Katie Smith read an earlier draft of this story and approved the use of her persona. - JD KATIE'S HALLOWEEN ADVENTURE by Joe Doe A CHANCE REMARK GOADS KATIE INTO A PERSONAL HALLOWEEN (MIS)ADVENTURE Part 1 "So what do you want for Halloween, Joe?" Katie asked. "The only gift I want is you," Joe answered, with a sincerity that excused the cliché. "Although one of your awesome Katie adventures would be nice, too." "I like your stories better. So...I thought...." Joe laughed. "We've been through this a billion times. Your stories are the best. 'TRACY FOR SALE' and "TRACY ON ASSIGNMENT' are two of my absolute favorites. And of course 'KATIE'S MEXICAN NIGHTMARE....'" Joe stopped short as he saw Katie frown, realizing too late that he had stumbled into the wrong topic. "Do you have to go out tonight, honey? It's Halloween," she said. "I thought we could spend this evening together." "You know I'd love to, Katie, but I have to go out with the client. They're a big account, and they're the reason we're in Texas to begin with." She scrunched up her nose, causing Joe to laugh. "Oh, come on, Katie! They're not nearly as bad as you make them out to be." "They're worse," she shot back, "Dragging my guy off to Boys TOWN every other night for goodness knows what." He gave Katie a hug and a kiss. "We're not going there tonight, honey. It's all work. Plus, you know that, wherever I go, dear, I'm true to you. You're my greatest adventure." "Do you have to go out tonight? It IS Halloween!" she said, with just a trace of a whine in her voice. "That's your favorite holiday, story boy. Maybe I could put on a costume based on one of your stories." "What did you have in mind?" he asked, clearly intrigued. "Something appropriate for Texas, since that's where we are," she said, considering the possibilities. Maybe Tea Party Katie. Or a Texas cowgirl, in chaps and...." Joe laughed and shook his head, causing Katie to scrunch her nose up again. Stumbling again into a verbal minefield, he foolishly continued. "An English cowgirl? I don't think so. I'm not into those phony Halloween shop costumes anyway. Your stories are way better -- and way more authentic -- than the costumes. Plus I have to go." And with that, he gave her a peck on the cheek and walked out of the hotel room, leaving the stunned Katie alone to ponder why her stories were better than she was. She popped open her laptop and began typing a story: To Tracy, Halloween was more than candy, costumes, and trick-or-treating. Halloween was the night when anything was possible, when people and creatures long gone or who had never existed could materialize to make fantasies come true. Tracy knew what she had to do.... Tracy knew what to do, but her talented creator did not. Unsure of what to write, Katie stared at the keyboard, pondering the perfect Halloween adventure. Her mind drifted back to Joe and his implication that her stories were better than she was. Was it true? Had she let their relationship slip to the point that it was better on the page than on the stage? She knew that if Joe were here he'd tell her he'd meant nothing of the sort, and that she was "making something out of nothing...the way women do." But Joe wasn't here, and his unspoken patronizing answer upset her even more. She continued to ratchet things up, turning her creative juices on full as she imagined her argument with Joe. Her emotions quickly ran the gamut from annoyance to anger to steely British determination. "Phony, am I?" she huffed. "Not authentic, huh? So you'd rather spend time at some Mexican brothel? I'll teach that American know-it-all a thing or two about an authentic costume!" She grabbed her purse and headed toward the door...then stopped. Katie stared at her lovely tan purse. It had cost her a pretty penny when she had bought it for London. It was designed for fashion more than for security, and it wouldn't be hard to rip it off her shoulder… She knew that drug cartels were all-powerful in the border towns. The travel advisory had warned her that even the police were corrupt. Katie took her sunglasses, cash, credit cards, passport, and driver's license out of her purse and checked herself in the mirror. She wore a lovely yellow sundress, cut slightly above the knee, and strappy sandals. "Not bad," she thought, admiring the elegant girl in the mirror. As always, she was the picture of casual British chic. She took off her jewelry and watch and dropped them into her purse. Her dress had no pockets, and, without a purse, she was reduced to tucking her passport and money under the arch of her foot. It was a location that allowed for quick and easy access, but it also left her feeling strangely vulnerable and insecure. "I've got to watch the bloody passport," she thought, chuckling to herself. "With all the crap I've put Tracy through over the years, there's probably some really bad karma waiting to land on me." She reflected on all of Tracy's humiliating adventures: the poor girl always seemed to find herself in some prison or brothel or slave market. "It serves the little bimbo right, for being so careless with her ID," Katie thought. She looked down at her lovely right foot, with her carefully painted silver toenails, her money and ID secreted beneath her sole. "Still, I can see why Tracy does it. It is a deliciously naughty feeling, to go somewhere scary, where pussy is a commodity to be bought and sold, knowing you have only a tiny stash of money to protect you, knowing that if something goes wrong...." She pushed the discordant thoughts from her mind and headed out the door, with her passport and $200 USD tucked as tightly as she could muster inside her sandal. Never much of a haggler, she found out that the cab ride across the border to Nuevo Laredo, which Joe told her had run him $10, cost her much more. For her $40, the cabbie dutifully warned his British cargo that Nuevo Laredo had been taken over by the drug cartels, and Katie should be very careful to avoid looking like a narc or a police officer, since even the local police were under the control of the cartels. "With my British accent I can hardly be that," she chuckled, adding, "I don't exactly look like a rough and tumble police officer, now do I?" She looked anything but...however, the cabbie did not smile. There was a police sub-station at the gate to the walled community. Katie was slightly surprised when an obese Mexican officer walked up to her window and motioned for her to get out of the cab. "You look for boyfriend, gringa?" he asked in English. "He not here." "No, I already have a...Oh, I see what you're saying," she said, surprising him with her clipped British accent. "No, I'm not here to find anyone specific. I'm here for...research." "Go away! ¡No reporteros! ¡No informantes!" "No, I'm not here for that. I'm here for a Halloween costume...I mean, I wanted to find out how the girls dress, so I could make an authentic...I want to talk to one of the girls. Any one of them. Or even just take a look at them...." The police officer, utterly unconvinced, had already turned his back on the gesticulating Brit. As he walked away, Katie looked over to her left, to where another police officer was frisking two other prospective customers for weapons before admitting them through the gate to the carnal delights beyond. Katie watched. Sure enough, when the frisk and pocket check were complete, the laughing young men strolled through the gate into the walled compound of Boys Town. Seized by inspiration, Katie shouted out to the retreating police officer. "Search me!" The police officer turned, stopped, and looked at her, puzzled. Clarifying her intent, Katie slid her sandal through the dust, spreading her legs to shoulder length, and raised her arms in the air, mimicking the "frisk position" she had seen. There were two female police officers in the group gathered at the gate, and Katie fully expected one of them to walk over and conduct the search. But neither moved. Katie swallowed as the fat police officer walked slowly toward her. She eyed the cab driver, who was watching closely, wondering which he'd enjoy more -- overcharging the woman for a ride home or watching the pretty British tourist being frisked. Katie wondered much the same thing. "If I get into the cab, I can just go back and forget the whole thing," she thought. "No one will know, and I can research my bloody stupid Halloween costume on the Web. What I was thinking anyway? It's one thing to write about Tracy, it's another thing to become her." Then another voice in her head took over. "He's not really going to search you; he's only trying to scare you. He knows you're British, and he wants to show you how tough he is. Probably an anti-colonial thing...as if you're the reason his country looks like a busted up piñata!" Confirming her suspicions, the officer stopped in front of her, deliberately unnerving her by standing so close she could his body odor and the nasty cigarette smoke on his hot breath. The unsmiling officer stared into her eyes, attempting to divine her intent and the true reason for her visit. Katie glared back, defiantly calling his bluff. "I have no pockets," she said. ¿No dinero?" She didn't need a translator to know the man was asking for money. "It's all they do in this bloody country," she thought. "Maybe if I give him a few pesos, he'll go away." She hopped awkwardly on one foot as she removed the stash from her sandal. Her dress was not particularly low cut, but her hopping made the officers smile, and she could tell they enjoyed the view. She handed the officer her passport and cash. The officer took three twenty-dollar bills out of the wad, explaining with a smile and a heavy accent that it was her "inspección tarifa," before handing back her passport and the remainder of her bankroll. He motioned for her to put her arms back into position. Swallowing hard, she complied. The officer reached up ran his hands over Katie's right palm, then slowly along her outstretched arm, squeezing tightly to feel the muscle. He then checked the left hand and arm, fast and efficiently, with the practiced air of a man who frisked people for a living. Her shoulder-length hair was next. The fat official took his time, starting at the back and pressing her head forward until she was staring at her silver toe nail polish and the straps on her tan sandals. He rubbed hard, pressing his fingers into her scalp, massaging and kneading as he went. It wasn't painful, exactly, although he did tug her at her hair in an uncomfortable way as he searched the area around her ears. Nearly overpowered by his odor, Katie wondered when the man had last washed. "It's going to be okay, girl," she thought. "Just hang in there, and show some of that famous British pluck. He's doing his frisk, and doing his tough guy act for his friends and he's going to let you go. He'll call over the female officers if he wants to do a body search. Certainly he won't...." She swallowed as she remembered the cop's hands running over the two men who had proceeded her. No, no, no. Surely he wouldn't go THAT far. Would he? She pondered the question as he finished running his dirty fingers through her hair. He paused as his hands touched the back of her neck, giving her a brief and flirtatious massage. He lingered beyond any possible investigative purpose, obviously enjoying the feeling of his rough tan fingers running over her tender white skin. After playing a bit with the zipper on her dress, he ran his hands over her back, massaging her shoulder blades. He stopped at her bra strap, teasingly running his finger over it. She felt a sharp sting as he pulled the strap's clasp away from her back and then snapped it against her skin. Fortunately, the bra strap did not break, for she felt certain that, if it had, that would have been an excuse to make her remove the bra for a more detailed inspection. There were about a dozen police officers gathering around her now, as well as a few male "customers" still being frisked. Katie certainly didn't want to hand over her bra in front of such a mixed and mangy crowd. Apparently satisfied that her brassiere was not a garrote, the man ran his hands slowly downward, over the curve of her back. Katie shuddered as she felt a fat finger inch slowly towards her twitching bottom. Her pulse quickened as he whispered into her ear. "Go home now, mamacita, and I'll stop right here." Katie glanced at the cabbie, who was watching closely, mouth agape. The cab door was only a few feet away. It would be so easy to quit.... It was a hot day, nearly 32 (or 90 in the crazy Fahrenheit system they used in the States), and Katie was very conscious of the wetness forming under her arms, which was starting to soak through her dress. But it was not THAT wetness that paralyzed her. She told herself it was perspiration, but the delicious tingle between her legs revealed the truth. She had an odd but wonderful feeling now, a very specific excitement that she usually felt only when she was writing one of her stories. Katie could leave, of course. Indeed, she knew she SHOULD leave. But still she stayed. "When am I going to get a chance like this again?" she rationalized. "No guts, no glory. Besides, it's no big deal. The cop is probably just trying to scare me. I'll go through the frisk, pop inside for a couple of minutes, and get some ideas for a truly authentic costume. That will show that smarty-pants Joe Doe how authentic a British girl can be, when she truly wants to be. After I see a couple of the girls, I'll go. Nothing to it. Easy-peasy!" There was a noticeable pause as Katie thought these things through. The fat police officer waited for the pretty British girl to fold her tent and flee, as the other nice suburban girls always did. But Katie remained motionless, legs spread, arms in the air. She felt the officer's hot breath as he reached around behind her, nuzzling her neck as he enjoyed the scent of her Coco Mademoiselle perfume. He let his hands slide down, down, down, and pausing as they felt the top of her knickers through the dress. Pretending to "investigate," he slowly ran his finger towards the center of her back, with a lingering finger inspection of the very top of the groove in the middle of her juicy bottom. Satisfied with his perimeter breach, he ran his hands around her waist and over her flat tummy. She felt extraordinarily conscious of the heaviness of her breathing as his hands inched up her heaving ribcage. He took his time, feeling each rib, not rushing, moving ever closer to her breasts. When he reached the bottom of her bosom he paused, cupping his fingers as he began to slowly knead, tease, and fondle the underside of each of her breasts. He ran his fat fingers back and forth, back and forth, savoring her labored breathing, the smell of her perfume, and the soft feel of her undulating breasts as he used his two fingers to bounce them up and down. "¡Levantado las chiquitas!' one of the watching policeman snickered. Katie felt herself flush as all the men laughed at her. She didn't know exactly what the "chiquitas" were, but she could tell from the leers and dirty gestures thst she was getting that the joke was at her expense. The men laughed and joked as the officer jiggled Katie's breasts for the crowd's entertainment. Not knowing the language made her feel like a stranger in a strange land. It emphasized her feeling of helplessness and vulnerability, thus making her all the more excited. She shuddered as she remembered the story of Tracy in Morocco, standing naked in the market where women were bought and sold like animals. When at last he tired of bouncing her breasts, he cupped them instead for a long and lingering squeeze. Katie stared straight ahead, trying to avoid eye contact and ignoring the men's ribald taunts as the fat cop squeezed, groped, and fondled her breasts. One of the men called out, "¡Chocho!" and before long several of the men began chanting it. Her frisk had become a stage show, with the frenzied crowd calling out requests. Katie had no idea what "chocho" meant, but she got her chance to learn a new word when the fat cop let go of her breasts, and stuck his hand between her widely splayed legs, bunching her dress up toward her crotch. She gasped as he began fondling her chocho through her dress. She gasped in shock, too stunned to move, too stunned to even breathe. As the fabric pressed against her, she became more conscious of the wetness between her legs, and the warm sensation of the man's hand rubbing her. Katie closed her eyes and moaned. One female officer shouted "¡Puta! ¡Puta!" and a couple of others yelled "¡Permiso, permiso!" Katie didn't know what they were saying, but their mocking, sing-song jeering jolted her out of the moment and back into the harsh reality that she was being fondled in front of an audience that was growing larger and rowdier by the minute. Katie tried to pull away, but the official's grip held firm. As she resisted, he tightened his lock on her further by bunching the back of her dress in his fingers and pulling her closer. She kicked back at him, but he grabbed her foot, and, before long, her sandal was pulled off. Fortunately, Katie was still holding her money and passport, but this left her only one hand to fight with as she struggled to retrieve her shoe. "Coochy-coochy-coo!" the officer chortled, stroking the bottom of her bare sole as the crowd laughed heartily. Oh, how it tickled! She jerked her foot away and tried to kick him with her other foot, a manoeuvre that quickly cost her the other shoe. She tried to retrieve her shoes, but soon found herself running back and forth as the laughing police merrily played keep-away, tossing her shoes high over her head as she ran barefoot through the dirt. There were more references to her "bouncing chiquitas," coupled with hand gestures indicating that the sight of Katie's jiggling breasts was highly entertaining. The childish game continued for several minutes, with no chance whatsoever of Katie winning, for she was now outnumbered almost twenty to one. Even some of the men going through the security checkpoint joined in, laughing as they passed the shoes behind their backs before sailing them through the air with hook shots that kept the sandals just out of the Katie's reach. Exhausted, she bent over and put her hands on her knees, gasping for air as she struggled to catch her breath. There was to be no respite, though, as one of the larger officers took advantage of her position to slap her bottom with her sandal. She tried to straighten up, but two other officers grabbed her, holding her steady as they paddled her bouncing bottom cheeks with her stolen footwear. It wasn't until one of them attempted to pull up her dress so that she could be punished properly that the mortified Brit was able to jerk away. With the men behind her, Katie ran through the gate, desperate to escape the crowd of policemen. To her surprise,they did not pursue. She looked back over her shoulder and saw the cops, laughing and taunting, as they held up her sandals like hunting trophies. It was at that moment that she became conscious of a female presence in the control booth, a presence that appeared to be directing the officers at the gate. She caught only a glimpse of the woman, not even a face, but just the vestige of a smile. She squinted, looking harder into the booth. But the Cheshire smile was gone. ****************************** Part 2 Katie, barefoot and $80 poorer than she had been when she left the hotel, abandoned her shoes and continued her mission. Turning, she surveyed the bars that lined the main street: El Papagayo, Shamrock, Donkey Show. "What peculiar names, and what right dives!" she thought. There were shabby old cars, dirt streets, litter everywhere. The beer signs were colorful, but everything looked filthy, old, and worn. "Boys Town" might be filled with women, but it certainly lacked a woman's touch. Katie disdained this obviously male view of paradise, a world without chores, or vacuum cleaners, or paint cans, where the women existed only to lie on their backs and moan. Determined to work quickly, she walked as fast as her tiny bare feet would allow her over the unpaved dirt street. She was very conscious of the fact that she had no shoes, and trod carefully over the dirt, conscious of the dangers of broken glass and other pointy objects. Her feet and ankles were now tanned evenly brown from running back and forth in the dirt during her degrading game of keep-away. "At least my feet look local," she commented wryly to herself as she made her way down the wide main street. She saw a cab stand inside the front gate and felt relieved that there was a clear means of transport for her journey back to the hotel. She had started her adventure with $200 in cash, but she was barely through the front gates and her bankroll was nearly half gone. Still, she had more than enough for the cab ride. In ten minutes she'd be back in her rooms, sipping a drink, and laughing with Joe about her grand adventure. She drew some admiring looks as she walked down the wide avenue, but her determined look and confident, self-assured manner were enough to fend off any unwelcome advances. The men prowling the streets were there for one reason and looked at every woman they saw in terms of her fitness to serve their singular purpose. Fortunately, Katie's no-nonsense demeanor made it clear to even the dimmest of the drunken bulbs that the young lady in the stylish dress was NOT for sale. She spotted four "door girls" standing outside a club on the right. She didn't find any of them the least bit attractive: two were quite chunky, one seemed strung out on drugs, and a fourth was attempting to hide a black eye under a pair of gaudy sunglasses. "Maybe if I want to fulfill Joe's Mexican prostitute fantasy, I should just put on 50 pounds," Katie thought. "I'll enjoy the biscuits, anyway. I'll tell him, ‘I weigh 300 pounds...and I did it all for you, darling!'" She felt oddly relieved that the women weren't better looking, since it meant that Joe might actually be telling her the truth when he claimed that he was faithful to her. "If I were working here, I'd really clean up," she thought. Suddenly, she caught herself. Why would she be working here? Pushing the absurd thought from her mind, and remembering that she was on costume reconnaissance, Katie looked more closely at what each girl was wearing. Overall the effect was disappointing, even depressing. A lot of skin was showing, but none of the girls appeared to be happy or attractive or -- in Katie's eyes -- the least bit sexy. All of them had absurdly high pumps. One was wearing a fraying pink dress in a floral print, two had midriff-baring halter tops in garish colors and relatively plain miniskirts. The fattest woman was wearing hot pants that did not flatter her. To Katie it seemed to be a tasteless nightmare of gaudy colors, tan skin, and platform shoes. Worse still, the women seemed jaded, tired, and ready to kill. Yes, kill. It was the demeanor of the girls that bothered her the most. They seemed bored when talking among themselves, and their listless, low-energy conversation reminded Katie of bored shop girls chattering and gossiping as they waited for their shifts to end. When a customer approached, the chatter and giggles stopped, and the mood darkened considerably. The prostitutes looked at the men with a disgust and hatred that gave Katie the chills. But their expressions instantly changed when the men got close enough to see them, as the girls broke into palpably phony smiles. Oozing insincerity, they called the men "handsome" or "guapo" and offered to be their "girlfriends" or "novias," depending on the mark's nationality. Katie watched the girls work. To her surprise, the fat girl got picked first, by being aggressive with a shy nerd too embarrassed to turn her down. As each girl disappeared into the bar, she was replaced. "They're giving me a nice little fashion show," Katie giggled, purposefully pushing from her mind what the "models" were doing off stage. The girls seemed expert at separating the Americans from the locals and from other nationalities...and in quickly determining who had money and who didn't. To Katie it was a fascinating study in social psychology, but her admiration turned to queasiness as she remembered that these women were locked in a competitive battle for survival. And the ugly, tacky, humiliating clothing they were parading themselves in might very well be the only clothes they had. Katie pondered how she might duplicate the look. Gaudy polyester stretch pants weren't the sort of item you could buy at Harrods. And those shoes! She fancied that she'd need a ladder simply to climb into them. She had never seen clothes like these for sale, even in a catalog. Still, Katie knew she could find them. "Ah, the magic of the Internet," she thought. "Cheap and tacky, delivered right to your door." After seeing a half dozen girls, she felt she had the fashion sense she sought. Quickly she made a mental checklist: White, Pink, Yellow, Red, in shades effervescent enough to cause one to squint. Tight is alright. Bellybutton de rigueur. Platform shoes high enough to leap to your death from. She turned and looked over at the waiting cabs. It was getting darker, and the crowds were starting to thicken. If she left now she could make it back safely, before it got seriously dark. She turned back and watched the girl in the garish pink dress escort a "customer" into the club. She squinted, trying to see where they were going, but they quickly disappeared into the darkness. Katie had written stories about places like this, but seeing it in three dimensions was quite different: the stale smells, the humidity, the extraordinarily dirty feel to it all. For a woman who wrote humiliation fantasies, this place was a gold mine, an endless source of details, sense memories, and inspiration. Katie paused, taking a moment to soak up the atmosphere. She watched another girl disappear into the bar, accompanied by a toothless man old man, wrinkled and wizened. How humiliating it must be for a young woman to have to wrap her legs around a geezer old enough to be her grandfather. She'd probably have to suck him for an hour just to get him up. It was all so deliciously degrading. Despite herself, Katie felt a naughty tingle as the honeydew moisture actually began to trickle down her thighs. She had the information she needed to make her costume, but in truth she could have gotten that off Google. She had come for more. Dressing in a suit didn't make a man look like the president. Something more was needed. Something she could get only here. How many costume parties had she attended where the illusion of Cleopatra or the cute French Maid was ruined the moment the girl opened her silly mouth? A good costume was more than fabric, it was also attitude. Her mind flashed back to the comment that had triggered her quest. Joe had told her that her stories were more authentic than her costumes, which might have been a compliment if she wasn't a bloody fiction writer. Men! They compliment with one hand and slap you down with the other. "Even if I get the clothes, that won't be enough," Katie thought. "I don't know anything about these girls, or how they act, or talk. If I want to do this right, I need to talk to one of them, if only for a moment or two. Yes, it will only take a minute. What harm can it do?" She considered the matter. It was still early yet, and Joe likely wouldn't be back for at least another hour.... She looked again at the waiting cab. Suddenly it seemed less beckoning; indeed, it seemed almost intrusive. "It will take me only a few minutes to talk to one of the girls," she thought, convincing herself. "By the time I'm done, there will be fifty cabs out here, and rush hour will be over, too. I'll probably get back faster in fifteen minutes than I would if I left right now." She shook her head. "I can't leave, not now. I may never have a chance like this again." Satisfied with her final rationalization, Katie walked slowly toward the cantina. She paused to glance at the door girls, who, in turn, looked her up and down appraisingly. They said something in Spanish and laughed. Katie blushed. Suddenly she felt like she was in boarding school, where the "in girls" could reject you cold. Katie caught herself. These women were prostitutes! Why would she want to be accepted by THEM? Dismissing the thought, and with all the confidence she could muster, Katie turned away from the catty girls and walked through the wide open doors of the cantina. It was dark outside, but it seemed darker still inside, at least to Katie. There was a large bar, some tables, and a couple of quasi stages where girls in bikinis danced listlessly to music, conserving their energy for something that mattered. Katie stepped hesitantly at first, worried that her bare feet might pick up a splinter from an unfinished wood floor. But the floor inside was dirt, like the street. Katie still trod carefully, since, when you're barefoot, the inability to see where you're stepping is not ideal. Katie was surprised when she was immediately approached by a man who asked her what she wanted. "I want to talk to one of the girls," she offered weakly. "$20 American. What sort of girl do you want?" he asked, leering at Katie in a most unpleasant way. "I don't know, really," Katie said, handing the man a 20 out of her stash. "Pretty, I guess." In truth, she didn't care whether the girl was pretty or not; she might as well be interviewing them over the Internet for all the contact she planned to have with them. But asking for a pretty girl made her sound less odd than she felt, or at least that is what she hoped. The man smiled in his leering way and motioned for one of the girls to come over. She was quite pretty, much prettier than those outside, with dark wavy hair, a red top, and a blue skirt. Katie knew she herself was prettier, but this girl was definitely sexy and at least competitive. "If we were standing side by side, I'd get more business," Katie thought. "Her breasts are bigger, but I'm cuter, and classier looking. Of course I'd have to show more skin. More leg. Not too much...I wouldn't want to sully my price by looking cheap. But there are a lot of girls here, and the men want value for their pesos. Like it or not, I'd have to show them the goods." She shuddered as she remembered the toothless old man who led the young woman into the bar a few minutes before. If this whore and Katie were standing side-by-side, the old man could take his time comparing them. And then the selection would be made.... She pushed the strange thoughts from her mind, refocusing on the woman in front of her. She had a warm smile and an easy, relaxed manner. It was phony, of course, but at least she seemed less frightening than the nail-eaters outside. Her dark hair was beautiful, but mostly Katie envied the girl's shoes, which reminded her of the footwear that she had sacrificed as her price of admission. The two sat down at the bar, and Katie took the girl up on her offer to buy hthat er a drink. Quickly they got down to business. The girl said her name was Chicky and gushed that Katie was "beautiful, like British movie star!" Katie blushed at the compliment. Then Chicky said, "If you want to have some fun it will be $120." Katie explained that she didn't want sex, only talk. Producing her bankroll, Katie showed her that she only had $100 left, explaining she needed $40 for a cab ride home. Providentially, at this point the drinks arrived. $20! Katie paid the bartender out of her rapidly dwindling stash. As she stared at Katie's money, Chicky's face hardened into the look Katie recognized from outside. "You only need $10 for cab," Chicky said tartly. "You prob'ly have fancy credit cards, too, very nice. Platinum card, rich. You rich white girls have everything," she sneered. "You cheat Chicky, then blow your money on diamonds an' cocaine! You screw Chicky worse than your husband." Katie tried to explain that she wasn't here to screw anyone and that she wasn't paying more because she had no more to give. "Unless you have a Western Union office here, Chicky, I'm tapped out," she said. "A pretty girl is never broke. What color is your underwear?" Chicky asked. "What?" Katie replied. "Why on earth...?" "Color!" Chicky demanded. "Yellow," Katie said. "Like the dress. But what difference...?" "Bra and panties match?" "Of course," Katie said, insulted by the question. "Are they nice?" Chicky asked, "Soft and silky?" Chicky sneered. "Yes, they're lovely. I bought them at Harvey Nichols," Katie said defensively, before realizing the absurdity of name-dropping one of her favorite London stores to a Mexican prostitute. "Fine, I talk to you, but you have to give me the rest of your money AND bra and panties. Stockin's, too, if you had any, my little barefoot princess." "I'm not giving you my underwear!" Katie said, horrified at the idea. "And how could I get home without money?" "Use platinum card," Chicky replied. "Give me what I want, or I'll have bouncers take your money and throw you out," Chicky said. "You can walk back to England." Katie shrank back as Chicky's voice began to rise. "¡Estinkin' snob! Comin' down here with your money to fuck us. Come to stare at me like I'm in zoo. You wanna know what it's like to be me, little fresa? Fine. Drop your panties to get what you want. I do all day long." "I'm sorry if I gave offense, but I'm not...." Chicky raised her hand and made a circular motion, signaling the bouncers that there was trouble. Instantly, two men came over and stood on either side of Katie. Chicky smiled at Katie. It wasn't the warm, pleasant smile she had first flashed when they had met. It was a smile of triumph, a smile of control. Chicky held out her open palm. "Time to peel down, Princess. Show us your royal garments." Katie looked up at the two bouncers, who had 600 pounds between them. She contemplated making a run for it, but, barefoot, she'd never make it. She didn't know precisely where she was and shuddered as she imagined herself wandering barefoot at night through a city controlled by a drug cartel. Not good. What choice did she have? Reluctantly, Katie handed Chicky $70, saving $10 for the cab. Chicky smiled as she triumphantly folded the bills and stuffed them between her breasts. Still smiling, she pointed at Katie's bra and began to rapidly snap her fingers. Katie swallowed. Katie wasn't about to take off her dress in this place, especially with the two bouncers peering down at her. Unzipping the back, she was able to undo the bra clasp, then pull the strap off her left shoulder and slide it down over her arm. The procedure was repeated with her right arm easily enough, but when she tried to pull the bra out through the top of her dress, it lifted her breasts up, showing far more than she had intended. "¡Duraznos!" one of the bouncers said, causing the other bouncer and Chicky to laugh. Katie, didn't know he'd compared her breasts to peaches, but assumed his comment was lewd and blushed. "No' bad," Chicky said. "Maybe you work here? We get you good price, Princess." "A better price than you, you evil bitch!" Katie thought. Chicky took a moment to examine Katie's bra. "Nice...esmoooth...I bet you smooth all over, no? Nice British girl, all soft and silky. When you fuck, do you think of Queen?" The two bouncers laughed as Katie squirmed under the Mexican girl's taunts. "You think you better than Chicky, no? Better because you rich fresa. I see it in your eyes." "I AM better than you," Katie said quietly. "But it has nothing to do with money." "Has ever'thin' to do with money, bitch," Chicky sneered. "If you lived where I do, you'd be espreadin' your legs for beans and rice too. Humpin' away, day and night, your chocho hot and stinky, soggy as a drippy ol' sponge!" She laughed. Katie blushed, as the reference to a dripping sponge reminded her of how excited she was. She squeezed her thighs together. She was soaked! The place was terrifying, yes, but also so exciting, like one of her stories come alive. She squeezed her thighs together again, relishing the sensation. If she had been writing, Katie would have stopped to take care of business -- the urgent need between her legs. But real life didn't have a File/Save. As if to underscore that point, Chicky pointed down between Katie's legs. "Your panties, fresa. Now." Tracy stared back at her, momentarily stunned. "Like the boys to take them off?" Chicky teased. "Of course, they might take a little more, too." As the two bouncers moved toward her, Katie raised her bottom off the chair. With all the modestly she could muster, she reached under her dress and pulled her knickers down. Katie felt sick as she dropped her precious knickers onto the table. Chicky grasped them in triumph, savoring her victory. Then she smelled something unexpected. Katie flinched as she watched the prostitute scrunch up her nose as Katie's scent wafted upward. Chicky's smile widened as she realized what the odor was. Quickly, she searched Katie's panties, trying to locate the crotch. Her eyes narrowed into cruel slits as she fingered Katie's soggy panties. "You're nothing like me, puta blanca? Your hole is wet. ¡Hueco húmedo!" Chicky called out, waving Katie's panties over her head like a flag of triumph. "Fancy white British girl has soggy underpants, all stinky from her hot, wet chocho. Esmell them!" Katie watched in horror as one of the bouncers took the panties from Chicky and placed them under his nose, savoring the scent. Then he passed them on to the other bouncer, who did the same. Katie flushed as the people in the bar turned to look as Chicky taunted her in Spanish. Katie didn't know precisely what she was saying, but she could tell from the beaming smile on Chicky's face that she was happily revealing Katie's wetness to the crowd. The commotion came to an end as a tall lanky youth, whom Katie pegged to be about 19 vaulted over the bar and strode rapidly across the room. In a single motion, he yanked Chicky out of her chair, sat down, and threw her over his knee like a rag doll. "Lazy puta!" he shouted, spanking her with his hand. "You are paid to work, not wave your panties in the air." "It's not my fault," Chicky said, wiggling as the spanks rained down. "The new owner told me to...." "The new owner told me to put you to work!" the pimp shot back. "You think because it's my first day you can cheat me. Lazy whore! Stupid puta!" SPANK! SPANK! SPANK! The pimp stopped spanking Chicky long enough to unhook his belt. She shuddered as he began slowly pulling the belt out of the loops. "No, please, Juan...not the belt. I'll be good. I made $70 American? See!" she said, handing over Katie's money. Katie watched in dismay as Juan counted the cash before stuffing it into his shirt pocket. She might have had some hope of getting the money back from Chicky, but Juan definitely looked like a rough customer. Although he pocketed all the money, it was clear that Juan was not impressed. "Lazy puta, chatting when you should be working. I'll teach you some respect. First the belt...and then you blow me afterward, to thank me for the lesson I teach your dumb ass." Katie watched as Juan flipped up her blue skirt and yanked down her white underpants. "Putas like you should always get it on the bare, no matter how many people are watching," Juan said, looking directly at the thunderstruck Katie as he said it. And with that the pimp began spanking Chicky with his leather belt. Chicky cried and kicked, but Juan held her firm, rapidly tanning her brown bottom. Katie watched, horrified, mesmerized, and (if truth be told) with more than a hint of schadenfreude. The prostitute had robbed her of her money and even her underwear, and it pleased Katie to see the little tart put in her place. SNAP! SNAP! SNAP! "You don't look so special now," Katie thought. "Putting on airs, thinking you were as good as me. Calling me a puta. Passing my soggy knickers around, so everyone could get a sniff. Now your pimp's going to tan that cute little bottom of yours, to teach you respect for your betters." "Look at your cute little cheeks bounce and wiggle! And all the men are standing behind you so they can see you kick your legs. You'll have a lot of customers after the show you're putting on. Uppity little tart! You're getting precisely what you deserve. As if reading her mind, Chicky looked up at Katie with pitiful, tear-stained eyes. Katie rubbed her bottom through her dress, wincing in mock sympathy with each strike of the belt. Then she laughed, relishing her chance to show the agonized puta her delght at the bitch's downfall. "It's not her fault, señor," one of the bouncers said, coming to Chicky's defense. "The new boss told her to get the British babe to hand over her underpants." At this revelation Tracy was perplexed and looked around the room, wondering who the new boss might be, and why on earth he would want her well-juiced knickers. But the crack of the belt and Juan's reply quickly refocused her mind. "It doesn't matter," Juan said, cracking the belt againt Chicky's thighs with renewed vigor. "It's my first day here, and this will be a lesson to the rest. You need to tan a girl's ass once a week, so she doesn't get uppity. Right, Katie?" Katie was startled that Juan knew her name, and startled even more so by his cold, lifeless eyes as he grinned up at her. She suddenly realized that the pimp was speaking in English. Why? And why was he staring at her that way? She looked at Juan more closely, squinting in the dim light. He was undeniably handsome and athletic, but he was clearly a hard case. She didn't know him and felt certain they had never met, but something about him looked oddly familiar. And his piercing black eyes chilled her to the core. Katie sat paralyzed, transfixed by the strange paradox of knowing someone she had never met. Smiling, Juan picked Katie's panties up off the dirt floor. He fingered the wetness, then held them knickers up his nose, breathing deeply, relishing her scent. "Sweet and sugary," Juan said, as if appraising the bouquet of a fine wine. "Of course, here we don't just SMELL such perfume. We SELL it." Desperate to escape the young pimp's leering smile, Katie jumped up and ran for the door. To her surprise, no one tried to stop her. Katie burst out of the bar, past the door girls, through the crowds, straight for the first cab in line. She had no shoes and no underwear. But she still had $10, and a frantic desire to get back to safety. But it was not to be. As she approached the cab, she tripped and went sprawling, over what she did not know. She landed hard, rolling in the dusty street, covering herself in filth. She rose unsteadily, wiping the dirt out of her eyes. She picked up her now grimy passport and her last remaining ten dollar bill. Only a few more feet to the cab. Almost home.... The cab driver shook his head. "¡Sangras! ¡No-no-no!" Katie looked down at herself. Her knee was bleeding, and her arm and elbow. She had fallen harder than she had thought. She moved to the next cabbie in line. "No," he said. "You dirty, bloody. Get back to work, woman." Back to work? What did he mean? When Katie realized the implication, she finally lost it. "I'm NOT a whore!" she shouted. "I'm a British subject! Look, I have a passport. I have platinum cards back at my hotel. I could buy your whole cab." The cabbie, unimpressed, signaled the guards at the gate with the same circular motion Chicky had used to summon the bouncers. Katie felt a sudden surge of fear as two policemen took their night sticks out of their belts and began walking toward her. It was clear from the way they were holding the thick clubs that worker rebellions were not taken lightly, and Juan's belt was the least of it. "Look, I'm sorry," Katie said to the cabbie, quickly shifting to a different tack. "Take me back to my hotel, and I'll give you $500." The cabbie was not interested. "You look lost," a female voice said. Katie turned. There was a young woman standing behind her, pretty, blonde, about 23, Katie guessed. Best of all, she was speaking with a clipped, educated British accent. "I'm not lost, I just need a bloody cab," Katie explained. The police arrived, but the mysterious blonde Englishwoman waved them off. "It's okay, señores. I've got this one." The two men shrugged and returned to their post. Katie regarded the young woman warily. "Who are you?" Katie asked. "Do I know you?" "I'm your Good Samaritan," the young woman responded, laughing. "Here, let's get you cleaned up and bandaged and on your way back to your hotel." ****************************** Part 3 Katie hesitated. She didn't like going off with strangers, but something about the girl seemed familiar, almost comforting. And, without a cab ride, Katie's options were frightfully limited. She followed the young woman back toward the gate, along the way recognizing several of the policemen who had harassed her before. But now, accompanied by this young woman, no one bothered her in any way. Indeed, several men stepped aside for them, and a few of the officers even doffed their caps in a gesture of respect. Katie used the walk to the clinic to inspect her hostess more closely. She was young and pretty, with shoulder-length blonde hair. She was wearing a dark blue business suit, smartly cut, that reminded Katie of one of the outfits in her own closet back in England. Her clothes were obviously quite expensive, and seemed more than a bit incongruous given what the other people in the compound were wearing, although no one seemed to mind. Like Katie, she projected the aura of a woman in charge, one who definitely seemed to know where she was going. But it was the odd sense of déjà vu, the sense that Katie should know her, but couldn't name her, that troubled Katie the most. She scanned her memory banks as she struggled to remember where she had seen this woman before. For the second time that day, she had the odd sensation of knowing someone she had never met. Barefoot Katie struggled to keep pace, stepping carefully on the dirt street as she followed the purposeful and confident young woman past the police station and into a building labeled "Clínica." They entered what appeared to be some sort of reception area, where a woman in a white nurse's outfit sat at a computer behind a long counter. Katie's young hostess said something to the nurse in Spanish, causing the latter to disappear into the depths of the clinic. "Please, have a seat," the young woman offered pleasantly, pointing to the old wooden chairs in the waiting room. "Make yourself comfortable, Katie." The chairs were far from comfortable; like everything else in Boys Town they were old and worn, and they seemed like discards from the set of an old Zorro movie. But Katie appreciated the young woman's hospitality, and there was something about her smile and demeanor that made Katie feel as if they had been friends for years. The nurse returned with bandages, disinfectants, and a bowl of warm water, and began cleaning Katie's cuts. A few moments later a grim-faced police officer entered. Ignoring Katie altogether, he headed straight for the young blonde. Katie leaned forward, anxious to hear their conversation. "Señor Cámaras is getting impatient," the officer said. "He told me to tell you he doesn't like to be kept waiting." "Tell him to keep his pants on," the young woman replied archly. "Good cooking takes time. You're dismissed, Captain." Katie was impressed; whoever this woman was she had the power to dismiss the police. "Who's Señor Cámaras?" Katie asked. "He's a wealthy land owner, and he's very specific about what he wants. Too full of himself. A little wait won't hurt his appetite any." The woman's expression spread into a warm smile. "But enough about that pig. Let's talk about you, Katie. What brings you to Mexico?" Like most writers, Katie didn't think of herself as an extravert, but there was something about the young woman's manner that made Katie want to talk. Soon she was telling the kindly stranger about Joe and her entire adventure. "There's no need to go poking about the Internet for a costume," the young woman volunteered. "Even if you found it, it's Halloween tonight, and you'd never receive it in time. We can get you the clothes right here." Katie protested that the young woman had done enough, and she couldn't impose. "Bosh! It's the least I can do. After all, we British birds have to stick together, don't you agree?" Katie laughed in agreement, her initial nervousness washed away by the young woman's sisterly warmth and charm. She relaxed more as they talked, and was both surprised and pleased to discover that the girl had grown up near where Katie was born. Like Katie, she rooted for Manchester United, and her favorite band was "Plan B" (since Freddie Mercury's "Queen" was a memory). Best of all, she approved wholeheartedly of Katie's costume adventure, promising to help her in any way possible. "You know what would make your costume really authentic?" the young woman said, leaning closer. "We'll get you a health card. That will set clever-clogs Joe back on his heels." Katie didn't know what a health card was precisely, but the thought of teaching Joe a lesson did appeal to her. "What is it, and what would I have to do?" she asked. "Oh, all the girls here have them. It's sort of like a driver's license for the girls who work here. It certifies that they are healthy and that they've paid their dues. It's easy to get. All you need is two forms of photo-ID." Katie said that she had only her passport, but the young woman replied that wasn't a problem, since "I can vouch for you, and the police will accept that as the second ID." Katie felt grateful that this near-stranger was so willing to help her, and happily handed the smiling woman her passport for inspection. "Perfect!" the young woman said. "I'll get the paperwork started. But we're going to have to clean you up if we want to get you home. You'll never get a cab looking all sixes and sevens." Katie looked down. The nurse had cleaned her arms and legs and applied a few bandaids (the damage had proved quite superficial). But the yellow dress was filthy. The young woman was right. No one would ever take her any where, covered in muck. "There's a shower in the next room," the blonde said brightly. "You can get all spic-and-span in there. Just change, and toss your dress into the brown basket at the door, labeled 'Basura.' One of the men will come by and take care of it. In the meantime, I'll get your new ID ready. One thing though...I'll need to take your photo, for your license." The young woman led Katie behind the counter and toward the back of the room where a fixed camera sat in front of a height chart pasted on the wall. A cable connected the camera to a surprisingly modern-looking computer and laser printer. "Here, hold this under your chin," the woman said, hanging a card containing a long string of numbers around Katie's neck. "Maybe I should wash up first. My face is all dirty and...." "Say cheese!' the woman laughed. Flash! And 38440-738's picture was taken and instantly transmitted electronically into the computer. "The shower's through the door, and the laundry hamper for your dress is right next to it," the woman explained, pointing. "If you go right now, you can shower alone. If you linger, there'll be a crowd," she added, laughing. Katie grimaced at the thought. She glanced at her passport, which the woman had left on the desk next to the computer. Reluctantly, she opened her fist to reveal the wadded $10 gripped tightly. The woman instantly plucked it out. "You can't take your cash into the shower with you, you silly twit," the woman chuckled. I'll need to scan the information off your passport, and I'll put this toward your license fee. You won't need it for the cab; I can take you exactly where you need to go." "How much is the license fee?" Katie asked. "It's $500, but a girl can make it back pretty quickly, assuming she finds a pimp that lets her keep anything. Some of them are right nasty sods. There's one little yob in the bar that would just as soon strap a girl as look at her. I don't imagine his staff has a pension fund." Katie's bottom cheeks tightened reflexively as the image of Juan flashed into her mind. For a moment she could almost feel herself over his lap as his leather belt whistled through the air. She quickly dismissed the thought. "Maybe we should just forget about the health card," she said. "After all, $500...." "Oh, you can pay me back later. In for a penny, in for a pound, I always say." "Yes, but...." The young woman's demeanor changed instantly. "Do you think I'm trying to steal from you?" "No, I didn't mean to imply...." "What DID you mean, then?" the young woman shot back. "Fine. Go outside and try to hail a cab, looking like you just crawled out of the dustbin...and jolly good luck to you." The young woman, clearly peeved, offered Katie her money and passport back. Katie stared at them longingly. She wanted to take them and flee this place forever. But she knew that she'd never get a cab, looking the way she did. And, for some reason she couldn't quite explain, she very much wanted that ID card. "I apologize," she said meekly. "I didn't mean to insult you. It's just...well, $500 IS a lot of money." "It is," the young woman allowed. "A lot of times the girls don't have it, and they get a pimp to stake them. The card is, after all, quite a bargain. It lasts a whole year, and, for a girl as pretty as you are, it's a sound investment. Now go get cleaned up, and I'll get your paperwork finished. Hurry up, spit-spat!" she added, turning her attention back to the computer screen with Katie's information. Katie looked over her shoulder as the woman scanned her passport. Instantly, all of Katie's vital information -- her height and weight, birthdate, place of birth, nationality, and entry date into Mexico, appeared on the screen next to her mugshot picture. "Who are you? What are you doing here?" Katie asked, suddenly realizing that, although the young woman knew everything about her, she had learned nothing about her mysterious benefactor. The young woman laughed and smiled her warm, beguiling smile. "I'm here to inspect my...propiedad," she said cryptically, before turning back to the computer. "Into the shower with you, young lady," she added cheerfully. "No more dilly-dallying." Sensing she'd get no more answers, Katie reluctantly turned away and proceeded past the brown hamper and into the room labeled "Duchas." The room was a shower, although describing it as such was like calling the Grand Canyon a gulch. The floor was cement, with rows of grates for drainage spaced every few feet. Katie did a quick count: there were eight long industrial pipes stretched across the unfinished ceiling, each of which had seven nozzles leading to a spigot that controlled the water for that pipe. Nearly sixty women could shower in the room at once, although such a crowd would leave very little room for comfort. There were numerous bars of orange soap scattered about, left where they had been dropped or slid against the wall. Katie recognized the harsh carbolic smell, for it was similar to a disinfectant soap she had once been forced to use when she had stayed overnight at a friend's farm. The acidic scent was very different from Katie's usual perfume. And the room positively reeked of it. "This is where they make the prostitutes shower. It's like a prison, or a barn for washing livestock. Even if they are whores, it must be dreadful for those poor girls to have to shower here." Katie swallowed hard, wrapping her head around the notion that soon SHE would be showering here. Katie looked down at her once-lovely yellow dress, stained with the muck from the road. She hesitated. The dress wasn't much, but it was all she had. One by one Katie had lost her fashionable accoutrements: first her shoes, then her underwear, and finally her money and identification. The yellow dress was the last item she possessed. "A poor thing, but mine own," Katie thought. "Oh, well. I can't very well shower with the bloody thing on. It also needs a good wash, and it's not going to get it on my back. I hope they press it, too." She unzipped her dress and let it drop to the floor. As she folded it neatly for the laundry, the young woman's pleasant but firm instructions replayed inside her head. "Just change, and toss your dress into the brown basket outside the door, labeled 'Basura.' One of the men will come by and take care of it." Katie poked her head out of the door. The young woman was gone, and the nurse was nowhere to be seen. She looked down at the hamper. It was waist high, brown, and had a round top with a swinging plastic door for deposits. She carefully pushed her neatly folded dress through the swinging gate, then closed the shower room door behind her. She selected the center row and walked to the spigot on the far wall, standing on her toes to turn the nozzle over her head. The seven shower nozzles in the middle of the room sprang to life, releasing a copious spray of warm water. Katie positioned herself under it and began to lather up. The orange carbolic soap didn't smell very good...and neither did the brown water. She made a mental note to avoid swallowing any water. The soap burned her eyes as she tried to build up a lather for a quasi-shampoo. Still, the water was warm, and the burning soap at least made her feel clean. Ignoring the harshness of the gritty soap, she scrubbed herself diligently. "I hope they get my dress this clean," she thought. "And I hope the laundryman comes by soon. Otherwise I won't have anything to wear when I get out of the shower." (When she had deposited her dress in the hamper, her nudity and the swinging door had prevented a close inspection of the container. If she had looked more closely, she would have seen that her passport was already in the hamper, along with numerous cigarette butts, three old soda cans, and scraps of the nurse's lunch.) Unbeknownst to her, at the precise moment she was carefully lathering her crotch and hoping the basket man would arrive, he did just that. The old man was leisurely pushing a large wheelie bin, on the side of which was the same word that was printed on the smaller brown container: "BASURA." But this larger bin also had the English translation underneath: "TRASH." The man nonchalantly dumped the smaller bin into the larger, not bothering to look as Katie's passport and dress tumbled to their doom. He wheeled the bin out to the incinerator, cheerfully whistling "La Cucaracha" as he went. Inside the showers, Katie was actually starting to feel human again, luxuriating in the warmth of the water and the relaxing sensation of being clean. "A girl never really appreciates what she has until she loses it," she thought. "This is a big shower, but at least I'm getting clean, and I have my privacy." As if on cue, the door of the shower room opened, and a stream of giggling, naked Mexican prostitutes swarmed in. Ignoring Katie, they quickly filled the room as they grabbed bars of soap and chattered amongst themselves. She felt her face flush when a Mexican boy, whom she pegged to be about 18, casually strolled in and began methodically turning on each row of shower nozzles, causing the gigging girls to jump as first cold then hot water hit their bouncing, jiggling bodies. After turning on the last nozzle, the boy turned and surveyed the room, smiling at the sight of the 60 butt-naked prostitutes soaping themselves up under the misty spray. Katie blushed hotly as she felt his eyes stopping at her to run up and down her naked body. The moment seemed to last forever, and she felt first relief then surprise as his gaze moved on to the next girl. She struggled to comprehend the young man's wandering eye. "That teenager.... I'm bare naked...and he looked right at me...then just looked away. Didn't he see me, buck naked? Doesn't he realize he can see everything I have?" Katie looked around the room. There were many girls, all naked. Some fair, some dark, some thin, some fat, some short, some tall. Katie, ever competitive, knew she was prettier than most of them, although she had to admit that a few of the girls were quite stunning. Still, the boy's blasé reaction to her present state left her perplexed. Then Katie had a startling thought. "He didn't stare at me because he thinks I'm just one of the girls," she thought. "He thinks I'm a prostitute, like the others. Of course. Whey else would I be showering naked in this big barn with 60 other women? He doesn't understand that I'm different. I'm special." She looked around the room; she was surrounded by naked girl flesh. "Yes, that's it," she muttered to herself. "Anyone walking in here would make the same mistake. "My dress is being cleaned and pressed, my passport is being scanned. I washed off my makeup and perfume, and I smell like this bloody orange soap. Anyone walking in here would think I was just another wh...." She cut herself short, as if completing the word would somehow complete the transformation. She was still struggling to comprehend the ramifications of her discovery when the nurse entered. "¡Basta! ¡Prisa, prisa!" she said. Katie did not know what the words meant, but the girls quickly rinsed off and headed toward the door in the opposite wall. To her embarrassment, she soon found herself flush against a dozen other naked girls, pressing their boobs and backsides against her as they herded her through the door. Carried along by the crowd, and with her feet barely touching the floor, Katie pressed forward into the next room. "Moo, Moo!" she thought as she moved through the door. "Appropriate, since this place looks like a slaughterhouse. They've washed and disinfected us; I wonder what's next?" She wouldn't have been surprised to see a chopping block and meat hooks hanging from the ceiling, but, to her relief, there were only dingy and industrial towels, once white, she supposed, but now a depressingly drab grey. Following the lead of the other girls, she quickly grabbed a towel and joined the crowd. In passing, she noticed that the bandaids had peeled off, but her abrasions seemed okay. "Amore, Felipa," the nurse called out, reading from her clipboard. Katie's brow furrowed as a young woman pressed through the crowd and walked through a door labeled, "Exámenes." "Examinations!" Katie thought, clutching her towel tighter. "That doesn't sound good. What a right pickle. Oh, why couldn't I have showered faster?" She slowly squirmed her way to the front of the crowded room, hoping to make eye contact with the nurse in order to clear up the confusion. "Cortez, Patricia," the nurse called out. Once again, another girl disappeared through the door. The nurse spotted Katie, who was waving at her. Katie looked for a nod of recognition, an acknowledgement of the obvious mistake that was happening. But the grim civil servant's expression did not change. Undeterred, Katie continued worming her way toward the front. "Degas, Sodi." Another woman left, creating a space for Katie to wiggle into. "Guevera, Carolina." At last Katie made it to the front. The nurse paid her no heed, focusing only on her clipboard. But Katie, intent on correcting this dreadful mistake, immediately started to talk -- babble, actually. One after another the words tumbled out, gaining volume as Katie picked up speed. "Hello, there...my name is Katie Smith...there's been a bit of a muddle, I'm afraid...I'm a British subject, who was outside, and you treated my injuries? You remember, don't you? Yes, of course you do! Anyway, that woman I was with has my passport and told me to take a shower, and then the other girls came in, and.... Well, it's a bit of muddle, really...quite amusing, actually...." The nurse, however, was not amused. "Wait your turn!" she snapped, before returning her eyes to her clipboard. "Gonzalez, Belinda." "My turn?" Katie thought, staring at the nurse as if she were from Mars instead of Mexico. "I don't need no stinking turn! I'm not on your bloody clipboard, you dolt. Oh well, I'll just wait for the room to empty out, and I'll explain then. My friend will be back by then, and my dress will be pressed and ready. When I'm dressed with my passport and friend here, you can issue your apology, Nurse Nobody!" "Huevez, Claudia." Katie sighed as she listened to the nurse call out names, for she felt as if she were waiting for a shoe that would never drop. It was clear that the nurse was not going to help, which meant that she was going to have to wait until the room was empty (and maybe longer), to clear up up this mess. "Maybe it will give them time to properly iron my dress," she thought. "Let's hope these ignorant peasants don't scorch it!" "Ignacio, Ana." Figuring that she'd be there for a while, Katie relaxed and allowed her mind to drift. "It's actually quite exciting, really, rather like one of my stories. Mixed in with a bunch of prostitutes, naked except for a towel, waiting for my name to be called, not knowing what's in the next room, but imagining the worst." She squeezed her thighs together, once again enjoying the sensation. "Juez, Ninel" "I wonder what's in the next room. It could be just a blood test, but these girls are prostitutes, so they'll probably want to take a look. Can you imagine that? Can you imagine having to spread your legs as part of your job?" She felt a sudden chill and clutched the towel tighter. "These girls do it every day, but still.... There's something different about this place. It's so industrial. It isn't like you're with a john, and he's naked too, and you're going to do it together. In the clinic YOU'RE the naked one! How humiliating! How degrading! How very much like one of my stories." Once again, Katie felt the moisture between her legs increase. "Nidel, Rubi." "I can't imagine a worse place to be examined. In a doctor's office you're presumed to be well, but here you're almost presumed to be dirty. I imagine they check the girls quite thoroughly here. And, when the doctor looks, he knows you're a whore, and that's how he looks at you. They probably don't let you have any modesty at all...." "Ponce, Maya." Again she felt a delicious surge of schadenfreude as she imagined Chicky waiting for her turn in the stirrups. "Oh, I wish I could see that," she chuckled. "I'd be fully dressed, of course, and standing right next to the doctor as she spread her legs. I'd get to see everything she had and could smile at her while she got her dirty little snatch poked and probed. Maybe I could suggest to Juan that he shave her, or let me scrub her out with a toilet brush so I could get her little twat nice and clean for the customers. I'd have a good time putting her in her place. Even for a whore, it would be humiliating." Katie squeezed her thighs together, savoring the growing warmth. As her excitement grew, her mind began to race. She suddenly had a strange thought. "Can you imagine if my name were on that list? I'd be up the bloody creek then. No one even knows I'm here, except that nurse, and it's clear I'm not going to get any help from her. I'd have to go into the examination room, of course, like any other girl. I'd try to explain, but, since no one knew me, I wouldn't have much of a but, now would I? Plus, the doctor in there might not even speak English. Oh, that would be a jolly fine pickle, wouldn't it?" "Roberto, Eva." It would be just like that teenager who watched me in the shower. Anyone who walked in here now would think I was just "one of the girls." How humiliating, to have everyone think you're a filthy Mexican whore." She revelled in the deliciously naughty tingle of her fantasy. "Smith, Katie." She did not move. She could not breathe. She heard her name, but her brain refused to process it. She stared at the nurse in stunned disbelief. "SMITH, KATIE" the nurse repeated, staring directly at the baffled Brit. Katie's mind buzzed as she struggled to separate reality, sexual fantasy, and nightmare. Could this really be happening? Sne stared back at the nurse, mouth agape, catching flies. "Exámenes," the nurse said sternly, waving her finger at the clearly marked door. Clutching her towel tightly, Katie headed in for her examination. ****************************** Part 4 (Conclusion) The examination room was brightly lit, and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust. The boy from the shower room was there, but she barely noticed him as he swabbed her arm and drew two vials of blood quickly and efficiently before disappearing into another room. The doctor was there, as was Katie's British female friend, who smiled warmly. Katie felt a wave of relief wash over her as she realized that her friend was back. But she was also both surprised and dismayed to see two other men in the room. Juan, the pimp from the bar, was standing in the corner, incongruously chewing tobacco and spitting into the garbage can in this otherwise clean and sterile (by Mexican standards) room. Her eyes fixed on Juan's shiny silver belt buckle, and her bottom cheeks clenched protectively as she remembered Chicky's thorough chastisement. Katie did not recognize the other man, although again he seemed oddly familiar. He was disgustingly obese, with a pencil thin mustache and strands of hair draped over his bald spot. His suit was expensive but ill-fitting, his stomach spilling over his belt. Dressed in only a towel, Katie felt horribly exposed. The men ogled the freshly scrubbed girl, but her attention quickly shifted to the ancient examination table situated directly under the bright lights. The table appeared impossibly old, but the wood -- Cuban mahogany -- had been perfectly cared for, with a beautiful finish that would have made any craftsman proud. The padded green leather was, like the rest of the old warhorse, obviously original. The back appeared adjustable, but, at the present moment, it was laid flat, so that the patient would look directly up into the enormous lights (which seemed to Katie to be bright enough for an operation). The table was a lovely piece of early Victoriana, very well kept, and she briefly mused over the price it might bring these days at Sothebys. But her attention was soon drawn to the table's two major attachments: the old but well-polished metal examination stirrups. Katie felt a sudden chill as she saw the stirrups were both fully extended and spread wide at an angle that implied the table was ready for immediate use. From the way the men were looking her up and down, it was obvious that her British friend had not bothered to explain to anyone her true identity. But, given her current state of undress, Katie still felt enormously relieved that the pretty blonde woman was there to save her. Katie had no identification, no money, and no clothes. Worse still, somehow her name had ended up on that blasted clipboard. But Katie felt certain the pretty young British woman would vouch for her. Katie stared at her with wide, expectant eyes, waiting for the smiling blonde to speak, to acknowledge their friendship, or to explain to the others the laughable mistake that had been made. Katie's new friend smiled cheerfully at her, but remained mute. Eager to distance herself from the brightly lit elephant in the center of the room, Katie decided to break the awkward silence. "It's a lovely antique," she said, her voice faltering. "It most certainly is," the young woman agreed. "It's been here forever and has probably been used to check the quims of half the hookers in Mexico. Still, it works quite well. I'm sure you'll find it fully functional and perfectly engineered for its intended use." Katie's looked at the young woman in confusion. "How could I find it fully functional, unless… She's not implying.... Is she?" Katie's pulse quickened as she felt a familiar tingle between her legs. "Would you like to see your licencia?" the young woman asked pleasantly, as if offering Katie a cup of tea. "It's here on the counter with all the others.... Let's see...Tamar, Salma...Ponce, Maya.... Ah yes, here it is: Smith, Katie. Oh, look at that, they did a really lovely job! All tickety-boo and ready to go." Katie watched as her smiling host passed her prostitution health card to Juan, who then passed it to the fat man, who looked first at the license, and then up at Katie in a way that made her feel like a hunk of meat in a plastic dog bowl. The smiling young woman retrieved the license and walked it across the room to Katie, her stylish high heels clicking on the tiled floor. Katie was, of course, barefoot, and was scrunching up her toes because of the tile. Her host, in contrast, was the very picture of debonair charm. Oh, how Katie envied the young woman her smart blue worsted wool suit and her tasteful pumps, so much like the clothes in Katie's own closet back home. Though the look demonstrated that she was a woman's woman, she also had a crisp and professional air. "Those are exactly the clothes I would be wearing now, if I were her," Katie thought, surprising herself at the oddness of the notion. Conscious of both the leering men and her near-nakedness, Katie clutched her towel tightly as the pretty blonde put the license into Katie's palm. The health card was laminated, like a drivers license, and contained a photo of Katie, her face smudged, staring at the camera like a stunned lamb. To the right, next to the photo, were all her details: name, nationality, birth date, height, weight, and so on. On the bottom was the start date: 10/31.... Halloween. Today. Also like a drivers license, the permit had a laminated holographic seal to prevent forgery. Her individual license number appeared across the top: 38440-738. "What a photo! I look totally gobsmacked.... And what a big number!" Katie thought. "Of course, I imagine Mexico must have a lot of prostitutes. It's good they have a bureaucracy to process the girls efficiently, and keep the them from getting out of line." She flinched as it occurred to her that (technically, at least) that she was now one of those girls. "I'm licensed and registered, so they can track me and...process me efficiently. It was like when I was pressed together with all those girls in the shower, absolutely starkers. Stripped naked, disinfected, inspected, merchandised. They handled me, like a cow being brought to market. All that's left is to sell me to the buyers." Katie looked over at the obese man, who was staring at the hemline of her towel as if he could make it rise by sheer force of will. The man was the precise opposite of attractive, but his very repugnance, and the fact that he was looking at her like she was a tasty tart in the bakery shop window, only made the tingling between her thighs intensify. "Is everything accurate?" the young woman asked, shocking Katie back to the moment with her chipper, sing-song voice. "Your licencia is a government document, after all, and it is frightfully important that we get everything spot on." "You mean...it's official?" Katie asked, starting at the little plastic card in disbelief. "Absolutely," the young woman said brightly. "Authorized, bona fide, and totally authentic. Of course, it's not activated yet, but the blood test will be ready in a few minutes. After the doctor takes a quick peek, you'll be in business." At the phrase "in business," the fat man at the end of the table snorted out a lewed and disgusting laugh, adjusting the obvious stiffness in his pants in an obvious way. Katie swallowed as she watched the doctor retrieve two green plastic gloves from the box and quickly but nonchalantly snap them onto his hands. The pretty blonde pointed at the computer in the corner. "See, your record is already up on the screen. All I have to do is click on the checkbox labeled 'Exámenes' and the date will fill in automatically. Then I'll click save, and it will all be done, easy-peasy." Katie looked back at the fat man standing next to the doctor. He was licking his lips and staring at her like a famished wolf staring down a lamb tethered to a pole. "Who is that?" Katie stammered, pointing at the drooling fat man. The smartly dressed young woman chuckled. "That's Señor Cámaras, the wealthy landowner I was telling you about. He's looking for that VERY special girl. And judging from the way he's looking at you," she added with a chuckle, "I think he may have found a love connection." Juan and the doctor joined the young woman in laughing the witticism. Katie, too horrified to respond, remained silent. "Exciting, isn't it?" the young woman continued, whispering in Katie's ear. "Knowing that, at the snap of my fingers, you have to spread your legs in front of him. Humiliating, yes, but a girl in your position can't exactly complain, can she? Spreading your legs is simply part of the job." The woman continued on as Katie's fear -- and excitement -- grew. "Frightfully thrilling, rather like one of those naughty stories you and Joe write on the Internet. To be standing here, in only a towel, waiting...knowing that at any second the towel could drop, exposing you for all to see." The woman paused for dramatic effect as Katie stared at her, horrified. "Of course you can leave any time you want." Katie's mind was a-whirl. How did this strange young woman know about the stories? And did she actually say Katie could leave? The pretty blonde woman answered Katie's racing thoughts. "Yes, you heard me, you're free to go. You have been all along. You could have brought your mobile phone in the beginning, or jumped back into the cab at the gate. You didn't have to go into that bar. You knew you should have gone home. You could have left at any time, but you didn't. Just like you're not going to leave now." The woman took the license out of Katie's hand and held it up in front of her large, searching eyes. "You're not going to leave. Not now. Not when your fantasy is so close to being real." She smiled beguilingly. "What do you say, Katie? Do you want to make it official? That would show Joe." Katie stared at the little piece of plastic. The license was official, but it wouldn't be legally valid until the exam was complete. You couldn't tell by looking at it, of course; you'd know only if you scanned the barcode and retrieved her current records in the system used to track such things. But Katie would know, and that would make all the difference. It would be simple..."a couple of mouse clicks and a quick peek," the pretty blonde urged, carefully laying out the breadcrumbs for Katie to follow. Katie trembled. "If I do this, it will be official: I will be a whore. And not just any whore, either. I'll be a lowly Mexican puta, eager to spread her legs for a bowl of rice or a few stray pesos. It will be true, and authentic, and no one can dispute it. After all of these years of writing Tracy stories, I'll know the shame and humiliation of being a genuine, licensed whore. And neither Joe...nor anyone else...can ever accuse me of being a phony again." She could barely hear her own voice as she whispered, "Yes.... Make it official." Her benefactress didn't wait to be told twice. In a flash, she yanked Katie's towel away, revealing her nakedness to everyone in the room. "On the table, sweetie, tootsies in the stirrups," she barked. "Time for a lookie-loo." Katie stood naked before the leering men, covering her crotch, too shocked to move. "Up you go!" the young woman said, punctuating her command with a sharp slap across Katie's bare bottom. Propelled up and forward by the spank, Katie obeyed, mounting the table and quickly fitting her heels into the widely-splayed stirrups. "Could these be any farther apart?" she thought, wincing as she imagined the view. "Scoot all the way down," the smartly dressed young woman chirped. "Show us the merchandise." "The merchandise," Katie thought, blushing. "That's what my pussy is now...the goods, the inventory, the stock. Register her tight little nookie in the system, then put it in the store window so everyone can have a good look. Simply another fresh, juicy piece of tail-for-sale!" Katie bit her lip as Juan moved in for a closer look. She closed her eyes, partially to shield them from the glare from above her, but mostly in a desperate attempt to ignore the men looking directly up between her legs. Unfortunately for her, she had no way of shielding her ears. "That's a juicy peach!" Cámaras said. "More like a melon," Juan said, appraising the merchandise with a jaundiced eye. "Or a juicy tomato." "Mmmmm...smell her!" Cámaras added. "Nice and ripe, just the way I like 'em!" Katie shuddered. "They're looking at me like I'm produce...like I'm a piece of fruit in the bin at the market. Hot, juicy, and ripe...waiting to be inspected and squeezed." "No need for lubricant," the doctor said, inserting the speculum. "She's gushing like the Rio Grande." It was true, although Katie hated to admit it -- and hated it still more to hear the doctor say it out loud. She was living one of her stories, lost in the moment, and helpless to resist. She groaned as the speculum slowly spread her wide. She blushed red, but the leering men saw only pink. "Oh, please, Doctor!" she gasped. "Don't spread me out this way. Not in front of everyone." "He's not a doctor, silly," the young woman said, laughing at her naiveté. "He's a government inspector. Tell him where you were earlier today." Katie gasped as the inspector poked and prodded her pussy like it was a particularly juicy chunk of meat. "Examining puercos...pigs," he replied, casually fingering Katie's twat. "I check all the livestock hereabouts. Pigs or putas, it makes no difference to me. Let's see.... My, she IS a randy one, isn't she? And what a smell." "Is she infected?" Cámaras asked, suddenly uneasy. "I don't want to be sticking my miembrillo into no roach motel." Katie struggled to breathe as the poultry, pig, and puta inspector probed her. "No, no lice...no sores...no scabs.... She's clean." As it was pulled out, the speculum made a comical slurping sound, causing Juan, Cámaras and the young woman to laugh. Relieved, Katie instinctively moved her knees together, only to have the young woman push them apart. "Not so fast, my little piggy," she teased. "The vet says your hot little pussy is Grade A. Now it's time for the auction." "Auction? " Katie gasped. "What auction? I don't understand." The pretty blonde woman whistled, and in short order half a dozen swarthy and unsavory-looking pimps swarmed in. Instinctively, Katie tried to close her legs, but, once again, the woman spread her wide. "Now, now," the woman chided. "The buyers have to see the wares. How are they supposed to know how much to bid for your chocho if they can't see how wet and needy it is?" The woman began to slowly run her fingers up Katie's swollen cunt-lips, stopping at her sensitive love button. Katie gasped with pleasure as the young woman slowly began to circle clit with her thumb. "What...what are you doing?" Katie tried (and failed) to ignore the male laughter around her as she squirmed under the woman's skillful, teasing touch. "I told you," the young woman said, smiling down at her widely splayed victim. "I'm here to inspect my propiedad...my property. This morning I bought Boys Town. And now I'm going to sell THIS (Katie gasped as the young woman tweaked her clit) to one of my pimps, to get your license fee back." "You mean, whoever pays the fee owns me?" "Yes, they'll hold a mortgage on your hot chocho, until next October 31st, when your license expires." Katie was horrified beyond words, but couldn't help moaning as the woman teased her clit. "Does it feel good, Katie?" she taunted. "Yes!" "Do you want me to stop?" "N-n-no!" Katie said, writhing under the girl's fingers. Somehow, the pretty blonde knew exactly where to touch her. "Then I want you to squeal for me, little piggy," the young woman teased. "Squeal, and show the buyers what a randy little sow you are, and how juicy your little porkpie is!" "SQUEEEEEE!" "WEEEEEE!" Katie didn't want to do it, but what choice did she have? The girl's fingers were driving her crazy. Katie tried to ignore the chuckles from the smiling men as she squealed, squirmed, and gushed for her audience's amusement. She listened as the men discussed her, talking in English so she could understand. She wiggled helplessly as the men discussed how her pussy could be shaved, marketed, and worked to maximize their Return-on-Investment. The pretty blonde urged the men on, joining in their lengthy palaver. "Work her as hard as you want," the young woman said, chuckling as Katie groaned in pleasure. "In fact, I insist on it. Her clothes are over there...." Katie turned her head. A worn denim micro-skirt and a sheer pink tube top lay on the table, waiting to be filled. "We'll keep her barefoot -- our little barefoot puta! And we'll charge 100 pesos, so she'll get a lot of traffic. Of the 100, you'll get 95, and she'll keep 5 -- less than 40 cents American. At that rate, she'll have to suck and hump like crazy just to pay for her beans and rice and the rent on the lovely little mattress on the floor you're going to let her use. But your belt should keep that sweet little ass of hers moving, Juan." "I don't know," Juan said, feigning reluctance. "She seems uppity. An uppity little fresa!" "She is," the young woman said. "That's why you should make her suck old geezers, and fuck horny teenagers, and service toothless bums who can't afford anything better. Señor Cámaras is going to be her first customer, and he's going to teach her some manners." Cámaras smiled. "I will teach her many things." Katie looked at Cámaras, who had a tent pole in his trousers. "Maybe he'll let me be on top," she thought. "If not, I'll have to-to s-suck him. He's so fat...if I let him get on top of me, I won't be able to breathe." "My girls wear my mark," Juan said. "Of course. Little piggies should be branded. Right, Katie?" Katie wanted to scream no, but the young girl tweaked her clit, so her protests turned into gasps. "I don't know," Juan said. "What if I don't get my money back?" "I'll renew her license next Halloween. Or we can sell her. Our friend the "doctor" knows of a few auctions where it's not just the pigs who stand naked in the straw." The young woman beckoned Juan closer. "Look at her!" the young woman said, skillfully rubbing Katie's clit with her thumb. "So ripe and juicy! Don't you want to buy this little piggy for your pen? Don't you want to see your mark and her registration number branded right on her lily white ass?" "Sold," Juan said. And, with that, the auction ended. Katie's mind whirled. "SOLD? They've sold me...like an animal. I belong to Juan now. My pussy...my cunt...belongs to Juan!" Gasping, she orgasmed on the young woman's skillful, teasing fingers. The pimps laughed as her gaping cunt twitched in yet another spasm. "Please, don't sell me!" Katie gasped, squirming through her orgasm as the woman stroked her. "If you call Joe...." "Joe's already here," the young woman said, laughing as she continued to tease and tweak Katie toward another climax. "Unfortunately, he had a bit of a run-in with a certain female reporter and a Mexican judge with the Anglo name of Ashley. He was put under arrest, and now he's working in the transgender section of the compound. I think the experience will help give his stories a more feminine perspective. He'll be a better "man" for it...." "How did you know about Joe?" she said, gasping as she approached yet another orgasm. "How do you know so much about me?" "You know all of us, silly. You wrote it yourself on your laptop tonight: Halloween is the night when anything is possible, and when people who don't exist can materialize to make fantasies come true." The young woman's voice rang in Katie's ears as she exploded into yet another earth-shaking orgasm. "Juan is John, and Señor Cámaras is Spanish for Mr. Chambers. My name is Tracina -- Tracy. You know all of us, just as we know you, because you created us. Happy Halloween, Katie." THE END And a Happy Halloween to everyone, from Lakewood and Joe. Edited by C. Lakewood