Janet Roland - The whore makers

You have your father to thank. This echoed in her mind as she allowed herself to fall flat on the floor again. She was too weak to make the effort to roll up into a protective ball. You have your father to thank. This supplied the answer to her question. If her father had really put an innocent woman in prison, then he shared a lot in common with the men she had met so far in Mexico, except he was really somewhat worse. Revenge was easier to understand than greed, or so it seemed to Vivian.

"Well, you little slut…" Tony said as he stood over her prone body, completely dressed, the cattle prod once again firmly in his grasp. "You are in the Procuraduria, a place where common criminals like yourself are interrogated…" He used the toe of his boot to stir interest in the girl as he talked. "You have signed a confession to the crime of smuggling. You will be transferred to the Carcel Preventiva, a place full of lesbians and thieves, where you will wait for a trial for about eight months. The judge will sentence you to nine years in prison. Remember… you have only your father to thank."

The words and constant tapping of the toe of her tormentor's boot made Vivian cry hysterically. She was stunned at the prospect of spending nine years with lesbians, thieves, and vile fascists who would take advantage of her any time they wanted. What is going to happen to me? she thought, the memory of how wantonly she had responded to all the awful things that had happened to her so far making her tremble. The words, "you have only your father to thank," added their surrealistic ring to her confusion.

"I want to piss on the gringo whore," the Mexican who had fucked her last said as he finished dressing and stood next to Tony.

"So do it." Tony replied. "I want this little cunt to remember the day she paid for her father's life of luxury with her flesh."

The other two Mexicans finished dressing and stood over the girl.

Vivian cringed as she heard them speak, yet the idea stimulated her imagination and she found herself waiting to see what it would really be like. If they piss on me, they won't fuck me any more, she rationalized. Tony and the Mexican next to him unzipped their pants and began to urinate all over the girl's back and hair.

Vivian shrieked as the warm piss splashed against her skin and ran down from her hair onto her face, stinging her eyes. She should have been shocked and angry, but instead she felt thrilled; her whole life had been a sheltered affair where everything had been planned and approved; even her love life.

Now, suddenly, after a shattering series of orgasms during a rape, she was being pissed on; a baptism for the masochistic personality that had been waiting in her subconscious mind for the exact moment to rush out and consume her totally. How else could she explain the fact that she, a well-educated woman from a good family with a good lover, was enjoying the piss of two men who had been part of her humiliating rape?

"It's a shame to give this young bitch to the lesbians in the Carcel Preventiva," Tony said as he shook the last drops of his piss onto the girl's back.

"Yes, there's no telling what will happen to her there," the other pissing man replied as he drained his bladder into the girl's hair.

The two men finished and zipped up their flies; they were almost done with the girl for now.

All of this talk about lesbians, thieves, and prison, combined with Vivian's doubts about her father, and the guilt she felt about enjoying all of the perverted things that had happened to her. There was no way she could deny the orgasms that had rocked her body, or the strange sensation the tingling pee had produced. She was so consumed in her thoughts that she failed to notice Tony as he moved around behind her, the cattle prod still held firmly in his hand. The noise of the laughing men distracted her from being wary.

Tony looked down at the sprawled-out girl; the cheeks of her ass were still parted. Without mercy or warning he plunged the prod at Vivian's bung, lodging the tip firmly in place, shocking the girl unconscious.

"You have only your father to thank." Tony laughed.

The stirring odor of smelling salts snapped Vivian back to the conscious world. She was still naked and in the same small cell with its glaring light. She was in a state of shock from the ordeal she had been through, and gasped as two strong tall Mexican men lifted her from the cold concrete floor and dressed her in a white hospital jacket and placed shower thongs on her feet.

Have mercy on me, was her only thought as she felt their hands on her flesh. "Please don't fuck me any more. My body hurts so much."

She was amazed when the two men picked her up and put her on a stretcher and began carrying her out of the cell and down the long straight halls of the Procuraduria.

She realized that she was being moved out of the cell and to a new location. Her focus began to return and she was able to determine that they were leaving the building by the number of gates and guards that they passed.

Oh, my God! Vivian thought. They must be taking me to the women's prison. She remembered the way the men during both of her rapes had talked about the lesbians and thieves that would be her new peers. Her whole life had changed drastically, quicker than she had ever dreamed possible.

It wasn't until they had passed out of the military-like Procuraduria into the gray-pink of the morning sunrise that Vivian fully regained her capacity to think, see, and feel. She knew her body hurt and that she was being placed in an ambulance-type vehicle. She began to tremble as the gravity of her problems struck her with full force.

The two Mexicans who were carrying Vivian climbed into the back of the police van with her and signaled the driver; then the door was locked and they were seated, one on each side of her.

I've signed a confession that I smuggled cocaine from Bogota, was her first thought as the engine of the truck started to purr and the two Mexicans chatted idly about, money and women. The stunning truth of her position made her tremble.

Is my father really the reason why I'm here? she asked herself, remembering the words of her American tormentor. Was Maria Coin really innocent and not part of an international smuggling ring like my father claimed? Vivian found herself entertaining the idea that her father and his greed for power were at the root of her dire situation.

The police van lurched forward and so did everyone in the back. "Watch your driving!" yelled one of the Mexicans as he bumped his head on the roof.

For the first time since she had started through customs the day before, Vivian had something to chuckle about. Her laugh drew stern looks from her two guards, but she didn't care. She had been raped and beaten and pissed on and was sure there was nothing the two men could do to her that would compare with the ordeal she had just been through.

The back of the van became quiet again and Vivian lapsed into thinking about her lover, Max. She was more comfortable than she had been since her flight as she lay in the stretcher; this made her memories even more vivid and warm.

Max was always tender and kind, treating her like a woman, giving her every consideration, always trying hard to please her when they made love.

The cold realization of the orgasms she had experienced during her rapes broke into her battered thoughts. She had never equaled the intensity of those climaxes with her lover. Her body had never yielded the way it had under the brutal caresses of the four men in the bleak cell.

Am I a masochist or nymphomaniac? she asked herself, wondering about her ability to derive pleasure from such abusive sources.

The van continued through the light morning traffic of Juarez, the sunrise signaling the prelude to another day of work and play for those who were free.