was now, and was most days between 9 o’clock till noon and between 4 and 7 in the early evening, a kind of
hunger would develop within her and she would unconsciously pull and strain at her bindings. If caged in one of the various confinements
around the house, she would find herself rubbing her thighs together or laying back with her legs spread, thrusting her pussy into the
air.
She could never touch it herself, you see. That was strictly forbidden and produced the cruelest retributions if discovered. But, luckily
for her, her hands were rarely, if ever, free, and so the yearning she would feel to slip her fingers between her lubricating folds, to
worry the itchy little nubbin at their apex, would be forestalled from producing anything more than a deep, needy sigh or groan.
The girl stopped in front of her. It was the one they called Inez. There was no way of telling whether it was her original name or not.
She almost never got to talk to the girls, or to anyone for that matter. Sra. Imelda had punished her very hard for trying to talk several
times when she had first become a slave here. She had broken her of the habit very quickly.
Inez seemed to delight in this special duty. Linda/Lupe felt a chill go through her as she realized what she was in for. Couldn’t she
wait just a few more minutes? She wanted to hear what the men were saying. It was important, it really was! “Goaway! Go away!” she thought.
“Please go away!”
Linda/Lupe peered at the girl with distressed eyes. Being played with like some kind of animal that needed treatment every few hours
deeply disturbed her. And she needed to be thinking about more than just sex half the time. She needed to keep her wits about her. The girl
stepped closer to her. “Mmmmmmmmm!” Lupe moaned. “Please don’t do it! Please!” she thought.
The girl had a sardonic smile on her face. Some of the girls acted on her with reluctance and sympathy, performing their duties
nonetheless. But Inez got enjoyment out of tormenting someone who was a level or two below her in the hierarchy of the hacienda. Lupe
existed these days on a level only just slightly higher than an animal. The maids, although as much slaves as she was, they all wore black
leather collars and bracelets and all had the family crest emblazoned on their bellies, were still considered primarily human. They were
there to work and clean and serve the meals, but those were only subsidiary duties. They also, and primarily, for if it were otherwise why
recruit only these lovely and docile young women to the job, served as whores for Sr. Morales’ men.
It often drove Sra. Imelda to distraction because, after all, she had a household to run, but any of the Master’s men could come by at
any time and waylay one of the maids from her household duties, taking her there and then, on the spot, or leading her upstairs to one of
the bedrooms where he could abuse and torment her for hours. Or she could be summoned over to the brothel Sr. Morales maintained for his
friends and guests, and be gone for the rest of the day, or even the week. Some of the girls never came back, having been converted into now
full time whores, or even sold off to one of the generals or other wealthy and powerful men who frequented it.
As a result, there were often new 18 or 19 year old peasant girls, weepy and sullen things torn from their homes in whatever small
village they had grown up in. Sra. Imelda treated them liberally with the whip until they lost their sorrowful mien and devolved into the
accepting, though morose, attitude that their sister maids all seemed to have. The first time these recently virginal young women were
ordered to make Lupe “dance” as they liked to call it, Sra. Imelda would stand over them, riding crop in hand and give them instruction. It
usually only took a few blows of the crop to encourage the girls to enthusiasm for their duty. Within the week, they would be like pros at
it.
Some of the girls seemed to grow to enjoy this task, cooing and whispering sweet sounding Spanish phrases in her ear, laughing and
giggling when she roared out her passions as she came. Sometimes they came in pairs, giggling and teasing each other, combining their
efforts. Every once in a while, Sra. Imelda would toss one of the girls naked into her cage together with a vibrating strap-on and order her
to fuck her. Some of the girls didn’t seem to mind and carried out that task with an enthusiasm Linda/Lupe regretted.
Of course, Linda/Lupe had early on realized that they were putting something in her food. She had never been so easily brought to climax
nor had the soul twisting urges that she had been having. The first time she had been ordered to her knees, her arms bound behind her, to
eat from the large metal doggie dish they had for her, Lupe had refused. What followed was three days of utter and relentless torment. They
had a little corrugated steel hot box in the back of the hacienda and she was thrown into it. During the late afternoons, after the sun had
been beating down on it all day, the temperature often got above 120 degrees.
Every few hours, Sra. Imelda would have her dragged out and beaten. They would force feed her some kind of mush, a ring gag in her mouth
and a tube passed down to her belly, and then bind her up and throw her back in. After the three days, she was brought back to the kitchen
and the doggie bowl was again placed down before her. Sobbing dolefully, she ate everything in it and then, while Sra. Imelda stood over
her, licked it clean.
So by the time she finally figured out that they were putting something in her food to accelerate her passions, any thought that she
would refuse to eat had long ago passed her mind. She never wanted to go back to that little room again.
Inez had come to within inches of her now. She pressed her young body up against Lupe’s, mashing their breasts together. She leaned over
and, while stroking her shoulders with her soft hands, gave her little kisses that climbed above the shield to her gag, over her forehead
and down again. She breathed deeply into her ears, her hot breath making Lupe shudder. And then she whispered to her in a hoarse voice, “Voy
a hacerte venir, Lupe, como la puta que eres.”I’m going to make you come, Lupe, like the whore that you are.
The girl lifted her breasts gently and began to massage them. She paid particular attention to the nipples, tweaking and pulling on them.
When she leaned down and took one of her nipples in her mouth, Lupe released a sigh. She stiffened her body and tried, futilely to shake her
chest to fling the tantalizing lips from her teat. She could only move slightly in either direction. She had tried this many times, all
unsuccessful, of course, but it seemed, somewhat, to assuage her shame and humiliation at the involuntary passion that the insistent lips
produced.
As Inez suckled her left teat, her right hand caressed and massaged her right breast. Her left hand slid softly up and down her side,
gliding over her hip, running up and down her torso, over her thigh. When she shifted her lips to her right teat, the hands shifted duty. It
didn’t take long for Lupe to issue an unhappy groan of incipient lust. The pretty young girl leaned back, her hands squeezing and massaging
Lupe’s breasts and give her a lugubrious smile.
“¿Te gusta?” she asked her. “¿Te gusta puta de la chingada?”You like it, you fucking slut?
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